Going It Alone

Once, may years ago, back when New England was in deep freeze for most of the winter, my kids and I were in Mexico. A friend invited us to his hacienda for lunch and a swim. It was enchanting, like the romantic old Mexico in the movies. He kept questioning me about what I was doing, traveling alone with my kids. I didn't 'get' what he was trying to tell me. I can be a bit thick, and so was his accent.

Finally, he said, "Let me get this straight. You got divorced because your husband was having an affair. You are taking care of three kids, working to support them, have your own house and car, and take out the garbage and clean the house?"

"Yes", I said.

"Then you are a stupid, gringa, burra."

I was kind of not flattered.

"Because you are a beast of burden, and a stubborn one at that."

"What would you have me do?"

"Why, any woman in her right mind would have run home to her Daddy with the children, thrown herself in bed in a nervous breakdown, and let her parents take care of her and the kids for a good long time until she felt like falling in love again."

"Wow!" I said. "Never occurred to me, never."

Years later when I was in Guatemala, the words for this song came to me. I love them, but never really could carry a tune, so it is still the words to a song that has never been sung. I, obviously, was still a stupid, gringa, burra. (In Guatemala, 'muchacha' is the generic word for maid.)

I AM MY OWN MUCHACHA 

When morning light breaks through the clouds,

When the children's voices rise in need,

When the hunger of a new day rumbles in my

body, soul, spirit,

I, alone, turn hoping for hope of help,

Only to discover - again - that

I am my own muchacha,

I play my own marimba,

I make my own tortilla,

I clean my own casita

and

I talk to God direct, you see

I am my own muchacha.

When the coffee beans need roasting,

When the filthy clothes pile up,

When the foundation and the roof are leaking,

crumbling, caving,

I, alone, turn hoping for hope of help

Only to discover - again - that

I am my own muchacha,

I play my own marimba,

I make my own tortilla,

I clean my own casita

and

I talk to God direct, you see

I am my own muchacha.

When the politicians increase repression,

When the skunk gets in the garbage,

When the water is not fit for drinking

and the ocean is full of slime,

I, alone, turn hoping for hope of help

(It's all inside you baby, don't forget.)

You are your own muchacha,

You play your own marimba,

You make your own tortilla,

You clean your own casita

and

You talk to God direct, you see

You are  your own muchacha.

When you seek a man or a helping hand

or an axe to cut some wood,

When the car is broke and so are you,

When the last bus left because you had no change,

You look for hope of hope in a 

passerby, in a stranger's eye,

in your confusing family,

BUT

You are your own muchacha,

You play your own marimba,

You make your own tortilla,

You clean your own casita

and

You talk to God direct, you see

You are  your own muchacha.

 When my worries waste me, toxins poison me,

and stress clogs up my blood,

(This life could kill me, yes, it could)

Then, like a sneak attack.. I sense

that blissful feeling and my step begins to skip

and I hug that starlit glamour,

and I no longer hope

For now again I know...

I am my own muchacha,

I play my own marimba,

I make my own tortilla,

I clean my own casita

and

I talk to God Direct

I am my own muchacha.