I have a wondered if there was something “inherited” by me from my ancestors as to why I feel inspire or motivated to travel and explore? (I ponder, often with melancholy, as to why I felt a “necessity” or an urgency to keep moving forward over the next horizon?) Perhaps there are answers from ancestors in the distant past who found it necessary to find a new life. . . a new home in the faraway lands of North America.

Dear Ancestors,

As your distant relative, I’m very curious (and excited) to get to know you, and to let you know how much you are loved and appreciated for your sacrifices and endeavors in seeking a better way of life in a new country far from your homes in Norway and England!

Because of you, I am born here… and blessed beyond measure to be an American!

My question for you would be why you felt the need (or necessity) to move away from the lands of your forefathers to this unknown (and mostly unexplored, new nation, having only recently won its independence from the monarchy of Great Britain? Please reply… and thank you!

PS This is also an opportunity for me to say that your posterity has continued to be travelers and explore beyond states and borders. Many of them did eventually (and ultimately) settle among colonies of the former British Empire and the province of British Columbia.

Your decision to immigrate and to establish a new life for yourselves here on this continent paved the way for your sons and daughters to live free and to establish their own destiny.  I have felt the need to move on from time to time, and with a faith and inspiration that gives me unwavering confidence that it is the right thing for me to do! Perhaps you felt the same way. 

With love always, from your son,
Clay

THE REPLY

Greetings, my distant son…

Thank you for your kind letter!  We, your family, made our way across the vast ocean under dire circumstances, to flee from the depressions emerging from tyranny and oppression, or from famine in the land and starvation….  We “heard the call” (within our souls) to seek the freedoms your countrymen were willing to fight for, thus we sought for and managed to embark up our voyages of discovery, choosing a life of liberty… and the blessing and promises of a New Nation under God.  It is our (mutual) belief that you have inherited these traits that cause you to follow your own heart, my son.  Trust in your instincts, and the spirit of God to always be with you, as your destiny unfolds before you. 

With love,
from your Ancestors

As your Ancestor,

While expressing heartfelt gratitude for my family heritage over many generations, I feel inspired to “pay it forward” for all that I have received from my ancestors.  I want to pass down words of wisdom and hope to the generations who follow mine by expressing, “Family First” resolve:

From a land far away,

comes a message quite clear:

“A happy home-life

            is precious and dear.”

I was provided equal opportunity among my generation to be married and to become a family provider.  I am inspired by living relatives and friends to feel optimistic and hopeful for such blessings to become my reality for you, who are the ancestors of my generation.  I hope and pray that you remember my generation of your family heritage for all the good we have accomplished, and the love we inherited and shared together over a lifetime, everlasting love that you experience in your own generation from the depth of your souls.

Please remember your forefathers (and foremothers) for our best intentions, our hopes and dreams for our posterity…you!  You are the living proof of our united determination to be faithful and devoted “creators” in fruit-filled relationships from which you can reflect upon with calming reassurance to your souls.  We love you…, and we extend our best wishes among all of you who are our extended family for the generations to come!  (Please forgive us our faults, and human frailty, that have beset us at times…consequences from which recovery was slow, and often painful.)  Nevertheless, we are here to learn of and to experience life’s challenges!  (Perhaps you are enduring inevitable results of choice and free agency, or in the midst of adversity, and/or trials?)  I extend to you my promise that you are stronger than you may realize!  Recognize and act upon the potential among yourselves for personal growth and development.  Forgive each other, and inspire loving relationships, as a gift that is of eternal importance for every generation of the family of God.

Clay Faro

BORN IN BAINBRIDGE, GEORGIA IN 1957, CLAY IS MIXED HERITAGE OF NORWEGIAN, DUTCH, AND ENGLISH ANCESTRY. HE HAS PUBLISHED POETRY AND EDITORIALS AND JOURNALS. “NEW LIFE” WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED 1995-96 ANTHOLOGY, THE NATIONAL LIBRARY OF POETRY.

Stressla Lynn Johnson’s ambitious CROSSING THE BOUNDARIES & DRAWING ANCESTRAL LINES takes us through his childhood memory; travels the timeline of human creation; documents his DNA makeup; and delivers us with a contemplation of ancestry in relationship to his first college-level Black History course. He unpacks all of this, while the smell of Gramma Jo Berta’s famous chocolate cake (with coconut mixed in the frosting) torments our senses.

Stressla grew up in Portland’s historic Albina District — a neighborhood confined by Oregon’s racist redlining practice that centralized Black Portlanders. The Vanport Floods displaced more people, making Albina home to four out of five Black Portlanders by 1960. Despite racist political, economic, and social restrictions, these citizens went on to build a thriving community;  the district held a rich cultural mix of music, civil rights organizations, and Black-owned businesses. The Albina of Stressla’s childhood was composed of sturdy wooden homes filled with watchful parental eyes ensuring that children safely crossed streets. As young Stressla gained parental permission to travel more of the neighborhood, “urban renewal” projects, such as the construction of the Fremont Bridge bisected Albina and undermined community stability. By the 1970s, the land grab to construct Emmanuel Hospital and Memorial Coliseum displaced Black families: it gutted the community’s center and undermined the economic and social vitality of the neighborhood. Somewhere within all these shifting borders are the stories of the many people who are incarcerated in Oregon, including those who serve time with him at Oregon State Penitentiary.

This writing reminds me that even the uneven concentric circles around our identity warp and shift, as deeper understanding and new knowledge helps us contextualize and gain understanding of who we are in relationship to our ancient past, our lived past, and our future possibilities. Sixty years later, we know that a maximum-security prison defines the physical boundaries of his body. Adventuring Stressla expands his territory through the books he reads, the words he writes, the care he takes of himself and his fellow prisoners, and his willingness to jump into a college education.

Hugh Crow II and Chris Ainsworth serve together at Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution. They collaborated PRESENT DAY DNA in the style of the Exquisite Corpse, a literary or visual “game” that Surrealists played in the 1920s. A person writes on a sheet of paper, folds it to conceal part of the writing (or image), and then passes it to the next player for a further contribution. At the end, it is unfolded, and the collaboration is revealed. The laboratory mix of the creation as DNA from two people combines and reveals itself each generation in new and astonishing ways is a theme well played.

We close our first Issue of PonyXpress with DNA, the very borders of our existence. Each time these codes cross and combine, we have a new set of living possibilities. For Issue No. 2, we have asked writers to consider future generations, presenting their hopes and dreams — their better selves. Issue No. 2 will begin to publish in November 2023. During the month of October, we will be posting the complete digest Roots Meet Under the Crossroads. We published this slim volume with our writing group at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility. The work was developed over the nine months. A special reading of the book took place in the medium side of Coffee Creek for the women. It was recorded and will in an upcoming audio mini-series. | TDS

RESHAPING THE BOUNDARIES
At sixty-six, I no longer have elders to tell the family stories. When I think about an ancestor, the first person who comes to mind is Jo Berta Jones (1907–1976) — my grandmother and baker of the world’s best moist two-layer chocolate cake, with coconut shreds in the frosting. Each year on my birthday, I knew when I walked into Gramma’s house there would be the lingering aroma of a freshly baked cake. She would have my cake sitting under the glass cover of the cake-stand platter, shaped like a pedestal. When I think back, Gramma put a lot of effort into my cakes.

It would have been a relatively short walk to Gramma’s house, except she lived outside my range of travel. Her house was on NE Garfield and NE Failing in Portland, Oregon. For me to get to her house, I would have to cross N Vancouver, NE Skidmore, and NE Shaver, all high-traffic, or busy streets, as they were called. Clara Mae, my mother, had imposed physical travel restrictions on me, based solely on my age. These were not fictional or imaginary boundaries; they were real and served a purpose.

From five to nine years old, I lived in the 400 block of North Blandena, between Haight and Commercial; however, my designated range of travel stopped at N Albina, N Killingsworth, N Vancouver, and N Skidmore. If you are not from Portland these street names have no meaning — this was the center of the African American neighborhood, the Albina District. Invisible boundaries that the city government and private entities had designated sat over the top of my neighborhood. In 1962, when I was five years old, the Albina District was “targeted” for disinvestments and devalorization.

High unemployment, poor schooling, and an underground economy that evolved into crack, cocaine, gangs and crime ... some neighborhood activists argued that the redlining, predatory lending, and housing speculation were worse threats to community viability ... Portland is an exemplar of an urban real estate phenomenon impacting Black communities across the nation.

“Bleeding Albina: A Community History of Disinvestment, 1940–2000,” Karen J. Gibson

This so-called urban renewal and development was setting the boundaries of what became fertile ground for gentrification.

My boundaries changed when I turned ten in 1967. I now had new borders: NE Killingsworth to the north; NE Union (now Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard) to the east, NE Failing to the south, and the I-5 freeway to the west. My travel would have included Gramma’s house, but she moved. It would be a few more years until I was free to travel to Gramma’s house alone.

