Star Bright

    

                                               Star Bright                                                               by leland choy

     One summer morning in Mexico a tourist, strolling through the outskirts of Cancun, came across some open aired, market stalls that usually lined the sidewalks of the poorer sections of town.  On the shelves in one particular stall were displayed little ceramic dishes decorated with tiny white stars painted against a dark background.  Those stars were dazzlingly bright and it bestowed on those humble dishes a touch of majesty that it would not have had otherwise.  The dishes were small, she picked one up, it fitted the palm of her gloved hand.  She thought they would make perfect gifts  to give to distant relatives. She purchased a dozen.  They were  incredibly cheap.

    
     While waiting for her purchases to be wrapped, she looked around the threadbare stall and noted how tired the old Indian shopkeeper was, and how the whole place smelled of mildew.  But these dishes were beautiful and would look handsome on any kitchen counter.  She was glad to be patronizing this elderly lady rather than those aggressively young, light skin,  salesgirls in the mall next to her hotel.  She didn’t even try to bargain with this sweet old Indian lady.  

     As she was about to leave, she caught sight of a small boy hunched down in the dark shadows of the stall.  The boy sat next to what she presumed to be a primitive furnace used for firing the clay dishes.  It made the interior of the stall oppressively hot.  She watched as he steadily painted the white enamel stars inside faintly chalked outlines marked on the raw clay.  He was intently focused, even while sweat dripped down his little nose.  A fly crawled up the little boy's thin arm and under his arm pit, but it didn’t seem to bother him.   The boy was now glancing furtively at her.  He couldn’t have been more than eleven.  “How old is he?”  Then, thinking this the epitome of rudeness, she turned and addresses the boy.  “How old are you?” she asked.

     “Oh, he cannot speak English,” the old lady interceded. “But he will be seventeen next month.  He is my grandson. I have taken care of him since his mother went away many years ago.”

    
      “Has he done anything other than these little white stars?” asked the tourist as she began to scan all the items displayed on the shelves.  All contained patterns of little white stars.
    
      “Oh yes, oh yes,” nodded the Indian lady.  “He is very good.  He has been painting since he was a little boy.  Come, I show you the beautiful work he has done.”  She shuffled forward with an old,  tattered binder and proudly opens it revealing pages of art work in plastic sleeves. 

     “But…these are all stars, rows and rows of little stars.  I thought you said he painted different things?”

    
      “They are different, Senora.  They are all of different colors!  See, there are red stars, green stars, and all of different sizes.”
    
      The bewildered tourist noted that the grandmother was not being facetious. “But don’t you think he should perhaps paint other things, like people, trees, a fruit now and then?”
    
      “Oh, but he would like to,” said the grandmother, softly.
    
      “Well then, in heaven’s name, why doesn’t he?” asked the tourist.

     The old lady hesitated and glanced over at the boy.  Then she said in a sad and breaking voice, “Because only his stars will sell.”

     The tourist, glancing at the purchases in her shopping bag, suddenly realized that she had just contributed to his dilemma.  She looked at the young man once more and, without saying another word, quickly walked away.