Hurricane Harvey 8.27.2017

Hi all!

I hope ya'll are all well and enjoying the end to your summer, which of course alludes to school starting but also Fall starting - which is my favorite time of the year. You've got Halloween, pumpkin spiced desserts, cool weather and cool nights, scary movies...I mean, what could be better?

This summer has been a very memorable one so far for me. I took a summer class for the first portion, and then for the second, I had an amazing opportunity to study abroad to Scotland and take a Shakespeare course and Scottish crime fiction. But this post isn't about how amazing my trip was - trust me, for that I will elaborate much more later.

By now, if you are living in the United States, you have most likely heard of Hurricane Harvey which struck the Texas coast this past Friday evening. A week prior to this, it was just a tropical storm. I had returned from Colorado, from a family vacation, Wednesday night only to find that this so-called tropical storm had progressed into a hurricane. The next day, as I had finally returned to my apartment after two months of travelling none stop, the news confirmed that Harvey had progressed to a category 3 storm and had the potential for being a category 4.

By that point, I was planning on staying in Corpus Christi because my brother couldn't leave, due to personal reasons. I figured we outta all stick together. But after hearing about Harvey's potential, I was able to convince them to come with me to my parent's house, which is about an hour drive north of Corpus. I figured that would be safe, since it was at least 50 miles inland.

For those of you who aren't familiar with hurricanes, they surely can be forces of nature, and the categories given are truly imperative. According to the Saffir-Simpson scale, category 3 hurricanes have winds that range from 111-129 mph. Here is the description to a category 3 hurricane according to the scale:

Devastating damage will occur: Well-built framed homes may incur major damage or removal of roof decking and gable ends. Many trees will be snapped or uprooted, blocking numerous roads. Electricity and water will be unavailable for several days to weeks after the storm passes.

On the other hand, category 4 hurricanes are catastrophic, with winds ranging from 130-156 mph.

Catastrophic damage will occur: Well-built framed homes can sustain severe damage with loss of most of the roof structure and/or some exterior walls. Most trees will be snapped or uprooted and power poles downed. Fallen trees and power poles will isolate residential areas. Power outages will last weeks to possibly months. Most of the area will be uninhabitable for weeks or months.

Long story short, after staying at my parent's house for roughly 40 minutes, my father called (he is currently in Colorado still) and demanded us to go to San Antonio, which is of course more inland. My older sister who lives there had been calling us relentlessly, threatening to drive down to get us before the storm hit. Thursday evening we all packed up again, with four dogs, and left on a 3 hour drive to San Antonio on a Hurricane evacuation route. The entire trip was surreal. Everyone was in a frenzy. We stopped by the grocery store to find no water, no bread, only a few canned goods. Most of the gas stations we went to were out of gas.

But, finally we made it and settled down. But when Friday night rolled around, man, that was eerie. The news about the hurricane had escalated. The winds were already raging. I found out after unloading that I had left my laptop at my parent's house, which has all my work for capstone and all my creative writing - basically my life's work. Things were essentially not looking good in the coastal city I had called home for years. Seeing videos of people capturing the wind and almost black skies, with the hurricane approaching, was so surreal. To see places I had been before. To see businesses that treated me well. To see familiar streets.

I could barely sleep that night. My eyes were practically glued to facebook. We had drinks - liquor and some wine. We laughed, played video games. But our minds were all elsewhere. We all kept thinking to ourselves, am I going to have a home to go back to? A job to return to? A school? 

The Texas A&M University-Corpus Christi campus is right on the water. It's notorious for being an island of its own. Above all buildings in the city, that was going to take the greatest fall, I told myself. And the news stations kept saying that Corpus was going to take a category 3 hurricane (or even a potential category 4) face on.

But what still rings with me now, something I'll never forget, is this. Some young men were videotaping a live account of Ocean Drive in Corpus before Harvey made landfall. The waves were already crashing against shore, the hurricane imminent. The young men stopped when they noticed a woman sitting under one of the gazebos. One went out to warn the woman about the storm and the surge that would follow, that she was in a very dangerous location. He told her they could take her to a shelter. She was homeless. But all she said was, "I'm right where I want to be."

That Fridat night, Harvey hit Texas at a staggering category 4, and it had shifted to mostly hit another city called Rockport straight on at its peak intensity. The results are staggering. For the people who didn't leave, many lost their homes. I read online accounts of people whose houses collapsed on them. The photographs taken in the aftermath are staggering alone, but I cannot imagine what those people endured that Friday night.

I spent that night awake for the most part, on my phone. Where we were in San Antonio, we never lost power; we never got a drop of rain, really, until Sunday afternoon. But I kept thinking about my apartment. My home. My school. My city.

My home.

Hurricanes are forces of nature, as I mentioned. And for those of you who may have the conception that Texas was ill-prepared, that isn't the case. We were informed the entire time, but storms like this develop spontaneously. As I mentioned, about a week ago, it was only a tropical storm. It wasn't even mentioned in conversation. But now, it's destroyed many people's homes and many peoples' way of lives. Just go to google and search for Hurricane Harvey. It's still affecting places like Houston as I'm writing this, with immense flooding; it's still causing tornadoes to form.

So, if you'd like to help with disaster efforts, there are plenty of organizations who are offering aid to those devastated by Harvey. I will list a few for examples for you to look at, and I encourage you to pray for those in Rockport and Houston, or Texas in general, who are enduring the aftermath of Harvey, and I also encourage you to reach out and help. Things like this can change someone's life in a day. I know it's changed mine, and I wasn't even there. I have an apartment to go back to. I have a job to start. But for others, that's all gone.

