"Historical Memoir of a Franco-American Woman, 1950-2006: Revolution, Evolution, Transformation"

By Carolyna Saint Germain (Ruthie)
Washington State


Prologue

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Where do I go when the image is gone….when the “cake in the window” disappears and all that’s left is what’s inside and what’s inside is dark, silent, no mercy, no thing. Nothing…

Once when I was a child, a child of God, the stars themselves were my spotlight, shining on me alone, turning me into a star like them, shining, glimmering, twinkling, in my dark black nights. I prayed to the Blessed Virgin, the Holy Mother, to be so full of grace that I could link up with her in her benevolence and be benevolent in my life. Give my mamma the crown: Queen for a Day! A new refrigerator, a washer, a dryer, some new shoes, forgiveness from God, reinstated to Grace. Hail Mary full of grace…Mary, holy mother; Mary, my mother, ma mamma; reserved, elegant, quiet, martyred grace.

The incense fills my nose, my head is engorged ready to burst, an over-filled balloon of Benedictum Deus, the holiest sacrament radiated from above, from the unseen. Don’t look. Don’t lift your head. God-light streams down the dust escalators, enters into my heart unbidden but not unwelcome. I am the innocent waiting for a miracle, daring grace its benevolent dance. Spin with me; weave the golden light of goodness into a miracle that looks like freedom from poverty, prejudice, repetition, ignorance, martyrdom. I am, on this first communion day, a child of god, and as a good father with an obedient child, I should get at least one wish.

Mamma burst her brain. She bled to death without showing any blood, such was her way. She was quiet, and she died quiet, but inside she was a volcano: molten, hot, bubbling red angry liquid. She waited all her life to erupt and she finally did, but she kept it to herself like she always did. I want to tell you about her. Her parents were tough, farmers in the French North Country, potatoes, dairy, livelihood at the mercy of nature and God. Middle daughter, seventeen children, fell in love at her womanly awakening, got pregnant, sent away to the nuns to have the child, out of wedlock. Her mamma-matriarch raised her first-born and only son. And mamma was sent away to the city to be a maid, a governess, a nanny, but not to her own. The grief, the pain the agony…the guilt, the shame, all shaped her as she grew into her adolescence. She only wanted to be with her lover, father of her son. But he, he was protestant, Scott, maybe. Not French, not catholic, not acceptable. Forever after, not acceptable. And she became that. Not acceptable, not even in the eyes of God. Excommunicated, interdicted, and still went to pray to God every day. Mea Culpa, mea Culpa…where is the benevolent mother of god to intercede, and give her mercy?

When I was born, she nearly died. Probably wishes she had. Fifth child, fourth girl. I lived with my god-parents from the moment I left the nursery. My mamma stayed in the ward. She didn’t hold me for months. I didn’t get to smell her mothering. I drifted from arm to arm, whoever had the time to feed me the bottle. Survival becomes needier than love and I learned to be still and not raise a raucous. As soon as I could walk, I became the edge that my cousins followed. I was neglected no more. I was the star, shining, streaming, come follow me. Come.

I escaped into nature: trees, sun, rain, snow, ice. Mamma fell into work: bleach, ammonia, soap, starch, steam. We skirted each other, barely. She didn’t know me but I knew her. I knew that at 38 she looked old, really old. Her eyes were hollow, deep sadness hidden and sunken, like a coffin in the earth. I would catch her sometimes before she disappeared into her uniform of work and survival. Her mouth soft, her eyes warm, her look inviting. I edge closer to bathe in that moment of loving grace, melting in the delicate touch of her hard-working hand on my head, threading her fingers through my hair. Tears escape from my eyes, diamonds sliding under my lashes, not daring to hug her waist for fear of losing the preciousness of the moment. It is a second, or two and then gone. Get wood for the fire, get your older sisters, go eat your oatmeal, go, just go. The diamonds fall uncultured.

