THE MAKING OF BEFORE WE ARRIVED 

a novel about grief and resilience, family and friendship, 

sacred connections, and tree-climbing goats.

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In the Beginning …

Who’s to say what the beginning of anything is? We’d have to go back to the dawn of time, conceivably when we first began emerging as humans from the stardust; I’m not sure. But I do know that each of us carries the lifeblood of our ancestors, the rumbling of the earth under their feet, the fruit they plucked from a tree, their dreams and their sorrows. Our families and friends teach us some things about living, and perhaps something about dying. And, if we’re lucky, a notion of how to care for each other. Many of the decisions we make throughout our lives are inconsequential, while some have a profound impact; we often don’t know which will be which. And then the never-ending chain of circumstances and incidents that are beyond the range of our control …

 

Foundations 

My first awareness of ‘otherness’ arrived at the age of three. I was a relatively quiet, timid child and innately curious about people I’d see, known or not. Walking on the city streets of New York with one or both of my parents, we’d often have to step over or around a person sleeping or lounging on the sidewalk or stoop, sometimes blocking the entrance to a building we were aiming to get into. This was the 1950s and ‘the homeless’, as they were referred to until fairly recently (also called ‘beggars’ and ‘bums’), seemed to be everywhere, more in some neighborhoods than others. Morning, afternoon, evening, scorching hot or frigid cold, the air filled with rain, wind, sleet and snow. Some clutched sides of a cardboard box in an attempt to protect themselves from the elements, and in the winter most had old, dark wool coats that may have come from passers-by. Ratty shoes and no socks. A few held an empty, rusted tin soup can or squat blue Maxwell House container where you could drop in a nickel or dime if you were so inclined.

 

The realization that some people did not have a bed to sleep in or proper clothing, let alone food to eat, was shocking and stupefying to my tiny tot-brain growing up in a regular lower-middle class family (‘regular’ meaning we had furniture and a kitchen and bathtub, planted in a house mortgaged with the help of the GI Bill of 1944). When I started asking about the situation, my mother would inevitably yell out ‘Don’t touch them! They’re dirty!’ I think she referred to them as ‘they’ because you couldn’t always discern the gender of the big lump on the hard, unforgiving cement, and some covered their face with a grungy piece of clothing. My father, on the other hand, was a compassionate man, and we’d have lengthy, ongoing discussions about the realities of the world. At some point I wanted to ask if we could take one of these people home with us, but I didn’t, probably because of the stench. Or perhaps I didn’t possess the vocabulary at the time to articulate such a request. In any case, if I had, my mother undoubtedly would have laughed and called me stupid, while my father would have gently voiced something along the lines of us not being able to solve this problem today, or on our own. 

 

Those vivid memories stayed with me. Even decades later, with my adult knowledge of socio-economics and alcoholism and drug addiction, domestic violence and poverty and mental health issues, systemic racism and xenophobia and homophobia, illiteracy and family troubles and inequity and iniquity and nonsensical rules and contradictory laws and inconsistent policies, I still don’t get why the issue of unhoused people has not been resolved. A handful of organizations and local governments scattered across America have been working on it, but not much progress has been made. Yes, it’s complex, but we should have been able to sort it out by now, like they have in Finland, Norway, Israel, Grenada, and Bhutan. Maslow was right when he posited that you really can’t do much of anything, let alone attain ‘enlightenment’, if you don’t have the basics, like water and shelter.

 

Of course there are myriad forms of ‘otherness’, people who through no fault of their own have become disenfranchised, targets of discrimination and violence, and not afforded the opportunities or resources to form a stable life. The way we treat our most vulnerable speaks to our values. No one should have to justify their existence.

 

Most established religious groups encourage the practice of helping others in some way or another. In Judaism we have tikkun olam, meaning ‘repairing the world’, and tzedakah, the concept of making things more just. These tenets are tied to spiritual tradition and are meant to invoke action, an honor and a responsibility, sort of like voting but requiring more time and effort. We each need to do what we can. So I’ve spent most of my life in paid and unpaid jobs where I worked with and advocated for individuals and groups of people who otherwise may have been ‘lost in the system’. I can’t claim these were all well-considered decisions, but I was drawn to that type of work.

 

Fast forward through decades of overextending myself, culminating in physical and mental exhaustion, to retirement, when I was able to rest and declutter my brain, allowing breathing space for a creative adventure. 

 

Inspiration

I’ve had the good fortune to have travelled considerably, by backpack in my younger years, with a rolling suitcase in recent years (wheeled luggage, arguably the coolest invention since Post-its). In addition to ‘normal’ modes of transportation, I’ve journeyed on freighters, motorcycles, river barges, buses with clucking chickens on board, steamships, vans driven by prepubescent boys (many of whom were better skilled at operating vehicles than some adults), puddle jumpers, dinghies, all sorts of trains, pencil boats speeding through the dark of night, donkeys (the only transport available in some remote regions of the world), the front and back of ambulances, and ‘taxis’ driven by very old men whose sanity was questionable. 

 

I’ve been to places where fields of unexploded landmines are cordoned off, surrounded by playgrounds and quaint village homes. Places where cement water towers are riddled with gaping holes from weapons of war. Places where bomb shelters and the wailing of warning sirens are a part of everyday life. Places where one can feel centuries-old energy. Places so exquisite and spiritually transcendent it hurt my heart to leave. I’ve met people, abroad and in America, from all walks of life, with backgrounds vastly different from my own. I love hearing their stories, the particulars of their life, how their grandparents lived. Witnessing interactions with their family members and relationships with their community. Sharing music, culinary pleasures, customs. Each experience reminding me that my life is but a tiny dot in the universe, yet I have expanded and become richer because of it.

