{"id":12939,"date":"2019-10-07T23:00:48","date_gmt":"2019-10-07T21:00:48","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/?p=12939"},"modified":"2019-10-08T16:50:19","modified_gmt":"2019-10-08T14:50:19","slug":"elizabeth-bishop-yn-de-wachtkeamer","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/?p=12939","title":{"rendered":"Elizabeth Bishop, Yn de wachtkeamer<\/em>"},"content":{"rendered":"

 
\n\"\"<\/a>Yn de wachtkeamer<\/nobr><\/em><\/big><\/p>\n

Yn Worcester, Massachusetts,
\ngong ik mei Muoike Consuelo
\nnei har \u00f4fspraak by de toskedokter
\nen siet ik op har te wachtsjen
\nyn de toskedokter syn wachtkeamer.
\nIt wie winter. It waard betiid
\ntsjuster. De wachtkeamer
\nwie fol grutte minsken,
\nhege skuon en oerjassen,
\nlampen en tydskriften.
\nUs muoike wie, sa like it,
\nin hiel skoft binnen,
\nen wilens wachte ik en lies
\nde National Geographic<\/em>
\n(ik koe al l\u00eaze) en bestudearre
\nsekuer de foto\u2019s:
\nit binnenst fan in fulkaan,
\nswart en fol jiske,
\nen doe streamde dy oer
\nyn beekjes fan fjoer.
\nOsa en Martin Johnson
\nklaaid yn rydbroeken,
\nfiterlearzens en tropehelmen.
\nIn deade man, ophyst oan in peal
\n\u2013 \u2018Long Pig\u2019, neffens it byskrift.
\nPoppen mei spitse holtsjes
\nomwuolle mei koarde;
\nswarte, bleate froulju mei nekken
\nomwuolle mei kopertried
\nas de halzen fan gloeilampen.
\nHarren boarsten wienen \u00f4fgryslik.
\nIk lies it daalk yn ien kear troch.
\nOph\u00e2lde, d\u00ear wie ik te skou foar.
\nEn doe seach ik nei it omkaft:
\nde giele r\u00e2nen, de datum.<\/p>\n

Ynienen, fan binnen,
\nkaam in ah!<\/em> fan pine
\n\u2013 de stim fan Muoike Consuelo \u2013
\nmar net hiel l\u00fbd of lang.
\nIk seach der alhiel net fan op;
\ndat sy in dom, bangich
\nmins wie, wist ik doe al.
\nIk hie my sjenearje kind,
\nmar dat die ik net. Wat my
\nfolslein oer it mad kaam,
\nwie dat ik<\/em> it wie:
\nmyn stim, yn myn m\u00fble.
\nS\u00fbnder der by nei te tinken
\nwie ik myn domme muoike,
\nik \u2013 wy \u2013 foelen en foelen,
\nmei \u00fas eagen strak op it omkaft
\nfan de National Geographic<\/em>,
\nfebrewaarje 1918.<\/p>\n

Ik sei tsjin mysels: noch trije dagen
\nen dan biste s\u00e2n jier \u00e2ld.
\nIk sei it om it gefoel te kearen
\nas tr\u00fbdele ik fan de r\u00fbne,
\ndraaiende ierde yn in k\u00e2lde,
\nblauswarte romte.
\nMar ik fielde: do bist in ik<\/em>,
\ndo bist in Elizabeth<\/em>,
\ndo bist ien fan harren<\/em>.
\nW\u00earom<\/em> moatsto ek ien w\u00eaze?
\nIk doarde amper te sjen,
\nte oansk\u00f4gjen wat ik wie dat ik wie.
\nIk wurp in blik fansiden
\n\u2013 ik koe net omheech sjen \u2013
\nop \u00fbnbestimde grize knibbels,
\nbroeken, rokken, learzens
\nen alderlei pearen hannen
\ndy\u2019t \u00fbnder de lampen leinen.
\nIk wist, noch nea wie der
\nwat frjemders bard en nea
\nkoe der wat frjemders barre.<\/p>\n

W\u00earom soe ik \u00fas muoike w\u00eaze,
\nof mysels, of wa ek mar?
\nHokker oerienkomsten \u2013
\nlearzens, hannen, de famyljestim
\ndy\u2019t ik yn myn kiel fielde, of sels
\nde National Geographic<\/em>
\nen dy freeslike hingelboarsten \u2013
\nholden \u00fas by inoarren
\nof makken \u00fas allegearre ien?
\nHoe \u2013 ik wist der gjin
\nwurd foar \u2013 hoe \u2018\u00fbnwierskynlik\u2019…
\nHoe wie ik, lykas harren,
\nhjir bedarre om in gjalp fan pine
\nte hearren dy\u2019t l\u00fbd en wat al net
\nw\u00eaze kind hie mar dat net wie?<\/p>\n

De wachtkeamer wie hel
\nen te waarm. Hy sluorke fuort
\n\u00fbnder in grutte swarte weach,
\nen noch ien en noch ien.<\/p>\n

