Seven Years

What a rotten day. Nothing had gone right. Someone had drawn a caricature of him, calling him a pothead, and posted it on several bulletin boards. Now his girlfriend was mad and refusing to talk to him. He kicked at a pebble and sent it careening under a car. If he found out who did that, he’d break their windshield – forget that, he’d break their face. His friends were still offish since the brush with the police last week – huh, as if he could call them real friends. He reached his truck in the middle of the high school parking lot and gave the tire a vicious kick. Even his truck was old and rarely started with the first crank. It had been his dad’s before him. He pushed the thought away quickly and opened the door. A flutter of paper caught his eye. Someone had stuck something under his wiper blade. He walked around the truck, grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket without looking at it. It was probably another copy of the caricature. It wasn’t until he was climbing out of the truck in his driveway that he paused to unfold it. His face suddenly went pale. It was Dad’s handwriting.

Marc –

I heard you were going to this school now. I’m glad to see the old truck is still running. But, that’s not why I’m writing.

Marc, you might hate me. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But, I’ve changed. I want to try to right the wrongs as best I can. I was so stupid to give you and your mother up for nothing.

If you forgive me, Marcus, write and tell me at this address: 2561 Azalea Trail, West Point, TX 72758

Love, Your Dad, Shawn Cullen

He leaned his head back against the truck and closed his eyes, his heart racing. His hands crumpling the letter into a wad.

“Dad?” It was his own voice, from years ago, high-pitched and childish. He was nine years old and shaking. “Dad? Where are you going?”

Dad didn’t look up from shoving his things into the suitcase. “Ask your mom.” His voice was bitter and filled with barely contained rage.

Marc’s hands were shaking as he grabbed at his father’s coat. “Dad, what’s going on?” He shook him off roughly. Marcus looked to his mother, but she was just looking on with sad, silent eyes.

Desperation took over. Marcus took hold of the suitcase and jerked with all his might, sending it to the floor. The contents scattered across the floor. Quickly he grabbed them and threw them across the room. “Don’t leave, Dad, don’t –“

There was a sudden blow to his mouth and he sat down hard, his lip bleeding. “Leave my stuff be, brat!” Dad roared, furious.

Marcus saw the booted foot lift and tried to dodge, but it hit him in ribs and sent him spinning. He lay there crying and gasping for air and he clutched at his side as his father grabbed his stuff and walked out.

Seven years. Seven years of silence, anger, pain. Seven years of hatred. Marcus was sixteen now, with a criminal record full of drug-related offenses. Sixteen with his wrists scarred from cutting. Suddenly Marcus whirled and jumped back into the truck. The engine gunned on the third try and he backed quickly out of the driveway.

The town was three hours away, but he seemed to arrive in no time at all. He pulled up in front of a row of duplexes. Jumping out, he ran, stumbling, to the door marked 2561. He knocked and waited, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, resting his chin on his chest. His blonde hair curtained his face. The door opened slowly, “Marc?”

Marcus didn’t move.

“Marc, does your mother know you’re here?”

“What do you think?” His tone was sarcastic. He shifted his weight to the other foot. “Dad? Why didn’t you care?”

His Dad looked a little taken aback. He had been prepared for questions on why he left, but not this. “Marc –“

“Was I not important to you at all? I’ve struggled with drugs, cutting, even suicide. Now I’m asking, Dad, did you care?” As he finished, he finally looked up to see tears flowing down his father’s face.

His father reached out and wrapped his arms around him. “I’ve not done right by you, but now I’ve found a Father in heaven that you need more than you need me.”

You Are in America Now

“Seven fifty is your change. Thank you, ma’am.” The cashier says in a slightly bored tone, dropping the change into my palm. I grab the pack of beef jerky and turn to leave the convenience store, but a sign catches my eye and I pause. You are in America now. Speak English it reads. Above the words is a picture of Old Glory waving proudly. For an instant I imagine my friend Elisabet reading the sign. She has been here for six years and still struggles to understand the simplest English. She tries -- she tries hard, but almost all of the people she knows are Salvadorian like her, so she has little chance to practice. I wish I could say in a near-quote of Charles Dickens: Man, if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you know who the Hispanics are and where they are.

I’m not Hispanic. But sometimes I feel like I am. I work in a Hispanic restaurant, eat their food, and speak Spanish all day, four days a week. I don’t know how many times the people there have asked me in Spanish where I’m from; I guess they can’t pinpoint my accent. “I’m American.” I tell them in Spanish, “Born in Texas.”

