Jimmy Santiago Baca

Jimmy Santiago Baca's "A Place to Stand" was intriguing and moving.  His memoir kept me on the edge all throughout.  I found myself wanting more when I hit the breaks or only got pieces of certain parts of the memoir.  His entire story, especially as a boy, was so tragic and sad.  But he survives; he finds a way to move on.  Writing and poetry become his means for an escape.

Early on in the prologue, Baca connects himself, just as a boy, with the land and prison.  "Outside the thin walls of our shack, howling winds swept the New Mexico prairie with violent moans that reminded me of the misery of the jail, its dark gloom and the faces that stared at me from behind the bars.  Again and again I recalled the wasted features of the prisoners, the faraway eyes, pleading to be let out gazing at me as if from a distant place."

Throughout his whole life, Baca was alone and seemed to always be trying to escape.  His father was a drunk and his mother was not there for him.  Early in his childhood, Baca attempts to find comfort and happiness outdoors.  Like many times throughout his life, he begins to relax or find escape but is "jolted back to present day" by something.  Here, he finds himself in an awkward and disturbing position.  He forces himself to watch a strange man take advantage of his mother through the cracks in the floorboards.

"I scratched at the ground with my fingers and shook my head to blur what was happening.  Dizzy and terrified, all I could do was brace my knees to my chest and hug myself in fear as their bodies bucked back and forth and the iron legs of the bed scratched on the wood floor."

This scene was terrifying and disturbing for me.  His description is vivid and exact to the point that I felt his pain; I felt like I was under the crawl space with him.  Also, even though he touches on his emotions and what he was feeling at the time, I thought there was a kind of distance between him and the telling of this, and other, major event(s) in his life.  As the piece moves on, Baca is abandoned over a long period of time.  First, his father and then his mother.  When his grandfather dies, he is moved to an orphanage.  Here, he is separated from his brother, Mieyo, who he "always looked up to."

Another interesting point that seems to connect throughout his life is religion.  When he was with his family, he remembers his grandmother's radio playing mass rosaries.  At the orphanage, Baca is told that the matter of his parents coming back for him "was in God's hands and children shouldn't ask such questions."  This small piece of Baca's life eventually grew into something bigger and became a struggle in his questioning of life.

After turning himself in, Baca thinks about his grandmother kneeling at her cot and praying for him.  "Prayers might help others but not me.  I wasn't strong enough to deal with life on these terms."  He takes a stance against faith, here.  He does not believe that there is a higher power, and if there is it's not going to help him now, especially after everything he's gone through with his family.  Speaking of his family, I found it interesting when he called his sister, Martina, for help.  Within a few moments, Baca realizes the separate worlds they are in.  He hears his mother in his sister.  His sister not only treats her kids in the same way, but also pushes away Baca.  She blocks off her own brother and leaves him for the dogs.

I found the beginning of this memoir different from other things that we've read this semester.  He goes into almost everything that has led to him becoming a writer.  Although he lived a tragic life, he found outlets and ways to push through.  He could have easily given up on himself or the world he lived in, especially with no family to be there for him.  He was on his own since he can remember.  He is forced at a young age (23) to become a man in prison.  I thought his life basically made a change for the better when he began to write to Harry.  He became interested in language and being able to use it correctly.  He used his time to become a poet.

It's Like a Maze!

Tuesday, November 17, 12:30 p.m. - Walking into the woods has a different feel this afternoon.  Some of the trees and vines seem to hang or bend in a different way.  Through the branches the sky is a dusty blue.  A chill rolls through the air, but I feel comfortable - not too cold.  I walk over a couple trees that have fallen across the path.  They throw me off guard, and I have to slow down and pause for a moment.  I feel like I'm lost, like I am in a new part of the woods.  I look around.  The continuous cycle of dying leaves might be one of the main reasons that the woods are always changing.  Or even the broken trees that cause for mini obstacles along the trail.  Either way, I continue to walk with Manny.

After another few minutes, I realize that we've past our usual spot.  I can't remember getting lost for any of my blogs.  I guess I'm really not lost, but I find it interesting how I got turned around.  I could have just not been paying attention, or my mind might have been in a different place.  Manny sure as hell doesn't mind.  He's enjoying everything on the woodland floor, sniffing and licking all around.  He is about twenty yards ahead of me when I turn to go back.  I hear his pause in the leaves, and then he takes off to catch up to me heading towards our weekly spot.

When I was much younger, possibly the summer heading into fifth or sixth grade, my friends and I thought we knew the woods better than anyone.  We would all meet at someone's house, and then we would cut through some yards and head into the woods.  We found a shortcut through the woods that would lead us right to the community pool.  One day, along the way we found a giant bush, or even a bunch of bushes tangled together, of berries.  Black berries and raspberries.  We'd show up at the pool with juice stains on our lips and teeth.  Our fingers would be stained black and red.  The berries lasted for a long time, and we made sure to keep their location a secret.  Only our small group would be able to enjoy the sweet fruits.  After a while they were gone.

