This is the continuation of a story that came to me almost as soon as I moved to a foreign country ("Trapped").
I am not a criminal. My passport is stamped with a visa allowing me to come, live, and work here. In fact, I am working for the government. But as I sit here at the teller’s window at the bank, filling out their paperwork for the third time, I feel like a criminal. “This isn’t your name,” the teller said after examining the first form I filled out. Rather than immediately tell me what was wrong, she had silently scrutinized the form, then my passport, then me for a long ten minutes before deciding that my name was wrong. I filled out the form again, writing my name the way her country wanted it, yet feeling like a liar for changing my name on a legal form. Another silent ten minutes passed by, her eyes bouncing like a pinball from the form, the screen, the passport, and me. Finally, she told me that I couldn’t leave any boxes blank. She starred the blank field and shoved the paperwork through the hole in the window to have me fix it. I glanced at the form and inwardly groaned—I had left it blank because I didn’t know the address for where I was born. No one I know has that information memorized. I tried to explain that I couldn’t answer that question. “You don’t know where you were born?” Disbelief and disgust filled her words. Maybe, I thought, she is being polite for her country. For my country, she was being rude enough for me to call the bank manager. But she already had a group of tellers helping her treat me like a criminal or idiot. Perhaps the bank manager was already watching. “No, I don’t. I know the city,” I explained, “but not the address. I haven’t lived there in thirty years.” So, now I am filling out the form the third time with four bank associates staring down at me from behind an inch of glass. Even with this final form, the teller makes me redo my signature because it does not exactly match my passport. She asks for a copy of my contract to prove that I have income. I inwardly fume at her implication and wait another long round of visual pinball after I tell her that I don’t have a copy with me. I helplessly watch as she takes care of transactions for other tellers and count money for her supervisor, seemingly eager to help every other person in the bank rather than finish with me. Finally, she asks if I have any money to deposit. I explain that I do, but I need to exchange it first. She helps three more people before insisting that she cannot exchange my money until I have deposited money into my account. I explain that I will have money to deposit but only after she exchanges it for me. A kind person—the only kind person in the entire building, in my opinion—behind me in line hands them a few inconsequential bills to use to open my account. Then the teller helps some other people before taking my money to exchange. She carefully examines each bill, handling it, holding it up to the light, passing it around the group of tellers watching her. Finally, she shoves one bill through the window to me. “We cannot take that one,” she says. “It’s ripped.” I pick up the offending bill—a crisp bill straight from my bank only three days ago. After I turned it over several times, I saw it—a miniscule tear in the corner. Angry, I want to take all my money back and storm out of here. I want to cry out at their rudeness, condescension, and incivility. But I have already endured hours at this bank, and maybe all banks are like this here. The teller had the power to open my account and exchange my money. If I was to have money for groceries for the month until I got my first paycheck here, then I would have to swallow her insults and be treated like a criminal.
0 Comments
Even though I haven't been writing much fiction since my move, I still hear "voices in my head." (If you are a writer or friends with a writer, you understand me. If you are not a writer or do not often talk with writers, you might be reaching for a straightjacket. I'm not crazy: I know the voices are fictional characters, and I only listen to them when they tell me to get coffee.) Especially during my first weeks here, I heard a running internal monologue from a fictional immigrant. As soon as I heard her first words--"I am not trapped"--I knew that eventually I would write her story. But at the time, her words and experiences resonated too much for me to bear writing them, or worse, reading them. Many times in these past few months, I have told my friends, "I'm off to the coffee shop to write." And when they asked what I would write, I told them, "I've had this