For those affected by Harvey, my heart goes out to you. I will pray for you; I will pray for those in Houston, for those in Rockport, for business owners in Corpus Christi or Victoria or Port Aransas. This is a time for us all to help each other and come together. I thank God for the thousands of National Guards who traveled to the coastal cities to help with survivors and to help stop looters. I thank God for H-E-B, Texas' favorite grocery store, which gave out water bottles and other provisions to those who needed it, as soon as the storm brewed over, and who also worked endlessly before Harvey made landfall. For those living in places like these right now, I encourage you to go outside and help someone in need. If you can't do that, I encourage you to donate to those who truly need it.

How to help Hurricane Harvey victims: 

Coastal Bend Disaster Recovery Group
Texas Diaper Bank
Coalition for the Homeless
Global Giving
Austin Pets Alive

All I Ever Wanted

All I Ever Wanted

8:34 PM

“We have to wait half an hour before taking another one!”

“Screw it—I declare it to be half an hour right now!”

It is the summer of 2015, and my parent’s living room is filled with whoops and hollers. Nobody refutes Jaxie’s rebellious break to the rule we all set a couple hours ago. We outta take it slow. We’ll take shots every 30 minutes and mixed drinks in between, with minimal vodka or rum—your choice.

I trail right behind my best friend Ashley’s heels, my cheeks flushed with the warmth spreading throughout my body, which isn’t only coming from the drink held loosely in my hand. It’s also coming from you holding my other hand, and not once do I let go. I catch myself glancing over my shoulder occasionally, as it to check for myself that you are still indeed there.

“Take it slow my ass,” Trevor mumbles across the kitchen as everyone piles around the granite island counter, where Jaxie messily pours everyone a generous shot. I reluctantly release your hand as I set my mixed drink down and pick up the warm glass of peach-flavored vodka. I look at all the faces around me, and I feel myself beaming. I love all these people. And I’m so happy that you’re here with us, to share memories that we’ll hopefully never forget.

It's been way too long since we’ve all gotten together again. It reminds me of high school. Being a sophomore in college, that time seems ages ago. Each time I look in the mirror, I’m reminded of how much I’ve physically changed since then. I’m over my semi-gothic phase: the heavy eyeliner, the dark clothing 24/7, the countless trips to Hot Topic. I’ve also lost a significant amount of weight my Freshmen year in college, so I’m no longer that girl who’s incredibly self-conscious of her body. I’ve still got curves, of course, and my thunder thighs, but as Meghan Trainor said, it’s all about that bass! And of course, whoever said high school is the best part of your life is debatable. So far, I like college immensely more than I did high school.

My eyes catch your dark brown ones as I swivel down the vodka. Around me, everyone whoops and hollers again, breaking off into warm-hearted laughter. Trevor makes his way back outside, turning the music back on with his phone. I hear the familiar thumping pop tune of Primadonna by Marina and the Diamonds through the thin walls of my parent’s house. Without them, this place seems so quiet. Or maybe it’s because we’re so loud. It doesn’t matter that we are; nobody can hear us since my parents living in the middle of nowhere. They’ve gone to their cabin in Colorado for vacation for a week, so I’ve got this entire house to myself. I fully intend on making full use of my time here.

You hold my hand again, and I immediately move closer, remembering how just over a year ago, you asked me to be your girlfriend in this very same room. The butterflies I feel fluttering in my stomach are nowhere near as intense as they were that day when you kissed my forehead, but that’s how I prefer it to be.

All I ever wanted was the world

I can't help but I need it all

The primadonna life, the rise and fall

9:25 PM

I have a new friend. It’s a bug, and I think it’s a he, although I’m not too sure. I’m also not sure what kind of bug he is, and although I’m not a huge fan of bugs, I’m not afraid or repulsed by them, either.

I’m crouching on the cold tile, vaguely hearing loud voices come from the backyard, where the pool is. But the bug stays there, right in the middle of the lines from the tile. Is he staring at me, too? Or is he too scared to move? I wonder what it’s like, to be that tiny in such a gigantic world. What do I look like to him?

“I’m not going to hurt you, little fella,” I murmur gently. “Would you like to go outside? Being inside isn’t all that great. Besides, the party’s moved out there!”

Fetching a piece of paper towel, I gently ease the bug onto the top and curl it like a small canoe. Then, I gingerly walk to the back porch and open the glass door. A naked Jaxie runs by me, and Ashley laughs from her place on the bench. We’re most likely both thinking the same thing.

How much you wanna bet Jaxie won’t actually do it?

Yet, she climbs into the hot tub stark naked, where Trevor and Sam wait inside. As I set down my new friend, I wonder where you are until I remember you went to get us pizza because when I’m buzzed, pizza is the best thing in the entire world, and except for Trevor, you’re the only one fit to drive anywhere because you refuse to drink.

“Hey,” Ashley’s voice sounds closer than I realize. When I straighten up, I see that she’s stripping out of her shirt. “You coming or what?”

“You know it,” I say with a crooked grin, already tugging on the hem of my purple shirt that I got once at a Renaissance Festival in Michigan with the words Damsel during the day, a wench at night! written in bold cursive over the front. As I manage to pull it off, I hear a low crunch where my feet are. Confused, I peer down to see the twisted remains of my friend.

