handstories

A quilt for Harriet

    This is my "Harriet Tubman:  Many Thousand Gone" quilt.  In the spring of 1996, Janie and I were teaching our Pre-K class about the Underground Railroad.  Together with a parent in the class and the children we created an Underground Railroad quilt.  That quilt still hangs at the school.  That summer Janie and I made our own versions.

    The central image of Harriet was inspired by this illustration by Leo and Diane Dillon, from the wonderful book Many Thousand Gone:  African Americans From Slavery to Freedom by Virginia Hamilton.

    From the book . . . "Harriet carried a pistol at all times . . . If the runaways she led were too fearful and wanted to turn back, she would point her pistol at them.  "You go or you die," she would say.  None ever died.  "I never run my train off the track.""

    There are three hundred buttons representing the more than three hundred people Harriet led to freedom in the north.

    I began making the flying geese blocks, thinking they would aim toward the northern sky.  After a while I was tired of making them, counted them, there were nineteen.  She made nineteen trips south to save others.  They point south now.

    And there's the "water" with our footprints in it- the Ohio River, where they crossed to freedom.

    "Safe houses" that comforted and cared for those running for freedom.  This one was made by Janie's daughter, who was in our class that year.  A whippoorwill for the calls Harriet would send out from the woods, letting the slaves know she had come for them.

    A fifth grader designed this block of Harriet's face, wearing her bandana.  

    Harriet Tubman spent her life working hard, doing good- Underground Railroad conductor, nurse, spy, caretaker for the old and indigent . . . a hero... a human being. 

"Harriet Tubman didn't take no stuff…"

 

       Harriet Tubman

         by Eloise Greenfield

Harriet Tubman didn't take no stuff
Wasn't scared of nothing neither
Didn't come in this world to be no slave
And wasn't going to stay one either

"Farewell!" she sang to her friends one night
She was mighty sad to leave 'em
But she ran away that dark, hot night
Ran looking for her freedom
She ran to the woods and she ran through the woods
With the slave catchers right behind her
And she kept on going till she got to the North
Where those mean men couldn't find her

Nineteen times she went back South
To get three hundred others
She ran for her freedom nineteen times
To save Black sisters and brothers
Harriet Tubman didn't take no stuff
Wasn't scared of nothing neither
Didn't come in this world to be no slave
And didn't stay one either

     And didn't stay one either

(I hope to write more about all of this tomorrow- beginning the quilting project at school, this quilt, and Harriet.)

how I spent my weekend

    Cutting over one thousand four inch squares of fabric.  

    Tomorrow I'll share my Harriet Tubman quilt with the three fifth grade classes at Moon's school.  I'm hoping what they hear, aside from the amazing story of this heroic woman, is the importance and power in finding ways to tell stories that are important to them, and especially their own stories.

    And then, next week, we'll begin to sew.  Almost ninety children making nine-patches.  For most of them it will be the first time.   I'm so excited for this story to start!

in my own little queendom

    I have a thing for crowns.  And I have been know to say, "I want to be queen."  A wish for control, I know.  A girl can dream.

    Once upon a time . . . I went to a new doctor.  There were forms to fill out.  One question read "How would you like to be addressed?"  I filled in the blank with "Your Royal Highness".   It never happened, not even a reference to it, not a chuckle, nothing.  I took it as a sign (it wasn't the only one) and found another doctor . . . and I lived happily ever after.

experimenting

    Muslin was painted with gel medium, and then watercolor paints.

    And now I'm playing with thread and stitch.

    Still playing . . .

can't see the tree for the forest

    A forest of cloth and stitches that is.  I do not know how to take a good photo of this cloth.  There is a tree growing up that right-hand border, with its blue branch reaching across the top corner of squares. It's all so pale from a distance, and with the gray weather, it's hard to capture it.  

    But there is a tree, my blue moon tree (moons yet to come).  Just close your eyes and see it.

    "How can you see something that isn't there?" yawned the Humbug,...

