Dear Friend in Romania, thank you for telling me how you located my poem "Translate," via italianamericanwriters.com/Fortunato.html "Translate" is one of my favorite poems, but not one I revisit often. So this has been a welcome reunion, poet and poem. It's also a delight to hear that you have included it in your undergraduate paper on English/Italian writers in the United States.

The " blue-eyed one" in the poem is a friend who like me was studying Italian. That's why I included the litanies of Italian words, to suggest our effort to learn the language, and free ourselves from fear about all kinds of other things, notably about our potential power to change or  "speak in our key."

"Key" here is first a musical key--I was urging us to make our own music, not play the tired old tunes of repression. But key also unlocked parts of ourselves that were repressed or denied by the dominant, male culture. Some of this language sounds outdated now that feminism, in its many guises, has helped alter attitudes in the U.S. But when I wrote this poem in the 1980s, feminism in the U.S. was only beginning to take hold. Revolution of this kind takes a long time.

The poem was written during the years I was in my first marriage when I was attempting to break free of certain gender restrictions on action, speech, achievement, enjoyment, mistakes. Caution and constraint can be extremely limiting, and during this period of my life, it was my connection to other women who were mothers like me and also trying to claim their own emotions, ideas,and power to act--as I say, only through my connection to other women did I grow to trust myself and take leaps into independence. Those leaps were painful and jarring and, like my divorce, led to breakage.

For students and young woman today, I suspect such restraints are not so limiting, but that surely depends on place and culture. When I teach immigrant young women, especially those from Asian and African countries, I find them hampered by uncertainty as to how to voice their own ideas. Some of this hesitation is undoubtedly related to their general uncertainty as immigrants.

I do want to talk to you and ask you questions about your town or city, your studies and about your country. Am I right that there are many Italian-speaking people in Romania?

Before we set a time to call, please tell me what town you live in, so I can look it up on a map.

Also sketch in a little about yourself--age, activities, family, neighborhood, interests, talents, etc. I'm very curious to know you better.

When you think of me, think of a medium-sized woman, in a medium-sized city, with tree-lined streets, and one of the largest American rivers, the Mississippi, flowing through its downtown. That is Saint Paul, the capital of Minnesota. It is a lovely city with a beautiful, serene cathedral where I often stop simply to find my spirit rise into its welcoming dome and hover with the circle of soldier-saints, my favorite of which is clothed in green.

What soldier saints are doing in a Midwestern American cathedral probably has to do with the spiritual battles we all must fight, no matter what belief system we embrace. But those soldiers also link us to early days when Minnesota was a rough territory, populated by hardy settlers who could survive sub-zero (centigrade) winters and baking hot summers, with a few plagues of locusts thrown in. Minnesota also has a substantial population of Native Americans, some of whom have enough money via casinos, and some of whom do not.

Now I'm going to include the poem you're writing about, "Translate," for the simply joy of experiencing it again.

With all best wishes, Margot

 
TRANSLATE

1.
We played like children
scales on the keyboard
practicing Italian
subjunctives and dreams,
missing the flats
F sharp in G major,
the difficult plurals
da capo, staccato.
You told about failure,
long legs on the pedals,
you spoke in Italian;
long hair down your back.

2.
I have lived with husband,
marito, marito
who married again,
sposato, espoused
a woman he knew
prima, prima
he began making a garden
giardino, unsown.
I have painted the walls,
muri, muri
I have painted the walls,
grigio, grey.

3.
Last night we talked
without looking down,
your blue eyes sharp,
you played all the notes,
you spoke in our language,
you said it in English,
I learn to be single.

4.
Not lost in the courtyard
perdito, perso
chasing the sky
cielo, cielo
tramps in the garden
giardino, giardino
with outstretched hands
mano, mani
No longer the girl
stumbling, running
who could never be good
buona, bene
followed by tramps
with pockets bulging
followed by tramps
with misplayed scales.

5.
No! I hear you
in the language itself
pull the egg
from the snake's mouth,
pull words from the son,
frame daughter's slammed door.
I hear you, amica,
understand all the notes,
speak in our key.

 
From THE ANNUNCIATION, Copyright © 2001 by Margot Fortunato Galt. All rights reserved.

Margotlog: Our Flanders Field

Margotlog: Our Flanders Field

     For the British, the deaths in World War I struck hard. In that "war to end all wars," some in British coastal towns could see the flare of mortars and hear the firing of guns in Belgian. In that war of attrition, men dig into trenches equipped almost like houses with cots and kitchens. For weeks, months, years, British and Belgians dug in opposite their German enemies. The soldiers could smell each other's cooking, hear occasional voices raised in agony or song.

     I imagine there is a double horror of war fought in such close proximity: fear for one's own agony, coupled with disgust and fear at the agony you cause. Erik Marie Remarque's quintessential war novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, (193?) tells it best--the young German students conscripted to fight a war they don't understand, and don't want, who in mud and fear become crazed with waiting, until they rush over the tops into blind hatred and enemy fire.

     Of my father and his three brothers, only the youngest, Frankie, went into combat in World War II. Whatever bloodshed he witnessed as he recovered from malaria in North Africa, once he was sent to Naples, his service became the rollicking events of an urban cowboy. He shooed whores into American officers' beds, requisitioed donkeys, bread, and wine. Since he spoke formal and dialectical Italian, he hinted that he's been part of an American/British contingent to urge the Pope to speak out against the war. Yet, even Frankie came home a changed man, refusing to visit his wife and daughter, divorcing and marrying a New York lawyer he'd met in the Army.

   My father, called the "professor" by his more he-man brothers, was excused from combat because of poor eyes and flat feet. Instead he did war work at Kabuta in Pennsylvania--who knew what was being manufactured there. In the worker's cottage where we lived, my mother's tales created my first memories--of a doctor leaning over me as she held me down on the kitchen table for him to pierce my eardrum and let the pus drain. "Snow up to the top of the windows," she would say, turning my early memories into scenes from her North Dakota childhood, and making me a prime reader later of the Laura and Marie books.

     It's been hard for me to bring war inside the family circle, that is, until this spring when I taught three veterans in a mid-level writing class. One never went overseas, one was a helicopter pilot in Iraq, and one spent a decade in the service, both in Afghanistan and elsewhere. The two who saw active duty both came home with PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. Now as I drive my husband to the airport a few days from Memorial Day, my husband, the Vietnam draft refuser who spent 18 months in a federal penitentiary rather than escape to Canada or fight in Vietnam, my husband who does not talk about war, any war unless prodded, my husband who has his own kind of scars from his prison experience--he's on his way to play Scrabble in San Jose. But as I pause to study the rows of white crosses in Fort Snelling National Cemetery, I think of my three students, one who proudly described walking with his veteran grandfather among the rows of crosses, anticipating about his own burial there, who came home from Iraq, after flying the wounded from battle to hospital and could not shake the screams and terror from his memory, and the third who eventually trained U.S. soldiers to take their places in Afghanistan, surely one of the strangest wars American soldiers have ever fought.

     These two wrote about returning home with a sense of terrified emptiness, becoming easily agitated and losing emotional control, of being unable to look for work or keep their hands from shaking. This is service that saps life for years after the battlefield. With help from the Veterans Administration, each man has found ways to help himself recover--talk therapy, hard exercise, weeping, writing, working with other vets. Whatever else I may think of President Obama, and I'm largely a supporter, I honor his efforts to keep the United States out of active combat in the implosion that is the near east. I honor this, even as I'm horrified at the hundreds of thousands of refugees, and the breakdown of civilized decency. It is very hard to tell what will happen there, and what we may be called upon to do.

Margotlog: Across the Racial Divide

Margotlog: Across the Racial Divide

When I was growing up in South Carolina--before contemporary civil rights, before Martin Luther King, Jr., before busing, white fight, and the recent police violence against black people in many U.S. cities--I lived in a block-long, castle-like fortress that was built to house the military academy that became The Citadel. My father taught at that college, which had moved north of downtown Charleston, to a lovely site on the Ashley River. Charleston, in its amusing sense of self, used to brag that its two rivers, the Ashley and the Cooper, came together to form the Atlantic Ocean.

