WEST VIRGINIA PRESBYTERIAN (1952)

The tired old Presbyterian Church at the top of the dirt road is the only church here. A girl of four, neat as a pin, sets off from her house at the opposite end of the road to walk the 200 yards or so to the church. Her mother stands in the middle of the road watching her, until she is greeted on the porch steps by an elderly woman. The mother feels that, since the priest comes only once every two months to say Mass, it’s all right to send her daughter to Presbyterian Sunday School. God is God, after all.

The girl listens with rapt attention to the Bible stories. She gets along well with the other children and likes seeing them because she doesn’t usually get to play with them. Mama won’t let her run barefoot, or wade in the coal mine run-off creek, or catch insects and pull their wings off. And she isn’t allowed to say words like “piss” and “shit,” which are everyday words to the other kids.

At the end of the lesson today, the minister comes in. They have been learning the Lord’s Prayer, and he wants to check on their progress. The children stand up and all recite together: “Our Father, which art in heaven…”

The little girl knows it by heart already; she learned it long before she began coming to this Sunday school. “… but deliver us from evil. Amen,” she finishes. But the other kids say more.

The minister glares at her and says, “Why didn’t you learn it, like you were told?”

“Oh,” she says. “I already learned it.”

“But, you didn’t learn it all.”

“Oh, yes,” she smiles. “I know the whole thing.” She repeats it.

“No, that’s wrong,” the minister insists, “you must say the whole prayer. Now, say it the right way.”

She says the prayer again, exactly as she was taught it by her Catholic parents.

The minister raises his right hand all the way back, above his head, and slaps the child hard on the left side of her face. “Now,” he says, “say it again, the right way.”

“I don’t know the way they say it.” She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of her tears, and she won’t be pushed by any means to say something she doesn’t think is right.

“Daddy says some people say extra words that people added a long time after Jesus said it first. I know it the way Mama and Daddy taught me. I know ‘Hail Mary,’ too,” she added proudly, “And ‘Angel of God, my guardian dear’.”

The minister begins to mutter words she doesn’t understand. He closes his huge hands around her upper arms and plucks her out of the group of children. Still muttering, he drops her on the church steps. “Go on, get yourself home,” he thunders.

“Mama said to wait for her to come and get me. Ten o’clock she said. I have to wait for her.” By now she is not only in pain; she is getting mad, very mad, at the minister. But she controls herself. She knows Mama will fix it.

As soon as the man slams the door, the girl allows herself to cry. She sees blood drops on her front and cries harder because this is a new dress.

Her mother, walking up the road to get her, sees tears and blood and breaks into a run.

The girl is bleeding from her mouth, because the blow forced her teeth into the inside cheek. Her eye will swell shut by the end of the day. She has marks on her face and her arms which will finally fade after two days, to be replaced by bruises in the shape of the minister’s fingers.
As the girl sobs broken sentences into her shoulder, Mama gets madder and madder.

The girl has seen Mama like this before, when things happened to her or her brother. Mama always says, “Ignorance never excuses brutality.” The girl doesn’t know exactly what the words mean, but she does know they mean Mama’s gonna do something about it.

The service is going on, but Mama doesn’t care. She takes the girl’s hand and marches right up the middle aisle to the minister, who, astonished, stops his speech mid-sentence.

She turns the girl around to face the congregation, bloody rivulet down her chin, welts rising on her face and arms.

Mama is brief: “That man did this to my daughter.” She stops for breath.  “And you call him a Christian.”

Mama whispers to her, “Stand up straight.”

Embarrassed coughs and shuffles follow them as they walk away.

Mama never sent me to Sunday School again.

©2008, Ramona K. Silipo. All rights reserved. (Note:  Earlier  versions of this story have appeared online.)

McKellen, de la Tour and the ex wife

Theatre, for me, has often been a spiritual exercise. Even in the midst of real life turmoil, there’s theatre. Most of my enduring friendships began in the theatre, as did this one.

Date: Fri, 02 May 2003
From: Ramona Silipo
To:  Cheski
Subject: Re: Give an Actor a Chance…

Things are going well here in most ways, but I. has had to get a solicitor involved in order to get to see his children. We are, at this point, waiting for his ex wife to reply to a letter from I’s solicitor. In a last ditch effort, after about half a dozen requests, I. proposed again that they go to mediation. If she refuses again, then he goes to court. We really wish she would just stop all the animosity and avoid the tremendous COST of going to court. But she is one of these short sighted women who is so vengeful she will shoot herself in the foot if it means making more trouble for her ex.

