Call Me Athena: Girl from Detroit

By Colby Cedar Smith

An enchanting novel in verse, Call Me Athena captures one young woman’s struggle for independence, equality, and identity as the daughter of Greek and French immigrants in tumultuous 1930s Detroit.
Mary lives in a tiny apartment in Detroit in the 1930s with her Greek and French immigrant parents, her brothers, and her twin sister, and she questions why her parents ever came to America. She yearns for true love, to own her own business, and to be an independent, modern American woman—much to the chagrin of her parents, who want her to be a “good Greek girl.”
 
Mary’s story is peppered with flashbacks to her parents’ childhoods in Greece and northern France; their stories connect with Mary as they address issues of arranged marriage, learning about independence, and yearning to grow beyond one’s own culture. Though Call Me Athena is written from the perspective of three profoundly different narrators, it has a wide-reaching message: It takes courage to fight for tradition and heritage, as well as freedom, love, and equality.
 
Call Me Athena: Girl from Detroit is a beautifully written novel in verse loosely based on author Colby Cedar Smith’s paternal grandmother, creating a historically accurate portrayal of life as an immigrant during the Great Depression, hunger strikes, and violent riots.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrews McMeel Publishing
• Release date: Aug 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781524873974

Book preview

Call Me Athena copyright © 2021 by Colby Cedar Smith. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

Andrews McMeel Publishing

a division of Andrews McMeel Universal

1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106

www.andrewsmcmeel.com

ISBN: 978-1-5248-6545-0

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020943392

Editor: Patty Rice

Art Director/Designer: Holly Swayne

Production Editor: Elizabeth A. Garcia

Production Manager: Carol Coe

Ebook Production: Kristen Minter

This book is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Certain long-standing institutions and public figures are mentioned, but the characters in the book are a product of the author’s imagination.

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For my grandmother and her six great-grandchildren.

Mary

Detroit, Michigan

1934

Grief

consumes

like a brush fire.

It begins

with a glowing cinder.

You think

you can smother it

with your boot.

As you tap

and kick and stomp,

it spreads

across the grass.

Once the spark grows,

it has a will

of its own.

It changes everything

in its path.

All you can do

is stand there.

With a useless

bucket in your hands.

As you watch

the entire field

burn.

I wish

I could spin my body

so fast

it could rotate

the earth.

I wish

I could reverse

the months, the days,

the hours.

Go back

to the beginning.

I wish

it could have been

me.

Mary

Detroit, Michigan

1933

They say

twin souls

can communicate

without talking.

Marguerite and I

never stop.

Not even

when we’re asleep.

I put my head

next to hers.

I imagine her thoughts

traveling faster

than the speed of light

into my brain.

All the static

vanishes

and we become a radio

tuned to the same

frequency.

I wake to a swarm

of mosquitoes

tickling my cheek

and buzzing my ears.

I swat them

from the air.

You’re breathing on me.

I open one eye

and see her.

I’m still asleep.

So am I.

Good.

We close our eyes.

After a moment,

I feel a tickling on my cheek again.

Are you awake?

My sister is as warm

as a log on a fire.

She fuels me.

We walk down the hall

into the crowded

living room.

Shield our bodies

from our three

long-limbed

younger brothers,

who snap

and twist

against each other.

Cerberus,

the three-headed dog,

guarding the gates

of the underworld.

They look up

and greet us in unison,

Good morning!

before they rush us.

John puts me in a headlock

and tugs my braid.

Gus wrestles

Marguerite to the ground

while she kicks

herself free

until my dad

looks up

from his newspaper

and yells

STOP!

Or I’ll send you back

to the old country!

Sometimes

I wish he would.

Our apartment

is as small

as a rabbit den.

Just like rabbits

my parents keep adding

new babies

that take up space.

I look at my mother.

Hands over her eyes,

wondering

what to do

with her brood.

Her belly swells

with yet another

mouth to feed.

Why did my parents come to America?

If I had

a quarter

for every time

I asked this question,

I’d be richer

than Henry Ford.

Mama ladles the batter

for crêpes onto the pan

and turns it—just so.

With one flick

of her wrist,

she flips

the thin

golden pancake

onto the plate.

The first one there

gets the crêpe.

So you have to be fast.

My brother Jim

wins the prize

and slathers it

with strawberry preserves.

Rolls it and eats it.

All hot

and gooey.

Not me.

I just keep grabbing

and grabbing

and placing the crêpes

in my lap.

After breakfast,

I will hide them

in my drawers

underneath

my folded clothes.

It’s good to have

a crêpe on hand

when you need one.

And a few

for your sister

too.

My brother John

leans back.

His hands crossed

behind his neck.

His dirty boots

on the table.

Ρεμάλι! (Remáli!)

Slob!

My father cuffs him

on the back of the head

so hard

his teeth rattle.

Gold tokens

in a slot machine.

John sits up

and smirks

as if someone

has made a joke.

I half expect him

to spit gold coins

into his cupped hands

and scream, Jackpot!

Just to spite

the old man.

Mary!

I look at him sideways.

Yes, Baba?

I can’t remember

the last time

he addressed me.

Dimitris Nicolaides came to the shop.

He asked about you.

My mother’s eyebrows rise

as her lips form

into an O.

I can hear the silent,

O, Mary!

O, what luck!

She clasps her

hands together.

