Many A Face

Though we cannot step in the same river twice, the one constant
we maintain is that it is our river we are stepping in, no matter
how unalike the two immersions into the river are. My early years
certainly had few constants, as I decided to be as many things as
I could. From the age of two until just before turning five, I
informed all concerned that I was five and a half. Upon turning
five I had an existential crisis and decided it was time to re-live
my time as a three year old. My stint being a three year old was
short lived because I realized that I would simply not have an age
until my sixth year. My mother had hopes for me to grow up in
regal dress, as shown in the picture on the right; I however, had
different plans. I became a Scottish duck for a few years (Patito
Escoses in the original tongue). I created my own game and
forced my
ever-patient nanny to be my opponent, manager and fans. I have
been a ninja. I was once a master bacon chef, catering for Helen
of Troy; I sadly incinerated Helen (not a sentient being) and a
good chunk of my eyebrows in the process. I have been judge,
jury and executioner. I lived amongst swans and told the Queens
Guard to stand to attention. I have been a rugby ball. Not once,
not three times, but twice I decided that my mother was no
longer necessary and wondered of into east London, set on
finding adventure; I evicted a street performer from his square
and showed the crowd who the true OG is/was. I retain the
record in our family for cracking ones head open on the same
radiator multiple times. I made the desolate swampish fields of
my desolate countryside village sparkle shine with the greatness
of my station. All of these experiences have been different

submersions, however they were all in my very own river. That

never faltered.
My innocent, happiness-addled brain truly believed I was a ninja,
and my existential crisis was truly distressful; I moved on quickly
however. These things are left as surreal memories of a time long
ago. If I were asked what percentage of these fanciful tales were
unabashed veracity, I could not answer truthfully, for I do not
honestly know. The unreal nature of my happiness I attribute to
the three Is of my age: immortal, invincible and impeccable.
Above is a picture of my first ever immersion into the glorious
sport of Rugby. The child seems to have attempted to kick a ball:
he clearly failed at his task. On the floor, the ball lies undisturbed
in what seems its original resting place, unaware of the intense
focus and poignant interest that was being pointed in its
direction. In contrast, the entire being of the tyke to the right of
the ball seems to be pulsating with the interminable energy of
the youngster I was. Other than being a nice photo that serves as
a comparison to other firsts, and whenever my mother wishes to
embarrass me with her fierce pride in my younger days, this
photo is full of the unseen ironies. I am not a kicker, despite the
success and intensity that I am enjoying in the moment. I did
-unlike many other childhood experiences- go on to play and fall
in love with Rugby. This child, so intent on the ball has could have
no notion of how he would come to know the ball, know to run
with it, learn the subtle secrets of this chalice and fill it with
joyous memories. After playing in England and now Canada,
starting at the Gosford all-blacks going to the Oxfordshire
Harlequins, performing at home for my Cokethorpe Royals and
now in the Americas under the Brentwood Colts and first XV.
Though my record may look like I betrayed my club more than
Van Percy, I thoroughly enjoyed my time at each one and all of
them added to the little boy desperately trying to kick the everelusive ball until he fell in love with the sport and grew into a
competent rugby player.
Of the few constants in my early life my name was not one of
them. I was always taught that names held power, which was
why I was named after my grandfathers. I have come to agree
with this mantra, names do indeed have power; they can inspire
awe, hate and anything in-between growing up in my signature

state of flux, my name was not safe from change. My original title
was Francisco Salomon Basave Gonzalez-Blanco. The first and
second courtesy of my father, and the other bestowed upon me
by my mother. Never have I been Francisco, and even writing
Basave feels foreign and distant, like my fingers reject the six
letters. Only to my father am I Francisco. As I never had any love
for the man, the name suffered by proxy. Though I do not actively
hate the man, he is not in my life as a result of my choosing. He
does in fact hold my respect as a politician, writer and scholar,
simply not as a patriarchal symbol. Thus I looked to my older
cousins to fill the gap left in my psyche. This is how I came to be
Campos for a good chunk of my childhood. I have now added my
grandmothers side of the family to my name and removed the
name that was never mine.
Royally sat, and regally dressed, glaring at the camera with a
stare that seems to have been handed down from generations of
royalty, it is a far stretch of the imagination to believe that the
princely state of that child would deteriorate into a scruffy
adolescent who sneers at collared shirts and pressed trousers. Yet
another aspect of my life that has had little continuity. In my early
years I fell victim to my mothers ideas of junior fashion and by a
sophisticated mixture of bribery, coercion and political cunning
the likes of which would make the red giant himself shed a
begrudging tear of pure admiration, I was dressed in the very
cloths that now make me recoil like a cat from water. This
oppression however did not last, and like Nelson Mandelas long
walk to freedom, I had attained freedom. Once having this
newfound freedom I did not know what to do for I had not dressed
myself in my first 5 years (the actual 5 years, not my glory days
where I defied time its-self). After being a Scottish duck, I was
stumped for ideas and soon entered into another existential
crisis. Following my previous stroke of genius that resolved last
existential crisis, I decided not to have a style, and simply don
what was more comfortable and accessible. My harrowing journey
has taught me many things and sculpted the boy I am now. I only
hope I can do it justice and continue in the same fashion as little
Salo.
Harkening No two rivers can ever be the same, nor anyone step
in the same river twice, that however is part of the charm that
grips the mystery of each persons journey. My years as a five

year old were some of the best of my life, and when I was
cooking for Helen I felt myself to be Gordon Ramseys better.
Sadly I tried to reconnect with Helen and found that her actual
name was Nancy, and she was far from the golden locked
Aphrodite I had fallen for in my youth. Though I occasionally fill
the gap between my adventures laying on my bed, harkening
back to simpler times and wishing I could find that east London
street corner and dance forever, I know that my time there has
elapsed, and my once golden corner will remain in the same
glorious state I left it, never to be disturbed. Intermingled with
thoughts of yesterdays, comes an inadvertent fear that my
tomorrows may not hold up to the scrutiny of posterity. In this
fear there is a greater opportunity than I could ever have hoped
to obtain in my previous escapades, the world is bigger, my
chances are more plentiful and the bar is set high.