Month: May 2020

Posted on

Olga Dubinko

I became an Airbnb host in 2012. Since then more than fifty people have stayed in my home. They all made an impression on me ~ some good and some, well, not so good.

No one changed my life, however, as much as Olga Dubinko.

Olga emailed me in the summer of 2016. She was a young mother from Belarus, looking for a place to stay for three months. “Oh, and by the way,” she added, “I will be seven months pregnant when I arrive.”

I said yes. It had been a long time since there was a baby in my house. I had never heard of Belarus. I had a lot to learn.

Olga arrived at the Denver airport looking very pregnant, exhausted, stylish and beautiful. With the help of a passerby, we loaded her heavy suitcase into the back of my car and took off for home.

Because Olga had a green card, she was able to live and work in the U.S. She also had a husband, Pavel, and a son, Eduard, who stayed in Belarus. Eduard, then age 8, has severe cerebral palsy as the result of overwhelming malpractice by the medical staff at the hospital where he was born. 

When Olga learned she was pregnant, she was determined not to give birth again in Belarus. Olga and Pavel made the heart-breaking decision that she would come to Denver to have their daughter, while Pavel stayed behind and took care of Eduard.

Getting to know Olga was a joy from the very beginning. She is brave and resourceful, kind, generous and smart.  Her father, Vyachaslau Dubinko, was internationally recognized in the Russian art of paper-cutting. There is no way I can describe  his beautiful work, shaping intricate figures using only black paper and a long scissors. He is featured in this video that makes me smile every time I watch it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fVB3gU4ipY

Olga unpacked her suitcase and immediately applied for a social security number and health insurance. She found a physician to monitor her pregnancy and a job working as an interpreter in a local law firm. She bought a car (a 1993 Saturn that still runs) and a car seat for her baby. And then we waited.

I told Olga I would drive her to the hospital and stay with her while her baby was born. If she was scared, she tried not to show it. I tried to hide my nervousness, too. 

I worried that Olga would go into labor in the middle of rush hour. There might be a snowstorm. The baby could be born in my car. As a world-class worrier, I conjured up all sorts of disasters in my mind, none of which came true.

Olga went into labor in the middle of the night on November 26th. The ride to the hospital was calm and peaceful. We were in no hurry. We talked and laughed as we drove past the zoo and big Denver homes lit up for Christmas.

Vera was born less than 24 hours later, weighing 8 1/2 pound, with a full head of hair and shiny blue eyes. I recorded the birth on my iPad. Olga bit her lip and never made a sound.

Olga and I have become great friends since that lovely November night, almost four years ago. Olga and Vera went back to Belarus to get Pavel and Eduard. Now they live in a small home near me. Their family has become my family. Eduard is a happy boy, in school for the first time in his life and making progress every day. Vera is a smart, beautiful little girl with blond hair and a mind of her own.

Pavel works as a master mechanic in a large auto dealership in Lakewood, CO. Olga works as a free-lance Russian interpreter. 

Olga maintains a blog: https://againstandforward.blogspot.com that is a delight to read. In it she combines her interest in fashion with an honest, poetic commentary on her life. 

Olga’s English is flawless. Her posts are beautiful to look at and inspiring to read. This week she describes finding a dress in a thrift store that is too big and needs mending. She writes:

This got me thinking: isn’t our life just the same? Falling apart so many times and being mended back. It is never possible to get those seams to be invisible, but they dо keep it together. Those seams leave scars forever, on our hearts, our souls, but we still keep going. Cause life is definitely worth mending it, fighting for it and going on.

Olga’s lesson in courage is a lesson for us all!

Posted on

Class of 2020

My oldest grandson, Connor, finished high school this year in the class of 2020. Today would have been his graduation ceremony. But like the rest of the kids who were born in 2002, there is no graduation ceremony for Connor. No cap and gown. No invitations and announcements. No party to mark this important day.

I remember Connor’s kindergarten graduation. The teacher shouted,  “You will always be a special class because you are the class of 2020!” The crowd roared. We knew this class was special.

