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Flash Fiction Stories Change How We Teach Reading and Writing

My favorite speech is The Gettysburg Address. 272 words. There is power in brevity.

 

Every word in a story, letter and speech matters, because words have the power of holding greater meanings while conveying emotions from different points of view. The use of deconstruction with flash fiction is a method of teaching students how to analyze and discover information about characters, motivations, and outcomes in the story.

 

Flash fiction stories are not new, but when the story is culturally relevant, students have an easier time connecting and can apply the learning through deconstruction. The best thing about flash fiction stories is they can grow with the reader, bringing new insights with each reading.

 

We have to go beyond plot, setting and characters with our students. They might be the foundation of story, but do not help convey the meaning of the story. We must take the time to teach our students to look at the higher concept. They must look at what is not said, what is said, and the underline meaning. Learn how to decipher emotions and ask why, but also, what are the motivations of the characters. We don’t have the time to deconstruct a novel in the classroom, but we can deconstruct a flash fiction story. Flash fiction helps students learn how to deconstruct and move on to novels and poetry.

 

As Lincoln inspired a nation with a speech, teachers can also inspire students with a flash fiction story to learn deconstruction. Teachers now have the tools with flash fiction in English and Spanish, videos, and workshops to achieve mastery in this methodology and inspire students for a lifetime. 

 

 

 

Contents

 

Death of a Writer

Humming Forever

Dove Lesson

Me, the Good Kid

Scary Angels

Man Vs. Beast

Dad Shoots to Kill

Bombs Away

It's What You Sew

Nothing But Blue Skies

Five Things I've Learned About America

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Death of a Writer

 

 In fourth grade our English teacher,  Ms. Ayala, wanted us to write a short story. She said the best story would win a bag of pan dulce. When she said that, every kid in the class smiled with wide eyes. We had to pretend we were shipwrecked on a deserted island and describe what we would do. It was hard for us to imagine, because none of us had ever been on a ship and the only island we had been on was Padre Island. But Ms. Ayala said,      

            

         “ That’s what imagination is for. You can write anything you want.”

        

          “Anything?” we asked. “Yes, anything,” she said with a warm, trusting smile. I thought about it all morning and during lunch. On the playground, my friends and I were playing and all I could talk about was the story we had to write. Ramiro Ramos, who was burning ants with matches he had snuck into school, looked up from his favorite hobby.

 

         “You heard her. She said we could write about anything we want. We can’t get in trouble for writing what we want to write,” he said as ants curled to a hot flame.

 

         A few days later our teacher started inviting students to read their stories out loud in front of the class. I can’t remember any of them, not even my own, but I do remember Ramiro’s.   When she called him, he got up and walked in front the class and took out a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. He unfolded it several times and cleared his throat.

       

        “This is my story,” he said. “One day I was on a ship and it crashed on an island. And there were monsters and they ate me. The end.”

 

         I started laughing because I thought it was the funniest story ever, but the other students looked confused. Ms. Ayala got mad and sent Ramiro to the principal’s office, and he was paddled three times.

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

Humming Forever

 

 

     Could I shoot a hummingbird? I had shot everything else in sight: dogs, cats, doves, crows, sparrows, cicadas, ants, and even dragonflies. But a hummingbird is no more than two inches long and flies in quick zigzag jolts. And they’re hard to find too.

I knew of a bright blue hummingbird two blocks from my house. 

 

     One Friday, walking home after school, I decided to take a different road and saw Mrs. Flores staring at something in her flower bush. She was the oldest woman in town and lived by herself, and gave out the best Halloween candy. Her garden was covered with flowers. When you walked by her house, it was like walking by the women’s perfume department in a big store, but the scents didn’t sting your nose; they made you dizzy.

 

      I stopped to watch her, and she caught my eye and waved me over, but gestured for me to be quiet. I wasn’t sure what she was looking at and as I walked to her very slowly, she pointed at the bush. I followed the imaginary line from her crooked bony finger to a hovering hummingbird.

 

       We watched it dart from flower to flower, and dash away with a blur. Mrs. Flores smiled, “Isn’t that bird beautiful?”

 

      I nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Flores. Does it live in this bush?”

 

     “I’m not sure where he lives, but I always see him in the morning when I’m watering the flowers. I think he likes flowers with dew flavor.” She smiled and brought her hands together in thanks.

 

       I went home and practiced shooting wooden clothespins off the clothesline. They were about the size of a hummingbird, but they were still. Hummingbirds never are. When I’d shoot, I noticed the BB coming out of the barrel would have a slight curve and I kept missing the clothespin. This called for my pellet rifle. The soft lead pellets were expensive, but I needed complete accuracy.

 

      I went inside the house and mom was cooking in the kitchen. “What are you doing?” she asked in a suspicious tone. “Nothing, I’m just going to shoot cans.” She narrowed her eyes and nodded, “Huerco, you better be shooting cans.”

 

      My pellet rifle was a straight shooter, and I broke every clothespin on the clothesline. My mother came outside, saw what I had done, and shook her head. She called me huerco sonso.

 

     I borrowed my father’s travel alarm clock and set it for sunrise. When I left the house, everyone was still asleep and outside it was cool and peaceful, and there was still dew on the plants. A good sign, I thought.

 

     I strolled the quiet streets with my pellet rifle and hoped Mrs. Flores wasn’t watering her plants. I walked by her house slowly and when I didn’t see her, I walked into her garden and went straight to the bush.  I kept one eye on the front of her house and one eye on the bush, searching for the blue bird. I stood very still and then I saw it float and weave between the thin twigs. I took aim at the chest, followed the fast wings for a minute, and fired. The wings stopped and the hummingbird fell like a feather.

 

     I picked up the little body and felt the warmth in my palm, and then, an overwhelming sense of guilt. I needed someone to yell at me. I needed someone to tell me what I did was wrong. 

 

     I sat on Mrs. Flores’s concrete porch, so when she stepped out and saw I had killed her flower bird she could wring my neck.

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dove Lesson

 

 

     When I was twelve years old, I was awakened one morning by a dove outside my bedroom window. It just wouldn’t stop singing, and I wanted to get back to sleep. After a few minutes, I got up, grabbed my faithful BB gun, walked to the back door, and took steady aim. I shot. Easy. The dove dropped like a rock.

 

     Going back to my bedroom, I heard my grandfather call out to me. I opened his door but made sure he didn’t see my BB gun. He lit his pipe and asked me what I had done. I wanted to lie, but it was too difficult.

     “Well, I . . . I was asleep and this stupid bird started making all this racket. So I took my BB gun and shot it.”

 

     My grandfather was an emotional man. His eyes began to fill. “David, do you know what that dove was doing? It was singing a beautiful song no other animal can sing. A song me or you could never sing. A song God taught it to sing. And you went and killed it.”

 

      I tried to say something but couldn’t find the words. He told me to close his door. I leaned against the wall and stared at my BB gun, put it in my room and went outside.

 

     I looked at the dove and picked it up and held its still-warm body. I got a shovel and dug a small hole and placed the Dove in it. I took two twigs from the tree the bird had been singing in and made a cross to put at the head of the grave. I cried for a bit and told God I was sorry, and promised I would never again kill any living animal as long as I lived.

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me, the Good Kid

 

 

       In fourth grade I started a fight between Flaco and Nacho, kids who were always fighting each other. It was during Mrs. De la Garza’s class. She was my mother’s bowling partner and saw her every Wednesday night at the bowling alley, so I had to be extra nice in her class.

 

       One afternoon the class was quiet, doing their assigned work. I sat in the row against the wall and finished my work pretty fast and was waiting for everyone else. I got bored and noticed Flaco and Nacho were actually doing their work. They sat in the row next to mine: Flaco in the front seat, Sulema behind him (she sat across from me, but she was absent), and Nacho.

 

      Flaco had his face down and I could see his pencil scribbling away and every now and then he’d scratch his head like he was thinking or feeling for lice. Nacho had his face down too, scrunched up with his tongue sticking out.

 

      I made two paper balls. I threw one at Flaco, hitting him on the back of his head, and quickly threw one at Nacho, hitting him in the face. Flaco spun around and Nacho looked up, slammed his pencil down.

 

      Flaco shot up and they exchanged several bad words in Spanish and Flaco grabbed Nacho’s desk and flipped it over. Nacho wrestled himself out of his desk and sprang up like a cat on Flaco. Mrs. De la Garza shouted for them to stop and yelled at the top of her lungs for Coach Villalobos.

 

      The door flew open and Coach Villalobos, a soldier who had fought in the war and was as big as a gorilla, charged in like a hurricane, grabbed Flaco and Nacho by their collars, shook them like rag dolls, and dragged them out of the classroom to the principal’s office, where they were paddled.

 

Mrs. De la Garza regained her composure, adjusted her hair and told us to complete our assignment. After twenty minutes, Flaco and Nacho came in and took their seats gingerly. I thought it was pretty funny, but I also felt pretty guilty. I walked up to Mrs. De la Garza’s desk.

 

     “Mrs. De la Garza, I have a confession to make.”

 

      She smiled pleasantly at me. “Yes?”

 

     “Well,” I sighed. “You know the fight Flaco and Nacho got into?”

 

     “Of course, I was right here when it happened.”

 

      "Well, I started it.”

 

She smiled kindly, “I know they’re your friends and you’re trying to help them. Now go sit down.”

 

     “But Miss, it’s my fault. See, I took two paper wads and threw one at the back of Flaco’s head and then I threw one at Nacho and they thought they did it, so they got into a mistake fight.”

 

     She nodded and smiled, “I believe you. But those two need to be paddled every day.”

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scary Angels

 

 

       I was a confident seven-year-old, walking with my older cousins. We were lost looking for my mom and tia. The annual livestock show always stunk of cow caca and hay. It was held on acres of fields outside of Mercedes, Texas, about ten miles from Edcouch, my hometown. Half the livestock show was cows, pigs, and piles of caca. The other half was covered with carnival rides, spinning and flipping with happy screams.

 

       There were people everywhere, and we split up and agreed to meet at the House of Horrors.  I walked for less than a moment and found myself in front of a carnival game. People with big zipper ride smiles tossing nickels onto colorful plates. The coins would make beautiful champagne-glass-clicking-sounds and skip off the shiny plates.

 

       There was the cotton candy machine, whipping pink string around paper sticks. The sweet aroma pushed away the dry livestock stench, and my mouth began to water, but I had no money. That’s when I realized, I was lost.

 

       I walked to the House of Horrors, but I didn’t see my family. I waited for what seemed an hour and began to worry. The spooky laughs from the House of Horrors gave me a cold chill and I decided to walk to our family car and wait for mom. Dad was in the National Guard, and he was assigned to parking cars. I thought maybe I’d see him directing traffic.

 

        The parking lot was a dark dirt field covered in cars. The farther I walked away from the carnival rides the more the screams sounded terrified. I found our car and sat on the roof, letting my legs rest on the windshield. I hummed a little bit, trying to drown out the swirled screams and twisted carnival music, but it was no use. I began to sniffle and tears rolled down. I was lost, and no one was looking for me.

 

        I walked back to the carnival crying. Now everything was a blur, and I heard glass shattering into laughter. I saw two boys throwing beer bottles at a telephone pole. I stood; my head being raised by my heavy sighs.

 

       They stopped laughing and walked to me. They were smoking. One of them took a slow drag and let the smoke pour out of his mouth. Smoke surrounded his face, and he leaned out of the cloud over me and asked in a gruff voice, “Hey, little boy. Are you lost?”

 

        I looked up at the dark figure and nodded, “I can’t find my mother.”

 

       They looked at each other, but I couldn’t see their faces. One of them took a final drag of his cigarette, making the end of it a fire-red reflecting in his eyes. He flicked it into the darkness. He put his hand out, and though I was afraid, I reached out. The other boy took my other hand, and we walked into the bright carnival lights. They walked me to the lost and found booth, and they told the lady they found me walking around the parking lot.

