Four Faces in Stone (NCTE Theme 2013: Personal Mount Rushmore)
(NCTE Achievement in Writing Award 2013)
June 23, 2011. Date of death. All day I sat in that room with the beeping machines and that bleachy smell and the overly attentive women in scrubs—and so much emptiness. All day I prayed, waited, hoped, but what greeted me shortly after 4:00 pm was pure silence; silence that could have killed me, almost did kill me. As I saw the life drain from my mother’s face and watched her skin turn a pale yellow, her spirit drifting out of this world and on to only God knows where, I waited for the boulder to fall from the sky and knock me into a fit of hysterics or to release the tears. For days I waited, but it never came. It had been sitting in front of me the whole time. The previously lifeless and unimportant people in the world around me suddenly turned to granite, frozen before my eyes, their comforting qualities on display for the world to see. Even in the Black Hills, I could see light illuminated from their crevices and imperfections. I understood. They were impervious, mighty, bold; they could weather the fiercest storms. June 23, 2011. Date of re-birth.
It is the first question asked at the beginning second grade. “Who is your role model?” A sea of “Mom!” and “Dad!” and the occasional “Grandma!” erupts, sending shockwaves of excitement across the classroom. The children are as cliché as an array of love poems. I am one of those children. I will proudly admit that I wrote that response about my mother. In fact, I continue to write it today, adding new pages whenever a memory flashes into my head. My writing is my dream-catcher, or rather, my Mom-catcher.
The first fifteen years of my life encompassed a carefree drama, a play about nothing but happiness. My family members were the actors; my mom was the lead role. The princess who never donned a golden crown, but was royal all the same. The intermission began two years ago. It never ended. Somehow a show can’t go on without its starring actress. Nevertheless, this only amplifies her importance in our lives. She didn’t have it easy. She wasn’t invincible, wasn’t perfect, wasn’t even completely healthy. However, she stood tall, protecting me from the villains in my closet, super-gluing my broken light-up sneakers, and doing what was necessary when I was too scared, too vulnerable. She was a mother; she did her job. So what set my mother piece apart from that of every other second grader? Nothing, perhaps. She never jumped in front of a moving vehicle to save my life, never risked her health to protect me. She didn’t need to. Perhaps it’s that I know she would have. She would have done everything. She was everything. She was my confidant, my guardian, my friend. Fifteen years was all the time I was given to write our story, but just like Poe’s beloved Anabelle Lee, her love was too enduring, too angelic for this earth. I think about her every day, I see her, feel her. Her smile radiates even the most barren landscapes. Like Zora Neale Hurston, she was a “dark rock surged upon,” but it was no matter. To me, just like priceless literature, she is immortal. There is nothing I can do but smile back at her and give thanks.
Reading and writing have been outlets for me in times of distress, but I never truly knew the meaning of being shaped by a story until I stumbled on “How It Feels to Be Colored Me” by Zora Neale Hurston. The author was a solid, unchanging mass of stone, the epitome of diversity and triumph over one’s circumstances. She was the explosion of color in a world of dim, pallid spirits. Passed away and buried fifty-three long years ago, she lives on. She has left us, but her writing never will. Her smile and her bold character might be elsewhere, but her pages will never soften; her ink will never fade. She is a golden mural of self-confidence. Her position in society was that of a lowlife; however, her aura suggested she was Ancient Roman Royalty, unchanged by the world’s devastating blows. Her works have inspired me, defined me. Before reading them, I was lost, weak. Now, I know how it feels to be colored me; I understand living life on my terms and not society’s is just. With every paragraph I read, I feel my edges solidifying, turning to a cool, vibrant jewel and losing every last bit of vulnerability that has plagued me. My eyes are watching God, and it’s all thanks to Zora.
