Berg woke up for the seventh time this week in a cold sweat. That same dream had invaded his subconscious again, the dream where he is in the jungle, where through the thick brush he can make out a light, like a campfire. And there is also the rhythmic throbbing of voices and the steady beat of crude drums being pounded. Each time he had come closer to the fire only to wake up when he is right about to part the ferns that separated him from the circle of people around the fire. Normally, Berg, being a sensible and down-to-earth kind of person, would have dismissed the dreams, but this was no normal dream, it was very vivid, so vivid that, sometimes, he forgot whether that reality was just a dream, or the dream was a reality. I ought to see a therapist about this, he thought uneasily while climbing out of his rickety old bed, careful not to wake his fellow orphans who were sleeping in the large “nursery.” Berg climbed down the cold, metal steps that led to the large common room that dominated his orphanage. From there he turned to a hallway that led to the kitchen where his favorite nun was sure to be working on making the children’s breakfasts. “Well hello, Howard, what are you doing up so early?” “The dreams,” he said simply, while Sister Amy nodded knowingly “Also, I’ve asked you, please call me Berg.” The homely nun rolled her eyes and continued cracking eggs into a large bowl. “I’ll call you by the name this orphanage gave you, not some nickname you made up.” “The dreams,” he said simply, while Sister Amy nodded knowingly There was a brief pause, broken by Berg asking hopefully, “Any news?” Amy looked at him sadly and said, “No, I’m afraid not.” They were talking about the news of Berg’s origin. He had been given to the orphanage five years ago, and ever since then he had been obsessed with learning about his past. The nuns did what they could, which was to ask other orphanages around the state if they remembered him, and to pray, of course. “Darn it,” he said, feeling the familiar suffocating grip of hopelessness tighten around his body. “Oh, don’t worry,” said Amy. “There’s always Fleming’s Domicile for the Destitute,” she said, squeezing his arm and giving him a wink. He laughed. It was an old joke of theirs. When he had first come and expressed his desire to find out who his parents were, the first orphanage they checked said they had no record of him. It was then that Amy had come and consoled him and said that it was always the most strangely named place that held all the information you needed. They had spent the rest of that afternoon making up different names for this unknown, strangely named orphanage, and Fleming’s was his favorite. Berg got up from the stool he was sitting on and walked out of the kitchen, flopping on a brown, bumpy couch in the commons. He had just gotten a wave of vertigo, that feeling when it seemed like nothing was real. He gripped his hand tightly on the couch armrest until it passed. He looked around at the familiar settings of the large room. In the northeast corner there was a ping-pong table that would most certainly be used over a hundred times today. Lining the room were cushy armchairs and rather overstuffed couches, and in the southwest corner was a large bookcase. Soon though, Berg’s relaxation was broken by the sound of a large alarm clock and the thunder of feet stepping down the staircase. Like a large herd of cattle, the student body tromped through the commons and into the dining room, where breakfast was to be served. Berg got up shakily and walked over to where his two best friends were, near the back of the line, as usual. “Hey, Clare, Nathan,” said Berg when he reached them. Nathan nodded in recognition and Clare smiled happily, glad that all of her few friends were around her; Nathan only stuck his hands deep in his pockets and whistled a tuneless song. Finally, when they had progressed through the line and were sitting at a table, Nathan asked, “So, dreams again?” Berg smiled. He knew, of course. Nathan was the most normal and predictable person you could and probably ever would meet. It was for this that Berg had liked him so much. It was his normalcy that made him strange, because while everyone had their own unique style, Nathan had none. This in itself was a type of style that Nathan took special pride in. “Yeah . . . They’re getting much more vivid, ya know?” said Berg after much thought. Clare and Nathan both nodded wisely, although both were hoping that the strange nightmares that had settled on their friend’s mind would simply go away. There was an awkward silence, broken only by Clare looking down at her plate, sighing, as if to change the subject, and pushing it away. “Do they expect me to eat this? ‘Cause I am not eating this,” she declared, although there was never an answer. It was purely a rhetorical question, more like a ritual really. She looked disdainfully at the gray metal tray that held some sorry-looking eggs and piece of toast with a smidgen of jam on it. Then, as if accepting her fate, Clare picked up her plastic fork and grudgingly took a small bite of the egg. The school bell was like an old woman, yelling at them hoarsely, telling them to get to class, or suffer the consequences. Because every student knew what the consequences were, they all hurried. Clare and Berg had to part with Nathan as they went to the math class while he went to English for his first hour. In math they were covering dimensional analysis and many students were having trouble. Just
March/April 2005
The View from Santa Chiara
One thing was for certain, she never wanted to go. She never wanted to go to Santa Chiara. Francesca stared out the huge windows of the dining hall; the rain beat harder and harder against the window, making it almost impossible to hear the nun as she said grace. The ancient Madonna in the painting over the fireplace looked as tranquil as ever. As the girls started their dinner so did their chatter, almost drowning out the sound of the storm. Francesca sat secluded in a corner, thinking, in self-pity. She was suddenly woken out of her reverie by Sister Angelica, who was standing over her. “If you are done, I will show you around the school. Put your dishes in the kitchen and follow me,” she said. Francesca did as she was told and followed Sister Angelica out of the dining hall. “These are the classrooms. You will be paired with one of the other girls so they can show you to each of your classes,” Sister Angelica informed her. Sister Angelica showed her the nuns’ hallway with the nuns’ rooms and the office. She showed Francesca the courtyard, the student lounge, and the kitchen. Finally, Francesca was shown the room where she would be sleeping with the three other thirteen-year-old girls. Her room looked out over the courtyard and the courtyard looked over the Tuscan countryside and a castle pricked the sky on one of the highest hills. Francesca sat secluded in a corner, thinking, in self-pity Francesca sat on her bed, staring out the window, wondering why she was here, but she knew why she was here. It was her paintings. Francesca was the daughter of the owner of the largest