I am reading Listening Is An Act of Love. It’s a collection of stories edited from transcripts of StoryCorps interviews. The StoryCorps self-described mission is to “to provide Americans of all backgrounds and beliefs with the opportunity to record, share, and preserve the stories of our lives.”
From what I have been experiencing while reading the stories, I know that for me StoryCorps’ true mission reaches way beyond the official statement.
Their project gives me a deep sense of belonging to the community of all the people who share their lives in this storytelling. I laugh reading their jokes and stories of mischief. I feel pained reading about their loss and grief. I become hopeful reading their stories of courage and strength.
And every time I turn a page I remember that I am witnessing history. These are real people. Their stories, their emotions, their judgments, their hopes, dreams, and failures are real. Nothing is staged, nothing is make believe. Their openness in this sharing makes me believe that when we connect on this very basic level, we reach the deepest and most meaningful levels of our humanity.
As I go through the entries to learn about mothers, grandfathers, wives, husbands, cousins, children who were adopted, children who were given up for adoption, I remember the most important interview of my life.
The interview started somewhere in the winter of 1993.
I see myself facing the window of a small apartment I rent in Rosslyn, Arlington, Virginia. I am wearing the best suit I own. I bought it in The Limited store in Georgetown Mall in Washington D.C. on sale. I just came back from the Polish Embassy where I work as a freelance interpreter. The phone rings. It’s my mother. She is cheerful in a strange way, coming to strong. I notice it and I think she might know my secret.
“Let me call you,” I say and I hung up the phone.
This is our usual arrangement. I always call her back immediately because I don’t want her to pay for the phone call. I know calling from Poland costs an arm and a leg.
And while I dial the number I wonder how she found out about me being pregnant. It must be my sister! I decide. Jesus, I can’t tell her anything! Such a big mouth! While dialing the number and waiting for my mother to pick up the phone on the other end, I construct an entire story I am going to share with her. I will tell her everything, including how I couldn’t believe it and how I bought three different pregnancy tests at a drug store because I though it would reduce the possibility of an error (just in case one or two were broken). I am so excited! I have been waiting to share this with her for too long!
My mother picks up the phone and my life changes forever.
“The doctor says it’s sort of cancerous,” she says.
She tries to make it sound like it isn’t cancer. She makes it sound like it is something else but it just has the appearance of this fatal thing no one close to us should ever experience.
“So, everything is fine,” I say, unable to process her words.
“Sort of malignant,” she adds fast, as if trying not to touch it, just brushing off.
“How can they tell such a thing?” I want to believe some things can never be determined.
“Oh, you know, they check the markers in the blood. But I’m not sure, really, how accurate this is. The doctor seemed sort of unsure, or something, I don’t know,” she says changing the tone of her voice, ready to talk about something else.
“They don’t know anything. They can’t even fight viruses!” I almost shout to the phone, and I don’t think about how desperate I must be in pushing away the reality, to say something that unreasonable.
“I know,” she says. “I know everything will be alright.”
“How is dad? Did he stop smoking?” I laugh in a strange way and I think about the pregnancy in a different way now. I am going to wait until Christmas.
“Yep,” she says. “I am so proud of him.” She takes a deep breath.
We talk about the weather, comparing Washington to Gdansk, and she says I am so lucky to have sunshine almost every day. And then I ask her about Christmas.
“I have to take the package to Baltimore on Wednesday next week because they have a shipment going to New York on Thursday, ” I say, trying to be excited about it as much as I can. “I still need to buy something for grandma and I am done!”
“Don’t over do it” she says. “You always send too much.”
“It’s so inexpensive here. It would be a sin not to do it.”
“Remember, for grandma buy those thick cotton T-shirts. She says they keep her warm in winter.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I have to run now,” my mother says, her voice changing again.
“I will call you on Sunday,” I say, feeling my eyes burning.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too. Say hi to dad for me.”
Danuta Hinc 