Maia Madden

Book Author, Journalist, Blogger

Archive for the tag “grief”

Young Writers Program

Since my father died, my inner light, the one that helped me see and feel, went out. I lived in a dark space, not unhappy, really, just dim. Shapes had lost their outlines, love had lost its purpose, and all the things that used to matter to me no longer did. Like a moth at twilight, I flitted silently, aimlessly, looking for any bright spot to move toward, searching for a spark that would brighten, however briefly, the nebula of my inner space.

Then I met them, those vulnerable teens struggling to find meaning in a world of uncertainty, the sons and daughters of mostly Mexican immigrants attending SOS, an alternative Watsonville high school for children who would otherwise fail. The message they heard every day was one loud assault. You are not wanted. You are not loved. You are not smart enough, white enough, or rich enough. You don’t belong here. Go back to where you came from. An immigrant myself, I had heard similar messages as a child, but never ones as potent and deadly as those blasting through our country today, landing on young minds like missiles of hatred and defeat.

As part of the Young Writers Program, I was one of the volunteers asked to help the students write about, of all topics, social justice – something they had never experienced. But they had all endured social injustice, and their stories were poignant testaments to its belittling and bewildering consequences.

M was the youngest of thirteen children, a large boy with stooped shoulders and soft brown eyes that darted away when someone spoke to him. He had brothers who had been or were in gangs, and a mother determined to keep him from that path, a mother so strict that he seemed to flinch when the teacher admonished him in any way, in what had to be a learned reaction. He told me he couldn’t write, but then he did, about racism in law enforcement. It took a while for him to get started, and when he finished, after several weeks of effort, he was proud but reluctant to make many changes. Changes would have implied criticism, and criticism would have meant failure, a trigger to total shut down. So I let him shine, as he should but probably seldom did. “I am responsible for everything I do because I am a student,” he wrote, “so why not the police?” Proud that he had finished first, he opened up and helped his friends with ideas and suggestions.

Beautiful J, with long brown hair, chestnut eyes and an easy smile, usually sat next to M. I could tell that he liked her, a lot, and her cheerful banter put him at ease. His sarcastic observations, delivered in a random, laconic way, were funny, and she always laughed. She tried to explain the difference between a simile and a metaphor, which he already knew but pretended not to, and he made up silly examples to entertain her. I was startled when J told me that severe anxiety had kept her from attending a regular public school. Even here, she had started and stopped several times. Largely home schooled, she lacked grammar and spelling skills, yet excelled at expressing herself easily and fluidly. She, too, wrote about police prejudice: “One time my father got pulled over because he is the color of Nutella. The officer asked him, “Did you steal something today?” And my dad answered, “No, I’ve been with my kids all day.”” The police made them all wait in the car until they determined he was not “the dark man in his late 30s” they were looking for.

B, I was told, was “special needs,” and a solid-looking woman sat nearby in the classroom, assigned to him for what seemed to me no apparent reason. He had a mischievous smile and an innocent eagerness, the complete opposite of what I had been told to expect. He said he wanted to write a poem, like rap. He did several drafts, and I helped him find the words that rhymed and rearrange them in poetic order. He was thrilled to pour out his view of the politics of hate he sensed all around him, the reality of living in a community where a knock on the door could be the Feds, and no one was safe, not even in school. His pride in the poem he wrote was so real and so moving. On the last day, he read it out loud to the class. “We will rebel/We will never let them kill/What our people have done/And the freedoms we have won.”

When F joined our group, the session was almost half over. At first, he said nothing and sat with his head bowed, his golden-hued face and almond eyes half-hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt. As he slowly began to trust me, he poured out a story of his arrest for tagging, and how to him tagging meant freedom and excitement and self-expression. I suggested he write about it, as it was what mattered most to him, and he was surprised that I thought so. I sat next to him at first, and he dictated while I scribbled down his words. I told him writing was just that, putting on paper the words that come from your head and heart. This essay, he wrote to me later, was the first he had ever written:

“Instead of putting us young graffiti writers in jail or on pointless probation, why not encourage us to express ourselves by creating our art somewhere safe where we won’t be judged as criminals by authorities? Why not give us sketchbooks and pens and let us draw? We could spend probation hours drawing and learning instead of picking up trash. When we are treated as criminals, we eventually become criminals.”

