Mr. America

After living on a Green Card for thirty-five years, my father-in-law recently became an American Citizen. The diploma on his wall represents another step in his mastery of life, another accomplishment, another building stone of pride.

Born in Saltillo, Mexico, he grew up hard and fast. He was one of fifteen children, whose family was not blessed with wealth or property. He spent his youth on the streets, learning the rules of survival, sleeping wherever he could find shelter.

His first visit to the US was brief and he was not able to stay legally. He was merely a boy then. Back on the dangerous streets of Mexico, his determination to return grew stronger and his dream of a better life persisted.

Once he obtained the proper legal documents, he arrived in South Texas alone, penniless and with no knowledge of the English language. “Weren’t you afraid?” I asked him once, but he shook his head.

“I had no time to be afraid. I had to work…for to eat,” he replied with his heavy Spanish accent.

I have done what he did, started life over in a new country, but I had distinct advantages: Money and a working knowledge of the native language. Even so, I can attest to the difficulties, obstacles and the unexpected culture shock. It boggles my mind how he managed to adjust with all the odds against him.

Unafraid of hard work, he has at times held several jobs at once, and with his equally hard working wife, raised five strong, healthy children. He owns property now, is politically savvy and much loved in the community. The family home is a favorite gathering place for kids and grandkids.

We call him “Tata”, Spanish for “Grandfather”, and his grandkids adore him. A man of short stature, he has the heart of a giant. He formed a special bond with my bed-ridden, gravely disabled son. I fight back tears when I see them smile at one another.

Now, “Tata” is an American citizen, and no man could be prouder of his chosen country. He called to tell us when he passed his exam. Tongue-in-cheek, he quipped, “Now I’m a white guy.”

It is wonderful that our country has a way for great people to naturalize into citizenship. They bring a richness of experience, a wide-open gift of the world. I treasure this part of our heritage. And I treasure “Tata”, the American, who proudly displays his hard-earned diploma on his bedroom wall.

Small World

I can’t stop staring. This tiny, delicate being in the isolette is a real human child. Buried under wires and stick-on sensors, it weighs less than two pounds.

I dare not touch it. I hover over it like a kind spirit, silently, lest I frighten it with unexpected sound. I can’t see its eyes yet. We covered them with bandages to keep out the glaring lights. For many weeks still, we will pretend that it is safe inside its mother’s womb.

Mother no longer shares her blood with her newborn infant and the tiny mouth now puckers around a ventilator tube to help baby breathe. At this stage, its lungs are barely there. Not much room yet for gas exchange across the lungs and into the blood stream.

From the miniscule diaper, skinny frog legs emerge. Transparent, paper-thin skin reveals a network of spidery blood vessels. I admire baby feet less than an inch long, hands even smaller, but I count perfect fingers and toes, ten each.

On baby’s chest, I see skin tighten over scrawny ribs. I warm my stethoscope and place it gently on the skinny body. Amazingly, I hear air move through miniature lungs, perhaps a thimble full each breath, so it must breathe many times a minute to supply its body with life-giving oxygen. Mesmerized, I watch this miracle of determination, this unbendable will to live in one so young. But just below the ribcage, I spot the greatest wonderment of all, pulsing with a steady rhythm: baby’s rapidly beating heart.

It takes a hundred and seventy two beats per minute to keep this little one alive. Yet, while we help with respiration, warmth and nourishment, we do nothing for baby’s heart. Independently and with unwavering persistence, the little heart beats bravely, giving this child a real chance.

The tiny infant squirms away from my stethoscope, making me chuckle. A frog leg quivers, irritated. The heart rate temporarily soars to a hundred and eighty. Mother doesn’t know it yet, but she has a fighter on her hands. For one so small, it displays a tall personality.

I have bothered this baby enough for the moment. “It’s ok, sweetie,” I whisper. “You can rest now. I’ll see you again in a couple of hours.” Quietly, I step away from the isolette and within seconds, the diminutive heart settles back down to its resting rate.

I leave the unit with a smile on my lips, filled with wonder and admiration. In its small world, one tiny miracle wraps itself firmly around my heart and holds me captive. This assignment is the best part of my week.

Theatrics

What part do you play in life? What role do you master? What skill do you contribute to the grand performance of life? Are you an actor? A musician? An audience? A stage hand? Someone recently asked me that very question and I had to think long and hard before I glimpsed the truth.

