Hills

 

I grew up in a place with no hills
So when I moved to Colorado I was impressed.

To me the rises and drops in elevation in the suburban neighborhood I lived in were hills. The actual hills were mountains and the mountains were this monstrous thing looming in the distance like some perfectly color adjusted windows 98 wallpaper. I eventually got used to them... hills I mean.... could never quite wrap my mind around the mountain.
But the more I thought about it I recalled that we had two hills in New Orleans. Monkey Hill in the Zoo and a smaller on in the park. Both were more mounds than hill. I only know that now. Any other hill was a functional hill. Like the levees. One sloped side pushing against the Mississippi or the Lake the other side drowning in it.

My brother and I loved Monkey Hill... mostly from a far. Mother rarely permitted us to climb it for 2 reasons. First she was always fearful that we would snap a bone or hurt ourselves in a way that was beyond her repair. We lacked the little plastic white cards other mothers carried around in their purses with their children's names marked on them in 12 inch Arial font. Insurance... again something I never understand until recently. The second reason was rooted in past and personal pride. My mother grew up in the dying yet still effective arms of Jim Crow. She found it an undignified abasement to allow her children to frolic, roll, climb, jump or even step on anything named "Monkey" Hill. To her they might as well had called it "Nigger Hill"

Once or twice I went to the Zoo with my school but being a Roman Catholic southern institution girls were not allowed to wear pants at least not before I hit sixth grade. And my mother in a determine attempt to make a lady out of me did not allow me to wear biker shorts under my pleated checkered heavily starched skirt. Only white, nude or black slips with a half inch of trim. So rolling down the hill with my classmates was out of the question... not that I liked them anyway.

The only other "hill" was in City Park. The memories of it are very very fond. One day during my senior year after school when I did not have to go to the college campus for classes and was feeling appropriately defiant enough to disregard my band teacher's comical threats of what would happen if I missed another after school session, we piled into one of my friend's white 96 Toyota Corolla station wagon and headed to City Park. We stopped at a little delicious Chinese place for crab ragoon before offering our devoted patronage to the drive through Daquiri shop. Once we were fed and slightly tweaked we cranked up the music and finished our journey to the park. I always loved City Park. The beautiful magnolia trees lined the entrance like a majestic court and the crickets competed with the local chorus of green breasted mallards on the lake...and on and on and on.

We drove three- fourths of a mile into the park, around the museum and headed out. I was disappointed that we were leaving so soon and a bit confused. The driver of the car stopped dead center of the road. "Alright yall know the drill". I got knocked in the head by the saddle oxford covered foot of the girl who sat in the middle as she climbed into the back of the station wagon.
"What the hell" I whispered a bit embarrassed to ask the four other people in the car what was going on. I was ignored.
"You gonna have to pull further back to get enough speed," The other girl in the front seat suggested
"No I don't"
"Yes you do"
"Get more speed?"
"No I don't"
"Yes you do"

At that point the girl in the trunk put her face next to mine and said
"You might wanna buckle up I-re-nay but its more fun if you don't... here hold my drink" The girl I shared the seat with had just planted her feet firmly down and wrapped her hands around the metal part of the driver's headrest and locked her arms.

"Buckle up?" I asked as I took the cup from the girl in back.
She didn't get a chance to explain before the driver pressed down on the ignition so fast that the wheels squeaked and rubber burned. She was thrown back against the window like a rag doll all the while screaming "Hellz yeah... bring it on!!!!" I turned my attention to the front window of the car to see just what the hell was going on.

"Blessed Virgin at the cross!!!!!!!!" I screamed when I saw that we were speeding towards the one hill in City Park. I tried to get on my seat belt but it was hard to do with my hands full. For a brief second I thought about opening the door with my elbow and tucking and rolling. But I wasn't sure if that would hurt more. The only other thing going through my mind was how my mother was going to beat my ass down after I got outta the hospital because of the enormous bill she was going to have to pay on account of me not having any health insurance.

Now although no self respecting southern person of color would dare to watch Dukes of Hazard I had myself witnessed the opening credits of the hooting and hollering good ole boy show and by that small snippet I can say with greatest confidence that the "General Lee" had nothing on that four door family class vehicle. When we crested that rounded breast of earth and concrete we left the ground and hit the heavens. I was weightless rising in my seat until my head came in contact with the roof of the car. And for a brief eternity time squeezed breath out of her lungs slowly just for us.

That car landed and skidded to a halt shaken, stirred and filled with five girls each with sore heads, bruised shins, rapidly racing hearts and sides sore from laughter. The next time I got to sit in back.

So when I moved to Colorado and saw hills for the first time I was indeed impressed but I always thought mine was better.