Napoleon and Lafayette

Death is never easy.It is never easy to accept, tolerate, understand. It does not matter if it comes in the form of the loss of a close human relative, lover or friend, or in the form of a beloved pet. Lafayette, our beloved Basset hound, we rescued from the streets 7 years ago, and who had been feeling ill and old for some time now, died on March 28th at 8:35 p.m. This came just within 48 hours of her having insisted on spending a last night outside,under the stars, to say goodbye to her life and her garden. I loved her passionately, took care of her diligently, comforting her as best as possible with supplements and good , nutricious food , love and attention. But when death calls, there is no mercy or remedy. Neither is there ever an appropriate way to deal with the raw pain and ache of losing a loved being. It seems mostly irrelevant, as my intelligent son pointed out, what your philosophical or religious or non-religious beliefs are, when all is said and done, we are left with the deep sorrow of having lost someone we love, they are gone, and are not coming back. Whatever made them special, their personality, looks, heart, likes and dislikes, passions, talents, all disappear as the cold , icy grip of death takes hold. We are left with memories, as our brains are marvelously equipped with cameras that through our eyes, over time, recorded the story that became dear to us about the person, or in this case, animal we loved. In this case also, Lafayette's death is the end of the story of Napoleon and Lafayette. It started 7 years ago, when my son and I met a black Labrador and cream colored Basset hound at his school bus stop. They seemed to live on the street, something the neighbor hood kids confirmed, as the owners were too busy to care for them. They seemed gentle, patient, kind. Pretty soon, we were bringing them food, as they were always hungry, and soon after that, they started following us home,and soon after that, I took them in. It was close to Thanksgiving 2005, and it was very cold.They walked in, I got them blankets, food and water, and they stayed. Our house is small, just about 1000 square feet, and it was cramped, with two large dogs, who were allowed indoors 24/7, as I love animals and they had already suffered enough deprivation, having lived on the street for years. They were so sweet and grateful, I decided to rename them, let them know this was the beginning of a new life for them. To me , they looked just like the twosome in the Disney movie, The Aristocats, in which there were two country dogs, also interestingly enough, a black Labrador, whose name was Napoleon, and a cream colored Basset hound, Lafayette. So, I renamed the two recently rescued dogs, Napoleon and Lafayette. Just like in the movie, Napoleon was the brains and the protector, Lafayette, the emotional and vulnerable one. Napoleon was one of the kindest, wisest dogs I ever knew. She was with us for two years, and then came down with bone cancer, which she tolerated with great dignity. When her time was near, and we took her in, she died peacefully in my arms. To this day, whenever I look at her picture I keep close at hand ,I cry and feel the deep ache of loss still. Lafayette was lost at first after Napoleon died, because Napoleon had been the one who kept her safe on the streets. Gradually, she relaxed, and she and I became very close. I became her second Napoleon. Lafayette was the sweetest, most innocent dog imaginable, she had always the heart and vulnerability of a puppy, stuck in a big, lumbering body, that became more cumbersome with time and arthritis. She loved being cozy, and seemed happiest, once going for walks became too painful, on her comfy cedar-chip filled beds, which she had in both the living room and our bedroom. She loved her plush toys, her milk bones, which she defended from our cat Sneakers until the day she died, and she loved us, because we were her loving, safe family. She went everywhere with us, to the beach, Cannon Beach, each summer, or any other vacation, in the back seat with me, while my taller son rode up front with my husband. She was one of us, and as she got older and more frail, we always took turns being with her, so she was never alone when we had to go somewhere. She knew she mattered. I think that is the best definition of love: you matter to me, so I will be there for you, rain or shine. No matter how sophisticated we have become technologically, death still outsmarts us, out-strips us in its ruthless inevitability, leaving our hearts naked, confused, numb. But for the grace of memories. These death cannot take away. The ballad of Napoleon and Lafayette will stay in my heart, as long as I have breath, and the love we shared will stay there too, warm, real, strong. Their story is alive and well, in full color and detail, in my beating heart. The sorrow of the loss will hurt for some time, and in some ways , always, but the love Napoleon and Lafayette left will live much longer.

