To Shake the Sleeping Self

by Jedidiah Jenkins

  Mexicans tell their story in a different way than we do in the United States. They show patriotism, but less confidence. They cannot cover up what happened to their indigenous people. There were too many of them. Their native cultures were too large to erase or silence. In modern Mexico, and through most of Latin America, both the original cultures and the conquests of imperial Catholicism are still everywhere apparent. Maybe that’s why I sensed in Mexico that people see their past more soberly. They seemed to hold pride and shame in the same hand.

  Perhaps a Mexican can see the United States more clearly than we can, too. Maybe our neighbors can view our imperialism around the world, our bloodstained hands, with more understanding than I ever did as a kid. I was told that America won wars (besides the Vietnam War), and led the world in freedom and democracy, and gave its people the best lives possible. I never questioned that, until I traveled.

  Mexico City is full of the ghosts of a brutal past. Of dead Mayan kings, Aztec kings, and the mystery pyramids of a time before the Aztecs, a mystery to them and a mystery to us. The footprints of these people, these tumultuous centuries, exist freshly. More like Europe, I would guess. But for me, markedly different than in the United States. You can feel it in Mexico City all around you, in the cathedrals built by captured slaves. Built to demand worship by the sword. Built to ensure every last drop of gold made it back to Spain.

  The giant complex city had seduced me. All it took was a couple good new friends as guides, and the surprise that comes from a place exceeding expectations, lazy biases, and half-thought thoughts. I’m sure my mom had said at some point, “Mexico City is the most dangerous city in the world.” Maybe so, but I hadn’t seen that. I saw incredible coffee and stylish people and the best museum ever. Mexico City was my dirty juggernaut of charm and creative energy.

  The newness and surprise of the city messed with my sense of time. I was tasting the street food and learning the history and gawking at the architecture and time was slow and fast. Days flew by. But I felt like I’d been there for months. I was living in a vortex, an autonomous moment.

  After a glorious week exploring the city, we had Thanksgiving with Diego and told stories of how it’s done in the States. We FaceTimed our families. I spoke to my mom. And then my dad. Weston spoke to his mom and not his dad. I missed my family and missed the feeling of an American holiday. I thought about missing Christmas. Being on a beach in southern Mexico or El Salvador for Christmas was beautiful and romantic, but somehow it sounded so unappealing. I began to think about a visit home to catch my breath.

  * * *

  —

  WE SPENT ONE more week in Mexico City. We weren’t ready to leave it just yet. Weston sat at cafés and swiped his way through Tinder. He wanted to find a beautiful Latin girl, here and there, to have a romp with. But as he swiped over and over, and chatted with girls and more girls, he discovered that this was harder than he thought it would be. A friend had told him to match as many as he could, swipe right on all of them, and then sort through the matches. He included in his profile that he was “just passing through, cycling to Patagonia” to make clear that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. He just wanted to have fun. Unfortunately for his libido, women didn’t find much appeal in that. He’d chat with a lady, and make himself crystal clear, and they’d stop chatting back. “I’m finally a guy who’s honest and not playing games, and they want none of it,” he said.

  Weston wanted me to cut loose and be freer, too. He kept asking me if I wanted to go to a gay bar. “We’re in a big city now, there’s got to be tons of gay guys here. Don’t you want to kiss someone? Get a little drunk and have fun?” I wished I could be so free. I wished I could be flippant. But I couldn’t.

  He convinced me to download Tinder on my phone. I swiped through some cute boys, but couldn’t take it seriously. I mostly laughed and showed him profiles that amused me. Guys without shirts, lying in their beds in only underwear, pushing their butts out in unnatural ways. Or grabbing a bulge. Wearing sunglasses. In bed.

  I kept thinking about the last conversation I had with my mom about my sexuality. I could hear her in my ear.

  It was two years ago, on the phone. She had called me after finding out that I’d started a gay Bible study group.

  I was living in San Diego and stepping closer to accepting myself. A major reason I hadn’t kissed a boy, or tried to date, or even examined the theology around homosexuality was that I had never seen a gay Christian man modeled for me. I didn’t know any. And I deduced, if there wasn’t one, maybe that’s because something about being gay inherently corrupts the relationship with God. But a friend said to me, “Jed, there’s always someone that goes first. Maybe God wants you to be that person in your community. Be the godly Christian gay man you wished you’d seen.” I was shaken. I’d expected to be told and shown, not commissioned.

  I started going to a gay-affirming church. I asked them if I could start a Bible study for young gay men, a support group to navigate the oddness of being a paradox: a believer in a religion that didn’t believe in us. They said yes. I thought, Maybe if I start this, I can finally meet a godly gay man and find love. Maybe we can model a Christ-centered gay relationship. I wrote on Facebook about my decision to start the study. I said I wasn’t convinced being gay was against God’s plan. I said I was no longer running from my questions, but looking for answers.

  My mom called me the moment she read it. “Jed, we need to discuss this,” she said, her voice controlled and curt. It was different from any voice I’d ever heard her use.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  “I read what you wrote on Facebook.”

  My face got hot and my heart started pounding. I hadn’t even thought about her reading it. Somehow I thought only my friends would see my post. I forgot my mom would be there, first in line.

