Last week they had Hopes and Dreams, they laughed and played, argued and competed, hollering as they chased around the frozen playground; they were anxious for faint signs of spring.
They were inseparable, good-natured, frustrating their parents with constant chatter, as children do! They played sports, obsessed over rivals, sang in choirs, learned instruments and languages, designed new inventions in- and outside of school.
Until the day all went dark—
the day that draped a thick curtain over faces: grandmas hit by rocket fire in the street; brothers taking up arms; school buildings shattered with countless children inside. Not their school—yet— but when? Grownups glued to television screens, whispering long into the night, sometimes until dawn.
Quickly schools are shuttered, children hidden—from what? And why? Sometimes the streets seem normal, inviting another game of street hockey, but that doesn’t last. Sometimes they sneak out, meet behind buildings still standing; their parents scold that it’s not safe. Furtive glances left, then right— and up. They must part— go to their homes not knowing if they will ever emerge— will they see each other again? Shudders ripple down spines. Why is this happening? Why them? Why now? A cruel nightmare from which no-one awakens.
Friends disappear—some on trains, others into mass graves as shelling engulfs the city. So many homes, a hospital, a theater, a church. Should they stay? But until when? And the children! The elders! The sick! What of them? Nights bring terrors; daylight punctuated with air raid sirens.
No longer carefree, never innocent again. The once dancing cities and villages now wailing. Laughter strangled by endless weeping, fists pounding, voices hoarse, arms hanging limply beside stricken bodies. Fertile Mother Earth strewn with wreckage and bodies inside buildings, on the streets, behind groves of naked trees. Charred. Twisted.
Blood. Too much blood where it does not belong. Blood crying to heaven from the streets. Blood-soaked ground flinging its curses up at those who shed it.
Oh, what have they done? Where is our brother? This blood will forever cry out; it cannot be stilled. But until when?
i’m a little chilly. oh where did i put that extra blanket for nights like these? should have thought to adjust the open window to fit the temperature.
then I think of you, small baby-child, lying alone without blanket or cover of any kind, clothing soaked with urine, smeared with feces, trembling from cold and compounded by fear.
i stretch out on my mattress grumbling to myself about that nagging ache in my back— did i twist it? overextend it? is it the aging mattress? or what?
i see you, little one, curled up alone on a concrete floor— if lying at all. you may have to spend the night sitting up without chair, couch, pillow—pressed up against strangers in a crowded room with glaring lights.
i moan inwardly, groaning with a tension headache i cannot shake. i didn’t reach for the magical cure-in-a-bottle in time, and now i have to deal with this nagging pain.
yet evil has decided to leave you alone, little one, to shiver with a fever, delirious from exposure, denied even the most rudimentary treatment, having no one to hold you close in your agony. no one!
if there is liberty and justice for all, why does myliberty include elements so different from yours? if all are created equal, why am i granted gifts of humanity not extended to you?
you are not expected to have the answer for these troubling questions, little one, but i’m driven, required, mandated to invite their weight to sweep over me with tsunami-like force.
indeed these inequities MUST be drummed into every heartbeat, emblazoned over every mental image, disrupting the tranquility of my privilege, sucking the breath out of my otherwise vibrant lungs, leaving me speechless.
little one, you are too valuable to look the other way; i must find my voice.
in chain-link cages,
kept like animals and charged
with nothing more than coulds,
demanded we keep
nighttime vigils,
our collective
cognition
challenged:
they could become M13 gang members could be human shields used by coyotes could grow up to terrorize our privilege.
but can we really abuse and
warehouse children based
on coulds?
photos of a capricious costume emerged,
brashly declaring,
“i really don’t care,” worn by one caught in the act of pretending to care–ludicrous irony–
caring –
the most fundamental
pillar of any
public servant’s
portfolio, crassly replaced
by cynicism, callousness
and criminality, an attempt
at camouflaged and color-coded comedy perhaps?
we’ve been shaken
as cries, chaos, and confusion
have reached incomprehensible
proportions, sinister cacophonies of collusion
rumbling over
country’s tumultuous
landscape, coupled with the
withdrawal from the very
council designed to
protect human rights –
icing on our collective national cake.
