The Home I Know: Duplicity
Chapter 9
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A memory returned to me of a time in Lourdes, France when I sat across from the monsignor who accompanied the Knights of Malta to the place of pilgrimage to help those in need of healing. I wrestled with the differing expectations of the Jesus of my parents and the Jesus of the Jesuits. Following one or the other would take my life in a very different direction and I couldn’t figure out which one was right. The priest replied.
“Who is Jesus to you?”
~ ~ ~
This new life of tropical heat and walks to the university, of attempting to dialogue socially in broken Spanish and to teach English to children in La Chacra, of arising to a classmate singing “Oh Danny Boy” in a beautiful baritone voice in the shower every morning, and the community holding hands to celebrate our time together in song before every meal, felt quite ideal. I loved it and hoped my parents would too when they booked their tickets to El Salvador for a week-long visit.
When my parents arrived early in the morning on that same red eye flight and after the bus ride, they said hello to William who awaited them at the iron front gate of Casa Romero, pulled the garage door back, and entered. I met them in the entrance room with the landline from which I had called them once a week to check in. My father did as he always does: he squeezed me into his body softly the first time, then more aggressively the second, so that my breasts squished into his chest over and over again. While my mother offered a gentle hug and hello. Then together, we found our way to the courtyard where I introduced them to my new friends.
My parents returned to their recommended hotel to rest, then we met the next day to visit my praxis site. James, my mother, my father, and I all hurried into the dilapidated taxi and drove to the edge of the city to be with the community and their river of laundry and trash, stories and schools, parishes and pupuserias. My parents played with the students delightedly during recess then watched me proudly, as I tried to teach the kids basic concepts of English through song. We all stood, placed our hands on our heads, then shoulders, then toes on repeat, as we tried to sing together:
“Head, shoulders, knees, and toes, knees and toes.
Head, shoulders, knees, and toes, knees and toes.”
Then our hands moved to other parts of our bodies, as we belted:
“Eyes, and ears, and mouth, and nose!
Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes!”
The kids practiced speaking English with my parents, while pulling on their loose shirts saying awkwardly, “Hi! How are you?!” This was just about as far as the conversation could go with the students’ level of language skills, my parents’ comprehension of Spanish, and my limited capacities as a translator. But as fluent English speakers, James and I easily met the necessary requirements to be language teachers, so we volunteered to instruct with no prior experience.
We ate lunch with the priest, then headed up to sit with the elders and their embroidery. I could see that my father began to grow antsy. He had endless energy and sitting with people who spoke slowly in a foreign language, and sewed even more so, irritated him. My mother presented as always, nearly perfectly, making it difficult for me to ascertain her true feelings. The day ended and we returned by taxi to Casa Romero.
“Tomorrow, we’re going to a resort!” My father retorted. “I’m here to be on vacation.”
We spent the rest of the week hopping from resort to resort on the beach trying to find a place that suited my father’s needs. While his frustration grew, so did his critiques. He treated the Salvadoran staff like trash, so my mother tried to correct him.
“Don’t you dare correct me in public!” He demeaned her.
“I wish someone would just be nice to me!” My mother screamed and ran away. I froze and then followed her.
“Annie, are you exercising?” My father interrupted, “Your ass is getting fat!”
Both offended and confused, I turned to reply, “Why are you looking?”
Finally, the week concluded and my parents returned me to Casa Romero then took a taxi to the airport. I went back to my room and rested, depleted and concerned. My new way of being did not resonate with those who raised me. That night before bed, I opened my closet door to see the full length mirror hanging there. I saw my skin, turned around, looked at my rear end, and felt ashamed.
The next morning, I arose to the day, got dressed, scurried out of my bedroom, and walked into the courtyard of Casa Romero. There a beautiful older woman sat under the avocado tree with one thick braid in her silver hair, the tail pulled and pinned up and underneath. She appeared to be so reverent in her own body, and immediately I knew that I wanted to get to know her. So I introduced myself and quickly learned that she was the mother one of the students in my community and came to visit from the United States for a few days. She appeared to be the epitome of grace.
“Will you teach me how to braid my hair like that?”
“Of course!” She replied lovingly.
So I sat on the step, while she pulled up a chair behind me. In her right hand, she grabbed a brush and carefully combed my hair of its knots, then gently pulled the top into three separate strands, and began to weave over and under and over again until the braid shaped atop my head. Then, she rubber banded the end and used a large bobby pin to secure the tail under the long strand.
“Done! Now, go look in the mirror,” she asked.
So I did, and for a moment I saw myself differently. I felt beautiful. I returned to sitting at her feet, while she pulled the bobby pin and the rubber band free, unweaving the braided hair so that it fell once again atop my shoulders.
“Now, you try.”
She asked to hold my hands and guided them, as I divided my hair into three strands and began that same dance over and under and over and under again until I arrived at the end, which I secured with the rubber band. I pushed my index and middle fingers underneath the now braided hair that met my neck and found space there for the tail to be tucked within. Then, I stuck the remaining length of braid underneath and pinned it to stay.
