"Look at that sky,” Mom says in a murmuring nod towards the window. It’s a large pane of thick glass, snug in the bottleneck of the far wall. Through it, we can see the sun has begun to pull the bright gold of the day down below the horizon of Brooklyn rooftops, leaving stretching brushstrokes of periwinkles and pinks in its wake. It’s Yontiv. And soon enough, we can hear it. The first melodies of Simchat Torah crescendoing from inside warm homes and stuffy temples and pouring out into the chilly autumn streets, empty of vehicles and exhaust, engines and car horns replaced by dancing feet and throats swelled with song.
In this hospice room there is no sound, save the ticking of the small oblong clock opposite the single bed. It’s jarringly loud, even more so in an air tense with waiting for the funeral home staff to arrive. “You know, I never heard that second hand, until now,” my sister mentions, to no one in particular. A brief discussion of removing the batteries, or perhaps smashing it entirely, ensues, then fades back into silence.
Seeds of other conversations take root in this way, none of them ever growing to a full bloom. For even the talk of arrangements and plans…it’s all just too much, and yet, not enough at all.
In between those sparse clusters of chatter, each of our eyes take silent turns to gaze at him, then at each other, and finally, at ourselves. I don’t know how the others feel, what they are thinking. I hardly know my own self, everything inside of me is a jumble of emotions. For some wild seconds, I almost forget he’s there. And then for other long and visceral moments, he’s all I can see, even when I’m not looking directly at him. Grandpa. His face is already so tight across his bones and the color of his skin is all but gone, yet all I can see is his unforgettable smile as he laughs, that light that was always behind his eyes. Laughter seemed to be woven into his DNA; always quick with a quip, always with some sort of play on words, always with a good joke at the ready, even when it grew hard for him to get it out. To give joy to others through humor is a gift in and of itself, but he was generous far beyond that. Whether it was lessons to us, fighting for his country, helping men dress their best, or aiding seniors in getting work, he was a man who gave without question. And he was loved, by all who knew him, even if you didn’t know him well. He had an ability to touch your life, even if it was only fleeting as a wave and a smile.
And the thing about that, in a species where immortality is so highly sought after, so many will chase things like dynasty and power, in hopes that they will live on long after they’re gone from this earth. But really, what makes someone’s memory cherished, lasting, and nestled in the heart like nothing else, is a spirit who is loving, giving, and full of sharing their light solely to make others feel better. That was Grandpa.
That will always be, Grandpa.
The clock is still ticking, but I don’t hear it anymore. Outside that same window, the sun is gone. Pinks and periwinkles have deepened into blues and indigoes. And there, high above it all, I see a single balloon. It winks down at us from high in the sky, its long string dancing in the wind, floating ever-upwards. And as hard as it is to watch it disappear past the frame of the window, impossibly out of reach, there's a sweetness to this sorrow, as if he's soaring playfully away, buoyed by a sea of joyfully singing voices rising up from the streets below in celebration of life and of faith. And for a man who filled people with joy in the way my Grandpa always did, I can't think of a more fitting way to say good-bye.
Saturday, October 26, 2019
Saturday, September 7, 2019
Peak Petty
I think, by and large, we can all agree: holy tits, red-eyes suck. Honestly, after the one I flew last night, the only conclusion I could make is that there needs to be some sort of Agreement of Basic Consideration of Others we all sign before being allowed to purchase our tickets, right before clicking the “I’m not a robot” box. Because goddamn people, some of y’all are awful. Loud, rude, unshowered, coughing disgusting coughs without covering your mouth. Leaving the blindingly bright light above your seat ON. This flight is ungodly enough, why are some of you seemingly intentionally making it worse for the rest of us?
But maybe it’s just me. Maybe. To be fair, more and more lately, I find myself annoyed by everything. Hating people who make phone calls or play music *on speakerphone* on mass transit or other enclosed spaces. Yelling at drivers who nearly run me over when I have the right of way. Cursing anyone who doesn’t use blinkers or appropriate signals. Sighing at customers who seriously, seriously, stare impatiently at me while I’m serving others, then when I go over to them, they have no idea what they even want yet. Wanting to pull my hair out at pedestrians who can’t grasp that in NYC we walk to the right on the sidewalk, and if you’re in a group, *you* move over for people walking in the other direction.
And so on.
Because I could go on, but I’m really not prepared to see the full scope of my pet peeves listed out in black and white.
You may have noticed the majority of my list of grievances revolves around the road, drivers, walkers. Because, oddly enough, it was me making the switch from lifelong NY pedestrian into daily commuting biker to really start noticing shit. Namely, the shitty things, the worst being how little consideration and awareness people have for anyone else but themselves.
It didn’t used to be so bad, I’ll say that. In my teens and very early 20’s, when I was still pedestrianing and subwaying, the MTA was still functioning and dependable, people seemed happy, and walking around the streets was enjoyable. Even *I* was relaxed then. But then, when I switched to biking at 24, my whole perspective shifted. I remember distinctly, after 2 full years of this new means of transport, I made a wish for 2012, instead of a new year’s resolution (because that’s how it works, right): for people to get their awareness back. I crossed my fingers and held my breath, hoping 2013 would bring sanity back, bring people paying attention back, bring people being considerate and looking before they did things back.
Based on how this piece opened, I think you can guess how that panned out.
And I would think, in 2013, and even more so now, when boggled by the latest idiot not paying attention: has the city gotten this bad? Are people just getting shittier? Or, recently, and perhaps worst of all: am I turning into a boomer?
Fuck me, I don’t know. Maybe it just happened to work out that as I aged, the world shifted, too. That during my 20’s the world really was better, happier: social media wasn’t really there yet - no one was instagramming, Twitter was barely a thing, the MTA worked, no one had lost everything or worse in the recession, and no one had to go into debt to go back to school to maybe, maybe, get a job after months of being laid off. And that now, half-way into my 30’s, it’s… now. So maybe this low-level hum of rage isn’t my age at all, it’s just society going to fucking shit and me being painfully aware of it. Or maybe, I’m just turning into a cantankerous old cunt, and like the planet melting, it’s happening faster than any of us are ready for.
