Author’s Note:  The poem draws largely from my first visit to El Salvador in 1986.  While much has changed in the ensuing years, much remains the same, and today everywhere you look evidence abounds of a country disfigured by years of war, political intrigue and national unrest.  And yet there is something special, heroic even, in the national character of the campesino who bears it all with a simple dignity that makes of life an enduring song. 

Marvin Jonathan Flores is a first generation American whose parents emigrated from El Salvador during the Salvadoran civil war.  He began writing at the age of nineteen, shortly after his best friend died in a car accident. Flores currently resides near Washington D.C. in Falls Church, Virginia, where many of his stories and poems take place. 

Delmarva Review was pleased to publish “El Salvador” in its 2019 edition.  Authors like Flores give discerning readers a human perspective of a country’s culture often  missing from the headlines. Delmarva Review’s thirteenth annual edition will publish on November 1 with the best of original new poetry and prose, from sixty-four writers, chosen from thousands of submissions during the year. For more information, see the website: www.DelmarvaReview.org. 

Author’s note: This story arose from a period in my life when I was thinking about relationships between women within families, especially intergenerational relationships⎯between mothers, daughter, grandmothers. It led to the discovery of several secrets from past female antecedents that question identity and relationships today. The confluence of all of this was the arrival in my head of the title character’s voice⎯clear and distinctly unique⎯musing on these very topics.

A Rose by Any Other Name

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet

    Romeo and Juliet, Act II Scene II, William Shakespeare 

I GUESS YOU’RE WONDERING WHO I AM. I’ve been wondering that myself. My birth certificate arrived in the post today. Annabel Shoshana Smith. Born: April 3, 1982. Mother: Rosemary Shoshana Smith. As expected, the box for my father’s name is blank. 

Rose—my grandmother—said my mother didn’t want my father (whose first name was Ron, I found out later) to have any claim on me if he came back. Not that he ever did, not even after my mother died. “A no-hoper,” Rose said. I’ve always called my grandmother Rose. She said it made her feel younger, that being reminded she was a grandmother depressed her. 

Anyway, back to the task at hand. Now that my birth certificate has arrived, I can fill in the forms that have been sitting on my kitchen bench for a week. Change-of-name forms. 

You see, I’m recently divorced. Currently, I’m Annabel Butterfield. A lovely name, Butterfield. In hindsight, I think perhaps it was the name I fell for, not the man. Pity. Now that he’s remarried and has little twin Butterfields on the way, it seems rather lame to keep it. 

The question is, though, which name to change back to? This is not my first divorce. Butterfield is my second husband’s name. My first husband’s surname was Pritchard—very English and proper. Like him. I certainly don’t want to revisit that. 

But I balk at going back to Smith. So ordinary. It reminds me of roll call and nicknames. Smithy, Smitho, Smelly-belly- smith. I don’t want to be that braces-wearing, pigeon-toed girl again. I’ve left that all behind. The funny thing is, a year or two following my first divorce, after some careful cajoling on my part and a couple of shots of Irish whiskey, I found out my father’s surname from my grandmother. She laughed as she told me.

“Ron bloody Smyth,” she chortled. “Smyth with a y!”

How unfair is that?

My girlfriends were less than helpful. My attempts at a discussion on the matter at my impromptu divorce party two weeks ago largely failed, probably on account of the quantity of champagne being imbibed. 

“Take a famous actress’s name—from the past,” Stacy said. 

“No, make one up,” said Ash. “Like Daylight, or Seagull.” 

They started giggling. Stacy slopped champagne down the front of her blouse.

“How about Butthead?” she said, spilling more champagne on the floor. “Or…”

Angela interrupted her. “Just go without a surname—like Madonna, or Pink.” She reached for the champagne bottle and refilled Stacy’s glass. 

Only Lucy, my best friend, could see I was serious. She pulled me aside, out of earshot of the others. 

“Have you considered taking an old family name? There must be one you like.” 

I’d been pondering that idea the morning after the party when Jane, my flatmate, made a comment that stopped me in my tracks. I’d said I was considering O’Reilly, my grandmother’s maiden name, given that she’d raised me from the age of three. 

“And,” I added, “it was her mother’s name, not her father’s. I like the strong female vibe of taking a female ancestor’s name.” 

Jane was leaning against the kitchen bench, eating yogurt from the tub.

“True, though…” She paused and licked the spoon. “There’s an argument that all surnames are male. Your grandmother’s name, O’Reilly, her mother’s name—it’s actually her father’s name, isn’t it? Your great-grandmother’s father’s name?” 

Damn. She’s right. All surnames are male. Passed on to women by fathers or husbands. There are no female surnames, at least not in this culture, unless you make one up. So, I put the forms away, and now I’m back at square one. I check the time. A quarter to twelve. Time to get to the hospital. I’m running late. I leave the forms on the bench and grab my keys. Perhaps Rose has some suggestions. 

SHE IS SLEEPING AS I ENTER HER ROOM. I pause just inside the doorway, taking stock as I do each day. There is her spare bathrobe, slung over the chair. Her overnight bag, full of clothes for me to take home to wash, her toiletries bag, hairbrush and glasses on the table by her bed. Today, though, I see something different. A leather satchel, a little smaller than A4 size, lies on the floor by the bedside cabinet. It is old and looks homemade, the leather lacing cracking around the edges. It looks strangely familiar, but I cannot place it. Then I remember, I have seen it before, in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe in Rose’s bedroom in her house, where she keeps her sewing kit and through which I’d occasionally rifle looking for old buttons or bits of ribbon. For a moment, I am disoriented. I shake the feeling off and slip back out to the tearoom, where I make a coffee from the automatic espresso machine. It’s awful, and at first, I only drank it for something to do, but lately I seem to have become addicted to its curiously metallic taste. 

As I walk back into the room, Rose opens her eyes. Her skin is parchment pale. I can see the blue veins underneath. 

She smiles.

“Annabel,” she says. “I have something to show you.”

The exertion of speaking sparks a coughing fit. A nurse 

glides in. I can’t watch. It’s a problem I have, confronting unpleasant truths. Probably why I’m twice divorced. I want things to be OK; otherwise, I’d rather not know. 

You live in the clouds, Rose would say when I was little. You have to learn to face up to things, or they’ll knock you down. 

“I’m all right now, Annabel—you can look.” 

She hasn’t lost her sense of humor. That’s good, but as I turn back to face her, it’s clear she’s more tired than yesterday. She pats the bed and I half-sit on the edge, not wanting my weight to impact her in any way. 

“Have you come to any conclusions?” she says, not without effort. “About a name?” 

I try not to let my anxiety at her frailty show on my face. She doesn’t like to see that kind of concern; it offends her in some way. Poor man’s pride, she once said to me after I’d done something she didn’t like, something that made her feel small. That admission was her way of apologizing. I look away and fiddle with the corner of her bedsheet. 

“I thought perhaps O’Reilly?”

She looks at me, an eyebrow raised.

“By all means, though—if you’re going to the trouble of choosing a name, make sure it means something. Don’t pick one by default—that’s just being lazy.” 

“It’s your name,” I say. 

“Yes—well,” she says, leaning forward. “Speaking of which…” 

She coughs again, a long, drawn-out spasm. This time I stay put, perched awkwardly on the bed. After she recovers, she looks at me for a moment and then says, “I’ve made a discovery, albeit one rather late in the day.” 

“My satchel,” she says, pointing down to the floor beside the bed. 

I reach down and pick it up. It smells of stale boot polish and old newspapers and dust. I stifle a sneeze. The latch is stiff, and I tear a thumbnail opening it. It is full of old documents and letters, tea-colored with age. 

“The envelope with the airmail pattern,” she says.

I place the satchel on my knees and take out the envelope. It is not sealed. Inside are three folded sheets. The first is a marriage certificate. November 1943. London. Bride: Mary O’Reilly. Groom: Jozsef Telmann. 

“That’s my father,” she says. 

The second is a birth certificate. Rose pushes herself up higher in the bed and leans closer. 

“Look,” she says. “Look at what it says.” She waves her finger at the document. “Shoshana Telmann, born May 17, 1944. That’s me. I never knew. My mother said Shoshana was an old family name, so I gave it to…” 

Her eyes fill with tears. 

“…your mother as her second name. Then Rosemary gave it to you, as yours. She liked the way it sounded.” 

