It’s a pleasure to introduce Cynthia Newberry Martin’s lovely contribution to the Numéro Cinq “Childhood” essay series. Cynthia is an author, a current Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA student and publisher of the terrific writing blog Catching Days, one of Powell’s Books “Lit Blogs We Love,” where among other delightful things she has a terrific series of posts called “How We Spend Our Days” in which well known writers give readers the lowdown on a typical working day. Her fiction, essays and book reviews have appeared in Contrary Magazine, Storyglossia and Six Sentences, among other places. She has been an NC supporter from the very beginning and has contributed also to our “What it’s like living here” series.
by Cynthia Newberry Martin
“She sees that she has before her an important task: to understand that all the things that happened in her life happened to her…That there is some line running through her body like a wick.”
–Mary Gordon, The Rest of Life
You’re four. You’re living in Atlanta, Georgia. On February 20th, you stand by your parent’s bed, just taller than the mattress. You stare at your mother. She turns you toward the TV. Look, she says. You’ll want to remember this. That’s John Glenn in a space ship, going around the earth.
You’re five. It’s your first day of kindergarten at Spring Street Elementary School. You wait with the other kids under the awning. The principal rings the bell. You line up. At recess, you ask a girl her name. Dee, she says. You will be best friends until seventh grade when you switch to a private school because your parents say desegregation and busing are going to change things. You play troll dolls at Dee’s house after school. Her grandparents are there, but not her mother who is divorced and works. Henry’s mother comes to the classroom to give puppet shows in French. You love the sound and the magic of the words. Sixteen years later you will major in French and Linguistics. It’s Sunday, June 3rd, and everyone is quiet. Even outside you have to be quiet. Across the street are cars. Miss May’s sister died in the plane crash. In Paris. Hundreds of people from Atlanta are dead. Your parents will never let you fly on a chartered flight. You will see the cross when you fly into Orly Airport five years later and again ten years after that.
You’re six. You ride to school with your next-door neighbor, Nancy, who is much older, in seventh grade. What did you have for breakfast, she asks. You want a purse like hers. A Varsity hamburger, you say. Left over from last night. John Romain is the name of the purse—brown leather and tweed, although, wanting to spell the name correctly, you search Google for Johnny Tremain purses, confusing the book with the purse. Nancy’s older brother will die in Vietnam in his twenties. Nancy will die in Peachtree City in her thirties. Decapitated in a car accident. You will be the older one. It’s Friday, November 22nd. You answer the beige rotary phone in the room by the kitchen. It’s your aunt. The President has been shot. You look down the red-carpeted hall for someone to tell, but no one is there.
You’re seven. Your teacher thinks your headaches are coming from your headbands. You stay at school longer, but you have naptime. Your mother makes you stop wearing headbands. The headaches continue.
You’re eight. Pop never got to meet Beth, did he? you ask from the way back of the station wagon in front of the church in Russellville, Kentucky. Shush, your mother says. Here comes your grandmother. At school, you make dioramas and go with some of the kids to a different room to take French. You have a French name you don’t remember now, written on construction paper and folded like a tent on your desk.
You’re nine. Your grandparents give you The Bobbsey Twins’ Adventure in the Country, and they write in the front: To our dear Cindy, Happy Birthday! April 1, 1966 From PawPaw and Lilli. The Monkees are on TV. You love Davy Jones. You’re friends with Donzaleigh Abernathy, but you don’t go home with her. You’re not supposed to go in the front yard, your younger sister says, standing there in her madras pedal pushers. It’s dangerous, she says, as you climb the fence in your white Keds. And then, I’m going to tell. But when you look at her from the other side, she’s watching, her hands on her hips.
You’re ten. You go home with Susi, only Susi doesn’t live in a house but instead up some steps. Her sister is older. She’s listening to the Beatles. The rooms are dark and smell sweet. Strawberry fields forever. On August 12th, your grandfather takes you to a Monkees’ concert at the Municipal Auditorium in Mobile, Alabama. You and Dee write The Mystery of the Missing Letter, a novel of twenty-eight notebook pages. You put it in a green folder, and the girls in the class check it out like a real library book. It will be the only non-required writing you will do for—imagine the coincidence—twenty-eight years.
You’re eleven. You’re watching TV by yourself in the basement when the show is interrupted. Martin Luther King, Jr. has been assassinated. The others are upstairs. You run. Marty is in your class. Two days later, you take money to school for flowers to be sent from the grade. Marty doesn’t come back. Diego wants you to meet him behind the playground. You tell Dee. At lunch, Dee blurts it out to Mrs. McIver, who says, I’m sure Cindy is not the kind of girl to meet a boy behind anything. And that’s how you know what kind of girl you are. It’s summer. The President’s brother is shot. The next morning, you’re sleeping in the front room when your father comes in and sits down on the bed to tell you he died. You ask why. And who will be next.
You’re twelve. Susi’s sister is listening to Abbey Road. After supper, your father drives the whole family up and down Tenth Street to look at the hippies. Here comes the sun…You stare from the back seat of the station wagon. In Mobile on July 20th, you stay up late and at eleven run outside to wave to Neil Armstrong. You remember another dark night on a driveway in Russellville, Kentucky, when your father held you and pointed to the moon. Someday, he said, there’ll be a man up there. In August, three days of peace and music at Woodstock. Free love. “We are stardust, we are golden…”
You’re thirteen. One morning before breakfast, you kick your mother. Your father takes off his belt. You threaten to leave. Where will you go, he asks. Tenth Street, you say. How will you live, he asks. There are ways, you say. Instead of spankings, you will now have consequences. Four dead in Ohio. A month later, you set off for Vermont on your own. Someone from the French camp is supposed to help you change planes at the Newark Airport, but no one is there. You find the other gate by yourself.
You’re fourteen. Finances are tight, but you know now your mother jokingly told your father, either she goes or I go. You return to Vermont for camp. Your counselor has a record player. You hear Carole King and James Taylor for the first time. You’ve got a friend… Your memory told you this was the first summer you were at camp, but when you check release dates, it has to be this summer. You are friends with the girl counselors, especially Patty or is memory again bending to other forces? You find a letter from Patty to your parents dated 8/20/71—proof: She may have mentioned that we got along particularly well: it was odd, but we often seemed to be on the same wavelength. You return home and buy Tapestry and Mud Slide Slim.
You’re fifteen. You start dating one boy in particular. You take driver’s ed and return to Vermont for one last summer of camp. This summer you are friends with the guy counselors. You kiss two of them, and on a motorcycle, put your arms around a third. The next year you will paste some of these very same baby pictures in a scrapbook for that boy. Your mother will be angry. You won’t even be going out with him in a year, she’ll say. You’ll show her. He will follow you to college. You will marry him. Then, cutting your losses, you will divorce him. But, as 1972 draws to a close, you don’t know any of that. You are stardust and golden. And everywhere there is song.
Sometimes you have to spread the pictures out in a line to prove to yourself that was you. That is you.
—by Cynthia Newberry Martin
(Post layout by Natalia Sarkissian)