River
Page 28
“Rose! Not so fast!”
She slowed down, then reached out a hand to grab mine.
“Slowpoke, come on! We’re going to miss the fun!”
Someone rapped at a door.
The Brooklyn street broke apart as the knocking repeated; I cracked open my eyes to see Grandma sleeping fitfully in the bed beside me. The door opened.
It was Michelle. And beside her, Ray.
The clock on the wall showed a few minutes before eight.
Ray crossed the room, put his hand on my shoulder.
“Time to go, my love.”
“Just give me a minute.”
I struggled to lay claim to the dream—it felt like something of great significance was being pulled away from me and buried. I squeezed my eyes shut. Nothing but the reddish darkness of the inside of my closed eyelids.
I let out a little sigh.
Ray stroked my shoulder. “Em, we really should get going.”
I nodded.
Grandma lay in her bed, asleep. I leaned in close to her.
“I love you, Grandma. I will always love you, as you have always loved me. Go in peace.”
I withdrew my hand from hers. Ray put his arm around me and we walked to the door. I glanced around the room, taking it all in—the samovar, the portrait of Grandpa Jack and of my great-grandmother Sarah, and the paintings and little sculptures Grandma had invested with a lifetime of love, and the display of framed photographs, which included her parents, her own husband—Grandpa Jack—long since gone, her children and grandchildren at various stages of life. My gaze returned to my beloved Grandma, sleeping in the bed, her brow smooth, her beautiful hands resting by her side, her chest rising unevenly with the fitful movement of her breath.
I turned, grateful that Ray was supporting me with his arm. The door closed behind us. The latch echoed as we walked the hallway, then crossed the lobby to the double glass doors that led back out onto the street.
Notes
Chapter Two
The story of the creation of water is a direct quotation taken from the Australia Museum website, with material produced by Aboriginal Nations Australia. I reproduce here the full text of the story which is told by Warren Foster, in his own words. The title of this story, on the website, is “Toonkoo and Ngaardi.”
Quotations:
1. It is my father’s land, my grandfather’s land, my grandmother’s land. I am related to it, it give me my identity. If I don’t fight for it, then I will be moved out of it and [it] will be the loss of my identity.
Father Dave Passi,
Plaintiff, ‘Mabo’ Case in ‘Land Bilong Islanders,’ Yarra Bank Films, 1990.
2. Our story is in the land … it is written in those sacred places, that’s the law. Dreaming place … you can’t change it, no matter who you are.
Big Bill Neidjie,
Gagadju Elder, Kakadu,
‘Australia’s Kakadu Man Bill Neidjie,’ 1986.
3. A Land of Plenty
A lot of people say Aboriginal people never farmed the land … never ploughed the land and they never grew wheat and they never planted apple trees and orange trees. We never had to. Our mother, the earth, she gave herself freely to us. And because we respected her and loved her, we never had to go and do all them other things. That would have been harming our mother. So we just took what she gave us.
Paul Gordon, Language Officer, Brewarrina, 1996.
The above quotations were taken from the website www.IndigenousAustralia.com.au.
Chapter Three
I would like to credit Colin Tatz’s excellent book A South African Childhood, for some of the descriptive details pertaining to Darlene’s school experience. The “protection sandwich” incident is taken directly from his account, as is the remark: “They hate us, but they like our sandwiches.” The moment in which Darlene’s mother sits marking a map, while listening to the radio, is also borrowed from an incident he describes.
Acknowledgements
I’M THANKFUL to Odette Sara Vaughan for directing me to Guernica, and to Michael Mirolla for giving this book such a fine home.
It was my good fortune at Guernica to work with Margo LaPierre, who generously brought to the manuscript the force of her talent as a poet, along with superb editorial acumen and finesse. I appreciate all I have learned from her as well as the pleasure of her attuned literary companionship.
I would like to thank several people for their valuable feedback: my sisters Ilana Nayman and Michele Nayman, who were enthusiastic readers, and also pointed up some factual errors; Michelle Caplan, who helped me rethink a key issue; and Yitzhak Ajzner, whose meticulous reading provided crucial religious, cultural, and historical details, and numerous important corrections.
My gratitude to the Hadassah-Brandeis Institute for a grant in support of this book, and also to The MacDowell Colony for a fellowship that afforded precious writing time and newfound community.
And I am deeply grateful to my family, near and far, for the collective experience of our ongoing lives.
About the Author
SHIRA NAYMAN is the author of Awake in the Dark, The Listener, and A Mind of Winter. Her work has appeared in magazines and journals, including The Atlantic Monthly.