Adelaide Literary Magazine No.14, July 2018

Revista Literária Adelaide

reserved table in the middle of a compact din- Macarthur. The commiƩee so recommended. It
ing room. The floors were covered with thick would probably be best if you did not menƟon
mauve carpet and the walls with dark wood to your father that I told you about my role in
panels and gilt-framed oil portraits of prosper- his hiring. I just thought you should know.”
ous white men. I scanned the room. I counted
two judges and three aƩorneys who looked “I won’t say a word.”
familiar and at ease among all the other nice
suits, high cheekbones, confident expressions, “Now, about my son, and Steven . . .”
and easy laughter. They owned this exclusive
liƩle oasis and much outside it as well. Before I I said, “I don’t have anything to tell you, Mr.
knew it, a bowƟed waiter set Cobb salads and Evans. My only connecƟon with your two
tall glasses of ice water with lemon on the ta- young clients is that Steven is . . .”
ble. “Gentlemen, enjoy yourselves,” he said in
parƟng. “Max Gentry’s brother. I know. He was your
close friend. Steven explained all that to me.”
“This is my usual lunch fare,” Evans said.
“Quick and healthy. Hope it suits you.” “What else did he say?”

I liŌed a salad fork and tasted. “Very good.” “That he likes you. He said you have been like a
mentor to him, and have given him good ad-
We ate without talking. Evans finished before I vice. What’s your opinion of him?”
was halfway. He signaled a waiter. The waiter
quickly delivered a crystal Old Fashioned glass “Nice young man, polite, good family and pro-
half filled with amber liquid. spects, undoubtedly a catch for some debu-
tante.”
“Care for a cocktail?” he said.
“Not exactly how I’d put it. Let us stop this
“Nothing, thanks.” chess game. I am due in court in fiŌy minutes.
What I need before I face the lions in that are-
The waiter leŌ. na is some inside informaƟon. Help me. You
have been where I am. What say?”
“Do you have a son?” Evans said.
“The bluesuits want to put away some murder-
“A daughter. She’s fourteen.” ers and close some cases.”

“Good. You will understand. We are protecƟve, “What’s the evidence?”
fathers. We want the best for our offspring. It
is fundamental to our being. When they are “A bruised and broken neck.”
young, we try to aim them in the right direc-
Ɵon, and hope they will do well in the world. “What else?”
When they err, we help them recover. Some-
Ɵmes we make excuses for them.” “That’s all I know.”

“Is there a limit?” I said. “Is poliƟcal pressure involved?”

“Of course. There must be. People in our pro- “The mayor has taken an interest. I believe
fession are especially aware of limits.” He she’s made it clear to Homicide.”
drank and, for a moment, seemed to admire
the splendid crystal. He set down the glass and “You mean Pete Romero?”
looked me in the eyes. “Your father is an im-
pressive man, a leader and a hero, a genuine “He’s the ambiƟous one over there. Do you
asset to Macarthur.” know him?”

“How do you know my father?” “Of course. Do you have any advice?”

“I chair the oversight commiƩee at Macarthur. “Why ask me?”
We pass on all professional hires. I reviewed
his resume and interviewed him. With his He smiled. “Professional courtesy. Surely
background, he is highly qualified for a post at you’ve played devil’s advocate before.”

“Well, if the prosecuƟon focuses on your son in
parƟcular, consider an insanity defense.”

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“He’s not crazy.” I leaned over and went into speed-reading
mode. The papers comprised a two-year old
“Who cares? Let a psychiatrist muddy the wa- juvenile case file involving Douglas Evans, Jr.,
ters.” Steven Gentry, and Robert Hughes. The three
were charged with assault on several homeless
“Ridiculous.” men, resulƟng in one charge of involuntary
manslaughter of a man who died of burns. D.C.
“You could try shiŌing blame to Steven.” Evans defended, presenƟng as character wit-
nesses family friends, two high school coaches,
“Some friend and mentor you are.” and a teacher. The prosecuƟon had no witness-
es and slim circumstanƟal evidence. In a plea
“No, devil’s advocate.” bargain, the defendants admiƩed guilt to one
charge of baƩery and malicious mischief. They
He raised his glass and finished it. As soon as were sentenced to 180 days in juvenile deten-
he tabled it, the waiter whisked it away and leŌ Ɵon and two years probaƟon. At defense coun-
a fresh one. sel’s request, the judge agreed to allow the
defendants to aƩend Macarthur Preparatory
“What happened two years ago?” I said. Academy under close supervision for two years
in lieu of juvenile detenƟon. Before I could fin-
“I have no idea what you mean.” ish reading, Evans pulled away the papers and
pocketed them.
“You were involved. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Why did you show me that?” I said.
“Don’t ever bet your life, son.” He raised his
glass. “Quite a puzzle, isn’t it?” He looked at his watch and stood. “I must leave
now. Let us part as friends.” He extended his
“Two years ago, a burning death, this year hand, I accepted it, and soon heard polite ap-
Max’s murder, and now Bobby Hughes. They’re plause from several nearby tables; again, all
connected.” eyes were on us from these fine, well-bred
people.
“Prove it,” Evans said sarcasƟcally.
“I’ll expect an invitaƟon to join,” I said.
I slammed my hand on the table with a bang
and claƩer of silver and glass. All eyes faced us. “Don’t get your hopes up. A parƟng thought.
“You son of a bitch. You played me. You’re like Your father has a bright future at Macarthur.
every other rich asshole in this cave. You get He has many good years ahead of him. He
away with murder without a murmur of con- could aspire to any job he wants there. It is
science.” always helpful to have a friend in the front
office. Marines cherish loyalty. It is one of their
“You really should have a drink, Mr. Costa. Be- prime virtues, a wonderful thing. It’s recipro-
lieve me, we seldom get away with murder, cal.”
and most of us carry heavy burdens of guilt as
we live our lives. It comes with the responsibi- It surprised me how quickly he leŌ.
Ɵes we bear and the difficult decisions we must
make to hold together the thin fabric of socie-
ty. Your father would know what I mean. I am
surprised you do not. Just to show you how fair
and broad-minded I can be, I will let you look at
a confidenƟal case file that will interest you. It
deals with the pranks and mischief that got
three juveniles into trouble. Alas, I do not have
much Ɵme, and would violate the law if I let
you borrow it, so I will give you exactly two
minutes to examine it.” He reached into an
inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out some
folded pages, and laid them before me. He
checked his wristwatch. “StarƟng now.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author:

Henry Simpson is the author of several novels,
two short story collecƟons, many book re-
views, and occasional pieces in literary jour-
nals. His most recent novel is Golden
Girl (Newgame, 2017).

101

WHEN LOVE WAS A
STORY WORTH TELLING

by Mathieu Cailler

Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, maybe it’s mother in the dining area on the very first
because I’m a romanƟc, maybe it’s simply that night. She didn’t noƟce, but he says he tried to
I’m a sucker for a good story, but I’m envious find her whenever he could. My mother spoke
of older folks’ “how we met” tales. My genera- no French, my father no English, but that didn’t
Ɵon does many things well, but romance isn’t stop him. He waited and bided his Ɵme, and
one of them. We don’t possess these epic love when the ship finally docked in Leningrad, my
stories, nor do we date or, god forbid, court. father joined her on a tour bus designed for
Rather, we “hang out,” which is exactly what it English speakers. He snagged a seat next to
feels like— clinging to something that’s difficult her, and when the tour guide pointed out
to grasp. And if we conƟnue down the “right different historical monuments, my father fol-
swipe” and “you up?” path, I’m afraid our love lowed the passengers’ stares. When they
stories may soon be sloƩed on the endangered craned their necks to the right, he followed
-species list, sandwiched right between the suit. When they rotated leŌ, he did the same.
Amur leopard and the black rhinoceros. He and my mother didn’t communicate with
anything other than smiles and giggles— the
My parents have one of these perfect yarns— Esperanto of emoƟon. She said she thought he
one that Pablo Neruda himself might deem was kind and handsome, and silly, too, for
muse worthy, one that makes me feel as stepping aboard the wrong bus. For three days,
daunted to take on love as Michael Jordan’s he boarded the wrong bus, remembering some
son might be to try his hand at basketball. It’s a English words he’d learned here and there.
story that always regales and lives up to the “Nice, no?” my father would say. “Yes, very
hype. nice,” he would say. And my mother would grin
and laugh and agree that things were nice.
In college, my dear friend, Sam, met my folks— Very nice.
my French father, my Midwestern mother—
and later, in the car ride home, he asked me When the cruise ended, they exchanged more
how they’d met. I’d heard my mom and dad than just soŌ gazes, swapping addresses and
tell the story at dinner parƟes my whole life, phone numbers, with my father saying that he
but I’d never told it, and I was curious to see would write immediately and would learn Eng-
how it would hold up under my delivery. lish in a year’s Ɵme, too. Then, each returned
to their conƟnent and home, surrounded by
I didn’t make a long story short. I indulged in different Ɵme zones, rivers, and ranges.
details and filled him in on backstory: it was
June of 1976, and both my mother and father Oh, and I forgot to menƟon, they also returned
were in their early thirƟes. My mother and her to their significant others to which they were
friend and my father and his brother all board- both engaged for some Ɵme.
ed a cruise ship in Finland and headed for Rus-
sia during the height of the Cold War. Like most Each of them immersed themselves into their
“meeƟng stories,” this one began with some- old worlds and obviously struggling relaƟon-
one catching someone else’s eye. My ships. My dad dove deep into his work as a
curly-haired, Gitane-smoking father spoƩed my lawyer (he’d told my mother on the ship that

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Revista Literária Adelaide

he was an avocat, the French word for lawyer, you again? I am coming out to Boston. I was
but she had understood that he was an avoca- thinking I could take all my money out of my
do farmer). My mom did the same, puƫng in savings and stay with you unƟl I run out.”
longer hours in her special-educaƟon class-
room in Boston. But even with all the work and My mother agreed. And the plan proceeded.
distance, they stayed rooted in each other’s
minds, and if thoughts had been phone calls, My father arrived at Logan, speaking English,
both of them would have needed to take out exactly as he’d promised. He wore a Cuba t-
small-business loans. shirt and Ɵght pants, and my normally cauƟous
mother found that their relaƟonship picked up
My father did as promised: he wrote her. It right where they’d leŌ it. Every Ɵme a “what
took him Ɵme to craŌ a worthy leƩer, and he am I doing?” thought popped up, it was as-
asked friends who spoke English for advice and suaged by their love.
enrolled in a class at a nearby school. My
mother waited paƟently for his words to arrive, They indulged in a lavish Ɵme in Boston, my
checking her mailbox every day, but nothing. father spending money like a man who only
Weeks passed, and she began to think their had a few weeks to live. They shucked briny
romance was of the perfume variety: sweet, oysters on the Cape, toured the creaky floor-
yet ephemeral. boards of the Old North Church, and took in a
thrilling Red Sox game at Fenway. When my
Some eight weeks later, however, the leƩer father’s money ran out weeks later, my mother
arrived. My father’s dad— a postman, no less— said it was her turn now to spend the same
had accidentally sent the leƩer via boat instead amount, and thus the American travels conƟn-
of by plane. The spot-on English was scrawled ued with my father driving my mother’s green
in loopy, purple ink, and it was imbued with my PonƟac Le Mans all over New England, New
father’s charm. He drew margin doodles re- York, and even down to New Orleans.
calling their Russia trip, and he oŌen joked that
he was “trying to be like Keats.” The last night, before my father had to return
home, he asked my mother if she would like to
My mother, too, had been honing her language come stay in France, and also if she would like
skills, pracƟcing her French with a neighbor to get married. AŌer my mother made sure my
who had lived most of her life in Belgium. If my father understood exactly what he’d asked, she
father was Keats, then my mother was happily agreed, but only if she could bring her
aƩempƟng to be Baudelaire, and she wrote Irish SeƩer.
and wrote whenever she could, and my father
did the same. AŌer quiƫng her job and saying hard good-
byes to students, family, friends, she arrived in
One night, both my mother and father sƟll en- Le Mont-Dore with her dog and stuffed suit-
gaged, my father called my mother. The English case. She clucked at markets to ensure she was
class and his constant listening to Elvis had paid buying chicken, ate her weight in Camembert,
off, as had my mother’s lessons with her neigh- and rode shotgun in my father’s Citroën DS.
bor, and two of them communicated with ease.
The feelings were as palpable as ever, even They were married in Paris. My mother in a red
through all the miles of wire, and hours later, dress, my father in a white suit. It was July 1st,
when they ended the call, my father broke up 1977, fiŌy-three weeks aŌer they’d first met in
with his fiancée. My mother did the same aŌer search of nothing more than a cheap cruise
two more phone exchanges. and the midnight sun.

They spoke via phone weekly, and the relaƟon- Just as I finished telling this story to Sam, we
ship strengthened with each quesƟon and exited the freeway and pulled up to our col-
sweet nothing. About ten months aŌer they’d lege. He didn’t get out of the car, though. In-
iniƟally met, my father invited himself out to stead, he peppered me with quesƟons—
Boston. “Patricia”— though my father pro- wanƟng more.
nounced it Pa-tree-zee-ah— “when can I see
For the next few years at undergrad, Sam oŌen
asked me to tell the story to friends and fellow

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

students, some who I barely knew, but the sto- About the Author:
ry always seem to deliver. Maybe it’s just
pleasant for people to sit at the hearth of one Mathieu Cailler’s poetry and prose have been
of these tales and feel the flickers of its flames, widely featured in numerous naƟonal and in-
if for nothing else than to see that love isn’t ternaƟonal publicaƟons, including the Los An-
totally on life-support. geles Times and The Saturday Evening Post. A
graduate of the Vermont College of Fine Arts,
As for me, I try to tell myself that there’s no he is the recipient of a Short Story Ameri-
beƩer Ɵme to be alive than in this current pre- caPrize for Short FicƟon and a Shakespeare
sent. That it’s just a story, and that it doesn’t Award for Poetry. He is the author
maƩer. If my father were daƟng today and met of Clotheslines (Red Bird Press), Shhh(ELJ Publi-
my mom online, the results would be the caƟons), and Loss Angeles (Short Story America
same. Love. Marriage. 42 years. That the real Press), which has been honored by the Holly-
story is what happens next, when love has wood, New York, London, Paris, Best Book, and
found its targets and had Ɵme to seƩle into InternaƟonal Book Awards. His newest
each person. That’s what I tell myself: it’s the book, May I Have This Dance? (About EdiƟons),
second act that’s important, and that while I was recently named poetry winner of the 2017
would love an epic story like my parents’ yarn, New England Book FesƟval.
I’ll probably have to make do with it just being
a part of my DNA.

104

THE EXPERT

by Virginia Hoeck

My dad was a reluctant expert in death. His good humor was tested on the morning of
my mother’s 82nd birthday. For the third Ɵme
Though he was a psychologist by training, it in just a couple months he was rushed to the
was the losses of two children that qualified hospital, this Ɵme in an ambulance. Breathing
him to help others cope with grief. Ten years had become impossible; he couldn’t get out of
into my parents’ 53 year marriage, my older bed. At the ER, he was agitated. I asked him
sister – 9-year-old Elizabeth – was killed in a what was wrong. Was he afraid? “No, it’s not
boaƟng accident. A decade later, my 17-year- that,” he said. “I didn’t want this to happen
old brother Pat, died in a car crash. today. Not on her birthday.”

People from all over would seek out for his AŌer a while the tube pumping oxygen into his
unconvenƟonal brand of counsel that stemmed nose and the one draining liquid from his lungs
from his educaƟon, personal experiences and began to help. He could breathe a liƩle easier
an unshakeable faith in God. I couldn’t go any- and speak a liƩle more clearly and yet he kept
where - grocery stores, business meeƟngs, his eyes closed, though he didn’t seem to be
LiƩle League games – without bumping into sleeping. I wondered, despite what he had
someone who would share with me the story said, if he had been thinking that even if today
of how my father helped them heal from a wasn’t the day, it might be coming soon. But
tragedy. Isn’t it so hard, I asked him, always when my mom stepped out of the room, he
talking about such devastaƟng losses? He spoke up.
shrugged. “It can be so, so sad,” he said. “But
it’s what I can do.” “Get a pen and paper,” he told me. “I need to
write a leƩer.”
When at the age of 85 his generous heart be-
gan to weaken, my dad had no trouble talking Of course: A birthday note. There was never a
about his own demise. He spoke about it some- holiday that my mother didn’t wake up to find
what frequently, and was completely at ease a note from my dad, propped against a vase of
with the idea of his death. “I’ll get to see Eliza- flowers, on the dining room table. Though his
beth and Patrick again, and my parents,” he love leƩers were publicly presented, they were
once said. Another Ɵme, “I hate the idea of never shared.
your mother being alone. She’ll miss me I know
but she’ll be fine.” Her children, grandchildren “To my darling wife…..” he began. It made me
and friends would stave off loneliness. He was feel both sad and privileged to witness this
light-hearted when he said, “I’m ready to go inƟmacy.
when God wants me. But I don’t think he’s
ready for me. Not just yet.” he said smiling, as “I’m so happy that in spite of the difficulƟes of
if he were playing a game of Duck, Duck, these last few days that we have been able to
Goose, and was wondering when it’d be his spend so many wonderful hours together….” He
turn to be tapped on the head. paused for a moment, caught his breath,
then conƟnued. “I am so happy that we are on

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

one page and that we both have total confi- no doubt that this kind and wise man loved my
dence that whatever is to come is ok.” father and wanted only the best for him and
our family. On his way out of the hospital, he
His voice was soŌ, barely a whisper, but his stopped by the waiƟng room to offer his love
message was clear and strong. He spoke of and support to my mom, my sister and me. He
falling in love with my mom in an instant; of also had some advice. “He’s ready, you know.
her beauty, sƟll aŌer all these years; and how Don’t get in God’s way.”
proud he was that they had made such a good
team, in spite of tremendous heartache. His The bluntness of his statement shocked us. But
words were more eloquent than that, but, it corresponded with what I, and I think some
won’t be repeated here. of my siblings, had already been thinking:
Enough was enough. My dad could no longer
When he was done dictaƟng, he squeaked out do many of the things he loved to do: Drive, go
instrucƟons to get money out of his sock draw- to Mass, visit his grandchildren or friends, eat a
er to buy flowers and go out to do it now, good meal. Plus, this back and forth to the hos-
please, so they’d be there when she got home pital was exhausƟng and distressing to both my
that night. parents. Given my dad’s aƫtude about life,
and death, I wondered whether he thought it
When it appeared that my dad was, in fact, was all worth it.
likely to make it through my mother’s birthday,
I ran to the florists and he was moved up to the He didn’t. Within a day or so, he and my mom
cardiac ICU. Over the next few days, he was talked and decided together (they always de-
mostly his old self: Caring, compassionate, curi- cide everything together, he reminded us), that
ous. SomeƟmes my siblings and I were stuck he was going to stop treatment and let nature
out in the waiƟng room because his visit with a take its course.
nurse or doctor or orderly had turned social.
My dad always wanted to hear their stories; for Dad’s cardiologist didn’t take the news well.
some reason, they were always willing to Tears streamed down her face as she tried to
oblige. But he was oŌen Ɵred and uncomforta- convince him that if she only let him she was
ble, if not in pain. The medley of medicaƟons sure he could get more Ɵme. My dad smiled as
being used to control his blood pressure, heart he told her: “It’s not up to you, it’s up to God.”
rate and diabetes were in conflict. Blood draws
from his parched veins were tortuous. And They unhooked my dad from his various ma-
some inexplicable pain in his back could not be chines and moved him into a comfortable
managed. room, a room more suitable for receiving visi-
tors. Family and friends, former paƟents, even
A memory from a few years ago flashed before some of the hospital staff came to say their
me during those early days in the hospital. I goodbyes. Off medicaƟons and mechanical
had been out to dinner with my parents. We contrapƟons, he was able to sit up and talk
were following the hostess to our table but with the people who’d adored him over the
moving slowly because an elderly woman, con- years.
fused and barely mobile, was ahead of us,
nearly being dragged forward by her son. For a couple days, it seemed that maybe the
doctors had been wrong. Maybe he could go
“If you ever have to lead me around like that on for a long Ɵme like this. But then he started
lead me right to a cliff and give me a liƩle sleeping more, his breathing got slightly more
push,” Dad had said. “Don’t ever let me be like labored.
that!” I shook my head and chuckled; the idea
of my father as a frail, old man was unimagina- We played music for him and talked about eve-
ble. ry important thing we could talk about. He con-
Ɵnued to dispatch pieces of advice to all of us
One aŌernoon my dad’s close priest friend and offer observaƟons about dying. He encour-
came by for a visit. The two men were personal aged me to write about his death. “Are you
confidants who had deep respect for each oth- geƫng this down?” he someƟmes asked.
er, even if they didn’t always agree. There is

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“People need to know,” he once said, “there is About the Author:
nothing to be afraid of. It is as beauƟful as
birth.” Seven days since leaving the ICU, he’d Virginia Ryan holds a degree in journalism
been wondering why it was taking so long for from George Washington University and an
him to die. “I thought I’d be annoyed with MFA from Lesley University. She served with
God, but I’m not. This is just fine. It’s very the Peace Corps in Thailand and worked first as
peaceful.” a journalist and then as a nonprofit markeƟng
director before seƩling down to a life of wriƟng
Nine days into it, with mom siƫng by his side from her home by the sea in MassachuseƩs.
and my siblings standing nearby, he opened his She is currently working on a novel.
eyes and began talking to us about choosing
love, a topic he’d shared with each one of us
children before we married.

