Marianne Maili

We are raised with stories about heroes, and sometimes sheroes, or heroines. Women, especially, are raised with stories about being saved, and men, about being saviors. Evolution calls for saving ourselves–a sort of self-saving, self-caring, that allows room for others to do that for themselves. We all need allies, and help, of course. Yet, what if we let go of these stories that we must save or be saved by another? In the writing of Lucy, go see., it took a while to see that the real hero of the novel was voice–speech, itself. Though Lucy is the protagonist of the novel, in many ways, the real story is about an unspoken thus unrecognized wound. And when finally, the bearer of the wound speaks its name, and stands up for herself, she frees (saves) herself, and, inadvertently, others.

I rushed home from my walk through the park, after my bike ride along the lake, where I began wondering if “este” was east in Italian, as it is in Spanish, and found out that the Italian is, as the French, “est”. I have done some more fact-checking on the name. Translating machines tell me that they recognize “este” as a Romanian word and do not translate it into English other than as “este”.  Isabella’s father, Ercole d’Este (1431-1505), was a member of the noble and princely dynasty, the House of Este, whose origins are far-and-wide-reaching.  Ferrara, where Isabella (1474-1539) was born, is in the Emilia-Romagna region, in the northeast of Italy.  All of that to say I am not sure that the origin of her name denotes a cardinal direction. Someone might know. I do recommend reading about her and all of this fascinating history. This powerful woman and her father were two of the most significant patrons of the arts.

On another note, the photos above are from my walk, where I was thinking about all this. Especially about fact-checking, and fallibility and my own difficulty with accepting my flawed humanness. Turtles are another favorite creature of mine. Flamingos, too. And many others. I have a meaningful, playful menagerie (sans live captives) to share with you. More to come.

I love my name, Marianne, and I may use it alone as a pen name. Like Colette. My mother named me in honor of the Virgin Mary and her mother, St. Anne–Mom was praying to them, hoping for a girl after three boys in a row, and there I was. “You must have known I would become a French citizen,” I said, “naming me like that.” (Marianne is also the symbol of the French Republic, and its values of liberty, fraternity, and equality.) “No!” she snapped back, she who hated that I lived so far away for so long.

I have been playing with different last names for a while. Marianne d’Iowa means Marianne from Iowa in French and Spanish, and appeared in my mind when I was having fun thinking of the leading Renaissance woman, the Marquise Isabella d’Este–meaning Isabelle from the East–but Marianne de Middle West was a mouthful. When I moved to Chicago, Marianne d’Iowa did not seem to fit as well, and I thought of the different places around the world I call home, so I became Marianne du Monde–Marianne of the World in French–for a while. Finally I settled on Marianne Maili.

Maili is the name I would have given a daughter. I love the sound of it (may-lee). In Polynesian it means “gentle breeze” so I also liked the idea of a gentle breeze in front of and behind me. In a way, I have become my own daughter now that Mom is gone. I have fun with the challenge of naming characters.

The mother in Lucy, go see., Viola Pilgrim, is named after Viola in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night–a character who says what she sees. Tillie Olsen remarked that the mother’s voice is the most absent in literature, Viola’s voice is very present in the novel and it brings her daughter, Lucy, more freedom.

I learned to read, at 4, in my grandma’s bed. I do not remember the titles. I do remember the 11 x 14 size of one book, the softness and color of the pages, the thin spines, the magic of stringing letter sounds into words and then stories. It made me want to see other worlds and to tell stories. I remember Grandma’s patience and generosity in spirit, her weariness in body. I connected books with resting and tenderness, curiosity and travel, home and comfort. Excitement, too. Vitality. This is a bed I slept in for a month or so in a hostel in Barcelona. I was 24 and living one of the dreams that beds and reading inspired.

“What myth is your novel like?” Jim McPherson asked years ago, as I rode with him to select a present for his daughter which I would deliver to her upon my return to Barcelona. I was a Visiting Scholar at the International Writing Program in Iowa City at that time, doing research for my dissertation and having one of the times of my life. I was unsure how to answer Jim. “Just tell me about it,” he urged. So I did. “Sounds like Pilgrim’s Progress,” he said.