I am definitely not an actress, unless it is to play the only part I ever care to play – my authentic Self. Although I did shine once in school plays and Community Theater, in real life I play no roles. I am the same, whether I squeeze into a school bench or walk endless hallways at work. Those in my presence know me. I am solid, like a glacier, changing daily, but always constant at the core.

Even with a soul full of song, I don’t qualify as a musician. I devour music, mollify my spirit with it and let it course through my blood stream, until it diffuses into my flesh. I consume great quantities of music and my appetite keeps growing. Occasionally, I sing or play an instrument, but not for sharing, only for my enjoyment.

If I am an audience, I’m a very bad one. Not eager to hear myself, I rarely cheer or clap, even when I’m enthralled with a performance. More likely, I’ll nod, satisfied or bite my lip in disapproval. I may even walk out. I am easily bored and require great skills to hold my attention. Were I on stage, I’d be my own worst enemy.

Perhaps I am a set worker, one who builds structures of support and beauty. Trustworthy and reliable, I place nail after nail into willing wood. Perhaps I build bridges and staircases, walls and windows, confident in the mysteries of perspective vision to create perfect illusions. Yet again, I shrink back from the unauthentic in favor of reality. While lovely to behold, illusions serve no purpose in my life.

What am I then? A director? Do I care to impose my will upon my fellow humans? Would I steer them toward the greater good despite individual ambitions? A lofty goal indeed, but it isn’t mine. I lack the power of conviction for large-scale persuasion. I am deficient in confrontation skills and the desire to use them. While I don’t hesitate to take charge in emergencies, I don’t crave to. And I am content to allow others their separate paths.

Lastly, I may be one who controls the stage lights. There is much power in lighting technique. It illuminates what is hidden, brings to view our secrets and shines brightly into shadowy corners where demons lurk. A touch of a button to stealthily obscure in darkness or boldly dazzle the eye with brilliant colors or gentle hues and patterns. Yes, lights add mystery and drama to the stage. I am comfortable in the lighting booth, finger on the pulse of power. The actors are nice to me or else I move the spotlight they so dearly crave, leaving them lonely in the dark.

I am the illuminator, dazzler and demon hunter. The lights of the world are at my command. Ah, how I revel in dominance! At long last, I rule.

A Thing of Unexpected Beauty

In the middle of town, beside the main highway, a new slab of concrete glistens in the morning sun. At least fifteen men stand around it, hands resting on hips and admire their handiwork. They are dirty, all of them, with cement spatters on their clothes and boots covered in gray slush. They don’t gather in groups to talk or tell jokes, smoke or drink coffee. They just stand, looking down at the mirror-smooth surface and breathe pride and achievement.

The men are tired. They had a long morning already. Their work began when most of us were still sleeping. Much of it took place even the day before, when they prepared the site and built the temporary pour form.

The sound of a concrete truck has no equal. How exciting to listen to the heavy drum churn and the rocks clank against its insides! The world holds its breath. Something is about to happen. Once the arm swings out over the waiting form and concrete begins to pour, the workers launch into frantic activity. Bravely, they step into the treacherous goo, uncaring that their feet might bog down and become permanent fixtures. They spread the mass with confidence; bring it to a marginal smoothness, ready for finishing. The surfacing tool packs the rocks down and leaves the surface miraculously glossy and flawless. Like a quiet pond it gleams and sparkles in the early light.

Pouring concrete requires speed and precision. These men are well aware of their skill. They stand beside their slab, satisfied that they moved several tons of fast-drying material and froze it into a perfect, solid block. They will still need to knock away the wooden form, once the concrete is completely dry, but for now, they take time to watch and admire.

There is something fascinating about men and their relationship with hard labor. From my experience, most of them don’t really mind, although they may lament their aches and pains. There is an unspoken connection between them as they tackle a common task, confronting dirt, sweat and discomfort with bold determination. Perhaps they secretly challenge one another, as none of them dare lose face before their peers. Perhaps they merely enjoy the familiar feel of hard working muscles warming to the chore.

In comparison, few women venture into the world of crew labor. More likely, we face solitary drudgery in yards and households. Many of us never experience the solidarity of a concrete crew, cemented together by jointly conquered adversities and shared success. And we may not feel the satisfaction of a craftsmanship that few are willing or able to attempt, or of an excellence no outsider can hope to accomplish.

While the men at the construction site are likely in daily competition over skill, strength and endurance, for a while their hearts beat in unison, as they rest from their efforts. The polished, shimmering slab reflects their camaraderie and professional competence. Its lasting strength honors their team spirit. In its perfection it is truly a thing of beauty.