I Feel So Shamed

I waited till later that evening to go and see my friend. I wanted to take some flowers to her but the flowers there were too tiny to gather. I looked through all my things: I felt I had to take something to her as a token of my friendship. The only thing I had was an ornamental egg coddler. It seemed a ridiculous gift to give, but it was very pretty with delicate paintings of flowers and birds on it. I wrote a little note saying how very much I felt for her. I had not enough words in Inuktitut to tell her what I really wanted to say. I wrapped the small parcel in tissue paper and put it in my pocket.
Inside Nauja's house the children were playing quietly. The usually tidy house was littered with clothes and unwashed dishes. A spilt cup still lay on its side on the table, the liquid splattered over the plastic cloth. Cigarette ends strewed the floor and a few empty bottles were sitting in a corner.  The air smelt fetid.
I tiptoed into the bedroom. Nauja lay on the bed facing the door. Her jersey was stained with blood. Her eyes were open, but barely flickered when I approached. Her face was swollen and ugly. I could hardly recognize the attractive woman of whom I had grown so fond. I sat on the chair beside the bed and smoothed her brow. I had nothing to say, yet I wished to say so much. there was nothing I could do. I put down my poor offering and left. An impenetrable barrier separated me from my friend. She was the victim of the most dreadful violence and because of this she suddenly represented that violence. I felt utterly desolate. From: The Snow People; Marie Herbert

Her normally boisterous children became instantly deadly silent. Quiet pervaded the room. She tried not to look directly at the children, she focused in lock-grip, her eyes holding fast, captive with her husband's. His face the mask of drunken rage. His face suffused with dark, brooding red that boiled his blood and made hers run cold.

She heard the door click behind the children's backs as they silently fled. She had spent enough time in sober hours patiently repeating to them the necessity of leaving at the first sign of impending troubles.

He would be a good provider, her mother had tried to assure her, when she was informed of her father's bargain with the large, stolid hunter she and her girlfriends had giggled about, even in his presence. He seemed to take no notice of what silly young girls did, how they behaved.

So why had he eventually settled on her? Because, said her best friend, you are the prettiest among us. Because, said her mother proudly, you have been well schooled in domestic work. Because, said her father, I willed it to be so. What option had she but to submit?

Life was hard for everyone. Everyone suffered equally. And among them there was that social contract that meant no one interfered with someone else's business. Relief from the tedium and the hardship arrived once each month. And then, everyone -- almost everyone -- took refuge in that opportunity to briefly leave it all behind. In their insensibility they became other than what they were. Most, later, regretting that, but none willing to do anything about it.

In Thule, the 'disease' of civilization's evil liquor brought to the Eskimos is not so virulent as in other parts of Greenland. An otherwise-peaceful society becomes other once each month when authorities permit thirty points each month to each adult and there is a choice of a) 30 bottles of beer; b) one and a half bottles of hard liquor; or c) three large bottles of wine - or mix and match.

But that is the truth of our life here in Greenland. We worry for our children. We warn them of the dangers of the breaking sea ice. We tell them that our huskies are not playthings, even the pups; they are trained to be sled dogs, not house pets. Those dogs are supposed to be tied securely, tethered so they will not eat everything they come across; harness, leather mukluks. They are kept safely away from those places where children play, but even though they are warned, the older kids are so bored, not yet old enough to be independent; the girls with their own places, the boys out hunting with their fathers, they look for amusement. And they tease the dogs. How can you punish kids who have nothing else to do? 

 

We talk to them. That makes no difference, they get bored, they begin teasing the dogs again, laugh at their antics, at the dogs' frantic efforts to free themselves. They think the dogs want to play with them, and it's true, some may want to, but not all. They've forgotten what happened to Taitsianguaraitsiak's oldest boy, just six. Older boys, it was rumoured, had let loose a pack of the dogs. They tore that boy apart, and by the time he was discovered, he was half eaten. No one had heard his cries, the wind had been howling so loud, we were in the midst of a storm.

