Every person needs to have their own secret place. My summers are spent in Puerto Rico where away from the confinement of my parents the sky becomes the limit for my freedom. Every day, instead of sleeping in like I do on summer days in the city, I would rise with the sun. The house is silent. My sisters sleep in the room next to me, while my parents have the entire second floor of our ranch to themselves. I dress in whatever I find first, grabbing a book, my camera, water, and my sunglasses as I walk out the door. My grandfather built our ranch house. Well his money did. My grandpa was the vice president of Puerto Rico's only electricity corporation. My dad was raised in one of the best Puerto Rican barrios on the island with every necessity and luxury available. Now in his 70's, my grandpa still works for the same company but more as an overseer than an authority. Our ranch was built in 2001. The year after my second sister was born. It's beautiful. Two floors, 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a paradise. Surrounded by flowers and trees and gardens, the front of the house looks straight out of a magazine. Nonetheless, my favorite part about our vacations isn't the house but what surrounds it. Less than a mile away, hidden beneath the natural forest of Puerto Rico's nature, there is a "secret" waterfall. The first night we spent in the house, I was 11 years old. My grandpa and I were always the last to go to bed: him a restless old man and me an excited little girl who refused to waste any minute of the day asleep. I remember the night I was introduced to my secret place crystal clear. He turned to me after flicking off the television. I have a present for you. Half asleep but still giddy, I grabbed my jacket and we both slipped on our hiking boots. Following behind my grandfather's footsteps I soaked in the beauty around me. The trees were taller than him, their leaves hung over us like tarps. Many of them held some sort of fruit, as did the bushes bursting with berries. As we continued to walk, grandpa reached up to one of the trees and handed me an orange after breaking it in half. I sunk my teeth into the sweet joy and smiled in the dark at the refreshing taste of the sweet juice that was now all over my hands and mouth. Not long after my grandpa stopped. Look chiquita. Even in the dark the beauty before me couldn't be hidden. A little waterfall cascaded over medium sized rocks a few feet in front of me. Here the trees had disappeared and the ground barren from their prescence was bright green in the moonlight. Bushes surrounded me but the sweet smell of the berries and flowers they held tempted me. We sat on the rocks, our hiking boots off, with our feet tired from the day and trip now dangling in the everclear water. A week later my grandpa put in a hammock there for me. My parents would told it was my escape, never to be mentioned to my sisters to inspire curiousity and never to be taken away from me as punishment. And it became mine. My place. My waterfall. My escape.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Every person needs to have their own secret place. My summers are spent in Puerto Rico where away from the confinement of my parents the sky becomes the limit for my freedom. Every day, instead of sleeping in like I do on summer days in the city, I would rise with the sun. The house is silent. My sisters sleep in the room next to me, while my parents have the entire second floor of our ranch to themselves. I dress in whatever I find first, grabbing a book, my camera, water, and my sunglasses as I walk out the door. My grandfather built our ranch house. Well his money did. My grandpa was the vice president of Puerto Rico's only electricity corporation. My dad was raised in one of the best Puerto Rican barrios on the island with every necessity and luxury available. Now in his 70's, my grandpa still works for the same company but more as an overseer than an authority. Our ranch was built in 2001. The year after my second sister was born. It's beautiful. Two floors, 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a paradise. Surrounded by flowers and trees and gardens, the front of the house looks straight out of a magazine. Nonetheless, my favorite part about our vacations isn't the house but what surrounds it. Less than a mile away, hidden beneath the natural forest of Puerto Rico's nature, there is a "secret" waterfall. The first night we spent in the house, I was 11 years old. My grandpa and I were always the last to go to bed: him a restless old man and me an excited little girl who refused to waste any minute of the day asleep. I remember the night I was introduced to my secret place crystal clear. He turned to me after flicking off the television. I have a present for you. Half asleep but still giddy, I grabbed my jacket and we both slipped on our hiking boots. Following behind my grandfather's footsteps I soaked in the beauty around me. The trees were taller than him, their leaves hung over us like tarps. Many of them held some sort of fruit, as did the bushes bursting with berries. As we continued to walk, grandpa reached up to one of the trees and handed me an orange after breaking it in half. I sunk my teeth into the sweet joy and smiled in the dark at the refreshing taste of the sweet juice that was now all over my hands and mouth. Not long after my grandpa stopped. Look chiquita. Even in the dark the beauty before me couldn't be hidden. A little waterfall cascaded over medium sized rocks a few feet in front of me. Here the trees had disappeared and the ground barren from their prescence was bright green in the moonlight. Bushes surrounded me but the sweet smell of the berries and flowers they held tempted me. We sat on the rocks, our hiking boots off, with our feet tired from the day and trip now dangling in the everclear water. A week later my grandpa put in a hammock there for me. My parents would told it was my escape, never to be mentioned to my sisters to inspire curiousity and never to be taken away from me as punishment. And it became mine. My place. My waterfall. My escape.
