— Shout —
a poetry memoir
Laurie Halse Anderson

hvordan det begyndt / how it started

I left my family behind at the Syracuse airport

flew to NYC, then Hamburg, in Germany

ate a weird pizza with corn on it,

boarded a train for Denmark, didn’t sleep

for nearly two nights and two days, didn’t want

to miss anything

we were thirty-nine half-growns

from all over the world

gathered in a village near the childhood home

of the writer Hans Christian Andersen

Danish is a tricky language, so we had a month

of instruction to learn how to swallow

Danish vowels

and muffle its marshmallowed consonants

how to say “thank you” / tak

“I don’t understand” / jeg forstår ikke

“my name is Laurie” / jeg hedder Laurie

“the bread tastes delicious—may I have another

piece?” / brødet smager læggert—må jeg bede

om et styk til?

friendships were formed fast and hard

like at summer camp, but with better food

and lots more freedom

we walked to the village to buy stamps

and chocolate

sang through the late sunshine

on the endless summer nights

one day we rowed a Viking ship onto the sea

till the land dropped out of sight

we rested our oars, hoisted the sail

compared blisters and dozed

as the breeze rocked us

back and forth, back and forth in our cradle

I unscrewed the top of my head

and rinsed out my brainpan

with salt water from the North Sea

and so began my next life

longitude meets latitude

Mor/Mom, Far/Dad, and Nanna, my Danish sister

picked me up at the language school, we greeted

each other with formal hellos,

like an epic blind date

rode the ferry from one island to another and

drove to the farm

where I had a small room tucked under the eaves

with a window that faced the sunset

the farm’s rhythm wound our clocks and flipped

the pages of the calendar

I arrived late summer as the new barn

was being finished

we held a topping-off party to thank

the godspirits in the wood

and celebrate with the carpenters,

Mor made a kransekage

a tower of marzipan cake adorned

with Danish flags and icing

you could hear the wheat growing that afternoon

from where we sat in the garden,

lazy bees buzzing the strawberry bowl,

smells of fresh coffee, cold beer, salt sweat

of the workingmen

and all the while, the fuglekonge/goldcrests

chasing the lowering clouds

reminding us that autumn drew near

We ate our meals together

at the kitchen table, my place

was on the bench across from Mor

and next to my sister

to my left, the door to the vegetable garden

and the fruit trees

our younger brothers taught me the words for food

ymer, smør, hårdkogte æg, ost

and that it was OK to mess up as long as I tried

Far sat at the desk every night after dinner

to record the day’s weather and his tasks in a

journal

One Saturday morning, our aunt and uncle

joined us after breakfast

for an important family meeting. I listened deep,

scrambling through my dictionary

when confused, the problem was dire:

rats in the barn were eating everything in sight.

I was so excited because I had learned

enough to be in on the action,

to contribute!

I looked up a few words, cleared my throat

and explained that in America,

when rats got into the grain,

we poisoned them,

but you had to be careful to get rid of the bodies

so they didn’t rot

Dead silence

followed by everyone politely pretending

that I had ceased to exist

Months later,

when I could actually understand and speak

I brought up that awkward moment

and asked where I had gone wrong.

Turns out there were no rats in the barn,

they’d been planning

our grandmother’s birthday party

and were shocked to hear that in America

we used poison

on such occasions,

we laughed so hard we near peed our pants

Our house stood at the end of the lane

near a bog brimming with eels

Mor opened the windows every day for fresh air

our house expanded magical

so everyone could fit

the cupboards stacked with second chances

sugar bowl filled with encouragement

our house recentered my universe, I rode my bike

to the bakery, library, soccer field, school

and back, always back to our house

at the end of the lane

longitude, eleventh meridian east, built of brick

latitude, fifty-fifth parallel north, family-lit

om efteråret / in the autumn

Monday through Friday, I pedaled to school

a bit more than two miles away,

it felt like ten for the first couple weeks

but got easier and faster quick enough

imagine a mash-up of high school’s senior year

and the first year of college, but without a prom,

alcohol poisoning, or sports teams,

and not nearly as much drama.