While I was young and adventurous, it never crossed my mind to violate these boundaries. I knew there was no way to go beyond my designated borders without being detected or even detained by an adult. I grew up in a time when every adult in the neighborhood knew what child belonged to what family. If I was to cross N Vancouver at five years old, I knew that inside the second house from the corner on N Going (with its long narrow driveway and little brick wall that wrapped around the lawn) was an adult who knew my mother. If she saw me, there would be an inquiry about why I was walking by her house unescorted.

There would have been several houses for me to go by (en route to Gramma’s house) filled with watchful adult eyes — they would certainly have detained me to find out what I was doing on this side of N Vancouver! And it would unquestionably lead to a phone call to my mother. The names of adults along this route have long been removed from memory by my many birthdays past; however, back then I knew each one of them by their proper name: “Hello, Mr. So-and-So.”
“Hello, Mrs. So-and-So.”

While these boundaries served multiple purposes, the main one was safety. My mother did not want me crossing the busy streets alone. The risk of being struck by a car was real. The boundaries seemed to be a community-based thing, because my friends’ movements were also restricted by age. It was more like a neighborhood/community meme.

I have many fond memories of my grandmother. She was a major figure during my childhood. Even with my travel restrictions, there were a lot of trips to Gramma’s house as I tagged along with my older brothers, aunts, and uncles. Oh, and there was always my annual birthday trip and that two-layer chocolate cake. I think I was her favorite grandchild — at least that’s how I felt growing up.

At times, I overheard the grown-ups talk about “back home.” Back home meaning Little Rock, Pine Bluff, and Fordyce, Arkansas. However, during these reflective times, children did not, could not, would not be involved in adult conversations. I don't recall ever talking to Gramma about her mother and father. Quite frankly, I don’t recall hearing my mother talk about her grandparents.

EDUCATION: SELF-CREATED BOUNDARIES
I recently completed an Introduction to Black Studies course offered by Portland State University (PSU) through Uhuru Sasa — the African American Culture Club at Oregon State Penitentiary. This experience required me to cross a kind of self-made boundary. I have resisted taking college classes during my incarceration. This resistance was born out of my personal experience with the education system and American academia. I remember being in elementary and middle school and the strong feeling that I was out of place.

Thanks to my mother (who was very adamant about the importance of education), I started school with my math and reading levels higher than most of the other students. The school had me skip first grade and start instead in second. I was six, and my classmates were seven. It did not take long for me to lose interest in what they were teaching. Of course, not being challenged academically led to boredom, which was mislabeled as a behavioral problem. This was standard operating procedure for most African American children in the Portland K-12  grade school system. It felt like there were no benefits for me in the lessons that were taught. I am not diametrically opposed to education, but there was no point of interest for me. The rigged educational system was designed to ignore my ancestry and Black history. Limiting what was taught was a boundary — a boundary to keep me in a designated educational box.

As a voracious reader, I have crossed my educational boundary through books. Honoring my mother’s insistence on education, I have used my prison sentence to educate myself and heal. I’ve read several books that allowed me to cross some of my internal boundaries — boundaries that were preventing me from understanding the bridges and pathways between that five-year-old Stressla and the forty-something-year-old Stressla. A few of my favorite books include: The Autobiography of Malcolm X, as told to Alex Haley; The Souls of Black Folk, W. E. B. Du Bois; Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl; Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma, Peter A. Levine; and The Body Keeps the Score, Bessel van der Kolk. I also discovered the importance of personal journaling as a means for healing. Journaling became a major part of my wellness routine. It allowed me to start taking personal internal inventories and honest self-appraisals that aided in my healing process. Through journaling, I was able to visibly see the effects of some of my developmental childhood traumas and understand some of the mental and psychological boundaries I had created.

My self-education laid the foundation for me to crossover into the collegiate arena. Our first week’s reading in the Uhuru/PSU Black Studies class contained a detailed timeline charting the beginning of human life on this rock we collectively call Earth. The timeline was quite remarkable and gave me a new perspective into several areas of my knowledge base. It charted major events in Africa across millennia, and uncovered some of the rich history that evolved:

53 million BC | The first hominids, known as australopithecines or “Ape-Men” lived in East and Southern Africa.

3–1.5 million BC | Early stone age, emergence of Homo habilis, “the toolmaker.”

1.75–1 million BC | Evolution of Homo erectus, who used hand axes and shaped stone scrapers.

1 million–40,000 BC | The Middle Stone Age saw the evolution of an early form of Homosapiens or modern man.

40,000–10,000 BC | The Later Stone Age, the rise of Homo sapiens, development of the bow and arrow, rock painting, the emergence of the hunter-gatherer lifestyle.

from The Story of Africa, BBC World Service

The boundaries and borders came much later. Human beings began to separate themselves from one another and create invisible lines as territorial borders. There is a lot of data about the beginning of human life on this planet, starting on the African continent, but this piece is not about the history of Africa; the colonization of Africa; or any of the other great stories about Africa’s rich history. This is about my ancestors.

WHAT’S IN THE SOUP & TWEAKING THE PARADIGM
With all this new technology and science for tracing, tracking the origins of human DNA, my ideas and thoughts about ancestry have expanded. There are some scientific empirical facts: All human beings have their nascence in Africa. Archaeologists have documented the specific finds on the African continent.*

A few years ago, my DNA was put into the Ancestry.com datasets. Their process is based on a probability model that produces estimates about ethnicity. This data is used to create geographical locations of DNA’s migration. I have a limited understanding as to just how this probability system works; however, according to Ancestry.com, my ethnicity estimate (EE) reads like this:

Nigeria 35%
Cameroon Congo Western Bantu People 28%
Benin & Tonga 9%
Mali 9%
England & Northwestern Europe 8%
Wales 2%
Ivory Coast & Ghana 2%
Senegal 2%
Southern Bantu Peoples 2%
Ireland 1%
Norway 1%
Indigenous Americans, Yucatan Peninsula 1%

I look at these African geographical locations with the knowledge that these names are not their original names; outside forces, invaders, and colonizers drew these invisible boundaries and assigned names to them.

This seems to be a really widespread ancestral footprint. In fact, based on the EE and the timeline data, I may have to tweak my paradigm on ancestry. I have a set of concepts, assumptions, values, and practices that constitute a way of viewing the reality of the shared African American experience. Of course, I am not suggesting a major paradigm shift for me. It is more rooted in how the discussion of ancestors, heritage, colonization, and the telling of history may require some new language, or different expressions.

When I look at this list of countries showing the migration of my DNA, I wonder what took place for the boundaries to be crossed. Unlike N Vancouver, which kept a five-year-old adventurous child in check, my ancestors were not confined by borders, invisible territorial lines, or even vast ocean boundaries. Which one of my adventurous traits stems from their explorations?

DNA is remarkable. When I look at an atlas, I see boundaries in the form of borders. These countries are not neighborhoods. DNA was not restricted to boundaries or borders. Or was it? Am I to think that my African ancestors were welcomed in England and northern Europe? And what about Ireland and Wales? However, I have no way to travel back to discover what my ancestors did, with whom. My African ancestors in America will not appear in the ledgers at Ellis Island. The historical records of their arrival in America would be logged as cargo and property. There are no names of my African ancestors, only the name of the individual who purchased them. I wonder which one of my ancestors made it to Wales, England, Ireland, etc. What did they look like? What does it mean when we say: Our ancestors done this or they done that? Am I only referring to my African ancestors, or does it extend to the 8 percent, 2 percent, and 1 percent of my ancestry identified by my DNA?

Up until April 8, 2022, my idea of ancestry was exclusively my African identity. I don’t have to change any paradigm in that area. The paradigm tweaks came in how to have meaningful conversations about race, history, colonization, and ancestry. The English language is rich with words and definitions to give meaning and context to the important issues. However, ancestry is an individual and family matter, that has its own language and meaning. My ancestors belong to the universe, in a real sense of how I am cosmically connected to the human family. When I’m looking at this EE, I think about how this 35 percent Nigerian translates into personality, character, dance, intelligence, and cosmic balance? And what of the 28 percent Cameroon Congo Western Bantu? Knowing the vast expanse of the
African continent, I wonder if the five- to nine-year old boys had mother-imposed boundaries. This river to that grove of trees. That hill to that ravine. Instead of chocolate cake, what was that grandma’s gift to her favorite grandson?

THE FREEDOM TO WRITE
Conformity is the jailer of freedom and the enemy of growth.
– John F. Kennedy

Throughout my writing life, writing has been an active, breathing form of freedom for me. There is a necessary time and place to be vulnerable and venture into new expressions for sharing my thoughts. I have challenged myself to enroll in the Uhuru/PSU course to cross the mental and psychological boundary I constructed in my head around academia. Writing something more than a poem or short piece forces me to cross another self-created boundary — to be academically adventurous. Borders are useful to create the space to express and convey meaning, so for this piece, I have cautiously subjected my thoughts, feelings, and ideas to a more regimented form.

