Jerry Nelson
Nov 4 · 8 min read

I Walked Across America and Found Myself

My father always told me I was living proof that there is always room for improvement. In 2006, I went looking for America and found myself.

.

For many people, self-discovery is natural. I always lived minute by minute and never got serious about tramping around my inner self, but then divorce happened and changed my perspective.

Is “finding yourself”a struggle to find your place in the world? Maybe it’s just more of an internal struggle to get comfortable with who we really are.

Maybe “finding yourself” is just an excuse to run away from commitment and responsibility? Is it ever really over? Can a person “find themselves,” and experience true contentment and satisfaction with their place in the world?

Everything I was looking for, I would ultimately find within myself.

The Journey Begins

“I want a divorce.”

She said it with the same emotion as a person saying, “Pass the salt.” Common courtesies such as ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ had disappeared long before dinner that night.

I was eighteen, she was twenty when we married. The ceremony took an hour. The marriage lasted about the same amount of time. But we didn’t get a divorce for over 30-years.

Instead of arguing, I grabbed my cigarettes and went to the porch to smoke and think. Or maybe it was to think and the cigarettes were just an excuse.

I knew her statement was final. Everything had been building to this crescendo for a while. But it knocked me on my heels. Kind of like when a close friend who has been battling terminal illness for a while finally gives into destiny. Even though you know the end is coming, no one can fault you for being surprised when it does.

After years of marriage, which felt more like roommates than spouses, I wanted to feel alive again.

The civil rights leader Howard Thurman said: “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

At that moment I knew spiritual death or spiritual life were the only two options being handed me that day on the porch. It was mine to choose.

I chose life.

The next morning I shoved 30 years of memories into an orange duffel bag and walked out.

Before I finished walking, I would be in all 50 states, sail a schooner into the open ocean, survive a buffalo stampede in Washington State, raft the Colorado, fish the Snake River, spend six-weeks with the Sinaloa drug cartel in the Mexican desert, fall in love in the Alabama mountains, Meet George W. and Barack Obama in The Oval Office and spend weeks freezing my ass off in countless road houses, graveyards, truck stops and migrant camps.

The journey would end six-years later in Buenos Aires.

But first, life lessons got a little more clearer somewhere outside of Barstow.

###

I saw them at about the same moment they saw me.

It’s difficult to say who was more surprised. Me for not expecting to see Hispanic men hanging out among the dumpsters behind a Big Box store on the fringes of the desert town, or them for seeing a white guy walking up railroad tracks looking like he had just jumped off the west bound box cars.

Their Spanish got clearer as I got closer, but I still couldn’t understand them. My Spanish amounted to two-years of high school Spanish where I barely learned to say, “Cómo estás.” A childhood of Roy Rogers and a touch of José Feliciano taught me more. Vamos. Hombre. And “caballo,” which means, horse and, of course, Feliz Navidad. But that was it.

I kept watching them out of the corner of my eye as I stayed on the railroad tracks. If they were going to come get me, at least I wanted to see them coming. Or maybe I didn’t. I didn’t know which was better. To see the end of my life approach or be caught off guard and unaware. I alternated between looking them in the eye, the way Roy would do to the bad guys and not looking in their eyes, just as you avoid eye contact with a mad dog. My first instinct when I see an animal is to say 'hello.' My first instinct when I see a human is to avoid eye contact and hope it goes away.

I tried to concentrate on something someone had once said: “Be nice to strangers, because you never know what they’re capable of.”

By the time I neared them, they were staring silently. One had a potbelly, the other had a mustache. They were Latino and maybe homeless. I became aware of how white I was. My freedom of movement was predicated by my skin color. The same with my freedom of mind.

I started to wonder how much it would have been different if I were a brown or black person. Or a woman. There had already been long distance walkers who fit both criteria. Mildred Normal, ‘Peace Pilgrim’ and John Francis ‘Planetwalker’ are two examples. You didn’t have to be a white male to walk across America in 2006. But to anyone willing to look at the prejudice in the nation, it was clear that being a white male helped.

My life flashed before my eyes and I knew this was the end. It’s amazing how you can be a thousand miles from nowhere and still just twenty-feet from your new best friend.

###

The final words of a Lakota prayer came to mind: This is a good day to die.

###

Just as a small breeze came from the northwest, another man came around the out of the bushes. He zipped up his pants with one hand and carried an ash axe handle in the other. No blade, just the handle. The kind of weapon that many rednecks in Georgia and elsewhere in the deep south used as weapons when guns made too much noise and left a trail of evidence.

I got closer, nodded and said hi. The men looked confused. I was confused as well. We stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Then one of the men, the one with a huge potbelly asked in broken English backed by a strong, Spanish accent: “What are you doing?”

###

“I’m walking across America.”

They didn’t seem convinced. The looked at each other, said something in Spanish and laughed.

Maybe it’s time to go, I thought. Silence is often better than unneeded drama.

While I was looking for a place to run, potbelly rummaged through a metal barrel and pulled out an unopened package of donuts and apple juice box. He motioned for me to take them and join him on a stack of railroad ties. I did and the other two joined us.