He moƟoned to my mother. “We chose to love
each other,” he said. Then looking at us, he
said, “I chose to love her,” and then he looked
at my mom and said, “I chose to love you. And
you know what? It was easy.” He looked
around at us again and conƟnued. “Choose to
love and embrace that decision. There will be
hardships and ups and downs but when you
choose to love, it’s easy. Choose to love.”

And the next day, with my mom holding his
hand, he looked up at her one last Ɵme, then,
with the peace and resolve of the greatest of
experts, he closed his eyes and was gone.

107

DANCING WITH MY

MOTHER

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

My mother leŌ me for three months with my I went home when I was seven, and the babies
Aunt Margaret when I was a newborn. She kept coming. Seven in number, finally. My sib-
went to San Francisco to meet my father who lings and I were always happy with the an-
had survived World War II and the torpedoes nouncement of another, but my mother not so
shooƟng at him throughout the Pacific. They much. She was pregnant nine Ɵmes, and once
had never had a real honeymoon, given that when she knew she was miscarrying with num-
my father called my mother one day in 1943 ber eight, or maybe nine, a friend told her to
and said, I’m coming home to Indiana and let’s run up and down the stairs. It wouldn’t have
get married. Which they did. maƩered. Seven it was, nine not meant to be.

I don’t regret that unremembered Ɵme with One Ɵme, my sister and I found a strange cal-
Aunt Margaret. She was an ample, lovely wom- endar in our mother’s boƩom drawer. It was
an with a gap between her teeth, already in her tucked under the Playboy magazines and Tam-
30’s and unmarried. I never think of her that I pax, which we figured had something to do
don’t see her laughing. I miss her to this day… with sex. Did she put these liƩle white tubes in
her bosom--a word we looked up in the dic-
But I do carry a certain amount of disappoint- Ɵonary and snickered over. Boobs were the
ment that I never really had Ɵme with my only evidence of anything having to do with sex
mother. Just the two of us. That old bonding that we could think of. The Tampax must go
thing. there….We put the cardboard tubes with their
coƩon innards, which we pulled out, back in
When she picked me up aŌer that rather long the drawer, with the frayed pink elasƟc belt
honeymoon, she was pregnant again. and coƩon pads. And we studied that calendar.
The X’s on the dates had nothing to do with
And by the Ɵme I was six, she was expecƟng holidays or birthdays, or any other special
her fourth. event we could figure. Except for another
blessed event.
She leŌ me again, this Ɵme with my grand-
mother in Florida for six months, and I really My mother always said, Rhythm doesn’t work.
can’t say I blame her. In fact, I thank her every
day. First off, she was overwhelmed with all She just wasn’t meant to have so many chil-
those babies. And second of all--but first in my dren. The youngest of four, she’d never been
book--was that I adored my grandmother, and around babies. She was shy, and beauƟful, and
those days sƟll remain the best I’ve ever had. although strong and disciplined about meals
Endless, uncondiƟonal love and pampering and the endless, Ɵring regimen of pracƟces,
with no dripping, crying babies around. I sƟll lessons, Girl Scout cookie sales -- even dough-
flee to Florida every chance I get. I’m there nut sales (What were they thinking?) -- she
now, listening to the birds, squinƟng in the sun, wasn’t cut out for it. She ended up drinking:
looking forward to a swim and a walk on the vodka (vanilla) in the aŌernoon and Canadian
beach. Club (chocolate) in the evening.

My mother always said, I leŌ you down there
too long.

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Growing up, I grudgingly helped out. Diapers, was either that or the Peace Corps, but I really
dishes, dusƟng. I babysat when I was nine for wanted that fellowship at Medill. She steered
25 cents an hour, and I had to clean and vacu- me away. Get into the market place, she said.
um three Ɵmes a week, which I saw no point in So I did. I went to New York. Only later did I
doing since my family conƟnually scummed up earn that graduate degree--20 years later--and
the thread-bare carpet and sƟcky coffee table. join the Peace Corps--nearly 50 years later.
Many a commencement speaker has cau-
When my brother developed juvenile diabetes Ɵoned, Don’t listen to your parents. They only
at four, I was finally able to do something want what’s best for you. If Steve Jobs had
worthwhile. I gave him his insulin shots that I stayed in college and listened to ‘the noise of
learned to do by pracƟcing on an orange. others’ instead of his ‘inner voice’ (Stanford,
When my mother found out about Felix, it was 2005), would I be wriƟng this on a legal pad?
the only Ɵme I saw her cry. The doctor told her Probably not. But I did listen to my parents,
he wouldn’t live to 30. An accomplished swim- and it cost me.
mer through grade school into high school,
mostly due to my mother’s Ɵreless efforts to Shortly before my mother died, the two of us
weigh what he ate and drive him to pracƟce, were siƫng in the sun room of her condo. She
he is now collecƟng social security. was curled up on a love seat, a saƟn pillow be-
hind her neck, a mohair throw over her knees.
She expected a lot out of me. But we just sort She was wearinga blue gingham bed jacket. I
of danced around each other, my father in the hated that bed jacket. I’d given her one
middle. My mother and I were never close. years before, and she had lent it to a friend
UnƟl she died. with cancer. ‘I never got it back,’ she told me,
and I wentout and bought her another. I’m
But that was years later. 55 to be exact. In the sorry I did. It was just another reminder.
meanƟme, we had our moments, and it’s the
weird shit I remember. We were alone that night. Shocker. With six
siblings and spouses, twenty grandchildren,
She said I looked like a monkey because my and one needy father in the vicinity, this was a
hairline was low. One day, she was eaƟng an rare moment. The oxygen machine clap-
apple from my grandmother’s orchard. She clapped behind her. It was the only thing that
gave me one bite, and one bite only, and relieved the cancer that was eaƟng her up, that
grabbed it back. I wanted more. She told me and the valium. She was past the vodka stage.
my ass was too big. Well, I wish she could see
me now. What a walking fashion statement I She napped, and I sat glumly, staring at her,
turned out to be. and then suddenly she jerked awake. Our con-
versaƟon went something like this:
And that may have been part of the problem. I
looked like her, and my father adored me. We ‘I haven’t done anything with my life,’ she said.
danced around him like he was a hot rack of
clothing at a department store sale. He gave I was stunned. ‘What? Why do you say that?’
me authority, she declined. He preferred my My responses to her were usually clipped. I
bridge playing and praised my drive and school was always trying to temper my conversaƟon
grades. He wasn’t so happy with some of the with humor, or philosophy. One Ɵme she told
parƟes I threw while my parents were at foot- me I was full of shit. Point. Score. Always be
ball games or the country club. My hooligan honest.
friends tore the place up, drank the booze,
broke the dining room cabinet, stole his ‘Why would you ever say such a thing? You and
Knights of Columbus sword. I wonder where Dad put all seven of us through college. You
that sword is today. Probably defending the rented a castle in Ireland. You’ve traveled from
northern edges of Hammond, Indiana. China to London, and some other places. And
you make the best chicken tetrazzini in the
When I graduated from college, I was offered a world.’
fellowship at Northwestern, which would have
put me close to home, back in the Midwest. It

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

She laughed, nearly expelling the plasƟc tubing I think about the last Ɵme I danced with my
from her nose. Something cold whirled around mother, and my mother danced with me.
me. But I laughed, too, remembering a night in
Germany in 1972, when my parents came to About the Author:
visit us during our sƟnt in the Army, and she
raged and sang, up and down a dark street: ‘I Nancy Nau Sullivan is a writer, teacher, and
am woman.’ As I recall, there was Steinhager former newspaper journalist. Her memoir, The
involved. Dad called her the female bull. Some- Last Cadillac, was published in 2016 and won
thing came over her with the women’s lib an Eric Hoffer Award in memoir. Her wriƟng
movement. She never wanted to be Donna has appeared in magazines and collecƟons,
Reed, or that Cleaver woman. including Gargoyle, The Atherton Review, The
BloƩer, Akashic Books, skirt!magazine, Red
My mother struggled to sit up. ‘Well, I missed Rock Review— and, most recently, in Literally
the boat. But you haven’t.’ Her eyes were star- Stories online. In 2014, she taught English in
tling blue. ‘I’m not afraid anymore, and don’t the Peace Corps in Mexico--and, prior to ser-
you ever be. You’re right .I’ve had so much.’ vice, at the City Colleges of Chicago, in ArgenƟ-
na and at a boys' prison in Florida. She has a
She rarely said I was right about anything. I master’s degree in journalism from MarqueƩe
took it. University and worked as a reporter and editor
at newspapers throughout the Midwest. She
Her voice was strong. I thought of a candle, lives in Northwest Indiana near the lake— and
pooling and burning out in a final luminescent on Anna Maria Island as oŌen as possible.
white glow. My mother waved me over, and I
sat next to her. Even when she was sick and
kind of helpless, there was very liƩle talk along
the way, no light bantering down the stairs to
hell. Suddenly here we were. In hell.

She said: ‘How can I ever thank you? I want to
tell you something. I know being the eldest
makes you feel responsibility very seriously.
You’re different because you’re you, and
you’re the first born. You know how I go on…
There are so many good things about that;
you’re strong, independent, smart and a great
achiever. That’s a lot of good stuff. Besides,
God made you beauƟful. Isn’t that nice? And
you’re blessed with good health….’

I didn’t move. She said: ‘Seems like you’re
going through a giant rough spot now.’

Right again. Find husband with another wom-
an. Get divorce. Be pissed off at the world.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Try not to look back. And try
to forgive. I know that’s hard but it’s the only
way you’ll have peace. Peace is what we need.
You don’t have to say or act out forgiveness.
Just know that you do…’

I leaned closer. We stayed like that, togeth-
er, the cold rain dinging the paƟo stones. I
went over her words that filled the room to
bursƟng. I locked them in. I held her hand.

110

IN LOVE AND WAR

by Dufflyn Lammers

I couldn’t bear watching him walk through the A friend called and asked if I would join her;
rain with his head wet, so I bought two umbrel- there was a group of (mostly women) meeƟng
las, one for myself and one for my boyfriend, at St. Elisabeth’s Church. This church is near
the first Spring I was in Paris. the Place de la Republique, just blocks from
where the aƩacks took place. I was afraid to
He lost the polka dot umbrella from Monoprix go. How could we know it was over?
aŌer I’d leŌ to go back to Los Angeles, which I
sƟll officially called home, and where I had no But I wanted to connect.
need for an umbrella.
At the meeƟng, one woman told me how she
When I returned to Paris in October he was had run when the shooƟng started and a
starƟng a new job so he carried the Samsonite stranger had pulled her into an apartment. She
with him. I like this umbrella. It’s automaƟc, hadn’t wanted to go inside, the whole thing
and black, and light as a feather— perfect to seemed surreal, like it wasn’t really happening,
carry in your purse for, literally, a rainy day. but the stranger insisted. Later, she realized
this woman may have saved her life.
This leŌ me umbrellaless.
As I listened I wanted to go back home and tell
On my way back to his apartment one day that my boyfriend that I love him.
Fall it started to pour. I stepped into a baggage
shop on Avenue de Clichy and bought yet an- We had been together for a year at this point.
other umbrella. Neither one of us had said those words. Not
even last winter aŌer “Charlie,” although I
Somehow two weeks later all things umbrella wanted to say it then too. I was waiƟng for him
had ended up at my boyfriend’s office. Friday to say it first.
night I texted him at work to please bring my
the new one home. I was a liƩle Ɵcked off. How I believe the things we want most are also the
many umbrellas did I have to buy? things we fear most.

That was Friday November thirteenth, 2016. That Summer he had come to stay with me in
The day of the Bataclan terrorist aƩacks in Par- California and we ate Dim Sum with my father.
is. Then we went back to France and took the
train up to meet his family in the North. But I
We sat in his apartment all night listening to didn’tknow what the future would hold.
sirens cross and re-cross the city. There was
nothing else to do. If we said we loved each other, what did that
mean? I was afraid of how those words could
I forgot all about the umbrella. change us. That he would feel some sort of
pressure. That he wouldn’t say it back. That I
The next morning the real estate broker he would lose my power in the relaƟonship and
works for decided to close for a few days. No- become a groveling mess.
body wanted to shop for apartments in Paris
that weekend.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

This is the first relaƟonship I have been in since “That’s okay.”
my last one ended, quite badly, thirteen years
ago. I’m forty-five now. I don’t know how many I opened the umbrella and pushed up the hill
more chances at love I will get. to the bus stop.

When we met in Paris I was on a three-month I made it back to Laverno, then to Paris and my
visit from Los Angeles, taking some Ɵme to boyfriend in Ɵme for Thanksgiving. I carried
work on a book. It was only my second trip to that red umbrella with me every day unƟl my
Paris and I didn’t know the city then. I stopped 90 day tourist Visa was up and I had to go back
to ask a handsome Frenchman for direcƟons to Los Angeles.
one day and then ran into him again two weeks
later in the same spot. He invited me to lunch When I told my boyfriend the story of how the
at a cafe. AŌer that we saw each other more red umbrella came to be in my posession, he
and more. said that in parts of Italy there was a warƟme
law which remains on the books— it says that if
He made me laugh. He was persistent and reli- a fugiƟve, or someone in need, comes to your
able. He held my face when he kissed me. I was door you must help him.
ready, I thought, to try again.
Odd the unexpected inheritance of war.
Toward the end of that stay I had planned a ten
-day trip to Italy. I didn’t want to leave Paris A year later, aŌer the Bataclan aƩack the presi-
and the man whom I was by that Ɵme calling dent of France declared a state of emergency.
my boyfriend, but I had already bought my The markets closed, the theaters too. We were
plane Ɵcket. advised not to go where there would be
crowds.
I went to see the SisƟne Chapel in Rome, the
ruins in Pompeii, and the birthplace of pizza in The tension in the city moved like a fog. Noth-
Napoli. It was the low season so there were no ing looked the same. We squinted at each oth-
boats running from where I was staying in er in the streets.
Laverno to Positano. I took a train, then a sub-
way, then another train, and yet another train, Then one morning I went to the Muslim bakery
then a bus, unƟl at last I arrived in the seaside in our neighborhood for my croissant. There
town dizzy with moƟon sickness. was a young Gypsy girl, maybe fiŌeen years
old, who for weeks would sit outside the doors.
I stopped at an empty bouƟque that I was sure She wore the same beige hooded jacket every
in summer would have been swamped. One day. She had a cup on the sidewalk where peo-
frilly blouse was all I could afford. As I waved ple gave her money. Usually, when I passed she
goodbye to the shopkeeper and stepped back would say hello to me. I would smile and say
into the alley, a fierce rain came slobbering hello back. But I never gave her money. I didn’t
down. I pulled back and gasped. want to be taken for a fool.

“What’s the maƩer you don’t have an umbrel- Who could say if she was just lazy and didn’t
la?” The shopkeeper said. want to work. But then again, what if she was
an orphan, or a refugee, or if the horrible ru-
“I don’t...” mor was true that the Romany husbands beat
their women if they don’t bring enough home
He held up his palm in a gesture universally at the end of the day?
accepted to mean stop, wait, pause and disap-
peared behind his counter. I was thinking all of this as I walked toward the
bakery. I took a deep breath and turned to her.
I watched the rain slap the cobblestones out- “I’m geƫng a croissant, do you want one?”
side. It was geƫng dark.
She shrugged.
The shopkeeper reappeared and handed me a
red umbrella. I went inside and bought two croissants and I
handed her one as I came out.
“But I’m leaving today. I… I can’t bring it back
to you.”

