In my sophomore year of college I had the fortune to have a few classes that required me to spend time in the school’s art gallery. While I was there I had to do I variety of assignments from poems to just plain talking about the gallery itself. One of these was a paper talking about a piece of art that speaks to us of our life. Well that artwork really spoke to me but no about my life really. I thought I was crazy at first, talking to paintings. It was all the screaming “how little you know! How little you have seen!” They mock me and tell me all my flaws, which I guess in a way is talking my life it is really not what I was looking for so I tried to go painting by panting hoping to get them to be nicer one on one. Then again I guess I was putting too much stock into paintings being reasonable. AS I pace from one room to the next I find myself surrounded by views of places all over the world, London, Tokyo, Italy, Spain and other images of places I couldn’t even being to guess at the names of. One of the Tokyo paintings catch my eye or rather I caught his. “Hey Warabe!” I later looked up what he called me and found that he had called child. His voice was American with a heavy Japanese accent. I was reluctant to talk it him after my rather traumatic experience with the rest of the art but I was brought up to respect my elders. This painting was done years before I was born so there for I owed him respect. So I approached him, “What are you doing here?” he asked in a gruff and unfeeling voice. When explained to him what I was wondering the hall for he laughed at me a hearty and full laugh. “Did you hear her brothers? She wants to speak of her life to us.” now three or so voices joined his laughter, I am feeling smaller by the minute. “what do we care of your puny life. My brothers and I are of great things. Of beautiful temples, holy shrines, and the great city Lin-Tsin.” My face must have betrayed my emotions because his voice softened “Warabe, please don‘t cry, we mean no disrespect. It is just a rather funny concept.” I could see their point, no less hurt but I still had an assignment to do so I had to get to work. My wondering next lead me to a trio of oil paintings of a church in three different seasons . My conversation with them started much the same as I did with the Tokyo brothers. The only differences are that these three spoke perfect English, had even bigger ego and I did really cry for them. They were as self-righteous as I would expect them to be, call me names and tearing me apart for my religious beliefs. I ran away from them just to end the torment. I asked the Tokyo brothers if they might suggest some one who could help me, they direct me to a painting in the next room.
Her name was Idylls, she was a beautiful tree. That is not to say that she had a lot of leaves because she didn’t, it was more that she had this grace for lack of leaves. She reminded me of another group of trees that I had grown up with. That park was never much to look at , it is just really a field, with trees only along the road and the fences. But it was my second and true home. All the memories of that special place I told Idylls. There were football games and the hot guys that go with them. Baseballs through my windows and more hot guys asking for their balls back, which in later years became even funnier. And my dogs barking at the runners at nine on Saturday mornings. It will always be the home of Lilly, Marie, Toan, Dart and Talon, may they rest in peace. The playground of first love and first lies. Of balance beams and rusty swings, a bench with one crippled old tree. A hill of terrible break ups and flying on imaginary wings. A final goodbye that was too short, only the trees ever saw my tears. A runaway dog can make the landscape go one forever and yet a friend can make it oh so private. The endless searching for Water and Earth, elements on the rise. The thoughts of becoming Gemini. The play ground of steel pipes to frozen ears, storytelling, some minor writing too. All of that fills my memories of my second home. That park was full of promises to always tell the truth, and geese, always geese, they ruled the roost. We made our own skating pond there. And we always had the bleachers to run to when things went wrong, as cold as they may have been in the middle of winter. Walking home through the park in the rain and having my bike stolen. To think all of this happened before I was even out of high school. And I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world. All these thing from one bare park with nothing much to it is really no surprise that I fall in love with the grace of Idylls or why I find her to be so wonderful. Then I told her of all that had between me and my park over the years. I never visit anymore and I guess I am just too afraid that I will no longer fit there now that I have neglected my second home.