We saw [Ian] McKellen and Frances de la Tour in Dance of Death last night. Amazing stuff. McKellen has changed radically since Richard III and Enemy of the People. This is the first time I have seen him allow a role to inhabit him, instead of imposing himself on a role. Do you know what I mean? It was brilliant.

And I am now a real fan of Frances de la Tour. Her Cleopatra is the only one of about half a dozen I’ve seen that I believed every moment. She was hysterically funny in Fallen Angels. If I were 30 years younger, I’d be writing her a fan letter. God, she’s good. There was a moment last night, a gesture or inflection or something, when she reminded me of you… a kind of vulnerability with huge depths of strength underneath.

The Wedding, the Ex-Wife and the Kids

Lately I’ve found myself– sometimes standing in the living room, sometimes during a walk, sometimes while reading, sometimes lying in bed late at night– I’ve found myself reflecting on the happiness of my life, the contentment I feel, and the fact that every single day I feel a deeper connection to and love for my husband. Does this come with age? With experience? With a spiritual (as opposed to romantic) understanding of love? With unconditional love?

A second chance. It can and does happen. We had it, and we took it. And we’ve never regretted it. There have been times of deep and grinding pain caused by my husband’s former wife and his children. There have been deaths in the families. There has been a serious illness that threatened to cripple. So we have known sadness and frustration and challenge. But we feel more connected, move loving and more supportive after each of these times than ever before.

I was in my fifties when we met; he was in his forties. A life well lived always leaves marks; not all baggage is heavy. But second love is more realistic, deeper, more aware of its rarity. It requires patience, forgiveness and tolerance. And acceptance of what cannot be changed.

Curiosity, I supposed, and nostalgia, no doubt, led me to read some of the e-mails between my friends and me when my husband and I first got together.  Here is one of them, from me to a friend of over 30 years.

Date: Tue, 11 Feb 2003
From: R K Silipo
To: “DuRand, Le Clanche”
Subject: From the wilds of suburban Surbiton

Dear Che,

Been ill the past few days with a mystery illness that required sleeping
all day,  moaning at intervals, the sleeping again. Feeling marginally better today,  going to hear Jill Purce, a healer who uses sound, speak tonight at the Siddha Ashram.

We’ve been going to satsang at the ashram on Saturday evenings. It’s very interesting how they have structured the satsang like a Protestant church service, presumably to make uptight English people more comfortable. It begins with chanting, has a little reading and talk, then more chanting, and finishes with food being passed around. One time it was home-made Turkish delight, another  chocolate brownies. Just small bites, but more body than the traditional Host. It’s a nice way to spend two hours, and the young (he looks like 15 to me, but is probably something between 30 and 40) leader of worship is very open and friendly, and a transparently sincere and earnest seeker.

On their altar, covered with beautiful silks, are pictures of their teachers, going back several generations, various Indian deities, Jesus, something vaguely Muslim (no graven images), ditto something Jewish– very ecumenical. In their garden there is a lovely BVM statue, not sentimental or prissy like so many of them are. I quite like her. Other holy people’s statues in the garden, as well.

Don’t know if I told you anything yet about the wedding. We kept it very small, so it was just I’s  father and step-mother (his mother died about 6 years ago) and sister, and my friends Rachel , Julian and his long-time woman friend. We wanted the children there, and they were looking forward to coming, but their mother had other ideas.

The ceremony was very sweet and very brief, about 10 minutes. The
registrar had a great sense of humour, so we were chuckling a lot. But
the actual words we said with such depth and in such a reality as I
have never known before.  We were in the registry office, but I definitely felt the movement of the Spirit shoot through me as we said our vows. It was pretty amazing.

Afterward we went for tea at a place called the Original Maids of Honour tea room, in Kew Road, directly across the road from one of the main entrances to Kew Gardens. The place has been there, in one form or another, since Henry VIII’s time, and ‘maids of honour’ are a pastry created  especially for the old libertine himself.  The current owner of the place inherited it from his father, who inherited from his father, and so on, since 1868.

