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My Discovery of Non-historic Sites: Making the Cut

My Discovery of Non-historic Sites: Making the Cut

Published March 19, 2018

After calling the State Historian’s office, I gained a bit of insight on the happenings in State Historic Site Landia.

El Camino Real Historic Trail:

First, there used to be a seventh historic site: El Camino Real Historic Trail Site. According to Deputy Historian Rob Martinez, the site recently closed because it was not making enough money from visitors to sustain itself. The state pays for a portion of the historic sites, but on some level, they need to maintain a percentage of their revenue. Since the trail was located a substantial distance from the highway, few visitors ventured out there.

What strikes me as interesting about this historic site is precisely what I saw in the others. Although it was a trading trail for indigenous groups before the Spanish commandeered it, The Department of Cultural Affairs still markets it with primarily Spanish Centric history–at least on the website: “Using a series of Native American footpaths used for trade between the indigenous people of Tenochititlán/Mexico City and Chaco, Spanish explorer Juan de Oñate “blazed” the northern portion of the trail into what is now New Mexico in 1598, and claimed the land for Spain.” The structure of the sentence alone subordinates the native history of the trail and gives privilege to Oñate with his exploration of a trail that was already well known.

We see this again in following paragraphs about the trail:

Discover the indigenous people encountered by the Spanish and the impact the arrival of the Spanish had on the formation of New Mexico. Remnants of the early journey remain today in hand-hewn carts, tools, leather water jugs, and religious altars and objects that accompanied the travelers into the northern territory.

Of course, given the charming nature of Oñate, we can expect the “encounter” was peaceable (that is sarcasm). In fact, Oñate is infamous for his unnecessary brutality against the natives. But the page fails to acknowledge the truth about history. It is an erasure of what happened–the same kind of eraser I saw in my history classes growing up. And while I cannot say that history has an ethicality or morality, certainly, the pieces left out here affect the Truth.

I am told that the visitor center is closed, but much of the trail is still accessible, including the plaques that accompany the historic site. Therefore, I would like to visit it over the next few weeks to discover if the onsite history is as bias as the website. I’ve already sent an email to request a tour. Wish me luck!

The Taylor Family Monument:

Martinez also informed me that the state is looking to acquire an additional historic site: The Taylor Family Monument. As of right now, the monument is still a family home and not open to the public. However, it is willed to the state once its current owner passes away. There seems to be at least some confusion about the historic site, the website owned by the Friends of the Taylor Family claim “The official dedication of the Taylor-Barela-Reynolds-Mesilla Historic Site (TBRM) took place in September 2006. As one of New Mexico’s eight Historic Sites, TBRM joins a special collection of culturally significant places. Each historic site tells a unique story that is important to understanding New Mexico history.” Another question to ask: Is it officially a historic site or not? If so, who decided?

Regardless, The home represents an important part of New Mexican history.

The Taylor home and two adjoining stores tell the story of settlement in the Mesilla Valley and a time when Mesilla was the center of political, commercial, and social activity in southern New Mexico. Events associated with the monument’s history include:  the U.S. War with Mexico, the Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo, and the Gadsden Purchase; the Confederate attempt to invade New Mexico during the Civil War; operation of the Butterfield Overland Mail Trail and Camino Real trade routes; and arrival of the railroad in New Mexico.

Without argument, the home is a symbol of the colonialism–but not Spanish colonialism like other historic sites. Instead, it represents American Colonialism. A war the United States provoked to gain land, a “treaty” which gave Mexicans living in the border states the “decision” to relocate or assimilate, and a resettling of borders in favor of building rail lines for the US. After All, these periods are what gained New Mexico statehood status.

While it is important to recognize–maybe even celebrate–the annexation of New Mexican territory, we cannot do so without acknowledging the physical and emotional displacement of the people who already lived here. The descriptions on the website fail to mention the people already living here when these pioneers settled in the Mesilla Valley in the 1850s. Furthermore, I am concerned about why we may have another state Historic Site, or perhaps we are acquiring another state historic site that represents the same populations and stakeholders already represented in the other 6.5 sites. Where is the representation of the Natives–both indigenous and Mexican?

