Movimiento, a story about me

Tim couldn’t help but smile. It was almost like one of those moments of explosive euphoria he felt whenever he realized how much opportunity lay ahead, how little the details and frustrations in moments of social anxiety mattered. But he was so exhausted.
Minutes before, Tim was about to pass out. He had heard this overwhelming ringing in his ears and everything that had been veiled in darkness was turning lighter. Only the rocks piled in the middle of this “womb” that was the sweat lodge lit the figures of those gathered to cleanse their bodies and minds. He knew what it meant when his vision turned a different shade and he panicked silently. He breathed in as much of the heavy air, thick with steam, as he could. But it made him cough and snot streamed out of his nose. He knew this had to be one of the hardest physical endeavors he had ever been through.
He smiled at that thought too. You see, Tim knows the privilege he’s had in his almost 20 years of life. He knows the sacrifice his dad made, being a lawyer, so that he could provide his family with economic security. He sees his parents still loving each other after 27 years. He feels embarrassed about living in the foothills, being a wealthy white boy, but knows that his identity has given him a great sense of duty to improve his community. He’s grateful for the safe exposure and experiences he’s had to life in the different corridors of this town and society, including this one.
As he smiled and listened to the words of wisdom, Tim remembered, as if it was long ago, that he desperately wanted to crawl out of the temazcal, escape this ceremony, and feel the cool winter night again. The leaders, Chucho and Maria would speak for a while as water was being passed around the circle. Tim laid there limp and tried to focus on breathing and wiping the snot away. He couldn’t listen to them speak of “our people” and the culture that was lost when the conquistadores came to this land 500 years ago. He didn’t hear about “our strength” and how little there was in our society. He felt so weak. Prayers were being lifted to Ometeotl, the energy that created us and binds us together, but he only heard the subsiding ring in his ears and the slow steadying of his breath.
His lips touched the earth, making the rough dirt ground turn to soft sand. His hands, stretched in front of him, pressed down, turning it to mud. He was covered in sweat, but he felt so happy to be there, in the sweat lodge, celebrating the traditions and beliefs of the indigenous peoples.
Tim had joined el movimiento when he was a freshman at the community college. That was just a year and a half ago. To be more precise, he became a part of el Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan (M.E.Ch.A, for short). Being white, and from the foothills, he felt surprised and grateful when he was invited by the others, most of them Mexican-American, to become more active in the club. One of the members, Claudio, brought the rich knowledge of indigenous history, of the Mexica people, to the group. He was involved with the Calpulli Teoxicalli, a group that practiced and celebrated the culture of the Mexica, commonly known as the Aztecs, through dance and rituals. On this winter night, the Calpulli and MEChA were brought together for a sweat, where Tim lay completely exhausted, but smiling.
Maria gave thanks to him for his presence in this ceremonia. She said, “Tim, you’ve joined us on the barrio runs and the danzas- and I thank you for your bravery. You’re different from all of us in a pretty clear way, and it takes a lot of guts to do what you have done.”
Another thought glided through his mind at that moment. He remembered the feelings of anxiety that accompanied him every time he was with his friends from high school and church. He remembered how much he wished he could contribute to the conversations about nothing really- phones, boyfriends and girlfriends, drama, school, old TV shows, video games, how drunk you were that one time at that one party. He remembered wanting to escape that as much as he wanted to stay. And he knew that those feelings would return, maybe even the moment he crawled out of the temazcal.
But all of that seemed so distant as the water was once again poured on the 32 rocks and they prayed together with carnalismo. It was now the final round of the sweat, and he couldn’t help but smile.