She sits forward, her hands animated. 

“I didn’t know. Shoshana is me. I’m not Rose O’Reilly. I’m Shoshana Telmann.” 

She lies back down again, her breathing more pronounced. After a moment, she says, “So strange to find this out now, at the end, that the name you have—that the who you thought you were—is wrong. That it’s a lie.” 

She points at the satchel still open on my lap. 

“Letters. From Mary and Jozsef. I couldn’t read them. You can, if you’re interested. I find I’m not. The time to find out has passed for me. All those years wondering. Now it’s too late.” 

She closes her eyes and rests her head against the pillow. 

“I’m tired. Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk.” 

SHE WAS TOO WEAK TO TALK THE NEXT DAY, and for some days after that. 

“She’s deteriorating,” the doctors said. “It won’t be much longer now.” 

Each time they’d said that before, she’d rally, but even I can’t pretend now. 

Sitting by her bed, I reexamine the papers. The third document is a divorce certificate. 1949. Rose would have been five. Pinned to it is a newspaper cutting. An obituary. Jozsef Telmann—1962. The year before my mother was born. 

Among the papers are some letters tied up with twine. I open one and begin to read. 

When I get home that night, I search online for Jozsef’s grave. I find it listed in the Jewish cemetery at Rookwood. Mary O’Reilly is there, too, in the Catholic section. I’m not sure why, but I decide I have to see them for myself. 

ROOKWOOD CEMETERY IS HUGE, and I’m terrible with maps. I wander around for most of the morning, my energy fading, until I locate the Jewish section. There is a simple headstone: Jozsef Telmann, 1919–1962. Beneath this, a Star of David and an inscription in a language I can’t read, then—“Beloved Husband of Rina, Father of Ruth and Isaac.” So, he married again. There are plastic flowers in the vase. I’m relieved my grandmother cannot see it. That she has a half brother and sister won’t matter to her now. She’s right. It’s too late. 

It’s a long walk to the Catholic section. Mary’s grave is in the lawn cemetery. 1984. The year before my mother died. I feel a curious sense of déjà vu. A memory of being carried. With Rose and my mother. I must have been very small, less than three. I glance at the grave next to Mary’s. It’s my mother’s. How come I didn’t know it was here? I hear my grandmother’s voice inside my head. 

Because you avoid everything unpleasant, Annabel. I’ve warned you, it comes back to bite you. 

I drive home in a daze. How is it I’ve never given any real thought to my mother’s death? About where she was buried? Or, come to think of it, much about her life? Something like shame passes through me. 

My phone rings. It’s the ward sister.

“You should come in,” she says.

At the hospital, I hover outside my grandmother’s room 

while they attend to her. She’s drifting in and out of consciousness.

“How long?” I say to the doctor.

She’s noncommittal. She touches my arm, a light but firm touch. Her eyes are kind.

“If you need to say anything to her—anything particular—now is the time. She’ll need sedation soon. Once we start that, she won’t be able to respond.” 

IT’S EARLY WHEN ROSE WAKES. I’m not sure if she knows I’m here. Her voice is surprisingly clear. 

“I saw him once; I remember now. My mother took me to see him. He was in a park. I must have been about ten. He was thin and tall, with a beard. My mother said he was an uncle, but it was him. Something about him was familiar.” 

I lean in close so she can hear me. 

“They divorced,” I say, ‘but they loved each other. The letters…” 

She’s drifted off again. I sit down, the letters crumpled in my hand. 

I’ve read them all, night after night, waiting for Rose to die. I’ve been practicing saying it: She will die. I’ve watched how the nurses answer the questions anxious relatives ask at the end. Yes, he/she will die. They’ve learned the art of not flinching when the time for platitudes is over. 

I know Mary and Jozsef’s story now, as much as anyone can from the bits and pieces left behind. She was an Irish girl, working as a nurse in London. He was a Hungarian refugee who escaped to England just before the war broke out. He joined the British Army and served in the Jewish Brigade. They met while he was recovering from a minor shrapnel wound to his leg. She became pregnant and they married. They immigrated to Sydney after the war—for some reason separately—Jozsef in 1947, then Mary and the baby a year later. From the tone of their letters, they had hope then. I can’t tell what changed, but there are hints. Mary mentions deciding not to convert. Jozsef writes of his renewed faith in God. Then nothing, just the divorce papers, and a letter transferring their house into her name. The grounds for divorce are listed as drunkenness and desertion. 

There is another letter. This one is still sealed and is more recent, dated 1984. It’s addressed to Rose. On the envelope after the name Rose is the word Shoshana in brackets. I turn it over in my hands, then tear it open. 

My dear Rose,
I hope you are reading this in a forgiving frame of mind. It’s not in my nature to ask for it, but impending death has a way of changing one’s habits. There are a few things you should know. I loved the man who was your father, but we were not compatible. For more reasons than mere religion. The divorce papers state he was a drunkard and left us, but it is not true. I left him. It was the only way to procure a divorce. He was very kind. I changed our names back to O’Reilly. An Irish name was easier than a Jewish one in Sydney then, though barely. I’m sorry you could not see him again. I know he loved you. He named you Shoshana, after his mother. It means Rose. And you are. A beautiful rose. I know I have not been a mother comfortable with endearments, but there it is. I love you, my darling, my Rose.
Your mother, Mary O’Reilly. 

I wonder how it can be that Rose hasn’t read this. That she hasn’t even opened it. 

In the morning, she stirs. I take her hand. 

“I have something to tell you,” I whisper. She murmurs something inaudible. 

“I’ll read it to you.” 

And I do. I don’t know if she understands or can even hear me. When I finish reading, I kiss her cheek. 

“I love you,” I whisper. “I love you, Shoshana Rose.”

I brush away tears. I never allow myself to cry, but today is different. She doesn’t release my hand, and for a moment I’m convinced she has squeezed it. Then the sensation is gone. Her breathing becomes labored. A nurse appears. Her eyes are gentle, but steady. 

“You don’t have to stay,” she says. “I’ll stay.” 

WHEN IT’S OVER, I head home. Jane is out. There’s no one to greet me, not even a cat. Perhaps I should get a cat. 

Lucy has left a message on the answering machine.

“Have you decided? On your new name?”

The name-change forms are still on the bench. I’ve filled in everything except the desired name. I like that description. Desired. I pick up the pen and write in my name. 

Rose. That’s it. I now know who I am. 

I am Annabel Shoshanna Rose. 

Alison Thompson is an award-winning writer from New South Wales, Australia. She was selected for an Art Omi: Writers Residency (Spring 2019) and is a member of the Kitchen Table Poets. Her chapbooks Slow Skipping (2008) and In A Day It Changes (2018) were published by PressPress. Her poetry and stories have appeared in journals and anthologies internationally. Website: alisonthompsonpoetry.wordpress.com.

Delmarva Review publishes evocative new prose and poetry selected from thousands of submissions annually. Designed to encourage outstanding writing, the literary journal is nonprofit and independent, supported in part by a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. The submission period for the next issue opens on November 1. See the website: www.DelmarvaReview.org.

 

Author’s note: This poem grew out of conversations about the concept of time—entirely a human construction—and how mindfulness can help whoever and whatever we bring to our hearts and minds. Later this narrative came to me, asking what molecule of someone’s life then and our life now might be altered by prayer or meditation.

Would It Change a Thing

praying for someone past? Because God, a crone begging
coins tells her, has no need for time.

Imagine a kindness tossed behind us, stirring up winter’s
leaves the year that spring stalled and fieldstone
caught the jaws of her father’s plow.

Let it summon one gritty pause in his day of churning
rock from soil and furrows for seeds, debts creasing
his brow. Redeem him

and the burden of burlap tales trailing her still
with their upturned faces, hungry for chaste
morsels of regret.

Pray the sun through those spring shy limbs,
let moss and mud grin up between her toes.

What if some far future soul is praying for us now?

⎯

Maryland author Sylvia Karman tells us she hikes whenever and wherever possible. “Like the loons,” she and her husband return every spring to the Adirondacks to hike and kayak until mid-autumn. Retired from a career in public policy, she is completing her first novel. Her poems in the twelfth edition of Delmarva Review are her first poems in publication. She lives in Ellicott City.

