My Favorite Place

I can think back to lots of different places that made me smile as a kid. 

My backyard was one. It was a wide open adventure waiting to happen. We had wood and nails and bricks and stones and mud. A lot can be made with those things. We even had a clothesline we could drape sheets over to make a tent. 

My brother and I once dug a pit, built a small fire in it, and put in some potatoes, and then covered it back up. 

Did you know that fire doesn’t like dirt? Neither did we. 

I did discover that I am allergic to raw potatoes. Hives, swollen tongue and vomiting are not fun. 
Never did that again. 

I already told you about the railroad ditch. What I didn’t tell you was that it had a sand bottom and if we dug deep enough, we’d find the wet sand. 

On hot summer days, that sand cooled off our hot feet. 

My room was another place I would retreat to. I had book shelves galore filled with a world of possibilities. In one book I would solve mysteries. In another, explore far off shores. And my favorite...a book of silly poems:

I never saw a purple cow. 

I never hope to see one. 

But I can tell you anyhow, 

I’d rather see one than be one. 
But my favorite place, especially when I was with my grandparents, was in my Buello’s lap. 
He never fussed when I climbed up on his knees and laid my head on his chest. I could sit there for hours if he let me. I heard the sound, the rumble, and the timber of his voice. I would hear him clear his throat. I smelled the woody smell of his sweat and could see the whiskers on his face. But most of all, I could hear his heartbeat. 
Many times, I would fall asleep listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. 
In the ‘60s and ‘70s, a safe place was needed. The world around me wasn’t open to a little girl who was half white and half Hispanic. The town I grew up in you were either one or the other. In my family, we were both. 
I always thought it was odd that my Buella wouldn’t let my brother and I get sun tanned. Or that she didn’t want us to speak Spanish. 
“But Buella, why!”, I would exclaim. 
I picked up on accents quickly. And sometimes I would say things because I was fully immersed into a culture that was my family. My grandmother would always correct me. “No!”, she would say, “speak normal!”
“But Buella,” I would whine...
I was not aware as a little girl the political climate our country was in the midst of. I had no way of knowing that there were people who hated me for just the half of me that wasn’t like them. 
Occasionally, I would see glimpses of it. Especially if my full Hispanic, darker skinned cousins were beside me. I might be waited on first. Or maybe it would be the way a person would sneer at one of us and smile sweetly at the other. 
Looking back, I now know what I didn’t know then. My grandmother didn’t want us to be dark skinned. This was a way she could control our world so that she could protect us. She also didn’t want us to have an accent. She felt that we would have more opportunities than she did without one. She wanted us to finish school and go on to college and have good jobs. 
I know now that those things can’t define you. Or stop you from achieving great things. In fact they can help in so many ways. 
She didn’t know that then. 
But back then, as a little girl with long braids and a smile always on my face, I didn’t know why. 
I’m glad. 
My grandmother made sure I didn’t. 
My parents made sure I didn’t. 
And so, I had a lot of safe places. Places I didn’t even know I needed at the time. 
But, my Buello’s lap was my favorite safe place.