Cristina Sandoval is a photographer by day and reader by night. When she is not doing either, she is probably playing fetch with her dog or binge watching a series in her bed. She is currently in her second year of graduate school at MSU Texas, majoring in English with the hopes of working for a publishing firm in the future. You can find her other photography work on her Instagram @cas1_photo and direct message her for bookings and questions.
When we were children, we threw stones into the woods across the street. Our house stared down that deep and dark and we knew it was safer to stand on our side. We were convinced that wolves stood in the shadows, watching us as the sun went down.
Another night, we rode the red wagon down the hill, the gravel banging across the tinny rust. That thing was nearly impossible to steer, but we never got hurt. We swore we could fly if we duct taped cardboard to the length of our arms. Josiah tried and his little legs ran so fast, and I swear he was off the ground for a few seconds. He joined the Air Force, but he’s left it behind now.
Gramma used to live at the end of our street. The first time I rode my bicycle with no hands, she and her friend were taking a stroll down the road. Grampa stuck a card between my bicycle spoke and once, when I was in their house, he pointed at the painting of the indigenous woman that Gramma painted. “See that, Lauren? That’s your great grandmother.” I thought I was Native for a long time after that, until I learned Grampa was Filipino and had a habit of telling long tales. He’s still around, too, but he’s real quiet and has a thin frame. He rolls his own cigarettes and rolls his sleeves to his elbows. I’ve never been able to make out the smudged tattoos on his leathery skin.
We had goats, back then. Swarzkopf, Laurel, Hardy, and Beautiful Handsome. Laurel was a right son of you-know-what. We used to swing on the cold metal gate that led to our backyard and Laurel would always headbutt us. Swarzkopf popped my ass over the firepit when I was five. I remember dusting myself off and swiveling on my heels in shock. Hardy was taken by the coyotes late one night, it was strange to wake up and find him gone. Beautiful Handsome was the kindest of the bunch and he liked being on a leash, so we’d take him on walks down to Gramma’s house. As a joke, my dad used to say to us, “BH is going on a long, long walk.” I don’t remember why we’d joke about BH going away for a long time, but when we up and left and moved to Canada, BH lived with the horse down the road. They became best friends and after BH passed, the horse was stressed to its core.
I thought John Wayne lived down the road. There was an old man who looked just like him, he was tall and white and wore cowboy boots. We took the red wagon down the street, full of cartons of eggs, and he would always buy some from us. Paul Bunyan lived on that street, too. It was a small world. I remember learning that China and Russia weren’t the same place and that they didn’t speak the same language.
My mom taught us about the Bible by drawing stick figures. I remember Abraham and Isaac and wondering why God would test his followers in such a cruel way. I used to want to be a missionary and make the ultimate sacrifice in China with my own life. We went to Safeway and I stared down the candy aisle and proclaimed with great ambition, “When I go to China, the only thing I’m going to eat is marshmallows.”
There were never wolves across the street and Josiah never flew.
I’m not indigenous.
I didn’t go to China.
I don’t like marshmallows.
I don’t even like religion anymore.