So what inspired me to write this, now, today? From the sound of it, I have remained at this level of intensity since I was 26 years old, so, why the delay of this masterpiece?
Well, dear friends, because of the goddamn red-eye flight.
Like I said, they’re always hellish, but something happened on this particular flight that made me snap.
The usual stuff I was braced and ready for, and sure enough, it was there to meet us at the gate. The impatient crush to get on. The family with four kids, all under 5, all of whom were crying. The freeballing coughs through layers and stalagmites of phlegm from the old man a couple rows back. The Chinese tourists sitting behind us that didn’t shut up or stop kicking and digging around the backs of our chairs for a single minute.
But what did me in, and most infuriatingly, was: the empty seat.
Ah yes, the elusive empty seat in your row. That wonderful surprise neither I nor my boyfriend ever, ever would have expected on a flight in general, but certainly not on one back to NYC. But there it was. The aisle seat of our row. Gate closed, we were all seat-buckled in, and the plane was off to the runway, 20 minutes ahead of schedule. We were reveling in the joy of not having to squeeze past someone to pee, and how glad we were to have sacrificed the extra $150 for this row, the one with extra leg room, because now: boom, this seat.
Fast forward a sleepy-eyed 15 minutes, I look over to see the flight staff coming around with water and snacks. And then…a hand, in between the attendant and my boyfriend, shoots out and snatches a pack of pretzels from the held-out box, and I am confused. I jolt to fully-awake, I lean forward, and I see a hooded figure seating in the aisle seat. The EMPTY aisle seat is no longer empty. I frown. Did a little kid move up here or something? But when I look over, no. It wasn’t a kid. Not an old person, not a handicapped person, not a person with a leg cast or ankle brace that needed leg room. Not even a sick person who needed proximity to the restroom. No. ‘Twas one of the women from the row behind us who decided - not asked, and not paid extra for - to sit herself there. So she can be more comfortable. Her now-former row has an empty seat, and now her two friends get the exact luxury my boyfriend and I were looking forward to having.
I was LIVID.
Because first of all, what the fuck? We have to pay extra for these seats, but you just get to leave your less-expensive seat and take this one, without even asking? And now your friends get to spread out over their whole row? Because fuck whoever might have been looking forward to having extra space for themselves, right? Fuck them wanting to get up to use the bathroom without the obstacle of climbing over someone else. Because why would you ever waste a second even maybe considering that? Because nah boo, it’s your world, your comfort, and everyone else is just background, right?
Now, I understand my anger is probably totally unwarranted and even, say, ridiculous. “What if she has a bad knee, Elena?” you might suggest. “What if she was sitting next to her mother-in-law and she hates her?” “What if she struggled to immigrate from China after a hard life of oppression?” “What if-“ See, now that’s the thing, right, empathy? Trying to understand why someone might do something, something that’s annoying or a hindrance or inconveniences you? But after living in NYC, man, I’m tired of trying to explain away people being selfish. I’m tired of always being the one to hold doors, move out of the way, notice you’re coming and give you space, make up a story in my head as to why you could possibly be moving furniture for an hour at 1 in the morning. I’m tired of seeing people do whatever the fuck they want because they want to, or because they’re too oblivious to care, and you’re the one who’s left being pissed while everyone else is sagely telling you with a shaking head, “gotta let that shit slide, Elena.”
No, I say, because you know why? I fucking can’t. I can’t let it slide. I try over and over and over, and I fucking can’t. Because there is no fucking excuse. Because if I can manage to be a decent person, or at least try to be a decent person on one of my shitty days, why can’t everyone else? And if I can at least make up a reason in my mind to justify the level of dickishness of someone I cross paths with, then why can’t they seem to do the same for me when I have to keep nudging their goddamn hands off the tiny piece of pole space I have on the subway when they have allllll the space in the world above theirs? WHY? GOD.
So, this lady on the plane. I’m still sitting, still seething. Her dumb friends are *still* managing to be loud and fidgety behind me. Everytime the goddamn attendant comes around, they’re in a tizzy all over again, pissing themselves with loud conversation over goddamn cups of water. I’m pissed for my boyfriend being so nice about it, even though I know he was reeeeeally looking forward to that empty seat - he must have checked the seat plan at least 8 times to see if it would stay empty for the flight. I’m pissed because she’s sleeping, and I’m here awake. I’m pissed because what the fuck is the point of paying extra when someone else can slide into the same seat without even asking?
It was at this point I really started to feel hopeless about myself. God, I think, I’m fucking awful. So angry, right, and over what, in the grand scheme? This, this is my big problem? This is the thing that mars a flight home? This is the thing that’s going to consume me with angry-stress? I can see myself, an 89 year old witch lady with deep eyebrow wrinkles and an unkempt yard who screams at kids. And it sucks, really. Yet I knew I wasn’t going to get past this just doing nothing. I also wasn’t going to talk to an attendant and start a thing on a red eye flight. I wasn’t going to be that Karen. So what did I do?
I decided to be petty. The pettiest of the petty moves, is what I chose. I scheduled a bathroom break, every 20 minutes. And further petty still, I convinced my boyfriend to do the same.
Because fuck you. You and your friends gonna take the lap of luxury for yourselves, without a blink of concern for anyone around you, or thinking that it might possibly be a bother to someone? Fine. Then Imma take that cushy sleep you thought you were gonna get, I’m gonna stroll back and forth in that extra legroom you thought you’d stretch in to for the whole flight, and I will keep waking you up to “go”. I won’t even have to pee. Oh, I won’t be in there long. I’ll let those who have to go, go first. Better for me, maybe I’ll catch you *just* as she starts to doze off--
Ugh. See, there I go again.
In truth, this lady was probably a fine person. Let’s see... She has a family, friends, and they all like her. She did okay in school, but has a job that pays pretty good, good enough to travel internationally and with her friends. She’s dating, and she really likes him. I dunno. She’s a person. She’s got thoughts and feelings, she’s had her heart broken. She’s succeeded, she’s failed. And as I write this, I could almost start to feel better, not care that she’s there, not even be mad at her for being there.
