byturns:

Memories of Chile, where I was born but where I only lived till I was 2 (passport photo above), have been coming to mind powerfully lately. I’ve been back a couple times since being a toddler. When I was born the country was still in the throes of a relatively new military dictatorship. My dad worked several jobs and at one point was gone so long touring with the Chilean Symphony that he’d grown a beard and I thought there was a monster at the door. As an infant my parents took me into the countryside somewhat frequently I understand, which is where this picture was taken. That’s me in the middle in front of a ruca or traditional Mapuche home.

At the time of this visit I remember the long 4x4 pickup ride into the country. I remember visiting a family and staying with them for a night. They were proud of a new wood burning stove in their home, replacing the hole in the ground they used to cook on. Chickens wandered in and out. The mother told the daughter, “Ya, busca la chancha!”. Go find the pig! She said it with such force that we all laughed. At night, over cups of yerba mate, by the light of a single kerosene lamp, we talk and laugh. Next door is a healing ceremony being carried out by a Mapuche healer for a dying man. All night there is drumming and rhythmic exhalations of the large group that’s gathered to either keep the man here or push him into the light.

Another time we visited and I was younger. I was proud of myself for having read The Neverending Story in its entirety on the flight over. I met a rather large man who was a karate champion. I got scared when my mom told him I thought his name was Tonto (it was Tanto). I made friends with a young man who took me around the city even though I was just ten and I would have understood if he didn’t want me coming with him. In my mind I made him my uncle even though I never saw him again.

I remember the food. The simple salads my Abuelita made. The bread we had with onces (elevenses/tea time). The empanadas, meat filled packets of home, served with Coke. 

I remember feeling that my heart was there. Is there. Even though I’ve only spent a cumulative 2.5 years of my entire 36 years in that country, something about it is home. Memories of my daughter’s future are there*. So strange how easily our hearts find a home in the cloudy memories of our minds, the root among the clouds.

*Hat tip to Saul Williams

This is what happens when Husayn tries to write.*

*Caption provided by Husayn

Source: byturns

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  1. alaskatapes reblogged this from byturns and added:
    write.**Caption provided by Husayn
  2. byturns posted this