A Queer Vietnamese-Houstonian-New Yorker Writer musing about the arts and absurdities when not screenwriting or playwrighting

Remember the Alamo: Never Found the Knife I Wanted

So weathered in the sun. So sandy-colored, crinkled. So proud.

Texas history was my most favorite chapter in the Social Studies textbook. I sung the legends of Davy Crockett and James Bowie. I sang the ballads in music class.

Visiting the Alamo is making a pilgrimage to ancient geeky Texas history nostalgia.

 

When I visited the gift shop, I wanted one of those lovely Bowie knives in the glass case. Ooooo, but $110 dollars. Besides, what would I even do with it?

So I settle for searching through the 14.99 jack-knives with the custom names.

But no “Carol.” Connor, Christ, Adam, James… No female-names found on the knives. Sure, maybe I should settle for the knives with “I HEART ALAMO” or just the plain “C.” But never seeing my name, let alone a female-name on the knives, disillusioned me into leaving the Alamo empty-handed.

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