Читать книгу River of Love - Aimée Medina Carr - Страница 13

I’m chatting on the phone with Paul Rosas; we’re discussing the upcoming 40-year high school reunion at Sacred Heart School in Red Cañon, Colorado. I’m scheduling a time to interview him for my book about mutual high school friends and experiences that happened in the early 1970s.

“Hey, comadre, how did you meet that pendejo, Jack Dillon?” Paul, a District Attorney from New Mexico, and my high school boyfriend, Jack Dillon attended the private, parochial Catholic college prep high school in my hometown. Paul was a super shy, Spanish speaking, wiry pipsqueak from Santa Fe. The last guy in his senior class to get stoned.

“You got that much time, vato? It’s a Long and Winding Road.” I trilled. “It’s taken two months of emailing and texting to connect I don’t want to waste time with the nonessentials.”

“Yeah Rosie, for you I’ll make the time. Tell me how you met Jack,” he pleads.

Just hearing his name sent a stab through my heart. I spent a lifetime chasing a ghost memory and haunted by this Old Love. Finally, I’m free of years of sad illusions, truth born out of pain, beauty spawned by neglect. The Great Spirit’s quivering arrows guided my life in the right direction and saved me from myself. If only he’d been a better man.

Infinite Love draws us toward the fullness of our being; it’s at our core—don’t fight, resist or deny it. Love will always win. I aimed for reason, but no matter what my brain thinks, the heart is its own master. Peering back on the road not taken is a seesaw of senseless misery. A constant battle—a war between remembering and forgetting.

“Ready to shoot the nostalgic whitewater rapids of Lost Love?” I quip.

“I’m buckled up Buttercup.” Paul laughs.

“It was Homecoming weekend in the fall of 1972; excitement riffled through the crowd. Many new faces: the incoming, “fresh meat” freshmen, attend the festivities for the first time. I was a cheerleader; the squad marched in front of the Lions High School band at the beginning of the Homecoming parade.” The faces sling past my mind’s eye.

Starting on Main Street, the entire town attended the parade of the marching band, a busload of the junior and varsity football teams and the Homecoming Royalty. The King and Queen glide by on top of a sporty red convertible. The high school students clasp hands and “snake dance” down Main Street. Boys tugged at the girls, some refusing to hold hands, jumping, herky-jerky, going too fast, and others holding back.

We convene at the high school for an old-fashioned bonfire, every year it’s built too roaring big and hot. Gray smoke billowed from the giant fire. The cheerleaders cough and frantically fan through the thick haze.

The squad of six line up in front of the bonfire, working the crowd into a Lions’ frenzy. The lion mascot entertained with high backflips and round-offs ginning up more excitement. I see a face that I don’t recognize. He is really checking me out. I’m surprised, being a Chicana that this new student’s interested.

We yell: “What ya gonna do? Beat the Panthers!” We jump and kick—endorphins pumping. A large log on the bonfire slips and almost falls on top of us. We dart away, I seize the opportunity and dash to where my admirer is standing.

“Hey, that was close!” He shouts and flicks ashes off my gold and ivory uniform and ponytail, our eyes meet.

“Thanks, I’m Rose Ramirez, are you a new student?” My heart is thumping fast—I’ve never acted so forward especially, toward a gabacho—a white guy.

“No, I go to Sacred Heart School,” he beams a wide smile. He knows I singled him out. We’re showered with more ashes from the log avalanche. Burnt soot whooshes in the soft breeze, mixed with the hoppy, beer breath of the band members. The loud music booms in our ears. The jazzy, pep song “Lion’s Rag” blares behind us.

“Shhh! Not so loud—do you want your head stomped in by all these goat ropers? This is Red Cañon High School’s territory, just admitting you’re from that school will get you a beating. What are you doing here?” I ask.

“We were just looking for something to do,” he leans back and introduces his hunky friend, Caleb King. A tall boy with a halo of blond curls, he smiles, and waves. I case the crowd to see if anyone’s watching us.

Frowning now, I say, “You need to leave before these boneheads figure out who you are and there’s a brawl.” I grab his grooming hand and squeeze it tight. I look longingly, at the glossy, chestnut brown hair, and imagine combing my fingers through the silky mane. His hair is his crowning glory. I take stock of their effortless ease and raffish, preppy demeanor. Talking with a cheerleader put them in the crosshairs of danger.