we’ve witnessed reports
in abject horror as
barred prison buses
carrying its wee cargo rolled out of
one border camp
after another, leaving us to
demand: where to? why?
what now?
children ripped from parents,
flown to distant states for confinement, not reunification,
political pawns and
deemed collateral for
future deterrent.
and what of the children,
innocent and vulnerable,
who need THEIR families?
placating promises of adequate care,
trained professionals, medical services,
loving homes — anemic comfort.
no. the children need
THEIR families. no other
arms will do.
and i wrestle with complicity–
aiding or abetting
illegal, corrupt
conduct – with full
understanding or completely unwittingly.
i am complicit
if fear seals
my lips and
blinds my eyes.
i am complicit
if i rationalize
and deflect, if
my but-what-ifs outshout
my but-what-nows.
my own most highly charged c-word is complicity.
***
There is a lot of emotion swirling around what’s currently taking place in our nation and around the globe. We are horrified, angered, stupefied, sometimes grasping for words. Any words! Words to convey the depths of our feelings; words to release the stress we feel; unfortunately also words to lash out. Various degrees of profanity and vulgarity have found their way into everyday speech of the everyday person.
Huddled
fearing no-one nor
angling for superior position
unassuming and radiant,
soaking up late-afternoon sunlight,
existing in utter contentment–
each glowing face equal in beauty,
smiling, nodding with grace
to those next to them,
bringing delight to each adoring
passerby.
Huddled
in desperate terror, scrambling
for protection, unutterable fear
choking breath from lungs,
which should be inhaling
spring morning air, but
which cannot be guaranteed
as lead shreds limbs, torsos,
hearts, leaving hopeful young
faces with incalculable
loss–or dead.
Huddled
behind barricading fences
of steel, ideology, or creed, confining
ourselves to self-imposed ghettos,
threatening our very existence, yet
unwavering in our fervor to
hurl insults upon fellow traveler, never
pausing to ponder its consequence,
taunting those who are unlike
us, and whom we, then, choose to
alienate and “other.”
Ahhh
could we not learn to embrace, to
coexist as blossom and bee, nature and
hiker, sky and land, seeking to
convert or chastise no one, finding the
strength to reign in our own hearts
so we can hear one another,
love rather than judge,
for the sake of humanity–
for the sake of the children?
***
In the United States, this week was one similar to many others: beauty flanked by terror. Fourteen children, along with three adults were gunned down as they clung to one another in anguish. Hours later, I hiked along a springtime wonderland of blossoms and fragrance. The stark contrast birthed these words, pleaded with us all to come together, listen to one another, regardless of what effort it takes.
I cry more than I used to, ……..about those hungry and destitute, ……..driven into torturous perils, ……..risking all for scant hope of survival
children alone, afraid of
war, neglect, poverty, loss of home,
still unable to frame the words,
yet choked by invisible strangleholds.
I weep more than ever for people hated ……..simply for the color of their skin, ……..the conviction of their heart, ……..the level of their competencies
for all caught, vice-grip-like,
in social disparity, mere pawns –
chess pieces – subject to
unbridled narcissism and greed.
I shed more tears than I used to …….about dogs – cooped up – caged alone, …….worse still, used for cruel sport, …….or confined by metal chain
about marine life perishing in polluted seas
forests at risk, resources exploited,
water tainted, oil spilled, nighttime’s splendor
erased by light from torrid flame.
I’m grieved much more than I used to be, …….by people believing …….insidious lies of those bent …….on forcing the vulnerable into servitude
women raped, the elderly shunned,
tribes disregarded, victims suffocated,
humans shackled, innocents gunned down,
rights revoked – a sinister Russian roulette.
But do not weep for me,
for one must choose between compassion
or bitter cynicism, which blames victim,
refusing to comprehend, denying culpability.
Only tears make it possible
to see in the dark, for they shield
one’s heart from searing blaze used to
systematically dull sensibilities.
I cry so much more than I used to.
It must be so, for tears’ assignment
is to deposit nutrients into
soul’s secluded sanctuary, sole hope
for birthing courage, integrity,
resolve, qualifying ingredients
to tread where few dare,
undeterred and undaunted.