Chapter One To be French, one must have the faith

I’m graduating from 8th grade today and we’re moving next week. On Tuesday we had awards assembly. As we paraded into the gym, I saw mamma in the bleachers. She never comes to my school activities during the day. She always has to work at the hospital, 6AM-6PM, in the kitchen and laundry. I turn around to look again in case I made a mistake. There she is, adjusting her glasses. What is she doing here?
“Hey, you’re mom’s here.” Pat elbows me.
I nod, squinting my eyes so that I can clearly see her face.
“Are you getting an award?”
I make a face and shake my head. We all know who’s getting the awards. I mean that’s a given. The French catholic girls have to be brilliant to even get mentioned. Mrs. Barstow is calling for attention. The gym quiets down.
“Please rise.” Sharon bends her head to the microphone and begins “I pledge allegiance to the flag…”
My voice automatically recites the daily pledge. I don’t hear the words anymore.
The piano begins the introduction and my heart swells, and eyes sting,
“Oh-oh say can you see, by the dawns early light, what so proudly we hail, to the twilight last gleaming, and the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof to the night that our flag was still there, Oh say does that star-spangled banner yet wave, over the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
I am filled with emotion, holding, holding; don’t let the diamonds spill over. I just love that song. I always feel like crying when we sing it.
The litany of awards begins with the kindergarteners. I think they’re so cute! They remind me of my nieces and nephews. The grades are almost finished: excellent readers, attendance, FFA fair winners, 4-H Club, chalkboard washers, ice and snow sculptures, all the regular stuff. Each class receives one award from each category. When it’s the whole class the class president walks up to get the award. Those kinds of awards go in the big glass cupboards in the halls. When it’s a person, she or he gets to keep it. I clap with enthusiasm for everyone except Ricky. He’s mean. We had a fist-a-cuffs fight when I was in 5th grade. I think I beat him because he had a bloody nose and I just had a sore belly. We don’t talk much. Mrs. Bingsley, my teacher, and the only teacher of all of us sixteen 8th graders, is going to the microphone now. She’s so nice. She begins her speech by thanking everyone, and all the parents that could, for coming. I sneak a look at mamma who is sitting in the bleachers. She looks like she does in church. I’m kind of sad that I didn’t make her proud like the other parents. I look back at Mrs. Bingsley who is telling us that there is a special 8th grade award this year.
“I have enjoyed my 8th grade class very much this year. In particular, I have one student who stands out, not because of this student’s academic excellence, nor perfect attendance, but because of excellence in citizenship. What is a good citizen? It is someone who cares for his or her classmates, teachers, friends and family alike. It is someone who is polite, doesn’t gossip, or tell stories, watches out for little students, works hard and is diligent, and is consistent in that behavior every day. We have such a good citizen in our graduating class this year. It is with great pleasure that we present the 1958 Good Citizenship Award to …”
I am holding my breath because I’m so excited to see who it could be. Elizabeth, Sharon, Keith… I’m on the edge of my seat.
“Ruth Saint Germain.”
My heart flips! My stomach fills with butterflies! No, I didn’t hear that right. Everyone is clapping.
Pat pokes me with his elbow again. “Go on up. Go on.”
I stand up and feel my burning face and burning tears. It’s such a long walk to the microphone and everyone is still clapping and my girl friends are cheering. I finally reach Mrs. Bingsley. She hands me a framed certificate, and a statue. I try to shake her hand like we’ve been taught but now my hands are full. Her smile warms me. I smile back. As I start to go back to my seat Mrs. Barstow takes my elbow and steers me back to stand with the teachers. The piano directs everyone to stand as we sing “God Bless America, land that I love”. My heart is full of love. I open my mouth and sing. The assembly is over. Where is mamma? There, coming towards me, smiling. I give her my awards. She kisses my cheek.
“I m going back to work, now,” she says it so softly, a whisper escaping the lump in her throat.
I nod. She turns and walks out of the gym. She walks the mile or so back to the hospital, back to work. We’re going to recess. I don’t know how to act. My friends crowd around me. I can’t wait for the bell to ring. Sharon holds my hand. School’s almost over. We’re moving! Oh my dear God! We’re heading south.
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Dear Rhea,
I say dear, with intention, for your work about us, our culture, is dear, to me, and to many.

I want to say so many things...I have been working on a book for many years...a novel: I say it is historical fiction. It comes to me from spirit, the muse, desire and need to express, and mostly from love. This morning I felt moved to see if there was anything on the web about my heritage, and lo and behold, I found you and the whole Franco-American movement in Maine. I wasn't aware of any of it, and I am so moved. Many tears have flowed in the past 5-6 hours, and many smiles, and much gratitude and pride. I have finally stopped reading. The poignant thing is that without "knowing" these studies and understandings, I have inherently written about them. Truth cannot be stopped when it comes. I am grateful, also, to the undying desire and strength of my spirit to speak through me about our culture: mammas, memeres, and our sisters.

We have never met. I am the youngest of Mary Jane's girls. I left Maine and never returned...but I'm wanting to come home, to my rich French culture, intelligent, creative, and not what my upbringing may have led me to believe. In the writing of this novel, I continue to discover who I am, and the reasons and understandings of the paths I have walked. Life is such a circle, is it not?

Thank you for you, and because of you the French roses are blooming.

With sweet love and affection,
Carolyna Saint Germain (Ruthie)

P.S. I spell out Saint rather than use the abbreviation because I am not a street, I am a Franco-American woman, and even in 35 years of marriage, I have always been a Saint Germain.