 

        The lady smiled, and a policeman walked in, and the two boys bolted like rabbits. The policeman shouted and chased them. Mom and dad walked in arguing over who should have been watching me. That’s when I realized I had angels watching me.

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Man Vs Beast

 

       Up to the age of ten, I wasn’t afraid of jellyfish. They don’t have teeth or claws. Sure, they have tentacles, but not like an octopus.  I was at Padre Island with my family and cousins. My brother and I and girl cousins, Ana and Millie, were knee-deep in the water on a sandbar. We saw the translucent purple jellyfish floating. It looked just like the illustrations I had seen in schoolbooks.

 

      “Let’s pop it,” my brother said in evil excitement.

 

       “Yeah,” I said. “Too bad we don’t have our BB guns. We could pop it from here.”

 

       Our cousins frowned and Ana spoke up. “Look, the jellyfish is not bothering anyone. It’s harmless, so leave it alone,” she sounded like our mother.

 

       My brother was quick. “It’s not harmless. It’s got tentacles and they sting you all over.”

 

        “And it’s heading straight for the shore where little kids are playing!” I said in a dramatic panicked tone.

 

        My brother followed. “We’ve got to save them,” he said as Superman would, and we ran and dived off the sandbar.

 

        We heard our cousin shout, “You guys are idiots!”

 

        Once we got to the shore we ran to our dad’s truck and grabbed a shovel and a hoe we had brought to make sandcastles, but popping jellyfish sounded like more fun. We ran to our parents who were sitting with our tío and tía in lawn chairs. Dad and tío were wearing cheap sunglasses, smoking cigarettes, and drinking beer.

 

        “Hey, dad, we’re going to pop a jellyfish!” my brother said.

 

          Mom looked up from her magazine. “Those things can sting you. Just leave it alone.”

 

         Tío started laughing. “Tan locos! You got to have real guts to go after a jellyfish,” he paused. “I dare you to do it.”

 

          Dad laughed, but our mother didn’t think it was funny.

 

         “Honey, tell them to leave the jellyfish alone,” mom said as she pushed on dad’s shoulder.

 

          “But mom, it’s attacking the shore,” my brother said. “We’ve got to stop it.”

 

           Mom nudged dad again. “Tell them no.”

 

           “We have to do it,” I said.

 

           Tío, jumped in, “They must learn. It’s in the bible. Man versus beast.”

 

           “It’s not a beast; it’s just a jellyfish,” my brother said. “It doesn’t have teeth or nothing.”

 

            “Y los tentacles?” Tío asked. We shrugged.

 

            “Two boys against one jellyfish. Good luck,” dad waved us off.

 

          We ran into the warm gulf. I with the shovel, and my brother with the hoe. We were chest-deep when we encountered the sea creature bobbing and swaying. We surrounded the jellyfish, counted to three, and brought down our weapons on the floating bag of air. We thought maybe we’d hear the jellyfish pop, but all we heard was metal clacking sounds of the shovel and hoe. I scooped up the deflated purple body and brought it to shore.

 

         Dad and tío met us, and dad said to put the jellyfish in the beach trashcan. As we did we noticed how long its tentacles were— too long. I saw my brothers back covered in red lines and when he turned around, he saw my chest and stomach were covered with red lines too. Our skinny legs were striped in red ribbons, and we felt the burning between our legs. We ran to our mother, but she just put her hand up and said, “¿Quién te manda? Go see your father.”

 

         Dad and tío were done with their first six-pack. We showed them our red bodies and told them how it was burning between our legs, they laughed. Dad gave us a bottle of lotion and told us to rub it everywhere we itched. We lay spread-eagle on a beach towel baking in the hot sun. 

 

          Our tipsy tío walked over to us in his sunglasses.  “Hey boys. You don’t need teeth to bite.”

 

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dad Shoots to Kill

 

 

       When the hurricane was going to hit the Rio Grande Valley, dad was ready. It didn’t matter if the hurricane had sustained winds of 140 miles per hour, and tens of thousands of people had evacuated the Texas Gulf coast. Dad was in the National Guard and had orders to leave his family, pick up his machine gun and head to Brownsville to protect the stores from looters.

