Just A Streak
“Culture is what presents us with the kinds of valuable things that can fill a life. And insofar as we can recognize the value in those things and make them part of our lives, our lives are meaningful.” Gideon Rosen, Stuart Professor of Philosophy and director of the Behrman Undergraduate Society of Fellows, Princeton University.
“Work with it, not against it.” I stared, mouth agape, at my beloved masterpiece as Wojtek, my art mentor, walked away, his silver ponytail swinging to the step of his wry chuckle. There, reaching from the temple to the whiskers of my pastel Bengal tiger, lay the offending mark–a nonchalant streak of bright red that matched the colour of Wojtek’s fingertips, and had absolutely no right being there.
Every week from the age of ten to twelve I attended art lessons with my mom in Wojtek’s beautifully chaotic studio on the outskirts of suburban Warsaw. Eclectic, but effective, his teaching methods were something I’d long grown used to. This time, however, I felt he had crossed the line. This was vandalism. How was I supposed to “work with it” when “it” had ruined my vision, my work of art?
Eleven months ago my family received a letter. Waited for in ambivalent anticipation for three years, it stated the final result of our permanent residency application to the United States. We had been denied. We were to leave the country or face being branded illegal. In one apathetic sentence we were suddenly no longer welcome in a country I had always associated with freedom. With tearful goodbyes, we packed our bags and returned to Mexico, a place I hadn’t called home in 11 years. It wasn’t easy to leave everything I had built in Spring, Texas– the friends, teachers, school, and activities I’d grown so fond of–but it particularly wasn’t easy to leave so abruptly, so lacking of our own volition. Though we had moved plenty of times before, this time was different. I felt tainted, dirty, shameful, as if I’d done something wrong rather than suffered the consequences of a clerical error. But remembering Wojtek’s knowing smile, I resolved to “work with it, not against it.”
So I do. Living in Mexico City has been the blessing I never imagined to hope for. With its pulsating streets and intoxicating music, it’s the polar opposite of the quiet hum on the other side of the border. Every day my bus parades past a jamboree of sizzling street stalls; tanned leather hands expertly toss fresh tortillas and flip nopales, feeding the horde of businessmen spilling into the streets during lunchtime rush hour. On weekends, mariachis bursting from their black tin-studded suits prowl the nocturnal streets, playing the accompaniment to Mexico’s wealthiest one percent drowning their sorrows so they can bring enough pesos home to their families. It’s a gift to be able to connect with my people, to feel my language dancing on our tongues, and to realize how privileged I truly am when faced with the stark disparities of the rich and poor living side by side. I’ve rediscovered my own culture–with the awe of a tourist, and the love of a native.
As I stared at my painting for longer and longer, the streak no longer seemed as out of place as before. In fact, if I really squinted, it could almost pass for a dramatic cut, a bloody gash that would highlight the strength in my tiger’s eyes. Wojtek was a genius. In the same way, I’ve transformed the undue “streak” that was painted in my life into a work of art. It was the necessary interruption to broaden my understanding and expose me to a world so different from the one I’d known, a world rich with poverty and overrun with the stories and struggles of people who face a much harsher reality than mine, yet never cease working for a better future. The people I see every day–the bellman, the cleaning lady, the bus driver–remind me that it’s not what you’re given, but what you do with what you’re given that makes all the difference.
