dangerpoet

Fuck Life. Take a walk. At the beach.

Maybe it was the trace of marijuana in the air, drawing me back to last year – or maybe it was the smell of air freshener from the rental cars that reminded me of family vacation in Florida – it could have been the similarity between these roads and the side roads I used to walk when I lived in Pennsylvania – but something was pulling me to my past.

“It’s a long walk to the beach.”

Well it’s a long walk through my past.

Danger signs riddled the road as I took a turn at the abandoned building.

“Peligro” in big orange letters on cinder road blocks. “Zona de Peligro” as I walked further. Beware the Tsunami. I was about to be flooded with the tides of things past – of shed layers and depths I didn’t ever imagine existed. Peligro. Didn’t they know that word calls me more than my birth name?

I kept walking, ignoring the quickening of the pulse in my throat. No one walked these roads. You could tell by the way the grass grew. It was all downhill from here.

I ran along the downward slopes, hoping no cars decided to pass – hoping I didn’t have to be pushed to the side of the road for them to pass. I kept an eye out for plants with three leaves – the mark of poison ivy. I learned of its existence on the New Hampshire roads that one summer, almost 3 years ago, I spent babysitting. It grows where the land’s been disturbed. It sprouts in front of my memories – daring me to go further. I still walked, stopping only for some food that I planned on eating at the beach. I took a mental note of everything so I recognized it when I came back. Suddenly the walk felt endless. I could hear the water – SEE the tide – but I couldn’t find an entrance past the houses. It’ll be easier to exit than enter, I figured.

I walked my soreness away- not even acknowledging the dogs on the side of the road barking. I ignored them like I ignored the men from my project building back in Brooklyn. Dogs only chase if you run.

Eventually I came across a bar that was on the beach front. I walked past a few couples and crept toward the sand. I stood in the shade as I watched people paddle out to surf. That’s going to be me next year. I made a promise to myself. I put my things on an empty bar stool lined with sand and began to change into my bathing suit, completely unaware if anyone was watching or not. I didn’t care. Years of my mother downplaying my body and exaggerating every imperfection has long since effected me. When I was in the 8th grade, I barely weighed 100 pounds – almost underweight for my height. My mom would tell me that I was fat because at that age, she weighed 90 pounds. She took pride in looking anorexic, clearly. But she didn’t dare mention anything about my body now, because at my age she was pregnant with her third kid, me. Growing up, I always felt like she was jealous of me. She wanted me to succeed but there was always someone succeeding more so I had to push myself harder – I needed to be on top. She thought that by downplaying my accomplishments, I’d be motivated to prove her wrong and do more. To an extent, she was right but I don’t think you can imagine the amount of self-perseverance I had to accumulate to prove her wrong. Her reverse psychology has fucked me up, to say the least. I can name countless “friends” that envy me for my resilience. Sometimes I think they’re only my friends to learn my secret, ride the band wagon of my success to reap my wealth. But if only they knew the price I had to pay to get it, they might not be so envious then. Minor goals meant nothing to my mother. Not even when they added up to great accomplishments. She was my harshest critique. And then people wonder why I am the way I am. I watched the surfers a bit longer- eating my pastelillo. I grabbed my things when I was done and looked around for a garbage – ready to walk the beach. I found a place next to the garbage where people put bags and I took one and transferred my things into it.

I walked until the surfers were little dots moving across the horizon. I walked until I saw a lonesome lechosa being roughed up by the tide. I walked until the graffiti on the walls wasn’t out of place.

I walked until I saw two men doing some weird netting in the water, not expecting anyone to be this deep. I walked until I looked back and saw no one. The water splashed at my legs every so often and I stopped so I wouldn’t lose my footing.

I had never been this alone at a beach. Let alone a beach out of the country. Ha! The last time I was at a beach, I was topless. I thought about walking around without my top. No one would know me. No one was here to see me … But my mind was already so bare, I didn’t want to push it. Instead, I kept my thoughts on nothing and everything, finding that calm place of harmony between emotions and events that brought them out.

The water blended perfectly with my thinking – splashing at the right moment, pulling back when I was moving on, keeping out of my way when I needed it to. There were a few clashes here and there, but we found the rhythm with a fluidity of life time lovers. It felt marvelous to play with the sand in my toes. Such a childish thing, but one so underrated.

