You don’t love her—or maybe you think you don’t,
Stuck stubbornly on the old toothless idea
That what you want means anything in a dusty world.
You don’t love her, but love doesn’t work like that,
And no one knows it better than you.
You don’t love her, and yet your wound is a wound
That burns nameless in the empty moments when
There is no distraction and no explanation.
You don’t love her, and you never would,
Only when someone says her name there are
So many words that want to tumble from your throat—
A million fish haphazardly caught under a distant moon.
You don’t love her, because it is better that way,
For her and for them and, most of all, for you.
No, you don’t love her, but your unlove pushes
Bitter flowers from your mouth while you sleep.
Twenty-seven years in this world, not one step
closer to home. I feel wet and skinless, made
up of paper maîche and glass prophecies.
There is something violent in me, something
that grows bigger and swells fatter every
season I stay and wait for a sign.
I am the voice crying out in our pale-boned
wilderness, exiled from my own land,
stumbling among remnants.
How I suffer,
unable to cross the ancient border, to appease
my neglected skin and bones in their
thirst for your most broken parts.
Twenty-seven years in this world, and I am older
than the oceans that toss and turn beneath
our matchstick universe.
of this body,
A blazing flare of glory where your heart should be
Like holy water, you slip through the ridges of his hands
Nowhere and everywhere at the same time,
Twisting to a rhythm only you can hear,
You leave him heaving,
Chest knotted in his fingers,
Craving the bitten earth of your body,
Hungry for the saturated folds of your brain
Bathing himself in the perfume of your flesh,
The temple of your shamelessness,
Searching for your curves in every woman before and after—
And they never compare—
Covering his face as your glory passes by.
It is the death of a thousand everyday things,
The things that fastidiously tie you to earth.
The coffee makers and flowerpots and evenings spent forgetting your middle name.
The moment when you stop running,
Sit still, and wait.
Wait to be loved.
Wait for the hard edges and unlovable gaps to be shorn off, filled in.
You fade, waiting,
Falling into yourself,
A hundred skyscrapers toppling like cards into the sea,
All without sound.
III. He forgets.
He’s frustrated, unsure.
You were one thing in words and ideas,
Here in the flesh you are another.
Oh, and you are another.
Aren’t you another?
Stay in one place, he says.
Can’t you just be still?
IV. So you try.
You freeze your feet into blocks,
Two-ton iron blocks that stick to the floor.
You wet them with silence
Until they hang off of you like ruined paper,
Glued to your flesh in the rain.
Quieter and quieter you fade,
Lost in the colorless background of nothing,
The brilliance of your body muted,
Until one day,
In the strangest small thing—
A note of a song, a line of a book,
A shimmer of blossoming embers—
You catch a moment,
The slightest, most haunting reflection,
A reflection of a woman that was you,
And who you can be again.
Who you will be again.
Who you are again, my dear, and always,
Always have been.
VI. The awakening.
A chain explosion of the things inside of you—
Things that you need to love,
Things that know your true name.
A midnight tide drowning the desert,
Life undaunted that swells up from the bottom,
Enraged at being suffocated for so long,
As if darkness could stifle light,
As if he could hold back the sea,
As if he could stop the surging of your body
Or erase language from your head.
This destiny of yours,
To rise and rise and rise,
As you reunite with the lost pieces,
Collect the broken things,
And never stop to wait again.
The morning I stopped believing in God I was thirteen. My childhood broke bread on its deathbed—
A cold planet born in foam and ash.
Years before, I stole ice cream from my grandmother’s freezer,
Took the only things that age had not,
Chocolate and the sound of a nearby washing machine still drive me to shame.
Like a too-tight shoe, I have often dreamed of shedding the coils of my body,
Pirouetting past the daily degradations and hungers,
Even as you have sat quietly outside and called my name.
I have wielded mighty instruments without care or thought,
Stumbled over the celestial busted forms of this sad, small world,
Closed my eyes while feeling my way along a dark corridor—
A seeker of double blindness.
I have chased you from the auspices of revelation
Employed parlor tricks to convince myself that loneliness is genius,
Lost my own body in the smoke and mirrors of daily living.
Behind false pretense and ugly make-believe, I store my fears one by one,
So many that I can divide them by size and color and texture,
So many that I can sell them all half-off, or free if you haul them yourself.
Not long ago, I took something that did not fit because I was afraid,
And then I gave it back because the fear did not go away,
I know fear’s angular collarbones and how she smells at night, her eyes—
There is a part of me, and it’s not a small part, that’s afraid of heat death—you know, the possible fate of the universe in which thermodynamic energy diminishes so much that life is no longer possible. Sometimes, I think it could happen in my head.
Diminishing heat, diminishing energy, diminishing movement, diminishing life.
Staying in one place for too long feeds my monster of entropy. Or atrophy. Kind of like a sore—an abscess—that forms on a sedentary body.
