I strolled back to the couch after dinner tonight, intent on my scoopful of racial justice ice cream. If Ben & Jerry's thinks that One Sweet World, a caramel-coffee base with ribbons of salted caramel and marshmallow, and a hefty mix of chocolate chunks, somehow improves race relations, I will happily do my part for the cause. (Yes, that's said very spoon-in-cheek. While I celebrate the effort at raising awareness, race unity requires more friendships and, possibly, fewer slogans.)
As I was saying ... I'd just gotten dessert and was making my way back to the living room. I had in mind the idea of downloading Duolingo so that I can, in my spare time, try to reclaim at least part of the vocabulary I gained from studying Spanish for eight or 10 years straight. Now, some 20 years or so after I last sat in a classroom, I've realized that I can only speak in the present and, when the grammar gods are friendly, past tenses. This is a problem when I'm rather focused on the future. It seems that a refresher is in order. Claro que sí.
In any case, that's what I thought I would be doing. Instead, the last segment of the evening news caught my ear. There was Dolly Parton, at the Library of Congress, reading her Coat of Many Colors, book number 100 million contributed to that institution. And singing her song that preceded the book by many, many years.
Which, of course, immediately had tears welling up in my eyes, as it always does. Because, you see, the year my parents and I ate squirrel, and quail, and venison, and blackberries picked alongside the road, and the basics that food stamps provided ... that year, my mom made my doll clothes and some of my clothes, too.
The best thing she made that year, though, was my very first backpack, for my very first day of kindergarten. And I think of it every time I hear this song. It has an artful seam down the middle of it. Exactly the same seam that ran down the outside of my Grandpa Mel's olive green polyester/denim work pants. And on the flap, with its super-strong snap that is still hard for me to close, my initials are spelled out in scraps of fabric, decoratively whip-stitched around the edges in bright thread.
On my first day of school, and for a couple of years after that, my backpack was the prettiest one in the room. No matter what anyone else was carrying.
I knew we didn't have money at the time. But I never thought we were poor. And for that, I thank my parents ... and my pants-leg backpack that served me so well.
"... one is only poor,
Only if they choose to be.
Now I know we had no money,
But I was rich as I could be
In my coat of many colors
My momma made for me ..."