I imagine kindergarten teachers all over the U.S. were saying the same thing. We never imagined that, for many of those students, it would be the last time they would wear a graduation cap. 

Connor’s life hasn’t been easy. Kids teased and bullied him in elementary school because he was quiet and smart. It was painful but Connor made the best of it. He went to a charter school for middle school, staffed with enthusiastic but inexperienced teachers. He made the best of that, too.

If there is a theme to Connor’s life so far, it is just that: He’s always handled disappointments and difficult situations with unusual maturity and grace. He’s made the best of it.

Connor’s Mom died when he was in seventh grade but he continued to carry on. He did his best in school and kept his pain quietly to himself. He switched schools for high school and made great friends for the first time in his life. 

Like other high school seniors throughout the country, Connor spent his last nine weeks learning online, texting friends, and wishing he were back in school. Today, instead of shaking the principal’s hand and receiving his diploma, he and his friends met in Tommy’s garage, six feet apart, wearing masks, glad to see each other after nine weeks of being at home.

The guys spent Prom night together, too. The got dressed up in their best clothes ~ at least from the waist up ~ and played video games together on Zoom. Connor wore a a black hoodie and a snazzy bow tie. Some of his friends wore suit coats, Some didn’t. Although they all wished their Prom wasn’t cancelled, they made the best of it.

As my first grandson, Connor stole my heart even before he was born. I could hardly contain my joy. I was giddy at the thought of meeting him for the first time. My wish for him then was that he would have an easy life ~ filled with only the best teachers and lots of friends who appreciated him for the thoughtful, sensitive, smart, caring boy I knew he would be.

I was wrong to wish that. Instead, I should have wished for experiences that challenged him. Experiences that would make him stronger. Experiences that would teach him to “make the best of It.” That lesson will serve him well for the rest of his life.

The class of 2020 have grown up in situations we never imagined when we first met them. When they filled our hearts with wonder and joy.

They’ve gone to schools with active shooter drills, in a world filled with metal detectors and bomb sniffing dogs. When they were in fifth grade they learned that first graders in a place called Sandy Hook were gunned down right before Christmas.

Connor, especially, understands how lives can be lost in an instant, leaving families forever changed in unspeakable way. His pain, now at age eighteen, is both private and universal.

I read a few graduation speeches as I got ready to write today. My favorite is from Awkwafina. She understands what the Class of 2020 needs to hear as they get ready for the next chapter in their lives::

“I made mistakes. Just keep on truckin’, keep on goin’, movin’ to the moon. Do not microwave metal. Not even a tiny spoon.”

Good luck, Graduates! We are proud of you!

Posted on

Zapatista

Zapatista is one of the most memorable, charismatic women I’ve ever met. A tiny woman, she was strong and beautiful with a straw cowboy hat on her head and a rosary around her neck. I’m guessing she was at least eighty years old. Her skin glowed copper. Her brown eyes sparkled. Her smile was captivating. Ernesto and I met her one day in the town of Ayala in the state of Morelos, Mexico.

Neto and I went to Cuernavaca, near Mexico City, in late August, 2013. We stayed in a truly horrible Airbnb rental. The apartment was small and dirty with grotesque art on the walls. It didn’t even have a pot for boiling water.  After going to Walmart for basic supplies, we decided we needed to spend as little time in the apartment as possible and explore the surrounding area, instead. We ate at local food stands. We spent a day in the history museum. We climbed pyramids and visited the most beautiful botanical gardens I’ve ever seen. We took taxis to nearby towns. Because of that tiny, dirty apartment, we had one of our best vacations ever.

Ayala is an agricultural town, forty-five minutes from Cuernavaca. We wanted to visit a museum, have lunch and be home before dark. Our taxi driver warned us to be careful. “There are a lot of bad people living in Morelos.” 

