land of the free

The Camino that can be measured
is not the Camino.
The Camino that can be mapped
is not the right road.
The Camino is not a road;
The Camino is a way.

Free. This Moses came down from the mountain and checked her tablets of wisdom at the door, rejoining the dysfunctional emotional bacchanal already in progress. Golden calves come in many forms – and there’s nothing like a gilded mirror to catch your eye and help you take a good look at yourself.

My mirror was a middle-aged man from California, a name-dropping class-chaser perfectly cast in the role of “Obnoxious American.” Loud and awkward as the worst tourist, he walked up into the holiest parts of the cathedrals where only the priests were allowed; when he asked us to explain what the Stations of the Cross were, his response was, “Oh yeah, when I was in Jerusalem, I saw those.” I turned away with my hands over my cheeks, fingertips rubbing my temples.

I, too, came from the mythical golden land of plenty – America. And I struggled with America. Having grown up poor, working in restaurants for tips and in nonprofits for next to nothing, I saw class as clearly as the lines demarcating lanes on our highways. But to the world, America tried to hide its poverty like dirty laundry in the closet when company’s coming. America was embarrassed by me.

What I had picked up along the way was summarized in a philosophy popular among nonprofit providers a few years back: learn the hidden rules of class. You couldn’t just change lanes. These weren’t lateral moves. If you tried to rise above the station you found yourself in at birth, you needed to be able to “pass” as one of “them.” You needed to learn the secret cultural language spoken by the class above you, because it took a complicated password to truly gain entry.

If you couldn’t pass, you’d be stuck in class pergatory, unable to get off the elevator at the higher floor where the party flowed with milk and honey, but now seen as having renounced your old friends, old neighborhood, old food stamps and Medicaid life for “something better.” Which was interpreted within the poverty class as, “You think you’re better than us.”

Unfailingly, people working in those nonprofits, social workers, counselors, housing providers, viewed this journey in one direction only: “Going up?” Like your own personal doorman, they tried to prepare you with hints for the great success that awaited you – if only you would change your clothes, cut your hair, take these classes, get that job, follow the invisible blueprint for success. No one seemed to take the time to learn the language of the class below. Or its values.

Attempting to liberate the oppressed without their reflective participation in the act of liberation is to treat them as objects that must be saved from a burning building.

— Paulo Freire, “Pedagogy of the Oppressed”

When I was an addiction counselor, I was astounded at the formulaic approach used to help people leave their habits behind. Actually, I was deeply disappointed, by a lackluster strategy of dry evaluation, boring educational materials offered in group settings resembling restless high school classrooms, and inane, chirpy taglines like “fake it ’til you make it” and “one day at a time,” when for some people, the thought of getting through the next 10 minutes was a white-knuckle experience, let alone an entire 24 hours. I knew staff, in recovery themselves, who swore by those mantras…so who was I to look down my nose at their beloved catch-phrases?

America – Love It or Leave It. We were a judgmental, opinionated, bumper-sticker society of self-indulgent rich kids high-fiving a never-ending adolescence; this was my judgmental opinion. Even our reformed addicts were arrogant in their sobriety. How would we ever heal our race and class divides when we were a nation of know-it-alls?

The truth was, I was deeply embarrassed by America. No longer a scrappy young upstart of a country, hungry and idealistic, we had become a soft, smugly comfortable middle-aged yes-man, combing over our money to hide our thinning values, driving a top-down, cherry red midlife-crisis through the world at reckless speed, sucking in our collective gut of wasteful overconsumption to try to seem hip and cool whenever the Scandinavian countries walked by.

So upselling the American Dream to homeless people was a tough pitch for me. It wasn’t completely a lie; it just wasn’t as accessible as it was portrayed to be. Little red, white, and blue lies. The corrosive lies of America’s beloved prosperity doctrine, which twisted religious faith by proclaiming that those who loved God most would be rewarded most – in unsequenced, unmarked bills, or by direct deposit to their off-shore bank accounts. I found the whole system profane.

If the structure does not permit dialogue, the structure must be changed.

