Ali Jenkins
A young man steps into my embrace, piercings studding his face. He inhales a steadying breath. Elijah thinks of his negligent parents with their green lawn, their white house, their perfect lives; he can taste their hollowness. The last time Elijah confronted his parents, they had castigated him with abomination, turning their backs on their only son. He slept in his car for days, his face stained with the bitter tears he wept. But then, he cast off the weight of his abandonment, extricating himself from the prison in which he lived. He turned his eyes forward and created a new future. Brushing his long, black hair from his eyes, Elijah slides his fingers across my switches, securing his choices. For the first time, Elijah grasps my red handle with his tattooed hands. A feeling of empowerment courses through him as he pulls, and the curtain snaps open.
A tiny, Cuban woman glides into my arms. Taking in the many names before her, the woman is transported back to her own country. Ruled by Castro, her people were held prisoner, chained by iniquity. Carmela suffered in silence until, finally, she professed her intention to flee. She begged her tías to accompany her, but Carmela’s decision had rent her familia in two. Following the beckoning of her heart, Carmela fled to the land of freedom, utterly alone. Upon her arrival in los Estados, Carmela toiled tirelessly for her citizenship. And for the first time in her life, Carmela had felt truly at home. Returning to the present, Carmela adds her voice, a privilege she has never known. Aware that she will never forget this moment, Carmela wraps her delicate hands around my red handle and pulls; the curtain snaps open.
A lean Onondagan man ducks into my arms. Running his long fingers across my levers, Atian thinks of his people. For years, he harbored resentments toward this country. His father had planted a deep bitterness within him, and it rooted firmly in his heart. He could think only of the ancients, who had dwelled on this land since the beginning of time. They existed as one with the earth; they respected the precious gifts they had been given. As a young man, Atian could not forgive the people of this country for what they had done, and the bitter hatred within him had blazed in his black eyes. But as time passed, he learned to forgive the ancient crimes, and he joined the people of his nation. And so, with a liberating sentiment of acceptance, Atian adds his voice. Grasping my red handle in his bronze hands, he pulls, and the curtain snaps open.
A woman hobbles into my embrace, leaning on her daughter’s arm for support. Rose pauses for a moment, lifting her pale eyes to gaze affectionately at me. She feels her many years in her aching bones, in her spidery veins, in her snowy hair. Rose recalls the first time she came here, clinging to her father’s strong hand. He had lifted her, showing Rose the many names spread before them. Her father tenderly guided her soft hands over my switches, whispering how privileged they were. Many years later, Rose had returned with her own children. Like her father, she guided their fingers, passing on his timeless lessons. Now, her remaining child clasps Rose’s hands, and mother and daughter add their voices together. Her daughter squeezes Rose’s hand lovingly and brushes her lips across her mother’s weathered cheek. Closing her eyes, Rose places her frail hands on my red handle, knowing this will be the last time. With her daughter’s strength, Rose pulls, and the curtain snaps open.
An African-American woman shuffles inside, two children perched upon her broad hips. Imani’s loved-ones cling to her yellow sundress, gazing at my gadgets in amazement. Their mother steps closer, forbearing her children’s pleas to play with me. Imani points to the names as her children pull my levers. Watching them, Imani thinks of her ancestors, who toiled on the land in anonymity. Their agony is carried through the years, residing within her throbbing heart. For them, she holds her head high; for them, she adds her voice. Closing her eyes, she says a silent prayer of gratitude for the life with which she and her children have been blessed. As Imani takes my red handle in her powerful hands, she can taste her ancestors’ names on her tongue; she can feel their strength in her limbs. She pulls, and the curtain snaps open.
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I have seen hundreds of faces. I have seen white and black, old and young. I have seen the loved and the abandoned, the wealthy and the destitute. But these faces share one unifying aspect: they are all American. And so, I swell with pride because of what I possess: the many voices of our nation.
