Playing in the Sea of Cortez has been part of my life since I was a little girl camping on the beaches of Sonora. But, that is another story.
People often ask: How long have you lived in Baja? Twenty four years plus two. The summer after turning fifteen and following a year of living with Grandma, as well as, my Neely family, I came down for a visit and fell in love at first sleep on the porch to a moonrise over the Sea of Cortez. Warm, buggy and a not so comfortable hammock. My heart was home.
The next two years included a final year of Secundaria in Santiago, a first year of Preparatoria in La Paz, being the first foreigner to attend school in Santiago, remembering my long forgotten stored in the back my brain Spanish, sticking out like a sore thumb to blending in and just being one of the gang.
When my mom went to enroll me in school at Santiago, their first reply was: No. She doesn't speak the language. My mom advocated, jumped through hoops and pleaded: She will remember. She spoke Spanish when she was a little girl. After eight years of living stateside and only speaking English, my childhood fluency in a second language was all but a memory.
They let me in. That first day of school felt like returning to kindergarten. I felt like everyone was looking at me and that was not entirely my imagination. I was asked how to say things like: How you say "chorizo" in English. Chorizo. And, how do you say "Teresa"? Teresa. Laughter followed by: That sounds like chorizo. I walked to the restroom and cried. It felt like total regress. Starting over. I was comfortable at junior high in Oregon. I played sports, felt at home, had friends and now I was starting over and could only understand and speak very basic Spanish.
To make the experience a little more challenging - because, hey it wasn't challenging enough, right? You have to remember that progress in Baja happens slowly and quickly at the same time. There were no school books and teachers would dictate from their one book in the class room. Students would write every word down. When I heard this, I felt like I was drowning. The Social Studies teacher, realizing I would need help, asked Criselia (yes, Criselia from Greens Restaurant) to let me copy her notes. She was my angel.
I have little idea about what we covered that year. I didn't understand much the first six months, but I learned to memorize and started passing with C's halfway through the year. A bit of a blow to an often strait A student. I wasn't learning academics that year. I was learning that I could do anything, to be creative in my approach, to sink or swim and that I am strong swimmer. The one reprieve, or so I thought, was English as a Second Language. For sure, one class I could get an easy A in. But, no. The teacher wouldn't let me off that easy. She gave me the assignment of reciting the Monday Honores a La Bandera, an equivalent to a Pledge of Alliegence to the Flag. Seriously! I memorized the words, stood up in front of the entire school with a microphone surrounded by over a hundred fellow students. I would say a line, pause, and they would say a line. Until we completed the Honores. At the end, they broke out into applause, which is not part of the Monday routine. I felt deeply supported and so proud of myself. As an introvert, perfeccionist and not feeling very proficient in the language, this was a humble accomplishment. One of many satisfying moments during a challenging year.
Nowadays, there is a Preparatoria or High School in Santiago and Los Barriles. I didn't have those options. I went to La Paz and lived with Georgina Rochin and her sister Rosy. They were in college, hospitable and I slept on a single bed in their one bedroom casita. The first day of school, we sat in a circle, said our names and where we were from. I said: Los Barriles. No one blinked or asked, but where are you from originally? I had remembered my Spanish and recovered my ability to speak the language accent free. My hair is dark brown as are my eyes and I carry myself in a way that easily says: Mexicana. It wasn't until half way through the school year that something tipped off a few fellow students and I was asked, where are you from originally? I was back to strait A's the first semester.
In a household of students with full schedules, every one participated in keeping house and cooking. Having zero cooking skills, I signed up to dust and mop. That was the year I learned to cook and bake and discovered the art of creating in the kitchen. I found a box of cook books. So many inspiring options! So little of the ingredients available. I searched for delicious options with ingredients I could find. And, I became our little home's official cook. My roomates loved the food and so did their boyfriends. Georgina, to this day, is one of my dearest and closest friends. Our sons are the same age and we get together often for coffee or breakfast, we message, we keep in touch with the unfolding of each others lives. A soul sister for life.
Something happened after that first year of school in La Paz. I went back to Oregon for a visit. And much like I came to Baja for a visit that turned into putting down roots for two years. I stayed in Oregon. I lived with Grandma again and then with my Neely family. I went to Homecoming games and dances, Sweetheart dances and Proms. My dream was to study English Literature and become a Professor. Baja became a memory. It made sense to stay in Oregon.
Growing up biculturally, for me, came with deep conflicts about where to create a life. My heart was in Baja, but my mind and focus for the future was in the US. I thought long and hard about this quandary. I now had two conflicting dreams. I could study and become the Professor I had dreamed of for as long as I could remember. Visit Baja during vacations and after several decades, I could retire and live out the rest of my days along side the Sea of Cortez. Or, I could follow my heart to Baja, figure it out when I got here and live my days here, where I feel at home.
I chose the adventure. My mom offered me job. Nothing was free. She opened a door for me. I started cooking for the construction crews. Cleaning the office. Moved on to aswering the phone, tending the office. Ten years of book keeping and working quietly away by myself. Then something happened: a partner left the company. Work was scarce. The architect had little to do. My mom asked him to teach me how to draw plans. Six years of working side by side. He taught me to draw, to design "site specific", we checked job sites together. But, that is another story.
Returning to Baja took two years. Two years of being where I was, yet feeling pulled home so strongly, feeling heartbroken was part of my existence. I was there and I missed being here. Terribly. I saved my money. Okay, not very much. I chose community college evening classes to graduate from High School as soon as possible. The day I finished my assignments, I turned in my books, said thank you and goodbye. My Neely family asked: Why are you leaving at five thirty in the afternoon? Wait til morning. I knew where I was going and had waited long enough.
Five days of driving one of the smallest cars imaginable - a Yugo! They don't even make them anymore. I stopped in northern California on the way down and dropped off half of my belongings with my dad to help conserve gas. I had a cooler full of essentials. And a friend who came along for the ride. I had just enough money to land in Los Barriles. In southern California, my friend got tired of eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and I got tired of listening to the complaints. We stopped for twelve dollar burgers. I ran out of money and gas just south of La Paz. One long and uncomfortable night was spent sleeping in the car. First thing in the morning, I hitchhiked the rest of the way home. Part way, in the back of a pick up. From the Todos Santos turn off to Los Barriles, up front in a Semitruck with a driver who was new to the curvy, winding road and very open to my suggestions about slowing down, especially rounding the hills of San Antonio.
Dropped off at the fountainless entrance to Los Barriles, my heart soared as I was home. My mom was speechless. This landing was a surprise.
As a high school graduation present, my grandpa Jimmy gave me a three wheeler. I hated that thing! In theory, it was great, but in reality, everywhere I drove it, I ended up walking home. My first Baja home was a tiny camper, then upgraded to a small trailer and finally, I really felt like I was moving up in with world when I bought a trailer that had a separete bedroom! Five years of camper to trailer living before I found a piece of land. And, here I stand. Over twenty years, a magical home and beautiful roof over my head. Dylan and Paloma are chatting in the living room, Javier is fishing and my mom is probably painting in her gallery. My grandpa Jimmy passed on the year before Paloma was born, the same year Javier and I got married. He often shared the story of visiting Doña Tila and bouncing a baby Javier on his lap.
Many stories. Many connections. One land, one heart, one family. One community. Every day, a chance to add to this story. A story of one unique and beautiful life that is connected to so many.
Thank you for reading,
Tehroma
Thank you for reading,
Tehroma
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| Tehroma and Grandpa Jimmy 1994 or 1995 |
