Memory of a past life

I was born at the southern extreme of Megalopolis. Neither of my parents are from the city or the state where I was born. In fact, my birthplace was just a brief stop on my father’s rising career path with a major oil company. He's from metro New Jersey and my mother's from a small farming community in Iowa. They had met in Washington, D.C., at a party for the alumni of a now-defunct liberal arts college in the Midwest called Parson's and were married in a lovely white wedding in small church resting on the southeastern slope of Watchung Mountain in suburban Newark. They seemed to be constantly on the move during their short marriage; my dad had been transferred from York, Pennsylvania, where my sister was born in 1969, to Baltimore shortly before I was to arrive. Then, ten days after I was born, in 1971, it was on to the next stop. We moved on August 19, while I was still on a diet of mother’s milk, to Orange, a historic, rural community nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia’s piedmont. I can just imagine the hustle and bustle of this major move taking place in the short days following the release of my mother and I from Greater Baltimore Medical Center, which is actually in suburban Towson, not Baltimore city. As the story has been told to me, my mother and sister had been staying with friends while my father was in Virginia paving the way for the move even as my mother’s labor was induced. He apparently made it for the delivery. The next ten years in Orange proved to be relatively calmer than the first ten days of my life. We lived for three years in near perfect domestic tranquility in a ranch-style house situated on a five-acre lot on what had been in the last century a plantation before my parents separated in 1974. It was then that my sister, mother and I moved into a small apartment on the steep incline of Hickenbottom Hill, near downtown. Meanwhile, my father stayed in the sophisticated modern neighborhood out in the hills near the Rapidan River where my sister and I would visit him Sunday afternoons. During the week, I would anticipate the ride along the pebble-paved country road that stretched out through hilly and lush farmland, crossing fresh babbling brooks and passing by the banks of muddy rivers. I fondly recall being picked up every Sunday morning and attending Orange Presbyterian Church on Main Street before being whisked away for an afternoon in the country with Dad. My father would always slow as we passed a local swine farm along the way, yelling out “sooooooey!” to the pigs in the field. The street where I lived in town couldn’t have been more different than Spicer's Mill. Rather than being lined with patches of forest and homes on five- to 10-acre lots, it was lined with unremarkable apartment blocks and run-down town homes. Still, I preferred life in town and quickly took to the independence of town life. My favorite pastime was riding my bike down to the local market to buy Hubba Bubba, Big League Chew and Bazooka chewing bum. I would meet up with friends and ride until twilight, popping my gum and popping wheelies, trying to outdo the other roughneck neighborhood boys. Then I’d return home to my mother’s call, that went out to my sister and I but could be heard by all. “Aaaaaa-lli-suuuuun, Briiiiiii-uuuuun”. It was loud as the siren at the rescue squad. Yes, Orange is my true hometown, even if I only lived there for 10 years to the day. But my memory of this place is a romantic one to be sure. At the center of Orange I remember the historic town hall, and that Main Street still had an old-fashioned soda fountain and wasn't overrun with national chain stores. Sure, there was a 7-Eleven, a McDonald's and a Hardee's, and of course a Safeway grocery store and a Leggett's department store, but mostly the streets were lined with mom-and-pop shops where my mother would take my sister and I to "run errands". One of my favorite spots to go with my mom was a fabric store where she would buy patterns to make our clothes. See, my mom divorced my dad when I was three, and while we weren't poor, we had to be frugal. Money didn't grow on trees, or so I was told. Still, wherever we went mom would get us some kind of treat. At the fabric store once she bought me some yarn and a pattern to do a needlepoint project. The design was a cute little dog with a blue bird on his nose. Later, when I'd finished the project, she bought me some brown crushed velvet fabric and some stuffing to make it into a pillow. I slept with that pillow for years. Sometimes we would go to a store called Mack's, somewhere on the edge of town, along a stretch of road that for a few miles was a four-lane divided highway. There wasn't much traffic at the time, and I think it headed toward the smaller town of Gordonsville, but the Mack's shopping center was usually as far as we'd go. Inside, mom would buy us a kind of homemade dried fruit roll, a full decade before the commercial Fruit Roll-Ups would hit the market. This always made me feel special. Mom had a way of doing that, making you feel special. She made it a point to treat everyone equally, whether they were rich or poor, white or black, fat or thin. It didn't matter