But as the back of my chair rattles for the 1,071st time and loud babble re-emerges, that calm feeling vanishes in the blink of an eye.
I gotta go - bathroom break.
But maybe it’s just me. Maybe. To be fair, more and more lately, I find myself annoyed by everything. Hating people who make phone calls or play music *on speakerphone* on mass transit or other enclosed spaces. Yelling at drivers who nearly run me over when I have the right of way. Cursing anyone who doesn’t use blinkers or appropriate signals. Sighing at customers who seriously, seriously, stare impatiently at me while I’m serving others, then when I go over to them, they have no idea what they even want yet. Wanting to pull my hair out at pedestrians who can’t grasp that in NYC we walk to the right on the sidewalk, and if you’re in a group, *you* move over for people walking in the other direction.
And so on.
Because I could go on, but I’m really not prepared to see the full scope of my pet peeves listed out in black and white.
You may have noticed the majority of my list of grievances revolves around the road, drivers, walkers. Because, oddly enough, it was me making the switch from lifelong NY pedestrian into daily commuting biker to really start noticing shit. Namely, the shitty things, the worst being how little consideration and awareness people have for anyone else but themselves.
It didn’t used to be so bad, I’ll say that. In my teens and very early 20’s, when I was still pedestrianing and subwaying, the MTA was still functioning and dependable, people seemed happy, and walking around the streets was enjoyable. Even *I* was relaxed then. But then, when I switched to biking at 24, my whole perspective shifted. I remember distinctly, after 2 full years of this new means of transport, I made a wish for 2012, instead of a new year’s resolution (because that’s how it works, right): for people to get their awareness back. I crossed my fingers and held my breath, hoping 2013 would bring sanity back, bring people paying attention back, bring people being considerate and looking before they did things back.
Based on how this piece opened, I think you can guess how that panned out.
And I would think, in 2013, and even more so now, when boggled by the latest idiot not paying attention: has the city gotten this bad? Are people just getting shittier? Or, recently, and perhaps worst of all: am I turning into a boomer?
Fuck me, I don’t know. Maybe it just happened to work out that as I aged, the world shifted, too. That during my 20’s the world really was better, happier: social media wasn’t really there yet - no one was instagramming, Twitter was barely a thing, the MTA worked, no one had lost everything or worse in the recession, and no one had to go into debt to go back to school to maybe, maybe, get a job after months of being laid off. And that now, half-way into my 30’s, it’s… now. So maybe this low-level hum of rage isn’t my age at all, it’s just society going to fucking shit and me being painfully aware of it. Or maybe, I’m just turning into a cantankerous old cunt, and like the planet melting, it’s happening faster than any of us are ready for.
So what inspired me to write this, now, today? From the sound of it, I have remained at this level of intensity since I was 26 years old, so, why the delay of this masterpiece?
Well, dear friends, because of the goddamn red-eye flight.
Like I said, they’re always hellish, but something happened on this particular flight that made me snap.
The usual stuff I was braced and ready for, and sure enough, it was there to meet us at the gate. The impatient crush to get on. The family with four kids, all under 5, all of whom were crying. The freeballing coughs through layers and stalagmites of phlegm from the old man a couple rows back. The Chinese tourists sitting behind us that didn’t shut up or stop kicking and digging around the backs of our chairs for a single minute.
But what did me in, and most infuriatingly, was: the empty seat.
Ah yes, the elusive empty seat in your row. That wonderful surprise neither I nor my boyfriend ever, ever would have expected on a flight in general, but certainly not on one back to NYC. But there it was. The aisle seat of our row. Gate closed, we were all seat-buckled in, and the plane was off to the runway, 20 minutes ahead of schedule. We were reveling in the joy of not having to squeeze past someone to pee, and how glad we were to have sacrificed the extra $150 for this row, the one with extra leg room, because now: boom, this seat.
Fast forward a sleepy-eyed 15 minutes, I look over to see the flight staff coming around with water and snacks. And then…a hand, in between the attendant and my boyfriend, shoots out and snatches a pack of pretzels from the held-out box, and I am confused. I jolt to fully-awake, I lean forward, and I see a hooded figure seating in the aisle seat. The EMPTY aisle seat is no longer empty. I frown. Did a little kid move up here or something? But when I look over, no. It wasn’t a kid. Not an old person, not a handicapped person, not a person with a leg cast or ankle brace that needed leg room. Not even a sick person who needed proximity to the restroom. No. ‘Twas one of the women from the row behind us who decided - not asked, and not paid extra for - to sit herself there. So she can be more comfortable. Her now-former row has an empty seat, and now her two friends get the exact luxury my boyfriend and I were looking forward to having.
I was LIVID.
Because first of all, what the fuck? We have to pay extra for these seats, but you just get to leave your less-expensive seat and take this one, without even asking? And now your friends get to spread out over their whole row? Because fuck whoever might have been looking forward to having extra space for themselves, right? Fuck them wanting to get up to use the bathroom without the obstacle of climbing over someone else. Because why would you ever waste a second even maybe considering that? Because nah boo, it’s your world, your comfort, and everyone else is just background, right?
Now, I understand my anger is probably totally unwarranted and even, say, ridiculous. “What if she has a bad knee, Elena?” you might suggest. “What if she was sitting next to her mother-in-law and she hates her?” “What if she struggled to immigrate from China after a hard life of oppression?” “What if-“ See, now that’s the thing, right, empathy? Trying to understand why someone might do something, something that’s annoying or a hindrance or inconveniences you? But after living in NYC, man, I’m tired of trying to explain away people being selfish. I’m tired of always being the one to hold doors, move out of the way, notice you’re coming and give you space, make up a story in my head as to why you could possibly be moving furniture for an hour at 1 in the morning. I’m tired of seeing people do whatever the fuck they want because they want to, or because they’re too oblivious to care, and you’re the one who’s left being pissed while everyone else is sagely telling you with a shaking head, “gotta let that shit slide, Elena.”
