We are poor, well, poor in comparison to everything I’ve known before now. I’ve never been wealthy, far from it. But I’ve never had to worry about rounding up 70 cents to buy enough tomatoes and chilies to make chilaquiles. It’s an interesting and humbling experience. It puts things into perspective.

The World Bank says that 53% of the Mexican population lives in poverty. If you keep reading though, you find out that poverty mean less then 2 dollars per day. Minimum wage in Mexico is 5 dollars per day. I don’t know how people live off of that. I guess we’re not so poor after all, considering.

That’s when the reality of Mexico sets in. That’s when the lady who sells watermelons on the corner is no longer a picture perfect image ready for the canvas or the digital camera. That’s when the indigenous women with little babies in rebosos are not folkloric figures here for tourists’ amusement. That’s when I watch the passersby and say, “Do you not see what’s happening? Do you not care

I understand, though, when newcomers are overwhelmed by the poverty that surrounds them. I understand that many begin to put on their blinders as a way to protect themselves from the guilt and sadness that goes along with traveling in a country poorer than one’s own.

What happens when you can no longer turn a blind eye? What happens when you want, need, to do something for the community that has become your home? Where do you begin? There are no easy answers, especially when I, like so many others, can’t seem to see past the chilaquiles that I need to put on the table for my own family.

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