Delmarva Review welcomes the best new poetry, fiction, and nonfiction writing from all authors, based on competitive selection. The submission period opens from November 1 until March 31 for the 14th annual edition. See the website for more information and for submissions. Designed to encourage outstanding writing, the literary journal is nonprofit, independent, and supported in part by a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: DelmarvaReview.org.

 

Editor’s note: In this stirring personal essay, from the Review’s twelfth edition, a college professor revisits an adolescent adventure from grad school days. During a trip to the Kiribati Islands, the world’s easternmost nation rising just two meters above sea level, he writes a stunning metaphor: “The first people to see tomorrow will be the first to lose their entire country to climate change.”

MOST OF THE PEOPLE I MET IN KIRIBATI got their first tattoo when they were thirteen or fourteen years old. The tattoos were small— often just a friend’s name in bleeding blue, hand-written with a needle and ink. 

Etiaroi’s were cleaner, more complex. Her first was an armband of barbwire for her father when she was twelve, she told me, “because he is in jail.” The second was an armband of Samoan symbols, “for my first love, a Samoan boy when I was very young.” 

Even without them, it would be easy to tell that Etiaroi wasn’t from here. Her voice boomed louder than anyone around, and she walked like she was too big for a rural island of 2,500 people.

ETIAROI AND I MET on the basketball courts during my third week on Christmas Island. I was twenty-six, on a grant to visit several of the Republic of Kiribati’s thirty-three islands by freighter and write about the impacts of climate change. I was also in the social hole that is graduate school, where debt and uncertain job prospects encourage adolescent relationships. I was more focused on intellectual pursuits. 

In fact, it was a metaphor that drew me to Kiribati. With an average altitude of only two meters, most of Kiribati’s islands will be uninhabitable or underwater within fifty years. Kiribati is also the world’s easternmost nation, pressed against the international dateline in the middle of the Pacific, making them the first people to welcome the new day. 

It’s a stunning metaphor: the first people to see tomorrow will be the first to lose their entire country to climate change. I knew I needed to see it, so I hopped a plane to Christmas Island, ready to spend the summer soaking up as much as I could. 

Etiaroi barely said a word the day we met. She was the only woman in a three-on-three basketball game, pushing and playing in a place where it was rare to see women older than sixteen unmarried, let alone playing sports. 

I’d stopped to say hi to a friend when one of the players came over. 

“Do you play?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

I don’t, but I rarely say no while traveling. Besides, at six feet tall, I had a good four inches on anyone out there. How hard could it be? 

Etiaroi lined up against me. She was the tallest of her teammates and had short-cropped hair and long, athletic limbs. She stared me down with big brown eyes and was as beautiful as she was intimidating. She was all business, while my default is a quick smile. I knew I was in trouble. 

I tried to flirt, hoping she’d ease up, but she ran circles around me and left me defeated without a word. The game wasn’t even close. 

“Come dance tonight,” Alice said the next day. Alice worked at the Communications Office, the only place that offered internet or phones on the island. “There is someone I want you to meet.” 

I was wary. Alice was nineteen and unmarried. Her parents had arranged a marriage for her at fifteen and while she’d talked them out of it then, American missionaries from Georgia were trying to arrange one now between her and their twenty-one-year- old son. Alice’s family seemed unlikely to let her say no again, but she was struggling with the decision. Kiribati offered women very few choices, she told me, and she desperately wanted to go to the U.S., “but I don’t love him,” she said. “I hoped it would be you, but maybe it is him.” 

I’d been trying to be friends with Alice, but after that conversation I realized it might not be possible. I determined to only see her in the office. 

“No dancing for me,” I said. “I’m not much of a dancer.” But she wouldn’t relent. 

The dance was in the town maneaba, a large grass hut in the middle of the village. It was a family event—bright lights and no booze—not like the bars on the outskirts of town where proper young Kiribati women weren’t supposed to go. 

“Come with me. Let me introduce you,” Alice said, walking me over to Etiaroi. “Maybe you like her instead of me.” 

Etiaroi and I talked on the outskirts of the party all night. She was twenty-one, from Tarawa Island, Kiribati’s capital 2,000 miles to the west. She was bartending at The Bay of Sharks, one of those outskirt bars, saving money while waiting for a visa. She was staying with her cousin Tuutana, and they planned to visit family in Honolulu once the visas came in. They’d been waiting for a year, but this was a place where the mail only comes every few months. 

“Maybe I can find work in Hawaii,” Etiaroi said. “Maybe we can stay.” 

“You don’t like Tarawa?” I asked. I’d assumed Kiribati’s capital was more cosmopolitan, in part because of Etiaroi. “Why do you want to leave?” 

She scrunched her nose like I’d asked a stupid question. “There is so much more in America. There is so much more I can do. Here, there is nothing.” 

“Christmas Island is quiet,” I agreed. 

“No. I like Christmas,” she said. “It is nicer here, but very traditional. Tarawa is fine, but it is dirty. And small. There is so much more out there for me.” 

For the next two weeks, we spent almost every moment together—picnicking on secluded beaches, walking tropical lagoon flats, and dancing to Australian and Fijian pop at The Bay of Sharks. We talked music and dreams, and she told me she wanted to go to nursing school in the U.S. “I just want to help people,” she said. 

She was more secure in her desires, and I found her confidence intoxicating. 

None of it felt romantic, not really. My flirtations were often ignored, and it became my day’s goal to make her smile. Mostly we talked about our own plans, as if we were young friends dreaming of our own possibilities—her as a nurse in Hawaii, me as a professor in Colorado. 

Occasionally she’d sneak into my room late at night. In bed she was timid, hesitant, and she’d sneak out before sunrise, looking both ways as she implored me to whisper like we were kids at summer camp. I made a joke of it one night, and she squeezed my arm hard. “You don’t know what it would be like if people knew. You don’t understand.” 

When the freight ship that would take me to the other islands arrived, I thought I saw tears in her eyes. 

“I’ll be back in a month,” I said.

They couldn’t be tears, I thought. I was the soft one.

THE FREIGHTER BOUNCED BETWEEN ISLANDS for the next month unloading rice, flour, and sugar. Kiribati is one of the most cash- poor countries in the world, with only 20 percent of its 140,000 people participating in a cash economy. The rest live off whatever the land and ocean provide, so the freighter only visits four times a year, bringing basic items and picking up dried coconut meat and seaweed, their few exports. 

With no hotels on the outer islands, I stayed with families along the way. I explored Tabuaeron Island by bicycle with an ex-Navy Seal who had married a Kiribati woman and become one of three foreigners living on an island of 1,500 people. On even more remote Teraina, I drove a Kiribati Minister of Parliament from village to village by scooter so he could tell people what had been going on in the world over the past three months. In almost every village, I was asked if I was single. In several, I was thanked for my country’s role in World War II when the U.S. ended Japan’s occupation of Kiribati. 

I asked about the rising oceans as I traveled. Most people understood it was happening—they saw it, and they were building seawalls by hand to fight it, but the reasons were less understood or too overwhelming to focus on. Most cared more about food or schools or roads than where their kids would have to live in fifty years, or how their tiny nation could fight something so large. 

I collected experiences I would later write about, and while I occasionally thought about Etiaroi, she was quickly becoming a memory to carry through later life. 

When I returned to Christmas a month later, Etiaroi shrugged her hello. I was excited to see her, if only for a few days before my flight home, but I felt myself checking my excitement to match hers. 

We danced that night at The Bay of Sharks and then drove to the beach, laying a blanket among the stars. As we kissed, her long dress flipped up and I saw a new tattoo—a dozen hearts, hand-done in bleeding blue, wrapped around her right ankle. 

“When did you get that?” I asked. 

She covered it with her other foot, curling toes around swollen skin. 

“One month ago. Tuutana did it.”

“What for?” I asked.

The question escaped before I could stop it. I closed my eyes, hoping they’d suck the words back in, wishing I could instead pull her close for our last few days together. 

Etiaroi stared silently at the ocean, past our feet, then up at me. The blood emptied from my face.

“Because,” she said, looking away. “I—I have a lot of love.” 

She didn’t say anything more. Neither did I. I tried to cuddle as if nothing had happened, but the night was over. Her face went as quiet and distant as it was when we were among other people. 

I left three days later, catching a plane back to Colorado. 

I never saw her again.

