I Camp, Therefore I am

I Camp, Therefore I am

         The young couples on retreat hear sermons under tall trees.  The leaves listen. The tall priest in brown robes emerges from his tent. The leaves rustle, sending a quiet hush through the crowd. The priest walks into the half circle. It closes in around him as he begins the mass.

         I wake up and find that I am alone in our tent.  It does not bother me.  I feel safe.  I have to go pee.  But I have no diaper on.  I try to get out of the tent, but I can’t.  I fall backwards on my butt.  The woman emerged, throwing the tent flap aside as if suffocated, breathed the ripe night air and started walking with no intended end in mind.

         I hate crying, but I am about to.  I hold it in.  She spins the tired problems.  I see a sliver of light coming in the tent.  The tent has an opening.  I crawl through and scrape my butt on the zipper.  I start off in a crawl.  Hell bent on the solution driving her constant forward movement.  I stop when I reach the wall of tall people.  Burning like the blazing bonfires, treading over man-made trails, passing by cooler meadows, not noticing when the landscape changes from underneath her tread.  I decide to squeeze my way under a bridge of legs.  I look for my mother’s toes—no luck.  She relies on extravagant moonlight to lead the way.  I stand up slowly.  I squat like mom did last night.  I am surrounded by the sound of laughing.  I am being lifted off the ground.  Onward through the trees to the edge of the water, where the river resounds the World’s breath, signaling all is well though parts are cast in darkness.          

              I am initiated into a long-going family tradition.  I can barely speak, but I can see.  I can not run, but I can crawl into a walk.  I walk alone.  I wander my way around the campsite collecting love and candy.  There is no way I am getting lost.  Meanwhile, a lull of silence lures the blind into security, creating  illusions of seclusion.  When night falls the church couples gather around a big fire sharing stories, playing bongos, singing songs, and praying together.  When I hear bongos I think of camping.  When I hear bongos I think of my mom walking.

         I remember following her for days just trying to swing my hips like her, just trying to pick up her beat.  I end up looking like a clumsy drunk.  I do not have her swing.  I sit here now researching a drum.  The drum plays in the background.  I picture her unruly hair strands playing the bongos on her butt as she walks.  I can see her cumbia-rhythmic strides.  She walks in platform heels down the central streets of Tijuana, arms encircled with my dad’s.  My dad sneaks peeks behind her.  His eyes move down her slender back.  He can’t help looking.  Her hair has soul.

           A rustling breaks the links of contemplation and the curtain lifts—jogging the woman’s memory to the river’s edge.  My Parents love each other.  They walk together.  My mom is carrying me.  I still don’t have a diaper on.  In a minute I’ll know why.  My parents give each other kisses on the way.  The wind blows my mom’s hair in my face.  She glances, disoriented, eyes squinting, struggling to make out shapes shifting just ahead. It smells sweet like marshmallows.  She crouches on all fours following an impulse to blend in.  We climb over a big flat rock.

         Dad takes off his shirt.  She hears a request.  My mom holds me in her lap and scoots closer to the water.  In the form of a long and solemn howl.  My dad jumps in and yells a whooping call.  It pierces through the darkness.  My mom hands me over.  Her blood coiled with primordial spasms.  He dips me in all the way, and the world gets blurry.  She’s dropping further.  I fling my arms out because it’s ice---bowing to the Earth’s welcoming breast.  Dad throws me up into the air. –throwing back her tangled mane.  I feel alive.  She returns the call with strength. I am awake.