I was a kid who walked to school, to an elite, all-white-girls academy called Ashley Hall. But I walked through neighborhoods where many black people lived. An old granny sat every day in her yard, her hair in a turban, a pipe between her lips. Above, on a long porch, little black kids, too young for school, looked down solemnly at me, as I looked up solemnly at them. It would never have occurred to me, or I suspect to them, that we might speak to each other. But we saw each other every weekday, and I wondered why they didn't have shoes, and why the old granny sat outside and smoked a pipe. I'd never seen a white woman smoke anything at all. As I say, I was very young.

My parents had come from the north, my mother from a tiny town in North Dakota and my father from Pittsburgh, where they met. Initially when we arrived, they had nothing to say about the dark-skinned people we called Negroes. I didn't grow up with a black woman who cooked or cleaned or took me and my sister to the park. My parents knew nothing about the intensely connected ways of Southern blacks and white. But first in my walks to school, then from our Old Citadel custodian, Shorty, and later from riding the city buses, and arguing with my father as civil rights heated up, I learned quite a bit about the complicated, often disheartening, and infuriating, and sometimes simply human ways that black and white people interacted.

Let's say I gathered a satchel of images and voices, attitudes and surmises. Only a few black people actually spoke with me--Shorty came by our apartment to fix a water faucet. He doffed his soft fedora, and with a polite, "Yes, Mrs. Fortunato, yes, ma'am," he entered our kitchen with his tools and stopped the drip. He also took our colored Easter chicks down to his farm on Johns Island when they lost their pink or blue down and began to grow white pin feathers. "Can't have a chicken crowing in the house," my father informed us. Shorty touched the brim of his hat and kindly carted the growing chickens away. We considered it a favor. He probably did too.

Later when I was allowed to go home with some schoolmates from Ashley Hall, I met their "colored maids." These were uniformed women with strict requirements for hand washing and sitting at the table to eat our snack. They bustled like my mother in our Old Citadel kitchen, and they corrected my friends when they got boisterous. Their voices had authority, and my friends obeyed.

Even later, I sat in the back seat of my girlfriend's car while her boyfriend drove us to visit her former cook, now too ill to work. She and her family brought this woman boxes of groceries and, if I remember right, paid for her doctoring. They treated her almost like family, thought she clearly lived a different life, in a small house with a dirt yard, and her daughter's children swarming in and out with questions and childish troubles. This was not the lovely, serene house near the Battery at the end of Charleston where my friend lived. In fact, other than the slew of kids, the old cook's house was more like our own rather cramped dwelling, now that we had moved across the Cooper River to the small town of Mt. Pleasant.

Recently, I've begun to harbor a theory about race in north and south. It goes like this. In Southern towns where white families hired black men and women routinely, where these daily experiences of interacting taught them a range of shared emotions, from irritation to appreciation to obligation and resentment, it was harder to categorize the other race as the enemy, or as hateful. Daily interaction proved time and again that individual connections were rich, valued, and human. Yes, of course, there was racism. The city buses were segregated, and the same black women who worked hard in white kitchens were forced to trudge all the way to the back of the bus, passing me with an empty seat beside me, ashamed and baffled at a system that could extract such indignity from decent, hard-working women.

White people in many Northern cities, like Ferguson, and more recently Baltimore, and including Minneapolis/St. Paul, have systematically moved out of contact with black people. The phenomenon is called "white flight" and it accounts for the acres of white suburbs, while the core cities have become increasingly black. The race divide that did not exist in the Charleston of my childhood has fostered several generations of white people, including many police, who have not grown up knowing black people in a regular, everyday way. The teachers in schools are mostly white, and though they teach black students, they do not understand how their students' extended families work, how clan systems and churches take care of what in white culture is managed within a tighter family circle. I venture to guess they can't "read" black behavior, nor fully understand what black students say.

What they do know is fear. Fear of the unknown, fear engendered by racism, hardened by their black students' poverty. It is very hard to be comfortable when you're teaching students who are intractably poor. You can't grasp some of the essentials of their lives--the fast moves, the shifts from a parent to a grandparent, the ways black boys and then men make up for their degraded status via violence. Because along with "white flight" have gone jobs. Companies have moved from the center of cities to the peripheries. 
It is harder and harder for black people caught in poverty to make their way out.

