Relapse in Machismo Rehab

When it happens, it starts a very specific wave of physical discomfort—beginning with a tightening of the muscles in the back of my neck and the growing tangle of curse words breeding in the back of my throat. I take comfort in my armor--dark sun glasses and The White Stripes blasting from my headphones. My pace quickens, I pull my shirt down over my butt, hold my head up high, and start walking at an angle to create greater distance between myself and the approaching man. I hate that living with machismo has made me a hider, the kind of person that puts barriers between herself and her surroundings. But to be honest, I need my barriers to keep my sanity. And I realize that by saying this I may seem a bit crazy. That’s OK. I am. And yes, I know for every machista, there is another man just walking along minding his own business. But sadly, over the past few years I’ve lost the ability to see anything but the dogs out there. Maybe it’s an unfair prejudice, but regardless, my instincts keep me coiled like a cobra, ready to strike at anything invading my territory—perceived liars, cheaters, chauvinists, horny bastards licking their lips. I’m always expecting the worst, bracing for the hiss in my ear, the invasive gaze scanning my body as I move. And I keep a face smack on stand-by for the butt grabber moving in just as I step off a crowded bus. There are moments when I think I’m starting to make progress. I definitely know more than a few good men here who chip away at the negative stereotype in my mind. Thank God for the exceptions, the *Santiagos* out there. Santi, a 43 year-old Argentine student of mine, came into my life at the beginning of 2012 and we immediately developed a unique friendship. Our shared love of sweets, story-telling, creative writing, and Lou Reed brought us together. I was told my friendship with him was a bold move…friendship between women and (especially married) men was playing with fire according to my Ecuadoran girlfriends. “Kali, unless he’s family or gay or gay family, then you simply can’t be his friend out of respect for his wife.” So yes, at first I felt guilty for thinking of him as my friend, but as time went on I realized I had absolutely no reason to. What we had was a genuine co-appreciation and neither of us had ever thought of it as anything more than that. Simply put, he helped me heal. No matter what kind of bad encounters I had earlier in the day, there was Santi to paint over that lingering negativity in my mind. He never once looked at me with anything but a warm, friendly smile. He never spoke to me like I was some fragile little blonde doll. His first question to me wasn’t “Are you single?” “Where’s your boyfriend?” or “Do you like Latino men?” It was “Do you feel happy here?” I used to fear that I may never be able to really trust men anymore, at least not in this cultural context. Santiago reminded me that my head is holding me back from being able to discriminate between “the good guys” and “bad guys” of the world. Yet still, there are days, like today, I feel I’m relapsing and I wonder, Will I ever recover, damnit?. It was 7:30am, I was walking down Ave. America, and suddenly a man carrying a beautiful little girl wrapped in a blanket rounded the bend. He had her tiny Dora the Explorer backpack dangling from his forearm. He must have been in his early thirties. He rounded the bend so quickly; I didn’t have time to put up my usual preemptive defense shield. And suddenly he veered across the wide empty sidewalk, passing within inches of my face, making a loud wet, lip-smacking noise beside my left ear. The tension came rushing to my neck and the instant fire in the back of my throat stopped me dead in my tracks. As he walked away his daughter watched me over his shoulder, bouncing with the cadence of his steps, a sleepy haze in her dark brown eyes. I wanted to scream at him, humiliate him but nothing could come out with her looking back at me like that. So I stood there on the sidewalk, feeling paralyzed and enraged as he walked away…Every few steps he turned around to look at me, smiling, winking, mouthing words. Usually by this point, I would be in full-attack mode. Right up in his face, calling him a coward, a pathetic small man with a small mind and a small…, fingers waving in his face. But this time I was just frozen and silent. How could I tear him apart like that in front of his little girl? Would she get scared? How would he influence her relationships with men in the future? Would she end up angry like me, or worse…just indifferent? I know I will see this man with his girl again, as they walk down to her school in my neighborhood. Next time I need to do something. So I’ve written this note to give him which I carry in my pocket every day just in case we meet again. Roughly translated, it says this-- You do not have the right to disrespect me. I can only imagine you behave in this way because nobody ever taught you how a real man should act, but it’s not too late to learn. Naturally, I wouldn’t expect you to change for someone like me, the Gringa you harassed in the street. But you need to do it for the beautiful little girl wrapped around your neck. Show her how real men treat women, so that one day she will seek out a man that will treat her in a way that feeds her strength rather than rips it away. And blow kisses at her, be in awe of her--not the women you pass in the street. Please, be the man you can be. **Name changed

Notes From a Rock Collector's Daughter

People collect all kinds of things…stamps, thimbles, LPs, coins, over-priced novelty teddy bears, children from poverty-ridden nations, guns, sex toys, Star Wars action figures. I have always been fascinated by the things people choose to collect but personally, I decided awhile back to avoid accumulating much more than music and memories. (OK, let’s be real…And sun glasses). Perhaps one of the most intriguing collections I've encountered is my mom’s rock collection. To clarify, I’m not talking about precious stones, rubies or emeralds…no Mom has always had an affinity for the blue collar rocks…that round grey rock, weighing about 1-2 pounds, nestled among hundreds of other grey rocks similar in form and weight on the riverbank. The rocks that thousands of people have walked over or sat on since the beginning of time, rocks which go unnoticed with the exception of the occasional toker, contemplating the origin of the

universe through glazed eyes. Mom’s theory on rocks runs parallel to her theory on people—If you take the time to really look at them from every angle, you discover their unique beauty. Sometimes you have to roll a rock around in your hand for quite a while before you notice something special about it. This takes time which most people don't claim to have in today's world. But mom would always be the first to see that special something…a slightly curved line resembling a smile, the trunk of an elephant, the subtle imprint of a fern, or a curious black spot. My brothers and my dad and I, have been hauling rocks in our pockets and backpacks for years—from The White Nile in Uganda, the Ottawa Valley in Canada, Rio Piedra in Colombia, the Arizona desert, the stream by my house in Montecristo, El Salvador, even from the parking lot behind Target. Mom places the rocks in a special place on the deck of the house, in piles, in circles, painted and bare. Although by now she must have over 500, she could still tell you about the origin of half of them. The only thing mom manages to collect more than rocks are people to love—because as a happy wanderer in the rocky path of life, she knows that that any ordinary stranger is just someone extraordinary that you haven’t understood yet.

