I Gaslight Myself for Calling 911 (and Other Stories)
I have called everyone’s favorite emergency number three times in my life. The first, after a car wreck. My nana couldn’t do it, and my own hands were shaking. I remember putting on my best “first responder voice” as I had seen my dad and my uncle do many times and speaking to the operator. It’s funny—they re-did the intersection where it happened. Removed the old bridge. That place doesn’t exist anymore, kind of like the childhood—the home—that died long ago. I digress.
The second was in my own car wreck—the frightening event that changed the course of my life right before I turned 25. I needed help, but I didn’t know how to ask for it. I didn’t know how to answer the question “Are you injured?”—it just didn’t sink in as a yes or a no. As I waited for the fire department to arrive, I started to feel guilty. They should be on the scene of a shooting in Fair Park—not here at my car wreck. Is it traumatic, or dramatic? I didn’t know. I got out of the vehicle. Beloved 2012 Toyota Prius. I realized that I could have died.
Then, the third time. Suspicious activity at my apartment. An unknown man rapping on my door late at night claiming to be maintenance and asking if I was alone. Scary, right? But shouldn’t I call when I know more? Shouldn’t I call when I’ve cracked the case? What color was his shirt? I gaslit myself. I didn’t know anything for sure. All I knew was I was spooked. Nothing much scares me, but that did.
I used to gaslight myself for a variety of reasons. Something I still do is names. Was his name really Marcus? You don’t meet too many Marcuses, I thought as I asked him his name for the second time. Am I really moving to LATAM in a few years? Did I just claim to be multilingual for nothing? What happens when I speak English? Am I being a hypocrite? It’s my own insecurity rapping at my door. Scaring the shit out of me. I can’t call 911. The journey to confidence is one each of us has to take for ourselves. I, personally, fake it until I make it. It’s landed me jobs. It’s earned me street cred. It’s allowed me to help others by remaining calm and dealing with the issue at hand. I don’t think many of my acquaintances realize that I too struggle with insecurity. Deep insecurity. I have simply arrived at the point where I don’t let it get in the way.
I must tell you a story. It begins shortly after my mom died.
My former church began a project with a nonprofit in rural Guatemala called Esperanza de Vida. Now, although I am not religious, I still hold that place very dear. We were to partner with a remote village and complete several projects with them—clean water, a school, and a church. Three trips. Thousands of dollars. Many volunteers. The elders of my church were going on a trip to meet with the organization in person, visit the village, and witness the completion of the clean water pipeline we funded. The elders wives were also going. Since my mom had just passed away, my dad invited me to accompany him. I knew nothing about Guatemala, damn near flunked out Spanish, and cared more about the hype of visiting a foreign country than I did about the work we were doing or the religiosity of it all. It was, from the start, a flawed mission. Not only was I flawed, but the leadership was as well. The beauty of the project, something I look back on, is despite our motives and the flaws, a village now has resources. A village now has esperanza de vida.
I fell in love with Guatemala. Be it the awesome Pollo Campero restaurant chain and the other food, be it the people we prayed with in the village, the tiger that the organization kept in their compound (badass), or witnessing the work they did up in the gorgeous mountains and rivers of the jungle, I loved it. I returned for another trip—building a school. This time a team of about 20 or 30 leaders and teenagers staying for 7 days. We built a school with our own flawed estaunidense manos. Our estaunidense mentes. We played futbol with the kids. Read stories. It was the first time I spoke Spanish since high school. It ceased to be something I had to study or answer to someone for—it was a means of connection. It was hearing these kids’ names. Learning their favorite colors and hobbies. It was realizing that no matter how much I wanted to be lazy those years ago in class, I picked some of it up. I was able to use it. And I fell deeper in love with this place—this language. The sound of it rolling of their tongues. The excited screams during a futbol game. Reassuring mothers and other residents that we were here to help—we were here because we loved. I believed we were doing good. I think now that we were, despite everything. But I also think I learned more about myself than those children learned about God. I think, for me, it was not the good we were doing, but recognizing the flaws in myself. Recognizing my bias. Recognizing my inadequacy. Holding the hands of an elderly woman in the nursing home at the organization’s compound, I vowed to speak her language, to be able to listen someday to another elderly woman telling her story, and to understand. I wanted to grow and mend the brokenness inside me.
There was never a third trip. There was never a church. Part of the flaws—the pastor of my former church had an affair. The church broke up and was never the same. Another member of leadership had inappropriate interactions with minors in the youth group. What once was a source of life and comfort to me was gone. I was already questioning—moving away slowly—but now had nowhere to land, that is, if I wanted to land back in religion. I felt lost. I think about it often that we let that village down. The kids, who asked me if we would be amigas para siempre—I would never see them again. Because although the trip served as a mirror deep within my soul, my own darkness, I did care about those girls. I did care about that old woman. I wanted to speak to them in Spanish—now my major in college.
As I rode the rollercoaster of my own mental health, two college dropouts later, I forgot about Guatemala. I forgot about Spanish. Until one day when the whispering began. A precious voice in my ear. Perhaps Rebekah’s Papa—her name for the Divine. Perhaps my future self. Perhaps the universe, or my own confirmation bias. But it called me to Peru. It called me back to LATAM. I remembered Spanish. I remembered the faces of Guatemala. That is the place my journey began. That is when I knew, without the words in my head but a feeling in my heart—that LATAM was home. As much as I now gaslight myself, I cannot get rid of it.
During our second trip to Guatemala, as part of our service work we visited a dump and fed the residents there a meal. Every day these people gather salvageable pieces of metal and plastic garbage—100 pieces for one US dollar. I remember that detail vividly. If we feed them meals, and offer to help, why don’t they leave? Someone on the team asked. Don’t they want a better life? Our guide replied, No—this is their home. Why would they want to leave their home? It is all they know.
In my search for home this week, I remembered that day and those words. Sometimes home doesn’t make sense to others or even yourself. But to you, it’s yours. It is what you know. That comfort zone means something. It means family, friends, and a status quo. It seems incomprehensible to leave, even if presented with something better. Home is home. It just is for some—it is permanent.
Although home looks different for me, I realize that there is no right or wrong way to think about home. There is no right or wrong place to live. What matters is that you feel peace. What matters is that it means something to you, and you have it. Home. Why would I leave? I ask. Why would I leave my comfort zone? Because home speaks a different language. I can’t explain it, and I don’t have to. Just like my Guatemalan friends at the dump, it simply is all I know. Ever since that 911 call in my second car wreck, it has called. Rapped at my door. Che, boludo. We’re taking a trip.