No, I say, because you know why? I fucking can’t. I can’t let it slide. I try over and over and over, and I fucking can’t. Because there is no fucking excuse. Because if I can manage to be a decent person, or at least try to be a decent person on one of my shitty days, why can’t everyone else? And if I can at least make up a reason in my mind to justify the level of dickishness of someone I cross paths with, then why can’t they seem to do the same for me when I have to keep nudging their goddamn hands off the tiny piece of pole space I have on the subway when they have allllll the space in the world above theirs? WHY? GOD.
So, this lady on the plane. I’m still sitting, still seething. Her dumb friends are *still* managing to be loud and fidgety behind me. Everytime the goddamn attendant comes around, they’re in a tizzy all over again, pissing themselves with loud conversation over goddamn cups of water. I’m pissed for my boyfriend being so nice about it, even though I know he was reeeeeally looking forward to that empty seat - he must have checked the seat plan at least 8 times to see if it would stay empty for the flight. I’m pissed because she’s sleeping, and I’m here awake. I’m pissed because what the fuck is the point of paying extra when someone else can slide into the same seat without even asking?
It was at this point I really started to feel hopeless about myself. God, I think, I’m fucking awful. So angry, right, and over what, in the grand scheme? This, this is my big problem? This is the thing that mars a flight home? This is the thing that’s going to consume me with angry-stress? I can see myself, an 89 year old witch lady with deep eyebrow wrinkles and an unkempt yard who screams at kids. And it sucks, really. Yet I knew I wasn’t going to get past this just doing nothing. I also wasn’t going to talk to an attendant and start a thing on a red eye flight. I wasn’t going to be that Karen. So what did I do?
I decided to be petty. The pettiest of the petty moves, is what I chose. I scheduled a bathroom break, every 20 minutes. And further petty still, I convinced my boyfriend to do the same.
Because fuck you. You and your friends gonna take the lap of luxury for yourselves, without a blink of concern for anyone around you, or thinking that it might possibly be a bother to someone? Fine. Then Imma take that cushy sleep you thought you were gonna get, I’m gonna stroll back and forth in that extra legroom you thought you’d stretch in to for the whole flight, and I will keep waking you up to “go”. I won’t even have to pee. Oh, I won’t be in there long. I’ll let those who have to go, go first. Better for me, maybe I’ll catch you *just* as she starts to doze off--
Ugh. See, there I go again.
In truth, this lady was probably a fine person. Let’s see... She has a family, friends, and they all like her. She did okay in school, but has a job that pays pretty good, good enough to travel internationally and with her friends. She’s dating, and she really likes him. I dunno. She’s a person. She’s got thoughts and feelings, she’s had her heart broken. She’s succeeded, she’s failed. And as I write this, I could almost start to feel better, not care that she’s there, not even be mad at her for being there.
But as the back of my chair rattles for the 1,071st time and loud babble re-emerges, that calm feeling vanishes in the blink of an eye.
I gotta go - bathroom break.
Saturday, August 24, 2019
A World Apart, Side by Side
I stare out at the long lines of the gray beach unraveled before me. The sky is tall and overcast above a brooding sea of waves, whose withdrawn tide is making the stretch of silvery sand seem endless. It’s chilly and confining in the way only mornings of the last days of summer can be, yet burns with pangs of nostalgia from every end-of-August trip we spent here since we were kids. I wrap my arms around me, but a cool finger finds its way down my back.
“Jane.”
I turn around. She’s walking towards me, her pale face a flag of truce. I watch as it flutters down the slope of sand until it reaches my side, but I say nothing, even when it hovers in surrender in the space between us.
“Jane, come on.” She’s not pleading; she’s making it seem as if the wall I’ve propped up to keep her out has been built on nothing. I could almost laugh. Everything is different now, because of what she did, all in the span of a single moment of a single night. As I continue to look at her, time seems to dance mockingly in the air, throwing us into the present and pulling all the warm memories out of the air as if they never existed at all. Her face has turned haggard, worn, and my hands have become etched with lines I’ve never noticed before. I let out a silent sigh.
She clicks her tongue, sighs, “Fine. Look, I’m leaving in a few minutes.” “Cool. Bye,” I say. I expect her to stiffen, stare at me in disgustedly impatient dismay. But, she doesn’t. She turns to look out at the sea, and I wonder if she sees the same one. It’s starting to roll back in now, in small waves that are whispering up the shore. In another world, that sound would be doing all the speaking for us, repairing our rift, but here, all we share is the reality of two women who don’t know how to talk to each other, who are caught in the cross-hairs of a betrayal for one, and a perceived gesture of help for the other.
She exhales, “I did what needed to be done.”
I shift, but say nothing.
“I gave you a chance, okay, to tell them. I told you I would, if you didn’t. You didn’t. So I did.”
Her words draw circles in the sand, empty and temporary as the castles we once built. I can almost see us working on one not far from where we stand, but from here, I don’t know those moments anymore. It’s as if they belong to someone else, now.
“You shouldn’t have said anything,” I finally say. Her voice is louder now, almost exasperated, “I was trying to help!” I turn to her and scoff, “Oh? And you help by…giving threats and ultimatums?” I could almost laugh when I look at her. Her eyes are wide and afraid, her hands are open and helpless at her sides. Like she’s the victim here, like she’s the one needs rescuing. I snort, shake my head at her, “You don’t fucking get it.” “Then help me to understand,” she said, “I want to understand why you do…it.” I shake my head, and the wall hardens around me, “Yeah? Where was this last night? Where was this when you found out last week?” I look at her almost with pity, “Don’t act like you’re coming from a good place. You fucked me over, and now you wanna be the sympathetic ear? Fuck you.”
She stares at me, waffling between that irritatingly naive ingenue waif, and wanting to grow ten feet and yell at me. But she does neither. She deflates. She pulls the flag from her face and throws it to the ground, in a startlingly intense moment of finality. I could almost feel guilty, sad, and a small part of me wants to reach out desperately and try to…fix this, communicate, not let this wall reach up to the cold, gray sky. “Fine,” she says, “Then I’m done. I tried to help you. But clearly, you don’t get that.” And clearly, you don’t get it either, I think to myself. Addiction isn’t something that can just be thrown onto the dinner table like a meal, sliced into, divvied up, and discussed to see which wines would pair with it best. It’s fiercely personal, it’s mine, it’s moments of dark and secret places that no one knows but me. And she put it on a pan, ran down to the kitchen, and plopped it onto the table like a Christmas ham. But here we are, stuffed from the pain of it, and hungover from the emotions. I realize, even with her being my sister, I don’t want this. Not for a long, long time.
