When I last traveled to San Antonio, instead of being the driver, I was the drivee. I was a student of history then. Mrs. Shehee gathered us 75 7th graders on the big yellow limousine and off we went to "Remember the Alamo". I did remember the Alamo, but as some static figure whose walls stood bright in the sun. I remember San Antonio as vivid flashes of color and constant music, how Valerie Caldwell was the only one of us small town girls who knew to tip the bellman. I recall the drama of Jr high life, Jason Sherman had a crush on Kelley Davis and I had broken up with Doug Koller just before we left. I giggle at our naivety and yet, cherish it. My return is still vivid colors and constant music, but this time instead of rushing to the next place, I found myself rushing to the next encounter, my next human experience.
Our hotel sat on the Riverwalk these great engineering marvels of stone and steel and glass. My first night was very similar to my first night long ago, as my roommate and I chatted like school girls at a slumber party till the wee hours of the morning. Although, this time, instead of boys and fashion, it was kids and fashion and no one's underwear was stolen.
The next day dawned and we were off. I listened to speakers on technology, pros and cons, the challenges of public schools and new techniques to reach the next generation. For four days, wherever I turned, math geeks of the highest order whose sole purpose was to try to find ways to be better teachers, better educators, better people, flowed through the halls of the convention center. There was laughter and smiles and joy. Throughout this past school year, I struggled to maintain my joy in the daily grind of time limits and testing pressure. As I approach the new school year, I find that as those restraints begin to bind, I will remember 6,000 smiling faces and know that no matter what, the joy remains.
I visited the Alamo again and her walls still stood bright in the sun. Her cannons now rusting in the Texas heat with landscaped lawn, but there was more. A stillness surrounds her despite the constant ebb and flow people. They do not call her a museum, but a shrine. A place "bigger than Texas" they proclaim on the wall, a place of reflection instead of a place of relics. She does not want your awe. She simply sits patiently waiting for you. Time to remember why she still stands. Time to travel back, here the bells calling priests to prayers, to hear the cannon fire, the screams of men and feel the tears of the women who mourned them, smell the destruction, the pain and the struggle that caused her to become a place of birth and new life. I stood in the same room as other women and children did during the siege of the Alamo. I toured the barracks of the priests who had originally built her. Earlier this summer, I stood in our nation's capitol and read our Declaration of Independence. That day, I stood and read another nation's Declaration of Independence. I connected the two, the similarities, the differences, yet, all were simply written by humans in defense of the same principles. I gave her my time and she gave me that human connection for which I continue to search.
One evening, we colleagues five, who span the teaching spectrum from relative newbie to wizened veteran, sat on the Riverwalk and just were. We ate and laughed and ate some more. We talked to those passersby and shared in the experiences of mothers with sleepy babies, vendors whose personalities brought smiles to tired, sweaty tourists, Mariachi bands who did not mind when we sang along in Texas accents. We watched children feed bread to the ducks and pigeons despite the signs that ask you not too. We listened to the whir of motors as the river tours continued into the night. Hours passed like blinks. All of us tired from the days events, all of us a little grimy from the heat, but each of us enjoying that space in time when we were just people, sharing the night.
In one moment though, as I stepped away from the crowd to the lonely places smokers are designated, I found a little reminder of you Harry. A woman joined me. She smiled as she introduced herself and her granddaughter. I stand only 5'4" and she barely came to my shoulder with silver hair that fell down her back. As I heard her voice, I knew that she was from that same small speck of the world as you, Harry. She told me how much they were enjoying San Antonio and how such a blessing it was that the humidity was so low. I laughed and asked her how 70% humidity was low. They smiled and said, "We're from Florida." She questioned my furrowed brow and I explained how I had placed her accent as from New Jersey. Her eyes shone with a held back tear and she gasped and told me no one had guessed the place of her birth. I almost told her of you then Harry, but she went on to tell me how she had come to Florida and then Texas and I did not want to interrupt. She told me that she was here as a representative of the Sister City program and how it was an organization that brought people from around the globe together to talk in a one on one setting, to communicate despite our differences. I almost cried then Harry and knew I had to pull out my phone to share the story of you. She kindly read it and I saw as the knowledge dawned that I have been on a similar journey.
We put out our cigarettes and began to part ways. She gave me her card, wished me well and told me, "Find Harry." So, I write and maybe in this digital land of opportunity, I will find you Harry. In the meantime, I will continue to find my joy and those human experiences.
So wherever you are Harry from New Jersey, love from East Texas by way of San Antonio.
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