“Sarah!” Sam’s voice carries from the hot tub. “C’mon. We’re playing truth or dare!”

10:55 PM

I feel hot despite the gusting winds of South Texas and me being waist-deep in pool water. I take a messy sip of vodka straight from the bottle before passing it to Sam, who takes several gulps.

You’re sitting next to me, but for once, I’m barely aware of your presence. The hot tub’s water is ironically cool and refreshing. My family hasn’t gotten it to work for the 10 years we’ve lived here. Maybe one day, it will. Or maybe not.

Only time can tell.

Someone winds up dropping the bottle, the pool water tainting the alcohol. But it’s the same color, so we continue passing it around. The world dips and spins, and I cannot stop smiling. Vaguely, in the background, I hear Trevor’s low music playing on his phone—the same song from earlier.

You say that I'm kinda difficult

But it's always someone else's fault

Got you wrapped around my finger, babe

You can count on me to misbehave

11: 25 PM

The world dips and spins, but not in a cool way. I can’t walk straight. My knees are banged and bruised from having the brilliant decision of jumping in and out of the pool. You’re holding my hand again, leading me down the hallway. We walk into the room I grew up in, and I instinctively glance over, expecting to find 20 pairs of eyes from One Direction posters peering back at me. But I only see a plain, white wall.

I remember how it was here, in this very room, where you said something so beautiful to me that it rendered me speechless. Or the time you gave me the handwritten note with countless ways to describe how you felt about me. We pass by my full-length mirror; I still recognize myself—my hazel eyes, flushed cheeks, and your tall stature. I’ve always loved your height. I felt like we matched like two puzzle pieces. That’s something that hasn’t changed.

You and I hold so many memories together. So many special moments. I want to make more, but not like those. Not as serious. I want us to be happy and carefree. As we lay on my twin-sized bed with your arms encased around me, I think to myself can you hold me?

The world dips and spins, but not in a cool way.

Side-to-side, up-and-down.

I can’t feel my lips, so I can’t feel you kissing me.

I’m suddenly so very tired.

And I'm sad to the core, core, core

Every day is a chore, chore, chore

When you feel of a whole more more

I wanna be adored

11: 45 PM

You’re not holding my hand. You’re holding my wrists above my head. Your hands are no longer warm but cold. Your touch is no longer gentle but demanding. Your smile is no longer friendly but malicious. I’m no longer giddy but scared.

I don’t know what’s happening.

I’m quickly reminded of the time you grabbed my forearm and drug me out of the theatre during One Act Play practice and into the empty dressing room, where you shoved me against the wall and pinned me to it. I remembered how tight your grasp was—my skin bruised later from it. Then you demanded to know why I was giving you the cold shoulder. I didn’t say, but I had been avoiding you because we were done and you wouldn’t leave me be. You were like a constant shadow, following my heel wherever I went. It creeped me out. But I’ve never heard your voice like that before, or seen the darkness in your eyes until that very moment. What happened to the sweet guy I rode the Ferris wheel with at the Jim Wells County Fair? For the first time, I felt afraid of you. Trevor, Ashley, and my other friend Jasmine banged loudly on the door, calling my name. Your lips moved rapidly. I couldn’t move. How did I forget that weeks later? You say sweet nothings, though your actions speak otherwise. And that’s all they are: sweet words with no authenticity.

And here, I can’t move. Not only because of what you’ve done to my wrists, but because my body is rendered incapable of moving properly. My head swims. Everything is numb and cold, so unlike before. My lips move, but I don’t know what I’m saying. Whatever it is, you have no reaction. You continue doing what you do.

I know why you refuse to drink. You told me years ago. So why are you doing this? Why do you find me in this state arousing?

Why aren’t you just holding me?

I don’t want this—I want my arms to be free—I want you off me—I feel like I can’t breathe—I don’t want you touching me. Not like this. Not as I am.

Primadonna girl fill the void, up with Celluloid

Take a picture, I'm with the boys

Get what I want 'cause I ask for it

Not because I'm really that deserving of it

12:35 AM

As I watch your truck disappear from the caliche road, I’m reminded of that day—the week after high school graduation, when you walked through that front door and left. But I feel nothing. You never did walk through the front door after that, until earlier this evening.

There is no in-between, I think to myself as I trudge back to the pool, seeing Sam and Trevor sitting on the side, deep in a conversation, and Ashley and Jaxie laughing about something. There are no transitions. This is all going by so fast…am I crying?

1:30 AM

I’m sitting in my parent’s bathtub with my knees pulled to my chest, sobbing. Beside me, Sam is telling me the story of Harry Styles and his pet chicken, which of course isn’t real. Normally the story makes me feel better when I’m drunk. But not this time.

My stomach aches and churns. I can’t get your face out of my mind. My wrists ache from your belt. I’m so tired. I don’t want to get sick.

“I promise you won’t throw up,” Sam tells me.

“Don’t promise her that,” Trevor says, crouching next to me with a towel in his hands. “She’ll feel better if she does, anyhow. C’mon, Sarah. It’s time for bed.”

The next day, everyone leaves by the afternoon, leaving me and Ashley to my parent’s house that is in the state of a disaster—the empty vodka bottles lying around on the counters, the peach-flavored one outside by the hot tub, empty pizza boxes littering the tables, and empty plastic cups discarded everywhere I look. I’m thankful my parents will be gone for another four days because it’ll take a while to clean this up. We’re quiet this morning, each exhausted and speechless from what happened last night.