I imagined, for a bit, what life would be like if I grew up with Pop. I doubt I would have made most of, if any, of the mistakes I’ve made – always wanting to make him proud. He’s so easy to talk to. I didn’t grow up with him but lately I’ve been wishing that I did. He would have made all the difference that I needed in life – giving me that ease of life that I envy in so many of my friends. He would have motivated me where I had no one. He could have done that over the phone but my mother never tried to include him in my life. I don’t think she’s gotten over the fact that a father won’t even put his children in the way of his pride. Men need to be appreciated more than women. For the smallest things sometimes. I don’t get it. But I made the conscience choice to include Pop now, so much later in life. But at least I have him, right? Pop would be the one to be proud of my accomplishments and make me feel like I was making the right decisions. Or maybe I’m just deluding myself. It’s no delusion, though, that he does give me this sense of clarity that can only come with old age and a soft heart.

Wherever Pop goes, I follow him like that child who instinctively knows when their parents’ leave the room. Like a duckling that follows its mother wherever she leads. I used to reprimand my little brother for always doing that. Whenever I would walk him to school, he’d trail behind me like my little duckling and it would always make me nervous. I would tell him to walk on the side of me where I could see him and he’d try it out for half a block and find his place right behind me again. I had to learn to get used to it. We didn’t grow up in the safest neighborhood and granted, if anything was coming to harm us, I’d be the first to see it, but if I ever overlooked anything, I was scared to think how that would effect him. But I understood why he trailed behind me. He trusted me to get us there safe. He trusted me to be the look out. He trusted me to lead. He looked up to me. I love my little brother. I put him through hell growing up because I felt like he ruined things for me. I was the only girl in a household of men. And the only thing I had going for me was that I was the youngest of the three. But with my little brother being born, that put me as the youngest of the middle children. There was nothing special about me after that. I was Cinderella, cleaning up after my brothers, cooking for them when my mom wasn’t home, doing domestic work. There was one time, I was 10 years old, and my cousin was over, wanting me to play with him but I told him he had to wait because I had to mop the house. Imagine that. Some childhood I had. I don’t ever remember what it was like to be a child. I learned to create a life in my head to escape to so that I wouldn’t entirely miss out on ignorance and bliss. I seriously don’t recall ever feeling ignorant or blissful though. My spirit was toughened by the tears I cried throughout my life. My mom would tell me don’t cry over spilled milk. I would try to explain to her that it was the last cup. My mother rarely ever let me explain myself though. Inevitably, I gave up drinking milk, so to speak, so there’d be nothing to spill. Either way, my mother never gave me what I wanted. She only gave me what she never had. And after a while, I figured if I didn’t get what I wanted, I might as well do my best to try with the next generation. Thus I started letting my love for my little brother grow. I will never forgive myself for some of the things I’ve done to him, but I can only continue to love him now. And he loves me. He loves me like I love Pop. And I understand now why he misses me so much. Because I hate it when Pop goes somewhere and doesn’t take me. That’s how I ended up on the beach.

It was getting late. I left the house late. I was beginning to look for an exit – taking note of the sand dock in the backyard of some apartment buildings. They looked just like the apartment buildings in Far Rockaway. I would usually visit a close friend in her house there. That was one of the times that I got drunk. Not pissed drunk, not blackout drunk, not puking drunk, but drunk enough. I hurt my wrist jumping off a lifeguard post. And it took a good week to get all the sand out of my phone. I went with another close friend of mine. She was making sure I didn’t get into trouble. I took off my shirt when we got to the beach and the other girls my friend invited did the same. I guess that doesn’t count as trouble. There are pictures somewhere out there of that day, of me shirtless with some girls I just met. Oh the blackmail people have on me. God forbid I get famous! And that’s not even the worst of it. I pissed underneath the boardwalk and was yelling at some random girl, thinking she was my friend – the friend whose crib we were staying at. I forgot my friends’ hair wasn’t that long though. I was sporting a fresh haircut that day, too. I chopped off a good 12 inches of my hair. The dye was breaking it anyway. I wanted a change. I never really felt an attachment to my hair until I didn’t have it. I never noticed how much I hid behind it. Since that first cut, I got scissor happy until I finally decided I don’t want any hair to play with or to play me. I cut it all off. Damn, I feel so free. I made the full baldy before I came to Puerto Rico. Not many people got to see me before I left. I liked it that way. Less people to remind me of my chains.

