"In my sleep," I said. "That sounds like one definition of life in hell."
He took his hand off my stomach.
"This place is wonderful," I said. "And I love you for trying to provide it for the baby and me. But there's nothing here but existence. I can't give up Acorn and Earthseed to come here and install a dab of education into kids who don't really need me."
"Your child will need you."
"I know."
He said nothing more. He turned over and lay with his back to me. After a while I slept. I don't know whether he did.
************************************
Later, back at home, we didn't talk much. Bankole was angry and unforgiving. He has not yet said a firm "No" to the people of Halstead. That troubles me. I love him and I believed he loves me, but I can't help knowing that he could settle in Halstead without me. He's a self-sufficient man, and he truly believes he's right. He says I'm being childish and stubborn.
Marc agrees with him, by the way, not that either of us has asked Marc what he thinks. But he's still staying with us, and he can't help hearing at least some of our disagreement. He could have avoided mixing in, but I don't think that ever occurred to him.
"What's the matter with you?" he demanded of me this morning just before Gathering. "Why do you want to have a baby in this dump? Just think, you could live in a real house in a real town."
And I got so angry so fast that my only choices were either to be very quiet or to scream at him. He, of all people should have known better than to say such a thing. We had reached out from our dump with money made at our dump. We had found him and freed him. But for us and our dump, he would still be a slave and a whore!
"Come to Gathering," I said in almost a whisper. And I walked out of the house away from him.
He followed me to Gathering, but he never apologized. I don't think he ever realized that he had said something vile.
After Gathering, Gray Mora came up to me and said, "I hear you're leaving."
I was surprised. I don't suppose I should have been. Bankole and I don't scream at one another and broadcast our troubles the way the Figueroas and the Faircloths do, but no doubt it's clear to everyone that there's something wrong between us. And then there was Marc. He might tell people— just out of a need to be important. He does have a consuming need to be important, to reassert his manhood.
"I'm not leaving," I told Gray.
He frowned. "You sure? I heard you were moving to Halstead."
"I'm not leaving."
He drew in a long breath and let it out. "Good. This place would probably go to hell without you." And he turned and walked away. That was Gray. I thought back when he joined us that he might be trouble, or that he wouldn't stay. Instead, he turned out to be dependability itself—as long as you didn't want a lot of conversation or demonstrative friendliness. If you were loyal to Gray and his family, he was loyal to you.
Later, after dinner, Zahra Balter pulled me out of a set of dramatic readings that three of the older kids were giving of their own work or of published work that they liked. I was enjoying Gray's stepdaughter Tori Mora's reading of some comic poetry that she had written. The more laughter in Acorn, the better. And I was drawing Tori, tall and lean and angular, a handsome girl rather than a pretty one. I had discovered that drawing was so different from everything else I did that it relaxed me, and at the same time, it roused me to a new alertness—a new kind of alertness. I've begun to perceive color and texture, line and shape, light and shadow with new intensity. I go into these focused, trancelike states and draw really terrible stuff. My friends laugh at the drawings, but they tell me they're getting better, getting recognizable. Zahra told me a couple of weeks ago that a drawing I'd done of Harry looked almost human.
But this time Zahra hadn't come to talk about my drawing.
"So you're going to leave!" she hissed at me as soon as we were alone. She looked angry and bitter. Here and there around us, people found their own Gathering Day amusements. May was teaching Mercy Noyer how to weave a small basket from tree bark. A few adults and older kids had gotten a soccer game going in spite of the cold. Marc and Jorge were out there on opposite sides, having a great time running up and down the field, getting filthy, and collecting more than their share of bruises. Travis, who also loves soccer, has said, "I think those two would kill each other for a chance to score."
If only Marc would confine himself to scoring in soccer.
Of course, I wasn't as surprised at Zahra's question as I had been at Gray's. "Zee, I'm not leaving," I said.
Like Gray, she didn't believe me at first "I heard you were. Your brother said... Lauren, tell me the truth!"
"Bankole wants me to move to Halstead," I said. "You know mat I don't want to go. I think we've got something worthwhile going here, and it's ours."
“I heard they offered you a house by the ocean?"
"Within sight of the ocean, but not that close. You don't want to be too close to the ocean in Halstead."
"But a real house, I mean. A house like back in Robledo."
"Yes."
"And you turned them down?"
"Yes."
"You're crazy as hell."
That did startle me. "You mean you want me to go, Zee?"
"Don't be stupid. You're the closest thing I got to a sister. You know damned well I don't want you to go. But... you should go."
"I'm not"
1 would."
I stared at her.
"I'd go to a better place if I could. I got two kids. Where do they go from here? Where's your little baby going from here?"
"Where would they go from Halstead? Halstead is like Robledo with a better wall. Why do you think there are people there who are planning to emigrate to Russia or Alaska and others who are just trying to hang on to their little piece of the twentieth century until they die? None of them is trying to build anything to replace what we've lost or to boost us to something better."
"You mean like Earthseed? The Destiny?"
"Yes."
"It ain't enough."