— Paulo Freire

Rather than participate in counseling programs I just couldn’t buy in to, to no one’s surprise, I went slightly rogue. Not enough to violate ethics or endanger my counseling license. No, just different. A third generation artist, I took my experience and my community college education, my “connections,” and created an open art group at the homeless resource center.

We created a refuge for mavericks. The American homeless community is full of artists, people who see and hear the world differently, march to the tune of their own didgeridoo along their own Camino. We called it ArtSpeak; we spoke a common language.

They created their own rules for participation: you had to be kind to each other, and you had to respect the studio, which they called their “sacred space.” We decided everyone was in recovery from something – alcohol, drugs, mental illness, or compulsive spending, emotional eating, or internet fixations. The common thread was recovery from the trauma of homelessness.

We sat around long tables placed together, one big circle, and worked in all different media – charcoal, oil pastels, acrylic paint, photography, and also poetry, and rap. I started us off each week with a quotation I had copied onto the whiteboard. Then we would introduce ourselves by our first names, and comment on the quotation. Love it, hate it, indifferent to it or tangential from it, all comments were valid if they were respectful of the others in the space. The artists practiced speaking up for themselves, in the smallest and safest of ways. After introductions, they worked on their individual art…and often continued talking with each other. The sacred space held.

Now on the Camino, I seemed to have forgotten all the rules. I struggled just to be civil to a man I didn’t even know, whose story I didn’t know – because I judged him by his perceived class. Harshly. Less than 24 hours after declaring myself free. I was trapped in Camino pergatory, because I couldn’t figure out how to rise to my own next level.

The oppressed, instead of striving for liberation, tend themselves to become oppressors.

— Paulo Freire

To be fair, my Camino compadres were struggling with him, also. He kept explaining Our Superiority by telling them things like, “This wouldn’t be a problem in America,” such as the time he had to wait a few minutes at a private albergue for the hospitalera to check canceled bed reservations before she could tell him if he could come in. I had very intentionally ducked him that day after overhearing American-money-solves-everything propaganda streaming from his mouth.
I was mortified, and furious: a jerk in my sacred space. An American On Camino. God help us.

And then I had seen who he was talking to. It was Felix. He innocently introduced us on the spot. “Barbara is an American! From Colorado, yes? This is Ben – he is from California,” he offered graciously.

“San Diego,” Ben started with, as if this meant anything to me, having never been to California. I saw him shift into the familiar American Introduction Mode, where we exchanged opportunities to impress each other. I was already looking for the nearest exit. “What part of Colorado?”

“Many,” I said, turning toward the door.

“Many parts of Colorado?”

“Yup,” I replied, slicing off the conversation as I walked out.

 

oh say, can you see
by the dawn’s early light
what so proudly we hailed
at the twilight’s last gleaming

— Francis Scott Key, “The Star Spangled Banner”

 

Blinded by an unflattering reflection of America’s image, I could not see Ben with any of the broader perspective I had just called upon the previous day. However frustrated I was with myself, at least I had finally learned: once off track, ask for directions.

I asked Christoph and Cordula for help and advice. Cordula was a travel writer, and she had walked many Caminos, literally and figuratively. She encouraged me to be direct with Ben, because I was allowing him to make my Camino experience difficult. Christoph agreed, saying he had the same difficulty with other Germans, which made me feel better; we wanted them to remember they were guests in someone else’s country and behave like guests. Instead, they postured, critical and impatient.

I would be direct.

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The Camino led around a skinny canyon lake, several kilometers long. These reservoirs were created back home by damming a river at the end of a narrow valley and letting the mountains themselves hold the rising water. After a few hours, I saw the telltale floodgates here, as well.

But first, we hiked all the way around half the lake. Up the high hills surrounding it, then down, down, down those hills, until our path connected with the road that crossed the dam itself. The road then led up, up, up and around the other side. It was frustrating, seeing how far you would need to walk and making a snail’s progress.

The long and winding road led through a burned forest. Another familiar sight, this scorched earth. I could see that the fire had swept quickly across the steepest parts of the forested mountainsides, as some of the pine trees were only half-burned. I imagined the conflagration racing tree to tree in its insatiable hunger, driven by a furious wind, like the wildfires I had seen in Colorado. Like those old rages I had felt within myself.

