I stand up. My frisbee rolls back and hits that girl that just got in the truck. She doesn’t seem to notice. “sorr…los siento I mean” I stand up though no one else does. I stare at the front of the hood, looking down on it, like a video game, where is my controller; maybe I am in replay mode. Perhaps, as I have seen this way many times before. I even know the driver, I wonder if he knows me. I have a thing about remembering faces, people watching should be a sport, names I cannot do, but visuals, faces, strange flowers, beauty, not directions, I can do. I stand up and meet the wind, this is my road, those are my volcanoes to the right, I know the names of people, kids mostly. I call them out along the way. I once called out “Pana, Pana” to strangers like I was the chicken bus guy. The guy that runs out the back door as it is moving and magically appears in the front. I hear his footsteps on the roof, he squishes through, up and over these people crammed next to me and them next to other thems, we are squished together, and he swims through, collecting three quetzals at a time. “Pana, Pana” he yells, just like me. I stand up and think about my mom being next to me and my sister and her daughter too. Raylea would want to stand up with me, that is her name; I would point at the hang gliders and the volcano, if they were here, in this truck crossing the river. Till then I stand up, though the others only stand when they haft too, when these wooden planks are filled with people and baskets. Pedro once stood with me, though it may have been only to hear me better, his broken English, my equally broken Spanish, we love it. Without me he may have never stood up, he wouldn’t have played the video game and owned that road for fifteen minutes, wouldn’t have seen that lake, the one to the right from a slightly taller angle. Ascent, descent, such is life, especially for Miguel who drives this yellow Nissan to and fro Pana and Santa. San Cartarina offers me my sanity from the gringo land of Panajachel, Jon thought it looked like Venice, I have never been there, Europe never impressed me, but if it is like Santa, perhaps I will stop by sometime. Sanity is life lived, truly, unapologetically. That piece of trash is there because I am comfortable with it being there, I will not pick it up for you, this is me being vulnerable, this is me being me. Hello you, it is nice to finally meet the real you.
I always hit my head when we get off, that roll cage thingy is far too low for your average American, even a short one like myself. It is Wednesday, I speak for the first time of the trip, “Last one” I mention to Luis. Edras waits with his notebook in hand, smiles, he really smiles too big, makes is cheeks all puffy and high, so does his brother, makes them hard to draw. Luis pays for “dos”, its his turn, our silly trading game of generosity, same money in the end, but you feel better this way, you feel connected, friends take care of friends, Luis is my friend, I will get the next hitch. Gleams and smiles from many little ones as I reach the door, they have never played with me, but I have played, and they have seen me play. I have broken them, it is easy, a simple quirk, a tongue protruded, a obscene noise with face clinched, even a small smile can break them, best shown unexpectingly, then you are free to swing and dance with their hands never endingly clasped to yours. You never see their face after that because they are always by your side, you look down and see only the top of their head, black hair, always black, hugging kneecaps.
Four extra today, names, I need names, they say it, I say “huh” they say it, I can’t say it very well, they say it, better, I say it, I forget it. What is that girls name there, I want to ask her something, but I can’t because I call everyone else by name, dang it where’s my little black book, names but no faces, no help, educated guess, never mind your teaching right now, everyone is staring, “Como te llamas ultra ves?” Pascuela, dang it, every day there is one I forget. Today is special; I brought cookies, and a few hours drawing their faces the night before. Faces I know well, names not so much. These faces I knew well, well enough to draw at least, all but Ingrid was I
happy with, she wasn’t happy with it either. Yesterday I wondered if my demonstration worked, the one with the disaster lesson of how much boredom one child can take. The one that I thought would be full of amazement with my artistic abilities that they would pay attention for forty minutes, dummy, this is about relationships. I learned that the third day, when I talked to Jon along the market, such a long walk that is, plenty enough walking for a good conversation. “something something en el campo?” Pascuela and her friends ask. “mas tarde” I reply. 8 heads is the length of the human body, I draw Luis on the board, cartoony of course, Luis, 8 heads tall. I walk around as they draw the same face, ears sticking out like bobby’s world. They are proud to show me, more proud than I. Simple, I say to myself, one simple thing a day is all we need, time will soon create a master.
“Who is this?”, good they know, my drawings are not completely off, I say “Quienes”, high pitched laughter and in unison joins in the name. They really thought Eustachio was funny. Rip and give. They know what to do right? They paid attention in my demonstration yesterday right? It doesn’t matter, I tell myself like I told myself I was going to tell myself today. I lay pastels down to eager hands, I trust them, I turn my back to
them, they know what to do now. Four new faces on my last day, as I search through my bag for my eraser. I crouch down, up against the wall and draw with rigor, so much so, my eraser was found in vain. Stress always releases when I draw, I leave my class for a bit there in the front of them, I stare only at the boy, the drawing, the boy, the drawing. Always look at the subject, I told them this over and over on that first day, the day I didn’t know their faces very well. How high is that eyebrow? I am drawing well today, its like a mood usually, some days are better, some days are worse, but this day is blessed and my pencil attacks fresh faces, messy but good, as they seem to satisfy their looks of being left out.