Baños: I'll Be Your Mirror

Woke up this morning, ten minutes before the sun, jammed a heap of clothes from the bedroom floor into my weathered, purple backpack, grabbed $40 out of my savings account (aka my old turquoise shoe with the broken sole), and hopped the trolley to the bus terminal. As I turned left down my street, the stately Virgen of Panecillo greeted me from the hilltop in the distance, the sky behind her hinting at morning. The city was quiet. The streets, empty. As I walked down Colon, I dodged a pool of fresh vomit on the corner and smiled sideways to the last of the marathon partiers, dragging their wary feet up the hill, still reeking of fishbowl cocktails and cheap cologne, imitation Cool Water, I believe. I love this city, but right now I need to get out. Baños. I had been to Baños before, but always with company. Always to distract myself—to go canyoning, adventure sightseeing or just to drink some cold beers and dance til I collapsed into a plastic chair at the nearest kebab stand. Today I’m here alone, with no particular goal or objective. It’s a five hour trek from Quito, and I arrived at noon. I will have to leave for another five hour ride home tomorrow at 10am. Quite the hike for a mission-less destination. But truthfully, I’ve always been better at accomplishing missions when I don’t have them. Baños. A small town, tucked lovingly in the pocket of the surrounding steep green hills. A handful of life sprinkled at the foot of an active volcano. A magical place where a shape-shifting flock of clouds perpetually lingers low, whispering secrets to the hilltops. Unlike the endless deep blue firmament of Quito, here the sky maintains an existential gray. The clouds cover the land like a heavy blanket, and the hills wrap around the town like a mother’s arms around her infant. The natural boundaries of this sleepy town create a safe, cozy sensation, while everything else about Baños makes you feel like you’re walking through someone else’s dream reflected in a funhouse mirror. I spent the afternoon drifting aimlessly through the streets, contemplating the buildings, the writing on the walls, the hidden corridors between spaces, the narrow thread of a waterfall drawing a white streak down the verdant peak to the East. It’s a mess, but, it’s the right kind of mess, the perfect tangled amount. Consistently inconsistent and boldly contradictory. Stretches of wall alive with graffiti depicting eyeball orgies, pin-up divas, cackling jagged-toothed children, and a wiry, somber girl wearing a bird’s head hat curled up atop a fish. I examine every word, every scribbled vow of “amor.” Every unsightly tag sprayed across a park bench. Every piece of paper posted in doorways, every torn sticker on the backside of stop signs. I peer through the cracks of every cement wall and discover hidden galleries of poems. I devour the words and images, bury myself in silent dialogue. Kneeling in the cathedral, I wander among the geometric patterns of the ceiling. My voice intuitively washes into the sea of droning prayers. Cuarto misterio. Santa Maria Madre de Dios ruega por nosotros los pecadores… The central cathedral resembles a charming fairytale castle by day. By night, it’s a Vegas strip installation, illuminated with blue neon tube lighting. Lovely old colonial architecture rubs elbows with tacky bubble-gum cement monstrosities. Sharp lines, reflective glass, half-constructed minimalist modern gaud. Bad ideas that stick like a butterfly tattoo on your wrist. In the storefronts old, tired clowns await scraps of garbage with hungry open mouths. Gaping holes in the sidewalk stand patiently, anxious to swallow up tourists lost behind view finders as they try to snap a shot in which power lines do not dissect the picturesque, textured peaks around them. A broken fountain full of rain water reflects the quiet stillness of the sky. Reggaeton base pounds over here, an Andean flute covers “My Heart Will Go On” over there, an eerie accordion moaning somewhere in between. Near the square, onlookers fixate on an artist as he pencils the speck of light into Che Guevarra’s left eye. As you stray from the heart of the town, the sound of rushing water intensifies. The simplicity of nature beckons. Near the waterfall, there’s a cylindrical tower--a cross between a giant birdhouse and a futuristic space lounge with a spiral slide mounted on the side. Something straight from the fearless imagination of an eight year old child. As the story goes a local man built it to be a discotheque with a 360 degree view of the town but shortly after opening it was declared architecturally unsound and it’s been abandoned ever since. The broken windows, vacant eyes, gaze out in all directions. In the park you’ll find a unique wooden bridge, “The Bridge of Love,” which leads to absolutely nowhere, a popular photo hotspot for young lovers, a perfect metaphor for the cynics. And what else would I find hanging above me but a giant heart shaped Jesus pendant, also starring the Virgin with the Tungurahua volcano erupting molten lava at her side. So many eclectic puzzle pieces of nonsensical whimsy, collapsed dreams, partially constructed plans, divine messy imperfection. When ugliness and beauty converge at every turn, the result is something more honest, rawer than the postcards depict. Something superior to beauty—something perfect. I see you Baños, and I think you see me too -- just another piece of the landscape that boldly doesn't fit.