With all the chaos going on in the world, my own country now included, genealogy has simply felt unimportant in the past few months.
I document the past in the present, the places where our German ancestors lived in the Russian Empire, where they both struggled and flourished, where they left on their own when they could, if they could.
This is my thing. This is what I do. I admit it may be the smallest and least noticeable part of genealogy, but I still do it.
In part, this project is to keep the ancestral names of our villages alive and attached to current place names and GPS coordinates, even if nothing remains. To give ground to the stories we tell about our ancestors and to be able to say “This is where my ancestor’s house was,” even if it no longer stands. “These are the fields that they farmed,” even if the fields have long been left fallow or are destroyed by recent war. “This is where their church was, where they were baptized, confirmed and married,” even if all that is left are desecrated ruins. “This is where the cemetery was and where they are buried,” even if all that remains are the lilacs planted long ago, which still bloom every spring.
I will continue to do what I do even though I cannot help but hear the echoes of the past, history not repeating exactly but rhyming, and certainly giving me pause.
This poem arrived in my email this morning, and it was just what I needed. It is by Alberto Ríos, the first Poet Laureate for the state of Arizona, where I live now. For those who read this in languages other than English, I hope it translates well.
A House Called Tomorrow
You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen—
You are a hundred wild centuries
And fifteen, bringing with you
In every breath and in every step
Everyone who has come before you,
All the yous that you have been,
The mothers of your mother,
The fathers of your father.
If someone in your family tree was trouble,
A hundred were not:
The bad do not win—not finally,
No matter how loud they are.
We simply would not be here
If that were so.
You are made, fundamentally, from the good.
With this knowledge, you never march alone.
You are the breaking news of the century.
You are the good who has come forward
Through it all, even if so many days
Feel otherwise. But think:
When you as a child learned to speak,
It’s not that you didn’t know words—
It’s that, from the centuries, you knew so many,
And it’s hard to choose the words that will be your own.
From those centuries we human beings bring with us
The simple solutions and songs,
The river bridges and star charts and song harmonies
All in service to a simple idea:
That we can make a house called tomorrow.
What we bring, finally, into the new day, every day,
Is ourselves. And that’s all we need
To start. That’s everything we require to keep going.
Look back only for as long as you must,
Then go forward into the history you will make.
Be good, then better. Write books. Cure disease.
Make us proud. Make yourself proud.
And those who came before you? When you hear thunder,
Hear it as their applause.
Copyright © 2018 by Alberto Ríos.
Source: Poets.org
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