The Quiet Wisdom of Acceptance

Recently, our old Basset hound has been struggling with arthritis, and the supplements and baby aspirin help, but there are still days she has a hard time, especially when it is cold. She was sleeping on her soft bed and blanket next to our bed last night, when she decided she wanted to go sit outside. It was one o'clock in the morning, and it took her a long time to make it to the back door with me , so I could let her into the backyard. She slowly made it to a rhododendron bush , that was in very close proximity to a large fern, and managed to get under them, making it look like she was resting in a very lush green tent. The rain had slowed to a mist, and bright stars were flickering through thin white clouds. The frogs were out in force, their relentless chorus filtering cheerfully from the back forest. It was a beautiful night. Perhaps Lafayette knows this might be her last spring, so she wants to make sure she enjoys every moment of it. Her peaceful acceptance of her discomfort and old age, remind me of how our sweet Labrador, Napoleon, accepted so peacefully her last summer, when she was diagnosed with bone cancer. She would go sit by the greenhouse at night, under the moon and stars, and I would join her, and we would sit quietly together, our hearts one in the acceptance of her nearing death. Lafayette seems, 5 years after Napoleon's death, equally at peace with her diminishing physical abilities.The mystery of life and death is one which animals seem to accept with more grace and wisdom than most people I can think of. Perhaps because we are out of touch with the physicality of death. It is an organic process, and if you are close to nature and its ways, death is a natural happening, the other side of the same coin that is the mystery of existence. Lafayette stayed outside the entire night, something she never does, and I would check on her every couple of hours, since I decided I could not go to sleep, not knowing if the rain would eventually return in torrents. It did not, and after checking on her one more time, at about 4:45, bleary eyed, I went to bed, because I had to get up again at 6:30 that morning. She ended up staying out there until 1o'clock in the afternoon, when it started to rain hard. She seemed very glad she had spent the night outside. I was exhausted, but happy I had witnessed her insistence to do this, knowing she was not sure of how much time she had left. I would like that, when I get very ill, and my time is close, to spend the night under the stars, at peace with myself , life and death, and knowing my family too, in support, are equally at peace with the end. That is a big piece of the acceptance, to know those you love, love you enough to accept it is your time to leave this earth. That acceptance is soothing, calming, freeing to the one who has to come to terms with the fact their life is nearing its end, regardless of our philosophical, religious, existential outlook. The quiet wisdom of acceptance, the wisdom of love.

Rain in Georgia

Fourteen years ago, my youngest sister, Ludwina, committed suicide, exactly, to the day, three months before her 36th birthday. She was born July 20th, 1962, and died April 20th, 1998. She was born in Belgium, and died in Georgia. For more than 10 years, a poem sat like a raw rock in my heart , and when I was in therapy, finally, 10 years after her death, I was able to let go of the sorrow, and write down the poem I wanted to dedicate to her:

Rain in Georgia

It is raining in Georgia today
Will all the water in Cohutta
Wash away your grave?

Asphyxiation the death certificate read
But our parents' bitter marriage strangled
Your soul long before
The lasso you put around your neck.

It was a hot day in April.
Make me some lemonade mother, you said.
Allright, but you stay put.
I'll be right back.

The sugar didn't win that day
The bitter lemons no one would taste
Soured in the sun
As you swung from the highest beam
In mother's and father's garage
Of that lovely Georgia home.

You wore a blue bathing suit
And made your exit quietly.
No one drank lemonade that day.
The bitter-sweet concoction sat
While you made your final get away.

Trudi Ralston, March 30th, 2009.

I am grateful to my therapist, Judith B., for her wisdom and encouragement. I finally came to peace, after what seemed an endless torment, with Ludwina's death.

Son, Some Day, All of This Will Be Yours.