Her mind slowly opening

a cedar dowry chest

as she prepares

to make

my wedding bed.

A husband.

An old, rich, Greek

husband.

To put me

in my place.

Your eyes are the color of cultures clashing

she says,

as she kisses me between my lashes.

The dark brown

of the Greeks

mixed with the stormy gray

of northwestern France.

My eyes turn green

with anger.

Oh, Mary,

calm yourself.

You must

get used to the idea

of marriage.

Marguerite pats my hand.

Her eyes calm

as a fox.

Liquid pools

of the sweetest

amber.

My eyes glow

like a serpent.

The sixteen-year-old girls

in our town

are precious candies

waiting

in a crystal dish.

The boys

get to reach in,

choose

whichever treat

they want.

Marguerite

will be taken

by a man

from a good family.

She is sweet

and brings a smile

to your mouth.

When I talk,

boys look like

they’ve bitten

on something

bitter.

I imagine I’m pulling on a silk dress

with a feathered boa

and matching slippers.

Instead,

I squeeze into a wool dress

that is two sizes

too small.

The fabric

barely buttons across

my growing breasts.

I am filled with defeat

even before I arrive

at the battlefront.

School.

I tuck

mother’s rouge,

a secret,

into my pocket.

Secure my stockings

with hidden red ribbons

around my thighs.

A little color

just for me.

I try to fix my hair

never sleek

and kept.

A dark-brown,

wild, tickling

monster

that longs

for the inside

of my mouth.

I’ve always felt

a woman’s power

is in her hair.

The problem is

I have more of it

than most.

And I have no idea

how to tame it.

We climb down the stairs

pass through

our father’s store

and enter

the busy street.

Our neighborhood

smells like

trash

metal and oil

ammonia

slaughtered chickens

and roasted goat meat.

Folks

from Greece,

Romania, Poland, and Mexico,

and many Black families

who’ve come up from the South

inhabit

the row houses and duplexes

along our street.

Most of our neighbors

came to Detroit

because Ford

paid his workers well.

$5 a day.

Word spread far and wide.

My mother says

I’ll never have to travel

to learn

the ways of the world.

The whole world lives in Detroit.

For twenty years

the factories fed

and nourished

every part of this town.

Food on the table.

Money in the schools.

Doctors for the sick.

Every morning

the citizens

walked in one direction

toward the factory floors.

The River Rouge.

Animals gathering

at the watering hole.

Detroit drank deep.

Sustenance.

Now,

water is scarce.

We pray the source

won’t run dry.

Marguerite and I hold hands

as we pass the lines.

Neighbors wait

in the courtyard

of the

Sacred Heart Church.

A nun

ladles soup

into wooden bowls.

The priest rips bread

and places it

into waiting mouths.

A woman stands

on a soapbox,

speaking so vehemently

spittle flicks

from her teeth.

I say to you, it is easier

for a camel

to go through the eye of a needle,

than a rich man to enter

into the kingdom of God! ¹

It’s difficult to decide

where to look.

A town

of weathered tents

lines the streets.

Families living

in the dirt.

Women beg

for coins

with their children

on their laps.

Children

so thin

you can see their bones

through their

worn shirts

skin peeling

from sitting in the sun

teeth brown

from hunger.

A hollow-cheeked man sits

underneath a cloth banner

that reads,

Hoover’s poor farm.

He holds a cardboard sign

painted with angry words

about our last president.

Hard times are still Hoovering over us. ²

His son

stands beside him.

He bounces a ball

and chants,

Little Pig, Little Pig, let me in!

Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!

Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff

and I’ll blow your house in! ³

Folks know

once you

find yourself

sitting on the road

in Hooverville, ⁴

it’s hard

to get back

on your

feet.

I hear a rumble behind us

I look up

to see a boy

my age.

Driving

a brand-new, red

Ford Cabriolet.

Through the open cab

I can see

his pinstriped suit.

He looks

as if he has never had

to worry.

Curly blond hair

bounces

as he speeds

down the road.

The rest of us

getting covered

in dust.

When we get to school

two boys

are dragging each other

through the yard.

Gus climbs on top

and pulls them apart.

He winds up with a bloody lip

before the bell rings.

We file into

the classroom.

I hear Evie Williams

talking about me.

Two sizes too small!

You can see EVERYTHING!

Her friend Fay

looks at me

and mouths

an apology.

Evie stares

at the popping buttons

on my dress.

Eyes wide

like the barrel

of a gun,

loaded

and ready

to fire.

My whole body

feels hot

and panic

swells my brain.

I am a sack of grain

with a target

painted

on my chest.

I settle on a bench

between Marguerite

and Elena.

Elena’s parents

are from Romania.

She was born

in America

just like us.

Elena’s cheeks

are ripe, round

plums.

Her black, straight hair

smells like cooked

cabbage.

We link

our elbows together.

If our school

were a garden,

I think Elena,

Marguerite, and I

would be growing

on the very same

vine.

We rise and pledge

allegiance

to the flag

of the United States

of America.

We all speak

in different accents.

Our voices ring

in unison.

Liberty and justice

for all.

For a brief moment,

it feels like

we might

have something

in common.

Then I see Evie

sneering at me again.

CAREER

Our teacher, Mrs. Patterson,

scribbles the word

on the blackboard.

Asks us to write

a paragraph about what

we want to do

when we graduate.

What are your dreams?

My brothers

start writing immediately.