Essays on Life, Experiences & Hopes
About 20 years ago, the afternoons had also started growing longer as sunlight waited more and more before yielding itself to the evening. It was an exciting time at 312 Record Avenue in East Los Angeles as I and other Belvedere Junior High school boys started talking about new relationships with pretty girls.
The television set flicked on and groggily searched for a signal on that overcast Easter afternoon in the mid-1980s. The day was an emerging tradition in our family and as the box honed in on the signal my sister and I grew restless and sought escape from the hammed up movie due to start.
I don’t know where my objections first sprung from. I knew it was a mix of how the main protagonist’s (who was a Spaniard) accent pronounced Ss and made every sentence seem oily and thus baked in unwarranted sophistication and insincerity. Or maybe it was that even at that age I felt that the film maker meant to manipulate the audience and it irked me that my parents would share tears on queue.
Perhaps it was my frustration for how in previous years I had watched with watery eyes a gaunt and bloodied actor struggle through the cobble-stoned streets while the angry throng hissed hatred in his direction. How could I (now “wiser”) been so easily duped to emotion? Now though, as I watched with my sister I read through the melodrama with all-knowing skepticism and whispered in her ear that is was time escape to our family’s back yard.
My father, not seeking an argument that day, relieved us both to our afternoon play and in a flash she and I raced out the door and to our play area so as to enjoy the last few minutes of daylight amidst the grass, darkening skies and overgrown vegetation at the northernmost fence.
—
The tool laid harmlessly by my father’s work shed. It was no more than a half foot long with two tan handles that came together by a thick screw like knob. From that off-center spot two gleaming leaf like blades shot out and I remember watching the light race across them as I shifted their angle to the sun during my inspection. They seemed harmless and I imagined how I may have shrunk so tiny that I was holding a regular pair of scissor which I should use to help my sister and I escape the wild jungle our back yard had become.
My sister trounced through the garden in her favorite and over-worn white top and khaki pants that were slowly thinning at the knees. She reached me with a smile and intently heard my description of the journey we would take together as Amazon adventurers who’d have to make their way through the thick of brush, vines and wicked man-eating plants. The journey would be perilous but I assured her that with her assistance we’d make it back to civilization in one piece and branded heroes.
Though she is three years younger than I, her imagination was always more fierce and in a moment she had envisioned the treacherous adventure at our feet and beckoned us to begin. With that tug at my arm I picked up the scissors and we made our way to the bougainvillea draped fence that served as the main wall of an undiscovered ancient temple. As we shimmied our way across, my sister described the endless chasm at our feet and warmed me that one false move could plunge us into the abyss. Care and a slow pace were key she said and I followed behind her, nipping at the strings of the plant above us that acted like cobras and pythons that would easily devour us.
With a start, the adventurer ahead turned around and put her finger to her lips. We had reached the entrance to the temple but it was covered with a hundred-year’s worth of growth. To make our way inside would take patience as the gates were booby-trapped and one wrong cut would send a deadly cascade of rocks on top of us, end our adventure and leave our skeletons ready to be discovered by other foolish archaeologist in later expeditions.
With that, she moved me closer and asked me to brandish the tool. She would hold a string of bougainvillea and I would cut it hoping not to unleash the dread above us. We both pretended to sweat and pant like they do in the movies. This was serious business, discovery and treasure were in our grasp, but we had to cut just right.
My sister grabbed the plant and angled it towards me. She showed me where to cut and together we nodded as the countdown began. “Uno” we said and I saw a smile race across her face, “dos” and her sight left mine as she focused on the marked spot, “tres”……..
I poured the full power of my tiny muscles to the handles of the scissors. The thickness of my target was no more than a few millimeters thick but I had to be sure the cut was successful. Our life depended on it after all. It was this force that shifted my approach and sent the blades in a difference direction than intended.
My ears registered a slight whistle as the blades cut through the air and began convening on a point. What I remember next is the crimson jet of liquid that came at me and splashed on my brown belt. Then, in confusion I let go of the scissors and watch them slowly make their way to the ground and land awkwardly on the concrete that as they settled still began to show a scattered galaxy of red dots. Next came my sister’s surprisingly quiet shriek and my gaze moved to her grimacing face and then to her hands which she had brought together and were slowly being glazed by the gushing blood. My stomach turned and a dizzying moment came over me that resolved itself quickly as (from the corner of my eye) I saw my mother look out the window to check on us.
