Re: Quenched

His master asked him, 'How do you know you are on the path of enlightenment?" My teacher responded, "Everyone is telling me their problems." The Master nodded in agreement.

So, I had no expectations when I veered in to a corner store to quench my thirst. Intimidated by all of the products in Arabic and the stare of women whose heads were wrapped in a bee cone of white clothe, I veered through the aisle of foods that I have not come to know, to find refrigerators full of options to quench my thirst. I bring my choice to the front of the register.

The wait was beginning to feel lengthy. A woman comes up from the back of the store. I greet her, "Asa lama lakum." She responds, "wa alaikum asalaam." She puts her hand on my shoulder and pats it. There is something about being touched by a stranger, that let's me know how distant I am from people in this land. I am brought back to a soft place in myself that I often can only access when I travel. A place where we need each other and we can have each other. I ask her, "How are you?" She looks at me and says, "I am so, so. How are you?" I say, "Why so, so?" She groans, "Ah!" and holds her head. I ask her in a soft voice, "Awww, what is it?" She looks at me. Her skin is the color of browned white toast. Her eyes are wide with life. Yet, there is a film covering them, dimming the brightness as if she just saw a little bit too much.

She responds, "I am so sensitive. I am rrreally effected by people's problems. So many problems!" She puts her hand over her chest. I said, "You just have to let it all go." I start to wave my hands in front of me in circles and say, "Just let it all go." She starts to mirror me, "Yes, let it all go, but how?" I said, "I used to feel bad for people with problems, but now I have compassion, but I don't feel bad, because maybe they need it to take the next step of their path." She said, "True."

I ask her, "What is your sign?" She tells me, "I do not know." I ask her, "What month are you born?" She says, "I do not know. Back home, we do not keep track of such things." I ask her, "Where is back home?" She responds, "Yemin." I said, "So you are sensitive." She said, "Yes. My father wanted me to marry this man and though I knew it was a total mistake, he begged me and told me that he believe it is the will of Allah. He drives a limosine and now he doesn't because it has broken down or now he cannot work, because of this or that. I called his wife, because as you know they are allowed to have more than one wife and I told her, 'what can you do, accept it or go crazy!'

Then, an older woman in her 60s who works at my store, her son is asking her every week for $20 or $50. I told her you are helping him have a problem." I ask her, "What is the problem?" She said, "He is on drugs. Even last month, he paid no rent" I ask her, "How old is he?" She says, "He is in his 40's. He came in yesterday, he looks a rent. His eyes and his face. I picked up a mirror and told him, look at yourself. He said that he wants help."

She said, "People tell me all of their problems and look at me and what I am doing to you." I tell her, "It is okay. I am not sure if it is my face or what, but people tell me all of their problems." She said, "Total strangers?! They come up to you and just.." she pretends to throw up. I said, "Yes." She said, "Me too!"

I had just come from a place that had handed me a pamphlet that included resources for drug detoxing. I gave her the pamphlet. She said, "It is good to know things. Thank you so much." She said, "Why are you here?" I told her that I was performing outreach. She said, "Look at you!" She said, "You are very beautiful. You are very present" I did feel present. It ws one of those days that I could hold the person without taking it in me. I could just show up and reflect her. I said, "You know you must have it to see it in another. If you see beauty in me, it is because you are beautiful. You know that is how it works right?" She comes from behind the counter and hugs me. She said, "Please, let me give you some nectarines." I said, "Thank you very much." She said, "I pick them myself."

She says, "What is your name?" I realize that I don't know her name, but I know her Spirit.
I told her that I had some traditional clothes from the Muslim community in Tanzania and I wanted to bring them to her. She said, "How did you like living with Muslims?" I told her, "It was very nice." She said, "I would be happy to have them. When you bring them by, I will make you lunch." I said, "Okay and you can tell me your story." She hands me a paper that she had laminated. I skim it and find out that it is to mark when she became a citizen. It is her story of running from her home, literally barefoot and pregnant to avoid a war. Her story of being brought to California by her father. It is the story of being the single mother of three boys. The story of purchasing a store that the whole family runs. She says, "I have seen so much."

