Time and place
How strange it feels to sit across the globe in
another century and have an American writer hand me a slice of
my own past
December 3, 2004
iranian.com
As I roamed around the book display
at a writer's conference, the black and white cover of a book
attracted my
attention.
Perhaps
it was the title that drew me to this book: Mother Country.
Two words that tug at my heart. No, it must have been that old
photograph, one that could have come out of just about any
family
album.
Can't judge a book by its cover? Sure you can!
I had met the author during the conference.
She seemed to be the shy and quiet type who would never push
her book, even though
this is her first. That alone prompted me to want a copy.
The story takes place in Taylor, Nevada, a fictitious
small town of mostly immigrants back in the 1930s. I have never
been to
such a place, but through the authors' impeccable style it felt
as if I had witnessed every incident. Somehow, as an emigrant,
I can identify with many of the sentiments. Right from the first
page, I am hooked. "I live in a green place now. . . I am
more comfortable with shades of gray, the desert emptiness where
I grew up. . ."
Told by a thirteen-year-old first generation girl,
the story takes me back to the 1930's America. I see the little
old ladies
in their "Black misshapen sweaters. . . There is nothing
little about them." yet I know those little old ladies.
I remember the stories as Mala does. I see those old ladies as "Tears
run down the seams of their faces." There is comfort in
the "sameness" of our stories.
Tired of repetitions, bad language and bloody
scenes that cover the pages of most novels, Mother
Country offers
me the serenity
of nostalgia. I sit in Grams' kitchen with Mala and Josie and
let them take me back to my own mother country where my grandmother
would be "offering truths like slices of warm bread, simple
and satisfying."
How strange it feels to sit across the globe in
another century and have an American writer hand me a slice of
my own past. How
short is the distance between two hearts. I inhale every word
and let it be the long needed rain in the thirsty desert of my
memories.
Peggy Leon tells me, "Names are small things, a word or
two, nothing more. But there is potency to them, the hope of
fiction, and the solidity of truth." For the first time,
I smile at all the useless 'H's in my name. I realize that, as
long as there is solid truth, I won't need the hope of fiction.
 "Birth is a matter of timing," she says.
And I want to add, ".
. . and place!" For I have come to know how at a time of
fear, your place of birth can come back to haunt you! The softness
of Peggy Leon's words makes the sharp edges bearable.
Although the story is interesting, I am more fascinated
by lyrical phrases than the plot. Leon reminds us of our need
for memories
and the significance of our history. She also points out how
people everywhere are on the move. "We were emigrants like
our grandmothers, leaving the land they created." It feels
good not to be alone.
Just when I thought there are no new words, Peggy
Leon shows me it isn't so. While the emotion remains the same,
a good writer
has the power to play with words in a way that gives it new life.
A lot could be learned from this novel, but more
than anything, "I
learned there was no cure for dreams or memories."
.................... Peef
Paff spam!
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