Today, in some feeble attempt to connect with Lincoln Hall--a mountaineer who almost lost his life on Everest--I tried to fathom the epitome of a meditative state. While attempting to summit Everest in 2006, Hall was left for dead, but miraculously made it off of the mountain while being coerced by Sherpas who were not his own (although the latter is only heresay). What saved his life was his ability to detach via Buddhist practice; desire, it is believed, is the root of unhappiness. Hall, while in and out of consciousness, hallucinated while simultaneously envisioning his family. Now, this may seem simple, something you and I may have done numerous times to deal with pain; however, Hall's experience was much different, in that, his body physically--not just emotionally--responded to this form of Yoga. As he imagined the nearness of his loved ones, his body temperature began to rise. He began to thaw.
I began to think of all of the trials with which I have been confronted throughout my life. I thought of how easily that pang of bitterness had, at times, consumed me; how easily anger and pity and cynicism had meandered in and out of my life. Then I placed myself on the Hillary Step, meters away from Everest's summit. I was cold and frostbitten so that my extremities were black with gangrene. My oxygen was depleted and fellow mountaineers, guides, and sherpas walked by ignoring my existence, because really, I did not exist. I was, at that moment, frozen in time. I was Lincoln Hall, except unlike Hall, my soul had been annihilated. Bitterness, anger, pity, and cynicism were symbolic of all of those empty canisters of oxygen that litter Everest. I was empty.
Then, something quite foreign happened. Those ghosts, what some have brushed off as being mere hallucinations, became real. Not in the literal sense, but rather an ephemeral happening. It was then that I had an epiphany. We are all on the brink of death; perhaps not today or next week or even next year, but it is inevitable. The ghosts and the people that Hall saw as he sat literally frozen to the mountainside, were not meant to be physical beings; these were the persona of survival at its greatest. A survival that encapsulates, not only what a passerby might see, but the core of mankind.
Regardless of your religious philosophy, it is the fight of achieving the here and now that really matters. When I was a small child, my great-great aunt had a plaque that hung on her wall that read: Today is the first day of the rest of your life. I would like to believe that those words were among the many visions Hall had the day he descended the grandest mountain in the world.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
A Choice
It has been over a week since I've written...anywhere. Yesterday, as I was sitting at La Diosa visiting with my cousin, Amy, reality (again) slapped me in the face. As I was discussing my Master's thesis, I felt somewhat snobbish. You must know, that I am the first in my immediate family to ever graduate from college. In any event, I have multiple degrees, yet this still does not erase the person I was. Before I moved in with my grandparents, I lived in a mobile home with my mother and step-father. Each day before I stepped onto the bus with wet hair and smoke (an herbal mixture, if you will) permeating from my clothing, I would secretly hope the drug dogs did not come to school that day; I always feared my parents' addiction would be my eternal embarrassment.
As I sat there, sipping wine and eating butter olives, I remembered how much I hated school. I hated living a lie and cliques and loving to read, but mostly, I hated going back to that trailer park. The stories I wrote while sitting in my bedroom were the only means of escape from the world I fought so hard to deny; those stories were only meant for my alter ego. Now, aside from that trip to the Himalayas--I discovered them in a set of encyclopedia my mother had bought from a door-to-door salesman, and lived there via pencil and paper--I am actually her; I am actually that little girl with opportunities.
For what it's worth, I am an educated woman with a future, who, as a child thought she was destined to a realm of nothingness. For seven years I worked two jobs and attended college full-time so my daughters would not have to sit in their rooms and wish for Armageddon. For seven years, the Himalayan mountains became a metaphor for my struggle to break a cycle; I have reached the summit, giving my daughters the same opportunity, but for different reasons.
Yesterday, at La Diosa I had an epiphany; it matters not where we come from or the lives we lived prior to today. Although those moments may have made us stronger, that cliche cannot heal the past. We can never recreate our childhood, nor can we always control what happens in the future, but we can manipulate the negativity that some use for an excuse to never progress beyond their past. We have the capability to evolve. It is a choice.
Until next time, ciao.
As I sat there, sipping wine and eating butter olives, I remembered how much I hated school. I hated living a lie and cliques and loving to read, but mostly, I hated going back to that trailer park. The stories I wrote while sitting in my bedroom were the only means of escape from the world I fought so hard to deny; those stories were only meant for my alter ego. Now, aside from that trip to the Himalayas--I discovered them in a set of encyclopedia my mother had bought from a door-to-door salesman, and lived there via pencil and paper--I am actually her; I am actually that little girl with opportunities.
