Savannah, slaves, and refugees

Savannah is such a beautiful city- the public squares shaded by oaks draped with the Spanish moss I'd always heard about but never seen, the river that gives so much architecture and character, and the bounties of good climate and delicious food. 
    I visited the house of Juliette Gordon Low mostly out of the curiosity to see a Southern mansion.  Daisy, as she was called, was talented in the Victorian arts as women were in those days.  She was able to paint, sculpt, and write.  Of course she is best known for being the founder of the girl scouts and was even buried in its uniform. 
     A tour of the house showed us the dumb waiter and the space that formerly housed the kitchen but there was no mention of those who kept the household running smoothly.  Were they slaves?   How often were they mentioned in the many letters the Low family wrote to each other? 
      Has slavery always existed?  The Romans had slaves as did the Arabians and the Africans.  There have been and still are, jobs that are just one step from slavery.  And what about modern day sexual slavery? 
       So I will read "A Mercy" by Toni Morrison which gives a voice to those voices missing from history.  And I recommend "Purge" by Sofi Oksanen which tells the story of an Estonian woman, a victim of sex trafficking, who escapes from her captors.
      A brighter, more generous aspect of America is its openness in accepting refugees regardless of their level of education and helping them resettle in the US.  Congress is threatening to cut this program.  Please consider contacting your senators to keep this  program that has contributed so much to this land of immigrants, alive.
https://secure2.convio.net/uscri/site/Advocacy?cmd=display&page=UserAction&id=265
Thank you!
   

Post V Day

Even though I'm not in a relationship (of the typical couple type) I had one of the nicest Valentine's Days (or VD Day as a friend calls it) ever.  Virtual flowers arrived from my cousin whose husband just escaped from potentially scary health problems.  There were e-mails and FB greetings and at work totally unplanned by me,  there were chocolates and more chocolates and even brownies. Amazing how quickly students from 14+ different countries adapt to the customs of America.

 
    Rewind back to a different take on romance - from my chapbook.

Aftermath of Love

The waters of Lethe

sprinkle my eyelids

with  a sweet poison.

I sleep and sleep

through this daily dream.

Awaken,

naked, shivering

on a rock,

in the sea,

Waves pounding.

Delaware Park

Today I'm home from work- still struggling with a root canal months later.  Nostalgia- here is a memoir piece that was published but I can't remember where. 


Delaware Park, Buffalo
The most significant and massive intrusion onto Omsted's design occurred about 1960, when an expressway was extended across the park, separating it into two sections and bringing the roar of traffic into the heart of the park. As a part of the construction, significant portions of the park lake were filled. The lake, long suffering from upstream pollution, became little more than an open sewer, and retained little of its Olmsted shoreline. 1989-2007 Stanton M. Broderick

           
With each step around Delaware Lake, I feel their presence.  With the ground squishy with moisture, as I walk, my uncle’s face appears.   Like when I was a child back from a day out, he asks me what I have seen.  “A rabbit?  A fox?’  And as if such things were possible in the city, I vigorously shake my head.   Crossing a grove of trees I relive all the trips to the hospital for chemo, my mother clutching a plastic container she vomits into.  Five years of pain see me through high school and give me the possibility of escape. 

            Yet I can recover great pleasure too.  I find my first love again, Daniel, who resembled a Rafael painting of Jesus.  We lay on a rooftop or under a blanket on the living room floor for hours pulsating to the universe.  His scent acrid like a farmhand’s remains.

Each moist step forgives and brings back the past.  My father worked at Dunlop Tire and Rubber. Asbestos filled his lungs leaving him on mood altering steroids and an asthma inhaler.  The delicacy of his peeling my fruit, mending my clothes, and finishing my home ec projects contrasted sharply with the bouts of rage that erupted from nowhere and found me shaking in silence. 

            This city provided a frame to my existence, the years when I was so shy as to be unable to speak.  The heritage of an immigrant past meant you were taught not to stand out, since such pride could lead to a trip to Siberia.  On my return I find the remains of that person who had no way to construct the boundaries needed just to survive.  I could flow into the rivulets that empty into the lake, a motionless expanse of water. 

            The memory resides in my blood, in my Latvian family heritage.  The Balts inhabited their white winter landscape and the endless sunlight of summer.  This verge of spring fills each cell with longing. 

            Across the street, I gravitate to the anonymity of the local university library, doubting I can still pass for a student.  The clock chimes the quarter hours as definitively as the local cathedral in the Spanish town I inhabited for so many years.  The chimes mark my inability to focus.  Another fifteen minutes and my mind is still racing, facing the blank page in front of me.    From the window, the grey sky is the color of a Paris winter where buildings and air meld together. 

            The old me, who I thought I’d squelched so long ago resurfaces.  In my dream I am lying in bed.  The doctor comes to visit but turns out to be my French dentist.  He examines me and tells me the problem is my heart.  I walk outside to find giant snowflakes filling the night sky. Can I return to this place and recover my heart?