"It's a beginning. It's a way of trying to build tomorrow instead of cycling back into some form of yesterday."
"Do you ever stop preaching?"
"Am I wrong?"
She shrugged. "You know I'm not religious the way you are. Besides, even if you go to Halstead, we'll still be here. And Earthseed will still be Earthseed."
Would it? Maybe. But Earthseed is a young movement I couldn't walk away and leave it to a "maybe." I wouldn't walk away from it any more than I'd walk away from the baby I would soon be having. Someday, I want people to go from here and teach Earthseed. And I want what they teach to still be recognizable as Earthseed.
"I'm not going," I said. "And, Zee, I think you're a liar. I don't think you'd go either. You know that here at Acorn we're with you if you get into trouble. And you know we would take care of your kids if anything happened to you and Harry. Who else would do that?" She had been raised in some of the nastier streets of Los Angeles, and she knew about loyalty, about depending on her friends and having them depend on her.
She looked at me, then looked away. "It's good here," she said, staring out toward the hills to the west of us. "It's better than I thought it could be when we got here. But you know it's nothing like as good as we had back in Robledo. For your baby's sake, you ought to go."
"For my baby's sake, I'm staying."
And she met my eyes again. "You sure? Think about the future."
"I'm sure. And you know damned well I am thinking about the future."
She was silent for a moment. Then she sighed. "Good." Another silence. "You're right. I wouldn't want to go, and I wouldn't want you to go either. Maybe that's because I'm as big a fool as you are. I don't know. But... we do have something good here. Acorn and Earthseed—they're both too good to let go of." She grinned. "How's Bankole dealing with things?"
"Not well."
"No. He tries to
give you what any sane woman would want and you don't want it. Poor guy."
She went away, smiling. I was heading back to the reading and my sketch pad when Jorge Cho came up to me, sweaty and filmy from the game. He was with his girlfriend Diamond Scott, tiny and black and every hair in place as usual. I saw the question on their faces before Jorge spoke.
"Is it true that you're leaving?"
thursday, january 20, 2033
Jarret was inaugurated today.
We listened to his speech—short and rousing. Plenty of "America, America, God shed his grace on thee," and "God bless America," and "One nation, indivisible, under God," and patriotism, law, order, sacred honor, flags everywhere, Bibles everywhere, people waving one of each. His sermon—because that's what it was—was from Isaiah, Chapter One. "Your country is desolate, your cities are burned with fire: your land, strangers devour it in your presence, and it is desolate as overthrown by strangers."
And then, "Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they will be as wool. If ye be willing and obedient, ye shall eat the good of the land. But if ye refuse and rebel, ye shall be devoured with the sword: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it."
Then, he spoke of peace, rebuilding and healing. "A strong Christian America," he said, "needs strong Christian American soldiers to reunite, rebuild, and defend it." In almost the same breath, he spoke of both "the generosity and the love that we must show to one another, to all of our fellow Christian Americans," and "the destruction we must visit upon traitors and sinners, those destroyers in our midst."
I'd call it a fire-and-brimstone speech, but what happens now?
sunday, february 6, 2033
Yesterday Marc told Bankole that he intended to hold services of his own on Gathering Day. He would, he said, speak just before our regular gathering. It seemed that he was remembering his time with the Durans in Robledo, remembering his carport church, and wanting to recapture that image of himself.
Bankole sent him to me. "Don't go out of your way to make trouble," Bankole told him. "Your sister has been good to you. Tell her what you intend to do."
"She can't stop me!" my brother said.
"Do what's right," Bankole told him. "You have a conscience. Don't go behind your sister's back."
So later in the day, Marc found me sitting with Channa Ryan, sorting and cataloging books. We're always behind in that, and it needs to be done. All of our kids work on projects as part of their education. Each kid does at least one group project and one individual project per year. Most kids find the two unrelated projects influencing one another in unexpected ways. This helps the kids begin to learn how the world works, how all sorts of things interact and influence one another. The kids begin to teach themselves and one another. They begin to learn how to learn. With their mentors' help, they each choose some aspect of history, science, math, art, or whatever and learn it well enough to teach it. Then they do just that. They teach it. To do a good job, they need to be able to find out what information we have available here and what they're going to have to go to the nets for. Since we aren't rich yet, the more we can offer them from our own library, the better.
Still, cataloging is tedious. I was almost glad when Marc came and interrupted my work. He and I went outside to talk.
"I want to get back to what I really care about," he said as we sat together on a handsome bench that Allie Gilchrist had made. Allie's discovered a real liking for building furniture, and she's worked as hard to learn to do it well as she has to learn to assist Bankole well.
"What?" I asked Marc, hoping that what he wanted was something that we could accommodate. No one wanted more than I did for him to find his own interests and get into work that he cared about.
"I want to start my church again," he said. "I want to preach. I'm not asking your permission. I'm just letting you know. With Jarret in office, you need someone like me anyway so that you'll be able to say you're not a Satanist cult."
I sighed. All of a sudden I could feel myself all but sagging with weariness and dread. But I only said, "If Jarret noticed us and wanted to call us a Satanic cult, your preaching wouldn't stop him. Would you be willing to speak at Gathering?"