For what it's worth, I am an educated woman with a future, who, as a child thought she was destined to a realm of nothingness. For seven years I worked two jobs and attended college full-time so my daughters would not have to sit in their rooms and wish for Armageddon. For seven years, the Himalayan mountains became a metaphor for my struggle to break a cycle; I have reached the summit, giving my daughters the same opportunity, but for different reasons.
Yesterday, at La Diosa I had an epiphany; it matters not where we come from or the lives we lived prior to today. Although those moments may have made us stronger, that cliche cannot heal the past. We can never recreate our childhood, nor can we always control what happens in the future, but we can manipulate the negativity that some use for an excuse to never progress beyond their past. We have the capability to evolve. It is a choice.
Until next time, ciao.
The Hat
Recently, Devin, a friend of mine, posted a picture of himself wearing an all too familiar hat, which brought back memories of my elementary school days. It was then that I used to wear a rust colored ivy cap everywhere I went, even to school. Hats were not “legal” according to the school dress code, and, therefore, by 9:00 a.m. you could find me sitting at my desk with my thin, blonde hair stuck to my scalp. However, the cap would find its place back on my head during recess. By the afternoon, my teachers gave in and allowed me to wear the hat. This routine became a redundant part of my teachers’ lives; for me, the hat was yet another tool in my attempt to deviate from the norm.
In the fourth grade, I remember film day in the library, and friends braiding one another’s hair. Giovanni Mendez was always the culprit who would pull off my hat and braid my hair. I loathed the idea of looking like the other girls, but differentiated the situation by allowing a boy to style my hair instead of one of the girls. Of course, his work was done in vain because the hat would soon tousle my thin strands of hair, causing tiny hairs to escape from the tucks and twists that Giovanni had so delicately manipulated.
One day, in fifth grade, I found a book in the school library entitled _Go Ask Alice_. This book, I learned later, was on the banned books list, and the librarian huffed in disgust when she found it had not been removed from the school library. I remember handing her the book so she could stamp it, as she simultaneously pointed in the direction of some books on a mechanism that resembled a spinning bookcase. On this contraption, brightly colored books with pictures of children and boxcars begged me to privilege them. And so I pretended to. But not before I slipped the “bad” book off of the front desk and into my hat.
In the sixth grade, I retired my hat. It made me different; it sheltered me from the sun that always seemed to blister my porcelain skin; it served as a holster for words that were denied students because some person, who had apparently read too much Orwell, decided literature should be condemned because it was too real or too smart. I am not sure what became of my hat, but I will never consider it to be lost. Each day, as I braid my hair to keep it out of my face or put sunscreen on to prevent a burn or place another book on my bookcase, I will remember that once upon a time, one single assembled piece of clothing protected me, while at the same time encapsulating my individuality.
Thank you, Devin, for the memory.
In the fourth grade, I remember film day in the library, and friends braiding one another’s hair. Giovanni Mendez was always the culprit who would pull off my hat and braid my hair. I loathed the idea of looking like the other girls, but differentiated the situation by allowing a boy to style my hair instead of one of the girls. Of course, his work was done in vain because the hat would soon tousle my thin strands of hair, causing tiny hairs to escape from the tucks and twists that Giovanni had so delicately manipulated.
One day, in fifth grade, I found a book in the school library entitled _Go Ask Alice_. This book, I learned later, was on the banned books list, and the librarian huffed in disgust when she found it had not been removed from the school library. I remember handing her the book so she could stamp it, as she simultaneously pointed in the direction of some books on a mechanism that resembled a spinning bookcase. On this contraption, brightly colored books with pictures of children and boxcars begged me to privilege them. And so I pretended to. But not before I slipped the “bad” book off of the front desk and into my hat.
In the sixth grade, I retired my hat. It made me different; it sheltered me from the sun that always seemed to blister my porcelain skin; it served as a holster for words that were denied students because some person, who had apparently read too much Orwell, decided literature should be condemned because it was too real or too smart. I am not sure what became of my hat, but I will never consider it to be lost. Each day, as I braid my hair to keep it out of my face or put sunscreen on to prevent a burn or place another book on my bookcase, I will remember that once upon a time, one single assembled piece of clothing protected me, while at the same time encapsulating my individuality.