A very clear example is what happened in Minneapolis. About twenty years ago, I began hearing that when the steel towns in the east went bankrupt, leaving black men without the good jobs that had made it possible for them to support families, single black women moved with their children from Gary, Indiana, to Minneapolis, because there were generous public services here. That may have been true, but the communities they created, in North Minneapolis, for instance, have not been able to support their children and grandchildren. There is growing poverty and anger. Growing distance. It makes me sad and troubled. It makes me wish we could reclaim some of what was generous and interactive about southern life when I was growing up, what is now, an increasingly long time ago.

Margotlog: For the Love of Julia

Her tongue is warm and rhythmic. We’re sitting flank-to-flank on the back- deck bench, my hand on her back to keep her from sprinting off, though she shows no sign of wanting to because, instead, she’s laving my arm with her insistent pink tongue. What other creature in the world loves my salt enough to clean it over and over from the back of my hand, wrist, lower arm?

“Don’t let that cat lick you,” my persnickety father used to warn. “Who knows where its tongue has been.” Well, there is that. I don’t let her lick my face, at least not more than a few swipes.

Julia, herself, is quite sleek. When either of her human companions steps out of bath or shower, Julia is there, waiting to be “wetted.” She gets almost dripping wet and immediately dries herself with her tongue. She doesn’t have to wet herself. We do it for her. And she returns the favor. This has proved an easy way of getting Vaseline into her.

Julia hacks. For maybe the first five years of our residence together, she hacked up globs of hair and food. Hairballs. Even vets recommended Vaseline. Our other two cats reluctantly lick if off their paws. Julia takes it from the side of my arm.

A year ago, the hacking changed. Instead of bringing something up, she crouched down, head extended like a snake, and wheezed. Asthma? In a cat? The vet had to do an x-ray. The only remedy was steroids. Already she was plump. Steroids would have made her fatter. We tried a diet.

 Almost impossible. She loves to eat, or let’s say, she doesn’t wear off her food. I’m afraid the asthma is slowing her down, but she was getting fatter even before.

Julie spends the night in bed with Fran. Or rather on the quilt Fran throws over himself as he sleeps in his recliner. Bad back, recliner bed. After several years of this, he doesn’t sleep well if she isn’t there to warm his knees. “For the love of Mike!” my father used to swear. I’d say, “For the love of Julia.”

Beautiful, sleek Julia. Even strangers meeting her for the first time comment, “Tuxedo cat.” Or “Kitler.” This bestowed because of the white that starts at the tip of her nose and swags down her cheeks and onto her chest, with a spot of black right above her mouth—Hitler’s moustache. If any of our cats were a killer, it would probably be her because as far as we know, she is the only one who ever knew the outdoors. But in cat years, that was long ago, and probably in cat leagues, far away.

Puss in Boots, she is also, with her four white paws below the sleek black tuxedo. A fancy-dress, ready-for-the-ball cat. Now we twirl together in a slow dance of sprightly, warm affection, until she excuses her and heads toward solitude.

Margotlog: Low Level Hum

Margotlog: Low Level Hum

There was expectation to the evening, a low-level hum of overcast sky and awkward bird call. At first I was going to walk the neighborhood. But along the drive, shoots were being strangled in last year's leaves. Pawing aside and tossing the the brown between my legs onto the drive, I uncovered more bright blue Scylla. When I looked up, two girls sped past, one with red glasses.

There's a random heart in me. Leave enough leaves with insects for the birds to eat. Leave enough of last years leaves, wet below the surface, keeping the soil moist against a drought.

After raking and carrying bundles to dump under the backyard pine, I set off. Couldn't go down the first alley--no enormous cottonwood tree curved against the sky. Nor the second one either--it ended beside a big apartment building. The third took me across two-lanes of traffic at Lexington and into familiar territory. A low-level hum of interest--to see the backyard behind the small house where my daughter and I had hunkered down, our first years in Saint Paul. 