They look at me in surprise, “But your parents are from Mexico or Honduras or something, right?”

“No, they are from here in Arkansas.”

“What? You mean they’re white?”

“Well… Yeah.” I say, not exactly sure of the term.

“How did you learn Spanish?”

“I studied it from books, from a teacher, and over the internet.”

It never fails to completely blow them away that I learned Spanish so well, even though I technically have no connection with anyone or anything south of the border. One question is always in their faces, though they rarely ask it: “Why did you care enough to learn good Spanish?”

In their minds white people in Arkansas are the ones who put up signs that say You are in America now. Speak English. White people are the policemen who don’t care enough to work bilingually, the nurse who has to communicate through the six year old, and the teacher who can’t tell them about their child’s education needs. But, the ones who have been to the restaurant several times and watched me, sometimes comment about something else. “You always start in Spanish, even if the person is very likely to know English as well as Spanish. If English is the language you are fluent in, why don’t you speak that?”

I usually just shrug and say, “I like Spanish.” But there is a whole lot more to my reason than that. I do it because I watch the people that come in. I see their homesickness for El Salvador or Mexico or Honduras or wherever. I watch them run a finger over the map of Central America, buy a calling card and call family back home, stare longingly at the Salvadorian Flag on the wall. I hear them talking quietly in Spanish about Abuelita back home who made wonderful Atol de Elote and Tio Carlos that raised the tallest Maiz. How could I mess that up by making them speak English to me? I’d rather struggle in Spanish than make them struggle in English in the one oasis they have of home. Everyone has a right to create a piece of home. I used to frequent American Restaurants overseas, now I watch the Salvadorians frequent their Salvadorian Restaurant here. It’s a piece of home that connects them with the family they left behind.

Besides, shouldn’t we be telling them You are in America now, so feel free to speak any language you want? After all, most of my ancestors were immigrants. We can’t turn around and say “Well, my great-grandparents were fine if they wanted to speak German, but you and your Spanish can take a hike back to Mexico.” That would be completely dumb.

I love the people who come into the restaurant. I love it when they think I’m one of them. I love it when they know I’m not Hispanic and still include me as part of the happy group. I love hearing tales of El Salvador and the life they hope to make here. I mourn with them when they tell me of family they left behind, friends that were deported, relatives caught in gang life, or neighbors who are mistreated at work. So, convenience store owner, try learning Spanish – then you’ll see America.

A memory and some thoughts...

My first bad bike wreck was when I was six years old. Not many people have the ability to hot-dog a bike at that age, but I did. The mountains of Japan afford many places to careen down crazily steep and windy roads – and that was what I was doing. I was having fun weaving back and forth as I flew down a narrow, mountain path between rice fields. Before I knew what had happened, I had lost control, flipped over the handlebars, and smashed by face into the road. A bike wreck can be traumatizing when you’re not old enough to really think it through rationally. In my mind, I had been doing just fine when suddenly the bicycle bucked me off. What was to prevent it happening again? For months I crept along the streets, refusing to go faster than a crawl and getting off to walk my bike at every hill.
My sister, Esther, who is six years older than me, liked taking me with her when she rode her bike to the store, but my fear of hills was rather cumbersome after a while. “Mommy, can I put Martha on my rack to go to the store next time? It would make it go a lot faster.” She said one evening.
Mommy looked at me, “Well, I don’t know. I don’t want her getting her feet caught in the spokes.”
Daddy glanced up from the helping my brother Peter with his math school work. “We could get her some boots to protect her feet. Maybe riding around with Esther will help Martha’s fear of hills.”
I wasn’t so sure. Riding on the back of Esther’s bike? Was it really safe? What if I fell off? Mommy went to the store and bought me a pair of black boots that zipped up the side to make sure my shoe laces wouldn’t get tangled in the gears. I put them on and with some qualms settled myself on the bicycle rack behind my sister. Esther pushed off and began peddling down the street. I discovered I loved it! Those became some of my favorite memories: Feeling the warm breeze in my hair while holding onto my older sister’s solid back and watching the neighborhood slide by. There is safety in not being the one in control – in just being along for the ride. I felt completely at ease. Esther wouldn’t wreck and I could hold onto her for protection.
I was reminded of this recently when I was worrying about my plans for the future. Which school should I go to? When should I go? But this picture of riding behind Esther rose in my mind – my safety is in letting God ride the bike. I’m just holding on to him and enjoying the scenery.