Life from Canada to Latin America, one word at a time.
I once bought a pair of yellow wax eyes at the bottom of the walking trail up to Monserrate in Bogota. As I climbed the stairs, I kept noticing vendors selling wax body parts. Arms. Legs. Torsos. Pregnant bellies. Pilgrims carried them with them and left or burnt them at the top. Rather than placing
When people greet each other in the Indigenous language of Tsotsil, they ask “How is your heart?” To respond “My heart is blooming,” means that all is well. To be healthy, to be well, is to be rooted and blossoming. As we open the public day of meetings in southern Mexico about disappeared migrants, Flori,
I tend to think of myself as coasting through life. I am, in my mind, always a fascinated observer, but not often an actor. I care, but am never quite in the inner circle of activism or commitment to a cause. That is, until Wednesday, when I found myself clenching my eyes shut and gripping
There is a family story sketched inside my head. Details have blurred and faded over the years, yet when I close my eyes, I see a young man walking on railroad tracks, bright blue prairie sky shining overheard. His name, in my mind, is Jacob, and he is stepping forward tie by tie, looking for
The Mexican border is a line between Faith and the shackled dream. -Ray Gonzalez It was 11 o’clock at night and I was furious. You know, the kind of anger that only happens after fifteen hours of flights and airports on top of an exhausting week, with the anticipation of your own bed a mere
Anna L. Vogt 