IT’S BEEN OVER TEN YEARS, and I’ve told many stories of Kiribati. The metaphor of this sinking land only becomes more real through time. A few years ago, Kiribati bought 6,000 acres of land in Fiji. While it was purchased for farming, their president warned that the land might become Kiribati’s permanent home if the world didn’t start addressing climate change. 

“In a worst-case scenario, and if all else fails, you will not be refugees,” the Fijian president told the Kiribati people. “The spirit of the people of Kiribati will not be extinguished.”

I tell these stories, but I still don’t know how to tell the story of Etiaroi. 

I am now a college professor in Manhattan, happily engaged to a wonderful woman. Being engaged has caused me to pause on past failures to make sure I don’t repeat them, but I still don’t know what to make of Etiaroi. 

A part of me wonders if I’d become the thing I was there to investigate, taking advantage of my power in the world without considering the consequences of my actions. I’d treated our time casually, as if it were a vacation—a word that implies the ability to step away from reality, a word that holds little meaning to most people in this world. 

I was a deeply in debt graduate student, sure, but my options were wide open based entirely on where I was born. I could fumble through possibilities. I could treat relationships and experiences as collectible or discardable. I could walk away. 

I was there to question the consequences of our disposable culture—to explore a nation sinking because of habits led by my own culture, and I couldn’t help but fall into the trap myself. I didn’t know how not to. 

At the same time, I hesitate to turn Etiaroi into a metaphor. I hesitate to oversimplify. We’d been together without promises or pretense, after all, and relationships lead us in different ways. I don’t know how she felt. I don’t know when she felt it. 

I write and tell stories about that beautiful and disappearing place, but I have avoided telling this story. I can never make sense of what happened. Not really. 

I avoid it, but it’s there, imprinted on me forever. 

Brice Particelli will be a 2020-2021 Steinbeck Fellow at San José State University in narrative nonfiction. He earned his Ph.D. from Columbia University and has been a teacher at Pace University, in New York. His writing has been published in Harper’s, Guernica, and Salmagundi, among others. He is a 2017 NYSCA/NYFA Artist Fellow in Nonfiction with the New York Foundation for the Arts and the co-editor of America Street: A Multicultural Anthology of Stories (Persea Books, 2019). Website: www.briceparticelli.com.

Delmarva Review publishes evocative new prose and poetry selected from thousands of submissions annually. Designed to encourage outstanding writing, the literary journal is nonprofit and independent, supported in part by a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. The submission period for the next issue opens on November 1. See the website: www.DelmarvaReview.org.

 

Author’s note:  Early in my graduate studies I did academic work on the phenomenology of memory. During this period, I spent time in a huge library, writing fiction to procrastinate. These procrastination stories gave me new perspectives not just on the research, but also on my life and its recollection. “Was” is one such story, and I hope any reader who encounters it experiences a similar (or different) perspectival shift.

Was

SADIE AND I ARE TALKING ABOUT BEING NOW. I say the problem with being is that anytime you say what being is, you presuppose being. The trouble is the “is.” Sadie barks. She has been dying any number of days, and she looks at me in her usual way. She hasn’t read Heidegger. She doesn’t know these ideas are Nazi ideas, and plagiarized. Except in her eyes, I see she knows her being, whatever it is, is coming to an end. 

The highway is full of the kind of trucks that terrify me. They have additional vehicles stacked on top of them. Mass graves moving at high speeds. I think of them falling all over me, burying us both. 

The sky is clear and blue and radiant with refracting light, and the snow on the ground reflects it too. Up at the sun I’m looking backward into time, about eight minutes. Every second that passes was an earlier second far away. In the water droplets of the sky and the snow on the ground, time bends around us. Do you see, Sadie? If you look far enough in any direction, you can see your whole life. 

Sadie is curled in a ball, and her lumps fall against each other under the skin on her neck where I picked her up to adopt her. She peed then; she was so scared. Four or so feet in the air, her pee dribbled onto the carpet. 

She peed again just now, before I told her about being. I don’t think she was scared. I think she just knew I won’t waste time being angry with her. Sadie has always understood me. She pierces the heart of my meaning. The smell of her urine is what takes me back to holding her by the neck as a puppy. I think of her always-twitching nose. The many memories it conjures for her, second by second, in the part of our brains we share. 

The exit for the veterinarian’s office is only a mile away. My iPhone alerts me again and again, and each time a bell chimes, I think, already? 

This vet uses gas. Sadie will drift off to sleep forever. It will be painless, painless. Like a hole at the bottom of her leaky brain, and her light dripping out until she’s gone. Weeks ago, I shared a Facebook post about how a little girl told her mother dogs only live fourteen years because they don’t worry so much, and they don’t need so long as people to figure out how to be. Well, isn’t that nice, my mother commented. Must make you feel better. 

She’s heavy in my arms. I carry her through the glass doors held open by a girl in white. 

Cameron Blais earned degrees from Pratt Institute and Harvard Divinity School. He  writes and teaches writing in Laramie, Wyoming. Originally, he is from Lincoln, Rhode Island.

Delmarva Review publishes evocative new prose and poetry selected from thousands of submissions annually. Designed to encourage outstanding writing, the literary journal is nonprofit and independent, supported in part by a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.DelmarvaReview.org 

 

 

Author’s note: I’ve written about the death of my mother, and most recently, my father. Yet so often, I keep most of my vulnerability “just beneath the surface,” like a grave is just beneath the cemetery ground. This poem is an attempt to contrast humans’ desire for permanence with the idea of letting nature take its course. It’s a call to celebrate our return to the earth.

Just Beneath the Surface

The cemetery carries bones
in its pockets,
and you trapeze its perimeter
head down, afraid
of what pulls your swing.

Your grip, even tighter
over cold blocks of granite,
their careful carvings failing
to explain why your father
stopped and you did not.

You once arranged silk flowers
to stand at attention
above his head, a salute
to manmade permanence, as if God
never knew forever.

Forget what the ground
feels like on your knees.
The sole of your loafer,
like a coffin’s seal,
protects you from rain.

Crepe myrtles in their pushback
to death drop notes in your path,
softly, and too quietly for you
to hear the rattle of change
just beyond your grasp.

⎯

Beth Oast Williams is a student with the Muse Writers Center, in Norfolk, Virginia. Her poetry has appeared in or is upcoming in Lou Lit, West Texas Literary Review, Wisconsin Review and Glass Mountain. Her poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2019.

Delmarva Review is designed to encourage ongoing literary excellence from writers when many commercial publications are closing their doors. It selects the best of evocative poetry and prose from thousands of new submissions annually. The journal is supported in part by a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.DelmarvaReview.org.

 

Author’s Note:  Because I am fortunate enough to have my 96-year-old mother with me, I find that I have a viable passport into another time, another place, another country, a viable portal to Italy in the first half of the twentieth century. There are stories in my family that are too good not to tell—passionate tales both ordinary and extraordinary. From such a true vein was this essay written.

And the Stars Were Shining

E LUCEVAN LE STELLE. And the stars were shining. My grandmother, Anna D’oria, wept when she heard Caruso sing this aria, which was usually during a live radio broadcast of La Tosca by Puccini. O dolce baci. O languide carezze. O sweet kisses. O languid caresses. Anna sat with rapt attention beside the radio. The tenor quavered with such longing tenderness. She, too, longed for tenderness. She had yet to take that long difficult voyage to Staten Island with her sisters. Marriage, a child, a better life but not easier—all that lay before her. 

What lay behind her was the love of her life. And although she was only eighteen, she knew enough to know that love would not come again. It was too rare—a jewel that rivaled the sun for only a summer.

TURN, IF YOU WILL, BACK TO THE ARIA, E lucevan le stelle, to the phrase where Caruso soars effortlessly to a high note, to the grapes ripening on the hills of Martina Franca, a small country town in the Province of Taranto, to the hills on the ankle of the boot called Italy. Hear the crescendo in the heat of the sun, the cool nights scented by the sugar of white grapes that are waiting to be trampled and pressed for wine. Turn till you can smell the heaviness of olives grown from gnarled ancient limbs, and the richness of soil darkened from compost. 

The year is 1919. Anna, along with her mother and father, three sisters and brother, work the land tirelessly. They live in a trulli—that iconic home of white limestone with a conical roof pointed like a steeple, the dense walls ideal for keeping the house cooler in the summer, warmer in the winter. Trullis are sprinkled through the whole region of Apulia along with the wild brown tulips. 

