Irreversible

November 14, 2024November 14, 2024 Dominique Margolis1 Comment

My mother was not yet one and my father not yet two years old when the Second World War officially started in Europe. Growing up, I often wondered how the pervasive fear that my grandparents must have felt shaped my parents’ upbringing and subsequent behavior toward me. There was a mystery that I could not solve, however – and still can’t. Why was it that, under similar socio-political circumstances, people of the same background and raised within miles of each other could value behaviors that were at the opposite ends of the human behavioral spectrum?

After nearly four decades of living in the USA, I feel like I haven’t even left the France of my childhood. The difference between sitting down at the paternal side of the table and sitting down at the maternal side of the table is as vast as sitting down at the MAGA side of the table and sitting down at everything else that is not MAGA side of the table. As a child, I had no choice but to be split in two along with the table. Divorce court orders.

When might makes right and lies don’t matter…That’s not my way of life, not in France, not in the USA. What do I do about it?

Hoping that I may convince a few undecided voters before the 2024 elections in the USA, I wrote two political essays.

From “A Bad Case of Betrayal Trauma,” fellow author François Bereaud (francoisbereaud.com), highlights that

Like with drunks, there’s no point in arguing. Economic uncertainty can bring out the worst in people regardless of where in the world you live. As fascists know too well, reason is no match for frustration.

“So well stated. And so rough to read … after,” posts Bereaud.

From “American Women’s Rights v. The End,” to be published in the Nelligan Review, I highlight the following:

Make no mistake about it: MAGA supporters want the God of the Old Testament to enthrone their King Trump, the Chosen One who will unleash the wrath of God on all his opponents.

May the real God help us all!

Announcement · English · Memoir

For Where Your Treasure Is, There Your Heart Will Be Also

July 20, 2024 Dominique MargolisLeave a comment

I recently went back to Auvergne for about a month to help my mother transition into a new nursing care facility. It was a time of genuine sharing with friends, family members, neighbors, and trusted community members. It was a time of reminiscence, sadness, but also joy. It was a time of accounting for the treasures or lack thereof gathered on the journey of life. It was a time for surveying how such treasures were shared and how such sharing or lack thereof impacted us and those in our environment.

It was also a time of wondering why on earth I had left as I do love my native Auvergne. I knew, already – I had left shortly after my maternal grandfather Marius’ death on the heels of my sixteenth birthday. Without him as my safety net, I did not think that I could survive life. Even though I never tried to commit suicide, my body shut down as Marius was in the process of dying. I wouldn’t have minded dying, too, but a near-death experience showed me what would happen if I let go of the will to live. That’s the subject of another story (my next story, perhaps). The practical consequence of that near-death experience was that I would have to find a way to remain alive. In my young mind, the idea that America and Americans could save me because they had saved Marius during the war, started to take form.

As I walked down the streets of Tauves, the wonderful village in which my grandparents owned a tailoring shop they had jointly named Le Style Modern’, I started pondering the reasons why the loss of my grandfather had so profoundly affected the course of my life. I often stopped in front of the house that is no longer Le Style Modern’ – the shop is now owned by someone else who transformed it into a vacation home. During my stay, the brown shades on what used to be the shop windows were rolled down. I could not see through, but I stared through the brown metal anyway. And when I got back to the USA, I wrote On the Edge of My Mother Tongue, which was published in the July 2024 issue of the gorgeous magazine The Write Launch.

My grandfather Marius and the dog Marco Polo, Marius’ sidekick, lay treasures in my heart that thieves cannot steal. It has been my goal to pass them forward to my son, and it will be my most treasured achievement if I succeed.

Announcement · English · Memoir

Past-Life Memories Can Be Good for You

Featured Dominique MargolisLeave a comment

“Just Say No – Unsquared,” my short memoir about the positively transformative power of remembering lessons learned in a past life as an opium addict, is now published in Issue X of The Closed Eye.

