Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…


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Cheating hearts.

If it was only 29 years, it was 29 of the hardest years I had ever seen.

Visiting the Hank Williams museum was our first choice in Montgomery, Alabama, after finding out the Rosa Parks Museum was closed, the Legacy museum was closed, and the art museum was closed. Even F. Scott Fitzgerald’s house, closed.

Of course I had heard of “Your cheatin’ heart,” and perhaps a few other songs, but I can’t say I was a real fan. I just assumed he was old, as I had with anyone I was introduced to when I was young. And the images didn’t tell a different story. In the videos and photos, I would have said he was in his seventies.

The man at the front counter said to be sure and ask questions. There were mostly stage outfits and record labels, nothing that questionable. The wooden Native Americans caught my eye. This made me wonder, until I saw the story of his song, “Kaw-Liga.” The whole thing made me a little uncomfortable. The story of the Native American turning to wood by the water, waiting for his true love. They spelled it differently on the marker by the bridge. Differently on the carved statue in the museum. Someone got it wrong. (I was having the feeling that we all did.) Of course I asked about the spelling. He didn’t actually spell it, but said the word slowly, claiming that this was correct because “he fished in that very lake.”

Still confused, we walked to Hank’s statue just down the street. I saw the date listed, 1923 – 1953. It took a minute to compute. Certainly this wasn’t his age. Were these the years he lived here? The years of his songs? 30 years old? Maybe it was the same engraver who tried to spell Kaw-Ligi. It just couldn’t be. I asked Siri. 29 she said. “It’s even worse,” I shouted to Dominique in the street. He was only 29! A hard 29!

So many things get by us. So easily. It’s hard to believe, even when the images are right there in front of us. The Freedom Riders. Bloody Sunday. The Civil Rights Movement. We learned the dates in school. But did we ask the questions? Are we asking the questions? Are we curious enough, open enough, loving enough, not to repeat the same horrific mistakes?

I suppose that’s the one thing the man at the Hank Williams counter got right – “Be sure to ask some questions.”

If you saw that I am not just my face, but all that I have faced… and if I did that for you…


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That’s enough.


They did the best they could to fill our minds, but it’s a longer path to the soul.

I’m sure we had a section about her — Rosa Parks. But to be honest, I’m certain we spent more time talking about our own bus rides to and from the very school that was trying to teach us.

In these desks, I had always assumed the word “enough,” was used in anger. Exasperation. “That’s enough!!!” — the teacher might say, often accompanied by a book, ruler, pencil, anything slammed against the desk. And we could be, well, exasperating for sure. We heard it from the bus driver who just couldn’t take the noise anymore as he drove us to Van Dyke Road, where parents, tired from a day’s work, said the same at the dinner table.

It was much later that I learned a new meaning. A calm, gentle enough. An enough that says farewell to the hurt, the anger, the torment, whatever it is pulling down on you. I suppose it takes a while to find this inner place. This inner peace. No bus can actually take you there, you have to find it from within. And when you do, you can say, just as Rosa Parks did, in the most graceful of ways, enough. To say with all of your mind, heart and soul, in a whisper that shouts louder than any slam, “Oh, but it is my place…” and take it.

We all have to learn it. But I’m so grateful for those who give us the examples of how it is done with grace. I have heard it from my grandmother. My mother. Rosa Parks. I painted the bookmark as a reminder. There is still so much to learn. So much to let go. But we CAN do it with grace. Enough of the name calling. The bullying. The fighting. The soul crushing, spirit limiting behavior.

Enough.