Thank you, Devin, for the memory.
A Lesson in Tolerance
As many of you may already know, I was once married to an Arab. Sounds like a made-for-Lifetime movie, right? Well, I guess it could be. In any event, I am currently enrolled in Cultural Diversity, one of my last two graduate courses. One of my assignments is a community experience which entails logging four hours at a religious establishment that is not my own, and analyzing its method of worship. A colleague recently asked me if I was going to “research” Islam, what with being married to a Muslim and all. My answer was “no, I do not need to research Islam because I am quite familiar with its practice, and besides it would be a bit cliché.” Why, you might ask? Well, since 9/11 Islam has been put under a microscope, so to speak. My goal is to learn something new, to remove or perhaps intensify, a stigma that has been placed on a particular religious group. Islam has been done over and over and over. It, like Catholicism and Judaism, has become a stereotype rather than a way of connecting with a higher power.
As a child I can remember the dreaded knock on the door. Those people who didn’t believe in Hell or Christmas or Birthdays were nothing more than a nuisance to our lives, as busy as we were with watching sitcoms, drinking beer, and hiding the tray with the green stuff on it. My mother often morphed into a theologian, grabbing her Bible that sat beneath the aforementioned tray, and inviting those people inside. She would rant and rave to them about their belief system as they sat quietly listening. She would condemn them to hell in a hand basket, as they graciously awaited her next exhale so they could get a word in. Peering around the doorway, I would watch my mother escort them to the door while simultaneously rolling her eyes and cursing them under her breath. I felt sad that they had to go to Hell, while we were allowed to sit at the right hand of the Father, whoever He was.
My mother church-hopped. One year I was Lutheran and the next I was Pentecostal. One year I was quietly reciting the Lord’s Prayer, and the next I was standing at the front of a church trying my damnedest to speak in tongues, but giving up because I didn’t want to run around the church like the others. Religion, for me, was a circus and the ringmaster was the preacher. Even as a young adult, I just couldn’t feel what others would say they felt when reading the Bible or listening to their pastor. I was extremely jaded by the fact that we, as individuals, had the right to threaten eternal damnation, yet, I remembered that the Bible clearly stated that we did not have the right to judge.
All of this reminded me of the poor young lady sitting in my living room when I was a child. I have therefore decided to attempt to understand those people my mother judged. None of us has the right to assume that people are bad because they think differently than us. Sure, we can disagree with their beliefs or way of living, but lack of celebrations and articles of clothing and door-to-door preaching are not what we should fixate upon. Instead, we should remember that tolerance is of utmost importance. In a few days, I will invite my friend, Jacque, over once more. She is a Jehovah’s Witness. I am learning quite a bit from our chats, and, no, she is not trying to convert me, nor do I intend on ever labeling myself this or that religion. Each time she walks through my door, I remember that lady my mother called a liar, and the shy smile she gave me as she walked away. She did not frighten me like preachers had done in the past, but instead, the memory of her reminds me that stones do not have to be cast in order to claim a spot in the hereafter, wherever that may be.
As a child I can remember the dreaded knock on the door. Those people who didn’t believe in Hell or Christmas or Birthdays were nothing more than a nuisance to our lives, as busy as we were with watching sitcoms, drinking beer, and hiding the tray with the green stuff on it. My mother often morphed into a theologian, grabbing her Bible that sat beneath the aforementioned tray, and inviting those people inside. She would rant and rave to them about their belief system as they sat quietly listening. She would condemn them to hell in a hand basket, as they graciously awaited her next exhale so they could get a word in. Peering around the doorway, I would watch my mother escort them to the door while simultaneously rolling her eyes and cursing them under her breath. I felt sad that they had to go to Hell, while we were allowed to sit at the right hand of the Father, whoever He was.
My mother church-hopped. One year I was Lutheran and the next I was Pentecostal. One year I was quietly reciting the Lord’s Prayer, and the next I was standing at the front of a church trying my damnedest to speak in tongues, but giving up because I didn’t want to run around the church like the others. Religion, for me, was a circus and the ringmaster was the preacher. Even as a young adult, I just couldn’t feel what others would say they felt when reading the Bible or listening to their pastor. I was extremely jaded by the fact that we, as individuals, had the right to threaten eternal damnation, yet, I remembered that the Bible clearly stated that we did not have the right to judge.