Doe wie ik der yn werom.
\nDe Oarloch wie geande. B\u00fbten,
\nyn Worcester, Massachusetts,
\nwie it tsjuster, dridzich en k\u00e2ld,
\nen noch altyd wie it de fyfde
\nfan febrewaarje 1918.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In the Waiting Room<\/em><\/big><\/p>\n

In Worcester, Massachusetts,
\nI went with Aunt Consuelo
\nto keep her dentist\u2019s appointment
\nand sat and waited for her
\nin the dentist\u2019s waiting room.
\nIt was winter. It got dark
\nearly. The waiting room
\nwas full of grown-up people,
\narctics and overcoats,
\nlamps and magazines.
\nMy aunt was inside
\nwhat seemed like a long time
\nand while I waited and read
\nthe National Geographic<\/em>
\n(I could read) and carefully
\nstudied the photographs:
\nthe inside of a volcano,
\nblack, and full of ashes;
\nthen it was spilling over
\nin rivulets of fire.
\nOsa and Martin Johnson
\ndressed in riding breeches,
\nlaced boots, and pith helmets.
\nA dead man slung on a pole
\n\u2014\u201cLong Pig,\u201d the caption said.
\nBabies with pointed heads
\nwound round and round with string;
\nblack, naked women with necks
\nwound round and round with wire
\nlike the necks of light bulbs.
\nTheir breasts were horrifying.
\nI read it right straight through.
\nI was too shy to stop.
\nAnd then I looked at the cover:
\nthe yellow margins, the date.<\/p>\n

Suddenly, from inside,
\ncame an oh!<\/em> of pain
\n\u2014Aunt Consuelo\u2019s voice\u2014
\nnot very loud or long.
\nI wasn\u2019t at all surprised;
\neven then I knew she was
\na foolish, timid woman.
\nI might have been embarrassed,
\nbut wasn\u2019t. What took me
\ncompletely by surprise
\nwas that it was me<\/em>:
\nmy voice, in my mouth.
\nWithout thinking at all
\nI was my foolish aunt,
\nI\u2014we\u2014were falling, falling,
\nour eyes glued to the cover
\nof the National Geographic<\/em>,
\nFebruary, 1918.<\/p>\n

I said to myself: three days
\nand you\u2019ll be seven years old.
\nI was saying it to stop
\nthe sensation of falling off
\nthe round, turning world
\ninto cold, blue-black space.
\nBut I felt: you are an I<\/em>,
\nyou are an Elizabeth<\/em>,
\nyou are one of them<\/em>.
\nWhy<\/em> should you be one, too?
\nI scarcely dared to look
\nto see what it was I was.
\nI gave a sidelong glance
\n\u2014I couldn\u2019t look any higher\u2014
\nat shadowy gray knees,
\ntrousers and skirts and boots
\nand different pairs of hands
\nlying under the lamps.
\nI knew that nothing stranger
\nhad ever happened, that nothing
\nstranger could ever happen.<\/p>\n

Why should I be my aunt,
\nor me, or anyone?
\nWhat similarities\u2014
\nboots, hands, the family voice
\nI felt in my throat, or even
\nthe National Geographic<\/em>
\nand those awful hanging breasts\u2014
\nheld us all together
\nor made us all just one?
\nHow\u2014I didn\u2019t know any
\nword for it\u2014how \u201cunlikely\u201d . . .
\nHow had I come to be here,
\nlike them, and overhear
\na cry of pain that could have
\ngot loud and worse but hadn\u2019t?<\/p>\n

The waiting room was bright
\nand too hot. It was sliding
\nbeneath a big black wave,
\nanother, and another.<\/p>\n

Then I was back in it.
\nThe War was on. Outside,
\nin Worcester, Massachusetts,
\nwere night and slush and cold,
\nand it was still the fifth
\nof February, 1918.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ut Geography III<\/em>, 1976. It Amerikaanske echtpear Martin en Osa Johnson makke films en skreau boeken oer ynheemske folken en de fauna yn East- en Sintraal-Afrika en oare fiere streken. Long pig<\/em> (\u2018lange baarch\u2019) wie by kannibalen yn Melanesi\u00eb de beneaming foar minskefleis dat klearmakke wie om te iten; it soe smeitsje nei bargefleis.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  Yn de wachtkeamer Yn Worcester, Massachusetts, gong ik mei Muoike Consuelo nei har \u00f4fspraak by de toskedokter en siet ik op har te wachtsjen yn de toskedokter syn wachtkeamer. It wie winter. It waard betiid tsjuster. De wachtkeamer wie … Fierder l\u00eaze →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[657],"tags":[655,796,797],"class_list":["post-12939","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-elizabeth-bishop","tag-elizabeth-bishop","tag-martin-johnson","tag-osa-johnson"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12939"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=12939"}],"version-history":[{"count":20,"href":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12939\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12961,"href":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12939\/revisions\/12961"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=12939"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=12939"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.konsenylje.nl\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=12939"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}