Let America be America Again

This poem by Langston Hughes has always been a favorite of mine. It was written in 1938, but for all the relevance it still holds, it seems he could have written it just yesterday.

When Barack Obama came on the scene, I often thought of Langston Hughes - His dreams, his eloquent words, his struggle, his hope. If anyone can lead us in creating the America we always knew could be, the one Langston Hughes spoke of, it is Barack Obama. This 4th of July as I watched the fireworks, I knew this year was different. This is the year I take Langston Hughes’ words along with me in my heart to the voting booth, and I hope that the majority of Americans will as well.

Let America be America Again by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed–
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek–
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean–
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today–O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home–
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay–
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again–
The land that never has been yet–
And yet must be–the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine–the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME–
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose–
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath–
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain–
All, all the stretch of these great green states–
And make America again!

Raspberries, Laundry and Hammocks

This will be my first time doing “Three Beautiful Things Thursday”. I’ve always enjoyed the entries of my blogger friends, Aisha and Huda, but now is an especially good time for me to start doing this. I’m feeling the need to count some blessings and get myself in a more positive frame of mind.

1. Raspberries. Carlos and his co-workers discovered a whole bunch of wild raspberry bushes in a field behind their building and so Carlos has been bringing a container to work to fill and bring home.

The raspberries are breathtakingly beautiful, like perfect little red jewels, and they are surprisingly sweet.

2. Japanese shirt folding. I’m sure that after a few more loads of laundry the novelty will wear off, but for now this newly learned skill has made folding shirts kind of fun.

3. Hammocks. Our hammock is from El Salvador. (It’s like the one pictured here.) It hangs in our backyard, usually under a blue sky filled with puffy white clouds.

I like to examine the weaving as I lay there. So far, I haven’t found a single imperfection. I like to pull it around me and look at the sky through the mesh and feel the dappled sunlight on my arms. How was this thing put together with human hands? How am I held up by only strings woven together?

Sometimes I day dream about going back to El Salvador so I can thank the man who made it, and watch him as he works.

Child Labor

Think you can’t do anything to stop child labor? Think again. Many of the things you buy were made by children, some of them unpaid slaves. You may have supported child labor as recently as the last chocolate bar you ate.

Be aware of the issues and talk about them with others.

Buy Free Trade products whenever possible.

When you find out a company is using child labor, don’t buy their products and put pressure on them to stop by writing them a letter or signing a petition.

The art of laundry

You think the title is a joke, don’t you? No joking here.

I recently came across a video of the Japanese art of laundry folding. Think of it as origami for shirts. The video shows you how to fold a T-shirt in less than 5 seconds and it turns out looking like it’s on the shelf of a retail store.

I watched the video over and over, and tried to do it a few times. I nearly gave up but my 9 year old, Nick, encouraged me to try again and I got it! It took me about 10 times and now folding laundry is actually kind of fun. (Nick also learned the technique, so no more balled up wrinkled shirts in his drawers when he does his own laundry.)

So, if you want to learn something useful today, gather some T-shirts and the kids here in front of the computer. If you have trouble following the Japanese version and want a clear explanation in English, watch this one:

The Tolerant Christian

A few weeks ago a Jehovah’s Witness came to my door. She was a Hispanic woman who revealed her name to be “Betty”, and we conversed on my doorstep in Spanish. I don’t turn the Jehovah’s Witnesses away unless they become increasingly intrusive, and even when I turn them away, I do so kindly. I find it funny that other Christians are so hateful towards them. They love God and they’re good hearted. It’s not difficult to explain that you simply disagree but wish them well instead of slamming the door in their face.

Betty pointed to the Obama sign on my door and said, “Even though Barack Obama is a great man with great aspirations, do you believe he can save the world?”

“No, of course not.” I said casually.
(In my head I was thinking, “Well, he might.”)

Betty nodded approvingly. “And who do you think is the only being that can save this world?” she urged.

“God?” It came out like a question. I had reverted into an 8 year old student hoping to win the teacher’s favor.

Betty smiled, “Yes, God and His Son Jesus, right?”
I shrugged and nodded. “Sure.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a Christian, but I’m not a fire and brimstone Christian. I don’t like to discuss religion in polite company. I prefer to explore my spirituality on my own and I’m not the kind of Christian who see’s my salvation as exclusive. Many older Christians would condemn me as the all too common younger generation of Christians with “too much tolerance”, and so I usually keep it to myself.

The truth is, I’ve never been satisfied with Christianity as I’ve known it. The Christianity I grew up with was sitting in the basement classroom of a Southern Baptist Church being told, “If you don’t accept Jesus as your Savior, you go to hell and burn for eternity.” This is what they said to a little girl whose father is Jewish.

