s en vuestra casa!" I said this with a flourish as I handed her the jewelry. It means "make yourself at home" which was the closest Spanish I could think up to mean I wanted her to keep it. The women laughed, smiled, the two on each side of me grabbed my hands. We sat like that for a long time, as long as my body could take the heat, and I hugged them and rose from the water to find Patrick rising from his pool at the same time.
We drove home, through those Baja lands, past those cows and coyote, but this time I felt them breathe, as if the spring water seeped into my skin, gave me a new Mexican identity. I listened as Patrick gave me my birthday present, a grand idea of what I should do with the time I have left on this planet, a good and sound and fun and important idea. Soon we found ourselves back in San Diego, back into our alien frazzle dazzle life.
Birdie’s stories show a caring woman who has a knack, an exquisite ability, to interpret expressions and body language, and to befriend anyone. Another one of my favorite series of posts about her friend Comet highlight this quality. In the first post, Birdie has been canvassing a neighborhood on her bike. Not only had she been turned away, but one homeowner even threatened to call the cops on her.
After awhile, she gave up and plopped herself down on the side of the curb. She looked down Hillside Street and noticed how "the scarlet bougainvillea cast tendrils over every fence in just the same way [she] felt the blood drip from [her] heart. Oh Patrick, [she thought], send me some kind of a sign that you're still there. Come on Patrick. I need something today."
Across the street from where she had planted herself, six immigrants were standing there. Soon after she had sat down, a truck drove up and the driver yelled out that he needed five strong men. Everyone was able to jump into the back of the truck except for an older fellow who was left alone. As he turned dejectedly and began walking away, she empathized with him:
"Hola!" I screamed a little louder than I intended. "Hola, se
ntese, por favor." I invited the man to sit with me. I apologized for my poor Spanish, and I tried to ask him where he was from, what was his name. I told him my name and pointed in the direction of my house. I told him I had five children and I sold things to women. I didn't know how to say beauty products so I pulled out an Avon brochure and handed it to him...
"My name is Comet." He spoke in English, surprised me. "My name is Comet." He repeated himself, pointed to his chest.
....Comet was forty-two years old. He crossed the border a few weeks ago near Calexico. He had a sister who was ill, who needed money. He was sending her the earnings from his time in the fields, digging ditches, picking up trash, any odd job anyone would give him.
....We finished our snacks in silence, or at least I thought it was silence but I must have been singing my death song because Comet asked me a question, something about a song, music, sing, I knew those words, and I explained.
"My best friend died a little over a week ago. I'm singing because I miss him. I don't feel like I can do anything without him." I was bungling my Spanish, adding English words like sprinkled cheese and as I explained tears fell out of my eyes, fell too fast, covered my cheeks and my shirt, so many tears I didn't know I still had.
"I feel arrested, Comet. I can't do anything right anymore. I used to tell Patrick everything, we talked all day long over the computer or the phone, you know? Now I'm stuck. I can't even sell Avon things anymore. My magic is gone."
Comet watched me cry, stayed still and quiet as my flood of sadness turned into full sobs over the bad morning, the loss of my best friend, all the things I wanted to accomplish in life but stood wrecked and rusted on the roadside.
"Look." He took two purple flowers, squished the petals. He spit into his hand and rubbed until a light lavender ink spread across his fingers. He used his middle finger of his right hand and began to draw on the cement in front of us. He drew a hummingbird, a flower. He reached into the ice plant, felt around, pulled out a dirt-covered stone. He added some shading, a sprig of leaves. The painting was delicate, small, almost imperceptible to the eye unless you knew where to look. He wiped his hands on his pants, and in his own flood of words he spoke. His eyes seemed darker, more lined, as if what he told me came from a place of sorrow.
"My name is Xihuitl. It means comet. I come from Milpa Alta. I paint. I am an artist. I have painted many murals in my home city. I do the work I must do now, but I can make a mural wherever I am. I hope to return home some day. All of this life is sad."
I left him with my name and phone number written on the Avon brochure. I asked him to call me in a few weeks. I told him I would try to make some extra money so that he could paint me a mural on my fence. He said he would call. We shook hands, and our eyes echoed something primal and grateful in each other.
I tried to return to the mural later that day. I wanted to take a photo, to show my boys and tell them the story of the man with a space name, the man who makes art wherever he lands. But I stood in the same spot, now blank and wet from the subdivision sprinkler system, and I thanked Patrick for sending me this sign, thanked the universe for all the ways I make my own art, and thanked Xihuitl for his humanity.
But it is her humanity seasoning her posts that make her writing so endearing. Like many other good writing friends, her stories of reaching out, caring for, or being there for others is inspiring.
Indeed, over these past two short years of Birdie’s Beauty Dish, it’s popularity resides not only in her beautiful stories but in her down-to-earth perspective on reviewing Avon products, revealing the experiences she has had with clients, and her amazing stories of her life as a devoted single-mother--from being reacquainted with her birth daughter; befriending a pet pig; dealing with her son’s school for suspending her son 9-year-old son for creating and reciting a Pledge of Allegiance to the Star Trek Federation (which became national news); running a marathon with her oldest son; moving to New Mexico; and searching for the Church of Scientology in New Mexico’s desert, to name a few.
Last year, Birdie confided in me that she didn’t think she was a good writer or even a writer at all. I didn't believe that then. I don't think anyone else believes that now. And to her credit, Birdie has marketed herself and her skills effectively. I am thrilled for her and this attention. I hope to see her one day on the New York Best-Seller List.
Birdie Jaworski is currently Director of MiPO Radio. She is the creator and director of Birdie Dish Radio. Her poetry and stories have been published by Virtual Occuquan, MiPo Zine, Caf