That’s where I went to school: at a studenterkursus

where we called our teachers

by their first names and

could knit in class if we wanted, the theory

being that if we could pay attention

as we knit, we might as well be productive

I studied Danish literature,

English literature, geography,

calculus, history, psychology,

and the hardest of all: French

I’d already studied French for four years,

it was easy

back home, but

at oversætte fra dansk til fransk /

shifting into French from Danish

overheated my brain and melted my circuits

we had a mid-morning break each day

when the school provided coffee,

tea, and pastries

(in Denmark Danish pastry is called Viennese

bread / weinerbrød

because the world is lovely-strange)

it was a relief to just study and grow friendships

without the distractions

and social hierarchies I was used to in the States

once I got used to the routine and the language

and once they got used to me

the shiny-bright of being the new kid,

the American sideshow

faded; that’s when I felt homesick.

One night I stood outside with my sister

talking to her about the bone-ache

for my American family

she pointed to the moon and said

it was shining on them, too

and that helped; she is made of compassion,

my sister

when the harvest was done,

the older of our two brothers

was confirmed in the Lutheran church,

an important rite of passage

Danes take their celebrations seriously;

an enormous tent

was erected outside our house, the Norwegian

relatives arrived plus half the town,

course after course of food was served,

then: the speeches. When you celebrate

a confirmation, wedding, birthday,

or anniversary in Denmark,

there are lots of speeches given, equal

parts teasing, mocking, complimenting,

and appreciating. It’s a big deal.

I gave a speech for my brother—

apparently I didn’t threaten to poison him

like a barn rat, so that was good.

The final course was served at three a.m.

and the party lasted until dawn.

om vinteren / in the winter

as fields slept under winter’s snow

deep in the earth a slow rumble

of strong, unseen hands pushed stones

to the surface

rearranging the landscape

I spoke to my American family in July and

again at Christmas

overseas telephone calls were stupid-expensive,

we wrote letters

on onionskin paper, so thin you could see

through it and cheaper to mail

winter Fridays were my long days

the dawn so late that I rode to school in the dark

and by the time I unchained my bike

in the afternoon for the trip home

the sun had again fallen into the sea

as Christmas approached we slaughtered

and processed

the ducks that Mor raised every year to pay for

presents

I was a semi-vegetarian when I left the USA

I got over it in a hurry living on the farm

Scandinavians understand winter, they respect

the long dark

we decorated the Christmas tree with paper stars

and tiny candles

on Christmas Eve, Far carefully lit the wicks

and we all held hands,

dance-walking around the glowing, flickering tree

we sang carols

in a moment light-frozen for all time

I stopped thinking in English somewhen

in that winter

Danish filled my sleep and my waking, cascading

from my mouth like a strong river

victorious after destroying a dam

om foråret / in the spring

come spring, we helped in the fields, burning

off crop stubble and picking the head-sized stones

heaved up through the dirt.

Far frowned at the weather,

consulted his journals, and finally planted,

then frowned at the ground until the green

leapt out

The Three Mile Island nuclear plant outside

Harrisburg, PA malfunctioned

and melted a little in late March,

for a while the experts thought it would blow up

we saw a map on the news that showed

the potential radioactive plume

reaching all the way to Central New York

to kill my family

Mor hugged me as I sobbed, but a few days later,

the plant’s meltdown was under control

and the danger passed

then my grandfather died

my bone-ache returned with a vengeance

his death allowed for the third and final

phone call home, I cried

with my father, who was crying thousands

of miles away.

Grandpa wanted all of us grandchildren to see

him in his coffin to learn that death

is to be accepted,

not feared

but if I went back for the funeral,

we couldn’t afford the ticket

that would return me to Denmark

for my last three months

so Daddy told me to stay

He sent me photos of his dead father,

bedded in a white funeral box

Grandpa looked surprised,

like when an always-late bus arrives early

after we cleared the stones from the field

that spring

I took to riding my bike down new roads

wandering far

rødgrød med fløde på

Danish reminds me of gargling

with mashed potatoes

forty different vowel sounds

and consonants that melt like soft cheese

a sentence in Danish can sound

like an aimless hum

but the curse words roll like thunder

our neighbors, massive farmers

with granite hands and red faces

liked to tease me by asking me to say rødgrød

med fløde på

which translates to “berry porridge with cream”