This famous line, spoken by Redd Foxx on the television show "Sanford and Son", which ran with great success between 1972 and 1976, came to mind when I looked around my small house this sunny Saturday morning. Clutter drives me crazy in the winter, but in the spring and summertime, when the gray clouds  finally make way for some badly needed sunshine and blue skies, clutter kind of makes me happy. We start cleaning up the yard, planting pansies and primroses, the cats snooze outside on their blankets I put outside for them in the sun on the deck, dusty carpets and pillows get shaken out in the fresh, clean smelling air, my husband starts tinkering in the garage, and messes with our cars, just itching for a project. It is 1o'clock in the afternoon, and we are all still in our pajamas, happily munching on donuts. Nobody cares when lunch is going to happen, all the windows are open ,letting in fresh air, and the beds are stripped down, making the place look like a gypsy encampment. Instead of getting aggravated, I am just happy, grabbing my sunhat, my fat kitty Sneakers and , in my pajamas ,I lay down with a pillow and the purring cat, to soak up the delicious sun, amidst all the clutter of potted plants, shovels, airing out blankets. I feel just happy as a clam. I grew up in a beautiful two story house, sitting on about 5 acres, with a custom made pool, a guest house, a large pond with ducks and swans, and a ton of nice furniture and art. But it certainly did not spell happiness, and in the end all of it was lost to me. My house now, is small and extremely cozy, relaxed, it has the feel of a small, well stocked curio shop. Every room tells a story with its abundance of pictures, books, homemade embroideries and paintings, a ton of books in every room of the house, cats and their toys and blankets,and a big old dog, and her beds and toys and blankets. This house is not for show, this house is for us. It tickles my funny bone on some days, and I will giggle and tell my 20 year old son, "Son , some day, all of this will be yours", and we all laugh, because my son is familiar with the Redd Foxx line. I am so glad I came across the show "Sanford and Son" many years ago. I just fell in love with the show, and years later, it still provides me with a humorous perspective on my own circumstances, and I am happy about that. Happiness is a precious commodity and today, amidst the attempt to make some sense out of the winter's dust and accumulated clutter, with the sun tickling my face and freshly painted sparkling nail-polished  toes, with my husband and son, equally content, I am happy, because I can say that all this is mine.

The Mallard

Last fall, our pool cover gathered enough water to create the look and feel of a small pond. One day, late in that autumn, I heard a splash through the open kitchen window, looked outside and saw a beautiful mallard land on the gathered pool water. Its bright green rainbow beauty was a familiar sight, one that sent a shock of longing and nostalgia through me, because when I was growing up in Belgium our large property had a large pond, on which my brother always kept mallards. I could not keep my eyes of the duck as it happily swam across our pool, preening itself, shaking out its tired wings. Perhaps he had missed the group flights south, because the chill of winter was already in the air. I fed the duck bread, I gently talked to it,and the bird seemed to respond to my fascination with him. When I looked at the duck, I saw my brother before me, in our garden, feeding his ducks, and the pain of not having seen my only surviving sibling for going on 15 years now, filled me with a raw sense of pain and loss. I so much wanted the duck to stay, and each day for several weeks, the mallard would fly into the pool, swim around, eat the breadcrumbs I tossed him, I would talk to him, making duck sounds the way my brother taught us, and the duck would answer in turn. I found myself looking forward to the daily visits, wondering what the animal's story was. Would he be alright through the winter? Winter came,and still the mallard came around. The pool's water froze, and still the duck would show up, and the bread crumbs would fall soundlessly onto the frozen surface. I worried about the duck, why was he not with the others in his group? This went on for most of the winter, and just when I had allowed myself to consider the duck a friend, who treated my conversations to and with him with great deference, he stopped showing up. I felt an acute sense of loss, but hoped he had finally found his way to where he belonged,and I hoped I had somehow helped him make the transition. When he stopped showing up, I still would look for him, like a child still wishing the fair ground would not be empty of all the fun booths and rides that now made the place seem so dead. My brother lives in Texas, far away,even by American standards of distance, and I so much wanted to cover the distance in time and space. Parents should not make their children choose when their marriage falls apart. My parents 'marriage blew up, like a slow motion bomb, doing maximum damage to us four kids. My father was too weak to stand up to my mother, and our mother poisoned our relationship with our father one drop of venom at a time, and by the time we realized what happened, we all had become suspicious strangers, exhausted and too traumatized to save the pieces. I miss my brother, I miss the childhood that was thrown out with the bitter warfare, the intrigue, the lies, manipulations that polluted our hearts and souls. Both my sisters are dead, both my parents are dead. My brother is alive, way down in Texas, but in a way he too, is dead. I will always think of the mallard, each fall, as the winter's chill comes near, wondering if I ever will see the mallard, who I named Bart, again. Bart is my brother's name. Bart Julian, such a beautiful name.