Jaxie had thrown up this morning outside by the pool. When my mother called to ask whether I was feeding the dogs, I glanced out the window, saw one of them lapping at Jaxie’s remains of pizza, and calmly replied, “They’re eating great.”

For lunch, we drive into town to get some Dairy Queen. As Ashley pulls into the drive-thru, I send you a text.

Why?

I gaze out the window with hardened eyes as Ashley recites my order. It’s been a long time since I’ve sat in this drive-thru. And just as I’ve remembered, this Dairy Queen takes forever, despite us being the only ones here.

Each time I close my eyes, I see one scene and one scene only despite all the other muddled ones. You and I, in my childhood room.

From my lap, my phone vibrates.

Why what?

Why’d you do that when I was that drunk?

I told you to stop drinking. It’s not my fault you wouldn’t stop.

“I’ve got to hand it to Trevor,” Ashley mumbles when the familiar pop song comes on the radio. She leans forward to turn up the volume. “This song is catchy as hell.”

'Cause I'm a primadonna girl, yeah

All I ever wanted was the world

I can't help that I need it all

            I’m suddenly furious, my neck starting to turn red as well as my ears—my Irish blood boiling. My hands curl into fists. I want to throw my phone out the window. I want the images to be erased. I want to take back the night before. I want to never see you again.

            As the drive-thru opens with the employee handing out our drinks, I’m looking up the Texas state laws regarding legal consent.

            The Issue of Consent under Texas Law: Even when no force or threat of force is used, the defendant knows the alleged victim has not consented and is unconscious or physically unable to resist.

            He probably doesn’t know, I think to myself. That if someone is intoxicated, especially to the point where I was, they cannot give consent...but ignorance doesn’t excuse anyone from the law.

            As I take my first bite of the crispy, warm French fry, I remember a memory with my grandfather on my mother’s side of the family. I don’t remember what led to this conversation, but I’ll never forget his words. I always thought he was being paranoid and had an attitude about people. But the older I get, the more I realize how wise he truly is.

            “As a Pacific,” he told me, referring to my mother’s maiden name that was passed along his Italian mother’s side, “trust nobody except family or yourself. People will steal from you. Cheat you. Some people will knock you outta the way to get what they want, no matter how nice they may seem. So don’t give ‘em a chance to do it, you hear?”

            Ashley and I are driving back to my parent’s house, with a red Chevy truck going 55 miles an hour in front of us—25 below the legal speed limit. Typical rural Texas driving behavior. Ashley’s hands tighten around the wheel, her knuckles going pale from the tension. I look at the text again.  

            Was it my fault? Did I have too much to drink? I can’t remember what I said in my bedroom. I know how I felt, but did I properly vocalize that? I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but then we all went skinny dipping. Was that an open invitation for him to do what he wanted? Was I asking for it?

            Is it my fault?

            I never did text you back. And you never did text me back, of which I’m thankful for. It’s taken me years to come to this understanding, and it’s one that, like the memory, I will never forget. No matter what a woman is wearing, she never deserves being sexually invaded without proper consent. No matter what a woman says, it is not proper consent to touch her how you want when she’s intoxicated with alcohol. With a woman being in that kind of state, you are taking advantage of her. To this day, it boggles my mind how you even wanted that when I couldn’t even speak coherent sentences. It’s cowardice, I’ve told myself. And total lack of respect. Unfortunately, as a society we teach people not to wear certain clothes or not to drink too much, and instead we put the blame on the victims. We don’t spend enough time telling people to respect one another and treat each other the way you’d want to be treated. I did not ask for what you did to me. You were completely sober, and I was utterly drunk. You knew exactly what you were doing.

And as a Pacific, I will give nobody the chance to do that to me ever again. I hear you, Grandpa. Loud and clear.

            

How to Make Deceptively Healthy Pancakes

Hózhó

Hózhó

My mother, my best friend named Jasmine, and our neighbor from back home in Texas named Linda, and I all waited at the mouth of the gondolas for the Telluride Off-road adventures to pick us up.  

My mother, who is deathly afraid of heights, seemed strangely pacified about the situation. All of us were surprised she even agreed to come along. When we called the jeep tour three days ago, we opted for the 2-hour tour guide called Seasonal Waterfall Tours, which according to the woman on the phone went through Ophir Pass, Tomboy Ghost Town, Alta Ghost Town, and Last Dollar Road. The first thing my mother asked her was how perilous the tour seemed to customers who were afraid of heights, and the woman reassured her that this was in no way a dangerous tour and that people with fears of heights reported that it never bothered them. 

The dark yellow jeep cranked to a stop in front of a store that sold highly expensive ski equipment and clothing. As kids and noisy families jostled around us, we all waited at the street curb to meet our tour guide. I had expected what I thought would be a mountainous man; the lower half of his face covered in a thick beard, with the build of a bear to step out of the driver’s seat. Instead, a lanky man opened the door, wearing a pair of slick sunglasses over his eyes and a tanned, scruffy cap hanging low over his forehead. From the passenger seat leaped out a dog with friendly, beady eyes but resembling much of his owner with his lanky, long legs, and overall stocky figure.  

