I never saw his face. I'm grateful for that, I think. The strange blessing of it, in a way. He was young could have been a college student, like those I just have been teaching. Long curly dull blond hair Theyve blocked his face so much that I thought he was a girl. But when people started talking to the police I realized that it was a boy who had jumped down and stood up in the middle of the tracks in the middle of a perfect afternoon a second before the train hit.
Ive been on in the end of the platform, leaning against the railing. He must have been standing right next to me Were all watching the big yellow work-train with the very tall engine. It was about to roll past. Unscheduled. Unwanted. A moving disappointment. A necessary of course. But not the right train, not the one that would take us home Which of course depends on where you going.
He jumped down on tracks before we knew it. He stood up uncertain, he never looked up. Instead he looked at the concrete platform beneath our feet And thats the last thing he ever saw. The bell on the engine drowned out all of the sound. From my angle I never saw the train actually hit him. He simply disappeared in front of it like a magic trick. The train never stopped. The cab was so high the driver could not have seen the boy make his last-second jump. He was across the river before they could call and tell him. The police got the same account from four different people. They said they had enough and that we could go. I was next in line, nobody took my statement. And then the crew started collecting the body parts. I wouldnt watch. I wanted it to remain magic. Which is to say real but impossible. Shocking. Blinding even in a way like a miracle.
So this is my statement. He stood right next to me, I never knew him. We never shared so much as a word or a look, but He taught me more than I have taught my students. The lesson of a dark fate. And a whispered warning of what it can mean to be young on a perfect day in a free country.
Chapter one. My name is Melanie Marnich. My name is not Melanie Marnich. Both these things are true.
Chapter two. An assignment. A friend asked me to write something for the theatre he works at. Something about Where is My America, What is My America. And I think What is that mean? Thats exactly the kind of crap I hate working about. Have nothing to say. The answer is No. Had to say I tell my friend I cant do this, I dont have time which is not a lie.
Chapter three. I am got this. I cant say no Im not the type. So I say Yes, Ill write something, but I have nothing to say about America. Im so American that I think its not big deal to be an American. For me to have this privilege my grandparents left Belgrade around 1920 and said hello to this country, clutching to the life raft of an idea that things would be better here.
Chapter four. It didnt turn out so well. They found their way to Northern Minnesota. Steal mills and mines. I know from my dads brothers and sisters that their father refused to speak English. Refused to let his kids speak English. The only thing worse than poverty in their home was the violence. My dads father was a tyrant who starved and beat his children. When I would ask my dads brothers and sisters about their childhood they would say it was barbaric. But when I ask my dad he would say was idyllic. Years spent as a boy on lakes and rivers and in the woods. Baseball and forts and fireworks. The most American of American childhoods.
Chapter five. My dads name is Mike Marnich. My dads name is not Mike Marnich. Both these things are true. My dads brothers and sisters argue with him about how he spells our last name. He spells it M-A-R-N-I-C-H. Marnich. They all spell it M-A-R-U-N-I-C-H. Marunich. My dad thinks his brothers and sisters cant spell. He also thinks they are responsible for the sadness in their lives, for their misfortune. As for him, he says he had a beautiful childhood. He says he has a beautiful life. He says I have a beautiful future. He says our last name is Marnich.
Chapter six. My dad, Mike Marnich, dies. Few weeks later I go through his papers. I find a copy of his marriage license. On it hes identified as Mike Marnich. Great! I think Proof that his brothers and sisters who go by Marunich are wrong. But clipped to the marriage license is a copy of his birth certificate. His name at birth Milon Marunich... His name is Milon Marunich... Ive never known my father is Milon Marunich. This is news to me. And I think Liar! All these years you lied to me. Liar!. But in the space beneath the name Milon Marunich is a humble handwritten change. It says A.K.A Mike Marnich. And next to the A.K.A is a date the same date that my parents applied for the marriage license. On this day back home in America after years off the seas as a navy my father changed his name to a slightly more American one. He gilded his past, cleared way for his future. He was born. With an A.K.A handwritten on the birth certificate when he was twenty nine years old. Good bye old country. This new country starts with the stroke of a pen in the margins.
Chapter seven. I am Melanie Marnich. I am Melanie Marunich. I am the daughter of Mike Marnich. I am the daughter of Milon Marunich. All these things are true.
Dear Ernan,
You dont remember me. Last I saw you crawling in diapers whirling entire world. You know my mother died when I was sixteen. Few days before the viewing I received the suit in the mail from my great uncle NPR with a note saying wear it to the funeral. It was a God sent cause I barely had two dollars to pay for mummy service let her on a suit to wear.
Did your dad tell you about the suit? He had it for a while during the divorce with your mom. Couldnt wear jeans to court. Then he sent it back to me for my last school graduation in temple. They tell me you defending criminals in Nova York. Brutal work, man, pays for shit. And your brother doing community organizing in the heart of North Filly. So borrow one last suit, save a little money and send this between you both. Town halls and baptisms, man. Job interviews and weddings. Court room verdicts, middle passages this suit has seen some real shit. Six generations of Garcia men have sent it through the mail: Puerto Rico, Chicago, New York city hall, Stockholm, Venice. The suit has crossed the Atlantic and Pacific. Your namesake Ernan Garcia I wore it to be an inaugurated man of Louisa. Mah! Its not bad for a Garcia-boy. His brother wore it when he was convicted of sedition and conspiracy. That word Guilty felt right under the suit shoulders. A distant cousin from Nigeria I didnt meant that branch of the family yet wore it to be sworn as a US citizen.
Send the suit, Ernan. When the time comes, fold it up, put it in a bubble-wrapped package and stand in that postal line. Send it to the next Garcia who needs it. The mail person stamps it and tosses it into the band and something comes over you.
Wifes come and go, kids love you and curse you out and yes, they die. I wore this suit to mommys funeral and also to my sons. So I know the suit is the closest companion of a man. He wears it on his wedding day, carries the dollars he earned in its pockets, in death he is sent away in it. And yes, the suit was worn by your great great grandfather in his cascade. They swapped it out before the burial and tip to undertaker fifty bucks. So, as far as I know the suit has never actually been buried under the earth on a dead Garcia. But pretty damn close.
Good luck on your first trial. Good luck on opening arguments, I know its last minute you may not have time to get it altered.
Buenos verte,
Pablo Garcia.
Teo,
Please send suit ASAP. Job interview on Wall Street in two weeks.
Don Gayard,
Suit enclosed, baptism was fine, but the babys pneumonia is worse now.
Francisco,
Get a better tailor. When you sent it to me the hams were fucked up.
Octavio,
The art opening was beautiful. I spilled a little wine on the lapel.
Charles,
Congratulations on becoming a citizen! Snap a polaroid and sent it my way...
