STILL THE STUDENT by C.Bahti

Though I have been teaching for nearly a quarter of a century, it is I who continues to learn so very much from my students. The one constant in my teaching has been that each and everyone of them have a story to tell and are just hoping that someone will listen.

As the semester is coming to an end, the calls from students are increasing: one has mono and will miss class --again; one has a seriously ill husband and will miss class --for the first time; one is moving out of state; one is in the midst of a break-up from an abusive beau; a few are worried about passing (a little late to worry about that I'd say), but all in all, the message is the same,
I have a story to tell.

I should have started documenting student stories years ago; they would make an unbelievable book: the student who, at nine, watched his father get shot, and was wounded himself as the bullet richocheted into him; the student who, at nineteen, discovered she had breast cancer, thanks to the exploring hands of her live-in boyfriend; the student who, as a freshman in college lost both parents in a car accident while they were driving back from Vegas;the young man who lost his mother to Melonoma, but still managed to come to class the morning of her death in order to give his group his research and provide them with a boom box; the student whose father was in prison for killing his mother; the student who was recently released from a juvenile institution where he had served time for manslaughter; and the stories go on and on.

Next semester, I am going to continue to teach, but more importantly, I am going to continue to hear, to learn, to truly listen to the stories; I am forever, still, the student.

The first clear memories I have of my maternal grandmother (Narcissa Cross) I was four years old. I may have been young, but I knew evil when I saw it. She scared the bejeesus out of me. Although Narcissa was, probably, only five foot eight, or so, my grandma seemed, to me, to be a giant. She always wore dark dresses that buttoned up to the neck and down to the wrists. She had black hair and piercing, inky black eyes, and her mouth turned down at both corners, in a, perpetual, angry frown

When I was older my mother and I used to talk about her early life and family. She was the ‘middle child’, and her family made sure that she knew her place. Her sister, Ruby, was the oldest, and, the “pretty one”. Her brother, Jess, was the baby of the family and the only son. And, as her mother (Narcissa) explained to my mother, as a child, “You are the one we didn’t want.”

It is hard to imagine someone being so deliberately cruel to a child, unless you know it was Narcissa speaking. This is a woman who, when my mother was four, beat her until she passed out to “break her spirit.”

I think some of the hatred must have been because my mother was so dark. Narcissa was a racist, and one of the more embarrassing family secrets was the introduction of Native American blood into the family line when the wife of a missionary on a reservation in Oklahoma gave birth to a ‘half-breed’ child; one of the many ‘secrets’ in our family. And, it must have been ‘bitter rue’ to my grandmother when she realized that this dark and alien looking child she didn’t want was the brightest of her three children.

Over the course of many years, my mother and I talked about my grandma and what might have made her into this harsh and bitter woman. My mother said that she thought that Narcissa might have done well in the modern world, with her ambition and brains, but, life in the late 1800s and early 1900s gave her no opportunity to channel her energy in the direction she would have liked.

She had been married, at seventeen, to a man twenty years older than herself, and by the time she was nineteen she was a widow and back to living at home in Missouri, with her parents. This is where she met my grandfather, who was married, at the time, and had six daughters. This didn’t stop Narcissa. In fact, nothing ever seemed to stop her from getting what she wanted. Within a year my grandpa had divorced his first wife, abandoned his family, and moved Narcissa to the barren plains of Eastern Colorado.

Over the next six years, between his trips to try to find oil in the Southwest, they had three children, but by the time Jess was born, Grandpa had had it and he left his new family, and never came back to stay. That may have been one of the smartest things he ever did.

I was, probably in my mid-thirties when, during the course of a conversation, my mother said that when Narcissa’s first husband died there were some unanswered questions, and, on the part of the dead husband’s family, some open suspicion regarding his demise. There was no legal action and nothing ever proven, but Narcissa had not seemed to be, exactly heartbroken.

This brings me back to my instinctive fear of her. As afraid as I was of her, I must have stayed out of her way as much as possible, so the only clear memory I can call up, from my early childhood, is that of a confrontation between Grandma and my sister, Dolores, when I was four.

Dolores was always ‘sickly’; if she didn’t have a runny nose, she had an earache, and if it wasn’t that, it was something else. She was seven, just three years older than I, and was skinny as a rail, and as I said, my grandmother seemed to be a giant. The memory is like a movie in my mind. My grandma was standing in front of the screen door and beyond her I could see the freedom of the dirt yard and the bright sunshine. In the house it was cold and dim, and my sister, in her faded flour-sack dress, was standing between my grandma and me. My grandma had just told us, “If your mother loved you, you wouldn’t be living in a shack like this.” (I found out, when I was older, that this was very typical for Narcissa; undermine the parents, whenever possible.)

My scrawny sister looked up at her and said, “Bullshit!”

I remember that, for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I was paralyzed with fright, and I think I was waiting for lightning to come out of her eyes and strike Dolores dead.

Dolores grabbed my hand, and pulling me behind her, went around my grandma and out the door.

