One More Go-Round...

MY MOTHER WAS RIGHT

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Tais-toi! Ça suffit!
Ever since I could remember, one or the other of these phrases came out of my parents’ mouths.
I knew they were in French. I couldn’t understand them. I didn’t want to understand them. At fifteen, however, I buckled. Two summers later, with my head crammed full of high school French, my parents sent me to Tours.
Tours. It had to be Tours, as that’s where my Hungarian-born mother had gone when she was sixteen, to complete a pre-med program. That was in 1929.
And in 1931, she’d enrolled at the University of Paris School of Medicine, where she met my father. They married in 1940, and my father took her to Cuba in 1941.
In 1972, she couldn’t request that application fast enough.
Landing at Orly one day in late June, I met her cousin and his wife for the very first time. I’d already met his brother in Toronto, where I’d probably come across the largest group of Hungarians I’d ever encountered in my otherwise Cuban-American life. They even had Hungarian restaurants there.
Otherwise, all I knew about Hungarians was that they had a strange language. A language my mother spoke on the phone from time to time in contorted tones, with otherworldly syllables. Even as a child I had deemed it “the language of the moon.”
Be sure to speak only in French with our relatives, my mother admonished me. What else would I be able to speak with them, I wondered.

And whatever you do, don’t mention the war. And don’t mention the little cousin who had died. Don’t worry, mami, I’d told her.
With all these don’ts under my belt, it’s a wonder I could say anything. In my best French, I gave them a hug.
And they said, “Goûte,” as they plied me with platefuls of pâtes, cornichons, and the best bread I’d ever tasted.
I noticed they always spoke French. I couldn’t resist asking them if they ever spoke Hungarian.
Silence.
They drove me to Tours in their Citroën, of which they were rightfully proud. I’d been so sure the little tinker toy they’d used to get around Paris was going to fall apart under our very eyes. Mercifully, it didn’t.
Taking the Citroën out of the garage, though: that was a big deal. More than anything, I was grateful for the legroom.
I settled in at the Cité Universitaire fast enough; became immersed in my course work; and dreaded the daily dictées. But I did fine, and the professor seemed to be pleased with my progress.
Classes were in the morning, which left me with plenty of time for languorous lunches and the opportunity to meet fellow students. Although I spent time with my fair share of Americans, I also made sure I mingled with the locals.
My mother was right, though I wouldn’t have admitted it to her then if my life depended on it.

Bastille Day was around the corner. My cousin and his wife drove down from Paris in their Citroën to pick me up. All I remember is lying, curled up, sleepily watching fireworks from the back seat of their Citroën. They knew by then I didn’t trust the tinker toy.
However, this time I understood more and more. And I wrote them a letter in French, which they proudly shared with my mother. She’s learned so much, they said.
At the end of the class, I wanted to follow my own course. Several people had all but talked me into joining them in Scotland. I called my parents.
Absolutely not, thundered my father. Ana, get over there and see what that girl’s up to. At age fifty-nine, my mother joined me in her Paris.
And she showed me everything. She took me to the oldest restaurant: Le Procope; and the cheapest, Le Bouillon Chartier, where a waiter taught me how to eat an artichoke.
I insisted on Au Pied De Cochon. We warily trudged our way there one evening.
My mother was not pleased.
So, of course I had to balk at going to the Folies Bergère. Much to her dismay, I insisted on wearing my jeans. How about a nice skirt? No.
After all, I was seventeen. I knew it all.
But my mother knew her Paris. And she kept trying. She wasn’t telling me anything I hadn’t heard all my life. Except that, this time, we were living it. Together.
We saw her very best friend before she embarked on a road trip to Spain with my godparents. I’d learned a long time ago that Paris is very popular with Cubans.
And Cubans are very popular with Parisians.

Her best friend’s husband came back early from the road trip. He’d had enough. Lucky for us: we went all around Montmartre and ate some really good food we could all agree on. And he helped me buy a pastel-hued artist’s proof that still hangs in my bedroom.
I returned from that trip to embark on yet another journey: college. I almost placed out of French. Two courses later, though, I switched to my first love: Latin.
My mother was not pleased.
I did not return to Paris until after she passed away. Scatter her ashes in the Luxembourg Gardens—that’s what she’d like, friends of the family assured me.
As I wasn’t completely sure, I arrived at Charles De Gaulle without the ashes.
However, I visited her cousin’s widow and daughter. By then I knew my mother’s family had had to wear the Star of David on their clothing during the war. My father had been my third cousin’s godfather. He knew his prayers in Latin, she said. I was amazed.
I also spent many wonderful hours reminiscing with my mother’s best friend’s widower. He remembered our Montmartre purchase. We made plans to return. Unfortunately, it never happened.
Within ten days, I switched from watching BBC to LCI. I guess I remembered a thing or two.
My mother was right.