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Revista Literária Adelaide

It seemed to have taken more courage than it About the Author:
ought to.
Dufflyn Lammers is veteran a writer and per-
I remember thinking: maybe I should buy the former. She is a regular contributor
gypsy girl an umbrella. Maybe the next Ɵme it at thefix.com the world's leading resource for
rains I will get a whole box of umbrellas and addicƟon and recovery. Her essay "Tinder in
stand on the corner handing them out. Paris" won a Silver Medal in the Love Story
category for the TwelŌh Annual Solas Awards,
The weeks passed faster than I would have 2018. Her one woman show DISCOVERED was
liked. When it was Ɵme for me to go back to a 2017 Duende DisƟncƟon Award nominee in
LA, my boyfriend leŌ for work in the morning its debut at the Hollywood Fringe FesƟval. She
like he always did. But on that day he knew I has been published poetry in Iowa Woman, the
wouldn’t be there when he came home. MuseleƩer of the NaƟonal AssociaƟon For Po-
etry Therapy, and in Poetry Slam: The CompeƟ-
He kissed me at the door and he said, “I love Ɵve Art of Performance Poetry edited by Gary
you boo.” Glazner. She has appeared on RUSSELL SIM-
MONS DEF POETRY JAM (HBO), CRIMINAL
“I love you too,” I said, and I watched him all MINDS (CBS), ENTOURAGE (HBO), and in
the way down the stairs unƟl the top of his countless independent films and commer-
bare head disappeared. What if it rained? Or cials. Lammers co-edited the spoken word an-
worse? Who would have the courage to give thology Chorus with Saul Williams, 2014
him shelter? (Simon & Schuster). In 2011 Lammers wrote,
produced, and starred in the short film
It’s hard enough to love anyone in this world, “Raven,” winning Best Experimental Short at
but doing it from eight thousand miles away the LA InternaƟonal Underground Film FesƟ-
was stressful. And expensive. So I have decided val. Lammers was Slammaster of the Los Feliz
to move to Paris. Slam team 1999-2002, leading her team to
three naƟonals. She was 1993 NaƟonal Silver
In the meanƟme there have been more Medalist in Poetry InterpretaƟon for Phi Rho
aƩacks: Nice, Normandy, Champs Elysee. My Pi. She graduated from Sara Lawrence College
family is worried. in 1995 with a BA in CreaƟve WriƟng. She lives
in Paris France and is also now an InternaƟonal
I tell them it’s not different from living in the Recovery Coach.
states: Orlando, San Bernadino, Las Vegas. I
worry about them too.

But I am in love. And with a liƩle luck, and pa-
Ɵence for the French bureacracy, we will sign
our civil partnership papers next month.

What if it doesn’t work out I am leŌ stranded in
a Foreign country? What if these aƩacks lead
to a full-fledged war? What if our cultural
differences prove to be too much?

I’m seven years older than him, what if he
wakes up one day and I’m old? What if he falls
in love with someone else? What if I fall in love
with someone else?

I remind myself what the Dalai Lama says:
“Take into account that great love and great
achievements involve great risk.”

Yes. I am completely terrified. And I am going
to do it anyway.

113

OF KIEV, COWS, AND
COUNTRY FOLKS

by John Walters

In 2011 I received a modest windfall, which any an Olympic juggernaut. For a princely sum
sensible person nearing reƟrement would have these lads brought their breathtaking brilliance
added to his modest nest egg. But this money to Detroit, giving life to my beloved Red Wings,
was unlike any money that had ever entered known formerly, and deservedly, as the Detroit
my bank account. It had no interest in com- Dead Things.
pounding; it begged to be spent, not in part but
in whole, perhaps because it knew I hadn’t I set out to impress Anna with my knowledge
earned it, or perhaps because I feared that the of her country’s sports icons and literary leg-
benefactor, even in death, would change her ends, hoping to demonstrate straightaway that
mind and giŌ someone or something worthier I was not just another ugly American unappre-
than I— and I couldn’t imagine anyone or any- ciaƟve of the achievements of other cultures.
thing that wasn’t. This money arrived on fire But were my heroes her heroes? There were
and had to be disposed of quickly. reasons to think not. I supposed that a proper
Soviet educaƟon, which Anna had received,
It so happened that I was in a squandering dismissed Dostoevsky as a reacƟonary and ene-
mood, kindled in online conversaƟon with an my of the people. But would not intelligent
engaging Russian woman, a medical doctor Soviet ciƟzens, such as aspiring physicians, see
working for an internaƟonal health organiza- through the ideological claptrap? By 2011, I
Ɵon based in Kiev, Ukraine. What more promis- imagined Dostoevsky having fully ascended in
ing scenario to separate a fool from his money? stature, his countrymen, in overwhelming
Anna grew up in a village on the Volga River, numbers, acknowledging and revering him as a
coming of age in the 1970s, as did I. We were naƟonal treasure, along with the resurging
children of the Cold War. Russian Orthodox Church.

I loved the pre-Soviet literature of her country, In our first Skyped conversaƟon, I launched
which as an undergraduate I had studied ex- into effusive praise of The Brothers Karamazov,
tensively, even if without much understanding. certain that Anna would receive my commen-
My reverence for Dostoevsky undermined my tary as both erudite and winsome. In her quite
ability to summon Cold War hosƟlity toward perfect English, she responded plainƟvely,
any tribe from which sprang a genius such as “Please tell me you’re not ChrisƟan.”
he.
Having stumbled badly on what I presumed to
My iniƟal indifference toward the demise of be the terra firma of Dostoevsky, I less confi-
the Soviet Union gave way to unbridled giddi- dently broached the subject of the Russian
ness as I discovered that the departure of Rus- Five, fearing that all Russians, even those of
sian Troops from Eastern Europe allowed for tepid naƟonal feeling, would sooner forgive the
the arrival of the Russian Five, who were not, toppling of an empire than the poaching of ice
as the name suggests, a Vladivostok based- hockey superstars. But my allusions to the Rus-
band covering the hits of Michael Jackson. This sian Five elicited shrugs of indifference, even
was a quintet of supremely giŌed athletes who the kind of eye roll for which my daughter was
fashioned Russia’s Red Army hockey team into famous. How the names Slava FeƟsov and Igor

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Larionov fail to animate a Russian naƟonal is My perceived coolness, I am convinced, de-
beyond my comprehension. Only Sergei Feder- rived from my older sister who enjoyed a fully
ov drew a response from Anna, who comment- established reputaƟon for inordinate coolness.
ed not on his skaƟng prowess but on his highly I’m not sure why we kids of the 1960s em-
publicized dalliance with Anna Kournikova. braced the theory of family branding (if the
eldest sibling possessed inordinate coolness,
My heroes clearly were not Anna’s. In things so, too, would the brothers and sisters who
that truly maƩered (classic literature and ice followed), especially when evidence abounded
hockey), I was more Russian than she. As it of the randomly spawned dork, muddying the
turned out, Anna, perhaps like millions of post- gene pool.
Soviet Russian girls (even accomplished middle
-aged women) just wanted to have fun. In 1966, a new lounge for young teens opened
its doors, which demanded my aƩendance. My
In the Ɵme it took Boris Yeltsin to polish off a mates and I welcomed an indoor gathering
keg of Nevskoe Imperial, Anna took an exhila- place for cute girls, never imagining that a
raƟng flight to an unknown future in Kiev, a dance floor imposed a protocol for picking up
rising commercial star streaking on a trajectory said girls— quite unlike the skaƟng pond, where
toward poliƟcal independence, despite persis- girls, as eagerly as boys, pursued a straight and
tent efforts of corrupt public officials to knock unmediated path toward a warm embrace. It
it off course. Cosmopolitan Kiev offered much got cold; we got close.
that hitherto had been inaccessible to Anna,
including a world without boundaries, where In the lounge, the girls demanded dancing.
the fluent speaker of four languages found They wanted to dance The Jerk, specifically,
ample opportunity to exercise her linguisƟc but needed an exemplar of inordinate coolness
talents— as did her professional responsibili- to demonstrate. I felt the weight of a collecƟve
Ɵes, which included recommending treatment female gaze.
regimens in underdeveloped regions. Anna
quite jusƟfiably considered herself a CiƟzen of I really thought I could pull this off, even as
The World (COW)— who wanted to have fun. beads of sweat formed on my forehead. I was
gracefully athleƟc, an essenƟal and widely
This parƟcular COW found fun and purpose in acknowledged component of inordinate cool-
LaƟn dance, transmiƩed, perhaps, in the Soviet ness. I saw my sister dance many Ɵmes at
kinship with Cuba. Kiev provided numerous home, and I watched with pity as the dorks
venues to indulge one’s passion for laƟn dance, danced on American Bandstand. Then as now, I
Club Salsa being Anna’s favorite. believed that cool guys did not dance, that
dancing originated with dorks to give dorks a
I did not share Anna’s enthusiasm for LaƟn chance to gain proximity to girls, that inordi-
dance, or for dance of any origin or descripƟon. nately cool guys sustained their inordinate
In my early teens, a traumaƟc event rendered coolness by refraining from acƟviƟes fraught
me dance phobic. Ever since, I have rebuffed with dorkiness, like dancing and studying. But I
every aƩempt to draw me into the simplest of could not imagine a cool guy shirking when
musically inspired movements, even those con- pressed into a vital public service.
summated at a snail’s pace and calling for no
greater dexterity than that of a thumb wres- As the Kinks belted out You Really Got Me, I, of
tler. James Dean caliber coolness, began a roughly
three minute journey (a precipitous descent
I arrived at this unhappy state in my 14th year, from the happy heights) by the end of which I
up to which Ɵme, however incomprehensible had so thoroughly diminished in stature as to
as it now seems, girls considered me inordi- join ranks with the Leonard Skolnick’s of the
nately cool. Indeed, it was not unusual for old- teen world. My adoring admirers, who only
er girls to favor my affecƟons, even over boys a minutes earlier gazed upon me longingly, re-
few years their senior, thereby establishing as coiled in incredulity as the image of each spas-
indisputable my bona fides of inordinate cool- modic movement imprinted upon their forma-
ness. I was in a really good place. Ɵve brains.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Dance had routed me, exposed me as an im- enough to dumbfound the provincial U.S. pas-
poster, and hurled me upon the ash heap of senger, the stewardesses were of such extraor-
fallen teen idols, where I commiserated with dinary quality and substance that I thought of
Troy Donahue and Frankie Avalon, where we them not as stewards but as highly skilled pro-
prepared a place for the toddlers desƟned to fessionals in the German Foreign Service,
replace us, like David Cassidy and Leif GarreƩ. I whose purpose was to treat you as an es-
had become so despondent that I even consid- teemed guest in the DemocraƟc Republic of
ered studying. LuŌhansa, not in a servile or unctuous way but
in a way that acknowledged and honored your
As Anna and I proceeded in our rolling disclo- humanity, that evinced no desire to be your
sure of significant deal breakers--my inability/ jailor, that responded to inquiries graciously in
unwillingness to dance; her inability/unwilling- the passenger’s naƟve tongue, without a hint
ness to discern the greatness of Dostoevsky; of contempt.
my Judeo ChrisƟan procliviƟes; her unwilling-
ness to acknowledge ice hockey as the apogee These are remarkable young women of uncom-
of sport, if not the whole of human acƟvity-- it mon intelligence whose lovely faces are devoid
became clear that Anna and I were not a cou- of vapidity, who move effortlessly from one
ple desƟned for a lasƟng relaƟonship. language to another. Their elocuƟon in English,
which is impeccable, wholly belies their Teu-
Except for an aversion to marriage, Anna and I tonic origin. I imagine the LuŌhansa steward-
had liƩle in common, to be sure. Despite our ess as masterful and at ease in translaƟng an
differences, I had never known a COW and emergency session of the United NaƟons as in
longed to meet one; as for Anna, she got to aucƟoneering at the Nebraska State Fair.
collect another American man, even if this one
she fully intended to discard. I also felt a nudge It occurred to me, minutes aŌer boarding a
from my maternal ancestors, who came from German airliner in Chicago, that I saƟsfied the
the Ukraine. What beƩer way to honor the requirements of my European trip. I sought a
Motherland than to sƟmulate her economy. COW and found myself amongst a coterie of
such, in what felt like a leisurely glide down a
Anna agreed to serve as tour guide and advisor placid river, scarcely aware that I was aloŌ,
on all maƩers regarding East Europe. barreling toward a distant conƟnent. In bring-
ing to bear civility, high culture, and uncom-
This was my first trip abroad. I recall sharing in mon aeronauƟcal experƟse, LuŌhansa was
the rollicking good Ɵmes of U.S. domesƟc air reversing the course of passenger airline histo-
travel in the 70s and 80s, decades before do- ry— which I found joyously disorienƟng.
mesƟc airlines insƟtuƟonalized the perverse
pracƟces that have kept otherwise adventure- These were ten hours of undiminished content-
some feet grounded. I assumed that the prac- ment. Upon landing in Munich I had no desire
Ɵce of subjecƟng passengers to the most abject to deplane, even as the opportunity to smoke
of condiƟons had extended to foreign carriers. presented itself. Who was this person inhab-
iƟng my nicoƟne deprived body?
Upon boarding a LuŌhansa airbus bound for
Munich— the first leg of my journey to Kiev--I I arrived in Kiev later that aŌernoon, eager,
discovered to my astonishment that one finally, to succumb to the demands of Lord
doesn’t have to fly like a refugee. To board a NicoƟne. In baggage claim, I eyed the door
LuŌhansa airbus is to enter a land of enchant- opening to the out-of-doors with great anƟci-
ment, or so it seems to anyone condiƟoned to paƟon. As I stood outside inhaling deeply, en-
the horrors of U.S. domesƟc carriers. joying the bright October Kievan sky, an offi-
cious looking man approached. Making no pre-
Everything about the airbus emiƩed an air of tense to excuse my ignorance, this formidable
unreality: the seaƟng was comfortable and looking funcƟonary, speaking a language I did
spacious, even in coach; the food was abun- not comprehend yet fully understood, directed
dant and delicious and served conƟnuously me forthwith to Customs, where I was roughed
throughout the long flight. If this weren’t

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up mentally--and just enough physically--to To their credit, the Soviets preserved many of
make me feel as if I were home, in a U.S. air- Kiev’s historic buildings, the most impressive of
port. which are the Orthodox Churches, which draw
throngs of pilgrims, parƟcularly to St. Vladimir’s
It took at least 90 minutes to travel the 15 Cathedral. To my surprise, the religious impulse
miles separaƟng the hotel from the airport. My is strong and widely exercised, despite the sev-
driver, a gregarious young man commandeer- en-decade long atheist hiatus— or perhaps be-
ing a Hugo, did his best to advance us beyond cause of it.
each imposing obstacle, construcƟon being the
chief impediment. Clearly, Kiev was rising. Americans are accustomed to walking life’s
Ɵght rope without a net, mindful that the de-
The trip to the hotel was a jarring experience. scent into poverty is as swiŌ and certain as one
We careened headlong into the wild west of catastrophic illness. Prior to independence,
Kievan vehicular traffic, streaking by one unob- Kievans walked confidently, without fear of
served traffic light aŌer another. I was grateful stumbling, knowing that a generously cast safe-
for each construcƟon zone that brought us to a ty net undergirded their steps— even while
screeching halt, giving my internal organs a taking each step under the watchful eye of an
chance to sort themselves into their proper unyielding bureaucracy that, for many, sucked
anatomical posiƟon. the joy out of living.

Kiev is a city of great beauty adorned by tower- Membership in the Soviet empire had its privi-
ing chestnut trees that drop their nuggets on leges, which it considered rights: pensions for
unsuspecƟng visitors, who wish they had the aged, educaƟon for the young, subsidized
packed a hard hat. These trees grace boule- housing, universal health care— all of which
vards of such magnificent width as to accom- faded away in the post-Soviet period— and
modate at least 20 persons walking arm in arm. which, by 2011, had become a source of grow-
ing nostalgia, as Kievans struggled to find bal-
The streets were remarkably free of liƩer. ance on a decidedly American Ɵghtrope.
Walking several blocks through populaƟon
dense secƟons of downtown Kiev, I noted an For many inhabitants of the former Soviet Un-
addiƟonal departure from the American land- ion, including Anna’s elderly mother, Erika,
scape: I saw no army of desƟtute and homeless dependence had become the ironic conse-
persons. It didn’t seem possible for a city tran- quence of independence. No longer able to live
siƟoning to a market economy not to generate independently in Moscow, Erika had recently
as many losers as winners--even if only tempo- moved into Anna’s flat, where along with room
rarily--and that the number of displaced and and board, she received free doctoring from
dispossessed would be considerable. (Anna her daughter, an arrangement that oŌen im-
assured me that the homeless of Kiev are le- pinged on the free wheeling movements of our
gion, but painstakingly kept out of view, rele- Dancing Queen. As the infrastructure of their
gated to areas where visitors are not likely to social welfare system collapsed, many Kievans
find them). found freedom and independence priced be-
yond their reach.
The leather jacket--invariably black--is the in-
dispensable item of clothing for Kievans, re- Financial uncertainty in no way diminished the
gardless of age, body shape, or climaƟc condi- ferocity with which Kievans exercised the free-
Ɵons. I can report that not all leather is created doms of speech and assembly. I arrived in Kiev
equal. In east Europe, I expected the swarthy shortly aŌer President Yankovich (he of sus-
of appearance to predominate, or at least to pected Ɵes to the Kremlin and for whom the
consƟtute a sizeable demographic. Kiev is not eminently indictable Paul Manafort served as
the place to find them. There I saw mostly pale, impresario) arrested Prime Minister Yulia
fair skin, lots of elevated cheekbones, and Tymoshenko (she of perceived westward lean-
heads crowned with blondish hair. ings). Her arrest elicited massive crowds of
sympatheƟc protestors gathered in Independ-
ence Square.

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A large conƟngent of heavily armed military reserve of affecƟon for Russia, even as Kievans
police separated the protestors from a much prized their independence.
smaller gathering of counter-protestors who Poor Anna, I thought, as my forefinger extricat-
supported Ukraine’s PuƟn-backed President. A ed a chunk of rhubarb from an incisor. The em-
medium sized high school gymnasium could bodiment of sophisƟcaƟon and urbanity wast-
easily have housed the counter protestors, ed an enƟre day tutoring a village idiot in the
whose lack of enthusiasm amused me. Anna art of city dwelling, answering his incessant
recognized several dignitaries of the East Or- quesƟons, delivered invariably in the pitch of a
thodox Church from among the sƟffs lined up carnival barker. She must surely have been
on the side of the President. They gave the eager to abandon this dance deficient bumpkin
appearance of wanƟng to be elsewhere. in favor of busƟng a groove at Club Salsa, if for
(Whom did Anna favor: the Prime Minister or no other reason than to shake off the day’s
the President? “Neither of them is an angel”). embarrassments. She would have been wholly
jusƟfied in doing so.
The military police— all gym enthusiasts by Even though she could have been less imperi-
appearance--made no aƩempt to feign impar- ous in regulaƟng the volume of my speech,
Ɵality. They exercised their muscle (I thought Anna otherwise had been a good sport, re-
excessively) for no purpose other than to sub- sponding thoughƞully to my inquiries, as I
due the prime minister’s supporters. dragged her to places of liƩle appeal to her but
of great interest to me. She had earned her
Anna and I kept a safe distance, observing deliverance. As I was about to hail a cab and
events from the perimeter of the larger crowd. release her into the night, an exasperated Anna
I, a foreigner who stupidly leŌ his passport at asked, “If you don’t like to dance, what do you
the hotel, was parƟcularly vulnerable to arrest, like to do?” “I like to drink,” said I. “Thank
or so Anna thought. Further, my voice, accord- God,” said Anna reverenƟally, which had the
ing to Anna, drew unwanted aƩenƟon, even in effect of extending our associaƟon for several
the din of this raucous poliƟcal demonstraƟon. addiƟonal hours.
She accused me of speaking like a “country PS. Anna and I spent an evening of prodigious
person;” a euphemism for ear-spliƫng unedu- drinking, which— as it so oŌen does in even the
cated lout. “Please try to speak like a city per- most urbane of city folk--revealed in Anna the
son,” she pleaded, in hushed urban appropri- existence of a country person, a slightly de-
ate tones. She warned me also of my impend- bauched Tammy WyneƩe, I thought.
ing death, diagnosing my hands as too chroni-
cally cold to sustain life. About the Author:

I assumed that the hosƟlity expressed toward John Spencer Walters lives in the Rocky Moun-
the PuƟn friendly President was as much di- tains. His non-academic work has appeared in
rected, if not more so, toward Russia, a tradi- such publicaƟons as DefenestraƟon and Foliate
Ɵonal villain that I doubted Kievans had even Oak Literary Magazine.
begun to absolve from historic injusƟces, let
alone transgressions of recent vintage. But I
was quite wrong.

Centuries of intermarriage have saturated this
relaƟonship in a deep well of ambivalence. I
encountered no Kievan without at least one
familial Ɵe to Russia. In shops, restaurants,
hotels— wherever Anna engaged Kievans in
conversaƟon and revealed her Russian herit-
age— the locals received her enthusiasƟcally,
telling of Aunts, Uncles, Grandparents, who
seƩled in or near Anna’s hometown of Saratov.
From these encounters, I witnessed a rich

118

THROUGH THE FOG
OF TIME

by Jeffrey James Higgins

All your dreams are on their way memories, the way only music can do. The im-
pulse to revisit Vestal was overwhelming, so
See how they shine the next morning I packed a bag, kissed my
wife, Cynthia, goodbye and leŌ to find my
Oh, if you need a friend childhood. Cynthia was supporƟve, but I saw
the quesƟoning look in her eyes. I had the
I’m sailing right behind same quesƟon.

Like a bridge over troubled water Why was I taking this trip?

I will ease your mind Many people revisit their childhood homes to
confront demons in an aƩempt to heal old
Simon and Garfunkel, “Bridge over Troubled Water” (1969) wounds and find peace. Many memoirs be-
come literary roadmaps to childhood trauma,
I drove along the George Washington Memori- but my experience was quite the opposite. I
al Parkway under a slate gray, northern Virginia had parents who loved me, food on the table, a
sky, with thick fog hanging over the Potomac safe home, a wonderful dog, and family and
River beside me, vapor tendrils twisƟng and friends nearby. I idealized my life in Vestal,
curling off the black water. Beyond the river, romanƟcized it, cherished it. Thoughts of home
the Washington Monument peeked through conjured deep feelings of love, safety, and hap-
the turbid stew. I’d lived in Washington, DC for piness, but were my memories selecƟve? Were
over a decade, fighƟng terrorism as a special they fanciful reconstrucƟons of reality or were
agent, and oŌen passed that monument on my they genuine?
way to war in a distant land. Now, I drove by
that landscape of my adult life in search of my Merriam-Webster defines nostalgia as “the
past. state of being homesick” and “a wisƞul or ex-
cessively senƟmental yearning for return to or
FiŌy years ago, my parents, James and Nadya, of some past period or irrecoverable condi-
moved the three of us to Vestal, a quiet town Ɵon.” I was certainly experiencing that, but
on the outskirts of Binghamton, New York. I why? Was I thinking about the 1960s and
lived there from the ages of two to ten and 1970s because I was having a midlife crisis at
despite going to high school and college in age 52? Was I contemplaƟng my finite exist-
MassachuseƩs, I always considered Vestal my ence and hoping to view the beginning of my
childhood home. My earliest memories were life through wiser eyes? I had recently reƟred
there, surrounded by loving grandparents, as a supervisory special agent and had re-
aunts, uncles, and cousins, exploring the world turned to my childhood ambiƟon of becoming
as a young boy, my dog by my side. a writer, so was that career change the reason
for this field trip to 1967?
The idea of visiƟng Vestal had percolated for
some Ɵme, but as I lay on my couch reading a The fog worsened as I followed the river, pass-
book, Jim Croce’s 1972 hit, Time in a ing the cold, stone arches of the Key Bridge and
BoƩle, came on the radio and evoked a flood of

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

the woods of Arlington County. A blanket of Holidays were magical, visceral, exciƟng, and
rust-colored leaves lay on the thawing ground, full of bright colors, flavors, and rituals. I recall
moist and decomposing, below thin branches trick-or-treaƟng in vampire fangs and a black
on barren elms waving in the wind and the cape, a plasƟc jack-o-lantern filled with candy
limbs of sturdy oaks twisƟng upwards like bal- corn and chocolate, ghosts fashioned from
lerinas’ arms. I drove north on the interstate white sheets, and monsters and goblins trolling
highway into Maryland, the silver sheen of rain through the neighborhood. Christmas was red
turned the black pavement into a sugar- and blue lights, hanging ornaments, the smell
covered gumdrop, below clouds, hanging like of the evergreen, and presents stacked high
apostrophes, barely moving as they unleashed under the tree.
a heavenly mist. The brume thickened, creaƟng
a hazy canopy over the highway, enveloping I remember watching the Watergate hearings
everything beyond the road before me. It ob- and Vietnam War on television, playing with
scured the earth and reality, allowing my mind Treasure on the floor, and reading, always
to driŌ back through the fog of Ɵme. reading. I was transported by CharloƩe’s Web,
Lassie Come Home, The Hardy Boys series, and
In Pennsylvania, the sky was as gray and bleak my favorite, Treasure Island. I remember play-
as it was on this day in 1975, the year my fami- ing with my cap gun and wearing cowboy
ly leŌ Vestal, over my fuƟle protests and bro- boots, chaps, a white cowboy hat, and a mus-
ken heart. I could see nothing but the road in tard yellow shirt with shiny buƩons.
front of me, my car a Ɵme machine trans-
porƟng me through the misty vortex to 50- Vestal
years in the past, where my memories were as
murky as the fog. Einstein said, “…Physicists The fog liŌed as I descended out of the hills,
believe the separaƟon between past, present, crossed the New York State line, and entered
and future is only an illusion, although a con- Binghamton, a city only three-hours from Man-
vincing one.” haƩan, but a world apart. Binghamton had
been a thriving industrial city for more than a
Memories century, but businesses fled, leaving a fossil of
past affluence, a place where hope turned to
The innocence of my childhood comes back despair. I drove over the Susquehanna River
through fleeƟng images and a contented feel- into Vestal, the hills around me familiar bea-
ing, like being wrapped in a warm blanket. It cons of home. Businesses and people may have
was a Ɵme surrounded by loving family, a Ɵme come and gone over the past 50-years, but
before I knew of the cold ugliness lurking inside those were the same hills and trees I stared at
people. Today’s youth, with their bicycle hel- as a child daydreaming of adventure. I thought
mets, computer games, and peanut allergies of all of my extended family members, who
wouldn’t recognize 1967. It was an era of per- had lived here, and smiled out of happiness
sonal freedom, especially for a young boy. and out of longing.

I remember climbing trees, riding my bike, and Simon and Garfunkel played on the radio and I
walking with my best friend, Treasure, a golden felt as if my Ɵme machine had returned to
retriever with a golden heart. I can smell the 1967, my past now before me in living color.
earthy woods and feel the cool, sweet air of
the Bunn Hill Creek behind our house as I I drove into my old neighborhood and turned
jumped from stone to stone hunƟng for craw- right down my street, Lauderdale Drive, pass-
fish and salamanders, my exploraƟons as much ing the same evergreen trees I’d ridden my
in my imaginaƟon as in reality. I remember the bicycle by as a child, the scene of my youth.
smell of fresh oil on my baseball miƩ, geƫng Along the lush and winding street, beyond
sap on my hands as I climbed the pine tree yards covered with fluffy white snow, yellow
behind our house, the bristly hair of my GI Joe, lights glowed warm behind living room win-
and my bike with the blue banana seat, chop- dows. The ranch style homes, built with red-
per handlebars, and baseball cards affixed to brick and white trim, were well maintained and
the spokes. it sƟll looked like a place where I could ride my

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Revista Literária Adelaide

bike, take aŌer-dinner walks with my parents, I walked up to the house and climbed the
and explore the creek with Treasure by my stoop, where I’d played with Treasure when we
side. brought her home from the kennel. She was a
puppy, I was five-years-old, and we were best
To my right were Martha Road and the house friends. I pulled back the screen door of the
where Mandy lived, the thin bruneƩe with the house and realized it was the same screen we
fair complexion and red lips, the object of my had in 1967, the moment catching me off-
innocent affecƟons, the girl who made my guard.
chest fluƩer. I remembered racing my bike
down the block and doing wheelies in front of With a lump in my throat I knocked on the
her house, a ten-year-old boy’s maƟng ritual door.
for a girl who probably never knew I was there.
It was an urge I was too young to understand. I introduced myself to the owner, Frank, telling
him I’d grown up here, and he kindly invited
I passed Avondale Court and remembered rid- me inside. Frank bought the house from my
ing my bicycle down the street with my friend, parents in 1975, when he was a young man
Josh, and hiking through the woods to a candy with a baby, and now he was reƟred with
story where we bought Big Buddies, Sweet grown children. To my surprise and delight, the
Tarts, candy cigareƩes, Bazooka Bubble Gum, interior was relaƟvely unchanged since the day
and Archie comic books. To my leŌ was the we leŌ. The bookshelves were shorter than I’d
oak tree where I played tag with all the neigh- remembered when I would climb up them in
borhood children as the night grew dark and my footed pajamas, hang a bright orange Hot
my mother rang a brass bell signaling me to Wheels track off the top shelf, and launch toy
come home. I could see the crew cuts of the cars across the room. My muddled memories
Polanski brothers who bullied all of the neigh- were suddenly alive in front of me.
borhood children and the day when I finally
had enough and dove into the older brother’s I looked out the large living room windows at
legs, knocking him to the ground and the air the snow and thought of winters as a child,
from his lungs, then walking home a victor, my when my mother stuffed me into a blue, hood-
enemy vanquished. ed snowsuit with racing stripes and tucked my
feet into rubber boots. I’d make snow angels,
The road curved to the leŌ up a hill where my roll snowmen, and dig forts, the snow falling
father taught me to ride my bike, holding the over the top of my boots melƟng under my
banana seat and running along beside me as I feet.
talked and talked unƟl I realized he had
stopped holding the bike and was standing I stepped into the kitchen and froze. The cabi-
near the boƩom of the hill. A wave of insecuri- nets and counters were the same I had used
ty had passed through me and into the bike, when I was two-years old. I was in one of my
which began to wobble and I crashed, leaving dreams, but wide-awake, seeing the dark grain
me simultaneously angry and proud. of the wood, the design of the bronze cabinet
handles, all of the detail that had faded in my
At the base of the hill was my childhood home. mind. This was where my mother froze home-
made popsicles from grape Kool-Aid and or-
Home ange juice and I blew birthday candles out on
my cake.
My house was a small ranch-style home with
three bedrooms, one bath, and an aƩached I felt like a giant inside a child’s memory.
garage. To the leŌ of the front door were large
living room windows and to the right, the bed- Out back, the paƟo was white and barren. Car-
rooms lay behind a red-brick wall with small dinals and blue jays had once nested in trees
windows. A light glowed from inside and my along the creek, but Frank had cut the trees
first thought was that someone was in the bed- down. I remembered trying to idenƟfy the
room, my bedroom. The gray-shingled roof was birds darƟng passed our windows, watching
covered with a white blanket of snow. The them disappear in flashes of red, brown, and
house looked almost exactly the same.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

blue. In the summer, I’d play in a sandbox with flying into war, stories that probably insƟlled a
a hot metal boƩom or lay on my back in a shal- sense of adventure and propelled me to war as
low, inflatable pool. I remember running an adult. On Friday nights we would watch the
through the green grass chasing Monarch Brady Bunch followed by the Partridge Family
buƩerflies and catching lightning bugs in a and if I was really lucky, I could stay up and
Maxwell House coffee can with holes punched watch Love American Style. I remember my
in the top. parents waking me up to watch the moon land-
ing in 1969. I was an only child unƟl I was sev-
Of course not all of my memories were good, en, so that television played an outsized role in
like the Ɵme my parents invited a couple from my life and when we bought our first color tel-
the neighborhood over for drinks and the hus- evision in 1975, I felt like I was losing an old
band arrived drunk and chased me through the friend.
house. Terrified, I ran out front door into the
yard and when I looked back and he was right I remember slipping out of my bedroom and
behind me. I ran to the big pine tree behind crawling under my mother’s desk as she sat
our house, swung myself up the first branch, there typing, listening to the clack of the metal
and climbed out of his reach just as he lunged type bars striking the paper and the ding of the
for my foot. I was panƟng from fear and exer- bell when she hit return. I felt safe. When I was
Ɵon and when I looked down, to my horror, he a liƩle older, I would sneak out of bed to write
was climbing aŌer me. I clambered up the thin- stories, the words coming faster than I could
ning branches as quickly as I could, my heart scribble them down. I knew then that I would
beaƟng out of my chest, going higher than I’d become a writer.
ever gone before, not knowing if the branches
could hold my weight. The tree began to sway. Frank walked me out to the front yard and I
could see Treasure running aŌer a ball, her tail
The man slipped in his loafers and his wife wagging and joy on her face. I can sƟll feel her
yelled for him to come down, so he stopped soŌ hair, the pads on her feet, her cool nose.
and lowered himself to the ground. He had There is no stronger bond than between a boy
been intoxicated and was probably just show- and a dog and though it has been 37-years
ing off, but I didn’t like the cold, black look in since she passed away, I sƟll think of her every
his eyes or his darkening expression as I evaded day. I remember running through the yard with
him. I sat in the tree for a long Ɵme, watching her and diving into a pile of red and yellow
the man talk with my parents and caught him leaves, the smell strong and earthy, the leaves
glance back at the tree with dead eyes. He was dry and papery, laughing as my father raked
waiƟng for me to come down. I felt angry and the pile over me.
betrayed because my parents hadn’t stopped
him, but I was proud I’d saved myself and I I told Frank he lived in a perfect place and he
knew I was safe if I stayed in the tree. I was smiled widely, seemingly pleased that some-
always safe in my tree. one else recognized what he had here.

Frank and I looked out the rear windows of the School
house at that pine tree. It had grown much
taller, as had I. The trunk was impossibly thick Images from kindergarten flickered in my
and a wave of disappointment washed over me memory, my Woody Woodpecker lunch pail
when I saw the lower branches had been cut with the smell of baloney and cheese, a ring
off, making it impossible to climb. That tree ding wrapped in foil, and a thermos that
had saved my life. smelled like sour milk. I remember siƫng in the
grass in a large circle of classmates playing
When I lived here we watched three VHF and duck, duck, goose and not wanƟng it to end,
two UHF channels on a small black and white taking naps on maƩs, and the day my class-
television, with a rabbit-ear antenna, and all mate Francis wouldn’t come down from the
programming ended someƟme aŌer midnight monkey bars.
leaving only staƟc. I was capƟvated by old mov-
ies of swashbuckling pirates and daring pilots I aƩended Willow Point Elementary School
through the fourth-grade. When I was in the

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Revista Literária Adelaide

first-grade, I missed my bus and my mother years later in Niagara Falls, then seƩled in Bing-
told me she didn’t have Ɵme to drive me to hamton and had three sons and a daughter.
school. She didn’t mean it, but I walked out of My ten cousins and I all affecƟonately referred
our house, driven by stubbornness and a sense to them as Baba and Nana and they were the
of adventure. I remember looking over my epicenter of the Aswad family.
shoulder as I turned the corner at the end of
our street and realized she wasn’t coming out On Sundays my parents would take me across
to stop me. I made the 1.3-mile walk, across the bridge over the Susquehanna River into
the Vestal Parkway and up a long hill, excited Binghamton for dinner at Baba and Nana’s
at my independence. To this day, my mother house. For the Lebanese, family and food are
feels awful about my walking alone; showing the center of life and Sundays at Baba and
what a good mother she was then and sƟll is Nana’s meant eaƟng grape leaves, stuffed
today. squash, fresh Syrian bread, and salads with
dandelions and tomatoes from Baba’s garden. I
I drove up the hill where I thought the school would start to salivate on the way there.
was, but found a building with a “WSKG Radio
StaƟon” sign and satellite dishes looming be- SomeƟmes we stayed overnight and my cous-
hind it. I pulled into the parking lot triggering a ins and I would scamper up the steep stairs to
vivid memory of yellow school buses parked in the third-floor bedroom, the sound of the
a line, the air heavy with the sweet smell of wood creaking under our weight. We would
diesel fuel, and searching for the number of push the beds together then jump onto the old
the bus that would take me home. I remem- maƩresses, as loose as waterbeds, bouncing
bered the ripped green vinyl seats with ex- around and giggling. The beds would slowly
posed metal bars and yellow foam sƟcking out, slide apart and whoever was in the middle
and the older girl, with long brown hair and a would slip between the maƩresses, pulling the
fluffy sweater, the one who always smelled like sheets and covers with them onto the floor,
perfume. eliciƟng uncontrollable laughter from all of us. I
remember Nana yelling for us to quiet down
This was my old school. from her bedroom across the hall, a room filled
with odors from creams and perfumes, but I
I walked behind the building and saw the short would laugh unƟl my abominable muscles
hill I would run or roll down every day with ached.
dozens of children, fleeing the confines of the
classroom for recess. In the distance, three Baba passed away in 1987 and Nana in 2000.
rusƟng baseball backstops stood like ruins from The last Ɵme I saw Nana she was laying in a
my past. This was no longer a school, but there bed in her living room. She told me she was
were dozens of liƩle footprints in the snow, dying and I wanted to say everything would be
like the ghostly tracks of children who once okay, but I couldn’t lie to her so I just said I was
played here, frozen echoes of the past. In the sorry. She looked at me with love, communi-
wood line I saw three jungle gyms with flaking caƟng without speaking.
red and yellow paint, the same equipment I’d
climbed on in elementary school and forgoƩen I drove up Front Street and the excitement I’d
about unƟl that moment. Suddenly I was back felt as a child returned and I could almost smell
in first-grade, hanging from the monkey bars, grape leaves cooking in tomato sauce. I turned
pulling myself hand over hand up the hot metal onto Cypress Street, and there was Baba and
hot pipes. I looked back at the school expecƟng Nana’s house, a three story, 1,305-square foot
to hear the teacher blow the whistle for us to house was built in 1890 and except for new
return to class. siding, it looked the same as it did 50-years
ago. I had the momentary urge to go inside to
Nana and Baba see Baba and Nana, and then remembered
they were gone.
My mother’s parents, Nejm and Najla Aswad,
were first-generaƟon Lebanese immigrants Between the house and the detached garage I
who arrived at Ellis Island as children, met looked into the backyard at Baba’s garden and I

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

saw the grape arbor my parents had built for decades. It was three stories, with concrete
him was sƟll there, the wood dark and aging. I stairs and a rusted pipe handrail leading up a
couldn’t believe it sƟll stood, 43-years later. My short, steep hill to the front porch. My grandfa-
memories had faded with Ɵme and I had as- ther passed away before I was born, but I knew
sumed everything I remembered had faded or Madeline, though only as “Grandma.” She was
gone as well. My childhood was gone, my Irish and German, with fair skin so thin I could
grandparents had passed away, and I thought see blue veins beneath and so slender and frail
this place only existed in my memory, yet the and I could feel her bones when I hugged her.
homes were sƟll there, the terrain was sƟll the She wore horn-rimmed glasses with a chain
same; the arƟfacts of my life sƟll existed. While dangling around her neck and support stock-
the memory of childhood had slowly dissipat- ings that slid down her ankles into worn slip-
ed, the structure of my previous life remained pers.
in the physical world.
Grandma kept a clean, and orderly house and I
I had leŌ, but the grape arbor stood, waiƟng remember the cuckoo clock Ɵcking in the hall-
for my return. way, the smell of the old wood steps leading to
the second floor, the same stairs my father
I knocked on the door, half expecƟng it to open climbed up and down as a child. From her
and to see Baba siƫng in his favorite chair kitchen with old appliances and a linoleum
wearing a grey fedora and a cardigan sweater, floor, she would serve us potato pancakes,
with newspapers stuffed inside to keep him roasts, boiled potatoes, with gravy on every-
warm. It’s strange that the house is here but thing. This wasn’t the comfort food of the Leb-
they are not. Baba and Nana were buried in the anese and where Baba and Nana were effusive
cemetery at the end of the street, but I don’t with their expressions of love, Grandma was
associate them with their graves. I feel them more reserved, probably a result of her difficult
here, with me. life and the remnants of Irish and German cul-
ture.
An elderly woman with short white hair and a
dirty tee shirt opened the door. She wore a I remember the heavy, black telephone on the
grimace, set into deep wrinkles likely formed hallway table and waiƟng for the neighbor to
by years of scowling. I told her my mother had get off the party line before straining my finger
grown up in the house and I had spent a lot of to dial a number. Most of all, I remember
my childhood here. I asked if I could walk into Grandma humming and siƫng in her green
the backyard to take a couple of pictures of the chair with the extendable foot rest, a stack of
garden my grandfather had planted. She asked NaƟonal Geographic magazines in a basket
why I was bothering her then told me to come beside her and Reader’s Digests piled high on
back later when her daughter was home. the coffee table. I can see her kniƫng a blanket
with long sharp needles, her arthriƟc fingers
My grandparents were the warm and caring and deformed joints rapidly moving as the nee-
people who exemplified the Lebanese tradiƟon dle Ɵps clicked over and over.
of welcoming guests and now a biƩer, old
woman stood as the gatekeeper to their home. Every year Grandma renewed my subscripƟon
I told the woman I would come back in the to NaƟonal Geographic magazine and I covered
aŌernoon, knowing I wouldn’t return. It was my walls with the maps inside, which probably
the same house, but not the same place I had inspired me visit more than 50 countries since
loved, because homes reflected the people then. Grandma passed away in 1991, but if I
who inhabited them and Baba and Nana no close my eyes, I can sƟll see her humming,
longer lived there. Some things do change. rocking, and kniƫng, with a twinkle in her blue
eyes.
Grandma
ReflecƟons
I drove to Cleveland Avenue, where my father
was raised with his parents, James and Made- I felt deep loss when we moved from Vestal,
line, and his four siblings. I recognized the but the values I learned there followed me
house immediately, though I hadn’t seen it in

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throughout my life and Cynthia, the prize I’d was wriƟng now. Maybe this trip was a way for
earned by searching for those virtues, was now me to reconnect with my young self, to vali-
waiƟng for me at home. Moving from Vestal date a 25-year divergence. Maybe I wanted
had taught me to accept new challenges, which that five-year old me to know that I was back
I did when I moved to Florida to become a po- on course, that I hadn’t forgoƩen.
lice officer and to New York City to become a
federal agent, and later to Afghanistan and When I was a child I did things because I en-
Washington, DC. Maybe leaving Vestal was joyed them, not because I was supposed to do
what gave me the courage to test myself them. Maybe who I was as a child was my real
against the world. self, the true evoluƟonary pneuma, before so-
ciety and experience influenced my geneƟc
I grew up knowing I would be a writer, but predisposiƟons. Maybe I wasn’t just grasping at
when I was between jobs as a newspaper re- fading memories. Maybe I was grasping for the
porter, I took a posiƟon working for a private real me.
invesƟgator, thinking the experience would
help with a novel and soon became enamored I drove south on Interstate 81 towards Virginia
with law enforcement. Now, aŌer an exciƟng and I felt more complete, more peaceful than
career chasing the world’s most dangerous when I arrived. It was so comforƟng to learn
criminals, I was ready to write again. I felt guilt those wonderful places from my childhood sƟll
at not following my calling sooner, but I was existed and knowing my past was sƟll there
proud of the work I had done and I didn’t re- somehow made going forward easier. I came
gret my career choice, because it was the ad- looking for my childhood and found it to be
venture I had fantasized about as a child. I everything I remembered. Those memories
wondered what that liƩle boy would think and feelings had carried me through the hard-
about the path I had chosen. Would he feel est Ɵmes of my life, like a bridge over troubled
betrayed or happy? I know he would be glad I water. All the way home, the skies were clear
of fog, as clear as my memory had become.

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Cynthia met me at the door, her eyes wide and About the Author:
teary from longing. She kissed me and pulled
me into a warm hug, pressing her soŌ cheek Jeffrey James Higgins is a former reporter and
against mine, her embrace filling me with un- supervisory special agent. He recently complet-
condiƟonal love. We were talking about having ed a nonficƟon book about the first narco-
a baby and I knew we could share this love terrorism arrest and convicƟon. Jeffrey is rep-
with a child and give it the childhood I had resented by Inkwell Management and is now
been fortunate to have. Everything I’d learned wriƟng his first thriller. Jeffrey has appeared on
in Vestal about family and love, I’d sought and CNN Newsroom, Discovery ID, CNN Declassi-
found as an adult. fied, and numerous other television programs,
radio shows, and podcasts. His recent arƟcles
I sat in my home office and began to write. and media appearances can be found at
Listening to my recorded notes, I realized my JeffreyJamesHiggins.com.
Vestal accent had returned aŌer being
dormant for almost half a century. The toy po-
lice badge I’d worn when I was five years old
sat on the bookshelf behind me, not far from
my gold reƟrement badge. My toy swords were
replaced by anƟque Afghan sabers, souvenirs
from a war zone. Gone was the cap pistol of my
youth, in its place a Glock handgun.

In front of me was the wriƟng I’d promised to
do.

I leŌ on my trip assuming everything had
changed, hoping to find shadows of my former
life, but instead, I discovered the seƫng of my
childhood largely preserved. I had grown and
my family had moved or passed away, but my
old house and Vestal were the same. There is
fragility in humanity, but the physical world can
endure. I’d lived in so many places, done so
many things, and grown so much, yet home
was the same.

In many ways, I was too.

126

DOES BURKE
MATTER

by Judson Blake

When I was small, in what seems like pre- who disagreed enƟrely, but nonetheless lis-
history now, I had passionate arguments with tened and took seriously what he said.
college students about the NaƟonal Debt, Could such discussion hold an audience in
which I believed was a problem that would America today? Obviously not. No one would
grow out of control. I was vehement and con- aƩend. Clear disƟncƟons such as separated
vinced. I was told that my views were Burke and Paine have effervesced for us; they
“conservaƟve” and I pretended to know what no longer can contain our passions, our dilem-
that meant. One student suggested that I read mas or the complexity of our experience.
the work of Edmund Burke who had laid out These men offered context in the Eighteenth
the conservaƟve mode of thinking two centu- Century, but their ideas seem to have been
ries earlier and so was way ahead of me. overborne, exploded by passions, ignorance
and weaponry more extreme than any in their
Well, Burke’s prose was beyond me ( I was Ɵme. So I am driven to ask: what trace of Burke
ten ), but I could see the gist in his respect for might sƟll persist in America’s version of con-
tradiƟon and natural human insƟncts. His fa- servaƟsm? This is important because in Ɵmes
mous work “ReflecƟons on the RevoluƟon in of radical change like ours, understanding ante-
France” won my aƩenƟon years later. There I cedents can give balance and perspecƟve we
learned some history, how Burke’s analysis need.
prompted opposing thinkers, notably Thomas
Paine, and how Paine replied with a powerful It seems obvious that our naƟonal dialogue
rebuƩal in “The Rights of Man”. With such sal- lacks concepts, since the opponents, LeŌ and
vos between these two great minds, an histori- Right, have grown up spontaneously, as if in
cal crystallizaƟon came about; the difference total ignorance of what went on in England at a
between LeŌ and Right became more defined, Ɵme when America was just forming as a na-
at least in England. What had before been iso- Ɵon. One can sketch some of Burke’s thinking
lated disputes now became colored and en- and those of his opponents in a rather simple
riched by this clash of powerful ideas. Are phrase: the conservaƟve is reluctant to jar
these ideas relevant today? what has worked before, especially if the jar-
ring is proposed by novel ideas; the liberal is
Today America has shiŌed strongly and suspect of the rigors imposed by the past and
halƟngly toward the right, and one naturally so is more welcoming of ideas that spring from
wonders what “conservaƟve” means for us. new condiƟons. Placed in this context, one
Going over Burke’s resounding prose, I wonder might expect some sympathy from each side,
today if any of it maƩers in America’s version not an impassable chasm of scorn. Such con-
of conservaƟsm. Would Burke have recognized cepts, were they seen as a context for discus-
what we have today under this name? sion, would help us understand the transiƟons
Would debates of the kind he engaged in the we are going through and which are forced
Eighteenth century even be possible today? upon us. Is there even a shadow of these
Would anyone listen? Burke’s persuasive argu- ideas in our modern ad hominem cannonades
ments were opposed by arƟculate thinkers

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(mutated into tweets)? Do poliƟcal figures we American conservaƟvism today. It does not
see today, without the paƟence to read either even need the cunning of lies. PoliƟcal speech-
Burke or Paine, reflect any ideas at all? es filled with vague generaliƟes meant to
offend no one have worn so thin that a speaker
I believe they do. I suspect American vehe- who dispenses with such niceƟes is fresh air.
mence and American impaƟence with raƟonal And emoƟonal honesty has the advantage that
argument flow from deeply felt human charac- the speaker and the hearers need not be trou-
ter and human differences that we do not yet bled by honesty about fact. The successful
understand. Vehemence, bigotry and ad homi- modern poliƟcian need not extend himself to
nem aƩack look at first like only grandstanding careful arƟculaƟon of ideas; such would only
and bombast, but there may be natural forces bore his listeners. But if he can speak from his
that this bombast obscures. We are in danger gut they will listen. If he has clarity of his vis-
of dismissing as stupid what is only inarƟculate ceral feeling that will hold them. His emoƟonal
outrage exploding on the right. Yet very oŌen honesty brings raw expression to insƟncts that
we see that the outrage comes from a place have been repudiated and disrespected in our
that even the speaker does not understand. enlightened liberalism. And there is where the
So how are the rest of us to see through the shadows of Burke and Paine might be extended
bombast to some meaning? I suggest that to inform the apparent irrelevance and chaos
there is a way to understand these things in a of American dialogue.
seƫng very different from the context of
Burke, but one of historical force that parallels Burke praised human insƟnct as a surer guide
his. to the future than theoreƟcal speculaƟon.
ConservaƟsm today trusts primiƟve insƟnct
Let us take for instance a remark made by a more than mental exerƟon and it wishes pas-
conservaƟve poliƟcian not so long ago. Rick sionately to dispense with complexity and the
Perry, then governor of Texas, opined that he need for intellect. Thus one sees in modern
had a soluƟon to the complex problems of the American dialogue an unformulated new di-
Middle-East: “Bomb them into the stone age.” chotomy: that between insƟnct and culture.
Since many people have said this or something Trust in “the old ways” has become freedom
similar, Rick Perry is not alone. If the literal from strictures of science, diplomacy and care-
intent of what he said seems quesƟonable, ful thought. Today’s conservaƟves are reacƟng
then the outrage and violence of such a state- to liberalism they feel is forced upon them and
ment are likely to be dismissed or taken for has gone too far. We see in conservaƟve iniƟa-
granted rather than looked at carefully. So Ɵves not just hatred of ideas over experience,
much violence is repellent to thoughƞul people but even a hatred of pracƟcal science and hu-
and leads them to simply turn away. If I go into man compassion. If scienƟfic ideas are unwel-
any bar or public place I’ll find people who sec- come, then blank denial can be imposed by
ond Perry’s view. They even applaud Perry for simple repression, a kind of bureaucraƟc drop-
being so direct, for saying plainly what they ping of Perry’s bombs. My quotaƟon from Per-
think but have no podium like his. ry expresses gut impaƟence with careful nego-
ƟaƟon and the arduous task of understanding
What does such an expression mean? Is there the minds of other people.
anything in Perry’s remark besides simplisƟc
thinking and faith in brutal means? His remark We can find other threads from Perry’s violent
radiates from visceral impulse unmodulated by but simple remark. One thing is its imperious
learning, compassion or reflecƟon. As such we machismo. I call this monotonic machismo be-
are faced with the raw reacƟons of a primiƟve cause it blankly insists on not listening to any-
but emoƟonally honest mind. This is unusual thing that would alter its willfulness. The
and quite forceful. EmoƟonal honesty, with no macho dismisses subtle quesƟons and leaves it
regard for honesty of any other kind, has force to someone else to pick up the pieces. The
because it is unusual in American poliƟcs but it ideal is that there will be no pieces. Then the
speaks to feelings untampered by thought. macho will leave a clean slate and the future
This emoƟonal honesty is a great strength of

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will be a beauƟful fresh start, with no connec- colonists the independence they desired.
Ɵon to the complexity before us now. The new naƟon was started out on a strange
logical theory, a serious and pracƟcal applica-
In with this machismo we also see that it is in Ɵon of new ideas. So we see in this the traces
love with its own maleness. It refuses to be of culture (meaning logic, ideas and science)
compromised by what could be feminine tact overcoming insƟnct (meaning adherence to
or circumspecƟon. So it is no accident that we historical experience and its ancient mores).
see on the right today so much disrespect of It is my belief that this dichotomy--between
the female. The monotonic macho will ride insƟnct and culture--is the American evolve-
roughshod over any delicate niceƟes, especially ment (or blurring) of the dichotomy between
those of women. This would have been too Burke and Paine. Perry’s insƟnctual dismissal of
primiƟve for Burke. intellect, honest in his gut, is opposed by
thoughƞul people who doubt that complex
Since his day the intervening centuries have problems can be solved by gut insƟnct alone.
brought a deep shiŌ we don’t understand. Yet today, insƟnct, like a beast that has been
Between insƟnct and culture, or insƟnct and trodden over by the mass of inevitable scien-
intellect, there has arisen a dark divide. Ɵfic research, resurges and demands its Ɵme,
Burke leaned toward the valuing of insƟnct, even dominance, in a world it believes it knows
but to him that implied stability, the tried and well enough without science, diplomacy or
true, not the acƟng out of violent emoƟon or careful reflecƟon. What we see today is resur-
the denial of culture. In America today, this gence of primiƟve trust in insƟnct.
natural dichotomy, between primiƟve insƟnct
and the culture that would civilize it, has be- Our modern dialogue has descended into name
come a stark divide that has calcified because -calling. But the outrage expressed that way
we don’t understand it. In much of human his- should press us to understand it. We would be
tory this duality has played out as opposites greatly helped if each side, leŌ and right, could
circling each other. Now American experience see these concerns as having a human basis, a
has thrown these disƟncƟons into a drasƟc basis on the one hand in insƟnct and macho
light and added deadly force to what was be- privilege. On the other hand in the importance
fore a logical leaning or preference. PrimiƟve of science, compassion and careful study due
insƟnct armed with modern weapons threat- the complexity of our modern world.
ens chaos and massive destrucƟon of life, but
our lack of understanding of these insƟncts has The primacy of gut insƟnct has meant a re-
forced them to explode with no need for logic markable hosƟlity to science. We see that the
or science. Modern American machismo has evidence for global warming is aƩacked by
gut insistence that has surprised those who vested interests in fossil fuels. But the vehe-
side with culture over primiƟve insƟnct (the mence and connivance of these aƩacks sug-
liberals) – and this surprise springs from too gests natural expedience (“Just burn what you
much trust that science and intellect could de- like.”) is feeling defensive in the face of new
cide all problems. The liberal believes that peo- technology and knowledge. HosƟlity to re-
ple will behave raƟonally if given a chance; the search in space is reflected in resistance to
conservaƟve sees, as Burke clearly saw, the funding the InternaƟonal Space StaƟon. The
naiveté of such a presumpƟon. conservaƟve feels threatened when natural
assumpƟons of the past are called into ques-
Burke saw the naturalness of ordinary life as a Ɵon by the mass of staƟsƟcal research. The gut
beƩer guide than intellect and he felt that cul- insƟnct of men like Perry is to summarily dis-
ture, far from opposing insƟnct, informed and pense with all this. Repress it if possible, if not,
enriched it. TradiƟon was the main avenue of just ignore it.
this enrichment and should be trusted first
whenever possible. For him breaking with tra- Another conservaƟve aspect that is greatly
diƟon would require strong jusƟficaƟon but he under threat is ancient insƟnctual tribalism.
did not rule that out. For instance, Burke ConservaƟves today are regularly accused of
argued heavily in favor of giving the American

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racism. By assuming that legislaƟon could Author about himself:
make people live together with indifference to
tribal disƟncƟons, our culture set the frame for A liƩle about myself: BA, Literature, UC Berke-
insƟnctual backlash we see today. This has ley; MS, MathemaƟcs, UNM. For many years I
meant the ascendency of insƟnct that disre- worked in Wall Street (didn’t save a dime) and
gards all compromises that stand in its way. the scienƟfic community, doing technical
Culture, represented by liberal thinking, is wriƟng and programming. For several years I
swept away by the force of gut passion. A directed and acted on stage in New York. These
leader who speaks with gut honesty (and no days I tutor math and go to various cafés to
honesty of any other kind) finds a following sketch people, usually without their know-
among tribalists. Now, it is natural that they ledge. For a long Ɵme, my wriƟng was hardly
would feel threatened, for today, due to mod- coherent but recently it has grown so I’m
ern technology, every naƟon on Earth shares a proud enough to show it to you.
boundary with every other. Contrast this with
the world of Burke. In an Eighteenth Century
town such as he grew up in, pracƟcally every
person a child saw looked like himself. Every-
one spoke in the same language. The mindset
of that day remains as our heritage, and is
affronted now when hearing foreign speech is
a regular occurrence for Americans. We are a
naƟon of immigrants and it is possible we will
one day become a modest cross-secƟon of the
whole world. Where will tribal feelings go
then?