We didn’t see any bad people. Instead, we met Zapatista, a charming woman selling homemade pulque ~ an alcoholic beverage with a taste as smooth as honey. Pulque is tough to describe. Here is the best description I could find, taken from Wikipedia: 

Pulque is one of Mexico’s oldest, iconic alcoholic beverages made from fermented agave. It looks like semen and has the texture of boogers, but it tastes like pure magic.

Neto and I were having lunch at a busy restaurant across from an old railroad station when Zapatista arrived at our table, carrying a large, leather-wrapped jug of homemade pulque. We invited her to sit down at our table and talk to us. She was tired. Her feet were sore. She was happy to spend some time sitting at our table. But first we bought a glass of  pulque.

We called her Zapatista because we never knew her real name. When we asked her who she was, she told us that she was the granddaughter of  Emiliano Zapata Salazar, hero in the Mexican Revolution. She started telling us stories of the Mexican Revolution. The more she told us, the more I knew her stories were true. 

Emiliano Zapata was a handsome man, with dark penetrating eyes and a bushy black mustache. A man of the people and a natural leader, he led the peasant revolution in the state of Morelos. He believed in taking land from wealthy landowners and returning it to the peasants. He later became the leader of the Liberation Army of the South and remained an important fighter of the Mexican Revolution until he was assassinated in an ambush in 1919.

We were captivated by Zapatista. I was in awe of  her wonderful sense of humor and her fascinating personal stories of her grandfather and the Mexican Revolution. We asked her to join us for lunch. She agreed to let us buy her lunch but declined to stay and sit with us. Instead she put her lunch in a plastic box, packed it in her knapsack and continued on her way.

After our day in Ayala, Neto and I left Cuernavaca two days early and checked into a beautiful, ultra-modern hotel in downtown Mexico City. That gave us time to spend a day visiting the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe and climb even higher pyramids. 

Our trip to Cuernavaca and Mexico City was an unforgettable experience. We agreed that spending time with Zapatista was the highlight of our trip, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. She is one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. Talking to her, we felt that we were in the presence of greatness. 

Posted on

Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day in Mexico is May 10th, which is not always a Sunday. It is an extremely important day. No man or boy would ever neglect his mother on Mother’s day. The consequences could be dire.

My first Mazatlán Mother’s Day, my housekeeper and friend, Christina, invited me to go to a party at her son’s school. Eduardo was in middle school and his school was hosting a party for all the mothers after school on Thursday, May 10th. Of course, I said yes.

On the way to the party, Christina and I were walking to El Mercado, the big market, to catch the bus, when I ran into my favorite street beggar. I really liked this woman and there were maybe four other people in the city who shared my feelings.  Her name was Güera because her skin was so light. She was about eighty years old and tough as nails. The woman was indestructible.

Güera begged you to put money in her tin can by shaking it in your face as she glared at you. If you didn’t give her money, she scowled and said (in perfect English) “That’s ok. I don’t like you either.”

Güera could have worked on her delivery a bit, but I guess I admired her determination. I always gave her something ~ five pesos (about 50 cents back then) if I had it. Most people thought that was a lot of money. I thought it was nothing.

That day, the day of the Mother’s Day party, Christina gave Güera two pesos and as I was searching through my purse, the old witch shook that damn can in my face. I said, “Un momento, Chica!” (One moment, girlfriend.) Gûera looked up, saw it was me and smiled a wonderful, toothless grin. Then my favorite beggar grabbed my hand, shook it and wished me a Happy Mother’s Day..

Christina and I continued on to the party. It was a wild, free-for-all. Two hundred pretty mothers in full makeup, dressed in their very best clothes. We danced and ate free food. We drank gallons of Coca-Cola. I noticed there were no husbands or children around except for the student entertainers. The final event was a massive drawing, where women could win big prizes ~ blenders, toasters, pounds of fresh coffee, necklaces and beautiful combs for their hair. Every woman won something.

I wondered why there were no men and children. “Where are they?” I asked Christina.  She looked at me as if all my marbles had just fallen on the floor. “They’re home, of course. This party is just for mothers.”

