~Right Side of the Tracks~
From the ledge of my third story balcony, I can see the silver and blue cars of the Amtrak train against the backdrop of the Pacific. If I close my eyes, the Pacific Surf Liner’s whistle separates itself from the traffic’s white noise and the roaring waves. Not many railroads remain active today, but I consider the lively tracks one of my oldest and dearest friends.
We camped along what remained of the legendary railroads of the California Coast frequently from my childhood until I nearly was grown. A little place called Carpinteria, so named by the Spanish for the canoe carpentry of the Chumash tribes, became my home away from home. Little did I know over a decade ago that just twelve miles north on these tracks is where I would go to college. I’d find a job and make my home another fifteen miles south in the city of Ventura. My life has long been mapped along the thirty miles of rusty track.
Carpinteria is a quiet beach town, more like cohabitation, full of grown men who don’t wear shoes and women who opt for the glaze of sun rather than makeup. Population: 14,194. The place blossoms where the rolling hills meet the Southern California coast, it’s both voluptuous and flat. Nestled between Ventura and Santa Barbara, you can’t get much more there than hand-crafted shell jewelry or a hearty meal from one of the family-owned restaurants. However, the fertile soil makes it an agricultural hub as well, and every October people gather for the famous Avocado Festival. Somehow, after all these years, I’ve still never tried an avocado.
Visitors aren’t uncommon, but you’re sure to stand out against the hum of the locals particularly if you don’t have a surfboard under your arm. I like to think our family didn’t stand out after the many years we migrated to Carpinteria’s smooth shores. Though most of our trips were just weekends spent in the state campground, we lived like locals, rising when the tide was still low in the morning and going to bed not long after the sun.
The trips began long before I even started school; I was just a baby, having to be carried from the campground across the asphalt bike path to the beach. Carpinteria was likely the longest word in my vocabulary, though I frequently confused it with “Carpeteria,” a chain of carpet and flooring companies. Sometimes the trips were spontaneous—a last-minute “Let’s go to the beach!” Other times they were meticulously planned reunions with our extended family. I loved the loud bustle of my four younger cousins and me, but the nights I spent alone with in my grandparents’ lap next to the campfire are some of my most treasured memories.
Safely tucked between my grandpa and grandma, Momo as I called her, in a booster seat with the family dog on my lap, we made the 200-mile journey from our inland home in Visalia, California. Beginning in the midst of orange groves and flat valley land, the south-bound drive evolved into a climb over the mountainous Grapevine. When the drive leveled on Highway 126, all you had to do was drive west until you hit the ocean. Turn right at the vast blue horizon onto US Route 101, well-known for its majestic scenery. The camping trailer gently pulled our truck as we drove north over the coastal hills for the last ten minutes. Our trek always ended in Campsite 54, neighboring the tent cities of my aunts, uncles and cousins. Prime campground real-estate, that site harbored the best climbing trees one would expect in a mountainous terrain but sat only 50 paces from the beach.
Off-brand tequila bottles stood crooked in the wooden slats of the picnic table, rattling each time the train passed every other hour, a dozen times a day. Carpinteria State Beach campground was bordered by that overactive railroad on the north and by the Pacific on the south. Night and day its clattering horn signaled a round of shots. Each time the train passed, the adults, my grandparents included, would lift their glasses, clinking them before guzzling the clear liquid contents. Their rituals remained a mystery to me as a child, though my cousins and I joyfully participated with juice boxes in our hands.
When our sun-stained little bodies had been exfoliated by the sand, bathed by the sea, and clothed in its rubbery weeds we retreated to fireside seats. There we fervently worked the sticky black tar off our feet with turpentine-soaked rags, giggling as it tickled our tender toes. If the train had frequently that day, as it usually did, and the line on the side of the tequila and rum bottles had dipped enough, our parents approved of s’mores for dinner with a drawn-out and ever so slightly slurred “Ssssure.”
We didn’t know who Captain Morgan was but he was a hot topic of conversation and always seemed to make everyone happier and more easygoing. At night, my cousins and I tried to guess which of the glittering ships in the distance was his. One day in the future, we decided, we would paddle out to sea and make one of the oil rigs our own. But there was little hurry, as the party on shore brought continuous entertainment and adventure.
On nights the coastal fog didn’t slip over our heads, my cousins and me would drag tattered plaid sleeping bags into the back of our truck and look up. With just enough room for the five of us and my Momo, she’d slip her arms around our blanketed bodies. We mapped constellations and prayed for shooting stars. Late July weekends that melted into August promised at least one good meteor shower and we had a front row seat there in the bed of that white Chevy truck. Though we often fell asleep there, one by one we moved into our camping trailers and tents as covers were hogged, wind nipped at our cheeks, and, of course, the train blew its horn. Sometimes, in the midst of sleep I could still make out the clinking of shot glasses and whispers when it passed.
The mornings brought fresh excitement of breakfast from the grill and showers in the campground bathrooms. Concrete shower stalls were open to the blue sky and sunshine as we showered, but, much to my grandma’s dismay, they were also open to seagulls emptying their tanks just above. We still laugh about the day she conditioned bird poop into her hair unknowingly. My favorite feature of the fancy restrooms was the quarter machine that activated the shower. Twenty five cents bought you three minutes of water pressure and it became a game of how well we could time feeding it another quarter to rinse the suds from our bodies—an arcade game in the bathroom.
Once we completed our hygiene routines, we just made a point to get dirty again. From the local farms we lugged in pumpkins for carving or pine trees for decorating, depending on the time of year. A favorite destination was the famous stretch of road along the beach, Santa Claus Lane. True to its namesake, there were a handful of Christmas shops including a candy shop, holiday decoration stores, and a toy store fit for a child’s dreams. No matter the season, Christmas carols blared on the speakers along the storefronts. A very large and jolly statue of St. Nick himself sat just off the side of the 101 freeway to beckon visitors year-round.
The warm summer months welcomed bubbles and kites or lantern-guided games of Go Fish when the sun set. As the weekend getaways continued over the years, Go Fish turned into poker and we begged to join the alcoholic toast to the Pacific Surf Liner. A firm “No” from our elders sent us to the train tracks to flatten pennies instead, imagining the day we’d be old enough to toast its rumbling arrival.
When the winter came to Carpinteria so did the harbor seals. Just a ten minute hike from our campsite was the birthing site of the cutest creatures you’ve ever seen. Hundreds of spotted seals gather and deliver a new generation of cubs each year. We’d site along the cliffs and watch them scamper and take their first swim toward the Channel Islands towering the blue sea in the distance.
It was there we grew up, scraping knobby knees in the campground trees and losing baby teeth in cobbed corn fresh from the barbeque. We lit candles in jack-o-lanterns and candles on birthday cakes, the darkness growing brighter with an extra candle each year. Four cousins turned into eleven, my grandpa joking each time one was born we’d have to boot out the oldest to make room a new grandchild. But naturally, the family became busier with school, work, and growing families. The pilgrimages slowed, eventually stopping without a conscious decision to end the tradition.
During, my last stay at the campground, I visited colleges around Southern California. Much to my surprise, a little school called Westmont captured my heart in Santa Barbara. I never even knew where Santa Barbara was though it was only fifteen minutes away. The need to leave Carpinteria never presented itself, so I had no idea of what existed north of our paradise. But the school looked promising. It was just close enough for afternoon taco runs to my favorite Mexican restaurant and within ear shot of the train. Perhaps it lessened the blow of leaving my family for college, knowing a second home was not far away. Or maybe I subconsciously longed to carry on the tradition that brought so much joy to my life.
Even now, as I sit alone on my balcony, a grown woman, writing and drifting in and out of a nap, I am startled by the train’s horn, an inescapable presence in my life. Do I take a shot, do I not? On the phone with my Momo, I tell her how I still practice the family ritual of tequila shots (most of the time). I never forget to pay attention to the sky late in the summer or return to welcome baby seals into the world every winter. The Channel Islands and oil rigs still glow in the distance at sunset.
I make a point to stay up to date on the happenings of Carpinteria, just in case our family should return one of these days. Together we reminisce on the good times at our family gatherings, eager to steep our clothes in the smoke of a campfire once more and fulfill the subliminal desire to drink at every sounding of a train.
~The Way You Looked at Me~
I still think about you, probably more
than I should. When I close my eyes, they take me back to that stormy afternoon
in Haiti. I will never forget the way you looked at me. Your brown eyes were
magnets. Love was an inescapable force and I its willing victim.
The air was so thick I could almost chew
it. I had not showered in three days, but who was I to be uncomfortable? On my
way to you there were beggars, emaciated children, and even bodies of the lost under the demolished
buildings. The earthquake just a few months prior had swallowed Haiti whole and
violently wretched pieces of what had had been back onto the tiny island. I
knew you were safe in the orphanage. Lonely, but safe. Where had you come from?
Was one of those homes yours? Was that your brother with his hands
outstretched, begging for food? Would you even live to see the streets of your
country? A part of me hoped you wouldn't have to as we drove over the rubble
that still lined the crowded dirt roads.
All of my thinking ceased as we reached
those rusty, blue gates on the edge of the Haitian island. Greeted in a foreign
language, I was reminded of how far from home I was. Having been sheltered all
of my life, feelings of guilt and self-loathing surfaced. My thoughts were soon
abandoned and my heart took control. A picture of Mother Teresa’s face welcomed
us into the Missionaries of Charity Orphanage. My pulse radiated in my toes as
I took in the surrounding destruction. Not a building stood; only orange UNICEF
tents and concrete blocks provided shelter from the harsh afternoon weather.
The thunderstorms reenacted the sobs of the grief-stricken. Water quickly rose
to our ankles and a river of debris began to flow down the dirt path.
My heart was pained to see that the savage
earth couldn't spare a single building for the smallest of its inhabitants –
the children. What was it like to know nothing but a tent as home? There was
nothing to shield your tender skin from the rough winds, no blanket to swaddle
your growing body, no mother to caress that tiny hand. This was all you have
ever known, and yet you survived.
The moment I entered that white, plastic
tent, you commanded my attention. Did you fear being unnoticed in the corner
all alone? Do not fear, for I saw those hands reaching through the bars of the
crib. In the sudden flood of emotion, I disregarded what I had been told. They
said you were sick, all of the children were. Had whatever was ailing you been
contagious, it would not have stopped me from embracing you anyway. Your cries
were all too desperate, your eyes empty.
The whole world disappeared when I lifted
you into my arms. My two limbs had never felt so full of life. Time was no more.
As you clung to my chest, I began to sing softly the sweet songs from my childhood:
“Baby mine, don’t you cry. Baby mine, dry your eyes. Rest your head close to my
heart, never to part, baby of mine.” My own mother sang these words of peace to
me after a bad dream, but the sad reality was that your bad dream was
inescapable. Rocking back and forth, a spiritual thing occurred. The tears
subsided and your soft curls tickled my skin as you rested your head upon my
chest. Though the words I sang were in plain English and you were far too young
to comprehend, you understood them. The pulsing beat of my heart kept time as
the songs continued.
I thought about the two of us and how
different we were. In my eighteen years I had been blessed with an education, a
family, and every luxury that comes with living in America, never a tragedy in
my life. At only six months of age, you had lost everything. They told me you
were born only days before the devastating earthquake: 250,000 dead, countless
that have yet to be found, and not a glimmer of hope for anyone. Who or where your
family was, nobody knows. By only God's grace, you made it this far. Why this
fate was destined for you and not me, I will never know.
We had a unique understanding. I was a
stranger and yet you were so open and welcoming of my love. As much as you
needed it, so did I. The effect of your
embrace left me speechless. I felt a
purpose, even if that purpose was only to be holding you for a short time.
When it came time to let go, I lost hold
of my emotions. Your tears and my tears were mixing as fate pulled us apart as
quickly as it molded us together. Leaving with empty arms was difficult, but to
have to accept not knowing your fate was even harder. I said a prayer of
protection and love over your crib and pulled myself away. Your sobs echoed in
my ears. With every step of my dirty and sore feet, my heart pained a little
more. A part of me was left there that day, but I gained something in return.
You showed me the value in loving and understanding someone so different from
myself.
I realized that I never even knew your
name. Did you have one? The bracelet around your fragile wrist contained only
numbers. It never really mattered I guess, but it is strange, strange to know
that I will forever have a nameless place in my heart.
The guilt of continuing life without you
and returning to America rose in the back of my throat daily, but I had a
promising college scholarship waiting upon my return. “Great things” were
expected of me, but when I measured my future, nothing was comparable to taking
care of you. Classes seemed pointless, the American lifestyle was excessive,
and most of all, my heart felt empty. This was not where God called me to be. I
struggled to see why I was put in this place of such privilege; all I wanted to
do was give myself to those who really needed my help.
Days of crying and withdrawal from the
people around me finally resulted in a good friend pulling me aside. She
promised that I came back to college, not out of selfishness, but out of love.
Though my two hands could hold a lot of children and help many, an education
would empower me to help thousands more. You were my first love, and it was
your story I will tell when I return to serve. I couldn't save you, but it was
your life that has called me to save others.
* * *
I saw a little boy cling to the hem of his
mother’s skirt at the grocery store today. He looked to be about two and a
half, your age now. I see traces of his afternoon snack smeared across his face
and wonder, “Did you eat today?” As the child paraded down the aisle without
his mother, I worried, “Who scooped you up when your adventurous spirit led you
too far down the neighborhood street?” Was it a woman of the right age to make
a suitable mother? The conflicting maternal feelings drag my stomach into my
throat. You deserve everything I could not give you, and I pray that you have
it now.
Please know sweet child, there was not a
night I did not fall to my knees and pray that you were adopted, but each time
I stood up, a pair of brown eyes flickered in the mirror. I’d know them
anywhere; it’s the way you looked at me.
~Golden Mirages~
“It’s not polite to stare or eavesdrop,” I can hear my mother sternly saying in my head. Yes I know, but is it eavesdropping if the lady is talking to herself? Clearly, my mother’s guidelines were not written for cases involving the homeless and schizophrenic population. As I sit in the Ventura Library breaking all the rules and disregarding my books, I take in a different kind of story.
By the looks of her leathered skin and wiry hair, she has been a creature of the streets the greater part of her 50 years. The quick darting of her green eyes refuses to settle on the gaze of another, afraid of what they might see. Rapid paces of her fingers tapping the table suggest a nervous affect consistent with progressions of paranoid schizophrenia. She is purposefully tucked away with her hallucinations and reading materials in the back left corner of the first floor, a spot we share.
We can both be found at the adjacent tables on any given afternoon. Some days we look equally disheveled, I in my stained t-shirt and wrinkled sweat pants and she in her oversized winter coat and tattered jeans. My desk is piled high with study materials, hers with a random assortment of maps, history books, and, oddly, the Declaration of Independence.
These are questionable choices of reading material, especially when taking into account the fact that she has no vehicle and carries all of her belongings in one metal cart. How much of the world she could travel is open for debate. The gaping holes in the soles of her shoes also threaten to slow her down. These technicalities don’t seem to change the rate at which she takes notes and dictates directions out of a book of maps.
Next to the map, she consults California: Land of New Beginnings and The California Dream. When measured up to the criteria of what most consider the California dream, she seems to be doing quite well. She lives in a beautiful beachside town, doesn’t go to work, and has no responsibility but herself. Beneath the blanket of her mental illness, there must be a part of her that sees the falsehood in this because she is diligently studying texts on “new beginnings” as well.
Of all of the books, Golden Mirages seems most applicable to her situation. Its title captures the sick twist of irony and fate that she cannot escape. What is just out of her reach and so desirable will never come to fruition. The people she talks to will never truly speak back, the places she travels in her mind will remain a mystery.
The speed and intensity with which she continues to scan the roads and freeways of distant places is without ceasing. It makes me dizzy just to watch her. With frustration, not at her but the disease that has stolen her life, I want to yell, “There is no exit for mental stability off of Route 66!” I don’t do it. If these maps can bring her freedom, even just within the confines of her own mind, let it be.
Her interest in the Declaration of Independence is ambiguous. Whether it is valued by her for its assurance that she, despite her illness, is equally deserving of the rights it asserts or if she is protected by the restraint it places on the people in power is not clear. It can remove her from or play into her paranoid delusions with its mention of “disposition to suffering” or “consent of the governed.” After extensive note taking, she tucks the parchment away into a large canvas bag.
As the librarian makes the rounds to announce closing time, the woman gently closes The Dream and the Deal but hesitates to place it back on the shelf, as if she knows that her dreams will be placed back into the row with thousands of others. It is a deal she does not want to make, but what she fails to realize is that fate has already engulfed her say in the matter.
A Psalm
I cry out to the Lord my God: Who can love a scarred and hardened heart?
When I have nothing left to give, who will remain at my side?
Worldly standards leave me defeated and alone. Knowledge and wealth forsake me. Where is my salvation?
You alone my God remain. It is you alone that brings hope to my song.
Lord, you rejoice in my offerings despite their brokenness.
As I wake each morning, your grace greets me with a fresh embrace.
With arms stronger than any earthly father,
With love greater than my indiscretions,
With the pure joy of a savior, you reveal yourself to me.
You are the unfailing place of refuge for my soul.
My light, my hope. Abba.
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