This American Revolution

A brilliant idea came to me last night:  teach Juanito how to paint as if he were alive during the American Revolution  of 1776.

I've been homeschooling Johnny Angel for about a month now. Yes, he is learning a lot, but he is sick of reading and writing papers. In 7^th grade we are learning about the American Revolution, the birth of America and essentially how to over throw the government (while completely ignoring the oppression colonists put on the indigenous population). As a human rights activist and mother, I really want him to embrace the revolutionary spirit of the lesson and of our era too.

Having been born on a military base in England, he identifies with global culture more than American culture.  I believe he truly feels like a citizen of the planet rather than of just the U.S.A. 

So, I'd been thinking about how to have him consider his place within our country. We looked through my old art history text book and read about Rococo and Neoclassicism of the late 1700s in England and the U.S. Colonies.  We found it amusing that the poses of the subjects were so aloof yet overly dramatic. I said, "yes, but notice the lighting of the figure.  The shadows are nearly consuming this person..."  I asked to create a self-portrait using those key elements.  When he showed me his sketch, I have to say, I was impressed.

Johnny's self-portrait was of playing a war inspired video game.  The blood red letters flashing on the screen read: GAME OVER. Meanwhile, a vampire skull lays on the floor beside the television.  The look on Johnny's character face is one of shock or annoyed disbelief.  I asked him what he was trying to say with this piece he said, "Mom, America is in, like, three wars. We killed the guy we were looking for but these wars are never going to end.  I know that by the time I'm old enough I could be drafted."

"You can't be drafted. They don't do that anymore."

"Really? Are you sure? Well, I think they will bring it back or something and I'll have to go."

"I won't let them take you.  It's against our religion."

"Okay, mom," he said rolling his eyes, still a typical teenager in some regards. "So my painting is about the wars being over and I'm surprised that it's over and we all lost. All because of the all the oil and  blood sucker banks that created all the problems that chipped away at America. Now they have a big powerful army and I'm just one person.  I mean, how can I take America back over if no one under forty thinks like I do?  I mean, seriously?  Who?"

"The 13 colonies had a rinky dink army.  What about how they over threw England?" I asked.

"Well. I've got my one little sister on my side, of course, but who else is with me?" 

I

Left

I've left you all alone sitting here in the digital cold. I knew you were here, but I got busy; as Momma's do.  I made the papas, I drove the children to school, I finished my own schooling and started freelance writing for all kinds of places.  I even went to Tejas to see my Papa. He was sick. He almost died.  When I had to leave his side I felt like I was dying.  I twisted and writhed the whole car ride back to big brother's house.  He tried to help me stop crying but I thought I might never see Daddy again.  I still don't know if I will see him again.  I bet you felt that way, little blog.  I bet you didn't know if I was coming back.

Well.  Here I am!   I'm back and I am looking at you.  How ya been. Who's been looking after you?  Anyone? Anyone at all?  Not too many people, huh?  No?  Just a few good ones came to say, "hello".  That's how it is with Daddy now.  He lives alone and no one looks after him except a few good ones.  Poor little daddy.  I will have to go back there.  I will have to go back there and see him.  See how he is doing all on his own.  I called him a lot since I am still as busy as a Momma... He is stronger and happy, but alone.


...I really should go back.

Gramma's Washing

     Her hands are thickly wrinkled but strong.  Gramma is a small woman, yet her hands seem large enough to cup all of me.  As she washes my hair, her hands cover my face.  The curve where her index finger and thumb meet brace my forehead.  A barrier against the cup of water she pulls from the old ten-gallon lard bucket filled with bathing water.  She rinses me.  She washed all ten of her children in this cold tub... this way...  many cousins... and now me.  The drenching warmth soaks into my scalp.  Her hands knead the soap out of my black curls.
    Gramma's hand cups my forehead against the water again; her finger tips touch my ears. Her grip is firm.  The knuckles gnarled from years of tortilla making, farming and finely detailed seamstress work, yet the meat of her fingers are plump with aged skin.  I am pulled back a bit by the weight of her reaching over, dipping the cup into the bucket of water, dousing my crown... reaching over to dip the cup, she brings me back again.  I won't fall while Gramma has her hand on me.

Saturday Morning

I fell asleep early last night...  I usually go to bed around 3AM.  Insomnia.  Today, I woke up at dawn but didn't want to get out of bed.  All I wanted to do was hug my little girl like a teddy bear. What's wrong with that?  It is Saturday after all.  Then, I wondered why this little one was in my bed. 

She stirred, then settled. Her little face visible between the blanket and her arm thrown across her chin.  She slept with her lips parted.  Hey eyes gently closed, as if they would bloom open the way morning glories do at dawn.  Her deeply brown skin is tanned from a week of heat wave swimming and her tiny hairs have all been bleached honey blond from brown.  She was fuzzy like a teddy bear. I kissed her smooth bronze cheek, so as not to wake her, hugging her gingerly.  My giant boy lumbered into my room. His gait sounds, naturally, like the stomping of giants.

"Mom, I'm hungry -oh yeah and I finished Communion," he said about the book he'd been reading late last night.

Time to make the papas.

Governed

When I'm dead, let me be buried by a writer.

Sleeping? ...to dream of writing.

Awake? ...to be writing.

And when I'm governed,

let it be by a poet.

I am alive,

I'm read.