Anna Dunwell | Writer Yogini

Book Excerpts

Paradise Lies: A Modern Slave Narrative of a Traveling and Dancing Yogini by Anna Dunwell
grey-bullet-002s-3-3-3-2Alert the Paparazzi
“When a crab tries to climb out
of a bucket filled with crabs, the other
crabs try to pull him back down.”
~ Old Truth
My grandmother's ears were buzzing. Maybe when my grandmother wasn't talking she was wondering whether people were talking about her being a bad person or not. After all she'd left her daughters in Barbados. Now one of them was dead. Truth is: People were talking about her then in the afternoons, it wasn't her mother in law talking, it was her mother in law's friend:
"I was sitting the room wid her and she was telling me, just like I'm talking to you, that little Ivy fell into the well and died. So you hear what I'm telling you girl? Yah, just as plain as the nose on your face. I'm processing it. Don't notice but the girl Minerva ones is crying like saying "Grandma I can't find the cat. Do you know where it is?
"No child. Me don't know where it is, you go wash up now. It'll turn up." She says.
And then there's a shrieking from the girl and she's pulling on the pillow under me. And you know I'm looking at the pillow. I'm a big woman. And Lord I'm sitting on the cat. I didn't even know it. Thought it was the pillow. And it was dead. Just like the girl's sister. She wasn't more than one year old. Yah, grandma was keeping them two. I can't image what she's thinking now. Brought up so many of her own and now this. Don't know how she'll live with it, grand child dying on her watch. Couldn't have happened to a nicer person. And the parents gone to the United States trying to make a way after the Panama Canal and all. Wonder if they'll send for her?" Hester's friend pulled up on her nose, resettled herself and drank from her tea cup, her lip quivering form the steam. What was going to happen was that Minerva wouldn't hear from her parents for eleven years.

grey-bullet-002s-3-3-3-2I Came for the Transcendentalists
grey-bullet-002s-3-3-3-2Running Towards Utopia
grey-bullet-002s-3-3-3-2Primitive Rites of Caucasian Cannibals
grey-bullet-002s-3-3-3-2Fleeing Utopia for Providence
grey-bullet-002s-3-3-3-2The Brass Ring & The Frying Pan
grey-bullet-002s-3-3-3-2Black Woman in a Basement
grey-bullet-002s-3-3-3-2Paradise Lies Beneath the Feet of the Mother
grey-bullet-002s-3-3-3-2Holy Subtext
“…A pilgrim on the path of love…” ~ Swami Kripalu”
I’d just spent six months planning my mother’s 90th Birthday. I was in Staples having something copied and wishing her Happy Birthday on the phone. A huge celebration was going to held on Saturday at Trinity Church seven blocks from her condo. But her birthday was Tuesday September 11th. She was looking out her window at the twin towers, wondering about a plane she saw. "Don't worry." I said. "It's probably just some publicity campaign."
And then she shouted.

grey-bullet-002s-3-3-3-2Unravelling Memory and Forgetting