The leaky boundaries of man-made states
Last Thursday I flew to Mexico City and spent five days exploring one of the greatest cities in the world— and the oldest great city on our North American continent. It was my first visit and it won’t be my last. The initial reason for the trip was to attend several art fairs. But as the trip unfolded I found myself thinking a lot about this particular moment in my own country as we are living through an upending of our constitutional republic. There I was, enjoying the privilege of a passport that allows me to travel safely anywhere in the world, traveling to the one country whose people my president and his administration have targeted as Scapegoat Number One. This was on my mind as I visited the ancient Teotihuacan pyramids, as I haggled over souvenir prices, and as I listened to a Mexican friend tell his stories of detention centers at the border. This was on my mind as I struggled to remember my college-level Spanish and yet found myself daily in the good graces of so many Mexicans who are fluent in my language. This was on my mind as I moved about freely and without much fear — and even the small fears were unjustified. This was on my mind as I heard news from my own country that the president had seized control over arts and culture agencies and resources, declaring that his administration was ushering in a new Golden Age of Art that aligned with his agenda. This was on my mind as I encountered so many artists and their work, reminding me that art and culture can never be implemented or enforced from on high, but rather always has and always will emerge from the hands, hearts, minds, and guts of the people. I took heart in this simple reminder: Trump has underestimated and misunderstood the power of art.
I’ll share more stories from my trip in the coming weeks. But as I settle back in to my regular life in Kansas City, Missouri and think through how I intend to show up in this alleged “Golden Age” of ours, I thought I’d share with you one of my favorite poems by Wisława Szymborska. Let me know what you think.
(Image by Missy Rich)
by Wisława Szymborska
Oh, the leaky boundaries of man-made states!
How many clouds float past them with impunity;
how much desert sand shifts from one land to another;
how many mountain pebbles tumble onto foreign soil
in provocative hops!
Need I mention every single bird that flies in the face of frontiers
or alights on the roadblock at the border?
A humble robin - still, its tail resides abroad
while its beak stays home. If that weren't enough, it won't stop bobbing!
Among innumerable insects, I'll single out only the ant
between the border guard's left and right boots
blithely ignoring the questions "Where from?" and "Where to?"
Oh, to register in detail, at a glance, the chaos
prevailing on every continent!
Isn't that a privet on the far bank
smuggling its hundred-thousandth leaf across the river?
And who but the octopus, with impudent long arms,
would disrupt the sacred bounds of territorial waters?
And how can we talk of order overall?
when the very placement of the stars
leaves us doubting just what shines for whom?
Not to speak of the fog's reprehensible drifting!
And dust blowing all over the steppes
as if they hadn't been partitioned!
And the voices coasting on obliging airwaves,
that conspiratorial squeaking, those indecipherable mutters!
Only what is human can truly be foreign.
The rest is mixed vegetation, subversive moles, and wind.
(Translated by Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh)