by Caitlin Simmons
Beginnings are difficult to start when you are looking for them, when you are concerned with perfection, or approval. Endings are hard to complete when you focus on the past rather than the present, when you fear the future, or the natural progression of the way time changes things. One person told me to never be afraid of change. She said, “The only way to change is to become closer to the truest form of yourself.” Juliana couldn’t remember where it came from. And since I have looked for the author, but I never found one.
I open my eyes. It’s cold enough to shiver but I don’t. Before I’m awake for a full two seconds I question why I woke and turn to my clock, though it would give me no answer. Red dots project onto my face, 2:45, about 15 minutes before I need to be up. I toss, turn, dive in and out of sleep and return to open eyes once more, putting the alarm that just went off on snooze and lay for a while, blank. 15 minutes later I get up, get in the shower, and leave.
Nura got placed with an old woman named Mirae who had a face like a bulldog, Mirae didn’t talk, she barked or she sang. Her house was solely made of concrete and therefore she was the richest person in Babor. Even so Nura complained and grew jealous that I was placed in a family of ten… with four sisters. She had a sister and a mom back home, and I supposed that’s why she wanted to be around sprouting estrogen all the time. I didn’t understand Nura. I didn’t understand why she cried when she got homesick; especially in front of me.
At Mirae’s concrete house Nura and I pulled the mosquito net up around us, ripped a piece of binder paper out of the day-camp notebook, found a purple marker, and titled it “the list”. She told me about her crush that lived in Lebanon still, “Well I know this sounds really stupid, but we grew up together, our families were friends for so many years, and I dunno, I just always assumed that we would be together. It just seems right.”
“Well, why aren’t you?”
“Because he can’t get over to America; do you know how hard it is to get into this country?! Absolutely ridiculous! And if you’re from the Middle East, you’re screwed.”
“How did your family get in?” I said, feeling naïve.
“We got here before 9/11. I mean, his parents are fucking doctors and he’s going to college, they’re like legit, it’s stupid that they won’t let him in!”
“Dude…” I motioned to my mouth for her to be quiet, “Glennie’s sleeping.”
“And – he’s fucking hot!” She whispered, marking that down as a Pro on “the list”.
Glennie was Mirae’s daughter. She had a son named Wellington, which was a strange name for a Dominican. I wasn’t sure if his father left them or if he was just gone for a little bit, but Glennie was deaf and it was hard to understand her babbled speech. So we resorted to pointing at things or just laughing. She rubbed my back and uttered some speech I couldn’t make out; but she smiled and I smiled back. I followed her outside to where she was ringing out clothes and hanging them up on the line. Sitting with my bare legs on the cold steps gave me a chill. I pulled out my notebook and watched her; Glennie was so frail and thin, like one illness could kill her. I wondered if that’s how she went deaf in the first place.
One thing Nura and I did agree on, and not in attempts to force a friendship, was how difficult it was to walk through town and actually get to the destination you set out to. Walking past the tropical painted houses, mothers sat out in their lawn chairs and beckoned us inside. They gave us chairs to sit in, ready conversation, and always something like café y pan or arroz con habichules. Heavy from the food, I never realized how conversation made me so tired. I told Nura it was hard for me to find time to myself… It was hard for me to adjust without time to decompress.
I strolled on down the single road that ran through town and tried to look back at the sun with squinted eyes. When I walked with Mami she brought an umbrella to try and keep my skin from getting darker. It was nice to walk by myself. It was nice to breathe… I was apologetic by nature. My eyes said it all, brown and submissive. I often fixated at a spot on the floor when having a conversation. And on the rare occasion I made eye contact, nervously I darted out of the uncomfortable situation. I wanted to be invisible and so I studied people, in hopes to blend right in and disappear. And in this I was successful. I was not noticed for being too geeky, or too smart, or too good at sports, or too musically talented. I was that girl that everyone vaguely knew… with the timid smile and the empty eyes.
I walked home from school. I took my time. I was in no hurry to get home to sit across from that man at the dinner table I called father and diagonal from the beaming perfection of my brother. I did not need the repetitive nature of their habits and key phrases to seep into my pores again and frustrate my core. I did not need to hear my father complain about work through half chewed food and countless martinis… again and I would pull my hair out if the handsome male version of myself had constructed a way to suck up any more than usual…but then he always finds a way. Between my claustrophobic invisibility at school and home, I could finally be alone while walking. This was the good part about suburbia. While the people were bought, materialistic, and complacent; the houses were stacked on top of each other, dandelions grew up from the cracks in the sidewalk.
I trampled out where the jungle trees grew, my host brother Jalin had taken me there before, I planted my feet in the trees’ scales, pushed from the strength of my legs and pulled myself up to the first branch. Wrapping my legs around the trunk, I reached out for a mango, and bit into the leathery skin. Sticky sweet dripped down my chin, staining my neck. Marisol swayed below with one had anchored on the trunk. She was like a shadow at midday. Shorter and smaller than me, black and silent, but calming, like the friend I’ve always had inside myself.
Most nights she’d creak open the front door, sneak in bed with me and I’d wake up to little girl arms wrapped around my waist, and a head of wiry hair resting on my stomach with the rise and fall of my breath. Mami told me her Mom passed away and I already knew that her Dad drank too much; I was glad she stayed close to me. Marisol often got teased about being mute by Jalin’s pack of stray dogs. I’m not sure why he respected me, but he listened to my whisper of an objection. Maybe it’s because when he was stumbling drunk and cut his eye on barbed wire, I was the one who ‘fixed’ it. Or maybe he actually felt like I was his sister and loved me.
When Brennan, Nura and I walked up the golden path, Jalin was stretched out over the lawn chairs taking a nap. It was hotter than usual that day and I couldn’t tell if all the moisture running down my back was sweat or just the humidity building. Mami called me out to the cocina. She stood half naked, letting her black nipples and the dead chicken on her hip hang. Droplets formed on my skin faster than they could fall off, “How are you Mami?”
“Oh esta bien, esta bien.” She cackled, “Y tu palomita?”
“It’s so hot, Mami.”
I watched her crouch and stir the pot over the flames. I knew the emphysema rates in women here. I knew why. And I knew if I said anything it wouldn’t make a difference.
“Quiere agua Mami?”
“Ay si, traemelo”
Ducking out of the clay and hay kitchen, I asked, “Como se va?” The three of them were wilted, leaning back in their chairs.
“Tranquilo” Jalin answered me.
I dipped a cup inside the water basin, and heard grumbling. Pushing the window open, I saw rain fall hard from the sky and lightening illuminate the distance. I ran out to Nura, laughing in exasperation. That night we danced. One of my sisters clamped the jumper cables onto the radio. Rainwater dripped onto the floor as we danced Bachata, Merengue, and we lit candles when it grew dark. After everyone had gone to bed, Brennan and I stayed up to talk. Nura was sleeping over and there wasn’t much room in the bed anyhow. We sat on the floor, he told me he liked going on these trips because they forced him to sober up.
During Midterm, Brennan talked to me about the idea of going to the beach and watching the sunrise. We talked and took pictures for the two hours. At one point the conversation lulled into a comfortable pause and we were both just staring out into the water hearing the rocks chatter in the background. I could feel him looking at me; his eyes were almond and dark. His eyebrows were neatly placed on his olive skin and black hair fell onto his forehead. His face was slim over his cheekbones, and my eyes focused on his lips that opened slightly ajar. He asked, “What are you thinking?” I had never been asked that before.
On the last night I couldn’t fall asleep and I stayed up thinking. Mamí stayed up with me at night. She brought me hot chocolate and braided my hair on the edge of the bed, repeating, “Ay Palomita, mi hija favorita, verdad? Mi hija, más bonita, verdad?” Thinking about Brennan, I couldn’t help but talk about him…I told her I liked him. She exclaimed, “Ya lo sabía!” I pleaded with her, “Mami, don’t tell anyone. He’s my supervisor. I’m not supposed to like him. I don’t want him to find out; I don’t want anyone to know!” What I didn’t tell her was that I did tell him and he did tell me, a couple weeks ago. He held my hand, my hands fit so perfectly inside his. I looked down into my cup and hoped that I would never forget that moment.
The group debriefed in the capital. Everyone was given a candle to hold, illuminating sweaty glowing faces in the dark. Thick waxy leaves hung about and the threat of mosquitoes irritated my skin. We circled the group and shared whatever sentiments we wanted about our experience. What resonates with me now, was going over culture shock and hearing, ‘your closest friend or family member might not understand’.
The bus stopped, I thought it would have been a longer bus ride, I wish it were. I sat between the window and Nura, it’s strange to imagine my life without her being with me every day. It’s like she’s my shoe and I’m her sock. In the first days being separated, she’ll get a lot of blisters and I’ll walk at more of a stroll than our usual fast pace, stopping, looking back, mulling over the memories in my head. Nura gazed out the window of the bus, her face, sweet and blank. Her swooping eyes seemed green today, frozen and fogging over in tears.
Everyone loaded off the bus, all seventy-plus kids swaying consciously, trying not to hit anyone with their duffle bags and backpacks, slipping between the seats in the small isle. Security searched us outside, the automatic doors of the airport slid open and closed, air conditioning staling emotions. Once we flew into the states the air was dry and mild, the travelers kept to themselves, wore respectable clothes, they were much whiter. They exerted effort towards not talking or looking at other people, pretending like no one else was around. Strange, I thought.
Juliana and I were the only ones to fly back into San Francisco. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying, and both of us had grumbling stomachs, lacked massive amounts of sleep, tried to coax the airplane blankets into giving some warmth. She put the armrest up so she could snuggle with me, “Are you nervous? Do you think it’s going to be weird or a little awkward seeing them again?” My watch read 6:30 pm. I changed it back to California time already…only a half an hour left.
“I don’t know” I exhaled. “I’ve thought about this moment a lot. It just feels like everything has been leading up to this? We haven’t seen them for three months! I can’t wait to hug my brother! … I’ve been picturing this happening for a long time and I can’t believe it’s actually here. I have this picture of seeing my dad in the airport for the first time and crying as I hug him thinking about how our relationship is going to be so much different, so much better…What do you think about it?”
“I’m not ready for it.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I feel like I need another week or so. I miss them a lot, but I want just a little more time; ya know?”
“I understand.” I nodded, even though I didn’t.
Juliana’s eyes and nose started to run and she buried her head into me. I pulled the fleece up so all you could see were two heads of black braided hair.
“Will all the passengers please fasten their seat belts at this time?”
Juliana lifted her head from beneath the blankets that sopped on my shoulder and chest. Clicking free from the seat belts, we packed up our stuff, and stuffed the blankets in our backpacks. Clumsy, shifting under the weight, I hugged her outside the departure gate. “I can’t believe it’s over.” Her face was square and dark. She was a ballerina; stretching her arms over her shoulders, twisting her 14 inches of straight hair into a centered bun at the back of her neck. The way she moved, alone, captured my attention. “Our families are right there. Are you ready?”
“Keep in touch?” She begged.
I gave her a half-smile, “Yeah.”