That surprised him. "You mean while you're having your services?"
"Yes."
"I won't talk about Earthseed. I want to preach."
"Preach, then."
"What's the catch?"
"You should know. You've been to our services. You choose the topic. You say what you want. But afterward there will be questions and discussion."
"I'm not out to teach a class. I want to preach a sermon."
"That's not our way, Marc. If you speak, you have to face questions and discussion. You need to be ready for that. Besides, no matter what you call it, a good sermon is just a lesson that you're trying to teach."
"But... you won't try to get in the way of my preaching at the Gathering if I take questions afterward?"
"That's right."
"Then I'll do it."
"It's no joke, Marc."
"I know. It's no joke to me either."
"I mean we're as serious about the discussion as you are about the sermon. Some of our people might probe and dissect in ways you won't like."
"Okay, I can handle it."
No, I didn't think he could. But an unpleasant thing should be done quickly if it must be done at all. My brother had a sermon ready. He'd been working on it in his spare moments. Since I was scheduled to speak at the Gathering this morning, I was able to step aside for him, let him speak at once.
He didn't pull his punches. He confronted us, challenged us directly from the Bible—first from Isaiah again, "The grass withereth, the flower fadeth; but the word of our God will stand for ever." Then later from Malachi, "For I am the Lord. I change not" And then from Hebrews, "Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and today, and for ever. Be not carried about with diverse and strange doctrines."
Marc doesn't have our father's impressive voice, and he knows it. He uses what he has skillfully, and, of course, it helps that he's so good-looking. But once he had preached his sermon on the changelessness of God, Jorge Cho spoke up. Jorge was next to Diamond Scott as usual. He has told me he intends to marry Di, but Di has been looking at my brother in a way that Jorge doesn't like at all. There's a rivalry between Marc and Jorge anyway. They're both young and competitive.
"We believe that all things change," Jorge said, "even though all things don't necessarily change in all ways. Why do you believe God doesn't change?"
My brother smiled. "But even you believe that your God doesn't change. Your God promotes change, but he stays the same."
That surprised me. Marc shouldn't have made such avoidable mistakes. He's had plenty of time to read, talk, and hear about Earthseed, but somehow, he's misunderstood.
Travis was the first to point out the error. "God is Change," he said. "God promotes nothing. Nothing at all."
And Zahra, of all people, said, "Our God isn't male. Change has no sex. Marc, you don't know enough about us yet even to criticize us."
Jorge began repeating his question before Zahra had finished. "Why do you think your God doesn't change? How can you prove it?"
"I have faith that it's true," Marc said. "Belief must be based on faith as much as on proofs."
"But there must be some test," Jorge said. "You must have a way to know when your faith is sensible and when it makes no sense."
"The test is the Bible, of course. When the Bible tells us something—in this case, it tells us several times—we can believe it. We can have faith that it is true."
Antonio Cortez, Lucio's oldest nephew, jumped in. "Look," he said, "in the Bible, God does things. Things happen and he reacts. He makes things. He gets angry. He destroys things...."
"But he, himself, doesn't change," my brother said.
"Oh, come on
," Tori Mora shouted in open disgust. 'To take action is to change. It's to go from action to inaction. And he goes from calmness to anger—he gets angry a lot And—"
"And in Genesis," her stepsister Doe said, "he lets some of his favorite men have children with their sisters or daughters. Then in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, he says anyone who does that should be killed."
"Right," Jorge said. "I was just reading that last week. It is no good to say that something is true because the Bible says it is true and then forget that a few pages later, the Bible says—or shows—something completely different."
"Every time any god is accepted by a new group of people, that god changes," Harry Balter said.
"I think," Marta Figueroa Castro said in her gentlest voice, "that the verses you read, Marc, mean that God is always God, always there for us, always dependable that way. And, of course, it means that God and God's word will never die."
"Yes, so much of the Bible is metaphor," Diamond Scott said. She, too, spoke very gently. "I remember that my mother used to try to take it absolutely literally, but it just meant she had to ignore some things and twist others." Beside her, Jorge smiled.
The discussion went on for a while longer. Then other people began to take pity on Marc. They let him end the discussion. They had never been out to humiliate him. Well, maybe Jorge had, but even Jorge had been polite. Things would have gone better for Marc if he had done his homework, and things would have been more interesting and involving for his audience. He might even have won over a Faircloth or a Peralta. I had worried about that
The truth is, I let him speak today because I wanted him to speak before he was truly ready. I wish I hadn't had to do that I wish he had wanted to do something else—anything else—to get his self-respect back and begin to rebuild himself. I have tried to interest him in the several kinds of work we do here. He isn't lazy. He pulls his weight. But he doesn't like fieldwork or working with animals or trading or teaching or salvaging or carpentry. He tried repairing salvaged tools, but it bothered him that he had so much to learn even about simple things. He all but ruined a pair of heavy-duty shears that he was supposed to be sharpening. He tried to grind their almost square edges to thin, sharp blades, and Travis gave him the chewing out he deserved.
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