Watsonville

There is a beautiful kind of rhythm within this community. Every morning, the same men come out to
the plaza to sit and be amongst the friends, a tradition which I am sure they have held fast to over many years. The weather is slowly turning to fall now and the school children are really in a full swing as they run around Main Street searching for good food to fill their aching bellies during the lunch time break. Many of them will not return to school, I have learned, instead they will goof around with their friends, running in and out of the pedestrians on the street, exchanging their uniforms for their street clothes. The fog rolls in at the faithful hour of just after five and I walk home to get another layer of clothes on. Passing by the Plaza I see those men there, scuffing the ground with their rugged, worn cowboy boots, tipping their hats in the direction of the sun, making conversation with their wrinkled hands as they switch from getting up to take a stroll to meandering back to their benches. It is interesting to see the generations here: the older men walk proudly and stiffly, having known hours of manual labor. They wear their jeans synched tightly around their waists and their shirts tucked in. Their hair is short and their feet are covered in tough leather cowboy boots. They look like they have walked out of a western, or out of Mexico. I wonder what they were thinking as they peered over to us, talking amongst themselves in waves and sweeping arms as trying to get a hold of what the group of newbies were doing in their neighborhood. I wonder how much work and sweat and love and discipline those wrinkled, tanned eyes have seen. They wear their hats with the same amount of pride that the younger men wear their baseball caps. It is a part of their identity, their heritage. Walking back from the library today, I, for the first time, was alone and found myself becoming very introverted. I didn’t look up to see who was coming at me or where I was, my feet already knew the quickest route home. I didn’t wonder what the sirens were racing toward or what the mother pushing her baby thought of me. I only looked up once to see the teenagers giving publicity to the dream act (the excited car honks caught my ear rather). It’s starting to feel like a community that is not just tolerating me with squinty curiosity, but is welcoming me into their daily routine to see the honesty and wholeness of their world. One thing I know, when I leave here the word community will have a completely different meaning. Tonight, it is quiet out and I am very exhausted, no children screaming or dogs barking or cars racing. All there is, is silent fog rolling across the valley as one by one porch lights turn off and everyone falls into the same sort of sleep.