Contributor: Sydney Boles - - Ngöbe girls don’t wear shoes, Mama tells her. What do we wear, then, Mama? We walk the way our ancestors walked, with their dust between our toes. Mama strokes the girl’s dark hair, runs a finger down the wide, dark flank of her nose. Ngöbe girls don’t speak to White Men, Mama chides with her finger. What if it’s important? Don’t play their game, Little One. But what if a White Man speaks to me? They came to our land and took everything, Little One. Don’t let them take your voice, too. Mama smiles at the little girl’s wide lips: my mother’s lips, she thinks. My mother’s full-moon eyes. Ngöbe girls weave rope bags out of plant fibers. But Mama, did I tell you about this white girl I saw with this pretty blue bag? Hush. Our way is the way it has always been. Mama guides the girl’s fine-boned fingers through...

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Author: Sydney Boles