Silence

When I was not quite 17, I came across a tiny volume in my parent's library, that had quotes from different philosophers. One in particular struck a deep chord:  "Silence is the highest revelation." Lao-Tzu. As a quiet and solitary teenager, who often withdrew in books and quiet contemplation and poetry, the statement drew me in, comforted me in an almost eerie way. Being alone did not mean exclusion, but a door to a deeper understanding. It allowed me to enjoy my solitude in a new way, to appreciate the silence of nature at dawn, at night, the quiet of stars, flowers, trees, the sky. It was very exhilarating in a most private, quiet way. For many years later, in the busyness of college abroad, graduate school, meeting my husband, marriage, becoming a mother to my son, who is in college now himself, I lost that inner silence. Then terrible things started happening in my family, and when the dust cleared, my youngest sister had committed suicide, my other sister died of cancer at age 44, leaving two young children, my father had succumbed to Alzheimer's and died, but not before my mother had kicked him out when he was already ill, my mother died of liver cancer, having been a lifelong closet alcoholic, and my brother and I became permanently estranged under the strain and intrigue of our family falling apart. The funeral after my sister's suicide was the implosion: I never saw anyone again after her funeral and that was April 1998. And the trauma started for me in earnest, with insomnia, bad dreams, isolation, nausea, weight gain, which led to therapy eventually, years after the facts.And the silence came back. I soon realized this was a very different silence. This was a silence of loss, emptiness, lack of closure and answers, lack of dignity, compassion; the silence of stupor and humiliation, the silence of why with no clues. It is a silence I learn to live with, it comes and goes, like an uninvited guest. I cannot share this silence with any one, like you can a quiet sunrise, because this silence is the hurt in me, it is not a function of nature or contemplation. That silence is something I can almost touch at times, as I realize that with time, wounds do heal, slowly and with acceptance comes peace and understanding. For many years, silence had been a friend, a kind companion. Now, silence is an obnoxious presence, who often without warning, will tear at my resolve,  my energy, my confidence , my hopes and dreams. I have enormous respect for the animals who live as pets with people and who, even under good circumstances are at the will of their keepers,hoping the people they live with will understand the needs they have to communicate without words. I have always had dogs, and for the last 12 years now, also cats. I marvel at their ability to make me understand what it is they want or need. Perhaps it is because I often feel mute emotionally, trying to communicate feelings and thoughts frayed and worn out  from hidden emotional strain and sorrow. I want to make sure I give voice to my animals' needs, and I also passionately support animal rights causes with petitions and financial support. I started doing embroideries, because it is a way to give expression to feelings of beauty in nature, without words. Silence speaks peacefully when I work on my embroideries, and it has been become a way to start recapturing the sweet silence Lao-Tzu spoke of to me almost 40 years ago.