If F fails to beat his second offense and gets charged as an adult instead of a juvenile, he will go to jail. What a terrible waste of a gifted and passionate artist. The path from drawing on a wall to surviving as a gang member is not that long when the odds have always been against you.

What these kids needed to hear was that their stories were unique and interesting. Their stories mattered. Their lives mattered. As the weeks went by, more and more students failed to show up for class. The fear of ICE in this farming community left a trail of shattered faith and family chaos. All the good done by Charmaine Ryan, the remarkable teacher whose whole life is dedicated to helping these most fragile of students, could not shield them from the forces of racism and hatred.

A was another beauty, intelligent and verbally engaging, but her haunted brown eyes held the secret shame of sexual abuse, the private injustice that cannot be rectified. Her mother left when she was four and never returned. Abandoned so young, she and her brother went to live with an aunt, and it was there that an uncle began molesting her. When she finally had the courage to speak up, no one took it seriously. No one wanted to believe her. After all, he was family, and you don’t expose family, especially in the Mexican culture, where family is everything.

The best educated of my group, A prided herself on being a good student. I asked her why she wasn’t at a regular high school. She told me that she, too, suffered from debilitating anxiety that made navigating a typical school environment, especially as a Mexican American, impossible. She had internalized fear, her own post-traumatic stress disorder, and it kept her trapped. “I wanted to leave/I wanted to fight/I knew it wasn’t right/All I feel as I run down the hall…/The fear of his hands on me as I fall.”

After the class ended, I would remember their trusting eyes as I read and reread their thank you card: thank you for your time and kindness, thank you for pushing me to do better, thank you for all the help…I needed it. What they didn’t know was that I was the one who needed help. They were the ones who made me feel alive again. They were the ones who helped me know that my own life mattered. Thank you, gentle souls, for letting me share your light.

To learn more about the Young Writers Program, go to youngwriterssc.org. Volunteers are always needed. You can also help by purchasing a book of students’ writing at Bookshop Santa Cruz.

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The Last Light of Day

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A long time ago I read a short story in the New Yorker By Alice Elliott Dark called “In the Gloaming.” I have never forgotten it. It tells the story of Janet, a mother caring for her son, Laird, who is dying of AIDS, and the last evenings they spend together outside in the magical hour when dusk turns to dark. The gloaming is intimate and shadowy, a purple suspension between now and forever, a time when words touch what really matters and life stands, still and perfect, before it disappears forever.

My father was in his gloaming the year before he died. He wanted to talk and be heard. He wanted to know how each person in the family was doing. He wanted to see if we had become what his dream for us had been. In the summer evenings, after dinner, he would ask me to read something I had written, his eyes half closed, his head held to the side, resting on a blue-veined hand. I knew I had not fulfilled his dream for me, but he showed no disappointment, only love.

When my father died, all the words inside me disappeared.

Now I want to remember everything about him, but what I remember most clearly is how badly we treated him. He had become superfluous. He couldn’t hear well but refused to use a hearing aid. Instead of politely raising our voices, some of us would shout, while others just ignored his soft-voiced attempts to be part of the conversation. He couldn’t walk well but refused to use a cane. Everyone berated him, especially since he had had several bad falls. When I asked why he wouldn’t at least try, he cocked his head, gave me that small crooked smile I loved, and said, “That would be humiliating.” I never suggested it again.

My father was a proud man despite the many humiliations he endured in his last years. He treated everyone he met with politeness, curiosity and dignity. He cared. When he died, the church was packed with people I had never met: his plumber, his pharmacist, his grocer, his nurses, his doctor, his home workers, and all the parishioners he had helped in some way. “Your father was such a good man,” they told me. In his last years, he had reached out with more and more love as if giving thanks for his long life. He knew how to listen, and he knew how to make people feel valued. They never forgot him.

He would call his grandchildren, one by one, into the dining room he had turned into a messy office. The glass table was piled with mail, papers, books, magazines, photographs and newspaper clippings, the jumbled remnants of his passions and memories. Each child had a special folder where he kept cards, letters, articles and mementos. He would ask them what they were studying, what they wanted in life, speaking in the quiet voice that, without the cacophony of a noisy dinner, was perfectly clear. And he heard every word they said.

