My name is Gia. My people are wanderers. We were originally from India, the land of divination and enchantment. Throughout hundreds of years, we have been chased, persecuted, and sold into slavery. It is no surprise, that in the end we became nomadic. My tribe came to America from Europe. The laws of every nation were against us.

I am a Rom Gypsy and my grandparents hid in the forest to survive Hitler's mobile killing machines and the Reich's final solution. My parents were part of a tribe that were arrested in 1976, entering Washington County from neighboring Pennsylvania. Since one of them was suspected of stealing "a few hundred dollars" from a Pennsylvania gas station, all the band's property was confiscated and sold, even though the charge was never proved. I was conceived in Washington County during the time our assets were being taken.

It is sad, that in the United States, Gypsies remain the only ethnic minority against whom laws still operate, and who are specifically named in those laws. It is not so different here. We are outsiders, scattered to survive. But our roots run deep and true to each other. We do not assimilate, we may live among you, as I have chosen to do. We may hide in plain sight as a means of self preservation. But a drop of Romany blood will always separate us from our neighbors. I will never be a "Gorgio", a non-Gypsy. And my children, when they come, even mixed with the sturdy Brown stock of my husband will always be true to their roots.

When I met Bradley Brown I knew that my path would be difficult. He was a "Gorgio" and could not understand my Gypsy traditions and calling. His world held little interest for me. But I could not escape my love which claimed me like a hot brand on my soul. All grand passions come at a price, and mine was no exception. We met and married in Las Vegas and made Texas our home. By instinct and inclination I will always be an outsider. My soul may seek the truths of others with or without my permission. But the beginning of my journey home started when my love took me to live in the Barnes Bridge subdivision. This is where I started to learn great truths about myself.

Although he was involved in the Austin music industry, my Brad was just a "good old boy" at heart. It is an irony and a strange twist of fate that he lived a "gypsy" life on the road and I stayed in the village of Barnes Bridge. The old men of my people, used to joke that "Rom" meant we were born to roam. It is well known that the surest way to kill a gypsy is to "tie his feet to the land" or "cut his roots".

My people have learned that certain death comes painfully slow to those whose feet are tied. There are countries in Europe, where the decendants of Gypsy kings live in poverty and pain, where they are forbidden by law to roam and "resettled" by governments. It is much harder to cut our roots. A band of gypsies can disband and drift apart for years and emerge whole within weeks at the call.

Gypsies are fatalists. Our life force flows through the places we have been, and touches the natives. Through time, we have joined our old convictions, with these places. I knew at once that my presence in Barnes Bridge would impact my neighbors. My will was for balance, but my life force, with the strength of my heritage, could not be denied.

I lived in limbo, ever mindful that I must maintain and blend in. I will never sacrifice my self respect to survive. My blood calls from deep down my line and reminds me that I am descended from the stars. Given time at the end of my lifeline, I shall return to the stars. No one can translate the gypsy magic, music, and memory. It lives in the Rom in a safe place. It remains with me in this comfortable little corner of the city, and pulls gently at my heart.

Bradley loved Barnes Bridge, because it reminded him of his Texas upbringing. I think his roots were well nurtured here. Well kept homes, were tucked into the winding neighborhood. It was once a place for growing children, and it had somehow transformed into a retirement community. The homes were filled with respectable people. Everything in it's place, and no place for Gia.

I was restless in Barnes Bridge. My home was beautifully decorated, but empty without children, or my traveling husband. Brad, who never knows why, but always knows what I need, got me a car. Not just any automobile, but a big, bright Cadillac, with a loud horn. Driving fast through the countryside became my pastime and my passion. I traveled for miles, without a map, and always found my way home. It was on one of my trips that I found the truckstop on Interstate 76. It was at CJ's on a warm winter afternoon that the tarot came back to me like a distant uncle for an extended visit.