All of this reminded me of the poor young lady sitting in my living room when I was a child. I have therefore decided to attempt to understand those people my mother judged. None of us has the right to assume that people are bad because they think differently than us. Sure, we can disagree with their beliefs or way of living, but lack of celebrations and articles of clothing and door-to-door preaching are not what we should fixate upon. Instead, we should remember that tolerance is of utmost importance. In a few days, I will invite my friend, Jacque, over once more. She is a Jehovah’s Witness. I am learning quite a bit from our chats, and, no, she is not trying to convert me, nor do I intend on ever labeling myself this or that religion. Each time she walks through my door, I remember that lady my mother called a liar, and the shy smile she gave me as she walked away. She did not frighten me like preachers had done in the past, but instead, the memory of her reminds me that stones do not have to be cast in order to claim a spot in the hereafter, wherever that may be.
Culture
All day Saturday, before my first true week of teaching seventh graders, I worked hard attempting to uncover a bit of creativity in order to teach my students the Parts of Speech. Soon, I unearthed a song from Conjunction Junction. A bit primitive, one might think; however, School House Rock is not just an 80s concept. It is still alive and kicking today.
In any event, I located a nice little rap that chants "if you yearn to learn, then we're here to teach...a little something known as the parts of speech..." Something to that effect--a little paraphrasing never hurts, especially since I am no connoisseur of rap music. Tuesday came, and I worked effortlessly connecting the necessary technology to play the aforementioned song. Unfortunately, it was not a success. In fact, all five of my classes simply stared at me, jaws on their desks, as I stood there in some feeble attempt to wake the dead with my own rendition of "Rhyme and Reason." Needless to say, the kids were not impressed, and, in fact, their silence was proof that I had failed.
It has been exactly one week, and today I had a substitute. I was not ill, but rather had to attend a workshop regarding a new computer program that is supposed to help with writing skills. As all good teachers do, I left a worksheet so my sub wouldn't have to lecture, and, just in case the students completed their work, I left a photograph. Now, we all know that pre-teens should have no time to idle. Therefore, I decided to blow up a picture to use as a writing prompt.
As many of you may know, today marks the 400th anniversary of Galileo's telescope. I figured I had nothing to lose; after all, I wouldn't be in the class when my students' infamous silence sent chills up the substitute's spine. As suspected, they finished their worksheets early and were asked to write a paragraph describing what they thought was occurring in the photograph. Yes, they had to use creative thinking and write about something very few of them were familiar.
Lo and behold, each time I walked past my classroom, there was silence. Their heads were bowed, and their pencils were scurrying across their paper. They were writing.
I realized, as I flipped through some of their work this evening, that I had made the ultimate mistake as a teacher. I had stereotyped. The majority of my students are latino/a, and I had just automatically assumed I could reach them with music that "fit their culture." I was wrong. Although they didn't know who Galileo was, his telescope saw something much deeper than my simple human eye.
In any event, I located a nice little rap that chants "if you yearn to learn, then we're here to teach...a little something known as the parts of speech..." Something to that effect--a little paraphrasing never hurts, especially since I am no connoisseur of rap music. Tuesday came, and I worked effortlessly connecting the necessary technology to play the aforementioned song. Unfortunately, it was not a success. In fact, all five of my classes simply stared at me, jaws on their desks, as I stood there in some feeble attempt to wake the dead with my own rendition of "Rhyme and Reason." Needless to say, the kids were not impressed, and, in fact, their silence was proof that I had failed.
It has been exactly one week, and today I had a substitute. I was not ill, but rather had to attend a workshop regarding a new computer program that is supposed to help with writing skills. As all good teachers do, I left a worksheet so my sub wouldn't have to lecture, and, just in case the students completed their work, I left a photograph. Now, we all know that pre-teens should have no time to idle. Therefore, I decided to blow up a picture to use as a writing prompt.
As many of you may know, today marks the 400th anniversary of Galileo's telescope. I figured I had nothing to lose; after all, I wouldn't be in the class when my students' infamous silence sent chills up the substitute's spine. As suspected, they finished their worksheets early and were asked to write a paragraph describing what they thought was occurring in the photograph. Yes, they had to use creative thinking and write about something very few of them were familiar.
