Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook - Chapter Six

“The only homes they found during their journey were the small spaces and simple kindnesses of people along the way.”


They rode a train ominously called The Beast all the way from the scorched earth of El Salvador to the border of El Norte, what weary, broken migrants called the entrance to the promised land.

His mamí was pregnant with him.

A kind priest at a migrant shelter in Matamoros, Mexico connected them with an underground railroad that took them across the border to a church in Brownsville that gave them sanctuary.

The underground railroad took them all the way to Miami.

A car stopped in front of St. Mary's Church in the center of the city in the middle of the night.

The  driver made the sign of the cross over them.

They stood on the street with nothing but tattered clothes and bare feet.

The abuelo lifted the iron knocker on the stained church door and let it fall back on it's tarnished plate.

He did this again and again until an old nun cracked open the door to them.

The nun had worked in the inner-city for many years and had seen many things.

But she had never seen the beauty and suffering she saw in the faces of his mamí and abuelo at the church door that night.

Their eyes were alight with beauty, the beauty of being, the beauty of bringing a new life into the world, for the time had come for Hilcias' mamí to give birth to him.

Their bodies were heavy with suffering.

They were covered in the dirt, sweat and blood of thousands upon thousands of miles of migration along the migratory road.

Their shoulders sagged under the weight of months of homelessness.

The only homes they found during their journey were the small spaces and simple kindnesses of people along the way.

They were still and very quiet.

The nun stepped out and wrapped her arms around them.

"I'm here," she whispered.

"Aquí estoy."


- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook - Chapter 4

"Po lidda fella," said the old weathered woman with skin as dark and wrinkled as the bark and arms as thin and knobby as the farthest reaches of the island's ancient oak trees.

She spoke with the flavor of her Gullah ancestors, who had created a new language in the low country of South Carolina by mixing the west African words they happily learned as they sat on their mothers knees with the English words they sadly learned when they were uprooted and stolen away from their own land and brought to America.

She lived in a holey floored, cracked walled, Duck tape windowed, shotgun style house on John's Island left over from the days of slavery and Jim Crow.

She fished along the inlet and shoreline each morning, trying to catch red fish, sea trout and flounder to go with the fruits and vegetables that grew out of the community garden between her neighbors houses and hers.

She wove sweet grass into baskets from late mornings to early evenings, and sold them in the downtown market on Saturdays and Sundays.

"Jus sits dere," she continued.

"Eva monin' as de sun rises ova de ocean an sits on de wada like a ripe tomato.

Jus sits dere a lookin' at de wada an a lis'nin to de waves."

One day, she walked over to him and stood beside him.

The sun cast her shadow over him, and that protected him from the glare and heat of the new day.

"Wha's yo name?" she asked kindly.

"My name's Mattie.

Would you tell me yo name?"

He turned his earthy brown eyes to her.

He didn't say one word.

She figured he didn't understand her.

His mamí and abuelo were migrant workers, picking peaches and tomatoes in the lowcountry summers until it was time to move on down the coasts of Georgia and Florida with the southern winters.

She thought maybe he spoke only Spanish, since his family had come to the United States from the farms and fields of El Salvador.

Suddenly, he whistled!

It was unlike any whistle she had ever heard before.

A usual whistle has two notes and a high pitch, but this whistle was unusual.

It's sound had all kinds of notes in it, and it's pitch went high and low, low and high, and many places in between.

It was as if the great composers of the world had written his whistle at the height of their compositional powers.

"Ya know, t'was like he was a tryin' to say somepin' to me in a be-yoo-tee-full way," she explained. "But I din' hab no idee whad id was."

He looked back over the water and the sky again.

He was very still and very quiet.

She felt compassion for him in the deepest parts of her heart.

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020

Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook - 3 Movements

1st Movement


Taki was beautiful.

I use the word beautiful in the sense of the old Latin phrase ESSE QUAM VIDERII, to be is more important than to appear, the essence is more important than the video.

She was beautiful on the outside.

Black hair the color of moonless, starless nights.

Brown eyes the color of turned earth.

Dark skin the color of bark on the ancient trees below Point Hope.

She was beautiful on the inside.

Warm heart beating slowly and steadily in the arctic cold.

Nimble mind thinking deeply and widely of ways she could help the world.

Courageous soul undeterred by the frozen, rocky land.

Her family's house was made of yellow painted wooden slats with a red tin roof.

A small chimney rose slightly through the center of it's ridge.

