Wording over Soundness

It was easier to move to Spain because sangria, cigarettes, and weed—the hand-me-down gifts of my 20’s, and fine, early 30’s. But now, because I’ve replaced these with kombucha, reading in the sun, and the present moment, (you know, the boring stuff), I’m still feeling some pangs in my growing So Cal bones. News from my Venezuelan friend in Montana, though, keeps them in perspective:

Even though she and her fellow Latin American teachers at her school have documents, the children are (with reason) still afraid they will be taken from them. They are running ICE drills in the classrooms, as if gun violence wasn’t enough for them to internalize on the regular. I was a high school Spanish teacher for ten years and saw the trauma that pretend catastrophe creates. Our youth need protection from history books that are missing why this invasion of human rights is coming to pass. Again. (Arriving to the Chinese Exclusion Act is one of many.) And with a country that hasn’t been taught that it’s okay to say, “I didn’t know that. Please tell me more,” it’s too painful for people to hear that at the deepest, wettest root, the U.S. is often the culprit for why people flee their homelands and head here. The raids on this knowledge generation after generation has created a culture that would rather do wrong than be wrong.

Thus, even though I no longer self-medicate—or what I like to call rescinding my honorary PhD in self-administered anesthesiology—gratitude has started tagging along to my sunsets. The coastal towns are coming to a life I can access, not just walk around wondering where I fit in. I notice the cheerfulness in the people around me again, something I’d written off as a fluke after my first month here. Concertos spill from little speakers in the Oceanside pedestrian tunnel, the wooden planks of the pier teem with salty dog paws and children outrunning the speed of their caretakers’ calls, geese greet me overhead—old friends from Montana, and legions of shellfish hold strong against the waves pouring over them on the dozens of piles. There’s fire smoke in the air, and construction blocks the end of the pier, but there’s still a bench on the north-facing side that the sun reaches.

When I moved to Madrid, I also had the comfort of a friend studying abroad in the city my first five months there. My return to Southern California, however, hasn’t inspired anyone to learn a new language. The transition shock has been mine alone. When I traveled solo, to combat self-reflection, I took sleeping pills called Hot and Doesn’t Speak English! and sometimes, in a pinch, the generic Good Enough! (The brand isn’t country specific.) So, it’s a wonder I didn’t hook up with the random Argentinian journalist in San Diego for a conference. I tried, but I changed my mind when I realized my expiration dates on casual had passed: His mouth had no life in it—a meaty, empty machine—and I knew replacing my last love with the rest of him would destroy me. I left him disenchanted in his tidy hotel room, and on the drive home, reminded myself that his shoes and slippers had been lined up in the rigid formation of the Marine boots five minutes north of Oceanside. Creeped out is just as effective as a hangover.

The surfers look like orca fins until their faces pop up blood orange from the stinging water and final light. As the sun turns in for the night and tucks itself under the covers of Hawaii, I pull my favorite red sweater tighter around me. I curl my fingers in my jeans pockets and allow myself to say aloud the two words I swore in Montana I wouldn’t think here: “It’s cold!” No one on the pier disagrees. On the brisk walk to my car, I think about all the times I tried to show my classes Latin History for Morons, John Leguizamo’s Broadway mic drop. The schools’ principles gave me shit about the curse words. “They say the same things in the hall,” I’d reply, adding, “They are loving the show and none of them are sneaking their phones.” I don’t know why I was surprised that the plug kept getting pulled on it. I guess you have to be an optimist to be a good teacher.

So how do I stay positive now? When shelters for women and children who have been raped on their journey are closing? When beaten and extorted men pull at the locked doors of welcome kitchens? While quinceañera parties are canceled for fear of so many friends and family gathering? When the CBP app has gone from scarce accessibility to utter darkness? Where do I go since I can go somewhere? It was a roll of the dice that I was born here, that I fall under White on a milled, forgotten tree. This understanding is why I chose the audio school in San Diego: I stay positive because what remains open are the immigrant rights and human rights law offices and they need interpreters for affidavits. 23 years ago, I started learning Spanish so I could communicate with the undocumented immigrants in the restaurants I worked in. Hearing their side, it didn’t take long for me to see what had been missing.