Now I was on the part of the beach where you didn’t go. You can’t swim there. Rocks barred your passage as if your soul was the toll. I didn’t dare cross those rocks. I knew my limit to Danger.

There was a trail of foot prints I was following – hoping they’d lead me out. Someone else had to be there. There were no footprints going back, just a set moving forward. I stared at them, trying to figure out how far they went but I couldn’t tell. I walked to the barbed wire side of the beach, peeking over, looking for a way out. I could go under the fence but that would only lead me to more sand and the backs of people’s messy forested property. No luck. Fuck. I seriously had to get home. Pop was probably back and worrying. Well good. He should have taken me with him to Ponce. He should worry. But that didn’t stop me from moving forward, trying to find an exit. I actually didn’t want Pop to worry. He has enough heart problems as it is.

Again, my thoughts trailed to a life with Pop. If I grew up with him, I think his heart would hurt less. But I don’t know if I’d be the same person I am today. Pop would have made my life too easy. I think God knew I could handle the splinters of a cruel past. He would allow them to break my surface and they would come out in their own time. The more I picked at the splinters, the deeper they’d go. I just had to learn to be patient. Pop had advised me a few months back to be careful of the choices I make because mistakes you pay for – for the rest of your life. Sounds personal. But Pop looks to me for a sense of sanity. I know he wishes to reprise his mistakes. But wishing gets you nowhere. Actions do. When my grandmother was only 6 weeks pregnant, he cheated on her with the woman he’s with now. A marriage with the mistress never works out though. Remember that. Since I’ve been staying with Pop, my mom has told me some really fucked up stories on his behalf. Stories I couldn’t believe were true looking at him now. He’s so humble and loving. But it’s obvious he hasn’t forgiven himself for cheating and leaving his pregnant wife with 3 other children or taking all their money to start a new life with another woman or for throwing away 14 years of marriage, his excuse being my grandmother was a cold woman. Because of this, Pop’s become a mental flagellant, beating himself over and over, knowing that he deserves all the pain and suffering he gets. He’s accepted his consequences. But for some reason, I still feel like he doesn’t deserve all of that. I mean, in one regard, he does deserve his share of the blame but he’s seriously overdoing the beating himself part, as if he looks for suffering as opposing to accepting it. He suffers for being with this woman now. She drains the life out of him and he lets her. She leaves him no room to even worry about himself, afraid that he might find someone else. Her past haunts her. She walks around like a woman afraid to be hit, to relive her first marriage. I personally think she should be the one beating herself. She takes no blame for the decisions she’s made in her life – conveniently placing it on the spirit world and then ignoring God’s existence where it’s convenient. When is God’s love ever inconvenient though? I don’t think I’d ever understand. But I get it. She just wants to know love. Shit, don’t we all just want to be loved? Alas, we all suffer for the mistakes of our parents until we learn that pain is inevitable and suffering is optional. Unfortunately, some of us never learn the latter.

I gave up on following the footprints. I would never know where they’d end. And who knows? They probably never did. I got the feeling that those footprints were mine, in the future. I would never know where they were going until I got there.

I changed back into my clothes with shaking hands and raced back to the backyard of those apartments. I hopped the wooden fence, letting a dog pass me on the way to the beach. I was out of breath when I made it back to a road I recognized. I had put on my shoes before I hopped the fence. I was trying to match my pace to the beating of my pulse but it took too many pauses. I was glistening with sweat as I rushed past surf board shops dispersed between houses and restaurants. There were a few people walking this road, probably back to their vacation home or rental cars. “Buenos tardes, Señora!” It’s señorita. God damn Americans. I laughed at myself for taking offense to the attempted Spanish. I gave the man and his wife a tilt of my head and wished them a good afternoon. I should have asked for them for the time. I ignored the banters of the cat calls from the cars and paid no mind to the barking dogs. Dogs bark but will only chase if you run. Ha! Could they be any more similar to men? I shook my head at the thought – enjoying the brief shade as I made it to the uphill slope. It was a lot easier to walk down this road. It’ll be harder trekking up. And here I was – thinking it’s easier to exit than enter. Three cars stopped to try and pick me up in the beginning. I waved each one off. This was my road. I knew the way out. I didn’t want it to rush past me like I let it do my whole life. I wanted to experience it for once. I could almost hear the sun setting as animals scurried to begin their night biddings.

