Austin - Capitol Grounds, African-American Statue (the Masses) / Journey into Another Language, The Slaughter House

The incredible detail here - to think of the precision and technology needed to cast this in bronze!  The message is also clear, of a downcast people looking to the right source for supplication.  I once told a friend that I envied the slaves of the American south for the purity of their faith.

Closer shot below of the central figure:

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[continued from yesterday's post; series started 07/05]
Because of Mrs. Herrera's compassion I was able to continue with Spanish, and signed up for Spanish II in the tenth grade.  We had a different teacher and it was a forgettable experience, but I sailed through with a B for the year, I think.  I moved to Beaumont for my last two years of high school and chose not to take Spanish while there.

And that would have been the end of it were it not for an encounter in the locker room after my first day of work at Iowa Beef Processors (IBP) in Amarillo the summer of 1978.  The encounter was related in this post from a few years ago.  I asked a guy a few lockers down from mine, whose name was Ramón García, where to take my clothes to be washed.  When it became obvious that he didn't know a word of English (in fact he was an illegal immigrant fresh from Mexico at the time) I saw an opportunity to practice my skills after a three-year hiatus of not using the language.  He patiently listened to my very broken Spanish, and was delighted to help me out once he understood what was needed.

Encouraged that this guy was so friendly and patient with my Spanish, I tried talking to him every day, and soon it became easier.  Within a week or so we got to talking about the Bible; I had been elected president of the Lutheran Student Movement on campus at SFA, and told him it was my goal to learn something about it that summer.  This led to an invitation to his church, which I eagerly accepted since the service would be conducted entirely in Spanish.  It was an enriching experience spiritually and gave me plenty of practice, as I attended every Sunday for the duration of the summer.  By the time I headed back to college for my sophomore year it could be said that I was somewhat fluent.

So I was back in the running with another language.  Little did I know that Mrs. Hererra's consideration, and my contact with Ramón later on, was steering my life onto a trajectory that would deliver me much deeper into the language and culture of Mexico than I could have ever guessed at the time.