You will know that she sang to you.
That she sang songs of the halfway people: of the Irish selkies who wrap themselves in magical sealskins and slip away from the brutality of dry land to the beautiful abyss.
You will know that as she sang, she fed you from a little plastic bottle and rocked you slowly. In the maternity ward for single mothers in the Newark hospital, she held you for three days.
That the nuns from the unwed mothers’ home bound her breasts to keep her from making milk for you. That they told her not to hold you.
You will know.
That they told her it would be too painful for all. You will know that they drugged her so she would not remember giving birth to you. Too painful for all.
You will know that as soon as the nuns left her bedside, those other women—single moms in the ward, moms from Jamaica, Belmont, Ironbound—told her to disobey the nuns, to steal you back into her arms and to ask the nurse to pass you a little plastic bottle.
And that when the nuns returned and told you it was time, they tore you away, away from her arms, from her songs, from her milk, from the abundant coast, from the abyss.
That they made you the ward of a properly married couple, who took you to Iowa, and who, when they told of your adoption, insisted that she chose to never hold you. Too painful for all.
You will know that after they took you from her, drugged and bound, she would make her way to Philly and take a gig singing at Irish wakes and weddings.
Songs of the sea, of the forecastle where the sailors slept at night: Home, Dearie, Home.
You will know that she was discovered by a famous folklorist, who would sponsor her to become a professor of Irish songs and stories.
And that one day, that same folklorist would discover you, too, and grant you a fellowship to become a professor of songs and stories. Long before you knew her, you followed her path.
You will know the songs she sang to you. Somehow, you always knew.
You will study the poetry of liberation: “Wade in the Water,” “Steal Away,” “By the Rivers of Babylon.”
You will know that she, too, was taken from her mother—a teenager who did not know that she was worthy, that she could nourish life. She was drugged and bound. Too painful for all.
You will know that your grandmother was the valedictorian of her Catholic school that year, still aching for her baby, and that in her mourning, she began to circulate from coast to coast: New York, San Francisco, New Orleans.
You will dream of your grandmother, looking for her sealskin. Trapped on land without it.
One day, you will have a baby of your own, keep him safe in your waters, refuse to kill the pains of childbirth, hold him in your arms, attach him to your breast.
You will know that you can nourish life, after all. You will keep your baby.
You will know that, somewhere on the coast, your first mother has been waiting, leaving letters for you with the nuns. When you find her, you will know that her arms have been aching for you.
You will know that when you pull away from her in fear, she will tell you that’s ok, she will still be there, that it is not your fault, it was never your fault, it was not her mother’s fault before her, and not the fault of those girls back in Ireland whose babies were taken, the women in Memphis whose babies were taken, in Korea, in Ethiopia, in Richmond.
That this rage comes from deep wisdom, deep belonging, mothers to mothers to mothers, trapped on dry land.
One day, you will find your sealskin and slip it on and meet her there, at the in-between.
You will know that you always knew. That your dreams are memories: that sometimes selkies wander, but they always return to the sea, Home, Dearie, Home.
She is still there, where songs and stories abound.
And she will tell you that she’s not going to let you go.
That she never did.
You will know that you can be loved.
You will know that, in the beautiful abyss, she will be waiting.
***
Rumpus original art by Ian MacAllen