But it was impossible for me not to see the new growth, as well. Bright, pale green ferns blanketed some of the protected groves; Spanish heather reclaimed blackened hillsides, butterflies dancing over the lunar landscape. The forest hues now ranged from orange-dead branches to coal black trunks to new and vivid green, and the contrast was striking, sad but beautiful.

 

I later explained to Joanna that there are many species of evergreens whose cones will only open and drop their seeds with the heat of fire. So the burning of the old forest was needed for renewal, new life.

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As we approached our next destination, Grandas de Salime, we heard rumors down the Camino of a festival in that town, which meant it might be tough to find a bed. Joanna and I sat drinking coffee at a cafe table, overlooking a grand view of the lake we had just hiked past. Now, Felix and Ben arrived with the news: completo. The albergues were full. There were no beds.

“I think there are still rooms here, if you decide to stay,” I told everyone at the table.

“Here? At this restaurant?” Ben asked, incredulous.

“Yeah,” I snipped. “Many of the bars also rent rooms.” I sighed. “Anyway, I’m going to take my chances, see what’s happening in Grandas de Salime.”

“Well, there’s the solution,” Ben said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll get a room for us, if you don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

Joanna looked extremely uncomfortable. “I do not have money for hotel,” she confessed.

“No problem,” Ben insisted. “Besides, I’ll talk them down. We won’t pay full price.”

I started laughing. “You’re going to ‘talk them down’? You think they will change the price for you?”

“Happens all the time at home,” he replied.

“Yeah, well, you’re not home,” I shot back. “We’re going,” I said to Felix, gesturing to Joanna, who was putting on her boots.

“So you don’t want to share because you don’t want to sleep on the floor?” Ben asked. “Felix and I can sleep on the floor.”

“I’ve got no problem sleeping on the floor,” I answered, putting on my pack.

“You won’t share because it’s me,” he added in a tone of voice that almost suggested a challenge.

“NO. WAY.” I glared at him, grabbed my walking stick, and headed out.

whose broad stripes and bright stars
through the perilous fight
o’er the ramparts we watched
were so gallantly streaming

— Francis Scott Key, “The Star Spangled Banner”

 

Joanna followed. Once we were up the road, Joanna burst into peels of laughter. “Oh, I love you, Barbara. You make me feel free. ‘NO WAY.'”

I laughed with her…but I felt like a fool. I couldn’t seem to stop myself. It was like 17-year-old me was throwing down the gauntlet, and all I could do was watch it happen. My true colors regarding America were streaming until they overflowed…but not gallantly at all. Class warfare was upon me like a fever. I was painting Ben with a very broad brush, thinking he could not change his stripes. The fight was on, even as Joanna and I passed beyond the huge retaining wall of the lake; crazy stars of self-righteousness gleaming in my eyes, over the ramparts we went.

Joanna was the best soul. She taught a course on pedagogy to 14- to 19-year-olds, in a boarding school. Pedagogy is the actual science of education, how it works; it is the art of helping people learn. Key concepts of pedagogy include motivation and critique. The kids came for a full school year, living away from home, learning how to learn.

I mentioned that it seemed they might be homesick. “Oh yes,” Joanna agreed empathetically. “They bring their daily troubles, and I like to talk to them.” Another key to pedagogy is developing relationships of learning.

“They trust you,” I said, a light slowly dawning.

“Yes, I think they do,” she answered with her adorable smile.

“Of course,” I added. “They feel your love. You are a safe person for them to talk to.” Still walking, I looked over at her. “For me to talk to, also.” I smiled back.

Because love is an act of courage, not of fear, love is a commitment to others.
No matter where the oppressed are found, the act of love is commitment to
their cause – the cause of liberation.

— Paulo Freire

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We had been cautioned by Felix, who had been in communication with a local hospitalero, that we would encounter a swarming mob of displaced peregrinos upon reaching Grandas de Salime.  In truth, Joanna and I were excited to see this. Based on the story told to Felix, I reasoned now, “If there are 50 or 100 peregrinos with no beds, they will have to open up something, a park, the deportivo, someplace for us to camp.”

