Once upon a time, a long time ago, as single lives come and go, there was a little girl whose name was Marianne, Marianne Bass, although it might have been Mary Anne, or Maryanne.  Who knows, girls play a bit with the spelling of their names.  In a sense, she may have been a precursor to another Marianne about a decade later, one with whom I’m amazingly still in touch.

I was “Billy” then, recently arrived from my beloved Manizales into a strange new world, but my English had improved drastically from its non-existence a year earlier.  I wonder if I had an accent.  Friends my age who’d known me for about six months claimed it had disappeared.  And I’d made the great leap forward scholastically from the rear to the head of my class, a sudden linguistic epiphany had made that possible.  But there was still some confusion.  I was very good at drawing for my age, and I’d been asked to draw a turkey for Thanksgiving, but there were still some words that confused me: chicken and kitchen for example, and, … turkey and turtle.  So we wound up with my famous drawing of the first ever Thanksgiving turtle.  Turkeys may well have found the concept an improvement.

Marianne Bass in Mrs. Mary Dunn’s class.  I recall her new front teeth had already fully come in, mine probably had not.

It must have been, in Miami Beach, or Maybe Miami, probably in 1953-54.  My first serious crush.  I was seven and she might have been eight.  She never knew how I felt but I wonder whether she suspected.  We were not close, I was pretty timid (in the midst of confused childish immigrant syndrome) but after seven decades I still recall her from time to time.  Especially when I’m in the midst of melancholic nostalgia, in the midst of misty reflections and introspection.  Times sort of like today.  I do recall one special lunch we shared, albeit in the school cafeteria, where she told me quite a bit about herself, she’d been left back so was older than I was, and as young as we were, I grasped that she was more than just beautiful, that there was a depth to her, and intelligence as well, and that fascinated me.  Perhaps that’s why after so, so long, I still recall her so clearly.

I wonder what her life has been like.  Hopefully full and meaningful.  Hopefully she married someone who appreciated her and had great kids and delightful grandkids.  Hopefully her life was secure and free of violence, physical and emotional and that the sorrow she inevitably suffered was shallow and superficial. 

I wonder if she remembered me at all, … ever. 

I of course moved on.  Moved on way too often but I recall her very fondly.  I wish she knew although I’m not sure why.  I wish she knew what I’d made of my life, at least with respect to its positive aspects. 

Marianne Bass in Mrs. Mary Dunn’s class, a pretty time, a very different time, one now, of course, in every sense, long, long gone.

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© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2023; all rights reserved.  Please feel free to share with appropriate attribution.

Guillermo (“Bill”) Calvo Mahé (a sometime poet) is a writer, political commentator and academic currently residing in the Republic of Colombia (although he has primarily lived in the United States of America of which he is also a citizen).  Until 2017 he chaired the political science, government and international relations programs at the Universidad Autónoma de Manizales.  He is currently the publisher of the Inannite Review, available at Substack.com, a commentator on Radio Guasca FM, and an occasional contributor to the regional magazine, el Observador.  He has academic degrees in political science (the Citadel), law (St. John’s University), international legal studies (New York University) and translation and linguistic studies (the University of Florida’s Center for Latin American Studies).  However, he is also fascinated by mythology, religion, physics, astronomy and mathematics, especially with matters related to quanta and cosmogony.  He can be contacted at guillermo.calvo.mahe@gmail.com and much of his writing is available through his blog at https://guillermocalvo.com/.