Journals

  July 8 + 9 2009   I had hoped this wasn’t going to happen, or at least not this soon into the caravan. That God awful, unpleasant exchange about why I am here. The one that begs for me to qualify my existence outside of fill-in-the-blank/preconceived notion of where I should be.   On the caravan, the way the conversation works out is the declaration that this experience will be the most challenging of my entire life (which I might add is altogether different than the statement that this will be a life changing/enhancing episode). The part (of many parts) that offends is the idea that I have not experienced challenge in life (in general), and that I have never traveled (in particular).   Armed with practice from past trail blazes, I decided to cut to the chase should I meet with the Doubting Ignorant Archetype. Following that line of reason, I rehearsed a spiel from previous years of being on the road, that goes something like: I’m rounding the last bend of a doctorate degree, I teach, I write, and I raise - yes, as a single mom - two beautiful children during the academic year, who I might add, have bussed around with me through Mexico before we settled for a semester of research in South America. We’ve collectively and individually seen a lot, and no, this is not my first time outside of my house/city/state/country.   So I don’t know the exact type of miracle that had to transpire for me to finally see this conversation with new eyes, as an opening for dialogue. For the first time, I was able to state the obvious, “Hey, I know you have not come across anyone like me, and I get that. Really I do. I’m probably a bit of a surprise in your life - me being a bit of a nomadic Black woman and all. Because there are more of my kind, and you might have another sighting besides me someday, please don’t act shocked the next time you encounter one of us. Promise?”   Sarcastic humor aside, here’s the groove thing: I was able to see Doubting Ignorant Archetype as me. I know…weird , right? Ironically, the whole interaction got mashed up in my mind with a past experience when the tables were turned, and I was the amazingly ignorant one. Three years back, maybe half way into my bussing adventures with the kids, we found ourselves in Mazatlan as apparently the only Black folk in town. When the lady working the posada asked how I managed, I replied with all the gringa stupidity one person could possibly possess AND in mangled Spanish, “you just have to pull your money together and get a passport for you and your kids, apply for visas and then go, Go, GO.” Ouch. Even looking at that statement of enormous ignorant proportions, stings. I was extremely naïve and yet the woman was so kind, in explaining to me just how little she makes, and consequently how out-of-reach it would be to basically not eat or pay any living expenses for three months, so that she could pick up passports for her and her family.   Sadly, all this soul-enriching enlightenment managed to last mere seconds. I found myself getting pushed out of sorts again, because of the question. What question? The question that comes up every time I fly the coop, solo.   Doubting Ignorant Archetype: ”So if you are on the road, where are your kids?”   I swear it took everything for me not to say, “in the backyard playing. Yes, I left them with a box of cereal and a cell phone. They know they can call me in an emergency, but trust me - they’ll be fine, they’re super independent, especially the little one.” The only reason why I did not go that direction with my reply was because I knew the truth was even better…that it’s the summer, the kids are with their dad, i.e. the other half of the parenting equation. And since I was in the midst of dropping all sorts of valuable knowledge, I let Doubting Ignorant Archetype in on another little factoid : single moms don’t wait at the airport terminal for weeks on end, until their kids return home. Nope. Surprise of all surprises, we actually leave the airports, bus and train stations…some of us even see the whole thing as a well deserved break, staggering as that concept may be. A quasi mama sabbatical, if you will.   Feeling the need to process even though I felt alone in my experience, I finally decided to talk in a roundabout sort of way, with Woody. Of the three caravanistas , he is the one I feel most connected to, and he is the one - who as of today - has moved onto my bedroom floor (with alleged complaints about his back and an aversion to sleeping on couches). So even though we have put on two events in 24 hours, had one side of the bus painted by graffiti artist - Weapons of Mass Distraction, and experienced a major bus break down (that Woody had to fix…something about an alternator being an essential part) - even with all that, Woody managed to stay up with me, deep into the night.  Me, mostly talking, him, mostly listening. I swear, if there was a chance of anyone ‘getting’ me and how I process all my quirky Black girl ‘stuff‘ , it’d be him. And I can’t lie, it seems Day 2 is just full of all sorts of new and unexpected bonuses... I am strangely starting to remember what it feels like to share the same space, with someone who amuses me in new and unfamiliar ways. And it feels…really…good .   In the next installment: *The ‘sign’ , Part 1 *Gaining and losing a new caravanista , all in one stop *Road Reading: The Accidental Santera