Now is a good time to reflect a bit on how I managed to write about such a subject. I arrived at near-fluency in American English in the early nineties, a time when New Age conferences were plentiful and where authors like Dannion Brinkley, a former Marine, cracked jokes about his near-death experiences. Philosopher and psychiatrist Raymond Moody had already coined and popularized the term “Near Death Experience.” Additionally, the psychiatrist Ian Stevenson, had already founded the Division of Perceptual Studies at the University of Virginia School of Medicine and popularized the idea that reincarnation could perhaps be proven. At the time, I counted my blessings and told myself that, had I remained in France, I would have withered away from lack of exposure to content about what was crucial for me to be able to start living the truths embedded in my own unusual life experiences. The odd thing is that I had never heard of the groundbreaking work of French authors and researchers Evelyne-Sarah Mercier and Jean-Pierre Jourdan of IANDS France, among other French trailblazers!

Now, three decades later, I am becoming part of the conversations aiming to redefine our presuppositions about consciousness.

In gratitude to all the people who have paved the way and continue to do so!

Announcement · English

Webinar and Panel Discussion: Life Changing Mystical Experiences

Featured Dominique MargolisLeave a comment

Life changing mystical experiences are profound and ineffable encounters with a transcendent reality that go beyond ordinary perception. In these moments, individuals often report a deep sense of unity with the universe, a dissolution of their individual self, and a profound connection to a higher power or divine presence.
– International Association for Near Death Studies (IANDS)

If you are interested in mystical experiences, please join me, Kevin McNamara, and Randy Kolibaba on August 19, 2023, at 1:00 pm EDT for a free webinar hosted by IANDS and facilitated by Betty Guadagno. FMI: https://isgo.iands.org/webinar/life-changing-mystical-experiencers-panel/

I will talk briefly about how mystical experiences from a very young age and two near-death experiences shaped my life both in France and in the USA. I will pay special attention to how language and culture shaped and continue to shape what I was able to communicate about them not only to others but also to myself.

English · Essay · Memoir

On Near Death Experiences and IANDS

February 11, 2023April 24, 2023 Dominique Margolis2 Comments

On February 8, 2023, I attended a webinar hosted by International Association for Near-Death Studies (IANDS). This was my first time attending an IANDS webinar. What took me so long? Even if you haven’t experienced a Near-Death Experience (NDE), you will benefit from the depth and breadth of information from IANDS’ forty years of delving into human consciousness at the limits of life and death. It is at those moments that we come face-to-face with essential questions such as “Why are were here?”

I was a member of IANDS in the past, but I had somehow let my subscription lapse. Thankfully, at the beginning of the year, they reached out to me via email to advertise both their 2023 conference in Arlington, VA, and their upcoming webinars.

My most recent visit to France in November 2022 profoundly affected me and I’d been mulling over the meaning of my life’s journey and the role that my two near-death experiences had played in it. I simply would not be alive today without them. And I’m not saying that lightly. So, I took IANDS’ reaching out to me via email as a call to action and did two things:

I submitted a proposal for the IANDS conference whose theme is HAS YOUR NDE OR RELATED EXPERIENCE INSPIRED YOU INTO A NEW WAY OF BEING IN THE WORLD? Whether or not my proposal is accepted, I’m grateful to have taken it to heart as the questions that I had to answer helped me formulate what I need to write about.
I attended the webinar titled WHY ARE WE HERE? hosted by Janice Holden, EdD, and featuring author Sandi Taranto who wrote Dandelion Child.

I’m grateful to Sandi for sharing her experiences. She suffered horrific abuse in the foster system and has powerful things to say about the meaning of life and the role of her NDEs in her own life. I’m also grateful to her for raising the following three important points:

The memory of the NDE doesn’t change, but our interpretation of it does.
The problem comes when you describe to others what you experienced during an NDE.
The problem is not just one of word inadequacy but resides within the narrative structure.

Thank you to all the people involved in IANDS from the start! I found my tribe!

Photo by Diana Orey on Unsplash

English · Essay · Memoir

Vision Corrections

December 19, 2022April 24, 2023 Dominique MargolisLeave a comment

My stepmother informed me by email that my father was in critical condition after a fall occasioned by a stroke. He is in his eighties. Sorrow did not overtake me. This is not a Hallmark card.

The week prior to his fall, my father had called me in the middle of the night to hurl raging insults at me. Seriously. Barely hello. I was a monster, evil, the worst piece of this and that, etc., spiked up in hateful expletives — in French.

