 © Paul Brown
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Tata Olga's Hands Click to read Click to |
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© Paul Brown
|
Tata Olga's Hands Click to read Click to |
Tata Olga's
Hands
My grandmother’s hands were brown as the eggs she boiled in onion skins for Easter,
rough like the bark of the jasmine vine that twined its way up the back wall of her
chipped-stone house. She ladled maftoul in steaming portions, chick peas and onions
like islands in the gold brown sauce, hands firm as she hefted the bowl from stove to
table. Tomato in one hand, knife in the other, rivulets ran to her wrists. The bread was
paper thin and tore in long strips, dusting her hands with flour. Afterwards she poured
tea over mint leaves, stirred a spoon round and round till the sugar dissolved, offered
the steaming glass.
When my uncle died, Tata Olga washed his body with a stained white rag, wrung the cloth out fiercely in clear cool water. In the kitchen, bitter coffee boiled in a huge pot over an open flame. Her knuckles were white on the ladle. She carried the tray without wavering, offered tiny cups that mourners tilted between thumb and forefinger. Cigarette smoke hung on the air. All evening she held out her palms: has God willed this?
Profile
Born to an American mother and Palestinian father, and married to a Greek Cypriot, Lisa knows a lot about crossing borders with integrity. In a world where too many people see only what they are prepared to see, her work urges us to realize much more.
Lisa lived briefly here in Worcester, Massachusetts. During the Gulf War, I used to see her at the peace vigil in Lincoln Square. This square is actually a large circle with a flagpole and World War I memorial. It is bounded by a convergence of streets that could be charitably described as a historical accident.
During rush hour, backed-up drivers rolled down their windows to punctuate the vigil’s prayers and witness with honking, hoarse obscenities, and cries of "Traitors!" When the war ended, Lisa and others tied black ribbons to the skinny trees in memory of the dead.
She still keeps faith, speaks out, does good. One recent example: a Jewish peace activist, writing in response to terrorist attacks, quoted Lisa’s poetry for its clear vision, sense of justice, and anguished humanity.
—David Williams
Bio
Lisa Suhair Majaj
Place of residence: Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Birthplace: Hawarden, Iowa.
Grew up in: Amman, Jordan.
Day job: Adjunct college lecturer.
Education: B.A. in English literature from American University of Beirut. M.A.,
A.B.D. in English literature and American culture from University of Michigan.
Serial publication: Forkroads: A Journal of Ethnic American Literature.
Anthologies: Unsettling America: An Anthology of Contemporary Multicultural
Poetry, Penguin Books (1994). Memory and Cultural Politics: New Approaches to
American Ethnic Literatures, Northeastern University Press (1996). Food for Our
Grandmothers: Writings by Arab-American and Arab-Canadian Feminists, South End Press
(1994).
Awards: New England Poetry Club—best published poem (1995). Worcester County
Poetry Association—fourth prize (1989).
Current projects: Dissertation on Arab-American literature. Coediting a collection
of essays on third world women writers.
Favorite book: Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston.
Belief: Respect for all peoples and cultures.
Cravings: Peace in the Middle East. A Palestinian state. Chocolate.
Favorite memory: Reading books in the crook of the cherry tree in the backyard.
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