[ABQ]
PART2
POST: 0008
TRAVEL
11-21-02021
I am going to juxtapose that treelined trail from [ABQ] P A R T 1 against another trail in [ABQ], a trail through Petroglyph Park. A gallery of black lava stones covered a millennia’s worth in the scrawls, scrapes, and scripts. Graffitied spiral patterns from 1000 CE ⇤ aside ⇥ parrots from 1300ish ⇤ aside ⇥ Spanish crosses from 1600ish ⇤ aside ⇥ fluffy sheep from some year in between ⇤ aside ⇥ someone named “𝔼𝕃𝕀𝕁𝔸ℍ” from “𝟙𝟡𝟙𝟡.” Elijah just wanted me to know he was here, I guess. You were here, Elijah, and 100 years later, the world is still strange and I am here too. I want to leave my own mark, but I don’t feel like Elijah. Don’t feel like I have the right.
11 years ago, I am at the Angkor Wat temple complex in Siem Reap, Cambodia. I rented a bike that sucked, but it was $1 a day and it carried me away from the temples that most touristed. I wanted to find my own place.
3 miles later, I ended up at a 40-ft stone gate. A kid was on top, lounging against a chubby, benevolent stone face carved 900 years ago. He was listening to shrill Cambodian pop music via a grainy phone speaker and carving something onto the side of his gate. I didn’t find my place, I found his place.
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He climbed down casually and assessed me. I was young and American, and this was good. Americans like strangers, and we like taking risks. We chatted in broken English, we gestured, we jived, and we biked out the gate together along a reservoir with a small temple at its center that predated the black plague. The temple was dilapidated and hard to see. Vines and roots were breaking it apart at a roots pace. I think, “I can finally see T I M E.”
The kid says to me, “This my neighborhood.”
While writing this, I searched the web for pictures of his gate. It is closed for restoration now. UNESCO closed it. Restoration experts are buffing out his contributive carving. I think this is wrong.
Because it’s burned into my memory like a brand: him lounging on something built by his own ancestors. Against a giant face of a person of his own culture. Of that relaxed connection with a past that was his in a landscape deeply known to him. I was jealous. I’m still jealous.
I could move to [ABQ] and my hypothetical child might grow up here and maybe they stay in [ABQ] their whole lives and have their own kids. And their kids will hike on the lava stone slopes with the same sense of ease and connection as “𝔼𝕃𝕀𝕁𝔸ℍ” or that Cambodian kid. They will carve their own spirals or names or curse words.
Probably not, though; we all move around so much these days. Why would the next gens differ? I’m holding an American passport, which means my roots are shallow and I’m too empathetic for nationalism. I’m heavy with the indigenous alternate futures that never came to pass. They haunt this place. I know this is unfair, that the indigenous are still here, their story is far from over (IT IS HERE) or (HERE). It has not been relegated to the archives. I feel that. I also feel like I am trespassing on a graveyard.
In every case, I’m on land that never feels quite like home.
I don’t want to dwell too long in that vibe. I’m patient and I’ll look for home for a lifetime if that’s what’s in the cards. And I’m not my father’s taker; my search for a home will horizontal. I’m next to everyone, above no one, with space for all.
Don’t ask me what that looks like yet. But I invite you to ask yourself.
11 years ago, I am at the Angkor Wat temple complex in Siem Reap, Cambodia. I rented a bike that sucked, but it was $1 a day and it carried me away from the temples that most touristed. I wanted to find my own place.
3 miles later, I ended up at a 40-ft stone gate. A kid was on top, lounging against a chubby, benevolent stone face carved 900 years ago. He was listening to shrill Cambodian pop music via a grainy phone speaker and carving something onto the side of his gate. I didn’t find my place, I found his place.
He climbed down casually and assessed me. I was young and American, and this was good. Americans like strangers, and we like taking risks. We chatted in broken English, we gestured, we jived, and we biked out the gate together along a reservoir with a small temple at its center that predated the black plague. The temple was dilapidated and hard to see. Vines and roots were breaking it apart at a roots pace. I think, “I can finally see T I M E.”
The kid says to me, “This my neighborhood.”
While writing this, I searched the web for pictures of his gate. It is closed for restoration now. UNESCO closed it. Restoration experts are buffing out his contributive carving. I think this is wrong.
Because it’s burned into my memory like a brand: him lounging on something built by his own ancestors. Against a giant face of a person of his own culture. Of that relaxed connection with a past that was his in a landscape deeply known to him. I was jealous. I’m still jealous.
I could move to [ABQ] and my hypothetical child might grow up here and maybe they stay in [ABQ] their whole lives and have their own kids. And their kids will hike on the lava stone slopes with the same sense of ease and connection as “𝔼𝕃𝕀𝕁𝔸ℍ” or that Cambodian kid. They will carve their own spirals or names or curse words.
Probably not, though; we all move around so much these days. Why would the next gens differ? I’m holding an American passport, which means my roots are shallow and I’m too empathetic for nationalism. I’m heavy with the indigenous alternate futures that never came to pass. They haunt this place. I know this is unfair, that the indigenous are still here, their story is far from over (IT IS HERE) or (HERE). It has not been relegated to the archives. I feel that. I also feel like I am trespassing on a graveyard.
In every case, I’m on land that never feels quite like home.
I don’t want to dwell too long in that vibe. I’m patient and I’ll look for home for a lifetime if that’s what’s in the cards. And I’m not my father’s taker; my search for a home will horizontal. I’m next to everyone, above no one, with space for all.
Don’t ask me what that looks like yet. But I invite you to ask yourself.