M S Marquart

Freedom: An Ode

“People can take everything 

except your education,”

my father’s anthem throughout my childhood.

 

I think of him growing up 

after World War II, 

his parents growing up

after the 1918 influenza epidemic

 

His parents coming of age

during the Great Depression,

marrying in a world scarred by war,

the hardship of raising a family then,

the constant worry about money and survival,

raising vegetables and chickens in the backyard, 

working hard, always hoping that it would be enough

 

I think of him escaping after school and work

to the library, a one-room haven

located above their small town’s jail

and city hall; the only government-owned

building in their town then, a landmark now

 

All that free education,

that no one could steal

out of his mind,

that couldn’t be lost or sold

when food was scarce

or bills were due

 

I think of him sharing that childhood experience

that meant so much to him,

taking my brother and I

to the library most weekends

when we were kids,

where I found portable paradises

that no one could take away,

hideouts from childhood miseries

created by E.L. Konigsburg, Beverly Cleary, 

Judy Blume, Lois Duncan

I read on car rides at night,

in snatches as we passed streetlights,

after bedtime, under the blankets

or in the closet

with a flashlight,

once scaring my mother into a household search

when she saw my empty bed

 

I think of the power of books,

that power that makes people afraid,

causes people to ban books, burn books,

suppress imagination and education, 

keep new ideas from taking root in people’s minds,

prevent children from seeing different perspectives

I think of my father

letting me read whatever I wanted,

letting me learn whatever I wanted,

even knowing that he could never

take it away if he disagreed

I think of my father

letting me become whoever I wanted,

taking me to find paradise wherever I wanted,

giving me freedom to wander the library,

choose any books, any worlds, any knowledge.

I think of my father. 

Love After Loving v. Virginia

 

Loving v. Virginia is the 1967 unanimous United States Supreme Court decision that ruled that the freedom to marry is constitutionally protected and cannot be denied based on race, which upended all U. S. laws against interracial marriage

 

I listen to my husband sing along to Motown in the shower.

He only sings along to the “Oooo”s and the “Waaa”s —

English is his fourth language, and he may not know the other lyrics.

In my gladness at his happy voice, I think “this is love,”

this swelling of my heart at the lightness of this moment. 

In our small studio, I can hear his singing everywhere.

I feel like anything is possible.

 

Later, he comes out of the bathroom with a razor

for our ritual of checking whether he’s missed any hairs

while shaving his head. I turn on my phone’s flashlight

as he pulls his ear forward. I check the line where his neck

meets the bottom of his scalp. I run my light across his crown

and the back of his head. I shave off any hairs he’s missed.

 

When it’s time for chores, I help as much as my disabilities

allow. I empty our three trash cans and gather the recycling, 

leaving the bags near the door for him to take to the trash chute 

and recycling closet, fifteen steps away. I help fill the laundry bags 

for him to take to the basement, and he makes trips up and down 

the elevator to move our items between washers and dryers, 

and then back home. When the weather is nice, sometimes we sit outside

and look at the flowers and trees while the machines do their work.  

 

These little rituals, these little happinesses, in our little home, 

are only possible because of the small and large sacrifices 

of people who fought and continue to fight for everyone’s civil rights.

When my parents were born, interracial marriage was illegal 

in most U. S. states. It was unthinkable that my German American

father would ever meet and marry my Korean mother; unthinkable 

that they would have mixed race, Asian American children. 

 

When my parents married, it was still against some states’ constitutions 

for them to do so across races. I married my husband across races and across 

religions, and no one blinked an eye at us or at the same-sex marriages 

being celebrated at City Hall that day. A wide variety of couples posed 

for joyful photos all around us. 

 

People marched, protested, advocated, voted. People were beaten, 

jailed, killed, so that my parents could marry each other, so my brother 

could marry his wife, so I could have nieces, so I could marry my husband

and create a Korean American, German American, Algerian home.  

My mother is an immigrant, my husband is an immigrant.  

Love fought to break barriers, made people consider and reconsider, 

and I am grateful for all of those people 

who made so much love in my life possible.