It’s Time to Tell the True History of Texas :: Personal Narrative

It’s Time to Tell the True History of Texas When the Bob Bullock Texas State History museum opened in March 2001, it advertised itself as â€Å"The Story of Texas.† It still calls itself the story of Texas in letters chiseled into the top of the building, on its Web site, on signs directing visitors to the museum, and even on the refrigerator magnets you can buy in the gift shop. When I first saw the slogan, I wondered how there could be â€Å"the† story of Texas, since Texas has been culturally diverse throughout its history as a part of Mexico that became a separate nation and later a state. Shortly Texas will have no one group as a majority. I grew up in the Rio Grande Valley, where the great majority of the population, like me, is Mexican American. How was this new museum going to present my story? I had to go and find out.   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  When I first walked into the lobby, I noticed the large mosaic on the floor but I couldn’t figure out what it depicted. I just saw a campfire and a bunch of wiggly figures. Someone next to me told their kids that they’d be able to see the entire mosaic from the third floor. I decided to wait and do the same.   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚     Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  The first exhibit I saw was the â€Å"It Ain’t Braggin’ if it’s True† (one of my friends told me I had to see the shrine to Lance Armstrong and the rhinestone car). The name of the exhibit didn’t make much sense to me though; aren’t all museum exhibits, especially ones about history, supposed to be true? The big banner in the middle of the room didn’t help much either. It simply said â€Å"Vision† and had a quote about how only those with great vision can see opportunity where others see empty space. Maybe those who have this type of vision get the braggin’ rights?   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Texas was never a big empty space. The Spaniards and later the French who came here discovered cultures that were centuries old. But history, and the museum itself, begins with European colonization. The history of Texas, one of the signs says, was shaped by the way the different groups of people who came to Texas responded to the land and to each other. So land, and interaction between different groups of people, would be used a lot in the telling of this story of Texas, I assumed.

Walking Alone – Original Writing

Dew clings to the harsh pale grass. The cool droplets of water stick to my bare legs as I brush past, silently, stealthily. Where am I going? It'll come back to me in a moment. I'll just follow my instinct. Right, if I'm automatically taking this direction to Wherever, then this is the right way. Wearing my jacket was a good idea. I had to rummage to find it. I can't remember the last time I wore it. I can't even remember when I was last out of town for a weekend. That would be nice; a weekend out with a few friends- not that I'd ask. They'd probably be busy anyway. Ok, I cannot get distracted. I shall walk on. Left, right, left, right. I'm starting to enjoy this monotony. Yes, this is rather pleasant, rather agreeable. I look around for some sort of landmark, or something to help me recognise where I am. I won't admit to being lost because that would call into the question of my destination, which, to be honest, is still unbeknownst to me. I'll just meander along this way. God, I'm knackered, I could use a chocolate bar. Yes, a chocolate bar is what I need, along with a nice drink. But not until I get there, I must keep on going. Oh, a house. It's a tall looming house, with ivy crawling over it, its brambles resembling long green tendrils, or fingers, curling crispy and brown at the tips. What's that scuttling across the front porch? A grubby, greasy blur darts past. I lean forward as if to grab it, but it's gone before I'm even close. I force myself upwards, and see a door in front of me. The faded red paint is flaking. I reach my hand towards it and absentmindedly begin to peel it back. I wonder why I've never seen this house before. I wonder why I haven't seen any of this area before whatsoever. A chill overcomes me, engulfing me in a stuttering shudder. It's cold, and late. It must be gone five in the morning by now. Oh well. A bleak throng of clouds tumble over the night's sky, devouring any lingering traces of warmth. I pull my jacket tighter around me and shiver again, glancing around, praying, pleading, for some form of refuge. The house is not an option, it's someone's home. I can't break in. Not now, anyway. I trudge towards a large wooden gate. I thwack it open, shocking myself as I do so. An ear-piercing screech of pain comes from the gate, like a toddler protesting against eating the remnants of her cereal. I guess my thwacking skills aren't quite up to par, the gate's stuck. What now? Onwards again? Alright, I'll stomp my feel around a bit to restore some warmth to my pathetic shell of a body. That's better, slightly. Argh, my eyes! Some plonker has his headlights on full and he's facing me head-on. Perhaps I should step out the way. Oh, he's slowing down. My rescuer, maybe? That would be nice†¦ What the hell do you think you were doing, standing in the middle of the road at this ungodly hour? † â€Å"I see spots†¦. † I whimper. The man's face is weathered and tired. It reminds me of Father Christmas, now he's a lovely bloke. A dreamy smile is wafting onto my face. The man looks at me as if I'm deranged and creepy, and then accelerates off into the night. I'm shivering. I am literally shivering. I desperately need shelter before I get pneumonia. That house. That old, ruinous house. I turn around, stumbling over a rock. There it is, standing tall and imposing, yet strangely familiar. Whoever owns it has made a hapless attempt at remodelling it, adding a modern extension and painting the wall. Well, some of it at least. The path has deep, cavernous cracks and so I have to be careful not to cut my bare feet on the fragments. A desolate flowerbox hangs by a window, the flowers long dead. I examine it closer, noting the what-used-to-be-dark-green-but-is-now-discoloured-pale-turquoise crusty paint on the criss-crossed wood. Again, I feel a faint wave of familiarity- like an echo from the past. With a shudder I glance around fleetingly for a side entrance. A swing. An old, plastic-y swing, with faded yellow rope, neglected and left to rot in the grass for the next millennia. A child's laughter, my laughter. A hot summer morning: we were having a barbeque. I swung on this swing. I lived in this house. The memories come flooding, hitting me with a wave of nausea. I look up at the house, my house, my poor, poor house. Mutilated, derelict, left piteously to ruin. It's ugly, horrific. My once beautiful house is looking like a dump. This grass was once green, and this porch was once magnificently up kept. Memories. I now know why I didn't recognise it at first. All those memories, those awful memories, blocked out for all these years. I clutch my head and keel over, onto the callous ground. There is an immense pressure on my head. Bottled up for all these years, it's finally unleashed on me again. I convulse and vomit, thus further disfiguring the house. Another sharp burst of pain in my side. I'm in agony, reliving the past. I'm dying. I'm dying at the place of my birth; whoever came up with the Circle of Life must be smug. I convulse one more time and pass out, my head in a fug of trapped memories, waiting to be recollected.

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