Our tour guide introduced himself to us. His name was Herb, and his partner was called Rocky. Herb shook all our hands, and he had a crooked grin, and upon closer inspection, I noticed he had the barest hint of facial hair beginning to sprout along his sharp chin. The man was all muscle. I’ve come to notice that the men here in Telluride are not brawny like lumberjacks, but had figures that were gawky and thin. He clearly spent more time outdoors than inside a gym, working out on artificial machines. These were the real Colorado mountain men I had heard about--the ones who dared to ski the dangerous slopes of Colorado in the harsh winters and hiked the trails alongside those same slopes in the summer. Even driving on the road revealed how accustomed these people were to the gentle yet overbearing giants around them. No matter how hard me or any of my family tried going the speed limit, we were always too slow, and we always had someone trailing us close behind. We might as well wear a sign on the very back proclaiming we were from Texas and not used to the winding, hilly roads of southern Colorado.  

Herb warned us all that the ride will be bumpy. The jeep itself had seats on either side, benches, and they had yellow bars raised overhead, vertically, for if any of us wanted to stand up to look around, we could hold onto those to keep from falling out.  

There were no seatbelts. 

At first, the tour consisted of jarring historical facts. We sailed through the town, interwoven with the traffic of Telluride, maneuvering our way through the walking pedestrians. 

We passed by the sign in the middle of the town with its name written beautifully over the front and colorful flowers on all sides. 

Despite the cheeriness of its people, Herb told us that Telluride, like any other town or city, has a past seldom people knew about. This was hard to believe for me, because here in this cozy little town settled comfortably in a box canyon with a beautiful view of steep and towering, forested mountains surrounding it--it was hard to imagine anything bad happening. Telluride after all is nationally known not only for its ski resorts, but its pop culture, being featured in so many songs (by artists like Tim McGraw, Josh Gracin, Laura Marling, and Jake Own) and all its music festivals throughout its warm summers.  

But, Telluride was once a mining town. And today I quickly learned that all mining towns, without a doubt, had dark pasts. 

Herbs told us the start of Telluride’s discovery, being the pursuits of gold in the late 1800’s. Because of its isolated location, it took some time for its population to grow, despite the riches that were promised the moment John Fallon first allegedly discovered gold in Marshal Basin, which was above Telluride. Eventually, though, in 1878 the town was founded. Even with the disillusioning promises of gold, the area itself was rich in other minerals like zinc, lead, copper, and silver. As the population slowly began growing, everything changed with the emergence of Butch Cassidy and his gang known as the Wild Bunch. Here in Telluride, he robbed the San Miguel Valley Bank, which lay right off the main street, which was now called the Mahr Building. 

  And today I quickly learned that all mining towns, without a doubt, had dark pasts. 

As Herb told us all these exciting stories of a Western time in which Telluride was still young, I was shocked at all the excitement behind the robbers in search of the wealth than came with discovering gold. Even more unrest started, however, at the booming of mining towns. Though I noticed upon mentioning the labor disputes between the mining companies and the workers, Herbs changed the subject. 

“Property cost here is insane,” Herbs told us as we were nearing the outside of town. “Years ago, I used to say that you had to be a millionaire to live here. Now, I say you’ve got to be a billionaire.” He slowed the jeep down and directed our attention to our right, “Do you see that house right there? That is by far the most low quality house here in Telluride, but it’s on the market for over a million dollars.” 

Me and my mom exchanged mystified glances.  

“What about the workers?” My friend Jasmine asked.  

“Across town, near Bridal Falls, is where the worker sector is. The city’s got houses for workers like teachers and doctors, to make it more affordable to live here. Maybe I’ll take you guys by near the end of the tour.”  

Herbs took a thickly sloped road leading to a line of thick, green leaves with peering trunks that reached like claws over the road. We had to be mindful of these as to avoid being hit. Higher and higher we climbed, and soon, the road turned extremely bump. As we took a sharp corner, waving to a passing tour bus, the road turned into a narrow, rocky trail.  

My stomach churned. 

Beside me, my mother grew quiet. 

Meanwhile, Jasmine and Linda were talking animatedly. Often we’d hit a sharp bump that had us stumbling on our unsteady legs. I kept a death-like grip on the railing always, my knuckles turning white. I tried peering overhead to look for signs of bumps as to brace my body for impact. But most of the jarring ones came out of nowhere.  

Feeling my stomach churn with even more nerves, I sat down next to my mother and took out my lunch box, where I packed a light snack for myself. Chopped banana and peanut butter, for some quick carbs and some much-needed protein, since we had left so early from the cabin to arrive in Telluride, which was roughly 50 miles away from Delores, where our cabin was. Considering sloping up a higher elevation of 3,000 miles and perilous, sharp turns with no railings on the side of cliffs, the ride itself added up to an hour and twenty minutes. But now, as I chewed heartily on my snack, I realized how nice the roads were there rather than this trail. Sitting on the side of the cliff, as Telluride started appearing more and more like a speck of dots, the jeep tended to lean, and it felt as though it may roll over off the side. I had quickly lost my appetite, but I chewed on, trying to focus on the trail ahead rather than the deathly drop next to my right. 

We took several breaks during our climb. With Telluride itself being over 8,000 miles in elevation, we would climb up to 11,000 once we reached the Tomboy Ghost Town at the top. We still had about 2,000 more to go. During our breaks, we all got out to walk and stretch our legs. Rocky often bounded ahead of us, in search of anything interesting left on the trail, but he never ventured too far from Herbs.  

