Boobs and Hugs

We Comptons are an abnormally open family.

When we rent a movie at Red Box, 8 times out of 10 Hoffa will watch it lying on the living room pullout couch in his boxers and white mid-calf socks, the rest of us sprawled out around him or on the other couch. Our spontaneous family friend Sarah used to drop by unannounced (we like it when people do that), but after the third time she walked in and Hoffa was still only wearing underwear, I think she’s been permanently scared off.

Then there are boobs. We met and began playing with a younger family on the beach today. Like us, there were three girls and a boy, aged 9, 7, 3, and 1. While I was lying on my stomach, propped up by my forearms next to the small pool we were digging, I commented on their impressive bathing suit tan lines.

“I’ve been here all week,” I said, “but I don’t really have anything to show for it.”

The seven year old boy pointed toward my chest. “No, there’s a tan on your, uh…”

His older sister interjected – “He doesn’t know what to call them.”

“Boobs,” I say matter of factly.

Others get uncomfortable. We call it like it is. Even when I’d rather we didn’t. So here’s the story.

When I was eleven, I was not omitted from the socially awkward pains of puberty. All of my friends subtly and suddenly just started wearing training bras. Sure, we made fun of each other when we wore white shirts. Yes, we pulled the elastic strap in the back when someone turned around, but I don’t think they endured much humiliation beyond that. My friends did not have three unrelenting little siblings, fascinated by these two new bulges on my chest. Had they just whispered in my ear every once in a while, “Jessica’s getting boobs!” these memories from long ago would probably have been washed away in the outgoing tide of short term recollection. But oh, no, not the Comptons. Once Georgia, RoRie, and Cain figured out what was going on, they were merciless, unyielding I tell you. They received endless joy and amusement every day of my fourth grade existence by cupping their hands to their own flat chests and taunting in an overly seductive tone and a shaking of the shoulders, “Woogie, woogie!”

This mockery was not limited to the privacy of our own home, though. Public places were preferred. It happened all the time – in the produce section of the grocery store, after school in the hallways, at the neighborhood Mexican restaurant. It even made it into the 2004 Christmas letter. Great Mom, let’s just announce to your 500 closest friends that your eldest has boobs now. Awesome. When it first began, I was embarrassed and mad. Later, it got so that I didn’t even blush. I, attempting to invoke an aura of maturity, would shrug and sigh a heave of disapproval. Shaking my head like the little adult I was, I would say, “Kids,” as if I wasn’t one myself. Seriously, I did that. What kind of weirdo fourth grader was I?

I remember thinking to myself that it was just a matter of time. Someday, my sisters will hit puberty, too. But Georgia remained as flat as a flour tortilla well into high school. (Don’t be fooled, folks. The small curve from sixth through tenth grade was only a 32 NA padded bra. That’s supposed to stand for “nearly A.” I think it’s original abbreviation is more appropriate – “not applicable.”) By the time new pairs of boobs began budding in our house, I was too old to be making fun of my sisters, and in truth, we were all grateful to discover that Georgia wasn’t abnormally stunted after all. After fifteen high-pitched years, I’m still waiting on Cain’s voice to crack.

But, oh, my how the circle has turned. Now, as we frolic in our bikinis on the Costa Rican beach, Rosa Marie gets the teasing. Despite her long daily runs, the girl has grown from berries to pomegranates while I’ve been in college. She has the body of a goddess. Narrow waist, stomach of steel, lean legs…and these breasts that cascade into perfect, perky cleavage. As a joke, she shot a model picture on the beach. Georgia hacked her phone and posted this:

The laughs. We even e-mailed it to our grandparents. After they heard about the 5.6 earthquake here a few days ago, my grandma responded, “Now I know what triggered the earthquake!”

My poor father. Hoffa is both dismayed and in awe.

“Mama, why did you let her get that top? Nothing is covered! It might as well be a bra.”

“I didn’t, David, she bought it herself.”

“What am I going to do, Hoffa?” RoRie pleads. “I can’t help it!”

Yet, as she moseys out of the clear ocean water, oblivious to all, he definitely checks out his own daughter. And, while the father in him wants all three of his daughters covered in nun habits, silently, I know the man in him approves.

As for me, every time I see her without a shirt on, I can’t help but burst into a giggle. She knows why.

“Jessica! It’s not that funny.”

“Oh, but it is, RoRie. Look who gets to say woogie woogie now.”

Then there are the hugs.

If you haven’t experienced a signature Compton hug before, hold your breath. That is my warning, meant to be taken quite literally. Upon first introduction to a stranger, normal people shake hands. We tend to hug. These are not limpy acknowledgements from the side of the waist, either. A Compton hug is a full, front on embrace, complete with smiley eyes, a joyful heart, and a much-too-tight squeeze.

Our hugs are a manifestation of the love we have for another. They are unadulterated, and they are plentiful. One early Costa Rica morning when everyone had arisen, as usual, by six a.m., Hoffa asked, “Has everyone hugged each other?”

