Quietness has a strange, spongy hum that can nearly break your eardrums. (Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees).
The rhythmic inhales and exhales of my own breath are the only things I can hear as I concentrate on keeping as still as possible. The sound of silence only exacerbates the sense of feeling. The trickle of sweat walking down my forehead, creeping around the curve of my eyebrow, rolling along my cheekbone and crawling up and over my chin is torturous, but I do not dare to expend the energy to wipe it away. Instead, I let gravity do its job as I feel the sweat droplet plummet and splash across my chest. My clothes are in a pile nearby, the cold side of the pillow only lasts 3 minutes before it has to be flipped, and the stagnant air is lightly, but noticeably alleviated by the fanning of flies flirting overhead.
I don’t remember this summer last year. Everyday, I swear I have never sweated so much before in my life. Not after running stadiums in The Swamp at college, not during soccer practice on the Pleasantville high school’s turf, not waiting 70 minutes in line at Disney’s Rock N Roll’er Coaster ride and not walking across the scolding sand at Jones Beach. Certainly, today was the most I have ever sweated.
Soo let me tell you about it. And as sure I am that I will hear at least 4 Aventura songs before I reach Gotera, I am sure that my bus stories NEVER get old, so this is how the morning started. Jam-packed and personal-space-free, I rode the bus to town cradling a 65 year old man on my lap. Not that he weighed more than the backpack hung across my back, but this would have been much easier if I were seated. Instead, I clenched the handrail overhead as old man Michael Finnigan hobbled over (with a line of supertramps on his heels) and setup shop upon my 2 patas without a sense of recognition for their caretaker. Although my baby toes of each foot cried out at each bend in the road, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud and all alone as I saw 5’2” Miguel’s expressionless face and glazed over eyes ride the bus to town, immovably planted upon the gringa. When he finally disembarked La Barca Jaime, his eyes met mine and we shared a sense of closeness and we silently said our goodbyes.
The day carried out equally as beautifully but dreadfully hotter as I entered the Gotera market. I briskly maneuvered the dried fish section, dodged the splatters of oil from revuelta pupusas and coaxed myself along passed baskets of pan dulce. When I finally arrived at the Self Defense for Women training center, I was ready for my first water break.
All complaining about the summer heat aside (I hate whiners), I was ecstatic that 4 girlies from my community were ready to learn about self-defense. We talked about the importance of being a confident woman, of walking with pride and being aware of your surroundings. We talked about the respect we deserve and ought to demand and how to prevent possible attacks. Finally, we got to the fun part. We beat up pillows. I walked out of that course looking like I had just swam 25 laps in the UF pool, but the smile on my face was fatigue-less.
Back in La Montana, it dawned on me that some angel from Gringo-Land had once sent me a package with todavia-untouched water balloons. If any volunteers have been so smart as to read my blog, and lucky to have amazing friends like I have who send you packages, I urge you to pedir water balloons. I filled up about 120, and headed to the soccer field with a guacal of painfully heavy-entertainment on my shoulders (Note: learn how to carry things on head like normal people). The war that endured was some of the most fun I’ve ever head. I hate to brag (you know me) but I kicked some 4 year old @$$.
After cooling down in this 102F weather with some innocent but highly aggressive water balloon-fun, we decided it was time to sweat again….sooo we began to run the soccer field in some plastic futbol, flip flop wearing, skirt flapping, toe-stubbing fun.
Foot-tall Franky got pegged with shot-on-goal #1 but quickly recuperated to retake his position as portero. Older brother Damian had to be Heimlich-ed back to life (do not give out candy before sports) but you would have never known he suffered had you not seen the blue dulce projectile out of his esophagus. Fredi and I ran the field, swerving around pigtail princesses and diaper-wearing-Diegos. But the bee swarm of children running behind me will be an image forever burned in my memory that 24 gallons of sweat could never erase.
I promise you that even after standing under an ice cold shower from 5pm up until the sky was sprinkled with stars, I was still sweating. And so that is how I ended up, sprawled across my bed in a desnuda mess, begging a cold front to miraculously knock three times on the ceiling.
So, the point of it all is, it’s f#ck(ng hot. I hate to complain (obviously) but it can be painful to try to sleep concentrating on moving as little as possible, focusing on not thinking about the heat, but yet the only thing on your mind is the feeling of sweat beads emerging from your pulsating pores. I commend those who live by the beach. I beg sugerencias from those in Usulutan or San Miguel. I welcome the moldy inviernos to this everlasting sauna!
But you know what, it’s worth it. After a day of teaching an invaluable life skill and rewarding yourself with the smiling faces of two dozen children, the heat doesn’t matter. The REAL point of it all is, my job is f#ck(ng awesome. I’d never normally put on a skirt and make-up and run the soccer field in rubber flip flops. But I’ve never had so much spontaneous fun in my life. My feet hurt over the rocky field and slapping the plastic ball, I was certain I was going to trip over my long faldita and the dust burned my squinting eyes… But I ran my heart out, laughed like a maniac and scooped up falling ninos that I’ll love for the rest of my life. The FINAL and MOST IMPORTANT point of it all is, ….
Don’t sort-of-maybe live, but live like you’re going all out, like you’re not afraid. (Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees).
No comments:
Post a Comment