Writing an essay about my ancestors provided me with the opportunity to think about how they sacrificed the comforts of being left alone to live their lives in order to set boundaries and encourage resistance to inequality and injustice. My ancestors were in a perpetual battle for freedom, liberty, and equality, while being subjected to boundaries that were created by laws, policies, and practice. Invisible barriers that played to the ideologies of segregation de jure.

As I conclude, I am reminded of the words written in 1925 by my historical ancestor Marcus Mosiah Garvey (1880–1940) as he sat in federal prison in Atlanta:

After my enemies are satisfied, in life or death I shall come back to you to serve even as have served before ... in death I shall be a terror to the foes of Negro liberty. If death has power, then count on me in death to be the real Marcus Garvey I would like to be ... If I die in Atlanta my work shall ... live in the physical or spiritual to see the day of Africa’s glory ... Look for me in the whirlwind or the storm, look for me all around you ... I shall come and bring with me the countless millions of black slaves who have died in America and the West Indies and the millions in Africa to aid you in the fight for Liberty, Freedom, and Life ... Again, I say cheer up, for better days are ahead. I shall write the history that will inspire the millions that are coming.

Afrikan-Centered Consciousness Versus the New World Order, Amos N. Wilson

I like to think that our ancestors knew and understood that their graves would not become tombs, that they would only serve as resting places until called into service by the cosmic prayer of their descendants, crossing the boundaries of time.  |  SLJ

AUTHOR’S NOTE: 
The finds that archaeologists have documented on the African continent include

1925 | discovery of Australopithecus (Ape-Man), Taung, South Africa

1960 |  Homo habilis, Lake Turkana, Kenya

1974 | semi-complete skeleton “Luck,” Omo Valley, Ethiopia

1975 | thirteen Australopithecus remains found in Hadar, Ethiopia

1976 | Australopithecus footprint found in Laetoli, Tanzania

1984 | almost-complete fossilized Homo erectus skeleton, Lake Turkana, Kenya

1997 | discovery of Australopithecus, Sterkfontein, South Africa.

STRESSLA LYNN JOHNSON WAS BORN APRIL 9, 1957 IN PORTLAND, OREGON. HE HAS WRITTEN POEMS AND JOURNAL ENTRIES AS MEANS OF HEALING. THIS ESSAY WAS AN EXTENSION OF THIS PROCESS.

Martin Luther King, Jr. releases a dove from his right hand, his left hand is lifted to the heavens in Atlanta’s monumental sculpture, “Hope Moving Forward.” As he was developing the piece, artist Basil Watson referenced MLK's message: "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." The man simultaneously uplifting peace and the open-palmed possibility gives this work its vitality and creates a meaningful expression of MLK’s power to future generations. Lifting is an act of love and endurance. We lift our voices, our children, our prayers to bring future blessings. In his piece, A Letter to MLK Le’Var Howard addresses the man directly from Oregon State Penitentiary: “People from all over the world have come to know your words; you will always be remembered and loved as people come to know you. On my own journey, I found it hard to live up to your inspiration. You never committed heinous acts such as I have. I do try more now than ever.” Powerful words are required to lift a person from a prison cell.

A self-described introvert, Quentin Harris keeps his face still as he listens intently in a group discussion at Oregon State Penitentiary. Q considers everything that has been said before he brings his observations to the group. When he does weigh in (as is the case this week) those thoughts are carefully composed: “Today we are being challenged to be enlightened citizens and teachers on higher laws of American culture. One of the great challenges in the 21st century is to understand the great truths of our history. Then to speak those truths to power.” Q’s ears are tuned after a lifetime listening (and reading) to his ancestors, those prophetic teachers who could see beyond the limitations of the day and left a record for future generations. There is urgency in his message, as Black and Brown men are disproportionately incarcerated; and we know that this suffering extends way beyond to life in the wider culture. How does one digest the wisdom of the elders, and then, pivot to point the way for future generations — particularly from prison?  In the coming months, we intend to record some of these pieces to provide readers with a richer experience. Hearing the Prophetic Message is indeed an oration that will be on that list.

Both Q and Le’Var look back to the words and historic actions of their mentors to carve a path forward. Michael Dean Scott found his teachers in a prison cell. Growing up in an unstable family structure, Michael lived without healthy parental bonds to help him navigate the rough water of adolescence. When he arrived in prison, he was filled with intolerance and hate. Michael’s Found Fathers honors three men who challenged his prejudice in an effort to forge him into a man who practices this daily penance: “Be a better man today than you were yesterday. Become a better man tomorrow than you are today.” | TDS

An ancestor is defined as one from whom a person is descended, usually distantly — a forefather, a progenitor. I grew up with a violent alcoholic father and a drug-addicted mother. These people, who were only a negative influence in my childhood, abandoned me when I came to prison in 2004. My first year I bounced in and out of segregation for various assaults, disrespect, and contraband. One fateful day, I met my true ancestors, and over the course of six years they molded me from a monster into a decent man.

In prison we are separated into groups based upon race and charges. Going against all percepts, these men chose to save my life. Before I met them, I seemed fast-tracked toward homicide or suicide. In a place where you become predator or prey, they became protectors, saviors, and teachers.

My first day on the unit, I got into two confrontations and a fight in an attempt to establish myself. Al, Tony, and Andres, being my immediate neighbors, explained that I was making a fool of myself. Twenty-three and arrogant, I got mouthy. Suddenly, I found myself on the floor with a sore jaw and blurry vision.

Al did not cotton to disrespect — of which, I was full. I honestly lost count of the sheer volume of glares, slaps upside the head, and talking-tos I received due to my mouth. Despite my stubborn streak, Al never gave up on me. During our many talks, he discussed how he regretted the things he had done to come to prison and how he did not want me to repeat the same mistakes. He recognized the anger within me, and how it led to a life sentence. He convinced me to get involved in programs through BHS (Behavioral Health Services) and the chapel. I finally learned the proper way to act when I’m angry. In 2019, Al paroled and moved on with his life, but his impact has stayed with me.

Tony was a main part of my life for only eighteen months before he paroled. Despite the vast gulf between us, he taught me how to be a proper man. He preached respect for women (for everyone) and how to brush things off. In many ways, I molded myself after him. He told me, “Be a better man today than you were yesterday. Become a better man tomorrow than you are today.” Even with my numerous missteps, I believe I’ve finally succeeded in finding my way. We talk once in a while, and it fills me with joy when he praises how far I’ve come.

Andres taught me how to be tolerant and happy with myself. This may sound easy, but I truly hated myself and the world at large. I was consumed by an irrational and immediate hatred for those of a different skin color, religion, or belief system. I had no problem voicing this venom and would fight anyone who disagreed with me. But Andres did not put up with my indiscriminate discrimination. He questioned my beliefs and did not back down, no matter how irate I became. He kept on questioning me, and after a few weeks I became intrigued by this man. We began to talk daily to discuss faith and tolerance. One day he pointed to my self-hate as the source of my unhappiness and intolerance. It took eight long years of near-daily talks, but I can honestly say I am happy now. Andres was deported in 2021 and never got to see the new me, or to hear me say thank you for all he has done for me.

These three men, each from vastly different walks of life, have become my ancestors in spirit if not reality. They broke me down and reforged me into someone they could be proud of. So to these chosen ancestors, I say thank you and God bless.  |  MDS

MICHAEL DEAN SCOTT IS FROM A SMALL TOWN IN EASTERN OREGON, WHERE HIS HIGH SCHOOL TEACHER FOSTERED HIS LOVE FOR WRITING, ESPECIALLY FANTASY. HE SPENDS DAYS WORKING ON A BOOK SERIES AND POETRY COMPILATION.

Found Fathers By Michael Dean Scott

28.3KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

Every day I live, I celebrate the progressive victories of my ancestors as prophetic messengers for a new world order. I am a son and disciple of the African race, and my love of knowledge is powerful like the light of the sun. This love of knowledge purifies my heart and mind daily. I have come to love all people with a renewed courage to dream new dreams. I have also learned to live and think with a bold vision as an architect of my greater destiny.

When I think upon my ancestors, the course of human events passes through my mind’s eye. I envision: Black pharaohs building pyramids; powerful men and women establishing kingdoms on the continent of Africa. I see my ancestors being forced to build this great nation; then after their days of slavery, I see their fight for love, truth, justice, and freedom.

Their fight to overcome political obstacles helped them evolve into the life force of unspoken wisdom and redeemers of this nation’s soul. The great lesson that my ancestors taught America: We the people are working together to build a more powerful America and give life and strength to the reoccurring birth, death, and resurrection of the American dream.

The course of human events reminds me to never bow my head in historical shame or to be ignorant of my history. Even today, my ancestors speak wisdom to me through the story and testimony of their life. All of my ancestors have proven in every generation to be people with beautiful souls, unbreakable spirits, and an amazing capacity to be molded into great leaders. They will stand forever as principled messengers of love, truth, and higher laws of justice. These visionary leaders, by living to their highest potential, have become signs to all of us that we too can break the chains of being enslaved to our past.