who you were or where you came from, she would always make a person feel they mattered to her, that they were important. One afternoon when I was shopping with her in Leggett's, looking for a pair of jeans, I got the typical "mom" treatment. I was always bigger than the other boys in my class. Not fat, I was just taller and thicker than the rest. This meant I had to wear "husky" jeans. This made me feel terrible. I was embarrassed because none of the other boys in the store were shopping for these husky jeans--they were just getting the regular old Wrangler and Lee jeans like everyone else. My mom turned this around and pointed out that the husky jeans made me special. I was growing up big and strong and had nothing to be ashamed about, she said. I could be proud of who I was. We only lived for a year in that a small apartment on Hickenbottom Hill. For $200 a month my mom got us a house on Peliso Avenue that might as well have been a mansion. We lived here for much of the time we spent in Orange. It was a huge four-bedroom house with a nice front porch, complete with a wooden swing, and a big grassy yard lined with a fence and big oak trees. On days that I was sick, or pretending to be sick, mom would take the day off of work and lay out in the back yard. She usually bought me some little toy to play with so I wouldn't be bored, and tried to keep me away from the television. But at 12:30, I would sit with her and watch The Young and the Restless, which had been a tradition of ours since before I started school. One of my first memories is from before my parents' divorce, watching The Young and the Restless with my mom in the downstairs den at the house on Spicer’s Mill. I remember seeing President Richard Nixon come on the TV, and mom was less than pleased. The year was 1974, and I guess now it had something to do with Watergate. Mom hated politics and couldn't stand having her favorite show being preempted by a special report. I think we left and went shopping, but I can't exactly remember. Most of my best memories of Orange involve my parents, and I guess my sister, although she was a bit more independent and usually did her own thing when she wasn't fighting with me. While visiting my father we would either go fishing at a neighbor's pond or just lie around on the hammock in Dad's huge screened-in porch while he tended to the barbecue or did yard work. During the week, Allison and I would be back with Mom, where the three of us lived together in that rented house across on Peliso, across the street from an old abandoned school. My mom worked for a time for an employment agency, oddly based in a Winnebago that sat parked in the school's parking lot. Orange Elementary School was just around the corner a block away, and I would spend every afternoon there on the playground with friends, spinning on the merry-go-round, running around in the woods or kissing my girlfriend Kelly Apperson, whose mom was my fourth grade teacher, beneath the pines. In 1980, when mom got remarried, we all moved to a house in the country. There, my sister and I got closer, mostly because we didn't like our new step-father and were no longer close enough to town to play with our old friends. We would usually rollerskate together on a thin stretch of sidewalk just outside the front door, or go down to the creek to play with our new neighbors. There were several kids in the neighborhood, if you could call it a neighborhood. It was really just countryside interspersed with houses every five acres or so, and there were often fields of tall grass, high fences with rusty nails, railroad tracks or swelled creeks to contend with if you wanted to make a visit. More often then not we would just congregate at the creek that formed a border between our properties and practice building damns, bridges or other engineering projects, led by the Harvey boys, Michael and Chris. Mike came to be my best friend, but unfortunately we moved away from Orange after just one year at our step-father's home. My father got remarried, too, around that same time. Soon after, my dad, his wife, Vicki, and my two stepsisters, Emmy and Jenny, moved to Olney, Maryland, located in suburban Washington, D.C. We would visit them on weekends and went to school back in the Shenandoah Valley during the week. In 1982, I finally got the brother I'd always wanted when Zac, who is 11 years younger than me, was born. He never got to know life in Orange, and probably barely remembers Winchester since after just five years there we moved a few more hours north to Pennsylvania. Now, Orange remains even a hazy distant memory for me, but one that is as rich and whole in some back part of my mind. My father keeps me up to date on what’s happening there; he still owns a commercial property near the McDonald’s and an apartment building across the street from the elementary school. Still, despite the distance and the lapse in years, memories of Orange provide the basis to my sanity even today. While I love cities, and the thought of living in such rural confines as Orange all but freaks me out today, it is an important part of my roots that keeps me grounded, no matter how far I roam from those quiet streets and streams.