Despite the height, the views I saw were indescribable. No wonder the mountains of Colorado inspired many artists, from singers to painters, to writers and to photographers. The sleeping giants towered yet above us, untouched by man; it was an art I saw that was created from nature itself. The air, fresh and open, even though there wasn’t as much due to the higher elevation, was refreshing to me. Though walking a few steps up a slope made me breathless, it was all so awe inspiring with its tint of danger. Like a rose with thorns, the mountains were a sight to see, but it made me wonder how people traveled to the mining towns centuries ago, on horseback and with carriages. With terrible weather, too--it was horrifying to even imagine those mules trudging even in the snow, with the danger of avalanche constantly present on their journey.  

Harriet Backus’s personal account of living in the Tomboy Mine called Tomboy Bride: A Woman's Personal Account of Life in Mining Camps of the West depicted a woman who married a miner. Having to leave behind her former life, she moved in Telluride, where it took several years for her to adjust to the rigid landscape and harsh conditions of life. Living so far away from Telluride, the people living in Tomboy could only order groceries once a month, which had to be carried by mules--often items were forgotten or lost on the journey, and that was counting of the mules and rider arrived safely. There were no doctors in Tomboy, so if someone grew sick or a woman became pregnant, they had to make the perilous journey to Telluride. Pregnant women often went to Telluride anyway, for the lower elevation in town. Nonetheless, Backus’ account depicted how the women and men living at this high elevation, where farming was impossible, there was scarce, if any, hunting game, drew together to help each other survive.  

 Despite the height, the views I saw were indescribable. 

When we finally reached Tomboy, I was surprised at how green everything was. Due to the temperature growing significantly lower, I pulled on my red jacket halfway through the trip up, glad to have brought it like my mother had advised. There were other people parked near a bunch of shambles, and Herbs told us that those were the remains of the houses and stores of the town. When we passed by what used to be the convenience store, I was shocked to see inside the shambles were still forms of shelves, where items used to be stocked. 

Around us, we were surrounded by slopes of mountains. We could clearly see the treelines stop at a certain point, and there were still splotches of snow adorning the mountain sides. The vastness of the space around us was what really took my breath, as we all unloaded from the Jeep. My mother, who had resorted to getting on her knees in the middle of the journey, close to having a panic attack, seemed to be more collected now that we were no longer teetering on a cliff. It was quiet here, except for the voices of tourists. There weren’t many children, I also noticed.  

  

We all went separate ways, off to look at everything ourselves. Jasmine went to a small, trickling river stream, Linda went to check out the remains of buildings, and my mother and I went to look over where we just came--where miles away, was Telluride. I tried to imagine this place covered in snow. How did people do it? 

“It was a very harsh life up here,” Herbs was telling us. “With no dirt, people couldn’t even bury bodies. And they had trouble keeping everyone alive. With mice issues, they tried bringing cats, but the cats didn’t do very well with the elevation. The mining had the worst conditions, though. The companies looked for orphans to become miners because miners often died at an early age. So with them being orphans…” 

“They had nobody to really account to,” I murmured. 

“What a shame,” my mother commented.  

 “My mother, who had resorted to getting on her knees in the middle of the journey, close to having a panic attack, seemed to be more collected now that we were no longer teetering on a cliff.” 

“The Tomboy Mine sure didn’t last forever,” Herbs continued. “The people eventually realized this bit of land just didn’t have liveable conditions. Slowly, people began leaving. When everyone was gone, the mining company tried blowing up whatever mines were left. They didn’t like to keep track of their records with the labor disputes starting up in Telluride.” 

Rocky trotted past me and my mother with a huge stick in his mouth, his tail wagging excitedly. I sat down on a nearby boulder, seeing Jasmine’s petite form standing over by the river. Just standing. And looking. And listening. I didn’t want to move much, either. Not because of the elevation, but because I wanted to just take it all in as much as I could.  

A place unlivable, I thought to myself. Even to this day, as I’m back in South Texas, I keep thinking back to Tomboy Mine. The beauty of the wildflowers that you didn’t see in Telluride or Delores. The overreaching mountain peaks that stretched for the sky. The vastness of it all. I’ve heard stories of entire civilizations of people having to pick up and leave because of lack of resources. Recent studies discovered that it was decades of droughts that drove the Cliff Dwellers in Cortez, Colorado away from their entire civilizations, to be wiped off the face of the earth completely. For years we had no idea how they suddenly vanished, but now, speculations arose with some possibilities that have happened before.  

 As with the Cliff Dwellers, all these people here had hopes and dreams, of which now were mere shambles of buildings, crumbled remains of shelves and pottery, children’s toys. I can’t help but think of the challenges humanity is facing right now, due to climate change and 

human impact on our planet.  

The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) has spent years researching our climate and the past’s climate. In the past ten years or so, they have deducted that they were 90% certain humans were making an impact of the rate of climate change. Otherwise a naturally occurring process, humans are not the only ones affecting it. However, we are speeding up the process from thousands of millions of years to decades--which has never happened before on Planet Earth. The IPCC’s most recent conjecture, however, stated that they are 99% certain that humans are making an impact on the rate of climate change.  

They aren’t the only ones concerned, however. Institutes all over not only the United States but the world are coming together with speculations, research, data, and concerns for our future. NASA has come up with a prediction that by the year 2050, the world’s population will face long enough droughts that threaten our ways of life as of now. With the rising of the sea oceans due to the polar ice caps melting, many cities like Miami, Florida living on the coasts will be under water, which will in turn displace thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people.  