For months, even years at a time, I do not think about the house, even though it's only eight blocks away. Mounting the alley heading toward it, I passed the huge landmark of a tamarack just retrieving its needles. Two heavy bodied crows swept above my head and settled in its top.

 Fragments of those three years kept time with my steps. I remembered my hands resting on a white sheet--so thin and white, they seemed almost insubstantial. She and I had had a hard time before we broke away. My hands said something about being worn down almost to the nub.

There was Easy the cat. No, Easy came to us when we still lived in the big duplex with the man who was sometimes my comrade. Our cat, the one we adopted for our little house, came from the basement of an antique shop on West Seventh. I can't remember her name just now, only the calico splotches of her, and her pee on the left-over carpet in the basement.

A huge snowfall our second year caved in the decrepit roof of the garage, allowing us to get enough insurance to rebuild it. Now I am about to pass the garage with its tangle of unkempt branches. The current owner has done nothing to enhance it. The roof still holds, and the outside walls remain a patchwork of siding. A scarecrow of a garage with a fine felt hat.

Do I really want to turn the corner and walk past the house which faces William Mitchell Law School? When we would walk out the front door toward Grand Avenue and its tantalizing clothing from Scandinavia, we would be putting a good face on our lives. She, beautiful even as an early teen, got a job in that Scandinavian clothing shop, and I, a easy moving skirt which I don't wear anymore.

Now that I'm passing the house, I remember that the front yard has lost its enormous silver maple. That tree dominated the low roof, and had the odd effect of making both itself and the small house seem to touch the sky.

I notice as before the curved window in the attic. Behind that front attic were two small rooms, and a tiny window out the back, like a ship's porthole, which gave me the sense of being at sea. In some ways we were at sea, unsure of land, trying to keep afloat in the tiny boat of a house, on a spinning ocean of a planet, in widening washes of space.

Margotlog: A Panting Junco and Silkwood

Margotlog: A Panting Junco and Silkwood

     This morning in my usual way, I flung on a coat over my robe and went to the backyard, planning to spread seeds for the birds. There in the driveway where I'd been throwing handfuls of seeds all winter hunched a small gray-black bird. It was panting.

     In the last week the air has been full of juncos, twittering in their more musical way than the sparrows' insistent, mindless chatter. I'd never seen so many of the dark males before, so dark as to almost black, but identifiable immediately when they flew, spreading their tail feathers and showing off the strips of white on either side.

     Poor little bird, I thought, as I stood there in the chill drizzle, watching it pant. We had silhouettes of hawks on all our windows facing the back yard, but still it may have bammed into a window. Other than its panting, it didn't move, just hunched over its legs, keeping warm. Deciding to wait before doing anything, I returned inside, read the paper, drank a cup of coffee. I still hadn't fed the birds. But there were distractions. I confessed to my husband that I'd been feeling lonesome lately. I wanted more company, I wanted to host a dinner party. He wasn't opposed, just not eager. Odd how we have changed as time passes. I'm more forgetful. He is less social. Babysitting his grandchildren once a week, and playing Scrabble at least that often, he doesn't seem to need more contact outside the home.

     Throwing on my coat again, and stuffing my feet into boots because it was drizzling, I went out again to watch the panting junco. It had moved maybe three inches to another patch of seeds. Still hunched into itself, still panting. I decided to take action. Don't ask me what triggered the decision. I knew what to do since for years I've been taking injured birds to the Wildlife Rehab Center on Dale, north of the freeway. I even took a bat last February when I returned from a writer's retreat at the Anderson Center in Red Wing, only to discover the next morning, a bat in our Saint Paul sink. Yes, it could have come from our own stash of bats in the attic. But this bat was in the kitchen sink. Hydrophobia! I thought terrified. Within minutes, Fran had captured the bat and put it in a cooler, I had clothes on, and was in the car driving north on Dale. I arrived a half hour before the Center opened, and walked in a woodland, hoping the incarceration in the cooler wouldn't kill the bat. A week later, a report came: it was normal and would be kept until the weather was warm enough for its release.