Why do we so often treat the old, the sick, the dying, with dismissive impatience instead of love and understanding? When Janet talks with her AIDS-stricken son in the shadowy twilight, she is happy, connected to him by the spark of eternal love. Their conversations are a parting gift, not a chore to be endured. But Martin, her husband, avoids Laird. Fear deprives him of truly knowing his son.

So many times I could have lingered a few moments more, listened a little more closely. Instead, oblivious to my father’s imminent departure, I hid inside a book or watched insipid television. Anything to blunt the reality of death.

The beautiful, mystical, ineffable gloaming is so brief that we often fail to see it. Instead of embracing its magic and meaning, I fled.

And then he was gone forever.

 

 

 

 

Requiem for My Brother George

George

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I look out at these gentle French hills,
The silver greens you thought so lovely,
The cloudless blue sky framed by waves of vine,
The dark dense patches of trees
In patterns of repose,
So still this morning,
As you are in your coffin, George,
My beloved brother.

No longer will you see the streams and rivers
That enlivened you, nor feel the sacred space
Where you and sky and water joined,
Where you found peace in a heart
Agitated by ancient loss, a heart
Capable of selfless love
Only for the trees and rivers and oceans
You fought hard to protect.

I see you standing by a Colorado stream,
Fishing rod in hand, casting
As if in prayer,
Casting for joy, casting for freedom,
Casting for the stillness that came
With the roar of water rushing over rocks,
Rocks you collected
Like tokens of eternity.

The trees soothed your soul
As you strode thigh-deep into streams and rivers,
From Russia to Canada,
From New York to California,
And here, in Gironde, where once upon a time,
The grandfather you loved, who loved you as his one true son,
Placed a bamboo pole in your small hand,
And taught you how to fish.

Side by side you stood in silence
On the muddy banks of the Garonne,
Until your pole wobbled and you raised it
In triumph, a small silver fish dangling in the air.
How powerful you must have felt,
How complete, how proud,
When your Papi
Smiled and hugged and praised you.

You never forgot that joy.
It was the one true thing that gave meaning to your life,
That led you and sustained you.
But the rest, oh, the rest, how sad you were,
Beneath those water-green eyes,
Eyes the color of the Garonne
When the sun slants across
Its wide, sullen surface.

That river frightened me,
But not you.
It was as though you had risen from it,
Born from its restless tides,
Sometimes silent, sometimes agitated,
Sometimes as angry as its currents when storms
Ruffled its surface,
Like the surface of your life.

We saw only the surface.
What lay beneath? What depths of sorrow,
What pools of unrequited love
Hiding from the violence of currents
You could not control?
Your eyes, once full of emotion,
Grew dull as your mind dissolved
Into the murky present.

Emptied of your essence, wounded by disease,
You saw only terror,
The terror of reality slipping away,
Thought by broken thought,
The terror of pain and confusion and helplessness,
The terror of memory battered
As if flung into a raging river,
Engulfed by useless anger.

In the end, your eyes saw nothing at all.
They closed, and you slept,
Without pain or desire,
Accepting the abyss until, finally,
Death set you free.
And all that remained were your ravaged bones,
Your skin stretched paper-thin over wasted flesh.
Today, we will burn you.

Once your face was plump
With the excess of your desires,
For food, for drink, for money, for clothes,
For possessions so numerous that you collapsed under the weight,
Lost like a little boy in the rubble of an unkempt life,
With a measureless need for love that no one and nothing could fill,
An emptiness you felt but never understood,
And never tried to heal.

I will remember another you,
The man of rivers and forests,
The lover of beauty in all of its guises,
The young soul who laughed and danced,
Who loved art and music and books,
Who spoke four languages with ease,
The man who cherished cats and children,
The brother who loved me.

You wanted chocolate, always chocolate.
In the end, your sister Vesna fed you piece by piece,
Watching you smile as chocolate melted in your mouth.
Chocolate was the vestige of your senses, the final pleasure,
The last rite offered by someone who loved you,
Because we did love you, my lost, lonely brother.
We will always love you,
Our beloved brother George.

Who Decides When It’s Time to Die?