bank in Rome, and her parents thought it hardly suitable that she should paint. They considered painting a useless occupation, so she was sent to a highly recommended boarding school in the tiny town of Castiglion Fiorentino. And here she was in Santa Chiara where the school was taught by nuns. It was about an hour before the three other girls came in. As they got ready for bed, they laughed and talked, almost completely ignoring Francesca until they were almost in bed. A girl named Sofia told Francesca that she would be showing her around the next day. It took a long while, but finally the stars calmed Francesca and she slipped into the dark folds of sleep. The next day was very uneventful, as was the rest of the week. Surprisingly, Francesca was quite happy. She liked the quietness of Castiglion compared to the buzzing streets of Rome. The classes were good and the nuns were tolerable. The only thing she really wanted was a friend, but that could wait. She quickly established that her favorite spot was under the huge shady tree in the courtyard. She liked to look out over the countryside. She drew too, but she was not entirely certain she was allowed to. One day Francesca was again sitting alone in a corner of the dining hall at lunch. She was eating mechanically, not really seeing or tasting what she was eating, when a flash of color caught her eye. It was the Madonna that was always at the head of the dining hall. Francesca had never noticed, but the painting had a placid sort of beauty about it. She whipped out a piece of paper and pencil and started drawing the beautiful Madonna. She was so involved in her drawing that she didn’t even notice Sister Lucia standing over her. “Although I am glad to see you take an interest in the Virgin Mary, your parents specifically sent a note saying that you are not to draw or paint in any form,” she said and whipped the paper out of sight with one sweep of her gnarled hand. * * * On Saturday morning, Sister Angelica took the girls to the town plaza. “You may go around the town,” she announced, “but be back here by one o’clock.” As soon as Sister Angelica had finished her announcement, the girls scattered. Francesca wandered down a narrow alley and came out two blocks away from the plaza. She did not think about where she was going, she just simply wandered along the cobblestone streets. She stopped to rest in a plaza that overlooked the Tuscan countryside. The tiny plaza was wedged between two stone buildings. There were only a few people in the plaza; a woman and her baby, two boys play-fighting and an old man. Francesca sat on the stone wall and watched the old man intently. He was painting a picture. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, only concentrating on the stroke of his brush and the sound of silence. Francesca approached him and stood looking over his shoulder. He didn’t notice her standing there and she might have thought him asleep if it wasn’t for the fact that his eyes were open. “What are you painting?” she asked timidly. “Life,” he answered without looking up. The countryside that he was painting did look like the definition of life. The hills were green and dotted with houses and his painting looked as perfect as the real thing. “What are you painting?” she asked timidly I could never paint anything as beautiful as that, she thought. Suddenly, with practically a physical jolt, she was struck with an idea. “Could you teach me to paint?” she burst out in a rush and clapped her hand over her mouth in horror. Finally he looked up at her. His face was a mass of old memories and old smiles. He stared at her for several moments and Francesca stared back, mesmerized by his gaze. “I will teach you,” he said finally, “under one condition. You will paint forever, no matter what.” Francesca thought it an odd request, but she agreed and sat down on the wall next to him. “Now before you ever start to paint,” he began, “you must
Powerful Words
Powerful Words by Wade Hudson; Scholastic Inc.: New York, 2004; $19.95 This is a collection of poetry, rap, historical speeches, stories and biographies on the struggles and triumphs of African Americans. This book intrigued me because it was the ideas and thoughts from the eighteenth century to the edge of the twenty-first century. I could read the book part by part. I like rap music so I read the section about hip-hop star Lauryn Hill first. She expresses her feelings with music. I read the lyrics of a song about a person wondering where his life is going, “And I made up my mind to define my own destiny.” But she is not the first to express her feelings. Benjamin Banneker, an inventor, surveyor and astronomer, wrote a letter to Thomas Jefferson. It said, “We are a race of beings who have long laboured under the abuse and censure of the world, that we have long been considered rather as brutish than human and scarcely capable of mental endowments. The color of the skin is in no way connected with strength of the mind or intellectual powers.” Mr. Banneker died in 1806. Then I read about the first black newspaper, Freedom’s Journal. Publisher John Russwurm wrote, “We wish to plead our own cause. Too long have others spoken for us.” It lasted two years. By the Civil War, there were twenty-four African-American newspapers. One of my favorites was a story by Toni Morrison. The story is about an old, wise, blind woman who teaches a lesson about mockery and power. Mrs. Morrison’s biography informs the reader that she was presented a National Humanities Medal by President Bill Clinton and is the first African-American woman to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. Her story was very different from Mary McLeod Bethune’s story. I never heard of this brilliant woman who started a public school for African Americans. Five little girls started in 1904. By 1923, it became Bethune-Cookman College and she was president. Many African-American children received educations because of her. I wish this had been the experience for Native Americans who instead were sent to government boarding schools where they could not speak their native language and were given Christian names. I would recommend this book to everybody who has a different culture and can compare their experiences. As a Native American, I learned about how we had some of the same experiences and different ones too. We share a history of discrimination, but we have succeeded in keeping our culture alive—our foods, music and traditions. That’s what makes all of our cultures different but very interesting. I sit with my mother and sister when they sing and play the pow-wow drum and I connect with my heritage. In the same way, African Americans connect with their culture with the gospel music composed by Thomas A. Dorsey, the son of a minister. He wrote, “Precious Lord, take my hand, Lead me on, let me stand, I am tired, I am weak, I am worn; Thru the storm, thru the night, lead me on to the light.” Read this book! The powerful words will teach you how many African Americans struggled and achieved great things, making America better for all of us. Celia Arguilez Smith, 11San Diego, California