Lo and behold, each time I walked past my classroom, there was silence. Their heads were bowed, and their pencils were scurrying across their paper. They were writing.
I realized, as I flipped through some of their work this evening, that I had made the ultimate mistake as a teacher. I had stereotyped. The majority of my students are latino/a, and I had just automatically assumed I could reach them with music that "fit their culture." I was wrong. Although they didn't know who Galileo was, his telescope saw something much deeper than my simple human eye.
Goodbye Nabokov
After having read all but two of Nabokov’s works--_Pnin_ and _Nabokov’s Dozen_—the former because either I could not locate the grandiose writing to which I was accustomed with Nabokov or perhaps I subconsciously did not want to finish the only book in which I had yet to read; the latter title I had never seen until about a year ago when a friend found it in a used bookstore—I thought (like all Nabokov lovers) that I would never witness another publication. I was wrong.
Even through all of the controversy of Dmitri, Vladimir’s son, publishing his father’s book posthumously, I knew I had to read _The Original of Laura_. Although the subtitle warns its readers that it is merely a “novel in fragments,” it is actually many novels in fragments. I read it only once, but plan to read it several times, as I know I missed much symbolism—one always does the first time around, especially with Nabokov.
Signs of _Lolita_ ran rampant throughout this novel—from the pedophilia behavior of the illicit lover of Flora’s (later FLaura) mother, Hubert Hubert, to Flora's marriage to an older man on whom she later sexually deceives—sexuality, or perhaps lack thereof for some, becomes a major struggle for the characters; or is it Nabokov himself?
I also found similarities to _Invitation to a Beheading_. However, instead of a constant fear and wonder of when an execution might occur if, in fact, it does (or did), here the character becomes detached from his own being, wondering how he, himself, might delete a certain part of his “wretched flesh” (p. 159).
I am left to wonder if Flora, FLaura, Laura is the sneezing nurse who, in the introduction, Dmitri claims left the window open that later contributed to our Vladimir’s demise. Was Vladimir himself the antagonist, a man struggling with the aging process? In most every page you will find a loathing aroused by the aged human anatomy. Finally, I wonder if his quote from Nietzsche was a tell-tale sign that Vladimir had thoughts of suicide. I wonder.
By the end of the book I felt somewhat guilty. Did Vladimir want this piece of work to be “obliterated” as not only Vera, his wife, had said, but that Vladimir had written on a note card? Was this a journal of his private struggle with life and the end of it? Or was this fragmented piece of art just another Nabokovian genius? Perhaps we will never know.
Personally, I am sad. Vladimir died when I was only five years old. I would not discover him until years later. I would never know the feeling of having my favorite author die until recently, for his were classics before I was graced with his words. Now, however, I feel he has died once more, and still I am not sure why I am going through this metamorphosis. I am not sure I will re-read _The Original of Laura_ for a while; perhaps I will savor it for some time. Perhaps.
Even through all of the controversy of Dmitri, Vladimir’s son, publishing his father’s book posthumously, I knew I had to read _The Original of Laura_. Although the subtitle warns its readers that it is merely a “novel in fragments,” it is actually many novels in fragments. I read it only once, but plan to read it several times, as I know I missed much symbolism—one always does the first time around, especially with Nabokov.
Signs of _Lolita_ ran rampant throughout this novel—from the pedophilia behavior of the illicit lover of Flora’s (later FLaura) mother, Hubert Hubert, to Flora's marriage to an older man on whom she later sexually deceives—sexuality, or perhaps lack thereof for some, becomes a major struggle for the characters; or is it Nabokov himself?
I also found similarities to _Invitation to a Beheading_. However, instead of a constant fear and wonder of when an execution might occur if, in fact, it does (or did), here the character becomes detached from his own being, wondering how he, himself, might delete a certain part of his “wretched flesh” (p. 159).
I am left to wonder if Flora, FLaura, Laura is the sneezing nurse who, in the introduction, Dmitri claims left the window open that later contributed to our Vladimir’s demise. Was Vladimir himself the antagonist, a man struggling with the aging process? In most every page you will find a loathing aroused by the aged human anatomy. Finally, I wonder if his quote from Nietzsche was a tell-tale sign that Vladimir had thoughts of suicide. I wonder.
