Wednesday, August 30, 2006


I don’t know sometimes. Why am I so stubborn? I don’t get it. Why, when I know what to do, do I avoid it and then do what I want, all the while knowing I’ll be ripped to shreds?
I guess it may go back a ways. I’m not going down memory lane looking for that magical moment when all went to hell in a bucket. But yet...?
And yet here I find myself, sleeping under the stars, seeing the band of the milky way like never before, that strip of stars that almost seem to perforate our tiny piece of cosmos. Out here in the desert, on a moonless night, the stars are so bright that it almost makes my brain hurt. Our ancient brothers and sisters saw shapes and visions in the stars, a dot-to-dot realization of the creator’s power.


But now, in the post American century, it’s hard to see shapes or characters or signs in the stars. Now, in the so-called post-Christian era, it’s hard to see the hand of the creator pushing spots of light through the sky.
As knowledge heavy and sophisticated as we are, why do we overlook the obvious? How come we are so jaded in this daily walk? I know I’m not the only one seeking, searching for that magical place, that place to call home. I’m not the only one looking for the mystical place of origin.
And then again, if I found it, would I know what to do once I got there?


The Aztec origin myth says that they emerged from the earth and settled in Aztlan, a place without physical description. In their language (Nahuatl), the roots of Aztlan are the two words: aztatl tlan(tli) meaning "heron" and "place of," respectively. The connotative meaning, due to the plumage of herons, could be construed as “Place of Whiteness”.

Many of my fellow white Americans fear that Aztlan is some sort of codeword used by our brown brothers, a suggestion of revolution or rebellion. They fear the immigration that's now occurring in the southwest is some sort of attempt at taking over the United States. Me? I don't know. I just know we all look for that place called home, whether we be white or black or brown, Palestinian, Israeli, gypsy, no matter who we are...

“You can't run and try to hide away
Here it comes, here comes another day
If you're long down that highway
No matter where you are
You're never really far
Good morning Aztlan”
-David Hidalgo/Louie Perez

Comments:
Leo,

This is so deep that I have not yet been able to come up with a comment about it.

But I will.

I need to re-read several more times.

It's that deep.

-Ted
 
Loved your words, but got lost in the image of the the man...took me back to my childhood days in Arizona when every 4th of July was celebrated by a huge Pow Wow in Flagstaff. I remember the sounds, the smells, the whole feeling of being there as an awe struck little white kid. Hadn't thought about it in years....yet now I feel my mind unpeeling layer upon layer of images from that time. Thanks!
 
I think I have never felt completely "at home" since I left the home where I grew up. It would take some counting to figure out how many places I've lived in since then -- it was one move after another for years. We have been in our current home for 15 years, but I will never really belong here like I would have belonged in my birthplace if I had never left. And I will never find again the peace and safety that I felt in the innocence of my childhood.
 
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