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Armand's Memory Re: Armand's Memory 1992-07-25 1998-10-18 A Few New Things Bernadette's Grandfather What's in a Name? Heritage. Serendipity. Archives February 8. 1998. 1999. February 8. |
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| Zero
Storm |
One
Common Drama |
Two
for One |
Three
Pivotal Years |
Four
Generations |
Five
Ring Circus |
| Subject: | Knacks... inheritance... serendipity... |
| Date: | Wednesday, February 3 1999 04:28:34 -0500 |
| From: | Jérôme Camus |
| To: | Catherine Camus |
Mom had a knack: she could see through things, and know how they could turn out. One day, she bought an electronic alphabet board for Arianna's first birthday. She was quite irate when the packaged revealed an English version, rather than the French version she had specifically ordered. Although she was weak at the time, she marched into the store to get the deserved exchange. Coherence... She knew it was much too early for Arianna. She knew she was going to leave us, but she also knew that she would leave some heritage that would please her grand-children, as it does today.
Mom had this coherence about her. The one that made her keep silent for so long. The one that reneged the Marchand name. The one that stayed away from her profession for so long because it was the one she learned in a very sad time of her life. The one who hides defeat and hides in victories, however few and far between they may be.
I now know that the wildest dreams can come true. One year ago, to this day, I imagined my children and projected myself in their shoes. Fate? Consequence? Who knows, really? Yet one week later, there it was: a loaded gift. Loaded with inquiries, introspection, discovery, emotion, tears, misunderstanding and realization.
I came to realize that I did not know Mom well. I look at the photos the architect sent you and I cannot help thinking that I do not know this person. It is like some fisherman's tale: wildly entertaining, but you really don't take it seriously. I only knew a part of her - the harder part, the one with rougher edges, the smoke and mirrors one, the one that made me build some walls, to pass judgement alone. And not the best of them either. The blinkers fell only when ashes were brought home.
Today, I know more, a lot more. The painting is sufficiently complete. But I have less desire to judge than before. Yet, deep down, I am certain she did everything in her power for me. Yes, it is true that she worked evenings, so she could take care of me during the day. A rare memory of my early childhood was lying in a light sleep, to finally hear the key slip into the lock: I would smile to myself, mom was coming home from work and she would be over to kiss me shortly.
I always knew she had limited financial resources. But it never felt like a barrier - save when she would say: "I'm sorry, I could not do better for your birthday (or Christmas) this year. I wish I..."
Inside, I would rabidly wish to order time to travel backwards and make it so I would not get anything at all. It would be better than getting something diminished. In this sense, I am a lot like her: "Do what you must do well, or don't do it at all...", "Don't botch your work".
What really hurt me was the fact that she would not treat herself often. Quite the opposite, she would sacrifice for my benefit. The corollary to that was a strict education with measured freedom and a big serving of social justice. The worst judgement she could pass on someone was : "lazy bum"; yet she knew how to shed light on good examples:
"Look at Ji... He does not talk all day long, he does not smoke, he does not drink... He is serious when he works: no stories, he gets on with it and does it well. And when he says he will do something, he does it." Or:
"You see, E... worked hard all his life. Long hours, sacrificing his youth to make his store work. And he took care of his mother. He deserves a good time now."
"You know, J... had his rough periods. He even went overboard a few times. But he gained control over himself. He would always give a hand if he could, no matter what time of day. And he shows total dedication to his kids". Better yet were her thoughts on a child prodigy:
"He is gifted on the piano. It really is fantastic. He works hard at it. The fact that he is black does not change anything : his parents and him worked hard to develop what he is. Can you imagine the loss, the *waste* if they did nothing? The only thing is that you have to watch out: he is still young, ha can be fragile..."
This form of justice could be found in her discipline. She could be unflinching for some minor hiccup and make me feel it too. But for the "big things", she tried to make me understand. Like the time I skipped three months of sixth grade, and it was finally the Conservatory of Music that rang up my mother after three weeks of absence. I thought I was really going to get it then:
"Well, no Jerome. You see, this absence really hurts me. But it is more important that you understand the importance of this. In fact, you have hurt yourself enough already by not going to school. Can you tell me why? Something must be wrong... You must understand when something is important or not. Think for a moment how your school and the Conservatory reacted: some were quicker than others. Therefore some things are seen as being more important than others - this also changes according to the persons. You have to be the same way: you must know what you see and decide what is important or not."
I still cannot understand why, at some point, she did so little for you. I sense she kept all her trump cards for one hand, one that she could succeed. Without ever believing she could play, let alone win, another one.
I know her better today. Some answers will always remain in the shadows. These last few days, I dream of but one thing: those days last February, or even earlier. When she could have said something. I will never understand this. I will never grasp what she really felt, what she really wanted to put to rest. Those tears will never go dry. I wish I had known. I wish you had known. I wish you were there. I guess there was so much... too much.
Maybe Mom never had certainties about her past - or maybe she found out late. Who was her family, what was her heritage ? She had her own set of blinkers on. Brought up as a Monnoyeur, she then has to go through life as a Marchand (which is mistaken anyway!). Did she ever find out that she was a Monnoyeur after all?
The real guilty party is this omertà. Socially constructed silence. It can be wonderful considering what the Monnoyeurs did during the war. Otherwise... it leaves but misunderstanding, partial judgement and more silences which perpetuate the open wounds. From whom was Bernadette being protected?
Silence and complicity. Self-esteem and social pressures. Victimizing four generations.
Henri could not officially recognize his daughter. Henriette fled her father and hid from Bernadette's father. Bernadette, with a hunch that her family cards were not dealt right, goes through a series of failures, ends up living hermetically distinct lives. Catherine abandoned by her parents. Jerome raised on one end, but isolated from reality. From whom were we being protected?
The parallels still astonish me: French education, bases in music, boarding school, absentee father, not knowing our parents, accompanying of a close cancerous family member. And what about the coincidences with Jacques... Coincidence is not incidental, nor without meaning.
Why did she keep silent on that early-January morning? Maybe because she learned from her dying father that he was in fact but her uncle. That she suffered a lot and made some big mistakes after that. She may have been to week to take responsability for a repetition of suffering and mistakes.
Are we genetically coded to repeat our forefathers's mistakes? The thought is troubling. I simply know, now, that to break out of the cycle, we have to break out of the silence.
I want Aubert and Arianna to know. I want Marion and Benjamin to know.
I want Mom to know.