Sunday, September 30, 2012

"Here is the Scar of Rupture"


 Shouldn’t it be true that we can protect our children?  From other adults, from the world’s cruelties, from themselves?  I want it to be true.  It should be true.  Last night I dreamt that my daughter had miraculously returned to her form as a newborn.  Her small dark head turned to my breast, her mouth rooted furiously, and even though in reality it had been 25 years since she last nursed and she is now a grown woman carrying her own child, in my dream, I rejoiced that I could do this for her, and pulled my blouse down so she could find my nipple and latch on.  She nursed strongly and confidently, and for the first time in many years, I felt like I was a mother again: able to hold, fill, protect. 

It’s true that in my daughter’s real childhood, I did protect her in many ways, especially the ways in which my own childhood was NOT protected.  I shielded her from poverty, alcoholism, abuse; kept a roof over her head, fed her well, made sure she had good medical care, went to good schools, learned to enjoy music, swimming, books, human touch.  But what’s truer: I could not protect her from the fact that she owns her own soul, and her soul has its own battle in this world, a battle that I can only watch, throw in a few words now and then that I hope are loving and encouraging.  Words that give her heart, I hope, and remind her she came into this world loved, and is loved, and will leave it still loved by a mother who feels like a part of my body chipped off and is walking around without me.

Linda Hogan (Chickasaw) wrote a poem once about the earth and the moon.  It is called “Partings.”  “The moon was once earth/ a daughter whose leaving broke land to pieces” when the moon flew out into darkness, found her own orbit. The mother earth and daughter moon must speak to each other forever across that distance, never rejoined, always separate.  “Here is the scar of rupture,” Hogan writes, and she articulates precisely the brokenness.  Are mother and daughter still connected in ways that can’t be severed, after such a rupture?  “Think of the midwife,” Hogan writes, “Whose knife made two lives where there were only one.”  The price of giving birth, it seems, is parting from that which is most beloved; giving up a part of yourself that might very well wander away into the Universe.  The price of having children is that the “having” is only temporary, and the parting goes on and on.  The best a mother can hope for, Hogan seems to say, is to master the art “of beautiful partings.” 

In my dream, I imagined my daughter as a newborn again, perhaps because that was the last time I really believed that I could protect her from all the hurts and cruelties and hard lessons of the world.  Maybe it’s all those mothering hormones, maybe it’s the Mama Bear instincts, but I KNEW I could take apart anyone who came between me and my baby.  A few years ago, when a young woman I know had a baby, the baby’s father asked that young mother, “Do you love the baby more than you love me?” and she gave him the most amazing answer:  “I would die for you,” she told the father of her child, “But her, her I would kill for.”  Once we are mothers, we know exactly how precious life is; at the same time, we know that we would take someone else’s life from them if it meant protecting our own child.  That kind of fierceness filled me as a new mother, especially when I remembered my own childhood when it seemed no adults were protecting me or my siblings at all.  I vowed that would protect my children in all the ways I was never protected!

Figuring out that I can’t has been the hardest part of mothering.

Mastering the art of beautiful partings.  In my lifetime, I’ve sure had a lot of practice with partings, some necessary, some unwanted - but making parting into an art, into something beautiful that makes another life possible?  It seems the opposite of what parenting is supposed to be.  Yet as Hogan says, ”This is what it means to be mother and child … believe that emptiness is the full/ dance between us,/ and let it grow.”

This is a lifetime’s work.


Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Reviews, Readings and Events

Deborah A. Miranda with one of her favorite redwood friends, in the courtyard at Carmel Mission.
Photo by Louise J. Ramirez Miranda

Contact me for questions about readings, guest lectures & events:
badndns@gmail.com
See schedule (below) for available dates
If you see an event happening near you and would like to try to piggyback, 
email me and we'll work something out!

Reviews just in: 

Beverly Slapin's review of Bad Indians on American Indians in Children's Literature Blog

Excerpt:  "Some childhood memories, some faded photographs, some snippets of stories written down word for word by an anthropologist, some paragraphs from old textbooks. A lesser author might have crafted a novel spanning the generations, a linear novel, maybe a chapter for each character. But Deborah didn’t and wouldn’t do that; it would have dishonored her ancestors. Rather, she looks at what is—the pieces, the shards of a broken mirror—and interprets, imagines, wonders. If she doesn’t know a thing, she says so. Throughout, she is in awe of the voices, drawings, photos, whatever she can find—all treasured gifts, entrusted to her by the elders and ancestors she never got to meet."


Kirkus Review of Bad Indians
BAD INDIANS
A Tribal Memoir
Author: Miranda, Deborah A.
Miranda (English/Washington and Lee Univ.; The Zen of La Llorona, 2005, etc.), blends narrative, poetry, photos, anthropological recordings and more into a mosaic of memory of her own life and that of her people, the California Indians.

“The arc of leather, sharp edges of cured hide, instrument of punishment coming from two hundred years out of the past,” writes the author about yet another beating of her brother by her violent, alcoholic father. She ties this personal violence to the historical violence of the padres of the California missions, who, through beatings, torture, rape and enslavement, decimated and broke the California Indians. Miranda rails against turning this saga into a “Mission Fantasy Fairy Tale,” and through history, contemporary accounts and newspaper clippings, she reveals the brutality behind the myth. And what of the legacy of this brutality? Was her father, from whom she inherited her Indian blood, blindingly violent as the only way he knew how to survive? To survive the padres’ past, need the victims become destroyers? Neglected, abandoned, terrorized, raped (by a neighbor) as a child, Miranda slowly found her way through writing and through the work and hope that the surviving California Indians might rebuild in creative new ways their lost lives. This is not a linear narrative; present and past weave together, historical account leaves off for poetry and lyrical fantasy, the personal and political collide. This is confusing at times and does not always work, but such weakness is overcome by the bold beauty of Miranda’s words.

