Confined Desertscape, 2010My parents never hovered. There were rules, but personal space was rarely an issue for me. It was mine for the taking, perhaps too much so at times. When we moved to Arizona and my father became a single parent, he played the role of the strict authoritarian.
Do as I say, not as I do, articulated through the mouth of a grin, was one of his favorite lines. He talked a good game, but like most parents, once I was out of sight, he rarely knew what I was up to.
I was transacting my own business at about 12 years old. I babysat a little girl named Jillene. Although I quickly learned she was a 4 year old terror, I liked the independence of it all, and chose to soldier on. Her parents sold pot and lived in the trailer across from ours. I was always a little nervous about who might stop by when they weren’t home, but I liked them. They were nice people and they always had Doritos.
Katy and Tony lived beside Jillene’s family. They liked to laugh and told the types of jokes children were not meant to hear. They drank a lot of wine and on occasion my father and his far too young girlfriend hung out with them. I’ve never seen my father drunk, so I’m not sure what they had in common. It must have been the jokes.
The park was a place that pretty much fit the stereotype. Poorly landscaped lots, large aluminum boxes posing as homes, parents acting inappropriately, and kids hanging out by the public pool, at night, not swimming. My sister and I were strictly forbidden from hanging out, anywhere. This had always been the rule.
It’s difficult to describe what Dad seemed to believe during our trailer park period. I don’t think he understood that we were too young to choose our own influences. He always saw the best in us and believed we were capable of great things, including immunity to our own environment. We were constantly reminded that we weren’t like the rest of these, I believe his exact words were,
goddamned punks. We were not to step anywhere near the flickering lights of that pool after dark, but I’d always stare curiously from the back seat of our car when we’d drive past at night. To me, they seemed to be the lucky ones.
Dad tore out the shiny new manufacturer’s countertops in our kitchen and installed quality butcher block. He built a well-crafted wooden fence around our lot and landscaped Southwestern style with fine gravel and a cactus or two. He made dinner every night.
I had a crush on a boy with long wavy dirty blonde hair that had been highlighted by the hot Arizona sun. I admired him from afar. He was one of the lucky ones who hung out late by the pool. I guess his parents didn’t mind. He wore faded jeans, untucked shirts, and had beautiful green eyes. I found him dangerous, in a good way. I never knew his name.
The Mexican population ruled the roost in our neighborhood. There was no talk of protecting the kind good-hearted immigrants. No. They would have cringed. These people were proud, territorial, and the only people requiring protection were those they didn’t like. I tried to fit in quietly and play by their rules. It seemed the safest path.
I can still hear the metal vacuum cleaner pipes beating against our doors and the aluminum siding of our trailer after the one time I wasn’t so quiet and decided to stand up for my little sister. They never made it inside. Perhaps it wasn’t their goal. Maybe they just wanted to scare us. I recall little more of the situation. I’m not even sure why I was originally protecting my sister. I have no idea what happened the next day or the day after. Could their anger have just fizzled out? I wish there was more to tell, but there isn’t. It’s just the echo of those pipes connecting with the aluminum that has stayed with me.
I don’t know where Dad was that day, but I know I didn’t tell him what happened, not until years later. I was too afraid of what his response might fuel.
It wasn’t all bad. A girl named Gloria lived next door and we became good friends. We saw each other daily. I realize now that her mother’s to-die-for watermelon juice must have been my introduction to aguas frescas.
And then there was Martha. Martha was a big tough Mexican girl with long black hair who attended my Junior High School. She was a powerful force. For some strange reason she liked me and became my protector. I was friends with Martha, so hands off. She taught me how to wear mascara and look tough by wearing untucked flannel shirts, over my pretty peach and pink tee-shirts, cardigan style.
Behind, 2010
