#016 The Magnification of One Memory In Memoir: C. Vargas McPherson’s “INHERITING OUR NAMES: AN IMAGINED TRUE MEMOIR OF SPAIN’S PACT OF FORGETTING”

What is the date you began writing this memoir and the date when you completed the memoir? The glib part of me wants to say that I’ve been working on this memoir my entire life. After all, we are the meaning-makers of our lives and when there are huge gaps in the narrative, we seek to make sense. Ultimately, INHERITING OUR NAMES is a combination of historical record, family lore, 71-year-old memories, and a whole lot of imagination. The facts I gathered are points of light from which I could draw constellations of meaning.

To put this in perspective, there were three years of the Spanish Civil War; 40 years of legislated and imposed silence in Spain during the Franco dictatorship; followed by 30 years of ignoring those horrific events enforced by the law called the Pact of Forgetting decreed after Franco’s death in 1977.

Seven decades of silence: 1936 until 2007.

https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/spanish-civil-war-breaks-out

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francoist_Spain

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pact_of_Forgetting

I grew up with this deafening silence. I learned to step around the “whys” and “what happened” and make room for what could not be named. Though this memoir has been a part of me for as long as I can remember, I began researching and outlining INHERITING OUR NAMES in 2007 when Spain at long last passed the Law of Historical Memory (aka the Historical Memory Law) which recognized and broadened the rights and established measures in favor of those who – like my family – suffered persecution during the Spanish Civil War and subsequent Dictatorship. This law made it possible and safe for my Spanish family to finally start telling their silenced stories from that era.

https://english.elpais.com/elpais/2019/06/28/inenglish/1561732798_239871.html

The writing, editing, proofing was finally completed in 2020 and published on April 3, 2021. It is the culmination of decades of wondering, dreaming, reading, and 14 years of diving deep into the secrets of my family, the compounded losses during the Franco era, and the transgenerational trauma passed through four generations and across two continents.

http://countrystudies.us/spain/51.htm

Where did you do most of your writing for this memoir?  And please describe in detail.  I wrote INHERITING OUR NAMES during so many stolen moments while working and raising my two children. I wrote on my phone while waiting in the pick-up line at the elementary school, on the back of grocery lists in the checkout line, on yellow sticky notes at work, in the margins of books I was reading, and on four different computers during the course of those 14 years!

However, my favorite place to write was at the New Deal Café in Portland, OR where I would sit with a cup of tea and my writing buddy, Dawn, who demanded wonderful and sometimes infuriating accountability. Something about the sounds of frothing milk, the smell of brewing coffee, and the general hubbub of humanity helped me focus and distill the narrative. Having a good encouraging friend helped, too.

What were your writing habits while writing this memoir- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? This is such a great question and one I always want to know from writers I admire. Those who carve out time before the family wakes or after they all go to bed are so inspiring. I wish I had concrete writing habits! But waking early is not ever going to be a routine. Nor is staying up late! It might not have taken 14 years if I could have sacrificed some sleep now and then – but alas, I’m a slow plodder and plotter! And I love to sleep.

Later, when I was pulling from my research and outlines to write in earnest, I moved to the laptop. I love the direct, crisp and clear words on the screen. The computer’s ability to edit, delete, move, revise, rewrite, and save is perfect for my compulsive perseverating over word choice!

Credit and Copyright by C. Vargas McPherson

There are wonderful YouTube videos of flamenco and guitar music, even street life from 1930s Seville … these were great early tools for immersing myself in the culture and flavor of Spain. I went to every flamenco dance performance that came to my city. I found two wonderful Spanish restaurants and enjoyed sangria and paella on date nights with my husband. These explorations helped me imagine the sights, smells, sounds, and tastes of Seville.

https://search.aol.com/aol/video;_ylt=A2KLfSIvCVthE4wAVYNpCWVH;_ylu=Y29sbwNiZjEEcG9zAzEEdnRpZAMEc2VjA3BpdnM-?q=flamenco%20dancing%20in%20seville&s_it=searchtabs&type=z-hr-10,z-br-sa,z-os-mac,z-st-us-il,z-pg-1,z-dtl-dd,z-pr-https,z-mvt-guin-us,z-coreus-auth,z-pf-coreus&v_t=comsearch#id=1&vid=f7e87e127b9ffe956ec609ad3237680f&action=view

During the early days of research and outlining, I would play music from Spain and write longhand on yellow legal pads. At first, I used different colored gel pens so I could keep track of what I knew from family lore, what was research-based, what was my imagination, what came from interviews, what was derived from photos. I wanted to be accountable for what was objective fact and what was subjective memory.

