by Anika Streitfeld Luskin
What struck me about this story is the way in which Marie has embraced being the last member of her tribe who speaks its language. I was moved by her calling to embark on the dictionary project - with a focus and passion that calls to mind the writer's impulse to put something on paper, but is infused with something else too: humility, and steadiness, the diligence of this unexpected but determined archivist.
I love the way Marie uses her computer - "pecking" at the old keyboard - and the way her daughter and grandson have taken up this project along with her. It feels, from this glimpse, as if they are invested in the dictionary as a legacy, but perhaps just as much that they are deeply devoted to their soft-spoken, exacting matriarch. Her daughter is so patient; her grandson so earnest in his attempts to converse with her in Wukchumni, that their love for her feels palpable.
A therapist friend recently told me that she often says to her clients, "you didn't make this shit up, but it's your responsibility to deal with it." And I had a similar feeling about Marie's situation - that she certainly didn't ask to be the last speaker of her native language, but that she has taken seriously this opportunity to preserve it, and perhaps too, the legends and traditions it carries with it. This seems like a noble attempt to hold onto the past; part activism, part tribute, part love story.