Coyotes in my neighborhood

The coyotes in my neighborhood keep me humble. 

It’s in their nature to howl at night in El Sereno. They remind me of my life’s journey as an immigrant and all the sacrifices my parents made to help me get to this place. In a home, in a bed, beside a man who married me and made our family beef stew and peanut butter cookies for dinner. How did I get here? Coyotes also remind me of my many secret identities growing up, and the conditioning I did to wrap my existence around storytelling in order to survive.  

I sometimes find myself awake late at night thinking about all the things I did not finish on my to do list. It frustrates me, and I have to remind myself that it’s not a big deal. Fridays are the worst. Sometimes it feels like I’m going to die because something didn’t get done. It’s my fault. Perfectionism haunts me to no end. It keeps me from pushing send, makes me count the pages, and reminds me that I am floating ever so gently between two planes that never truly let my feet land. I am suspended there because my presence makes some folk feel warm and others uncomfortable. This is just by walking in my skin. It keeps me humble. I don’t like it anymore.

I sometimes stumble upon strangers who swear they’ve met me before. I wonder if I visited their dreams. They speak at me and my silence makes them think I’m mean or remembering. Usually I let them assess me with their eyes; their eyes tell me so much more. I wonder how we stumbled on each other, this stranger and me. I wonder if we kissed in another realm. Sorry friend, I’m married here. I laugh to myself, and they take it as confirmation. We have met! No. Sorry, I just have that kind of face.

The coyotes remind me of death. 

Not the bad depressing kind of death, but the kind that makes you want to hug everything tighter, makes you want to say I love you to those you value in your life, the kind of death that makes you want to jog in the morning instead of opening your third can of Diet Coke; I swear they branded that damn sound of carbonation and metal snapping. Snap! Ssszzz…something like that. It’s intoxicating and seconds later I am full of guilt as I mutter between carbonated breaths, “burns so good.” Death is around the corner for everyone, I should join a soccer league or something.

The coyotes remind me to unmask. 

Unmask is a new word in my vocabulary, thanks to writer Gilbert Salazar. He called me a payasa once and I swear I felt like he was seeing me coming out of the pool in middle school. Like, how? Magic I think. I make art and crave solitude, and that’s just not going to work anymore. It is time to share the work again. It is time to let go completely. Everything’s going to change again, and I have to brace myself for the innumerable ways I will be asked Why? It is inevitable when you look the way I do. I think I will smile when this happens, and allow my inner child (payasa) to simply reply with “Why not?”

Do the coyotes affect you, friend? 

* Payasa - clown for ladies. TY Gilbert.