Credit and Copyright by C. Vargas McPherson.

Later in the writing process, I especially appreciated music without lyrics for writing. Guitar, Andrés Segovia; Guitar, Sabicas; Guitar, Ramón Montoya ; singer La Niña de los Peines; and dancer and singer Carmen Amaya.  

Sabicas

Ramón Montoya 

La Niña de los Peines

https://search.aol.com/aol/video;_ylt=A0geKeTGC1thZekA_AxpCWVH;_ylu=Y29sbwNiZjEEcG9zAzEEdnRpZAMEc2VjA3BpdnM-?q=la+nina+de+los+peines&s_it=searchtabs&type=z-it-sb,z-hr-10,z-br-sa,z-os-mac,z-st-us-il,z-pg-1,z-dtl-dd,z-pr-https,z-mvt-guin-us,z-coreus-auth,z-pf-coreus&v_t=comsearch#id=6&vid=5fa767d6879d9ea81c69cf74d8f49b3f&action=view

Carmen Amaya Dancing

https://search.aol.com/aol/video;_ylt=AwrE1xrYDFthrBMAFkxpCWVH;_ylu=Y29sbwNiZjEEcG9zAzEEdnRpZAMEc2VjA3BpdnM-?q=Carmen+Amaya&s_it=searchtabs&type=z-hr-10,z-br-sa,z-os-mac,z-st-us-il,z-pg-1,z-dtl-dd,z-pr-https,z-mvt-guin-us,z-coreus-auth,z-pf-coreus&v_t=comsearch#id=3&vid=1519f9f44ba54f91fcf68d5258c69d6b&action=view

Carmen Amaya Singing

https://search.aol.com/aol/video;_ylt=AwrDQ2rIDVthHlcADA5nCWVH;_ylu=c2VjA3NlYXJjaAR2dGlkAw–;_ylc=X1MDMTE5NzgwMzg3OQRfcgMyBGFjdG4DY2xrBGNzcmNwdmlkA29sS2VXekV3TGpIWHhsT0ZnSU5YT3dBN016VXVNUUFBQUFDZkRzWHYEZnIDY29tc2VhcmNoBGZyMgNzYS1ncARncHJpZANvMXVKRXFrR1JobUJ1bWpxeEZJWVpBBG5fcnNsdAM2MARuX3N1Z2cDNARvcmlnaW4Dc2VhcmNoLmFvbC5jb20EcG9zAzAEcHFzdHIDBHBxc3RybAMEcXN0cmwDMjQEcXVlcnkDQ2FybWVuJTIwQW1heWElMjBzaW5naW5nBHRfc3RtcAMxNjMzMzU3Mzkz?fr2=sb-top-&q=Carmen+Amaya+singing&s_it=sb_top&s_qt=&ei=UTF-8&v_t=comsearch&type=z-hr-10%2Cz-br-sa%2Cz-os-mac%2Cz-st-us-il%2Cz-pg-1%2Cz-dtl-dd%2Cz-pr-https%2Cz-mvt-guin-us%2Cz-coreus-auth%2Cz-pf-coreus#id=6&vid=89ec8e4544538ea32baac3e2ad77c7ae&action=view

I would pull up my dark gray hoodie and bend over the laptop and make my petitions to the ancestors to reveal to me their long-buried truth.