 

       Dad was packing his Army bag as I talked.

 

       “So, you just walk around the streets?” I asked.

 

       “Those are my orders. Patrol the streets and secure law and order,” he said with firm purpose.

 

        “But mom said no one is there because of the hurricane.”

 

        “No, mijito, there may be people trying to break into the stores and steal things.”

 

        “So, if someone is robbing a store and they shoot at you, are you going to shoot back?”

 

         Dad stood up, “Hell, yeah, if someone tries to kill me, you bet I’ll try to kill them.”

 

         Hours later the hurricane made landfall, dropping walls of rain. Mom opened the front door, and we could see the lake around us. Our porch was under water, and though our house was on cinder blocks, the floodwaters were just inches under our house. The water around us moved like the ocean. I thought we were in a boat, and we’d drift away.

 

            Mom held my two-year-old brother in one arm and put her other arm around my shoulders. She looked very worried.

 

           “We may have to leave this house tonight.”

 

            All I could think of was dad killing someone.

 

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bombs Away

 

 

        For show and tell, I took a bomb to school. My fourth-grade teacher said we could bring anything and it was just lying around the garage doing nothing but rusting. My father brought it home after a weekend of playing soldier. He was in the National Guard and always brought home cool things, army food, army makeup, flares, blank bullets, and bombs.

 

       It was a dummy shell, so it was harmless but heavy. I picked it up and dropped it in the backyard and grabbed the water hose. I took some soap and a steel-wool pad and began brushing off the rust. Mom came outside and saw what I was doing. I told her what I was going to do and she raised her brow.

 

      “You can’t take a bomb. Want to blow up the whole town?”

 

       Dad spoke up as he walked through the back screen door. “It’s a dud, that thing can’t blow up anything.”

 

       Mom shook her head. “Tas bien loco.”

 

       Dad and I bought some red and silver spray paint and painted the bomb, a silver case with a bright red point. I carried it to school in a paper bag and I didn’t let anyone see it. I watched students take up dumb stuff like a lava lamp, a magic wand that didn’t work, and a frog some kid caught. The kids in the class were mildly amused, but I knew my bomb would blow them away.

 

       When the teacher called my name, I walked up as if I was holding a baby. I put the bag down on the floor and took out the bomb and the kids started to get out of their seats to get a better look.

 

       Our teacher had lots of knickknacks on her desk: a wooden apple, paper clip containers, a little school bus, and her favorite, a snow globe of peaceful village surrounded by pine trees. She made some space on her desk and as I gently tried to put the bomb down, somehow, I lost my footing and banged it against the desk. All her things fell off, and I dropped the bomb on the desk. The students gasped and a couple of girls even screamed.

 

        I tried to calm the students, “Don’t worry. It’s safe; it’s a dud. It can’t do anything.”  The bomb fell on its side and began to roll, and I froze in fear. 

 

       In slow motion the bomb rolled off the desk and landed point first on the peaceful snow globe village.

 

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s What You Sew

 

 

        My father didn’t like it when my grandmother, Mamá Locha, taught me how to sew. Because before long, I was laying down patterns and learning how to make dresses. Often, I was a human doll for dresses Mamá Locha was making. I’d stand still as she made final measurements with pins. It drove my father nuts.

 

       One afternoon as I modeled a dress for Mamá Locha, dad walked in with a long narrow box wrapped in brown butcher paper and handed it to me.

 

      “What is it?” I asked.

 

      “Something every eight-year-old boy should have. Open it,” he said proudly.

 

       I took quickly took off the wrapper and there it was, a brand-new Daisy BB rifle. 

 

       My grandmother gasped. “Esa cosa es peligrosa.”

 

        Dad nodded. “Yes, but you know what’s more dangerous? A boy walking around in a girl’s dress.”