The weather  was uncharacteristically sunny and warm for the afternoon. The goddesses and gods were smiling on us, I’m certain of it.

Things go well here. Got my passport stamped a few days after the
wedding, so I can work here;  so have been poring over ads and sending
out resumes. The only fly  in the ointment is, of course, I’s former
wife, who uses her children like clubs to try to manipulate him. The
only comfort I take is that someday they will be very angry with her
because she kept them from the wedding and is currently keeping them
from seeing him on any regular basis. She allows an hour here or there
on a Saturday .

The courts here are at least 25 years behind California courts, where they automatically would be granted joint custody, barring any verifiable reason that one parent should be in control. I see a court battle in the future, but not very soon. We must settle into a house big enough to have the children with us first.
–
Neither charm nor patience nor endurance has ever wrested power from those who hold it. — Frederick Douglass

Why Dogs Are With Us So Briefly

This is another story e-mailed to me by a friend.

A Dog’s Purpose (from a 6-year-old).

Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog’s owners, Ron, his wife Lisa, and their little boy Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle.

I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family we couldn’t do anything for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home.

As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for six-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt Shane might learn some thing from the experience.

The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker’s family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away.

The little boy seemed to accept Belker’s transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker’s Death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives.

Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up,”I know why.”

Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I’d never heard a more comforting explanation.

He said, “People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life — like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?” The Six-year-old continued, “Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don’t have to stay as long.”

Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply.  Speak kindly.

Remember, if a dog was the teacher you would learn things like:

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.

Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.

Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure Ecstasy.

Take naps.

Stretch before rising.

Run, romp, and play daily.

Thrive on attention and let people touch you.

Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.

On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.

On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.

When you’re happy, dance around and wag your entire body.

Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.

Be loyal.

Never pretend to be something you’re not.

If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.

When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by, and nuzzle them gently.

Enjoy every moment of every day

As She Wanted It (after Death)

©2009, Ramona K Silipo. All rights reserved.

In the late 1980s and early 1990s a group of friends and acquaintances gathered annually on Christmas Eve. We decorated a tree, ate a fabulous feast, caught up –some of us saw each other only at this gathering– and told stories. Late in the evening, when the house was uncomfortably warm from all the bodies in activity, we stopped. We quietened. We gathered around a round table with a candle in the middle. Each of us lit a candle from the one on the table. Each of us remembered a friend who was not with us that night. Some of us spoke several names, others only one. But each person there had seen someone die that year.  The last year I attended, our group had shrunk from 14 or 15 to eight.

In that time, when AIDS was still a pandemic killer, I knew dozens of people –young and old and middle aged– who died of it. I saw so many die, said good-bye to so many, that I came to terms with death because I had to in order to survive in some sort emotionally capable state. I learned the power of mourning through the various stages of grief, and of allowing grief to consume me for a brief time, to emerge from it able to move forward. None of these are easy lessons, and I think many of us never allow ourselves to let go and wallow in grief when we need to do it. But with literally dozens of people I knew dying around me, I had to learn to deal with death.

So this year, when we had to deal with three family deaths in rapid succession, I was able to cope with the aftershock.

I have always, even with the deaths of my parents, found repugnant and a bit stomach-turning the common rituals after the event, with the expense and ostentation and superficiality of the typical church funeral.  So as a rule I do not go to funerals. A memorial gathering in a theatre, with shared memories and readings from plays or a few songs was about as far as I  go. My husband knows that I want no fuss and no expense when I go, just cremation and scattering the ashes around the rose bushes or wherever. I’ve said he might go as far as a Memorial Meeting for Worship, if he thinks people need it, but I’ll get back to him on that closer to the event.

Even so I hold in compassion and patience people who do believe in that sort of thing. There’s no denying that the pomp and religiosity of a typical funeral allows many people to grieve in a way they would not permit themselves to do under any other circumstances.

My husband’s sister died early in May. She had cancer for five years, and had gone through all the various treatments to extend her life. She had planned a full production number of a funeral, complete with matched black horses drawing a Victorian carriage with her polished casket inside it, songs she selected (including, I thought slightly perversely, Leaving on a Jet Plane), a huge limousine for the family, an official mourner in Victorian costume and a reception afterward with good eats. She took care of every detail. And as her brother’s wife, I attended the performance. Everything went off without a hitch; Sister would have been very pleased with the way her plans went off like clockwork.