 

Lily was 17, a lovely black-and-white American pit bull, wiser and gentler than any dog I have ever known. My son had owned Lily since he was a teenager, but as his drug problem had escalated, his sense of responsibility had evaporated.  He had been smart enough, however, to realize that Lily needed better care than he could give, and he had let his girlfriend take her. Now clean after ten long years, he was driving to his ex’s house to tell Lily he loved her before the vet sent her off to eternal sleep.

Kept in prime shape with a raw food diet and regular exercise, Lily had outlasted her breed’s average life span. Although it seemed she would live forever, despite her arthritis and her hearing loss, despite her cloudy eyes and her mottled fur, she finally succumbed to a kidney infection. Incontinent and unresponsive, she lay on the bed with her eyes closed and her tail limp. It was finally time to say good-bye.

When he arrived, my son cradled Lily’s head in his arms.  She opened her eyes and licked his hand. Her tail came up and thumped lightly against his leg. He picked her up like a baby and pressed his nose to hers. She licked him again.

The scent and touch of her first owner seemed to bring Lily back to life.  My son placed her gently on the floor, and she took a few wobbly steps. The vet was called and cancelled.

Lily was no longer ready to die. Today, she is still getting by, slowly, sometimes painfully, but clinging to life, wagging her tail and enjoying every caress that comes her way. Lily will die sometime soon, of course, but not yet, not quite yet. She still has love to give and people who love her, no matter how frail and old she is.

Ten years ago, the doctors told me my mother was going to die. When I got to the intensive care unit, they had stuck a tube down her throat and tied her tiny hands to the bed. Weak and shrunken to barely 80 pounds, she had still summoned the strength to try to break free from the tubes and lines that bound her. When she saw me, her sea-green eyes filled with tears and her face crumpled into a look of frantic pain, as if she were begging me to release her from torture.

The nurse gave her more morphine.

A team of social workers and nurses escorted my brother and me to a windowless conference room. “Your mother cannot survive,” they told us. “Her lungs and heart are shutting down.” They asked if we wanted them to keep her alive no matter what or refrain from resuscitating her should she start to fail.

We went out to the hall, a depressing dull beige hospital hallway, and wept.

Long ago, my mother had asked me to help her die when she could no longer take care of herself. I had promised, but I later realized that I could never actually “pull the plug.” Now she had been ill for at least three years due to a pulmonary embolism, leashed to an oxygen tank, in and out of hospitals — where, being French and a picky gourmet, she refused to touch their nasty food or sip their cloying Ensure or even drink their water, which she had always hated. To please her, we would smuggle in red wine, oysters and strawberries. No, my mother would not have wanted to be revived, would not have wanted to be a burden, would not have wanted to have us suffer because of her.

So my brother and I signed the “do not resuscitate” order. They removed all her tubes, unhooked the clicking and buzzing monitors, and wheeled her out of Intensive Care. They put her in a little room with a big red dot above the door, a dot that meant “let this patient die.”

But she didn’t die. She woke up, saw us standing by her bed and smiled a big happy smile. She reached for our hands. We kissed her and smoothed back her blonde hair. She called us by name. My mother wasn’t ready to die!

We went out into that hall again and wept under the big red dot.

Every day that I went through that door, the red dot seemed to glare at me. Meanwhile, my mother continued to improve. The nurses and doctors called her “our miracle girl.”

One day, as I was painting my mother’s toenails a brilliant blue and laughing at how silly they looked poking out from the sheets, a nurse walked in. My mother looked up at her with a smile and said, “You see, I’m so much better now that my daughter came.” She gripped my hand and looked up at me with the sweetest look of love and gratitude.

She was giving me credit for her recovery when in truth I had signed her death warrant.

My mother lived another two years, slipping slowly away yet always eager to see her loved ones. She said knowing what her children and grandchildren were doing kept her wanting to live. At the end, we moved her to a hospice, where she received the most loving care.

The last day I saw my mother alive, she told me I was beautiful even though she could hardly speak.  But soon her breathing grew ragged and her translucent green eyes were fixed on a faraway place, a place I couldn’t see. I held her hand and I kissed her and I whispered how much we loved her and what a great mother she had been.  When she was finally ready to die, she did.

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Natalie Breuer

Natalie. Writer. Photographer. Etc.

mfourlbyhfourepoetry

p 1 o 2 e 3 m = Four By 4 By Four

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