One of the greatest gifts my ancestors have given me is the ability to love others free of hidden agendas. Those who love my people and joined us in our fight for justice and equality are my spiritual brothers and sisters. Today we are being challenged to be enlightened citizens and teachers of the higher laws of American culture. One of the great challenges in the twenty-first century is to understand the great truths of our history. Then to speak those truths to power.

One of my most amazing ancestors is Grandmaster Prince Hall, founding father of Black Freemasonry. Prince Hall taught African Americans to fight to create a more powerful America through the founding of great social institutions. These brothers of Prince Hall Freemasonry transformed their Masonic lodges into political laboratories of leadership training.

These militant and intelligent brothers shouted out in a collective voice of diversified leadership to white America: “Am I not a man and a brother? If I am a man, then through the enlightened way I live my life, I demand that you respect my rights to live in eternal pursuit of greater liberty and happiness.”

My ancestors rose as leaders to remind this nation to do away with all forms of political hypocrisy. They knew that which divides us as Americans is an enemy to us all. They created innovative ways to align the laws of this nation with the principles of progressive politics and true leadership. It is now our responsibility to create an inspirational vision of making America greater than it ever was. We are a glorious people full of light, truth, and power. When we live in the spirit of brotherly love and social evolution, the light in our spirit will make us mindful of our power as American citizens. Our fight against racism, bigotry, sexism, tyranny, and excessive materialism can be won.

In African American history we hear the swan song of our collective destiny as a soulful people. This fight will challenge us like it challenged Martin Luther King Jr. to dream of a greater America and share with others our vision of collective prosperity.

When the month of February arrives and Black history is being taught in schools, it is wise to celebrate the progress we have made as a people from state to state. Let this month be a reminder to our soul to not judge people by the color of their skin, or by the condition of life they are living, but by the divine expression of their desire to be loved, respected, and cherished.

As the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, we are all challenged to tear down barriers between us. When we love and live with soulfulness, we realize that the riches of the spirit are equally as important as the riches we can find in the world. Knowing how to love and applying our wisdom will make us rich in self-love. It will also make us rich in understanding how we are to celebrate and love all cultures. Remember that to love ourselves like we love our people tests our faith in the American dream. It also reveals the beauty, power, and glory of our soul.

As American citizens we are on a hero’s journey of defining ourselves and the gospel of enlightened patriotism on our own terms. Knowledge is power, and the meaningful conversations we have with each other will help us see with eyes of prophetic wisdom the truths of history, which will bring joy, unity, and inner peace to each of our souls. In writing upon the spirit of my ancestors I hope you take time to think about how the redemptive power of love, truth, and sister/brotherhood has transformed us all into an international family. We are called to live for greatness.

A great prophet once said, Who is my brother, who is my sister, verily I say to you my brothers and sisters are those who do the will of God. We are all brothers and sisters of the human race, and our historical legacy teaches us we are one people with one almighty destiny. We are bold, we are growing wiser, and we can each join the fight of living as architects of our greater destiny — continuously reinventing ourselves and no longer living as a prisoner in our minds. The dream of our soul is a power that moves spirit to understand the divine poetry of living a meaningful life. In this poetry we honor our ancestors by living an honorable life on earth. With nerves of steel let us live as master builders of our character and with a heart of gold let us joyfully live as disciples of a new world order. Let us lift our voice and sing the wisdom learned from the life our ancestors lived, and go forth perfecting the art of living as our brother’s keeper and sister’s teacher.  |  QLH

QUENTIN LEE HARRIS IS FROM SALEM, OREGON AND AFRICAN AMERICAN. WRITING HAS BECOME HIS MENTOR, BEST FRIEND, AND THERAPIST TO HIS SOUL.

In the Noble-prize winning memoir, The Years, Annie Ernaux closely studies her family photographs, painstakingly describing each object from the protective frame and matting wrapped around the photo to the minute image clues that help her reconstruct a moment. She writes as a scientist might, detailing the discovery using precise language, and a keen, impartial eye. The events in the photos are from her own life, and yet, they seem distant — an object that was cast from an original.  And of course, that is how our brains recover memories, selecting the past, reconstructing the picture and rewriting the recollection. Each picture is written and rewritten in our memories. Erneux describes a palimpsest sensation, and I can think of no better description of how memories fade like so many pencil marks erased and rewritten.

Dan Wilson’s recollection of his grandpa shooting a porcupine exemplifies this beautifully. The largeness of the child’s memory of his heroic grandfather is retuned by his mother’s recounting, and then, days later modified by his brother’s memory. Our photos capture light and adhered it to paper. As we look at portraits made a generation or two ago, we quickly realize that without context, our photos (like our memories) rely on the storyteller to make the image whole.

Families often have archivist, those people who store the ephemera left by generations of forebearers. Regina Baker must be that person for her people. When she talks about genealogy, her entire face lights up and her wide smile fills the room. She has family pictures around her bunk at Coffee Creek Correctional Facility. When she heard that we were centering the first issue of PonyXpress on ancestry, she was excited to write Catharine’s Grace about her kin Catharine Thomas Baker. It seems Regina has studied the historic photo of Catharine, like a talisman to breathe life into the two-dimensional colorized photograph. Look closely at the photograph, and you will come to know the light in Regina’s smile.

Arriving from Warner Creek Correctional Facility in Lakeview, Forgotten Letter felt like it was written to Catharine Baker.  Joel Thompson’s poem could have been folded upon itself and tucked inside a yellowed envelope. He wrote the piece by hand in a cursive that recalled the script of years gone past. We thought the two pieces make excellent companions. | TDS

I’ll use a flower petal for paper,
to write you this forgotten letter.
When days pass us by
my stitched-up heart keeps drifting back
to the moments you drowned my sorrows,
breathing me to life — with glazed eyes
encouraging me to press forward.
Capturing stillness, remembered for eternity,
a delayed reflection, silhouetting a promised love.
Through motionless time, our hearts severe,
strings of shattered dreams.
Seeking a fervency which crashes upon
the doors of twilight serenades.
Burning around secret turnings of the soul;
sunset lips set fire to damaged pasts,
mending broken memories of happiness.
I’ll place a seal upon this forgotten letter
from the flower petal used for paper. | JT

JOEL THOMPSON GREW UP IN OREGON, NEVADA, AND INDIANA IN AN ITALIAN AND IRISH FAMILY. HE STARTED TO WRITE SERIOUSLY IN THE AP CREATIVE WRITNG CLASS DURING HIS SENIOR YEAR. HE HAS CONTINUED THROUGHOUT HIS TIME IN THE NAVY, COLLEGE, AND NOW PRISON.

Forgotten Letter By Joel Thompson

18KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me. Your rod and staff, they comfort me.

Mrs. Catharine Thompson Baker heard the words of Psalm 23 as she slowly regained consciousness. The voice beyond her grasp continued in prayer and it sounded so familiar, yet recognition seemed just beyond her grasp. Other indistinguishable voices echoed in the large Victorian-style bedroom.

Her body ached terribly, and her head throbbed with excruciating pain. Thoughts swirled in her head and she accepted that she may have gone to be with the Lord, or this was a horrible nightmare. The goose-feather bed was uncomfortable and dreadfully hot. Catharine gathered enough strength to bring her hand to her pained head. The soft blonde curls she always kept in a beautiful Scottish knot were stuck to her damp forehead. The white nightdress she wore matched her current complexion.

Her eyes slowly opened, and Catharine focused on the three cloudy figures hovering over the bed. Was this vocal group actually angels waiting in the wings to take her home to heaven? Momentarily, her vision adjusted and she recognized her sister Mary, Dr. Olsen, and Reverend Jones from the Dimock Baptist Church. Questions quickly manifested in her mind. Words finally formed on her lips: “My little angels, Howard and Adrian, where are they? I want to see my boys and make sure they are safe and healthy. They must be worried sick. Is my William here? Mary, why is he not here with me?”

As soon as the words passed her cool, dry lips, she remembered exactly why her husband William was not here with her. In the spring of 1850, William Baker made the decision to travel from their home in Dimock, Pennsylvania, to southwest Missouri. Catharine was displeased that William thought it best to leave his wife alone with their two little boys. He’d left almost exactly a year ago, and he sent letters and gifts for the boys that routinely arrived, but did not make up for his absence. The family should have stayed together, and Catharine regretted not voicing her opinion more adamantly.

Catharine always encouraged and supported her husband, maybe to a fault. She prided herself on being a dutiful wife and loving mother to Howard and Adrian. She loved her family more than anything and devoted her life to their happiness.

William had needed to prove that he was just as successful as his older brothers. His father, Richard Baker, was a distinguished farmer and very prosperous businessman. High expectations arose for all of the Baker sons. William told Catharine on rare occasions that he felt his accomplishments were not acknowledged because his father had not been pleased with William’s academic career achievements.

