A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Yeah,” he says, “poor boys have bad penis,” he mutters. “I want to have a rich man’s cock.” He looks down at his lap.

I am devastated by his reading of the situation and his use of the word “cock.”

Nate concludes by reading a poem he wrote at school, and everyone applauds.

Sakhile takes the stage. “Nate and the family of Nate — you come to us to celebrate this rite of passage to go from boy to man — but also from friends and relatives to being a family. Your belief in our village reminded us to believe in ourselves and demanded that we do more for ourselves — that we work harder. That hard work made us stronger — we had gotten soft and we were sad and sorry for ourselves, we had seen many hard things. You came like fresh air that says, Think outside of yourself, think forward, and I am so happy now, and we are not alone — we have a big world. And our friendship showed me that black and white can come together, can be true friends. We lived a long time carrying a great weight, and it will take a long time to feel our lightness. Someone once told me there are people you do not know — strangers — who care very much about you. I did not understand what that could mean until now. I wanted to thank you.” He pauses. “Your father’s friend Sofia and I talked a long time about traditions. And for this bar-mitzvah day we decided to do something very American — a celebration of independence. So for lunch we will have a giant barbecue of hamburgers and hot dogs.”

“An all-you-can-eat buffet,” Ricardo says, “and it’s free. …”

I see the village women scurrying around to indulge our very American fantasy and worry that it’s wrong, and at the same time it’s clear how much they are loving it, how much the images of American culture have become part of their dream. Sofia has thought of everything: ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, dill pickles, helium balloons.

During lunch Nate asks me, “Does my father know we’re here?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Do you want him to know?”

Nate shrugs and takes another hot dog.

As lunch is winding down, the village children vanish — I assume gone off to play, but they return wearing the blue-and-white soccer jerseys and carrying in the cake. They sing “Happy Birthday” and joyously add the verse “You look like a monkey and you live in a zoo,” and they think it is so funny.

Nate cuts the cake. He leans over and says, “I always thought you were an asshole, just another one of them, someone who couldn’t do anything, who couldn’t be trusted. Now you’re like a real person — it’s cool.”

Everyone is wearing a Nate shirt, everyone is playing soccer, even the old women. While the game is on, Sakhile says to me, “There is someone I want you to meet this afternoon, someone special to me, Londisizwe, the inyanga —medicine man — he is like my brother.”

“What does he do?”

“A little of everything. He gives me powder for my feet to stop the itching. I am allergic to dirt — can you imagine the joke of that, living here and allergic to dirt?” Sakhile laughs and raises his pants to show me that he is wearing shoes and socks — tall white crew socks.

Londisizwe arrives during the soccer game; he looks older than Sakhile. He introduces himself. “I want to thank you for the supplies. Many of the things you brought are for my medicine bag. We are just enough in the twenty-first century that people believe everything can be fixed — I am no longer a medicine man, I am like a repairman, Mr. Maytag.”

I laugh.

“It’s not really so funny when you think about it,” he says.

I nod. We watch the soccer game.

“You have a beautiful family.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Ashley runs over — she needs my help in putting her hair up. I introduce her to Londisizwe, and she shakes his hand.

“Are you enjoying your trip?” he asks.

“It’s amazing,” she says.

“I’m so glad,” Londisizwe says, holding on to Ashley’s hand.

“What has been your favorite part?”

She pauses. “I liked lighting the candles on Friday night, and then when everyone sang ‘Wimoweh.’”

“All good things,” he says, nodding. Londisizwe lets go of her hand; she runs back into the game.

“She has been sad a long time,” the medicine man says.

“She’s okay,” I say.

Londisizwe looks at me as though I am refusing to hear him. “Does she do well at school?”

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“She is afraid, she worries what will happen to her. And the heavy boy …”

“Ricardo,” I say.

“Ricardo needs to be trained. He is overflowing with energy, which he controls by eating heavy foods to slow down. He should do karate or swordfighting until he becomes himself.”

“How do you know all that?”

“Some things you can see just by looking,” he says.

“Tell me more.”

“Nate needs to go more gently. He uses anger to push himself forward, but at some point he will collapse, he needs to find a food more nourishing than anger.”

I nod, thinking this guy really does know something. And then he turns his eyes on me. He asks me to stick out my tongue, he sniffs my breath — which I imagine smells like hot dog and mustard. He nods, as if thinking about how best to say what he has seen.

“You almost died,” Londisizwe says. “You may feel okay right now, but you are not okay inside. You are holding something foul — it needs to come out, and you are afraid to let it go. It is something from long ago; you have kept it like a companion so you don’t feel so alone, but now you have a family, and in order to be healthy, it needs to come out.”

I nod, knowing that he is right. My ability to describe my experience is limited, with the nuances unarticulated. How does anyone explain himself? It’s as though all I can do is grunt and hope that, from the intonation, you might understand. I could blame the stroke, but I would be lying. How can I tell anyone that there has always lived within me a rusty sense of disgust — a dull, brackish water that I suspect is my soul?

“What is it that needs to come out?” I ask Londisizwe.

“That is my question to you,” he says. “It is something that has kept you from life. I would like to give you something to clear out the old. We will start with a tea — it will give you strong dreams and wind, but you must continue with it for four days. You will feel much worse before you feel better.”

The idea of feeling much worse before feeling better doesn’t exactly make me jump up and down and say, Let’s start now. “What do you mean by wind?” I ask.

“Clouds of smoke from your stomach,” Londisizwe says. “But no matter how you feel you must keep drinking it until the smoke stops, and then you will feel notably lighter of spirit. We will start now,” he says. “I will make the tea.” Londisizwe leaves.

I focus on the soccer game.

Twenty minutes later, Londisizwe returns with a large mug. I drink the tea, which tastes earthy, heavy, like boiled peat moss and mushrooms. “What is it made of?” I ask, in part to stall for time between sips.

“I cannot tell you,” Londisizwe says. “Because if I told you I would have to kill you.” He smiles. I see that he has only four teeth in his mouth — the front four, and there are gaping holes on either side. He laughs. “Just kidding,” he says.

Forty-five minutes later, I am overcome with exhaustion. I have no choice but to lie down; I am not sure if it is the tea or the fact that the bar mitzvah is over, but it feels like a lifetime of exhaustion, like something is draining out of me. I go back to the room and sleep for hours. My dreams are uncomfortable, vivid, in incredible color — as if supersaturated. They are so intense that while I am having them I’m sure I will never forget them. And then I wake, like I’m drunk, and I remember nothing — well, almost nothing. There are strange fragments: Like, I am at a meeting with a group of men; we are sitting in an office and as they are talking I realize that it is the 1960s and I am in a suite and the men who are talking are Nixon’s men and I am working for Nixon, and the men all turn and look at me, waiting expectantly for something. And then there is one with my father dancing around the house in his undershorts and wearing my mother’s bra while my mother chases after him, hitting him again and again with a dish towel saying, “Just fix the air conditioner.”