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 :
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.
Thanks for taking the time to read it, Sue.
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.
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.
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. .
Post a Comment