QUIDDITY, 77
WAR BABY, 48; plus "Meanderings," and "Hypatia's Bookroom"
WAR BABY
I wrote War Baby for my children, grandchildren, and for anyone else curious about a time not to be forgotten. I wrote it to give them some sense of what it was like growing up in a particular place at a particular time, and how those events shaped me as a person. But, the past is a moving target. Someone with firsthand experience of an event who tells a second person about it no longer controls the narrative. That second person may, then, retell the story adding to it her own information based on reflection, opinion or hearsay. Even two people present at the very same event will often view it differently. So, how do you tease out the truth, which can mean different things to different people?” —Leah Napolin
NOTE: Leah’s original print version of War Baby was a series of brief narratives or descriptions arranged alone on a single page and accompanied, at times, with related drawings she created during this time period, family photos, or WWII propaganda posters. Quiddity space doesn’t really allow for the images to be presented in a large format, but if you wish to enlarge an image, click on it, and an enhanced image will appear on the screen. Also, the language/idiom in this text is what this young girl would hear and use 1935-1950.
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SHELL-SHOCK
Motivated by Mother’s dream of someday owning her own home we’ve been taking Sunday drives in the Chevy—Daddy at the wheel, Mother in the passenger seat, me and my sister in back. Dale Judith hugs her favorite toy—a surrogate doll with three faces: happy, sad and mad—and impatiently swings her feet. Sometimes she falls asleep with her head in my lap. We are house-hunting in the suburbs, east of the borough of Queens. We refer to this as “the country.” Woods, rolling farmland with farmstands beckoning by the side of the road, brand-new housing developments next to quaint old towns where the shimmering waters of Long Island Sound can be glimpsed between the chimneys of gabled roofs. Long meandering drives down unfamiliar streets from one For Sale sign to another. Through construction detours and weekend traffic jams on the highway. Everyone else heading to fabled Jones Beach or Fire Island. Not easy for us kids in the back.
Daddy has no patience with delays. “To heck with this,” he says, “I’m taking a shortcut!’ Half an hour later, Mother says, “Why don’t we stop at that service station and ask for directions?”
“I know where I’m going— “Then where are we?” “Don’t be a backseat driver.” “You and your shortcuts.”
Dale’s lip trembles as she twirls the knob on her doll’s head to Sad. I reach over and give it an extra twirl to Mad. Our thoughts exactly. Two sisters in agreement. There is no fourth face, however, to twirl for Hopeful which blindly propels us forward. Each week we drive a little farther than the week before, always hoping, expecting, to one day find what we’re looking for.
It’s Sunday, we’re on the road again, and we decide to stop for a picnic lunch on the Queens/Nassau border. We’re on the overgrown grounds of a state mental hospital called Creedmoor. From where we are in acres of dense woods we can barely make out the great sandstone walls of the institution that rises up out of them forbiddingly, like the dungeon of a castle. It’s so woodsy that as we spread our picnic blanket and set out our lunch we are startled by the rustle of a snake, clearly visible as it slithers through grass at the edge of the clearing; definitely not a snake puppet but a real snake.
Like the snake I’m also shedding my skin and do not dwell on who might be behind one of those barred windows in the wall—is it my old nemesis, Mrs. Jennings? Is she a blonde today or a redhead? I no longer fear her. I no longer care. We could talk about music, just the two of us, me on one side of the bars, she, in her rubber bands and strait jacket, on the other. No one would mind.
Hastily, we move our blanket to the banks of a lovely stream nearby flowing through the grounds. After lunch I go exploring and come across two boys catching frogs. I stop to watch them. They are cutting off the frogs’ legs and throwing the frogs back in the stream. I am horrified and revolted by what they’re doing and by the sight of one of the frogs in the water, trying to swim away but unable to because it has no legs, and its entrails are leaking out of the lower half of its body. I run back to my family, feeling sickened. What is it like to lose a limb? What is it like to lose two? Oh cruelty, cruelty! Like the tornadic funnel cloud, like the atom bomb mushroom cloud, like battlefield shell-shock in war, this image haunts my dreams forever.
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MEANDERINGS: “Courage and Persevere”
To refresh your memory: “In 1987, Congress declared March as National Women’s History Month in perpetuity (L.100-9). A special Presidential Proclamation is issued every year which honors the extraordinary achievements of American women.”
However, during these first weeks of his second term, the President has issued executive order after executive order in his determination to annihilate any vestiges of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion.
Federal agencies and departments are bumping into each other in their rush to bow to the President’s orders and memos. Among the “special observances” that have been banned across the federal government is Women’s History month.
WE WILL NOT BE BROKEN.
“Women’s History is Women’s Right. – It is an essential and indispensable heritage from which we can draw pride, comfort, courage, and long-range vision.” (- Dr. Gerda Lerner (1920-2013), one of the single, most influential figures in the development of women’s and gender histories.)
I can’t help but hear the late Madeline Albright mentoring the 1997 Mount Holyoke graduates in her commencement address:
“…But no matter how weary you may become in persuading others to see the value in what you value, have courage still--and persevere.
Inevitably, if you aim high enough, you will be buffeted by demands of family, friends and employment that will conspire to distract you from your course. But no matter how difficult it may be to meet the commitments you have made, have courage still--and persevere.
…every soul inspired by your passion and every barrier to justice brought down by your determination, will ennoble your own life, inspire others, serve your country, and explode outward the boundaries of what is achievable on this earth…”
Secretary Albright exhorts all of us to stand tall and strong. Allow yourself time to consider the narratives of women developing those strong shoulders on which we all stand. Below are a few of the sources where you can find these historical accounts and perspectives:
NATIONAL WOMEN’S HISTORY ALLIANCE
- COURAGE AND PERSEVERE -
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HYPATIA’S BOOKROOM
A New Kind of Library
“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of a Library.” –Jorge Luis Borges
QUIDDITY, is building its own library of books that are of importance to us--intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, ethically, etc.-- books that we would definitely rescue from a trash pile. We’re calling it Hypatia's Bookroom after the chief librarian of the ancient library of Alexandria. Tell us the title, author, category, and why this book is important to you. Questions you might consider include: Would you read this book again? Would you gift it to someone (who, why)? What note would you write on the cover page?
On the shelves so far: The rescued books selected by readers has grown and takes up too much space to list them all here. You can peruse the entire listing by going to the blog section of my website at blmurphy.com.
"There are so very many books, and we have forgotten almost all of them." (Lit.Hub) May we save all we can.
Kafka’s ideal of what a book should be: “An ax for the frozen sea within us.” (Sigrid Nuez interview in “By the Book,” NYT Book Review, 12/10/23)
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(Rachel E. and Winfried C.) Dee Brown has researched, compiled, and written Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West as if it were a first-eye report during the 1860-1890 era. It was a time when the growing crowd of white settlers moved westward in search of more land — after the eastern Native American tribes had already been systematically removed from the east and moved toward the west. He writes this book from the vantage point of the Native Americans, and the product is anything but light reading. Brown is very careful in presenting an honest picture of the turmoil within the Native tribes and the philosophical differences among their own leaders. For example: Black Kettle would not take up arms due to his blind faith in the White Man's trustworthiness; Red Cloud combined negotiations with physical clout; Sitting Bull never agreed to any negotiations. Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee is an important must-read for every American, especially those interested in a fuller disclosure of the truth. It is also a case study into the manifestation of human greed, acceptable crimes possible through mob mentality, dehumanization, intolerance, misunderstanding, and other hideous examples of depravity. Whose heart would feel no outrage or pain has no heart left to bury.