I Would Go Back (I Cannot)

To borrow from Sharon Olds, I go back. I go back to my last night in Colombia and think what I would do again, or differently. That night remains such a sorrow to me because when brought right against the hour I had to leave, I knew it was wrong to leave, that we made a mistake in going away from Cali, and I still believe we left too soon. But I cannot go back. I have written about this night many times in a decade of journaling since, and yesterday this night came to me again when I was having coffee with friends and we were talking about why we are here in Korea, what for, what can we see, what can we not see.

There are decisions I would change but then I would not be here. Or I would be here, but differently. This is a tricky, useless regret, but I sat at the edge of my bed and felt that last night in Colombia again. And then I wrote.

We went for dinner with friends, my last night in Colombia. All of us sat at a long table outside at Las Palmas in Ciudad Jardin. Justin and I were the first to leave, and after I said goodbyes the length of the table and turned to walk to our waiting cab, I did not look back. I remember thinking to not look back. I remember walking like I was learning to walk, having to consider the movement of first one leg, then the other. The weeks before that last day were full of the logistics of moving from one country to another: closing accounts, selling or giving away goods, ticking through our favorites in Cali. And then the last day in Colombia was that day, the last night that night. Leaving our dinner, my body moved toward something I did not want.

I would go back to that year and decide to stay another, even if we would choose to move the following year. I would stay for the green on green, mountains, insect noise, the language and music, empanadas, rain that made our street a river. I would tell the desert to wait one more year.

At our apartment the cab waited while we went inside to tell Patricia, our daughter’s nanny, and her two daughters goodbye. Claire was asleep in her crib. Early in the morning she and I would fly out and Justin would stay another week for paperwork, and to help Patricia organize and clean the apartment we were leaving. Patricia and her girls stood when we entered and we helped them carry the things I’d set aside to give them. Kitchen items, a throw rug, couch pillows, a lamp. We carried these to the cab whose driver popped the trunk and helped. Then Patricia and I said goodbye.

I would go back to this moment too because when we parted from our hug, her crying was so distraught I understood again how she cared for my baby, and that her day would look so different tomorrow without a snuggle from Claire, or a walk around the big yard, or time sitting together on the swing. Patricia took two steps toward our apartment. I thought she would run and wake the baby. I should have told her to run and wake the baby, to hold Claire close once more, kiss those fat cheeks and breathe her and lay her down again. I didn’t have the Spanish and Patricia didn’t have the English so we were left with our faces and tears. Patricia pushed against whatever kept her from running up the driveway, but then turned to her daughters who took her hands and helped her into the cab.

That night I did not sleep. For the first part I held Patricia’s parting in my body. I wanted then to go back and give her Claire to hold one more last time.

I replayed when Patricia and her daughters arrived that last night, as they had arrived one or two other nights that spring when Justin and I went for dinner together, and Patricia said to me, Que linda! and I smiled, a little embarrassed. Her daughters showed me what they brought for Claire. A book, inscribed with a note from them to Claire, and a small pink My Little Pony in its plastic packaging with a 3+ label. I set the My Little Pony aside, in a suitcase in the bedroom, imagining gifting the tiny horse with its shiny tail to Claire when she turned three and telling her it was from her first nanny, Patricia, and her daughters. I would go back and not take the My Little Pony from the daughters. I must have seemed ridiculous to those daughters then, dumb about what baby girls like to play with, dumb about the daughters who played with my daughter. Because why in the moment we were about to walk out the door was I suddenly concerned about age appropriate toys? Or worried what Claire would put in her mouth? Why, when we let her jam a capped Pony Malta bottle in her mouth to gnaw relief for her swollen gums. I was hot and weak that I’d spoiled a gift.

For the second part I held Colombia in my body and wept.

