A Tapestry of Time
On separation and belonging.
Threads of Separation
Humans are fascinating. We all inhabit the same Earth and yet we live in different worlds.
Two weeks ago, on the second Thursday of September, I was making my way through customs at Dulles Airport. Directly in front of me was a young family comprised of two parents and their toddler. The father was jovial as he held his groggy child who flitted in and out of jet-lagged slumber. The mother’s demeanor was playful as she bantered with her husband while they listened to voice memos to pass the time waiting in line.
Someone behind me grumbled about how our line - the line for U.S. citizens - was moving too slow for their liking. In the same breath the grumbler said it wasn’t fair that “those people in that other line just get to walk in.” I turned around so I could match the voice to the face and was not surprised by what I saw. Standard issue.
Eventually, the family in front of me arrived at their turn to have their picture taken and then answer questions from a Customs and Border Protection (CBP) employee. While waiting for my turn, I heard the father answer that they had just returned from a month’s long stay in Afghanistan visiting family. Their son was two years and eight months old. In terms of cash, they had about two-hundred of something but I didn’t catch if it was dollars or afghanis. They were from Virginia and had always resided in Virginia.
The CBP administrator doing the questioning handed them a red tray and told them to follow a visibly armed CBP officer who had suddenly appeared to whisk them away. “Don’t worry little man" said the officer to the now audibly distressed toddler. There was plenty to be worried about however, given that one more armed officer dressed in tactical gear had joined them so that now the family was flanked on either side by two shadows of federal terror.
It was my turn. I handed my passport over. My picture was taken. Where had I gone? Italy. Where in Italy? Rome, Sarzana, then Rome again. Did I eat a lot of pizza? Yes. Did I eat a lot of pasta? Yes. Did I have fun? Yes. “Ok Ms. Martínez welcome back and have a good night.”
Baggage claim in Dulles for international arrivals is just outside of customs. Right in between baggage claim and customs is a hall where the family was disappeared into. The hall appeared to be a two-way set up so that once beyond the exit door from customs to baggage claim, the only thing that can be seen is one’s own reflection. But peer close enough in-between the reflective silvers that don’t extend all the way along the divide and one may lock eyes with an officer on guard like I did.
After collecting my checked bag I hung around the area a little longer as I wondered what my options were for supportive action in that situation. I settled on texting two journalist contacts and one friend who is active in social organizing. I inquired if they knew of anyone tracking citizens detained by CBP and if I could be connected with them in order to give details of what I saw and heard.
I finally made my way out to wait for my ride. While waiting, I grew increasingly dismayed. I felt myself on the verge of coming undone, as if my bones were shattering and my blood was evaporating. Had anyone else seen what I had seen?!
My heart had disappeared with that family and I didn’t even know their names. I wanted to scream, freeze time, reorient all the matter around me and find that family. But what I actually did was scroll on my phone until I grew sick of seeing all the world’s current events converge on a 5.78 inch x 2.82 inch screen.
I looked up from the madness in my hands and saw humans human-ing inside Dulles Airport. Kids gleefully strolling by me while pulling their tiny rolling suitcases. Adults engaged in warm reunions while others navigated icy welcomes.
I watched time unspool itself through bodies in motion and then I felt my heart zip back into me as I saw the family of three coming up for air.
Fresh out of their private hell, all three of them breezed right past me while I was seated near arrival door one. The once jovial father was stone faced while carrying his son who sniffled. The mother, who had clearly been crying, seemed to now be in a disassociated daze while white-knuckling the family luggage. Her body was inside the airport but her eyes said that her mind was elsewhere.
In those moments, the thread of my life briefly intertwining with theirs probably never registered for that family. They obviously had other things going on, like the weight of an entire geopolitical history bearing down on them as they tried to go home.
Threads of Belonging
Two days after the second Thursday of this September, I was back at work.
It is wildly privileged to be on vacation and then start missing what one does for labor inside the system of capitalism. After two weeks of vacation, I genuinely missed being inside the treatment room. So much so that while in Rome, in the middle of a cooking class, I started asking one of my favorite food and culture writers about her spa experiences. I could have asked her about anything and I was asking her about facials.
It is something special, to love being gone and to love returning home, to enjoy the break and to enjoy going back to work. I was so aglow from the inspiration of recent solo travel that a co-worker asked me if I had met someone new to which I replied “I met myself!”
Woven Together
This is how I see life: to be born into humanity is to be birthed through an act of separation. Yanked from the womb to then be cut from an umbilical cord, one arrives to this world by being severed into it. With this original rupture as background, to lead a meaningful life one must unfurl into existence through acts of communion with the self and with others. Hopefully, one then leaves this world having made all kinds of bids for connection, with most of those bids being healthfully reciprocated in ways that outweigh the inevitable rejections.
For all the beauty I am lucky to experience, from family, to friends, to coworkers, to clients; the beauty of the land that surrounds me in Virginia; the novel memories I cultivate for myself locally and wherever I may visit, the longer I am on this planet the more I ache for it. It hurts to take it all in because beauty in the world exists as a corrective to the horrors of humanity and to truly appreciate the former one must be able to sit with consciousness of the latter. To only gaze upon what is pleasing to the senses is to fall prey to escapism. To only focus on what splinters the senses is to get lost in the terror.
Increasingly, it is becoming harder and harder to temper between the two. Between beauty and horror. Between intentional peace and awareness of terror. But I remember that history repeats itself and I can look to my spiritual ancestors for how to move forward. I remember that humans follow patterns because we too are nature. I remember that in the space between rupture and communion there is a bridge called hope.
As I transition through this Equinox/Eclipse portal into Autumn, I choose once again to live with both my hunger for beauty and my consciousness of horror. That is how I want to make meaning out of this one life, by giving care and paying attention. This is how I choose to ensure that whatever happens as this country continues to crash out, my spirit remains whole so that I may stay present long enough to keep honoring those who came before.