Ode to a Black Man in the Grocery Store

We stood together,
apart,
in the grocery store,
reaching out,
black hands, white hands,
for bread.

We looked at each other,
blind,
and could have spoken,
but looking inward,
brown eyes, blue eyes,
were silent instead.

Could we sit down,
together,
and eat bread for three days?
Could I bake bread for you,
and you for me?
Is this our common thread?

Is there a better symbol of our common humanity than bread? When I lived in Mali, the bakers rose well before dawn, mixing the simplest elements, water and flour, into dough, kneading until it was ready to go into the stone oven heated by wood fire to become bread.

We all need bread.

When I say my prayers, I ask God, “Give us this day our daily bread.” Are there parts of all the prayers of all the peoples of the world that ask for bread? No matter who we are, what we are, when we are, where we are, why we are...

We all need bread.

My great grandpa, whose family name was Baker, owned a store in West Greenville when that part of town was the city of Greenville County. He sold goods to people and was good to people and was elected mayor by the people around him. People came to him to buy bread.

We all need bread.

I wonder, if a black man walked into the store, did my great grandpa know him? By family? By name? By handshake? By heart?  Or did my great grandpa see him as inferior, as less than human?

I don’t know, for he passed away before I came along to ask him.

I do know, however, unless we are geniuses or fools, we become a part of the time and place in which we live, and that time and that place was deeply imbued with social Darwinism and white supremacy, racism and segregation.

This time and place, too.

We all need bread.

We stood together,
apart,
in the grocery store,
reaching out,
black hands, white hands,
for bread.

We all need bread.

#GeorgeFloyd

- Trevor Scott Barton, Ordinary Time, 2020

Everyday Miracles

Have you heard of sand mandalas?

They’re created by Buddhist monks.

It takes years of study for the monks to learn all that needs to be known about sand mandalas.

A group of monks work together to create them.

The group chooses a design and sketches it out with ropes and rulers on a table.

Then they use simple tools to form the mandala with colorful grains of sand.

They place the sand almost grain by grain onto the design.

Isn’t that amazing?

The design takes days and days to create.

The finished mandalas are colorful, wonderful, beautiful, and full of genius.

And when the monks are finished with their creations...they take brooms in their hands and sweep their mandalas away.

Can you believe it?

All of that time and effort swept away.

The monks simply gather the swept sand into their hands and drop it into water as a blessing for the world.

Then they begin working on another sand mandala.

Wow.

Writing is like building a sand mandala, you know.

I pour myself into a small story about a student from El Salvador.

I use words to paint a picture of her human face.

I write of her earthy brown eyes full of hope for food, shelter, clothing, health care and education.

Full of hope for love.

I use words to fight injustice.

I write against the ones who would deny my little student her human rights.

I use words to paint a picture of a human life.

I pour myself into a small story about Patrick.

He and his family are from Peru.

He has been in the United States for one year.

One day, his friend Alexander got hit on the side of the head with a soccer ball.

“Are you okay, Alex?” I asked. “Do you need to go to the nurse?”

His eyes filled with tears and he burst out crying.

“I’ll take him,”’said Patrick.

He put his arms around Alex and held him.

“Come on, Alex, I’ll help you,” he said.

Then Patrick teared up and began to weep.

He’s that kind of kid.

Kind and courageous, he feels the hurt of others.

As an elementary school teacher, I’m a witness to miraculous moments.

Moments like the life of Patrick.

A human life.

I try to create something beautiful out of those moments.

Then I sweep it away.

I drop it into the waters of newspapers and social media sites, offering it as a blessing to the world.

Then I pour myself into the next story.

The human faces, the human lives, are all around me.

If only I have the eyes to see, the ears to hear and the heart to write them.

A friend from high school sent a message to me this morning.

“The world needs your stories,” she wrote.

That lifted my heart as if it were a basket under a hot air balloon set free to rise into a blue, cloud dotted sky and float gently over the good green earth.

(I just watched the movie Up...can you tell?)

The world needs my stories.

Wow.

They are stories.

They are sand mandalas.

They are human faces.

They are human lives.