The last telegraph Catharine received from William stated that he had purchased a very large, partially established farm in Barton County, Missouri. This announcement
delighted Catharine; she pictured her beautiful family living a wonderful life together and the promise of happiness to come.

Catharine’s thoughts drifted to the evening of the Susquehanna Harvest Festival of 1842. It was clear in her mind, as if it was yesterday. The dress she wore that night was new, golden brown in color with a beautiful deep-blue velvet trim. Catharine loved the way she felt wearing it, especially the way the skirt shifted as she walked. Her mother transformed her hair into a sophisticated Scottish knot. That night, she felt herself emerge into a young woman; even her father commented on the sparkle in her eyes.

Catharine’s family surrounded her as they walked into the crowded festival. Her eyes wandered around the room as she absorbed the delightful decorations and beautiful flower arrangements everywhere. The fragrance from the flowers, as well as the love and laughter of the townspeople created a magical atmosphere that night.

Out from the crowd appeared William. He walked straight toward the Thompson family. Catharine found him so handsome and intriguing; he displayed a confident and refined demeanor. William was a true gentleman, and he asked her father for permission to dance with her. Nerves shot through her body as she took his arm. William gently led her onto the dance floor with the other young couples. They danced and enjoyed each other’s company throughout the entire evening. Entranced in his presence, she felt protected, proud, and adored. This was what she’d been waiting for — a love that would last a lifetime.

Catharine’s feelings for William never diminished over the years of their marriage. The birth of her two precious sons, whom she loved and adored more than anything, deepened her devotion to her husband. Catharine felt so incredibly blessed and loved as she reminisced over the beautiful memories of her glorious life. She quietly recited to herself, “The grace of the Lord was exceedingly abundant, with faith and love which are in Christ Jesus.” Catharine let the fear and pain wash away as she heard in the distance, “And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”  |  RB

GROWING UP IN OREGON, REGINA BAKER HAD THE PRIVILEGE TO SPEND TIME WITH HER GREAT, GREAT GRANDPARENTS WHO INTRODUCED HER TO GENEALOGY. HER LOVE AND ENTHUSIASM GREW INTO A DESIRE TO BRING HER ANCESTORS’ STORIES TO LIFE. HER BACKGROUND INCLUDES ENGLISH, GERMAN, SCANDINAVIAN, SCOTTISH, AND IRISH.

Catharine's Grace By Regina Baker

87.6KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

At one of our writing workshops at Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution, I wrote about a memory I had of my grandfather on his farm in Madras, Oregon. As I put the words down on paper, I began to wonder If I had remembered it all accurately.  When I got back home, I went to ask my mother a few questions about the incident and, as I had suspected, I did not remember it quite as it happened. Perhaps that conversation with my mother simply demonstrated how events can be seen differently from another person’s perspective. It made me think of the stories my father would tell of events I had witnessed and how I often could see him exaggerating what had happened for greater effect on the listener. When we tell a tale is it more important to be accurate or entertaining?

Carolyn Stickley affectionately describes a woman who left her people, her culture and her language to marry a man she loved, in the remembrance Then Drums My Soul. Despite the concessions she makes as an Indigenous woman living in a white community, Carolyn’s grandmother (Mumaw) managed to preserve her identity and pass along pieces of her culture through songs and stories.  A grandmother now herself, Carolyn pens distinct memories to keep Mumaw’s spirit circulating in her family. Carolyn submits her work from the medium side of Coffee Creek Correctional Facility.

Ricky Fay spins tales about his life, and demonstraties that in his family, misunderstandings are often resolved in side-splitting laughter. In the short story, Meow, we witness acceptance in well-married people, his parents. Their evening routine is presented as a side-by-side event that passes with little fanfare, but in this case leads to hijinks. In An Overwhelming Sense of Security, Ricky provides a window into his family’s shared sense of humor.

To start this week, I offer my own legend, my grandpa, Paul Taylor.

My grandpa shot a porcupine. 

When I was about six or seven years old, my family visited my grandparent’s house in Madras, Oregon. Grandma and Grandpa lived up on the little plains, a flat section west and above town.  From there, you could see seven peaks of the Cascade Range. I certainly didn’t appreciate that fact as a kid — and only do now as an adult with no connection to that piece of property. We didn’t spend a lot of time there (my father and grandfather couldn’t have been more different) and my dad controlled where we went on family trips. He would, at least, get to escape every morning to play golf on perhaps the flattest golf course in Oregon and enjoy that same view of the mountains. 

My brother and I were city kids, or more accurately, suburban kids. We enjoyed the farm, but also kind of didn’t get it. Our father’s influence, the requirement of uncomfortable grandparent hugs from people we really didn’t know, and not really having much to do (that we were used to) always made returning home a bit of a relief. I didn’t understand why they didn’t have horses, which would have made the visits better.  Clearly, my grandpa had been on a lot of horses based on his cartoonish bowleggedness.

One day, we got excited because we saw a raccoon in the stack of wood that they used to heat the house. Grandpa came to investigate then quickly went back inside to grab his gun. What happened next is one of my most vivid memories of my time at the farm: Grandpa came back and shot not a raccoon, but a porcupine! I remember seeing the dead porcupine in photos lying dead on an old canvas tarp.

Dad is now gone, and so I am fortunate that my mom is still alive and, in the house, where I grew up—right around the corner from where I live now. When we sit down for a chat, I learn so much about my childhood. The porcupine story was on my mind, so checked my memory with Mom.

The facts of the case (according to my mom’s 86-year-old memory): The porcupine was in a ditch, not the wood pile; Grandpa found it, not my brother and me; and he did immediately retreat to the house for his pistol. 

The rest is unclear. Did I really see this towering man standing over the animal like the black hat in a John Wayne movie asking his victim for any last words? I’m not sure if the porcupine was as big as my 90lb dog, or as cute and fluffy as those after-school cartoon characters on Channel 12. There had to be blood, but I can’t see it. I hear the gun shot and see the smoke coming from the barrel of the gun, but I can’t imagine my mother allowing us to be anywhere near that when it happened. Interestingly, to me anyway, is that in this moment right now, I realize that my mother’s recollection has seemed to erase or blur some of my long-held memories that conflict with her story.

Mom also told me that the golf course is now called Desert Peaks. The city of Madras changed its name long ago from “Nine Peaks,” which was always my reminder of how many we could see from the little plains (not seven!) Pulling into town from the Warm Springs side, the billboard for the golf course was one of the first things welcoming travelers. My dad was probably playing golf there at the time of the “great porcupine incident” because he doesn’t show up in my memory, or maybe he just didn’t make this trip.  I wish I could ask him. | DJW

Their youngest child had moved out the month previous, knocking our parents squarely into the category of empty nesters. I made plans to visit, curious about their adjustment to everyday life after nearly a quarter century with at least one offspring under their roof.

It was summertime in Portland, smack in the two-week span each year when air conditioning might have made sense. But they rejected this modern convenience, instead perfecting a daylong clockwork ritual — drawing and raising curtains, opening and closing windows and doors, hurriedly shuffling box fans from the sunny to the shady side of the house — and could now perform each step without conscious thought. The results spoke for themselves: a pleasant breeze wafted through what otherwise would have been an unbearable furnace.

While my mother fawned all over her firstborn, preparing my favorite meal and dessert in an obvious attempt to bribe me home more often, my father bashfully crowed about his new TV channels, the ESPN block in particular. I shook my head resignedly; growing up, cable broadcasting had been forbidden in our home as wantonly extravagant, but
the week their last kid moved away, the television
menu exploded.

When dinner concluded, I helped clear the table, put away leftovers, and load the dishwasher, trying to surreptitiously glean clues about what came next. Our parents were creatures of habit, but as long as I’d known them, they’d always had a kid at home to entertain or chase or chauffeur around. As their retirement years approached, I had no conceivable notion of what might constitute leisure activities for them.

Without a word, they adjourned to the living room. The heavy front door stood ajar, inviting a cool gust to drift in through the mesh. I grinned with nostalgia at the lower eighteen inches of the screen door — white plastic
graffitied by hundreds of sneaker marks where it’d been pushed or propped open as two decades’ worth of athletic gear, school projects, and laundry baskets from college dorm rooms had been ferried through. Memories came flooding back.

Picking up a thick novel with her bookmark planted halfway through, Mom clicked on a lamp and plopped down contentedly in her recliner. Dad grabbed the sports section and settled at the far end of the couch. This must be their new après-dinner routine! Silently sharing each other’s company, slipping into their own worlds. I could take the hint. Selecting a book with an interesting title from the redwood shelves, I dropped into a rocking chair. A comfortable hush spread over the house and its inhabitants.