C. Vargas McPherson with Simon. Copyright by C. Vargas McPherson.

If I was writing in the evening, well, there’s nothing like a tumbler of red wine with a wedge of Manchego cheese! But more often than not, I was writing with a cup of English Breakfast at hand – my favorite way to caffeinate. As any writer who is also a parent knows, we write when we have a minute to ourselves. Whereas I found myself always thinking about the story, the actual writing happened when I could claim a chunk of time. I learned to keep a pad of paper and a pen by my bedside because despite how sleepy I might be, “brilliant” thoughts emerged just as I turned out the lights. Of course, sometimes those late-night ideas were not so “brilliant” in the cold light of day!  

Credit and Copyright by C. Vargas McPherson.

Out of all the specific memories you write about in this memoir, which ONE MEMORY was the most emotional for you to write about? And can you share that specific excerpt with us here?  The excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer, and please provide page numbers as reference. What a great question. Because my historical memoir is a hybrid of sorts, all the memories I write about are a combination of fact and fiction. I wasn’t present for most everything I write about but I was for the inheritance. The transgenerational trauma sits in my bones and is my legacy from the Spanish Civil War and those decades following.

INHERITING OUR NAMES is a matrilineal story. Four generations of women doing what they can to survive, but the story begins with Aurora – my grandmother whom I never met. And it is her loss that is the catalyst, so I will share that memory starting on page 95.

As a preface, it is the winter of 1936-37, about six months after the Spanish Civil War begins, and my grandmother is six-months pregnant with my mother who will be named Dolores. After months and months of dwindling rations and no money for black market food, the Spanish people are starving. Here, in this passage, Aurora holds and prays over her firstborn daughter, Esperanza, who is dying. As Esperanza (name means Hope) dies, Dolores (name means Sorrow) grows.

Also, my grandmother was devoted to the Virgin Mary, specifically la Macarena, a 17th century statue of the Virgin that resided in her parish church. Her relationship with the Virgin was difficult for me to imagine given that I was not raised Catholic and do not hold that kind of consuming faith. And the Catholicism of 1930s Spain was rigid and formidable. Of all the ways I tried to write this particular “memory,” the only way I could show the closeness of this relationship with a deity and my grandmother’s dependence on her faith was by making la Macarena as real a presence for the reader as she was for my grandmother. The use of magical realism enabled me to bring this spiritual mother/daughter relationship into the tangible world.

https://www.traditioninaction.org/religious/a026rpMacarena.htm

Six-months pregnant, Aurora kneels on the cold marble tiles in her kitchen. She will pray the rosary again today. For weeks, she has been fervently praying the Mater Dolorosa specifically because Esperanza is still ill.

As she begins the seven Dolores, she makes the sign of the cross, expressing her belief in the trinity and acknowledging Christ’s death on the cross. The dimpled bead at the beginning is the first sorrow, and Aurora concentrates on the prophecy of Simeon as she begins with the Lord’s Prayer, continues with seven Ave Marias and concludes with “Virgin Most Sorrowful, pray for us.”

Aurora continues through the second sorrow, the striated bead, but stops short of the third sorrow. Pressing the third bead between her thumb and forefinger, she attempts to squeeze out the words, the images and meaning of a mother losing her child. What comfort is there in this, she questions. What help is there reflecting on Mary’s sorrows, Her losses, Her grief? Aurora loses herself in her own anguish as she cannot bring herself to articulate the third sorrow.

The third sorrow, where Mary searches for and cannot find Her son Jesus, is when a mother can only imagine the worst: the feelings of loss that Mary must feel, the fear coiling in Her gut, gaining a life of its own. A mother’s primary responsibility, to assure the safety of her young one can, at times, be a heavy and unmanageable task. But the children are not always in their mother’s care. And they are susceptible to illness. There are all manner of accidents one cannot bear to imagine. All these fears permeate her sleepless nights. Those moments when the child’s small hand slips away beyond the mother’s grasp. Or when a child slips from a tree limb and falls. When the air that sustains us all cannot find its way into a child’s lungs. Or when a mother looks away just for a moment. Just a split second.