This was the country I moved to first, after years of wanting far away. I was relieved when the plane departed from Miami. My breath caught when the plane banked to descend and I saw Cali, her lights like gold glitter flung in the valley, over the foothills. I learned this country, and not as well as I would have liked. But I learned the words I needed, and the roads up and down to the places I went, the fruits and flowers. I hiked to ruins. I hiked through Tayrona. I saw blocks of plastic wrapped cocaine. I saw a man shot dead, slouched in the front seat of his car, the door open, on my walk to La14. I cut plantain, staining my hands, and fried the plantain, flattened the softened disks with a rock before refrying. I ate the best eggs with orange yolks. I ate pan de bono if it was offered. I took a bus to Salento, a bus to Medellin, a bus to Barricharra, a bus to Villa de Leyva. I stood under a small waterfall. I took outdoor showers. I ignored the cockroaches in my bookshelf. I obeyed soldiers with guns who asked to see my cedula. I walked rows of coffee plants and leaned back to see the top of wax palms. I got chased by dogs when I ran. I jumped in a pool after a long, hot run, or bought an ice cold Coke to guzzle. I biked up a long hill. I sweat my days and nights. I read Gabriel Garcia Marquez and the English daily papers. I learned stories of Colombia. The scars on the land and people taught me to hope for a place that was mine only for a time. I reckoned my way to motherhood in the perpetual autumn/spring of winter in Cali. I slept the afternoon rains that brought a curtain of quiet. I gave birth in this country, and did not know much but enough to delight in our infant, and wonder. I supposed we would return.

Our marriage became more our own in Colombia, but I walked through the desert to know it.

While I did not sleep that last night, my daughter slept. My husband slept. I touched the mosquito netting. I got up to drink water and look at the dark rooms of our apartment. I begged for sleep but my body held its grief awake.

At the last part of night when it was near time I would dress and dress Claire, and go to the airport, I cried because we did not know anything. We thought we were doing right, to leave. I cried because in front of leaving I knew it was not right. I would go back for one more year, or two. I would go back but that would undo the desert time. Maybe I would undo the desert time to keep the green on green, but then I might undo my son, or my marriage. I might undo my breath. I cried so my body was worn at the start of its journey away.

Eleven of thirty-nine. 1242 words.

Neglecting Affection: Why Did I Think Hugging A Boy Was Two Steps From The Bedroom?

My last post: I was trying to write too much in a short space. I wanted to talk about the evangelical emphasis on virginity that turns nearly every physical encounter into foreplay. And I wanted to talk about another kind of passion, extolled in the Bible, to leave everything and follow Christ. Instead, the last post launched this in my WP notebook:

In Colombia, I had a class of seniors who were reading. All of their big adult bodies in narrow rows of desks, the boys with their long legs kicked out; the girls sitting with one leg crossed over the other, ankles turning circles. They leaned back in their chairs or slouched over their desks, flipping pages in the afternoon heat. I glanced around the room and saw a boy take a long strand of a girl’s hair and twirl it around his fingers. I saw a girl place her hand on a boy’s thigh. They rested against each other, reading and turning pages.

I didn’t have that growing up. As an adolescent, I got a very limited view of what physical affection was appropriate between boys and girls. My parents were affectionate with each other and with us, but I was a Christian teenager in the nineties when the True Love Waits campaign collected signatures from kids vowing abstinence until marriage. I got a chastity ring with a tiny heart and cross that I got tired of explaining and once told a boy was an Irish wedding ring.

The church itself said sex was sacred and the marital union represents Christ and his bride, the church. Sacred sounds mysterious and mysterious sounds like you aren’t supposed to ask questions. But what virgin wants to ask why God chose sex as a metaphor of Christ’s love for the church: it’s too much to think about when you’re fifteen.

The closest I got to an honest discussion about the emotional aspects of sex was at church camp one summer when the boys and girls split. We all knew this meant the boys would talk about porn and the girls would talk about saving your heart and dating Jesus.

(Which still sounds weird to me. Dating Jesus. He’s God. You don’t date God.)

But that summer, we knew the couple who’d gotten drunk at homecoming and had sex and regretted it. So the female campers and counselors really dug into the idea of guarding your heart, a charge given to all Christ followers and relating to far more than your private bits. It was the first time I heard the term “second virginity” which I hate about as much as “dating Jesus” but still, it prompted me to think about what happens when good Christian kids lose it.