As the summer went on we tried to search for more berries but were unsuccessful.  My friend, Chris, and I decided one day to go on a hunt deep into the woods for some berries.  We started at all of our usual spots.  Nothing by the pool.  The baseball field that was past the pond and tucked into a corner of the woods was berry-less.  We scaled the edges of the creek and a few open spaces at the edge of the woods.  Once our reliable areas let us down, we headed off the trails and into the thickness of the woods.  When you're in the woods, time seems to sift by.  You get caught up in everything around you; you become dazed almost.  We searched and searched until we realized that the sun was going down.  The only rule that our parents had was that we needed to be home by dark, at least to check in or get something to eat.  We turned and started to head back to where we thought we had come from.  In the dark, the woods seemed to transform.  Things seemed different, like we were in a giant maze where the walls had moved changing the paths.  We were scared and hungry.  Before we gave up on the ground and started crying, we made our way to a break in the woods where we could see rooftops.  We hustled to the edge of the woods only to find ourselves at the opposite end of our neighborhood.  We took the long way home by sidewalks and streets.

Freedom

Sunday, November 8, 12:30 p.m.


Part One - SICK OF SITTING.

I have no intentions of sitting on my log today, while Manny has all the fun running around.  As soon as we enter the woods, I free him from his harness.  We continue past our usual spot, and I tell him we're on a journey for the tree house, today.  I've talked in earlier blogs about the tree house my friends and I built as children, so my plan was to see what still, if any, existed of it.  The sky is clear and ocean blue as the sun bursts through the trees.  The trail is covered with crisp leaves that crunch under our every step.  An opening off to the side of the trail under an umbrella of vines and branches catches my attention.  Manny follows me into the brush.  Burrs and jaggers rip across my clothing.  I push through; Manny bobs and weaves slipping through the weeds with ease.  I really have no idea where the tree house would be exactly.  The woods have changed, morphed, after thirteen years.  So I just go where the woods take me.  Ahead beyond a line of trees is another opening.  Once past the line, an area spotted with patches of long grass rolls up and over a mini-valley that eventually meets the beginning of a creek.  At the merger of the small hill are a tree that has vines and another fallen tree entwined throughout.  I feel the need to climb.  First, I pick up a large branch and break it in half.  This should keep Manny busy, while I attempt to regain some of my childhood.  It does.  I step onto a hanging vine that acts as a ladder rung to boost me up to the tree.  This is exciting until my next two steps cause for excessive bending and cracking.  I figure Manny isn't going to be a good spot, so I jump down.  I tried.  Maybe in my younger days I could have made it a little higher.

I find it interesting how people use the woods as a garbage can.  I continue my journey finding two separate trampolines in two completely different areas.  One of them works perfectly.  Manny stares head cocked to the side, as I jump arms and legs flailing.  The leaves that covered the black surface spring around my knees and float through the air.  After Manny becomes restless, I hop back to the ground.  Near the trampoline I locate my staff; its fit for a king.  The walking stick is massive and sturdy enough to help me through some of the unstable ground.  Scattered throughout the weeds and across the ground are lightbulbs, empty chip bags, plastic buckets, etc.  When I reach the other trampoline it is bent and busted leaning upright against a tree.  What's wrong with leaving it in front of your house for the garbage man?  I guess that'd be too easy.


Part Two - SHOULD HAVE STAYED SITTING.

I come to a small tree that is worthy of being photographed.  Since I don't have a fancy digital camera, I usually use my fancy phone camera.  Well not anymore.  It's not in my pocket.  I know for a fact I brought it with me, because I remember looking at the time when I entered the woods.  The destination has changed.  I back track as best as I can, even going to get my twelve-year-old brother to help in the search.  My own personal search party - Manny and Sammy.  The tree I failed to climb shows no signs of my phone.  Maybe it fell out when I was jumping on the trampoline.  Nope.  We, of course, find nothing.  On our way back home, we do find a couple neat spots.  We sit on the ground under a covering of fragile branches that are weaved perfectly, like a throw.  I listen to Sammy tell me about his adventures in the woods with his friends.  He tells me about their tree house.  We exit the woods covered in burrs and bloody scratches.  The woods have freed me for the time being.

The Solace of Open Spaces

After reading Gretel Ehrlich's "The Solace of Open Spaces," I found myself rethinking the West.  Ehrlich took me to a place that I didn't realize existed.  I've never really thought about the west, let alone Wyoming, being such an open and stagnant place, as if the people there are stuck in the past (cowboys and herders).  She describes the land so beautifully though, which makes me want to go there.  The whole idea of slowing down and meshing with the land is so inviting.  "Despite the desolate look, there's a coziness to living in this state," Ehrlich says.  Getting out of the overpopulated cities and suburbs would be a rewarding experience where I could lose myself and possibly find something through the natural, rugged world of Wyoming.

At the beginning of her essay, "The Solace of Open Spaces," Ehrlich says that the name Wyoming comes from an Indian word meaning 'at the great plains.'  This instantly contradicts the land, which is "valleys, great arid valleys, sixteen hundred square miles, with the horizon bending up on all sides into mountain ranges."  This kind of sets the tone for her connections between nature and culture.  She says, "Most of Wyoming has a 'lean-to' look."  The dugouts, low sheds and log cabins are fitting for the harsh land.  Ehrlich states that sagebrush covers 58,000 miles of Wyoming, while the largest city has a population of fifty thousand.  The sagebrush takes up more space than the people.  This is a small example displaying the impact of nature on the people and not vise-versa.