I read somewhere that the quarter-life crisis is caused by a sudden transition from living in the future to living in the here-and-now. Like we’re cruising along a highway with our eyes fixed on distant lights when all it once—out of nowhere—we slam into the concrete of the moment. The desperate quietness of daily routine. And the drunken midnight of what-could-be turns into that sober morning of what-is-right-now.
That analysis resonated with me, but I also reject it (Walt: “Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes”). Because I think, at its core, asserting that we no longer live in the future kills our right to dream. What are people, anyway, without dreams?
Just a heap of chemical and biological processes.
No, thank you.
Sometimes, when I’m in a car and driving through a torrential storm or on a plane for ten hours straight with a stranger’s baby spitting up in my lap, my happiness is so great that it leaves me breathless. I actually have to close my eyes against the violence of my emotion.
Do you know what I’m talking about? Have you ever felt so tied to the earth, so connected to its strings and its people and the rock of its eons-long heartbeat, that you know—know with a knowing more physical than philosophical—that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be at that exact second?
Happiness. A trainwreck of happiness concentrated on one pinprick of the universe.
I don’t want to overromanticize “travel.” I don’t want to put an Instagram filter on it or hashtag it or even blog it, really. What I want to talk about is that happiness—that second. That moment of unending yes.
So I’ll probably continue my quarter-life crisis of false starts and panicked stops, throwing the breaks on just because only one road, that particular road of placidity, terrifies me.
No, getting up and moving is not romantic. It’s not a love story at all. It’s something like fear and fascination. The power and the glory.
This is no epic. This is my acknowledgement of heat death, the unavoidable cooling of all that is and will be, the frantic gesture of life.
FOUR-THIRTY A.M. If this Jeep had ever possessed shocks, they’d given out long ago, and my bones jarred against one another as we made our way across the Uyuni salt flats in the highlands of Bolivia at some unknown speed, shrouded in utter darkness. My traveling companions slept profoundly in the back seats, emitting only intermittent snores. I bounced along in the front. My face still stung from the icy water I had used to wash up fifteen minutes prior to stumbling across our hostel’s packed-salt floors and out into the biting predawn cold.
Despite having spent only two hours skittering against the surface of sleep throughout the whole night and suffering from the nausea and surprising aches that altitude sickness brings, I couldn’t nod off myself. I stayed awake with our aptly named guide, Guido, as we cut through blackness that pressed in on all sides and was broken only by the glassy spirals of the Milky Way above.
Over our several days together on an Atacama tour, Guido had remained quiet and reserved. Cultural norms dictating space between women and men in Andean communities, I suppose, made him wary of our female-heavy group. He always ate alone, and although he politely answered the incessant questions I launched at him in Spanish, he generally made as little conversation as possible.
That’s why I was surprised when he spoke first. “How did you sleep?” He asked.
“Good.” I said.
His silence was skeptical.
“I didn’t really sleep,” I amended.
We sat quietly for a moment. Then I tried, tentatively: “Um, are you following, like, a road? Or something?”
I wasn’t really worried about accidents as we sailed along, since even the sparse vicuña that had populated our ascent to the flats had disappeared at this altitude and the only vegetation that I’d seen for over twenty-four hours was an apple I had smuggled into Bolivia from Chile. But I still didn’t understand how he knew where he was going in the darkness.
He shook his head. “Look there,” he said, signaling to the windshield.
Since I could barely distinguish my hand in front of my face, I chuckled nervously.
“No, look,” he insisted.
So I did. In the distance, miles and miles away, I made out two even blacker marks jutting from the inky night like little triangles.
“What are those?” I asked.
“It’s a pass in the mountains around the salt flats,” he said, “I’m going towards that.”
Another pause. “Do you want to drive?” He asked.
I blinked. “What?”
“Here.” His hands jumped off the steering wheel. Panicking, mine flew on.
“What are you doing?” I cried just as he told me, “Good, you’re driving.” And then, for the first time, he laughed.
“Calm down,” he said. “Just point toward the pass.”
Suddenly, I was driving across the driest desert in the world, and the awkward barriers of time and place seemed to go away. We started talking – chatting, even. We chatted and chatted and chatted. We chatted about how Spanish was a second language for both of us (his first was Quechua, mine English), we chatted about jobs, we chatted about tattoos and music and mothers.
We remained companions as the other travelers woke up and we all piled out of the Jeep to watch the sun come up on what is surely one of the most bizarre landscapes in the world. We were companions as we took photos and videos and argued about soccer. We were companions as we moved on together, all of us chortling and chirping, teaching each other strange words in Quechua and English and Spanish and German and Korean.
A few hours later, he slowed the Jeep to a halt in front of a series of holes and strange, conical mounds of salt that stretched as far I could see, shimmering and dancing in the relentless high-altitude sunlight.
“What’s all this?” I asked.
