Crossing Continents
by George Hagen

New Jersey is the point of reckoning for the characters in my novel, The Laments, who cross continents in search of an elusively happy life. From Africa in the 50s to England in the 60s, and, finally to the suburbs of the Garden State in the 70s, the Lament family navigates its way through the complexities of American life while attempting to resolve demons that have pursued them through four countries.

Though my father never built an artificial heart like Howard Lament, and my mother never had her first baby stolen from the maternity ward like his wife, Julia, my family’s cultural experience was similar. We settled in Pennington after stops in Rhodesia and Britain. In a town of tree-lined streets, sleepy cul-de-sacs and clapboard houses, our adaptation to America had just as many fits and starts.

My mother, for example, did hang a British Flag from the front door on our first July 4th, much to the amusement of our neighbors, one of whom offered to dump tea on our lawn in retaliation.

As British citizens, we became painfully aware of the historical significance of the region. The redcoats suffered a massive defeat in the Battle of Trenton. My mother ran a picture frame shop on the first floor of our Main Street house, and the shingle hanging from the porch displayed three colonial soldiers on the march. The graveyard nearby featured the brass markers of the Daughters of the American Revolution.

Like my character, Will Lament, I was a shy kid at 13, unable to shake off my English accent, and frustrated by the amusement people got from hearing it. My father was determined to blend his sons into the culture: we were entered into basketball leagues, summer camps, and swimming programs, but I was always resistant, the silent child sitting at the end of the bench. The fact was, I still yearned for England. And during a lesson on the American Revolution at school, I hotly defended the British, just as my novel’s hero did, with as little success.

There was no going back, however. Inevitably, I was seduced by American culture through my FM radio, horror films, and subscriptions to MAD and Rolling Stone. One day my father complained that my Allman Brothers and Velvet Underground records would damage his stereo system.

When his sons all became avid Star Trek addicts, my father muttered his skepticism from the doorway. “Surely you’re not watching that again!” But we were all hooked, and the assimilation became unstoppable when my mother embraced Zen Buddism, and then became a feminist. My father was the last one left with an accent.

I used this generational rift in The Laments. Each family member succumbs to the process—Will Lament seeks the honest truth about his life, his twin brothers find love, the parents find hope and a sense of place.

But while it took a cataclysmic event to bring the Lament family together in the end, my family found unity in one of New Jersey’s most well-known historic customs. Perhaps that’s why we never moved again.

On Christmas Day, a few miles West of our town, the residents conduct a re-enactment of George Washington’s crossing of the Delaware river—that pivotal maneuver that enabled the colonial forces to capture Trenton. General Washington, portrayed by some familiar community figure in a powdered wig, leads a band of authentically costumed soldiers to the Pennsylvania side of the river where he gives a rousing speech, boards a longboat, and assumes a dignified profile while his men row across the Delaware to New Jersey to commemorate the defeat of the British.

We never missed this event. Shortly after we’d all opened our presents my parents would bundle us into the car. My brothers and I would grumble all the way until the crowds and the pageantry became visible.

As Washington himself discovered, the Delaware was a notoriously unreliable river in the winter. One year it would be a miserable trickle; the next year the current might be too strong for the long boats to get across.

What drew us together on those frigid mornings was the chance, a slightly wicked chance, that this year Washington might not make it across the river. And, indeed, the poor General was occasionally obliged to desert his boats and lead his men across the bridge by foot, a scowl set on his face for all those eager snapshot photographers.

When this happened, we never hooted, or honked or unfurled our British flag. We just got back into the car with smiles on our faces and the sublime satisfaction of seeing history fail to repeat itself.

The Laments find that the present and the past can never be reconciled. This is what keeps them packing, crossing continents, never looking back, hoping that the future will bury their yesterdays, and perhaps deliver the happiness that has eluded them.

“Brooklyn?

They named

him Brooklyn?”

My father could

be heard stamping

away from the

telephone. It took

him weeks to

recover from

the shock.