I would not have come across the grave of Marceline Baldwin Jones by chance…. I looked up Marceline’s grave on findagrave.com, and then located it on the cemetery map. I have visited deliberately, driven by twin habits of walking and curiosity. I do not know exactly what I am looking for.
It is a hot day in early spring, and I have sweated through my shirt. I have not brought water. I stand before the headstone. I see no evidence that anyone else has been here recently—no flowers or plants, no folded scraps of paper or envelopes. I hear the banging of a construction site somewhere far beyond the row of slender trees that marks the back edge of the cemetery. A few birds chirp.
The question that comes up in these opening paragraphs is, of course, who is this Marceline Baldwin Jones whose grave McAuliffe is visiting? A relative or friend – it can’t be someone very close, since she had to look up the grave – maybe a colleague, mentor, someone who was important to her at one point, who gave her good advice, who got her started on a good path? Or someone more distant, a friend-of-a-friend who just recently became known to the author recently (oooh, a juicy story, perhaps, a long-hidden love?), a local figure enjoying some resurgance of fame for some reason?
Why would you look up and go to the grave of a stranger? To pay respects, to report back to the living that you had gone, perhaps with a picture? To contemplate more deeply the effect she’d had on your life?
In the next paragraph, it clicks into place.
Marceline Mae Baldwin was born in Richmond, Indiana, in 1927. She was a Methodist, a daughter and sister. She was, by all accounts, a generous and mild woman all her life. According to her cousin Avelyn Chilcoate, Marceline longed for a life outside the small town; the two young women, both nurses, had plans to move elsewhere together, maybe to somewhere in Kentucky. But then, in 1948, Marceline met a strange young man named Jim Jones, an orderly at the hospital where she worked, and together they stepped into the stream of history.
I was in my mid-20s when the news of almost 1000 deaths, almost all by suicide, broke. I was busy with my own stuff, as most 24 year olds are, so it was a bit hazy, but the pictures of fields of bodies were clear enough. And then there was the Congressman and his staff, about to return from a fact-finding mission, who were shot to prevent their departure.
A few years later, a TV movie came along to explain the events to those of us who payed more attention to entertainment than news. Powers Booth was impressively creepy as the adult Jim Jones who went from an earnest preacher genuinely trying to help the poor and needy to a paranoid drug and power addict constantly fleeing perceived persecution, eventually all the way to South America. A lot of scenes stuck with me, though I was never sure how accurate they were. One such scene was of his wife, Marcy, passing out the poisoned Kool-Aid, then, with a sense of utter resignation, drinking a cup herself and laying down to die.
That was Marceline Baldwin Jones.
I suppose I am walking here to meditate on Marceline, though I do not valorize her. She is mostly a mystery to me. Thinking about her makes me wonder about loyalty and love and how they can blind us, about agency and belief, about devotion and delusion. Perhaps I am only a lookie-loo, seeking her grave to stand safely near tragedy without truly experiencing it, to feel the buzz of some electrical darkness. It has been forty years since the deaths at Jonestown. There is nothing here but names on stones, bodies deep in the earth, invisible, still, and decayed.
Although McAuliffe traces the path of Jim Jones in some detail – in fact, I would guess he gets the majority of the word count – she nevertheless keeps bringing the focus back to Marceline. One way she does that is by bringing in a couple of similar stories of hard-to-break-away-from groups: her husband grew up in a commune that underwent several fractious changes, and her parents got roped into Amway. We all know people who’ve stayed in destructive marriages too long. Loyalty, persistence, determination to succeed, these are positive traits, yet need to be tempered.
Be moderate; love reasonably, her story whispers, opposing every message of love and idealism and generosity I have ever heard. This whisper is part of what drew draws me to her story and to her grave, part of what puzzles me. Why did you do it, Marceline? What happened to you, Marceline? Why this blind spot? Why did you stay?
I don’t see that Marceline had any answers for McAuliffe, but I’m not sure she knew the answers herself.
I know from experience that sometimes chaos doesn’t look like chaos from the inside. Some of us have ways of seeing things as not too bad, as fixable, even as they get incrementally worse. The occasional indigestion that eventually has you taking pills and swallowing antacids seems manageable until you start vomiting blood. The husband who comes home drunk once in a while, then once a week, then always, can start to feel normal at each level. We can tell ourselves it’ll be ok right up until we pour ourselves a cup of Kool-Aid. And then we realize it’s too late, so we just drink it and lay down to die.