By the end of the book I felt somewhat guilty. Did Vladimir want this piece of work to be “obliterated” as not only Vera, his wife, had said, but that Vladimir had written on a note card? Was this a journal of his private struggle with life and the end of it? Or was this fragmented piece of art just another Nabokovian genius? Perhaps we will never know.
Personally, I am sad. Vladimir died when I was only five years old. I would not discover him until years later. I would never know the feeling of having my favorite author die until recently, for his were classics before I was graced with his words. Now, however, I feel he has died once more, and still I am not sure why I am going through this metamorphosis. I am not sure I will re-read _The Original of Laura_ for a while; perhaps I will savor it for some time. Perhaps.
That Much
Tuesday night I heard a commotion in the Bracero house. My bedroom window is nearly aligned with its window; the window the hens and rooster use to enter their giant perch. When my daughters and I moved into this house, the Bracero house was forbidden. The people before us had used it as a dump. I have no elegant word for its purpose for the previous tenants, as they had littered it so terribly that not even a spider would burrow in its wet, haunted wood that now smelled of a small child who had been neglected for days.
We decided to brave the task of cleaning up the place. The front half of the house, where the bathroom and kitchen must have been so many years ago, was clean. I told the girls we could use that area to store our camping gear and bikes, but they insisted that we could use the bracero house in its entirety, and so began the day-long journey to clear out the living area; the bedroom of migrant farm workers and their families.
After several hauls to the city dump and several gallons of bleach that we poured on the wooden floor, the room came alive. Spiders and snakes began to appear, and that is when the rooster and hens arrived. We did not own them, nor did we purchase them in some feeble attempt to get in touch with our new lives of living in the country; they just decided to adopt us. They now had a home. The Bracero House.
Every night they would roost on the rafters, huddled together in a row as if they had been waiting years for this new home to be built. It was perfect for them. We boarded up all but two of the windows so the chickens (and my junk) would be protected from the elements, and so was born the greatest chicken coop in all of Lovington's history.
In the mornings I began throwing on an old sweatshirt and rain boots, and traipsing through the back area of my house to unlatch the door to the “chicken coop.” And every morning the hens and their rooster would cluck to let me know that, while they appreciated all of the hospitality, my presence wasn’t wanted long. I would fill up their feeder with chicken scratch that we purchased downtown at a feed store. The owner laughed when I first told him of our adoption, and knew right away that I had always been a city girl. But every month, like clockwork, we drove to his business to purchase food for our new additions. And every month, he would smile and shake his head as he loaded the feed into the trunk of my Toyota Camry.
In the meantime, Aaliyah became quite close to these farm animals. She worried on weekends we were away, and, like the rest of us, enjoyed the sound of the rooster crowing, although he did it very sporadically, and rarely at daylight. He was much like his new family, lacking a schedule and early to rise. Aaliyah took them hay when it was cold and searched for eggs when it was warm. We never found where the hens were laying, but we didn’t care because we always felt like we were just part of the family.
At two o'clock Tuesday morning I heard a loud noise outside my window. I knew that a coyote had finally found the dwelling of our friends. The chickens screamed, but there was nothing I could do. It all happened so quickly that by the time I sat up in bed, the noise had stopped. I plopped back down on my pillow and cursed the circle of life.
The next morning I continued with my regular routine; I took feed and water to the chickens, although I knew, by the strewn feathers, that I was doing so in vain. We drove to school and I simply existed. I said nothing to Aaliyah because I had yet come to terms with the event myself. In the teacher’s lounge, my neighbor asked if I was missing a chicken. He had found one lying on the road that runs beside his house. Everyone made jokes about chickens crossing the road, while I thought to myself that even the most intelligent people have no heart. I silently wondered how I would break the news to Aaliyah.
Aaliyah took the news better than I expected, but I guess subconsciously she knew one would return. And one did. She found a hen waddling in the back area behind our house that same evening. Aaliyah caught her, and found that her foot had been injured. She carefully laid her down and began doing all she knew how to do. She gathered some hay and began building a nest for the hen inside the Bracero house. She then came inside and grabbed the old sweatshirt that I had worn each morning for so many months to nourish this hen and her family. She nursed her, but even with all of her effort, it was just not meant to be.