story idea in my head for weeks now. I need to write." Once I got to the coffee shop, I would open a new document, stare at it for a few moments, and then catch up on email. So, this weekend, instead of catching up on email (what I was supposed to be doing), I finally wrote it. Here it is: "Not Trapped" I am not trapped. Every morning, I remind myself this as I watch the sun rise over the water in brilliant beauty. Far below me, by the water is a park, peacefully drinking in the quiet light before the city wakes up and forgets this ineffable moment of stillness in the maddening rush to go place and do things. I long to slip downstairs and across the street to wander in the park. But I can’t. Uncertainty crowds out any pleasure the park would bring. The stress is not yet worth the reward. Leaving the sunrise behind me, I go to the kitchen and then sigh when I realize that I need to buy groceries. Back home, shopping was so fast and easy. I didn’t even realize how much independence shopping required. Here, I feel like a lost child. I linger over breakfast, putting off the day’s chore. Really, the wait just lets the tension build, so I grab my purse, shove my feet into my shoes, and leave the security of my apartment. The streets are already crowded with vehicles, but I hardly notice. Navigating my way around fellow pedestrians on the sidewalk takes more energy than I had previously thought possible. My purse knocks against a lady as I pass her. I open my mouth to apologize, but then shut it and keep walking. She won’t understand my words anyway. At the next intersection, I see two men in uniform on the other side of the crosswalk—police? Soldiers? Even though I have done nothing wrong, I feel nervous. I haven’t been here long enough to know all their traffic laws. What if I accidentally break a law without realizing it? When the crowd of pedestrians start to cross the street, I carefully position myself in the middle of the group and keep my gaze down as we pass the uniformed men. Tired by the time I reach the store, I can’t even think of what to buy. I know how to cook, and shop, and clean, and all of those chores that are so much a part of independent adult life. Moving to a new country showed me just how much mental labor is involved in those chores. Knowing what to buy and how to find them are skills I haven’t learned yet in this place. I know some of the language here, but what good does it do me? I know “grocery store,” but grocery store signs have business names on them, not “Grocery Store.” The same is true for restaurants and pharmacies and every other shop I would want. I know that these buildings are businesses, but I’m not brave enough to venture into the buildings to see what is inside. The only reason I know which one is the grocery store is because a friend showed me. And once inside, I can’t read the product labels. Most product labels don’t have just one word—“olive oil,” “sugar,” “salt.” No, they have a salesmen pitch on it and health buzzwords. And all those extra words swarm around the key words that I need to find. My mother back home has food allergies. How relieved I am that I do not have to read food labels as carefully as she does. And my brother is a picky eater. It’s good that I am the one who came here. When I buy the wrong food, I eat it anyway because I don’t feel like going back to the store in the hopes of finding the right thing. It takes me an hour to pick out the few items I need: soap, vegetables, and salt. I gave up on several items on my list, which is okay because I can’t buy much since I have a twenty-minute walk back to my apartment. Outside with my bag of groceries, I dodge vehicles and pedestrians, working my way through the parking lot to the sidewalk. Everyone else seems to know the rules for whose turn it is to go. I still haven’t learned these rules. And I do not know how to apologize when I break them. Back in my apartment, I put the food away. It feels nice to be in a space that I understand. I stare out the window down at the park below. It would be nice, I think, to walk around there for a while. Right now, I’m too tense and tired from shopping. Maybe tomorrow. After all, I’m not trapped. I realized recently that I have spent so much time revising my novel from NaNoWriMo that I have not posted any fiction on my blog in a while. Okay, fine, I've mostly avoiding posting any of my stories; NaNoWriMo just makes a good scapegoat. So, I decided to share a short story that is about Heidi, the character in the story "Shut Doors" that I shared back in July. This one is an anecdote from her childhood.