In 1996, my mother and grandmother both long gone, I received a call from an author, in Missouri, who was writing a biography of my cousin. He had gotten my name through family sources and he asked if I would mind giving him some background on the family.

We must have talked for an hour, on the first call, about the family and who was married to whom, and the children, and as much as I could tell him about my cousin. He asked if he could call, again, and I said, “Why not?”

About three months later, I received a second call. We talked for a few minutes, and then he asked me how much I knew about my grandmother.

I laughed and told him, “Well, she scared me, and I’m fearless.”

That loosened him up, After we quit laughing, he asked me what I knew about her first husband.

I said, “Virtually nothing. He’s just a name to me.”

There was a pause, and then he said, “Would it surprise you to know that there was speculation that she might have murdered him?”

My reply, “There is no evil act that she could have committed that would surprise me.”

He said, “That’s a pretty brutal indictment.”

I said, “She is one of two truly evil people I’ve met in my life. I don’t think there was anything she wouldn’t do to get what she wanted.”

I believe that all of the family knew what my grandma was. She left a trail of damaged and broken people and families behind her all of her life. This family “secret” was never truly a secret, at all.

CHEMO, 1985 by Marlene Hickey

He never let me come into the room,
chose to face the executioner alone.

“That needle,” he once told me. “Huge.
Like what we used to use on farms
for giving shots to cattle.
Syringe, the devil’s tool,
bright liquid, cheerful-colored poison.
No escape from nausea and the pain.”

Sinking into the deep black chair
he leaned back blindly.
With dreadful apprehension
he willed himself to tumble
through the earth and vanish
from this dream of fear.
The nurse grasped his arm,
halted his fall to freedom,
forced him back into reality.

The venom flowed into his veins,
drained away his strength.
In his clenched brain, a lightning strike!
Organs on fire, fingertips aflame,
burning at the stake, he forced open
his eyes to bring back life
and beheld an empty universe.

In the waiting room I sat
paging through ancient magazines,
my mind a maelstrom
of medieval tortures
and a fierce desire to take his pain
upon myself. But hidden deep within
myself, was there not perhaps
a secret hallelujah that it was not I?

If today, My Husband, the question
were asked again, and you could relive
the decision to walk through the fire,
what answer would you give, knowing
that the end would be the same,
forever the same? Oblivion

(Assignment.. endings)

by
Reiss

I remember the rapture, experienced only by the most ardent opera buff, that softened Mr. Bedou's face as he drove on one of our early morning outings to Lake Pontchartrain. The only sounds that dared interrupt his wonderfully operatic whistling of Giuseppe Verdi's lovely melody, were the wind and the roar of the engine. His bushy eyebrows arched like praying hands reaching to the heavens to thank Verdi, God and the muses, in that order, for this gift of song. His eyes, ordinarily dulled by years of confinement to his photographic dark room and lacking expression because of a long lifetime exposed to the world and its woes, glistened. His entire being seemed to respond to the exhilarating flow of notes that joined together in glorious pattern to create, he was sure, with divine guidance, the luscious Drinking Song from La Traviata. The odd assortment of black moles that dotted his face and neck became the dancing quarter, eighth and sixteenth notes of the written melody. His body which was, by athletic standards, shapeless, seemed revitalized and made strong by the infusion of air that, when released just so, became song.

Strangely, this was the only melody I ever heard Mr. Bedou whistle or hum. He, when not aware of others in a room, might even slip into singing quite clearly, “Libiamo, Libiamo...” He discussed other operas, had attended performances at the world's great opera houses and enjoyed a considerable knowledge of the art and its artists but this was his favorite melody. A meeting with the great Puccini in 1907 was a treasured moment in his life, but not impressive enough to inspire whistling Musetta's Waltz. He love was Violetta.

It was his fate, however, that his wife was more Musetta than Violetta. Lilia, pronounced, Lil yah, was one of Mama’s dear friends and was one of the fabulous people of our little community. She was not traditional like Mama and the other ladies as she wore more make-up than most, had diamonds on every finger, wore clothes the colors of which defied the rainbow and was famous for her little ringlets of silver hair that framed her face. Her earrings were massive as were her eyes when she spoke of anything that had her full attention. Her voice was not modulated and soft like the other ladies who placed a premium on ladylike speech patterns, but was high pitched, shrill and anything but musical. Still, she was a lady.

She and Bedou had been married since the beginning of recorded history but had no children. This was the great tragedy of their lives. They would have traded their considerable financial comfort and position in the community for a child of their own.

When I was old enough, I was a beneficiary of their desire to enjoy children. I was encouraged, to my great delight, to practice on their wonderful grand piano between my weekly lessons and was taken by Mr. Bedou to Lake Pontchartrain to share the fine art of catching those wonderful blue crabs that are part of New Orleans’ famous bounty of seafood. I, to Mr. Bedou’s delight, enjoyed and sang along with his Libiamo and became an accepted opera buff.

