La Mochila
"Sólo tú sabes lo que traes en la mochila."
For years my mother's been telling me only I know what I'm carrying in my knapsack. Duh! It was the most recent time she told me, on the phone, about a month ago when it finally hit. Maybe because at this point in my life I feel the backpack bulging. Maybe I have to unload some things.
At the bottom, weighing it down, tezontle; the porous volcanic rocks, like the ones used to build the chapel of San Miguel, in Tlatelolco, Mexico; where I was baptized. The stones are wrapped in the translucent, gum wrapper-size used bus transfers from the Tijuana bus lines of my elementary school years.
There are the late 1970s, early 1980s dollar bills. Folk sayings, aphorisms and advice are written on the margins, mostly by the sun-worshipping seniors at Oakwood Garden Apartments on San Diego Ingraham Street. "Save it, son." I still hear them say.
Then there's all the public school correspondence sent to an upper middle-class address that wasn't mine. Over the decades though, my mother kept that house clean.
At the bottom of that stack is the letter granting amnesty, and I pull off old, chewed Chiclets stuck to the U.C. San Diego acceptance letter. A varsity soccer ball's long deflated. The warped rock en español records found at the store next to Calimax at the Cuauhtemoc traffic circle: "Lobo hombre en Paris," "Nada Personal," "Apañon."
Pages from my old columns easily rip: Más Vale Tarde Que Nunca, Fronteras Diabólicas, Cada Chango a Su Mecate. I can use them to make a papier mache media idol.
My eight year old press pass is dirtied with MacArthur Park soil that's come off from the four rubber bullets and steel casings from last year's May Day melee.
The mini disc recording from that day and lots of others are there too. I often keep tape rolling. My friend's ex wife used to say, "All life is cinema verite."
As I pull out and discard these and more items from the mochila, the only proper tribute is several paragraphs and an adiós.