All I can think about now is at the rate we are going now, can we someday end up like the Cliff Dwellers, or the people living in Tomboy? People who had soaring hopes and dreams, only to be forced to pick up everything and leave because the area was simply unlivable? I believe it’s not too late to change our way of thinking and our way of doing things. It’s only the matter of how many people want to do just that. 

"Fake It"

 "Fake It"

To this day, I cannot remember what exactly led to this event. But I do remember the mosquitoes of Bishop, Texas.

Breath hitching in my throat, I swat at another mosquito on my arm. But I’m too late. I scratch at the already reddening spot, and my 3^rd grade teacher named Mrs. Barbour reaches for my hand as we both go to cross the street.

Other kids attending Bishop Primary School rush and bustle past us, eager to head home for the day. I recognize a few from my class, but nobody says goodbye, and neither do I.

We’re a year into living at this tiny town we’ve recently called home. And Bishop really is a small town with a tight-knit community. Every Sunday, my mother wakes us all early to go to the Saint Paul Lutheran Church. There’s always some kind of outburst or fight during the chaos that comes with having to dress three stubborn children. Miraculously, my mother managed to load us all up and get us to church on time for Sunday School. Church was the only place she was ever on time for.

At 9:00 a.m, us children went to Sunday School. At 10:30 a.m was when the “divine service” took place, or so the old ladies of the congregation called it. The doors leading into the classrooms for Sunday School were all vividly colored doors, and I always wondered why they made sure to color the doors but not the plain, red bricks that make up the building’s sturdy foundation. I always liked playing outside in the playground out back, past the basketball courts. There me and my brother often ended up wrestling with Ryan and Jared, our new neighbors. One day Mrs. V, a Sunday School teacher, had to pry me off Jared and cease fire to the onslaught of pebbles being thrown between my brother and Ryan.

For the main church service, my mother fusses more than usual over our clothes and our hair. If we had time to go to the playground, my clothes were always dirty and ragged. Then, all of us—my sister, my brother, my mother, and my father— listened to Pastor Frankie preach the word of God, though I always spent more time doodling in the pamphlets tucked away in the seat in front of us, where our knees are. I do not always understand what he says, but I do understand that there is a God that we must love or else we’ll be in time out for a very long time.

For school today, my mother dressed me with tights, a skirt, and a shirt that says ‘princess,’ with white gloves adorning my arms. Having been a clothing designer before she got married and had kids, my mother is able to explore her passion of fashion onto us. Sometimes I feel like a puppet. Other times I really do feel like a princess. I cannot remember the last time she bought clothes for herself, and even to this day, she’ll buy clothes for us in a heartbeat, but not for herself.

“Hi, Mrs. Reeves,” Mrs. Barbour says as we approach my mother’s car where her window is rolled down. My mother quickly puts out her cigarette.

            “Good afternoon, Mrs. Barbour,” My mother says with a smile.

            My teacher glances down at me then back at my mother. “I’m very worried about Sarah. She just seems so sad. I tried talking to her today, but I couldn’t get her to smile? I thought I’d talk to you about it.” The teacher releases my hand, and my mother gets out to open the door to the van for me, her smile turning into a concerned frown. Inside, I can smell the strong bitterness of the smoke from her cigarettes. A cough builds in the back of my throat, but I stifle it.

            “I’ll talk to her about it,” My mother says, but her voice lowers as I turn to stare out the window; she doesn’t want me to hear, but I can still hear her hushed voice nonetheless. “She’s having trouble making friends.”

            “Some kids take longer to come out of their shell. Why don’t you put her in our UIL?”

            I lose interest in my mom’s conversation with my teacher and watch other kids play with a soccer ball next to the sidewalk. I want to hop through the door of the minivan and join them, even though I am wearing tights and a skirt.

            When the teacher leaves, my mother pulls out of the parking lot and begins driving.

            “Sarah, what did I tell you?” She asks, lighting another cigarette as she keeps the window rolled down so the smoke won’t hit me, even though it still does. My eyes tear a little when a powerful whiff hits my nostrils. “You’ll never make friends if you don’t come out of your shell. If you think people are scared of you, it’s because you don’t smile at anyone. I’ve told you time and time again, smiling makes a huge difference.” She pauses and sighs. “Just...tomorrow, be happy, okay?”

            “Why?” I ask. At the time, I knew that people could be happy. I knew that I was. I just didn’t see the connection between having to smile to show I’m happy.

            She throws her arms up in exasperation. “I don’t know! Act happy, even if you have to fake it, okay? Fake it.”

            I stare hard out the window as we continue driving home, her words seeming to stick with me as our mutual silence ensues the rest of the way.

The next day, I do what my mother said. I smile even when I feel no need to. During recess, a group of girls ask me to play with them. We sit underneath a large, shaded tree, and the girls gush about Cody telling someone that Samantha is cute. But Cody’s a boy? Gross! I want to say, but I don’t. They mention a word I’ve never heard before, so I ask what it means. They all laugh before realizing I am serious. “Gossiping means to talk about someone,” the most popular girl named Addison with the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen tells me. As they go on to talk about even more boys, I keep glancing at the boys on the field, playing soccer. Playing soccer seems more fun than gossiping.

At the end of the day, Mrs. Barbour walks me to my mother’s car again. Hand-in-hand, with me mindlessly scratching at the mosquito bite on my arm, we trek past excited kids. Addison says goodbye to me with a beaming smile that I return. By now, though, my lips are hurting from straining so much. I want so badly to rest them, but I am determined to keep this up until I am with my mother.

