“Matt, sing for me.” Grandfather pleaded. Sick, yet stubborn, his eyes longed for peace. I picked up my guitar, the same yellow wooden box with the same rusty strings that were laid across its neck when I begged for my grandfather to buy it for me. Though the cancer was no friend, his smile was. The same smile that urged me to keep singing.

“Grandpa, what should I sing?” I asked, always expecting the same response. On cue, Grandpa whispered. “Whatever makes you happy, Matt.” Strumming our favorite chord, the beautiful C major, I began to sing. I watched his eyes fill up with tears just like the coffee mugs him and I would leave in the rain, hoping to steal all of the rain from the sky. He would always tell me that the rain was the angels crying because my singing was so beautiful. He could always make me smile. Though he could not tell me what the name if the song was, or even who sang it, I knew his heart had been mended. Telling me that the cancer is just a little set-back, he urged me to play on. He urged me to keep my music going. He urged me never to quit.

“We’ll get over this, Grandma, I promise,” He would always say. “Play me an old one, Matt. How about some Willie?” Willie, he was his favorite. As I grabbed the resting guitar, I could see his smile lighting up his worn face. Patsy could never subdue the cancer, but Willie did the trick. Willie, and his lonesome whistle. willie, and his lovesick blues.

“Hey, Grandpa! How about some Marty Robbins?” I always wanted to please him. He was my inspiration.

“Matt, you may forget how to sew, cook, or even do things for yourself,” he would always tell me. “but you will never forget about our memories. You’ll never forget how we would sit in the studio for hours learning new songs. Promise me you’ll never forget my old bones?” As I finished my song, and let him sleep, I could feel tears streaming down my face. Walking away, I knew he’d never forget.

As the memories of his lecturing and his teachings replayed through my head, I approach his sleeping body for the last time.

“I’ll never stop singing, Grandpa.”

Querido Mamacita,

Hola, me llamo Madison. I originally speak English. I have recently discovered that you speak primarily Spanish, and the English that you do know is very minimal. I have written you this letter to persuade you, hopefully, to consider learning English and expanding your English vocabulary. Mi abuela, Freida, is from Germany, therefore she originally speaks German. Mi abuelo, Bob, brought my grandmother over here to America, even though she could hardly speak any English. As time went by, my grandmother was able, with the help of my grandfather, to learn enough English to acquire her citizenship officially. Though my grandmother is still learning, even today, she knew that it was a necessity to be able to comprehend and speak English. I understand the desire you have to return to Mexico, but, as you and I both realize, your husband is doing the very best that he can to make your stay in America as enjoyable as possible. I also understand that you wish your children would not learn English. I do understand, but however I do wish to stress this issue with you, Mamacita… When your child attends school that is more than likely going to be an English speaking school, how will your child be able to respond to his/her peers if they cannot understand what it is that they are saying.

Si, yo entiendo, pero escuchame.

Though you may believe that English is inferior to Spanish and American culture is not as important as that of Hispanic culture, I strongly urge that during your residency in this country, you further your vocabulary in order to make your stay less of a dredded one.

Adios.

In one of Sandra Cisnero’s pieces in her book, The House on Mango Street, Cisnero uses symbolism as a striking device in order to reveal her evident theme in this book. The entry “Hips” reveals Cisnero’s thematic motif of growth and self-identity as Esperanza and her friends discuss matters of adulthood. Ironically, as the children continue to play jump rope, which is a child’s game, the wanna-be-women begin to discuss “hips.” Claiming that these are necessary for “holding a baby,”  the girls, with their adolescent talk, provide a juxtaposition between the subject at hand, and the playground game. By using the hips as a symbolic item of Esperanza’s life, it reveals her desire to mature and grow older, but also her content with childish things. As her friends continue listing off the many reasons why “hips” are such a necessity, and how they are so important, such as a statement of “they are scientific,” the girls allow the thematic motif to have a strong underlying significance. As the children play and speak of “dancing” with their womanly hips that are sure to be the reason you know you are woman, Esperanza dreams up the hips she desires. Though the young girl knows nothing of the heavy responsibilities of these grown-up hips, Esperanza does not understand the power that accompanies such items. With a twelve years old desire to mature quickly in order to be beautiful, Esperanza and her friends continue to play their silly games and dream of the many things that these incoming hips will do for them. As a result, by using the symbolism of the hips to portray the childlike desire to grow and mature but the incapability due to an evident youth, Cisnero develops the theme of this vignette series very early and efficiently.