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Selective History

Selective History

Published March 15, 2018

Selective History: The Politics of Designating New Mexico State Historical Sites

I consider myself well-educated. However, on topics of history, I am afraid I have been bamboozled. When I moved to New Mexico, I was blindsided by a side of history I’d never learned. Whole wars erased from my Midwestern History books. Whole groups of people vanished as though they never existed. I grew up with the impression that The West was empty land that somehow had never been explored prior to manifest destiny. Aside from the sparse indigenous people who lived here, it was free for the taking. We are especially proud of this where I came from. I grew up in Kansas City, home of the cattle train, train head to the west. Every year we celebrate the expansion of the west with Santa Cali Gon festival. My understanding of the American West was shaped through selection– a selection of representation in the texts, and selection of representation in Hollywood. Though who makes these choices, I cannot be sure. The idea that people make active decisions about the selection history fascinates me.

Then, driving to Taos with a friend, I marveled as we turned onto Cárdenas drive–A street named after her family who has lived there for hundreds of years–long before New Mexico was one of the “United” States. As I gawked at the beautify of the land and architecture of Taos, I kept telling me friends–both native New Mexicans, “You don’t get it, you don’t get it!” I did not understand why they were not dancing through the fields with me. Personally, I do not know what it is like to stand where my family has stood for generations. I also do not know what it is like to have your entire history erased.

Taos mountain from the view of the Cardenas kitchen

We passed her family hacienda–sold in her lifetime and renovated into a gift shop that sells high-end art and postcards with Mountain vistas. She told me her family could no longer afford the taxes on land they’d lived on for hundreds of years.

Toas is not as well-known for the native communities that have inhabited it for hundreds of years. As the final resting place for Kit Carson, it is in some ways a monument to the great conquistadors–conquerors that established “America’s foremost, bona fide Art Colony” and tamed the sacred mountains with “a world-class ski resort.” As a student of rhetoric, this amazes me. As a friend, it appalls me. New Mexico’s history is sold on the back of tourism. While my friends know the complicated and bloody history of the American Southwest, I am lost in a daze. That night, we walked around the city Plaza, and my friend gave me a ghost tour–so many people killed.

I sit in in literature classes, and I am the only one asking questions like “Who is Santa Ana?” Everyone around me has the colonization, war, and oppression stored in their minds, written on their family bloodlines. While I was telling my friends that they didn’t understand the beauty of their own land, I am the one who has no idea. I do the reading in class, but I try not to talk. I have come to the realization that my people–white people–are the ones who took everything. We wrote the history from the perspective of the conquers. Unfortunately, we are still erasing history. We see a beautiful mountain, and we colonize it with writers, authors, and ski resorts. I’ve found that I am learning a lot more in New Mexico than I anticipated.

In an effort to both better understand a history I never learned AND discover who makes decisions about selection of history, and I embarking on a tour of the New Mexico State Historic Sites. Already, I have some concerns about the representation of history. This week, I called the New Mexico Department of Cultural Affairs to ask if what I saw on the website is true.

There are only six New Mexico State Historic Sites:

  • Lincoln Historic Site (dedicated 1966). – “Walk in the footsteps of Billy the Kid, Pat Garrett, and other famous and infamous characters of the Wild West…Lincoln is a town made famous by one of the most violent periods in New Mexico history.”
  • Jemez Historic Site (dedicated 1973) – “Ruins of a 500-year-old Indian village and the San José de los Jemez church dating to 1621/2.”
  • Fort Stanton Historic Site (dedicated 2008)- “Established in 1855 as a military post to control the Mescalero Apache Indians”
  • Fort Selden Historic Site (dedicated 1974) – “Built on the banks of the Rio Grande, this adobe fort housed units of the U.S. Infantry and Cavalry. Their intent was to protect settlers and travelers in the Mesilla Valley from desperados and Apache Indians.”
  • Coronado Historic Site (dedicated 1976) –  “Coronado was searching for the fabled Seven Cities of Gold.  Instead of treasure, he found a dozen villages inhabited by prosperous native farmers…Conflict with Coronado and later Spanish explorers led to the abandonment of this site within a century of first contact.“
  • Fort Sumner Historic Site/Bosque Redondo Memorial (dedicated 1968) – where the “U.S. Army forcibly moved the Navajo and Mescalero Apache people from their traditional homelands to the land surrounding this lonely outpost is pivotal to the history of the American West.”

