MYRA SCHNEIDER

Belonging

When I was six I learnt –
according to the gospel of school –
that Jesus Christ meek and mild
was the child of God,
so I was put out,
not to say ashamed,
when my parents gave me the chill news
that he was not my saviour.

It was fun
travelling to Glasgow by train
past shipyards armed with cranes
and hills filled
with grim-lipped dwellings
but not to listen to a voice
chanting from a strangely alphabeted book
in an alien synagogue.
Afterwards playing games
with unfamiliar children
was uncomfortable,
like wearing clothes which didn't fit.

When I was ten
I was scorned at school
as an English pig.
I longed to belong to a clan
and boast a kilt, was amazed
when my mother without any right
simply went out and bought
the Hunting Cameron Tartan.
The dark red striped with green
was triumph tangible enough
for me to kid myself
that I belonged.

I spent my teens
in Sussex-by-the-sea,
English to the hilt,
sang with the school choir
in Chichester cathedral,
didn't quite convert to Christianity.
But clung to faith-hope-charity, these three,
nailed myself to profound guilt.

Now I've gone far enough
not to feel my oddness
obtruding like an awkward corner
though I remain at odds
with all orthodoxies.
For I belong with those who don't belong:
the eccentric, the oppressed, the over-sensitive,
the voiceless struggling to communicate
by finger; those beset by failure.
Sufficient to me to find
I slot into the human race.

Alina-Olimpia Gaci (Miron)

Myra Schneider
 

A apartine
 

Cand aveam sase ani am invatat –
dupa evanghelia de la scoala –
ca Iisus Hristos,slabut si bland,
era fiul lui Dumnezeu,
asa ca am fost suparata,
ca sa nu mai zic si rusinata,
cand parintii mi-au dat groaznica veste
ca el nu era salvatorul meu.

A fost distractiv
sa merg cu trenul la Glasgow
sa trec peste docuri ticsite cu macarale
si dealuri pline
de locuinte cu marginile sinistre
dar nu sa ascult o voce
care canta dintr-o carte cu un alfabet ciudat
intr-o sinagoga straina.
Dupa asta, sa te joci
cu copii straini
a devenit jenant,
ca si cum ai purta niste haine care nu-ti vin.

Cand aveam zece ani
am fost certata la scoala
asemeni unui porc englezesc.
Tanjeam sa apartin unui clan
sa ma laud cu un kilt, am fost uimita
cand mama, fara niciun drept, a iesit
pur si simplu si a cumparat un tartan Hunting Cameron.
Rosul inchis cu dungi verzi
era o victorie, destul
ca sa ma amagesc
ca ii apartineam.

Mi-am petrecut adolescenta
in Sussex-by-the-sea,
oras englezesc pana la sange,
am cantat in corul scolii
in catedrala Chichester,
nu prea m-am convertit la crestinism.
Dar m-am tinut de credinta-speranta-caritate, acestea trei,
m-am pironit intr-un profund sentiment de vinovatie.

Acum am ajuns asa departe
ca nu-mi mai simt ciudatenia
impunandu-se ca un colt straniu
desi raman in dezacord
cu toate ortodoxiile.
Deoarece apartin celor care sunt singuri:
excentricii, oprimatii, hipersensibilii,
cei fara voce, chiunuindu-se sa comunice
prin gesturi; cei coplesiti de esec.
Destul pentru mine sa aflu
Ca tai in rasa umana.