My eyes widened. “Isn’t that from the 1600s?” He nodded. I wondered what the very modern story of a young woman from rural Iowa, traveling the world as fashion model, getting in and out of trouble at every turn, had in common with a 17th century Christian on a quest. I would soon find out.

The next day, I went to The Haunted Bookshop in Iowa City and bought a copy. Back home in Sitges, I read it with amazed delight. It, and thus, Jim, gave me, for starters, the structure for the novel, as well as a playful approach to naming the characters in it, the protagonist, Lucy Pilgrim, among them.

Yesterday when my bare feet sunk into the sand, then the cool waters of Lake Michigan, tears rose as my heart and body remembered life on the Mediterranean. I love the word “tenderness”, and how it means kindness, gentleness, deep affection; and also sensitivity to pain, soreness; and succulence, too–the quality of being easy to cut and chew. I have become more tender through the pounding of writing and living. It may be the writing that did it, more than the living. My heart is a tender home. Water, too, is a home, and my heart finds solace and inspiration walking, swimming, and bathing in it; looking at it, listening to it, drinking it. We, too, are bodies of water. Writing and reading are ways of swimming in the waters of different lives,  or a way to stand on the shore, looking out, and in.

Do you ever draw? Today I was thinking about how drawing is a kind of writing and writing is a kind of drawing and both are ways of seeing and telling. Storytelling is one of the most life-giving things we humans do for each other. When I draw I see more deeply into things and people. I notice more. I like to follow contours with a pen or pencil, imagining that I am touching what I am looking at while not looking at the paper on which I am drawing. The result is an unrealistic image where a certain vivid emotional truth or mood shines through. Same for writing. Both are exercises in patience, concentration, and observation. It was the great playwright and person, Lisa Schlesinger, who suggested I draw Lucy’s story before I wrote it. A map was the result. A fascinating map through amazing terrain, on and off the page, leading to you, the reader.

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I write about adventure. And relationships. Which are similar. I write about relationships with oneself and others. Also similar. How we live with ourselves and how we live with others. Ditto. Adventure can be physical, emotional, spiritual. Relationships, too. One can travel far into oneself and far out into the world. These journeys are inseparable. How to remain whole in a world that tries to break us into pieces?  What kind of risks do we take and what and who constitutes their value? How much are our lives worth to us? Do we extend that to others? How can we not?  I follow these questions like clam trails in the shallow part of the lake, looking for the life they lead to. I rarely have answers to the big questions other than to ask more. Curiosity is the driving force of my life. I also write about creativity. Curiosity and creativity. We are all creative. “What are you creating with your life? Are you living according to your values?” I ask myself and the characters I write about. On Saturdays I like to take Divvy Bike adventures around the city. This morning I rode north to vote in the French elections, and I saw beauty everywhere. I also write about beauty. I liked seeing the French, American, and Chicago flags flipping in the wind, tethered and flying together. Could all of humanity do that–stay connected while flying?  Imagine a world without nations, without flags. Human beings being human as sole identity. And today especially as thousands march to remind us to think about our relationship with the earth, with creation. How do we treat who and what nourishes us? How do we nourish mother earth? How do we nourish ourselves and others?

I see a fountain sprinkling, as if onto the diners in the sunshine, at the restaurant across the street. A vision within a vision as I look through my window and theirs at waiters carrying wine glasses. It looks like Europe in there. In here I am looking at piles of writing, drawing, and photographs. Wondering what to do with it and how much it matters. Both a lot and not at all, it seems.  Moved by re-reading the exegesis I wrote for the PhD, the clarity and depth of it. Tears rose as I read sentences in it, then again as I peered into the excerpts of twenty-six years of diaries. The folders of family history. Notebooks with poignant and funny things parents and son said to me. The novel-in-progress waits for my daily visit. The first one, Lucy, go see., pulls at my pant leg, asking “when are you going to introduce me to more people?”