It’s like opening up a dam
in a river
and then everything
rushes through—
all emotion
all love
all.
Sometimes,
I feel it
in a church
and sometimes
I don’t.
I always feel it
when I stare at trees
moving in the wind.
And when I hear music.
Today, kneeling
beside my mother
in the most beautiful church
in the world
I ask this Great Spirit,
Please,
bring my father home.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #7
October 21, 1918
How could the stars have brought us together?
We were born so far apart. Separated by culture, language, and land, and yet we found each other.
Yours always and forever,
Loup
I convince
Elena and Marguerite
to go on an adventure
after school.
American Coney Island?
I just want to try
something different.
We see the red,
white, and blue sign
from down the block.
An American eagle
waves us in.
Billy is seated
at a table with his back to the door.
He looks scrubbed and clean.
Surrounded by men
of all different colors
with grease on their faces.
Men, who have been working
on the factory floor all day.
Let’s sit over here.
I lead the girls to a table
in the connecting room
away from Billy.
We don’t have money for food,
so we order colas.
Heading to the bathroom,
I say, gripping my middle.
Are you ok?
Marguerite looks concerned.
You’re acting weird.
I’m fine. I’ll be right back.
I sit down
next to Billy.
His face lights up
when he sees me.
I was afraid you wouldn’t show.
I got this for you.
He slides
a chocolate malt
toward me.
I smile
and take a long pull
from the straw.
Close my eyes.
It’s the first time
I’ve ever tasted ice cream.
Tell me about yourself
I laugh.
My name is Mary.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary?
My parents
wouldn’t disagree with you.
Why?
We don’t want
the same things.
Tell me
what you want.
What do I want?
Yes.
You mean, like a hamburger?
No.
What do you want
from life?
I hesitate.
No one
has ever asked me
what I want.
I want to work.
What kind of work?
Own a business
like my father.
I know that’s unusual
for a woman.
Maybe impossible.
Don’t you want
to have
a husband
and babies?
Can’t I have both?
I hold my breath.
I guess you don’t know
until you try.
And you?
I place my palms
on the table and lean in.
What do you want?
He takes a sip from his straw.
With a shy smile
he responds,
You.
I choke on my chocolate shake.
How could you
possibly know
you want me?
You just met me!
You’re beautiful.
Thank you.
I’m blushing.
You’re interesting.
Different.
Isn’t that a polite way
of saying I’m odd?
I’ve never met
anyone else
whose eyes change color.
I put my hands
over my eyes.
I thought
they only turned bright green
when I was angry!
Holy moly!
Bright green.
I can’t wait!
Yes, you can.
They also turn
turquoise
when you’re excited.
Gray, when you’re calm.
The color of olives
when you feel . . . friendly?
That’s all
I’ve noticed so far.
I’ve only been told
what they look like
when I’m angry.
Why hasn’t
anyone in my family
noticed
all the colors
that I feel?
You have a very fancy car
I blurt out
and then feel embarrassed.
Yes.
It’s a bit much.
Do you work?
I’m in school.
Sales and marketing.
A job lined up
with Ford
when I graduate.
My father
got me the job.
He looks annoyed and then says,
He imagines
I am incapable
of accomplishing
important tasks
without him.
Fathers.
They imagine they know us.
But they don’t, do they?
Not in the least.
Then he asks the question
I’ve been waiting for.
Are you Greek?
My father is Greek.
My mother is French.
I am American.
I shrink
into my dress.
I would rather
discuss
a contagious rash
than discuss
my parents.
He smiles and says,
When I was seven,
my uncle gave me a book
on Greek mythology.
I was obsessed.
I thought about the gods
and Mount Olympus
all the time.
I tried to imagine
who everyone would be
if they were a god.
I think I’d be Apollo.
I love the sun, music, and poetry.
I was just
sitting here wondering
who you would be.
I think you would be
Athena.
She’s strong, like you.
I want to tell him
I am not as strong
as he thinks I am.
I want to tell him
about Dimitris.
My father’s plans.
The promises
that have been made.
I want to tell him
about his eyes.
They never change.
Steady.
Pure blue.
I want to tell him
we can’t
see each other again.
