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Haunting Deja Vu
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The Reentry Team: Caring for Your Returning Missionaries by Neal Pirolo –MKs, Third World Kids: “Haunting Deja Vu” pp.163-167
“It was as if I had never left. Things were different yet still the same. As I stepped out of the airplane door my lungs drank in the winter Ecuadorian air, a mixture of smog, jet fuel and more smog. Above, bulbous gray clouds fled from the brilliance of a freshly formed rainbow. All around me stood the mountains I grew up with, their pure white caps shining through the blanket of exhaust that coiled itself around me like a constricting boa, cutting off my breath.
Directly before me loomed a loud building, an airport fashioned out of glass and foreign investments. My mind played back memories of an airport floor constructed entirely of tiny squares of ceramic. My eyes shifted their view off to the left. There in the shadow, like an old discarded box, lay the airport I remembered. Ten years, one month and a few days before, my good-bye tears had formed a stream in the cracks between its little ceramic tiles. For a moment I thought I knew something there. I thought I heard laughter. I glanced at my wife beside me. She seemed oblivious to the laughter, to the taunt that echoed off the glass and shattered my soul.
My heart began pounding as we boarded a bus that would take us to the terminal building. A few minutes later, as our car sped under the rainbow and into the city, I realized that this trip was going to be one of haunting deja vu. From the first instant at the airport, that spooky feeling persisted. Like a race, like a game, someone or something was following me. Its heart bled fear and its mouth dripped mocking. This confused me and somewhat angered me. Returning to one’s homeland, I assumed, was supposed to be pleasant. This was not pleasant.
My mission in coming back was twofold: to fulfill my school requirements for a cross-cultural internship was one; to just remember fulfilled the second. I never expected the remembering part to be so grueling. The first day the host missionaries took us to the house where I grew up. Te car pulled into the familiar cul-de-sac and I slowly got out. Rooted to the pavement, I just stared at that house. The walls of winter ivy like emerald waves crashed over me, drenching me in emotional claustrophobia. My entire being was gripped in a concoction of amazement and terror. The amazement came because before me lay an exact replica of my childhood home, a treasure chest filled with golden memories. The terror tied me in a helpless, hopeless rope of confusion and sorrow.
The few minutes we stayed there were too many. We left and visited place after place with the same result. Sometimes the laughter was a silent snicker. At other times, my pursuer’s anger caused me to weep like a baby.
I visited the church I grew up in. One Sunday night they asked me to preach. So, confidently, I strutted to the wooden pulpit and turned to face my waiting audience. My eyes surveyed the faces of old friends and new strangers alike. In that crowd were my spiritual fathers. I couldn’t hold it in. My body shook with convulsive sobs so strong that all I could do was cling to the podium and stare. Tears came frequently all throughout the sermon making my now sparse Spanish even choppier.
A train passed behind the church that evening just like it had every night ten years before. Even its fierce click-clacks and whistles added to the mocking I received hat night of embarrassment.
All summer long I tried to visualize this ghost. That is what it was, a shadowy specter that haunted me. But why? As I thought and pondered, the picture my mind painted was of a boy. A boy who was forgotten and discarded like a toy sold at a yard sale into the eager hands of strangers. The boy was faceless like the ghost that warned Scrooge of his gloomy future. Why me? I wondered. But then I begn to see a pattern.
Once we took a trip to visit friends in the South. We visited villages serenely placed by lakes under the shadows of snowcapped volcanoes. He followed me there. We visited old friends, now grown men and women and he followed me there. When I walked along familiar streets downtown or through favorite parks, I could hear his obnoxious giggles and accusations. But when I explored new parts of the city I couldn’t hear him. At the movie theater, he was nowhere to be found. Why did I feel and hear him only when i remembered my past?
My wife and I were invited to a dinner in the home of my parents’ friends. Upon our arrival we found a surprise party thrown in our honor. Around the table we shared the best of Ecuadorian food, laugher and memories. I sat next to the owner of the house. Juan was one of my spiritual fathers.
My heart broke that night as he poured his out and shared with me the events that transformed him from a dynamic church leader he once was to the embittered husk of a man he was now. I looked at this man and fought back the stinging n my eyes and throat. Juan’s eyes remained free of expression; his tear ducts dried out long ago.
Before I left his home, I found an old black and white picture they had of our family. I took the photo with me. Somehow I knew it was the key to my struggle. That night the laughter was fierce. I decided then that I would confront my enemy in a battle to the end. I made up my mind to return to where I had felt his presence the strongest. To where I had the most memories. I went back to my childhood home.