And despite being few, they already seem to tell an interesting tale of New Mexican history. The historiography of the west as presented in the selection of historic monuments is eager to create exciting experiences for “New” Mexicans. The State Sector calls out the reader like you might expect from the department of tourism.

“Explore History Where it Happened: New Mexico Historic Sites are storied places where the past is palpable. They invite you to hit the road, explore, and get out in the golden New Mexico sun. It’s your chance to follow in the footsteps of indigenous people, Spanish conquistadors, Civil War soldiers, outlaws, and lawmen.”

From the brief descriptions on the website, the only footsteps I can imagine are those clad in the boots of militant occupation. In general, I see gaps in the representation of minority populations and little celebration of the borderlands people.

Perhaps more troubling to me is that there is no known process for designating future sites, and no new sites have been designated in ten years. At the very least, there are no public documents about the selection process, and no one on staff at the Department of Cultural Affairs (who oversee the cites) knows how the process works.

Research Questions:

  • What time periods, events, and people does the state highlight in their selection of historic sites?
  • What time periods, events, and people are erased or skimmed over in the selection process?
  • What is the process for dedicating a State Historical Site? Who makes the decisions about its selection and Dedication?
  • What criteria is used to select state historic sites?

 

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Give me Energy

Give me Energy

Published May 8, 2017

Yesterday I stood in line with Luisa waiting to have her schedule approved at the University. I stood in this same spot with her last year in August, and we hopped line to line, laughing in frustration at the inefficiency of the system.

I recall it taking a full day to register for classes, have them approved, and pay for them. With no data attached to my phone, and with the looming danger having nice electronics stolen, last year I sat in line bored, unable to talk, and hungry. I entertained myself by talking to Luisa and wondering what the people around us thought of my presence: a strange girl at the local university who couldn’t speak Spanish.

I was parallelized by the fear of walking 12 steps away to a shop selling sandwiches. Despite my hunger, Luisa was prodding me to ask for sandwich: “me vendes un sándwich por fiz.” She stuffed bills in my pockets, repeating the phrase over and over, nudging me. Be Brave. But I couldn’t do it. I handed the money back to her and asked her to step out of line to do it for me. When she came back, I was disappointed in her for not thinking to buy water. And I was disappointed in myself for not stepping up to ask for my own food. Is not that the basic skill of survival?

Yesterday, After staying up late, and standing at a street corner for 45 minutes waiting for a bus with standing space, we were tired. Luisa mentioned how maybe a Gatorade would provide her with the energy to enduring the stupidity of the waiting process. I was just bored.

I scanned the area looking for anything to relieve us, and I saw a store across the street. “Wait here,” I told Luisa. “I am going to go get us something to drink.”

When I approached the old woman running the 40 square-foot storefront, she greeted me the way it is customary in Colombia. When they say hello, they do it three times. When they say goodbye, they say it 5 times: “Buenos dias! Bienvenido. A la orden.” Her skin a lovely golden brown, and her voice both soft and harsh. Good morning! Welcome. I’m at your service if you need anything.

I asked her if she had drinks, and she pointed me to glass shelf which displayed the 6-8 options–not like the 50 choices in a US convenience store. Of the few options, half of them were juice. Not high-fructose corn syrup juice, real juice with sugar and water. For me, an apple juice box sounded good, and I got an energy drink for Luisa. I asked the woman how much I owed her and was surprised to hear only 1200 COP, the equivalent of about $1.40. I tucked my change in my pocket and wandered back to Luisa, who had advanced one place in the line since I left.