She new without us saying one word and in a moment both her and my father rushed frantically towards us…..
My father scolded me harshly for playing at eastern corner of our residence on a cloudy Spring afternoon when I was about six. He had planned to create a garden there and had spent the earlier weekends tilling the soil.
My mother had explained to me that it was an escape from his grueling and psychologically draining work as a homicide detective in the Mexico City of the early 1980s.
From the window of my bedroom or from the shifting angles of my swing I watched his sweaty back, sun burnt shoulders and thick legs work in unison to plunge the shovel into the dirt and heave mounds of dirt that crumbled apart when they reached a few inches off the ground. It awed me that he could work 4 or 5 hours at a time with only a few lemonade breaks or an occasional beer that my mother would bring with a hearty refried bean, chile, avocado and ham torta.
Perhaps it was an act of rebellion that I decided to play in the island of loose dirt that he had worked so hard on. It had been one of my favorite spots of the yard to play in and I had been annoyed when he announced and described the planned garden to friends during our family’s yearly New Year’s Eve party. For a while I thought he had forgotten but then in early March he cordoned off the area with sticks and string and the special place was off limits for my baby sister and I.
When he spotted me that Sunday, I was doing cartwheels in the dirt. It was fun to feel my hands dig into the soil and I loved its coolness and how it dirtied my fingernails. His yell was powerful even from a distance and I grew cold when I heard it. By the time he reached me I was prepared for the worst but surprisingly he shooed me away gently with a warning not to do it again. This was a welcomed break and I resolved right there to comply.
—
The fever began early the next day. At first it meant taking one day off from school but when the stomach pains and severe headache sprung upon me my parents became alarmed. It had been about a week and no aspirin, tea or simple treatment helped. I was taken to a pediatrician who ran a few tests but failed to identify the problem. I was sent home while they studied further and it was then that I lost my appetite and for the next two weeks I began to loose weight rapidly.
Day after day my condition worsened and I felt terrible for causing my parents pain. My mother held her tears back as she placed countless moistened towels on my forehead. I saw a quiver at my father’s lip as he scoured my gaunt chest, thinning legs and ashen cheeks for clues or answers. I was slipping away slowly and there was nothing the they or doctors could do to stop it.
The weight of the situation drove my father to take a break and return to his work on the island of soil. A small tree he had planted early into the project was dying and he would take it out and replace it. As the shovel broke away the dirt and moved into the ground his foot felt the resistance of an object. It must have struck him odd as he had tilled this part and he was certain that no large rock or pipe layed beneath his feet. With curiosity he dug some more, pulled out the dying tree and in the whole he found a brown sack.
His fingers shook as he unfurled the burlap’s thick and stubborn knot. When it came undone a waft of stinking hot air moved up his nose. His surprise came in that he wasn’t surprised by the smell for he had encountered it before in his everyday work. It was the smell of decomposition and it belonged to the head of a large black cat.
—
My grandmother showed up later that evening and performed the ritual. She had been estranged from my parents for a few months and I had been surprised to see her. At my bed post she laid down a pack of cigarettes, a bowl, what seemed to a weed and a couple of eggs.
It hurt to cough as she blew cigarette smoke onto my face and I felt a chill tickle when she pressed the cool eggs about my naked body. The weed I saw smelled sweet and it soothed me as it brushed against my legs, feet and arms. I fell asleep some time during the event.
That night my parents burned the head, the blackened egg yolk and then prayed.
The next morning I awoke. The headache was gone, the fever had subsided and I asked my parents for a hearty breakfast.
A slab of concrete sits a top my father’s garden.
It came to know itself one Thursday afternoon on the banks of an aged canal off Xochimilco in the mid 1900s. It did not know life just at it did know death. But intrinsically the watcher understood that movement around it demanded that it make a not so simple decision.
As it sloughed and faltered off the murky waters it caught the voice off a high pitch wail that in later years it would come to learn as laughter, an emotion that it came to understand but could never truly emulate. The pull towards it was too strong to over come and after a few minutes of struggle it came upon a cheerful boy skipping rocks off a shallow strip of flowing water.
The watcher had no shape but it’s voice was angelic and the boy showed no fear as it approached him and spoke with him in silence and reassured him that it meant no harm. They spoke for hours with no words exchanged. The watcher asked countless questions which the boy easily answered in lengthy monologues that satiated the thirst for knowledge for the new found thing.