 

The Narrators:

HENRY: Bits of Henry’s character, such as his ‘lordy’ utterances, are loosely based on people I’ve known, but he’s primarily invented. He’s from Louisiana and adapts to life in the northeast. Henry is forthright, smart, considerate, a little naive, and inquisitive. In the years since his family’s tragedy, for which his mangled hand is a constant tangible reminder, he gets anxious in new situations and feels like a fish out of water.

 

RIVKA: Rivka and some of the events in her life are semi-autobiographical, an amalgamation of experiences. Her stories were the easiest and most difficult to write. Easy because I didn’t have to create much from scratch, difficult because I had to push myself to recall details encased in painful memories. Blessedly there have been plenty of delightful memories as well. Rivka is an expert multitasker, an overfunctioner, and a tad neurotic. She’s dynamic, soft and strong.

 

JAYCE: I’ve been stirred by the many books I’d read over the years by Native American and First Nations authors, mostly memoirs and novels. I’ve also tried to better educate myself about Indigenous history, and have become acquainted  with some of the pervasive issues in the Americas and elsewhere, the many injustices that continue to affect many communities, and their evolving fight for their rights, as a people and as the earliest, and in some locales, current stewards of the land. I was also inspired by Inuvialuk actor Eric Schweig in virtually every role he’s played; Mr. Schweig has his own interesting backstory as well. However Jayce is a fully invented person. He’s been through hell and back several times and fears harm will come to the people around him if he gets too close.  

 

Like Rivka, I have a major crush on Jayce. My lovely daughter-in-law Eve advised that I make it be known that if anyone in your social or professional circles is unattached and bears a likeness to Jayce in terms of temperament, age, looks, and integrity to please have him contact me immediately; we’re not getting any younger.

 

Construction

In early 2020 the notion of crafting a novel took hold. I’d had no training or experience writing fiction, but have been a voracious reader since childhood and thought I might give it a go. Lots of character and story ideas swam in my head and I wondered if I could pull some of them together in an interesting way. 

 

I had an inkling of the three families I could portray, and knew I’d want to have interwoven narratives, using only dialogue and internal monologue to keep things close and straightforward while retaining playspace for layering. I also fancied a sanctuary for rescued farm animals that chunks of the story arcs could pivot around. An overwhelming number of ideas kept leaping into my head and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make sense of any of it.

 

One day in mid-March, literally days before COVID hit us full-force, the entire story revealed itself to me fully formed. This clear vision included the narrator from each family, their backstories, their precise physical appearance, and how their lives would intersect. I was now fueled with freedom and excitement and knew for certain I’d move forward. It would be a massive project and I’d work on it at my leisure, the first time in ages I’d be doing something meaningful just for myself (the possibility of publishing wasn’t on my radar until half the book was finished), without any schedule or deadlines. 

 

As I began drafting a rough outline by hand using color-coded index cards (poke fun all you like), my enthusiasm was suddenly interrupted by a family emergency that I needed to quickly manage amidst the chaos of the early days of the pandemic. A couple of weeks later, while feeling sad, tired, and relieved that immediate matters were getting settled, I caught myself wondering how the funeral home staff were able to obtain disposable face masks as I met with them in their parking lot on a cold, gloomy day to exchange the last of the paperwork. Those were strange times. I was eventually able to return to scribbling on the handy cards and finished the outline in mid-summer, along with a cheat-sheet for each family consisting of milestone dates and locations. 

 

Having established a solid structure, I dove in and began the actual writing. I knew the gist of what needed to happen in each of the thirty-six chapters, but didn’t know how I’d say it until I sat in front of the laptop. I began with the Rivka chapters, starting with her last, then her first, then jumped around. I also wrote a couple of the early Jayce and Henry chapters. In the course of exactly one year, August 2020 through July 2021, half of the chapters were done, about 50,000 words. I was pleased as punch but didn’t want to get ahead of myself.

 

I spent the following eighteen months conducting intensive research for the backdrop of the Vietnam segment. Having lived through that era I was somewhat familiar with the draft (and remember the daily dread we felt when our male classmates began receiving notices), but knew virtually nothing of military terms, weaponry, locations of warring groups, dates of specific events, etc. I’m a proponent of due diligence and thought I needed all of this information and, naturally, fell into numerous rabbit holes. There were no worries about the story itself; I knew my imaginings would pour swiftly out of me once I gained confidence in the backdrop, and indeed they did. But for that year and a half, from August 2021 through January 2023, it was all background investigation, and some light editing of previously-written chapters. I wrote nothing new during that period (with the exception of the playlist and discussion guide) but did come away with immense appreciation for those who have served.

 

The remaining eleven months of 2023 were devoted to writing the other chapters, including the Vietnam segment, for which I had accumulated a boatload of hand-written notes, printouts, articles from old magazines and current publications, photos, books, and archival military maps. The excitement and pleasure of writing had returned, and in December the novel was completed. Sure enough, another 50,000 words. Then a final edit and proofread of the entire manuscript, accompanied by a marvelous sense of accomplishment. 

 

The entirety of 2024 has been focused on learning the business of casting my creation out into the world. It’s a complicated process for indie authors and I much prefer the writing. I’m still in the midst of the confusing sequence of  bewildering tasks with lots of moving parts. I’ll figure it out.

 

A Final Note

As for the tree-climbing goats, they are real. My intention behind their brief mention in the novel, aside from being a ‘fun fact’, is that for good and ill and every shade between, what may seem improbable or even absurd may in fact be wholly possible. In an unstable climate it could be a sober warning. In favorable times, a reason to hope. Against all sense of logic … against all odds.

 

I hope you enjoy reading Before We Arrived as much as I enjoyed writing it. Comments and questions are always welcome.

 

Jodie Pine

(she/her)

2024