That religion tells me not to dance
in that country? Not a chance.
But I find the movement so entrancing
Nothing quashes me from dancing.
“Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic ’til I’m gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love”
painting by CD-W
daily word prompt: via Dancing
Mom has given me cherry-flavored Lundren’s throat lozenges for my sore throat. I keep them in my coat pocket. At playground time, I am the most popular girl at the swing set.
It is springtime. We have an incubator in our lunchroom. It has chicken eggs in it, real chicken eggs that you can’t eat. Each day I go first thing to see if the eggs under the warm light have started to crack. I picture little fuzzy yellow chicks coming out to greet us after they have broken free and clear of their eggs. I picture nestling their fuzziness in the palms of my little hands. It will be the best day ever in this boring kindergarten class. We wait.
Meanwhile at the same time:
April 16, 1963: While jailed in Birmingham, Alabama for leading anti-segregation protests, Martin Luther Kings writes a letter that says, “We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.” “For years now, I have heard the word ‘Wait!’ It rings in the ear of every Negro with a piercing familiarity. This ‘wait’ has almost almost always meant ‘never’.”
We wait until Mrs. Perry gets tired of them. She throws them out! She gave up! I am sooo disappointed. I realized then that some things don’t happen the way you want them to. Eggs don’t hatch if you give up.
I kept thinking that maybe we could have helped those baby chicks be born. It was all so unfair.
photo credit
daily post prompt: Egg
“Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.”
Thank you, Harriet Tubman. On this day, in 1853, she started the Underground Railroad of safe houses and helped many slaves escape to freedom. Later, she became an activist and an advocate for women’s suffrage.
I don’t remember what I was thinking when I originally painted this. Now, the meaning is clear. The “man” below symbolizes our country trying to hold up the Statue of Liberty, America.
… of the United States, have elected a new president and I spent most of yesterday in the dark, literally.
Do I blame those who voted differently than me? Of course not. Our forefathers gave us that right.
The ground beneath me (perhaps yours) has cracked and shifted. Like a desert with no water? I hope not.
Oh say can you hear?
–how the voices on both sides were loud, strongly opposing, and severely divided.
On Tuesday night, did we form a “more perfect union?”
Do you hear Lady Liberty’s song, the lyrics still tucked in my brain after singing them almost every day in my elementary school music class?
No, not anymore. Not anymore.
We have chosen a different kind of candidate. “In order to form a more perfect Union”?
Oh say can you feel? Why I am sad? Bear with me here.
I follow politics, but I am not a politician. I am not skilled in the workings of politics nor do I hold a public office.
But I do hold something else and have carried it for a long time.
I was a quiet hippy kid in high school when our psychology class took a field trip to the state school that housed our mentally impaired. After other classmates had shooed her away, a five-year-old girl with Down Syndrome climbed up my (then) skinny body like I was an oak tree. We clung to each other as if life depended on it. For me, it did. Her grip so tight, the attendants had to peel her away from me. But I never forgot her, that little girl who helped me choose what path to take.
In high school, I avoided conflict. In speech class we had a student who kept to himself. He wore thick glasses and could read only if the text was an inch from his face. One day we had a fire drill. My speech class, including this student, left the building and united with others on the school grounds. A popular football player pushed the boy, laughed, called him a name.
“And the rocket’s red…” glared.
The quiet, non-conflict Carolyn tugged his sleeve and yelled, “Hey! What are you doing!”
I had shocked myself. But I had discovered that indignity was too powerful for me to ignore.
Mr. Trump brought back that memory. To me, he was that bully who not only mocked that reporter but pushed my classmate with the thick glasses.
At UT Austin, I went from studying Special Ed to Early Childhood. After tugging my professor’s arm, I was allowed to student teach at a Title XX low income center where I interacted with children of all races and religions. I learned.
And the man said, “I like kids. I mean, I won’t do anything to take care of them.”
I graduated, ran a Child Development Center, taught my staff about bias-free education, and how to implement it in their classrooms. I spoke at state and local conferences on why teaching tolerance was so important to, not just our country, but to our world.
Intolerance scrapes, tugs and wrenches my insides.
People with disabilities, African Americans, Mexican Americans, women, the LBGT community, children, illegal immigrants, Muslim Americans, (the list continues) all of us, want to see a better world, have a better life.
Some used to proudly say America is melting pot. I believe we are a beautifully tossed salad and, in our giant bowl, each ingredient adds a special flavor.
I have to believe that we are not a union of intolerance. I do not want to believe that intolerance motivated people to vote for Trump. But if he won the electoral vote because his voters wanted change in our government, I can accept the decision. Because that reasoning trumps intolerance.
We are all huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Let’s just huddle a little closer to one another and let freedom to ring for all.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 