Progress

As you know, Little and I are in the habit of perambulating within the walls of our fair moated city on a daily basis. The little stroller has gone from portable bed (for a sleepy newborn) to barcolounger on wheels from which he can survey his kingdom and his people. And, survey he does, spinning his little head left and right and craning his neck around to catch all the details. The kingdom is so damned interesting that you've just got to lean forward and hold onto the rail to urge the rolling barcolounger (and the servant who's pushing it) on.


As you also know, the coffee shop is a favorite destination for the little prince and me. From the shop, we can see the passing push carts, tuk-tuks, truck taxis, motorbikes, and cars and the mish-mash of tourists and Thais taking good care of them.


On a recent visit, just about the time that Little was beginning to comprehend the meaning of wave-bye-bye, something happened which again highlighted the contrasts and odd juxtapositions of this place. He peered across the street and lifted a hand to silently wave-bye-bye to the little boy and his mum who live across the street.


I've been wanting to tell you about this little boy for some time, because his name is Gress. Well, that's actually his nickname. His full name is Progress, and he is the little brother of Gram. Oh, you're way ahead of me. Yes, short for Program. And, what to do parents do? They run a dusty, dark internet shop opposite our little latte heaven. And, Gram spends his days (long twelve-hour working days) in the arms of his mother on the sidewalk or in the shop. The names, while incomprehensible to me, represent their parents' wish to bring good luck to these little boys. The irony of this is not lost on me. Gram and Gress are growing up in a poorly lit, unventilated shop at the edge of a busy, sooty street where backpackers need to check their e-mail.

We've tried to strike up an interaction with Gress a few times, but nothing comes of it. He's the same age as Little, but a bit bleary, often recovering from a chest cold (no kidding). As he is carried most of the day, he is a bit passive (try carrying Little for more than fifteen minutes and you've got a bucking bronco in your arms). The pathos of Gress is palpable.

On the day that Little tried to engage Gress from across a busy street (I still can't believe he did it), Gress's mom saw Little waving and looked a bit stunned.

Comparisons between babies are inevitable, but comparisons between lifestyles and the opportunities they afford can be harsh. Not that I know what I'm doing raising this little boy. My biggest fear is that we're somehow hindering his natural (and fascinating) ability to learn. And, while he is as much Thai as he is American, we have decided to raise him largely in the West where he'll have much more opportunity... to progress.