When we stripped down to our skivvies in the middle of a city street, I knew we’d be good friends.
I moved to the Rio Grande Valley in June of 2010. The nightI arrived, a veteran Teach For America corps member was hosting a pool party at his house. Before attending the party, I met, in the flesh (we had previously met via the telephone), Jess, the corps member who I would be teaching 8th grade reading next to in Roma.
I don’t recall our introduction as being anything extraordinarily special. I remember she was wearing a blue cotton dress that made her similarly colored eyes glow. Her New Jersey accent reminded me of my friends from the East Coast, her ability to command conversation without being overbearing reinforced the idea that New Jersians are wonderful people to be in the company of.
Together, we attended the party in our street clothes, not actually thinking we would bear our barely clothed bodies to a pool of strangers. Once we arrived, sipped down some liquid courage, the pool’s waves enticed us. As planned people, we both had our bathing suits in the car so we teetered to my street parked Saturn, grabbed our suits, and looked questioningly at each other.
Would it be grossly inappropriate to change in the street? Probably. Is anyone going to know? Probably not.
After a few confirming words, we both quickly stripped in the street and slipped our bikinis on as if it were totally normal to use nature as a changing stall.
Our introductory night was only the beginning.
Since that night, nearly two years ago, Jess has been a paired source of humor and solace.
On our second trip to Roma, Jess was pulled over while driving my car 38 mph over the speed limit. We handed the police officer my South Dakota insurance and her New Jersey driver’s license. Jess turned Jersey immediately as she explained her confusion about how the speed limit could go from 65 to 30 within a ½ mile distance. As he shook his head and unsympathetically collected our multi-state documents, I used my sweet South Dakota style, apologizing for breaking the law, especially as new residents of the RGV. He hurried to his car, verifying our legitimacy, and returned to our car. He returned our things and said, “Be safe.” I said, “And the ticket?” He replied, “Be safe.”
We deserved a ticket, but somehow the combination of New Jersey and South Dakota, saved us. Together, we were special or lucky or silly or safely unsafe.
My first year of teaching, when I got stung by a scorpion in my sleep, Jess let me crash her bed until our house was adequately bug bombed and I saw my bed as satisfyingly safe again.
When Jess received harrowing news about someone close to her, we had a sleep over in my bed, even though hers was a door away.
In my first year of teaching, when I felt like a hopeless failure, she was there to laugh with me, cry with me, walk with me, reason with me.
Over the summer, after two and a half hours of being stranded at the Port Au Prince airport (and fearing my life), I called Jess for help. She contacted the organization that I was volunteering with and shortly after, I was safely retrieved.
This year, I’ve spent many conference periods in her classroom, strewn across her desks, asking, “How will I make it?” Her response has always ensured I do.
Perhaps we’ve been mildly reckless at times (or life has been reckless to us), but I’ve always known safety within the realm of our friendship.
Jess has taught me that loving is creating friendships of risks and joy and comfort, friendships where being safely unsafe is an alright thing.
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