Remembering the Alamo

In the 1980s I enrolled in a Texas history class in college, mostly out of duty and necessity. I had no great expectations for the course. Although not a native Texan, I had taken Texas history once before, in 7th grade, like all good Texans. But I remember very little from that class. In fact, I remember very little about 7th grade in general except that it was the most forgettable year of my middle school experience.

So I began the college class with similar expectations. Texas, however, had other plans for me. Its history, people, and stories quickly won me over. As a 22-year old almost-graduate of higher learning, I guess I was old enough to appreciate the bravery, grit, and determination of people who chose to build lives in a land of relentless heat and humidity, all without proper air conditioning.

I don’t remember my professor’s name, but I still remember the stories that intrigued me about this state and its tenacious people.

One story in particular captured my imagination, and eventually, my pen. It was the story of Almaron and Susanna Dickinson and their young daughter, Angelina, who were all in the Alamo on March 6, 1836, the day it fell to the Mexican army. Almaron was an artillery officer there, and his young wife and child joined him as Santa Anna’s Mexican troops bore down on the Texian forces sheltered inside the Alamo.

During the battle in the early hours of March 6th, Almaron hid his wife and daughter in the chapel. As the fighting intensified, he ran to where they were hiding and said goodbye, knowing he would die. Although Almaron was killed with all the other defenders of the Alamo, Santa Anna spared Susanna and little Angelina. The following week, Susanna told Sam Houston about the battle, although years later she only recalled weeping constantly.

Thinking about what that must have been like for a young couple in the midst of a traumatic goodbye led me to write one of my favorite poems. I wrote it as a traditional free-verse poem when I was about 22 years old (approximately the same age as Susanna when her husband died) and long before I ever wrote a haiku. Out of my 40 posts so far, this is the first that contains a haiku-less poem.

Today, I’m remembering the sacrificial love and steadfast people of Texas’ Independence on the 190th anniversary of the Battle of the Alamo.

March 6, 1836

     Deguello* shrills in the distance
     freezing terror
     heat cannot even thaw.
     He runs to protect and to die
     unaware that legs move instinctively
     while the heart rushes home.
     Eyes search for a face -
     Travis at the wall
     then Bonham and Crockett.
     Fighting to the church
     she holds him
     letting go
     what must happen.
     Later,
          the Centralist flag bleeds red
          over the plaza where she walks.

*Deguello was the song played by the Mexican army before the attack in the early hours of March 6th.