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a 1924 california colonial house

In 100, by Nora on November 24, 2018 at 6:33 pm

I was not communing with the colonial past as I scraped my knees climbing my straining olive tree. Adobe, round windows, curved doorways, wrought-iron lamps, echoing Spanish- and then Mexican-California, when el Camino connected the dotted missions of Jesuits (backwater of the bubbling Colonial apparatus): seemingly neutral spaces to a white girl, born into university-educated privilege, but spaces pioneered by the breaking hands of ohlone indians, whose itching garments were not their own, nor their days, whose nights were hemmed by glaring moments of submission, names lost, but whose hands left marks on the lives of a thousand thousand strangers.

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