if you say it right, it sounds like you’re choking

on a furball

I said it wrong for months

other words were easier to pronounce,

but took longer to understand

hygge (now making its way into English)

translates as “cozy”

but is much, much more; hygge

is sitting on a dark winter’s night

with friends or family, the room candlelit,

everyone knitting or crocheting

sipping coffee or beer, eating pastry or smørrebrød

talking, talking, listening, talking, enjoying

the pleasure of kindred spirits with the winds

howling outside

tak means “thanks,” but that’s like saying

Mount Everest is a hill

Danes express gratitude sincerely,

reflexively, constantly

thanking their parents for every meal,

thanking teachers for help, friends

for last night’s party,

the butcher for a good cut of meat

tusind tak / “a thousand thanks” is the variation

that I like most

it comes closest to expressing my boundless

gratitude to min danske familie

When summer breezed back in, I finally

conquered rødgrød med fløde på

to the farmers’ delight, they shared the phrase’s

deeper meaning, rooted

when they were boys carved of bone and sinew,

simmering with rage

because Denmark was occupied by Hitler’s army

those farmer boys fought back, sabotaging and

harassing the Nazis

the Germans tried to infiltrate their resistance

when someone was suspected of being a German

spy, the farmer boys

asked him to say rødgrød med fløde på

if he didn’t pronounce it right, it was the last thing

he ever said.

In Denmark, in Scandinavia, across Europe

memories of World War II ache like a scar

does when the weather changes or a storm

draws near

old countries are riddled with battle wounds

that split open, bleed, and cause new pain

if not cared for,

just like us

scars may look stronger than unwounded skin,

but they’re not

once broken, we’re easily hurt again, or worse

the temptation is to hide behind shields,

play defense, drown ourselves in sorrow

or drug our way to haunted oblivion

until death erases hope

My home in Denmark taught me how to speak

again, how to reinterpret darkness and light,

strength and softness

it offered me the chance to reorient my compass

redefine my true north

and start over

bridging

to go straight from our Danish homes

back to our families of origin

would have screwed everybody up

we needed a breather

a break

they sent us to Lejre,

half an hour from Copenhagen

to an Iron Age archaeological center

where researchers were puzzling out

how ancient Danes

crossed bogs and swamps

three thousand years earlier

they needed young, strong bodies not afraid of work

we thirty-nine half-growns from all over the world

had to build a bridge

we

used axes to hew logs for the frame

tied fat bundles of saplings and green branches

for the foundation, dumped them in the water

like offerings to the bog

we ate meat roasted over the open fire

devoured bread, yogurt, and cheese

slept on a thin layer of straw in a giant tent

all of us together, drifting deep and dreamless

waking achy, grabbing our tools

chopping, carving, cursing

wrangling, working, wearing

ourselves out of our skins

and into the harnessed spirit

of samarbejde/cooperation

in which the melding of individual energies

far exceeds the sum of the parts

eventually we fed the hungry bog enough wood

that our bridge broke the water’s surface

like the back of a rising horse

we shoveled dirt to fill the interstitial spaces

formed a line to pass big rocks

hand to hand

body to body

building upon our foundation with weight, sweat,

and strength

added more dirt to make the walking easy

the researchers led an oxen team across our bridge

to test our work

and declared our bridge worthy

we raised our glasses and axes in salute

feasted

showered in cold water

and prepared for our next crossing

commence reentry sequence

space capsule

screaming through the atmosphere

heat shield melting, parachutes out,

I landed back in the USA

after thirteen lifetimes,

I mean, months

away

English didn’t fit right in my mouth

det var meget nemmere at tale dansk,

mere behagelig

jeg glemte oversættninger, hvordan man siger

agurker/cucumbers eller erindringer/memories

men da jeg genfornede

med min americanske familie

the important words finally came back

after much hugging and happy tears

we sat close together on the couch, my mother

constantly tucking a stubborn lock of hair

behind my ear

my father’s heavy hand patting my shoulder

my sister sitting on the floor,

leaning against my knee

you don’t get many perfect moments in life

our reunion was one of them

next morning, I rode my bike

to the high school, July-flying through the miles

didn’t have to stand on the pedals

up the long, steep hill

my thighs steel-reinforced

after a year of riding overseas

Summer-break school mostly empty,

the halls smelled the same

goose-bumpy

in the main office I explained

my mission and the secretary

opened a drawer, pulled the file

with my name on it

my permanent record

removed my diploma and almost

gave it to me, but paused

to add the grave pomp

called for by the circumstance,

she shook my hand

“Congratulations,” she said, formally.