I took the opportunity to attend a 2-hour writers’ workshop with the legendary Bobette Buster yesterday. Ms Buster, a masterful storyteller and workshop leader, artfully guided each of us in introducing ourselves, then, using what we had shared, demonstrated how the stories could be woven to create a remarkable tapestry.
Though it was impossible to capture all of what she shared, here is one (loosely paraphrased) statement:
If we want our children to be happy, the greatest gift we can give them is to tell stories of their parents and grandparents. Growing up with the stories of our elders creates wellbeing within our souls.
Some stories are simply a joy to write. This is one made me smile.
One arm hung limply next to the mattress; the other clutched a pillow scrunched next to her chest. Her torso was partially covered with a faded bedsheet; unruly hair blowing in sticky air coming through an open window. Had it not been for the the faint rise and fall of her back, she would have appeared lifeless. Face pale and wrinkled cheeks sagging; eyes closed and unseeing.
At the jangle of a rusted alarm clock inches from her face, the motionless form leaped to silence the intrusion, then collapsed again with a nearly inaudible sigh.
To others her life appeared to be a mere sigh. Not a statement. Certainly not a song. Growing up she had always been surrounded by achievement, and now her siblings exuded financial stability, selective social connection, contributing their own excellence to vast bodies of literary and artistic expression, admired and reviewed by renowned critics. While they soared, she seemed to stumble.
She pulled herself upright before the abhorred device would release another deafening interruption, reminding her of the passage of time. With legs swung over bed’s edge, her hands slowly rubbed her eyes. Her neck stretched long as she methodically tilted her head first to one side, then the other. She inhaled deeply, then allowed her breath out in a steady stream.
With one swift foot movement she pulled a long, purple mat from under her bed. For the next ten minutes she sat in stillness, ramrod straight, inhaling and exhaling with eyes closed. This was her routine each morning before placing an ungainly water kettle onto the hot plate in the corner of her sparse cooking and eating space. Before long she held a cup of steaming coffee in her right hand while grasping a thin cracker spread with cassava paste in the left.
She strode into the garden, settling into the shade of the ancient mahogany trees. She thought through the day ahead, as she did every day. Deliberately she allowed each face she would see, every question she might be asked, every scene that could be depicted and described, to pass over the screen of her productive mind. She allowed her thoughts to rest briefly on the luxuriously spread table under canopies of leaves and color, where she would meet health workers and international delegates for her evening meal.
Her face emitted radiance and peace as she picked up her high powered camera and shouldered her tattered canvas bag containing the only writing materials she possessed: two pencils, one yellow legal pad and a well worn iPad. Quickly she slid a tall bottle of tepid water into a mesh pocket along the side of the bag. She stooped momentarily as she passed through the front door, then closed it carefully behind her.
Within moments her tall, slender frame covered with a flowing orange cotton skirt and a white gauze blouse was surrounded by a growing entourage of chattering children–running, dancing or hobbling, many carrying infant brothers or sisters on their backs. Her face broke into a sparkling smile as she conversed easily with these smallest treasures of humanity. As they clung to her, she patted heads, stroked cheeks and offered fist bumps in return for similar morning greetings.
Without a doubt, this was the best part of her life! The children. Not yet caught up in the agonizing tedium of responsibility or the enticing grasp for power. They allowed life to pour from their innocence, easily absorbing into her receptive soul. She savored these moments–willing them to last longer, be felt more intensely, providing the driving force for her very being and for her being here.
Just before entering the market square, she sat down on the stump of an old tree to prolong this exchange. The spirited group attracted more and more vibrant miniatures, all seeking to grasp a portion of her skirt, blouse or arm. Some ran their fingers through her long curls or touched an ear. At times one child would cry and she would gather this one into her lap to simply rock and sing for a minute or two. Then she would carry on, knowing this scene would be repeated that evening–provided the demands of her day would not keep her too long–and certainly the following morning.
The one day she had unfettered time was Sunday. On this day each week she would worship with the townspeople, then choose one place near the center of the square to simply sit! The townsfolk knew her well and came to chat! One or two people, or large groups at a time. Someone would invariably provide her with delectable morsels from noon or mid afternoon food preparations.
