Wednesday, November 22, 2006





When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.
King Lear, Shakespeare

I remember distinctly 32 years ago when I placed my youngest daughter Hilary (she was about 2) on a high shelf in our home in Arboledas, Estado de Mexico, in the outskirts of Mexico City. She was afraid and she began to cry. In my youth I may have been even more callous as I had the intention of wanting her to cry so I could take this picture. Hilary cried for everything. She may have been four when we traveled in our VW to San Francisco with her older sister Ale. While there, she spoiled our holiday as she cried and cried for beans and tortillas and would only stop crying when Rosemary carried her. On our way to San Francisco we drove through the scorching Desierto del Altar near Mexicali. Hilary cried in the back seat. I would shout to Ale to make her stop crying. Could it have been my shouting or my saddling Ale with the responsibility of caring for her that I can say that I have no memory of having ever seen Ale cry? The paradox is that only recently I can attest to the fact that Hilary has finally lived up to her name and she laughs a lot with that crooked smile she inherited from me which I inherited from my mother.

Now I will do anything to stop a child or any woman from crying. When Rebecca cries for a stuffed bear, I have told her that if I were rich I would buy anything for her as long as she stopped crying.

Lauren, who is now 4 is crying for her mother in the same way her mother cried for us. I don't take any comfort. Last Saturday Lauren was running around with a pair of jeans on her head (much like her mother used to do). She looked cute so I asked her to pose for me. She told me she didn't want to and began to cry. With the light at a minimum I took these pictures and felt sorry I had. It will be a while before she understands exactly how bad I felt.