“I hope you figure it out,” she says. I turn to her, almost chuckling, “Yeah. I hope you do, too.”
She walks back up the beach, her back to me and the sea and the sand. Her feet hit the wood of the boardwalk entrance, and then, the hard pavement beyond. Then, she’s gone. I stay where I am, the coolness of the sand having never felt more soothing than now. I start to walk towards the water. The sand becomes firmer. The wetness of it just barely curls around the bottoms of my feet, peeks in between my toes, and as I close my eyes, I can almost feel solace. I reach the water. It circles around my ankles and for a moment, I feel like I'm reclining into its briny bath. I open my eyes. All I can see now is the horizon, and here I stay, waiting for the sun.
“Jane.”
I turn around. She’s walking towards me, her pale face a flag of truce. I watch as it flutters down the slope of sand until it reaches my side, but I say nothing, even when it hovers in surrender in the space between us.
“Jane, come on.” She’s not pleading; she’s making it seem as if the wall I’ve propped up to keep her out has been built on nothing. I could almost laugh. Everything is different now, because of what she did, all in the span of a single moment of a single night. As I continue to look at her, time seems to dance mockingly in the air, throwing us into the present and pulling all the warm memories out of the air as if they never existed at all. Her face has turned haggard, worn, and my hands have become etched with lines I’ve never noticed before. I let out a silent sigh.
She clicks her tongue, sighs, “Fine. Look, I’m leaving in a few minutes.” “Cool. Bye,” I say. I expect her to stiffen, stare at me in disgustedly impatient dismay. But, she doesn’t. She turns to look out at the sea, and I wonder if she sees the same one. It’s starting to roll back in now, in small waves that are whispering up the shore. In another world, that sound would be doing all the speaking for us, repairing our rift, but here, all we share is the reality of two women who don’t know how to talk to each other, who are caught in the cross-hairs of a betrayal for one, and a perceived gesture of help for the other.
She exhales, “I did what needed to be done.”
I shift, but say nothing.
“I gave you a chance, okay, to tell them. I told you I would, if you didn’t. You didn’t. So I did.”
Her words draw circles in the sand, empty and temporary as the castles we once built. I can almost see us working on one not far from where we stand, but from here, I don’t know those moments anymore. It’s as if they belong to someone else, now.
“You shouldn’t have said anything,” I finally say. Her voice is louder now, almost exasperated, “I was trying to help!” I turn to her and scoff, “Oh? And you help by…giving threats and ultimatums?” I could almost laugh when I look at her. Her eyes are wide and afraid, her hands are open and helpless at her sides. Like she’s the victim here, like she’s the one needs rescuing. I snort, shake my head at her, “You don’t fucking get it.” “Then help me to understand,” she said, “I want to understand why you do…it.” I shake my head, and the wall hardens around me, “Yeah? Where was this last night? Where was this when you found out last week?” I look at her almost with pity, “Don’t act like you’re coming from a good place. You fucked me over, and now you wanna be the sympathetic ear? Fuck you.”
She stares at me, waffling between that irritatingly naive ingenue waif, and wanting to grow ten feet and yell at me. But she does neither. She deflates. She pulls the flag from her face and throws it to the ground, in a startlingly intense moment of finality. I could almost feel guilty, sad, and a small part of me wants to reach out desperately and try to…fix this, communicate, not let this wall reach up to the cold, gray sky. “Fine,” she says, “Then I’m done. I tried to help you. But clearly, you don’t get that.” And clearly, you don’t get it either, I think to myself. Addiction isn’t something that can just be thrown onto the dinner table like a meal, sliced into, divvied up, and discussed to see which wines would pair with it best. It’s fiercely personal, it’s mine, it’s moments of dark and secret places that no one knows but me. And she put it on a pan, ran down to the kitchen, and plopped it onto the table like a Christmas ham. But here we are, stuffed from the pain of it, and hungover from the emotions. I realize, even with her being my sister, I don’t want this. Not for a long, long time.
“I hope you figure it out,” she says. I turn to her, almost chuckling, “Yeah. I hope you do, too.”
She walks back up the beach, her back to me and the sea and the sand. Her feet hit the wood of the boardwalk entrance, and then, the hard pavement beyond. Then, she’s gone. I stay where I am, the coolness of the sand having never felt more soothing than now. I start to walk towards the water. The sand becomes firmer. The wetness of it just barely curls around the bottoms of my feet, peeks in between my toes, and as I close my eyes, I can almost feel solace. I reach the water. It circles around my ankles and for a moment, I feel like I'm reclining into its briny bath. I open my eyes. All I can see now is the horizon, and here I stay, waiting for the sun.
Friday, July 19, 2019
912.5
It’s 3:48 in the morning, and I’m at ShopRite. I'm weaving in and out of the aisles in desperate search of Wheat Thins, which for whatever ungodly reason, this store has decided to hide away in the deepest pockets of their innermost shelves like some secret family shame. But I am determined to find them, late hour be damned, because The Boo was craving them, and I told him I would pick them up tonight after my shift so he didn’t have to schlep out all this way tomorrow. That’s how, initially, I wound up here anyway, in these aisles, walking around in a still-fruitless search. But really, the force that pushed my bike pedals the extra 10 minutes out of the way, my feet to walk these tiled floors, my tired eyes to scan these shelves, had evolved into something more self-serving, after the night I had had at work.
