Читать книгу River of Love - Aimée Medina Carr - Страница 22

It’s an autumn afternoon with a stone-grey sky, the Aspen leaves have turned to liquid copper. Cha Cha needs soul sister time away from the frenetic activity of Red Cañon. She bursts through my bedroom door. “I need a River fix,” she said.

I look up from my book, startled. “Oh yeah, what’s up?”

“Blues Baby, I’m bummed out and on the rag. Let’s blow this joint and go smoke one.” She twitches toward the door.

We approach the deer path leading to The River. I pray no one is there. We’re in no mood for stilted small talk or sharing our Scooby snacks. We desire time alone to get high and chill out. Then, return home for a bowl of savory frijoles and atomic-hot green chili. And… The Holy Grail of Chicano chow down cuisine: Mom’s warm off-the-griddle, homemade tortillas fluffy with crusty crowns of brown bubbles slathered thick with butter. Our sister-friendship is effortless and everlasting; Comadre, mi toda vida—my friend, my everything.

“Cool, no one’s here but us chickens.” I pushed Cha Cha toward the fire ring.

“Cop a squat and spill the beans—I demand to know why you’re bummed out.” She selects a flat-topped boulder, brushes it off and plops down.

“It’s a gnawing gut feeling of anxiety with low energy, like a chinches’—bedbug’s stuck in my craw. I’m throwing a major drag here.” She smiles through the pain.

“¡Ay, Chavela! I raise my hands in the air and mock-choke her.

“Look around you—where you live and breathe check out this beautiful shrine we worship at. Our ancestors walked on this same spot. Do you think they had time to bum out? We build on the inherited wisdom traditions they laid the foundation for.” I move to sit next to her and nudge her.

“I just read in a book for Marie Noonan’s class: ‘From womb to tomb we are related to others, past and present and by each crime and every kindness we give birth to our future life, rippling through eternity.’ Wrote, Carl Jung. We owe it to them to rip the doors off life, to be the most transcendent, smart and creative creatures.” I reach and squeeze her hand.

“Seriously, time to get twisted, pull out that joint and spark ‘er up.” She demands. We take a few tokes off the joint; I stub it out on the rock I’m sitting on.

“¿Quien eres tu? Who are you and what have you done with mi goofy prima?” She jokes and the cloud lifts. I snap her out of the doldrums for now, but she’d deal with depression requiring medication for the rest of her life.

Cha Cha’s slit eyes, squint at me, “Oye, this is some kick-ass mota.” The plants and rocks pulsate with the roar of rushing water, the trees thrum with energy in front of us. The Magnificent River—so alive. We’re vulnerable as our surroundings communicate with us. Eternity whispers ever so gently… The wake-the-hell-up sound of The River is completely still for a full beat. The high knock, knock, knock, of a nearby Red-headed Woodpecker startles and forces us to look up. The tinny rustling of the silvery cottonwood leaves showers us with glittery sweetness.

We see them standing at the footpath that spills onto the fire ring: Indians! They huddle together—five of them, in 1800s regalia. Two warriors, a Chief, an older Indian woman, and a beautiful, Indian princess, dressed in white, fringed, buckskin. She grasps a long, sacred Eagle Talking Feather in her delicate hands. The others are wrapped in buffalo hide blankets embellished with fringe and wooden beads. The Chief dons a large, feathered headdress. Their braided straight hair tied with beaded leather straps. They stare at us.

Their regalness stops time. All our heartbeats and tribal tones are in a rhythm called “deep time,” where the past, present, and future gathers into one holy eternal presence. Love fiercely, give thanks and share our gifts with all who will listen.

This joining of hands from one generation to another, impacting the future by connecting to the past. We’re in harmony with the group standing before us. I’m ineffably stunned, afraid to move or to look away would break the rare spell. I glance at sheet white Cha Cha who’s holding her breath. What seems like ten minutes is only about sixty seconds, and then, they vanish.

We scream simultaneously, “What the hell was that!” I stand and run to Cha Cha.

“Do you think I summoned them with the ‘womb to tomb’ talk?” I’m overjoyed by their appearance.

“FREAK-a-delic!” Cha Cha squeals and stamps her feet, she’s still shaking. We vow to tell no one, for fear of ending up in straight jackets and rubber rooms. The River full of mind-blowing communion, radiant splendor, and dazzling illumination on what began as a dreary and depressing afternoon.

At my house, I pull Cha Cha into my bedroom. “Do you know what we witnessed?” I’m like a tourist in my own history.

“Scary spooks haunting the hell out of us.” She tries to make light of it.

“These are our ancestors passing the torch to us. We’re the ancestors of an age to come-a collective spirit through the centuries that work to make a difference, every generation has to move the boulder of good forward.”

Cha Cha with those big, unwavering, black eyes, “How do you know all this?”

“Taking Marie Noonan’s Humanities class about myths helps to connect the dots. I’d like to share this with her, but she wouldn’t believe it.”

That night I wrote in my journal—what did the ancestors think of Carlos Santana at the tender age of twenty-two, wailing on his guitar at Woodstock? Or, beautiful Joan Baez singing We Shall Overcome, at war protests? They must be proud of two-time Grammy Award winners Mary Youngblood and Rita Coolidge and Buffy Sainte-Marie’s work in education and social activism.

How did they interpret the 1960s, a time of civic disaffection, speaking truth to power and religious idealism? I’m proud of Dad’s brothers Bernie and Gill’s involvement with the Brown Berets—Chicano Power activism. The Coors and grape boycott proved how solidarity through actions could force large union busting corporations to their knees.

César Chávez was the gutsy genius with the vision and foresight to engineer the boycott. An effective leader of El Movimiento who believed in peaceful protest. “¡Sí Se Puede!” (“Yes, we can!”) A call to activism to inspire Mexican American workers to unionize and fight for civil liberties. Years later, the first black American president borrowed the slogan for his winning campaign.

Five years before César Chávez’s death in 1993, he did a fast to end the use of pesticides in agriculture, he told his son, “I haven’t done enough with my life. I will do this fast to bring attention to the cause.” César Chávez and his wife Helen, awoke early, every day to say the Rosary on their knees, next to the bed.

Alongside César Chávez was Dolores Huerta, a Civil Rights activist and co-founder of the United Farm Workers of America. A rebel veteran of immigrant rights and the feminist movement. She suffered the harsh treatment of the macho and narrow-minded males of the union. The workers called her the Madonna of the Fields. The growers called her the Dragon Lady. When told she couldn’t do in Arizona what was accomplished in California; she coined the brilliant MeXicana mantra, “¡Sí Se Puede!”

She strived on after César’s death to found the Dolores Huerta Foundation for Community Organizing continuing to fight in her late-eighties, weaving together voter and immigrant rights, LGBT, feminist, environmental and labor activist issues. She inspires and leads by helping the downtrodden and diminished, the forgotten poor, and the outcasts. Those who don’t have lobbyists in Washington to fight for them. “We can’t let people drive wedges between us…because there’s only one human race,” writes Dolores Huerta.

In the same journal, I had a copy of Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzales famous poem; I am Joaquín, it described the economic, cultural, and political battles Chicanos face in this country.

If we stopped looking forward and backward, we would see the Kingdom of God right beneath our feet. Right under our noses. Everything is given to us. Rich beyond our dreams. What will my life contribute to the centuries, to the eternal concord?