This weekend my family celebrated not only my mother's graduation from college, but my Dad's fiftieth birthday. My aunts flew in from Texas, friends from Arizona, cousins from wherever they were in the US, and my sister and her husband drove up from Portland. It was a great party and so much fun, until the family togetherness began to wear a few of us down - namely myself and my older brother who are easily sparked.
Now, I want to precede this story with a anecdote that my father tells me every time we are driving through south-central Texas. It is the story of a small town called Gonzalez which, during the Texas war for independence, made a big name for itself. This town of a few hundred people (maybe less) was harboring a cannon owned by the Mexican army. When the war began, the Mexicans demanded the cannon back. The townspeople refused. The Mexicans again asked for their cannon, flexing their muscles and threatening attack if the cannon was not relinquished. In response, the hardy people of Gonzalez hung up a banner at the entrance to their town which read, clearly and proudly, "Come and take it!" The Mexicans came, but never got their cannon back because the Texans fought long and hard.
This little piece of history is a reflection of an argument my brother and I got into this weekend. My father has a bike. "A classic!" the REI people yell every time I bring it in for tune-ups. This bike is only ten years old, but it is vintage in the bike world and generally awesome. I love this bike. When I ride to the park, I sleep with arm across it. Sometimes I even talk to The Bike. As it happens, when I was still living in Kyrgyzstan, my father told my older brother that he could take the bike. He didn't pick it up while I was gone, but once I had returned and already replaced the seat, rewrapped the handlebars, and had it tuned-up, he demanded The Bike. I refused. Again he demanded The Bike. Again, I refused. "Fine," he said, "I'm just going to take it then," and began preparing to load the bike onto his girlfriend's truck. I felt like a fire had been lit inside of me. This is how women who lift cars off of children feel! I ran outside in my bare feet and t-shirt and jumped on The Bike. "Come and take it!" I screamed and pedaled away.
After riding around the block, I realized that I couldn't go back home with The Bike while my brother was still there, so I stashed it in a neighbor's garage and walked home. "Why don't you have your shoes on?" my Dad asked when I walked in the door. "I don't really want to talk about it," I said. But I was vibrant from my victory. Come and take it.