He doesn’t do that often, not even once a year. The problem was that, on that first night of October 2022 when my cell rang, I felt utterly defenseless. I had been sound asleep, farther into safety than the Atlantic Ocean and the entire North American continent. A daughter made
new by exile. In that state, I had no need for psychological defenses.

Before I could even think of hanging up on him, he had done much damage.

Much like a dictator does, or a recent US president.

Within minutes, my left eye was in pain. I experienced sudden vision loss like when I was four. Or six. I couldn’t remember exactly. I told my optometrist, who told me that the link between trauma and vision was now well-established and who explained that the sight difference between my left and right eyes was now so large that my brain had difficulty balancing the two extremes.

I did not expect that my father would still have the power to damage my body. I pondered what I had written in my essay, Revenge Savings. I decided enough was enough and booked a flight from Los Angeles to Bordeaux.

When I arrived, my father was up and walking about. His wife lifted his shirt to show me that his back was still purplish-black from the fall. I told him that I was losing my vision in my left eye, just like when he was going to make me love me since my mother would not when I was four, or six, no five, maybe, at the time when he and his new wife were getting engaged.

No end-of-life apologies for me but I did not back down. I went for the metaphorical kill. I even managed to, in real-time, point out his reactions. Reactions that “perpetrators of wrongdoing, particularly sexual offenders, may display in response to being held accountable for their behavior,” Reactions which can be summed up as Deny, Attack, and Reverse Victim and Offender.

On the day of my departure, I stopped by his house one last time. My father refused to come out of his bedroom. His enabling wife said that he wasn’t feeling well. She would not allow me into his room out of concern for his health.

Cowardice!

The vision loss in my left has now stabilized. I do hope that this healing sticks.

English · Essay · Memoir

Secrets of WWII

October 9, 2022April 24, 2023 Dominique Margolis2 Comments

I recently visited Secrets of WWII at the Reagan Library There, I explored “over a hundred rare and unique stories and hundreds of artifacts” that were “not even made public until recently.” Particularly touching to me were the panels dedicated to the horses, birds, and dogs who had been forced into the war. What I saw and read, however, felt somewhat removed from my personal life experience until I happened upon a glass case that contained a German helmet and a telephone that the Germans used to communicate.

“They forgot the Waffen SS boots,” my grandmother and I thought. « Les bottes noires des boches, tu les vois ? »

My grandmother Marinette, deceased for three decades, was standing with me by that glass case, asking me, in French, if I could see the black boots. No longer was I standing in the lower level of the Reagan Library in 2022: Marinette and I were both frozen in dread in the cellar of the family live-in store in the early seventies in a remote village of the Auvergne region of France.

Marinette suffered from then-undiagnosed PTSD, the result of her active role in the French Resistance. For her, WWII had never ended, and to hide us both from the Nazis, she would rush me down to the cellar throughout my youth and well into the early eighties. From the diminutive, street-level rectangular window, she could still see the dreaded boots march by the store.

My maternal grandparents Marius and Marinette were both members of the French Resistance. Records about their service are archived in the French Defense Historical Service in Vincennes, near Paris. They had put themselves in grave danger, and many of their friends had died. Marinette’s closest cousin Yvonne, also a Resistance member, had been caught and deported. She miraculously survived Ravensbrück from August 1944 until May 1955. Here is a link to a short story that I wrote about Yvonne https://thecentifictionist.home.blog/2021/05/10/yvonnes-parakeets/

My maternal grandparents also raised me for the first few years of my life starting in the mid-sixties. Twenty years after the end of WWII, they still lived and worked in the same tailoring shop in the village’s main square by the 12th-century church. Their trusted friends from their time in the Resistance continued to stop by to reminisce around homemade pastries and tart cherry liquor. They told stories high in color in patois Auvergnat, which is a local dialect of the Occitan language, the language of the French peasantry. My grandfather, who hailed from the south of France (an area with a different dialect of Occitan) was not as fluent in patois Auvergnat as his wife and fellow résistants, so he’d switch to his southern-accented French when the actions recounted required words said in rapid-fire.

My grandmother was especially vocal about les collabos. Those people were either supporting or full members of La Milice, which was a paramilitary organization created in January 1943 by the collaborationist French government to combat la Résistance. Those were people she had also grown up with. They were even more dangerous than les boches, she said, because you were prone to assume that you could trust them, but you could not.