I would go home each Sunday afternoon. My Dad would be sitting in his armchair reading the newspaper. I would start casually, telling my Dad the Bible lesson I had learned. He would grunt and flip a page of the paper. It took me awhile to warm up, but eventually I would feverishly beg him to accept Jesus and come to church. (But Daddy! You could die tomorrow!) He would become increasingly annoyed until his face flushed and he demanded I leave him alone. I would go up to my room and bawl my eyes out because I thought my Dad was going to burn in hell. I eventually came to believe that God was something to be feared, and deep down inside I resented God for these inflexible and unfair rules. Of course, I never spoke these feelings aloud, for fear of going to hell myself.

I have had to explore Christianity and take from it what felt right. We’re told to be Christ-like but even as a child I could see the hypocrisy of the adults at church. I saw too much gossiping, judging and condemning of people to hell, and after all these years, not much has changed. What happened to the numerous verses instructing us not to judge and to love one another? As the Black Eyed Peas say, “Where’s the love, ya’ll? (I don’t know.)”

I won’t deny that certain unpleasant things are mentioned in the Bible - whether they are there by God’s or Man’s hand, who can say with any authority? Has anyone spoken to God and asked Him? No, not even the Pastor of a church with a congregation of thousands, or the Pope has spoken to God and can say with 100% certainty that their interpretation is correct. I believe that my guess is as good as any.

The Bible says that those who alter The Word of God will be punished, but it does not say that The Bible is a magical book incapable of being changed by human hands. I could go to my Bible right now and cross out verses I don’t like. I could take a black Sharpie to the versus condemning gluttony and then scribble in the margins, “Thou shalt enjoy the food of the Earth, eating as much as you wish.” … Who is to say similar things weren’t done to the original books of the Bible? They were written by men, they were compiled by men. It was translated and re-translated many times by men. The Bible did not fall from the sky on a cloud of light exactly as we have it today. And so, if I have to err on the side of caution, I’m going to err on the side of love. Can God wrong me for that? He might, but I would have chosen as best I could, with the limited human wisdom He granted me.

We have so many stories in The Bible to guide our behavior. I try to make decisions in life based on the parable, The Good Samaritan.

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
“What is written in the Law?” he replied.
He answered: ” ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”
“You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”
But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”
In reply Jesus said: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn in Jericho and took care of him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’
“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Many people who read the Bible today don’t realize the historical relationship between Jews and Samaritans, which makes this parable all the more powerful.

Samaritans were enemies of the Jews. The Jews despised the Samaritans and the Samaritans likewise despised the Jews. As Wikipedia explains,

To address this problem with the unfamiliar analogy, the story is often recast in a more recognizable modern setting where the people are ones in equivalent social groups known to not interact comfortably. For instance instead of a Jew being helped by a Samaritan one could place a Palestinian in that role, or even a member of Hezbollah aided by an orthodox Jew.

Thus cast appropriately, the parable regains its message to modern listeners: namely, that an individual of a social group they disapprove of can exhibit moral behaviour that is superior to individuals of the groups they approve; it also means that not sharing the same faith is no excuse to behave poorly, as there is a universal moral law.

This is a parable not just about loving ones neighbor, but Jesus is clearly telling us that our neighbors are everybody, whatever their religion, race, nationality or political affiliation.

And so I don’t understand the older generation of Christians who consider “tolerant Christians” some kind of detestable abomination. They ask themselves “What Would Jesus Do?”, and then slam the door in the face of a Jehovah’s witness.

Blackout Poem: Speaking Heart

This one is for the other writers out there; those who have been recognized and those who still preface their vocation with the word, “aspiring”.

Blackout Poem: A comment on American policy and apathy

I had this topic on my mind while creating this poem because of the New Yorker article by Seymour Hersh. My fellow Americans, get your pitchforks and torches ready. President Bush thinks he’s taking us to war in Iran before he leaves office. We can not allow it. Very few at this point would outright consent to such a war, but they don’t realize, their silent voice, their apathy, is just the same.

Blackout Poetry

Recently I came upon Austin Kleon’s blog. Among other things, he’s a poet and his poetry is not only beautiful and profound, but incredibly unique. Using a Sharpie marker and a copy of The New York Times, he creates his poetry by blacking out words in the article he doesn’t need. What remains is a poem. This is similar to an art form known as “altered books”, which I love.

I felt inspired to try my hand. I love poetry, I love words and language. I love newspapers and reading. I even love the smell of Sharpie markers as I search out the words that feel right. I feel so happy to have discovered a new outlet for my creativity. I hope to share these poems with you often. Carlos will begin bringing home the discarded newspapers at work so I don’t have to rely on the free local one we get each week (which is mostly ads for used cars and lacking much substance.)

I’ve done four so far. This one is short but it is my favorite.