I had left my shift in desperate need of time to think, or, in Elena terms, to over-analyze, throw the covers off all the boxes, open all the closets and portal of my mind, and proceed to get more tangled up in my thoughts than I do in pretty much anything else. And these days, this process can be enough to warrant popping a fucking Advil and collapsing into the nearest piece of furniture a fainting chair, complete with hand draped across my forehead and brain reeling. And not just me - whenever the tip of this mental iceberg gets seen by others, they (alarmingly often, as of late) will ask, “Okay... Are you seeing a therapist?” Not as casual convo, or to perhaps find out what psychoanalyst in the area might be good, but with a slight smidgen of concern in their eyes and that lilt in their voice that could, really, almost make me laugh, because good god, maybe I should be. But I’m not. Because, money, and because, I’m Jewish – no, not the money bit, I mean, being Jewish makes me like, half-doctor, right? Is that a Jewish stereotype? Oh wait, no, I’m female. Never mind. Moving on.
So, why am I here again? Right. Wheat Thins. But why am I in such dire need of the extra 10 minutes out of the way on my bike, of the 10 minutes in store, to think? Because… Cowboy. No, I’m not suddenly Brick (“Suddenly Brick” – there’s the coming-of-age Anchorman spinoff I’m glad but also slightly sad never happened. From boy to man – all the angst, none of the full sentences!) I’m referring to a man, who I will refer to as “Cowboy”. Or, if you want to get real specific, “Gentle Cowboy”. Which, he was, and which, he said is the kind of man I need. Actually, he had said a whole lot, it being the third time in 24 hours he had pulled up a stool at my bar.
But it wasn’t until tonight that I found myself here, in ShopRite, looking for something I couldn't find.
Cowboy was in town for a quick two-day turnover, having flown in from the west coast for work. I had struck up convo with him the night before, because I had basically finished cleaning up for closing up, he was the only one in the bar, he didn’t seem like a murderer or a creep or a cheap tipper, and well...it’s my job. Was glad I did - he turned out to be super fucking chill, incredibly smart, thoughtful, and a creative type like myself - but one who actually has been successful in doing so. I left that night feel like I had met a sensei, a Yoda, had been sent a guide from the universe. Indeed, while waiting for the train home, I filled pages of my notebook with his advice, questions he said I should be asking myself, and overall – I left work that night feeling inspired, somewhat grounded, assured even, cool in the dank heat of the subway platform.
Next day, I come in to relieve the daytime bartender and lo and behold, Cowboy was back. Honestly, it felt like seeing an old friend, already. I had about 15 minutes before I started, so I pulled up a chair and we chatted for a bit before he left for dinner with his brother, and I, to hop behind the bar. He says he might be back in later, but I don’t know – while regulars usually say that and do come back, this guy literally flies out tomorrow. I don’t hold out hope - as much as I would enjoy talking to him again.
Then, sure enough, midnight rolls around and blows him in. I’m busier tonight, but talk to him here and there. He orders food, he has a beer, he sits outside and talks to one of my other regulars (Russian blonde bartender who works across the street, who he says several times to me he is convinced she wants “the sex”.) Eventually though, as it always does, the bar winds down. And once again, it’s just me and him. Blonde Russian bartender from across the street, gone. Two loud but nice dudebros, gone. Super friendly couple, gone. The bar is quiet. And then, inevitably I guess, it got weird.
Our conversation takes a sharp turn to relationships, and he looks at me in surprise when I say something that leads him to conclude: “So there is a special guy for you, then.” I say, “Well, yeah.” He looks sheepish then, laughs a little. “What,” I say. And he looks back up at me, full in the face, and says, “The reason I came back tonight was because I was really hoping to have sex with you.”
Oy. Um. Okay. Well. His phrasing perhaps wasn’t the most clunky I had ever heard, but given his way with words in every other capacity we had explored, it sure left something to be desired – namely, me. I look back at him, and I mean, I guess I knew this was coming? We did have a connection, this is the third time he’s at my bar in 24 hours, I’m a chill bartender with fake tits, but…I don’t know. SENSEI, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY? Ugh.
But all I say is, “Were you hoping to have sex with me?” And he says, “Yeah, I mean, you just give off this powerfully sexual energy. Like it is out there, in the universe.” And what tumbles out of my mouth is, “Do I????” (while inside, my inner Blanche Devereux is going, “Well, yeah; and your point?”) But still, I simply laugh, shaking my head and saying, “Wow. I guess…I’m just surprised, that’s all. I mean, because this is me…tamed, tempered down…so I didn’t think-“ He gives me a look, “Come on.” And for the first time, I feel slightly awkward around him. Cowboy. Gentle Cowboy, sorry. Listen. I CAN’T HELP THAT I’M A SEXUAL FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH. It’s my natural state, punching holes through dimensions even, apparently (?!) But he doesn’t think that’s all it is. He thinks it’s because if I really was *fully* in the relationship I’m in, I wouldn’t be giving that vibe off.
At.
All.
The next 40 minutes is an ebb and flow between normal life conversation – existential purpose, what is happiness, what’s life really about, you know, the light, casual stuff – interspersed with him repeatedly telling me he wants to do *all* the things with me. This is his seduction mode, and it’s beyond not working on me. Seduction for me happens through the brain; the irony is, its all that other stuff, the artsy talk, the life talk, which would normally be a turn on. The straight sex talk? Nope. And what was really wild, you know, given his strapping good looks, his success, his awesome fucking personality and how much we vibed, was…I was still not remotely interested. Because you know what? I’ve done that journey. I’ve had that sex. I’ve explored, really, fully, every fucking facet (pun intended). But it’s an interesting thing, man, to be a reformed slut. Because when your journey, your stories, your growth, your understanding of yourself and what you want, all revolved around that, and for so long, when you do settle down, then…what? What’s the journey now? What’s my catalyst now?
