The Dot in Your "i" (Dedicated to Frida Kahlo) by Devi Nina Bingham

Of a world I never saw and had only imagined,

like the Louvre, I wished to visit and did not,

though Paris was the mecca of surreal artists.

San Franscisco had to suffice.

It had a charm, but was so unlike my Mexico

with Romanesque concrete columns and the windswept Bay,

yet not different from Mexico's tiny, winding streets and steep hills.

Houses were tall and thin and stacked upon one another,

windows high square eyes peering down

rather than squat and wide,

and awash in drab and demure colors

while my hometown was short and fat casas

painted obscenely and sometimes screaming

brightly floral.

San Franscisco was elegance, education

and art exhibits by fine capitalists whom I did not believe in. 

Upon returning to Mexico, I was always relieved 

to be out of the societal straight jacket

and back where I could speak fast and loudly

and smoke to my heart's content.

Brave blood was running through my veins

of my European Father and Mexican Indian Mother. 

Not a mixed-up heritage, but two worlds lived under my skin.

One not better than another, though richer and poorer

is usually confused as better or worse. 

I was most at home in my Tahoua dress and braided hair.

Each is born in a period of time so brief

like the dot over an "i." 

The one importance we have,

what will outshine our mortality

is whatever art, music, and literature we leave behind.

Beauty ages and crumbles into a handful of ashes,

and money is handed down to someone else. 

Only expression, and what men have well built,

will stand the test of time. 

So, you see, wherever you live, in whatever period you live,

this is your chance to give your all.

Though your time is nearly done,

sands of the hourglass are still falling.

Do not wish your life away,

lamenting, "If only I were here or there, 

or with my lost love."

I spent too much time mourning

instead of fully making use of my talent.

Do not let pain or regret determine your outcome.

Resolve not to squander the dot in your "i."

Get as close to genius as you can. 

Then, and only then, will you be glad you have lived. 

With Love,

Frida