This is a deep problem, yet today the premise
of American democracy is struggling toward a
soluƟon. It will come about from understand-
ing and compassion to bridge these radically
opposing views. What this is coming to, and
what will help America move into the future, is
awareness of the root feelings that separate
these two sides. For only if there is understand-
ing of why these differences arise, can some
viable firm direcƟon be worked out. The natu-
ralness, regard for insƟnct and tradiƟon that
guided Burke should inform our modern dis-
cussion.

130

LIFE JACKET

by Leslie Tucker

The veins in the man’s thick forearms are dis- SƟll later the same evening I lie in bed as four
tended and his biceps bulge. He squats with decades of personal encounters with evangeli-
thighs stretched wide, corrugated soles of his cals thrash around in my brain. Like snakes in a
boots balanced on the pile of rubble. He gri- bag.
maces and groans, straining to liŌ a hunk of
roof. I squint at the big screen Mitsubishi from “You’re busted.”
my leather chair but cannot read the yellow
leƩering on his sleeve. A German Shepherd, My body shiŌed involuntarily and urine
snout to the ground, is whining and pawing at splashed over the seat, trickled down the out-
the heap of shingles and sheetrock. I am rivet- side of the bowl. I’d thought I was alone in the
ed by the virtue of this first responder’s hero- public bathroom but the voice got louder.
ism; how he and his sniffer dog manipulate
chaos with vigorous clarity. “You’re evil.”

The camera pans to a lanky reporter in red Gor- In 1988, I was a Piano Performance and Peda-
tex, his baritone booming into a sponge- gogy Major at Oakland University in Rochester,
topped microphone. We viewers learn his Michigan and had just completed the final ex-
name, that he’s first on the scene for his media am for Advanced Music Analysis. Our profes-
outlet on this May day in 2013. He points at sor, who’d felt nauseated, asked me to deliver
the man and dog, Ɵlts his square jaw and drops the exams to his office while he went straight
his lower lip exposing blinding white teeth. home to bed. On the way, I’d rushed into the
“The situaƟon here in Moore, Oklahoma is be- bathroom.
coming more desperate by the minute,” he
says. I heard heavy breathing, yanked my jeans up
and scanned the beige metal panels of the con-
Later the same evening, the idenƟcal film foot- fined space. A long, damp nose protruded into
age runs and a news commentator menƟons the stall with me – between the wall and the
that televangelist Pat Robertson has offered his spacer panel. I recognized the snarling voice.
perspecƟve on the tornado disaster. I leave the
room, return, have missed Robertson’s sound “I knew you were up to no good…”
bite and open my iPad to find his self-staged
700 Club interview. The spindly female inter- “I had to pee.”
viewer asks Robertson why an all-seeing, all
knowing God wouldn’t have intervened in the “You looked at the exams. You’re evil.”
Oklahoma catastrophe, perhaps even prevent-
ed it. Robertson faces the camera, Ɵlts his not- Sharon was a Music EducaƟon Major who rel-
so-square jaw and speaks. “If there were ished sacred organ music. I’d once walked into
enough people praying, He would have.” the university auditorium at a predetermined
Ɵme, to pracƟce on the concert grand for an

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upcoming performance. She sat at the organ, It should have been easy to dismiss this bizarre
swaying, slopping through Bach’s E minor Toc- confrontaƟon, but the subject of evil had been
cata, a marked deviaƟon from her diet of Pale- raised with me before. I’d been surprised by
strina and Cavallo. Later, in music theory class, another fundamentalist the previous spring.
she’d astonished us by declaring that reper-
toire building and concern over grades was ***
foolish. The fundamentals of life were clear,
she said. God had a plan, would take her into Strings of red chile pepper lights drooped be-
His hands aŌer graduaƟon and place her in a tween fat nails in the knoƩy pine paneling and
small church as Music Director. icy air blasted from a ceiling vent above our
table. My friend, Susan, blew her nose into a
In the public bathroom, her voice trembled and sodden napkin and I shivered in my damp
the pitch fell several intervals. Speedo and hiking shorts. Our lanky blond
waiter, Hawk, who looked about my daughter’s
“I call you out in the name of the Lord. You. age, sauntered over, grinned a mellow Taos
Are. Evil.” grin and flipped his ponytail over one shoulder.

Was I? I’d dropped the stack of exams on the “Hit ya again with the Margaritas, Ladies?” I’d
floor inside the stall, noƟced that the class ge- guzzled my first one, was invigorated aŌer a rip
nius’ was on top and skimmed the first page. -roaring day on the river.
Seeing that my soluƟon for the second prob-
lem was different, I’d rifled through the pile, “Sure, and we need menus.”
found my exam and compared the two, re-
lieved that either answer was plausible. I reached across the table, felt Susan’s quiver-
ing wrist. “Relax. You’ve got a crazy story to tell
My skin prickled. I’d done something wrong, your grandchildren someday.”
but how wrong? Sure, I’d looked at finished
products but only aŌer the exam was over. “You flew out of a raŌ!”
Sharon was jeering and exhaling into the stall,
her nose bent slightly toward me. “And Cisco pulled me in.”

“How many answers did you change?” I was preoccupied, watching Hawk’s suntanned
calves ripple. He nodded at the bartender and I
“None. I was curious, but…” noƟced that even his toes, one with a silver
ring, were perfectly formed. I’d oŌen theorized
“Get out here.” The nose disappeared. that beauƟful people were drawn to beauƟful
places, and Hawk, in Taos, proved the point.
I zipped my jeans, liŌed my tweed overcoat
from the door hook and slipped it on, feeling Susan gripped my wrist like a vise. “You’re alive
for a glove in each pocket. Cracking the door a because Jesus saved the whole raŌ because I
few inches, I spoƩed Sharon kneeling on the can’t swim.”
muddy Ɵle floor, tears flooding her face.
“You were wearing a life jacket and no one can
“Get on your knees. Pray with me.” swim in Class IV rapids. You just float, feet first,
Ɵll the water eddies.”
I did not get on my knees. She frightened me. I
assumed she’d tell her story to an authority “You don’t get it. You’re with Jesus or you’re
figure and who knew what her version would with the Devil.”
be? I sped home, called our professor and ex-
plained how I’d compared the exams, how de- Nearly thirty years later, I wince at my lack of
tecƟve Sharon had tailed me into the bath- sympathy for Susan, but must admit to remain-
room. ing unmoved by religious declaraƟons that
seem irraƟonal to me.
He already knew. Sharon had badgered his
assistant for the address, driven to his home, Susan and I had met in September 1987, a year
pounded on the door and barged into the ves- before our trip to Taos. Seventy-seven year old
Ɵbule. Dropping to her knees, she’d implored Ronald Reagan, who boasted of daily praying
him to pray for me too.

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and napping in the Oval Office, was the most When my eleventh grade Honors Lit class read
popular U.S. President since Franklin Roosevelt, Being and Nothingness, I got cocky and told
but not with me. I was incensed over the Ollie Dad that Sartre made more sense than the
North-Iran Contra scandal and horrified that white-bearded-sky-god-virgin-birth-myth I’d
the leader of the free world had told the Wash- learned in Sunday school. Dad was calm, said
ington Press Corp that he consulted his wife’s he understood the allure of radical thinkers for
astrologer before scheduling world travel. bright young minds and urged me to consider
carefully. I did, and at seventeen, made the
Susan and I were mature women in our thir- lonely decision to stop aƩending church with
Ɵes, returning to school for advanced degrees my family. I turned my back on religion over
in music. We skipped out for a lunchƟme fala- five decades ago, but it keeps springing up,
fel one day and I wisecracked that our Presi- squeaking and wobbling like a rusty jack-in-the-
dent was a puppet, that Ed Meese was running box.
the country. I believed Music and Art schools
were liberal environments and it never oc- The confrontaƟons go back further than the
curred to me that I was offending Susan unƟl bathroom stall and the Mexican food joint in
she fired back. “He’s a ChrisƟan. I’m a ChrisƟan Taos.
too.” I was dumbstruck as she conƟnued.
“When I married Rob, he’d been born again ***
and I needed a faith I could live with, with
him.” Oak leaves rustled like newspaper on a blister-
ing July aŌernoon in 1976 and my two-year-
I’d hit a tender spot with Susan, hadn’t guessed old, Becky, hopped on the balls of her feet as I
her beliefs because she didn’t fit the profile of opened my friend’s back gate. Cara’s blond
fundamentalists in our community. She was a Afro popped up behind a row of organically
hip dresser, a talented classical pianist, played grown tomato plants, “Iced tea?” She pointed
jazz and directed musical producƟons too. Both at the child-sized picnic table and we squeezed
Ɵmes I’d met her husband, Rob, a brilliant sax into the benches, legs crumpling up to our
player, he’d been stoned and needed a show- chests.
er. Neither of them resembled the evangelicals
I’d seen on TV, or the squeaky clean zealots Cara and I had met in 1972, as volunteers for
who carried grisly posters and picketed abor- the McGovern Campaign. We fed our families
Ɵon clinics on Southfield Road. from The Diet for a Small Planet, were advo-
cates of Roman beans and rice, and leafy Chi-
*** nese tofu, food most people didn’t recognize.
We reviled plasƟc bags and paper napkins, car-
I was bapƟzed and confirmed in the Methodist pooled to the health food store for millet and
Church. Dad told me that faith had kept him the alfalfa seeds we sprouted in gauze-covered
steadfast through his family’s economic col- -jars. We wore natural fibers, lived on Ɵght
lapse and the loss of their home during the budgets and sent money to Green Peace any-
Great Depression. He said that faith kept him way.
alive through a perilous landing at Normandy
and gruesome front line combat aŌerward. Cara grabbed my hands and pinned them down
Jesus forƟfied Dad’s soul as he led the baƩalion on the Ɵny table. “I have to tell you some-
that liberated Dachau, examined evidence of thing.”
Nazi atrociƟes and prosecuted war criminals at
Nuremburg. Oh shit, I thought. She’s moving or geƫng a
divorce. I’d never trusted her husband, who
Dad told me once, when I pressed him, that he ridiculed the Rolling Stones, wore polyester
came home from the War a strong and able and ate MacDonald’s food. I’d ignored neigh-
man because his Savior had walked beside him. borhood rumors that he brought his secretary
Yet he never proselyƟzed, said that what peo- home for hours whenever Cara and the kids
ple believed was their own private business. leŌ town to visit her family. Cara tugged on my
hands.

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“I’m saved.” stringent belief system that bathroom-stall-
Sharon entrusted with her post-graduate em-
“From what?” ployment? This robust faith that Cara credited
with saving her marriage and advancing her
“Eternal damnaƟon. I’ve accepted Jesus Christ husband’s career, the same one that allowed
as my personal savior and been born again.” Susan to dismiss the life-saving skills of a white-
water river guide.
Sure, most people in our city of 32,000 went to
church, but they were Methodists, Presbyteri- Karen Armstrong, former nun and renowned
ans, Episcopalians and Catholics, people who religious scholar, addresses the issues of world-
kept their beliefs to themselves. Cara squeezed wide fundamentalism in her book, The BaƩle
my knuckles, “Pray with me. Our Father…” for God. “Fundamentalism is one of the most
startling developments of the late twenƟeth
“Stop it. You know I quit church in eleventh century…a militant piety that has emerged
grade.” within every major religious tradiƟon with
someƟmes shocking manifestaƟons.” ChrisƟan
“That’s why…” Her eyes reddened, spilled onto fundamentalists idenƟfy themselves as wanƟng
the liƩle wooden table. “You’re damned…” to go back to the fundamentals of the faith,
which they idenƟfy as a literal interpretaƟon of
“I’m not damned. How did you come up with Scripture.
this?”
Armstrong’s research demonstrates that in the
“I collapsed on the couch, kids were napping middle of the twenƟeth century, it was gener-
and the 700 Club came on. Pat Robertson was ally taken for granted that secularism was an
preaching and I started listening, really listen- irreversible trend and that faith would no long-
ing.” er play a major part in world events. It was
assumed that as human beings became more
“To Pat Robertson? Does Tony know?” raƟonal, they would either have no further
need for religion or would be content to con-
“That’s the miracle.” Cara choked back a sob, fine it to the personal and private areas of
said they’d watched The 700 Club together,
that Tony had made a prayer vow contribuƟon their life. In the 1970s, however, fundamental-
by phone, that someone had saved him right ists began to rebel against secularist beliefs
that moment. The same day, a prayer counse- and wrested religion out of its marginal posi-
lor from the show called back and recommend- Ɵon and back to center stage.
ed a nearby church. They’d been aƩending for
three months. In 1978, two years aŌer Cara and Tony moved
to Washington, D.C., a heavy woman in a farm-
“They saved Tony on the phone?” animal-print dress introduced herself aŌer an
evening PTA MeeƟng. “Leslie, I’m AnneƩe Red-
“Don’t make faces. Yes. He gave himself to man. I doubt you remember, but we met at a
Jesus on the phone. Our marriage is brand pre-birth orientaƟon at Beaumont Hospital.
new.” Our daughters are in the same nursery school
now.”
Four months later I learned that Tony had re-
ceived a poliƟcal appointment in the Reagan We’d never spoken in the four years since the
administraƟon and that he and Cara had orientaƟon but I recalled our walk to the hospi-
moved to Washington, DC. Her jubilant leƩer tal parking lot. She’d examined the faciliƟes to
to a mutual friend described how they were saƟsfy her curiosity, but would never give birth
home at last, in their community of Fundamen- there because she delivered her children at
talist ChrisƟans. And by the way, President home, with only her husband and God present.
Reagan was one of them, and in the District She’d experienced three glorious births in the
they preferred to be called evangelicals. Cara’s bed where she’d conceived, just as God intend-
faith was resolute, her hopes for her husband’s ed. I thought to myself that if I’d given birth to
career, boundless.

What exactly is this fundamentalism? This

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my daughters where I’d conceived them, one we bent our knees for your good health. You’ve
would have been born in the back seat of a never thanked me.”
Mustang converƟble and the other on a blan-
ket in the grass in our backyard. I was tongue- “What?”
Ɵed but AnneƩe wasn’t.
“You didn’t know? Well…now I can forgive
“Bring Becky over Saturday morning, our new you.”
swing set has a tall slide…”
As decades pass, I wonder what it was about
AnneƩe opened the door with one hand and me that aƩracted such aggressive proselyƟzers.
grasped my wrist with the other. “C’mon in, Did I provoke these encounters? Did my imme-
want a Pop Tart?” Her cuƟcles were raw, nails diate dismissal of their evangelism exacerbate
chewed down to the quick. their fervor? Did my insistence that I could live
a virtuous life without Him infuriate Them?
Six small children huddled around an oblong
Formica table in the cramped breakfast nook Recently, while rereading secƟons of The God
and Fruit Loops and a pitcher of neon red liquid Delusion, by Richard Dawkins, preeminent sci-
stood precariously near the table’s edge. Sev- enƟst and outspoken atheist, I was reminded
eral children had Pop Tarts squashed on their of a scienƟfic iniƟaƟve funded by the Temple-
napkins and AnneƩe handed Becky a lump of ton FoundaƟon in 2006. It tested the proposi-
blue goop. Ɵon that praying for sick paƟents, specifically
those who had had coronary bypass surgery,
“We’ll sit on the porch, they’ll be fine. We’ve improved their health. The experiments were
had a misunderstanding.” done double blind and paƟents were assigned
strictly at random, to an experimental group
“What?” I was bewildered, had met this wom- (received prayers,) or a control group (received
an twice for several minutes. no prayers). Those doing the experimental
praying were told only the first name and iniƟal
“How are you feeling aŌer your surgery? You leƩer of the surname. ScienƟsts ridiculed the
almost died this summer, people at the swim study, even though belief that “evidence for
club were shocked…you looked so healthy.” the efficacy of intercessory prayer in medicinal
seƫngs” was mounƟng at the Ɵme. The re-
“Yeah, well, I had surgery, but…” sults, reported in the American Heart Journal
of April 2006, however, were clear-cut. There
“What caused your aƩack?” was no difference between those paƟents who
were prayed for and those who were not.
“Cecal vulvulus, twisted colon. SomeƟmes it’s Whew.
geneƟc. I went to Emergency with abdominal
pain, ended up in surgery.” AnneƩe shook her SomeƟmes, praying for each other, or for
head. afflicted strangers, is enough for those who
pray. Certainly those who pray establish a fel-
“It was a sign. He struck you down. Do you lowship - I know that the ladies who knelt in
know why you survived?” the musty locker room stopped at the Whistle
Stop Cafe for pie and coffee aŌerward. They
Her face was fierce as she leaned toward me, must have believed they were helping me,
breasts heaving, and for a moment I thought it when in fact, I would have preferred a tuna
was a pracƟcal joke – something my wise-ass sandwich delivered to my home when I was
friends who knew the ‘Cara and Tony Saved on recovering from surgery. None of them called,
the Phone Story’ had cooked up. But her eyes inquired what I might need, or visited. Yet
were gleaming – this was no joke. AnneƩe re- praying for a stranger was important to them.
peated, “I said, do you know why you sur-
vived?” I believe that specific circumstances ignited the
zeal of the missionaries I’ve encountered, and
“World class hospital, excellent surgeons?”

