Friday, June 27, 2014

Why Read and Write Stories



Maya Angelou said there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

Every time I read that quote, I think about the concentration camp survivors we hosted during a Holocaust presentation at Rogue Community College in Grants Pass, Oregon. Most of them were quite old and they’d just begun to tell the stories they’d kept inside. I was horrified and I was mesmerized by their words, by their courage and humility. One man, over dinner at our kitchen table, said something I will never forget. When asked how his life had been changed by his years in a concentration camp where he lost his entire family, he replied. “It made me more kind.”

Stories are our conscience. They teach truth and a respect for the past. Stories are like our connective tissue, they link us to the lives of others. If we keep telling and writing them, perhaps they will keep us human. Anne Frank was a thirteen-year-old child who wrote a diary while hiding in an attic. She didn’t survive, but her words did—inspiring and haunting us for generations.



After hosting those Holocaust survivors and hearing their stories,  I needed to write something—to connect in a heartfelt way—to add my voice and speak for the ones who'd died and were not heard. I needed to imagine myself as someone who'd experienced at least something of the horror. This poem came out of that need.

THIS BRIGHTNESS

All night I stood waiting
for sun to fill the room’s small window,
the glass still black where I paused
looking out as if for a signal
and remembering how dawn
releases the trees, mountains and each
fence from its shadow.
Still holding the nightfall between my hands
I whisper, “It will come.”

The dark yields slowly and this day
might have traveled here from the other side
of the earth, an avenue in Warsaw and a house
where a man has paced since midnight
the musty stillness of his attic, thinking
each time a board creaked that soldiers
moved on the stairs and imagining
that these would be his last moments.

Words like moths kicked up
from the tall grass could
trace his story back to its ink.
He knows the meaning of all time is words—
those small, unstoppable sounds
that fold, finger by finger,
across our bodies.

He would understand morning
is a kind of reprieve, its slow coming
the affirmation of everything night
called into question, and he might believe
that light passes from country to country,
one man to another, a sharing
that becomes personal like the space
between the living and the dead—
that otherness inside us we never touch
no matter how far down our hands might reach.








Time has passed since we housed those Holocaust survivors. We now have a granddaughter, Shenoa, who is the age you were when you wrote your diary. I think of her, I think of you. I salute your courage, Anne Frank. The way you left a message, a legacy, a poignant reminder of what it means to be human. I pray Shenoa will be brave like you. That she will have the courage to speak her truth, that she will never lose faith in mankind. That she will always believe in the goodness of the human heart.  



Susan Clayton-Goldner was born in New Castle, Delaware and grew up with four brothers along the banks of the Delaware River. She is a graduate of the University of Arizona's Creative Writing Program. Susan has been writing most of her life. Her novels have been finalists for The Hemingway Award, the Heeken Foundation Fellowship, the Writers Foundation and the Publishing On-line Contest where she received a thousand dollar prize. Susan won the National Writers' Association Novel Award twice for unpublished novels and her poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Susan's novels are currently represented by Elizabeth Kracht of the Kimberly Cameron Agency. 

Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies including Animals as Teachers and Healers, published by Ballantine Books, Our Mothers/Ourselves, by the Greenwood Publishing Group, The Hawaii Pacific Review-Best of a Decade, and New Millennium Writings. Prior to moving to Oregon and writing full time, Susan worked as the Director of Corporate Relations for University Medical Center in Tucson, Arizona. 

Susan shares a life in Grants Pass, Oregon with her husband, Andreas, a blue-eyed feline named Topaz, her fictional characters, and more books than one person could count. Visit her website at susanclaytongoldner.com. 




5 comments :

Sue Coletta said...

Years ago, when I owned and operated a hair salon I had a few survivors as clients. The tattoos on their arm, numbered like cattle, tugged at my heartstrings. What horrifying experiences they lived through, and such pleasant, nice people they were. I've never forgotten them. Your poem is beautiful, Susan. I really enjoyed it.

Susan Clayton-Goldner said...

Thanks for taking the time to read it, Sue.

Mia Thompson said...

Very touching poem, Susan. I used to think the holocaust represented the worst of humanity, but after reading this...maybe it represents both the worst and best of human capabilities. Wonderful piece.

Susan Clayton-Goldner said...

Thanks, Mia. Having had the experience of housing survivors, listening to them tell their stories, made me think more deeply. It was a dark and horrible time, but goodness came out of it. I know it doesn't excuse, but...it makes us think about our own dark times and how they sometimes lead us into the light.

Conrad Tuerk Jr. said...

Powerful words, Susan, especially the ending, the light passing from "country to country, one man to another." Despite the world's atrocities, goodness and hope can prevail. Your poem captures this well. .