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"THE SAVING GRACE OF STORY"
by Sandra Benítez
There is a minor character in my novel Night of the
Radishes who makes a major pronouncement toward the
end of the book. Doña Clarita is a Mexican healer
and she tells Annie Rush, my main character: "A
true story is a story, no matter what language is used
to convey it. And it's not so much the story's content
that's important. What's important is that it be told.
That it be brought up from the heart, pushed out by
the breath, released into the air. Freed. Freed to mingle
and collide with all the other freed stories permeating
the air around us. It's where stories belong, outside
us. Not trapped and calcified within, weighing us down
like sea anchors."
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Even before I wrote these
words, when I first began to dream about Annie Rush,
I knew that if I were to move her out of my dreams and
onto the written page, she would, as I, be living the
life of a twinless-twin. For like Annie, I, too, lost
an identical twin. My sister Susana died 37 days after
we were born in l941, in Washington, D.C. Susana was
buried in Maryland. Growing up in Mexico and El Salvador,
I was naturally always aware of the fact I'd had a twin.
It was especially evident in the way Susana's death
affected my mother who died in Florida, in 1999. But
as I grew into adulthood in Missouri and then Minnesota,
I believed, because I'd never shared a life with her,
that my sister's death had not impacted me as it had
our mother. Now that I'm much older, I know otherwise.
Over time, I've come to understand that Susana's shadow
has been my constant companion, for I've always striven
to make up for her loss, both for my mother's benefit,
as well as for my own. In so doing, I've lived my own
life while attempting to live the life my sister never
had. Twice good, twice nice, twice perfect. An exhausting
endeavor in a world where perfection should only be
left to God.
Writing Night of the Radishes has been a healing journey.
In inventing Annie Rush, and giving her the deep feelings
that have long laid buried in my heart, I've brought
to light my own unexpressed grief and come to understand
how very hard I've been on myself. I'm learning to forgive
myself for living, learning to allow Susana to be at
peace, for she must have been as exhausted as I, who
for sixty plus years has insisted on keeping her alive.
To accomplish this final resting, I traveled to Maryland
in May, 2000, and together with my husband and father,
attended my sister's disinterment. I brought Susana
home to Minnesota, placing her urn on a little altar
I've set up in my studio. For the time I had her with
me, I was able to say hello and then to say goodbye.
In 2001, when my father died, I flew with Susana to
Miami, where we laid Daddy down beside my mother, his
one-true love. Inside his casket was Susana's urn.
And so, after 60 plus years, my mother was finally reunited
with her baby. A baby who, because of medical reasons,
she'd never been allowed to see or to hold.
Telling Annie Rush's story was like telling mine. In
the telling, we have both been freed.
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Background Information
"THE SAVING GRACE OF
STORY"
by Sandra Benítez
Significance of the Title
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