A year after the first installment, I am finally getting around to writing the second. Some of the details are a bit foggy, but I did my best to recreate them.
READ THE FIRST INSTALLMENT HERE.
"Outside?" Brian asked, eyebrows punctuating the word.
"Yes, outside," I replied. "The weather is beautiful. A walk
would be nice. Isn't that the whole reason we moved so close to the
square?"
"Well, yea, but you normally dig in your heals anytime I suggest an
adventure of this nature."
"I know. But today I feel different. Don't question it. Let's go."
The meds were doing their job. It had been nearly a month since I started
taking them. My fear was starting to subside. For the first time in over three
years, I craved being near people. I wanted adventure. I wanted to see what was
out there in the big scary world.
He stood, no longer questioning, and began ushering the children to their bedrooms
to get dressed.
“Cartoons!” they protested.
“Simmer down. They will be here when we get back,” he retorted. “However,
who knows how long your mom’s mood will last.”
He had been very supportive through it all, watching me shift from scared of
my shadow to extrovert back to recluse during our eight years together. The
last few years I had been adventurous, but the adventures were left to the
characters that whispered in my head and became words on page.
The doctor’s visit and medication came after a sudden realization that my
fraidicatness was not just hurting myself, but also my children. My four and
eight year old stayed inside most of the time, because I was terrified of what
was out there lurking for them. Irrational fears that paralyzed
our lives--not just mine.
I recognized the fear. The last time it was present, my daughter was a
fresh, fragile bundle of joy. I knew it could be overcome, and I knew that I
could pull myself back out of this. I just needed a little jumpstart.
We stepped outside, the sun’s rays hugging our skin.
“I’m hungry,” the boy whined upon making the first turn out of the
neighborhood.
“Then we will eat,” I replied; now at least finding direction in this
impulse decision.
“Can we go to Raging Burrito?” asked my oldest daughter, pushing her chestnut
hair from her face.
“That sounds like a great idea,” added Dad.
We walked the distance to the restaurant. We ordered, we ate, and we drank.
The waitress had just rested our second round of margaritas on the table when
the children became restless.
“Uh, it’s frozen—I can’t kill it,” I said, my voice mirroring my youngest at
his worst. I was beginning to regret this decision.
“Miss, can we have the check and two to-go cups for our waters?” Brian asked
the waitress.
As she walked away, I asked, “Why would we take our waters?
He winked at me.
“Oh.”
He poured the pomegranate and mango margaritas into the styrofoam and helped
wrangle the kids. We stepped back out into the sunshine, our eyes readjusting
and our brains swimming a bit in our skulls.
When we had only walked a few feet, we heard it.
“Shh, listen, kids,” said Brian.
“Is that?”
“Yep.”
I wanted to run towards it. A large crowd formed around a dance studio. I
could hear the twang of the berimbau, but I couldn’t see it. We pushed up
closer to the crowd.
The spirit of the berimbau
was pulling us.
Inside the studio, we saw the circle of capoeiristas. The watchers were
tightly packed in the wide-spread glass doors, half wondering what they were
watching and the other half glad to see it once more.
My son tried his best to see, his height barring him from full sight. A
tattooed man wearing the all-white uniform, covered in grass stains saw this
and smiled at me, eyes asking permission, and then reaching for the hand of my
youngest.
A caramel skinned girl, with a long ebony braid, and the most honest, open
face I’d ever seen turned her back on the circle for a moment and walked over
to us. She took the hand of my son and led him to the circle. He followed,
smile hugging his ears.
The circle opened, making room for the boy who was half the size of the next
smallest—a boy about nine with a faux-hawk.
They invited him to play. Having watched their movements and trying to
mirror them, my son cartwheeled right into the center alongside of the tall
skinny man, who appeared to be their leader.
He
moved his limbs similarly to theirs, and managed to duck a kick and throw one
of his own.
My son beamed as he walked back towards me.
The tattooed man still standing next to me, extended a colorful flyer
towards my clasped hands. “We have kids’ classes.”
I remembered my wish from my first encounter with capoeira.
If I had only found this when I was younger.
It was too late for me, but he could have it. He could love it. I could
love it through him.
I bent down to the boy, “Would you like to learn how to do that?”
“Yes!”
“Can I try it too?” asked my daughter, eyes sparkling at my side.
We gathered down the time, the place, and all the other information that
would bring this beautiful art form into our lives.
So what if it was only vicariously through our
children?
I still had no idea what transformation lied ahead. No idea what we would
all become. That a simple, extended Brazilian hand would later give me a new
name, a new identity, and a new life. This was the baby step. A simple stroll
in the sunshine.
Share any thoughts, perspectives, etc. I'd love to hear from you.
Some background on this piece. I am
embarking on a journey of studying the culture, social movement, and
communication of Capoeira. In order to move forward, I felt it was
important to look back. I hope to role out additional pieces based on my
past with this beautiful art form that has grabbed a hold of me and
changed my life.
Time and place is a huge part of a novel. There are books that are set in real places with great detail that closely matches the spot a the map. While others are created from scratch with elaborate made-up worlds and unique ecosystems. Then yet there are those examples where the story is set in Anytown, USA--where the setting is barely relevant to the story.