I did not know Sister well. I’d been married to her brother for only six years, and I saw her perhaps four to six times a year, for lunch with the family. We were acquaintances who had been at family gatherings and shared pleasant conversations, enjoyed laughing together and exchanged gifts neither of us really wanted. We liked each other, but never had a meaningful conversation that lasted longer than three minutes. We were so very different we would probably never have met had I not been married to her brother.

But I watched her journey with more than a little admiration, as she pushed through the powerlessness, anger, frustration, struggle and fear, to acceptance. She ran a huge emotional and psychological gamut, with her good days and her bad days. But she lived well right up to the end, and she left people with fond memories and loving good-byes.

The only bone I would pick with her is over my husband’s children. There was a history there, in that my husband’s first wife had a habit of sending vile letters to people; and Sister did not want the children to know of her illness because she did not want to deal with any nastiness from her former sister-in-law. I understood this completely, having read some of the calumnies and attacks by Ex-wife in other contexts. But I felt strongly that the children had a right to know that their aunt was ill, and that they had a right to say good-bye to her.

My husband talked to his sister about the children’s visiting her many times during her illness and treatment, but she did not want to make herself vulnerable to unpleasant letters from the children’s mother. So my husband felt that he had to honour Sister’s wishes. Finally, when she knew that she had little time left, Sister wanted to see the children. My husband tried to arrange it, but Sister died before he could arrange it.

My husband’s dad, his only surviving parent, was gratified to see so many people in the church. So was my husband. The place was packed with people, hundreds of them, who knew Sister and needed to say good-bye to her. Her step-children and her husband were devastated, of course, and allowed themselves deep, wrenching weeping which would not be acceptable in any other context.  I think that’s the most you can expect from a funeral.

Oddly enough, the reception afterward gave me a chance to meet family members I hadn’t met before, and to talk with some whom I’d met only a year ago at Sister’s 50th birthday party. The reception had a lightness about it that Sister would have enjoyed, and virtually everyone commented that everything had been as she wanted it.

Driving home, I thought again how sad it was that the children did not get to say good-bye to their aunt, but I didn’t say anything about it. It had, in fact, been a pretty good day, all thing considered.

My objective is to write fiction that feels completely real –snapshots of life, fleeting moments of insight, unexpected realizations– that sort of thing. I hope you enjoy reading these brief stories.

The Last Time I Saw Kathie

©2008 Ramona K. Silipo. All rights reserved.

This was the third time I’d met Kathie at a café between our houses. Her son Raphael, twelve, was in school. I calmed myself. I didn’t want to get angry.

“My God!” People looked, but I couldn’t help it.  She had a sutured gash above her left eye. With tremendous effort, I lowered my voice. “Did Robert do that?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. No tears, no emotion at all. “I asked Raphael about the dirty magazines. They were his, not Raphael’s. I asked him to keep them at the office and not bring them home. He said he’ll have whatever he wants in his house.” Almost a recitation.

The anger pushed like a fist from my gut upward, nearly choked me. I wanted to scream at her. But with iron self-control, I said, “You’ve got to leave.”

“We’re married. We work together. He pays for everything. I can’t leave.” Her voice was flat, lifeless.

I pushed. “Stay with us as long as you need to.”

“It would be months,” she mumbled.

“That’s OK.”

“It’s too complicated. Raphael’s school is here, and his friends. . . “

”Stay with us,” I repeated, choking back my rage.“I’ll lend you money. I’ll support you however I can if you get out now. I can’t support you if you don’t leave.” Saying it almost killed me, but I was powerless to help her if she couldn’t help herself at least that much.

She stood up and  pulled her sweater tighter around herself. “Then I guess we’re not friends any more.” She left.

My objective is to write fiction that feels completely real –snapshots of life, fleeting moments of insight, unexpected realizations– that sort of thing. I hope you enjoy reading these brief stories.

Iran Awakening, by Shirin Ebadi

Iran Awakening, by Shirin Ebadi

Nobel Peace Laureate (2003) Shirin Ebadi has written a riveting account of her life in Iran, from her childhood (when the Shah was installed by the CIA), to the revolution that brought the Ayatollah to power, and onward to current circumstances in her country.  As a judge, then a lawyer, Ebadi’s life’s work has been defending human rights, particularly for women in Iran;  and striving for peaceful and civil resolutions to violently disputed questions.

