Lessons

I’m 9 years old and we’re driving through the highland forest with my friend and our families, going back from their farm. Her mom’s warning us about hitchhikers. Says that you never pick them up. Not women, nor children, even if they’re hurt. You have to keep driving. More than likely they’re decoys for traffickers who will take and hurt, if not kill you, too. And if they’ve escaped? Picking them up is just as much of a death sentence. Or they could simply be desperate, desperate enough to press a knife into your neck for a few dolares. 

Her words sound cruel, I suppose, but the fear and firmness of her voice cement the message. This is not something done out of laziness or indifference. It’s a matter of life or death, and she needs us to remember this lesson. It’s the same as some others. Never stop in certain parts of town, don’t even drive there if you can avoid it, and never walk through; that’s how women and kids get taken. Stay away from brujeria, that’s what took the puppy. Always know the route, even if it’s new to you, so that the taxi doesn’t overcharge. And always let them know you understand what they’re saying, even if your complexion tells them that you don’t. 

It’s years later and I’m in a completely different country but her words are still stuck in my head. I remember them when I’m watching TV and someone picks up a hitchhiker or is the hitchhiker. I myself can drive now and her words echo in my head when I pass backcountry skiers looking for rides back up the mountain. I never stop. 

I could. It’s safer here, in some ways. There haven’t been reports of missing people or murdered hikers recently. But still, I’d rather not take chances. And it’s not as safe as it can seem. There are things in the woods that you don’t look at, or think of, or mention. You never say their names. Not to mention the people who hide among them in the trees, nearly as frightening. 

Other lessons stick with me too. Lessons from my father, my family, friends. Lessons I learned long before I would need them and far too late. 

I lock the doors the second I get in the car, and have to stop myself from doing it when there are other people with me, not wanting them to feel as though I’m trapping them inside. I hide any valuables, even if it’s just a school bag, because that’s how they get stolen. One of my friends objects to it. 

“We live in a safe neighborhood. It’s not like it’s downtown.” She says. 

That doesn’t stop me from hiding her phone under the seat when we go into a store and she leaves it behind. I can’t understand how she doesn’t know to do this. Yes, we’re in a safe neighborhood but things still happen. There are still drug dealers as our neighbors and houses full of guns. There are still the nightly sounds of what are either fireworks or gunshots, it’s so hard to tell. And people are still desperate enough to steal. 

I yell at my friends to hurry when we cross the street, am constantly looking and listening for cars as we walk, the same as my dad does. He lost his brother to a car when he was just 3 years old. One of his worst fears is losing me or my brother the same way. I inherited his caution, and yell vamos, apura, and though I know they can’t necessarily understand my words, they can understand the urgency and command of my voice. 

I guard them too. My fear of men is my own, drawn from years of abuses and transgressions, fueled by betrayals and broken trust. I place myself between my friends, my family, and any threat. I am sweet and soft for most but I can be cold and ruthless when needed, and I don’t hesitate. I have little care for my own safety or health but all the care for theirs. I don’t say anything of the violation of a family friend, my age, but I make sure none of my female cousins are with him alone. I don’t think he’d do the same to him, but I will not allow him to get the chance. 

I babysit sometimes, children that remind me of younger cousins that I used to rock to sleep while their mothers worked. I hate being alone with their dads, men who are kind and never hurt me, but who I am wary of nonetheless. I do not allow them to possess much of me. The mothers are better. I have more trust for women. 

Sometimes I see a video, or a message that asks me what I would do if it was the only chance. I can imagine, but it terrifies me, that if I had to, even driving, I would not be able to make it in time. My friends are too far away. 

I have a cousin who lives days away by car, hours by plane. I do not trust that her mother would get to her in time, and I feel too far to help. In some ways it is already too late. She’s 13 and already works part time. There’s no way that’s legal and my heart breaks for her, but it is her escape from a house where her mothers attention is split between her young sister and cousins and her needs feel unheard. She loves them, is the image of a dotting big sister, but I can see the tiredness in her eyes, the signs of overly expedited growth. I want to hold her and take her pain away but I can’t. I can only put all the love I feel into a hug goodbye, until the next time I see her again. 

That same cousin used to talk with me about the quality of sweet tea and was amazed that our laughs were the same. It’s sad, the way we can be forced to change with time. The way that the lessons we learned become reflected on the faces of those around us. They stick to us like glue and try as we might, they refuse to leave. So, I don't pull over for hitchhikers. If they look like they’re in trouble I call the police to check on them. Otherwise, I keep my eyes forward and drive on into the night.