Nalgene

It jingles against the top of my backpack as I rush through the airport. It is too heavy to clip on, and too big to fit into the mesh side pocket. I've had different colors and sizes, but my favorite is a blue Nalgene bottle, because it doesn't smell if I forget to wash it.

"Water bottles are for sissies."

I quickly nodded in agreement, my eyes never leaving the basketball, as the gangly boy I was guarding contemplated his next shot. At ten years old, being a sissy was the end of the world. Tough girls probably didn't get thirsty either, so I sucked on my own saliva until I was safely home from the judging eyes of "the boys."

"This is your best friend. You will use it for drinking; you will use it to wash off fruit before you eat it; you will use it to brush your teeth."

My youth pastor said, as he held up a green and white water bottle. My first time out of the country, my first rush into new ideas. In Brazil, even with careful, awkward water bottle-brushing-my-teeth techniques, I still tasted the effects of a third world country's water system. I longed for the simplicity of my water faucet at home. Home that was so very far away. Home that was clean; that was organized; that was familiar.

My view of water bottles was transformed. They were not for sissies, they were for survival. They were a link between me and health. A step away from dehydration and extended stays in foreign restrooms. On hot afternoons, it became my one desire. I began to see the water sloshing inside the bottle in a different way, just as I was beginning to see the world around me in a different way.

"What would you like to drink?"

The stewardess does not have a single hair outside her bun. Her make-up is perfect. She doesn't move as the plane shakes with turbulence. And she is waiting for my answer: "Just water."

My weary voice reveals the dread of two more connections to make before I reach my destination. I doze before the take off, too tired to watch the video screen in front of me. Asleep, I cannot be sure if I am on my way home or leaving home. Awake, I have the same problem. The past ten years of my dichotic life have been lived in Brazil, the United States, or somewhere in between. My water bottle follows behind me, looped onto the top of my backpack, a constant in a world of changes.

"Next time you come to Brazil, will you bring me one of those?"

The big brown eyes beg deeply inside the bronze skin, and my mouth must smile in response. The Nalgene bottle has been elevated to god-like status. Nalgene has not permeated my small town of thirty thousand in Northeast Brazil. It is admired and envied in the tropical climate that makes most water bottles stink in a matter of two weeks, even if you do wash them. The Nalgene bottle holds out much longer.

I walk down the cobblestone streets, with my water bottle and cell phone in my hands. Life and communication: I don't need anything else. Life is simple here. The sun burns my skin, even at 8am. I turn a corner and am joined by three barefoot children.

"Tia, Tia! Do we have Living Stones today?"

Living Stones is a program that that gives (LEND) love, education, nutrition, and direction to Jesus through local churches and leaders. It is planting churches through child sponsorship: as you support a child, you also support that church, and their outreach to the whole family.

"No, not today menina, but next week we will!"

We play at the park instead, as it is winter break. I bring Uno cards and soon the air is lighter from laughing. A game of marbles ends in an argument, so we play dodge ball instead. Hot and sweaty, they drink the tap water through cupped hands. Tap water that often flows brown from the faucet. I brought my water bottle, it doesn't go far in a crowd of thirsty children. I wish Nalgene made bigger bottles.

"Oh, and grab a bottle of water for me on your way out."

My sister grabs one from a pack as we head to the gym, one of the many on the shelf bought at Sam's Club. My favorite Nalgene bottle is neglected in the United States, where disposable bottled water is easy to get and absolves my need to be responsible. But even then I find myself refilling them at the nearest drinking fountain, making my "Artesian well water" last all week. I proudly think I am eco-friendly, when really it has more to do with my wallet.

The water bottle jingling against my backpack reminds me that there are other ways of living. That my adjusted system of normal isn't universal. That no matter how hard I try to fit into my American life, something inside me has been altered, and the memory of street children in Brazil will always tug my heart away from complacency.

“But I want a drink from yours.”

Seven year olds are not persuaded easily. Iasmine’s silky hair bounced as she saw my water bottle and gestured. I pointed to the faucet, but she didn’t budge. How do I explain that she can drink the dirty water, but I cannot? That my body will take a week to recover, and then begin medication for worms, whereas her body is already adjusted, and probably already has worms. I look through the blue plastic at the two sips left at the bottom of the bottle.

We will be playing for another hour in the Brazilian blazing sun before she goes home to a cement square the size of my kitchen, the place she calls home. She will pick up her curly haired brother and hold him until her mother arrives, with a “customer” for the night. I twist off the lid, and Iasmine opens her mouth wide, a giggle coming out as the rest of the water sloshes from the corners of her lips and down her shirt. “Thank you.” She replies in perfect English, the phrase I taught her the week before.

“Why Brazil?”

My “single-serving friend” asks, lowering his tray as the stewardess hands us peanuts. I cannot find a good answer for him, because when you love something or someone, reasons come and go, but they are not why you love. You love because it snuck into your heart when you were not looking, and refuses to go away.

“Because I love it there.”

He returns to his big fat book, not understanding my answer any more than I do. Thirsty from the peanuts, and I reach for my Nalgene bottle. The lettering is wearing away, and it is covered with scratches, but the unbreakable plastic has served it’s purpose for a long time now. I hope I have served mine as well.

This was originally written in 2010 for a college writing class, and been altered slightly to continue serving me well.