When I’ve finally had enough with words on a page, the silver screen comforts me. I am always somewhat disappointed, though; only one film has ever truly had an effect on me. There are no words printed on a solid page, but it is permanent all the same. It is The Color Purple; it is perfection. No history lesson or textbook could define the relationships between races and genders in the turn-of-the-century South as does Stephen Spielberg’s cinematography. He is fearless, willing to tackle topics too sensitive for conversation. Through him, we have a vision of radiant, blossoming purple flowers in fields of green. We think we understand. Surely we feel all there is to feel about something that happened so long ago. We are wrong. We will never know, but his rock crashes a hole in the opaque window of understanding, showing us what it means to have faith. The color is clear. Spielberg will stop at nothing, not simply striving to entertain but also to enlighten.
All my life I have lived in a town that is home to more cows than people. Drive the three miles from McDonald’s to the fairgrounds, and you will see a dilapidated gas station with a sign that says “Tan Here,” smell the fumes from the go-kart track, and imagine the taste of a livermush sandwich from the diner. Perhaps that is why I seek refuge in literature and film. I am a Polo shirt in a sea of camouflage. I am a Yankee trapped in the South, and no one understands my points of view quite like my cousin, Madeline. Following her 2007 high school graduation, she abandoned the armies of deer hunters and the scents of fried Twinkies in search of a better life as a dancer in Philadelphia. She spread her wings and leapt with her stone-hard dancer calves, leaving memories of confederate flags and car windows sealed shut with camouflage duct tape behind her. Her circumstances never defined her, and she was finally free. Unwilling to settle for less than her dreams, she became liberated, painting her face across every mountain in America. She knew she was destined for greatness, and whether or not she dances the lead role in a famous ballet, she will always be the Swan Queen to me.
Every day I notice the invulnerability and courage in the people around me, and I wish I could turn them into rock-solid statues. I want them to stay forever; unfortunately, I have already found out how impossible my dream is. My mother was not the first president of a nation, was not a member of a royal family as she so wished, but she was the leader of my world, my Queen. Zora Neale Hurston didn’t work with the Presidential Cabinet to set up a system of nationwide parks and recreation, but she mowed the fields of my mind and maintained the glory of my spirit. Stephen Spielberg did not work tirelessly to free an enslaved people or to keep a nation together, but he preserved a culture onscreen and through beautiful images of hope, faith, and promise. I do not know anyone who has negotiated with foreign nations to buy a vast tract of land for American citizens to populate, but my cousin, Madeline, has been the best at choosing her own environment, a family pioneer on a frontier of opportunity. These people helped me get through the worst storm of my life, helped me cope with more pain, distress, and longing than I ever thought manageable. Their courageous efforts and their permanent solidity gives me hope every day, and to me, their faces belong carved in a mountain more than those of any diplomats or political figures ever will.
It is the first question asked at the beginning second grade. “Who is your role model?” A sea of “Mom!” and “Dad!” and the occasional “Grandma!” erupts, sending shockwaves of excitement across the classroom. The children are as cliché as an array of love poems. I am one of those children. I will proudly admit that I wrote that response about my mother. In fact, I continue to write it today, adding new pages whenever a memory flashes into my head. My writing is my dream-catcher, or rather, my Mom-catcher.
The first fifteen years of my life encompassed a carefree drama, a play about nothing but happiness. My family members were the actors; my mom was the lead role. The princess who never donned a golden crown, but was royal all the same. The intermission began two years ago. It never ended. Somehow a show can’t go on without its starring actress. Nevertheless, this only amplifies her importance in our lives. She didn’t have it easy. She wasn’t invincible, wasn’t perfect, wasn’t even completely healthy. However, she stood tall, protecting me from the villains in my closet, super-gluing my broken light-up sneakers, and doing what was necessary when I was too scared, too vulnerable. She was a mother; she did her job. So what set my mother piece apart from that of every other second grader? Nothing, perhaps. She never jumped in front of a moving vehicle to save my life, never risked her health to protect me. She didn’t need to. Perhaps it’s that I know she would have. She would have done everything. She was everything. She was my confidant, my guardian, my friend. Fifteen years was all the time I was given to write our story, but just like Poe’s beloved Anabelle Lee, her love was too enduring, too angelic for this earth. I think about her every day, I see her, feel her. Her smile radiates even the most barren landscapes. Like Zora Neale Hurston, she was a “dark rock surged upon,” but it was no matter. To me, just like priceless literature, she is immortal. There is nothing I can do but smile back at her and give thanks.