When others chose to leave Iran, she chose to stay and fight her non-violent campaign against unjust laws.  A judge when the Ayatollah took over,  she was quickly demoted to file clerk and eventually persuaded to “take early retirement.” She then began practicing law, taking almost exclusively pro bono cases in which human rights and/or civil rights were at the core. She chose cases that allowed her to argue the regime’s repressive interpretations of  points of Islamic law.

Colleagues, friends, even her teenage nephew were arrested, tortured and murdered by the Ayatollah’s forces. Ebadi spent a lot of time thinking about what she would do when (not if,  for she knew she was in danger all the time) her turn came, and reports without any sugar coating what her imprisonment was like.

She carefully shields people she needs to protect, but otherwise is astonishingly practical and direct in her account of what women’s lives have been like in Iran for the past 50 years or so. I found myself wondering over and over, “Why didn’t she just get out?” and wavering between thinking her stupid for staying and courageous for pushing onward.

For me, the most galling and bizarrely fascinating chapter is the last one, which details the chain of evens that led to the book finally being published in the USA after dealing with the American government’s censorship.

The book is well written, with none of the usual stiffness of texts written in one language and translated to another.  I highly recommend it for teenagers and adults. (The descriptions of torture are straightforward and not sensational, and for that reason are all the more disturbing, so it’s not a good book for readers under about 14 years old.)

Christmas Handmade Decorations for Little Hands

©2008, Ramona K. Silipo. All rights reserved.

One of the simplest handmade tree ornaments is a spiral. You can make them in different sizes by tracing different round objects– for instance, jar lids of several different sizes; or a teacup, a mug, and a saucer. The larger the circle, the longer the dangle from the tree branch.

You’ll need scissors, pencil, paper and items to trace. That’s all. You can add glitter if you don’t mind the mess, but I would forgo it with young children. It just gets everywhere, including in their mouths and up their noses which can’t be healthy for them.

Construction paper is the old standby. But good-quality, heavier gift wrap works very well and adds a bit more colour. Magazine covers are excellent, as they have body and lots of colour. Aluminum foil can be used, too, but may be best saved for older children who can cut through it more easily.

Trace the circle. Then simply begin at the edge, cutting round and round the edge, about 1/4 inch from the edge, until you reach the center. Leave the center about the size of a nickel so you can punch a hole for the hook or ribbon to hang it (or you can fold the end over the tree branch, but it doesn’t work a well as using and ornament hook).

Younger children might need you to draw a guide line for cutting, which can be tricky. If you show them how to cut, following the edge as the circle gets smaller, most children “get it” from watching.

Another easy decoration with circles is made by cutting one large circle, say, 3″ in diameter (a coffee mug size) and four circles slightly smaller (a tea cup size). For this you need construction paper or light card. Heavier magazine covers might work, too, if you want to experiment.  Fold the four smaller circles in half and make a cut in the vertical middle of the fold. Using the slit you cut, slide the four smaller circles on to the larger circle, spacing them evenly around the edge. Punch a hole near one edge of the larger circle for the hook or ribbon to hang it on the tree.

Don’t forget the old traditional stand-by, the paper chain. These are more colourful when made from gift wrap than construction paper.

Cranberries and popcorn are great to string for your trees outdoors. The birds will enjoy them, but you will have to remember to remove the thread after the berries are gone so the birds don’t get tangled in it.

For a slightly more sophisticated garland, you can use walnuts. For this you will need whole walnuts, eyepins (which you can find at crafts shops and stores that sell beads and jewelry findings), and narrow ribbon, yarn or cord in gold, red or green (or any colours you want).

You can leave the walnuts natural, or paint them gold or just give them a coat of clear gloss to dress them up. Put an eyepin in each end of each walnut. Thread ribbon or yarn through the eyes of two nuts, and tie a decorative bow leaving an oval of ribbon about an inch long between the two nuts. Make the garland any length you like.

To make ornaments from single walnuts, tie narrow ribbon or gold cord around them longwise. A dab of Elmer’s Glue-All at the bottom will help if you use satin ribbon or metallic cord and it’s slippery. Tie a loop at the top to hang it from the tree; or tie a bow at the top and use an ornment hook threaded through the knot to hang it.