Thursday, September 16, 2010

“We don’t live only in this time.” Words heard on the radio, spoken by an author speaking of his explorations of a long-buried civilization under the streets and parking lots of present time Phoenix, AZ in the United States of (North) America. He spoke of finding potshards in vacant lots; of a parking lot that was demolished, unearthing hundreds of human remains and precious objects nestled in their bodies. Bicycling through the streets of Phoenix, he notices the dips and swells of land that are almost imperceptible to modern-day motorists (we in our air conditioned, soft-suspensioned, iron horses).

“We don’t live only in this time.” I am my mother’s daughter, my stepfather’s not-quite-successful (in his eyes) child, my grandparent’s pride and joy (along with my brother). I am the daughter of Irish and Norwegian immigrants and English conquerors. I am a former exchange student from a small town in central Mexico, nestled between Popocatépetl (the smoking mountain) and Ixtaccihuatl (the sleeping princess). I look in my ancestor’s photo albums and see indigenous peoples of Africa and North America.

“We don’t live only in this time.” I am my son’s birth mother, and his real mom. One day we may become friends. I see my g-d-daughter’s children as my grand-g-d-children, being a voice of protection and support in a sometimes-dangerous life. I am a surrogate parent for children of my church, a seldom-seen “auntie” to co-workers’ progeny.

“We don’t live only in this time.” My grandmother was a suffragette – agitating for the right to vote for women. My mother’s child-hood friend was taken abruptly away and placed in a camp for Japanese people during World War II. My first boyfriend was in the US on a green card, and is probably now an “illegal alien.” Those faces in my just-inherited photo albums, the ones dressed in formal mid-19th century dresses, peer out through the years, demanding justice, rights, and respect.

“We don’t live only in this time.” My great-grandparents homesteaded 40 acres in Washington, and gave 10 acres each to their surviving sons. (The women married either men or the Irish-Catholic Jesus of their faith.) I wonder what has become of that pristine woodland today? When I moved to the San Gabriel valley, strawberry fields and citrus orchards were my view as I drove across Arrow Highway from LaVerne to Azusa and on to Alhambra. There are remnants of those orchards surviving all over the Southland still. Will my son ever know the wonder of finding snakes and gophers and finches and robins and bugs among the wind fallen fruit? Will he ever smell the amazing scent of acres and acres of ripening strawberries, carried on the freshening afternoon breeze? Or will he be afraid to swim in the ocean, fearing a life-threatening disease should he have a still-fresh skate-boarding rash?

“We don’t live only in this time.” I hear a cry from the past echoing in the voices of our children. We must make time now to honor the past and make sure our children have a future. What will you do with your time?