“Meow!” From the front porch came the plaintive yowl of one of our legion of neighborhood felines. My heartstrings twitched. Our family had never been permitted pets larger than goldfish, due almost exclusively to my mother’s intense dislike of animals. That didn’t stop the rest of us from adoring them, however, and every pet for blocks knew if they trotted over to the house on the corner, the kindly man and energetic kids who lived there would play with them till the streetlights came on. Apparently, word had not yet spread through the local animal kingdom that the younger generation had all finally moved away.

“Meow!” Another plea for attention from the visitor on the porch. My eyes swung reflexively in that direction. I chuckled with self-reproach, knowing a horse could be lying down behind those eighteen inches of opaqueness and I’d be none the wiser.

“Meow!” This time the sound emanated not from outside, but from the bearded man on the couch. My father had always possessed an enigmatic sense of humor, but even for him this was unusual. Still, his mimicry made me laugh. His wife looked up from her book, a curious expression on her face.

“I wonder which one that is?” Dad mused aloud. I shrugged.

Mom’s face collapsed immediately into deep confusion. Her gaze shot from husband to eldest son and back again. “You wonder ... which one what is?” she asked pointedly after a moment.

My father and I glanced at one another in justifiable puzzlement over her inquiry. “Which ... cat ... that is on the porch,” I replied, gesturing casually at the screen door.

“The one Dad just meowed back to.”

It was as if we could actually see the machinery inside her skull, gears grinding and smoking. Then, with a frenzy I’d never before witnessed, she rocked back and roared with laughter.

The look Dad and I shared morphed quickly from bewilderment to profound concern. Clearly, the inevitable moment we’d long feared had arrived at last; the woman we loved dearly had cracked in two.

Expectantly, we waited for her to emerge from her laughter tunnel. Instead, she seemed to be drilling deeper into the earth, headed perilously for the core. Slumped on the carpet, struggling to draw breath, the noises escaping from her now sounded distressingly feral.

There was nothing to do but sit tight and wait for the hysterics to subside. We turned back to our reading material, peripherally monitoring her vitals, gently shaking our heads at the apparent psychotic break unfurling itself on the living room floor.

The interminable interlude finally drew to a close and she climbed, still trembling, back into her chair. Our eyes remained cautiously riveted on her. The relaxed, live-and-let-live philosophy that served our parents so well as the bedrock, foundation, and cornerstone of their sturdy, stable marriage had obviously transformed into an echo chamber of late, where neither partner was willing to question the onset of bizarre behavior or explain uncomfortable sideways glances out of respect for a cherished, agreeable status quo. But this was the moment of truth, the unavoidable crux of history.

Pawing lakes of salt water from her eyes, my mother served gently by reporting her recent observations, inviting her husband to return a lob. Like a rigorously intensifying tennis match, they quickly began trading shots frenetically — recapping overlooked or misinterpreted minutiae from the last several weeks, which based on their vacuum-sealed points of view, either made total sense or loomed far beyond the bounds of absurdity. As fragments accumulated, pounds per square inch of suppressed hilarity built again — previously inconsequential details congealing together to create a coherent tale. All at once, the contextual floodgates swung open. The result was a deluge ...

For the past month, they confirmed, ever since my sister had moved away, this tranquil post-supper tableau had become their custom. Each evening, the Rockwellian scene in the living room was interrupted by some anonymous cat announcing its presence on the doorstep, mere inches below their line of sight. And every time, it seemed, my father responded by meowing back, then continuing to read as though nothing at all had transpired.

Here was the detail upon which the entire plot hinged: his dear, hearing-impaired wife never heard the cat.

“Oh my God!” she howled. “I’m so relieved! I was certain my husband of twenty-five years had suddenly developed a love for after-dinner meowing!” She burst into side­splitting laughter yet again.

Flabbergasted, Dad and I stared at her. “He’s been doing this every night for a month?” I demanded, awestruck. “Why the hell didn’t you ask him why he was meowing?”

“Well,” she replied, tears of mirth still cascading down her cheeks, “he's a good husband, a great provider, he doesn’t beat me up ... I figure, if the man wants to meow, let him meow!”  |  RF

A LIFE-LONG OREGONIAN OF IRISH AMERICAN STOCK, RICKY FAY HAS HEARD AND SEEN OTHERS CLAIM TO WEAR THEIR HEARTS ON THEIR SLEEVES. THE ONLY PLACE HE HAS EVER TRULY FELT UNDERSTOOD IS ON THE PAGE OR SCREEN.

In the next few weeks, we present family legends as part of Issue No. 1’s deep dive into ancestry. For some writers, the theme evoked wide circles of belonging to the ancient world; to others it drew circles to family members one or two generations past. In some cases, our writers have spent years researching their family histories to fine tune that information. From this evidence, two writers at OSP RashidAbur Al-Waded “Child of the Diaspora” and Scott Bitter “I Am Sorry: Land Acknowledgement” draw poignant connections to their own life stories and their relationship to the world. Ahead, we will consider how memories about family are constructed and stories retold; we will read examples of how legendary ancestors inspire future generations; and, we will encounter the ways boundaries are crossed.

The next pieces are written by the spinners of yarns, people who take the names and origins as a starting place. R. Miranda (one of our original Ground Beneath Us writers at Oregon State Penitentiary) and Jacob William Harper at Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution needed to dig deeply into their imaginations to construct the story of how their ancestors made the leap to cross oceans, leaving everything behind. Here we have honor and family, love and adventure as the driving forces for constructing lives in the new world. From Kith and Kin, Jacob writes: “North, we traveled, plying our courage to the sea. Diminished to three brothers, we fought to survive. The rumors of hope and of prosperity wafted through the stench of whale blubber and tar. America held riches for those with the courage to take them. And Courage we had.”

Turning a theme around and looking at it from multiple angles has sparked many conversations among our prisoner-led reading group. They have identified the deep engagement and pride the writers bring to the topic, and writers and readers alike appreciate sharing these stories — knowing that some are based in research, and some simply start with names written in the family Bible. When I think of legends, Paul Bunyan and his Blue Ox Babe come to mind, I imagine big characters that have been animated, or made into monuments. I think of hyperbolic stories of giant fish, or superhuman accomplishments. I think of bragging. The next couple of stories do not come from an impulse to best one another, instead they are generous windows into how a person might pay respect, honor those people who are woven into the fiber of their being.

This acrylic by Chin Yeyin was a gift presented to us from the Asian Pacific Family Club. In 2019, Bridgeworks Oregon started to work with the clubs at Oregon State Penitentiary to help them fulfill the dream of building a Healing Garden inside the prison yard. The garden is an honored and sacred space for the people who are living at Oregon State Penitentiary. The garden has settled deep into the earth, rooted in the prison yard — a harbinger of transformation made evident through the cycle of seasons. From the budding of leaves, winter snow fall, to the summer kiss of koi at the water’s surface the quietest details create space for people at OSP to find comfort and connection in a world otherwise dictated by concrete and razor wire. | TDS

Once we were great, great enough to be recognized by a king. We fought for him, exhibited valor and courage — our proud necks unbent in the face of tyranny. The war was won, we lived well and free. In the end, the war did not conquer us. Marriage did. The subtle defeat made through deceit and the machinations of powerful men. Our courage no longer mattered, our valor of no use. We were pushed out to make room for sheep. SHEEP!

The bickering and fighting of our people were legendary, but we would not add more fuel to the fire that would destroy our way of life. North, we traveled, plying our courage to the sea. Diminished to three brothers, we fought to survive. The rumors of hope and of prosperity wafted through the stench of whale blubber and tar. America held riches for those with the courage to take them. And Courage we had.

We saved the ship, took command from the fool captain before he would break upon the rocks. Arriving amid a cacophony of explosions and fire, we mistook the celebration of independence for yet another war. We docked in Albany, New York on July 4, 1864.

Go west young men for there you will find whiskey, women, and gold. We had a son in Wisconsin, found a home in Oregon. Along the Willamette we flourished, but as America gave us opportunity, she began to rob us of our identity. We lost the brogue and valued our origins less — the telling of stories, of the old ways, and our values. Courage and valor we could still find, and our sons signed on for the Second World War.

We made it back. The brood made a pact to not interfere with one another’s children. We drifted apart. We lost more memories and stopped gathering. We crippled our children with this disservice. Our greatest strength, the source of our courage and valor was the bond we had with each other.

Recognizing the failures of the past and wanting to restore the kith and the kin to their former glory, one holds a hopeful dream alight for all: reestablish their love and connection to each other; fuel the courage which had inspired a kin; reteach the lessons and remember the values of the past. In short, become a family, once again. The damage was not done to us all at once, it takes intentions of the many to realize the dream. Traditions must be re-instated, values instilled, and find the memories once lost.

