footprints

One day, a man had a dream. He was on the beach with God and they walked in unison, next to each other. He looked back and saw that there were times in his life where he could see two sets of footprints, and other moments when he only saw one. He spoke to God.

“Lord”, the man beckoned. “I look back on this beach and I see footprints in the sand. Sometimes, I see two sets of footprints, but there are other times, difficult times in my life, where I only see one set of footprints. Why is that so, Father?”

God looked at him patiently and with love, as a parent does to a young, precocious child.

He says, “You stupid mutha fucka, you’ve never heard of high tide?”

When I went to the beach today, there were many footprints. I also saw prints of chickens and puppies.

I asked God, “Lord, I look at the sand on this beach, and I see footprints of people and traces of their lives, but I also see prints of chickens and puppies. What does that mean, Father?”

God looked down upon me and answered back, “It means that there were chickens and puppies on the beach recently, and when they stepped they made prints in the sand, you dumb bitch.”

It occurred to me today while I was sun bathing that I have yet to find the weed man here. I have smelled evidence of his presence, I have seen satisfied customers reveling in complete blurriness but I have yet to make his acquaintance myself. I know the time will come when I will recognize his footprints in the sand, and I will walk beside him.

I have my first Spanish examination Friday morning, which apparently is the routine on Fridays, which is fine, as it gives the course some structure and uniformity. To help me become more familiar with the usage of the language, I have started to listen to Spanish CNN on the TV. Apparently, there is nothing going on in the world except the fact that the finals of the World Cup are Domingo (Sunday).

I want to do well on this test, perhaps it’s because I am teacher, and tests are important to us teachers. Perhaps because when I was in school, I liked being a good student, when I wasn’t high. I figure I should try to score well on this test before I find the weed man and my grades slip all to shit.

I notice Spaniards staring at me when I sunbathe. Perhaps they think there shouldn’t be any reason for someone as dark as I am to be sunbathing. Perhaps they think I am there to offer hair-braiding services to tourists.

There are Africans here. They comb the beach trying to sell their wares to beachgoers. A Black man came up to me today with sunglasses and DVD’s. It made me laugh and instantly I was reminded of home. Africans-we are everywhere!

I have seen more Black people today than I have since I have been here. I guess they were just waiting for the end of the week to come out. Spain will probably make them go back inside for the weekend, and then during the end of the week, when company comes, they’ll be let out of the trophy case to roam the beach and sell DVD’s again (I too, sing Espagne, I am the darker hermano).

Diaspora.

I am nervous about the test, because I want to be promoted out of Spanish kindergarten soon. The young people in my class are cute, but class serves more as foreplay than education for them, and they spend most times talking and giggling much to the distraction of the teachers.

My teacher, Teresa, touched my hair today. I suppose it was inevitable. I smiled, as I know she didn’t mean anything bad by it. But I could see on her face and the faces of the other Nordics in the class that it was a moment that we were supposed to share. I guess the students thought that after she did it, they were going to get up and form a line behind her, and one after another, start feeling on my head as she oohs, ahhs, and explains in Spanish the difference of Black hair, much like the lecture that pours out of headsets disseminated at museums during the African art exhibits. Sufficed to say, that didn’t happen.

The beach is literally across the street from my flat. My school is about 1 kilometer from my flat. I think the weed man is probably closer to me than that, as I am surmising now from my exploration excursions that I live on the “seedier” side of the city. As daunting as this sounds, it actually means that I really never need to leave a ½ mile area, and I would be perfectly happy.

Paradise, for me, would be waking up in my flat in the morning, dropping by the weed man before school, and having class on the beach. This would be euphoria. I imagine my classmates would agree, the tough part would be convincing the teacher. I imagine, since she is devoutly Catholic, I may be able to appeal to her sense of spiritually by recounting for her the lovely footprint story. This time, I will leave out the part about high tide.