A shower in the desert

I volunteered last year at a migrant shelter in Tijuana, Mexico. One day a woman arrived from Guatemala. She was pregnant, within weeks of her due date, she told me one evening in the best Spanish she could put together. She was from a Mayan community in the mountains, and Spanish was her second or third language. We were chatting while sorting through piles of clothes. I was on ropa duty that day, which meant that after the community meal, I unlocked the storage room with all the donated clothing and, one by one, residents of the shelter lined up for an opportunity to pick out new clothes.

She really needed a new pair of shoes, she said. I walked her over to the shelves and rummaged through the stacks to a find decent pair in her size. As we poked around at the options, which weren’t ideal, she glanced over at a huge stash of shoes on the floor and giggled to herself. I looked over and laughed, too.

The mound in the corner was made up of high heels—stilettos and platform shoes. She asked me if anyone picks from those, and I said no, that’s why the pile just gets bigger and bigger. I tried to explain the cultural phenomenon called “Southern California,” how the donations come from nice people in wealthy neighborhoods in Los Angeles and San Diego, and how I guess they hadn’t quite thought through what it’s like to try to walk through the desert in stilettos. We both shrugged and laughed as I handed her a pair of very reasonable Nikes that looked like they might fit.