Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Nishta J. Mehra
watching the beautiful seniors sit very still against the bright lights of
the shadowbox. Each year, the senior class and high school faculty elect
six girls to play the part of Mary. It is an honor which carries weight.
The girls playing Mary should be worthy of their role, should have
demonstrated love and compassion and sacrifice during their time at
St. Mary’s. The school motto, “light and life,” should be exemplified in
them. I feel lucky to be able to say my class took that vote very seriously,
beyond a popularity contest. Even though we were big girls, there was
still something about the idea of Mary, full of grace. She who gave birth
to the Savior of Men. She who raised the Son of God.
With this in mind, we voted, and I became the first non-Caucasian,
non Judeo-Christian Mary in school history. Brown Mary, my friends
and classmates called me, lovingly. It felt like a victory, one in which
we all shared, injecting new life into an old tradition, scandalizing the
church ladies a little bit. “Your skin color is probably more historically
accurate than anyone else’s,” my high school history teacher said, and we
arranged for my fellow Hindu, Amrita, to be my Joseph. Behold the holy
family, dark-skinned and authentic. Me, the mother, vehicle, and proud.
I got very sick the night before the pageant, amidst the swirl of
exams and college applications which came with Christmas that year.
It was bronchitis, and the doctor at the minor medical clinic warned
me that it could get worse. “You need to rest, young lady,” he told me. “I
know you won’t mind if I make you stay home from school tomorrow,”
winking, thinking he was doing me a favor. “You don’t understand,” I
protested. “I have to go.” We went back and forth like this for a while;
I think he thought I was crazy. It isn’t easy to explain in five minutes
what twelve years has built inside you. “Okay,” he relented. “I’ll give
you a strong antibiotic and a painkiller. You’re going to have to try to
break your fever—otherwise, you’re still contagious, so no go.”
I slept that night, exhausted and upset. The next morning, I hovered
around 100 degrees, but was adamant that the fever would break. I had
to be at school by noon—that much leeway my principal would give—
the pageant started at two-thirty. My mother wrapped me in blankets,
brought me warm liquids, lemon and honey for my aching throat. She
chanted for me in Sanskrit from the prayer room down the hall and
took my temperature every half-hour. “I know better than to argue,”
she sighed. But we were both surprised at how hard I was trying. This
ritual, this honor I had earned, this seeming contradiction, I wasn’t
about to let go. Goddess, mother, Mary, someone. Please. Make me the
vessel, give me your strength. I want to do this.
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 209