And I’ve thought about this a lot since. After moving to Colombia and seeing the open affection between teenage girls and boys, I wondered why I grew up afraid of touching a boy. Afraid, really, that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself and one teensy tiny touch would spark this giant sex torch and burn the place down. And by touch, I mean: hug, kiss, hold hands, lean against, breathe in. I don’t mean hands down the pants. That might burn the place down.

Let’s not undersell self-control. And let’s not neglect the gift of affection. Here in the Middle East, I see teenage boys hold hands, kiss cheeks, pat backs in camaraderie. And the girls, as is given everywhere there are girls, hug and walk close. Though public affection here is usually kept to same gender, it is still treated in a way I didn’t see in the States.

As in: affection isn’t just sexual. I remember watching the seniors in my Colombian classroom, wondering if I should say something, as I might have in Wisconsin. Something like a whispered “Hands to yourself please.” That makes sense after coming from a school where an eighth grade boy was caught with a hand down his lab partner’s pants; from a country whose high school dance rules have to specify no simulated sex acts at prom.

It was another month or so before I understood that the affection between my senior boys and girls didn’t necessarily indicate who was dating whom or whether there was any sexual interest. Living in Colombia and now Kuwait, and seeing normal affection between teenagers, I wonder what got skewed during my adolescence. By the time I went to college and started dating, I had no sense of reasonable physical boundaries. Everything felt really good and really bad. Only one young man I dated held a more careful approach to our physical relationship and the affection shared was truly that, unattached from sexual expectation.

So I’ve been writing around this for nearly a decade, sorting out my own experience and observing what cultures practice. Sometimes I’m angry because I think it’s horrible to act as if a couple kids snuggling during a movie is robbing them of sexual joy in a distant marriage. I wonder if the hook-up culture in the States (and elsewhere) is partly born of neglecting affection. We crave touch and if the touch available is an accelerated sexual relationship, then maybe that’s what we take. But what if girls and boys keep the affection they have as kindergarteners, leaning on each other during reading time, linking arms across campus? What if kids got to keep touch that wasn’t tied to sex?

I may be speaking to the limited experience of Christian kids told sex is beautiful / holy / sacred / special / awesome, but only within marriage. I may be speaking of those same Christian kids whose every physical pleasure came with guilt and fear that this was too far. But if this was too far, why not go ahead with that too, in a spirit of equal sin and delayed repentance?

This is widening to bigger things and I’ll go there, but not now.


Follow up: I read Ephesians this morning and chapter five addresses expectations for husbands and wives, tall orders to both partners in a marriage, and the union’s illustration of Christ and the church. It’s worth reading carefully, as I believe the whole marriage (not just sex)  is designed to illustrate the relationship between Christ and the church.

More follow up: The adults in my younger life, especially my parents and church community, were good examples of living our faith. When I consider my fear that physical affection was as sinful as sleeping around: that’s my mess. My parents didn’t put that on me. Because I didn’t date until college, a lot of my questions about what was okay were not answered. I only had this idea that sex was special and worth waiting for – a message repeated in many forms in evangelical media. Consequences like pregnancy were obvious, but no one had a concrete emotional or intellectual reason why abstaining was worth it.

I suppose that’s a kind of the point. Faith doesn’t always lend well to concrete intellectual reasoning. We have to take a leap.

But still. I wish I’d been fifty times less freaked out about whether it was okay to hold hands. I was not chaste, but a constantly fretful, guilty college freshman. So I keep writing to understand that part of me and other good Christian kids, who fell short on purity but still yearned to get faith right.

Christ wants it all. Every part of our lives. And when I was a teenager, it seemed it was my responsibility to steer clear of sex. I don’t agree with that anymore. My holiness is not dependent on my careful choices. I am made holy only in Christ.