Dandelions Usually, five-year-old Heidi did not enjoy visiting her elderly neighbor Mrs. Williams because she was sure that Mrs. Williams’s fat, gray cat was going to pounce on her and scratch her the way it had attacked the poor little mouse toy on their last visit. But each week, her mother checked on Mrs. Williams and insisted that Heidi come visit, too. At least this visit, the cat was purring innocently on Mrs. Williams’s lap inside the living room while Heidi and her mother brought the laundry in. Well, really, her mother Lauri was gathering the laundry; Heidi was busy exploring the yard. She grinned as she watched the dandelions bob in the breeze. Everywhere she looked seemed to be overflowing with the bobbing yellow flowers. Curious, Heidi tip-toed carefully around each dandelion, wondering just how many of these spots of sunshine lived in the backyard. “Heidi,” her mother Lauri, called from the clothesline in the backyard, “Come back over here where I can see you.” Heidi looked up. She had wondered into the sideyard without realizing it. “Coming,” she called, careful to avoid crushing any of the dandelions under her mary janes as she slowly returned to her mother. Lauri smiled as she paused in folding the sheets to watch Heidi’s slow progress. She knew that Heidi had a good reason for taking such oddly placed steps. “Can we go home soon?” Heidi asked once she reached her mother. “Soon. I want to check that Mrs. Williams has supper ready before we leave,” Lauri said as she unpinned the last sheet from the clothesline. She picked up the laundry basket and started walking toward the house, holding a hand out for Heidi. “Mom,” Heidi cried out. “What’s wrong?” Lauri stopped and turned back. “You broke the flowers.” Heidi pointed to the smooshed dandelions Lauri had just stepped on. “You know, Heidi, some people call those weeds,” Lauri said, planning to use the moment to teach Heidi about flowers. Heidi thought a moment and stared at the crushed yellow flower that had amused her earlier. Then she cocked her head in a way her mother was familiar with. “But what does God call them?” And in her mind, the matter was settled. Lauri smiled, and hand-in-hand, they walked to the house, carefully not hurting any more of the dandelions. This parable began last year in an attempt to create an emotional mental picture for what I felt like I was trying to do. Although this does not capture the full picture, I think it begins to describe the struggle many teachers experience with each new year. For a parable with a different perspective on the issue, check out Chris Mattarazzo's parable at "Hats and Rabbits." Reluctantly looking up from my book, I realized that the ship was on fire. How embarrassing—I had been so engrossed in reading the last three chapters that I had not recognized the odd aroma I was smelling as smoke. And where there’s smoke . . . Oh, the fire was wide-spread. At first, I thought it was just a few small fires in my little corner of the ship, but a quick walk around the deck showed me that every part of the deck had dozens of small fires greedily eating the wood. Some of the fires had completely consumed enough boards that I could look down at the lower decks, allowing billowing smoke to warn me of a far larger problem than I first had guess. I glanced over at a friend faithfully trying to work in spite of the smoke and heat. She was blinking to regain focus after looking too long through her microscope. Casually, so as not to startle her, I asked, “Have you noticed that the ship is on fire?” Thoughtfully, she blinked a few more times before saying, “I thought I smelled smoke.” “It’s a big fire,” I said, starting to panic now that someone had confirmed my suspicions. “Yep,” she said. “What can we do about it?” I asked. She sighed, “I don’t know. We just keep doing our jobs the best we can. We weren’t trained to fight fires.” Resolutely, she slid a new slide under the lens of the microscope, clearly needing to get back to work. She was right: we weren’t trained to fight fires; we were trained to call the firefights. Our ship, already severely understaffed, couldn’t afford to hire anyone with that training. I looked around at the other workers. Surely someone else would have an idea and help me put it out. But everyone was busy. I could ask Ashley, but she was practicing the piano, and I didn’t want to interrupt. She had a concert to prepare for. Perhaps Barbara could help. The last time I had asked her for help, she had been sympathetic. When I found her, she was meticulously mixing chemicals in her beakers. I backed away from her workspace cautiously—we didn’t need an explosion in addition to a fire. She had been sympathetic in the past, but she was also adamant that we should do only the work we were hired to do. Cindy and Dani were working together on a complex problem, as we were so frequently encouraged to do and just as frequently unable to do. They agreed with me that the fire was a problem and promptly got back to work. I couldn’t ignore the fire any longer. It had been building probably since before I had come aboard. But because I had noticed it, I felt responsible to do something about it. But what? I hadn’t been trained in firefighting. Water! I remembered reading somewhere in my training that water was good at dousing fires. Resolutely, I filled a bucket with water and walked to the edge of a fire in my section of the deck, where the flames seemed smaller and manageable. Cautiously, I dipped my hand into the bucket and sloshed a handful of water onto the fire. The result was immediate. It was true—fire didn’t like water. It hissed and receded. But that handful of water wasn’t enough. The fire crept back into place. I understood—I needed more water. Taking a deep breath, I threw out my arms, sending a blanket of water falling down to smother the flames. And it worked. Giddy with success, I reasoned that if a bucketful was better than a handful, a flood of buckets must be better than just one. With the fervor of a hero, I drew and threw bucket after bucket of water. I didn’t need to interrupt the other workers—they were busy and I had found a solution that was working. Well into the night, I worked. My arms shook with exhaustion, but I refused to let the ship burn. Finally, I paused to evaluate my success. I looked around. No fire. No smoke. Not even a glimmer of a spark. I laughed, breathlessly. Then I noticed it: we were taking on water. Well, I have successfully ignored that part of my reason for starting a blog was to placate my conscience's annoying reminders that I tell my creative writing students that they need to share their work but have no intention of sharing my own writing. Unfortunately, my conscience has started yammering again, and this post is a result of that yammering.