"And despite the physical separation, people stay in touch, often driving two or three hours to another ranch for dinner."  Ehrlich begins to touch on the loneliness that many of the people in Wyoming encounter.  Like the desolate land, people are a scarcity.  To keep their sanity, people sacrifice several hours to journey for a brief moment of company.  Ehrlich makes two comments on isolation that say a lot about the people who live there.  "To emerge from isolation can be disorienting."  When people do have to rejoin a populated area, they are out of their element; they become uncomfortable and awkward.  "Things happen suddenly in Wyoming, the change of seasons and weather; for people, the violent swings in and out of isolation."

Ehrlich reflects on page five with a lyrical description of one's life.  Instead of a series of dramatic events, a person's life is a "slow accumulation of days, seasons, years, fleshed out by the generational weight of one's family and anchored by a land-bound sense of place."  The culture of Wyoming is this whole idea. The meticulous hand is needed to live in a place like this.  Great accomplishments or terrible failures do not hold a life, but instead becoming a complete part of the place, the land, manifests a person's life.

The character of the people is brought out through Ehrlich's descriptions.  The people are very proud of their land and, although may seem rough and rugged, are tender hearted.  When telling the story of her friend Cliff, who cut off half his foot, I could not believe her words.  The man was more worried about the cows getting out than his life.  With the amount of blood he was losing, he could have easily died.  But the cows, the land, are these people's life support.  They farm and herd.  Because of their isolation, they are very intimate with the animals and the land.  Losing any piece of those things would be more devastating than losing a foot.

In my hometown, I feel the complete opposite of those in Wyoming.  It is a completely different world.  Where they embrace the natural world and make it a part of their culture, we go against it.  The culture I live in is concerned with taking up space; building more to accommodate the ever growing population.  I'm not sure what else this area could do, though.  Because Wyoming is less populated, there is open space, while here we have to continue to locate even the smallest space for people or businesses to thrive.  Our connection with nature is slowly disappearing, in most part, because we do not live off the land like the westerners.  I am really having a difficult time deciding why or what has contributed to the development of this culture.  Maybe it's only a matter of time before places like Wyoming undergo a transformation into a less nature-dominated and isolated lifestyle.

Finding the Balance

Tuesday, November 3, 11:00 a.m. - Such a beautiful day.  I truly prefer the dry, crunch leaves opposed to the soggy woodland floor.  The leaves scattered across the woodland floor are no longer reds and yellows.  Faded brown and beige leaves snap, crackle and pop with every step.  The only color remains in the few yellowish green leaves that are still clinging for dear life to branches.  A tree bearing only a handful of dying leaves bends awkwardly against the shadows from the sun.  It dips into a cluster of fallen and broken trees.  Vines dangle and weave throughout holding the depressed mass together.  The vines pull at the U-shaped tree as if insisting the tree join the fallen ones.  I feel the tension, the struggle, as the tree refuses the invitation.  Its slender, antenna-like arms pull back and stick up helping their white, crusted body to stay rooted.

Manny's found a suitable branch for gnawing and fetching.  When I do manage to get the stick from his bleached, shark-ish teeth he shoots like a bullet into the brush to regain his chew toy.  A horizon of red, orange leaves bleeds through the myriad of white branches.  From the carrot top horizon the color fades into a dull grayness.  The sorrow of the fuzzy atmosphere is fitting for my weeping tree.  Maybe once the color is completely engulfed in the shadows of winter, the sad tree will give up the fight.

The oceanic sky is crystal blue.  A few white marshmallow clouds sail in front of the sun like sailboats.  Looking to the sky, I see a branch twisting and dangling from a knot of vines.  As if someone has recently been executed by hanging, the withering noose dances in the wind.  A gust of wind hurls through the air pushing the sailboat puffs towards their destination.  I am caught in the middle.  Death looms all around me, while the beating sun tries to resuscitate the land, maybe even my dying friend, the curling tree.

A deep growl rumbles in front of me.  Manny's tail is as straight as a floor board.  He's erect, ready.  "What is it boy?"  He lets out an almost intimidating round of barks.  I join his vision only to see the trees.  "Go get'em.  Get after'em, boy!"  He ambles through the bushes and begins nibbling on a cluster of weeds.  Whatever it was, if anything, is gone.  Or Manny just chickened out.

The disengaging leaves have opened my view.  In the distance, rooftops seep through into the woods.  They're coming; they've always been coming.  Invading and taking over.  No one, no thing is safe from the construction (or destruction) of man.  Soon my log will be a little boy's front porch.  It won't be his fault.  He has no control.  He has no knowledge of what exists here, now.  I feel sorry for that boy, who will be fenced in like a dog.  Will he wonder about the young man and his dog who used to visit and find solace in the place where is father barbeques?  Doubtful.