BreadThe old woman kneaded the dough, the source of life for her family. She had made bread so many times that her hands moved in the motions without her telling them to, allowing her mind to wander.She felt the deep tradition in these movements which her ancestors had likewise followed so many generations before. The actions that she herself had performed almost her entire life; the process that her mother had taught her, like her grandmother had taught her mother, all the way up her family tree. There seemed to be something meaningful about this, that so many women would dedicate so much of themselves to it. The timeless practice that had stretched the passing of time and would continue on through eternity; there was something comforting about that constant.Looking down at her wrinkled and age spotted hands the woman noticed that they had stilled, shaking her head at her own silliness she went back to work.
What is My AmericaWhat is my America, what is my USA?What does it mean to me?How can you explain, is there a way?How can I say what is it to be free?What is America to me?Freedom, that is the expressionEverything that we were, and all that we will beIt’s the chance to do anything I wantTo be able to live and love and be happyThat’s what America is to me.This is the land where all people are equalThis is the land where all people are freeThe place where I can say what I have to say,Able to choose who I am, and what I want to be.That’s what America means to me.