Aurora does not want to meditate on this sorrow. She doesn’t want to know this pain. These nightmares swarm about her bed enough at night. She can’t bear them in the light of day. Such sorrow becomes too palpable, too possible in the light of day. Too impossible to shrug off. She rekindles the fading flickering flames within her stove and unashamedly begs la Macarena to restore her daughter’s health.

Señora, por favor. Please, please, I beg you.”

She weeps with bowed head, imagining the statue of la Macarena coming to her side. She remembers each of the wooden saints within the sanctuary of San Gil. She remembers their elongated, thin hands extended and the shallow valleys of their upturned palms. She looks down into her own upturned hand, the rosary tucked in the palm of her left hand, the fingers of her right hand still pressing upon the third decade.

My abuela’s kitchen has become her church. Within these walls she hears Manuel’s tortured contrition over the work he must do. It is here where she offers each member of her young family a circle of bread as they commune over their modest meals. It is here that she anoints them with drops of the cloudy olive oil for their broth made of onion and discarded bone. And though water does not turn to wine, there is still the vinegar transformed from wine in the crock, and that completes what she has to offer.

After her petition to the Holy Virgin, la Macarena, Aurora kneels in silence upon her kitchen floor. She listens to her daughter’s breath, shallow and labored. She clutches the beads her Godmother gave her when she was confirmed. And she grasps at the remaining crumbs of her faith.

Outside a weak fascist rally cry penetrates the thickly plastered walls: “¡Arriba España!

Aurora is used to seeing the parades in her neighborhood. It is General Queipo’s way of reminding the barrio that he is commander in Sevilla, as if the missing family members and neighbors, the splashes of blood on walls and street were not enough. The guardia civil monitors on horseback wearing their ridiculous hats and tall leather boots. They watch to see which workers participate in the rally. And they watch to see who suddenly slips away or finds distraction in an errant shoelace. They take note.

“One!” the crowd responds, uninspired.

“¡España!” he shouts again.

“Great!” parrots the obedient public.

“¡España!” the fascist leader crows.

“Free!” The cowed crowd completes the cheer, and Aurora imagines their right arms stiffly raised in the brittle straight-armed fascist salute, their hearts aching. She knows it is their clenched fists they long to raise in the workers’ salute: arm held high, fists clenched, elbow bent as though set to pound hammer upon anvil. A forced duplicity: truth and lies, faith and fact.

Throwing caution to the wind, Aurora cannot help but petition la Macarena. If there is a price to pay later, she’ll pay it. But there is nothing, nothing now or ever, that can be as important or as precious as her daughter Esperanza.

“Please,” Aurora prays, “don’t let me lose this child as You lost Yours. I am not as strong as You. I won’t survive. Please.”

“Of course, you will survive. There is her younger brother to consider. And don’t forget the child you carry. Of course, you will survive. It is what we do.”

Aurora looks up, somehow not surprised to see la Macarena de Esperanza walking towards her, arms outstretched, as if ready to embrace her right there in her kitchen. Cascading rose petals, like confetti, tumble from Her gown.

My abuela chokes out a sob. She has no words for the desperate fear she feels rising all around her. “I’ve been praying and praying for weeks now, and she’s still so weak.” How can Aurora lose this child who sees her so completely. A mother-daughter bond beyond what she could have imagined. “Please, Señora.”

La Macarena kneels beside my abuela, and for a moment Aurora worries that her floor isn’t clean enough for the bent knees of the Virgin. “I, too, know your heart.” Neither move to wipe away the tears that come in a torrent. Together they watch the fire burn the olive stones, crackling pits of fire that suddenly burst in an arsenal of sparks that scatter into nothing.

“God seems so far. I don’t know what … if I can believe.” The familiar sisterly feeling envelopes Aurora for just a moment, and she nearly apologizes for her crisis of faith, until she hears her daughter wheezing.

“God is here. I am here.” The light in the kitchen has become softer, golden, as if it is dawn in the warmth of spring and all the flowers are pollinating. “All I have is yours. All the love and compassion. It is yours.” La Macarena presses the heels of Her hands against Her eyes.

