in watermelon sugar: first quilt guild meeting

Thursday, April 7, 2011

first quilt guild meeting

I finally went to my first quilting guild meeting. I’ve been trying to go for three years now at least. I could never quite make it. I was always tired from being a new teacher and mommy, and quite frankly I was intimidated. I finally went, unsure of what I would meet. Would everyone be amazing quilters and I would be hopelessly out of my league? Would they be snotty, it is after all the Proper Bostonian Quilters group. It was absolutely amazing. I was one of the only women under sixty, I was one of the only Black women there and it was absolutely wonderful. It was lovely being in women’s space. Our differences didn’t matter (for now). We had a common language of quilting. The women were warm and chatty. They acted as if they had been waiting for me (they raved about my quilts!). This must be how people feel at comic book conventions, when they leave their isolated existence as alienated nerds and finally join the fellowship of fellow costumed geeks.

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My Name by Richard Brautigan

I guess you are kind of curious as to who I am, but I am one of those who do not have a regular name. My name depends on you. Just call me whatever is on your mind.

If you are thinking about something that happened a long time ago: Somebody asked you to do something. You did it. Then they told you what you did was wrong-"Sorry for the mistake,"- and you had to do something else.

That is my name.

Perhaps it was a game you played when you were a child or something that came idly into your mind when you were old and sitting in a chair near the window.

that is my name.

Or you walked someplace. There were flowers all around.

that is my name. Perhaps you stared into a river. There was somebody near who loved you. They were about to touch you. You could feel this before it happened. Then it happened.

That is my name.

Or you hear someone calling from a great distance. Their voice as almost an echo.

That is my name.

Perhaps you were lying in bed, almost ready to go to sleep and you laughed at something, a joke unto yourself, a good way to end the day.

That is my name.

Or you were eating something good and for a second forgot what you were eating, but still went on, knowing it was good.

That is my name.

Perhaps it was around midnight and the fire tolled like a bell inside the stove.

That is my name.

Or you felt bad when she said that thing to you. She could have told it to someone else: Somebody who was more familiar with her problems.

That is my name. Perhaps the trout swam in the pool but the river was only eight inches wide and the moon shone on iDeath and the watermelon fields glowed out of proportion, dark and the moon seemed to rise from every plant.

That is my name.