Now let me interject that though we frequently hug, it’s not part of the morning routine. But when Hoffa gets his mind fixed on what he thinks should happen, you can’t really disregard him; he’s a persistent (and, dare I say, persnickety?) old man. He then proceeded to individually interview members of the family and insist we all do so.

Apparently, these instances of adamancy are more frequent, and all of my siblings have become almost as easily put out as he. I, however, have been out of the house for two years. When he posed this question, I couldn’t help but smile. No other father forces his teenagers to hug each other. Yeah, it’s weird, but it’s pretty sweet, too.

While life is still like this in Charleston, our isolated time together in Costa Rica has allowed us to focus on each other even more. When I’m at school, I miss this so much – the harmless banter, the laughing, the weirdness, the true love of physical affection and verbal affirmation. We are a forward, innocent, and funny group. I love that boobs and hugs and underwear are normal parts of our lives. I even kind of love our almost total lack of privacy; there is not much left “personal” in our personal lives. There is unusual security in this kind of life, too. My family has me, and I have them. I know them deeply, and I trust them. These are the people with whom I seek counsel, I talk, I run, I snuggle, I hug. For most, these are the uncomfortable things, even with family. Don’t talk about boobs. Hugs are greetings after long separations. They’re wrong, though. In these things I have found the most comfort. It is the woogie woogies and the suffocating squeezes that assure me I am home.

Playing in Nosara

A few updates:

Monkeys

If you have no experience in Central America, it turns out our mystery animal from the previous blog is indeed only a howler monkey, and they sound much more intimidating than they actually are. Had we kept going a bit longer on the trail, the worst thing that would have happened is a possible groping of a testosterone-filled monkey or some poop droppings from the trees above. That’s their weapon, and honestly, I think it’s a more effective tactic than straight on physical attack.

Jesus

Bible study with my sisters (and now mother!) has been going really well. As in, it’s actually happening, regularly. We’re praying for each other and talking about faith issues together. I’m struggling to go beyond that, though. I know I need to start acting on my faith, but I am consistently held back. After yoga class, we walked along with Eleanor, our yoga instructor, and she said she moved from Canada to Costa Rica for emotional healing, mainly from the pains of relationships and previous men in her life. As it was happening, I felt the tug – she needs Jesus. She’s like the Samaritan woman at the well. Talk about Jesus. Pray for her. I could envision my friend doing it. “You need healing?” he would eagerly ask. “Here, let me give it to you.” And then he would pray for her and talk as long as necessary about this good new life, and there would be a big celebration in heaven. I saw the opportunity coming, and already I knew I would not act on it. Why? Am I really that afraid? I don’t think so. It’s more a matter of boldness and confidence. I want someone to lead me. I want to heal alongside others more confident and experienced than myself. I know it happens, I’m tired of not being a part of it, and yet I do not act.

Mojitos 

The new favorite summer drink for the Comptons is a homemade mojito. The first day we were here, we stopped for lunch at a beach front restaurant, where Mama ordered one. That minty hankering hadn’t quite left her when we took a very expensive trip to the grocery store. At the checkout line, she raised her pointer finger and exclaimed, “Oh! Mojitos!” With the very little Spanish she knows, she talked to the locals to figure out what ingredients we might need, and proceeded to race around the store for mint, lime, club soda, and rum. We get home. We have the ingredients, but do the Comptons strike you as expert drink makers who spend a lot of time at home mixing up concoctions? No, all Hoffa wants is a cold beer and a colder glass. His Spanish consists of “Hola!,” but I think mojito might be a Spanish word. Using a lot of hand gestures and repeating “mojito” incessantly, he invited our jovial taxi driver Louis to come inside to make and drink mojitos with us. Louis speaks little more English than Hoffa does Spanish. He came, though, and half an hour later, we’ve got three Hispanic workers – a taxi driver, a plumber, and a delivery man – and five of the six Comptons sipping on mojitos.

Paddle Boarding 

We’re here for a while, so the padres are trying to spread out our activities, but we have one down. Despite our ability to do it anytime on Shem Creek in good ol’ Mt. Pleasant, Mama was really interested in paddle boarding here. When we started talking to the locals about this idea, they all responded in the same persistent way: “Oh, no, we don’t go to river. Many crocodiles. Eat our dogs. Eat us.” Well that scared Mama off for all of twelve hours. “Let’s just go to the Experience Nosara place and talk to them ourselves. Surely they wouldn’t get all of these high reviews on TripAdvisor if tourists were dying on the river.” Well that’s encouraging, Ma. What do you expect them to say? Like any good tour business eager for customers during the low season, they assured us that it was completely safe. The next morning, Eight-pack Alan (as I secretly called him) came to pick us up. He is the most ripped thirty two year old I have ever seen. He also has a cougar. When Hoffa told me that, I asked dubiously, “What? You have a cougar for a pet?!” No, Jessica, his wife. She’s eight years older than him. Dang. You go for it Alan. At any rate, our day on the river really was enjoyable, and though we did see a few crocodiles, they did not bother us. Mama was satisfied, and the rest of us enjoyed the excursion.