After that, the children were quiet, confused, shaken. They woke at night often, screaming. But memories fade as children grow older. They had refused to speak about it, would not release any information if they had it, about how that pack had got loose. Children are resilient. Far less so their elders.

I don't know what I am going to do. Inugssuak gets worse all the time. I don't know why he has become so fierce. He tells me nothing.

The children, none of them, understand fully what happens the first of every month. It's always been like that, so why would they wonder about it? When the liquor quotas are released, people claim their share, and they don't stop until it's all gone. My friend Marie, the white woman staying here for a while, tells me it's called bingeing. That it is not healthy to drink so much alcohol all at once. I can see that, I can understand what she means. It changes people so badly. Nice people get mean.

The children are careful, then. But once everyone is full of the drink and they sleep, the children get up to mischief. They enter houses where the elders live, to gape at the old men and women sleeping, snoring, in disarray, their clothing half gone, their wrinkled faces with their droopy, toothless mouths hanging open. The kids find it funny, they laugh, they poke at the drunken people, they pull their hair, pinch their noses, and laugh.

Sometimes they run, when one of the drunks wakes up. And roars with anger at the children and chases them out of their house, down the street, where the children scatter and race for the protection of their homes. I try to teach my kids it's wrong to do these things. But they say to me all the other kids do it, why shouldn't they too have fun?

The Thule tradition (which lasted from about A.D. 1 to A.D. 1600) includes the Old Bering Sea, Okvik, Punuk, Birnirk, and Thule cultures. It represented a new kind of adaptation to the Arctic environment, based on the hunting of large sea mammals in open water through the use of drag floats attached to the harpoon line. Large skin boats and the use of dogs to pull large sleds were other Thule innovations. Winters were spent in sometimes large communities of semi-subterranean houses, subsisting on a stored surplus obtained most typically by hunting Bowhead whales.

Last night, when he beat me so badly I couldn't even think straight. The kids were asleep. They were in their beds, maybe not asleep, maybe listening. I tried not to cry out, but maybe I did, I might have meant not to, but maybe I did scream. After, he passed out, his head on the table, and I left the house. I went away, I told myself I would run away, I would never come back. He would never, ever beat me again.

I hurt all over. He kicked my stomach, my chest is sore, and there is blood all over my clothing. I know I have some bad cuts around my face, my neck. It was hard to walk, but I did, I went away from the village. It was cold and it was foggy, and I wasn't wearing my parka, but I didn't feel cold, only hurt. I went to the meltstream, up in the hills. Then I made my way down to the marsh, near the shore.

I was hungry, and I felt faint, and I didn't know what to do. Where could I go? Where could I run to? I had no warm clothing, no food, no shelter. I stayed there, at the marsh, for a little while. I was crying, felt sorry for myself. But then I felt worse, thinking about the children. Who would look after them? I went back to the house. He was still sleeping there, sprawled on his big chair, head on the table.

When I awoke it was day, and the children were outside, I could hear their subdued voices. I could hear them speaking to someone; it was my friend Marie. I hoped they would tell her I was sleeping, that she should not waken me. Instead I heard them ask her to go into the house and to see me, because I was 'bad'. I wanted nothing other than to burrow myself out of sight. I hoped she would ignore what they said.

She did not. She came into the house. She pushed open the door of the bedroom. She spoke my name. She sat beside me. She stroked my forehead. She left a little package beside me. And then she left. I feel so shamed. 

 

Lovingly Shared

  

As inner-city children of a certain ethnic demographic - it was not all that surprising, given what she often mused was a kind of precocious inquisitiveness not quite of the same enterprising quality she saw around her now - they were thrown together through mutual exposure within a larger circle of acquaintances. Friends they might be in the most casual sense, but she never felt she belonged. Anywhere. She felt herself to be an impostor, an outsider, felt nothing comfortably in common with all those others.

She had been accustomed to social contact with the children of her parents’ friends, and found social acceptance there. But never completely relaxed comfort; even then non-conformist in a social manner. He had been caught in a larger net of young boys and girls meeting within a more institutionalized framework, where the community established casually-encouraging friendship centres to assist their young to make unconscious future commitments to those within the ethnic group.