    "Sometimes it's much simpler than seeing things that are," he said.  "For instance, if something is there, you can only see it with your eyes open, but if it isn't there, you can see it just as well with your eyes closed.  That's why imaginary things are often easier to see than real ones."

    From The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster.

on being an introvert

    Sometimes I feel like I just hate people.  But I don’t.  I just don’t understand how to be with most of them, especially when they are in groups.

    I decided to try a meeting of a local sewing group.  The therapist was pleased. My outgoing dearest friend was glad.  They were both encouraged and encouraging that I was stepping out of my comfort zone.  (It had only taken years since I’d first heard about the group.)

    I went, and sat in the back row of more than fifty people.  They seemed like a happy and friendly group with each other.  The meeting began.  I stood up to be introduced with a few other visitors.  I noticed that I was the only visitor that had not come with a member.  It was pretty clear from the get go that it wasn’t my kind of stitching, but still, maybe there would be connection over the joy of being with cloth.

    And then came the break.  Small groups gathered to snack, mingle, share.  I sat there in the back row, between empty chairs.  I looked down, saw that my arms and legs were crossed.  Not an open friendly body language pose.  I rearranged.  I smiled.  Maybe it looked like I was going to throw up, but I was trying to smile.  I sat there trying to think of how to open a conversation.  Would “Hi, I’m an introvert, please help me.” work?

    After fifteen minutes, nothing.  I stood up and moved near a group.  Nothing.  I went back to my chair.  Five more minutes.  Maybe coming uninvited, without a member was taboo?  Maybe there was a secret handshake or password I was missing?

    The usual self-talk began . . .

    “What’s the matter with you?”

    “I want to leave.” 

    “You can’t leave, that would be rude.  You will hurt their feelings.  What will people think?  There is only an hour to go.  This break will end, all you have to do is sit here and watch and listen. You’re not going to die from this.  Buck up!”

    And then I did something new.  I talked back.

    “THEY are being rude.  MY feelings are hurt.  They are NOT thinking about me.  This is NOT working for me.  I will never see them again.  (And if I do, they clearly won't be talking to me.)  These are NOT my people.  I do NOT need to do this for one more minute, let alone another hour, and I CAN leave.” 

    And I did.  And I said mostly kind things to myself all the way home.

    It was not a social break-through, but it was a small personal one.

    Hello, I am an introvert, and I am learning to take care of me, nice to meet you.

    And here is the best ever post on “How to flourish as an introvert” by grrl+dog.  (and I think I need to knit myself one of those things in the first photo.)

a quick change

    And just like that, there is sunshine!

    Spincycle fiber in "Rusted Rainbow".

memory-pause

    While continuing to stitch on Iowa, I am thinking about memories.

    About brushing away cobwebs from them.

    About that crystal moment when one comes rushing back, one that you hadn't thought about in years, but appears bright as day, full of old feelings.

    I've always had a good memory, especially for stories.  My college roommate used to say I remembered her life better than she did, and I'm often filling K in on his family history.

    And there was the day that my teenage self needed to know there was a light at the end of the tunnel and put up two pieces of paper on the bedroom door:  One a countdown of how many days until I would move out (683 at the start.  I crossed one off each day).  The other was titled "If I Have Children I Will...".  At the top of the list was "Remember that children remember."

    I've clung to memories, holding on to them for comfort,  entertainment, validation, evidence, etc.  But they seem to be slipping away, rapidly.  I've heard it's due to the up-coming menopause.  I don't mind, mostly (except when I'm in the basement and don't remember why).  And this loss may be my only hope for finding that peaceful middle ground of letting go and calm.

colds, inside and out

    More than a thousand yards spun up from this.  

    A sweater begun.  A cozy cushy battle-the-cold-of-this-old-house or standing-at-the-bus-stop sweater.

    The thickness of the yarn knits up fast, just the thing for today, as I'm  also battling the cold in my stuffed up head.