     Recently Fran and I watched the movie Silkwood, directed by Mike Nichols. We were probably inspired by Meryl Streep's nomination for an Academy Award, and memories of seeing her luminous, intelligent performances in other movies. But I think our motive this time was more about the facts, the real life on which the movie was based. Silkwood is a bio-pic about a real woman who worked at a plutonium pellet fabricating plant during the 1970s. The movie chronicles her transformation from a flighty, friendly, humorous sort to a no-holds-barred activist.

     The transformation is halting--she becomes disturbed hearing a co-worked scream as she's being treated with a corrosive substance to "clean" her from a "spill." She begins to notice slipshod practices that endanger herself and others. She is "picked" by management to be part of a surveillance team largely, it turns out, so management came keep an eye on her. Her home life with lover and roommate begins to fragment. She is not dependable in old familiar ways. She contacts the Atomic Energy Committee in Washington and is flown there to give testimony. She presents her fears and findings to a group meeting of workers, hoping to unionize them. Ultimately, she is killed on the road at night. We're sure it's inspired by the company.

     Reading about the real life aftermath, we learn that her friends and children sue the company, and the case goes all the way to the Supreme Court. The company must pay a large sum of money. Ultimately the plant is closed. Yet, there's a sense at the end of the movie that she has given her life to help protect others. Maybe this is exactly what she was doing in real life.

     The element in the movie that most interests me is Silkwood's slow built-up from awareness to taking action. It's this hiatus that I experience almost every time I put my body in action to help another being. Of course I'm not risking my life or job. The stakes are smaller. Yet every time I have taken a bird or yes a bat to the Rehab Center, my own needs and plans become, at some point, hugely secondary. I cannot NOT take action.

     This morning, as I asked Fran to help, rushed to get dressed, readied a basket where I've taken birds before, and selected a small towel to throw over the bird so it could be captured, I flitted from this to that, not finishing one thing, finding I'd left a crucial piece somewhere, imagining opening the car door before capturing the bird, seeing myself on the road with the wicker basket beside me, seeing myself carrying it into the Center and plunking it down, and hoping the small junco would live.

     Luckily when we went out with the basket, the bird took a hop, flew a few feet, then lifted higher and arrowed between the garage and wire fence, where there are with lots of sticks, a safe place for a small bird who may not be panting anymore. 

Margotlog: Because I Stand by This Window

Margotlog: Because I Stand by This Window

In the last week, the Christmas cactus by the computer has grown bright green shoots two and a half inches long. The light is changing, lengthening, and the wind is whirling. Long sticks of trees across the street sway like dancers in a sea-sky with clumps of clouds and splashes of blue.

Out the back window onto the backs of houses, I stare into feather-dusters of dark green white pine, and beyond, the twisted high vaults of the neighbor's elm. These are my trees, I belong to them, and to the gnarled, dwarfed crab apple which soon will die, yet still takes its awkward stance by the fence.

What does it take to fall in love with the physical world? To know a place as an extension of oneself? To let the gaze expand from inside through the glass to the outside world, where daily I spread seeds for the birds, spill out the used bird bath and refill it with warm water. Yesterday evening six morning doves lifted off in irregular pairs with a whirr of wings. My doves, I said to myself, not to possess them but to let them own a part of me.

Last spring after our brutal winter of heavy and continuous snow, first one, then the other of a dove pair found their way to the seeds in the back yard. One seemed to have a bulge at one side of her breast. I was afraid she was injured. But what could I do? Their lives must be lived in danger, as are ours, only different.

Gradually she recovered, if indeed that was what happened. Maybe she was already carrying eggs. Truly I could only guess--today six doves, the next day, none. Have they all six died? I am not in charge, nor do they owe me anything but their soft mournful calls, their soft gray pliant shapes which suddenly open to a fantail edged in white.

The doves take me back to childhood visits in North Dakota. We did not have morning doves in South Carolina, at least not in my cityscape. Only pigeons. But as I lay in the quiet upstairs bedroom of my grandfather's North Dakota house, I heard the coo-coo and was told it meant rain. Listening as a way of knowing oneself in a moment in space.

Wallace Stevens, the great 20th-century American poet, wrote, "The greatest poverty is not to live in a physical world." So I am not poor, counting over my riches, in this fading light of a blustery late March evening.