I want to tell him
I must be
a Good Greek Girl.
But I don’t.
I let the sweet
coldness
of my chocolate shake
swirl around
the inside of my skull.
It makes my head hurt.
Makes me forget
everything.
Except for his hand
on mine.
I hear someone
clearing their throat.
I turn to see Marguerite,
arms crossed.
Glaring at me.
Call me Athena
She wasn’t
a Good Greek Girl
either.
Athena, why do you fight?
Put down your sword and shield
and make your bed.
Athena, come down from your chariot,
take off your golden helmet,
and come to dinner.
Athena, did you injure your father
when you leapt from his head?
Why can’t you be more like Aphrodite?
She’s pretty and polite
and she knows how to entertain.
Athena, please stop thinking
you are the queen of Athens.
You’re only a girl from Detroit.
Giorgos (Gio)
Komnina, Central Greece
1917
Faster than a sail
swells with wind,
my sister’s belly
becomes round
with life.
My mother dotes on her.
Put your feet up, Violetta!
Don’t carry that, Violetta!
One day
my sister snatches my hand
and presses my palm
into her hard stomach.
Costas laughs
as my mouth drops open.
So many swirling movements
up and down
like a ship
cresting on a wave.
My sister closes her eyes
and sighs.
I wonder
what it feels like
to hold the ocean
inside.
Costas tries to sell olive oil
from his groves,
but the prices have dropped.
I grab his arm.
We need to do something.
Violetta is hungry.
I’m worried
soon she will be
too weak.
We eat what we can grow
in our garden:
figs and tomatoes,
lettuce,
and beans.
We have
no meat
no cheese
no flour
no bread.
Violetta’s cheeks are hollow.
I walk in the village after dark.
The sweet pink oleander
smells like apricots.
My stomach is as empty
as my coin purse.
I love my sister
I want her to live.
Costas and I
sneak into the hills
and find a lamb
that is fat enough.
After the killing,
Costas hoists the body
onto his shoulder.
The legs wrap around his neck
like a scarf.
We do not feel happy.
We have done
what was needed.
We are almost home
when a group of men
come running up the path.
Stop! Thieves!
One of the men
pulls out a long rifle.
He aims.
Costas turns and screams:
Run, Giorgos, run.
The bullet connects
with his head.
Costas looks stunned for a moment,
his expression frozen in silence
and then his body falls
to the ground.
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1917
Maman says I should
be happy.
I get to go to school.
When she was young,
they didn’t allow girls to study.
I love the smell of chalk
and old books that are foxed
around the edges.
I wash my black slate
and dust my desk.
I learn to write sentences
and solve number problems.
After lunch,
we put our heads on our desks
and our teacher reads to us.
The rhythm of her voice
whirls around us like sea air.
She’s really very bright,
the teacher tells my mother
after school.
Maybe someday she’ll be a doctor,
like her father.
My eyes open wide.
I clasp my hands
in front of my heart.
Maman wipes her eyes
with a handkerchief.
Yes. Maybe. Someday.
Of course, I dream
of being a doctor.
No one else in town
thinks
it’s an appropriate job
for a girl.
I will prove
them wrong.
Papa says I can do it.
I can change
people’s minds
like Madame Curie.
I imagine
my long, black dress
covered
in a lab coat.
Leaning over
petri dishes, glass vials,
beakers,
and Bunsen burners.
After I make
my grand discoveries
I will stand on the stage
in Stockholm.
A Nobel Prize in my hand.
My aunt
Sister Marie-Thérèse
joins us for lunch.
I ask my mother
to serve her favorite meal:
roasted lamb
with new potatoes
and asparagus.
My aunt
is the mother superior
at the Abbaye Notre-Dame
de Saint-Malo.
She manages
Les Filles de la Sagesse,
the sisters of the convent
and the hospital
where they work
with wounded soldiers
arriving from the front.
I wait through the entire meal.
I try to breathe slowly.
I even let her take two bites
of her flaky, buttery
Kouign-amann
before I ask
if it would be possible
to volunteer at the hospital
two days a week after school.
She takes her napkin
the corners of her mouth.
I hold my breath.
You’re sixteen now.
Call Me Athena Page 7