It sat on the edge of the pack ice beside the Chukchi Sea.

There were four windows, one for each side of the house.

She sat by the fire in the front room, warming herself against the cold.

She looked out over the sea.

The moon reflected off it's surface.

Broken ice moved ever so slowly with the tide.

Whales sang to each other in the deep reaches of the water.

She sighed at the beauty of it all.

She stared at the horizon.

She was silent.

She listened.

She heard a whistle from the sea.

It was the song of a bowhead whale.

"There is a boy," sang the great whale, "Who is coming to you."

"To me?" whistled Taki.

"How does he know where I am?

How will he get here?

How will he find me?

It is so far.

"He is listening," sang the mysterious whale.

"He is listening."




2nd Movement


She saw him standing on the rocks that connected her land with the water.

The wind blew off the icy sea and whipped his brown face until it looked as if it might become a part of the rocks, salt and water that make up the Arctic landscape.

The three shirts and one coat he owned weren't enough to protect him from the cold, so the skin of his cheeks and the water in his eyes froze with the night.

"He looks so small against the sky and the sea," she thought.

"He seems so weak against the rocks and the ground."

Small, weak things struggled to survive around the Chukchi Sea, she knew.

Her heart was big and strong, and that's what helped her live in this icy cold place.

"His heart must be big and strong, too," she thought as she took the lantern from the window and went out to guide him in."




3rd Movement

Taki's poem for Hilcias


we

stand

closely

side by side

I reach out for you

and take your hand inside of mine

our fingers intertwine and our palms make a small space

this space is warm in the midst of the deep snow that covers the frozen ground of Point Hope

is warm against the icy wind that blows off the rocking waters of the Chukchi Sea

"life is in these small spaces between us," I whisper

we stand quietly hand in hand

with the small space, and

then we smile

holding

small

space


- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2020

the little monk

from The Brothers Karamazov

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

"This is what I think of you, you will go forth from these walls, but you will live like a monk in the world. You will have many enemies, but even your foes will love you. Life will bring you many misfortunes, but you will find your happiness in them, and will bless life and will make others bless it - which is what matters most. Well, that is your character."

the little monk understands building tables and welcoming people is better than building walls and excluding them

for the little monk, there is no 'there' and there is no 'them'...there is only 'here' and 'us'

the little monk's heart is the size of his fist, and a blue whale's heart is the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. You can walk around inside of a blue whale's heart, and, in a way, you can walk around in the little monk's heart, too

the little monk listens carefully and pays attention

Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook - 52 Blue

from Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook - 52 Blue


Can you hear me?

Do you want to hear me?

I don't know.

I do know one thing.

The Navy, which'd spent years tracking Soviet submarines during the Cold War with hydrophones and spectrometers but were now using that technology to track us, later said, "52 Blue never let up with that song."

They were right,

I didn't.

I never let up with my song.

I kept on singing.

I'm part of a community of the biggest creatures that have ever lived on earth (our hearts are the size of Volkswagen Beetles...do you know the size of your heart?...it's the size of your fist), but no one heard me.

I'm part of a community of the smartest creatures that have ever lived on earth (our brains weigh over 15 pounds...do you know how much your brain weighs....it weighs around 3 pounds...and we live peacefully and non-violently for our whole lives), but no one heard me.

I'm part of a community of the most resilient creatures that have ever lived on earth (we migrate thousands and thousands of miles each year to eat our fill of krill in the cold waters near the poles and birth our babies in the warm waters near the equator...how far have you migrated?), but no one heard me.

And I'm part of a community of the loudest creatures that have ever lived on earth (our songs travel across oceans and seas...how far can your voice travel?), but no one heard me.

No one heard me.

Until that Monday December 7, 1992, off the western coast of Whidbey Island, at the northern boundary of the Puget Sound and the Pacific Ocean, when two people out of the billions of people on earth listened.

They were paying attention.

They heard me.


- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2020

Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook - Beginnings

Fragments of Hilcias and Taki’s Notebook

Chapter One

Elias looked up from the book in his lap as the Greyhound bus squeaked to a stop at the Greenville station.

The old woman next to him fell asleep on the trip up from Charleston and leaned her head on his shoulder.

Her face was as wrinkled as the bark of an ancient magnolia tree, and was colored the same beautiful brown as it’s trunk and branches.

She breathed in, and the air made a soft, whistling sound through her nose. 