Puget

There is a small wooden church on Puget Street downtown that was the start of an important journey for me. A journey that started one early Sunday morning in January 1994, when my then next door neighbor, Shelia, invited me to go to church with her. I did not know what kind of church, all I knew was that the church recently had a new Pastor from San Antonio, Texas. I had lived in Texas for 10 years and was familiar with San Antonio, having spent one Christmas and New Year's Eve there with my parents and brother and two younger sisters , in1981. We stayed at a beautiful hotel on the river walk. So, a pastor from Texas, was kind of like a pastor from home. When we got to the church and Shelia parked her car, I noticed all the people walking to the church were black. Maybe that was not too surprising as Shelia and her family were black. Suddenly I became anxious, I thought, but I am not black, people will resent me or hate me. Nothing could have been further from that fear, because the moment I walked through the doors of the church, I was greeted with smiles and hugs. I was overwhelmed with joy, because I was at a point of social isolation where I really needed a morale boost. I had never set foot in a black church before, and the experience was so wonderful, so uplifting, I could not wait to go back. I still can't, 18 years later, and the church is now on Pacific, in Lacey, in a beautiful brand new building. Shelia moved to Virginia 9 years ago, but I kept going to New Life Baptist Church. Our pastor from Texas is a Bishop now, the church has grown a lot, but the spiritual messages of hope, love and faith, the wonderful choir, the joy of being there has only increased over time. I feel I draw great strength from the sermons I hear, the spiritual and emotional support, the friendships I was privileged to make over the years.At a time when some people are bent on turning the clock back on racial tolerance and understanding, the black church continues to be a beacon of hope, of compassion, of profound mysticism when it comes to transmitting the power of Christ like love and wisdom. When my soul was under the floor after my youngest sister's suicide in 1998, when my parent's bitter marriage tore our family apart, when my father succumbed to Alzheimer's in the midst of  betrayal and intrigue, that ended with the death of yet another sister and my mother, the church saved me from despair, and turned the ashes of tragedy into renewed dignity and hope. Ever since I was a child, I was drawn to black history, and was infuriated as an 8 year old, learning about the horrors of slavery. In college in Texas, I became friends with two students from Tyler, Texas, Cathy W. and Shelia P. who invited me to their home in the summer of 1980. Even tough I was the only white person in their neighborhood, I was treated with love and kindness. Cathy's mom gave me a 1971 President John F. Kennedy silver dollar. I felt so at home, it was a wonderful experience. The same year, I had a roommate from Nigeria, Cordelia O. She told me something I always remembered and that put racial relations in this country in a sober context. She said she preferred to wear her African clothes, which were beautiful, bright and exotic, she even gave me one of her dresses and headscarves, because she felt she was treated with respect when she wore her Nigerian clothes. She told me whenever she dressed in Western modern dresses - and she was a very attractive woman with a great sense of style- she said she was treated like a second class citizen, she was shocked. She said before coming to America, she had never felt anything but good and confident about who she was and her looks and race, but once she donned western garb, she felt she could begin to understand how American blacks felt, because in Western clothes people did not treat her like an African woman, but like an American black woman. She said it made her yearn for home where she did no longer have to feel this way, no matter what she wore. Her insight was quite an eye opener to me. That was 1980. In 1988 I moved to Washington State, and became a member of New life Baptist Church in 1994, when I was baptized by Pastor Obey in March of that year at the church on Puget. I felt I had finally come home, spiritually and emotionally. The longing that started in my child' heart so long ago, on the other side of the world, was finally fulfilled.That is why I refuse to give in to an element of American thinking right now, that wants to rekindle the ugly specter of racism and division, because I feel it as a personal attack on all that gave me hope, courage, strength, and joy when no one else would. It breaks my heart to think America cannot get beyond this, because my heart is tied up in the black church and its history, as it is now part of my history as an American citizen which I became on September 29th, 1994.