Everyone addressed him as, Mr. Bedou or, if old enough, Bedou. The only person to ever call him Arthur, was Lilia. They enjoyed a fiery marriage peppered by strong language, fiery comebacks, name calling and barbs. It was rumored that they delighted in screaming battles and were known to throw things around that wonderful house. She was not impressed with his love of the arts, the fine collection of art pieces he gathered from years of world travel or his knowledge of the opera. Walking through their wonderful Victorian house, one was impressed with the beautiful antiques, chandeliers, carpets, paintings and tapestries. It did not take long, however, to learn that these were his prized possessions and were nothing more to her than dust catchers. She was much more impressed by the diamonds that decorated her well manicured fingers.

Anyone visiting the house could not help but notice the vase that was an authenticated piece from the Ming Dynasty. It was perfectly placed and displayed as the centerpiece of the lovely Victorian Parlor. It was the unquestionable jewel in the crown of Mr. Bedou’s collection. It was magnificent.

Another thing most found particularly fascinating in the house was the crystal chandelier that had been imported from Europe and dominated the dining room. It was massive, had what seemed to be thousands of hanging crystals that glittered and gleamed when lit. It was a wonderful example of the art of chandelier making and was another manifestation of Mr. Bedou’s old world taste. How lucky they were to live in that house. How lucky I was to be allowed to sit at that piano and soak in the wonders of Victoriana. I was even allowed to see the studio and darkroom that was on the second floor. There, Mr. Bedou made portrait photography a fine art. Some insisted he did, with light and that large box camera with the black cloth under which he disappeared when he was satisfied that the pose, light and mood were right to take the picture, what Rembrandt did with brushes. Everyone, in our small corner of the world, had a portrait by Bedou on or hanging above the mantelpiece. Bedou was recognized the world over as a consummate portrait photographer, but he was our personal recorder of the major events of our lives .... first communions, confirmations, graduations and marriages. To this day, people from our little community, when they spot a photograph, can immediately tell a Bedou when they see one.

One evening the rumors of the notorious Bedou throwing battles were no longer rumor. Lilia willingly and colorfully told the ladies over a sip of anisette, how, one night, the argument escalated to the need for her to throw something at him that would win, for her, the ultimate victory. While screeching obscenities in a sound to make Mozart’s Queen of the Night seem tame, she reached for and hurled the Ming vase at his head with all the operatic drama and strength she could muster. “No! No!” he yelled. Not the vase. Please, Lilia! Not my vase!”

This was it! This would teach him the perfect lesson. He’ll never top this. He’ll never cross me again. He’ll suffer this one the rest of his life. I’ve finally got him! She could not control her glee as she described the horror on his face as the priceless piece flew across the room toward his “his foolish old head.” The victory, however, was short lived, she laughed, “because, would you believe, the silly old son of bitch caught it?”

FIRST DAY AT A NEW SCHOOL


The late October sky over Chicago was opaque and gray but the classroom lights of Madison Elementary School shone bravely into the cold morning air. On the second floor Mrs. Evans’ third grade class was working on addition problems when the principal asked her to step out into the hall. With him stood a 9-year old girl with a very serious expression and braids, with her father. To Mrs Evans, the earrings on such a young girl signified “foreign” and sure enough, the principal confirmed that the family had recently arrived from Germany. Karin had some English lessons but was very shy about speaking. It was agreed that she would start school the next day with Mrs. Evans .

I am nervous about going into this huge building full of loud children. In Germany my school was bombed out so my classroom was in a church sacristy and very quiet. I was the teacher’s favorite and often went on errands for her that let me stop off at my house for a snack. Here I have no idea how to even find our new apartment. I see hundreds of screaming kids but not one has a backpack for books like everyone at home wears on their back. At least I am wearing the snowsuit like everybody else. Papi had sent it to me in Germany and no one there had ever seen such an exotic outfit. It had made me "the American" last winter. Now I feel totally lost but at least I look like an American. The principal takes me to yesterday’s classroom. The same teacher smiles and talks a lot. I don’t understand a word but I get the picture… and a desk.

Mrs. Evans is an experienced teacher and the blank expression on this child’s face doesn’t fluster her. She calls to a tall girl in a plaid skirt.
“Mary, this is Karin. She’s new in America and I want you to help her get orientated here. Show her where to leave her boots and clothes and where the girl’s room is and whatever else comes up.

What the heck is this girl Mary trying to tell me? I’ve already taken off the jacket and hung it up. Now she wants me to take off my pants? What is going on here. Oh, I see they’re all taking off the jackets and the pants and wearing regular clothes underneath…and I am only wearing a sweater and underpants! Why didn’t Mami know about this? Oh, this is…
“Nein, No. No.”
They must think I’m a total idiot. Now they are trying to take my pants off for me. Do I have to hit them? Here comes the teacher…okay, I know what you are telling me but
“NO!,”
I’m not taking off these pants. Tomorrow you’ll see I understand. What a day. Being invited ten times to go to the toilet is a bother, too. Why do they think I have to go all the time? And why are they still printing instead of writing longhand. This America is really an upside down place. What a day!