and it made them happy
to be alive, even as authentic poverty
transforms this world into a rose
no one can any longer recognize

James Tate

There’s a house on the curve into El Studiante I admire, a piecemeal jumble of rooms, at first glance wretched– and yet, there’s something commendable, something compelling about it. Its wattle and daub, rusting sheet metal hinged with miscellaneous wire, crafty use of feed bags and mattress skeletons, unlikely components of habitation plaited with string and skill. Chickens skitter in its confines, kittens tight walk barbwire festooned like prayer flags with dripping laundry, tiny children sit on the roadside (the front porch), fearless, surely to be squashed by an innocent motorist not familiar with their habitual peril, young and old move through portals difficult to define as doors attending chores, oblivious to my preoccupation with their vibrant homestead.

After reading Beyond Mountains There are Mountains, I fully comprehend the importance of secure roofs and concrete floors. Our house is a concrete box. Still, I hold the organic beauty of hovels in high esteem.

When I consider the El Studiante home I’m reminded of an image Felipe has related to me many times; he’s a naked bulbous bellied child of four or five, filthy, covered in black beans having eaten with his hands, sticky, he clutches an icy glass bottle of coca-cola– a rare treat, he evokes the thrill of it against his skin. Smiling and happy, his mother laughing at him, it’s a favorite memory.

If a photo of this event existed the viewer might think; how sad, a naked, filthy, possibly mal-nutritioned child drinking a coke. Perhaps they’d give money to clothe him, improve his diet. It’s unlikely they’d see a happy child with a treat.

Because we’re inclined to apply our own values to images the subject is vulnerable to misinterpretation. For this reason, I’m careful not to present images unless I believe the subject understands and agrees with how they’re represented. For this reason, there is no photo of the house in El Studiante.

I imagine people view scenes of squalor like this: it’s polluted, unlivable; the people who reside there are impoverished, miserable, and… Helpless.

With concrete ideas of comfort and health standards, we aren’t apt to appreciate the charm of scavenged goods fashioning a patio, or consider the possibility the occupants are capable but see no reason to buy more refined building materials. It’s challenging to recognize independence within the ragged, and of course, it’s not always there. But I’m familiar with many households that are cobbled by choice, not necessity, their occupants comfortable and satisfied.

I value squalor, quirky craftsmanship, structures built with care and ingenuity, and the life that seems to rise from them like steam breathing off a hot blacktop washed with new rain.
It’s my practice to acknowledge innovation before deprivation,  to appreciate resourcefulness, and avoid applying the panacea of pity, because in part– Dignity is in the eye of the beholder.

A wall of salvaged doors for shade, at my families home.

A wall of salvaged doors for shade, at my family’s home.

© 2013 Abby Smith, Writer

2 thoughts on “Squalor

  1. “I value squalor, quirky craftsmanship, structures built with care and ingenuity, and the life that seems to rise from them like steam breathes off hot black top washed with new rain.”

    Oh quierda – this post is exquisite as your writing, of course, is. However this particular sentence stood out for me as it defines your writing – how you craft a sentence, a thought, give life to them through words.

    As I always say, words are medicine. And you my darling are a healer if ever there was one.

    • You, always know just what to say 🙂 I work awhile on that sentence, consider removing the black top part…glad I didn’t. Thanks Barbara. I needed that. xoxo a


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