Daughter Judy

When I was growing up in Belgium, we watched American cartoons with great enthusiasm. Since television hours were limited, and most cartoons only played on weekends, we as children would anticipate these shows with a lot of excitement. One of our all time favorites was the Flintstones, because of all the outrageously clever technical devices, like the monster under the sink, who took care of the garbage, the bird whose sharp beak took the role of the phonograph needle, the elephant whose trunk was used for the shower, it was just such a fun show. I really liked The Jetsons and all their futuristic gadgets. I loved the instant hair do machine, the rolling walk ways, the flying cars. But most of all, I wanted a dress like the one Judy wore,and I loved her hair do. It was not just the cartoons. Shows like Star Trek, Daktari, Flipper, I love Lucy, Mannix, Hawai-Five-O, were part of our fascination with everything American. It was where I wanted to be, and I am sure it started the dream in my heart to want to move to America before it actually took on a more pragmatic shape when I became a foreign exchange student to Dallas, Texas in 1976. I find it fascinating that the cartoons especially had this ability to fire the imagination,drawings coming to live,starting aspirations and longings in us as children.The humor in the relationships in The Flintstones, with the antics between Fred and Barney, the friendship and trials of Wilma and Betty, the cuteness of pebbles and Bam-Bam, stayed with us as we grew up and we would at times recall how fun it was to watch these shows together as a family. Once I had lived in this country for a number of years, I became fond of some shows that spoke to me specifically of the American experience. To this day, my all time favorite is All in the Family, with Carroll O'Connor and Jean Stapleton. I recently saw a rerun of the series, and was amazed at how current the issues remain that this show from 40 years ago dealt with: political corruption, economic stress, racism, sexism, religious concerns,all these things in essence have changed very little, especially in view of a trend to reverse the clock in extreme right wing circles.Another show I loved was Three's Company, because it was just plain fun. And I loved Sanford and Son, the dynamic between Demond Wilson and Redd Foxx never got old, I loved the relationship they had as father and son and it allowed me a peek into black culture and comedy before I made lasting friendships and connections through black friends in college, through neighbors and through my so far going on 18 year membership at a black Baptist church.Television can intrigue, can encourage, can unite. It was a positive thing for me, because it started a dream, that is still going on, the pursuit of happiness.

Out of Print

The announcement yesterday that the Encyclopedia Britannica would no longer put out printed books filled me with a bittersweet feeling. My father bought us the Encyclopedia when we started college. He loved knowledge, and was so proud of his purchase for us. He passed away in 2008, amidst great family strife, and I do not know what became of the collection or any of his possessions. My father loved books and I can easily say I inherited my passion for reading and knowledge from him. By the time I was thirteen, I was reading French literature, like "Le Lion", by Joseph Kessel, a marvelous book that probably laid the foundation for my passion for animals and their needs and rights. He also recommended the poetry of Charles Baudelaire, Arthur Rimbaud,Alphonse Daudet, like "Lettres de mon Moulin". He recommended a magical book by a young French writer, "Le Grand Meaulnes " by Alain Fournier, a book that positively haunted me with its beautiful language and story. Before I was sixteen, I was reading Gogol, Tolstoy, and by the time i finished highschool, I had read most of Heinrich Boll's novels, was familiar with the poetry of Kahlil Gibran and had fallen in love with "Stray Birds" of Rabindranath Tagore.My father had a subscription to National Geographic, which he had bound by years in leather, and form the time I was eight, I traveled all over the world in those magazines. I read a ton of fairy tales, that enchanted me as much with the art of their pictures as they did their stories. I had a marvelous pop-up book, a Flemish version of an oriental tale, called "The Flying Suitcase", that spoke of a man who traveled allover the world in a magical suitcase. To this day, I remember exactly the magnificent shimmering blue gown of the princess he met. To me, a quiet, solitary child, books were companions, teachers, friends. they were treasures to revisit time and again. To this day, I collect books. I love the travel novels of Colin Thubron, the novels of Amy Tan, the writing of Chang-Ray Lee, Anchee Min, Khaled Hosseini, Lisa See, Jon Katz. I devoured Toni Morrison' novels that I thought were linguistic and literary wizardry. Books helped shape my psyche, my heart and are everywhere in my house. I cannot imagine my world without their presence, physically and emotionally.

