Jose and The Philosophy of Pasear

February 26, 2011:

"My name is Jessica, not Rubia" I tell my new friend Jose, who is the burly man sitting next to me on a wooden bar stool.
"But your hair is blonde. And where I'm from we like blondes, so I will call you Rubia."
This is not the first time I have heard this. Working alongside Mexican immigrants as a waitress means I've been dubbed the obvious nickname "Rubia", Spanish for "blondie", many times before. Jose is also from Mexico, and it's apparent to any onlooker. He wears a yellow tee-shirt embellished with his countries flag, accompanied by a carefully groomed mustache with ends twisted  into perfect points.

A college football game blares on the overhead TV and clusters of  Alumni fill the bar, cheering after each victorious play.

"El fútbol americano, en mi modesta opinión, es un deporte estúpido y complicado," says Jose, who is arguing with me about the validity of American Football, which he finds dull in comparison to soccer. Some sense of patriotism has been ignited in me, and I defend the sport passionately. I speak slowly, thinking hard as I counter-argue in spanish, conjegating verbs and searching my mind for dormant words. 
"..pero todos los chicos fuertes, como tú, jugar al fútbol americano." 
Translation: But all the tough guys, like yourself, play American Football."

Jose blurts out a loud gaffaw, then responds in English.
"Your espagnol is good,  but your accento...why do you speak it like a gay man?"
His bluntness has me restraining an explosion of bud light in my mouth, and I do my best to swallow. "Blame it on the king of Spain" I tell him wiping my lips with a bar napkin.

I spent a semester abroad in Spain a few summers a go and returned to the states with a love for homemade sangria and afternoon siestas. I'd also brought back a slight Spanish accent, substituting my S's for a softer th sound. This spanish lisp, or castilian lisp is a distinct accent of the Andalusian region. Legend has it that a 13th century king named Peter of Castile spoke with a speech impediment, a lisp he could never overcome. His subjects, unwilling to embarrass him imitated him in his presence. After he died, his lisp did not. Subsequently Andaslusians all sound, as Jose puts it, "gay."

I tell him this story, to which he replies:
"All of those Spaniards, they are too proper, like Americans. In Mexico we   re-laaaax.. you know, take it easy! My guess, rubia, is that you don't relax either."
 Never considering myself to be high maintenance, I'm suddenly offended by Jose's allusion that I'm up tight."Sure I do! I'm relaxing as we speak!" I say argumentatively, showcasing my beer.
"I don't believe you." Jose retorts.

"To relax the right way," he says, "means you don't have to think about it. It takes no effort. Life should be like one long siiiigghh," he emphasizes the last word, then exhales loudly in example.

I think back to my last day off work, and how I nearly went crazy with discontent from boredom. The previous week had been hectic, and after the spreadsheets and writing assignments were over I'd lost the ability to entertain myself. Unable to fully embrace the freedom of my empty agenda over the entire weekend, I secretly praised the return of Monday. It seems as though I'd gained a tolerance for stress that was hindering my ability to enjoy the more quiet things in life. Jose was right.

"Do you know the spanish verb pasear," he asks.
"Yeah I do. It means to walk."
"No, no youre wrong," he says
 I recall a memory of Ms. Ricardo, my intermediate spanish teacher, repeating a list of verbs on the chalkboard.
"I could have sworn..."
Jose Interrupts me, "Pasear is more than just to walk. It is like walking, but lazier. Pasear means to stroll. To walk with no sense of urgency, taking it all in. It is a way of life and it's not in the english dictionary. You, my rubia, need to learn how to "paseo" through life."

March 12th, 2011:

Today I am blissfully in love with this place, and I'd copy Frank Sinatra and write a sappy love ballad about the city if I had time. "New York, New York!"

A middle aged couple clasp hands on a sidewalk bench. They look lovingly into eachother, as if they're trying to discover a freckle or dimple they'd never noticed before. My normal reaction of disgust has been replaced by appreciation. I am happy to witness this glimmer of affection, which chips at my cynicism. Love might still exist.
A brown dog that's too well groomed to be stray prances down the cobblestone road past them, his tail waving at passerbys. He seems to know where he's going as he rounds the corner of greeniche avenue down west 13th.
It's 65 degrees, which means I'm drinking iced coffee and wearing the summer dress that's been hibernating in my closet since last August.. I am renewed by the sun. Is it finally spring? I feel like a rosebud stirring in the first instance of warmth. In fact, I swear I can smell them blooming, the spring roses, but there is no vegetation nearby, only concrete. My senses have been tricked by my positive mood.