A searing indictment of the ravages of the past and a hopeful look at the courage to confront and overcome them.
 Readings & Events for Bad Indians

October 2012
5-6       CSU San Marcos, CA  California Indian Conference

November 2012

8       San Francisco, CA Heyday Books Fundraiser:  6th Annual Heyday Harvest, California Historical Society, 678 Mission St., San Francisco, CA  map

9       San Francisco, CA: City College of San Francisco.  Guest lecturer in "Interdisciplinary Studies 37: Racial and Ethnic Groups in the U.S." with Professor Jean Ishibashi. 10-11 a.m.

10     Berkeley, CA  EastWind Books. 2066 University Ave, Berkeley CA.  3 p.m.  Booksigning & reading.


 
January 2013

16         Bad Indians Reading & Signing.  Washington and Lee U, Lexington
VA.  4:30.  Hillel House (on Washington Street, across from Healthy Foods Co-op).

17       Bad Indians Reading & Signing.  CaliforniaHistorical Society. San Francisco, CA.  6:00.  678 Mission Street  San Francisco, CA 94105 (415) 357-1848. 

19       Heyday Auction Writing Workshop (private) 12-5. 

21-22    UC Santa Cruz with Carolyn Dunn's and Amy Lonetree's classes.  1156
High Street, Santa Cruz, CA 95064.

23       Bad Indians Reading & Signing.  Pegasus Books on Solano.  7:30 p.m. 1855 Solano Avenue Berkeley, CA 94704  510-525-6888.  

24        Native TV interview/reading with Rose Amador, 1:00.
             Reading at California State University at Monterey Bay, evening.

25       Poets @ The Women’s Building.  7-9 p.m. with Kim Shuck, Indira Allegra, Devorah Major, Jewell Gomez.  3543 18th St.  San Francisco, CA 94110 (415) 431-1180. 


26       Bad Indians Reading & Signing.  CaliforniaGenealogical Society, Oakland CA.  2:00 p.m. – 4:00 p.m. California Genealogical Society Library 2201 Broadway, Suite LL2  Oakland, California 94612.  


28-29          Oregon State U, Corvallis OR with Professor Qwo-Li Driskill’s class.

31-2/1        Kenyon College, Gambier OH with Professor Janet McAdams



February 2013

17-24  The 22nd Annual Havana Book Fair, Cuba.  



March 2013

Special note about March: Professor Miranda is already overbooked for this month, AND her daughter is going to deliver a baby sometime mid-month.  So we are not taking any more March gigs - please ask about other dates!

6-9       Boston, MA  AWP Conference 

TBA     A reading at Wheelock College in Boston during this time period is also in the works, time/date/place to be determined.

21       Charlottesville, VA  Virginia Festival of the Book with Karenne Wood and Allison Hedge Coke

22-23  Native American Literature Symposium, Minneapolis MN.   -->



April
20-21  Los Angeles Festival of Books at USC

23         Reading at UCLA.  Time & place TBA.

TBA     Reading at Tia Chucha's Centro Cultural and Bookstore.  
-->13197 Gladstone Avenue, Sylmar, CA 91342.  (818) 939-3433.   

More to come soon!




Deborah A. Miranda reading "Indian Cartography" (a poem) at Fall for the Book Festival at George Mason U, 2011

Monday, September 3, 2012

Labor Day


A poem for Labor Day, from those years when I cleaned houses - first, as an undergraduate in the Dover/Sherborn/Wellesley part of Massachusetts, then as a young mother in and around Tacoma, Washington.  
dm.

Aunt Josie’s Housekeeping, Inc.


I clean houses.  I vacuum.  I dust all the cheap ceramic knick knacks collected over a lifetime of distractions.  I scrub the tub, edges of the sink, behind the toilet.  I tote a bucket full of products:  Pledge, PineSol, Comet, 409.  I wield sponges with scratchy edges.  I put away towels, mop hardwood floors with water and vinegar, sometimes on hands and knees if that’s what you like.  I wash dishes encrusted with hard scraps, throw out fast food bags and Big Gulp cups, sweep up the spilled Cheerios.  I find a corn plant growing in the soil between the edge of the linoleum and the baseboard of the kitchen sink.  I can’t make myself pluck it out; so green, so exuberant, so illegal.  The woman of the house blushes with shame when I point out the ribbony spiral of leaves to her little girl.  I clean houses.  $10 an hour, no benefits, no sick leave.  No union.  I pull pornography out from under the playroom sofa, scrape moldy bowls found in the fridge, kneel before the vegetable bins in silent attention.  I feed the surviving goldfish, give the feral teddy bear hamster water, replace wet stinky cedar shavings from its cage with fresh chips.  I scrape out the overflowing catbox, clay pellets hardened into a layer like sedimentary rock.  I empty the garbage can in the master bedroom: used condoms and wrappers, torn pantyhose, toenail clippings, pages ripped from a spiral notebook: “Why did I ever have that affair?  What was I thinking?  How could I have hurt so many people?”  I polish the locked case beside the bed, carved out of dark wood, smelling of weed and patchouli.  I clean houses.  I sop up secrets.  I smooth the wrinkles out on the surface of lives for people too busy or too important to do it themselves.  I’m a dark woman with a long black braid, walking across the lawn at the end of a long week.  The gardeners and lawn boys from Oaxaca and Guatemala give me their eyes and a silent nod.  But you don’t see me.  You won’t remember me.  Except for this poem, it’s like I was never there.

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