This morning I stepped outside to take photographs of nature. Sitting on the window of the Bracero house was a lone bird, singing a lovely morning tune. I snapped a picture and walked around to unlatch the door to check on the hen. There she lay on her side on the old sweatshirt that she had seen each morning since the day she moved in. It had become her resting place. I knelt down beside her and wept. Aaliyah had been so brave and carried her around, but I had always been the feeder. Nothing more. So I reached out my hand and stroked her feathers in an attempt to feel what Aaliyah had felt. I apologized for nature’s course, and walked inside to explain to Aaliyah that her hen missed the rest of her family that much.
We decided to brave the task of cleaning up the place. The front half of the house, where the bathroom and kitchen must have been so many years ago, was clean. I told the girls we could use that area to store our camping gear and bikes, but they insisted that we could use the bracero house in its entirety, and so began the day-long journey to clear out the living area; the bedroom of migrant farm workers and their families.
After several hauls to the city dump and several gallons of bleach that we poured on the wooden floor, the room came alive. Spiders and snakes began to appear, and that is when the rooster and hens arrived. We did not own them, nor did we purchase them in some feeble attempt to get in touch with our new lives of living in the country; they just decided to adopt us. They now had a home. The Bracero House.
Every night they would roost on the rafters, huddled together in a row as if they had been waiting years for this new home to be built. It was perfect for them. We boarded up all but two of the windows so the chickens (and my junk) would be protected from the elements, and so was born the greatest chicken coop in all of Lovington's history.
In the mornings I began throwing on an old sweatshirt and rain boots, and traipsing through the back area of my house to unlatch the door to the “chicken coop.” And every morning the hens and their rooster would cluck to let me know that, while they appreciated all of the hospitality, my presence wasn’t wanted long. I would fill up their feeder with chicken scratch that we purchased downtown at a feed store. The owner laughed when I first told him of our adoption, and knew right away that I had always been a city girl. But every month, like clockwork, we drove to his business to purchase food for our new additions. And every month, he would smile and shake his head as he loaded the feed into the trunk of my Toyota Camry.
In the meantime, Aaliyah became quite close to these farm animals. She worried on weekends we were away, and, like the rest of us, enjoyed the sound of the rooster crowing, although he did it very sporadically, and rarely at daylight. He was much like his new family, lacking a schedule and early to rise. Aaliyah took them hay when it was cold and searched for eggs when it was warm. We never found where the hens were laying, but we didn’t care because we always felt like we were just part of the family.
At two o'clock Tuesday morning I heard a loud noise outside my window. I knew that a coyote had finally found the dwelling of our friends. The chickens screamed, but there was nothing I could do. It all happened so quickly that by the time I sat up in bed, the noise had stopped. I plopped back down on my pillow and cursed the circle of life.
The next morning I continued with my regular routine; I took feed and water to the chickens, although I knew, by the strewn feathers, that I was doing so in vain. We drove to school and I simply existed. I said nothing to Aaliyah because I had yet come to terms with the event myself. In the teacher’s lounge, my neighbor asked if I was missing a chicken. He had found one lying on the road that runs beside his house. Everyone made jokes about chickens crossing the road, while I thought to myself that even the most intelligent people have no heart. I silently wondered how I would break the news to Aaliyah.
Aaliyah took the news better than I expected, but I guess subconsciously she knew one would return. And one did. She found a hen waddling in the back area behind our house that same evening. Aaliyah caught her, and found that her foot had been injured. She carefully laid her down and began doing all she knew how to do. She gathered some hay and began building a nest for the hen inside the Bracero house. She then came inside and grabbed the old sweatshirt that I had worn each morning for so many months to nourish this hen and her family. She nursed her, but even with all of her effort, it was just not meant to be.
This morning I stepped outside to take photographs of nature. Sitting on the window of the Bracero house was a lone bird, singing a lovely morning tune. I snapped a picture and walked around to unlatch the door to check on the hen. There she lay on her side on the old sweatshirt that she had seen each morning since the day she moved in. It had become her resting place. I knelt down beside her and wept. Aaliyah had been so brave and carried her around, but I had always been the feeder. Nothing more. So I reached out my hand and stroked her feathers in an attempt to feel what Aaliyah had felt. I apologized for nature’s course, and walked inside to explain to Aaliyah that her hen missed the rest of her family that much.
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