“You have graduated.”

And so began the next chapter

in a familiar place where everything was different

a well-cloaked alien, I heard my old world

filtered through Nordsøens vand / North Sea water

and saw it in the light of dansk solskin /

Danish sunshine

separation—AWOL 1

While I was somewhere-the-hell in Denmark,

my American family had moved again

this time to a small house rented

from a guy who made it clear

that if my mother slept with him,

he’d cut us a deal.

(Instead she worked overtime.)

I came home stronger

taller

wounds tended and scarred over

But my parents had started drinking

every morning by eight, instead of waiting

for the sunset,

Daddy drank to blur

the steel edge of his failures.

Mommy drank to keep

from killing him. She went to work

after gargling and spitting.

Daddy worked a little,

walked a lot on the towpath

crowded with ghosts. Wrote poetry,

cried, contemplating suicide

trying to ride out the tide of despair

and keep breathing.

One day I came home

to the sound of a hammer

on metal. My mother

roared all the curse words

she’d once scrubbed out of my mouth

with a bar of Ivory soap.

I crept to the door of my parents’

bedroom, afraid of the bloody body

certain to be staining the floor.

Mommy was alone, beating

the piss out of their bed frame

with a sixteen-ounce hammer.

She looked up,

narrowed her eyes

“Time for separate beds,” she snarled,

dragon smoke curling out of her mouth.

“He’s gone to Boston for a while.”

WHAM! She beat a bolt on the bed frame.

“A long while.” WHAM, WHAM!

“Hamburger Helper for dinner,” she added.

“Start browning the meat.”

reunion—AWOL 2

Dad came home nine months

later. He looked better, didn’t drink

until four p.m., and only screamed

in his sleep a couple nights a week.

I’m still convinced he ran off

with a woman, but whatever.

Mom let him back in the door.

The Church did, too. The Church

that had cast him out, her broken son,

gave back his dignity, his calling

and his God after six years in the wilderness

We moved again after his prodigal return

this time to a rural church filled

with farmers, teachers, and nurses.

I slept that first winter on the floor

under the dining room table

because my bedroom didn’t have heat

or insulation. A glass of water left there

overnight was ice come morning,

from Thanksgiving till after Easter.

I found work milking cows.

Dad found some peace mending hearts.

Our mother found a tumor in her left breast.

She never put their beds back together.

hitchhiking with my father

Driving with Daddy was risky,

cuz he drove

with one foot on the accelerator

and the other on the brake, confident

of his superior reflexes

and the power of his smile.

When I was two, he drove us

all the way to Florida, me roaming

in the back of the station wagon untethered,

waving to horrified strangers

for fifteen hundred fraught miles.

We survived that trip unscathed.

Others, not so much; he’d crash into a ditch

or park on a highway late at night

traffic thundering inches away

while my parents fought

about who should take the wheel.

I loved my dad,

but he was a shitty driver

and the booze sure didn’t help.

After high school, we stopped talking, it hurt

so much to love my father that I prayed

for a heart of stone,

like God gave Pharaoh.

The years of praying for him to be healed

hadn’t worked; he kept messing up,

breaking down, throwing our lives out of orbit,

but I still thought of God

as a kind of Cranky Dad who might

consider my plea if I asked politely.

One afternoon, my father found me in tears—

I’d missed the bus and was going to be fired.

I needed that job cuz no college

would have me back then.

Daddy’s face softened, for a moment

he was the father who’d take us out of school

on a whim to go mountain climbing

or buy ice cream for every kid on the block.

“You’re too young

to hitchhike alone,” he said.

“I’ll go with you, make sure you’re safe.”