I hope the little grains of sand of them are blessings to the world that can make it more human for everyone.

earth and sea

look
deeply
into brown eyes,
feel
the sun rise,
know
the light and warmth
of the earth

look
deeply
into blue eyes
feel
the waters move,
know
the colors and depth
of the sea

- poems for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

ode to a migrant worker’s feet

feet

are

calloused

and so cracked

like rocks in plowed ground

she walks over the land barefooted

as her abuelo turns the earth with donkey and plow

she has the feet of her abuelo, for she walks beside him down the long row of beans

her abuelo walks down the rows until his feet are broken and bent by genuflecting to land or the land owner

when her feet are in the soil, it is as if they are the land, as if they hold the secrets of the earth, the mystery of seed, dirt, water

becoming a bean in a pod, a kernel on an ear of corn, a red tomato

her heart is in her feet, in the land, the mystery

feet speak, "Estoy aquí," "I'm here"

feet are signs to us

"I'm human"

"I'm

here"

 - Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook - Chapter Three

Gabby took the bus home to her apartment.

“Cómo estás, Luisa?” she asked the small woman in the window seat as she sat down beside her.

“Bien,” Luisa answered. 

“Un poco cansado. 

I cleaned a lot of rooms at the motel today. 

¿Y tu?”

“Si, bien. 

A little tired, too. 

I scrambled a lot of eggs at the Scrambled Egg. 

I can’t wait to put my feet up and rest them. 

What you doing this evening?”

“I’m going to cook for my family and take my daughter to help me clean the doctor’s office. 

Then I’ll rest.”

Gabby put her arm around Luisa’s shoulder and hugged her.

“Eres una buena mujer,” she said. 

I’m glad you’re my friend.

“Y tu, mi Amiga. Y tu.”

Gabby got off the bus in front of her apartment on the west side of the city. 

She lived on the poor side of town. 

She and her neighbors didn’t have much money, but they did have a lot of kindness for each other.

"‘Sup Gabby. How you doin’?” asked Bryant, who everyone called Big B. 

He had just come home from his job as a mechanic at the auto shop.

“Hola, Big B. 

Not much. 

Just glad to be home. 

How was your day?”

“It was all good. 

The squeaky wheel got the grease, as they say. 

Today and ev’ry day.”

“One of these days, I’m gonna buy me a car and the only person I’m gonna let work on it is you.”

“Deal!

If you need anything, let me know, okay?”

“Sure thing! 

Same here.”

“You could come over and cook up some steak and eggs for me, you know.”

“Ugh, anything except that. 

I’ve cooked enough steak and eggs today...and ev’ry day!”

“Bet. 

I’m jus’ kiddin’ wit’ cha. 

Night Gabby. 

Be safe.”

“Night B. 

You be safe, too.”

She took her key out of her pocket and opened the door to her apartment. 

It was one room. 

There was a holey sofa that pulled out into a bed with a small table and a lamp beside it. 

Three books, The House on Mango Street, The Old Man and the Sea and Poems for a Brown Eyed Girl, were on a bookshelf made out of a cut board and two concrete blocks against the wall. 

An ancient transistor radio was in the corner. 

A painting by Jasper Johns of three American Flags, one on top of the other, smallest to largest, was on the wall. 

It was a gift to her from one of her regular customers at The Scrambled Egg.

The room was simple and beautiful, like her.

She picked up the small book of poems, turned on the lamp, sat down on the sofa, stretched her legs out in front of her.

She opened the book to the poem An Ode to a Migrant Worker's Feet.

She read,

feet

are

calloused

and so cracked

like rocks in plowed ground

she walks over the land barefooted

as her abuelo turns the earth with donkey and plow

she has the feet of her abuelo, for she walks beside him down the long row of beans

her abuelo walks down the rows until his feet are broken and bent by genuflecting to land or the land owner

when her feet are in the soil, it is as if they are the land, as if they hold the secrets of the earth, the mystery of seed, dirt, water

becoming a bean in a pod, a kernel on an ear of corn, a red tomato

her heart is in her feet, in the land, the mystery

feet speak, "Estoy aquí," "I'm here"

feet are signs to us

"I'm human"

"I'm

here"

“Estoy aquí,” she whispered to the world. 

“I'm here.”

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook - Chapter Two

He stepped off the bus and onto the street.

Small groups of people were standing around the bus, waiting to welcome their travelers open arms an “I’m so glad you’re here!"

No one was waiting for him.

“Oh well,” he thought, “I might not be welcomed with a kiss, but I was sent out with one. 

And by a guardian angel at that.”

The early sun was bright in his eyes and made him squint to see the people and buildings around him. 

A hint of warmth was beginning to ease the chill of the upstate morning.

He put two quarters into the slot of a newspaper rack beside the bus station and took out a copy of The Greenville News. 

The headline of the day read “Governor Seeks To Keep Sanctuary Cities Out Of South Carolina.”

He walked a block toward Main Street and found a small diner that served breakfast in the morning and meat and three vegetable plates in the afternoon.