 

        My BB gun needed no reloading for fifty shots and every telephone pole, can, bottle, street sign, streetlight, tree, bird, dog, and cat knew it.   I was a fast shooter and couldn’t carry enough BBs. That’s when my sewing talent came to the rescue. I called my grandmother and asked her if the sewing machine was available. Dad overheard my brief conversation.

 

       “Where are you going?”

 

       “I’m going to Mamá Locha’s house.”  I grabbed my BB gun and a big box of BBs and bounced out the door. 

 

        I showed my grandmother a sketch of what I wanted to make.  She frowned, “As long as you’re sewing.”

 

        I went through her box of scraps and began sewing. I was halfway done when dad walked in the room.

He leaned over and our eyes met for a moment through the stabbing needle of the Singer, “Mijo, why are you sewing?”

 

        Without looking up, I answered, “You know how soldiers use to carry a pouch filled with gunpowder?”

 

        Dad nodded, “Yeah.”

 

      “Well, I’m going to make a pouch for my BBs. This way I can carry twice as many.”

 

        Dad smiled, stood up and patted my shoulder. “That’s my boy.”

 

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Published by UIL. 2018. 

 

Nothing But Blue Skies

 

 

             On my seventh birthday my grandmother, Mama Locha gave me a sky-blue shirt with fluffy clouds. She bought it in San Antonio at an art gallery and said it was hand painted. It was one of a kind.

 

         “Every day brings a different sky, but your sky will always be bright blue with fluffy clouds,” she said. She told me to wash it in cold water and let hang dry so it would stay bright blue. She believed you should take care of your clothes and give them to people you love.

 

        I’d go with her to Goodwill, and she’d look at dresses and coats. “Where do you think these have been? Weddings, parties or chilly nights by a fire? They all tell stories.”

 

        “You think clothes tell stories?” I asked.

 

        “People tell stories and the clothes they wear hold memories. Your great grandmother made my wedding dress. Your mother wore my wedding dress at her wedding and maybe one day, your sister will wear my dress at her wedding. See, we pass on our clothes, and they carry love.”

 

         I loved the sky-blue shirt, but I loved one thing more, my dog Crazy Loco. He was great and followed me everywhere. He’d sometimes walk in front, but always made sure I was following him. And other times, Crazy Loco walked behind, but I made sure he was following me. I guess you could say he was my best friend.

 

         One of my friends lived a few blocks away and I’d walk to his house to play, and Crazy Loco tagged along. One day I stayed at my friend’s house past sundown and walked home in the dark. I wasn’t afraid because it was my neighborhood, and Crazy Loco was with me. He was a brave dog and though he never barked and certainly never bit anyone, I think he’d do both, if he thought I was in danger.

 

         I decided to walk through a different street and Crazy Loco was right behind, then I heard a whimper, a sound I never heard Crazy Loco make. He stopped, took a step and limped on his left front leg.

 

         “Hey buddy, you, okay?” I asked.

 

          Crazy Loco took another step and whimpered. I thought maybe he had a sticker or thorn in his paw.  I walked to him and kneeled to look at his paw. It was dark so I couldn’t see too well, but there was a dim streetlight nearby, so I carried him to the light.

 

          I felt under his paw and couldn’t feel a sticker or a thorn, but I felt warm water covering my hand. I put my palm to the light and saw lots of red blood. I looked down at Crazy Loco and could only imagine the pain he was in. I looked for a rag or anything to stop the bleeding. I had my sky-blue shirt and didn’t think twice. I took it off and wrapped his paw and did my best to carry him home.

 

         When I got home the first thing mom asked was why I didn’t have a shirt on.  I led her outside and told her Crazy Loco had cut his paw and needed badges.

 

         “I used my shirt to stop the bleeding.”

 

          “Are you crazy? That was an expensive shirt your grandmother bought you. And now you’ve ruined it.”

 

          “Crazy Loco was bleeding. I had to do something.” I said with my eyes tearing up. “Mom, please help him.”

 

            Mom worked in a hospital and knew how to dress a wound, but she was right about the shirt. My sky-blue shirt was soaked in blood. I put it the wash with cold water and hung it on a chair to dry. The next day it had red blotches all over it.     Mom shook her head. “You better tell Mama Locha what you did.”

