School of East Harlem in 2016, which I
had been attending from the 6th to 12th
grades. Growing up in New York City, I
am most comfortable in areas diversified
in cultures, languages and religions, so
coming to this place was like stepping
into the twilight zone. As I boarded the
plane to El Paso, I noticed it was small-
er than the first plane and less crowded;
I began to feel ambivalent about my
nine-week internship in West Texas,
realizing how alone I felt since leaving
my family and friends back on the East
Coast.
The man sitting next to me on the
plane to El Paso tried to spark up a con-
versation. He was a redheaded, tall, skin-
ny white man with bright blue eyes.
While hesitant at first to engage in a
conversation with him, I eventually gave
in due to his persistence.
The conversation started with him
talking mostly about himself, his life and
West Texas. After listening for a while,
I became engaged. I told him about
myself, that I attended an Historically
Black College University (HBCU), and
that I was in West Texas to study about
the Buffalo Soldiers. I went on to
explain that a lot of my time was spent
around young black students as eager to
change the world as I was. I shared with
him that I was an English major with an
African American minor and was on a
Pre-Law educational track. Our conver-
sation then led to me telling him about
the court cases that influenced me
tremendously, e.g., the Central Park Five
case, the Trayvon Martin and Kalief
Browder cases. I was stunned to see how
oblivious he was to these cases, but then
I considered his socioeconomic status,
his race and his geographic location, and
understood his ignorance.
Finally, I arrived in El Paso, Texas.
The airport was decorated with numer-
ous Native American/Mexican/Cowboy
cultural icons. My supervisor, Mike,
with whom I had been corresponding
throughout my sophomore year, picked
me up in a truck bearing government-
issued license plates.
We went food shopping at the local
Walmart and I bought a McDonald’s
meal for the last time before we headed
west to the Guadalupe Mountains
National Park.
The drive there was quite long, but I
hardly noticed because we were
engrossed in a stimulating conversation
during the entire 110-mile journey.
He told me about how he studied
bugs with six or more legs and I told
him how I hated bugs, point blank, peri-
od! He laughed as he proceded to edu-
cate me about the local plants, what
made them special, what they were used
for and how they survived in the desert
climate. We finally arrived at the park
and went straight to the Visitor
Center/Headquarters; everyone there
knew my name and seemed to have
been anticipating my arrival.
They all wore huge smiles and shook
my hand vigorously.
We picked up keys from my supervi-
sor’s office and headed to my new home
for the next month and a half. To my
surprise, the apartment was reasonably
furnished — I had my own refrigerator,
separate from my roommate’s, as well as
my own room. And what could make
life even better for someone like me,
who’s considered a millennial? — I also
had WiFi!
The first day, I waited in the living
room for my roommate to arrive. I won-
dered what she would be like, how
would she act, would she be nice or
snooty? Finally, around 8:30 p.m., a
heavy-set white woman with short
cropped hair arrived, carrying a lunch
box.
We shook hands and she went to her
room to prepare for a shower. After
showering, she came out and we sat in
the living room and got better acquaint-
ed with one another. She repeatedly
mentioned that she was a “proud red-
neck,” that she was not a racist and that
she’s been to New York before. Our con-
versation went along the line of conver-
sations I normally have with white peo-
ple who haven’t spent much time
around black people but who are not
usually bigoted.
The conversation ended abruptly
when she noticed the members of her
fire crew gathered in front of the adja-
cent apartment. She jumped up, insist-
ing that I come with her to be intro-
duced.
We headed outside, where I encoun-
tered a large Black man near the grill and
a red-haired white man, about average
height, smoking a cigarette. I instantly
felt relieved seeing Terrell, the only other
Black face I would see for a while; I
introduced myself to him and the man
standing beside him.
They invited us over for dinner, but
my roommate declined; she said she had
to go to bed early, but she urged me to
go and to eat enough food for both of
us.
Terrell made grilled chicken, which
was rubbery and tasted funny. I later dis-
covered that it was seasoned with
Thousand Island dressing, but I told
them that I enjoyed it immensely. After
eating I hung around for a little while,
then headed back to my living area.
Being from New York City, I’ve
become accustomed to loud background
noises at night rather than sounds of
silence.
To compensate for the sounds of
ambulance and police sirens, the voices
of my neighbors who were stacked on
top of one another in the apartment
complex, low flying helicopters with
bright shining lights in search of crimi-
nals, I came up with an alternative while
attending school in the South. I would
play my laptop extremely loudly while
watching Netflix and would leave it on
all night so that the room would not be
completely dark. However, I was relegat-
ed to silence that first night, so by the
next morning I felt extremely stressed
and anxious.
Usually I awake daily at 6:00 a.m. to
work out for an hour.
This ritual helps to get my day start-
ed and serves as therapy for my anxiety.
I received a text from my supervisor,
Julie, whom I had not met, but had cor-
responded with through emails. She
texted me that she would pick me up at
8:30 a.m., so I was ready and waiting for
her by 8:00 a.m. She was prompt,
knocking at my door exactly on time. I
opened the door to a white woman
about five feet six with a warm, inviting
smile. She introduced herself and we
headed towards her car.
Our car ride to the Visitor Center for
a gym key was pleasant enough.
Though Julie was older than I, she
was very easy to talk with and she made
me feel comfortable — not enough to
tell my deepest, darkest secrets to — but
as comfortable as one can be, being a
black girl from a New York City public
housing project with a middle-class,
middle-aged, white Texan woman. That
first day, as my supervisor and I became
acquainted with each other; she gave me
her expectations for my summer intern-
ship with the emphasis that she also
wanted my summer to be fun. I
thought, how cool is that?
The next morning while heading to
the gym, I encountered rabbits, snakes
and a host of flying insects that kept
swarming around my ears. I opened the
door to find a garage crowded with
equipment, but I didn’t mind because I
was anxious to start my therapy.
There was no cell phone connection,
so I couldn’t watch my New York friends
on social media as I normally did while
working out. A 45-minute workout on
the treadmill seemed much longer than
it did normally when I am connected on
social media. Soon I was interrupted by
a middle-aged Native American man
covered with tattoos.
We greeted each other, and he walked
towards the back where I had yet to
explore. Noticing that I was the only one
there, he asked if the wall clock had the
correct time: 6:50 a.m. I said yes; he
laughed and said he was an hour early
and was going back to bed. I did not
know it then, but it was his first day, and
he seemed as out of place as I felt.
After being officially introduced to
Curtis, the tattooed Native American, I
learned he lived on a reservation in
California and was sent there by the
reservation to learn more about han-
dling mountain fires. He seemed very
interested in my research on the Buffalo
Soldiers, so whenever we saw each other,
he would inquire about my progress.
“You found anything new? How’s it
coming along?”
As with Terrell and Julie, I also
became comfortable around Curtis. He
seemed quiet, somewhat shy at first until
I got to know him better. I later learned
that like myself, he was a little homesick
and being around so many white people
made him a bit uncomfortable, which is
why he cautiously kept his guards up.
Due to my affiliation with those three
people and many of the other kind peo-
ple there at the Guadalupe Mountains
National Park, I’ve learned a valuable
lesson. I learned that often I am too
quick to judge; that I should get to
know people as individuals and not to
generalize groups as all being the same. I
am also feeling a sense of independence,
a feeling I have yet to experience at col-
lege or back home in New York City —
it is liberating. I am seeing a part of
America that I’d only seen in movies.
West Texas is beautiful, the majestic
mountains are breathtaking, and I am
no longer feeling ambivalent about
choosing to come here.
Cenizo
Fourth Quarter 2018
15