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MISS TITTY

written by Carla M. Barela

Shall I compare thee
To a 44D?
You strumpet.
You Jezebel.
You sleaze.
You harlot
You trollop.
You tease.
Shall I spank you
Over my bended knee?
You show it.
You know it.
You please.


Copyright 2009 Dr. Elmer E. Wells

THE SURPRISE

written by Carla M. Barela

Spring is always a surprise
to me.
Like it never happened before.
The sweet mornings just
grab me.
Like they never happened.
They intoxicate me.
The fresh smells.
Like they never happened before.
Who ever said, "The best
surprise is no surprise?"
They haven't been zapped
by spring.


© 2009 Dr. Elmer E. Wells

THE DILEMMA

written by Carla M. Barela

All my life (well, most of it)
I've been trying to figure out Matthew 10:16, where Jesus said:
"Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the
midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as
serpents, and harmless as doves."
As a Catholic nun, I tried to take this seriously.
How can a person do both?
This is the rub.
Here's how it works for me --sometimes
I'm very wise.
I figure it out.
I can get it right.
I zing in on what I want to say.
I focus in on what I want to do...
And I end up being mean.
Other times, I am so simple,
helpful, thoughtful, even sweet.
And I end up getting duped, getting scooped.
"Why didn't you think of this...?"
Why didn't you do that...?"
"How could you forget... ?"
I'll keep hitting it.
Some days I'll be wise.
Some days I'll be simple.
Some days I'll even be both.


© 2009 Dr. Elmer E. Wells

THE NUN'S TALE

written by Carla M. Barela

I was a nun, a catholic nun, for twelve years. Really. And my first teaching assignment was St. Rose On The River -a ghetto school on the Ohio River, lower Cincinnati, Ohio. Our old red-brick two-story school was 75 feet from the banks of the Ohio --so close the school basement flooded -almost every other year. The school playground stretched right to the river a
drop of about ten feet and there it was -the "beautiful Ohio." As for the students? I quickly found that the fourth and fifth graders were sharper than I was. They were street smart even
at 10 and 11 years old. They had seen parts of life that I didn't know existed. And they were all poor. Dennis Grace was my most favorite 5th grader. His grasp of logic and artistic ability were much bigger than his small world. Dennis and his mom and his younger brother, Early Grace, came up from Kentucky to Cincinnati so his mom could find work. A poorly educated black woman had a hard time getting housework in rural Kentucky. Cincinnati was better. Sister Bernice, our principal, complained one day that she noticed the Grace brothers seemed to miss a lot of school. One day she asked Dennis to have his mother call in or write a note if there was a sickness in the family. Sure enough Dennis missed the next school day. And sure enough Dennis had the requested note the following day. "Dennis didn't come to school Friday because he didn't have no shoes." Dennis and his little brother missed alternate days and as I watched I realized that Dennis and Early wore the same pair of old brown shoes every other day. I still shed a tear when I recall this. When you are a nun and a teacher, you're supposed to "keep it together." This meant, don't admit you've made a mistake. This rule didn't work for me. One day in music class, we sang several songs from our new fresh smelling music books. John Breadon (who sat in front of Dennis) raised his hand and asked if we could sing the song on page 21. Turned out this was The Cotton Field song. "When I was just a little bitty baby my momma would rock me in the cradle... " I saw the intricate rhythm, the dotted sixteenth notes and the many rests. I gulped inside. I did not know this song. Soon a chorus of "please Sista" joined with John's request. I stopped. Silence. Haltingly, I admitted slowly, "John.. .1 really don't know this song." "Dennis knows it! Dennis knows it!" Several classmates clamored. "Do you know this song, Dennis?" "Yes, Sista," he said, shyly. "Come on up to the front and sing it, Dennis." He walked up slowly to the front of the room. Then he started to sing -softly at first. Then, he belted it out. The rest of the class raucously joined in, clapping and singing. The moment was more than special. My sheltered life was really showing that afternoon. Playground duty was part of the routine. One day Dennis haltingly came up to me with his hands behind his back. "Do you want to show me something, Dennis?" Yes, Sista. Dis is the pictha dat I drawed last night." He reached over and displayed a piece of notebook paper (ruled) with a drawing of Jesus -halo, head, shoulders -smiling in full color. I could tell he had traced it. Still, it was neatly done; the colors were within their traced lines. After a moment, I exclaimed, "Dennis, this is really beautiful!" His smile lit up his face. "Thank you, Sista." "Did you draw this by yourself?" "Yes, Sista." Pause. "Dennis, did you do your homework last night?" Pause. "No, Sista. I was drawing dis pictha."

Copyright 2009 Dr. Elmer E. Wells

JOURNEY FROM SPANISH NUN TO WETBACK

written by Carla M. Barela

The moment occurred in Pueblo, Colorado in 2005. But first, let me give you the background. Shortly after I was born, I suffered years of therapy as a result of having polio. My dad was very fair, as was my mom. All of us, the kids, were quite fair except for Margaret, who was our family "morena." My two brothers, Margaret and I attended only catholic schools in Albuquerque where we lived a Disneyesque life. At home, we lived as Anglos, except for the Mexican food our mom prepared. We heard mom and dad speak Spanish, but we understood that to be the Spanish spoken in Spain. Thus, we never identified with the word Mexican as possibly referring to us. I moved to Pueblo in 1969 where I served as a nun under the auspices of the Sisters of Charity Religious Order through 1972. In 1973, my relationship with the Sisters of Charity was severed and I took a civilian position at Southern Colorado Sate College [1973-77] as Assistant Director and Community Coordinator of the SCSC 9th Cycle Teacher Corps Program. Following my stint as a Real Estate Broker for Jones Healy Real Estate, which culminated in 1978, I became a partner of Cortez Construction Company. I became the President and CEO of that Company in 1990 -a position I currently enjoy. During this period of change, my "real world" education took off. Still, I saw undocumented aliens as a group of people, but not my people. It wasn't until 2005 that my epiphany manifested. What started as a pleasant drive on the mesa in Blende ended up tossing my world upside down. It wasn't like I had never seen migrant workers in the fields before. But this time, watching them bending over diligently picking and pulling the pungent plants that would later grace my table, I found myself slowing down and looking back at them. My stomach twisted along with my head. It took me a while to figure out this feeling of confusion. Mind you, it was summer time and the temperature was well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. But I remember feeling embarrassed for them and for myself at the same time. But why, I thought? Was I seeing them differently for the first time? What about at the 7-Eleven Stores? Hearing them speak Spanish; hearing them struggle with English; witnessing their homeless appearance. Fast forward to three weeks later. It hit me like a lightning bolt. I suddenly realized that my inner struggles had to do with my own identity. I didn't want anyone to think that I was one of them! After all, I graduated with a BMED degree in music education from an all women's college, The College of Mt. St. Joseph on·the Ohio with a major in music education, and I took my master"s degree in music education from CU Boulder! Besides, I was well dressed, and properly raised! Without dirt grinded hands, mud stained shoes and in need of dental care. Thankfully, that moment became my second epiphany. Because it was at that moment of questioning and doubt that I realized that we are the same. I wondered why it had taken me so long to figure this out? And at the same time, I felt so relieved that I had finally come to terms with my own identity. Now when I drive around Pueblo County and see "my people" working in the fields I sympathize with their plight. And I make yearly financial donations to their welfare through a nun I know who works with migrants in Avondale. After all, I share their genetic background, their history, their misery, their hopes and dreams. They are no longer invisible to me. Now, we are one.

Copyright 2009 Dr. Elmer E. Wells