They recognized in one another attributes that made each attractive to the other. Bringing them into a tandem that would result in their interior compass setting a direction that would take them through life together. They had much in background commonality, yet even within similar backgrounds there were enough traditional differences of social custom to ensure that they discovered in each other an awkwardly opposite heritage and tradition of customs. There was a certain intrigue in that.

It was not the shared portions of their backgrounds that drew them to one another, but the compulsion of a boy emerging into adulthood meeting a girl practising adulthood, both curious and willing to learn about the greater mysteries of life. And, incidentally and instinctively seeing in one another the potential answers to some of their questions. That, perhaps more than anything drew them together. Was it not ever so? Along with the fact that he, like her, felt socially clumsy, awkward, not nearly as unselfconscious as their peers. In one another’s company they felt the comfort of relaxed security.

He had the rough and awkward edges of a boy and she had already left that stage of a girl’s groping for the future against the inconveniences of the past far behind her. His clumsiness occasionally troubled her, but that was weighed off against the fascination she felt for those experiences he had in his life that had been so different from hers. Together they experimented with life in all its dimensions.

What better time to begin than as young people barely into their teen years? Those were the socially formative years, and they grew together, in spite of their often different perspectives; his already inclined to social conservatism, hers touched with a legacy of social justice. Despite, it might be added, their parents’ aversion to their inconvenient closeness to one another. Too young, they clamoured, as though in unison, never having yet met. Get out, meet others. How can you compare if you’ve nothing to compare with?

Even at that young age she had already invested herself in a kind of intellectual snobbery and his lapses into occasionally sloppy street vernacular offended her. She would tartly correct him, and he would grin sheepishly, accepting the verbal slap-down. Nothing about her bothered him.

They were in many ways like brother and sister. The bond they developed was that close. Sharing confidences, concerns, aspirations. But if their relationship was like that of siblings, then it was that of siblings engaged in covert incest. Chance offered them those opportunities and they grasped them, and with little damage to their conscience. They hungered for one another like fervid, adult lovers at a time when they still played children’s board games in quiet moments together. What they had most obviously in common though was their shared love of literature, and reading.

He played football at his school, she took part in some theatrical productions at hers. They went to school dances and showed up on other social occasions at community centres. They regularly walked together in public parks, and just as often went together to a local library, browsing among the stacks to select what they each preferred in reading material.

His was an omnivorous reading habit, consuming short fiction, history, detective fiction, Arctic exploration and the classics. She was absorbed in reading the classical Greek myths, Egyptian and general Mid-East archaic discoveries, autobiographies. In that sense, for their age, they were in a class of their own, she always felt.

They married while still in their late teens. Among other things that absorbed them was finding a place of their own after completing high school studies and finding jobs commensurate with their education levels. And joining a book club since they moved themselves to the outer stretches of the city where libraries were absent.

Four years later when their first child was born the city began to grow up around where they lived, at first slowly, then with renewed vigour as the general population increased and the search for adequate housing was unabated by a continuing influx of immigrants from abroad.

When their children were young, he discovered in himself a flair for design and a desire to produce objects of artistic expression. Over the years he developed a myriad of interests, all self-taught, all progressing to the stage where his output was both varied and energetically expressive -- from building furniture of classical design, to painting of watercolours, and designing and producing stained glass pieces.

For her part, literature remained her expression and she developed a facility for placing words in conjunction with one another where they agreeably formed poetry, short stories, essays. While his output decorated their home and made them both feel proud and appreciative of the beauty that surrounded them, hers lay secreted away in a bottom drawer. Eventually she made some tentative efforts toward publication, and eventually over the years her poetry, short stories and essays made their way into small, independent-press literary magazines and academic journals.

Their children, unsurprisingly, adopted their parents’ interests, and all of them displayed their own abilities over time, both creative and academic.