It is time to go. She says, "It is nice, being a nice person, isn't it?" I said, "Yes, but some days. " She said, "Yes, I know, but overall it is nice." I said, "Yes, it is." She said, "Look at your face." She blows me a kiss and I feel embarrassed. I tell her, "It is very nice to meet you." I said, "People tell me their problems, but then I realize..." She interjects, "That it is God." I said, "Yes." She said, "I feel lighter. Just like you said in the beginning. I let it go." I smiled. She said, "It is verrry nice to have met you." I said, "I will call you soon." I leave the store and realize that my thirst has been quenched.

Ancestral Memory

They always come. Just at that moment. Just when the world is about to end, they show up with light, a glowing globe that reminds me of possibility. They have words for me. The hold my face, raising a teaspoon to my lips and serve me words, kissing the excess as it runs down the side of my mouth.

They always come. In that desperate moment. That hard moment where I forget myself. That isolated moment where home cannot be found. That moment where memory goes down the drain to some collection of sewage of lost dreams and disenfranchisement with life. It is hard to believe that I don’t believe the tangible manifestations of my blessings. They come and I worry that I won’t come again. They come and I worry that it was meant for other. They come and I still question. Yes, I was hurt that bad.

We all were. I come from inter-generational, historical disbelief at the places that soul wounds can take people. Deep dark places with no light of humanity. I ask myself when I could not give myself permission to be all of who I was. I seek the origin of the fragmentation.

I call on my ancestors. For this story, the story of self-destruction and sabotage. This perspective. This perspective of all that is wrong with me crowding my mind like fans crowding a baseball stadium. This story and perspective seems long. A long winding road that seems beginningless and feels –in this moment-that there is no end in sight.

I call on my ancestors. They always come. I find myself watching them gather under a tree. Two women hold each other. The crowd is packed tight to learn the lesson of his lynching-don’t exist outside of the master’s control. They raise him up, tying the rope to him. Two women hold each other. Maybe it is more, but really only one is hanging on to the rest. One is watching the love of her life being raised up for who he is tucked under the premise of betrayal. He never touched that white woman. It didn’t matter. He could have and that was enough.

The wind was cruel that day. It swung him back and forth. Back and forth, spreading blood from this excised penis in a little circle on the ground. Maybe the blood emerged from the split in his belly where the placed it. The wind painted particular leaves, blades of grass, particles of dirt with evidence of his former life. The wind was cruel that day.

His eyes bulged in her direction. She covers her eyes. They all lower their eyes in surrender. It was easier to blame the wind. Yes, they could have power in the invisible realms. In the non-tangible realms. They could avoid the smile on his white face and the burn could be swallowed, tucked away somewhere unreachable. Somewhere just beyond the turning point of retribution, so that they could live.

They turn slowly. Slowly the balls of the feet turn, twisting grass and dirt underneath them like a skid mark. It cannot be too fast, because it will be a threat. Some of the men nod to him, to their teacher, their lesson planner, biting their tongue, their mental, emotional, physical and spiritual tongue. They return to the fields. They take her to the planks of wood that come together to form a resting place. She is laid there as they comfort her with words. They hold her face, raise a teaspoon to her lips and serve her words, kissing the excess as it runs down the side of her mouth.

They always come. And then I know in this moment why I struggle to be all of who I am, exactly as I am. Their stories are in my DNA, running through my blood-in me, as me. And then I know in this moment why I must feel it all, let it run through my body, through my feet, coloring the leaves until it forms a river to the center of the earth and it can be transformed in to the possibility of a new ancestral memory manifested through me and my choices. And in that moment, I know why I must continue to fight to show up, be present and live.

They always come, helping me to come home to myself.