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San
Jose, CA, late 1970s, age 7, playroom
“Colin! Colin!
Where are you? Colin! Why aren’t you coming?!” I threw my toy car against the wall. Why isn’t he coming? It had been too long since my brother had
come to visit. I had called to him the
day before, and the day before that, and many other days before that. By this time, I didn’t even know how many
days it had been.
I was now screaming, “Colin!!” My throat burned red and hot. I picked up my bear, laid him on my toy
ironing board, and imagining Colin within him, I pounded on his tummy. “Colin!!
Where are you?! Come back!” One
more pound.
I paused.
Horrified. What had I just done
to Colin? I picked up my bear and hugged
him tight. “Colin, I’m so sorry! I promise I’ll never do that again. Please, please come back,” I whispered into my
bear’s ear. I screamed again, this time
at the ceiling. “Come baaaaack!!”
Another car tore across the room.
Then another, and another. One
was in the air when the door opened, with Mom peering through the door
opening. “Karina, are you okay?”
How could I answer? If I answered it honestly, “Colin won’t come
to me,” she wouldn’t understand. She
didn’t know how to pull me into her and have me cry it all out like Dad
did. Besides, she thought Colin was
imaginary.
Quickly drying off my face, I
mumbled, “I’ll be okay.” Relieved, she
closed back the door, smiled, and said, “All right.”
Colin never returned. I knew he wouldn’t. I had pounded him through my bear.
“How about ‘Squeaky’?” I asked,
holding our brand new puppy, in the back seat of our car. Mom said she liked names that ended in “y,”
so I was suggesting adjective names like “Happy” or “Yippy,” none of which she
liked. Our puppy was non-stop squeaking,
so I thought “Squeaky” was perfect. Not
Mom. “Veto!” she cried out. We then passed a Cindy’s restaurant and I
said, “How about ‘Cindy’?” “’Cindy’ is
perfect!” Mom exclaimed, delighted. “She
has the color of cinders. Yes, ‘Cindy’
is it!”
Mom and I had both been begging Dad
for a dog, and once he finally relented, we flew out the door looking for
one. We found a sweet, squeaky,
cinders-colored, female cockapoo, who became my new best friend. Not long after that, I made a human best
friend with a girl who lived only three blocks down the street. Soon after that, I joined the swim team. I was off and running, and swimming, and
reading too. Somehow, Colin knew just
how long I needed him before I could begin navigating life in my strange new
culture on my own.
Seattle, WA, 1980s, age 14
My dad was blessed. He had only one sibling, but the best kind: a
brother only thirteen months his junior, and his best friend. My grandfather, one of eight children, grew
up in Washington state, which drew both Dad and Uncle Bob to Washington State
University. After graduating, Uncle Bob moved
to a suburb about a half hour south of Seattle, and not far from many of their
dozens of cousins. Family reunions,
usually over the Fourth of July weekend, brought us to the Northwest almost
every year. The summer before I entered
high school, Dad and Uncle Bob needed two full days to work out care for my
grandmother, leaving Mom and me free to play tourist in Seattle.
Mom asked Uncle Bob for suggestions. For my boater and fisherman uncle, that was
easy: Pike Place Market. It’s best known
for its delicious fish, but also for its unique, crafty shops, antiques, a
charming waterfront, a lovely park, and – a big draw for both me and Mom – the
Seattle Aquarium and Omnimax Theater nearby.
We left around 10 am and headed onto I5 North. We passed a sign to Vancouver, BC, and Mom,
born in Canada and an alum of McGill University in Montreal, pointed to it and
started describing its charm. We passed
another sign to Vancouver. Had I ever
been? No, never been there. We passed a third sign, Mom was getting more
nostalgic, and we passed a fourth.
“You’ve never been to Vancouver?”
“No, never.”
“Karina, we are going to Vancouver!”
This was the 1980s -- you know, before passports were needed
to cross into Canada and before cell phones, but not before traffic,
congestion, and booked hotels during holidays like the Fourth of July and
Canada Day on the 1st. We arrived
in Vancouver in the evening and every hotel we passed read, “No Vacancy.” My Canadian mom knew we had to head east, and
around 10 pm, she found us a little grungy motel with a vacancy in
Coquitlam.
The next day, Mom drove us to the English Bay in Vancouver,
where she introduced me to Lox and Bagels, which I’ve loved ever since, and
then we walked the waterfront trail into Stanley Park, where we walked and talked
for hours, forgetting the time. It was
about 11 pm when we finally made it to Uncle Bob’s, where we found him and Dad
sitting in the hot tub. They tried to
guess where we might have gone that had sent us out for so long and took turns
guessing various excursions, day cruises, and other outings. Then my uncle thought he had it. “You went to a baseball game!” We
laughed. Dad’s eyes lit up wide; his
face revealed he knew the answer; he threw up his arm with his index finger
raised high and exclaimed triumphantly, “You went to Vancouver!” “Isso!” Mom affirmed with glee. That’s it! Together, Dad and Uncle Bob cried
out their congratulations in unison, “Parabens!”
Often, girls and their moms go through a testing phase when
the girl enters her teen years. For me
and my mom, it was the opposite. Her
surprising, spontaneous getaway with me to Vancouver set the stage for a strong
mother-daughter bond and friendship throughout high school and college. Our bond carried out to my friends too, as
many of them found in her a confidante they didn’t have in their own mom. My mom’s adventurous, youthful spirit resonates
with girls in their teens and twenties.