“Well done!” She celebrated. “Now, go see yourself.”
So I returned to face my own face in the mirror and saw once again — albeit a bit of a messier version — that same beauty I had seen in me for the very first time.
Eventually, the waking, the teaching, the singing, the eating, the stories before bed by Adam, and the dreaming of war and rape through the evening, led to the conclusion of my time in El Salvador. Four months passed by far too fast. As my semester abroad ended, Adam and I discussed what we were going to do about our relationship. He lived in Milwaukee, I lived in LA. Besides, tensions had arisen between us throughout our days about his devotion to traditional Catholic practices and my growing rebellion, his rituals and my rage. So we chose to close our romantic time together and stay friends. But my heart broke open once again.
My classmates, who had become the most intimate of companions, released our hands after singing our last prayer of “Vamos Todos.” For the final time, we ate those delicious boiled beans, fried plantains, and soft tortillas with a pinch of salt and a squeeze of lime. We said goodbye to the community members at our praxis sites who we had the honor to accompany and be accompanied by. Then the bus arrived. William, whose endless energy who had protected us through the night, waved us goodbye.
At that moment, the imagined future that had felt so full was instantly pulled out from underneath my feet. The country called “The Savior,” the liberated Jesus I met there, the community of care and equity, the new friends, and the Prince Charming I hoped to marry, suddenly all left me. And in the space that remained came the debilitating anxiety and fatigue. Without a future to be full of, I felt completely alone with this struggle that raged within me, the inner screamer that I could now feel was so alive within my body.
I landed alone back in Los Angeles with my bags in hand and saw my family awaiting me: my father, my mother, and a few brothers. Together, we drove to Bunya St. following the direction of the sea. My father parked the car in the garage and I leapt out, grabbed my bags, passed the front yard, hurried to the green door, up the stairs, and landed right back in my childhood bed and wept. Instantly, my small, Catholic, seemingly perfect world in Newport Beach became deeply shaken by the voices of the historically marginalized people who I met in El Salvador.
I thought of James, my praxis partner, and all he tried to teach me about white supremacy and privilege, as I finally saw it all so clearly in this wealthy, white city by the sea. The next time I spoke over the phone with James, I apologized for the cost of my ignorance and the labor it required of him to educate me. I felt both the gifts and the guilt of my privilege as a white woman from a wealthy community. At least verbally, I began to stand on the side of those historically oppressed and opposed the privileges that rich people granted themselves at the expense of everyone else.
“You’re a communist bitch!” My father attacked me.
“You’re no fun anymore!” Friends said in response to my progressive politics.
“You were brainwashed in El Salvador!” My mother screamed at my new ideologies.
Their messages were clear: I did not belong if I did not align with their beliefs and attune to their lifestyles. There was only one way to serve my community, my family and their God: to blindly obey or leave.
~ ~ ~
I felt relieved to return to LMU, as the summer ended, . In my final semester of collegiate life, I dragged my body from the house I lived in with a few friends off campus, down to the bluff, and into the school for classes, exhausted after a merely 15 minute walk. This former Division I athlete who played in NCAA championships could now, only three years later, barely get out of bed.
The university offered basic yoga as an elective and I signed up in an attempt to practice embodying my body. I wanted to love all of me and this felt like an attempt at doing just that. The integration of ancient Eastern medicines and the Catholic tradition moved me as my classmates and I waved through the cycles of “The Salutation of the Sun.” I offered my practice in prayer to the Son Jesus, while I gazed to the ceiling arching my spine, then pushed my pelvis up into the air and my hands back for Downward Facing Dog. But being with my body like this initiated a new type of stress, one I had yet to experience.
While I moved through the many positions, I saw flashes of penises in my mind. I couldn’t see who the phalluses belonged to, just that they were always attempting to penetrate me in the vulnerable positions that the yoga asanas made of my body. Simultaneously, I began to feel an intense pressure in my pelvis. A weightedness. A heaviness. It felt as if I neglected to pull out a tampon, like something was stuck up inside my vaginal canal that shouldn’t be.
The academic year concluded, so most of my family flew out for my graduation. From all around the United States, aunts, uncles, and cousins boarded planes to watch me walk across the stage to claim my Bachelors in Theology. Afterward, I envisioned a simple dinner celebration in my family’s beautiful backyard with a long, linear table on the lawn. We’d order pupusas from a Salvadoran restaurant, so that I could share a little bit of the joy of stretching cheese and black beans stuffed into grilled masa dough with my extended family. Breaking a different kind of bread. Inviting them into remembering. We could watch the Disneyland fireworks after dinner.
Naturally, my father had other plans. Instead, my simple dinner was turned into a formal meal on the patio of a fancy Italian restaurant where we all sat facing him in a square, leaving a large space in the center where he stood and shared stories of my upbringing — the great toast that would make the evening. He planned to replace Pops, the patriarch leaning against a stool. The storyteller. Timothy Jr., the oldest son, now centered himself, casting the light toward him, passing down his tall tales to his children at an event that was supposed to celebrate me.