“It’s not enough! Not nearly!” Aurora cries. “I don’t want your compassion. I just want Esperanza!” My abuela’s mouth is wide and misshapen, and she tries to cover it with her hands. A habit she’s had since she was little. A gesture meant to protect her from evil spirits when she is too vulnerable.

Pressing Her palms together, la Macarena whispers, “Aurora … the Lord is with you …” But my abuela won’t hear. She rises from her knees and begins sweeping up the spent petals from her kitchen floor.

. . .

Esperanza dies of influenza. She dies of hunger. She dies of cold. She dies in my abuela’s arms in the raw, mean light just after dawn as Aurora sits near the cold brazier rocking and rocking, humming absently the little song that Esperanza so loved. The sound of rain, relentless these past weeks, subsides. There is a weight upon Aurora’s breast like someone has piled something wet and heavy upon her. A constricting cord of asthma tightens around her chest as she rocks her daughter closer and closer, trying to transfer her own warmth to her daughter’s body. Damp trails of condensation slide down the plaster walls as if the house itself weeps.

Manuel sifts through the cold ashes in the brazier. The last remnants of the pamphlets, union tracts and leaflets he brought home last night delivered nothing more than their empty promises for the workers and their families. Aurora was grateful for their fleeting fire, but she will allow no more into this house.

Aurora wonders aloud how she will live. She knows she will. But she cannot fathom how. Through her tears she looks at the photograph of la Macarena de Esperanza and silently pleads. “How?”

“I know,” la Macarena’s voice filters into Aurora’s ears, yet none of her sadness abates. “There is nothing that compares. Your first born. My own. The pain does not lessen with time. It is a sorrow the whole world has not been able to soften. I know.”

Before the sun reaches its zenith, Manuel takes Esperanza’s cold body out of Aurora’s arms. Together they marvel how small she seems now. Nearly weightless and ephemeral, a sparrow’s hollow-boned body, an absence so vast. Both are remembering how she could fill up a room with just her laughter. She was abundant and radiant, and she made their lives full beyond anything they ever imagined. Such fearless love. They didn’t know they could love so much.

Neighbors enter to cluck and croon. Conchi moves to open a window as is custom after a death, and Aurora nearly jumps out of her seat to stop her. “Leave it shut. Leave it.”

“But, Aurora, she belongs to God now.”

“Leave it closed. What do I care about God? What does God care about us? God should beg our forgiveness.” And at this, the hovering black-cloaked women cross themselves.

Manuel carefully wraps his firstborn in a lace mantilla and bestows a last kiss before he carries her from the house.

A low sound from deep within my abuela frightens Manolito as he tugs and tugs at her dress. The dark women emerge from their corners and their hands flap and fan at Manolito, sweeping him away from what he does not recognize.

The neighbors hover, collecting Esperanza’s clothing, covering mirrors, washing bedding, preparing food from their combined offerings. Their efforts are a comfort to themselves only. Rejecting food, Aurora gnaws on her grief and swallows her tears. Esperanza is safely buried deep within.

. . .

For days my grandmother remains in the chair sitting in a private reverie that reveals nothing. No epiphanies. No glimmer of understanding. No broader perspective that imparts anything more than utter loss, an emptiness beyond compare. She continues to rock, feeling her weightlessness without the ballast of her daughter. She feels the air sluice through her as though she is nothing more than mist. Her quiet moans are throaty and gnarled. She forgets to eat, and the little one inside responds with weakened kicks and turns.

Aurora has no thoughts for this little one. A boy or a girl. Dark like her or fair like Manuel. Whatever longing she felt was lost with Esperanza. All potential, all hope – even love – everything lost with Esperanza.

Manolito runs from room to room, looking all over the house for his big sister, and Aurora can’t bring herself to acknowledge him until he steps into Esperanza’s shoes and starts dancing as if dancing would bring her home.

“Take those off!” she nearly screams, her voice rough and hollow.

Falling to the floor, Manolito flings off the shoes and runs from his mother confused and afraid. He doesn’t understand that she believes germs can be transmitted through wearing another’s shoes. Sweat, just like saliva, carries disease, she thinks. And there is no one who could ever walk in Esperanza’s shoes.

