Call Me Athena
Page 10
Tear gas, fire hoses,
clubs.
Men running everywhere
trying to escape
the bullets
pelting the crowd.
A boy was shot.
Blood spread
across his chest
like a car dripping oil
onto the pavement.
They called us REDS.
All we wanted was health care
and an end
to racial discrimination.
Elena’s father
pauses,
wipes his face
and eyes
with a handkerchief.
The next day,
many men
dressed in their uniforms
and went to the factory.
Stepped over
red stains
on the sidewalk.
Black,
where the fires had burned.
Men with work
don’t dare complain
about conditions. 16
The chalk squeaks
as Mrs. Patterson writes
our shared history
on the blackboard.
In 1929—Detroit produced 5,337,000 vehicles.
October 24, 1929—the stock market crashed.
In 1930—3,363,000 vehicles
In 1931—1,332,000 vehicles 17
Fewer vehicles = fewer jobs
Current 1933 unemployment rate = 26% and rising. 18
She doesn’t
have to tell us
about the unemployed.
We’ve all seen the families
waiting for bread
outside of Sacred Heart.
The violence
that comes from desperation.
The clash between
those who have
and those who don’t.
I remember the parade
on March 12, 1932.
We gathered together
as a community.
Sixty thousand strong.
Marched down
Woodward Avenue
past the Institute of Arts,
then turned west
to the Woodmere Cemetery.
Workers and families
singing songs of revolution.
Grieving
for the dead.
The cemetery refused
Curtis Williams
because of the color of his skin.
Airplanes scattered
his ashes
over River Rouge.
No Ford
or Dearborn officials
were prosecuted for
the deaths. 19
My father held my hand,
worried I would be lost
in the crowd.
He held me tighter
when we saw
a safety commission officer
shove his gun
into the face
of one of the workers.
We put four
of your kind into the graves
with this.
And we’ll put a lot more
if we have to. 16
On our way home from school
Billy’s red
convertible
glides up
beside us.
Do you want a lift?
I look at my sister.
She shakes her head
vehemently
and holds up her hands.
Come on, Mary!
She starts walking
quickly.
I lag behind.
Billy drives slowly
right next to me.
There’s a big band playing
at the Bob-Lo Island Pavilion
on Sunday night.
I’d like to take you.
We could take the ferry to Belle Isle.
Walk the promenade.
Billy,
you know I can’t.
If you’re going to talk to me that way,
you’d better call me William.
That’s what my mother calls me
when she’s telling me “no.”
My father would kill me.
Come on, Mary!
It’ll be fun.
You know I can’t.
The real question is:
do you have “the jitters.”
I laugh.
I’ve only heard
that phrase
on the radio.
Some say there’s too much
“jitter in my jitterbug.” 20
Great.
It’s settled.
I’ll see you at the dock
at 4:30 on Sunday.
He flashes me
a toothy grin,
presses his foot to the gas.
Glides
down the road
before I can say,
Good Greek Girls
don’t jitterbug.
My father paces around the store
I look at the books.
We haven’t had a customer
in hours.
I see the red numbers
floating at the bottom
of the page.
There’s more money going out
than coming in.
I’m going to have to cancel
the shipments.
My father avoids my eyes.
What can we do?
I ask,
feeling optimistic.
Can we advertise?
Can we create a sale?
It won’t help.
You don’t know that, Baba!
We just have to try some new things!
The banks have failed.
Less cars are being made.
The food lines are getting longer.
People are living on the street.
No one has money to spend
on colas and cream.
I walk around the counter
to stand next to my father.
We’re going to lose the business, Mary.
Now, I know.
Why he is pushing me
to marry Dimitris.
Giorgos (Gio)
Atlantic Ocean
1917
On a bench, beneath the stars
Sister, see me.
Poised on the edge
of the earth
hovering between
the black
of the ocean
and sky.
Sister, hear me.
I wish
I could throw a hatchet
into the heavens
tear a hole
in the gut of the past.
Sister, forgive me.
My rage, my guilt,
my fear.
I am to blame.
I know the cries
of a fatherless son.
I surrender my grief
to the Furies.
Three sisters
with snakes in their hair
coal-black bodies
bat wings
bloodred eyes.
I imagine
the mythical crones
rip into my flesh,
punish me
with their claws.
I try to brush them away,
but I know
I will never be free.