Ishi

When I was in college, I took several classes in Native American History and one book in particular still stands out: Ishi. It dealt with the lone survivor of a native tribe. All his people were extinct, he was the only one left. even before I lost my family, I felt great empathy with this man. More so now, as I no longer have any one to speak my native language , Flemish , with other than my aunt in Belgium and that means calling her long distance, which I do every two or three months. I have a brother in Texas, but I last saw him in 1998, at my youngest sister's funeral in Georgia. He no longer has any interest in contact as our family truly was torn apart by tragedy upon tragedy. I see friends of mine, like my Vietnamese friend and her family who own a beauty salon, and they all work together, speak Vietnamese together. We were in Tae Kwon Do as a family, and the owners all worked together, spoke Korean together. I have a Peruvian friend, and she and her mother and the three children all lived and spoke their beautiful Spanish together. Together. I find myself speaking Flemish to myself, remembering Flemish jokes my father told, or recalling conversations with my brother when he was still part of my life and story. There are days when that absence of connectedness to my roots cuts like a cold knife on raw skin, the skin of my heart. My husband and son are warm, loving people and sometimes all it takes is one of their big, bear hugs to make things all right again. I have great empathy for animals, and am a passionate supporter of the American Humane Society, the Doris Day Animal League, Humane Society Legal Defense Fund,and Humane activist. Perhaps because in cases of abuse, animals have no voice, as the ASPCA so poignantly points out. I have turned neighbours in to Animal Services for documented animal cruelty, sometimes successfully so.The ache in my own heart makes their vulnerability more pressing to me. For 25 years now, my husband and I have been taking in unwanted and abandoned  neighbour and shelter dogs. We also always have two or three cats, that somehow always find their way to our home, and peacefully co-exist with the dogs.I speak "cat" and "dog" quite well by now... The inability to speak my language when I want to, the isolation emotionally it can cause, makes me feel like a monk, linguistically, a  monk who took a vow of silence on a not so voluntary basis. That cache of isolation gives me a unique perspective, often difficult to articulate,which can be very frustrating. Perhaps that is part of the reason I like doing my embroideries, and I enjoy writing poetry, two more ways to try to get my perspective across.                                                                                                                              
language is a fascinating thing. It brings people together, and it keeps people apart. I grew up speaking Flemish, and by the time I was twelve, I was learning French, by the time I was thirteen, I was learning ancient Latin and Greek, and German and English. I had the opportunity to put my English to good use when I was sixteen and spent six weeks with an American family in Illinois. When I was in college at TCU in Fort Worth, Texas, I decided to challenge myself and take Spanish. Two years later, I got the chance to practice that very rudimentary knowledge when I spent a month with a Mexican friend's family in Mexico City, a wonderful experience I treasure to this day.With only four years of college Spanish at TCU I was accepted into the graduate Spanish program at the University of Texas in Austin, a feat of which I am proud, as the Spanish and Portuguese Department was at the time ( 1981) ranked fifth in the nation. I graduated with a master's degree from that department in 1987. Having access to Spanish made it wonderful to travel in Costa Rica, the Caribbean and Panama. I was blessed with great friends who would invite me to stay with them, all I had to pay was the plane ticket. It brings you so much closer to a culture, a people if you speak the language. My husband knows a little Flemish but as it was just me he mostly dealt with, there was not enough incentive to pursue it fully.The same reason my son never learned Flemish, in a way it is easier for him that way, although it would have been truly nice for me. Ishi. I have very little accent, that only makes me blend in better, and so the circle of linguistic isolation, invisible, untraceable elegantly loops closed.

