Outside of the red brick building, Jack’s waiting for me. “How did it go?” he asks anxiously. I drop my backpack and grab his hand: “Yikes! That was intense. Marie wants to mentor me, I think… possibly? I’m overwhelmed by her interest and directness. A teacher hasn’t ever paid this much attention to me.” I said.
“She sees potential in you, all the smartest, most brilliant students take her classes. There’s a waiting list every semester. I’m just psyched to see you every Thursday.” He slips an arm around me. We walk past the classroom window and catch a glimpse of Marie and Headmaster Rio conversing in the hallway. We stop to watch their animated exchange.
Marie calls out to Headmaster Rio, whom she’s fond of calling “Esteemed Headmaster.” They’re best of friends and have a high regard for each other. She has a way of treating him as an adult and a kid at the same time.
“How are you, Rawleigh? You look down in the dumps.”
He’d just finished teaching a senior class on critical thinking. He tried to explain the anti-Nazi German, Lutheran Pastor, Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s theory of no person existing simply in their own space in time: the past—we inherit, the future—we create it, and the present—is the vehicle we inhabit now.
“I explain this theory once again, and probe them with questions. It’s clear; they don’t understand an iota of what we covered this week.” He cries discouraged. She looks at him quizzically. “My dear boy, when will you ever learn, all they’re interested in, is sex!” She playfully slaps him on the back as they laugh together.
13
Womb to Tomb
Let the farthest, oldest, most ancient ancestors speak to us! And let us be listeners at last, humans finally, able to hear. –Listeners at Last by Rainer Maria Rilke
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