While I knew I did not want the energy drink, I offered her both drink options out of courtesy, and she left me with the apple juice. She offered me a sip, and I obliged, even knowing I hate energy drinks. They are syrupy and overly sweet. Their intense carbonation burns my nose, and they leave a sugary coating on my teeth. I took a sip anyway, and was surprised to find that it was quite different from what I expected. Yes, sweet, but not like drinking kids candy. Slightly effervescent, and citrusy. Certainly, nothing to make me cheat on my apple juice, but better than I’d thought.

I plunged my straw into the box and sipped away carelessly reflecting on the ease of my purchase. Just a year ago in nearly this same location, I was too paralyzed to buy a sandwich. Now, the act seemed natural: When you want something, go buy it. I not only learned the minimum vocabulary to make a purchase, I learned courtesy of saying hello and goodbye, how to tuck my cash away in the store before I stepped foot into the street to be safer, and how to entertain myself in line by talking to people I never could before.

When we got all the paperwork finished, we took a bus back to the house. Buses are so full in Bogota, that you are considered lucky to get a seat. We made due by sharing a seat on the way back. As we did, I realized how much I have truly changed in the last six months. Not just my accent nor my experience, but I am a braver person than I ever thought I would be. Of course, it does not require much bravery to order a sandwich or ask for some drinks. But those little braveries led to big ones, like traveling to Peru by myself and climbing Machu Picchu. Boarding buses to unknown cities for the sake of adventure.

It’s been a hell of and adventure, and I am proud of how far I have come.

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Ashes, Ashes

Ashes, Ashes

Published March 15, 2017

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Your children’s games of holding hands, skipping–

We ring around the rosey and you marvel at the way centripetal force pulls heavy on our legs.

Your laughs are contagious. Everyone want to join.
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They rally to the cause smiling. Laughing

You’ve fistfuls of posies in your hands, in your pockets,

spreading the fragrance and smearing it in our noses.
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I once admired your energy and spirit, held you up as my friend, prevented you from falling.

But you were too afraid to tell me you didn’t want me to play.

But I am already in your backyard.
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I am the kindergarten teacher?

YOU are a boy, but you are not innocent.
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Brother Underwood

Brother Underwood

Published February 8, 2017

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When I was a little girl, I used to love going to church. Our pastor was named Brother Underwood, and he was a warm soul. He would touch our little faces as we walked in on Sundays and called us by name. his hands smelled of lilac lotion and felt warm on my face.

One day in Sunday school he called all the kids to the front pew for a special lesson that I’ll never forget. He handed us all toothpicks and Q-tips, and squeeze toothpaste from a tube. “Try to put it back” he challenged. His words never raised above a whisper. It drew us in, like a secret. None of the adults in the room would hear his message.

We each got a turn scraping the toothpaste with our tools. Each of us was sure we would be the victor. We couldn’t.

Once you say something, once you do something, you can never take it back.

No apology will ever repair all future doubts. No excuses can repair disappointment.
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Sick of Being Sick

Sick of Being Sick

Published January 23, 2017

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These lungs sputter like a car running low on fuel.

My exhaust fumigating, contaminating the precious air.

Just Breathe.

I can’t Breath! This chest backfires, coursing microexplosions.

Convulsing.

Violent, like blood smeared highways. Thick liquid.

Unfamiliar taste.
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Letters to Myself

Letters to Myself

Published November 13, 2016

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[05 Mar 2010|11:57am]

I am so excited because I know that, no matter how much more time I have on this earth, I will look back on these past few month knowing that these are the best years on my life. So Kelli, when you read this in the future, remember waking up in Kait’s room and having chicory coffee. Having waffles made with applesauce for breakfast, stepping outside to the beautiful weather, going to work,then a party at which you dressed up as a cowboy. You had amazing friends, you went to the gym every day, and fell in love with your own life.