A Different Pace

I live on a very quiet street and it brings back memories of the street I grew up on in Belgium. Everyone came home for lunch, my Dad from work, which was five minutes from our house, my brother and sisters and I. I rode my bicycle to school all through middle and high school, no matter what the weather, and I did not mind. It was a twenty minute ride, twenty-five if there was a strong wind,and it allowed me to come home for a two hour hot lunch, homemade. This was a time when the milkman delivered milk to your door, the butcher brought phoned in orders, the baker and beermerchant delivered to your front door,so did the vegetable merchant.And they all lived about ten minutes fro our house. On Sunday, you could hear the churchbells from your bedroom window, calling us to Catholic Mass. The family doctor came any hour,day or night, if we were ill. It seems strange to me, that this was part of my upbringing,considering I was born in 1957, not 1907. I miss that sense of belonging that is possible in small communities very much. Perhaps, if gas prices keep going up, and life in general becomes more and more expensive, small communities with stores very close by, will make a rebirth, out of necessity. It is not the standard science-fiction fantasy, I know, but one I am partial to. It was not a better world, people do not change that much, but it was a world in which people were more closely connected.It was also a world of strict social rules and cohesion. There was a small percentage of families that were immigrants from Morocco, and with their brown skin and dark hair and eyes, they were treated as outcasts. I remember staring at a young Moroccan child, carrying a large bottle of orange soda home. I was about eight, about her age. She was happily singing, and stopped when she realized my gaze fixated on her. I thought her exotic, but my persistent stare made her angry and she made a face at me. It probably did not help that i was feeling rather smart in my pretty Sunday dress, and that she was wearing a humble housecoat. I always remembered, to this day, her annoyance, and my blushing realization that I was not the first person to make her feel ill at ease. A year or two later, I was on a rare bus ride with our housekeeper, and there was a beautiful North-African young woman who got on the bus with her brother and mother. This time, I felt inadequate in comparison to her beautiful almond shaped eyes that had long, dark lashes, her very smart powder-blue coat and stylish patent leather purse, also powder-blue that sported a very cute tiger keychain. Her long, frizzy hair flowed halfway down her back, and she stood,gracefully, comfortably in stylish high heels and bell bottom pants. I thought she was beautiful, and I felt quite ordinary in my cotton summer dress and very short haircut. Many years later, I would become friends with a wonderful young doctoral student from Morocco, who was nothing but kind and chivalrous to me. To this day, there are time I miss him, his easy wit and sharp intelligence, the way he seemed to watch out for me. For many years, we exchanged Christmas cards, and then, one year the cards stopped, and I somehow misplaced his address. I still dream sometimes that we get to meet again and catch up. Graduate school was a great time. I met students from all over the world : India, Bangladesh, Egypt, Morocco, Argentina, Bolivia,Japan,France,...Many  became good friends. To this day, My french roommate, who lives in Paris now, correspond and exchange Birthday and Christmas gifts. My two friends from India and Bangladesh were dear to me like brothers, and made me feel safe and loved. I had roommates from Argentina, Bolivia, Puerto Rico and Japan.

36 Years in America

For some time now, people have told me "you should write your story" , so maybe I will. My father dreamed of immigrating to Canada, and later encouraged my brother and sisters and I to immigrate to the United States. I have been a citizen of this unique country since September 29th, 1994, something of which I remain very proud. These are curious times, but there is a spirit and resilience to this large and fascinating country that keeps drawing people in from all over the world. My country of origin happened to be Belgium. I am Flemish, from a town about half an hour from Oostende, where my father's mother and his youngest sister lived, a town called Roeselare. From the age of eight on, I started dreaming of moving to the US, as I would watch episodes of "Flipper"and imagine that the actor who played Sandy,would ask me to marry him. I so wanted to meet him, I wondered in my naive child's mind if he ever vacationed in Oostende for the summer? The memory of these childhood thoughts still make me smile. Little did I know that I would eventually marry an equally handsome American,my Californian born husband, Michael. But that was much later,and not until I had spent ten years in Texas.
Texas is tied in with my first experience with television.I was five years old, my father turned on our very first black and white TV, and what I saw was President Kennedy shot in his Cadillac, in Dallas, Texas. Fourteen years later, I would spend a year in Richardson,Texas, near Dallas as an exchange student. I ended up going to college in nearby Fort Worth, at TCU for four years, before going to graduate school in Austin,Texas for a master' s degree in Spanish and Latin American literature, where I met my husband. So Texas is very special to me. My parents and two younger sisters have died, but my younger brother still lives in Fort Worth and a very dear artist friend of mine lives in Weatherford. When I moved to Washington State in1988, I joined a black Baptist Church six years later, and our senior pastor and his wife are both from Texas,which only endears them more to me.