“You got a credit card,” potbelly asked.

“Yeah. I don’t have much cash.”

“Good. We could just take it,” his lips curled as he made a gun with his fingers. “But we’re not that type of people. We’re friends. Amigos.” Holding out one unwashed hand, he said: “I’m Oscar. That’s Juan and Sergio. They don’t speak English.”

###

That was welcome news. My Spanish was limited to Buenos dias, buenos noches and policia es puta.

We were still sitting on the ties when the sky turned dark and thunderheads started to cover the sky.

###

The breeze grew stronger as trash and leaves skittered along the tracks.

###

“Está viniendo,” shouted one of the men, and he was gone. Sergio was already tearing through the field next to the tracks and headed for the trees.

Still sore from the fall, I couldn’t move fast and got soaked.

Oscar, potbelly, took my arm and said, “Come with us. We’ll take you home with us.”

I followed Oscar across the fields into the forest without any fear. I’m walking across America. Why not. What the hell, I thought.

###

It wasn’t long until we reached a clearing where the men had set up camp and each had his own shelter. Blue tarps turned into roofs and pallets for walls and floors. Everything was held together by bungee cords.

I could hear giggling coming from the shelter and glanced over as two-chestnut brown eyes looked back. In the background was a woman’s voice. The eyes grew bigger. A nose was added to the spectre first. Then a chin. Finally, an entire head of a little girl peeked around the corner of the waxy blue tarp.

She stepped from the shelter’s safety and stood at attention with her arms by her side.

“No patrol. Buen hombre,” Oscar said to her. “Buen hombre.”

“Your daughter?” I asked.

Oscar laughed a husky deep throated laugh. The kind you get after too many years of cigarettes and cheap tequila. “No. No. Nieta. (Granddaughter.) Maria.

“Maria, vamos chica. Vamos.”

Maria moved to the safety Oscar’s leg offered. Once again, only her chestnut brown eyes were visible. “What’s your name, amigo?”

“Jerry. Jerry Nelson.”

Nudging Maria from her hiding place, Carols said to Maria. “Darle la mano al señor Nelson. Está bien. He’s buen hombre.”

Shyly Maria stepped forward and held out her hand. My hands easily made four of hers. She blushed and I wondered if I were the first “Americano” she had met who didn’t wear a uniform.

“How do you say, ‘Nice to meet you”? I asked.

“Encantada de conocerte.”

“Ah. Encantada de conocerte, Senorita Maria. Muy gusto.”

Maria giggled again and retreated to her sanctuary behind Oscar’s leg.

“Her mom is in detention. She got picked up by the Border Patrol three days ago. They said she would be released January second.”

A woman came from Maria’s hiding place and Oscar introduced Beatrice, his wife.

“Nice to meet you — er, ah…Encantada de conocerte,” I said.

Oscar pulled over a couple of battered lawn chairs with missing webbing and motioned for me to sit. Sergio built a fire in the firepit as Oscar and I moved closer and Beatrice brought over a chair. Sitting, she pulled Maria into her lap.

Sergio managed to get the damp wood going and before long, sparks were jumping higher than the treetops. He disappeared and moments later joined us with a battered guitar which had probably seen many firepits in its day.

Softly strumming, Sergio played the sun down. With no light except that from the fire, the night became a surreal blanket. Yesterday’s emotions were momentarily forgotten. Tomorrow’s would come soon enough. But tonight it was Christmas.

Sergio switched to a tune I recognized. The others merged into the tune with the words:

Noche de paz, noche de amor,

Todo duerme en derredor.

Entre sus astros que esparcen su luz

Bella anunciando al niñito Jesús

Brilla la estrella de paz

Brilla la estrella de paz

Moving away from the fire, I watched as they sang and Maria fell asleep on Grandma’s lap. I wondered if Maria ever saw snow. Did she know about Santa? Was her last Christmas at home somewhere in Central America safe from a nation that wanted to lock her up and one day would put her brothers and sisters and community playmates in cages?

Somewhere else in the world were wars and rumors of wars. Consumerism blanketed the country like tinsel. But here we were. The six of us. Hidden by the darkness, enjoying the company of strangers. And all was right with the world.

Everyone drifted away, leaving Oscar and me to the dying fire and I told him my story.

###

The next morning as I eased out of the tent, everyone was nibbling Guajalota (tamale sandwiches) and chatting. Maria saw me and waved. The adults said, “Buenos dias,” in unison. I smiled and reached for the coffee.

“Are you leaving us today?” asked Oscar.

The Bad Influence

Some might call us a Bad Influence: but we prefer inclusive, opinionated, sane and insane creative adults that can give and take equally.

Jerry Nelson

Written by

I am an American freelance writer living the expat life in Argentina. Hire me through Fiverr.com/jandrewnelson

The Bad Influence

Some might call us a Bad Influence: but we prefer inclusive, opinionated, sane and insane creative adults that can give and take equally.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade