The Wives' Tales

by Jolene Singh

I am convinced that my mother and my father found solace in each other because they could no longer bear the madness of their brothers and sisters. Most of my aunts and uncles have second names to mark their exceptionality. My father’s eldest brother is called “Urgent” because he only calls when he needs money and always tells the kids to leave the message: “Urgent. Urgent, tell your dad to call me back urgent!” My father’s youngest brother calls himself “Castro” because his first name is Fidel. This brother shaves his head and wears a goatee to look more like the real Castro.

My mother’s brothers and sisters are no better. One of Mom’s brothers married a woman named “Daughter,” which is just beyond me. Really, her parents must have been at their wits’ end; I wonder whether they had so many daughters that they surrendered to making all the children’s names alike. Mom’s sister, Rajo, “Auntie Money,” is the most fun, especially during tax season when she tries to convince her accountant to get her a deduction for all the gifts, trips, and baubles she buys her nieces and nephews.

Chandra is the most laughable of Mom’s seven sisters. Aunt Chandra is always trying to pass her “pearls of wisdom” down to everybody, making herself look foolish to great public audiences. In Guyana, she held an elite position at the national post-secondary school, teaching who knows what. I often wonder at the ignorance and superstition behind the things she says. At one of our frequent dinner parties, the ladies in the kitchen were having a conversation about motherhood and how hard it is to choose between staying home with their kids and going back to work.

While everyone else settled down to eat, Chandra, Mom and I busied ourselves making pepper sauce, cleaning the clutter off of countertops and refilling bowls of food. Conversation halted as the clacking of spoons, smacking of tongues, and the machinations of eating and drinking supplanted the lively chattering. Chandra took the opportunity to offer up a piece of her mind: “You know, guys, I have always noticed that I had my kids when there’s a full moon. Babies can only be conceived under a full moon. I am telling you, those scientists don’t know it yet. But I know.” I could not keep myself from laughing.

Amazingly, Fidel’s wife, Nadira, reproached me, “No, it’s true. When I looked up out by the seawall on the day I conceived Junior, I saw that same thing. I only conceive when there’s a full moon, girl. I’m telling you, it’s for truth.” At this point, our dinner guests looked up from their plates, not quite sure whether they had heard the two women correctly or whether they had been so busy eating that they had misunderstood my two aunts. I contemplated letting the matter go, allowing my aunts to persist in their ignorance and avoiding an extended argument. But if I didn’t tell them anything, who would keep them from saying these things “outside,” who would stop them from embarrassing their sons, daughters, nieces, and nephews at PTA meetings, parent-teacher conferences, doctor’s offices, playgrounds or department stores?

I started cautiously, doing my best not to offend, “It’s just that . . . I don’t think things quite work that way, Auntie.” Chandra seemed surprised that I would even fathom challenging her, but allowed me to continue speaking, “Maybe you and Auntie Nadira had children after a full moon, but I think it has more to do with your biological reproductive cycles than with the moon.” The two women looked at me skeptically, one leaning back into her chair and the other standing awkwardly across from me. Chandra responded first, “Oh, you just don’t know. You should listen to your aunt and me; we know. How many children do you have? I had my two, your cousins—Ravi and Polly. And this aunt, here, she had her children. You just can’t know.” Nadira nodded her agreement. Our dinner guests sat still, watching our conversation, wondering who would win at the end, but too afraid to offer up an opinion.

I decided to make my final attempt at trying to convince my aunts that their stories could not be generalized into natural law, “Well, if all babies are conceived during a specific time period by all women, it would be really hard to explain why babies are born every day. So scientists say that there are a variety of factors that determine whether or not a woman will conceive and when her pregnancy will come to be full-term.” Nadira countered, “Not all babies get born after the nine months. Some come earlier and some come later.” Chandra said, “Yes. Not so? And those scientists, they don’t know everything. There is a lot that they don’t know. Especially about pregnancy—but I know; I am older. I have grown up and I see things and I remember. You know Vaneela, your cousin, right? Well, when her mother was pregnant, over the summer, she used to stand up in the sun a lot. I told her not to, that the baby would get darker in the womb, but the mother did not listen to me. And look how dark Vaneela is, darker than her parents; see, I was right. I know.”

All of these stories, these old-wives’ truths and assertions, seem ridiculous to me. My aunts use their experiences as guides to life; to them, true knowledge is gained through seeing and living. Only older people who have combated life’s unpleasantries and persevered can really know how the world works.

I looked to my mom for help; maybe she could say something to stop the stream of stories that just made my aunts’ ignorance apparent. In my defense, Mom said, “Well, you guys know that these kids learn about biology and reproduction in school. So that is what they know, that is what they believe.” Instantly Chandra and Nadira nodded their solemn agreement as if everything were now fully explained. Chandra went on to say, “Growing up it was different, you know. We aren’t really American. I still have a bit of the British in me.” British, I would hardly call it that.

In a way, Aunt Chandra is right, “Growing up it was different.” Immigrants to America, my parents, aunts and uncles know the value of self-sacrifice and diligence. They worked hard to make it in America, overcoming financial and educational disadvantages; they persevered to make sure their children would have access to the resources that lead to wealth and success. Yet the education they want for their children is something they have given up on for themselves. In Guyana, most people go to work after graduating from high school. Only the exceptionally bright or well-off have the opportunity to go to post-secondary school or vocational programs in the fields of engineering, education, and healthcare.

Guyana has so few incentives to offer people without special skills that many Guyanese dream of going to Canada, America, or England, places where they can find more opportunities. The lives they find in these countries are filled with hardship, suffering, and sacrifice. I marvel at how my relatives have overcome formidable obstacles armed only with faith and experience. What separates my cousins and me from our immigrant parents and their sometimes misguided theories is what we don’t learn, what we have to pick up.

Learning to overcome these differences and being able to love one another unconditionally is what family is about. But kinship is also about supporting one another and teaching one another about the world as we know it. My parents’, aunts’, and uncles’ tales may be exceptional, and therein lies the charm of their personalities, their store of wisdom, and the deep hope and love they share for their children, nieces, and nephews.