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[06 Apr 2016|9:26 pm]

Girls will woo you. They’ll smell like warm plops of rain against the August Kansas asphalt — like road trips through the Mohave desert with no A/C and 2 gallons of water in the passenger seat. It will be the best memories you ever had, but it’s not the girls that made them:

When you grasp your fingers into the bark of a 150-year-old walnut tree — barefoot and in dress — and pull yourself up, dusting the dirt off your knees. When you sit down for a greasy burger in Santa Cruz after cycling all day through rolling hills, sand pits, ice plants, and highways through army bases long abandoned. When you paint blue and purple sunflowers on recycled canvas, reminiscent of home — When you rip out soiled carpet and sand smooth the oak underneath giving it new life and creating a home. When you learn to make your father’s chip beef gravy and serve is with fresh,butter biscuits at 7am — clipping coupons as the sun rises over the beach in your backyard.

You did that.

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Learning from the Mayan: Empowering Women

Learning from the Mayan: Empowering Women

Published November 13, 2016

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Empowering Women to Find the Purpose in Life
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I do not know exactly how to describe the intense feeling of being lost. All the sounds in your life that have always brought you comfort are gone. If macaroni and cheese make you feel home, it is suspecting you will never eat it again–nothing even remotely close. It is feeling being utterly alone and at the same time unable to find even yourself, nothing around you is yours, not even your job. Not even your voice. All you have to define yourself is the clothes you happen to be wearing and the hard seat under your butt. I have felt that a few times in my life. Both times I was doing amazing, life changing things, but I was living in someone else’s life.
Don’t get me wrong. I am happy. But I have had intense moments of feeling lost–without a strong sense of self or purpose. All of the things I am doing do not add up to the person I thought I would be. Maybe that is good because it means I am flexible. Or maybe it means I do not know who I am or how to pursue it. And today I found myself sitting in on a strange meeting I never expected to happen, one that has me thinking about the pieces of my life that fit together.
“I don’t know. She some lady that works with indigenous women. I told her I would have a meeting with her…” Luisa explained to me 10 minutes before the lady was supposed to arrive.

“She sounds interesting, but I do not know what we are going to talk about.”

I’ve come to learn that I am not a meeting person. I love talking to people, but I cannot have 3 and 4 meetings a day like my partner does. She is the master of networking, and I am the master of sneaking out of meetings. I’ve found (though I am not proud of it) my attention span for networking and meetings significantly decreases, even more, when the other parties are speaking in Spanish. The lady did sound cool. I am a feminist with a passion for indigenous people, but I REALLY wanted to get work done.
I got lost in my computer, and when I looked up, she was standing at the table next to us.
There was desperation in my soul to listen to her. With my limited Spanish, I understand the big picture of what someone is saying 80% of the time but always miss the subtleties. It’s like going to a movie and understanding the plot, but never the dialogue:

When she was 22, she had to move to Guatemala for her husband’s political asylum where she encountered indigenous women for the first time and was mesmerized by their contentment, maturity and wise perspectives of themselves and the world around them. She explained how they understand their equality with men and do not have to stress over it. At the same time, they understand their feminine obligations as mothers and their responsibility to the world. These women all had a clear sense of purpose. They were connected, very deeply, with their god and their spiritual selves. Through these women, she had learned to help other women. The has studied the sacred Mayan traditions, and while she is Christian, believing in God, she uses the Mayan rituals to connect with her God and find answers to her insecurities.

“The indigenous people are dying.”

Even though we do not actively slaughter them like we have in the past, their children are growing up and leaving the villages longing for technology. We think they are just poor people, but their knowledge about the spiritual ties to the earth could save us all from hopelessness and that feeling of not having a purpose. We cannot let that knowledge die with them.

