I for Isolation
David thought he lived in the middle of no where. That is, until he moved to South Park, Colorado. A place where ten minutes felt far away but two hours to the closest major city was manageable. In elementary school, the isolation wasn't inconsequential. The neighborhood kids were enough of a handful to keep his days occupied.
Middle school brought on a unique set of problems. David was old enough to bike to places like the mall or Stark's pond by himself. But that's when the usual activities began to loose their luster. Sports held some appeal, although Kyle was more inclined to basketball and Stan had pretty much thrown in the towel on football. For his part, David enjoyed watching hockey and clumsily ice skating when no one was around the pond. David grew closer to people like Token, Jimmy, and Butters who had stimulating conversations to offer. But overall, the challenge of not having a license was in the limits of their imaginations.
David realized in eighth grade that most of the drugs kids sold each other were a byproduct of the isolation South Park often experienced. There was little to do, and few left. What was the point of being an upstanding citizen if there were no consequences to your actions? It bothered him sometimes, this idea that he would be stuck here forever.
The vistas and climate weren't much different from Boise, but he had never intended to live his entire life in Idaho either. He wanted to see the world, be someone, whatever that meant. Someday, all the pieces would fall in place for David. But for now, he's fourteen and stuck in the middle of nowhere in the middle of mountain land.
It's the summer before high school and he's bored beyond belief. Half of his time is spent working for his parents, and the hours seem to bleed into each other. He hasn't seen much of Kyle since his family went to Cancun for a few weeks. David had tried not laugh mirthlessly. He had yet to meet most of his familia on his father's side, but the Broflovskis could treat his homeland like a commodity to exploit. He tried not to let his bitterness show. David knows Kyle wouldn't think like that...on purpose.
On a typical Thursday afternoon, David is reading his summer English book by Stark's Pond. He skips a few rocks whenever the literature pisses him off too much. He takes a deep breath, picks the calmest playlist he has on his phone, and tries to concentrate on the pure mierda he was assigned. The late afternoon sun beamed mercilessly as the wind gushed through the valley. David lost track of the time, almost dozing off when he felt a tapping on his shoulder.
He glances up, Stan Marsh is awkwardly waving at him. Overtime their relationship has evolved from one of animosity to tentative friendship to...David wasn't sure how to describe them now. The last year had been this stasis where neither he nor Stan understood how they felt about each other. He was sure they were both hopelessly in love with Kyle, but that didn't seem to affect whatever was going on between them.
"Hey," Stan's voice cracks as he timidly greets him. "Can I sit?"
"Sure," David scoots over so the older boy can share his towel.
"How's the book going?" Stan gestures to David's copy of The Tortilla Curtain.
David frowns, "have you read it?"
Stan nods, a silence falls on them. Just when David is about to ignore him to continue reading, he concludes, "it's fucking messed up."
David snorts, "that's putting it lightly."
"Fuck, dude, does that shit really happen?"
"Of course, tonto," David snarks. "People risk their lives all the time. Hopping immigration will give them a better life when honestly, sometimes it really doesn't."
"Then what's the point?" Stan looks over, his eyes are so fucking innocent and David doesn't know whether to smack him or kiss him. Kiss him? David thinks again, que extraño.
"The point is survival," David explains patiently. "A veces, you don't have a choice. It's either adapt or die."
Stan mulls the comment over. "So the author's arguing that adaptation is a necessary evil?"
"I honestly don't give a flying fuck what the author is arguing," he comments, enojado. "He's making money out of exploiting the real pain of my people. Pain that he'll probably never face. He can say whatever the he wants, but fuck him. Fuck him to hell."
Stan grimaces, remaining silent as David continues venting.
"¿Sabes con qué frecuencia puedo ver o leer algo qué representa mi gente con bien justicia en este país?" David huffs, huddling himself behind his knees. "Cuando no necesito preocuparme con imágenes de violencia y carnicería. Y cuando ni se importa que opina la población Americano sobre las gentes Mexicanas. Mierda como esto es que lo nos mantiene oprimidos."
"Fuck." Stan curses to himself, "how often do you have to deal with shit like this?"
"Too often," David says curtly.
"So what do you?" he asks, voice wavering slightly. Like he's scared to know what David has to deal with on a daily basis. The wind dies down with his voice.
"You learn how to adapt," David says simply. "People can help you as much as they can take everything away. You learn that everyone has a way to be disarmed or placated. Some people can be reasoned with, taught, and others can only be ignored. The dangerous people are the one's you have to either keep your distance or make friends with."
"Then what am I?" Stan isn't challenging him, he's curious.
David stares up at sun, gradually being hidden by a low flying cloud. It blurs his vision slightly, but allows him a warm release. "I had to teach you...a lot," David admits.
"And now?" the older boy turns to face him expectantly.
David smiles easily, "Y ahora, creo que ya sabes suficiente para ser mi amigo, mi confidente."
Stan grins back at him, ghosting su mano over David's. He squeezes it reassuringly. "I'm glad."
They fall into a quiet moment, inches from each other, unsure how to proceed. Somehow, Stan ends up laying on David's stomach while the Chicano resumes reading.
"Sometimes," David startled Stan awake with his musings. "I think you get it more than Kyle. The 'being a minority' thing."
"What doesn't he get?" Stan turns over to face him.
"It's the little things," he plays with Stan's shaggy hair. "Mostly how whatever I have to say ends up as the official 'Latino opinion'."
"And that's...bad," Stan hums in contemplation.
David sighs, setting the book down on the dirt trail. Not that he cares what happens to it. "It is when that's how all of my opinions are framed. I'm not...ugh. It's like my value is tied to how much I can teach him. And there's only so much I can tell him, you know?"
"That's dumb," he informs David bluntly. "Dude, Kyle's fucking in love with you. He wants to be a part of your life, and he's probably frustrated that he'll never totally get there..." Stan trails off before adding, "and he probably asks so many questions because he thinks you're a fucking genius."
David mumbles under his breath, blushing. "I hadn't thought of it like that."
"I know," Stan smirks knowingly. "Take it from the king of miscommunication, David. Just talk to him. If it bothers you, he'll listen."
"When did you get so good at giving advice güey?"
Stan shrugs turning away from David to face the pond. "Maybe I get it. Not the being Mexican thing, but feeling like you're the only person who gets what you're dealing with."
David rolls his eyes playfully, secretly appreciating the way Stan gets him sometimes. As he lays back down, submitting himself to further reading, David wonders if isolation is more of a state of mind and if empathy is cure.