And the children! They came and stayed. She learned new games, saw creations made out of twigs, moss and locust legs, listened to tales spun out of subsistence existence and witnessed stories read from prized books. The laughter was infectious; the joie de vivre intoxicating.
At dusk each Sunday she would rise, tall and serene, bend to bid goodnight to every small child still remaining, embrace each adult who had shared the final daylight hour with her, then wind her way back over the dusty path to her dwelling.
She sat next to the single flame from the oil lamp on her kitchen table and wove the delight, glory, pain and struggle that engulfed her into one passionately human story after another. Each evening, one week after another this had been her rich routine for the past three decades. Her body of work included stories on parchment, encased in glass bottles on the graves of many hundreds of her dearest friends; justice encouraged–and witnessed–in countless meetings, determining the future of her chosen home; articles, stories and photographs appearing in local journals; and a series of books describing and depicting life as she lived it. Life, as it could be!
Her life was not a sigh, nor a statement. It wasn’t a song. It was a symphony.
* Her entire body shook. Her breath came in short, wheezing spasms. Shiver after shiver ran over her already cold body. It feels like a freezer in here, she thought. Mechanically she guided her rusty car toward home, past one familiar landmark and another.
Never before had she felt so diminished. So crushed. Like her soul had simply been trampled on. Never. She had suffered all kinds of humiliation, scorn and danger before—but this? What had just occurred defied comprehension.
As she waited for a traffic light to turn green, she leaned her head against the window. She prayed the light would stay red forever, fearing she was too destroyed to go on. But she knew she needed to continue driving. She needed to be home. Mercifully the day at work had come to an end. The violent parking lot encounter was behind her and—she was still breathing. Yes, still breathing and moving. Violated. Bruised. Horrified. But somehow, still alive—a startling discovery. An involuntary chuckle escaped past her downturned lips.
Robotically she lifted her right foot from the brake when the light turned. The car hesitated slightly—just enough to shoot fear into her battered heart. No. It could not die again. She couldn’t afford another repair bill, nor could she miss one more day of work. She couldn’t even miss another second of work for that matter. Her heart rate quickened, her mind propelling her thoughts towards two small, wide-eyed faces. Kitt and Damien. Her two gems. The only ones who could still make her smile. Her sole reason for carrying on. They depended on her to at least put some noodles on the table each night. She must not fail. She dared never miss work again. Already she was past due on the electric bill and every night she feared coming home to find her shack of a house dark and cold. Colder than it already was.
After the barely decipherable hiccup, the car recovered, as if it had caught a stern warning glance from a rigid schoolmaster. It groaned and creaked, one mile after another. Nearly there, she voicelessly nudged it forward. She dared not relive the horror of what had happened moments earlier in the parking lot. Not now. Just focus.
She drove on, heart in her throat, dreading the possibility that her lowly hovel might be pitch black and cold when she arrived. She’d made arrangements with the mother of her school-aged babysitter so Kitt and Damien could at least temporarily find refuge with them should power to her home be cut. Rounding the final the corner, she gasped—darkness. Or wait—was there a faint pencil line of light seeping from the far side of the tiny structure? Indeed there was. Though it cast only an anemic glow onto the white snow, it was as if she had seen the portals of heaven. She pulled herself from the barely warmed car, exhaled slowly, tilted her head back ever so briefly. With eyes closed, she wordlessly breathed a grateful sigh into the crackling night air.
Instinctively she pulled her scarf up to shield her face from the onslaught of icy air. In a few steps she blew in the front door, threatening to extinguish the timid flames in the open fireplace. As long as the wood supply would last, she had resolved to use the bare minimum of electrical kilowatts.
The four arms that instantly encircled her and the squeals of delight that ignited the sparse living space fueled her flagging spirit. At once her face shone, liberally bestowing whatever light she still possessed onto her beloved treasures. For a moment all else dissolved into the sound and sight of love and belonging. The gaunt young girl who watched over the little ones pulled on her outerwear and disappeared with a faint wave out the door and into the vehicle that had appeared in the driveway moments earlier.
Continued in Behind Each Face*
*Because this story appears in the recently published book, it is subject to restrictions as to where it can be posted in its entirety.
Life Matters 