The USA Was a Stepping Stone
Fear in New Orleans
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Six dates—that's all it took for my parents (Catalina & Luc) to elope in Jamaica. To read those chapters, start from the beginning, "Forever Foreign." However, each story stands on its own. The following story is set in America before my parents wander amid CIA shadows and sticky red tape, celebrate with the Sandanistas, dwell on a monkey-ridden island with a beat-loving recluse, rise to the top of Tenerife's tourist sector, dodge the draft, smuggle—
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Each story has a related cultural psychology or sociopolitical article.
The USA Was a Stepping Stone
Here, I stand in the fluorescent-lit corridor of bureaucracy in Miami airport, facing an immigration officer who could easily double as a drill sergeant. As he inspects my passport with the precision of a surgeon, I wonder if I've unwittingly stumbled onto the set of a military-themed reality show.
“Why are you staying in ‘Merica?” he asks.
“I’m not.”
“You’re in the United States of America, son. So, I’ll ask you again. What are you doing in America?”
“I have a layover on my way to Argentina.”
“A layover on the way to where?”
“Argentina.”
“Ar-gen-tina.”
“Yes.”
“You have a layover here on the way to Argentina?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And exactly what do you plan on doing in America on your way to Argentina?”
“Nothing. If there were a flight where I wouldn’t have to step foot in this country, I would have taken it.”
The immigration officer is so taken aback that he hands back my passport and lets me catch my plane.
I was twelve years old when I heard this story from my father, but it didn’t come as a surprise. People who had never left Canada or the United States often credited Jesus for my parent’s survival in godforsaken countries. Instead of fearing the country of Africa (as many of these people referred to it) and those cocaine-ridden death traps below Mexico (again, not my words), I was wary of the USA.
My parents had slept in Latin American ghettos and avoided death by luck dozens of times, but when I asked my mother where she had been most afraid in her life, the answer was New Orleans.
Catalina
We saw my father’s corporate apartment in New Orleans as a stepping stone to Costa Rica.
As a sailor on merchant ships, your father wasn’t obliged to do his one-year military service in Belgium. But he wasn’t a sailor anymore, so he had to stay out of Europe for the next five years if he wanted to avoid his military service. For your father and I, staying out of Europe for five years to avoid military service was worth it. And what better place than Costa Rica, a country without an army?
However, staying in New Orleans wasn't precisely aligned with our pacifist ideals.
I was all alone because your father had gone to Costa Rica to check it out beforehand. Since he was searching for places we could afford (which wasn’t much), he didn't have a set itinerary, and I had no way to get a hold of him.
I sat by the phone all night, craving his voice. Instead, I received muffled telephone calls with strange, distorted mumbles three days in a row. Between the heavy breathing, shrieks, and sudden pauses, I couldn’t make out any clear threats, but it was enough to bring me into a surreal state of fear. Sleep-deprived, I started to imagine...
As a visual artist, the best way I can describe the feeling is with a painting.
I didn't select The Death of Marat II by Edvard Munch for the murderess it depicted, but rather because I found myself stripped bare, vulnerable to the unrelenting presence of death looming ever closer. In a world where death denial shadows every step, the canvas spoke to my raw exposure to my mortality.
The third morning, I finally built up the courage to go outside to my car so I could get more food and experience life in downtown New Orleans. But to my horror, I saw somebody stuck match sticks in the doors' keyholes.
Although nothing physical happened, these mind games went on for three weeks until I finally got a call from Lucas.
He rented an apartment in the capital, San Jose, and was waiting for me to join. I was ready to get the hell out of America.
Two weeks earlier…
Luc
The Mississippi River takes a sharp turn where the French Quarter stands, a historic community translating the history of the US into jazzy undertones. Every drop of water from Lake Itasca in Minnesota, where the Mississippi River originates, mixes with the sweat and blood of the population, as well as the melting snow and subtropical rains from the ten states through which this mighty river winds its way.
Here, at the deepest point of the river, Algiers Point, 60 meters deep, the fascinating city of New Orleans emerges, squeezed between the river and Lake Pontchartrain, fighting against floods and sociopolitical injustices.
If all the sorrow of the African slaves and the decimated Native American population were collected in a lake, it would be Lake Itasca, just big enough to channel those tears into the second-largest river in North America, with the ultimate goal of reaching the Gulf of Mexico.
Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, Illinois, Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana—states that should be ashamed of their racist past and the glorification of church and dollar. Instead, they voted for Ronald Reagan, who, along with Margaret Thatcher, gave the starting signal for unbridled capitalism and unlimited greed. The beginning of—
A large African-American man sits beside me, pulling me from my thoughts. He wears a baseball cap with the Saints logo, the local American football team. Sharing my opinion about American football is the fastest way to die, or so I think. Instead, I sit quietly, observing the river with my thoughts in silence.
"You 'sposed to be scared of me."
"Sorry, why?" I say, continuing to roll my cigarette.
"Cause you on the wrong side o' da river."
"Perhaps. Yesterday I was on the right side of the river, thoroughly enjoying Mardi Gras, the flashing of boobs when people yelled, 'Show your teets, show your teets’.”
When I notice his smile, I know to continue.
"And this side of the river is far enough from the French Quarter to heal my hangover."
He laughs and extends his hand. I shake his bear paw and look into his eyes, a friendly brown, carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken stories, each tale etched into the creases that radiated from their corners like the delicate fissures in the parched earth.
"Sorry, son, I ain't familiar with dat side o' da river. I ain't welcome there. But it sounds like a good time. Where you hailin' from?"
"Belgium. You know, squeezed between Netherlands, France, and Germany."
I'm used to having to locate Belgium on a map and give further explanations, but then he says, "I know 'bout Belgium. My grandad passed there durin' the war. He had the choice to be killed by a German or a redneck from Louisiana. He preferred the bullet to the hanging tree."
Silence.
"First time here?" he asks.
"No, three years ago, I was at the wheel of an enormous cargo vessel, steering the ship from the delta to Baton Rouge. Super scary. I mean, the American pilots were. Holy shit."
"And now?"
"I'm here with my wife and father-in-law, who promised me a job in the offshore oil business. But that seems like a pipe dream."
"So, back to ships?"
My father-in-law suggested managing his new plant in Aberdeen, Scotland, but I sensed his business partners didn't want to have the "eye of Moscow" in their vicinity. So, yes, going back to supply vessels in South Africa or Canada is certainly the most rational solution.
Unfortunately, I am not rational, and I belong to the species of apes who first jump into the river to find out if they can swim, so all I say is, "A Mexican friend told me about Costa Rica. I think I’ll try the little paradise in the midst of hell."
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