My children are United States citizens, born and raised here. They are the children and grandchildren of US citizens. And this is how they got here.
On my side, my children’s ancestors are relatively fresh arrivals in the early 20th century.
My birth father’s grandparents arrived from Bohemia and Germany, though the family tree holds Prussian and Belgian ancestry as well. It’s hard to track my birth name as it seems to be an Americanized name. All the people who have it in the world (625 of them) live in America. My paternal grandmother was born in America, but had a German accent all her life. Her tiny community was so German that school was conducted in that language.
My mother’s father was a first generation child of Norwegian immigrants, or maybe second generation. My aunt could confirm this. On my maternal grandmother’s side, we go right back to England, with forebears who came over on the second sailing of the Mayflower. I believe this entitles my daughters to membership in the DAR. My mother always identified with her English heritage, and my aunt always identified with her Norwegian.
So that’s me. German, Czech, Norwegian, English, with a Czech face and a Norwegian build; tall and broad, heavy-legged and ready to carry children and work the fields like a horse. I am so clearly a Northern European.
My children’s father’s people came to the USA earlier than my people did. His father’s father’s people came to Louisiana in the 1790s or early 1800s, a full hundred years before my ancestors. The exact date of arrival is hard to place, though, as his family has no record of when they were sold at market.
The girls’ grandmother’s people are based in Texas, but were an import to the area. Slavery flourished in east Texas from 1850 on, but that’s not a date of arrival or a place of origin. It’s just where cotton was growing. At some point, people were rounded up from wherever they’d been living, taken to Texas, put on the block and sold. Again, there are no sales records to consult.
Eventually, the war came. They were free. Her people stayed in Texas, and his people stayed in Louisiana. But when the girls’ grandparents came along and grew up, they didn’t stay. During WWII, my girls’ grandmother traveled to Seattle, became a CNA, and met the man who would become their grandfather. He’d come up from Louisiana to join the Merchant Marines after his heart disqualified him from the military, and traveled the world cooking on a ship. They married in their thirties, and stayed in Seattle for the rest of their lives, raising three children, welcoming four granddaughters, three of whom are mine.
Through DNA testing, my middle daughter has learned more about the genetic heritage she shares with her sisters, a history that has to replace the kind of history I have; recorded, researchable, anecdotal. On her father’s side, she seems to be almost purely Central and West African, with a tiny bit of Malaysian. The Malay Peninsula was a stop on the route of many slave ships, so that Malaysian blood makes quiet, horrible sense.
Because of how DNA testing works, there are probably white ancestors on her father’s side hiding in the general totals of this or that, bits of white that don’t actually belong to my side of the equation. That makes its own horrible sense, too. But my sober Midwestern family tree hides its own horrors. No heritage is exempt from that.
What we did discover is that there is zero Native American ancestry in my girls. Anecdotally, they’d been told they were Blackfoot and Cherokee through their great grandmother, a tall woman of severe cheekbones who still had smooth coppery skin in her nineties, when I met her. But the DNA test didn’t bear that out.
So it’s safe to say that my children, citizens of this United States, are strictly the progeny of immigrants. And if you live in the USA, and unless you are Native American, so are you.
So let’s raise a glass, Immigrants of America. Let’s toast the fact that we are all johnny-come-latelys. Those of us who were brought here against our will are the least guilty in this country of land-grabbing interlopers with no real right to be here. Those of us who are newer to the game should be welcome to join. That’s what America is built on, after all. Taking what doesn’t belong to us.
Let’s enjoy our Thanksgiving.
I’ve been working on a poem for a poetry challenge I’m doing with my friend Alex, and realized the poem would be greatly enriched by my journal notes on this particular little chapel I saw in Italy in 1993. It was impossible to look it up on the almighty internet because I couldn’t remember what it was called. It’s a small chapel in northern Italy.
I knew I’d written about it in the travel journal that my sister gave me before I left on my first trip to Europe. My mother and I went to Venice, Florence, and various points in Friuli, and spent a few days in Amsterdam on the way home. The journal held the overly careful notes of a traveler who knows she will probably only pass that way once in her life. I didn’t know that I’d be back with my sister a few years later. So I wrote everything down that I could bear to. I even made some strange little sketches.