Can you describe the step-by-step process of writing about this ONE MEMORY? I learned from my uncle (Manolito in the above passage) that my grandmother fell into a grief and depression so palpable it felt like sorrow took up residence in their home. He explained that every task, every interaction, every encounter included the ghost of his older sister Esperanza. And that when my mother, Dolores, was born looking exactly like Esperanza, my grandmother descended further into her depression.

Dolores wearing her older sister’s dress. Copyright by C. Vargas McPherson.

Sitting with this tremendous loss and holding space for Aurora’s grief was just the beginning. No parent wants to imagine the loss of their child, but I had to understand what I could of that pain. With full transparency, I joined a group for grieving parents and made a request for any mother who might want to share her experiences with me. Quite a few offered to share their stories, peek into their pain, and show me how it moves and changes and evolves over time. They shared how their deceased child is always with them, a shadowy companion. And they always wonder who their child would be now, what they might have studied, who they might have loved, if there would be grandchildren… I am forever grateful for these brave mothers who wanted to share what they could so Aurora’s grief could be somewhat representative of every mother’s grief over losing her child.

1941 Seville. Aurora, younger sister, Dolores and her aunt. Copyright by C. Vargas McPherson.

I also belong to a group for people born after the death of an older sibling and a sibling support group for people with a disabled sibling. In these two communities, I was able to stitch my own experiences growing up as a “Rainbow/Ghost child” with others’ experiences. We were able to share similar stories of our mothers, their pain, their heightened expectations, their grief – and examine how we were impacted by those “ghosts” of our siblings.

Dolores after the war. Copyright by C. Vargas McPherson.

As I mentioned earlier, I understood very little about Spanish Catholicism and how neighborhood parish statues of the Virgin Mary are venerated. From reading, I was able to learn that la Macarena (the 17th C. statue of the Virgin) is a much beloved religious figure in Seville. She is processed through the streets of Seville every Good Friday and is regaled with song, flowers, and fevered, fervent devotion, and engenders a fierce loyalty among neighborhood parishioners. In an effort to better understand this level of adoration, I traveled to Spain to witness for myself the pageantry of Holy Week in Seville. For one week, I followed my abuela’s beloved Virgin de la Macarena through the marigold-strewn streets. I became one drop in the sea of humanity that filled the avenues processing with la Macarena to the Cathedral. I smelled the melted candlewax and carnations mingled with sweat from the costaleros who carried the 1.5 ton paso, or processional float, for 12 hours on Good Friday. I stepped in time with the small brassy band that played anthems in la Macarena’s wake. I craned my neck and listened as a cantaora, soloist, sang a heartrending song to the Virgin from a balcony high above the street. I hooked arms with other witnesses under the dark canopy of night. And then in the bleary-eyed morning of Holy Saturday, I sat at the feet of the statue and imagined my grandmother with her rosary praying in that very same spot. I watched the older women sitting near me, heads covered with lace mantillas, fingers clasping beads, and I called on all the ghosts to loosen their long-silenced tongues. And then I listened.

Dolores and her younger sister. Copyright by C. Vargas McPherson

Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? Oh wow, what a provocative question. But yes, there is a section that was deleted from this excerpt. The deleted sequence was an exploration of what children like my mother or myself feel growing up in the wake of their mother’s consuming grief and depression. Survivor’s guilt is something frequently felt by children born in the wake of their mother’s grief. The tragedy that later befell my older sister is the familial echo of the scene from the passage above. The deleted section was full to overflowing with what I imagined my mother must have felt growing up in the shadow of her older deceased sister. And it included my own sadness and guilt for being the “healthy one” after my sister’s devastating diagnosis.

Dolores, upper left, and Billy; Aurora holding Dolores’s daughter Patricia. Copyright by C. Vargas McPherson.

It needed to be written. It was necessary for tapping into a greater compassion for what my mother endured and what I suffered. It enabled me to tether myself to my mother and my grandmother as if with an invisible umbilicus. But it didn’t belong in that passage. That part of the story would reveal itself in its own good time

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