Copyright, 2005 by Georgina Marrero 997 words All rights reserved

Sunday Spirituality

As I just wrote my favorite Eagle Scout, it's been a "watershed" week. The kind that leads one to thinking, "What have I done wrong? What can I do to correct it?"
I guess that's technically every week: we--or, rather, I--just don't think about it all the time. When I do, however, I delve (deeply?) into my unconscious...via my "writing folder." (Or, perhaps, they're one and the same?)

Anyway, I'm in one of those moods. I've never "cyber-published" the following two pieces I wrote at a Spiritual Autobiography Workshop on Sunday, October 16, 2005 before. I've rarely shared them with anyone, even. Sometimes, however, you've just got to put it out there, I guess...

BTW: Hurricane Wilma coursed her way through South Florida exactly one week later. I daresay its aftermath led to one of the major watersheds in my life: the one I'm living out, right now.

I told you from the beginning this La Loquita del Zig-Zag blog was going to be (at least somewhat) different from the original, now, didn't I?

When Dan (Wakefield, of writing for "All My Children" fame) asked us to write about our spiritual growth when we were children, this is what came out of me:

My Fear, My Fear, My Maximum Fear

When I was eight, I was put into a Catechism class at Saints Peter and Paul Church. It was especially weird for me, since I had been baptized at age four, just so that Castro wouldn’t send me—and “unwashed child”—to Russia. All I remember was the Chinese priest, my mother peering out over her darkened bifocals, and the big party afterward.

So here I was, four years later, in a different country, getting ready to undergo—endure, perhaps? —The Second Sacrament. I knew by then that my parents weren’t terribly big on religion: I’d been baptized “just because,” and now, again, I’d be receiving my First Communion, “just because.”

At least this time I was the “right” age.

I think the priests were Jesuits.

The class was…ok. I was much more of a follower, then, always trying to fit in. The Catechism books were cute—I think they were in Spanish. We recited a lot.

Two things, however, were of paramount importance: the dress; and the confession of my sins before I took Holy Communion for the first time.

Already chubby, we managed to find me a dress. I still have it. It has a cute raised design on the front.

The confession, however, terrified me more than finding that dress. I still remember shaking before I approached the priest. What would I say?

I don’t remember, but I got through it.

The wafer, however: to swallow that wafer whole. Could I chew it, I wondered. Was it a mortal sin to chew it?

I think I swallowed it whole, thinking, worrying about it the whole time.
Once, and only once: for that was my fear, my fear, my maximum fear.

And I daresay it still is. (288 words)

And this is what I wrote when he asked us to describe a spiritual experience from our adolescence:

Stinky

My mother and I had a car accident in the North Georgia Mountains because I thought he was stinky.

Always the overprotected child, I even had a chauffeur to take me to school. He was a cabbie, a big hulking guy. I don’t think he was terribly smart. But my mother trusted him to take me to school.

All I knew was that he was stinky. And when it was time for me to go to Camp Dixie the summer of 68, I balked. No: I probably threw a tantrum.

No way was Stinky going to drive me.

So I forced my Mami to take me.

We set out in the beige Valiant. Everything seemed to be going ok. I don’t think we were that far away from Clayton, when it happened.

The car went off the road.

I remember the plummeting feeling, going through the undergrowth, down, down, down the side of one of those North Georgia Mountains.

All of a sudden, everything came to a dead stop. We’d hit a tree. I must have lurched forward.

Some people had seen the accident, and helped us. Soon we were at a hospital.

I may have had a few bumps and bruises, but my mother had cracked a vertebra.

Ana Marrero, Dr. Ana Marrero, had a broken back. She had to wear a brace for a long time.

Papi came up from Miami ASAP. “Why’d you drive, Ana?”

“Because La Nina didn’t want Stinky to drive.”

I only recently remembered the above. I guess I had to wait til Mami was gone.

Oh, if only Stinky had done the driving that day, Mami and I might have made our peace with each other much, much sooner. (286 words)

Precisely one week later, we were awaiting Wilma.

Bali and Its People: A Love Affair

A Balinese Temple Festival Procession



Rice Paddies Surrounding Ubud

Seven--and, again--four years ago: Bali. Now, Padang. My heart goes out to the people of Indonesia. Always.

(From my original La Loquita del Zig-Zag blog.)

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Neither 10/12/02 Nor 10/1/05: My Bali



A five-time visitor to The Enchanted Isle since 1987, the bombings in 2002 and, again, just the other day, hit deep. Here's the first piece I wrote after my third trip, in 1993: Bali and Its People: A Love Affair. Always.