Passing through Conchali

It was the fall of 2000, but it was spring in Santiago where I was visiting the Chilean capital to do a piece for a British magazine on the lasting effects of privatization at the country's ports a decade on. I was to visit Valparaiso and San Antonio, some 90 to 100 miles away along the Pacific coast, but first I was heading to the small municipality of Conchali, in the northern section of Santiago, to pick up a friend of mine named Humberto, whom I met while living in Miami Beach in 1996.

From El Centro I drove my match-box of a rental car across a low-lying bridge spanning the Rio Maphocho and north on Recoleta. The lower middle class neighborhood of Conchali is tucked humbly away and neatly hidden from the rich upper suburbs of Las Condes in the east, just across a small unpopulated ridge at the back entrance of the Parque Metropolitana. A small working class barrio, or comuna, that was spurred by a public housing initiative in the mid 1920s, there are small farms there, but most have been eaten up by a grimy industrial sector and development along the circular roadway Americo Vespucio, which forms Conchali's northern border. Mainly, though, it is a place for families.

I was going to pick up Humberto at his parents' home, where he lived when he wasn't visiting his sister in Maipu or or friends in Vina del Mar, and we were planning to leave that night for the coast. It was getting dark, so I knew I had to hurry. I fought my way north through rush-hour traffic, congested with exhaust-puffing people-packed colectivos racing in front of me and along all sides. I expertly dodged fruit vendors, who insisted on remaining between the lanes of transit undelineated by any visible marking, and had no time to stop and try their succulent goods for fear I might never find my obscure destination among these narrow streets.

As I got into the heart of Conchali the roads were teeming with tan-skinned children playing soccer, using parked cars as goal posts along main streets. Eventually, though, the streets got smaller until even the tiny Suzuki was a tight fit. Very few cars were there inside the comuna, and the ones that were had found spots on the sidewalks in front of a few of the miniature row houses.

Each home here boasted a neat little patch of yard or patio, covered with grass or pavers depending on the tastes of its owners, and was made of cement, whitewashed with painted trim. I parked in front of Humberto's place, which was beautifully adorned with flowering plants, and immediately he thrust his broad shoulders and smiling face out from a second floor window to greet me. His tall frame looked awkwardly large jutting out of such a diminutive structure and from such a low second story window. But as I made my way inside I began to realize that size was relative, and soon became quite comfortable in such a little space, even though it was filled with people.

Humberto's mom and dad couldn't have been more gracious and inviting. After hugs and smiles, they led me to a courtyard behind the kitchen and I was offered a beer mixed with Orange Fanta. I accepted, although the thought of drinking it made my stomach turn. I found out it was a common blend in these parts, so I leaned down to take a sip. I looked up from the glass to find I was suddenly surrounded by family. Sisters and a brother, and lots of children were there. Each was excited to meet me since they'd already heard about me from Humberto and other relatives who I met while in the States; Humberto has a sister and nieces who live in Miramar.

While we drank, Humberto's mom tended the kitchen, where she was making chicken and garbanzos in an oversized pot on top of an apartment-sized stove. The dinner was tasty, and as it turned out I started to really enjoy the orange beer concoction once my stomach was full. We retired to the back pation, and before I knew it we were drinking pisco sours well into the evening. My plan of hitting the highway for the coast that evening to beat the morning traffic got blurred and slowly melted away to nothing.

In the morning, I popped some Tylenol and drank about a gallon of water to ease my pounding head. Then I stepped outside. The entire family had gathered once again at the house to see us off. I took pictures of each of them, which later I made copies of and mailed to them in frames. The sky was clear blue, and the late spring air was crisp. Humberto and I stuffed ourselves into that little Suzuki, and being followed by about 10 children from the comuna we made our way from back alley to main street. Eventually, as the children got distracted by another group of kids playing soccer in an empty lot, we passed them and made our way out of Conchali on the circular Americo Vespucio. By my calcualations, we could hit route 78 on the other side of Maipu and we'd be in San Antonio by noon.

