Final Art and Poems
In my global 102 class in the spring semester of my freshman year, I made a compilation of my final art piece and poems that reflect what I learned throughout the course. I chose to draw Manolo Paredes who was a person we met on our trip to Chile, a survivor of the Pinochet Dictatorship. The poems are ones that I wrote about gun violence in the United States and personal experiences in nature.
Be Still and Listen
Orange-
A bright, bold, loud presence.
That’s what we are.
Anger-
Toppling, boiling, unlimited.
That’s how we feel.
Fear-
Growing, consuming, overwhelming
That’s what drives us.
Ready-
That is why we are here.
A sea of thousands of young voices.
Shouting to the world, “We call B.S.!”
People matter.
Those were seventeen lives.
We are wearing orange, we are angry, we are afraid, but we are so ready.
We do not have time for B.S.
So be still, and listen.
Ode to My Hands
If I could count how many times a day that I use you
Or how many times I have to take care of you
I would lose track in an instant.
You do all the essentials, the easy and the hard
But somehow you obey me even if it’s good or bad.
There’re the hours that you spend holding my spoon and fork,
And the far too few moments when you grip my water bottle.
There’s the routine of the night when you pull back the covers
And the nights when you turn the knob my lamp.
There’re the days when you fold my clothes or brush my hair,
Things I hate but you still manage to do them.
There’re the tests you complete with the grasp of a pencil
And the ridiculous number of hours that you spend holding a basketball.
There’s the lotion that you rub into my dry, tired face
And the scissors you use when mom sends me a package.
There’re the doors that you open for myself or for others
And the phone that you protect for me 24/7.
There’re so many things you are tasked with to complete
So, thank you for then, thank you for now, and thank you for all you will continue to do.
Threads
Each thread dangles from the tip of my tongue, the taste of blood, heavy metals. Every stroke of red blends into orange like the sunsets I watch on Lake Erie. The ebb and how of the weaver brushes the yarn like th paddle scoops water, pushing a boat forward. As the red turns to purple, the blue fades just like each thread of an arpillera. A thread builds upon the last one as memories grow, I braid my threads into relationships, some more fiery crimson and others the cool minty green. I have to tug on certain threads more, especially as a kid because strings bind humans to each other, to the earth, as one being.