 

           Mama Locha lived across the street and when I showed her the shirt and explained what I did for Crazy Loco. She put her hands together.

 

           “You gave Crazy Loco the shirt right off your back?”   

 

            “I had to do something. He’s my best friend.” I took a deep breath. “Mama Locha, are you mad at me?”

 

            She grinned and pointed to the sky, “Mira.”  I looked up and it was bright blue with fluffy clouds.

 

            “Mi’jito, that will always be your sky.”

 

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Five Things I've Learned About America

 

 

 

 

Americans Don't Believe in Impossible

 

     My grandfather, David Hume Rice, was born in 1898 and attended the University of Illinois and studied English. He was a philosopher and poet and came from a wealthy family. He probably never thought he’d move from Barrington, Illinois to Edcouch in South Texas in 1926.

 

     In the 1950’s he adopted my father, a little Mexican boy who crossed the border without documents.  My father was left at Grandfather David’s dairy farm by the foreman. Grandfather decided to raise him as his son.

 

     My grandfather’s parents and siblings were not happy. They cut him off financially and he lost his dairy farm, livestock, and equipment. He moved in with us and he practically raised me. In his much later years, I took care of him. Fed him, bathed him, and lit his pipe.

 

     I spent thousands of hours with my grandfather. From watching baseball and football games on TV to reading stories together.  People think blood makes a family. Nope, it’s love.

 

     America’s bond is love. Hate always fails. We are not going to let anything, or anyone tear us apart.  A perfect union sounds impossible, but this is America, and we don’t believe in impossible.

 

 

 

 

 

Don't Drop the American Flag

 

 

      My Mexican grandfather, Papa Lalo, gave me a broom and told me to practice walking around the yard. I was a Cub Scout and was going to carry the American Flag in the town parade. My grandmother, Mama Locha, said it was like carrying the cross at church. “You can’t drop it.” I was an altar boy and carried the cross when church started. So, I knew what I was doing, but we were going to lead the military veterans, so no messing up.

 

     I had the chance to carry the flag a few times. When I become a Scout, I was promoted to assistant senior patrol leader and had to pick a Cub Scout to carry the flag. I formed a committee, and we picked three scouts to carry the flag. They shared the responsibility beacuse the American flag can get heavy. 

 

     My father and brother served in the National Guard. My brother, Roger, died in a car accident in 1989 and had a military funeral. The honor guard gave my mother and father a folded flag. It’s on the fire mantel under a picture of my brother in his uniform.  Every so often I clean it and make sure it hasn’t moved, but it’s not going anywhere. It’s the heaviest thing in the house.

 

     The American flag carries hope, dreams, struggles and love. It has unconditional love for us. It will let us burn it, tear it, and abuse it. Sure, it’s just a symbol and we should carry the flag in our hearts, but I love Old Glory. I fly it proudly and have never dropped it. 

 

 

 

 

 

Our Children are Watching

 

 

     In 1979 I was voted best Scout Spirit at Camp Perry in the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas. When you win an award, people notice. Months later I was asked to be the judge at the annual Cub Scout Pinewood derby race.

 

     Ernest Mehlhorn, director of the Scout Council Wewanoma Lodge 272, looked like my white grandfather and had the same mannerisms. He was going to attend the derby and scouts from the area were going to help.

 

     I was told to wear my full uniform: my merit badge sash and my Order of The Arrow-Brotherhood sash. I wasn’t an Eagle, but I already had my Life badge. I thought it was a little much, but Mehlhorn said I had to look very official.

 

     The derby was held at the McAllen National Guard Amory. Bigger than a basketball gym and it was packed. Scouts and parents from all the nearby towns.  I stood next to Melhorn as he thanked the National Guard, the volunteer scouts, the parents, the Den leaders, and the cub scouts.