Walking

My favorite exercise is the kind that isn’t intentional exercise. Yesterday, after the intentional run in the morning, I also ended up playing in the ocean for two hours, walking five miles, and doing an hour of yoga. We weren’t walking just to walk, but to actually get somewhere; I love that. I take back what I said about winning a walking contest. It turns out Mama and Rosa Marie can put the spring in their step when they want to. I was the one falling behind on the way to and from the free community yoga class at Harmony Hotel on Playa de Guionnes. It gets dark around 6 pm here, and they walked even faster on our return, a little alarmed by the dark. Are you surprised that we still got confused about how to get back?

Stay tuned. I am working on a pretty funny post. It involves boobs and hugs, so get ready.

Wandering

“Dang, I’ve never heard Mama say ‘shit’ before,” Rosa Marie giggled after our 500 meter sprint back up the footpath.

Only the Compton women would be chased off by a deep grunt during our first full day in Costa Rica. Only in Costa Rica, as the monkeys stake their territory, will you hear your rather reserved mother cuss. It’s all because she is one of the most directionally challenged human beings ever, and she passed her mapless genes onto us. Inheriting no internal compass, I opt to call myself a wanderer.

When I’m on the Appalachian Trail, I’m a hiker or a backpacker. On the Ravenel Bridge, I’m a power walker. I could probably win a powerwalking race; yes, I am that dorky. But those varieties of walking are all pretty typical things for me to be doing. They go in a straight line, and you can’t get lost. When I’m in a foreign country, however, I become a wanderer. Not because I have some deep wanderlust running through my veins, but because I will invariably get lost, which, of course, happened today in the intestinal labyrinth of Nosara roads.

After a sample of Mediterranean vegetable, pepperoni and salami, arugula and sundried tomatoes, and bacon and blue cheese pizzas for lunch, Cain and Hoffa turned back along the beach. As they headed to the cozy bungalow we’re renting for the next two weeks, the women – Mama, Georgia, Rosa Marie, and me – decided to find our way into town, buy a few groceries, and check out the lay of the land. So, in our bathing suit cover ups and sandals, rain clouds looming, we ventured the other direction down a rocky, dirt road, which, after wrapping around a house, quickly turned into a small footpath.

“Uh, Mom, are you sure this is the right way?” Georgia, the most skeptical of us all, questioned.

“Oh, come on, it looks alright to me. Let’s keep on,” I pushed, always up to discover where something may lead.

We trekked on another minute. As usual, I led the way. It’s one of my pet peeves to follow others on trails. I like to see where I’m going and what’s ahead of me, which is ironic, since most of the time I’m oblivious to my surroundings. Mama followed, the two sisters straggling behind her.

“Hey look!” Rosa Marie pointed to the trees above us. “Monkeys! And there’s a baby too!”

I was more interested in the bonanza of mangoes our curly tailed friends feasted on than the animals themselves, but it was still exciting to encounter our first jungle animals.

“Hey, let’s turn back,” Georgia suggested. “Do you hear that?”

I retorted that, no, I didn’t hear anything. It was still a clear path, and I continued walking.

And then it happened. This guttural, husky warning, a threatening crescendo began in the thick trees ahead. My ears didn’t register, and my steps continued. Rouh, rouh, roouh, rooouh, ROOOUH!

“Oh shit!” Mama exclaimed.

Oh my gosh! I thought. I’m about to be attacked! Turn around, run away!

My track star sisters were already off, fifty feet ahead of me. Though my mother is one fit fifty year old, running has never been a strength of hers, and bearing four children has not done her any favors. Adrenaline kicked in, though, and even she was trotting along as best she could. It turns out sacrificial love for one’s child is not reciprocal. Mama, get out of my way!

As soon as the trail opened up, I cut around her. Nothing was chasing us, but we weren’t taking any chances with a noise like that, and we all continued running until we were back at the head of the trail. Grateful to be safe, we all laughed, and continued on the next unmarked road. We walked down more jungle paths and continued in almost perpetual ignorance of where we were. An hour later, the clouds released rain in the same way the mystery animal warned us. First a refreshing sprinkle, fifteen minutes later a torrential downpour. We never found the town, and, as only true wanderers do, we unintentionally circled back to the pizzeria. Even when we got back on the beach to follow Cain and Hoffa's footprints, we got lost, passing by our exit and looping back until we found a promising gap in the trees. I suppose this is how our time in Costa Rica may go. The days are circular…waking to the early sunrise, morning dips, a daily adventure, afternoon thunderstorms, reading, and relaxing. Within these days, though, we will wander together, enjoying each surprise around the next bend in the road.