Fabric Of Life Spokane Experiences Stitched Into Woman’s Quilt Of Personal Growth
It is not easy to untie bonds, sell everything and part from your country. I do not say this because I am a woman with no husband. It is hard for anybody to depart from family, friends and acquaintances, to leave behind a fabric one has weaved through the years, a network of people that provides help, understanding and support.
Yet, this is what I did. And with the help of many wonderful Spokane women, I have survived - and thrived. When I started my journey from Lima, Peru, about six months ago, it was after midnight and I hurried nervously from one place to the other in the huge international airport, busy with the paperwork I needed to start the long trip that would take me to Spokane, the beautiful and distant city where my two grown sons were living.
But I was not alone that cold night at the airport. My friend, Armida Diaz O’Hallorans, was at my side, vigilant and reassuring. Cuban by birth, Peruvian by marriage, Armida is not only an intelligent and stubborn woman, she is also physically strong and psychologically sound. She has never been to college, but her down-to-earth logic is so extraordinary that she could teach some things to many philosophy doctors. We would talk and drink coffee through many events in our lives. She was there to empower me when my husband went away with his biology student, leaving me with two small boys; she was there as witness to my second marriage; she was there when I left my second husband.
Our friendship was so strong that it survived our Scrabble games. We were rivals. On my side, I had a college education and hundreds of books read. On her side, she had an amazing ability to “create” unknown words and afterward prove that they really existed. It was a tumultuous contest between systematic education and logical, earthbound creativity.
I bid goodbye to my dear friend and then I could not sleep during the 5,000-mile flight from Lima to Spokane. Would I survive without a friend who would help me put things into perspective?
Some weeks after I arrived in Spokane, still frightened by the big change and licking the wounds of departure from an Italian-style extended family, a marriage and my house, I learned that my ex-husband was coming to visit his sons for the weekend. I did not want to see him, of course, but my sons couldn’t understand why. “What’s the problem?” they asked. “We can just talk, be civilized, and go places together.”
I decided to spend those days in a hotel, but fate intervened. That very evening at a social gathering I met Marilyn Reiman, who teaches English as a second language and is (according to her business card) a polymorphic-polygolt-pollyanna-recycler-adventurist-dervish. Marilyn did not need many explanations to grasp my predicament.
“Do you want to see your ex-husband?’ she inquired. “No,” I answered. She asked me a few more questions and said: “You don’t have to go to a hotel, come with us to Missoula. My husband and I will pick you up tomorrow morning.” We had a wonderful journey visiting buffalo territory and talking about Washington state history.
My experience with B.J. Sparling is also charming. B.J. draws maps on a computer. When I met her, she was president of the Inland Empire Blues Society, and having so much to do, she still had a place in her heart for a stranger.
On Easter Sunday morning, I got dressed and was browsing through the Yellow Pages searching for a church to go to (difficult task for a soul raised in a lukewarm Catholic home, a faithful Methodist school, and a university ruled by historic materialism philosophy). I couldn’t decide what to do and was feeling foreign, familyless and churchless in Spokane when B.J. called. We had met the evening before and she was inviting me to share the meaningful day with her beautiful family - Jo Dine, Tracy, Micaela, Tim. We gave thanks, ate dinner and hid painted eggs among the purple irises for Micaela to find.
I met another friend, Mary Helen Benham, in the Spanish-speaking group that gathers every Friday afternoon at Lindaman’s. She is program assistant of University Honors at Eastern Washington University and very involved in the community. Soon Mary Helen realized it was essential for me to visit a university and volunteered to drive me to EWU. “I will be happy to give you a ride. I also live in the West.” I thought she meant Browne’s Addition, where I live, but several weeks later, I found out that her house is located in the forest, halfway between Spokane and Cheney. She had traveled all those miles just to do something important for me! During the months I have been here, Mary Helen has nurtured my mind with all kinds of information and books and my soul with warmth every time she calls and says “Buenos dias!” in perfect Spanish.
I celebrated my birthday recently. If I had been in Lima, the morning would have been full of flowers from my relatives and telephone calls from my friends. In the evening, we would all have gathered for tea. I did not say anything about my birthday to my new friends, because I was testing my strength. Then my mother called from Lima. She did not say anything, she just put the phone close to the CD player for me to hear the old Mexican birthday morning serenade, “Las mananitas,” sung by Placido Domingo: “Wake up my darling, look at the sun and the birds, today is your day, and we, that love you so much, have come to sing to you.”
I hung up, looked around at the empty apartment, and was about to break into tears when Mary Helen called. Surprised, I told her about my birthday. She brought over a book of photographs by Frank Palmer (exquisite sepia photos of the Colville area and its people around the turn of the century). We had lunch in a restaurant overlooking the Spokane River and, while I listened to her, I knew I did not have to worry anymore about friendship.
I had found it in my new home, Spokane.
MEMO: Carolina Carlessi is a Peruvian journalist who is now translating and teaching Spanish in Spokane.