Something in her story spoke to me. Maybe it was the way I’d been feeling so confused about my direction in life. Maybe it was the way I felt so alone and confused.
I’ve often questioned my purpose in life. At least 6 times in my life I have had people approach me to tell me they had a message from God about my purpose, but I never know whether to be moved by their conviction or freaked out. Once, I spent 4th of July with my best friend at the time watching fireworks from the top of a parking garage when a girl told me I was going to be an important force in the universe and I cannot be afraid. I had chilled for three weeks and still remember her face and name…

Now, in this meeting, staring at the aged and ageless face of the beautiful woman in front of me, I thought about that feeling of being lost and I thought about the face of Jedidiah that fourth of July. The next date she was hosting a ceremony was December 9th, and I would be gone.
I will fly back early from Lima. It just feels that important to me.
Luisa and the woman were both shocked. The next day we got a message saying she would host a private ceremony for us. We packed our bags and headed to the mountains.
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Internationality: Our Biggest Strength and Weakness

Internationality: Our Biggest Strength and Weakness

Published October 31, 2016

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Our biggest Strength and Enemy
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I like to tell people that that coolest thing about our team is the coincidences that brought us together. We are a diverse team: Juan and Luisa are cousins from Colombia. When they were teenager Juan came to live in the US, and they were devastated by being separated. They’ve been best friends since birth, even across thousands of miles. Eva is from Austria. She met Luisa and Juan by a fluke and agreed to travel across south America with near-strangers. And I am from the US. I’ve lived a seemingly normal life until I recently quit my job as a high school English teacher to join the NomadApp team and travel the world. I met Luisa at a bar, and three days later invited Luisa and Juan on a road trip to Minnesota. In a normal world, we never would have met. In this universe, it was fate.

Combined we speak 6-7 languages, and we all come from different educational backgrounds. The first time I met Eva was in New York City. We took THIS picture, and could not stop talking about how miraculous it is that we even ended up in the same photo. How many impossible things had to happen to lead up to that moment?

We are a family now. We share everything, and because we have to pack light, I mean we share everything. Deodorant, brushes, computers, phones, passwords, food, beds and floors alike. We know far more about each other than we care to, but there is something pretty magical about living this lifestyle. Sure, you never get alone time (which is a challenge in itself), but you’re never lonely. Its these little things that are the fibers that hold us so tight to one another, but despite the fibers, our biggest fears are the inability to stay together.

A few weeks ago there was tension in our team. Not the kind of tension where we were at each other throats, but there was a heaviness looming in the air and we couldn’t quite shake it. Little disputes about what to do next: pursue investors, continue traveling and promoting the app, apply for accelerators. Time is running out. Visa’s only last for so long. How should we prepare for the app launch? In the midst of all the tension in the team, Juan was probably the most heated.

Let me paint a picture of the usual Juan: this is the guy who skips from park bench to park bench asking me to do “parkour” with him. He’s the definition of happy-go-lucky. He has infinite amounts of energy. He is the only one I know that can literally jump out of bed and be ready to leave the house within three minutes of waking up. He is optimistic to a fault and always looking for the next adventure. And you can count on him talking all day about the fans he talked to on snap chat…So when Juan is quiet, there is something on his mind.

When we talk to investors, they also want to know our weak points, our faults. Truly, we have the gambit of skills: experienced programmers, graphic designers, top-notch social media marketers, communication specialists, financial advisors. Aside from the occasional lack of patience, we tend to think of ourselves as the perfect team. But our biggest asset, that diversity, is also our biggest enemy.

When we sat down for a meeting over a drink, we were finally able to talk about our thoughts, our words finally parted the dense air: “What are we going to do to stay together?”

A few weeks ago, when we went to Niagara Falls, we were so excited to have to opportunity to walk across a bridge into another country. Another stamp in our passports! We proudly marched up to the bridge in our “citizen of the world” shirts, ready to proclaim another trophy. As we approached the footbridge, we noticed big iron gates and signs posted everywhere “DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PASSPORT.” We scanned the signs to find out that only two of us could cross. Selected solely on country of birth, Eva and I were granted the privilege to pass, and we left our companions behind.