Then a noise snaps me out of my conversation to this lovely lady, someone had dropped their notebook breaking me from my thoughts. I try to get back in to my conversation with Idylls but she has grown tired of me so I must move on. So onward I trod until I come across a small room full of art about New York. I figure that since I am a new Yorker that I will have found my ticket to the end of this assignment. But upon further observation, I find that that are just as resistant to my questions. All of them are down on their luck, images from the great depression, I believe. They all just keep saying that I have no seen hardship like they have, that the world will never suffer like they did in their time. Well, I beg to differ and tell them so, it ‘s not really my story but I was there for it. A few weeks after 9/11, a girl who was in a few of my classes spoke about losing her father in the World Trade Center. The thought of that girl’s father, and all those nameless people dying was gruesome but I still didn’t really want to say anything for fear of being wrong in someone’s eyes. My father worked as a cop in Long Island’s Nassau county. Which might explain why he cared so much what his teenage daughter thought of 9/11. For those first few months, he would ask me whenever I happened to be in the same room as him, “So what do you think of 9/11 today?” As if my feelings would have changed since the last time he had asked me. I figured that one of these days, if 9/11 was really important, really mattered, he would tell me how I should be answering that very question. My father, I knew, would not stop asking until I had answered in the ‘right’ way, put simply, his way. I still keep in touch with that girl and every year I have to listen to tell me about her Father’s last day, every little detail. I really don’t have to say anything so I don’t. I just sit there and listen because she has no one else to talk to about it. Luckily for me and I guess in some ways for her, she never asks me how I feel about all of this. I would have to honestly tell her that I didn’t know how I felt which would just send her into water works and then she wouldn’t have anyone it talk to about all of this emotional baggage she carries with her everywhere she goes these days. That would do neither of us any good so I just don’t bring it up. After listening to me the pictures asked me what it meant to me now if I was so smart. So I looked at them and told them the honest truth. So now I sit here trying to figure out what 9/11 means to me. The honest truth is I have no idea. It was horrible and I am sorry it happened but I really have no answer past that. I will always wonder what I would have said if I had raised differently or in a different area. So here is my cleaned up version of my answer: 9/11? Well, it was years ago and as much as I don’t want to sound insensitive, I think that people should be able to start getting on with life. I don’t mean to say that all the firefighters or cops or everyday people who lost their lives should not be remembered. Nor do I think that it was just New Yorkers that were effected. I think every person who was alive, and most likely all of those born for many years after, will be effected by the events that day. I don’t however think that we all need to fear for our lives when we see a person who looks like a terrorist, what ever that means, in an airport. I think all people looks the same, on the inside, as corny as that sounds. I think that this is like every bad event in history years from now we all will be telling out grand kids about this and they will laugh and say “No O’ Old One a much worse tragedy has happened since then.” and they probably will be right. Just as I am now with these picture from one of those other tragedies. So let us get on with life and try to remember what normal is like. At first the artwork is silent as if they don’t know what to say. Then they suddenly do. They call me self righteous and tell me to just leave for I have scared the young among them and am no longer welcome here with them. So I leave before I can say anymore to upset them for that was not my intention.
I try to hide from my classmates that I have not yet found my story by scribbling rather intently on my notebook, I knew that all those years of acting would pay off. I keep searching and find my eyes in Robert Brackman’s Katheryn. Well sort of, they are the right size and color but the expression is not mine it is that of a stranger. Or rather my father’s eyes, they have the exact same look as his. They have the look of his when he is deep in thought about something that has nothing to do with the conversation. She seems like she is looking it your soul because she is looking at you dead on . My father tended to let his gaze wonder so you didn’t feel that intense stare coming right at you. My father is not the kind of person you would think to put in a painting except as maybe a general or a strong military figure. He is not in the modern day view as a generally attractive man. To me he is my father and therefore the most handsome man in the world. I just keep thinking about how much it really looks like my father’s face mixed with this beautiful woman. I realize that my father I likely of no relation to the model of this picture but to dream that my father is even the least bit like her and that is in my blood line makes me quite a bit happier. So I finally get around asking her about my life she answers me but I swear it is my father’s voice coming for the painting. I ask her to repeat herself and the answer in the same but this time with a female voice. She was rather annoyed at having to repeat herself and tells me to just be gone from her sight, reminding me quite a lot of my father. One last look back, her expression tells me she is not thinking but longing, for what I do not know because she is no longer willing to talk to me. I am forced to continue my search for I still have not found my story and my time is running short. I have spent far too much time remembering my past I have get to work on my present. As I continue to wander I can’t help thinking about my father. He is not really a spender or a saver, really he kind of switches sides from time to time. He will buy things for himself and the rest if my family on occasion but he can also to be rather tense about monetary things. He is also known buy the silliest things. For example, we have in out house a million can of pumpkin puree, and sardines and he really is the only one who eats this stuff. Never mind the fact the only real use for pumpkin puree is making pumpkin bread and there is no use for sardines, ever, no argument accepted. My father is one unique man and I am now full assured that he is in no way like that rather rude painting. Well there is no physical likeness.
