Fake Sad Event

So many prayers for the souls lost at sea,

Those who wander the ocean floor.

But who will remember those who survived?

Those who endured, rebuilt, cried?

For all those lives their caring hands touched

A prayer for you, and I wish you good luck.

The last golden rays of the warm summer sun beat down on Jenny’s face as she lay stretched out on the wooden planks of the deck. Her simple, single-cabined boat rocked gently in the incoming tide, tethered to a small weather-beaten dock. As the sun set in the blood red sky, she played with the ring on the chain around her neck as her thoughts went back to that day six years ago, the day she lost her husband in the fishing boat accident.

It was the last day before their annual vacation. He’d left early that morning; he said he needed to tidy up the shed before they could leave. Something had gone wrong, no one knew what, and when the rest of the fleet came back that night, he was missing. The search went on for days, they scoured every inch of the waves in the gulf. They found nothing. Nothing but blue sky, blue sea. On the last day, one man in the fleet stumbled across a life preserver and tied to it was a small Ziploc bag, bearing her name. Somber faced, the young man brought it to her door. Inside was a folded up note. Inside the note was his wedding ring. With shaking fingers, she smoothed out the note, reading the words, blurred by water and tears.

“My dearest,

If this note reaches you, it is because I could not make it home myself. My motor is broken and I see a squall forming on the horizon. Know that I love you, and that I tried my best. Send my love to my parents and know that I’ll always be with you in your heart.

Love and Kisses,

Johnny”

With a sigh, she pulled her thoughts back to the present. She sometimes wondered why she kept going on these vacations. Her friends and family told her she needed to move on, get over it, start again, but these two weeks every summer, when she was all alone, anchored off a small Mexican village, were the only times she felt close to Johnny, when she felt like she had anything real in her life. Two weeks of no radio, no TV, no newspapers. No death and destruction, no depression, just two weeks alone with her thoughts. Two weeks to find herself and get back her calm. As a kindergarten teacher, she sometimes felt overwhelmed by the need to be on and happy all the time, no matter how she was feeling. As she prepared herself for sleep, she didn’t notice the dark smudge lurking in the Northern sky.

The next two weeks passed in relative calm. One day the swells were higher than usual, and a few days later, some debris started washing up on the shore. Some planks and a few shingles, but nothing too unusual. This part of the Gulf of Mexico was prone to high winds and little coastal towns were always reshingling their roofs. She spent the days reading, basking in the healing sunlight and wandering the beaches. On the last day, she packed up, melancholy as she prepared to return to the emptiness of her daily life.

Setting out for her little apartment in New Orleans, she settled herself in for the long haul. She always timed it just right, arriving at the dock just as the light was fading. The friendly glow from the windows overlooking the bay served as beacons, welcoming her home. Her window was always dark and empty: there was no one to welcome her home. Other lights and the happy chatter of families, they lit the darkness; their warmth made her forget her own empty home, if just for a little while.

Tonight, though, as she came within range of the docks and harsh white light illuminated the bay. Beds, boards and random pieces of flotsam littered the wine colored sea. The friendly apartments no longer stood friendly, their broken, jagged edges reached towards the sky like broken teeth. Stunned, she numbly followed the Coast Guard’s orders to dock and move to a rescue center. Wandering around the aimlessly milling crowds, she tried in vain to figure out what happened. No one could, or would, give her a coherent account, but she picked up snatches of lucid conversation. Somehow, she’d missed the whole thing, the warnings, the hurricane, the breaching of the levies, the damage, the destruction.

Seeing all of the small children, all alone and apart from their families struck a chord in her and awoke something she hadn’t felt in years. With a determined glint in her eyes she pushed up her sleeves and went in search of blankets and water. Gathering the supplies she picked up straggling children on her way, bringing them to a corner and wrapping them in the blankets. To distract them, she began telling stories: fairy tales, fables, anything she could think of to pass the time. As dawn broke, the last little girl fell into a fitful doze. With a smile on her face Jenny tucked the blanket more snugly around the sleeping child. Bemused, she realized that amidst all the destruction she had found a purpose again. In caring for these children she remembered why she had become a teacher in the first place. As New Orleans began to heal, Jenny would heal along with it.

Writing Journal

What are the implications of designing a piece which joins the imaginary (characterization) and the real (current event)?

The implication is that all stories about current events are imaginary and that nothing can be trusted. I think this takes away from people who really have lived through events like this and want to write about their experiences. There’s an historical fiction category for this purpose in writings about the past. If people are going to make imaginary stories about contemporary events, there should be a separate category for them, too.

Have you read any authors who do this regularly in their writing? If so, which authors?

Nope. I find current events depressing, and I don’t like being depressed.

As a reader, how can one determine how reliable the depictions are in a piece of literature which presents itself as autobiographical?

If a piece claims to be autobiographical, I think it should be taken as such. However, some people write fake autobiographical pieces, so some factors to look for to see if it’s true are: emotional impact, accuracy of details, and realistic voice.

Are there more “reliable” forms for depicting/communicating real historical events, especially to future generations, than the personal account? If so, what might they be? If not, why not?

I think personal accounts are best for conveying the emotional impact and providing something that future generations can relate to. However, personal accounts will always provide slightly different interpretations of events and opinions, so I think the dry, historical textbook style of recording events has its place, too. The best way to communicate events to future generations is to provide them with as much varied information about the event as is possible, allowing them to form their own, personal interpretation of the event. This way it will impact them more and stick with them longer.

What impression did the writings on the walls of the Museo Storico della Liberazione di Roma have on you?

Some of them seemed too scripted. If I was writing my last words, I would want it to be an “I love you,” not a rousing political speech. I thought the simple inscriptions, the “Britian Forever” and the “send my love to…” were much more powerful, they seemed more real and had more emotional impact. I thought they were very sad, and it made me wonder why so little has been publicized (at least in the mainstream) about these events.

Why did you choose to write about the event you did for this piece?

I really know almost nothing about current events and for some reason I had the idea of the ocean stuck in my head. So, I wrote about the one current event dealing with the water that I knew of, the hurricane. Restricting the event to within the last 50 years made this assignment really hard for me, I’m an ancient history major, and the most recent event I’ve studied was WWII. Let’s face it, I’m ignorant and I don’t know what’s going on in the world, but I like it that way.