The boy in himself was beautiful.. Approximately 16 years of age, he was a lean, a remarkably tall study whose earthy athleticism bore healthy veins, thick brown hair, a strong spine, piercing eyes and vivid wild reflexes. In town he was described by the elders as a coffee flavored version of Billy Budd with a flawed innocence that didn’t serve the new vileness of the then modern world.
The boy’s gaze was notable from the start. One day after his birth his mother who died two weeks later remarked that he could understand him more than every man she had ever known. Others noted in years to come how first encounters left them feeling as if his two eyes read their life histories shockingly. They even asked their children to avoid the child so as not to encounter his knowledgeable gaze. Fortunes were being made every day and men were afraid that their precious and murderous secrets could be read by knowing eyes.
Yet, the boy could not be touched by illicit hands. He was protected, some said, by an aura of spirit Angels who turned poisoned rice water pure. Or who lost hunting parties the boy camped by the water’s edge.
The Watcher learned these truths as it spent moments next to the youth. At the time it didn’t know that it had chosen a simple base on which three others would be added on and lead it to modern times. Knowing the future was not it’s gift. Not like it was hers.
After the boy skipped a jade like rock onto the water, the watcher touched the base of his neck and a simple strike of electricity moved down the boy”s spine. The spark arose a stir that the watcher understood a thousand times faster than any other person before or since. But the brain is faster than the soul and upon the touch an elemental reflex caused the boy to raise his face and lips open.
It was then that The Watcher would sense what it thought would be it’s only need and took the boy”s essence.
Slowly, the silence it was took on the attributes of the being being consumed. It enjoyed thoroughly the growth and engorging encounter that manifested it as a man on the human world. As he devoured the body and essence in earnest he looked over the murky waters of these canals and did not understand why it had come into being.
But as he looked at the waters in what later claimed to be his own eyes, his birthday, he thought was the next step to those who had taken on the world and squandered it’s gifts.
Toned legs strode down the green carpet to the awaiting elevator car. As he caught up with her he looked back to check the closed door of their room and to maybe catch a glimpse of the Civil War soldier who allegedly haunted the hall ways of hotel Dauphine.
With no apparition in sight and a well lit path ahead, her cheeky scoff awaited him at the impatient steel doors who hurriedly tried to close.
She wore a green dress. A coquette number that slung off her left shoulder and framed a gentle triangle off her torso that brought her to the attention every other passerby. In a sea of flesh, her confident and unassuming demeanor served as mistletoe to men ans some women accustomed to blatant shows off careless sex.
As she walked through the uneven streets surrounding Bourbon Street, he watched her body sway. With every step her body bounced and the dress’ fabric struggled to catch up. Her curves bounced glently, swaying on synched rhythm with the waves crashing off the Mississipi river shores.
The full moon’s light bathed the red brick lined streets. On several occasions the roots of aged trees broke though the tries of earlier designers and cast odd shadows that seem to evade her as her commanding strides steamed on through. He watched and followed. He was only an observant, a note taker, a stenographer, a scribe trying to describe a muses’ path in modern New Orleans.
They toured and studied the posted menus on the doors of restaurants. He pondered at her face as she calculated taste from aged menus, gauged the crinkle at her soft German rugged nose when she studied smell, tried to catch the spark in her eye if a prospect taste struck her fancy.
She understood her food. Could imagine its taste and internalized its meaning as art. Certainly her recommendation would yield an experience. Yet, she demanded him to pick. To assert himself in this universe of flavor and create a scene for them to enjoy.
It was in this in this play of admiration that the watcher found them. The figure had recognized their fragrance and had taken a liking. Their smell tasted of deep love and the interplay intrigued the watcher to the point of magnetism.
Following them was necessary.
Slowly it took firm steps behind them. Savoring the wind that flirted with her dress and lifted its hem so as to show her taut thighs. In him, it saw the desire that drove a similar lusty motivation.
As the watcher followed, plans were made and the choice clear. Unfortunately another had already claimed the two and her plans were very different.
Trouble had been brewing for a few weeks before the war erupted by the large wooden table of our home in Mexico. Though the details of the outrage are foggy, I recall that the conflict lasted several hours and I ended up falling asleep watching a National Geographic TV special of the gilded prince Tutankhamen and the curse that surrounded his resting place.