“No. You survived God’s wrath because I orga-
nized a prayer vigil for you in the locker room.
I gathered women from my prayer group and

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that there have been people in every age who a rusty porch chair. Sharon, the most vehe-
have fought the modernity of their day, and ment, accosted me in a public bathroom stall.
that they have indeed, been moƟvated by the
common fears, anxieƟes and desires that re- It seems that embracing rigid fundamentals,
spond to the peculiar difficulƟes of life in the specifically, the literal interpretaƟon of Scrip-
modern secular world. And I’m thinking praying ture, made life’s dilemmas less complex for
feels good too. Studies demonstrate that reli- these women during the cultural earthquake of
gion fires the same neurotransmiƩers and the 1970s. They welcomed Jesus into their
spurs the same chemical reacƟons in the hu- hearts, aƩended church where ChrisƟan be-
man brain that romanƟc-sexual love does. havior was strictly defined, and formed sup-
porƟve bonds with like-minded fundamental-
My secular spine Ɵngled when I aƩended ists, lauding the handholding sisterhood of
Christmas Eve service with Dad the year before their prayer groups. No stressing over the effi-
he died. Trumpets heralded the processional cacy of Phyllis Schlafly’s philosophy versus Glo-
march, double stops resonated on the Aeolian ria Steinem’s. If aborƟon is a sin, women’s
Skinner and sapphire saƟn robes glistened in rights are irrelevant.
the candlelight as the choir entered. Dad held
the hymnal for both of us, just as he’d done All four women said they were certain that
when I was a child, and his eighty year old face God, their Father in heaven, stood senƟnel
was radiant as he sang, “O Come all ye faith- over their minds and bodies. He had drawn the
ful.” The oaken sanctuary I’d deserted as a blueprints for their lives and they needed only
teenager morphed into a gothic fortress of to listen for His voice and follow. And that, I
opƟmism and love. believe, was the conflict that flummoxed we
educated young women of the 70’s. I’d
I longed to believe that story in that place. watched my father take care of my mother,
had seen how flawlessly their system of well-
What I do believe is what I learned from Sartre defined roles worked. Yet I wanted to be in
at seventeen: that in order to be free myself, I charge of my own life, and knew it, even as a
must desire the freedom of other people. To young teenager.
treat another person as an object for my use is
to make an object of myself. To be free, I must Frankly, I could have used an omnipotent guid-
respect the freedom of others. As disturbing as ing voice, some help riding the Ɵdal wave of
it is for me to listen to second-century-like-talk rebellion that swamped tradiƟonal American
of deiƟes, I never aƩempt to dissuade anyone values during my teenage years. I took inordi-
from their religious beliefs. I aim toward a life nate risks during the 1960s when authority was
of doing no harm and wonder why that isn’t challenged and anything anyone believed was
enough for the pious people I’ve encountered. up for grabs. When youthful energy and experi-
mentalism dictated, “If it feels good, do it,” I
Western monotheisƟc tradiƟons hold that hu- did, and lived with the consequences. Yet for
man beings are made in the likeness and image beƩer or worse, I have never considered re-
of God and are thus equal in the sight of the turning to the comfort and confines of the
Lord. Yes, equal. If ChrisƟan fundamentalists Methodist Church.
believe this, it should be easy to recognize that
with or without TV evangelists, telephone pray- Marilynne Robinson, American novelist and
er vows, locker room vigils and bathroom stall essayist, describes herself as an intellectual
raids, there is indeed, more than one way to ChrisƟan and says in Absence of Mind, “It is the
build a virtuous life. quality of the science and the religion that de-
termines the nature of the conversaƟon.” Dur-
I sƟll think about the four women who con- ing her 2010 interview on the Jon Stewart
fronted me. Susan, tossed like salad in an army Show, she idenƟfied herself as a ChrisƟan who
surplus raŌ, saw me flip into the roiling waters believes in the science of evoluƟon, said she
of the Rio Grande. Cara sobbed with a mouth knew many others like herself, and that they
full of peanut buƩer on a summer day, and were not to be confused with zealots on either
angry AnneƩe pronounced my damnaƟon from

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end of the scienƟfic or religious spectrums. I social worker had already delivered the tow-
acknowledge that the religious statements I’ve headed boy to Dad’s table.
confronted, and the lack of any raƟonal con-
versaƟon with those who have advanced them The scrawny teenaged mother arrived fiŌeen
has influenced my ever-skepƟcal view of orga- minutes late, ashen as dirty snow, collarbone
nized religion. And, living where I do now protruding through a stained tee shirt. She
strengthens that skepƟcism. shivered, siƫng on trembling hands, and asked
if either of us had a smoke. Gazing at her son,
Thirteen years ago, aŌer a lifeƟme in the De- who seemed not to know her, she was unable
troit area, my husband and I reƟred to the to communicate with him. Dad excused himself
mountains of South Carolina, the buckle of the and returned quickly with two cigareƩes he’d
Bible belt, as locals call it. A majority of people bummed and a Big Boy matchbook. Tears
we meet here believes President Barack brimmed in the girl’s eyes as she inhaled. Dad
Obama is not an American ciƟzen and that the joked with her son, insisted they order food
Earth is not old, that climate change is a fabri- and picked up the tab.
caƟon of the liberal media. Many are CreaƟon-
ists and are also certain that our African- As the girl stood up to leave, Dad asked if she
Muslim President will order the confiscaƟon of was geƫng beƩer. She scowled, said she was
their guns. Offices of doctors, denƟsts, and in a shit load of trouble, might have to go back
veterinarians are plastered with religious mes- to jail. He pulled a card from his wallet and
sages such as, “We Care, God Cures.” pressed it into her hand.

One Sunday morning while hiking with my dogs “Call me. Maybe I can help.”
at Jones Gap State Park, a pink-faced Park
Ranger tapped the flat brim of his hat and It wasn’t dramaƟc enough to lead the six
warned, “Be careful, Ma’am, all the good peo- o’clock news like a burly young man at building
ple are in church.” It sounded ridiculous at the collapse rescue, but in its own way, Dad’s ges-
Ɵme and I chuckled, assuming he was joking. ture was just as important. One human with
Years later, however, with a clearer under- resources trying to ease another’s suffering,
standing of what locals believe, I can imagine because it makes sense, and makes life more
the judgment he passed on a lone woman, profound for all of us.
trekking by a boulder-strewn river instead of
aƩending indoor worship. ***

What I have concluded is that all of this rumi- Back in my leather chair that May evening day
naƟng boils down to virtue, which requires a in 2013, I blink as Minnesota Congresswoman
life of acƟon, of choosing one’s own behavior Michelle Bachman shakes her finger at the
as if choosing it for all humanity. And I can de- camera. “The IRS will soon be in charge of a
fine virtue because I’ve seen a man who saved huge naƟonal database on health care,” she
people. A man who believed in jusƟce and says. My mind clicks back to speeches from her
charity, a man who knew that faith coerced is last campaign, shrill warnings that we are at
no faith at all. The man who let me quit church. the end of days, that as true Americans we
must accept Jesus as our savior, as she did at
In 1984, Dad was newly reƟred from his law sixteen, or suffer eternal hellfire. I shut my eyes
pracƟce and I accompanied him on a volunteer to shut her out, but can’t. I do the math and
VisitaƟon Monitoring session for Oakland deduce that thirty-eight years aŌer televange-
County Probate Court. Parents who had lost list Pat Robertson saved my friend’s husband
custody of their young children were allowed by phone, Robertson is sƟll on the air -- blam-
short visits with them in public places, in the ing tornadoes on those who do not pray.
presence of a court appointed monitor. Dad
wanted me to see his volunteer work firsthand, Armstrong’s research (which preceded publica-
and we planned to meet in a Big Boy Restau- Ɵon of “The BaƩle for God” in 2000,) sup-
rant in PonƟac, Michigan. When I arrived, the porƟng the concept that secularism was an
irreversible trend in America, has not yet stood

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the test of Ɵme. Instead, fundamentalists of all About the Author:
brands have gained worldwide momentum,
fueled by an increasing digital audience of zeal- Leslie Tucker, a former Detroiter, lives on a
ous believers in our wired up world. Carolina mountainside and refuses to divulge
its exact locaƟon. She is an avid hiker and zi-
I can’t get Bathroom-Stall-Sharon out of my pliner, a dedicated yogi, an ACBL Life Master in
head today and recall her confidence in God’s SancƟoned Bridge, and enjoys anything that
plan for her, how convinced she was of my requires a helmet. She holds degrees in busi-
damnaƟon. Although I wonder if she is sƟll as ness and music. Her work has appeared in The
certain of the manifestaƟons of good and evil, I BalƟmore Review, So to Speak: A Feminist
like to believe that it all worked out for her. Journal of Language and Art, Shenandoah Mag-
That perhaps she’s mastered the tricky finger- azine, The Press 53 Awards Anthologies, where
ing on that Bach Toccata and is playing it in a her essay “Lies That Behind” won First Prize for
small church where her God has placed her, CreaƟve NonficƟon, and FicƟon Fix, where her
waiƟng for the devout to arrive. essay "Reckless Abandon" was shortlisted for
Best of the Net Awards.
Meanwhile, I’m sƟll floaƟng free, feet first,
unƟl the water eddies.

138

MOTHERS

by Beth Mead

My grandmother lived in bed. Her ankles were years. UnƟl a policeman knocked on my door
swollen, hard to walk on, but she wasn’t ill. Not at 3am, I somehow missed that my son was
really, not physically. Depression was shameful sneaking out of our house, meeƟng up with
then. My grandmother’s bed was in the living people in the neighborhood park where I took
room of her small home, the kitchen to her leŌ, him as a child, where I pushed him on swings
the closet with her portable toilet to the right. and wished he’d get Ɵred enough to nap. I took
Her husband died of cancer. Her youngest son my son to counselors and doctors and clinics. I
shot himself in a field. She died in front of a gained a hundred pounds. My husband lost
television. As children, we climbed up next to three jobs. Every morning I dread geƫng out of
her and listened to her stories about the teddy bed. But some days, there is art. Some days,
bears who lived in the woods in the painƟng we survive. Some days, I hold my son close and
above her bed. She would draw me paper dolls remember how to be a mother.
to cut out and dress, girls with wide eyes and
curled bangs and beauty marks on their About the Author:
cheeks. My grandmother was an arƟst.
Beth Mead is a Professor of WriƟng and Direc-
My mother someƟmes worked three jobs, tor of the MFA in WriƟng Program at Linden-
three shiŌs, to pay the bills that my father wood University, and she is the editor of The
would not pay aŌer he leŌ, to raise the chil- Lindenwood Review. Beth received her MFA in
dren he no longer saw. She married another CreaƟve WriƟng from the University of Mis-
man to help pay the bills, told me later how souri-St. Louis. She has won the Jim Haba Poet-
she knew on her wedding day, standing in our ry Award and was an Honorable MenƟon in the
backyard in her powder blue dress from a red River Styx MicroFicƟon Contest.
tag sale, that she was making a terrible mis-
take. That man drank every day. He was ac-
cused of things that my mother prayed were
not true. My mother’s youngest daughter
punched her in the stomach in an emergency
room, stole from her, asked her how much
money she’d leave behind when she dies. With
husband number three, my mother got a new
home away from the past, and road trip vaca-
Ɵons, and finally reƟrement. She talks me off
ledges and takes me to lunch, to musicals, to
movies. My mother is a survivor.

I am a terrible mother. I somehow missed that
my youngest son has been depressed and sui-
cidal since he was eleven. I somehow missed
that he has been drinking and doing drugs for

139

FRIDA KAHLO,
BARBIE OR BARBADA

by Emily Peña Murphey

Well, I guess I saw this coming when a few depth and authenƟcity for the American con-
months back I chanced on an ad for a children's sumer. It might also have forced the manufac-
picture book about Frida Kahlo, featuring a turers to confront some aspects of their sub-
very cutesy, Disney-fied image of her on the ject which might prove too controversial or
cover. If there's one popular figure I thought unseƩling for even many 'feminist" potenƟal
our culture could never succeed in saniƟzing, it purchasers of sexualized plasƟc figurines. But
would be la Frida! But come to find out that it's then, Americans would always prefer to be
actually happened now in an even worse way: passive recipients of superficial bits of reality
that she's been incarnated as a Barbie doled out to them by mass media than to ac-
doll! ¡Increíble! Apparently this has been made Ɵvely engage in research that might lead to
possible by the rights to her image have been some deeper truth!
sold by a member of her family.
So (though none of these points are at all ob-
There's been a lot of complaint about this in jecƟonable to this blogger) here for readers are
the media, I'm glad to say, but of course most few seemingly lesser-known fun facts about
of it has focused on the doll's appearance, Frida for those who want to use her as raw
which strongly resembles that of Salma Hayek, material for a preƫfied and wholesome LaƟna
the Mexican-born Spanish-Lebanese actress "icon:"
who portrayed Frida on film. It was actually a
decent movie, I thought, though it seems to She is generally believed to have been bisexual,
have produced most or all of the images of the though her primary love was her philandering
arƟst that most Norteamericanos have encoun- husband, the muralist Diego Rivera
tered. For example, few or none who have spo-
ken out about the appearance of the doll seem Her pelvis and reproducƟve organs were horri-
aware that Frida Kahlo had not only the infa- bly muƟlated in a traumaƟzing accident she
mous unplucked "unibrow" (a dumb expres- experienced as a teenager, as the result of
sion!) omiƩed in the Barbie version, but also a which...
very visible black mustache, of which the open-
ly androgynous Frida was very proud. The doll's She endured disability and chronic pain for
standard Barbie skin tone and inauthenƟc most of her adult life, resulƟng in her eventual-
"Mexican" clothing are hardly worthy of men- ly losing one of her legs to amputaƟon
Ɵon.
She was a Communist who reportedly went so
Would it have been asking too much of these far as to have a love affair with Leon Trotsky
designers to have looked at a few of Frida's
numerous close-up photographs or her many In later life, she was arguably an alcoholic and/
self-portraits; or to have read, say, the Wikipe- or prescripƟon drug addict
dia arƟcle about her life? Perhaps to have done
so would have given the project too much She was fond of profanity and off-color humor-
-and eccentric or outrageous behavior in gen-
eral.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

As an expression of her suffering, imagery of About the Author:
blood, woundedness, maiming, and death were
frequent themes of her art work. Emily Peña Murphey is a reƟred psychothera-
pist with training in psychology, social work,
A preƩy picture for your liƩle girls? (Lots of and Jungian psychoanalysis. She has family
"teachable moments" there!) roots in the Río Grande valley and the Smoky
Mountains of North Carolina, and sings and
Most scholars of Kahlo's life and art agree that plays the tradiƟonal music of both regions. She
what is most significant about her legacy is not uses wriƟng to explore her idenƟty as a mixed
her facial hair or her exoƟc clothing and hair- LaƟn/Anglo-American, and has published short
style, but her ability to transcend her difficult ficƟon in several online journals. Her current
existence and transform it into a life filled with projects include a collecƟon of short stories
creaƟvity and meaning. But this reality can't be and a trilogy of trans-border novels. She lives in
conveyed by means of something as concrete Philadelphia.
and superficial as a stylized mannequin.

So in closing, I might suggest that the manufac-
tures of Frida Barbie develop a few accesso-
ries to go with the doll and lend her a bit more
verisimilitude, as follow.

Crutches, a wheelchair and an old-fashioned,
wooden prostheƟc leg.

A phial of sugar-pill faux opiate medicaƟons,
with instrucƟons for use printed in Spanish.

A "baby" doll in the form of a miscarried fetus.

A back brace and plaster-cast corset

A man's suit for purposes of occasional cross-
dressing

A sugar Muertos skull bearing the name
"Diego" on its forehead

And--most importantly--an arƟst's canvas, pal-
eƩe, brushes, and paints.

Empowered, ¡Sí! PreƩy and convenƟonal, ¡No!

141

A LOST VIOLIN, A
LAST LETTER HOME

by Mike Dillon

The spoil of war is our knowledge of the dark-haired young woman in a village in east-
world.— Wislaw Szymborska ern France. In October, as their unit crossed a
field toward the German posiƟons, a shell frag-
In 2013, a few months before her death by ment killed my great uncle as my grandfather
cancer, my 87-year-old mother, a beauƟful, jogged beside him.
stoic woman who loved to swim the cold wa-
ters of Puget Sound, held back tears as she The violin remained — remains — unclaimed.
handed me a browned, briƩle piece of paper. I
had seen the paper once before, shortly aŌer November 11, 2018 marks the centenary of the
my grandfather died. final hour of the final day of the final month of
World War I, a catastrophe that took perhaps
With a strange, out-of-body feeling of fulfilling 18 million military and civilian lives — 110,000
a part in a story wriƩen a long Ɵme ago, I ac- of them American — over “some damn foolish
cepted the last leƩer home from my grandfa- thing in the Balkans,” as OƩo von Bismarck had
ther’s brother Melvin, the uncle my mother prophesied. The poliƟcians will have their day
never knew. Dated June 26, 1918, it was post- on the podiums, their rhetoric driŌing over the
ed from Le Cendre, France. killing fields and military cemeteries of France
as they remember “The War to End All Wars”
Melvin’s epistle was one of hundreds of thou- — which laid the seedbed for an even greater
sands posted by American boys from the Great inferno.
War. The day aŌer Congress declared war on
Germany, my great uncle and his liƩle brother, My mother said my grandfather, a man averse
my grandfather, joined up in their hometown to self-disclosure, spoke just once about how
of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, to keep the world safe his big brother died and the story of his violin.
for democracy. They were 18 and 17, respec- It came out of the blue one day as he drove her
Ɵvely. My grandfather fudged his age, an easy home from high school. He chose his words
thing to pull off in those feverishly patrioƟc carefully, she said, like an assayer weighing
days. nuggets of gold. This would have been in the
early 1940s, in the middle of World War II.
He returned home alone.
My grandfather, tall as Lincoln, gaunt as a
“The war is beginning to look preƩy good now blackthorn cane, lived unƟl 79 and is buried in
& I suppose we will be up on the front one of SeaƩle beside his second wife. Once, at a fami-
these days to help with the finishing touches, ly gathering in the 1950s, I shyly watched from
at least we hope so,” Melvin wrote with his the margins as his eyes driŌed from the con-
fountain pen in a Ɵdy, backward-leaning script. versaƟon to stare off into the ether. The con-
versaƟon conƟnued without him, accompanied
In September 1918, before moving up the line by the ice Ɵnkling in a half-dozen highballs.
for the Meuse-Argonne offensive, Melvin leŌ Watching him — maybe I was 8 — I felt like
the violin he brought from home with a preƩy, one of God’s spies. Over the years, I spoƩed

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those psychic excursions a few more Ɵmes. nights lately and they sure make me home-
That was a normal part of the household sce- sick.” The wonders of the Internet confirm the
ne, my mother confided aŌer he was dead: moon was full on June 24, two days earlier.
He’d disappear into himself and return, slowly,
as the world conƟnued around him. “We could even see unculƟvated lands & for-
ests which is a rarity in this country, as all of
I first read Ernest Hemingway’s “Big Two- the lands are culƟvated and all yielding some of
Hearted River” in a schoolbook anthology the richest crops I have ever seen.”
when I was 10 or 11. As Nick Adams’s fished
and camped in Upper Michigan, I was right The voice of agrarian, American innocence
there looking over his shoulder. “Big Two- pushes on: “It is too bad tho the way the old
Hearted River” is the last story in Hemingway’s people have to work to get their crops in. The
first full-scale book, “In Our Time,” published in American soldiers help them some and they
1925. The story menƟoned neither war nor appreciated it very much but never-the-less
trauma; those who had read the preceding they have almost more than they can take care
stories from that collecƟon knew Nick had of. If the crops in the states are anything like
suffered both. I had no way of knowing that, those over here the war is pracƟcally ended for
yet I sensed something was off with him, espe- they say wheat will win the war.”
cially when Nick came to the swamp he refused
to enter — “in the half light, the fishing would Melvin closes: “Write to us soon.”
be tragic.” Whether baiƟng a hook, pitching his
tent or cooking flapjacks, Nick did everything “They say wheat will win the war” — an inno-
just so. So intenƟonally right, in fact, that his cence that can only be betrayed.
skilled acts became a kind of ritual to keep
some mysterious, inner Ɵde of fear at bay — Melvin’s script fills both sides of his staƟonary.
Huck Finn back from a world war. Once finished, he folded the paper four Ɵmes
with origami-like precision, terminaƟng in a
My grandfather was a reader. I don’t know if half-fold. The arƞul creases, the fasƟdious, leŌ-
he read Hemingway but he would have under- ward-leaning penmanship, the fact that he
stood Nick Adams. His brother Melvin never turned the staƟonary horizontally to accommo-
made it far enough to look back in anger or date the march of his long sentences, registers
anguish. an unconvenƟonal sensibility. The kind of sen-
sibility, in fact, that might carry a violin into
Melvin, like many of his doomed comrades, war.
lived his last months in a patrioƟc, pre-baƩle
glow, like the soldiery of Europe in August On November 4, 1918, one week before the
1914, marching off into the maw of mecha- ArmisƟce, the Coeur d’Alene Evening Press
nized warfare accompanied by the resounding carried this front-page headline, top-leŌ:
cheers the Western Front would render brutal- “Melvin Petersen Reported Dead.”
ly ironic.
Several soldiers in Melvin’s sector had wriƩen
“I had a wonderful trip last evening to the top home to their Coeur d’Alene families reporƟng
of the Plateau de Gergovie,” Melvin’s leƩer the news.
conƟnues. ”When we got to the top we could
see for many miles — ranges of mountains and One Captain Ed Powell wrote to his wife: “No
the many wonderful picturesque villages.” The doubt you have heard of the death of Melvin
area, and views, near Le Cendre in the Massif Petersen. He was killed by a shell splinter. It
Central is now a big selling point for the local was certainly a sad event to me, Pete was a
tourist board. cheerful boy, full of courage.”