"Thanks Jose", I think, as I continue to paseo down the sidewalk. 
.

Square Peg, Round Hole

The Salt Lake valley air is cleaner than the smog ridden oxygen of New York, but I had felt so suffocated last time I was home. None of my friends in Manhattan understood why I didn't like Utah. Their homes were sanctuaries, places to escape power walking and day planners and asphalt.  But for me, going home was like traveling back in time, to an era before me that I just couldn't relate to.

My great, great, great grandfather was a pioneer. Unwavering in his faith, he literally walked across the United States in order to escape persecution and freely practice his religion.
Most of my childhood friends have similar family legacies. The mormon church colonized the state of Utah, and today, about 70% of its population are mormon's. I was reared In the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, and I am a non-practicing member of the Mormon religion.

A friend of mine from Las Vegas once made the remark that visiting my home town was like being trapped inside an animated Disney movie. "Everyone just walks around smiling and saying nice things to each other! Seriously, I was expecting a choreographed musical number any minute!"
While I laughed at her remark, the standards the place upholds seem to validate this claim.
Mormons do not drink coffee or tea or alcohol. Mormons do not cuss or use foul language or smoke. Mormons attend three hour church services every Sunday. And among other beliefs , Mormons abstain from premarital sex.

The majority of the world might view this as extreme, however none of these things are the underlying reason I don't consider myself a Mormon by definition.
In fact, there are many beautiful qualities about the church that I love. For example:
Mormons cherish their families. Mormons love their neighbors. Mormons always put others first. Mormons speak kind words, and  Mormons have really REALLY big hearts.
Still, the reason I do not practice is irrelevant.
I guess you could say I have just always been a very square peg in a very round hole, and I never fit.

Because of this, trips home from New York city made me feel like Hester Prynne bearing an invisible scarlet letter. It was as if everyone was always pointing. I was the outcast.

I once tried expressing my frustration to my Father, who didn't understand my feelings of alienation.
"It's like you all  want me to dance the waltz, when all I know how to do is jive."
My Dad raised his eyebrows at the statement, paused for a moment, then said,
"I think in time you'll see that the only one making you uncomfortable is yourself, and anyone this doesn't apply to, doesn't know you at all."

I hadn't heard Dad's words, and my last visit home left me kissing the dirty ground of New York upon return. The church steeples, bible verses, and testimonies had me exhausted. I swore I wouldn't come back again until Autumn.

But Mom called me Monday to tell me Grandad had passed away. It's now Saturday, and I am sitting in the church pew next to my younger brother Austin, who seems too adult-like in a suit jacket with his arm around my back. Grandad's casket rests ten feet from me. It is a muted silver, and valentine colored roses bless its top. I close my eyes and fold my hands gingerly in my lap while they pray. They say he is with grandma  now, and I want them to be right, but even if they aren't it's still okay. What a victory he had over mortality, dying in his home with sound mentality and good physical health at age 105.

This funeral is not the typical sad occasion. Only some wear black, and there is no dark, morose cloud filling the chapel. No one mourns a loss. This is, rather, a celebration of Grandad's life.
I look around at the congregation, which has the place entirely filled with grandad's family members and friends who have traveled here to honor him.
My cousin is playing peek a boo with my dad in the row in front of me. Only her eyes and blond pigtails are visible over the bench, and she giggles too loudly at Dad's funny face.
My youngest Brother is resting his head on my Mom's shoulder. I smile at his maintaned hair-do. He traded in his usual, casual scruff to let mom style it this morning. The part is heavy to the side, with a deep swoop across his forehead.

I suddenly become overwhelmed by a realization:  I am not inflicted by my upbringing after all. I am surrounded by family, and the love is radiating off them and permeating into my soul. They love me despite my beliefs, and Mormon or not, I am still a part of something greater than myself.

As relatives recall grandad's past from behind the pulpit, one dewy tear runs down my cheek.
My brother rubs my shoulder in consolation. I look at him and wink. He grins, still facing the speaker, then blindly kicks my shoe.  
My single tear is a tear of gratitude for my heritage, which I'd taken for granted due to childish feelings of resentment.
I'm thankful for my family tree, with branches that are abundant, and sturdy, and strong. I'm not sure who or what to thank,or from where this blessing hails, but I know it doesn't matter. It doesn't make me any less grateful.

I allow my tear of thanks to fall into my lap, and it sinks into my dress.