Joanna nodded in agreement, “Yes, I think so.”

So we were disappointed with our anticlimactic reception at the gates of Grandas de Salime: less than a dozen…cows, grazing along the road. “Fi-esta! en Gran-dez!” I danced among the cows in my backpack, making Joanna laugh again. “Let’s see what’s happening.”

We found Christoph and Cordula at an outdoor cafe table, drinking beer. “We were just wondering about you two,” Cordula said, smiling. Christoph came back with drinks for us as well, gracious and without fanfare. We told them the news according to Felix and asked if they had found anywhere to stay. They confirmed that they’d heard the albergues were full, but Christoph had been told by one hospitalero that the albergues were calling the mayor, demanding he open the deportivo, the community gymnasium; unfortunately, the hospitalero hadn’t heard anything back yet.

“We thought,” Christoph added, nodding to Cordula, “that we would go to the mass, and ask permission from the priest to sleep on the church courtyard, you see?” He pointed to a fenced portico surrounding the church just across the street.

Cordula asked, “How are you doing with your American friend?”

“Oh! Terrible,” I shared, giving my most concerned expression, “and – he’s latched onto Felix now.”

“No! Oh no,” Cordula laughed, and Christoph burst out into a wonderful belly laugh.

“It’s true,” I added, relieved to be able to vent my frustration by gossiping about Ben.

“Felix can take care of himself,” Christoph noted with a wry smile. He was met with a chorus of disagreement.

“No, Felix is like a boy,” I explained.

“I want to adopt him and take him home,” Joanna added, laughing.

“Yes, yes,” Cordula agreed, smiling all around. We all wanted to adopt Felix.

“Well, he seems very sensible, to me,” Christoph said, drinking his beer, while I plotted aloud a campaign to “Free Felix.” We would need T-shirts, somehow.

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Refreshed, we went to the albergue so Christoph could get an update on the conversation with the mayor. To his dismay, the person he had thought was the hospitalero was simply a peregrino, a guest acting like they ran the place, spouting what should be done, not what they had any authority to actually accomplish. Our only hope now was the church.

Christoph was mortified. He apologized profusely, but we reassured him that his mistake was an easy and honest one. “You didn’t know,” we excused him.

“I should have asked him if he was the hospitalero,” he countered matter-of-factly. I squirmed at my own double standard; Christoph was easy to forgive.

We agreed to meet back at the cafe just before 7pm, in order to go to the mass. Joanna planned to go nap in the park. Just as we were separating, she got a message on her phone: come they have opened the deportivo.

While no one ever did hear from the mayor, the guy running the swimming pool was happy to walk over and unlock the gymnasium door – for Felix. He and Ben had arrived in town behind us, and had gone directly to the sports complex. Felix simply asked, and the pool guy said yes. So now we had a place to sleep.

As I stood at the cafe bar an hour later, paying for a gelato, Felix stepped up beside me, ordering a beer. “I need to get away from this man.”

“The American? Ben?” I made sure. He nodded, taking a long swig of his beer. We talked about how he might do that, first through various strategies, but finally settling on being direct. I told him that we were all behind him in his decision.

“All of you?” He cocked his head.

“Yes.”

“You talk about this?” He was shocked.

“Oh, yes.” I took a taste of my gelato.

Then Felix laughed out loud, looking down at the bar, shaking his head. I would need another
T-shirt for the campaign.

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Today’s pedagogy lesson was taught by Cordula, demonstrated by Joanna and Christoph, and practiced by Felix. I just sat at the back of the class and watched, struggling to learn how to learn.

I wandered deeper into the center of the small town, where crews were setting up opposing stages, flyers promoting a battle of the bands. Strings of lights crisscrossed over the streets, and banners promised fireworks after dark. But the battle had already begun.

and the rockets red glare
the bombs bursting in air
gave proof through the night
that our flag was still there

— Francis Scott Key, “The Star Spangled Banner”