  “It breaks my heart, Jed.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Mom. I didn’t really mean for you to read tha—”

  “The fact that you would say those words, it’s very sad and not you. You just give up? You think you can’t overcome that? Sexual sin is one of the darkest sins, because it springs from the deepest part of us.”

  I knew she believed these things. But we’d had years of avoiding the conversation. I’d been such a good Christian boy, never making any overt statements affirming homosexuality. I’d been all over the map, believing it was okay, not believing…flip-flopping back and forth. I guess the fact that I’d never come home with a boyfriend, or shown any outward sign that I was still gay, let her believe that I’d been in the process of healing, of reprogramming, of getting over my little “gay phase.”

  “Mom, it’s not like I’ve walked away from my faith. I’m just being honest with my journey.”

  “I love you so much, and I just want you to be safe and I feel like you lean too heavily on your own understanding. You don’t seem to respect the word of God. It has survived for thousands of years, through civilizations, and you think your one life knows more than it?”

  “I am not saying that, Mom.”

  “I don’t want you calling yourself gay. I don’t believe that is the truth.”

  “Well, Mom, it’s an honest observation. I am not attracted to girls.” It was much easier for me to say “not attracted to girls” than to use the affirmative “I am attracted to boys.”

  “Well, I believe that you just haven’t met the right girl yet. I am praying that a girl comes along and inflames your passions. I know God will provide that. I’ve been praying about this since you were two years old.”

  “What do you mean, two years old?”

  “Yes. Your father said that he thought you might be gay when you were two. Why on earth would any normal father say such things? It was like he spoke a curse over you, and I prayed to God many times to break the curse that your father spoke over you. It was like he was passing his sexual
confusion on to you. He left a wake of sexual pain, adultery, more than you know. I believe that had an impact on your development. I’ve been praying for years. It makes me so frightened to hear you speak this way, Jed.”

  “Mom, I don’t know what to tell you. I know you love me and want to protect me, but—”

  “You need to look honestly at the cost of your father’s choices, he hurt a lot of people. And he hurt you by not being a right example to you. I’ve worked for thirty years to forgive him, to process the pain and betrayal. But you haven’t. You don’t know the effects. You wanting to accept these things is not a sign of strength, it’s confusion.”

  “Ugh. I just don’t see it that way—”

  “It is an abomination. It disgusts me.”

  I got quiet. I froze at that word. I had never heard my sweet mother use a word like disgust, much less direct it at me. It echoed in my head like a gong. I felt my jaw tighten and then my fear morphing into anger.

  “Mom, don’t say that. Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

  But she didn’t miss a beat. “I know what God says about it, and what more do I need to know? It isn’t ambiguous language. I love you dearly, and it is a mother’s job to protect her child. I know you’re an adult and I fear every day for you. To see you embrace a lifestyle that leads to disease and death? You will be childless. It is a sad life. I don’t want that for you. God doesn’t either. What kind of mother would I be if I encouraged you to walk down this path? Is that what you want, a mother who doesn’t care about her son?”

  Her words were frenzied and strange. As if something exploded from pressure. As if she had stored up thousands of words over decades for this exact conversation. Fearing I might be corrupted by the “mainstream media” and the ideas of the secular world. Fearing I would rebel. Fearing I would contract AIDS and die like so many gays on TV from the eighties.

  “I’m heartbroken, Jed.”

  The conversation was terrible and trailed off and I said I needed to go. My thoughts were formless and hot and achy.

  I hadn’t spoken to her about it since then. For two years. We just ignored it.

  * * *

  —

  I DELETED THE Tinder app. It didn’t feel right. If I was going to be gay, it had to be monumental and honorable and moral. I couldn’t meet my almighty Christian husband, the man that would impress everyone and change everyone’s minds, on an app.

  As the second week ended, what had been the wonders of the city settled into the stuff of everyday living. We knew our way around. Beatriz had work and things to do and let us alone. Even Diego had things to do. We started to feel like an imposition. I found myself ready to leave. No less in love with Mexico City, but busy in my head. The Tinder thing had shaken me up a little. Weston was so adamant about me kissing someone, having fun. I didn’t want to know I could download Tinder again and look. I didn’t want temptation. I wanted the road. My questions about life and God diminished when I was biking into new territory. My purpose became where to camp, where to find food, how to avoid angry dogs, on the collapsing distance between myself and Patagonia. There was no time for other confusions.

  Chapter 9

  WHAT HAPPENS IF I GO HOME?

  (Oaxaca and Christmas)

  10,441 miles to go

  Weston and I said goodbyes to Beatriz and Diego. Weston gladly accepted a gift of weed from Diego and we prepared to head south. Diego had raved about Oaxaca, 280 miles southeast of us…famous for its mezcal and spirituality.

  Before we left town, I FaceTimed my mom once more. She liked me to talk to her before we headed out into the backroads or camping. She liked “to know how hard to pray.” She asked me to come home for Christmas to see my family and my new baby niece. She said, “This baby will only have her first Christmas once, and you’re going to miss it?”

  “Mom, I can’t leave the road,” I told her. “It’s cheating.”