This is the day Anna will ride on horseback with Lorenzo Costanzo, a mounted policeman, a carabiniere. He rides a horse named Bella, a mare the color of golden chestnut. Lorenzo is a tall man, an elegant man, young and mannered and proper. He has come from the Festival of Saint Anthony where he rode with his company in the parade. He wears his dress uniform, the pants his mother pressed, the crease still neat along the length of the leg, the blue serge coat smartly accessorized with gold braid and silver buttons, his head topped by a triangular hat with a white plume. 

Anna wants to attend the parade, but there is too much work to do on the farm. Last year, the harvest was mediocre due to an early frost. The family has to work harder this year. She does not complain—she sees there is more food on the table. 

Lorenzo always comes home this way, over the hill where the wild roses grow, and because he is a gentleman, he stops and tips his hat. And because she is also polite and good-natured, she responds with a gentle nod of her head. And because he is decent, he responds with a greeting. 

On this particular day, she is tired and wants to get home. She can see, she cannot help but see, how remarkably handsome he is in his uniform and perfectly waxed moustache, his black curly hair spilling out from under his hat and onto his forehead. 

Would she like a ride home? he asks. He knows where she lives. 

He is a gentleman, a carabiniere—it is perfectly respectable to say yes. 

He dismounts the beautiful horse and lifts her up. How easily he lifts her and secures her on the saddle. And then, in a single swift leap, he mounts the mare, seating himself in front of her. She has to put her arm around his waist to stabilize herself— the terrain is rocky, and the horse too nervous an animal. His posture is perfect, upright, his head perfectly centered, his waist firm and trim, all muscle and tone. She can smell the sweet smell of soap and sweat on the back of his neck, the vanilla note of pomade through the black curls. 

It is then she knows, even though it hasn’t happened yet. This is the man, these are the dark eyes, this is the back taught with balance, the lungs that breathe, expand and contract, the forearms, the hands holding the reins. 

And indeed, the next night, he comes over for a visit, and the night after that, and after that. The summer quickly turns into a courtship of nights and flowers. And in the morning, sometimes, a trio of musicians play under her window to waken her. 

Her family loves him. His family loves her. 

Many evenings they walk into the higher hills where you can see the whole of Martina Franca. The wind picks up and causes her skirt to swell and billow. They weave among the tall grasses under the olive trees. The honeysuckle that has bloomed in the morning perfumes the evening. Sometimes even the nightingale sings. 

The summer is long, and Lorenzo does not fail to disappoint in all matters of honor. They are allowed to be out until dark and are always accompanied by Anna’s little sister, Maria Teresa. Lorenzo proves to be just as winsome with the ten-year-old girl. She never lacks a cone of shaved ice with cherry syrup or a strawberry gelato before the evening is over. 

When Lorenzo says his last goodbye, the stars are just coming out against the indigo of the sky. He bends the long elegance of his neck down to kiss Anna. 

Is there talk of marriage? Yes, there is. Both parents give their consent but advise a year’s wait before announcing the engagement. So much passion in youth can easily burn out. A year will prove its constancy. The young people agree to their counsel because they are happy, and happiness is a dream they can hold fast to. 

Turn back to the aria and turn away from the indigo nights. Hear the ache in the wind and the roll of the hills, hear the gradual fading of stars at day. Turn to the rituals of the little town, the rhythms the Catholic Church provides, the customs and the feast days, the back and the bend of farming, the labor and struggle, the hardness and sweetness of days. 

It is a Sunday morning. A six o’clock mass at Our Lady of Sorrows. Anna and her mother and sisters are here. In Martina Franca, everyone goes to church. The women and girls go several times a week and visit the confessional every other week. The mass is early because farmers are used to getting up early. The wealthier class goes to the high mass at noon with the big choir and incense, and the bells ringing out from the carillon. The six o’clock is shorter—especially the homily. 

Afterwards, Anna’s sisters go home to prepare lunch. Anna and Mother buy red and white carnations from the flower seller outside the church. On feast days, it is red and white roses. They go into the small cemetery, where granite saints and angels lend a charm to the sadness. Together, they lay the carnations on the graves and pull out the weeds encroaching on the tombstones. Everything is left ordered and beautiful. 

And at the end of the cemetery is the mortuary. 

The custom of the town is to keep open a presentation room where anyone can go in and see who has died. And even though the news of death travels fast, you don’t always know. Anna and Mother are in the habit of paying their respects. It is a simple charity—to find out who has died, to know what family needs visiting or a meal made and brought over. 

When they enter the room, there are three bodies on view. The first person they do not know, a youngish man with a rugged face, a field hand most likely from the calluses on his hands. The second, Mother knows, an old lady from church. Anna leaves Mother’s side and walks over to the end of the room. 

There she finds Lorenzo asleep on a slab of alabaster, the beauty of youth still present in the flush and rose of his cheeks and lips. He is wearing the dress uniform he wore on that day she first rode with him. The shirt starched, crisp, white. On his forehead a bright red gash in the shape of a star. 

At first her mind cannot comprehend the vision. There is a long denial. And then the slow recognition and shock. And with the shock, the terribleness of it all. She screams out for Mother, who hurries over. Anna faints, and Mother barely catches her. Mother calls out for help. The mortician rushes out from the back room, his white shirt sleeves rolled up from work. He takes Anna from Mother and carries her outside to a bench. He waves a vial of smelling salts under her nose. 

Anna wakes to grief, to pain, to tears. It is not a vision. Death has entered her life. No loss could be greater. No reality harder. 

The mortician fans her, and Mother undoes the top button of her dress. She can scarcely breathe. She questions how it is that she is breathing. She feels she may faint again but the urge passes. 

A young man is coming up the walk. He is Lorenzo’s brother, Mario—he has been looking for Anna since dawn. 

What happened? Anna asks, her voice slowly returning. What happened to Lorenzo? 

He was thrown from his horse on the way home from his evening with Anna. It was very dark as he was riding along his customary trail. The heat was unbearable all day, and the night was alive with flashes of lightning. Bella, a tense creature to start with, was frightened by the lightning. A single bolt lit up the entire night sky when she bolted, throwing Lorenzo against a stone boulder. A shepherd witnessed the accident. By the time the shepherd reached Lorenzo, he was unconscious. The shepherd bandaged Lorenzo’s head with his kerchief and went off to fetch the doctor, leaving another shepherd to stand and watch. Lorenzo never regained consciousness. When the doctor arrived, he recognized Lorenzo. The doctor said he must have died immediately on impact. The wound was so deep. 

Anna cannot speak. She is beset by sobs. 

He didn’t suffer long, Mario says. Take some comfort in that. 

Anna is beyond comfort. How could Lorenzo be dead and she alive? The difference was too great to bear. 

Mario says the funeral will be that afternoon.

“I need to see him again,” Anna says. “I need to see him.”

They go back in the mortuary and Anna stops crying for a time, but then the grief returns like waves crashing in on her. 

“Oh, my poor precious daughter,” Mother says, trying to calm her daughter.

“Let me be,” Anna says.

When Anna has cried all she can, a cold numbness settles in. Mother and Mario walk her home, half carrying her down the road. Along the way, neighbors come up to them and inquire out of concern. Some girls burst into tears at the news. 

Nearing home, her sisters hear the cries from the street and come out in alarm. Soon everyone in the family is crying. Mother sets Anna down on the sofa and fetches the calming pills the doctor once prescribed for her husband. Aunt Marie from next door comes in and sits down beside Anna and strokes her hair. Her aunt says it will take some time for her to be able to handle the tragedy. It will take time for her to grasp the pain. Her aunt is considered a wise woman in the family, and her words carry weight. Soon the sedative takes effect and Mother takes Anna to her bedroom to lie down. Mother sits beside her, holding her hand. Sleep finally comes to her like a blessing. 

Hours later, Mother carefully wakes her. The funeral will be in an hour. What does Anna want to do? Mario has come to escort her to the funeral. Anna tries to get up from the bed but can’t. Mother tells Mario she is unable to go, she is too grief stricken, the shock is too great, but that her husband and her son will go to represent the family. When Mother returns to the bedroom, Anna is shaking badly. Mother asks her if she would like another sedative. Anna says yes, she would. Mother patiently waits for the calm to descend. Her sisters come in the room to be with her and sit round the bed. 

