Finding Narratives

Walking through the cool air-conditioning, I was greeted with enthusiasm. Heading to the aquarium at the Port of Dubuque, in Iowa, I was taking an afternoon break away from the library and the responsibilities of school for a moment of indulgence, curiously exploring the city of Dubuque. Still learning, I became encaptivated by the thought that not all children grow up seeing such creatures—trout, clams, and otters—in their natural habitat. Heading to the outside exhibit, red gravel crunching under my sandals, I came across the opportunity to listen to the narratives of other people: families out for the day playing with their children, tramping up and down the mechanized ship, and listening to a boat-builder explain the origins of nautical argot. His words: “learn from the failures,” while explaining the technique of building his row-boat—sometimes education is learned by actions; spontaneous learning helps individuals grapple with the unknown. The restlessness of human behavior also helps me to see the connectedness of society. At the root, people are often very similar, yet the narratives are unique.

While I am often comfortable with the silence of the day, the kaleidoscope of laughter and snippets of conversation continue to gain my attention. Almost closing up the museum attractions, a tour guide rushes the family before me through the ferry-boat. The steel, mechanical wheels are stagnant, yet burst to life in my imagination. Everything is unraveling—there is no sense of ending, because nothing seems finished. The narratives are just beginning to make sense; I’m just getting to know their stories.

Unless exploring, people never really see the place they live in—they are too close. As I leave the river walk along the Port of Dubuque, my attention turns toward the concept of bridges: focused not on the emphasized grey bridge leading to Illinois, but instead to the bridge in the middle—the railroad crossing, deteriorated rust—as the green bridge in the distance leads on to my home in Wisconsin. The train in the distance sounds its horn, traveling underneath yet another bridge, this time sun-bleached, faded concrete as my Jeep Liberty propels me back to campus. There are many bridges yet to be crossed, connections which need to be made and narratives captured. Written in white on the back window of a pickup truck, Prom? mixes the old in with the new, bricks and metallic ideas proven to push forward to the horizon.