  “Cheating on who? Cheating what?”

  “I feel like I have to stay on the bike and not leave. It’s part of my rite of passage.”

  “Jed. I am sixty-six years old. When you’re my age, things like that don’t matter. What matters is time spent with those you love, and not missing moments that matter. Don’t be stubborn. This is your trip. This is your life. Do what you want. No one that I’ve ever heard of has ridden a bicycle clear from Oregon to Mexico City. And you’ll go right back down there. Just come home for a couple weeks and hold this baby and see your momma. I’ve prayed you wouldn’t die every day in Mexico and here you are alive, and I think God owes me the chance to lay eyes on you.”

  I said I’d think about it.

  We bused out of town far enough to clear all the chaos of city congestion, then started biking. Soon the terrain was hilly and green. Not wild or remote, but easy two-lane streets. I biked for a day and I thought on it. My mom’s words rang in my ear. “Cheating who?” I remembered Andrew Morgan (the fellow whose trip inspired mine) and his words to me: “This trip belongs to you, no one else. Don’t let anyone dictate your life to you.” I walked out the idea in my mind. If I do it, I’ll just go and come right back. Maybe Weston will want to do that, too. We can ship our bikes or just leave them in Oaxaca and come back for them. It felt good to think about. Felt calming and free. Felt like I was in control of my trip and my story. On a rest break, I brought it up.

  “Weston?” I said. “I think I may go home for Christmas.”

  “Really!?” he said. His surprise embarrassed me. He thought a moment. “But you’ll come back, right?”

  “Of course I’ll come back. Would you want to go home, too?”

  “No. I don’t have the money. And I wouldn’t want to spend it on that anyway. I’m here to be here.”

  I felt like a fake. And maybe I was. But my heart desired to see my family and my baby niece, and even saying it out loud felt good. So good that my embarrassment at Weston’s certainty in staying didn’t deter me. I had decided. I had only been on the road three and a half months, but I was going home for Christmas. Because I wanted to.

  Weston and I rode to Oaxaca in less than a week. We surprised ourselves at how quickly we readjusted to biking after such a long break. The road did get more remote, winding, mountainous. But the elevation changes weren’t terrible, as we were already high and remained on the plateau. The nights were chilly and the days sharp and sunny. Trees and farms and cows kept us company along the way. We stayed mostly in cheap hotels in the towns that sprinkled the route.

  We pulled into Oaxaca in the early evening and went straight into a mezcal bar. We got two shots and tried the famous drink. It tasted like tequila, but smoky and earthy. The bartender was proud of it and handed it to us over the bar like a magic potion. “Is not like other alcohol. Doesn’t make you drunk. No crazy. It makes you awake. Alive,” he said. We asked him about hostels and he told us of a good one just a block away.

  Oaxaca is a famous escape for artists and weirdos. A place with magical energy. Close enough to Mexico City to be a weekend getaway. A place for second homes and retreats.

  Diego had put us on e-mail with a local Oaxacan archaeologist. He had spent decades studying the nearby ruins of Monte Albán, one of the oldest archaeological sites in Mexico. The archaeologist, named Alfonso, responded with a short e-mail: “I have an extra room. You are welcome to be my guests.” We met him in town the next day and he offered to take us to his work at the ruins. He was a small, soft-spoken man who wore loose clothes and a khaki bucket hat. We sat in the bed of his truck and he showed us worn-down pyramids and grass mounds that looked like nothing but were intact ancient pre-Columbian homes, temples, and pantries.

  We stayed with Alfonso for five days. His quiet voice and knowledge of the pre-Columbian world made for lovely, gentle conversation on the terrace of his home. The house was modest and modern, with big glass windows and books stacked high
along every wall. We had our own room and bathroom, which was nice, especially as Weston found himself unable to keep food down. Something he’d eaten, we supposed. When Alfonso said that Oaxaca was famous for mushrooms and shamans and guided experiences, Weston’s gray complexion perked up. He began talking to people he met in town, to backpackers with dreads and baggy pants, with bartenders. He was investigating. Finally, falling asleep on Alfonso’s futon, side by side as we always were, he told me that he’d found a spot in the mountains that hosted mushroom ceremonies. “A place with real magicians. Indigenous wisdom. And travelers from all over.” He told me he was going to go.

  “Perfect,” I said. “Why don’t you do that, and I’ll go home for a few weeks and meet you back here.”

  “I think a bunch of homies are doing New Year’s in Nicaragua. I may try to get down there by then.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Shit. Well, what would I do with my bike? And I’d be missing El Salvador and Guatemala.” But truth be told, we were behind schedule, and if I was to track my timeline right, to follow the dry season all the way south and avoid bad weather, to reach Patagonia in the Southern Hemisphere’s summer, I needed to be in Panama by January. That was 2,800 kilometers from Oaxaca, or 1,740 miles. We’d spent too much time in cities and towns and making memories with new friends and waiting out the cartel. But since my purity was already ruined by deciding to go home, I could go home, then jump to Nicaragua. Which is what I proposed to Weston.

  “What if I mail my bike to wherever New Year’s is gonna be, and then we meet there?’ I said.