“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
“SHEESH! Why would you ever want to move out here?” you ask me, wiping the sweat off your brow. Yeah, I get it. New Mexico is extremely sweltering in the summer, and it’s even worse when you have a flat tire. Don’t ask me to eat any of that green chile though, it still tastes a little too slimy for me.
We’ve finally gotten out of the car in the middle of…nowhere. Cactus, mountains, rocks, and nothing else in sight. You’d think there’s no one and nothing out here. The water is definitely lacking, and perhaps so is your patience as we walk a few miles to the nearest repair shop.
“You don’t sound like you’re from here. What’s your accent?” the mechanic asks, as we’ve finished telling him what tires we need to continue our journey. Yikes, here we go again. You stand beside me and hold out your hand, ready for the countdown. I've never really known what being from somewhere is like. "I've lived in Arizona, New Mexico, 3 major cities in Texas, Louisiana, Michigan, Tennessee, Florida, and Pennsylvania," I say, as you count them up on your hand for the cashier to see. That's always a really difficult question.
“That’s all sick, huh?” the mechanic says in an accent so familiar to me. (If you’re not from the Land of Enchantment, this may sound foreign to you).
"Why did you ask me to drive us all the way to this wasteland?" you ask me as we get back on the road. The smell of roasting chile permeates the air, and we’re just in time for the world’s largest hot air balloon festival. This holy grail of a valley in the middle of nowhere was home for three years...but there’s still so much left unanswered.
“Phillip is a man after my own heart.” I sat in anticipation as one of my basketball coaches gave his speech for our Friday evening graduation service. It was May 23rd, 2014. After three years at an academy in New Mexico, I was finally graduating and my family was moving to Miami, Florida in less than a month. Finally, an oasis. Finally, I could be around people who looked like me again--a community. “He’s the most selfish and arrogant person I have ever known,” he continued, “And if he does not get his act together, he’s gonna have a hard time in life…”
I don’t remember very much about what else he said. All I can remember is sitting there stoically, refusing to let the church congregation and my friends see my anger. I was the only Black student, and for most, the only Black friend most people had. I definitely was not going to transform into the “angry Black man” stereotype on a night that was supposed to be a happy experience for everyone. The rest of the night was a blur. My friends consoling me through painful words, and my grandparents (who had flown all the way from Nashville, Tennessee) love and encouragement as we drove back home. I didn’t stop for anyone or anything.
This was actually taken around the moment those words came out of the speaker's mouth.
“Well, why didn’t anyone stop this guy from saying all that stuff about you? Man...if I was there, I would have--”
“And that’s the thing,” I interrupt you, “At that point, I was tired of having to defend myself to people who really didn’t take the real time to get to know me. I was pretty resigned.” We’ve stopped at a restaurant called Frontier, a pretty popular hangout in the middle of town. I love Tex-Mex, but once again, I CANNOT stand green chile. You order a green chile burger just to make me upset.
I had the kind of school year a high school student should never have. The kind where your teacher asks you to teach her classes (I was really passionate about history) and then tells the world how horribly “arrogante” and “egoista” you are, oftentimes in the other dominant language of the land. It all started at Senior Survival (If you’ve never heard of this, I promise the church and school system I belong to is not a cult...we just do some...interesting things).
Senior Survival. The great northern New Mexican outdoors. Hiking, repelling off of cliffs, making our tents out of nothing but trashbags and sticks, and pooping in separate holes around the forest (I wanted you to spit out your burger). Sound relaxing? Great, maybe to you, but being the slight stereotypical African American that does not necessarily love being outside and has rarely camped a day in his life, it wasn’t all sunshine and cactus.
One of the worst times came when we were all huddled around the campfire on the final night. We had survived, although no one had showered and I was definitely dissatisfied after being the only one rained on in a trash bag tent for two. Our principal, superintendent, and our sponsor all sat around the opposite side of the fire, and it was time to elect our class officers. In a class of five, nearly everyone has to be an officer. Me? I refused to be one. Why? Before the semester began, somehow the school overlooked that some of my credits from my previous academy did not transfer correctly, a whole two years after I transferred. This meant I had to take a whole ten classes (including Physics and Geometry, which I am not fluent in) in order to graduate. I didn’t know. My family didn’t know. I wanted to focus on finishing those things and getting the grades I wanted (and I was SA President and wanted to pour into that, too).