“I’m Jack Dillon, do you like football?” He asks.

“I prefer basketball, but it’s OK.” I shrug.

“Do you want to come on Tuesday, to watch my intramural football team, the Gonads play?” He asks.

The drill sergeant cheerleading sponsor, Mrs. Frey barks: “Rose Ramirez, please, get in formation, NOW!” I lean in and whisper in his ear; “I’d love to see your Gonads.” I bite my lip. He laughs and elbows his sidekick. “Let’s get going.”

The wind flutters—Joy. Whipped up with the smoke and fire—Excitement. Hovering above the havoc, here and in-between everything, tenderly slips in—Love. The Spirit is and will always be unmerited Grace.

Jack and Caleb were unaware that boys from their school followed them. The group is the Mexican clique. Their leader is Fernando Fernandez, a serpentine fellow from Taos, New Mexico. A natural leader, his macho manner driven by pride and ego, beneath it all he’s terrified and clueless.

Paul snorts, “I remember that douchebag. He harassed both of you. So, what happened between you and Jack?” He asks.

“Now, happily married and with a family, I couldn’t connect the dots till looking backward. A dark gravity field of a wounded past held me hostage for decades. My focus was on the daily routine, afraid of the rich, mysterious inner world. What held me back; fear of failure and insecurity? Neediness and security overruled my deepest desires. La cola mueve al perro—the tail wagging the dog.

Recently, on a golden Indian summer afternoon while on a visit to Red Cañon I went for a run on the trail of the crystalline Arkansas River. Daydreaming along the wide riverbank, I reviewed the jigsaw jumble of my life. Jackpot! It was as if someone had ripped off the ceiling and showed me the sky. Not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck. Simply, some Love is ill-timed. I let go of what wasn’t meant to be including the negative storyline that defined me. My nightmare twenties made me who I am. Messy mistakes are portals of discovery. I bloomed from the wound that once bled.

The late afternoon sun danced off the tumbling waves creating intense twinkling light. I looked upstream and was soothed by a sinuous bend in The River, the rushing, Rubicon healing water of this timeless place. The powerful epiphanic jolt filled me with gratitude.

Paul, I know you feel this with your oldest and dearest friends from Sacred Heart School, after forty years—our attachments are invisible threads that run from our hearts and reach through dimensions of time and space. We are held in place by what links us. Separation is an illusion.”

“No, shit when I see these guys we are like kids on the playground, wrestling and fighting with each other. We’re all still so tight. They know you know who they are, which is their quintessential selves. We are the same bro’s we were in high school. Friends are the family you choose,” He said warmly.

“At fifty-nine, I’m the same Chicana that pines for more beyond my reach. Unappeasable hunger—an inherited genetic congruence. Creating problems that don’t exist. I grapple with the ego and how it frames life in expectation and comparison. The gap between what I want and have is the origin of my dissatisfaction. I rely on grace to shower light on appreciating what’s here, instead of longing for what isn’t.

I’m still that young girl, watered by my own tears. Life longing for itself. I grew in rich, riverbed soil along a path of roses that guided my way. I sprang from sacred ground the homeland of my Apache, Diné, and Ute ancestors who hunted and nurtured families with blood, sweat, tears, and Love. Always—Love is what we’re made for, and Love is who we are. Our ancestors work through us we are all walking family trees. I am the result of the Love of thousands.

The journey between who I once was and who I am becoming is where the dance of life takes place. The dark and light together is the heart of Wisdom and Love. It’s easy to let go of the past, once I realized that no matter how different it might’ve gone down, I couldn’t be more Loved than I am now. I’m right where I’m supposed to be—just a tiny flicker of a much larger flame that is Life itself.”

“Amen, sistah. The Love we experienced back then is still a thriving, powerful, force connecting the bright-eyed brimming with magic teenagers to the present life-weary adults.” Paul said.

“It was something of a gorgeous time,” I recall wistfully.

“Do you think Jack will come to the reunion?” Paul asks.

“I sent a letter inviting him, but I haven’t received an answer. I’d like to reconnect.” There was a long silent pause.

“Now, I really have to boogie, I’ve got a deposition to prepare, thank you for your patience and for not thinking what a pinche cabrón I am. See you Memorial Weekend in Red Cañon mujer; it’s going to be Crazytown!” Paul signs off with “God bless you and your family, take care, Love You.”