I hate having split ends, but I just can't give up straightening and curling my hair on a weekly basis. I contemplate trimming the ends once more as I slowly turn from my bathroom mirror and lean on the counter. I sigh and survey my studio apartment as I always do every morning after putting in my contacts, and right out the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of my lantern with the candle still lit inside. I must have forgotten last night, I tell myself as I get comfortable on my neatly arranged bed and reach for the drawer with a hair brush and organic coconut oil.
That night I spent it alone in my grandfather's cramped studio, brick home. It had large wardrobes serving as walls dividing the bedroom from the living room and kitchen area. I remember laying flat on my back as I reached overhead and ran my fingers through the mosquito net canopy above me as I inhaled a deep breath of Salvadoran air. A deep scent of wet dirt and burnt trash lingered in the atmosphere followed by a cool summer breeze. I hated my bed, it was unbearably uncomfortable to sleep on, however, it was not what kept me up that night.
“Avisley, por favor regresa la casa del abuelo.” says my mother, with a very tired and frustrated expression on her face. My aunt sitting beside my mom on the hammock appears almost lifeless as she lays her head gentle on my mother shoulder, with tears streaming from her cheek. She does not acknowledge my presence and continues to cry.
“Pero no puedo dormir, ay mucho ruido aquí afuera, ? Que esta pasado?” ?porque llora mi tía, mami?”
I stood there, standing in my the center of our circular neighborhood for another 20 minutes before returning to bed. All the adjacent houses had their light’s on, and there was a constant flow of people moving from one home to another. Aside from my aunt's gentle sobs , I could hear a group bitterly weeping in the near distance. My great grandmother's house was at the far end of the neighborhood, it was her tiny home that seemed to be the origin of all the commotion. I didn't suspect my grandmother had died at first ,but it soon became very clear to me someone had past away.
It was the first time in my life I can recollect having to rationalize a situation on my own. As a child , observing a crowd of unfamiliar faces walk around frantically looking for random objects, making calls, many others standing stationary under a tree or leaning on a post with there hands covering there mouth, eyes and ears. Despite how perplexing it all came across to me, I knew. All three voices declared at the same time.
“Ay dios mio.”
“No no, no voy a poder llegar a la casa, aquí me necesitan.”
“Si todos pueden salir del cuarto, les queramos dar unos momentos a la familia solos.”
To this day I wonder how it was I understood, what kind of associations had I made in my brain concerning death that enabled me to make an accurate conclusion of what was taking place? And what associations would they induce next?
The following days were a complete blur, all remember was walking the streets of a tiny village, and reciting ballads or singing songs as what seemed to me a parade but was really a funeral procession. I spent the majority of the time reminiscing the few moment we spent together before she died, I mean what else was I supposed to do.
The Day Before She Died
It was June the 20th and as usual the weather was far too hot for my liking, nevertheless I spent most of my time outside in the tree house my cousin had built me and my siblings to play in.
The bag of chips I’d snuck away and bought that morning, kept me occupied while my mother catched up with her old friends from the area. I could hear them chattering and occasionally chuckling to something I didn't understand.
“Te recuerdas vos de la Noemi?”
“Fijate que la mentada Noemi la acabaron de encontrar con otro hombre la semana pasada”
“Sooo”
I wasn't too invested in their conversation, nonetheless, I could hear every word. The treehouse was unstable and there was huge gaps between the wooden frames that were supposed to serve as walls. I did not have such a clear view from where I was sitting, but strangely enough I could see her. I could see her perched serenely on a old, tattered hammock t right across from my tree house. I could see her singing a quiet tune to herself as she stitched away at what appeared to be a garment worn and out-dated as she. I could see the twinkle in her eye as she glanced away from her needle work and noticing me peering at her from cranny in the tree house. She motioned me to come to her and so I did. We spent the rest of the afternoon together, she let me help her wash dishes and feed the chickens. Towards the end of the day, she lead me into her home and had me sit on her lap while she brushed the dirt and tiny twigs I had accumulated over the week in my hair.
“Mija, porque no te peina tu mama?”
“No me gusta, me hala el pelo y me duele” She utters the sweetest and most warmhearted laugh I’ve ever heard.
“Ay mi nina preciosa.”
Associations between the Object and the Action
To this day I can not clearly make out what I was thinking or feeling as she stroke my hair gently with some shabby comb from the 40’s, but the one thing that never managed to escape my memory was the sights of the twilight approaching and the sunlight slowly diminishing from her home, the smell of the sweet coconut oil she saturated my tiny locks in and the little lanter she had given me to keep me from fidgeting. She sent me home with the lantern and a twenty-five cent candle inside. That lantern hangs cheerfully from my bed stand today.
For the last 8 years, at least once a week, I wash my hair and drench it in coconut oil. Ill sit silently on my bed brushing the oil through my hair and glance over to my right, were the little lantern dangles. I cant help but smile, I mean what else am I supposed to do. Cry? Its become a routine, an imperative procedure in my life; it is the only consistency and uniformity I genuinely enjoy.
Thats the thing about the past- it doesn't change. And when your keep an element from your past it's not only connected to you emotionally but also mentally. See, what I didn't realize is that I can't remember anything beyond those last few day I spent with my great grandmother because of that little lanter. Relics help one in the present connect to the past. In psychology there is what is called classical conditioning; Don H., and Sandra E. Hockenbury outline the concept in there text book, Discovering Psychology. It is essentially a form of learning by association. There are four features which are:
- the unconditioned stimulus(UCS)
- the unconditioned response(UCR)
- the conditioned stimulus(CS)
- conditioned response(CR).
- In the first stage the (UCS) yields an (UCR)
- so in my case the act of combing my hair with coconut oil (UCS) made me feel delighted (UCR).
- Nothing was learned because it was a natural response, but when a neutral stimulus(NS) is added to the mix, learning behavior takes place. A neutral stimulus (NS) has no affect on an individual until it is paired with the unconditioned stimulus (UCS).
referred to as a conditioned stimulus(CS).
- When I now sit down and combm hair with coconut oil, and suddenly think of the lantern or vice versa, I am experiencing a conditioned stimulus.
Avisely Solis is a freshman in California state northridge. She is majoring in Anthropology and minoring in Psychology.