Sweet Peace Offering

At one time, a time that seems like it was another lifetime ago but in reality was only last year, my mother-in-law was the subject of a lot of blog posts. Those blog posts ranged in emotion from ugly things like anger and vindictiveness (and were subsequently deleted), to forgiveness, compassion, depression, confusion, and uncertainty.

My mother-in-law lived with us for many years, and I felt that my religion dictated that I allow her to, and certainly, my husband’s culture was uncompromising on this issue. This would not have been a problem had my mother-in-law been respectful and courteous. Had she shown the same reverence and curiosity for my culture as I for hers, perhaps things would not have ended in the regrettable way that they did.

I won’t rehash the years of heartache I endured, but they were some of the most difficult years for me personally, and for my marriage. Being that I always seek the silver lining, I will say that I learned immeasurable lessons in patience, compassion and compromise. I learned what I was capable of, and what I was not capable of, from selfless acts of kindness to selfish petty acts of revenge. I learned that I’m not perfect, though I was never under any such illusion to begin with. I learned that sometimes in a situation, there is no right or wrong - merely different perspectives which are influenced by one’s own experiences and culture.

In the end, my mother-in-law and I were unable to make things work. I felt I was constantly walking to meet her halfway but she sat stubborn and unmoving. I learned that while it’s important to reach out to others, if they are not reaching back to you, you have done all you can. I learned that my religion and my own personal ethics dictate that I love others, but this does not mean being a doormat.

My mother-in-law moved out last year, but even I didn’t celebrate. It went badly and she hasn’t spoken to me since. Despite what she may think, I wasn’t happy that things turned out this way. I wanted her to leave, but not like this. I wanted her to come to the same conclusion as I had - that we needed our own space; that we would both be happier if she was more independent; that it would be healthier for everyone involved, including my husband and my children… She came to the conclusion that she had lost a war fought over many years, that she was being kicked out, and that she would never forgive me for it.

Over the past year she has lived with a friend in the same city we live in. We live on the outskirts, and she in downtown. It has felt strange driving through downtown, something I now avoid. I often pass her as she walks to the Latino market. Sometimes we see each other, and pretend that we didn’t. I’ve asked my husband if I can write her a letter or stop and give her a ride, send her flowers, anything to repair the relationship. He says that anything short of asking her to move back in will only anger her. She is still as uncomprimising as ever.

The other week she called, as she does about once a month. Sometimes she calls to scream at Carlos and remind him that he’s an awful son for taking his wife’s side over his mother’s. Other times she calls to demand to see her grandchildren. This time she called, uncharacteristically calm, and asked that he come visit with the children. I helped the children color pictures and write letters in Spanish to her before they left, something I always do. Something I suspect she knows the children don’t do on their own. Carlos dutifully headed off to her apartment with the kids in the backseat, leaving me at home alone.

Usually they return within the hour. A few hours passed and I found myself growing worried, but I couldn’t call. If I called Carlos on his cell phone my mother-in-law would merely have evidence that I keep him on a leash and that I wear the pants. She would tell everyone that I called and told him to come home immediately. So I didn’t call. Another hour later, Carlos called me, whispering.

“My Mother wants to take us… me and the boys, out to eat.”
“Uhm. Ok.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sure. She’s being… nice?”
“Yes.”
“That’s weird… okay. Go.”

So they went out to eat and then she gave the boys bags full of food and toys. They came home late in the afternoon. I had been home all day. I tried not to picture them out having fun together, pretending I didn’t exist. I reasoned with myself, it’s more important for Carlos to have a relationship with his mother, and for the kids to have a relationship with their Grandmother. I was inconsequential.

Carlos sat down with me when they came home and told me how it all went. He told me all the conversations they had, reminiscing about El Salvador, talking about work, the kids and world events. The visit had gone well.

“Did she ask about me?”
“No.”
“Did she mention my name at all?”
“No.”
“She didn’t even refer to me as ‘ella’ [her/she]?”
“No.”

I didn’t want to, but I started to cry. How could she still be so angry with me when I had every right to be angry with her?

I cried for a good while and then started to put away some of the food she had sent home with the kids. She always gave them boxes of cereal and such, which is fine with me. It’s much more practical than candy. But today there was something different in the groceries she gave to them. There was a bag full of packets of Splenda. I began to cry all over again.

Why cry over packets of Splenda? Because when my mother-in-law lived with us, my addiction to Splenda at the time was something she always found amusing. She found it strange that I didn’t eat real sugar and was always sprinkling these yellow packets on food and into drinks, and even carrying them in my purse at times.

Had she sent these for me? Was it a small olive branch she was extending? I can’t be certain, but I can hope.

Obama Art

The art movement Barack Obama has inspired is just awesome. It’s like a renaissance.

Here is my favorite print and favorite video I’ve come across lately.