Silent dread set in once their résistant friends left. My grandparents would usually drown themselves in work, then, while I often went up to the attic to scrutinize the remnant of the bleach-resistant blood stains on the unpolished pine floorboards. The attic was where they had hidden wounded résistants and British paratroopers. Tonton Mabrut, head of the resistance for the region and a medical doctor by profession, would sneak in under cover of night to remove exploding bullets from mangled limbs. My grandmother was the one to assist in the operations because my grandfather would faint at the sight of blood.

Once my grandparents retired, they sold the store to move into a brand-new house. Perhaps they hoped that the physical move could make them new also, that it could remove their dread and even the painful parts of the lives that they had lived so far. I took it a step further and moved to America. But dread takes more than relocation to dislodge.

Announcement · English · Fiction · Memoir

A Toast to Digestive Health and to a Fantastic Editor

January 18, 2022April 24, 2023 Dominique Margolis2 Comments

For half a year now, I have been suffering from often painful digestive health problems. I thought that perhaps I had done all the digestion I could do in one lifetime both physically and metaphorically speaking. And yet, to keep on living, I had to keep on digesting, so how would I do that?

One day, the thought occurred to me that I would need to split my digesting into two parts: the French part and the American part. My problem seemed more manageable that way. Here is what I would do: draw two circles in white chalk on a blackboard. The circle to the left would be smaller than the circle to the right because I only had about twenty years of French living versus thirty-five plus years of American living.

I drew the circles from left to right because I had learned to write from left to right and because I had assimilated the arbitrary construct that time traveled from left to right. I would digest my binational living from the oblong area where both circles intersected. With my piece of white chalk, I started highlighting that area of intersection so it would look like a cloud because I felt at ease on planes above clouds and, on land, I did some of my best thinking with no roof above my head.

Almost imperceptibly, I had become the French sixth grader who loved her math class. I barely took the time to notice the inkwells on the neatly arranged wooden desks from which my classmates and I watched our teacher draw shapes and circles and letters and numbers. I had walked up to the blackboard and started drawing my cloud inside the oblong area of the two intersecting circles that symbolized my life. The chalk dust made me sneeze.

My teacher, Monsieur Raoul, had stepped to the side and was waiting for me to finish. I did not get scared when he called me to the blackboard to solve a math problem, but now I was, and I froze. I was too close to the board. I could no longer see the circles for what they represented, and the cloud I was drawing seemed like a ridiculous thing to do in a math class. I was failing the exercise.

Somehow, I retreated forward to the present time, but outside of the larger circle that should have represented my American life. I was back on my couch in the suburbs of Los Angeles with a roof over my head and no clouds in sight. My two dogs were asleep next to me. It became suddenly clear that figuring out what was going on at the intersection of my binational life was a futile exercise, at least for now. Instead, I thought of focusing on the single thread that ran through all my splits at the seams: dogs. My love of my canine family members and their love for me will be the subject of a future post.

2021 was a good year for my published work. For now, I am trying to close the door to the year 2021 as elegantly and productively as I can. During the first week of 2022, I learned that a very short fiction piece I had written last year will be anthologized by Poets’ Choice, an Indian publisher based in Mumbai, but two of the stories I wrote last year are still looking for a home.

Because I have been unusually exhausted for the last few months, I feared that I may not have the energy to keep writing in 2022. That was a depressing thought. I needed help, but I did not know how to articulate the type of help I needed regarding the future of my writing. Thankfully, I did remember how empowering and joyful it had been to work with Teresa Berkowitz, the editor of Tangled Locks Journal, and I reached out to her.

In the fall of 2021, I had the especially good fortune to have my short memoir, “Revenge Savings,” published by Tangled Locks Journal. Teresa is extremely supportive of my writing so I sent her my 2021 unpublished fiction and creative nonfiction for developmental feedback. Tangled Locks Journal has launched services to support writers including developmental editing and promotion.

I have been lucky to study and work with gifted English professors, but Teresa is truly the best editor I have met for both fiction and creative nonfiction, and she also works at baffling speed. Best of all, Teresa once again boosted my confidence. Her detailed feedback is also allowing me to reflect on the type of writing I want to pursue next.

I am welcoming in 2022 with renewed energy and, health permitting, I will be writing a short memoir this year.