BALI AND ITS PEOPLE: A LOVE AFFAIR

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

The things that I have loved most in my life are often the things I liked least when I was first introduced to them. This is how I feel towards Bali, the small, culture-rich island that is the Indonesian archipelago’s crown jewel. During my first trip there, in 1987, I was mainly preoccupied with what I perceived to be the squalid sights and smells of the place. Appalled by the open sewers, the squat toilets, and the brisk selling – and consumption – of unsavory-appearing morsels, I was even more dismayed by the consistent lack of air-conditioning, hot water, and sometimes even electricity. A healthy dose of “culture shock”: that’s what I was experiencing at the time (although I wasn’t aware of it). On the contrary: I was so overly concerned with my creature comforts that I never really let myself take a good look at the place. However, I did like the smiling, friendly Balinese people even then. Without my realizing it, the seed had been planted for my return.
My second trip, in 1989, proved to be eminently more enjoyable. The streets had been cleaned up a bit; I had (more or less) mastered the use of squat toilets; the electricity no longer disappeared during each and every rainstorm; the food was more appealing, both in smell and in taste; and – most importantly – my eyes were finally opening to the wonders of the place. I now beheld the rice terraces fashioned like stairs into the sides of the hills, stretching as far as the eye can see; the iridescent blue-green lagoon at Candi Dasa; the pink chicken in Tenganan, the Bali Aga (“Old Bali”) village where animals and plants are still worshipped, rather than the Hindu gods; and the women moving in stately procession towards the pura (temple) during festival days, with trays piled high with fruits, flowers, and sweets as offerings to the gods perched daintily – yet precariously – on their heads, while the men gathered at the cock fights. The cremation of a fourteen-year-old boy moved me greatly, as I joined mourners and tourists alike in the solemn, yet joyful, procession. Listening to the gamelan players, and viewing the lighting of the funeral pyre with kerosene, I felt nothing short of awe, watching it burn. This time not only had the Balinese people continued to win me over, but I had also fallen in love with Bali itself. There was no doubt in my mind that I would return.
I returned to Bali in 1993. Accustomed to early summer tourist traffic – when Americans seemed to overrun the island – I discovered that, as mid-to-late summer is European holiday season, many of my fellow paradise seekers now hailed from Germany, France, the United Kingdom, Italy, and Scandinavia. In addition, Aussies always abound, as they have to travel a mere three hours to get to Bali as compared with everyone else’s fifteen to thirty hour treks! A new group of visitors had discovered Bali: the Japanese. There were now busloads of them… with tour guides and cameras in tow.
The influx of Japanese tourists was but one of the many changes that seemed to have taken place in Bali over the course of my four-year absence. The street smells were now virtually non-existent; air-conditioning had become more prevalent; and a brief lack of electricity went for the most part unnoticed. In addition, the airport had been completely refurbished; the highways had been widened to accommodate the increasing number of tour buses and pleasure vehicles; and boiled water (for drinking) was now guaranteed in all but the smallest warung (restaurant).
However, in the midst of all the changes and increased tourism on their island, the Balinese people continue for the most part to lead their lives as they have for centuries. They still prepare and distribute the daily offerings (little baskets made of young coconut leaves, which are filled with flowers, banana leaves topped with a few grains of rice and grated coconut, and with a few incense sticks stuck into the baskets before they are lit to release their fragrant scent right before they are distributed in front of entranceways, statues, and wherever else custom dictates). They still cremate their dead, usually in mass cremations where often no fewer than eight to ten funeral pyres are lit. A wondrous spectacle to behold, made even more so by the Hindu belief that those being cremated will soon be reborn, hopefully having earned a better station in life. They continue to cultivate their rice fields, which from afar look like mirrors in which one can almost see one’s reflection. They dote on their children and grandchildren. They play their gamelans. They weave their ikat cloth. They fashion their carved masterpieces out of ebony, mahogany, sandalwood, and even tree trunks. All of these rituals and skills have been passed down from one generation to the next. They are all but a tiny part of the incredibly rich culture and sense of tradition that these extraordinary people possess.
It is to the Balinese people’s immense credit that they have managed to imperturbably proceed on their well-ordered paths in life, at the same time that they have assimilated only as much of modern-day culture as their needs dictate. Justifiably proud of this accomplishment, a number of the islanders indicated to me that they are, nonetheless, also wistful for the days before bumper-to-bumper traffic on their highways, an increase in crime (primarily theft), land over-development, and mass commercialism. I found myself feeling the same way: during the summer of 1993 I almost craved the dusty streets of old, the wayward electricity, and the undisturbed expanses of land that I remembered from the late 1980’s.
I have a love affair with Bali, and with its people. The island itself is an earthly taste of paradise, to be sure. It is the Balinese themselves, however, who continue to enthrall me. They are a people who are open and caring and who share with you if you share with them. The peasant woman walking along the side of the road with a basket perched precariously on her head still smiles at you if you smile at her. The young shopkeeper is still eager to impress you with her knowledge of English. The artisans still aim to impress you with their skill. The server in the restaurant still beams approvingly when you finish your plate. Five times, and counting: I’m not finished with you, yet.
Revised 2003 version of original 1993 manuscript 1075 words All rights reserved