I sat with a friend and her
son outside the post office in Flagstaff, Ariz. The building has
been there half a century; we felt as though we had been there
eons. There was an icy mountain wind and an occasional icy stare.
We were encouraging people to send George Bush a half-cup of rice
with either a biblical quote about feeding the enemy, or the
ecumenical message: “We are all one. When the enemy hungers, we
hunger. When we feed the enemy, we feed justice and harmony.”
The downtown post office can seem like the center of the
Old West. Ranchers, Native Americans and teachers gossip while they
stand in line. The postal clerks are anything but postal. We trade
recipes and movie reviews.
Most days, someone on the
steps holds petitions for signatures, a modern version of the
“Elect” and “Wanted” posters that would
have been pasted next to the old brass mailboxes. But on this block
and others, Flagstaff is the New West. We are on the interstate
conduit for homeless people: men, women and extended families. The
main drag runs a block from the post office, and there is shelter
from the wind in an alcove that holds a public phone.
My
friend and I set up a table on the street corner closest to the
front door. It was the sixth time we’d spread out rice and
flyers, feeling like Girl Scouts selling peace instead of cookies.
There was a glassblower who didn’t want the biblical quote because,
he said, “I’m circumcised,” a snowcat operator who said he
was both a conservationist and a hunter, and a reservist set to go
to Iraq the following week, who said, “I don’t want to go over
there. It’s wrong.”
About 4:40 p.m., I saw what appeared
to be a gang of kids bouncing down the sidewalk, toddlers to
teen-agers, bundled in secondhand jackets and being shepherded by a
woman carrying a baby. They came close.
“Want to send
some rice to George Bush?” I asked. “He don’t need rice,” the
mother said, “he got everything. What I got here is 10 kids.”
We explained. The kids clustered around the table, their
dark eyes bright. “I want to bomb that old Hussein,” the woman
said. “He kilt all those people in New York.”
“Uh uh,” my
friend said. “That was another guy. If Bush keeps us in Iraq,
thousands of kids could die, just like these.”
The woman
frowned. “Plus,” I said, “more American moms and
dads who have kids are likely to get killed or crippled.”
“Ain’t no way,” Supermom said, “I want that to
happen.”
My friend made out an envelope; the woman’s
hands were full of baby. There was some confusion over an address.
A slender girl corrected her mom. She was told to hush up in that
voice that carries the strong possibility of a whuppin’.
The girl fell silent. A little guy asked me if he could
have some rice. I filled a baggie. Another kid asked. I filled
another baggie. The mom struggled to remember their motel ZIP code.
The girl started to tell her mom, then put her hand over her mouth.
Her fingers were long and slim, the nails shining with chipped
fuschia polish.
I leaned in close. “When you’re a woman,”
I whispered, “you talk up whenever you want, but now…” She
grinned. Together we said, “Be cool.”
I asked her name.
“Dion,” she said. “Dion?” “No,” she said, “Di…” My hearing aids
were useless.
“I’m a little deaf,” I said, “let me turn
these up.” “Here,” she said, “I can do this,” and she signed her
name with those incredible fingers, one elegant letter at a time.
Diamond.
“Hello, Diamond.” I signed, “I love
you.” She signed back and smiled a smile more radiant than
near any I have ever seen. I gave her a bag of rice, and then gave
the same to her empty-handed brothers and sisters. They all said,
“Thank you, ma’am.” The mom tucked two bags in
the pockets of her coat. Diamond ran into the post office to mail
her package. A Navajo man came up and told us his people are
warriors. “But not for this one,” he said. I poured
rice into a baggie. By the time I looked up, Diamond and her family
were gone.
Mary Sojourner is a contributor to
Writers on the Range, a service of High Country
News (hcn.org). She is a writer in Flagstaff,
Arizona.
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