Over time, for reasons of her own, she withdrew from the immensely satisfying acknowledgement of her literary talents and wrote no more. She had at first exposed her early work to her husband, feeling he was in as good a position as any critic to evaluate the quality of her work. He read a few of her stories and congratulated her, and that was the extent of his interest. He was pleased she was busy and immersed in doing something that had value to her. It was not his habit to enquire whether she had anything he could read preparatory to sending an item out for possible acceptance for publication.

She eventually wrote a few longer manuscripts, completed them, one as a novel the other as a social commentary, then put those away, too. Out of sight but never out of mind, not completely, although their life together continued to evolve and to cocoon them in a cradle of mutual gratification of all that they experienced together.

The fruit of his exuberant creativity increased over time and they were hemmed in with aesthetic objects that gave them both great pleasure. Eventually, their children began to accept the excess of their father’s artistic output to adorn their own homes.

After they both retired from the workforce, his creative streak began to take on a frenetic tone, and he applied himself more vigorously than ever to his multi-talented pursuits. Every wall of their home was covered with paintings, every window was covered with stained glass, every surface held some quaint object he had designed, every bit of floorspace proudly stationed furniture he had crafted.

She carefully dusted all these treasured and beautiful objects and began to realize that she too had a need to create, not merely to admire and to languish within a odd dissonance of ennui.

She began writing again. For herself. To re-create the inevitable reward of satisfaction that flooded her on the completion of a poem, a story of her imagination. She relished the feeling she felt while conspiring with her muse to expand on a thought, something that stimulated those long-in-abeyance creative impulses.

A sense of accomplishment soothed her and encouraged her to continue. She became besotted with the impulse to write. He knew she was absorbed once again in writing, and he teased her about it, and embraced her at every opportunity for her soft and loving continuity. Their shared complacency in their loving regard for one another was obvious to them, not only a comfort but an inspiration sparking both of their creative compulsions.

With each new piece of creative work he accomplished she praised his effort and enjoyed living with it. With each new piece of creative work she produced, she mentally hugged herself and teased her mind to help her muse form yet another. She became so obsessive a writer that no single day elapsed without its quotidian creative writing piece.

She felt assured; her creative legacy was there, no longer shut away in a dark drawer no one might ever access, but in bright, living language, tenderly posted each day on the Internet, on her very own publishing site. Hers a mute, unanswered cry for recognition of the expressive bounty of her fevered mind - - resounding in that great indifferent space of Time-and-the-Wired-World.

 

The Power Of Her Mind

 

Do not think it, she urgently
cautioned her mind. Do not begin
to think it, her growing awareness
counselled her; schooled, entreated,
cautioned her. The irresistibly
growing realization that her mind
was the fount from which events -
sordid and sorrowful grew, impinged.

Frail and innocent she may appear
in her advanced years, but what
has been revealed to her is the
power dwelling deep within.
Think of some misfortune and someone,
somewhere, will suffer. Imagine a
catastrophe and it occurs. Idly
contemplate a life-shattering
occurrence and there it is, a living
manifestation of her dread power.

She knows now, with a startling
clarity that she is the ineffable
instrument of disaster; from her mind
leaps atrocities, misery, hopeless
surrender to nature's and humankind's
evil design incarnate. She represents
the means by which a malign force
exerts its vicious domination over
all that exists, as a plaything to
relieve the tedium of its existence.

She can no longer live within the
impossible weight of her guilt, and
imparts her dread knowledge to all
who will listen. But they doubt her sanity
and proffer tender concern for her
aged plight of what they term dementia.

And this finally destroys the pain
of her living guilt, leaving her free
to permit her imagination free rein.
After all, she forewarned them all.
She told them so. Was that not so?

