"The facts of the present won't sit still for a portrait. They are constantly vibrating, full of clutter and confusion."
-William M. Dixon
-William M. Dixon
She is carefully dressed in the only pair of clothes she ever wears complete with purple sneakers. Her shoulder length, straight, dark hair is pulled back revealing a face so open it makes one's conscience ache. She leans against a dirty tile wall watching a hyperactive four year old bounce around. Her dark eyes flash and deep dimples appear as she grabs the arm of her strange pale friend with poor Tibetan. Her manner is as old as the sea or the mountains, timelessly patient, yet her visage betrays her severe youth. In her elder sister's home, she clicks her tongue as the four year old dips chocolate chip cookies into a glass of coke and though he is an absolute terror she hardly blinks in frustration.
She is small, gentle, and selfless. She poses in her Tibetan dress in such a way that displays her confidence in the beauty of the dress, not herself. She speaks slowly and sweetly, never expecting understanding. Instead, recognizing the limits of her hearer, she repeats even painful statements and tilts her head to the side waiting for recognition.
I made this thermos bag, I think it looks like a flower. It took me a long time. I have lived in Lhasa four years. My parents died four years ago. I like my hometown better. There I am a farmer. I have never gone to school, I work everyday. Work is okay. Am I fat? I only have a few friends here. Here is picture of my father. I don't have one of my mother.
She is causal about everything and is uncomfortable answering when offered anything. Her very breathing expresses her self estimation of undeserving. She struggles to spell her own name in her own language. She hungrily, though discreetly, scarfs a plastic baggy of fried potatoes and throws back sweet tea like it's running out. Her red, swollen, chapped fingers tell tales of hard work in harsh conditions but her face is as fresh as if she has only picked flowers in spring meadows her whole life. She listens with an obvious and surprising eagerness to other friends entering the teahouse, and as the four year old climbs up the walls, she whispers him down.
In a parting apology for total language inadequacy, her honest hug expresses forgiveness and acceptance in a way makes language unnecessary. She grins, clutches the four year old's hand in her nearly raw one, and turns, walking slowly back down the dusty, windswept street.
Her name is Purbu. She is seventeen. She sells junk from a blanket on the corner near our school.
I wish you could know her. I wish I could better.
She is small, gentle, and selfless. She poses in her Tibetan dress in such a way that displays her confidence in the beauty of the dress, not herself. She speaks slowly and sweetly, never expecting understanding. Instead, recognizing the limits of her hearer, she repeats even painful statements and tilts her head to the side waiting for recognition.
I made this thermos bag, I think it looks like a flower. It took me a long time. I have lived in Lhasa four years. My parents died four years ago. I like my hometown better. There I am a farmer. I have never gone to school, I work everyday. Work is okay. Am I fat? I only have a few friends here. Here is picture of my father. I don't have one of my mother.
She is causal about everything and is uncomfortable answering when offered anything. Her very breathing expresses her self estimation of undeserving. She struggles to spell her own name in her own language. She hungrily, though discreetly, scarfs a plastic baggy of fried potatoes and throws back sweet tea like it's running out. Her red, swollen, chapped fingers tell tales of hard work in harsh conditions but her face is as fresh as if she has only picked flowers in spring meadows her whole life. She listens with an obvious and surprising eagerness to other friends entering the teahouse, and as the four year old climbs up the walls, she whispers him down.
In a parting apology for total language inadequacy, her honest hug expresses forgiveness and acceptance in a way makes language unnecessary. She grins, clutches the four year old's hand in her nearly raw one, and turns, walking slowly back down the dusty, windswept street.
Her name is Purbu. She is seventeen. She sells junk from a blanket on the corner near our school.
I wish you could know her. I wish I could better.
