...For The Belief Of Alchemists

The following is a topic addressing "Why I Write". I submitted this, along with five others, for one of my classes. I chose to frame each idea around a story, or stories. This one concerns my 2000 trip to South Africa.

I got off the plane, in the uniform of the Salvation Army and proceed to lie to the alchemists at customs who, either ignorant or full of hope for us, granted us entry. Our lie, or story or narrative was that we were tourists only – dressed in black polyester with white shirts, shoes, back packs and jet lag under our eyes. The Bibles were packed away. The cameras were out. The first story or warning I heard was on the trip to the house we would dine at that night: “Don’t stop if you see anyone on the side of the road, especially when it looks like a dead or wounded person. You’ll be killed if you do.” So much for being able to look at this trip with that sense of ignorant bliss and sheltered existence I had secretly prayed for. My life may be at risk if I do something stupid. I did plenty of stupid things, only one that put my life at risk. We were told never to walk out of the church compound in Charlize Theron’s hometown after dark. We did one night. Myself, a ten-year-old girl and a fellow, black, “tourist” who I had come to know marvelously well over the summer of “touring”. When the militia came crawling out of the abandoned gas station, sawed-off uzi’s at eye level, dressed in black jackets, pants and boots, we simply froze against the wall. It was less a “Halt, who goes there?” and more a “Get the f*** against the wall.” I complied aloud. My accent lowered the guns itself. But only a little. “We were walking the girl home from a church function at the Salvation Army down the street.” “She lives just around the corner.” “I have a copy of my passport on me.” They needed to see it. I did all the talking. They were uniformed and armed, even when the guns lowered. They let us pass. I never once was worried, concerned, nervous or scared. I almost laughed out of sheer paradoxical peace. Like the alchemists at the airport, I knew what was going on, there was no hiding it. The alchemists relinquishes control at some point because the reality is something greater is at work, greater than magic but much like it. Either at airport terminals or at gun point, I share in that belief.

Mrs. Byers

Mrs. Byers had a full head of gray hair by the time I enrolled in her third grade class. It was frizzy too – almost transparent near the top it was so thin. She wore big green dresses that flared out and sloshed around wherever she walked. Her glasses were always chained to her neck, and I rarely saw her use them. Only, I think, whenever she checked the Bruins win-loss record on the board. It was in chalk and every day someone had the responsibility of erasing it and writing up the new record. You always knew when someone didn’t change the record because you could hear her moving to the blackboard, glasses jangling around her neck. You could see the new record through her hair, without fail.

My Cup

Why shouldn’t I love this cup? It’s some 27 ounces deep. That’s a lot of coffee and I like a lot of strong coffee. It’s green and yellow, not my first choice of color, but I can get past that. After all, it’s just a cup. My son, for Father’s Day, led by his mother, went to the ceramic store and put his hand prints and fingerprints all over it. All in a deep green with "I love you" running vertically near the handle. The prints are fading now– they say a kid’s fingerprints fade over time. And I drink a lot of coffee so I have to wash it and I guess that doesn’t help. But I’m not about to stop drinking coffee. Besides, your son giving you a coffee cup with his prints on it is a memory and a love that just gets stronger.