It did come home with me. I knew that, because I’d taken it up to Seattle in 2004, eleven years later, to read to my mother as she was dying. I thought it would calm her down and give her something distracting and lovely to hear. That was a romantic idea, but it had nothing to do with the honest physical struggle involved in her leaving this world. I don’t remember seeing it since that day.
So, this evening I remembered that I’d transcribed the original journal soon after coming back. By hand.
I probably thought I was too honest in the original. It was an interesting time in my relationship with my mother, and I might have recorded some of the more tribulational events of the trip in the original journal. My marriage was a shambles, that probably earned a mention or two. And there was that panicked phone call from the same sister who’d given me the journal, a call that had ruined a lot of the vacation for me. Probably, none of that made it into the duplicate, but that’s okay because my memories of the hard parts are unfortunately sharp.
Excited, the hunt began for the duplicate. Where the hell was it? I checked every bookshelf in the house, and listen, I have so many bookshelves. Finally, I opened the old trunk that sits at the foot of my bed. There, under the Jack Wild scrapbooks and photo albums of past marriages and my high school diploma and senior pictures, I found the duplicate.
That’s a nice little book to write about Italy in, isn’t it? Very Florentine.
Here’s the front page, in which I’ve happily started to edit my reality.
The sad and funny thing about that page is, the Twin Towers are gone.
So, of course, is my mother.
But underneath that duplicate book was this little beauty.
That same book went to Italy and back, and it holds all the truth I need, as well as my notes on the Tempietto in Cividale.
I wish I could open a door and find my mother happy, healthy and smiling. But I have this little record of our time together, good and bad, and I’m all set to go on that poem.
Note: Summer is drawing to a close, so please take a chance on something from the trunk: a piece about Lilith Fair from 1999. I’ll be finding and sharing old writing on here from time to time. Let me know what you think about that…
I took the girls to Lilith Fair this weekend. Lilith was the first wife of Adam. She was composed of filth, and she refused to take the submissive position in sex, so God gave Adam a different wife. Lilith went to live by the Lake of Fire, where she copulated with demons and gave birth to monsters. I think Lilith is the first wife archetype, and Eve is the trophy wife archetype, and you can see that Eve brought Adam nothing but grief, and Lilith had all the fun, just like in real life.
Anyway, I had envisioned attending the fair with my girls as sort of a female bonding, Goddess affirming, Earth motherly archetype sort of experience. Me, my three daughters, the strains of folkie girl music, natural fiber clothing, minimal eye makeup, bare feet … you get the idea. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time to grow out my body hair before we went. I was a little concerned. What if Paula Cole were there, with her underarm pelt, and all I could muster was a bit of stubble? But I went anyway, because I was having my period and I thought that menstruation would demonstrate my personal oneness with the feminine vibe.
Because I am a first wife of the traded-in variety, like Lilith, I am chronically short of money. My dear older brother, Steve, bought our tickets. When his girlfriend decided she didn’t want to go, he had a spare one. He said that my fifteen year-old could invite a friend. So, we left Portland, five females ready to Lilith. I like to think my girls were feeling pretty smug about their cool mom, the one who knew all the words to the Lilith performer songs that flooded the radio waves as we drove from Portland to Bainbridge Island on Friday evening in my magical minivan.
We had to drive 200 miles north to Bainbridge Island on Friday night, and we got there late. I needed sleep for the driving on Saturday, so I embarrassed my daughters by being firm and motherly in front of the guest and putting every one to bed by midnight. I was supposed to be a cool mom, but I was just a tired mom. We slept.
On Saturday morning, we loaded up Brother Steve, our token male, and boarded the ferry to Seattle. It was a beautiful day, and the ferry ride into Seattle is always breathtaking, as are all the tourists who exclaim over the view, the gulls, the icy breeze, and the high cost of french fries in the ferry galley. After disembarkation, we crossed Lake Washington on the floating bridge, hit 1-90 East, and began one of the prettier drives a person can make in our part of the country. We climbed through the mountains along the Snoqualmie river.
Brother Steve and I embarrassed the kids in several ways. One was to remark repeatedly upon the gorgeous views. This is apparently not a cool topic of conversation. Another source of embarrassment was my insistence on frequent potty stops. “Now, EVERYONE go, please.” Much eye rolling, at that. I even made Brother Steve go, to be fair. Then, I mentioned to Brother Steve that I had not washed my hair that morning. He said that he hadn’t either. I said, “Yeah, I knew it would get all sweaty when I started to dance at the concert.” He said, “Oh yeah, I always get sweaty when I rock out.” The looks of horror I saw in my rear view mirror were indescribable. “Mom? You’re going to DANCE?”
