The high season apparently has begun here at the mountains. Java Joe’s was teeming yesterday, and Hasting’s a mob scene. Lots of adults with kids in tow suggest summer, vacations, and a great need for everyone to be entertained. More and more bicyclists in bright nylons are gathering at the coffee shop, the neurotics who shop at Trader Joe’s must be wringing their hands in greater numbers, and the parade around the plaza most likely catching the eye and tongue of some so-called locals who love having conversations about how Santa Fe has changed. I agree, and I’m part of that change. Clearly, my profile fits a number of the ill-spirited bumper sticks slathered all over vehicles around here. But you know, as the old saying goes, you can’t judge a book by its cover.
Maybe I shouldn’t have bought the blue sandals. My first instinct was brown, but a woman also looking at sandals at a store appropriately named On Your Feet said, “get the blue; they’re more interesting.” Well, now I’ve seen at least three other guys wearing the same shoe in that steely blue color. Maybe I get a pass on the color, but I wonder how obvious I am. And you might wonder, why do I care.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve taken pains not to call attention to myself. I was a little pudgy in the late grade school years, always softer than most of the boys, my peers, raging with testosterone by seventh grade. My mother always made certain that my shirts were starched and shoes polished. Neither athletic nor rowdy, I knew I was different, and so I tried to fade into the background, in spite of my modest achievements. As I grew older in that rural setting, I wasn’t inclined to be a farmer either. I was destined for minor success as a mugician, as my late cousin Jimmy named it, and for teaching the liberal arts.
I was and still am embarrassed by anything that calls attention to me. How strange it seems, now that I am but a couple of months away from being on Medicare, that I still puzzle and struggle with some of the same insecurities I felt as a fifth grader. I still remember Louis Hegar mocking me “Mama Hollis” in seventh grade, as I quietly walked down the canopied sidewalk, no one else around, no reason for him even to acknowledge me. He wasn't a friend, and I wasn't someone he would be friendly towards anyway. How telling, how absolutely revealing—he wasn’t the only one who saw me as “Mama Hollis”, the boy in starched shirts and polished shoes, a little shy, a little soft. Only a couple of years ago I was reminded by my oldest sister, in the presence of our mother who was in rapidly failing health, that Mother “clipped your wings”. Was I a sissy, or what Louis and his kind considered a sissy? Had my starched shirts and polished shoes branded me? Or instead, even then, was my tender heart my greatest enemy? Did I already care too much about how others saw me?
I’m on my own here in the high desert, given license to make or break whatever time I have in this melting pot. Starched shirts were long ago relegated to coat and tie affairs. Shoes are made of synthetic fibers—dress shoes for city lawyers, politicians, and morticians. Looking a little ragged is stylish, and as always, the rugged look is in. Guy’s guys still catch they eye of, well, just about everyone.
I learned flying under the radar long ago. And even though I have been unable to avoid distinguishing myself at times, I mostly like just being left to do my thing—to use my gifts and hope for the best.
It’s the nature of the beast for us to notice one another and to form impressions and opinions, often without bothering to look under the veneer that each of us wears. I believe that I have a good sense of what other people have going on, and though I remain cautious by definition, I get caught at times in the messy webs of other people. That comes from being a born problem solver and from needing approval.
Walking away from or not even getting involved in much of the parade that passes by requires little effort. The parade, though, catches my eye, and what I’m reminded of frequently is that some in the parade call me to opportunity to affirm the value we all long to feel. The trappings in which we adorn ourselves—starched shirts and polished shoes, blue web sandals, retro 1960 Haight-Asbury garb, bicycle nylons even though we are really only bicyclist wannabes, Indiana Jones monochrome even though we are no more adventuresome than the definitive Walter Mitty, don’t even begin to tell our story. We are more than that, and we deserve to be recognized and acknowledged for our depths.
Yesterday I had the opportunity to engage in conversation a young woman sitting outside Java Joe’s. She was binding in heavy, colored twine sage she had gathered near Taos—at least that’s what her little sign claimed, two varieties of sage to be used as smudge sticks. I had noticed her earlier as she set up at a table on the sidewalk. Dressed in what I would have called on any other day hip, hippie attire, she triggered my “what’s she all about” button, a pointless judgmental response. And how silly, inappropriate, and yes, negative, even to have an opinion about someone who is just easing along the trail.
As I left the coffee shop, I noticed her panoply of sorts, including the little sign and smudge sticks ready for purchase, out of the corner of my eye as I made my way into the parking lot. Something good and decent told me to turn around and go back, to support her little venture. I ended up sharing a little of myself and receiving a little of someone else, and I bought a smudge stick. I’ve been reminded by Christine that smudging is a common practice in many religious and spiritual traditions, including the American Indian. Lighting the sage and moving around my personal space, issuing blessings, sending out good energy, cleansing myself of bad bull shit—not a bad idea at all. And I realized in the 10 minutes that Christine and I exchanged ideas and talked about books that we’ve read, books whose authors have peeled away the veneer, how good it feels to reach out to someone who has just crossed our path, but not by chance. I don’t believe in chance. I do believe, however, that we could all do a whole lot better with one another, regardless of their shirt or the color of their sandals.
Peeling Back the Veneer—Santa Fe, New Mexico (June 12, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
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