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Description
Morelía, Michoacán, Mexico - July 2007.

The streets are crowded as we walk out of the cathedral. Evening is coming and the nightlife of the pink stone city is bubbling, preparing to explode. The iron and stone gates are clogged with church-goers, tourists like us, and beggars. I close my eyes and push through, ignoring the babble of Spanish that breaks against my ears like an unending ocean. People reach out with hats, cups, and tins. Grubby hands and bandages hang and threaten to tangle in clothing. One of the main rules of travel - never give the beggars money. I want to, I can't stand giving nothing, but the practicality in me warns that the moment I do, I'll be overwhelmed. I want to, but the group is moving ahead, an oblivious knot of Americans who, at the moment, seem so callous. For a moment I hate them. But I push on, and hurry to catch up. I walk past a girl sitting on the pavement, well away from the gate. She is young, wearing a purple shirt and a teal and white colorful skirt. There is a white cup on the pavement. I pause, and back up a few steps. I crouch down in front of her and she looks at me through crossed eyes. In the group ahead, they are calling me, but I ignore them. My cousin runs to crouch beside me, a pale-haired fairy in blue. "Como te llamas?" I ask.
"Míranda." She says. My cousin smiles brilliantly and exclaims "Nombre bella!" I want to shake her for smiling. Is she blind to the smudges, the dirt, and the bruises?
"Cuantos años tiene?" How old is she? I can't figure it out - people here seem almost ageless to me.
"Siete." Dear Lord, I think, seven years old and begging on the street. She doesn't look starved, but I have a sneaking suspicion that her parents put her up to this, and that they won't be happy if she returns empty-handed. Images of other, smaller, dirt caked girls from another time and place flash through my mind. I sit silently for a moment, wanting to say something more, wanting to reach out and give her a hug. Instead, I don't say anything. I reach in my pocket and pull out a peso note - I'm not sure how much, and drop it in the cup. My cousin smiles wider and says "Díos lo bendiga!" God bless you, and drops an American dollar bill into the cup. I stand up and walk a few steps in the direction of my annoyed group members, then, for a reason I cannot explain, I pull out my camera, spin around, and snap a picture, not even bothering to take the time to fully stop and make sure she's in it. She looked startled, but I'm off; running away from a reality I've never known.

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Description
Morelía, Michoacán, Mexico - July 2007.

The streets are crowded as we walk out of the cathedral. Evening is coming and the nightlife of the pink stone city is bubbling, preparing to explode. The iron and stone gates are clogged with church-goers, tourists like us, and beggars. I close my eyes and push through, ignoring the babble of Spanish that breaks against my ears like an unending ocean. People reach out with hats, cups, and tins. Grubby hands and bandages hang and threaten to tangle in clothing. One of the main rules of travel - never give the beggars money. I want to, I can't stand giving nothing, but the practicality in me warns that the moment I do, I'll be overwhelmed. I want to, but the group is moving ahead, an oblivious knot of Americans who, at the moment, seem so callous. For a moment I hate them. But I push on, and hurry to catch up. I walk past a girl sitting on the pavement, well away from the gate. She is young, wearing a purple shirt and a teal and white colorful skirt. There is a white cup on the pavement. I pause, and back up a few steps. I crouch down in front of her and she looks at me through crossed eyes. In the group ahead, they are calling me, but I ignore them. My cousin runs to crouch beside me, a pale-haired fairy in blue. "Como te llamas?" I ask.
"Míranda." She says. My cousin smiles brilliantly and exclaims "Nombre bella!" I want to shake her for smiling. Is she blind to the smudges, the dirt, and the bruises?
"Cuantos años tiene?" How old is she? I can't figure it out - people here seem almost ageless to me.
"Siete." Dear Lord, I think, seven years old and begging on the street. She doesn't look starved, but I have a sneaking suspicion that her parents put her up to this, and that they won't be happy if she returns empty-handed. Images of other, smaller, dirt caked girls from another time and place flash through my mind. I sit silently for a moment, wanting to say something more, wanting to reach out and give her a hug. Instead, I don't say anything. I reach in my pocket and pull out a peso note - I'm not sure how much, and drop it in the cup. My cousin smiles wider and says "Díos lo bendiga!" God bless you, and drops an American dollar bill into the cup. I stand up and walk a few steps in the direction of my annoyed group members, then, for a reason I cannot explain, I pull out my camera, spin around, and snap a picture, not even bothering to take the time to fully stop and make sure she's in it. She looked startled, but I'm off; running away from a reality I've never known.

[link]