Posted 12:34 p.m. Monday, June 29, 2026
Ink in Every Shade
Imagery. The lights were white. Not yellow, but the walls were yellow, with blocks of purple. Noise. It’s a roar of voices; men’s, women’s, high pitched and low. I’m standing to the side, in the shadows of the hall. I watch them settle and I wait. Silence falls upon the field house and a man begins to speak. My name is called and I force a smile on my face while lacing my hands together to stop them from shaking. I hear the droning applause as I step up to the microphone. My head is pounding and I can feel adrenaline rushing into my veins as I begin. “Hello everyone. Thank you all for assembling here today, my name is Clare Lasure a current junior here and I am proud to speak to you about my Native American heritage.”
Observation. When I was in elementary school, my father began lectoring at my church. I have grown up in a middle class Irish catholic environment, so going to church every Sunday was point blank, the “norm.” After watching my dad lector numerous times, I decided it was my turn. I began lectoring at my school masses when I was 12 and began starting at Sunday masses on April 24th, 2021: the day I was confirmed. This was the first time I read aloud to a group of people who were not my immediate peers. One reading at Church started a fire in me that has still yet to be tamed.
Expression. “My family comes from the Cherokee people. An indigenous people’s group who are originally from Georgia. The trail of tears forced my ancestors west, and they settled anew in Oklahoma.” My brain began to breathe. I could feel the heat in my face subsiding and the pores on my skin stop being sticky with sweat. I didn’t just read aloud from the sheet in front of me, I told a story. I shared the story of my great great grandma’s siblings dying in the 1800s. I felt awakened with a sense of urgency to continue telling this tale of time passed. Passion. Raw. Authentic. Colorful. For the first time I was sharing a story of my history. Not a story from the bible. I was sharing years’ worth of love, anger and tragedy about the people who came before me. “My great grandfather, B.R. - who I never met – willingly joined the navy to serve his country during WW2. He was not allowed to bunk, eat, or fight in combat with the rest of his infantry. He was the cook. Put through endless training to bring peace, he was put in the kitchen, so his color did not affect anyone else’s.”
Shape. There is a word that defines each of us. Characteristics of whom we look up to fall from our lineage. Reading at church has become a second nature for me. My father is my inspiration. After watching him for so many years, I have learned the best ways to pause at commas in various places. As I reflected on Amy Tans' essay in regard to this narrative, I found this quote that felt very near and dear to me. “But to me, my mother’s English is perfectly clear, perfectly natural. It’s my mother’s tongue. Her language, as I hear it, is vivid, direct, full of observation and imagery. That was the language that helped shape the way I saw things, expressed things, made sense of the world” (Tan). Just as Amy Tan explains her lovely mother’s language, my father is the one whose language I fall asleep dreaming of. He is everything I ever wanted to be. The picture of a quiet loving man. Someone can silence the room when he begins reading the family chapter book or telling a story of his childhood. He speaks after thinking and every word that comes from his mouth flows gently as if it was a stream. His mind is full of thoughts, no one would know how to explain perfectly, yet every time he is the one who can take seeds of despair and let them grow into trees of righteousness. After I watched him read the story of Exodus out loud at our Easter Vigil when I was 10, I knew this destiny would find me.
Expression. I finished and as I stood there with realest grin I could muster. I watched the bleachers shake with applause and hollers and hoots. Then I stood there having completed the second reading before the Alleluia and saw a nod in the crowd. Both events have shaped my passion of speaking. For the first time I read aloud to an audience I read the story of the apostles in the upper room receiving the holy spirit so they could go preach in many tongues. They were set ablaze by the holy spirit with passion. This story parallels the passion I would bring forth in my speech about my heritage. I gave the history of my people in my tongue, learnt from my father. As I said before, this destiny of speaking would always find me, and I’m convinced it’s my history to leave here on Earth. I have found my tongue. It's speaking.
Vivid. Colors of the sunset fill my eyes. A lazy smile drifts upon my face as I lift my head to the crowds. Each word I read is different, some green and some blue. Others I find to be pink and teal. I feel them inside of me. I dug deep. 6 feet under and beyond, to bring up the light. This is my voice. Full of bright flashing lights. Colors, brighter than the sun. The words I read aloud are written in black and white but never conveyed so dull. It's my turn to share my tongue. Within me I am ablaze in color ready to claim my voice.
Works Cited
Tan, Amy. "Mother Tongue." Threepenny Review, 1990.