For my 25th birthday, my parents bought me a home. Costing a quarter grand for this quarter-cent. girl, it’s about 3 sq. feet in size and is offered in Cardinal Red or Colorado River Blue. With 7 pockets, waterproof zippers, and a flexible skeleton that adjusts to my back, I comfortably carry my wardrobe, first aid, and pen and paper through South America.
In this home, I am a slow-moving nomad, hoping like any pilgrim, that foreign hearths will give me welcome. It’s a presumptuous thing, the nomad’s existence. Arriving on the doorstep of a friend’s Brooklyn life, bearing a meagre bag of coffee beans. Allowing old school buddies to pick up the tab while I question them endlessly on the life of theirs that I’ve been absent from for the last several years. Setting my place at the family dinner table and watching my parents watch me as a little girl again, their eyes blurring with memories and hopes. And then, I leave. Leaving behind no cell phone number, no 5-year plan, and no promise to repay their generosity.
Here, in Latin America, the presumptions are no different. Many times arriving to the home of a friend of a friend at 11 pm because that’s when the bus gets me there, I pick up a bunch of bananas on the way, or a chicken, or hope that just sharing my chocolate bar from the city will be enough. They smile and accommodate through my Costa Rican Spanish while preparing an extraordinary traveller’s feast. All of this is not necessary, I want to say to them, but then what generosity is?
At 25, I find myself not aching for a car or a monthly metro pass or a letter of acceptance from someone. I don’t have anywhere to put a nice pair of shoes or a business suit from H&M. And I don’t understand MySpace/YouTube.
At 25, I do want one sticky summer evening in the south before they’re gone. I want my brothers to get girlfriends who aren’t orange and who like to dance. I want my friends to get jobs with health insurance and dental insurance and bad-boyfriend insurance and mostly I don’t want them to forget about me. I want my family to keep growing and learning new things and sharing that with me. I want a cow, one day. I want to run more miles and sweat foul smelling sweat and get real thirsty and then drink clean water straight from the faucet. I want to be more humble, live healthily, serve love, and grow bigger to hold past and present and future together.
But mostly, at 25 I want to make a promise to repay everyone’s generosity. Parents, friends, friends’ parents, Kenyon (slowly), teachers, students, mentors, forests and rivers in Costa Rica and Durham, and all of your homes. I’m far away from most of you right now, but thinking about all of you. Happy 25 years.
In this home, I am a slow-moving nomad, hoping like any pilgrim, that foreign hearths will give me welcome. It’s a presumptuous thing, the nomad’s existence. Arriving on the doorstep of a friend’s Brooklyn life, bearing a meagre bag of coffee beans. Allowing old school buddies to pick up the tab while I question them endlessly on the life of theirs that I’ve been absent from for the last several years. Setting my place at the family dinner table and watching my parents watch me as a little girl again, their eyes blurring with memories and hopes. And then, I leave. Leaving behind no cell phone number, no 5-year plan, and no promise to repay their generosity.
Here, in Latin America, the presumptions are no different. Many times arriving to the home of a friend of a friend at 11 pm because that’s when the bus gets me there, I pick up a bunch of bananas on the way, or a chicken, or hope that just sharing my chocolate bar from the city will be enough. They smile and accommodate through my Costa Rican Spanish while preparing an extraordinary traveller’s feast. All of this is not necessary, I want to say to them, but then what generosity is?
At 25, I find myself not aching for a car or a monthly metro pass or a letter of acceptance from someone. I don’t have anywhere to put a nice pair of shoes or a business suit from H&M. And I don’t understand MySpace/YouTube.
At 25, I do want one sticky summer evening in the south before they’re gone. I want my brothers to get girlfriends who aren’t orange and who like to dance. I want my friends to get jobs with health insurance and dental insurance and bad-boyfriend insurance and mostly I don’t want them to forget about me. I want my family to keep growing and learning new things and sharing that with me. I want a cow, one day. I want to run more miles and sweat foul smelling sweat and get real thirsty and then drink clean water straight from the faucet. I want to be more humble, live healthily, serve love, and grow bigger to hold past and present and future together.
But mostly, at 25 I want to make a promise to repay everyone’s generosity. Parents, friends, friends’ parents, Kenyon (slowly), teachers, students, mentors, forests and rivers in Costa Rica and Durham, and all of your homes. I’m far away from most of you right now, but thinking about all of you. Happy 25 years.
3 comments:
This is the day that God has made for you/me/us to rejoice and be glad!
I give big thanks for that hot Dallas Friday night when I passed up enchiladas, frijoles, and sopapillas to bring forth life at Baylor Hospital. How could I have ever imagined how precious that little bundle of warm humanity would become? GIve me another quarter century and my little soul might burst open with joy.
Have a blessed night in Brazil, my beautiful girl. And may you find your mama's love written in the stars above. God bless and keep you.
Keep writing.
...Beautiful mountainside picture...
+It's been a wonder knowing you Mary+
nice to read your writing
happy birthday and many more to come
wow, mary, your 25 wise years brings tears to my eyes, partially touched by your humility, and partially touch by those sentiments that only few americans truly understand...
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