Later, Mother makes her some warm broth and begs—no, pleads with tears—for her to eat, even a few sips, and Anna, not wanting to distress Mother any further, submits. She can see the anxiety in Mother’s face, in the voices of her sisters, and particularly in the welling eyes of Maria Teresa. Anna is broken, horribly broken, but she cannot break those who love her. As awful as it is, she cannot put her family through another death. 

When the sun has set and Anna hears her father and brother return from the funeral, she realizes how exhausted Mother is— her face is so lined and tired. Anna tells her that she can sleep through the night. There is no need to stay. Mother needs her own rest. Anna needs to be alone now. She needs not to be a worry to anyone, at least for the night. Mother sighs, taking some comfort in her words, and leaves her alone, 

Anna falls into a profound sleep. Her anxiety and grief dissipate into the deepness of the pillow. Lorenzo comes to her in a dream. He is sitting atop Bella, the white plume in his hat glowing like a votive candle. He is smiling that kind gentlemen’s smile, and he is looking right at her. He has never looked more handsome. He bends the long elegance of his neck to speak to her. 

“You came to see me today, but you didn’t even give me a kiss.” 

Anna awakes with a start. Her heart is pounding, and the blood is rushing to her face. It was a dream, she says to herself. It was a dream. 

The family is asleep and the house completely quiet. She has to get to the cemetery. She puts on her slippers and robe. She missed the funeral of the only man she would ever love. She has to go to the grave. She hopes beyond hope that his death isn’t real, she hopes he is alive, alive as he was in the dream—so present, so real. 

No one in Martina Franca is up. If anyone were to see her at this hour in her robe and slippers, they would think her mad, but she doesn’t care. She can’t care. 

It is predawn—the dark blue sky is lightening. The stars are disappearing from the sky. She stumbles her way along the cobblestone walks and up the trail, up the hill to Our Lady of Sorrows. Trickles of sun are breaking over gravestones, over stone angels and cherubs. There is Lorenzo’s family plot—a mound of earth covered with roses—white and red—white for his eternal absence, red for the love of his heart. And there, standing over his grave, is Bella, the long chestnut brown neck bowed down to the grave. There is nothing wild about her now, only the hushed deepness of the deepest melancholy. Anna goes up to her. 

“Come on now, my girl,” Anna says, stroking that beautiful elegant neck. “I know, I know. We’ve lost him, you and me. But you can’t stay out here in the chill of the morning. You must be terribly hungry, out all night lost in the hills. What a terrible night you’ve had, a long, terrible night. Come now, my girl. Come now.” 

Anna takes hold of the rein and slowly leads her away from the grave. Anna walks her down the hill—gently, steadily, so as not to frighten her. She doesn’t resist—she wants to go home, to Lorenzo’s home. Anna leads her where she wants to go. She kisses the loveliness of her long neck, the mane still tied and pleated, the coat wet from morning dew. She leads her into the farmyard and bids her goodbye with another kiss. And then she shuts the gate and walks the way back to her house of grief. 

Aunt Marie said Anna would recover in time and with patience, and her words proved prophetic. She did go on, and when America presented itself like a long, lost promise, she left with her sisters. Anna did love again, but not in the same way. And although she discovered all manner of things in the new country that were good and better, she did not find the happiness that seemed part and parcel of America. She did find, however, much that gave her pleasure and gave her days music and meaning. She always loved opera and Caruso. 

I own the remastered recording of Caruso singing E Lucevan Le Stelle. The record is dusty, but I wipe it clean with a soft linen cloth. I set it on the old turntable and carefully place the stylus on the record. And as I listen to that voice, that song, those crackles that evaded erasure, I can hear beyond the datedness of the recording and the dated style of singing. I can hear the beauty, and in that beauty, I can hear that love is passing and may not come again. 

E Lucevan Le Stelle. And the stars were shining. 

⎯

Roberto Christiano won the 2010 Fiction Prize from Northern Virginia Review. He received a Pushcart Prize nomination for poetry in Prairie Schooner. His poetry is anthologized in The Gávea–Brown Book of Portuguese-American Poetry (Brown University). His chapbook, Port of Leaving, was published by Finishing Line Press. He lives in Virginia. Website: robertochristiano.weebly.com. 

Delmarva Review publishes original new prose and poetry selected from thousands of submissions annually. For the benefit of writers and readers, the literary journal is nonprofit, supported by sales, contributions, and a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council.  Copies are sold by Amazon, major online booksellers, and local bookstores.  See the website: DelmarvaReview.org.

 

Author’s note: When I think of Penn Station in Baltimore, I imagine travelers from a bygone era sitting on wooden benches with suitcases at their feet and coats folded on their laps, eager to be whisked away to other cities. My grandfather wore a fedora, kept an ironed handkerchief in his pocket, and adored trains. Beyond that, the poem is a fiction. My grandfather didn’t live to see crockpots or computers, but he would have adored those, too.

For the Gentleman and His Fedora

The gentleman sitting next to me in Penn Station
has a fedora in his lap. Not a porkpie
or Panama hat. Nothing you’d call retro.
No, his hat reminds me of Humphrey Bogart
lighting a cigarette with his hands cupped
around a match. A hat my grandfather
would have worn reading The News American
on the number 8 streetcar. This gentleman
with the gray fedora, with its perfect crease
along the crown and a small brown feather
tucked inside a shiny black hatband,
tells me he is waiting for the train
to Philadelphia, where he will be met
by his grandson, Bill, who is quite the bigwig
in the computer biz. They will drink scotch,
while dinner cooks in something called a
crockpot. He chuckles at the word, crockpot.
The gentleman rubs his thumbs along
the fedora’s felt brim and tells me
he will not need to go to assisted living,
after all. Then he blows his nose
into a white handkerchief with ironed creases
and an H embroidered in pale blue stitches.
My grandfather’s initial. I like this H. I like
his small brown feather and perfect creases.
I like Bill and his crockpot, too. I would like
to drink a glass of scotch with Bill in Philadelphia
and the gentleman in the gray fedora.
I would like to go to a city where someone
will be glancing up from a newspaper
to check the time that I’ll arrive.

⎯

Maryland author Barbara Westwood Diehl is founding editor of The Baltimore Review. Her fiction and poetry have been published in a variety of journals, including Delmarva Review, Quiddity, Potomac Review (Best of the 50), Measure, Little Patuxent Review, SmokeLong Quarterly, Gargoyle, Superstition Review, Rivet, Per Contra, Thrush Poetry Journal, Tishman Review, The MacGuffin, and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

Delmarva Review publishes an annual literary journal featuring outstanding new poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction from thousands of submissions during the year. All writers are encouraged to submit their best work. The nonprofit journal is supported by contributions and a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.DelmarvaReview.org.

# # #

Author’s note: Every now and then I get these attacks⎯call it a loss of faith⎯in poetry; it feels pointless and sad and I wonder if my dedication to this art has not been a kind of Ponzi scam. So I always go back to basics. Forget the high-minded theories, why do I, Chris Jansen, need poetry. I think the answer is that there may be no ultimate answers. The wages of love may be less than one needs to live on, but no matter what, it IS important that we pay close attention as we fall through space and record what it was like.

Why Do I Need Poetry Anyway

Because the roof is still held down with tenpenny nails.

Because that very long knife that sleeps in the kitchen block.

Because we take hands and say the prayer.

Because there are whole cemeteries with headstones just for pets.
(They have boxes for mice, rats, turtles, collies, even
a horse.)

Because she touches your arm when she talks to you.
Because you noticed.

Because televangelists can heal the deaf with a word of knowledge
from the Lord.

Because of you.
Wasn’t it always you?
Of course it was.

Because holding blackberries always stains your fingers.

Because you slipped.
Because you fell.
Because it left a cool bruise.
Because it still hurts.

Because after coming home from a great movie, my mom would say
don’t turn on the TV.

Because Goodwill has a toy aisle.

Because we’re so fucked.

Because it’s a long way home.

Because hell if I know, maybe

because the Sufis say a man or woman
needs a soul
and a soul needs wings to fly to God.

⎯
Chris Jansen has been a nursing home janitor, a paramedic, an IT guy, and, up until recently, he says he’s been a very dedicated heroin addict. He currently lives in Athens, Georgia, where he teaches boxing and cares for a disinterested guinea pig named Poozybear. He has a degree in molecular biology from the University of Georgia.