She loves to hear about their adventures, is patient with their dramas, listens
well without judging their youthful choices, and is good at guiding them
through the turbulence of adolescence.
Maybe she doesn’t get young children, but she gets teens. It wasn’t until I was writing this story that
it hit me: our bond was solidified in the country of her birth.
On our drive home from Seattle that summer before I entered high school, I vowed into my journal a promise to one day live in the Pacific Northwest. At 14, I didn’t remember much of Brazil, but I knew the casual, outdoorsy, Zen-like culture of the Northwest fit me in a way I had never found in San Jose. I kept my vow. I went away to college in Oregon and then moved to a small town in Washington state, where I’ve lived ever since.
Epilogue
I didn’t start reading until I was
in second grade. But even at the age of
three, I had learned to read with my eyes, to make observations, and to begin
forming within myself what really matters in life. A small house with white walls and an oven
that doesn’t work is a blessing; large houses and shopping malls are tiresome. And now I drive a two-seater electric vehicle,
symbolizing the simplicity I cherish. This
is the notion that was originally intended to be my driving point, my "thesis," expressed in
the story’s opening quote from Luke: What does it profit a man to gain the
world and lose his soul?
In the process of writing this
story, shared with the other participants in my writing seminar, we discovered
my story carries a plethora of themes, and the one my seminar-mates love best
is the one of the lonely only child who marries her imaginary brother. But there are so many more: immigration and
culture shock, translation, the seeds to my mysticism, and the quiet and gentle
spirit I had at last acquired. Perhaps it
is not that this story needs a thesis, but that this story is my life’s thesis.
Immigrant
Identity
It wasn’t until I returned from
Venezuela that it hit me: I am an immigrant. Not a
normal one, of course. But we moved to
Brazil when I was only a year old, and psychologists say that one’s identity is especially
formed during the very years I was living in another country. But no one saw me as an immigrant, so I was
neither prepared for culture shock, nor was I understood.
Translator
Identity
I heard the Spirit whisper to me in Venezuela that my role there
is also my life’s role: Translator. Often,
this has meant translating sensitivity for other backgrounds before my own majority
white culture, especially
among Christians. During this
pandemic, it also means translating for my fellow liberals our principle of
Equality for All to advocate that we "Save Lives" by uplifting Equality for All
Conditions, in contrast to what I call “COVID Favoring.” Lately, it has even begun to mean translating
for another time. But I must also be sensitive, remembering that
all things sit within paradox,
which can involve a challenge for me:
bridling my Irish self from its quick-tempered impulses.
Home
Identity
Dad resonated with Brazil; Mom with Canada; and I with a
blend, the Pacific Northwest which combines South American zen with Canadian
progressive openness. I then married
another only child, a Northwesterner, who beats to the rhythm of Brazil and
carries the essence of my “imaginary” brother.
In my 20s, what did I most need?
A husband? No, a brother. Such fulfillment can be challenging in a
marriage, and we are working through that, but it is also endearing.
Early
childhood Identity
Some who have heard my impressions
at the age of three have been skeptical.
Could a child so young have been so perceptive? As one whose very early childhood memories
have been confirmed by my mom, I am convinced we underestimate small
children. I’ve read Developmental
Psychology texts on early childhood and would write some of the portions
differently. In one selection, the
“expert” psychologist was explaining the “ego-centric” paradigm of young
children. The author told the story of
two four year-olds who were playing on the play equipment at the park, while
their two mothers were sitting on the park bench watching them. One of the children fell, and the other child
ran to the park bench and reported to his own mother what had
happened. The textbook “expert” explained
the four year-old was too “ego-centric” to tell the “right” mother, the
playmate’s own mother. No, that’s not
it, I thought, recalling what it was like to be four. This four year-old was not “ego-centrically”
choosing the “wrong” mother to tell.
This four year-old was telling the person he could trust, the one to
whom he could safely be the messenger of bad news.
Newest
Identity with a Quiet and Gentle Spirit
My trip to Venezuela also brought an
order to me from my North American Mission Director in words very similar to those
that open my book, Just
like Eve, which sparked my own quest and my book. And it was in Venezuela where the whispers
of mystery began. I never could have
trusted these without two factors: (1) Mom’s confirmation of my waterfall of
memories. If those were accurate,
perhaps so were the whispers. (2) My “imaginary” brother who stayed with me until
I was 7. Few children have their
imaginary friends stay with them until an age old enough to imprint such a strong
impression. That mine did gave me more
trust than most have in the messages coming from another dimension.
My waterfall of memories answered my prayer, and the newly
discovered whispers of mystery told me to quit my anti-depressants. This took courage and faith in whispers so
new. But I listened. I have been off of them ever since.
A quiet and gentle spirit cannot come by needing other people
to understand me. I continue to think in
one paradigm, while living among those who think in another, and though I’m
learning to translate, I know my translation is limited, as is the capacity of
others to hear it. And, to be fair, my Irish spirit can also mess it up at times. I will, then, be
often misunderstood.
And that
is okay.
And now
I know it is okay,
Even misunderstood, I can now maintain a quiet and gentle spirit.
