Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Charade (08/14/08)
- TITLE: A Mountain Called Her By Name
By Emily Gibson
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From the neck up, she fit right in with the standard appearance at the time: as the younger sisters of the 60’s generation of free thinking flower children, we tried to emulate them in our dress and style, going braless and choosing bright colors and usually skirts that were too short and tight. There was the pretense we didn’t really care how we looked, but of course we did care very much, with hours spent daily preparing the “casual carefree” look that would perfectly express our freedom from fashion trends and feminist longings. Our nonconformity perfectly fit our peers’ expectations and aggravated our parents. But Devi didn’t look like she cared what anyone else thought of her. The high school girls honestly weren’t sure what to make of her, wondering whether she was “for real” and viewed her suspiciously, as if she was putting on an act.
She preferred baggy torn khaki shorts, loose fitting faded T shirts and ripped tennis shoes without shoelaces. Her legs were covered with long blonde hair, as were her armpits. She pulled whole cucumbers from her backpack in class and ate them like cobs of corn, rind and all. She smelled like she had been camping for three days without a shower, but then riding her bike to school from her home 8 miles away in all kinds of weather accounted for that. Not even snow storms interfered with her bike commute to school.
As a daughter of two Peace Corps workers who had just moved back to the U.S. after years of service in Nepal, Devi had lived very little in the United States. Her father Willi, one of the first American climbers to reach the summit of Mt. Everest up the difficult west face, had recently accepted a professorship at a local college, so moved his family back to the northwest, suddenly immersing his large family in an affluent culture that seemed foreign and wasteful.
Devi recycled simply by never buying anything new and never throwing anything useful away, involved herself in social justice issues before anyone had coined the phrase, and was an activist behind the scenes more often than a leader, facilitating and encouraging others to speak out at anti-war rallies, organizing sit-ins for world hunger and volunteering in the local soup kitchen. She mentored adolescent peers to get beyond their self-consciousness and self-absorption to explore the world beyond the high school walls.
Regretfully, few of us followed her lead. We preferred the camaraderie of hanging out at the local drive-in to taking a shift at the local 24 hour crisis line. We showed up for our graduation ceremony in caps and gowns while Devi stood at the top of Mt. Rainier with her father that day.
I never saw Devi again but heard of her plans in 1976 to climb with an expedition to the summit of Nanda Devi, the Nepalese peak for which she was named. She never returned, dying in her father’s arms as she suffered irreversible high altitude sickness just below the summit. She lies buried in the ice on the faraway peak that called her by name. Her father died in an avalanche only a few years later, as he led an expedition of college students on a climb on Mt. Rainier, only 60 miles from home.
Had Devi lived these last 32 years, I have no doubt she would have led our generation with her combination of charismatic boldness and excitement about each day’s new adventure. She lived without pretense, without a mask of fad and fashion and without the desire for wealth or comfort.
I wish I had learned what she had to teach me back when she sat beside me in class, when she encouraged me in my tentative attempts at activism, and when I secretly admired the freedom she embodied in her nonconformity. Instead, I mourn her loss all these years later, having to be content with the legacy she left behind on a snowy mountain peak.
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