Delmarva Review selects the best of new short fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction from thousands of submissions annually. The literary journal is a nonprofit supported by sales, contributions, and a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Print and digital copies are sold by Amazon, major online booksellers, and local bookstores. For submissions and information, visit: DelmarvaReview.org.

Author’s note:  Mary Somerville passed away just shy of her hundredth birthday, leaving me with sadness as well as some questions. We were friends for fifteen years. The nature of our friendship is the subject of this two-part essay (the first reflecting Mary’s voice, and the second mine). I wish I could have shared it with her. We would have had some good laughs, and maybe I could have learned even more.

Miss Mary and Merideth

I.

WHEN MARY COATES AND JAMES SOMERVILLE WERE MARRIED, November 12, 1925, it was just a few friends and family there. Mary walked to the church for her wedding. She and her sisters- in-law, Rosetta and Mary, walked through the swamp to get to the church. She wore a blue satin dress, blue hat, and blue shoes. She almost slipped in the water, but Rosetta caught her before she got muddied up. Joe Winters was the best man. He was best man for their fiftieth, too, and he got so drunk her sister-in-law took his place. There were five or six hundred people at the Fiftieth Anniversary Wedding. Daughter Magdalene made Mary’s dress and the crown. The first time around, Joe Winters behaved himself. 

The bride and groom were underage and were supposed to get permission, but Mary didn’t tell her people she was getting married. Her sister would have moved her back to Baltimore. They didn’t go on a honeymoon: they went right on home and went to bed. 

They were married for fifty-three years when James died. Mary raised fifteen children, counting her son Lynwood’s oldest, her daughter Dorothy’s girls, and her own twelve. She was proud of that. The hardest times in her life were the deaths of her children. James Leo, he died at eighteen months. James had to carry James Leo about a half-mile to the road to take him to the car for the trip to St. Mary’s Hospital. He’d caught pneumonia. Francis Lynwood died in a car accident. He and some boys were playing “chicken” on the highway in their souped-up cars. James Alexander died when he was six years old. He was struck in the stomach and hung upside down by a big teenage boy at school. The doctor came out to the house, but he only lived for two or three days after he was struck. When people asked her to talk about her life, Mary liked to talk about the old days. 

“When I was a child the times was good,” according to Mary. She worked hard all the time. But that was just how it should be. She milked the four cows and drove them to the woods every morning before school and went and brought them back to the barn every night. She had no end of chores. She liked feeling grown up and useful. Mary’s mama taught her how to cook and put up food for the winter. After she married, she won prizes for her preserves at the county fair. Won a blue ribbon one year for her peaches. She taught her girls to cook and bake and tried to make them and her boys into good hard workers like she was, but it didn’t necessarily “take” like it had with her. Times were different. 

When Mary was little, before she started school, her papa taught her the alphabet from off the quick oatmeal box. He used to read to her from the Bible and, when her mom would be gone, he would sit down and read fairy tales to her. “He was good to me,” she said. “When Mama get ready to whoop me, he’d get between the switch and me, and he caught some of the licks. He’d say, ‘Don’t hit her no more, Mama.’ He used to call Mama ‘Mama.’ ‘Don’t hit her no more, Mama.’ [chuckle] He was old. Old fella’ had rheumatism. I used to put his shoes on, put his socks on in the mornin’. He couldn’t bend over to put his shoes on. Tie ‘em up, take ‘em off at nighttime.” 

Mary started school at five years old. She loved her teachers, and she remembered everyone. Her mom boarded teachers like Miss Agnes Walton who weren’t from around there. Agnes Walton found a husband “right from Mechanicsville” and got married in their parlor. Then there was Janie Bowie, who “wasn’t tall as me, with legs bowed like pothooks. But she was just as nice as she could be. I was the littlest one in school, and everybody seemed to like me.” 

Mary’s parents got the Afro newspaper out of Baltimore every week. They didn’t have a radio. But they had a Victrola. They got their news from the newspaper and word of mouth. They also got information from an “old lady” who would travel from house to house carrying news. In later years, Mary didn’t seem to care much for staying on top of the news. “Too much about all this drugs, rape, and murders.” 

Her favorite times as a child were at school and church when they put on pageants and she got to perform. “See, Mama Coates and all the society ladies always give a Christmas play. Three plays a year in the church hall, and they had me in every one of them. That’s how I come to like to be up on that stage. In one play—the last play that had me in at the Mechanicsville Hall— was this song. [singing] ‘Can you show me the way the city?’ Now, my father and some other men made crosses, made a whole lot of crosses. So, we had to kneel down at these crosses. ‘Can you show me the way the city? To the city where the angels dwell? And the prince that we see on the mountain steep, he strayed to a cross of God.’ And we all was kneelin’ at these crosses. That was a beautiful play. The cross was white—some red and some white. We all had a cross to kneel at. That was a Christmas play. The last one I was at before Mama died. And, yes, [singing:] ‘We show the way to the city. To the city where the angels dwell. And the prince with his feet on the’—That was Jesus. [sings:] ‘On a mountain steep, please stray to the house of God.’ Real pretty.” 

“We had to study these dialogues, speeches, you know. I had to get it right. Mama made me say those pieces over and over. She would walk down to school with me and I said my part all the way to school. She right behind me. Come back at night, same thing. I had to get it right. When rehearsal come, Mama sat up, right up at the front. Right on the front seat. She had real big, full eyes, and I mean she could throw ‘em on me—‘Speak up there, Sister!’ I was on stage! [chuckle] I just cracked! [laughter] I got surprised. ‘Speak up there, Sister.’ I mean, she wasn’t smilin’. That little short fat woman was strong! [chuckle] Yeah, it was fun. ‘Deed it was.” 

When people from the college came and asked Mary to talk about what life was like growing up in St. Mary’s County, she loved telling them stories like that. She liked to make people laugh. She made fun of herself, too. Like why she didn’t drive. She said she got registered to vote but never voted because she had no transportation. 

She had folks in stitches when she acted out trying to learn how to drive and almost killing herself and James, who was sitting beside her in the old truck trying to teach her. The basic problem was that she was too short to see over the hood and she’d go barreling forward ‘till he’d yell “Stop!” When she got out of the truck, she saw that she was headed directly into a building. That scared her so bad, she never wanted to try again. 

Mary liked to talk about the families whose homes she worked in and how they were pleased with her and showed their appreciation. Especially the family she worked for who took her along with them on a trip to the Holy Land. It was the first time she had traveled farther than Baltimore. She loved to bring out her souvenirs and tell visitors about her trip. 

Her favorite stories, though, were about being on the stage. And, at the age of 85, Miss Mary had a chance to relive the joy of performing when she was cast in a play called In My Time at St. Mary’s College of Maryland. She played a character who was a real person and was a lot like her. The character was a hard worker who worked in the homes of white people. Mary enjoyed getting to know the young people in the cast, and they and the audiences loved her. She was, once again, a star, and it was fun, ‘deed it was.

II.

I MET MARY AGATHA COATES SOMERVILLE IN 1993. I was casting for In My Time, an original play I had written and was going to be directing at St. Mary’s College of Maryland. The play was based on oral histories collected and published by the Southern Maryland Documentary Project, a project spearheaded by St. Mary’s College of Maryland professor Andrea Hammer. I had received a call informing me that there was an eighty-five-year- old African American woman who wanted to join the cast and was hoping there was a part for her. She lived quite a ways from campus, but the friend who called was willing to provide transportation. Naturally, I was intrigued. I drove to Oakville, MD about twenty-five minutes from campus, to meet her. 

I knocked on the door of her small, neat cinderblock house. When the door opened, I had to adjust my gaze downward to take in the smiling face that topped her four feet, nine inches of kinetic energy. She welcomed me inside, and we conducted a most unusual audition, which included an impromptu recitation and stories, rather than the script reading I had planned. These were accompanied by various spontaneous dance moves Mary provided to show she was ready for anything. She became the eldest member of the large cast, which ranged from five years old to eighty-five. Thus, began a friendship that lasted until her passing in 2008, at the age of ninety-nine. 

Over the years, we never went long without speaking. She performed again in The Bigger Picture, another original play, at the College in 1995. Aside from that, our activities typically included me picking her up and taking her to community, social, or church events. We visited fairs and festivals and attended oral history workshops together. As her health declined and she became bedridden, I would come and visit with her at her home. 