“Mrs. Reeves, I don’t know what got into Sarah, but she was so happy today!” Mrs. Barbour gushes as soon as we are in earshot of my mother, who had again quickly put her cigarette out when she sees us. “I don’t know what it was, but she spoke to the kids and played games during recess. She was like a completely different person.”

From the corner of my eye, I see my mother smile in relief.

“Sweetheart, what were you so happy about today?” My teacher asks me. My mother opens her door and stands in front of the Tahoe, opening the back door for me to get in.

“My mom told me to fake it,” I say.

My teacher’s smile quickly dissipates, and for a few moments, I feel my mom’s horrified stare boring into me. I quickly turn away from my teacher’s flabbergasted expression and climb into the car. Behind me, I hear my mom laughing louder than she normally does.

“Why in the world would you tell her that?” my mother rages as she drives home faster than usual, taking sharper turns. She smokes cigarette after cigarette. I don’t even think she breathes in between lighting them. She even swerves a few time when her attention is diverted on lighting a new one. I clutch hard onto the seat, my stomach churning.

“I don’t know,” I reply quietly, the typical phrase as a kid you’d use when you didn’t quite know how to word something, or when you were in the bathroom with a pack of gum and the teacher looked at you accusingly and said, Do you have gum? ‘I don’t know’ is a typical reply when you don’t want to lie, but you don’t want to tell the truth either. 

“How embarrassing,” my mother mutters, flicking her cigarette bud against the window as she exhales, the dark wisps of smoke filtering out into the bright afternoon light.

After a few minutes of silence, I ask, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“At Sunday school, Mrs. V told us that God sent his one and only son to die.”

“That’s right. So what’s your question?”

“I thought God was good?”

“God sent Jesus to die on the cross for us,” my mother replies. “Without Jesus, none of us would be here right now.”

“But why did he have to die on a cross?”

“To take away our sins. Honestly, Sarah, you’ll understand more of this when you’re older. All you have to understand for now is that God sent Jesus to save us all from our sins. You remember what sins are, right?” she turns to glance at me over her shoulder, putting out one of her cigarettes in the ashtray sitting on the middle console.

“Sins are when we do bad things,” I say.

“Yes. Like stealing, fighting with your brother—”

            “Lying,” I interject softly, and I see my mother’s shoulders stiffen.

            “Yes,” she says curtly. “That is one of the ten commandments.”

            “Is smoking a sin?”

            For a couple of seconds, she doesn’t reply. We’re turning into Aurora Street, our neighborhood. The first house on the right is my best friend Shelby’s house. She’s two years older than me, so I don’t see her much at school. On our left is Jordan’s, someone who forever boggles my mind. My mother told me that he was born sick. Every time I see him, he’s sweating a lot, even when it’s winter, and he always breathes really hard, like my brother with asthma does when he is really sick. It isn’t until she pulls into the driveway of our small, pink-bricked house, and I can see my father starting to cook dinner through the front window that she says, “I don’t know.”

            Ten years later, I’m a 21-year-old woman. My grandmother on my father’s side was admitted to the hospital the day before Thanksgiving of 2016 with chronic bronchitis and emphysema, two lung diseases related to smoking cigarettes. She got out of the hospital okay, but now she has to carry an oxygen tank everywhere she goes, which means she can kiss going to my parent’s cabin in Colorado in the summers goodbye. The high elevation will have too much of an effect on her already struggling lungs to risk it.

            I will not delve into my mother’s habits to this day, but I will delve into the darkness of smoking tobacco smoke. My mother has a beautiful, kind hearted soul, and she is the most spiritual person I know. Most mornings, when the rest of us are still fast asleep, as the sun is just starting to rise over the horizon, my mother can be seen standing right underneath the warm rays of the morning light, with her arms outstretched towards the sky, her eyes closed, and face peaceful.

            “I’ve never seen an angel before,” my father has said to me. “Until I met your mother.”

But when it comes to her addiction of smoking, the addiction often takes over all of that. She will choose smoking over so many things in her life—her faith, food, even water itself. Unlike my father, who has made the conscious decision of attempting to quit over the years, my mother has not tried. For this I will hold no judgement on her behalf because I cannot fathom what it is like to be that addicted to something, to the point where I feel like I will die without it, even though it is slowly killing me.

            I thought it was difficult to fake smiling as a child, but now I know it’s so much more difficult to fake my concerns and anger and frustration and sadness when I see her hands trembling as she lights that cigarette first thing in the morning, or when I am heading to bed for the night and see her step outside to light her one last cigarette for the day. All the empty cigarette cartons laying around our house. There is an angel statue we have next to our front door, a little girl cradling, with her hands bowed in prayer. In her hands lies mountains of used cigarette buds. When her voice goes out every morning, her lungs wheezing, and she says it’s allergies and I don’t argue.

That’s the thing about cigarettes. With all the warnings on the back, all the testimonies from victims of its aftermath, excruciating deaths from lung cancer are likely to sneak up on you. All the warnings and facts are there, written behind or on the side of every cigarette carton, warning the calamities that smoking entails.

But, someone must make the ultimate decision to quit, which is not an easy challenge to overcome. In fact, a challenge is a massive understatement. Upon recalling this vivid memory of mine, I have discovered that little compares to watching someone you love slowly destroy themselves.

It makes me wonder why? And the answer is simply I don’t know.