About two years ago, I reworked the following story for a writing competition that I encouraged my students to enter. I, naturally, backed out. In my defense, the competition rules allowed entries no larger than 600 words; I had already cut this story down by half, and cutting it any further seemed a more painful surgery than I had the courage for at the time. "Shut Doors" A sudden crash of ice cubes falling in the freezer jolted me awake and sent me frantically, but unsuccessfully, trying not to fall off the couch. Breathe, I coached myself from inside the tangle of blankets on the floor, the spine of the book that had broken my fall digging into my back. The crash, the fall, and the nightmare were conspiring to keep my heart racing and my pulse rushing in my ears. Struggling against the blankets’ tentacles, I retrieved my book and shuffled to the kitchen for coffee to chase away the nightmare. My hands were still shaking from—what had I been dreaming about? In spite of scattering coffee grounds on the counter and floor and pouring water both into the coffee maker and on the counter, I was able to get coffee brewing. Reaching for a broom to clean up my clumsiness, I glanced at the backdoor. Was it sleepiness or the late afternoon shadows making the backdoor seem more ominous than usual? How I hated that door. The pattern of the wood’s grain looked like a wolf loaming over me—watching from a large solitary eye wreathed in concentric circles surrounding the knot in the wood. No wonder I had nightmares. As a child, I had avoided being in the kitchen alone; as an adult, I pretended the backdoor didn’t exist even as I passed by it to toss the fallen coffee grounds in the trashcan. In our childhood, Liz, knowing the door haunted me, in true sisterly fashion would send me on errands to the kitchen. “Please, Heidi,” she would say, “I’m really thirsty, but my nails are drying.” Her faithful vassal, I would brave the kitchen’s terrors to fetch her water. Thinking about Liz and the wolf was worse than whatever nightmare I had just had. Watching the door out of the corner of my eye, I poured coffee and opened the book, glad that Liz couldn’t see me still cowering. Of course, if she were here, she and her friends would be behind the closed door of our bedroom. After crowding me out of my own room, she would hand me a book off the shelf and shut the door. I’d go to the couch and read, pretending that I didn’t care—didn’t want to be with her and real people. The memories were all the same—me standing alone in the hall, scrunching my toes into the carpet—it had to accept me, well, my toes, at least; me sitting on the couch in a blanket cocoon, losing myself in a world of fiction; me leaning against our closed door, hearing the sounds of friendship drift through the door—loud enough to hear, but never clear enough to understand. I didn’t want to be alone. Yet I was, both now and in my memories. Only once did I open the door after Liz closed it. I remember the whirl of movement, the sudden light, the full volume of the girls bore down on me and left me panicked in the open doorway. In unanimous silence, girls in fuzzy, neon pajamas and green facial masks stared up at me from the braided rug. Before Liz could say anything, I had mumbled something about getting a different book. With a flounce of her newly styled hair, Liz handed me the first book she reached. Book in hand, I pulled the door closed and stood in the dim hall, my hand on the doorknob even after hearing the latch click. I stared at the door, despising it for shutting me out—despising me for shutting myself out. I shook my head, clearing my mind of the memory and studied the backdoor. Perhaps my dislike had little to do with the door’s wolf-shaped grain and more to do with the other shut doors in my life—doors I shut myself, doors others shut on me. Suddenly, seeing the wolf, a witness to my loneliness, was insufferable. Leaving coffee and book on the counter, I retrieved old newspaper, a paintbrush, and a can of paint. No more would I fear that shut door. |
AuthorWho is Eleanor Lane? Categories
All
Archives
October 2020
|