In many ways, my relationship with Mary fit common friendship patterns, pathways, and progressions and was unremarkable. However, there were crucial ways that this relationship, in which there was a genuine mutual fondness, was far from typical and was often challenging, frustrating, and enlightening for me. It was an attempt at true friendship across difference. As I look back on the relationship, I am still tussling with important questions. 

The overarching question I ask myself is: What did the role of racial, class, and generational difference, real and imagined, play in our relationship? It is one thing to know how a relationship feels from the inside, and another to look back and try to gain an objective understanding. During our years together, I had opportunities to learn about Mary in formal as well as informal ways. As a member of the Unified Committee for Afro- American Contributions of St. Mary’s County, I spent hours interviewing her as a participant in an oral history project. I took my role as listener very seriously and understood the importance of withholding comment and judgment. Even outside the interview situation, I was reluctant to challenge or question too deeply the attitudes that surprised or distressed me. Maybe I should have been more open about my own reactions. I might have learned more. 

There are things I would like to ask her if I could reach back into the past. For example, why did she go on sitting quietly in the back of the church long after the practice of sending African Americans to sit in the back rows was no longer considered acceptable? And was that still common practice in Southern Maryland? Did other African Americans her age follow suit? 

And why, even in relating the tragedies of her children’s death, did she show little or no anger toward the system that had discriminated against her and let her down in so many ways? She was very happy to be the subject of an oral history interview and enjoyed sharing her stories. But would the stories have been different if I had been a black interviewer asking her about her life, and, if so, how? I had already gained her trust by the time we sat down to do the interviews, so that may have lessened any reluctance she may have had to be frank. 

For much of her life, Mary provided domestic labor for white employers. The fact that she showed neither embarrassment nor resentment when relating stories of accepting charity in the way of clothes, foods, and household goods from the white folks she worked for surprised me. Some even took her on trips, including a trip to Israel, which was, understandably, a high point in her life. She clearly seemed to feel proud of, and not at all demeaned by, her relationships with her white employers and happy to be given valuable things. Like most of us, I’m sure, she enjoyed being in good favor and pleasing people. And, after all, she gained very beneficial experiences like travel, as well as useful material goods that she would not have been able to afford for herself or her family. It is hard for someone like me, who did not experience living in a segregated system, to understand the feelings involved in the exchanges between patrons and the patronized. These gifts or “handouts” were valued commodities as well as signs of her success in winning over her employers. It seems, to me, she had learned to “work the rigged system” to her advantage as best she could with hard work, intelligence, wit, and charm. I have no doubt that her employers were genuinely fond of her. 

In our interactions, there were very few moments that felt awkward. It generally felt natural that I would take the lead in making decisions. I was her director after all. And it felt natural that I would be “treating” her. She was an elder and deserving of extra care and respect on that grounds as well. I think we politely refrained from acknowledging any sense of discomfort we may have had. When invited to a meal at my house, she offered to do the dishes and clean up as if, maybe, that was part of the “admission price.” It was not like the casual offer of a friend. How did that make me feel? Uncomfortable for sure, like being cast in a role I didn’t want to play. 

I noticed that Mary showed no reluctance or discomfort in receiving unreciprocated gifts from me. I bought her many gifts on our outings and became aware over time of what seemed to me to be strategies meant to encourage my gift-giving. Was I forever the white benefactor rather than the white friend? Does one preclude the other? I started to see her skills at manipulating her family members and me to vie for her appreciation or to feel guilty. I worried that the family would come to resent me. And I believe they did, at least to some extent. Once she was bedridden, they sometimes made it difficult for me to see her, and that was frustrating. 

I’ve thought about Mary a lot over the years since she passed away, puzzling over the complications and contradictions of our relationship. I’ve learned that, embedded in my sense of privilege, no matter how unconscious, there may have been the belief that I would have resisted, that I would not have accepted so quietly the discriminatory treatment that she endured. Since I’ve never been put to the test, of course, this is a fantasy. How do I know how I might have reacted to the kinds of everyday insults or micro-aggressions and the much larger injustices she experienced? Was I judging her for her “failure” to be outraged and to resist more demonstratively? Was I asking her to see herself as a victim? 

To what extent did she speak and behave differently with me because I was white? After a relationship of almost twenty years, did she suppress expressions of resentment and hurt because I was white? Did our class differences have an even more dominant effect on our relationship? She had less wealth, fewer material goods, less education, and less standing in the community. It was easy for us both to assume that I would be the one footing any bills. We were friends, but we weren’t. How could we be true friends in an uncomplicated way when our social capital and economic resources were so unequal? When our mutual heritage was one of racial, gender, and class hierarchy and segregation? It was a lot to navigate. But we did care for each other. We genuinely liked each other and enjoyed our time together. She was a live wire with great stories to tell and a good sense of humor. I was interested in learning about local cultures. We both liked to laugh. We clicked. 

Mary Somerville seemed to me to be a happy woman. Was she wearing the “mask” of double consciousness so powerfully alluded to by writers from Paul Laurence Dunbar to W.E.B. DuBois to Ntozake Shange? Or was it because she was, above all, a survivor and a woman who wanted to be happy in the world as it was? Had she taken our friendship at face value and chosen not to question the gifts of material goods or friendship and been the happier for it? 

One spring day, Mary and I attended a strawberry festival at a local historic plantation. Mary had dressed up in the way that a proper eighty-five-year-old lady of very limited means could. In other words, she had dressed as she would for church. I remember she had a white Peter Pan collar with lace trimming that contrasted with her dark skin. A tiny bit of face powder had spilled onto the collar. A hostess met us as we came into the mansion. She was not outwardly hostile as she greeted us—I think she may have smiled stiffly—yet I felt a sudden drop in the room’s temperature. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was different from the welcome that, as a friendly-looking, middle- class white woman, I normally expect and get. It seemed so clear that we did not belong there. We stayed and did our best to enjoy the occasion, saying nothing to each other about the chilly reception. Mary showed no sign of feeling hurt, and I was afraid to hurt her feelings by remarking on it. 

Our long, close relationship helped me to learn uncomfortable truths and to better understand her, myself, and the wider society. Our relationship provided benefits for both of us. I enjoyed making Mary happy, and her appreciation of my efforts was gratifying. I greatly benefited from her participation in my theater productions and believe that the oral history she provided is of value to the community as well as inspiring to me as a writer. On several occasions, I attended church services with Mary. This was a real cross-cultural experience for me. I, a lapsed Unitarian, was new to the Southern Maryland African American church experience. Mary was open to any denomination and especially liked the “homecoming” services, where all were welcome. We attended AME, United Methodist, and Catholic churches, including her home church, St. Joseph’s. I never pretended to believe, and she never held it against me. She probably hoped it was doing some good for my soul. It probably was. 

The specious old canard of the “happy darkies” was a concept and expression devised and utilized to rationalize the inhuman practices of slavery and Jim Crow. I wonder if there exists a bitter irony in the unaccountable ability of some people who, subjected to lifelong unjust and often brutal treatment, manage through their own devices to survive, develop resilience, and even find joy. 

Mary Somerville, dark-skinned, economically disadvantaged, and hard-working woman that she was, made “a way out of no way,” as they say. She chose to squeeze every drop of enjoyment and love out of the life that she saw as something that she was given and had little power to change. 

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Merideth M. Taylor is Professor Emerita of Theater and Dance at St. Mary’s College of Maryland. Including two Individual Artist Awards from the Maryland State Arts Council (2003 and 2007), she has received numerous awards in directing, playwriting, screenwriting, historical documentation, and a lifetime achievement award for using the performing arts to produce social change. Her plays have been produced in Washington, DC, New York, and Valdez, Alaska. Listening In: Echoes and Artifacts of Maryland’s Mother County, her book of photos and stories, was published in June 2018. 

Delmarva Review is a national literary journal with strong regional roots. It encourages authors to aspire to their highest standards by providing an independent, respected publishing venue at a time when many commercial publications are reducing content or shutting their doors. With thousands of submissions annually, selection is competitive for the best of creative nonfiction, poetry, and short fiction in each edition. As a 501(c)(3) nonprofit, it receives partial support from the Talbot County Arts Council with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. For submissions, author and sales information, see the website: DelmarvaReview.org.