A little bell rang as he opened the glass door and stepped inside.

“Buenos dias,” said a waitress. 

“Welcome to the Scrambled Egg. 

My name’s Gabby and today’s my third anniversary of workin’ here. 

I love it and I’ll be servin’ you today.”

“Buenos dias, Gabby,” he said.

He reached out to shake her hand and take a menu from her.

“My name's Elias. 

Happy Anniversary!”

“¡Gracias! 

Where you comin’ from?”

“Up from Charleston.

I rode through the night on a Greyhound bus.”

“Charleston, huh? 

I love the low country. 

There’s nothin’ like wakin’ up early, just before sunrise, and takin’ a walk on the beach. 

Goodness. 

I bet you didn’t get much sleep on that bus. 

Come on over and have a seat at this table by the window. It’s the best seat in the house.”

“Muchas gracias.”

“What can I get for you?”

“Well, I could use a hot cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. 

I’ll be right back with your coffee.”

He took out his notebook and pen and wrote as he read the article in the newspaper.

WHO

Governor of South Carolina

WHAT

Speech endorsing a bill that a state legislator from Greenviile intends to introduce that would cut off state funding for three years for any town or city that becomes a sanctuary city.*

Currently, there are no sanctuary cities in South Carolina.

A graduate student at Clemson University, who is working on a thesis examining teachers' attitudes and awareness about the rights of immigrant students, thinks the governor's comments are a 'political ploy,' thinks the state legislator's bill will make immigrants less likely to report crimes or cooperate with law enforcement officials, thinks the bill could increase the risk of 'families being ripped apart' if an undocumented immigrant is arrested for a minor offense and is deported.

*A sanctuary city (San Francisco, for example) does not share the immigration status of a person charged with a crime with federal, state or local officials.

WHEN

October 23, 2017

WHERE

Greenville County Courthouse

WHY

The president wants to build a wall between the United States and Mexico to keep undocumented immigrants out of the U.S.

The governor endorsed the bill because he is afraid "sanctuary cities will take root in our state." 

He doesn't want any S.C. town or city to take part in "lawlessness."

The president attended a fundraiser for the governor the week before the speech.

*I do not call people "illegal" or "aliens." I say "undocumented" and " immigrants."

Gabby came back with the coffee.

“I don’t mean to interrupt what you’re doin', but your coffee’s here.”

There was a deep kindness in her brown eyes.

“Hmm,” she noted. 

“You’re writing with a pen in a notebook. Don’t see that much anymore.”

“I’m old fashioned, I guess. 

I still like to see the words I write on a page. 

Helps me see that I’m moving from one place to another and getting somewhere.”

“If you don’t mind me askin’, what’re you writin’?”

“I don’t mind you asking at all. 

I’m working on a story for my newspaper, The South Carolina Defender. 

I’m a journalist.”

“Oh yeah? 

What’s your story about?”

“It’s about a family I met in Charleston, a migrant family picking peaches and tomatoes on a farm on John's Island.

When I met them, they were living in a gutted out school bus behind the lower 40 acres of the farm.

There's an abuelo, a mamí and a 10 year old niño.

The boy hasn't spoken a word in his life.

He communicates by whistling.

I wrote a series of articles about them last summer so our readers might walk a mile in their shoes.

Or flip flops, as it were.

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

the little monk

"This is what I think of you, you will go forth from these walls, but you will live like a monk in the world. You will have many enemies, but even your foes will love you. Life will bring you many misfortunes, but you will find your happiness in them, and will bless life and will make others bless it - which is what matters most. Well, that is your character."

from The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Sometimes, the little monk hears with his eyes, sometimes he sees with his ears, but at all times he looks and listens with his heart.

Some stories break the little monk’s heart and scatter it over the ground, and some stories mend his heart and put the pieces back together again. He writes both kinds of stories.

The little monk loves the Japanese art form Kintsugi, whose name is translated “golden joinery” in English, and which is an old art form where a broken pot is mended with lacquer dusted with powdered gold.

The beauty of the broken pot Is found in it’s brokenness. 

This is the philosophy of the little monk.

- Trevor Scott Barton, the little monk, 2020

the little monk

"This is what I think of you, you will go forth from these walls, but you will live like a monk in the world. You will have many enemies, but even your foes will love you. Life will bring you many misfortunes, but you will find your happiness in them, and will bless life and will make others bless it - which is what matters most. Well, that is your character."

from The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

the little monk understands -

*his heart is the size of his fist, but a blue whale’s heart is the size of a Volkswagen Beetle

*his brain weighs 3 pounds, but a sperm whale’s brain weighs 15 pounds

*he migrated 5,000 miles to West Africa, but a humpback whale migrates 16,000 miles...per year

*he whistles a humble tune, but a fin whale’s song travels all the way across the Atlantic Ocean

*he writes to serve others

- Trevor Scott Barton, the little monk, 2020

Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook - Chapter One

Elias looked up from the book in his lap as the Greyhound bus squeaked to a stop at the Greenville station.

