Piecing Me Together(26)

The driver sighs a long sigh. “Come on,” he says.

The braless woman wobbles to the seat across from me. I try not to stare at her, but she makes it hard because she is mumbling to herself and crying. She is not an old woman or a young woman. She is not pretty or ugly. I wonder who loves her, who is worried about her, who maybe cared so much but had to give up on her. I wonder what she was like when she was my age. Did she ever think she’d be on a bus, drenched from the rain, smelling like sorrow and regret?

When I get off, she calls out, “Jesus loves you. Jesus loves you.”

I walk around the city like I’m a tourist, my camera in hand. Every corner has a story; every block asks a question. So many worlds colliding all at once. I document my walk, hiding away in places people can’t see me so I’m not obvious. I don’t want anyone to pose or stop and ask why I’m taking their photo. I just want to capture the city. I put the setting on black-and-white and begin.

The line at Voodoo Doughnuts that wraps around the block.

The food carts on Alder Street.

The umbrella man at Pioneer Square.

The Portlandia statue.

The Portland marquee at the Arlene Schnitzer, its oversize lights framing the sign.

And then I see a mural I’ve never seen before. On the front of the old Oregon Historical Society building there’s a larger-than-life mural of Lewis and Clark, Sacagawea with her baby, and York with Seaman, the dog that accompanied them on the trip. I have never seen this mural before. Never seen York alongside the others. They seem to be stepping out of the building. The four of them so high, they look over the city.

I take a few photos of the mural. And on the last one, I zoom in on York’s face.





30


feliz navidad

Merry Christmas

Lee Lee and Sam come over to make holiday cards. Before we even get started, Lee Lee says, “I’m just here for moral support. Jade, you know I can’t draw.”

“You don’t have to draw anything. We’re making collages,” I remind her.

“I’m not an artist like you, Jade,” Lee Lee says, like she didn’t even hear what I said.

“But look, the art is mostly done for you.” I open the small plastic bin I have that’s full of Christmas cards from last year. Some were given to me, some to my mom. I tore off the front of the cards and saved them so I could recycle them for this year. I do it with Valentine’s Day cards too. I tell Lee Lee and Sam, “All you have to do is cut and paste. There’s really no wrong way to do it.”

“You must not remember sixth grade,” Lee Lee says. We burst into laughter, so hard that I have to wipe tears from my eyes. Lee Lee explains it all to Sam. “Our art teacher kept giving the same we’re-all-artists speech Jade is trying to give us, but when it came time for her to hang our self-portraits in the hallway for parent night, guess what she said to me.” Lee Lee looks at me for me to take over.

I talk in Mrs. White’s frail shaky voice, “Well, hmm. Well, let’s see, Lenora, I think we just might set this one aside. I’ll find a special place for it, but maybe, well, maybe it won’t go on the bulletin board.”

Lee Lee finishes, “Mrs. White never found a special place—well, the trash can, maybe. But it never made it to the bulletin board or anywhere on a wall in the classroom. I couldn’t believe how shocked she sounded, like she had never, ever seen something so bad in all her years of teaching.”

“And that didn’t hurt your feelings?” Sam asks.

“Not at all. I know what I’m good at, and it ain’t drawing or painting or cutting things up and making something out of them. That’s Jade. I’m the poet.”

I tell Sam, “We used to do each other’s assignments. I would draw for Lee Lee, and she would write for me.” I grab the scissors and cut out a Christmas tree.

“It worked until middle school, but then we met Mrs. White and there was no way to trick her. And so, left to my own skills, my self-portrait looked like I hated myself,” Lee Lee says.

Sam laughs just a little until Lee Lee tells her, “It’s okay. You can laugh at me. It’s pretty pathetic, I know.” Then Sam lets a real laugh out.

I hand a few cards to Lee Lee. “Cut things out,” I tell her. “I’ll design.”

Lee Lee picks up a pair of scissors and starts cutting.

Sam grabs scissors and starts cutting too. “I can’t believe you saved all of this. I throw cards away the minute I get them. Well, not like I get that many, but yeah. I don’t keep anything.”

We make cards for the rest of the afternoon, only stopping to make hot chocolate. Lee Lee is writing a poem for Mrs. Baker, and Sam is writing a note to her grandfather. I finished a card for my mom, but I haven’t written anything yet. I’m working on one for Maxine. I’ll write something later.

The room is full of the sound of scissors slicing and pens gliding across construction paper. Lee Lee puts her pen down and then says, “Sam, what are you good at? What do you like to do?”

Sam stops writing. She thinks—longer than I expect—and says, “I don’t know. Nothing like writing poetry or making art. I’m just . . . I don’t know. I don’t really like making things as much as I like enjoying them; like, I mean, I’d rather read a story than write one. I’d rather go to a museum and see art than paint something,” she tells us. “So pretty much, I’m lazy, I guess. And I have no talent.” She laughs a little.