 

     “Today’s judge is David Rice. He was a Cub Scout, a Webelo, and he is a Life Scout. He also Order of the Arrow Brotherhood and the assistant senior patrol leader of Troop 154. His is the final word. Here’s to the spirit of competition and good sportsmanship. Let the derby begin!” The place went wild with cheers. Mehlhorn patted my shoulder, “Hold fast.”

 

     There were two brackets, and the races were a blast. I made sure to shake the hands of every competitor, and the calls were easy until the last race. The two fastest pinewood derby cars at the top of the track. The crowd seemed bigger than when we started. More scouts and parents everywhere.

 

     I put my hand up with the scout sign and the place got so quiet you could hear the imaginary engines in the pinewood.  I shook the hands of the Cub Scouts and singled a scout to the release the cars.

 

     The cars were a blur. Side by side to the finish. They were tied and there were no devices to confirm my decision. I stood up and knew I had to be quick. I pointed to a car and said, “The winner!” The two Cub Scouts cheered for each other and shook hands. All the other scouts were cheering too and then it got messed up by the parents.

 

     The parents started shouting about who won and were demanding a do over. They were pointing and shouting at each other. Some even used profanity. I looked around at the other scouts and we didn’t know what was going on or what to do.

 

     Every so often, at scout camp, if things got heated between rival troops, the scout leader would raise a hand with the Scout sign and belt out loud, “Scout Law!” It worked every time.

 

     Director Mehlhorn raised his hand with the Scout sign and roared, “Scout Law!”

Every Scout snapped to attention and at the top of our lungs we roared back: 

 

     “A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.”

 

     The hall got quiet and Mehlhorn said in a calm manner, “Scouts, the golden rule.”  

 

     We replied with sincerity. “Do unto others as you would have them to unto you.”

 

     “Scouts, thank you for leading the way. Parents,” Mehlhorn said with a nod.

 

     “Our children are watching.”

 

 

 

 

 

 America Was Made Strong for a Reason

 

 

     Americans love hats. Everyone I know has at least three or four.  We have: work hats, parent hats, little league hats, Boys and Girls club hats, Scout hats, volunteer fire fighters’ hats, church choir hats, meals on wheels hats, PTA hats, and the list goes on.

 

     We wear lots of hats because we get involved in our communities. Over 60 million Americans help organizations and let’s not forget helping friends move and much more we never count. Our hats are right up there with hero capes.

 

     On the world stage, America wears heavy hats. When you’re the biggest kid on the block, you don’t bully. You’re meant to help others.

 

    Yes, it can get a little tiring, but America was made strong for a reason. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.  

 

     Adjust your hat and get to work.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s A Very Crowded Election Booth

 

 

      We never vote alone. My Tía Lucía in the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas did a lot of work to get the vote out before she died. She would call on her friends to remind them to vote.  I’ve been an election clerk in Travis County since 2008. It’s a lot of fun and a lot of work. You take classes and take an oath to protect the rights of citizens to be counted at the ballot box.

 

      But why is the voting booth so crowded? Because it took millions of people to fight for your right to vote. Wars, marches, protests, and a continuing commitment from people to make America a good and honest nation. Free and fair elections to ensure your voice is heard and counted. You’re in good company when you vote.

 

     After I cast my ballot, I say thank you to the election workers and to the people who fought for my right to vote.  My vote shows my love for my country and my gratitude to those before me. I do my best for American democracy and Tía Lucía.

 

 

 

And: Sí Se Puede.

 

 

            A friend of mine said Mexicans like to say, “Let’s try it and see what happens?” And yeah, we say it a lot, but I thing Americans say it the most. Our nation believes rewards are greater than the risk. We’re the home of test pilots, test tracks, and prototype rollouts. We like to break records and barriers.

 

            Scientists say a baby will fall on average of 296 times before it can walk. Who are these scientists who let babies fall 296 times? But yeah, a baby has to learn, and we have to learn too.

 

            The great democracy experiment is a crazy idea, but someone’s got to try it. Two-hundred-and-fifty years of not giving up. We’ve come too far to turn back.

 

            The more perfect union might take another 250 years. 

 

            Baby steps. Let’s keep trying and see what happens.

 

 

 

FIN