I love to ride.
I am renewed amongst the trees and the mountains.
It grounds me, challenges me, and humbles me.
I am aware and grateful for my able body.
I am most joyful and thankful for the friendships that
arise.
But With It comes the car, the plane
the resources meant to maintain
our comfort
their preference
your heat
her choice
his needs
my joy.
hot cocoa in styro cups,
microbrews in plastic cups,
your lobster, his steak
their camber
our rocker
my flying v.
…………………
And With It, I often think of the dichotomy of my background
and the experiences of others.
I think of my father when his friend tossed him his luggage
from the crew cabin window.
Was the dock empty,
where there many border officers on the
seaport?
Was he afraid?
Did anyone bid him farewell?
He’s strolled
the wooden docks of dozens of ports
mingled with Aussies, drank with Moroccans
–
how different would his life been, why this one?
The phrase ‘jump ship’ isn’t as dramatic as it seems.
The
ship he worked on was bunkering in Houston,
and like many seaports along the
Gulf, had waves of folks waiting and moving, leaving and going.
He was staying.
He told me he was given a phone number from a crew mate.
The
dude lived in Brooklyn.
I always wondered where it was written.
Till this day
my father doesn’t know how to store numbers in his cellphone.
That same day he boarded a plane to La Guardia.
Knowing he’s a middle school dropout from southern Taiwan,
I’ve always wanted to ask all the little details, what if no one answered his
call, how he communicated with the cab driver, how he felt in an airport, and
whom he sat next to on his first American flight…
and throughout the years what
fears and burdens displacement and deportation bring.
But I’ve accepted the one-word answers, aside from being
scolded, knew that my curiosity for colorful details – or even my Curiosity
itself stemmed from a place of privilege. Many times Memories and Feelings of
precarious journeys, unpredictable experiences and painful occasions are almost
forgotten or better left unspoken. How else can one un-fog the hesitancy of
fear and past, move forward, and ultimately survive? When does it become a
privilege to remember? Or is it only a privilege when one can describe or
defend memory?
……………….
In the mountains, we all have our desires, wishes, likes and
wants.
Opinions gather to examine and decide,
the worthiness of those who share our runs,
the significance of our abilities,
the conditions of our environment,
the breadth of our hunger and choices
even the sweetness of the complimentary cider,
and ultimately the quality of the snow we hope to ride.
That never ceases to blow my privileged mind = I can judge
The Snow.
I often joke that my kids will shred – both mountain and
coast,
fearlessly ride – both trees and terrain,
take risks - on wheels or boards.
But my greatest desire is that they will humbly love and engage –
those near and afar.
And as they learn to also judge the snow, I hope they will patiently grasp the means it takes for others to survive. Maybe by then my
father will have more words to paint, and my mother will have more stories to
explain.
The Snow has taught me that privilege is not earned - it's not the result of our
efforts, or from working hard for the choices and comforts we have.
It’s the result of someone else’s efforts,
the joys we reap
from someone else’s challenges.
It’s a gift.
And with that comes much Memory - and responsibility.
