a gypsy heart
LJ Idol week 8 prompt: a traveling travesty.
My grandmother was a stolen gypsy baby.
My grandmother, who didn't know that she didn't belong until she was in her thirties; some drunken relative blabbed at a family function. Grandma Betty must have stood there, swaying on the spot, shocked that her parents were suddenly not her parents. She died not knowing her blood family, because there was no trail for her to follow. Nobody talks about gypsies, because people who wander often have to leave their history behind. These are people who lose their stories or who are forced to give them up. This is the tattered, fragmented version of Betty's origins, supplemented by my imagination.
My great-grandparents were traveling abroad in Greece, checking into a hotel they couldn't really afford. They had saved for this trip, for this distraction from the baby they couldn't have. They were in the lobby making small-talk with the desk clerk, when they heard a thump somewhere above their heads, followed by the sound of a crying baby. The clerk rushed upstairs, with the two nosy Americans hot on his heels. They burst into the room, in which I always imagine thick burgundy rugs and heavy drapes, and found a screaming unhappy baby. It looked like she had rolled off the bed and hit the floor.
The clerk picked the baby up, cradling her, and muttered something about dirty gypsies in a heavy accent. The American couple reached for the baby, entitled fingers stretching with longing. Then my grandmother's parents returned. How confused they must have been, looking at some other couple clucking and fussing over their child! I suspect there was a language barrier, but somehow my great-grandparents left the country with my grandmother. It probably wasn't difficult at the time: a handful of papers, easily falsified, maybe a small roll of money and a handshake. Then they had a daughter and decided not to tell her where she came from.
My grandmother is the reason I have a gypsy heart; I am always wandering, collecting stories. When I get scared, I run, though far less often than I used to. Running is a major theme in my dream-life. I recently discovered that I can be resourceful without running: I can throw everything I own into boxes and move away from a bad situation. I'm not running anymore, but I know which battles I can win. I prefer to face problems head-on, with a belligerent smile and defiant chin.
My home is wherever I am. Most of the time, this is a great survival skill. Sometimes, though, it's kind of lonely.
Gypsies are people without a physical homeland. They are frequently turned into caricatures, distorted representations of the people they actually are. Disney imagines them dancing on the streets in colorful clothes, dripping with stolen jewels. (Sometimes I am also guilty of romanticizing gypsies. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that I have precious little family history. So much of my family were wanderers or illegal immigrants or running from something.) Our family stories were purposely forgotten, or abandoned at checkpoints, left behind on a boat, buried in the mud in Ireland.
[Image: a white woman in a black and white photograph stands on a staircase, her hand resting on the wide stone banister. She has short dark hair that is curled at the ends. Her dress is long and flowing, maybe silk, and she is holding a gauzy wrap around her shoulders with her other hand. She stares off into the distance, not exactly smiling, but certainly looking quite mysterious.]
Betty, my grandmother, whom I never met; she died a year before I was born. The above is a publicity photo for a play she was in, years before she had my dad. Betty's home was in her heart. She refused to let her home get lost in her past.
Please consider educating yourself about the Romani community:
National Romani Anti-Discrimination Organization
Roma Virtual Network
The Gypsy Connection
The World's Most Persecuted People
Why You Should Be Furious
♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥
My grandmother was a stolen gypsy baby.
My grandmother, who didn't know that she didn't belong until she was in her thirties; some drunken relative blabbed at a family function. Grandma Betty must have stood there, swaying on the spot, shocked that her parents were suddenly not her parents. She died not knowing her blood family, because there was no trail for her to follow. Nobody talks about gypsies, because people who wander often have to leave their history behind. These are people who lose their stories or who are forced to give them up. This is the tattered, fragmented version of Betty's origins, supplemented by my imagination.
My great-grandparents were traveling abroad in Greece, checking into a hotel they couldn't really afford. They had saved for this trip, for this distraction from the baby they couldn't have. They were in the lobby making small-talk with the desk clerk, when they heard a thump somewhere above their heads, followed by the sound of a crying baby. The clerk rushed upstairs, with the two nosy Americans hot on his heels. They burst into the room, in which I always imagine thick burgundy rugs and heavy drapes, and found a screaming unhappy baby. It looked like she had rolled off the bed and hit the floor.
The clerk picked the baby up, cradling her, and muttered something about dirty gypsies in a heavy accent. The American couple reached for the baby, entitled fingers stretching with longing. Then my grandmother's parents returned. How confused they must have been, looking at some other couple clucking and fussing over their child! I suspect there was a language barrier, but somehow my great-grandparents left the country with my grandmother. It probably wasn't difficult at the time: a handful of papers, easily falsified, maybe a small roll of money and a handshake. Then they had a daughter and decided not to tell her where she came from.
My grandmother is the reason I have a gypsy heart; I am always wandering, collecting stories. When I get scared, I run, though far less often than I used to. Running is a major theme in my dream-life. I recently discovered that I can be resourceful without running: I can throw everything I own into boxes and move away from a bad situation. I'm not running anymore, but I know which battles I can win. I prefer to face problems head-on, with a belligerent smile and defiant chin.
My home is wherever I am. Most of the time, this is a great survival skill. Sometimes, though, it's kind of lonely.
Gypsies are people without a physical homeland. They are frequently turned into caricatures, distorted representations of the people they actually are. Disney imagines them dancing on the streets in colorful clothes, dripping with stolen jewels. (Sometimes I am also guilty of romanticizing gypsies. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that I have precious little family history. So much of my family were wanderers or illegal immigrants or running from something.) Our family stories were purposely forgotten, or abandoned at checkpoints, left behind on a boat, buried in the mud in Ireland.
[Image: a white woman in a black and white photograph stands on a staircase, her hand resting on the wide stone banister. She has short dark hair that is curled at the ends. Her dress is long and flowing, maybe silk, and she is holding a gauzy wrap around her shoulders with her other hand. She stares off into the distance, not exactly smiling, but certainly looking quite mysterious.]
Betty, my grandmother, whom I never met; she died a year before I was born. The above is a publicity photo for a play she was in, years before she had my dad. Betty's home was in her heart. She refused to let her home get lost in her past.
Please consider educating yourself about the Romani community:
National Romani Anti-Discrimination Organization
Roma Virtual Network
The Gypsy Connection
The World's Most Persecuted People
Why You Should Be Furious
♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