She breathed out, and it made a gentle, flapping sound through her lips.

“Life is a symphony,” he chuckled to himself, “Of whistles and kazoos.”

“Ma’am,” he whispered.

She didn’t move.

She kept right on sleeping and snoring.

“Ma’am."

Still only whistles and kazoos.

“Ma’am."

This time he reached out and patted her weathered hand. 

She opened her tired, brown eyes and smiled a small smile at him.

“Thanks for a lettin’ me use yo shoulda as my pilla,” she said with a gravelly voice.

“First time I woked up beside a man in a long time. 

Hope my snorin’ didn’t bother you none,” she giggled.

“No ma’am,” he said with a giggle of his own, “It was music to my ears.”

His knees and back snapped and popped as he stood up slowly and smoothed out the wrinkles in his pants and t-shirt.

“My goodness,” said the old woman, “You make music, too.”

He placed his hand gently on her bony shoulder.

“We could start a band called The Human Experience,” he laughed. 

“People would come from all over to hear us whistle, flap, snap and pop. 

What do you think?”

“Yep, they’d pay us a bundle of money to hear that.”

He pulled on his jacket and waved his hand to her. 

“Goodbye, my friend,” he said. 

“Thanks for the song.”

She waved back. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

“And do me a favor. 

Lean on down here and let me tell you som'pin."

He leaned down and was surprised as she kissed him on his forehead with a light, tender kiss.

“That’s the kiss of a guardian angel,” she whispered. 

“Listen to life, and do not be afraid.”

Chapter Two

He stepped off the bus and onto the street.

Small groups of people were standing around the bus, waiting to welcome their travelers open arms an “I’m so glad you’re here!"

No one was waiting for him.

“Oh well,” he thought, “I might not be welcomed with a kiss, but I was sent out with one. 

And by a guardian angel at that.”

The early sun was bright in his eyes and made him squint to see the people and buildings around him. 

A hint of warmth was beginning to ease the chill of the upstate morning.

He put two quarters into the slot of a newspaper rack beside the bus station and took out a copy of The Greenville News. 

The headline of the day read “Governor Seeks To Keep Sanctuary Cities Out Of South Carolina.”

He walked a block toward Main Street and found a small diner that served breakfast in the morning and meat and three vegetable plates in the afternoon.

A little bell rang as he opened the glass door and stepped inside.

“Buenos dias,” said a waitress. 

“Welcome to the Scrambled Egg. 

My name’s Gabby and today’s my third anniversary of workin’ here. 

I love it and I’ll be servin’ you today.”

“Buenos dias, Gabby,” he said.

He reached out to shake her hand and take a menu from her.

“My name's Elias. 

Happy Anniversary!”

“¡Gracias! 

Where you comin’ from?”

“Up from Charleston.

I rode through the night on a Greyhound bus.”

“Charleston, huh? 

I love the low country. 

There’s nothin’ like wakin’ up early, just before sunrise, and takin’ a walk on the beach. 

Goodness. 

I bet you didn’t get much sleep on that bus. 

Come on over and have a seat at this table by the window. It’s the best seat in the house.”

“Muchas gracias.”

“What can I get for you?”

“Well, I could use a hot cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. 

I’ll be right back with your coffee.”

He took out his notebook and pen and wrote as he read the article in the newspaper.

WHO

Governor of South Carolina

WHAT

Speech endorsing a bill that a state legislator from Greenviile intends to introduce that would cut off state funding for three years for any town or city that becomes a sanctuary city.*

Currently, there are no sanctuary cities in South Carolina.

A graduate student at Clemson University, who is working on a thesis examining teachers' attitudes and awareness about the rights of immigrant students, thinks the governor's comments are a 'political ploy,' thinks the state legislator's bill will make immigrants less likely to report crimes or cooperate with law enforcement officials, thinks the bill could increase the risk of 'families being ripped apart' if an undocumented immigrant is arrested for a minor offense and is deported.

*A sanctuary city (San Francisco, for example) does not share the immigration status of a person charged with a crime with federal, state or local officials.

WHEN

October 23, 2017

WHERE

Greenville County Courthouse

WHY

The president wants to build a wall between the United States and Mexico to keep undocumented immigrants out of the U.S.

The governor endorsed the bill because he is afraid "sanctuary cities will take root in our state." 

He doesn't want any S.C. town or city to take part in "lawlessness."

The president attended a fundraiser for the governor the week before the speech.