In seconds, two solid men jumped out of one of the holes, their heads and necks shielded with handkerchiefs. They carried shovels. They moved to the next hole and jumped in, shovels and all.
It was a salt mine.
In an instant, the whole scene turned from grand to garish. Other SUVs loaded with travelers from different touring companies also stopped along the mines, and white men and women emerged eagerly from their vehicles with cameras at the ready, pointing at the two dark men and shooting artsy photos of their silhouettes against the salt piles. As I watched one particularly determined woman move to within feet of the hole that the men were working in, I felt my stomach twist.
All at once the air had a thicker texture than before.
“You can go and watch them work,” Guido said to all of us, avoiding eye contact. “Just don’t get too close, they don’t like that.”
The Spanish member of our group quickly translated his words for those in the back and they uncertainly got out of the Jeep, staying close to our car. I, however, couldn’t: my legs were lead.
Like tours of Rio de Janeiro’s slums or Nepal’s sweatshops, our stop at the salt mine felt decidedly low. Guido mentioned that the tourist companies paid the workers a small sum for the inconvenience, but I imagined Instagram photos of their grimacing faces and stayed glued to the seat of the car.
“They do get paid,” Guido said again, maybe trying to dilute some of the strange atmosphere creeping around us and between us.
That was the first time that I viewed travel not as growth, exploration, and adventure, but as outrage. And in the uncomfortable silence that followed, it was the first time that I understood that visiting a country and being in the same space as a people did not itself create mutual understanding.
With each crack of the shovel against salt, with each laugh from a tourist outside and each uncomfortable cough from Guido, I tasted the horrible bitterness of good intentions gone sour. A rift in our circumstances had been exposed, and it was difficult to go back to being the two members of a boundless human community that we had been for those few hours in the icy dark.
I’ve been struggling with this blog post for months. How do you confront inequality in which you unknowingly participate? How do you understand the real damage that tourism can do? How do you face it? Are there ways to overcome it?
Every time I think back to the pointing tourists, I wrestle with what it means to be a traveler in a world dominated by markets. Here are some important points that I’ve solidified as I’ve reflected upon that moment:
1) Don’t oversimplify.
As travelers, we hear one phrase over and over again: “But they’re such an (insert good adjective here) people.” Warm, generous, kind, welcoming, hardworking – you name it, it’s said. As in, “Yes, Bolivia’s a poor country, but they’re such a nice people.”
That phrase grates against my ears like nails on a chalkboard. I can’t stand it. To me, it seems to excuse deplorable conditions by saying, “Well, they’re still happy anyway.” It rings as a phrase spoken just to make one feel better about having seen intense poverty. You can be happy and poor, or happy and poor and a stop on a tourism train, but the coexistence of positive and negative elements does not necessarily result in moral balance.
It also generalizes dozens of ethnic groups and millions of experiences into one huge cultural stereotype (“nice”). So just don’t say it.
2) Recognize your privilege.
Privilege is a finicky concept. It makes people defensive, uncertain, and uncomfortable. While I understand that it’s difficult to talk about and even more difficult to work with, you need to at least recognize it so intentionality can inform your actions.
Yes, you might be eating pasta every day for six months while you’re backpacking through Southeast Asia, but in the end, you are still backpacking through Southeast Asia. We’re part of a global elite in a world where a billion people live off of a dollar or less a day.
That’s related to my next point:
3) Learn to understand your own power as a traveler.
Be responsible and conscious. Tourism is a huge industry around the world and it generates a lot of money. It creates an environment that resourceful people enter to make a living, and your behavior has a lot to do with the rules that govern said environment.
No, the miners in Uyuni were not “victims.” Neither is the woman standing with a llama and charging a dollar for photos with tourists in Cusco or the elderly man shining shoes in Bangkok. Victimization of individuals working imaginatively to make ends meet in the topography in which they live helps no one, and reminds me of spitfire mission trips that bring unskilled Westerners to Africa with the aim of building a school, a hospital, or a church that could be locally sourced with smart investments at a cheaper cost and a bigger social benefit to the people in question.
So don’t fall into the trap of the so-called Western Savior, but do remember that your dollar goes a long way in determining where human energies are released in a specific sector.
Watch where you put that dollar.
But ultimately, I return over and over to the poem “Human Family” from the wise Maya Angelou, some of which I’ll quote here:
We love and lose in China,
we weep on England’s moors,
and laugh and moan in Guinea,
and thrive on Spanish shores.
We seek success in Finland,
are born and die in Maine.
In minor ways we differ,
in major we’re the same.
I note the obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
There is much that needs to be said about this issue.
How can we, as world travelers, stay true to our mission of understanding our global community and actively participating as a global citizen when we are inherently transitory and intrinsically outsiders? How can we intentionally listen and engage instead of unknowingly exploit and distort?
How can we use our travel to build bridges between home and abroad that are inclusive, open, and actually representative of communities we experience?