My thoughts of my father halted suddenly when I came face to face with another image that sparked a memory. I saw eyes that were familiar, warm, and I had known them my whole life, my mother’s. but I wasn’t just them everything about her seemed to fit. Rumanian woman was her title but she feels like a mother. Her face was warm, yet worn in a way only caused by the grief children bring it a life. But I can also see all the joy children welcome into a life. Her rough hands seem to hold something precious even though she hold nothing. She carries her self like any mother, she looks strong on the outside. But when she is alone or if you really look into her eyes her true nature comes out. Her fear, tiredness and every little thing that is bothering her. Is the washing done? Or are the kid ready for the day ahead? All these thing reflect in this proud woman’s eyes, and my mother’s. My mother is my hero in her own way she has done everything she sets her mind to. She has her children and I would like to say I don’t think any of us turned out that badly, she may beg to differ. I remember the last time I saw her a few weeks ago, and I will be seeing my mother again soon, yet I still miss her. Her way with money was something I loved about her. She always knew how to get a bargain or a way to rationalize buying it even if wasn’t a bargain. She is more a spender but in a way that she is buying things we need for all the things she does. In that way my parents balance each other out. But enough about them I need to find MY story. And I will not find that here for when I ask for her help she tells me she is far too buy to be bothered by such a little one with so many questions in her heart. I must once more move on as much as I want to think more about my parents.
I find myself captivated by a painting of a girl holding roses. It brings a ton of memories to the front of my mind. I guess my child hood was normal, I was young I didn’t really think much about it at the time and I don’t remember enough of it now to make that decision. I remember that when I hit my early teens I started raising roses in my back yard, that didn’t last long because my dogs liked to eat them. Then I start to remember other things. Not so much connected to this painting more connected to my memories of my child hood. I remember the booth with headphones play tones to my ears and hearing a clock chime for the first time, I remember my reaction to news of my sister’s birth and my brother asleep on a donkey or was it a mule or maybe an ass I can never remember that part. I remember, cracking a skull, finger prints on my arm, a long phone call, tiny stitches. That one was from some where around second grade. Wow how do I even remember that ? I Remember, Jenna’s smile when we bonded, Erin’s new pics. Cori talking about Laura, My smile on a dark night. I Remember, crying on the phone. Prank phone calls that were so mean. The tears of a friend forced out of a relationship. The time of day when tears hurt the most, anytime. I Remember smiles and tears. Those two vile emotions, both for broken hearts. They also go along well with the life of a dog breeder. I remember dead puppies, broken bones, too much sadness tucked away from the light, tears. A puppy’s first cry and another sleepless night, smiles. That little girl’s smile snaps me out of my thoughts. Her eyes were like my own, they look happy but they are truly empty. Then again that just might be the way that I see it .One of my classmates once wrote of me “She seizes life but both hands and had an electrifying energy that is part of her presence.” Personally I don’t see it. I am not the girl in that picture. I will fight that idea until I can no longer. Now I have to go because my time here is up. I have failed in my quest to find my story. I will return here, and I will find it. I will prove the artwork wrong. Looking at what i have writen I discover that I have mad e a bit of leeway into my story. I know about my past enough to try ot find it here and my future will come in it own time. So now I know I have put far too much stock in the talking ot painting and such. But that is a story for another day.