I pray differently because of my wider Romans 7 experiences. I pray my appetite is changed. My physical, emotional, and spiritual appetites do change. I beg to want what is right. I ask again and again.

I didn’t know how to ask like that when I was a college freshman.

Yet more follow up: As for the hook up culture and returning simple affection to adolescents: I think young men and women need to know the value of their lives and bodies and treat one another with tenderness. If sex distracts from a better relationship, quit. Know a person more than their body. But this also goes to the heart. If we’re motivated by fear or guilt or selfishness, love gets choked.

Last follow up: This is what happens in my head, readers. I’ll keep writing around this topic and find a story. Maybe not anytime soon. But write fearlessly. Write the tough stuff. Write the offensive stuff. Write the confusing stuff. It’s much easier to close the notebook, but give yourself another page or two.

Wide Open And Weary: I Wanted To Be A Backpacker

On Wenceslas Square we saw a man playing a makeshift instrument, a table top criss-crossed with piano wire. The man bent over the wires and tapped them with a wooden mallet. Two dreadlocked backpackers leaned over the wires too, grinning and nodding like this unremarkable plunking was brilliant.

I never got to be a backpacker. I likely would have jumped in the wrong jeep on the promise of an unexplored waterfall and ended up dead or pregnant. My thirty-something self doesn’t trust my early twenty-something self to buy a Euroline pass and crash in cheap hostels. I know the messes I made, sans language barrier.


Backpacker culture intrigues me. I like the range of it. I like the girls in flowy skirts and the boys with shaggy hair. I like the just going part. Here, I’ve seen graying men shoulder packs and lean into the uphill walk.

My first impression of backpacker culture was when Justin and I went to Taganga on the Colombian Caribbean coast. It was hot, but I ran every morning, chased by dogs, to Santa Marta and back. We laid around on the beach, drinking beer and reading paperbacks. I ate the best coconut pie I’ve ever had at a place called La Ballena Azul and went back twice more just for the pie. I felt very alive, walking up rutted gravel paths in the dark, my belly full of pie, swatting bugs I couldn’t see, nearly tripping over lazy dogs.

I was twenty-six. Around me were men and women a few years younger, scuffed packs at their feet, sheens of sweat on their skin. I remember eating ceviche one night, watching a young woman on the porch hold court, three or four men trying. What I remember best are her bare legs and feet. She had dancer legs she stretched out then pulled to her chest, flopped open like butterfly wings. The men laughed at what she said and she laughed at what they said and they all took pulls on sweating beers. There was possibility and sex in her smile and splayed legs, in the men’s ropey arms resting on chair backs.

One day we went to Tyrona, got caught in Biblical rain and hiked out in heavy boots. We boarded a full bus, the few backpackers on board wearing our own exhaustion. Even that travel-worn posture was enviable. I wanted to be mistaken for a backpacker, wide open to what comes, a little weary after. I wanted to seem like the kind of person who would just leave their country to go see what South America was like in November.

I felt late to my adventure. I felt a little planned. I had a husband and a job. Within a year, I’d have a baby. Sitting in that restaurant, eating ceviche scooped from a plastic bucket, watching a girl get all the flattery I craved, I thought I should have gone when I first felt it. But then I’d be dead now, or parenting an adolescent itching for his or her own adventure.

10 to 1

This is one of my favorite flash fiction prompts from What If? by Anne Bernays and Pamela Painter. Tell a story in ten sentences: first sentence has ten words, second nine, and so on until the tenth single-word sentence. Rather than creating new fiction, I thought of my previous writing about my trip from Cali to Medellín. I used this exercise to tell the first part of that trip when we were on the bus, waiting to leave the terminal. I never felt very afraid of kidnapping, but knew it was possible; this was the first time I thought what might happen if.

She moves down the narrow bus aisle, camcorder in hand.
Pausing at each seat, she frames our faces, close.
Some men say rude things to the camera.
She walks slowly forward, focused and unsmiling.
She is near when I understand.
We travel a dangerous road.
We could be kidnapped.
Held for ransom.
I blink.