The Universal Language of Childhood

by Emily Mosley (United States of America)

Making a local connection Mexico

Silhouetted in the falling dusk against the square flat-roofed brick homes my children skipped and giggled with their new Mexican friends, holding sparklers sprinkling tiny bits of flame, their small bodies spinning in circles of fire. Tiny feet kicked up plumes of dust from the rocky dirt street, and shouts of happiness in both Spanish and English echoed around the small community. San Miguel de Allende has become quite the popular destination for tourists seeking (and finding) gorgeous crafts, friendly people, and a vibrant explosion of color all around, from the crayon-colored stucco buildings studded with flowering potted plants on their narrow, wrought-iron balconies to the fresh fruits and vegetables sold in the main square, El Jardín. Bustling bus stops are encircled by the doughy sweet scent of churros frying, smoked pork, spicy street corn, and bright primary-colored Volkswagen bugs climb the narrow cobblestone streets. Residents embrace taking time to slow down and actually enjoy the food they eat, the friends or family they are spending time with, the sun on their faces. It’s a magical stop-and-smell-the-roses kind of city. However, if you take a rumbling bus up the bumpy dirt roads from the city you will find a different kind of magic in the very outskirts of the outskirts of the city, where the bus line ends near their brand new soccer field. The small neighborhood of San Luis Rey is tucked into the hillsides of the valley in which San Miguel de Allende nestles. Winding cobbled and dirt roads twist up the hillsides, tiny neighborhood groceries, abarrotes, dotting street corners, thick ruffles of trumpet vine and bougainvillea spilling down their sides. Bright street art adorns the buildings, mainly in mural form, and tiny delivery mopeds chug up the narrow streets dodging the odd taxi. My family and I were staying in San Luis Rey for three weeks to visit my parents, who had been living there for several years, getting to know all of their neighbors in the best pidgin mix of Spanish and English everyone could devise. My mother’s favorite person in town was a tiny gorgeous apple-doll of an old lady who lived up the street, and who she always hugged and kissed upon meeting. Our first day in town my mother was so excited to introduce us to her, and she was indeed as sweet as my mother had described. Between her house at one end of the small row of homes and my parents at the other was a tiny brick house in which several children and their parents lived. As it was nearing Christmas, the children were out of school, and slowly over the days my three children became fast friends with them, sharing new and exciting Mexican candy, being invited over to watch cartoons in Spanish in the family’s tiny living room, cavorting with the neighborhood dogs, playing hard each evening until it became too dark to see and their mother called them home. From my father’s small balcony the lights of San Miguel twinkled up at us from its valley, illuminating the purple blossoms of the jacaranda trees dotting the hillsides, and as the small kids galloped in circles with their sparklers, the older boys and girls smiled shyly at each other and began to kick around a soccer ball, showing off for each other. Mexican Christmas music drifted from a nearby home, and whizzing fireworks exploded overhead, briefly illuminating the children’s wide smiles and sparkling eyes. Stars spread out against the desert sky, mirroring the sparklers’ fiery dots of light like a cluster of fireflies against a velvet backdrop. With very little Spanish on my children’s side, and very little English on theirs, these kids had welcomed my kids with open arms, barely able to communicate with each other, but reveling in their shared interests and exploring their differences with keen eyes. This type of wonder and acceptance is something we adults can be inspired by, the way children always make room for each other in the world.