An exhausting arrival in Mexico

After the plane landed in Mexico City's main airport I had no idea what to expect. This was my first flight to another country. I'd been to Mexico before, but only to the border city of Jaurez and never into the heart of the country. It was the summer of 1998, and I was just graduating from a small university in western Pennsylvania, traveling to Cuernavaca for a course in advanced Spanish grammar and Mexican cultural studies.

Cuernavaca is a city that lies on the southern slope of the Sierra Madre mountains, just across the continental divide and an hour south of the capital. It's usually called the city of the eternal spring for its normally temperate climate. But when I arrived the land was arid and smoke filled the air for miles in all directions due to out-of-control brush fires that had been set by farmers trying to clear small plots of land for planting.

As the bus descended into the upper part of the city, passing a roundabout featuring a noble statue of Emiliano Zapata, my nostrils started to feel the burn of those distant flames, and I began to have trouble breathing the thin, parched air. Still, I hung my head out of the window trying to soak in all the rich sites of this mysterious place, wanting to orient myself but becoming increasingly dizzy by the sheer enormity of strange new visions stretched out before me.

The streets of Cuernavaca are tight and winding, filled, overflowing with pedestrians, with thin sidewalks backed by high walls covering much of the city's inner beauty. Eventually, the bus turned onto ever smaller streets and alleys until we reached the Centro Bilingue, where groups of families eagerly waited in the courtyard for their arriving "son" or "daughter".

Some of my classmates were greeted by entire clans, complete with parents, children, aunts and uncles. The "mama" who awaited me was an elderly widow who stood alone, displaying a shy smile and outstretched arms. She hugged me as if we'd known each other for years, and after brief introductions she took my arm and led me out into the street and in the direction of home.

I thought we'd get into a car, like most of the other families did, but instead we walked down one street, up another and then down yet another, winding through neighborhoods and commercial districts until we found the busiest street in town. Finally, after just a few strides on Alvaro Obregon, we entered through an iron gate that led directly to a descending outdoor staircase covered the entire length by flowering bougainvillea.

Once we reached the bottom, we crossed a cement bridge to the second level of the house, passing above the downstairs courtyard. This patio led to a front door and yet another staircase, this one inside a beautifully decorated home, which took us into the main living area. To my surprise, the attached dining room was filled with at least 20 people apparently celebrating someone's birthday. I wasn't going to be an only child after all.

I was extremely tired by this point and wanted nothing more than to take a nap, but instead I was whisked around the party and introduced to every member of this large extended family and several servants. The food was incredible: flautas, sopes, rice and refried beans, tortillas, cake and more. I stuffed myself, took lots of pictures, and was interviewed by nearly everyone there. I was forced to use my Spanish more than I ever had while living in Miami the year before, and I struggled with this new dialect. My head hurt, but I stuck in there like a trooper until the very last person had gone. Then my adopted mom led me outside to an adjoined cottage that would be my summer home, and I plopped down on the bed and dozed off while listening to news on the radio.

I awoke several hours later; it was dark and the house next door was quiet. I went in to see what was going on and found three of my new family members sitting in front of a flickering television set. They were glued there watching the telenovela Esmeralda, so I decided I shouldn't interrupt. Instead I headed out to the street in search of my first adventure.

At the top of the staircase I quickly hailed one of what seemed to be dozens of passing taxicabs. I remembered vaguely someone at the school earlier in the day had warned us not to hail cabs but to call radio taxes. They couldn't have meant me, I thought, as I told the driver to step on it and take me to the Zocalo at the center of town.

The place was a circus of activity. Couples and families were walking in circles around the main square, and lovers were sitting on park benches making out beneath the street lamps but partially hidden among the bushes and trees. Mariachis were wandering about, approaching some who paid "un pesito" for a song and entertaining anyone within earshot by default.