My relationship has certainly been a series of lessons. Shitty lessons, mostly. Story-worthy experiences, certainly not. The grit has consisted of a lot of identity crises, a lot of work on his part to get my walls to come down, and eventually of me letting that happen. A lot of depressed periods of coming to terms with my shit. Health problems. Ruts. Fights. Breaking up. Questioning everything, and then questioning nothing. I never write about it, because it's not stories, and because a lot of it is still hard to admit sometimes, to myself, let alone to the world. But, it’s still a journey. Mostly, of me, of me in a committed relationship, and trying to come to grips with what that really means. What kind of life do I really want, and if I am in this relationship for good, then… there’s another plane to my existence here, beyond sex, beyond men, and it’s scary to come to terms with the fact that I have no idea what it looks like. And it makes moments like these, with men like this, wonder if this is all the universe is going to give me. For even when he tells me he read every single thing I wrote from the link I gave him the night before, that I’m a good writer, it goes back to how it made him want to have sex with me. He saw a kinship there, sex clearly being an integral part of his life journey as it used to be for me, but…the days of that being the thing to drive my experiences…it’s not enough anymore. Intellectual connections and exploring people, not people’s private parts, are what have grabbed my attention. But outside of being able to connect with people from behind the bar, how do I get there? In a life where it’s work, work, gym, work, gym, sleep, gym, cook, errands, Boo Time, Family…where are the experiences, what are the experiences (why are the experiences) - the real experiences, that stab your soul, that break your heart, that build you up? What do those experiences really look like, outside of a realm that had been my only one, and for so long?
To be honest, I have no fucking idea. But I’m going to keep looking for these goddamn Wheat Thins, and hopefully, eventually, find them.
I had left my shift in desperate need of time to think, or, in Elena terms, to over-analyze, throw the covers off all the boxes, open all the closets and portal of my mind, and proceed to get more tangled up in my thoughts than I do in pretty much anything else. And these days, this process can be enough to warrant popping a fucking Advil and collapsing into the nearest piece of furniture a fainting chair, complete with hand draped across my forehead and brain reeling. And not just me - whenever the tip of this mental iceberg gets seen by others, they (alarmingly often, as of late) will ask, “Okay... Are you seeing a therapist?” Not as casual convo, or to perhaps find out what psychoanalyst in the area might be good, but with a slight smidgen of concern in their eyes and that lilt in their voice that could, really, almost make me laugh, because good god, maybe I should be. But I’m not. Because, money, and because, I’m Jewish – no, not the money bit, I mean, being Jewish makes me like, half-doctor, right? Is that a Jewish stereotype? Oh wait, no, I’m female. Never mind. Moving on.
So, why am I here again? Right. Wheat Thins. But why am I in such dire need of the extra 10 minutes out of the way on my bike, of the 10 minutes in store, to think? Because… Cowboy. No, I’m not suddenly Brick (“Suddenly Brick” – there’s the coming-of-age Anchorman spinoff I’m glad but also slightly sad never happened. From boy to man – all the angst, none of the full sentences!) I’m referring to a man, who I will refer to as “Cowboy”. Or, if you want to get real specific, “Gentle Cowboy”. Which, he was, and which, he said is the kind of man I need. Actually, he had said a whole lot, it being the third time in 24 hours he had pulled up a stool at my bar.
But it wasn’t until tonight that I found myself here, in ShopRite, looking for something I couldn't find.
Cowboy was in town for a quick two-day turnover, having flown in from the west coast for work. I had struck up convo with him the night before, because I had basically finished cleaning up for closing up, he was the only one in the bar, he didn’t seem like a murderer or a creep or a cheap tipper, and well...it’s my job. Was glad I did - he turned out to be super fucking chill, incredibly smart, thoughtful, and a creative type like myself - but one who actually has been successful in doing so. I left that night feel like I had met a sensei, a Yoda, had been sent a guide from the universe. Indeed, while waiting for the train home, I filled pages of my notebook with his advice, questions he said I should be asking myself, and overall – I left work that night feeling inspired, somewhat grounded, assured even, cool in the dank heat of the subway platform.
Next day, I come in to relieve the daytime bartender and lo and behold, Cowboy was back. Honestly, it felt like seeing an old friend, already. I had about 15 minutes before I started, so I pulled up a chair and we chatted for a bit before he left for dinner with his brother, and I, to hop behind the bar. He says he might be back in later, but I don’t know – while regulars usually say that and do come back, this guy literally flies out tomorrow. I don’t hold out hope - as much as I would enjoy talking to him again.
Then, sure enough, midnight rolls around and blows him in. I’m busier tonight, but talk to him here and there. He orders food, he has a beer, he sits outside and talks to one of my other regulars (Russian blonde bartender who works across the street, who he says several times to me he is convinced she wants “the sex”.) Eventually though, as it always does, the bar winds down. And once again, it’s just me and him. Blonde Russian bartender from across the street, gone. Two loud but nice dudebros, gone. Super friendly couple, gone. The bar is quiet. And then, inevitably I guess, it got weird.
Our conversation takes a sharp turn to relationships, and he looks at me in surprise when I say something that leads him to conclude: “So there is a special guy for you, then.” I say, “Well, yeah.” He looks sheepish then, laughs a little. “What,” I say. And he looks back up at me, full in the face, and says, “The reason I came back tonight was because I was really hoping to have sex with you.”
Oy. Um. Okay. Well. His phrasing perhaps wasn’t the most clunky I had ever heard, but given his way with words in every other capacity we had explored, it sure left something to be desired – namely, me. I look back at him, and I mean, I guess I knew this was coming? We did have a connection, this is the third time he’s at my bar in 24 hours, I’m a chill bartender with fake tits, but…I don’t know. SENSEI, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY? Ugh.
But all I say is, “Were you hoping to have sex with me?” And he says, “Yeah, I mean, you just give off this powerfully sexual energy. Like it is out there, in the universe.” And what tumbles out of my mouth is, “Do I????” (while inside, my inner Blanche Devereux is going, “Well, yeah; and your point?”) But still, I simply laugh, shaking my head and saying, “Wow. I guess…I’m just surprised, that’s all. I mean, because this is me…tamed, tempered down…so I didn’t think-“ He gives me a look, “Come on.” And for the first time, I feel slightly awkward around him. Cowboy. Gentle Cowboy, sorry. Listen. I CAN’T HELP THAT I’M A SEXUAL FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH. It’s my natural state, punching holes through dimensions even, apparently (?!) But he doesn’t think that’s all it is. He thinks it’s because if I really was *fully* in the relationship I’m in, I wouldn’t be giving that vibe off.
At.
All.