The old woman next to him fell asleep on the trip up from Charleston and leaned her head on his shoulder.

Her face was as wrinkled as the bark of an ancient magnolia tree, and was colored the same beautiful brown as it’s trunk and branches.

She breathed in, and the air made a soft, whistling sound through her nose. 

She breathed out, and it made a gentle, flapping sound through her lips.

“Life is a symphony,” he chuckled to himself, “Of whistles and kazoos.”

“Ma’am,” he whispered.

She didn’t move.

She kept right on sleeping and snoring.

“Ma’am."

Still only whistles and kazoos.

“Ma’am."

This time he reached out and patted her weathered hand. 

She opened her tired, brown eyes and smiled a small smile at him.

“Thanks for a lettin’ me use yo shoulda as my pilla,” she said with a gravelly voice.

“First time I woked up beside a man in a long time. 

Hope my snorin’ didn’t bother you none,” she giggled.

“No ma’am,” he said with a giggle of his own, “It was music to my ears.”

His knees and back snapped and popped as he stood up slowly and smoothed out the wrinkles in his pants and t-shirt.

“My goodness,” said the old woman, “You make music, too.”

He placed his hand gently on her bony shoulder.

“We could start a band called The Human Experience,” he laughed. 

“People would come from all over to hear us whistle, flap, snap and pop. 

What do you think?”

“Yep, they’d pay us a bundle of money to hear that.”

He pulled on his jacket and waved his hand to her. 

“Goodbye, my friend,” he said. 

“Thanks for the song.”

She waved back. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

“And do me a favor. 

Lean on down here and let me tell you som'pin."

He leaned down and was surprised as she kissed him on his forehead with a light, tender kiss.

“That’s the kiss of a guardian angel,” she whispered. 

“Listen to life, and do not be afraid.”

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

We Are

We Are


We are the tear on the hungry child's cheek.

We are the callous on the old farmer's hand.

We are the wrinkle around the worried mother's eye.

We are the blister on the campesino's foot.

We are the yearning in the peoples hearts.



We are the cloth that wipes away the tear.

We are the hand that joins the work.

We are the word that brings courage.

We are the feet that walk beside the poor.

We are the heart of the people.


- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook

(from Dr. Maria's notebook)

The road from the countryside of El Salvador to the lowcountry of South Carolina is long and hard.

If you take the time to ask the migrants along that road, "Why are you trying to make it to the United States?" they will answer, "We're trying to make una vida mejor, a better life."

The journey along that road is fraught with danger and heartbreak.

Listen to these words from journalist Oscar Martines, who embedded himself with migrants on the migratory trail from Central America to the Mexican-United States border and wrote about the people he met in his book The Beast: Riding the Rails and Dodging Narcos on the Migrant Trail...

"We walk on, telling ourselves that if we get attacked, we get attacked. There's nothing we can do. The suffering that the migrants endure on the trail doesn't heal quickly. Migrants don't just die, they're not just maimed or shot or hacked to death. The scars on their journey don't only mark their bodies. They run deeper than that. Living in such fear leaves something inside them, a trace and a swelling that grabs hold of their thoughts and cycles through their heads over and over. It takes at least a month of travel to reach Mexico's northern border...Who takes care of them? Who works to heal their wounds?"

Before The Beast was translated into English, it was titled Los Migrantes Que No Importan, The Migrants Who Don't Matter.

It is important to remember that people do not leave their land, their family, unless they have to.

If your children are threatened by violence, sickness or poverty, you migrate and look for una vida mejor for them.

If your house is bombed and your land is stolen from you, you migrate and look for una vida mejor.

If you open your cupboard, and there is nothing but dust, and you reach into your pockets and there is nothing but lint, and there is no sustaining work for you to do to support your family, but only underemployment and unemployment, you migrate and look for una vida mejor.

No, no one wants to leave their land, their family, unless they have to.

No one wants to take on the danger and the heartbreak unless they have to.

But some people have to.

Hilcias, his mamí and his abuelo had to.

They do matter.

They are human beings.

They are life.

I am here to take care of them. 

I am here to heal their wounds.

I am here.

Estoy aquí.

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020