when i was young, i created a self-protective
bubble around myself, as a defensive measure
from what i felt was abuse from the parents
who fed and clothed and housed me.
the tools i employed were rebellion and mischief,
which were intermingled in always a curious fashion.
i found a bonding love with my grandparents and my
grandmother's family, her 7 sisters and their mother,
my great grandmother. My great grandmother was
a distant but gentle presence. Her love of cooking
was a way to share her love for people. Inside her home, Tuesday
pie-cooking sessions happened in her large kitchen;
her daughters helped and the wonderful aromas of
many fruit pies cooking and cooling on a nearby table
filled my nostrils; i would find myself
overwhelmed with a flood of colors and tastes and the soothing sounds of
ladies laughing. My grandmother also took me into her
own kitchen, and she equally loved to cook.
Her Thanksgiving Day turkey in her oven was a day dream
waiting to be revealed during the many bastings meant to keep
the meat moist. I would be scolded if I tried to snatch pieces
while she was carving the bird. It felt good. I was teased and recognized and,
while maybe not exactly appreciated in those moments,
I was welcomed.
She was from an old order Mennonite family, yet had a delightful habit
of always serving herself a glass of cold beer along with the New Year's
tradition of cooked pork, sauerkraut and a large bowl of real mashed potatoes.
i belonged to this world of sights and sounds and aromas,
while leaving me protective bubble behind.
In Vietnam, as a young soldier of 21, I served with other young men
from America, from diverse backgrounds with interesting stories.
Gus, a tall, lanky guy from the coast of California, shared his pipe
collection; he know them all and they each had unique characteristics.
Alan, the afro-wearing black guy from Bedford-Stuyvesant, wanted me
to know his life growing up in a ghetto. Kent, the CIA agent-in-training,
who would helicopter into Cambodia and return with tales of intrigue.
Others, and we became brothers; we trusted one another; we reached out
with our dreams and our fears. We relied on a community outside of our
immediate home families and bounded. We believed in our bonds.
A young Vietnamese soldier was tasked with helping my Team 95 garrison
protect the compound. He was in the service for life, or until he died, or the
war ended, he told me our first night together, sitting behind the barbed wire
fencing and the stacked sandbags. He asked me to help him speak better
English and in return he'd teach me Vietnamese. We met regularly
for many months. I learned he lived off base in a dirt floored hooch;
his small house had a metal roof fashioned from discarded beer and soda cans,
split in half and flattened, then woven together with thin wires. He asked
me to shop for soap and powdered detergent for his wife. Once, I surprised him,
his name was Nguyen, with a bottle of Martel cognac. At the time, this was a drink
only high ranking officers could afford.
I remember the first time Bette kissed me. We were on the wood bridge spanning a
very small stream. She must have seen the real me without my bubble.
I've completely discarded the bubble. I love belonging.