Later, I told Ernesto about my experience with Güera. He said that she has been a beggar by the market for as long as he could remember. Rumor is that she is actually a very wealthy woman, who provided an education for all of her children with the money she earned begging in front of the market.

Now all of her children are grown but Gûera continues to shake her tin can and beg for money. One of her sons is a taxi driver in the city. Every day a different taxi driver gives Güera a free ride home at 3:00 p.m. ~ just because she is old, and tough, and somebody’s mother.

Posted on

Mari

I met Mari ten years ago, on a hot, muggy, November day in Bucerias, Mexico. Neto and I were alone, sitting on a blanket, watching the waves, waiting for the sunset. Far off in the distance, we saw a woman trudging through the sand. She was the only seller still walking along the beach that late afternoon. A tiny woman with a long black braid, she wore a heavy woolen skirt and a bright silk blouse, Her shoulders were weighed down with heavy woven purses for sale. 

I like talking to the beach sellers and so does Neto. He was a seller, himself, when he was ten, selling peanuts to tourists along the beach. He began learning English as he repeated over and over, “Peanuts! Warm peanuts! I have peanuts for you!”

Mari struggled as she walked toward us. We smiled and invited her to show us what she had to sell. Her work was so lovely, it is hard for me to describe. Hand-woven purses of all kinds, with intricate embroidery on every one. My favorites were the travel bags embroidered with a globe surrounded by children, their arms outstretched as if they were holding hands. I bought three of them in different colors, to give as Christmas gifts. I wanted more but that was all the money I had with me. I made an appointment to meet Mari later, in the town square, to buy more.

That was the beginning of our friendship, Mari is among the indigenous Maya people, whose first language is Tzotzil. Her Spanish was not very good at the time and mine was terrible but Neto was, as always, a great interpreter. 

I learned that Mari was twenty-one years old, the youngest of eleven children from Chamula, Chiapas. Her father died young, leaving her mother to raise eleven children alone. Mari came to Bucerias as a seller to help support her family. She volunteered to travel because, as she explained, “I am determined and feisty, like my mother.” 

The people of Chiapas are used to working hard. Seventy-five percent of them live in poverty. The average family income is $300/year. (That is not a typo!) They seldom smile. The women wear their warm native clothing, no matter where they go.

When I showed Mari’s purses to my friends in Denver, they encouraged me to buy more and bring them back to the U.S. I found Mari again when I returned to Bucerias in January. This time I bought more bags, table runners and handmade whimsical animals. I told Mari I would be back in the fall.

When I returned, Mari’s Spanish was good and she was learning English. She spent the previous summer in Chamula, working in the corn fields. Mari told me that she was married over the summer and she was not happy about it. A young man, Vincente, from nearby San Cristóbel asked Mari’s mother if he could marry Mari. Mamí said yes, ignoring the fact that Mari didn’t want to be married. “I am an independent woman,” she confided. “And I don’t even know this person.”

I liked Vincente right away. He is a kind, gentle man who is very much in love with Mari. He travels with her every year as her helpmate. He carries her heavy load of merchandise and does his best to help sell along the beach.

Years have gone by since I first met Mari. Sometimes Neto and I travel to places other than Bucerias and I lose track of her. But, lucky for me, whenever we’re back in the Bay of Banderas she pops up in my life again. 

Last year, Neto was riding a bus to Punta Burro when Mari boarded the bus with a big bag of handmade animals to sell. She was headed for Punta Mita, a town known for movie stars on vacation. 

Neto grabbed her wrist as she walked past. He commanded her to sit in the empty seat next to him. Poor Mari was terrified until she realized it was Ernesto. She broke into a happy grin and asked about me. When Neto said I was in Bucerias and would love to see her, Mari reached into her bag and pulled out a gift for me ~ a lovely, charming, embroidered cloth peacock.

I look forward to my next encounter with Mari when I return to Bucerias again. I hope that Mari will still be there. She will always be my friend.