For this progress check in, I did a few different things. I read some more writing by Tommy Orange, and I also read a bit more of "The House on Mango Street". Reading these things really helped me delve into writing about my childhood in America. I decided to have each of my tapestries depict a different phase in my life. Phase 1 discusses my childhood, moments where I struggled to fit in and other moments I felt I belonged, using place like the mountains to get this across. I have written three of these poems, although I think I would like to write one more. I will choose one to become the subject of my tapestry. Phase 2 will cover my time in Syria, the discoveries I made and the culture shock, and feeling different because I did not grow up there, but also feeling like I belonged being surrounded by family. Phase 3 is where I will write about embracing both parts of my identity. I have not yet written the Phase 2 and Phase 3 poems, but I have outlined them/described their topics. After I have written them all, I will choose the three that most cohesively fit together to tell a story about identity and change. I also put test warps on my handloom. I want to try the different yarns that I purchased to see which will work best for my tapestries. There was a yarn I liked using, but I ran out of it and couldn't find it anymore in store. I bought four alternatives, and I plan to use the one that best works with weaving tapestries on a hand loom.
Here is my progress with my poetry writing so far:
Phase 1: Childhood in America, Poems about Colorado and being part of a minority in America
Poem #1
The Colorado foothills frame my childhood
They always lingered like a painting in the distance,
A compass anchoring west, pulling me towards them
Horsetooth pointing towards the sky,
A rock that seems too square and bare within the rolling peaks
The oranges and pinks that dipped down to those stones
During summer sunsets-
I saw them on the way to the Friday night prayers
And I would excitedly point them out to my family
As we drove through familiar neighborhood streets
And watch, engrossed as the colors deepened, changed, darkened
Into the lid of night
Poem #2
She was born here- in Fort Collins
A little girl with a foreign name that appeared
As the publisher on encyclopedias
The kids in her class,
The Sams, Taylors, Annas
Didn’t quite know what to make of the little girl
Whose name was not spelled as it was pronounced
By their English tongues
One teacher she corrected every week in second grade
That teacher never got it right
So she supposed she should give it up-
It wasn’t so bad If people said it wrong
She was goofy and gullible and perhaps
Not as American
As the classmates who celebrated the holidays
They did crafts for in class,
The green layers of her paper Christmas tree and
Carol singing so familiar for something she
Was not taught to believe in
Her father baked baklava that she brought to school,
And it was often that people would ask her for them
They were like magic- all of a sudden people noticed her
Sitting in the corner
As they held those pastry swirls,
Green pistachios in filo shells,
Sticky in their hands from carameled-sugar coating
A delicacy of her people
Back in Syria
She liked showing off
When classmates were impressed
With her knowledge of Arabic
She’d say tree and book and water
And they’d say it back
Struggling over throaty consonants
Most of the time though,
She just did her best to fit in
She sang those carols and corrected her name and went to their parties
And she hoped that perhaps, just perhaps, they would not notice
She was different
Poem #3
Smith park is what they called it.
It had a longer name,
But it was hard to pronounce and even harder to remember
They drove along that winding mountain road
That would take them to Estes
But their stop was much closer,
A sudden right turn off the main road.
They parked their car
Unloaded the raw kabobs
The kibbeh and tabbouleh
And set up at a picnic table
Started the grill
They greeted their friends in cheek kisses
The mothers sat at a separate table nearby, spreading out the dishes
The fathers barbecued and the children ran down to the river
Snuck cups away to dip them into the river
And pull out tiny minnows to watch them loop around
For a minute before setting them free.
They sent their flip flops slightly down stream
Laughing as they caught them before they could float away
They splashed and pulled out rocks smoothed and sparkling
By the rushing water
In those moments, in those mountains they always felt
That perhaps they belonged
Poem #4- Syrian blood in old Colorado town
Phase 2: Identity in Syria Poems outline
Poem about the city- phase 2
Poem about meeting family for the first time- phase 2 (didn’t know what it was like to have lots of family nearby before)
Poem about mazzraas,- phase 2
Poem about mosques/the Athan, hearing it in the whole city, different and beautiful (majority vs minority) – phase 2
Phase 3: The embracing of both Poems outline
Poem about wrapping grape leaves (end with it’s a choice which side hold most dear)- phase 3
Poem about the new mosque- phase 3
Poem about hijab- phase 3