The tarot is a blessing on my gypsy soul. When I was a child my Mother would smooth my forehead and explain that having a third eye allows us to see other people. It was a calling of the women in our tribe. A calling and an avocation, like the shadow music and pure joy of our Rom dance, my gift of divination could not be contained.

In the language of Romany, (my parents native tongue) the word tarot comes from "tar" which means cards. The legend goes, that in an attempt to save their tradition of mysteries and magic from extinction, the Hierophants, (priests of the Eleusinians) passed them down, to the eternally wandering gypsies. Other occult groups followed the Eleusinian lead. The gnostics, the Montanists, Manichaeans, Albigenses -- varied groups of the Cathari -- and Jewish mystics all utilized the nomadic gypsy culture to transmit information to escape the Inquisition. The Rom, the dancing gypsies, were in reality, the most trusted messengers.

The gypsy could not read or write. We communicated person to person through our oral tradition. In order, to share the magic secrets, we created the Tarot, with the truths in images. Beautiful images we carefully hand painted on round pieces of mother-of-pearl or leather.

Eventually, the Rom themselves became the mystics. And the gift of soultelling was given to us by the stars. We became the foretellers and the "fascinators" when the secrets we carried got too large for a deck of cards. The sacred trust we were granted, in ancient times, became the burden of our blood. I may not know my secrets, but I know the secrets of strangers that pay my $20 to hear their life.

We are an ancient people. A people who has no need to prove anything. We are the sacred messenger for many. We were trusted by the most high mystics of ancient times. Our friendship has always been extended but not returned by the world. A people who flows in and out of the mold. We cannot escape our gift and I no longer try.

By accident one day, I started to read the tarot for the bus drivers wife, Velma Martin. She was a birdlike woman ,with an unsettled nature. I sat at CJ's drinking my weak coffee when she joined me, uninvited. She asked me to read for her, without asking if I knew how. I agreed without resistance, because there is always a reason when they are so desperate, in their search for answers.

My cards felt warm in my hands, when I pulled them from the silk bag. Generations of practice, made me stronger, and wiser, on the day when the wind was warm. Sometimes when the visions start, the gift and this curse become one and the same. The cards told me a tragic secret that only I could change. It would be impossible to share my realization with Mrs Martin. My little life, tucked safely into a Texas subdivision, would never be the same.

Weeks later, I would tell my friend, Mrs Stevenson all the details. But the visions that started from the reading at CJ's were a chill on my heart. Other people's secrets have often invaded my life. Dreams of death and fears of life sourround every soul and they sometimes break free. My protection is only a filter that cannot stop some of the darkness from seeping through. Some Gypsy women have sleepless nights and the haunted look of other people's nightmares.

I decided it was about timing. Mrs. Stevenson was in my vision. Mrs Stevenson did not ride the bus. So I became a watcher. Later my friend and I would laugh at the beginning of our journey. we were like two children playing hide-n-seek. I never let her out of my sight. Like so many, she feared me at first.

I have often wondered, if the "Gorgio" fear our freedom or our magic the most. If perhaps, we were just nomads, with no gift of magic, would Hitler have left us alone? If we wandered the world, without the tarot, would we still be dancing and playing the lovely harps? If people knew Elvis and Michael Caine were in my Roma family tree would I be more acceptable?

Sudenly about Barnes Bridge, where I was an outsider, made me think of home. Something about Mrs Stevenson reminded me of my Mother. These are strange ideas for a fatalist and a Rom with her feet tied and her roots far away. But it was these ideas and my talisman that kept me from losing faith. When Brad came home and found me looking at my crystal ball he was "concerned" and wanted me to go to a 10 day Cowboy tour with him to "clear my head".

I could not go with my love, who left at sunrise, giving me a bearhug and a sideways glance. I was waiting and watching Mrs Stevenson. When she went to the bus stop on Tuesday, my spirit sang. I was ready, determined, and I had all the facts. The incident on the bus was not significant. It was the end of a long wait. Or as Mrs Stevenson, my friend Jane says, the beginning of a beautiful friendship.