It was in the late hours of the night that my father’s hand broke my slumber and asked me to find my jacket. Though a little confused by the scene I knew from experiencing that questioning my father never yielded any pleasant results and after a few minutes of stumbling in the dark I found my Dallas Cowboys jacket and took his guiding hand that headed to the front door.
It wasn’t long after my back got used to the awkward angle of our Renault’s front seat that I drifted back to sleep. Hours later, I awoke to the chill of the morning and the hub of the Benito Juarez International Airport. This being my first experience with terminals, moving cars and the loud whirring sound of plane air planes, I was fast awash with a feel of curious dread.
Unfortunately, my father’s quick steps, muttering of obscenities, fumbling of paperwork, looks at his watch and wrangling of my hand while carrying an old blue duffle bag let very little chance that any of my thousand questions would ever be answered. Instead, I followed his prompts, scooted faster when he nudged at my back and wondered what my mother would make of this early morning adventure.
My first flight out of Mexico was exciting. The sense of wheels parting with the concrete was imprinted in my memory and it still ranks high on my favorite things about air travel.
During our hours in flight I asked my father about our trip. He was relaxed as he shared that he hoped to show me Disneyland for the first time and that we were on our way to the United States together. Excitement turned to overwhelming thrill upon hearing the news and I would have hugged him except for the knowledge that men in our family didn’t do that.
My thoughts then turned to my mother and I wondered why she had chosen to not join us. When I asked him about it, I noticed that his smile turned, the vein at his neck quivered and his shoulders dropped for a half second before they rebounded and his face turned towards me. All he said is that my mother would not join us on this trip and that we shouldn’t speak of her while we were away. I slumped into my seat as I understood his words as the newest law to respect.
We arrived at Tijuana’s International Airport and after a night at a hotel, we rented a car, crossed the border and made our way north on the 5 freeway. My father and I played a game of counting all the “Cinco al Norte” signs along the highway. A game I eventually lost as it turned out to be as effective as counting sheep.
When I awoke, we had arrived to a city named after a man not favored in Mexico and parked the red Mustang at a motel that boasted a pristine pool where I observed a pretty blonde girl play that afternoon from the window of our room.
As the day turned to night my father asked me to go to sleep as our trip to the magic kingdom awaited in the morning. It was then as I drifted into dreams in this latest new place that I cried as quiet as I could missing my mother and wishing she was there to be part of our fun.
Disneylandia was more fun and exciting as anything I had ever experienced. Sadly, the overwhelming sights left no real memories but the impression of being in a special place have stuck with me. Even now as I see Mickey’s face below the train station as you enter the park I get that same sense of excitement.
It was later that day…as another day’s light began to wane my father called me to the phone booth where he had been speaking heatedly with someone.
As I picked up the receiver I heard my mothers hurried voice come through the black speaker. Despite the occasional crackle her voice came through and I was overcome with happiness. I told her all about the day and she took in every single word as if it was worth a million pesos. Towards the end, as my father prompted me to hand him the phone she asked me when I’d be coming home. He over heard and told me to reply…”soon.”
As he grabbed the phone and I said my final good-bye I wished her a “Feliz Dia de San Valentin.”
I heard through the grape-vine that my child’s school could be implementing a program where he and his future classmate could be receiving iPads for educational purposes.
I was/am thrilled.
Then it was rumored that some parents were concerned by the program because a damaged or broken machine could put a heavy financial burden on a family.
Though I understand the concern, I feel it’s a mistake to not provide our children access to a technology simply because we as parents are afraid of costs. In essence, we are putting a price limit on our children’s education and it lies in the range of $500 or less.
That low?
Today, any one of us adults, could get a parking, speeding, texting while driving ticket that would cost as much if not more than the iPads we are worried about loosing. Should then we stop traveling our byways so as to avoid the heavy financial burden?
What about the cost associated with our children not having another educational opportunity that will help them accomplish more in the years to come? Is the potential $500 investment not worth the reward?
Are some parents simply giving up before we’ve even started and admitting that they have no intention of monitoring their child’s use of the tool?
I stand with giving children the opportunity to handle, work and become comfortable with a technology that will become more and more relevant in the years to come. The costs is real but our potential loss in education is more troubling.