The future is founded upon the desire to become a family again, one strong enough to produce courage and valor. Amongst themselves, they must gather the will to support each other, survive and thrive by throwing their lots in together. Let the next ten generations speak of the revival, the founding of trust and dedication to one another. Let the generations come to know the names, tell the stories. Create pride, courage, and valor. Remind the future generations that mercy is not a weakness. With a united front, a family will appear good enough to be recognized by kings.

listen to Kith & Kin

A DESCENDANT OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS, JACOB WILLIAM HARPER IS FROM THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST. HE IS A VORACIOUS READER AND ASPIRING WRITER.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a beautiful young girl. She had long, flowing black hair with green eyes and smooth white skin. A descendant of the noble Castilian caste living in 1900s Spain, she knew her fate was cast, and her marriage arranged. That didn’t stop her romantic dreams about a faraway land across the sea. She had heard so many stories about that land, called America. Her name was Sara, or Sarah, as she imagined she would be called …

On the Yucatan Peninsula, separated from Spain by thousands of miles of ocean, lived a young boy. He, too, was noble, a direct descendant of the ancient Mayan civilization. His skin was fair, and he had striking blue eyes. As Salvador grew into manhood, life on the peninsula sparked his wanderlust. It wasn’t long before he ventured east to the city of Veracruz and out into the world beyond.

The fated day of Sara’s arranged marriage grew closer, and her dreams of America took on urgency. Living in the port city of Huelva, she would sneak away to the docks every chance she had. She would sit for hours and stare out across the Gulf of Cádiz, into the Atlantic Ocean.

Salvador had become a well-traveled man by the time he reached the port city. His once-fair skin  had darkened from the many hours under the sun along his journey. It didn’t take him long to land a job as a stevedore. Sometimes at night he would stare out across the gulf into the Atlantic Ocean. One day, a dark-haired beauty interrupted his reverie. He could tell that she was native to these parts, and he sensed that she was longing for adventure beyond the city limits — perhaps beyond the gulf. He was smitten. He set out to woo her with his stories of travel. Perhaps this was the bride that he secretly hoped would bring a chance to start a family, with lots of children!

As fate would have it, the ember of hope Sara held in her heart about a life in America was sparked into a raging flame of desire. She had met Rafael, a tall, dark, and handsome young man, whose otherwise fair skin was tanned by the sun and the salty sea mist. As time went on, she would rendezvous with the handsome man on a secluded pier. She was fascinated by the stories he would share with her of his many travels across land and sea. When she asked him about America, sadly he had no stories to share. Sensing her sadness and her desire for adventure, he quickly said, “You and I will go to America together and have our own adventures!” She fell in love with the young man at that exact moment. Hope was alive!

Salvador had won the heart of the dark-haired girl. Plans were made and dreams were shared of how life would be in America. A promise was made to build a house with a white picket fence and a lawn made of clover. Hope of a life in California was alive and doing well — how apropos that his soon-to-be bride’s name meant “happiness” — Felicitas.

Over the next few days Sara made plans of how she would only pack what was necessary. There was talk of a new marriage, one that wasn’t arranged by her parents. There was talk of children, which was fine, after all — her suitor was dashingly handsome, and his roguish looks only added to his mystique. She really was in love. A good thing she was leaving this country for good. Her family would never stand for her marrying a Gypsy of all things! Yeah, America was the only hope for Rafael and Sara to truly be happy. She had never heard much about California, but it seemed like a great place to start a new life. | RM

R. MIRANDA WAS BORN IN SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA. HE IS NATIVE AMERICAN (MAYAN, APACHE, YAQUI) AND SPANISH/ROMANIAN. HIS WRITING IS A FORM OF POSITIVE FOCUS AND HEALING AND EXPRESSION.

The Princes & The Princess By Miranda Reyes

140KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

One of our writers, Jeffrey Bernard Sanders lost his mother earlier this month. During our meeting, he read the piece he wrote for her service Ripp Walked Mama Home in his rich baritone. Last week, editors Matt Reyes and Nolan James Briden attended a memorial video conference for Matt’s Stepdad. Prisons abolish the sustained act of parenting — the holding of one’s child, the holding of one’s parent. It tears the heart until meaty scar tissue forms as families adjust to separation. In Oregon, nearly 70,000 children have one or both parents behind bars. The numbers are skewed toward African-Americans (1 in 9 children) and those children who fall low on the socio-economic scale (1 in 8). Black, Hispanic, and Indigenous people are disproportionately incarcerated. This crisis in families leaves children at-risk to follow suit which ensures intergenerational trauma and incarceration. Keeandre Scott’s Tears of My Ancestors calls for ending this cycle.

Father August by Phillip Luna follows the patriarchal line of his Mexican ancestry as he considers his relationship to language and culture. For many of us, we write to imagine what it was like for family members who crossed borders and social boundaries so that we might be born “with options and prosperity.” Wrapped alongside this story of his great-grandfather and the generational passing of the family name, Phillip Luna writes about his own son, and the inevitable transfer of life from one generation to the next: “On an abacus we slide beads left or right and count the sum we’ve gathered, but while we are counting our additions, another side has diminished. The beads in motion, solving an equation, always seem to move left and right. I watch the former wither and I worry what it means when no more beads remain.” Each bead that slides across the abacus, the days that Phillip spends away from his son represents another lost opportunity to watch his son grow into a man.

The count structures prison life. Every person must be physically counted several times each day and night. Oregon’s constitutions stipulates that prisoners must also account for their time with hours served working or participating in programs for self-improvement. And of course, prisoners keep their own count — time served, time remaining, time until they may hold family again…and finally, personally accounting for actions that brought them to prison. | TDS

The rain that falls upon the earth
is the tears of my ancestors. Tears
of joy, pain, and forgiveness — pay attention
and bear witness. They say it’s written
that we were all born God's children,
yet we still end up convicted, tried, and
sentenced by the system, while pretenders
bear false witness, blinded by crooked
politicians, religious wars, and killings —
got us stressed for forgiveness
poverty’s endless. We got to make a
way for our children; eliminating
single mothers to let our babies
have a father figure.
            “Let It Rain” | KS

KEEANDRE SCOTT HAS BEEN WRITING POETRY AND MUSIC SINCE HE WAS INCARCERATED. HE WAS BORN AND RAISED IN TULSA, OKLAHOMA, HOME OF BLACK WALL STREET.

Tears Of My Ancestors By Keeandre Scott

20.7KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

I am not good at expressing my pain, but my mama went home.

I cannot wait to get home, so I can see her smiling face.

My mama’s smiling face is home.

Home is my comfort when I am scared.

Mama went home with the help of Ripp, and he gave her

The greatest walk of her life on Her way home! I will always

Know she’s at home waiting for the streetlights to come on

So I can get home. Her smile always made me feel at home

And safe. Now I have to remember to look at

Mioko and Ripp’s smiling faces because I’ll ser her smiling

Face to let me know that I am safe.

This will always make me feel safe and at home.

Mama on the day we celebrate your “Home Going,” I want

to say thank you for giving me life,

and this beautiful daughter of mine Shan’teal who read this poem. | JBS

Ripp Walked Mama Home By Jeffry Sanders

20.4KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

His hands are calloused, and he has deep lines on his face that go well with a Stetson and a bolo tie. He’s never sad, quite the opposite, but his mouth naturally turns down at the corners and his cheeks are pronounced, giving him a heavyhearted look. He smells like the sun. Oh, not sunshine, not like the springtime or a breezy day at the beach. No, he smells like the end of August when the sun has spent a season beating down and the earth just hardens up as if to say “Bring it on, because I’m not going anywhere.” It’s the kind of olfactory quality that comes from growing up in Guanajuato, Mexico, immigrating to the States, and a life spent working in the US steel mills of Pittsburg, California.

This is how I picture Rosalio Torres Luna, although I never met him. I only know the stories passed down to me through four generations. I know that he came to the United States in 1915 by way of El Paso, Texas. I know the colorful anecdotes my relatives are so eager to provide. What considerations must he have made before coming to the States? Did he make a list of pros and cons, counting the benefits on his fingers? Did he move the beads on an abacus to calculate what would be given to what would be gained? And I wonder if I’m anything like him. Although I don’t have his pigmentation, I do have a natural downward curve to my mouth that makes frowning so easy — a trait that my father and his father carry. They call this an atavistic quality. But do the wrinkles around the corners of my eyes come from him? Do I too smell like the end of August?

Rosalia named his son Teofilo, but this was difficult for English speakers, and they took to calling him Phillip. He made it to the ninth grade before he started working in the steel mill with his father. They tell me he grew to be a stern man with strong hands, but when I met Teofilo he was near eighty years old and had a gumball machine in his house — the type you might find outside a store with a twenty-five cent price tag. He always had lots of quarters.

As with many fathers, Teofilo wished to make his first son a junior; however, “Teofilo” doesn’t do as well on a job application or with bank loans, so he named his son Phillip Luna Jr., an English approximation. Only one last name was passed on, following American custom. He did these favors for his son with hope that he would go a little bit further, do just a little bit better in life.

There are many stories, but now I will tell a story from my birth.