As they whisper and hiss
&nbs
p; into my ear,
Do not dream, young one.
You will never return
to your homeland.
I roam the deck during the day
No one suspects me.
When night falls,
I hide in the engine room,
cover my ears,
try to block the sound
of the massive
whirling pistons
and the rumble
of the turbine.
I crouch
in the coal bunkers,
calf-deep in oily water.
There are a few
other stowaways.
Most of them boys
my age.
For nine days
we help each other.
Steal food off plates and share.
I can’t decide
what I fear most.
Another night on this ship
or what will happen
when we finally
arrive.
My body jerks
awake
with the sound of a whistle.
My muscles tense
and eardrums bulge
with alarm.
There is a man
looming over
our sleeping bodies,
shouting,
Stowaways!
Jeanne
Saint-Malo, France
1917
Most of the nurses
have fiancés, brothers,
and fathers
in the war.
We throw ourselves
into our duties.
Transform our
worry and sadness
into healing.
All of these boys
coming from the front lines
are someone’s fiancé,
someone’s son.
We treat each soldier
like family.
Some days, it is difficult
to remember
that these boys
are not ours.
When the soldiers
are homesick,
I write letters
to their mothers and wives.
When they are bored,
I read them poetry
and novels
about romance
and spies.
When they cannot speak,
I hold their hands.
When they are lonely,
I sing Breton folksongs
in Gaelic.
When they need a friend,
I tell them about Papa
and his bravery.
I let them call me
petit oiseau.
Nurses arrive
from Great Britain
and the United States
by train and by boat.
They have come to help
the French people
and also the soldiers
from their homelands.
I am learning
to speak English
more each day
and I am teaching them
to say little phrases
in French.
We laugh at the
faux amis.
Words that sound
the same
but mean
something else.
Brasserie and brassiere (bra);
blessed and blessé (injured);
coin and coin (corner).
Speaking a new language
is like wearing a new
pair of glasses.
My new friend Vera
hands me a cup of tea
and leads me outside.
It’s a lovely day
and the roses are blooming.
Vera is blond and beautiful.
A shined-up penny
in a pocketful
of dull coins.
She’s from Indiana.
She tells me about
her family and their house
and their land
where they grow
miles of corn.
Her town
used to be all farmland,
but now
there are a lot of buildings
in the center.
They have concerts
with brass bands
and parades on holidays
and they sit on the curb
and drink Coca-Cola
and watch
the decorated trucks
drive past
the crowds.
She tells me
that right before she left,
her town got a stoplight.
When they installed it,
people stood on the corner
and watched the light
change from red
to green to yellow
for hours.
Then she gives a little
snort-laugh
like a pink piglet.
It’s not much, but it’s my home!
She also tells me
about the big, modern
American cities
with the tallest buildings
in the whole world.
I stare at the
two-story
buildings
that line the streets
of Saint-Malo.
I decide
someday I would like
to see buildings
that scrape
the sky.
Mary
Detroit, Michigan
1933
Letter #11
October 30, 1918
Yesterday, I found a ribbon lying on the ground—abandoned in a field.
So blue against the green grass and brown earth.
I picked it up and felt the soft silk.
Wished that I could tie it in your hair.
Forever yours,
Loup
A group
of women and girls gather
to help with the clothing drive
at Sacred Heart.
Mary!
I’m so glad you made it!
Clarabelle’s cheeks
are shiny with sweat.
Her red-flowered
apron tied around
her plump waist.
I have the perfect job for you!
She takes me to a room
filled to the brim
with donations.
People have been
dropping things off
all day.
We need help sorting it.
Several women
look up from their work
to wave hello.
I see Lara.
She hops up
and gives me a hug.
Clarabelle continues,
Please make piles:
men’s shirts
pants
women’s dresses
sweaters
belts.
You get the drift.
She picks up a pair of pants
and points at a tear.
If there’s something
to mend,
bring it to me.
I have a sewing machine.
Oh, and don’t forget
to check the pockets.
She tosses the pants into a pile.
Last month,
&nbs
p; a man
received a loaf of bread
and a white
button-down shirt.
The next day he returned.
There were diamond cufflinks
still attached to the sleeves. 17
She chuckles
and pats my shoulder.
I tell you, honesty
is still alive
in America.
Although, I think
those diamond cufflinks
went directly
into the church