I’ve had columns I’ve written that stood out to me, but
several are my favorites: the one where we built and tiled a new shower ourselves, the
ones I wrote in Mexico while traveling, and the one on tackling racism in a
small town.
George and I do not work well together on home projects. We
just don’t. We are stubborn mules who like to duke it out with our opinions
until someone angrily slams a door. Our disagreements on projects have been
well-documented and are legendary.
Just this week I hovered over his shoulder
as he finally (my words) finished tiling my kitchen backsplash. I know he felt
my hot breath on his neck as I handed him each tile in the order I wanted. I’d
ordered tiles from a little place near Laredo, Texas, and they’d been
languishing in the box. I was over it.
The columns written in Mexico while traveling were some of
my favorites to write. No matter where we were, I found a space to write in — at
my mother-in-law’s table, in a room on the Oaxacan coast as dawn crept her
fingers under the shades and sometimes in a moving vehicle as a deadline
neared. I loved my column deadline. It always made me write harder, better.
Watching my Mexican family cook and set a delicious feast of food on the table,
those columns wrote themselves in front of my eyes.
But the one on tackling racism in a small town may
have been the dearest to my heart. Set amidst the chaos of summer 2020, with COVID raging and George Floyd having been killed as they knelt on his neck, one could
feel we’d reached the apex of a moment I hoped would change us
forever. During that time I was asked to write and read a lament on Floyd’s
death during our online church service.
It took something from me to write that column. I was taking
a chance you’d read something that made you feel uncomfortable, unsettled.
But the importance of it could not be denied, and looking away would’ve been
ignorance. I had examined myself over a lifetime (I still am) and found myself
lacking in the work that still needed to be done, noticed even by those of us who
should.
Since moving to Canton, I have a group of ladies who try to
gather once a month. Some of them are Canton-ites through and through. We
either craft or pretend to craft as we talk. Their stories of growing up
through red-lining and the way Route 30 desecrated their thriving neighborhoods
had me paying attention.
I participated in a bus tour this past June around
these neighborhoods and beyond that included other folks telling their stories,
showing us the empty spots that used to be their homes — how many of them became
homeless because they were paid a pittance for homes that were taken for the
freeway, how other neighborhoods weren’t touched at all. I have so much yet to
learn and write about.
Most Tuesday mornings for the last 15 years, I’d sit down
with my coffee and write about whatever came to me. On other days I knew
something was too important not to write about. Every happening in the world,
whether it touched me directly or not, was worth writing about and especially
worth knowing.
Feeling uncomfortable when reading something means we still have
something to learn. It means we’re alive and paying attention, with time to
change our minds. It doesn’t matter whether we can agree on it or not because
things like famine, war, red-lining and racism simply exist. Those were the
things I wanted to bring to my readers.
And in my next column, we will put this space to bed — ready
or not.
Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.