I was walking on the side of a mountain. The roots from the trees on the top of the mountain were dangling at my feet, beckoning me; daring me to try my luck and pull myself up into their forest of razor thin branches; whispering for me to explore more, to get off the side of my road and keep going until I had no name. Hmph. As if. I knew too well what trailing off the original path meant. It meant I’d never find my place again. As much as I wish it were, life’s not some book you can put down and come back to years later to pick up right where you left off at. You put it down and by the time you came back, you missed all of the rising action, the entire climax and you’d be lost with the falling events. It just wasn’t that simple. Besides, those branches couldn’t hold my weight if I wanted them to. Story of my life. No one could handle the amount of baggage I carried. I didn’t ask for all of it, but shit, everyone has a past. No one is a clean slate exempt from the taint of life’s carousel. And I’m no better than anyone else.

Next to the mountain were poles with vertical words on them like a scrabble game. The first one read CAMINA. Well thanks for stating the obvious. I’m already walking. The next word read VERDAD. Now I just feel like you’re teasing. Then VIDA. I guess that’s life. And the last word was a signature. JESUS. Why thank you, God, for approving. I was reaching the top of the hill – stepping over dead bull frogs and trying to imagine how many years of garbage was on the side of the road when I came across the three cinder road blocks again.

Peligro. Peligro. Peligro.

I laughed and kept walking.

Yes. Danger was here.

I kept walking until I passed the abandoned building – finally on the road back home. The sun didn’t seem to have moved much – only to tease me in the beginning of my walk but it didn’t mean to set that fast. Something in me felt awakened. Like I walked down that road to untangle my roots. I rounded the final corner before coming upon the house.

For two seconds I panicked about what Pop would think but then I realized eh, what’s the worst that could happen? He’d call my mom? She would tell him not to worry. I always knew my way back home. I saw Pop’s jeep parked in it’s usual spot.

“That was a long walk.”

Well, I’ve had a long life.

I went upstairs to see Pop so he would know I was back. He was sitting in his recliner chair reading the paper. His wife was on the bed watching TV. She looked more worried than he was. I smiled at him from the doorway and paid no attention to his wife’s probing questions. He looked at me with the eyes of a man who knew pain, a man who knew regret, a man who once knew love, a man who understood comfort and sin, a man who accepted God’s love and God’s wrath, a man who wanted to be understood, a man who knew the art of patience. He would wait for the end of the world with just that same look. He looked at me with the eyes only a grandfather could have and asked me, “Where did you go?” I smiled as a I realized he wasn’t worried or upset. He was curious, if not mildly concerned. If I told him on a journey through my past, I’m sure he’d want to hear all about it and we’d talk until the world ended about the joys and beauties of life; the setbacks and hardships; the way our past is painted on to our backs and how we can not strip it, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t add to it. We are a collage of our fathers and mothers and the people that influenced us in between. Where did I go? I went to visit my ancestors and ask them if I’d ever know Love and Forgiveness the way he so desperately wanted to. I listened to them tell me about tides harsher than my struggles combined. I went to go pick up Resilience and find Strength on the shore. I took a trip to Hope on the diamonds above the abyss. Dreams called my name from the holes in the sand. I listened to Life dance and watched as it partnered my Past with the Seasons and my Future with the Skies. They danced with the fluidity of Memories and the grace of Experience. I followed them as we paved moments in time. That’s where I went.

But that’s not what I told Pop.

Instead I made up something about visiting the pueblo. He could see I was holding something back. He heard the music in my smile. I convinced him I didn’t go down the hill to the beach. It was too long a road, too full of danger. He let me slide, seeing the glint in my eyes, knowing he wasn’t going to get a straight answer. I triumphantly went to the room I was occupying – right across from his. I got my things to take a shower.

It was time to shed another layer.

Posted in Memoir