AŌer noƟng he had enclosed some “character- The story noted Melvin’s father, Joe Petersen,
risƟc French embroidery,” Melvin writes: “We “a prominent real estate man in this city,” held
have been having some wonderful moonlight out hope. Months before he’d been noƟfied his
son had been seriously wounded, which
proved false.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Melvin Petersen was one of the two brothers, The day is so transparent and clear Vermeer’s
Melvin and Loren, who gave up their studies in painƟng seems a tender, posthumous vision, as
the Coeur d’Alene high school to go overseas if the arƟst had just been told he had three
with company C. They were prominent in high days to live. And so he gives us the world as it
school acƟviƟes and popular in this city,” the is, and all that it ever could be — the beauƟful,
story conƟnued. shimmering world all of us must vacate.
I realize, now, when Melvin’s leƩer passed be-
On Saturday, November 9 ediƟon, two days tween us, my dying mother and I glimpsed our-
before the ArmisƟce, the Evening Press carried selves gazing down upon a story we just hap-
this front-page headline: “The Death of Melvin pened to be in — larger, more resonant than
Petersen.” This Ɵme the paper ran a photo of the story of our own mere lives. Life was there
Melvin: a dark-haired, square jawed image of before us, clear and whole, as we see it in
All American young manhood in uniform. “View of DelŌ. For one brief moment, the
dancers caught sight of the dance.
From the newspaper: “The two brothers were Melvin’s leƩer will be handed over to my old-
more than brothers — they were talented mu- est son, now 34, when the Ɵme comes.
sicians, athletes and foremost in all school ac-
ƟviƟes, they gave up a promising future and About the Author:
entered the service of their country.
Mike Dillon lives in Indianola, Washington, a
“In France, the boys were inseparable, being small town on Puget Sound northwest of Se-
together as much as military orders would per- aƩle. He is the author of four books of poetry
mit.” and three books of haiku. Several of his haiku
were included in "Haiku in English: The First
A few years aŌer the war, Melvin’s body was Hundred Years," from W.W. Norton (2013).
shipped home for reburial, as were the bodies “Departures,” a book of poetry and prose
of some 46,000 other American soldiers. He about the forced removal of Bainbridge Island’s
lies in Coeur d’Alene’s Forest Cemetery beside Japanese Americans aŌer Pearl Harbor will be
his parents. published by Unsolicited Press in April 2019.

And Melvin’s violin? A violin is not something
blithely tossed on the trash heap.

I like to think it’s passed through several gener-
aƟons of a French family, accompanied by the
story of the nice American boy who leŌ it be-
hind for safekeeping. The preƩy, dark-haired,
young French woman, now dead, would likely
be someone’s well-remembered grandmother.
Someone about my age — 67.

I also permit myself to dream a liƩle. Or a lot.
It’s possible Melvin’s violin is sƟll played, bow
lowering to strings to touch the present tense.
The odds are not impossible.

I keep a framed copy of Vermeer’s “View of
DelŌ” on the wall of my study. Now and then I
stop what I’m doing and gaze at the handful of
people gathered there on the foreshore of the
River Shie, the spired city and stained-glass sky
beyond them, as they go about their business
towards forgoƩen graves, unaware as spar-
rows.

144

LIVING IN AND
BEYOND THE WORLD

by L. S. Hope

Truthfully, there are things I miss about living had passionate affairs and deep, fervent friend-
in the world. ships with kindred souls. I felt deeply connect-
ed and secure in my role as a human being, and
If I lived in the world, I would go to natural his- the colourful bustle of the hive around me was
tory museums. I would visit art galleries. I pleasantly reassuring.
would buy SƟlton cheese and real, crisp rye
pain de campagne with salted buƩer. I would I am no longer certain, when I recall these
drink thick Italian espresso and revel, sƟll and poignant gold-hued days, if it is the world that I
silent, in the delighƞul anonymous solitude miss, or simply my own youth.
that a bustling city affords. I would do several
things I have been meaning to do for a decade It was my partner C. who coined the term.
or so now; I would probably find a good psychi- SomeƟmes we look up from a distressing head-
atrist. line or an inane youtube comment upon which
our glance has accidentally fallen and say: My
SomeƟmes I even miss wearing clothes. In my god. I’m Glad I Don’t Live In The World. We
youth I dressed myself decoraƟvely and with visit relaƟves out in the world every year, and
such pleasure, from the marvellous piled em- ask them what has been happening. A friend
poriums of Goodwill and St Vincent de Paul – thought it was hilarious recently that she had
thick soŌ scarves and hats and a big blue leath- to explain to me what F.OM.O. stood for. Glu-
er trenchcoat; my Ɵght brown slacks and that ten free water? Selfie-sƟcks? Driverless cars?
wispy white and green blouse that made me They chuckle at our surprise, and I laugh, too: I
look like a tree. I wore miniskirts and check- guess I live under a rock.
ered stockings and black eyeliner; I dyed my
hair ebony. I was preƩy in those days, and I The truth is almost the opposite, really – we do
liked to show off my long legs. not live under a rock, but on a sailboat. We
bought her not long ago, aŌer several years of
I miss the second-hand bookstores. There was living in the remote islands of the Indo Pacific,
a treasure cache near Lygon St, an Aladdin’s where we work. We plan to sail between our
cave of books that stretched on and on, around employment contracts now; we hope to idle
narrow corners and into deep groƩos, every about the extended Malay archipelago, mostly,
wall lined to the ceiling. I spent hours, and a when we are between contracts. We possess
good porƟon of my bartending wages here. no television (although we are admiƩedly
chronically addicted to the internet). The vast,
I remember my early youth in the city. I was distant realm of the world as we refer to it is a
emancipated and aflame with passion – for term which has sprung up in the private lan-
ideas, for books, for beauƟful things. Although guage of our inƟmacy, as such expressions do
it was almost always overcast, most of my rec- amongst all couples. It does not connote any
ollecƟons are inexplicably lit by pale, warm implicaƟon that the remote islands of the Indo-
shaŌs of gold as the sun set behind the dark Pacific where we live are not a valid porƟon of
granite bricks of Carlton’s meandering back the planet. We simply refer to a world in which
lanes. I was a social creature in those days – I

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

we no longer belong. The world of modern commodity in this part of the world; in any
western culture in general; the world from case it does not keep well in our temperamen-
which our families respecƟvely hail, Canada tal marine chiller.
and Australia; that wide, marvellous and fright-
ening place that C. likes to call the Excited C. revels in the fact that we live so far away
States Of America. It refers to the world of from the world – that brightly lit world of SUVs
cable television, suburban strip malls and and dayƟme reality television and wide super-
traffic on the freeway. It is also, of course, the market aisles lined with myriad superfluous
world of art galleries, bookstores, espresso variaƟons of sugary cereal. He grew up on a
coffee and kindred communiƟes. In any case, farm, way out in the woods near the eastern
the world appears to be rolling on without me. coast of Canada; he spent his childhood romp-
ing through pine forests, building forts, and
We live, much of the Ɵme, in simple solitude falling out of trees. I share his revulsions for
on our girl, our beauƟful, second hand, paint- the shopping malls and the traffic, but I cannot
peeling tank of a sailboat. She is white, and share his abhorrence for ciƟes. I had a won-
rather chalky in some places, with a navy blue derful Ɵme, when I was young and lived in the
triangular stripe on her hulls. On a gentle tack, world.
as the sun sets behind her broad canvas sails,
the breeze rushes up through her creaking It is not my intenƟon to preach our present
trampoline nets. I love to sprawl on these, my lifestyle as superior, or suited to everyone. We
head resƟng on my folded forearms, watching use very few resources. We burn diesel when
the water roll and churn beneath me. On hot there is no wind to fill the sails but for the most
nights in sheltered anchorages, these nets are part, our solar panels are more than sufficient
the perfect place to watch the stars, as cool air for our needs. However, we are also contrib-
waŌs up from the sea below. uƟng very liƩle, in the long run – to people less
fortunate than us, to the various contemporary
Our shower is a garden hose on the back deck; social and global concerns that our treasured
I like to bathe in the open air, watching the sea wifi connecƟon remind us are rife, out there in
eagles swoop overhead as I soap myself, listen- the world. Neither of us are eligible to vote in
ing the tremor of the baiƞish flashing across the countries of our ciƟzenship – we have held
the surface. We neither possess nor require residence overseas for so long.
hot running water. The climate in this part of
the world precludes the necessity for clothing, Of course we maintain some connecƟon to the
and we rarely bother with it when there are no world, along the channels we most value. C.,
other people around. I like to poƩer about the an enthusiasƟc amateur luthier, hunches ea-
deck wearing only my sunhat, flecks of cool gerly over the instrucƟonal online videos of
water drying on my skin in the breeze. various violin makers and music teachers. I
treasure my kindle beyond all other posses-
My figure is perhaps not quite so trim and grac- sions. I carry a spare with me, sƟll in its original
ile as it once was, when I revelled in adorning it box and packaging, wherever we go; in the
with clothes; my hair is the mousy color I was unthinkable event that my current kindle fails, I
born with, flecked with grey now and frizzled know I can retrieve all my books, stored in my
by the sun. I haven’t worn make-up in years. online account, in an instant. (It is perfectly
true that we marvel and delight in the world
Our on board refrigerator is cavernous beyond that produced this splendid technology).
our wildest dreams; all in all we probably have
around two square feet of cold space which The close friends that remain to me are those
fluctuates between frozen solid and a dank, who love to write; penpals might be a more
limp-vegetable temperature. We had assumed accurate term, although this label scarcely does
that we would forgo this luxury, having lived jusƟce to the mulƟpage tomes we send to each
without refrigeraƟon on a previous sailing od- other. My friendships mostly exist through
ysseys, and the ice box the previous owner email, these days. I am a confirmed introvert
installed was an unexpected surprise. and solitude is a difficult habit to break, the
RegreƩably, good European cheese is a rare more one becomes accustomed to it. For the

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Revista Literária Adelaide

duraƟon of our last island property contract, I We saw stark islets, gliƩering in the sun like
was warily courteous to a fellow co-worker; I gems thrust up from the sea, a thousand miles
warmed to her, in my slow and undemonstra- from any other appreciaƟve human witness.
Ɵve fashion, more and more as I got to know One night as we sailed across the Solomon Sea,
her. AŌer twenty four months, when our con- a damp-feathered booby circled the boat be-
tract was up, I was quite sure that I liked and fore perching himself on the solar panel beside
admired her very much. Fortunately, she too my seat in the cockpit. He liŌed and shuffled
greatly enjoys the wriƩen word, and our his rubbery feet on the smooth glass; he
friendship has flourished since I leŌ, far deeper blinked in companionable exhausƟon. The
and more expressive than it ever was when we boat lilted and soared on in the darkness, with
lived in the same place. I know more about sails set; he kept his balance, and stayed with
her, and she knows far more about me, from me, for hours.
the online leƩers we regularly write. Perhaps I
ought to have seized upon the chance to get to Off the coast of the Louisiades, a lone minke
know her beƩer when we lived in the same whale lingered with us for a Ɵme, lumbering in
place and saw each other every day, but I can- circles around the boat. I swam with him, or
not help observing that I find it so very much rather I allowed myself to become a spectacle
easier to relate to people through the wriƩen for him; I floundered in the infinite cloudy blue
word than to converse in person. Even if I chasm beneath the boat and he orbited me,
were to return to the world, to become con- gliding gracefully.
nected with a like-minded community, I will
never be the vibrant life of the cocktail party. I Once, here at a breezy island anchorage, I
have grown accustomed to solitude; I like it. woke and looked up through the open hatch.
The first sight my eyes drank in was a pair of
There are moments when I regret my absence russet colored sparrows, perched on the rails,
from the world, and moments when I feel framed in a square of pinkish blue pre dawn
guilty at my lack of societal parƟcipaƟon. sky. Their twiƩering must have woken me.
There are a good many things and bookstores
and people and cheeses that I love, out there I am far from the people with whom I have
in the world. My short, infrequent visits back inƟmate friendships, but I have met people on
there are a great pleasure to me. our sailing travels whom I will never, ever for-
get.
But I harbour no fear of missing out. Deep
down I know that I have finally found my place, On a Ɵny far flung atoll far north of Vanuatu, a
for the Ɵme being, out here on the water. I tall man thrust his arms out to us, enraptured –
was a reluctant, anxious convert to the sailing Welcome! Welcome! He lined his wife and
life; I remain anxious, much of the Ɵme. Some- daughters up on the chicken scratched earth in
Ɵmes I am downright terrified. I would never, front of their reed hut and sang us a song. He
ever have agreed to the purchase and our per- had wriƩen the song himself, he told me, in
manent residence on our sailboat if it had not honour of this rare delight, a visitor. He hoped
been for C. It was he who persuaded me to I didn’t mind, but he did not know how to write
undertake the seven month sailing odyssey, on music, so he used the tune of a song he already
a friends boat, through the Pacific and into knew. Wel-come to iiiisland home, You are
Indonesia. It was the first Ɵme I had ever lived now our family now - his wife and girls, clad in
aboard a small water craŌ; it was a journey ruffled mother hubbard dresses, chirruped
that decided my fate and ulƟmately changed along as the man held the pencilled lyrics on a
my life. crumpled piece of exercise paper in front of
them. They sang to the tune of God Save The
And now, there is simply no quesƟon of turning Queen. Later, he led us beyond the hut,
back – it’s too late. Life at sea simply gave me around the point, to the thunderous cliff of
too many wonderful and beauƟful things that I falling water; thick waŌs of mist rose from the
know I might never have encountered other- falls and the constant spray had blanketed the
wise. surrounding cliffs with luxuriant damp green

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

foliage. We bathed in our clothes, soaped and before, for food of any sort. Red, plump toma-
ecstaƟc, and the sound of our laughter was toes piled in pyramids of five on a lime-green
swallowed in the deafening thunder of the cas- plasƟc soup plate; stacks of purple ubi pota-
cade; we pummelled ourselves clean beneath toes in palm thatch woven baskets; a tray of
the magnificent torrent. green mangoes with the sacrificial sample bar-
ing its luscious orange flesh atop the pile; the
In the Solomon Islands, a handsome man with ruffled bouquet of dark green spinach leaves –
a sparse beard and broad muscular shoulders all of it gloriously fresh. AŌer weeks since our
approached us in a Ɵny dugout canoe. He lin- last provisioning, I would fairly swoon upon
gered at the bow, without speaking a word. A such treasures.
small boy sucking his finger, naked and wide
eyed clung to his muscular knee. Hello. Hello. Living on a sail boat has afforded me the
The man did not want anything from us, he chance to scuba dive some of the most
explained gently, and he had nothing to trade;
he had merely seen us and brought his young spectacular and untouched reefs on the planet,
son out for a closer look. He hoisted the boy thousands of miles from anywhere; it has tak-
onto his knee affecƟonately. The boy brushed en me to thick-vined jungle islands where I
his fingers along the side of the smooth fiber- tripped and fumbled my way, binoculars thrust
lgass. The man politely ignored us now, and up at my face, in pursuit of some of the rarest
they lingered, silent and fascinated around our and most beauƟful birds in the world. It has
floaƟng home, as though beholding an alien introduced me to another world of stark, un-
craŌ from another planet. forgiving natural beauty. It has introduced me
to remote communiƟes of island souls whose
In Papua New Guinea, a wild man hollered society cannot match the freneƟc pace at
down the open hatches as we lay slumbering at which the world of my colloquial expression
anchor early one morning – Ahoy! This wiry seems to be constantly acceleraƟng, but who
gray-haired eccentric Australian had lived out emanate an otherworldly charm and eccen-
in the remote stretches of the Papuan coast for tricity born from their very isolaƟon which I
years; visitors were a rare treat. He took us love, deeply. Such souls have shown me in-
officiously under his wing; this was the bus to comparable kindness and conveyed to me a
take, and this the best place for canned provi- sense of welcome which is scarcely translatable
sions; we must check in with the harbourmas- to the world from which I hailed.
ter by going here and then taking another bus
– no maƩer, he would take us himself. We Everywhere I turn, I behold the constant, end-
returned to his tug boat Barbarian and he took less line of the horizon, a vast plain of blue un-
us scuba diving in the adjacent bay liƩered with marred by human presence. It reminds me of
war wrecks. We spent days, ecstaƟc and en- all that I possess within myself; of the fact that
tranced, exploring the sunken remnants – over- I am capable of things that terrify me. Sailing
turned fighter airplanes and cavernous troop at night, which sƟll holds for a novice like my-
carriers, sƟll and covered in silt. From the crev- self a good deal of aƩendant terrors, reminds
ices of these rusƟng monuments skiƫsh cardi- me of the words of the thirteenth century mys-
nal-fish regarded us with alarm and moray eels Ɵc Meister Eckhart that I read long ago, in a
twisted indifferently along their way. The musty meandering bookstore:
holds of the wrecks were riddled with ammuni-
Ɵon shells and boƩles and, here and there, What is this darkness?
human bones.
What is its name?
It was only by living on a sail boat, far away
from the world that I learned to truly appreci- Call it: an apƟtude for sensiƟvity.
ate scarcity. AŌer weeks of rice and canned
food and the slapdash meals of long passages, Call it: a rich sensiƟvity that will make you
the sight of fresh vegetables in a village market whole.
gripped me with a delight I had never felt
Call it: your potenƟal for vulnerability.

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