Democracy- personal

      I woke up today with the concept of democracy on the brain. Here it's been the excuse used for deposing both despots and legitimately elected governments.That's why it's so exciting to see a popular movement in action. No surprise that Tunisia had a quick transition to a new government.  Even in Roman times it was the area of North Africa that was most open to outside influences.  What happens in Egypt remains to be seen and determined by decisions made in the US.
     I thought of my own experiences dealing with my own idea of democracy. In my class I sometimes ask the students to vote on which activity they'd prefer- a reading or grammar (it's an exam prep class so neither option is much fun).  When they're disappointed in the result, I tell them, well, you didn't vote or you didn't share the majority opinion; that's how a democracy works.  Usually they sit in shock for a few minutes.
   Years ago I was on strike from a school in Barcelona.  The strike lasted about 4 months and every decision was made by consensus- each of the 40 or so of us gave our opinion about what the next step would be.  After that glorious experience of solidarity I thought I'd never be able to deal with a top down decision making process again.
   Fast forward a few years to the school of modern languages at Barcelona University. Decisions were made by consensus but it was a consensus fueled by the most vocal.  Much of the time it seemed more of a hassle to argue a position than to just let it pass.  Inclusive or exclusive?  Who controls?  How important is your opinion?  Are you represented?  Those are the most basic questions to ask.

Gray day alert

We're long into January with no signs of winter letting up!  The Lake is almost completely frozen- I follow this information as if I were a meterologist or an ice fisherman.  It's important because once this simple phenomenon happens, there is a promise of sun!  No more lake effect snows, at least not from Lake Erie. 
   Monday the snow reminded me of walking on squeaky sand on the beach at Perdido Key and the sun (first appearance and last in days ) made me think of the line "glittering salt diamonds".  So here's the post of the poem, Formentera, which will be appearing in "Barcelona Ink".  Formentera is a small island in the Mediterranean near Ibizza, but nothing like Ibizza.

Formentera

The slow walk

to the cemetery of strangers,

car doors slam

onto private pain.

The ageless old dressed

like little black dolls

their full skirts

swirl in the burning sun.

Good Friday church bells

compete with Guantanamera

sung off key.

Tourists, weathered sailors,

a preponderance of children

inhabit the new money mad

don't stop till every inch is sold realm,

but still bound sheep

hobble over stone fences

fig trees grow horizontal and

goats strive for the

tender top leaves.

By the sea,

salt flats lie shallow,

leave behind

glittering salt diamonds

on white sand.

Barcelona Ink

I'm so pleased 2 of my poems- Formentera and Immigration will appear in February.  I feel like I'm in great company.  Great news in the middle of a long cold winter slog.

http://www.barcelonaink.com/

How do I leave comments on a blog?

How do I leave comments on a blog?

The Latvian Ladies

Last weekend I went to a lovely wedding but there was just one problem (una pega we'd say in Spanish): the groom has a possibly life threatening illness.  Only the Latvians can (as my sister says) mix love and death.  Or perhaps there is always the shadow of death behind us or hovering just in front.  Anyway, that brings me to my poem which was written about my uncle.  He was a tall scarecrow skinny man who played round after round of solitaire and made his own cigarettes with a plastic machine.  Here's to Antons:

The Latvian Ladies   

           

                       

The Latvian ladies

fry up liver, body warm

from the butchered pig

its stink of singed hair

still hangs

over the kitchen

and they chatter.

He won’t last

til the carrots are brought in.

My uncle, thin,

fades in their eyes.

The ground hard,

not yet frozen

yields bitter greens and

small forgotten potatoes.

My uncle’s body worn out,

to be shed as easily

as the fallen leaves,

dry and brittle underfoot.

Jet lag week 1

I left Spain one week ago and now am back in the pure white abstract landscape of Buffalo, NY.  Why did you come back? More than one person asked me and as I was looking out of my ice covered windows, I myself wondered why.  This is my third winter back after twenty years in Spain and by far, the hardest.
This is the quintessential American rust belt city, or even American city per say.  That means a city drained of what makes a European city so attractive- people out on the streets at all hours and public spaces to walk to and enjoy. 

The Lake

Something in me

loves a bus.

Starting at birth.

my father brought me home

in early November snow

on a bus.

There was Marilyn, circa 1956

all Bus Stop glamour,

and in Cleveland,

the sleek Greyhound sign,

recalls Edward Hopper

and the dusty 1930’s.

 “You have a blessed day”

the new goodbye as I board

wondering how to do just that.

Ashtabula, Erie, Buffalo

and all points east,

their vowels satisfy.

Something in America

so hates the city,

it bleeds out

 a slow death

 of the  light

and sound

and life

of this lake.