My mother, the immigrant-- and her immigrant children.
I.
Milla wanted to go and look for "birds and fishes". The vast disparity in habitat descriptions did not in any way impinge upon her consciousness. So we started walking near the nature preserve, our hopes set fast on birds and nests. The stroll gradually found itself unfurling into a saunter. Our arms swinging, mid-chatter, over stump, settling between giant roots.
In the tonal center of a wood song, Milla discovered a relic. The fossil of games once played. A slimy old blow toy. It was only a matter of time until she named this "new bird"- "birdie", of course. Perhaps we see what we seek when we forgo the literal for refuge in the figurative.
II.
We made clay hearts from the plaster given to us by a grandparent. Now we wait for the plaster to dry. Some of our clay hearts are bigger than others. We started with the same amount of plaster but the end result varied.
Don't get me wrong- there's no normative message here. Only that some hearts overflow their designated boundaries. And that it is the overflowing hearts which tend to be more buxom and enticing to the appetite. On the other hand, big hearts take no account of private space. In crossing boundaries, they don't bother to ask permission- they just puff and thrive, assuming bigger is better when it comes to la coeur.
I have a hard time unpacking the concept of "social equality" to my children under these circumstances.
And equity is a brick they've never seen used in the world's richest country. We still build on the backs of our brokenness.
III.
I will never forgive them for the way he looked in that wheelchair, his young beautiful body folded and crumpled. I refuse to forget the way he said, "Go on now, my life is done- you've got yours left to live...".
He knew I would never believe him, even when the news of his suicide took on the face of type font. He was my friend. We grew up playing in the woods together. And I was pregnant with a baby boy- a young American who might one day be called to give his life for something as convoluted as terror. Those were the days when everyone was afraid that their sins might catch up with them. People kept looking for the morning-after pill to chase away the nights.
I promised my friend that his death would be for something less abstract that nothing. I promised to tell others what he learned firsthand- that war is a game in which even the good guys cheat and the only rules are bullets and the hand that needs them. And that terror begins at home.
At the protest, only a few cars "honked for peace". The most vociferous commentators were young men in trucks blasting rap music- the statistical stereotype of southern boys. I was unprepared for the kind of language that a peace sign could provoke:
"Freedom isn't free, so fuck you!"
(My son cringed to hear it- "Mom, those boys are mean.")
"Stupid people like you should get shipped to Saudi!"
"Hey lady, you need a good screw!"
"America's going to whip all those Arab asses out there. Eat that!"
Nothing is simple these days. The truth is too expensive for us to accept- the cost paid in lives for lies too devastating. No, son, those boys aren't "mean"- they're just scared. And excited.
My son looks up at me, his eyes wide and brown- "This is kinda how those college boys acted when we went to that football game. But war isn't like football, is it, mom?"
I shook my head.
I shake my head.
I'll never stop being sorry for what we've done and what we're doing.
IV.
The echo of a laugh is anything but light.