My house has a lot of memories that are definitely some of my favorites. From the kitchen that definitely contains my favorite things, to my room that houses my insanities emerges the room that, to this day, contains the memory to end all memories. The Game Room. Once a quiet room that held my musical instruments, workout equipment that never seemed to rid itself of the cobwebs, and an innocent white couch. (Keep this in mind as you continue your reading.) The game room, on this particular afternoon, offered an escape to begin a new project for my new bedroom. An old wooden frame of my first guitar tempted me, and I gave in. As I walked to the garage to retrieve the OIL-BASED BLACK PAINT that sat on the shelf. As I began to finish my project, I decided to do some cardio, and run a bit. HA! With the paint can on the couch, lid opened, I forgot about gravity. Yay. As I threw my towel on the couch, I heard a loud THUD, and watched as a cloud of black paint stained the white couch and the brand new white carpet. As I began to scream, I knew my life was over. Trying to mop up the paint with white towels, I knew there was no salvaging my world.

Four-eyed, soon-to-be brace faced, and rather nerdy, Kaylee Odom is definitely my best friend. Though we may differ in music tastes, and food preferences, we still agree that we mesh very well together. Escaping the house at least 4 times a week, we always seem to conjure up very exciting things to do in our shared spare time. Most of the time we just sit around talking about music, messing around, and boys, but rarely you’ll ever find her without me at her side. She’s the kind of friend that can tell me how it really is and, all depending on the week, I simply take her words and try not to kill her. But! I believe only a true friend can make you very angry one minute and offer up the perfect solution to my frustration. Depending upon my vehicles moody days, and how much gas I happen to have in my car, we mark our territory on the town. Ice cream at 6pm, baseball at 6:15pm, and music until we pass out is a regular schedule we tend to stick to, trying to allot time to recieve our daily/weekly dose of gossip. Boys, drama, or even the occasional arguement over musical genres could never hinder a relationship like ours. Kaylee Madison Odom is my best friend, as of the minute, and I hope we will continue to be close throughout the remainder of our careers. Though we might share the same thoughts on boys, and how they are all awful, we know what is best for each other. Diamonds could not amount to a friend like her, nor could a boyfriend… though I do like him.. Girls rule, boys drool!

Of the many musical instruments I possess, ranging from those with strings to those with valves, one in particular becomes more and more special to me with each day that passes. A 1949 King trumpet, aged and rusted to its core, once belonging to my grandfather is my prized possession. Once played in the 33rd army band, as it sat second chair, it is more than just a brass instrument. Though I’m a woodwind kind of girl, I have a love for music that surpasses any love I might have for food… yeah, impossible I know. My grandfather began my musical journey through the constant nagging. “Matt,” he would always call me. “I bought you that guitar, now let’s learn to play!” Always wanting my life to be beautifully colored with the sounds of Tommy Dorcey, and Louis Armstrong, Grandfather would always tell me of his younger days, dazzling the ladies with his handsome uniform, and his freshly-waxed trumpet at his side. This trumpet, though browned with aged, no longer the crisp gold it was during his glory days, is a reminder of his dreams for me. Though my grandfather is no longer present in the physical world, his presence is showing in my everyday life. During my late night music jams, I still pull out his old pal, and begin to dream of the adventures they two must have taken. More than the rust, and more than the tears that always rain on its old green case, the trumpet that rests on my bed is my grandfather. Old, but wise. Used, but not worn. Holding its delicate valves, and running my fingers over the engraved metal, this is where I feel my grandfather. With the sound his voice becoming more faint, this rusty trumpet is all I seem to have left of my best friend.