Proclamation

Cuk Son is a story. Tucson is a linguistic alternative. The story is in the many languages still heard in this place of Black Mountains. They are in the echo of lost, forgotten languages heard here even before the people arrived. The true story of this place recalls people walking deserts all their lives and continuing today, if only in their dreams. The true story is ringing in their footsteps in a place so quiet, they can hear their blood moving through their veins. Their stories give shape to the mountains encircling this place. Wa:k is the story of water memories of this desert. Citizens gravitate to Sabino Canyon. The humming, buzzing, clicking of water life, the miracle of desert streams on smooth boulders. Rocks, sediment older than life itself serve as reminders. It should be unnecessary for sticky notes to remind us what a desert place is. A place dependent on rains of summer, light dusting of snow, the rarity of dry beds as rebel rivers. It is real desert people who lift their faces upward with the first signs of moisture. They know how to inhale properly. Recognizing the aroma of creosote in the distance. Relieved the cycle is beginning again. These people are to be commended. It is others who lament the heat of a June day, simultaneously finding pride on surviving the heat—a dry heat. These individuals should simply be tolerated. Opposed to those who move from one air-conditioned environment to another, never acknowledging the heat of summer. Being grateful for November, when temperatures drop below eighty, complaining of the lack of seasons in the desert, heading for mountains to see colors— these people—well, what can we say. We must feel for the dogs of Tucson. Who bark as if they belong to somebody and who, before the rain, wish they were a color other than black.