*I do not call people "illegal" or "aliens." I say "undocumented" and " immigrants."

Gabby came back with the coffee.

“I don’t mean to interrupt what you’re doin', but your coffee’s here.”

There was a deep kindness in her brown eyes.

“Hmm,” she noted. 

“You’re writing with a pen in a notebook. Don’t see that much anymore.”

“I’m old fashioned, I guess. 

I still like to see the words I write on a page. 

Helps me see that I’m moving from one place to another and getting somewhere.”

“If you don’t mind me askin’, what’re you writin’?”

“I don’t mind you asking at all. 

I’m working on a story for my newspaper, The South Carolina Defender. 

I’m a journalist.”

“Oh yeah? 

What’s your story about?”

“It’s about a family I met in Charleston, a migrant family picking peaches and tomatoes on a farm on John's Island.

When I met them, they were living in a gutted out school bus behind the lower 40 acres of the farm.

There's an abuelo, a mamí and a 10 year old niño.

The boy hasn't spoken a word in his life.

He communicates by whistling.

I wrote a series of articles about them last summer so our readers might walk a mile in their shoes.

Or flip flops, as it were.

Chapter Three

Gabby took the bus home to her apartment.

“Cómo estás, Luisa?” she asked the small woman in the window seat as she sat down beside her.

“Bien,” Luisa answered. 

“Un poco cansado. 

I cleaned a lot of rooms at the motel today. 

¿Y tu?”

“Si, bien. 

A little tired, too. 

I scrambled a lot of eggs at the Scrambled Egg. 

I can’t wait to put my feet up and rest them. 

What you doing this evening?”

“I’m going to cook for my family and take my daughter to help me clean the doctor’s office. 

Then I’ll rest.”

Gabby put her arm around Luisa’s shoulder and hugged her.

“Eres una buena mujer,” she said. 

I’m glad you’re my friend.

“Y tu, mi Amiga. Y tu.”

Gabby got off the bus in front of her apartment on the west side of the city. 

She lived on the poor side of town. 

She and her neighbors didn’t have much money, but they did have a lot of kindness for each other.

"‘Sup Gabby. How you doin’?” asked Bryant, who everyone called Big B. 

He had just come home from his job as a mechanic at the auto shop.

“Hola, Big B. 

Not much. 

Just glad to be home. 

How was your day?”

“It was all good. 

The squeaky wheel got the grease, as they say. 

Today and ev’ry day.”

“One of these days, I’m gonna buy me a car and the only person I’m gonna let work on it is you.”

“Deal!

If you need anything, let me know, okay?”

“Sure thing! 

Same here.”

“You could come over and cook up some steak and eggs for me, you know.”

“Ugh, anything except that. 

I’ve cooked enough steak and eggs today...and ev’ry day!”

“Bet. 

I’m jus’ kiddin’ wit’ cha. 

Night Gabby. 

Be safe.”

“Night B. 

You be safe, too.”

She took her key out of her pocket and opened the door to her apartment. 

It was one room. 

There was a holey sofa that pulled out into a bed with a small table and a lamp beside it. 

Three books, The House on Mango Street, The Old Man and the Sea and Poems for a Brown Eyed Girl, were on a bookshelf made out of a cut board and two concrete blocks against the wall. 

An ancient transistor radio was in the corner. 

A painting by Jasper Johns of three American Flags, one on top of the other, smallest to largest, was on the wall. 

It was a gift to her from one of her regular customers at The Scrambled Egg.

The room was simple and beautiful, like her.

She picked up the small book of poems, turned on the lamp, sat down on the sofa, stretched her legs out in front of her.

She opened the book to the poem An Ode to a Migrant Worker's Feet.

She read,

feet

are

calloused

and so cracked

like rocks in plowed ground

she walks over the land barefooted

as her abuelo turns the earth with donkey and plow

she has the feet of her abuelo, for she walks beside him down the long row of beans

her abuelo walks down the rows until his feet are broken and bent by genuflecting to land or the land owner

when her feet are in the soil, it is as if they are the land, as if they hold the secrets of the earth, the mystery of seed, dirt, water

becoming a bean in a pod, a kernel on an ear of corn, a red tomato

her heart is in her feet, in the land, the mystery

feet speak, "Estoy aquí," "I'm here"

feet are signs to us

"I'm human"

"I'm

here"

“Estoy aquí,” she whispered to the world. 

“I'm here.”

- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown eyed girl, 2020