Call me fenix
A personal essay for a June editorial
When I was 16 years old, I set my parental home ablaze. I was in my Wicca phase and, next to my wardrobe, I had created a little altar with amulets and candles. The objects sat at waist level ~handy~ and below, on two shelves, I kept a stack of photography albums ~call me an early adopter~ as my obsession with documenting my own existence comes from the previous century.
It was around nine o’clock in the evening and I remember not wanting to go outside because of how immersed I was in the work of writing and collaging on my notebook at candlelight. But back then I had a dog who needed walking ~it’ll just be half an hour. Indeed, half an hour was all it took for me to hear the siren of the fire department, loud as hell because we lived right next to it.
As I returned home with a relieved dog on the leash, I grew increasingly annoyed by all the bruah around us. Tranquility was not a fixture of my early life and that evening had been one of those rare occasions when no tension could be felt in the air. My father was in an unusually neutral mood —not affable, not hostile— and my mother was visiting a friend who lived nearby. ~What now?!
Right at the turn of the corner of my street, I saw a humongous red and white bus parked on the cobblestones, with long, octopus arms sneaking into our building. The usually drowsy boulevard had the feel of a movie set — a gigantic spotlight illuminated an area encircled by an audience of passerbys, invested in whatever was going on inside. I computed none of what I saw until a neighbor passed me by, running towards the scene, throwing a “so-your-house-is-on-fire-hun?” my way. ~They’re not known for elegance where I grew up.
“Wait, my house is what?!”
“You didn’t know? Your father even came downstairs in his pajamas to ask for help!”
My father outside at night?! Except for work and a one-week holiday a year, my father never went anywhere. But coming outside AND approaching people in his sleeping attire? The man who wore nothing but fancy suits, including on days off? Pure science-fiction.
As I entered the home, my sneakers splashing on a body of water, I was greeted by walls covered in soot and a foul smell of charred everything. What didn’t greet me were the different men in astronaut-like gear going up and down the stairs from the second floor — where the sleeping rooms were — to the first — where the kitchen and living room were —, and outside, — were the onlookers were — and back in and up — where the fire originated. My father approached me, disheveled and still panicked, and proceeded to describe the high flames he saw coming out of my room and other bizarre detailings of the situation. It was only then that I thought of the candles flickering on the wicker cabinet in my dimly lit, witchy, teenage sleeping room.
*
“On that fateful early morning, while I dwelled on the upper floor of the home we inhabited, I saw the metaphorical scene of what my life had become: our family structure had crumbled; just like the house, it was in ruins” read one line of the book my mom wrote when she was rising from all manner of circumstantial ashes. One of the things she and I had in common was hyperbole; the house was not exactly “in ruins”, even if the upper floor had sustained considerable wreck, but a good ol’ fire is a guarantee of drama, metaphorical or otherwise. That book included a poem, too, that alluded to the fenix of it all, wings wide open to meet the sky. That was my introduction to the concept of the sacred bird who overcomes adversity by reemerging from soot, a foundational myth that makes the subjects to circumstances feel, at least, a bit more hopeful and edified.
My mother always told me that that fire had been godsent, even if she later discovered about the candles resting on the wicker cabinet. She didn’t care much about them hazardous objects. The flames were catalyst for everything that needed to happen next. My father’s home office had been heavily hit and he was forced to move his stuff out for renovations, an event that sped up the process of a total move, which had not at all been a part of his plans. Mom had filled up for divorce earlier that year, a process he was actively trying to resist.
Following that event, mom a) finally got divorced, b) fully recovered from cancer, c) wrote and published her first poetry book (two more would soon follow).
Little did I know that, some twenty years later, I would go through that same process twice in the span of five years, minus the divorce (at least, that). That’s a lot of rising from the ashes, I can tell you. Like mom, I embraced poetry. I did not publish a book, but I started attending open mics and poetry slams and then organizing my own events together with a team of local writers and wordsmiths, a collective we called Amsterdive 2.0 ~oh hey. Now we publish your writing too (you can submit original pieces on the theme of renaissance here).
*
Not all rebirths have to be triggered by tragic circumstances, praise the Goddess. The most impactful turn of events in my life was perhaps moving from Lisbon to Amsterdam almost 15 years ago.
That one got triggered by a quiet realization that life in Portugal didn’t have much more to offer my 26 year-old daring, artsy self. What am I doing here, actually?! Suffice to say that Lisbon was a very different place than it is today: this was right before the world discovered us. The decision that followed — to move to a more financially and culturally booming European city where I knew at least one person (these were the exact criteria) — was completely unresearched and off the cuff. And it changed everything for me.
Had I stayed in Portugal, I would’ve possibly never become fully financially independent from my parents, let’s start there. Faced with the fork on the road of staying and keep working in the arts for miserable wages (or start working a job I hated for a slightly less miserable wage) or leaving, the choice was easy. Beyond financials, the perks were undeniable: getting acquainted with a new language, a new culture; accessing a more developed arts scene, becoming part of a melting pot; being able to travel more frequently. And the holy grail: overall personal RENAISSANCE.
*
I’ve been fenixing my way into this world since 1984. I’m a fan of most types of reinventions, at least those that don’t involve emotionally manipulating people into using a new technology lest they be “left behind” or the destruction of living things in favor of maximizing profit and power for the few.
More than twenty years after the prodigal fire, I hope I’m less prone to dramatic rebirths now. I yearn for the cyclical renewal that feels less like spontaneous combustion and more like the arrival of Spring. As for my mom, after her three acts of poetic catharsis, she never wrote again. She took up drawing instead and organizes weekly drawing sessions with friends. She also teaches Portuguese to foreigners. My father, on his turn, had an episode with a frying pan that set his place on fire last year ~don’t ask.
And if you were still wondering, no. I didn’t do it on purpose all those years ago.
Ana V. Martins founded Amsterdive out of a love of personal tales and Amsterdam culture. 14+ years an Amsterdammer, she’s a writer, performer and weaver of creative communities. Her most personal avenue of writing is Ana Creates Meaning. In her free time, she makes songs with the only two chords she knows how to play.
Come celebrate our 1 year anniversary with us in-person! Get your tickets here.
This is an evening of poetry and stories told by a selection of tellers, spoken word artists and other wordsmiths who have graced our stage during the past year. A true living anthology gathered under the theme of **rebirth, renewal, revival**.
Whether you’ve attended previous Amsterdives or you’re new to the scene, you’re so welcome to come partake in this collective renaissance, a night of artistic reinvention and joy.
📍Thursday, June 4, Bar Blij, Amsterdam, doors open 7 pm, performances start 7:45 pm
Solidarity tickets are available for those whose money is tight. Be sure to DM us amsterdivemail@gmail.com if that’s you.
In case you want to celebrate with us via written word, know that you can submit original work on this month’s theme via this link.
Come one, come all!