We made it to the Gorge amphitheater. This is an outdoor venue, a series of grassy steppes that cover a hillside overlooking the Columbia River. The river has cut cliffs into high desert country, and this vista makes a backdrop for the performers. It’s like having a concert overlooking the Grand Canyon, for visual impact. I stood there for a moment and let awe wash over me, and then I got busy figuring out where to sit. The teenagers announced that they would not be sitting with us under any circumstances (the threat of parental dancing, you see),so I handed them some money and told us where to meet us to catch the shuttle back to the car. That was the last I saw of them for the day.
We laid out our jackets and took off our shoes and began the application of sunscreen, water, snacks. This is the motherly mantra for all outdoor activities… Sunscreen, Water, Snacks. We had dressed appropriately, I was relieved to see, and not just for the weather. Wardrobing issues are crucial at anything where there will be a lot of other women. I’d worn overalls and a white tank top and big brown sandals. So had the two children who elected to remain with me. We were the matching outfit/Joan Crawford/ mother/daughter Lilith Fair attendees, I decided.
Brother Steve was also acceptably attired. He had on Mariners regalia. Being a guy, he had on a baseball cap, and he decided that I needed one, so he bought me a Lilith baseball cap made of unbleached, brushed cotton. My cap bore the official Lilith logo. This is a naked lady with a plant growing out of her head. I wore it proudly, deciding it was nearly as much a statement of womanly unity as armpit hair! My Lilith cap announced my oneness with the goddess AND saved my eyes from the glare of the sun, so there you go.
There were two hours to wait until show time, so I began to people watch. There were not that many men there. This cut drastically into my people viewing pleasure, in all honesty. The average fair goer seemed to be a teenaged girl with long hair. She wore light khaki shorts, a tiny tank top, and big brown sandals. She traveled with friends. My daughter and her friend certainly matched the description. I decided that if I lost my daughter and her friend somehow, I could easily recruit replacements from the crowd to take home, and I wondered if our guest’s parent would notice.
There were many lesbian couples. Most were of the short haircut/Birkenstock variety, but my favorite pair were a couple of tall, skinny, overly tanned babes who roared in on a Harley. The woman who rode in the back strode around wearing black leather chaps and tousling her blonde, permed, long hair after she took off her helmet. The woman who rode in front was a ropey stud in black leather pants and vest and a big swinging wallet chain. Her waist length dark hair was braided, her face lined with muscle cuts from lifting, and her defined biceps were ringed with barbed wire tattoos. They were wonderful.
My girls were anxious for the show to start, and I could only buy them off with roasted corn and caramel apples for so long before the sun and the waiting caused a massive whine attack that made me wonder why I thought this would be a good idea. They were not charmed by the view or the people watching, they were hot and bored and the only thing that would placate them was to spend money, and I refused to buy them 30 dollar t-shirts, because I was not THAT cool of a mom. “You won’t wear anything that has a naked lady on it, I KNOW you.” “But Moooooooom, the halters are sooooo cute, and they just have a floooooooower on them.”
Suddenly, the entire success of the journey could only be measured by the ownership of a tshirt. I stood firm. No way. They eyed my hat with jealous contempt. The sun moved, and the heat and glare were merciless. The eight year-old wrote furiously in her diary. I peeked over her shoulder as “my mom won’t buy me an official Lilith fair halter top” anger grew. “I hate my mom. I hate my mom and my life and my sisters and my dogs and my car.” Wow. But then, just as all appeared to be lost, the sun went behind a cloud, and a breeze kicked up off the river, and we all perked right up, and the music began.
First, Michelle-someone-that-sounded-like-“My got a cello” came on and funked the place up. None of us had ever heard of her, but we liked her. There was a little confusion on the part of my kids as to whether she was male or female but I assured the girls she was female, because this was Lilith Fair, and all the performers were women, dang it. Eventually, Michelle MyGotaCello took her black leather vest off, and they could see that I had been telling the truth.
