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Abby Rix J
Mrs. L / Mrs. Davis
January 22nd, 2006
Period 4 – 5/6
AP Transformation
The Curse That Became Our History
There’s
this peculiar instant in time, after a tragedy occurs, when you know its true –
but you haven’t unveiled its nature to a single soul. Of all of the horror and
despair of that moment – that is what I most distinctly remember. It was so
quiet. The entire world would be transformed by that single instant, and
nothing would ever be the same – ever again. Not for our family. All the other
human beings dwelling in this same hellish world of ours might go on about
their lives – but for us, it would never be the same – it would never be normal
– it would never be all right ever, ever, again.
I couldn’t move. None of us could.
We all looked at each other in shocked, incomprehensible horror, because we
knew deep down with in our souls that someone should pick up the phone and call
– but I think we all had the same strange premonition that if we surrounded the hospital bed
forever and ever, we could keep our family intact, the way it was. We would not
awaken from this nightmare to find out it was someone’s real life, and for once
that someone wasn’t just a poor unlucky cancer victim on a chart of “yearly
death” statistics that you could forget about. It was our life, the only one we
were going to have. The only Jenny Rix … the only mom.
Until that moment I’d always
believed I could still go home and pretend the disturbance of the hospital and
more importantly, mom’s sickness, never happened. The trauma, the chemotherapy
treatments, the blood transfusions, the suffering of all we saw and pain she
endured – those were just stories I would tell someday with a teary eyed sigh
and testimony of survival on the Oprah Winfrey show when the hospital was far
away and make believe like the people in soap operas and dramatic movies. The
tragedies that happened to cancer patients were not mine. We were different,
not because we were good Christians and prayed and read our bibles daily, but
because we were simply a much, much more blessed kind of person. I would go
home, to our quaint, perfect home in Tinton
Falls, New Jersey,
and be exactly the same Abby as before. I’d grow up to be a carefree American
wife, with a romantic husband and beautiful children of my own – and a mom to
call on the phone from time to time when my kids got sick – or when I needed to
know how many eggs to put in a new cake I was baking. This is what I believed.
I never – even in my wildest dreams – planned on being someone different. Never
imagined I would be a girl they’d duck their eyes from and whisper about at
church as tragic, for having suffered such a devastating loss.
I think Nathan and Dad also believed
these things, in their own different ways, and that is why none of us moved. We
thought we could freeze that moment in time for just one minute - and one more
after that – and another following that. That if none of us moved – if we
surrounded her forever and ever – if none of us confessed it – we could hold
back the curse that was going to be our history.
Source:
Text of Barbara Kingsolver’s Novel, The
Poisonwood Bible, Pages 436-438
There’s a
strange moment in time, after something horrible happens, when you know it’s
true but you haven’t told anyone yet. Of all things that is what I remember
most. It was so quiet. The whole world would change then and nothing would ever
be all right again. All the other people in the whole world might go on about
their business, but for us it would never be normal again.
I
couldn’t move. None of us could. We looked at each other because we knew
someone should go but I think we all had the same strange idea that if we stood
there without moving forever and ever, we could keep our family the way it was.
We would not wake up from this nightmare to find out it was someone’s real
life, and for once that someone wasn’t just a poor unlucky nobody in a shack
you could forget about. It was our life, the only one we were going to have.
The only Ruth May.
Until
that moment I’d always believed I could still go home and pretend the Congo never
happened. The misery, the hunts, the ants, the embarrassments of all we saw and
endured – those were just stories I would tell someday with a laugh and toss of
my hair, when Africa was faraway and
make-believe like the people in history books. The tragedies that happened to
Africans were not mine. We were different, not because we were white and had
our vaccinations, but because we were simply a much, much luckier kind of
person. I would go home, to Bethlehem,
Georgia, and be
exactly the same Rachel as before. I’d grow up to be a carefree American wife,
with nice things and a sensible way of life and three grown sisters to share my
ideals and talk to on the phone from time to time. This is what I believed.
Never imagined I would be a girl they’d duck their eyes from and whisper about
as tragic, for having suffered such a loss.
I
think Leah and Adah also believed these things, in their own different ways,
and that is why none of us moved. We thought we could freeze time for just one
more minute, and one more after that. That if none of us confessed it, we could
hold back the curse that was going to become our history.
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