With permission from the current resident, I entered the house. With video camera in hand, I bolstered myself as I walked into a place so jammed with memories my senses were spinning out of control. The smells of the waxed floor, the lemon tree and the kitchen cabinets mixed with the sight of the Smurf wallpaper in the office, the blond-finished closet in my bedroom, and the same balding brown carpet I prayed on with my brothers. I continued my tour de force through the rest of the house somewhat surprised that I hadn’t been assaulted or laughed at.
After I shut off my camera I thanked the owner for his kindness. Motionless, I stood in the alley staring at the small, one-story, German-style home. And then I saw it. I saw the rock, nestled beside the gnarled plum tree I used to abuse. In front of the wobbly black metal gate, the rock stood firm. I crouched down slowly for the ground, independent and razor sharp. Memories of matchbox cars and little green soldiers falling from its steep precipice to a “toyish” death flooded me as I reached my hand out toward its rusty orange surface. The feel of the rough, chill stone against my trembling fingers soothed me.
It was then that everything made sense. I could now see the boy. He was next to me. His face, onc shrouded by a mask of fear now became crystal clear. I almost expected what I saw. His face was identical to the face of the twelve-year-old boy in that black and white hoto I took from Juan’s house. It was the face of a scared, confused and heartbroken little boy.
The entire world stood still while the jigsaw puzzle pieces of my life were snapped together. The picture now complete, I stepped back and saw my life as a whole. I was haunting myself. I had been terrified at the prospect of seeing myself.
When I boarded the black and white plane in the background of the picture, I left behind twelve years of childhood memories; memories tied to this house and to this city. I left a part of me behind that could not grow up. Ten years of absence had let a gulf that separated me into two beings.
The rock that stood before me was the only bridge stone to close the gap between the two images. That sunny winter day, I reached for the boy and held him in a timid embrace. As I held him, the warmth from my arms melted his icy heart and he no longer hated me.
At the end of the summer, my wife and I boarded the airplane that would take us home. I leaned back in my seat and exhaled deeply. A few moments later, our plane passed over the majestic Andes peaks and headed north. I said farewell to a alnad tha I loved, knowing this time that I hadn’t left anything behind. My life let go her death grip on my hand and tried to pop her ears. A smile crept across my lips as she mentioned something about a feeling of deja vu.”
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May 2nd, 2008 at 10:25 am
wow, very nice story!
reminds of my own search for myself and what I’m going through right now!
I have a picture of me taken at my Welsh school. It stays on my computer desk and I take it to my bedside table each night.
I remember one day, typing in my blog and trying to work out all of my confusion and crisis. I looked at her and cried. She was crying too. She was in desperate need of a hug, and so I hugged her.
Someone was finally hugging her. **I** was finally hugging her. I promised that I’d take care of her, and make her happy. I promised that I’d never let her down anymore.
And now here I am. I did it. She’s not sad anymore. She smiles. Her smile is real. She’s happy for all the things she’s going through, all the countries she has/will visit, the wonderfull life that she has/will live.
Thanks Miyon for posting this story, it reminded me so much of the “coming to terms” with my childhood feelings.
For all of those who are struggling: just keep on going. Face your past, your fears, because in the end it’s worth it.
Follow your instincts - they usually know more about us than ourselves.
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May 2nd, 2008 at 4:48 pm
Miyon, thank you so much for posting this person’s story here. It is beautifully written, describing so well how we have parts of ourselves in the various locations where we lived. Recollecting those aspects of ourselves makes us a completer human being again, less “scattered”.
My brother recently went to the Middle East for a business trip. He was 10 when we left the Middle East, he is now 35 - but the moment he got off the plane and stepped onto the stairs that would lead him to the tarmac, he was flooded with remembrance. He recognized the feel of that particular dry, hot air. He recognized the scent of the sand. He recognized the sounds, the smells, the feelings, the sights. He never realized how much they are a part of who he is! They aren’t fully remembered until we can experience them again with the increased consciousness that comes with maturity, I think. Again, thank you!
Mairabay, bravo for hugging that child within, for reconnecting with her and acknowledging her.
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May 2nd, 2008 at 10:11 pm
Mairabay and Maartje, I am so thankful for your comments. Deep in my heart I wish I could reach out my hands to help and this is really the littlest thing I can do. Thank you. You have blessed me so much.
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May 3rd, 2008 at 3:55 pm
thanks Maartje! it took some hard work but I did it!
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