Then Erakah Badu came on, with her towering headwrap and African clothing and her neat little arm motions and her dead-on sense of humor. She held up her cypher, an African symbol for reproduction. She explained all the parts of the symbol, telling how they fit in with the female elements of anatomy. She asked us all to put our hands on our wombs. My girls solemnly did it. Then Erakah showed us the part of the cypher-symbol that corresponded with “the male principle.” She asked all the men in the audience to put their hands on their male principles, and there was a collective roar of laughter. My kids were bewitched. I liked her jazzy, unhurried musicianship and her explanation of Badu-ism. This seems to involve incense, candles, jazz, and a high self esteem. Hey, I am a convert, now.
The Indigo girls were next. They looked like a couple of soccer moms, actually. The Indigo girls are a favorite with my 12 year-old, who sang along with all the songs. She noticed when the row of women in front of us began to exchange emotional couple kisses during “Cross Over,” an anthem to finding true love. I felt proud that her response was ‘aw’ and not ‘ew.’ The Indigo Girls were incredible. Their musicianship was impeccable, their harmonies true, and though I could see that one is a rocker and one is a banjo plucker, somehow, it all works.
At one point, some longhaired girl came on stage and did a whirling dance with her back to the audience out of shyness, and her moves had the crowd cheering in delight. I realized, as she left the stage, that she was Natalie Merchant. There was a rowdy rendition of “Rockin’ in the Free World,” and the Girls were joined by an indie band called “Kay’s Choice'” for that. All the performers came out and sang together for their last song, “Closer to Find.” That was shivery.
Then, it was time for Natalie Merchant’s performance. Now, I have a sort of love/hate thing with Natalie Merchant. I love her songs, at least the ones I hear on the radio. But I just know too many short, dark, curvy, Grateful Dead loving, patchouli-smelling, eccentricity-layering, pierced-nose-having, hair-tossing young women, and she is their patron saint or goddess or whatever. But she won me over, partly with her odd voice that misses more than it hits, but hits so hard when it does land, and partly with her extraordinarily high level of self-consciousness. She charmed me with her utter lack of stage confidence. She tried different stage businesses, and none of them worked just right, and she laughed at herself, and she made herself cry with her own songs.
The girls loved her. My little Liliths sang their hearts out. They sat on each side of me and we did Four Tops type line moves. That was the extent of my parental dancing. During Natalie’s song, “Thank You,” I was overcome with sisterly emotion and gave my brother a big hug and a few sobs of gratitude that he had given us the tickets. He is a true angel.
Somewhere in here, I smelled pot smoke. I thought about the concerts I have gone to over the years and realized that this was the most tranquil audience I had ever been a part of. We were appreciative, but we were mellow. Young women danced quietly, some wearing their free Biore pore-cleaning strip samples on their noses. There was no alcohol whatsoever outside the beer gardens, which seemed to be mostly empty. So when the sweetish smell of cannabis tickled my nose, I thought, “What the heck. It’s just a little pot. I can’t complain. It IS a concert.”
Then came the act that I was waiting for. I love Sarah McLachlan. I own every note she has ever recorded.
Either you get the Sarah thing or you do not. To explain is fruitless, because if you are not a devotee, then you could never understand my excitement and delight when she took the stage and began her set with “Adia.” She hopped around barefoot in a fetching, winsome way, and played almost all my favorites. She invited us to sing along, and I did, of course. My kids knew how important that part of the show was to me. They watched me as much as they watched her.
I didn’t cry, but I was transported. Her haunting voice makes me ache. In this day of studio engineering, there is no wonder equal to seeing a singer who carries the beauty of a perfect voice into a live performance. Brother Steve, unfamiliar with Sarah, was blown away. I was so proud to have him see her, as if somehow I were making a personal introduction. And then, we joined the orderly movement of exit, and found the shuttle station, where my happy teenagers waited. They were jubilant, and they were in great shape, loaded down as they were with free samples and good feelings.
We laughed and sang on the way home, and then the kids pooped out, and I drove along and thought about the last number of the night. It was a group effort. All the performers came onstage and sang “What’s Goin’ On.” I thought about something that Natalie Merchant announced, the fact that $19,000 dollars from the gate for the night was going to a battered woman’s shelter.
I had a small moment of epiphany, remembering the words of the Marvin Gaye song, looking at my little incipient women where they slept sprawled on each other in happy exhaustion. I hoped that they never need to understand why we have to do that for each other, raise money to help the battered.
I sent up a prayer to the little naked lady on my cap with the plant growing out of her head that they never will.