many women in here, are there?” I say.
Wayne picks up the anthology and pages through it. “Here’s one
by a woman,” he says, handing the book back. “The only American
in the volume.”
The poem is called “La Kialo Estas” (The Reason Is) and the poet is
none other than Nini Martin-Sanders. She wrote it forty years ago,
in memory of D. E. Parrish, a fifty-year mainstay of the U.S.
Esperanto movement. In 1969, Parrish was mowing his lawn in Los
Angeles with a power mower when suddenly his next-door neighbor
pulled out a rifle and shot him dead. The noise, she said afterward,
had been bothering her.
In Nini’s poem, the neighbor is not simply an insane woman; she
is a freneza nigrulino (“crazy Negress”) and her violent act is
motivated not by delusions, per se, but by racial hatred.
Ial …
Ial ni malamas la alian
Ial ni tranĉas for
Ial ni rigardas nur
Niajn haŭtojn … niajn eksteraĵojn
Ial ni batalas
Fratoj kontraŭ fratoj.
(For some reason.…
For some reason, we hate one another
For some reason, we slice away
For some reason we only
Look at our skin—our exterior
For some reason we battle
Brothers against brothers.)
It’s full of compassion and outrage, but as a poem, amateurish,
vapid, left over from the heydey of National Brotherhood Week.
Why racism, why violence, why are we humans so inhuman to one
another? Why, why, why? The answer, Nini’s poem seems to say, is
that the heart, on this summer afternoon in Los Angeles, has its
reasons, however murderous and racist.
When Nini reads her poem at our final gathering, in a feathery
voice, the event of forty years ago suddenly seems to have happened
just moments ago. When she’s finished, a brief silence, then a ripple
of applause that grows louder and more rhythmic. Standing at the
podium pleased and slightly baffled, Nini finally shuffles back to her
seat.
There’s been no rehearsal, but all the readers have practiced,
reciting with vigor and clarity, several from memory. Puckish Sonja
from Mexico reads a self-mocking Esperanto standby, “Mi estas
Esperantisto,” and Meja, Sadler’s little poem about a woman
rummaging in her rabbit-warren purse. Filipo comes out as the
anonymous poet of the daily newsletter, reading a poem for his
brother. Tero reads a poem about Lady Godiva, and Steĉjo chants
the “Siberian Lullaby” of Julio Baghy—more a spell than a poem:
“Hirte flirte flugas haroj / Siblas vintra vent’/Morde torde ŝiras koron
/Larmoj kaj la sent’…” To cap off the reading, Bernard recites Auld’s
famous poem “Ebrio” (Drunkenness), which mimics the slushy diction
of inebriation: “Ŝuvi puvi povi-povaŝ…” Bernard has it by heart,
lurching and swaying until finally, emitting the last word, naŭzo
(nausea), he runs offstage, retching, to wild applause.
Diplomas are presented and each of us, even the komencantoj
(beginners), make off-the-cuff remarks, thank-yous strung like
cranberries. The college students say the last three weeks have been
a blast, a hoot, an incredible party; the older students talk about the
NASK family and how they will miss it until next summer. Greta
plays flute to Benedikt’s Spanish guitar, and the evening closes with
a song written and performed by ponytailed Roberto, an aspiring
animator, currently a clerk in a health food store. He takes the
stage, lifts his guitar, and in a fine tenor takes us deep into a
honeyed sadness that seems to last weeks, years, eons; his voice rises
and falls, from peaks to valleys, cliffs to caves. For such a journey,
for such sweetness, applause seems rather beside the point. When
Roberto’s voice fades to silence, people simply go up, one by one,
and throw their arms around him.
* * *
The morning of our departure, we assemble in a large classroom for
an evaluation session. Professor *Grant Goodall, a primo Esperantist
and our liaison in the UCSD Department of Linguistics, says (in
English) that he wants to hear from al of us; for the benefit of
beginners, he welcomes our candid responses in English. Though it’s
ironic that English, not Esperanto, promises the most egalitarian
discussion, it is a deeply Esperantist gesture.
It is the first time I’ve heard any of the NASKanoj speak English.
One by one, we strip off our fantastical eucalyptus masks. Christy,
from Raleigh, has a soft Carolina twang that makes her sound even
younger than seventeen; Filipo sounds like he’s still in New York on
West Seventy-second Street, eating blintzes. Nini sounds like a
kindergarten teacher, which is what she was for decades, decades
ago. Steĉjo turns out to be a kid from Long Island; Meja sounds like
the UCSD students skateboarding near the bookstore; and Bernard,
the future academic, speaks a sophisticated CompLitese. Karlo’s
vowels as well as his passport are Canadian; and, to my surprise,
Tero, who seems so West Coast, has a strong Minnesota accent, as
though headed home to Lake Wobegon. The conversation is slow to
get rolling, but then one of the older women complains that the
classrooms are too far from the dorms; another chimes in that the
shuttles are unreliable. Our “evaluation” swiftly turns into a gripe
session. “The food—it’s not great, and the salad bar closes too
early.” “The Kaplanuloj are too loud!” “The diboĉejo is too small.”
“The painters entered my room while I was in there!” “The field
trips…” someone says, rolling his eyes. I look at Slim; ouch. Only
Greta and Benedikt speak in Esperanto, but they say little; Kalindi is
silent. Brigadoon is dissolving before my eyes, leaving a room full of
irritated, underslept people remembering that they have planes to
catch, emails to answer, jobs to resume.
When we walk back to the dorm to pack, most of us switch into
Esperanto; it’s more … comfortable? More in keeping with this
place, this time? A way to prolong, for a few more moments,
something akin to happiness? As we walk, Wayne says, “I make a
standing offer to all my students to write to me; some do. I ask each
of them to set a goal—a goal for two weeks from now, a month
from now, for the next six months. For the coming year. If you don’t
set a goal, nothing happens.” I ask him how often he speaks
Esperanto when he’s at home. “Well, once a month when I can get
to a meeting in St. Louis—but I’m often too busy to drive down
there.”
He considers; when he resumes, his tone is confessional. “So,
basically, only with my dogs. I tell my pomerhundo”—Pomeranian
—“‘bona hundo!’ and he gets it. I call my evil ĉivavo”—chihuahua
—“‘Hundaĉo!’ and he gets it.” He shrugs, as if to dismiss the forty-
nine weeks until he is back in San Diego. “You just have to keep it
going, and you do.”
PART TWO
DOKTORO ESPERANTO AND THE
SHADOW PEOPLE
1. Jewish Questions
In a letter of 1905 to the French Esperantist Alfred Michaux,
Zamenhof wrote: “My Jewishness has been the main reason why,