No one was more excited to meet me than my grandmother Lola. She held me in her arms for the first time and said, “Look at those blue eyes!” While she had many grandchildren, I was her favorite, and she told everyone I was her only American grandson. It was meant to be her compliment to me. As a kid, I didn’t contemplate what it means to be biracial. It never seemed important. Perhaps it’s because I only speak the little bits of Spanish I learned in school. Perhaps it’s because my classmates never gave much thought to me beyond my looks. My father doesn’t speak Spanish either, but he looks every bit the part. He once told me his parents didn’t speak their native language at home because they didn’t want the kids to learn an accent, which might make life harder. They were doing their kids a favor.

I found that I more closely identified with my father’s side — a big family filled with many cousins, aunts, and uncles. Like most Hispanic families, we were loud and gathered often. On Christmas it was not a turkey or ham in the oven. No, it was bowls of masa, corn husks, and shredded beef seasoned with cilantro, onions, garlic, and peppers. What flavor!

I remember one holiday my grandmother brought me a rosary. It was handsome, deep red with a wooden cross. A thoughtful gift, but my parents sent me to a Christian Bible study, and I didn’t get much use from it. When Rosalio came to the States, was this what he imagined? Was this his American dream? Am I his American grandson?

On an abacus we slide beads left or right and count the sum we’ve gathered, but while we are counting our additions, the other side has diminished. The beads are in motion, solving an equation, always seeming to move left and right. As I watch the former wither, I worry what it means when no more beads remain. When my son was born, the world began to move faster. My family is spread out and gathering is more difficult. Many of my relatives are gone and I’ve realized how much I relied on them. Suddenly, traditions became important to me. I tried to make tamales at Christmas because I wanted to pass on the traditions I know. I had to watch YouTube videos to learn how to make them. Why don’t I know how to make these? Another favor from my family?

My son didn’t believe me when I told him we are part Mexican. He thought I was joking, so I pointed to my father and brother as evidence. We thumbed through photo albums full of people he’s never met. On his fifth birthday I bought a piñata. This confused my in-laws, but it was tradition, so it stayed. The kids tired quickly when they tried to pummel candy out of the papier-mâché Shrek. Eventually I cut it open and poured out the contents.

I tried to teach my son Spanish when he was young, the small amounts I learned in school. He was only slightly interested at the time, so I implored him. I told him this is history, his history, and it mattered. He listened to me intently, patiently, with a solemn look on his face. Don’t worry — he’s not upset, that’s just the shape of his mouth. I told him we are the descendants of immigrants, of dreamers that sacrificed so we could have a better life. I called him my Mexican American son. It was my compliment to him.

When my son was fourteen and starting high school, I knew he would have more opportunities than any before him. He can make his own path. When he’s choosing his school electives there are so many options: Art! Music! Marine biology! He’ll never have to work in a steel mill. He decided to learn a second language because it will make him more employable, and maybe he will travel. How smart! Maybe I’ll learn Spanish too so I can help him out. What a favor I could do for him!

He’s decided to take French.

When I feel the weight of an abacus bead in motion, small but somehow heavy, there’s a memory I think of. It’s faded and curled at the edges like an old photograph. Still, I know what it means. It’s the end of summer when my son is six, and I’ve taken him fishing for the first time. There’s a lake near our house that doesn’t have much to catch but somehow offers exactly what I need. A log breaks the water’s surface toward the center and a turtle uses it to sunbathe. It’s a beautiful place.

It’s late in the day and the sun descends the horizon, inching toward the lake — the sun and the lake look like two lovers moving in for a kiss. When they finally embrace, the water blushes a soft pink, with flickers of light like glitter spilled across its surface. Red wavelengths extend a long and colorful farewell in the sky — the ardent sun a glowing white that dissolves to a proud orange like the molten metal from a California steel mill, a gradual change to a thoughtful red like that of the idle rosary, and finally a moody purple that fades to a lovely blue, not unlike the eyes of a newborn baby. I can’t help but admire the beauty in nature. But I find myself instead looking down the bank at my son. He’s running up and down the waterline, testing out his new sneakers to make sure they’re faster than his old ones. They are. He’s certain. I know the sunset is beautiful, but it is no equal to the light of his face. His world is whatever he makes of it, and that’s a sum greater than all the beads on the abacus.

When I finally look back at the horizon, the sun is gone, taking the sunbathing turtle with it. All the natural beauty seems to have dissipated, and the lake’s once rosy-cheeked surface feels dark and pensive now. But I can still feel the heat on my skin. I can smell the dryness of the late summer air and sense the warmth that radiates from the earth permeating into the stillness of the evening. An echo is what remains. But that’s the way of things, because August has ended, and the season has changed, as seasons tend to do. | PL

PHILLIP LUNA IV IS FROM THE BAY AREA. WRITING IS PART OF HIS JOB AS EDITOR OF “THE ECHO,” EASTERN OREGON CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION’S NEWSLETTER, BUT HE’S ALSO FOUND IT’S SOMETHING HE ENJOYS RECREATIONALLY.

Father August By Philip Luna IV

35.1KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

I Remember is a haunting piece by Jeff Witt who is housed at Oregon State Penitentiary. An electrician by training, Jeff builds a circuit of memories that create a closed loop of self-discovery and understanding. The piece asks us to consider: Who do we protect? Who is the protector? The precision of language and the addition of each building block of memory leads us efficiently from a picture of boy, to man, to soldier and then to the next generation. The tenderness of detail coupled with restraint delivers these types of passages: “I remember steam rolling off of my hand-me-down clothes, damp after the long walk home from the bus stop in the rain. / I remember warming my pitch and dirt-stained hands near the fireplace.”

Darkness in Beauty by Mariel Brooke McCuiston from Coffee Creek Correctional Facility reveals how she was trained to put singular energy into her physical appearance. In this piece, she describes the unwanted attention of men (her mother’s boyfriends) and the almost inevitable consequence of being raised in an environment with adults who feel unsafe. As with many young women, this leads to an internal struggle of self-acceptance and identity.

In both pieces, a picture comes into focus that puts children in situations that are beyond their abilities. The adult writers — parents now themselves — reveal tremendous suffering in their own childhoods. I suggest through the activity of writing, they join forces with their lone mothers to produce a better template for caring for themselves. To make this effort more complex, their own children are relying on a lone parent at home, as each writer serves time. Let’s be clear. It is difficult work (faceted and raw) to travel back to the past. Jeff and Mariel manage to be direct and uncompromising — perhaps because they need to write forward a new future for themselves and the children in their worlds. | TDS

Beauty is often our demise at a very young age — no matter whether we grow-up rich or poor. At a very young age, I was groomed to “always look your best.” I was taught early to apply make-up. I was told to always wear my hair long, have manicures, pedicures, all the girly stuff. I started in gymnastics early, then modeling, and cheerleading. I was supposed to feel beautiful. What one thought would bring self-confidence, often brought the opposite, and began a very dark path for me.

I was raised by a single mom, and the various maids we had were there more for her. When she was around, there was a constant revolving door of boyfriends. I was about ten years old when I first remember hushed comments being made to me by the opposite sex. I am not sure anybody else noticed. I accepted this knowing it was wrong and not having confidence in my voice. By the time I was 12 years old, the stares lingered longer than they should have. I started hanging out with an older crowd and became promiscuous. In my teens, I started to drink, smoke, experience anorexia, and have thoughts of suicide. My self-esteem was shattered. I craved love in any form. I legally married a month before my 15th birthday. I hoped this would solve my aching need so I would not follow in my mom’s footsteps. This led to heartache and years of a toxic relationship with my first love.

I craved acceptance and the yearning to have the “happily ever after.” This only led to more years of trauma and agony. My confidence by this point was up in flames and burn-ing slowly, but I had too much pride to ask for help. I kept so many skeletons in my closet and faked the truth in front of loved ones. Not wanting to accept the inevitable, for 12 years I allowed this to continue. Finally, I realized that if I did not leave I would not make it out alive. At some point, through all of this, I grasped I had to love myself first before I could accept love. Trying to understand that beauty runs deeper inside than what is on the outside.

I have a daughter now who is 12 years old and is in gymnastics, track, and has done some modeling, too. I am very open with her about my past and could not fathom her experiencing what I have at her age. I try and see the positivity in what I experienced. I do not have any regrets; this has molded me into who I am today. The stigma of beauty has surrounded us for many ages. I hope to be able to give my daughter the self-confidence that comes with her beauty to always love herself first. | MBM

MARIEL BROOKE MCCUISTON WAS BORN IN PORTLAND, OREGON. A SELF-PROCLAIMED “NAVY BRAT,” SHE WAS CONSTANTLY RELOCATING DURING HER CHILDHOOD. SINCE CHILDHOOD, SHE HAS JOURNALED IN HER DIARY AND DABBLED IN POETRY IT WAS HER ONLY POSITIVE RELEASE.

The Darkness In Beauty By Mariel Brooke Mccuistonnpdf

35.8KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download