Instead, I was penalized for it and made an officer anyway (even though I tried to explain myself). “You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You’re selfish. You’re so arrogant for believing that you’re better than everyone else.” A huge target was placed upon my back for the year, a target I hadn’t realized I’d asked for. I never wanted it. I just was reared at a young age to believe in being excellent and successful whenever I could. Always do your best. My mother was a single parent for nearly a decade, and she did her best with all of our circumstances. My grandparents weren’t expecting me, but they did their best to provide for me. My uncle inspired me, and he did his best to help me enjoy childhood. Why couldn’t I overcome?
I excused myself from the campfire, still hearing the jeering behind me. My classmates and friends did their best to steer the conversation otherwise, but to no avail. Not wanting anyone to see my angry tears, I went to bed first in silence. I was taken out of context again. Misunderstood again. From that point on, I vowed to continue to do my best, no matter what kind of ridiculous schedule I might have.
“Continued effort to do or achieve something despite difficulties, failure, or opposition.”
They call this place the Land of Entrapment, and for good reason. Most people that you come into contact with never leave. A wasteland to some, but a valley of pleasure to many. “Guess where I went this weekend,” a friend would yell to all who would hear him. “Where?” we would all ask, thinking that this brave soul was able to leave and venture beyond the desert to a mythical haven where there were green trees, blue streams, and clear droplets from the sky. “Las Vegas!” they would say with a smug look, waiting for the punchline. We would fall for it. Naivety captures high school students. “New Mexico!” they’d exclaim, and would find themselves pelted with laughter. We knew no one was capable of leaving this place forever. I was the only person most people knew had lived in more than one place beyond this great desert. Even when people would go to Las Vegas, they’d still be talking about New Mexico, not Nevada.
I, too, was told I would never be able to leave, that I would cling onto this desert land for dear life. I was born in a desert, but it’s the only place I don’t remember. It was never truly home.
“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming.”
My face was definitely marred with tons of dust and sand, and the desert sun definitely made sweating commonplace, especially when I would walk six miles to my then-girlfriend’s house.
“I hate you. I never want to see you again, and it’s your fault that I’m leaving this place. Don’t ever talk to me again. And you know what? They’re right. You really are selfish and one of the most arrogant people I’ve ever met!”
Like I said, then-girlfriend. We dated for five and a half months, which was the longest I’d ever been in a relationship. I thought I had found the one whom my soul loved, but I was horribly wrong at the very end. I gave so much of myself to someone who was not willing to accept that affection and love me back, and it blew up in my face. Maybe I was just too much for some people. Maybe I should tone everything down. I'll go to some university, study insanely hard, get a Master's, get a Doctorate, and live my life surrounded by books, never to interact with people again. I tried, God. Every time I try and do my best at anything in this life, I'm sorely rejected. You know my intentions, my experiences, and my life, so why doesn't anyone support it? I ended up severely introverting for my first two years in college, suppressing every one of the gifts I was given due to an insane amount of fear. Will I be rejected here, too?
I didn’t realize it then, but there was a reason for these trials. There’s a reason for your own circumstances. While our friends choose to be angry about our lot in life, few choose to dare greatly. I wasn’t who I wanted to be yet. Some of the adults around me wanted me to be someone else. When I first got there, my friends thought they wanted me to enjoy fried chicken, Kool-Aid, grape soda, and watermelon. At the end of those years, I walked away with a best friend, a wilderness experience, and a closer relationship with the One who created me.
“I’ve never really liked being vulnerable,” you say, as we head back to the car. Who really does? I’ve been dying to share portions of my stories for years, because I strongly believe they’ll help someone else. Maybe, just maybe, people like us could show a hurting world that there is a space to be vulnerable.
“Vulnerability is about sharing our feelings and our experiences with people who have earned the right to hear them. Being vulnerable and open is mutual and an integral part of the trust-building process.”
I think it’s about time we explore this place for a bit longer. There’s more to unpack, and so much more that leads to my biggest journey thus far. I’m so glad you’re on this road trip with me. Until next time.