I stand up; I am available to them once again, like a good teacher should. They stand up too, to show me half rendered eyeballs, and hair cut off in mid stroke. Black hair, always black hair. I advise each one of them and they get the encouraging comments they came
for, each, no matter the butchering of my start, they are owning it, it is theirs now, and beauty is not so easily found outside of children. “Final!” they shout with glee, “One more hour” I respond like always, I could get the same response every day and never tire of it, moans with smiles. Good, they went longer today, fifteen minutes longer. They are still not all finished, but it is time to go, I told them so before.
I stand up, no shoes, they are my goalposts, and I stand in-between. Slight grass, perhaps green once in a rainy month long ago, provides just the cushion from the flat dusty hardness below. My team isn’t very good, these girls love basketball, but today we had a soccer ball. The boys gleam with obvious authority over their taller opposites. I stand bored among scattered rocks and laugh with them from afar. They really aren’t very good at soccer. I call them by name, in my head, a single girl stands near me, Rosa, waiting for the ball, I will let her have her goal if she ever gets the ball. I think she knows that too, so she waits patiently, occasionally yelling with our audience that has crowded around my goal. They want me to throw the frisbee high, so high that people run away from it. With this velocity and angle, a little bit of wind coming off the lake, perfection for the menacing throws no child could catch. I almost hit a helicopter yesterday, I swear. I thank God they cannot judge its descent, even I cringe as it bullets towards like a flattened meteor. I throw it their towards the lake, over the fence and over the lake, with just the perfect angle. It climbs and climbs and then turns and burns through the atmosphere with vicious speed. I know the angle well. They ask for it using the word for “hard”.
Finally a goal, I set myself in the goalie stance, low and ready, frozen, waiting, the ball rolls just pass me to my left, waiting, frozen, waiting. The girl’s patience is awarded, they yell and laugh in victory of their 17-1 loss. We were there for exactly three recess’, three types of kids, arranged somehow had came and went, and now all were back in this building as we pass it, on our way to cookies and refresco. School is loud and distracting on my right, but I break from it too see somebody special on my left. She is straight and tall, like a queen. I run to Catarina and say my hellos. She wears her purples and greens, like the others but walks differently. She only knows hellos, Spanish is secondary around here, Quatzikal uses the throat, mumblings too rich for my Midwest upbringing. It has been over a week, nearly since I last saw her, in a service devoted to her and her daughters. Long before that, Luis and I climbed with our backs to the view; Venice must be steep and narrow. Ladies and children with matching baskets atop maneuver these steps with ease. Panting I turn and my already gasping breath, gasps more at this place. Three girls smile and hide amongst the rock, one perhaps smiles a bit too much. A lady in purples in greens, straight and tall, like a queen, greets us from around the corner. A clearer view of this these lakes and volcanoes I had not yet seen. “They are not here, this is the wrong house.” Luis calls to me. But I am captivated; this is too good a place to be called wrong in any context. My heart peels already for these.
Next to the noisy schoolyard, my kids have gathered around as I attempt my feeble communication techniques. I once heard communication is 90% nonverbal, hand gestures and smiles and demeanors all are lovely, but you still need that 10% to bring about 100% clarity. “No, I am not coming tonight, maybe on Friday” Catarina speaks, just like last week. I pray for her hope later. She is strong, she must be to maneuver those rocks, with that basket atop her. She must be strong, to live with two sickened ones. “Triste”, sad, I told Pedro. Diseases of the mind are so. The little one still smiles, a bit too much though, unknowingly she smiles on, so simple. The father it seems has long lost that ability, he is worn by this disease, seizures. A seizure a day, in time you will soon be mastered. I pray for her hope later, that she is strong. That her seed would grow up strong in and amongst these rocks. She saw us pray over her mother, for sight to be returned, and her niece that she would believe, and her brother driven by drunkenness, he wants his wife back. He put his hope in a prayer we had him repeat, though only one, I told him he was strong, I looked into his face when no one else would. “Eres fuerte”. For a bit, while we were there, kneeling in beds so low, dead squirrels hanging overhead, we brought peace and unity. This we tried hard to leave behind, but now I pray for strength, and Catarina’s hope, and feeble words shared to become the powerful heart changing strength for a family in and amongst the rocks. I should stand up, like a good teacher, advise and encourage, for hope is a long commitment, so easily forgotten amongst the rocks.
What good little cookie eaters these are! Three hours of work and play should always end with guilt free black and white cookies. And I would do it again tomarrow, but it shouldn’t be so special. When the pepsi ran out, the remains of vanilla wafers lie scattered, they parted. I walk outside and wave goodbye as Elvera’s youngest sister clasp my knees again. We swing and stumble in dizziness, I stare down and see black, black hair. I walk with her on my shoulder, she’s small enough to fit on one. My truck passes slowly and I struggle to remove her grasp, I can’t pronounce her name, she doesn’t mind. I run and catch my yellow Nissan, with the black roll cage, I walk past the others to the cab, and…I stand up.