A lone child with filthy cheeks and a bright smile approached me while I was trying to take advantage of this wonderful free concert, and I gave him a peso for a small packet of gum. Within seconds there was a herd of them, all under the age of eight, chanting "chicle, chicle, chicle, chicle", almost in unison, until I gave in and bought some from each and every one.

This set me in motion, as I became hip to the fact that a moving target was tougher to hit. No one could ask me things while I was walking, but if I stopped on of a slew of vendors was there ready to beg me to buy some touristy object or another. Some of the stuff was cool to look at, but once I bought something I knew I'd attract ten more trying to sell me the same thing, so I just decided to keep to myself, for now.

I wandered past the Palacio del Gobierno and the Cathedral, which were at either end of the great plaza, and I stopped to listen as amateur men tried their hand at belting out boleros at the main gazebo across the street. They were booed from the stage if they sung off key or couldn't keep to the beet of the mariachis. But some were quite good, and were cheered to continue through to the end of the song. The applause made most men blush, and I began to think I was going to like the humility of the Mexican people, which noticeably from the start stood in contrast to the pride emitted by many Americans, myself included.

After a couple of hours of people watching, and tasting the local flavors offered by street vendors, I hailed a cab for home. This time my driver took a different route, and I felt anxious due to my inability to figure out my north from my south, east from west. Eventually, though, he got me home, and I sat beneath the bougainvillea for a while before heading down those long steps again. I didn't want to go to sleep, but I knew I must. Classes were to start in the morning, and I couldn't be late for my first day. So as I lay my weary head down on that firm feather pillow, my mind filled with thoughts anticipating a wonderful summer. The radio droned on. The smoky air filled my lungs. And soon, I was fast asleep and dreaming.

Independent from what?

The Fourth of July today represents independence for many, but it's really more about a fight for ownership. At the origin of Independence Day is a group of wealthy colonists, from 13 different places, the colonies--which are now referred to as states but probably more exactly should have been thought of as countries then--who got together to tell the government that founded those places they were no longer going to be controlled by them. These men, who were among an elite minority group of people, wielded power over hordes of others who had no power, nor independence. And by them declaring independence for their colonies they were simply taking control of the dependent people who resided in their domain. There was a shift of ownership, but it was hardly a declaration of independence for all of us, as we are somehow led to believe today.

Fortunately it didn't stop there, and a constitution was forged by thoughtful intellectuals who would ultimately give even common people a cause to fight for their own independence as equals in a free society. But the confines of a fight for control of power and of wealth that bound those men together to declare independence from the British still binds the wealthy of this country to fight for their own share of wealth from the United States government. Republicans and Democrats alike are guilty of using political control to shift wealth from one owner unto themselves, and in the wake of such institutional greed common people continue to drown in a system that favors patriarchy and disregards the poor. Spewing rhetoric about the rights of man makes these people feel they are fighting for the common good; everyone has the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, but not to equal access to healthcare, and certainly not equal access to capital.

Last night, on my way home from work at a sleazy bar in Fort Lauderdale, where I spend 5 hours a week keeping hustlers and panhandlers from bothering patrons who can afford to drown the miseries of their wealth in buckets of liquor and beer, I looked the other way as the legless beggar at the southbound I-95 Kennedy Causeway exit hurriedly wheeled toward my car, trying to catch me and a few others before the light turned green. With car insurance and rent due, with my cell phone cut off and bill collectors sending me ever brighter colored envelopes, I felt I couldn't afford to turn his way, even though I knew I couldn't afford not to. I wanted to empty my pockets for him, but he would've been satisfied with a quarter. I'm certainly not satisfied with having done nothing. But it was Independence Day, and I was counting on the Mercedes S-Class of people to do their part. Maybe they don't want to help me in this next election by voting for a politician who might persuade Congress to do something about its years-long negligence of the subcompact-car-driving, parttime-job-working set. But with their amount of excess even they can't ignore such roadside displays of human degradation. Can they?