Reading and writing have been outlets for me in times of distress, but I never truly knew the meaning of being shaped by a story until I stumbled on “How It Feels to Be Colored Me” by Zora Neale Hurston. The author was a solid, unchanging mass of stone, the epitome of diversity and triumph over one’s circumstances. She was the explosion of color in a world of dim, pallid spirits. Passed away and buried fifty-three long years ago, she lives on. She has left us, but her writing never will. Her smile and her bold character might be elsewhere, but her pages will never soften; her ink will never fade. She is a golden mural of self-confidence. Her position in society was that of a lowlife; however, her aura suggested she was Ancient Roman Royalty, unchanged by the world’s devastating blows. Her works have inspired me, defined me. Before reading them, I was lost, weak. Now, I know how it feels to be colored me; I understand living life on my terms and not society’s is just. With every paragraph I read, I feel my edges solidifying, turning to a cool, vibrant jewel and losing every last bit of vulnerability that has plagued me. My eyes are watching God, and it’s all thanks to Zora.
When I’ve finally had enough with words on a page, the silver screen comforts me. I am always somewhat disappointed, though; only one film has ever truly had an effect on me. There are no words printed on a solid page, but it is permanent all the same. It is The Color Purple; it is perfection. No history lesson or textbook could define the relationships between races and genders in the turn-of-the-century South as does Stephen Spielberg’s cinematography. He is fearless, willing to tackle topics too sensitive for conversation. Through him, we have a vision of radiant, blossoming purple flowers in fields of green. We think we understand. Surely we feel all there is to feel about something that happened so long ago. We are wrong. We will never know, but his rock crashes a hole in the opaque window of understanding, showing us what it means to have faith. The color is clear. Spielberg will stop at nothing, not simply striving to entertain but also to enlighten.
All my life I have lived in a town that is home to more cows than people. Drive the three miles from McDonald’s to the fairgrounds, and you will see a dilapidated gas station with a sign that says “Tan Here,” smell the fumes from the go-kart track, and imagine the taste of a livermush sandwich from the diner. Perhaps that is why I seek refuge in literature and film. I am a Polo shirt in a sea of camouflage. I am a Yankee trapped in the South, and no one understands my points of view quite like my cousin, Madeline. Following her 2007 high school graduation, she abandoned the armies of deer hunters and the scents of fried Twinkies in search of a better life as a dancer in Philadelphia. She spread her wings and leapt with her stone-hard dancer calves, leaving memories of confederate flags and car windows sealed shut with camouflage duct tape behind her. Her circumstances never defined her, and she was finally free. Unwilling to settle for less than her dreams, she became liberated, painting her face across every mountain in America. She knew she was destined for greatness, and whether or not she dances the lead role in a famous ballet, she will always be the Swan Queen to me.
Every day I notice the invulnerability and courage in the people around me, and I wish I could turn them into rock-solid statues. I want them to stay forever; unfortunately, I have already found out how impossible my dream is. My mother was not the first president of a nation, was not a member of a royal family as she so wished, but she was the leader of my world, my Queen. Zora Neale Hurston didn’t work with the Presidential Cabinet to set up a system of nationwide parks and recreation, but she mowed the fields of my mind and maintained the glory of my spirit. Stephen Spielberg did not work tirelessly to free an enslaved people or to keep a nation together, but he preserved a culture onscreen and through beautiful images of hope, faith, and promise. I do not know anyone who has negotiated with foreign nations to buy a vast tract of land for American citizens to populate, but my cousin, Madeline, has been the best at choosing her own environment, a family pioneer on a frontier of opportunity. These people helped me get through the worst storm of my life, helped me cope with more pain, distress, and longing than I ever thought manageable. Their courageous efforts and their permanent solidity gives me hope every day, and to me, their faces belong carved in a mountain more than those of any diplomats or political figures ever will.