I jump out of the car. Its two blocks west. I run, run past people, run past buildings, I run. Washington. I scan the buildings for numbers but something is missing. 111. It’s supposed to be 1123. The right thought flashes through my mind but I ignore it, holding on to that last string of hope. Out of breath, I still manage to mumble and repeat my question. A mile. 16 blocks. 7:14. I call my dad and merely mouth the words Washington and Clark. He knows me well enough to know it’s a statement, a plea, a quit. I’m standing on the corner glancing at my surroundings. It has to be -10 outside and I now regret exchanging my comfy hoodie for a cute crew top. And suddenly I feel the tears I’ve held back for the past week rushing to my eyes and I do nothing to hold them back. And suddenly, crying on the corner of Washington and Clark, I have never felt so alone. My vision is blurred from the tears now pouring down my face. I look around and notice for a downtown corner it seems to be pretty empty. Several people pass me, but thankfully most are too absorbed in their pace of motion or muffled by the numerous scarves worn to notice me. I do not need shame and embarrassment on top of this right now.
Minivan pulls up to the corner and I quickly slide in. The tears on my face are evident enough that any effort to hide them is useless. Its okay honey, these things happen all the time. Nine words. Suddenly my once in-process-of- stopping stream turns into a waterfall. My dad and I are the same people. He knows what to say when I’m mad just like I know exactly what to say to tick him off. Had it been my mom, a series of equally extravagant tears would follow on her face in consolation for my own. But since it was good old Papi, a simple pat on the back and a nod of understanding consoled me enough. The ride home proceeded in silence, the one silence I don’t dread. Sniffles from my nose and an occasional yawn are the only noises heard just how I like it. It’s the silence that makes me think. It’s the silence after a tragedy that soothes me. It’s the silence after everything that allows me to recapture my thoughts.
The last two weeks have been hell. No, I don’t always start crying like a baby when things don’t go my way, but today’s events were the last drops in an already overflowing cup of water. It’s everything. It’s school. It’s him. It’s the other him. It’s my friends. It’s my parents. It’s my therapist. It’s my dog. It’s my life. It’s having too much when only being able to handle so much. It’s having the world on your shoulders while you stand on your tippy toes. It’s working to reach every expectation set but missing every target on the way. It’s the years of convincing myself I could do it all alone when I finally realize, maybe too late, it would’ve been easier another way. Its thinking I know everything while convinced I am capable of nothing. It’s the feeling I wake up with everyday.
Maybe I’m just not good enough. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.
Minivan pulls up to the corner and I quickly slide in. The tears on my face are evident enough that any effort to hide them is useless. Its okay honey, these things happen all the time. Nine words. Suddenly my once in-process-of- stopping stream turns into a waterfall. My dad and I are the same people. He knows what to say when I’m mad just like I know exactly what to say to tick him off. Had it been my mom, a series of equally extravagant tears would follow on her face in consolation for my own. But since it was good old Papi, a simple pat on the back and a nod of understanding consoled me enough. The ride home proceeded in silence, the one silence I don’t dread. Sniffles from my nose and an occasional yawn are the only noises heard just how I like it. It’s the silence that makes me think. It’s the silence after a tragedy that soothes me. It’s the silence after everything that allows me to recapture my thoughts.
The last two weeks have been hell. No, I don’t always start crying like a baby when things don’t go my way, but today’s events were the last drops in an already overflowing cup of water. It’s everything. It’s school. It’s him. It’s the other him. It’s my friends. It’s my parents. It’s my therapist. It’s my dog. It’s my life. It’s having too much when only being able to handle so much. It’s having the world on your shoulders while you stand on your tippy toes. It’s working to reach every expectation set but missing every target on the way. It’s the years of convincing myself I could do it all alone when I finally realize, maybe too late, it would’ve been easier another way. Its thinking I know everything while convinced I am capable of nothing. It’s the feeling I wake up with everyday.
Maybe I’m just not good enough. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.
"Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~E.L. Doctorow”
For my first blog, I decided I would start out with explaining my reasoning and debate behind creating a blog. Before I learned to speak, I learned to write. I choose to pick up a pen and paper rather than fight and cry. I learned my emotions and troubles were better explained through phrases and quotes of the greats rather than through tears and signs of desperation. And so began my relationship with writing. Every time my parents fought, I wrote a poem. Every time my world crashed down, I wrote a story. Ironically, I chronicled my entire life through words yet I never shared my writings with anyone. The first time someone read one of my poems (my best friend accidently found one) I cringed and held my breath and prayed as every second that passed her eyes carefully followed the sacred lines I had swore never to share. And here I am. Posting my writings I hoped would never be read to a world I will probably never know. So please, to those who care to read my rants and vents and tales …be kind. Know that comments are appreciated and if needed disses as well. I share my writings not to be known but to be understood. As Doctorow said above, writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. Some of my blogs may be great. Some may be terrible. Some maybe bring you to tears. Some may force a smile on your face.
CL
For my first blog, I decided I would start out with explaining my reasoning and debate behind creating a blog. Before I learned to speak, I learned to write. I choose to pick up a pen and paper rather than fight and cry. I learned my emotions and troubles were better explained through phrases and quotes of the greats rather than through tears and signs of desperation. And so began my relationship with writing. Every time my parents fought, I wrote a poem. Every time my world crashed down, I wrote a story. Ironically, I chronicled my entire life through words yet I never shared my writings with anyone. The first time someone read one of my poems (my best friend accidently found one) I cringed and held my breath and prayed as every second that passed her eyes carefully followed the sacred lines I had swore never to share. And here I am. Posting my writings I hoped would never be read to a world I will probably never know. So please, to those who care to read my rants and vents and tales …be kind. Know that comments are appreciated and if needed disses as well. I share my writings not to be known but to be understood. As Doctorow said above, writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. Some of my blogs may be great. Some may be terrible. Some maybe bring you to tears. Some may force a smile on your face.
CL
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