I feel a certain amount of guilt having been born in the USA. In many ways, I have more privileges than my Nomadic family simply because of where I was born. I didn’t ask for that privilege, and even though it works in my favor, I do not want it. I feel guilty that there is nothing I can do to change the rules. What makes the people of one country require more restrictions? In a few weeks, I am going to Colombia and need nothing more than my passport and a few shots. Meanwhile, in a few months, Luisa’s visa expires and she will have to apply for a new one if she intends to come back to the US–a privilege not guaranteed. I’ve come to find out there are a number of countries I can enter without a visa, but the people from those same countries must have visas to come here. This inequality strikes me off guard. If all men are created equal, why are they not treated equally? Why does the internationality of our team have to be our biggest obstacle, when it is most certainly our biggest strength?
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My first literacy Narrative: Mom

My first literacy Narrative: Mom

Published October 16, 2016

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Learning to Write
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My earliest memory of writing was in preschool. My family of four, my mom, my older sister, me, and my mom’s boyfriend (who we affectionately call Rocket) lived in a run-down, two-bedroom house near the train tracks on the south side of town. My sister, who was five years older than me was obsessed with reading and writing. And although I was not old enough to comprehend how words on a page could form images in your brain, I was eager to participate in such rituals.

One day, I recall exclaiming I was going to teach myself how to write. I took a pencil in my little hand and grasped it like I was holding on to the handlebars of my bicycle, clenching my fists around the tiny piece of wood, and I pressing it against a yellow, striped notebook. Carefully, I’d move the pencil up and down on the page as my wrist scanned left to right, watching the grey lines flake onto the page. The tip of the pencil was running up and down hills creating meaning, I was sure of it.

“Does this say something?” I’d ask my sister, waiting and watching her face for excitement.

“No.”

And I’d tried again.

“No.”

All she would say was no. Not “close!” Not, “almost.” It was painful and discouraging. How had she learned to make words? I’d scratch the page with the eraser end of the pencil, leaving desperate, pink shavings in my lap. Then, I had an idea.

I thought of my mom’s writing — how her letters were not like the hills my sister wrote, but roller coaster loops. And so a reassessed my plan, adding a loop to my strategy. Taking my pencil in my hand, I coaxed it up and down and added the loop, ending with a few more hills and a curled end.

“What about this?” I inquired. It must have been the 20th time, and my sister was exhausted looking up from her book in annoyance. I was distracting her. Her face was strained, her eyes slanted.

But then her face changed. The corners of her eyes relaxed. Her lips moved from pursed to gentle and parted.

“Actually…yes,” she paused “It says Mom. In cursive.”

I was like a baby speaking my first words. I felt overjoyed at my ability to teach myself something. Not only had I written something, it was something that had the ability to make my mom proud, to give her joy and move her. I expected praise, but Corrinn was not impressed. She went back to reading her book.

I studied the word on the page, the straight parts, the curves, and my favorite — the loop which turned my stomach with excitement. I took my pencil in my hand again and copied those beautiful shapes in the page. Mom, Mom, Mom, I wrote, preparing to share it with my mother the moment she walked in the door. She would be so proud and understand the amount of time I took to carefully practice those lines.

I sat on the couch looking out the window, watching the sunset, waiting for her car to pull into the driveway. It was cold by the window, and the heat from my impatient forehead created flog against the evening, so I traced the letters on the glass. Mom. Where was she? I dreamt about her reaction and woke up to the sound of the door closing. “Hello!”

Oh no. I’d missed watching her drive up.

I rubbed my eyes, and frantically searched for the notebook which had jammed itself into the crack between the cushions and the back of the couch. I ran to her and held up the notebook like a masterpiece. I was an artist, and I’d save my lifework for her. She smiled down at me and praised my sister for teaching me how to write my first word.

I gave my sister a glare and ran back to my room in silence.

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