 

 

Silent Suffering to Appease Jew-Hate

 

At last, a solution. It was there, all the while

but overlooked for perhaps it was too simplistic

and in its simplicity held no allure for the victims

of Jew-hate. The answer to which is to suffer, for

in this Jews have acquired a skill, one of dire

endurance. Suffer, preferably in humble silence

for is that not your proven destiny? Even through

observations of contempt that under threat of death

Jews met their destiny in silence, as lambs to the

slaughter. For the fate of Jews when Europe became

a charnel house dedicated to annihilation by edict

of Nazi Germany was surely preordained. And 

the excruciating mass slaughter of a people scorned

and rejected throughout history earned empathy

from a global community that sat by unmoving as

the caravan of death proceeded. A horrendous

event that is yearly memorialized by the survivors

(every Jew on Earth) and by sanctimonious heads

of state intoning grief at that cataclysmic epic of

slaughter unimpeded and triumphant. Hushed

respect for those millions who perished by those

who witnessed genocide at a safe distance, the 

very same global communities that disown the

Jewish experience on the recreation of that people's

ancestral home, where Jews no longer submit to

'fate' but respond to the lethal violence unleashed

by their enemies, meeting terrorism by meting 

out punishing self-defense to all those who seek

to recreate the Holocaust. And in so doing risk

(and welcome) the censure of those who prefer 

Jews in their traditional role of silent suffering.

 

 

And .. No One .. Cares

 

It behooves the powerful of the world to gather

as one at a significant memorial of man's inhumanity

to man, as a demonstration that they are concerned

not only with securing their nations' advantages

when they regularly appear at convocations to

discuss the state of the world economy, their security

and international relations. They gather on grave

occasions of remembrance as well, to recall the

sacrifices made when World Wars roiled the globe

and when the most extraordinary effort at genocide

occurred within living memory, on its way to receding

from the world's notice altogether. There they are

their august presence signifying grief and consolation

for the unfortunate target of a totalitarian government's

obsession to obliterate Jews, despised, isolated and

disenfranchised, strident propaganda preparing their

population for a culling of a people unsuited to live

among them. The architecture of a vast scheme meant

to free Europe from the grasping, mendacious Jews

proceeded apace with stunning regularity and success

the knowledge of which was acknowledged yet not one

country in the 'free world', much less a coalition of any

determined to save whom they could did other than close

their borders. Yet that lazy indifference to the plight of

Europe's Jews lingers  and the same nations that decried

the enormity of the genocide, gathered at Auschwitz to

polish their concerned credentials supporting human rights

once again do nothing as the same Jew-hating forces from

a variant source infecting populations everywhere are once

again at full throttle. And .. no one .. cares. The rampant

hypocrisy on display as Jew-hate marches triumphantly

through the streets of Europe and North America despite

stringent laws forbidding such fore-runners of solutions

to the ancient problem of what to do with the Jews...when

all Jews want and long for is to be unrecognized and safe.

 

 

Exceptionalism

 

All lives, the wise among us say

are unique. Except some more

so than others. There is only one

tried soul whom his obituary

can identify as the final survivor

of the Treblinka death camp, now

too gone. Some among us live

double lives reflecting dissatisfaction

with the reality of their own. They

dream of winning a lottery to

free them of financial cares

solving all the ills their lives have

ever confronted them with. Little

knowing, much less caring that

the lottery of life was theirs not 

to have been born a Jew in pre-1935

Europe. That last survivor lived

his own double life, that of

normalcy after liberation from

death from a living nightmare

that deprived him of those he loved.

And the live memory of a lifetimes-

worth of horror. Now, laid to rest

both his lives have surrendered to

obliteration in mortality's due time

of human reckoning, nature-designed.

 

 

Divine Music

 

Does genius confer upon itself

a greater awareness and

partnership with nature?

Perhaps those brilliant minds

capable of nudging their

brains to wander along

strange pathways to

theorize nature's blueprint

were first nurtured by an

especial endowment at birth

exposing them to the music

of the Universe's rotating

spheres, the soft hissing of

gases, the low moaning of

the celestial winds, the

musicality of light glancing

off ice and meteoric flash-bys

strumming those ineffably

divine chords enticing minds

of genius to leap over the

mundane, grasp the waves of

energy and time to focus on

the purpose of existence.