The next 40 minutes is an ebb and flow between normal life conversation – existential purpose, what is happiness, what’s life really about, you know, the light, casual stuff – interspersed with him repeatedly telling me he wants to do *all* the things with me. This is his seduction mode, and it’s beyond not working on me. Seduction for me happens through the brain; the irony is, its all that other stuff, the artsy talk, the life talk, which would normally be a turn on. The straight sex talk? Nope. And what was really wild, you know, given his strapping good looks, his success, his awesome fucking personality and how much we vibed, was…I was still not remotely interested. Because you know what? I’ve done that journey. I’ve had that sex. I’ve explored, really, fully, every fucking facet (pun intended). But it’s an interesting thing, man, to be a reformed slut. Because when your journey, your stories, your growth, your understanding of yourself and what you want, all revolved around that, and for so long, when you do settle down, then…what? What’s the journey now? What’s my catalyst now?
My relationship has certainly been a series of lessons. Shitty lessons, mostly. Story-worthy experiences, certainly not. The grit has consisted of a lot of identity crises, a lot of work on his part to get my walls to come down, and eventually of me letting that happen. A lot of depressed periods of coming to terms with my shit. Health problems. Ruts. Fights. Breaking up. Questioning everything, and then questioning nothing. I never write about it, because it's not stories, and because a lot of it is still hard to admit sometimes, to myself, let alone to the world. But, it’s still a journey. Mostly, of me, of me in a committed relationship, and trying to come to grips with what that really means. What kind of life do I really want, and if I am in this relationship for good, then… there’s another plane to my existence here, beyond sex, beyond men, and it’s scary to come to terms with the fact that I have no idea what it looks like. And it makes moments like these, with men like this, wonder if this is all the universe is going to give me. For even when he tells me he read every single thing I wrote from the link I gave him the night before, that I’m a good writer, it goes back to how it made him want to have sex with me. He saw a kinship there, sex clearly being an integral part of his life journey as it used to be for me, but…the days of that being the thing to drive my experiences…it’s not enough anymore. Intellectual connections and exploring people, not people’s private parts, are what have grabbed my attention. But outside of being able to connect with people from behind the bar, how do I get there? In a life where it’s work, work, gym, work, gym, sleep, gym, cook, errands, Boo Time, Family…where are the experiences, what are the experiences (why are the experiences) - the real experiences, that stab your soul, that break your heart, that build you up? What do those experiences really look like, outside of a realm that had been my only one, and for so long?
To be honest, I have no fucking idea. But I’m going to keep looking for these goddamn Wheat Thins, and hopefully, eventually, find them.
Thursday, March 21, 2019
Are You There, Jewish Identity? It's Me, Elena
We’re living in interesting times - to say the least.
Times which have led me to question many things since 2016: my sanity, my patience, my willingness to accept that I know people who believe the earth is flat - just to name a few. But unexpectedly, I began questioning something else: my Jewish identity.
It had never been something I sat down and defined for myself, in permanent marker, on my proverbial drawing board of an inner self. It was simply a part of my identity that I had always understood, almost innately. I had felt it, I knew it. It was part of who I was. Maybe that stems from growing up in a Jewish household. Shuttling to shul on Saturdays, then back for Hebrew school on Sundays. Being happily and proudly Bat Mitzvahed at 13. Or maybe it was continuing to take Jewish classes well into high school, exploring things like Jewish philosophy and appreciating that I was blessed with a religion that not only allowed, but encouraged me, to question everything.
But then 2016 happened, and the tectonic plates of my religious confidence were shook.
Not because of what I believe in, or because I stopped believing in something. It was because of the astounding behavior and hypocrisy I began to see from people with whom I had always felt some sort of connection, and in whom I had always felt a community. Suddenly, they were launching into posts and articles and conversations fully supporting an administration that was ugly and hateful, and I felt the rug pulled out from under me. After Charlottesville, when their support grew only more fiery and intense, their sourcing of Fox News and Breitbart became only more prominent, I felt myself pulling even further away.
I was totally unable to understand.
But for me, I needed to. I ran down the list of all the possible reasons why they could support what they were supporting. No, these were not devoutly religious people, they were reform, maybe Conservative at best. No, they were not single issue voters in regard to Israel, a plethora of issues determined their political stance. No, they were not of boomer age, they were my age. No, they were not raised with extreme privilege, they were of middle class backgrounds. No, they were not from secluded communities, they were from the five boroughs. No, they were…I don’t know what they were, or who they even are, apparently. Because the parallels between myself and them seem countless in number, and yet here I stand, and there they do.
I supposed, ultimately, it’s not that important for me to understand. Live and let live, right? They want to read their right-wing publications and bend at the knee of Ben Shapiro, I mean…I’ll vomit a little bit thinking about it, but sure, go nuts. And, to be fair, they probably feel the same way about me listening to Pod Save America and watching The Young Turks. However, there was a recent “scandal” in the news where the hypocrisy was taken to new levels, and made me want to write something where I could ask: how can this one be explained? How can this be justified in Jewish people’s minds? And in a conversation from just yesterday, I was shown: it can’t.
This conversation was with a good friend, a Jewish friend. She is someone I love very much, and she was begging me to reconsider my admiration for the new, progressive members of this Congress’ class. I wasn’t sure why, not at first, but as the conversation began to open up and reveal itself to me, a sinking suspicion crept across my gut. Yeah, I knew why. Because of that “scandal”. Because of Ilhan Omar, and that tweet.
The tweet criticized the clout of AIPAC in regard to policy. In other words, the problem of money in politics. I had read the tweet (now deleted), I understood what Omar was talking about (policy, not the Jewish people), and I was fine with it. However, the media apparently, was not. The tweet blew up. It’s still blowing up. It’s been in the news for over a month. One tweet. Over a month.
Now. I am sure all of you have opinions about this tweet. Have scrounged up whatever about Omar’s past, read into her other tweets and quotes, etc etc. But I am not here to write about her (in my opinion, completely misinterpreted) tweet. I’m writing about my inability to grasp how the Jewish community – including my very, very upset friend - and the whole goddamn news media could rally behind that one tweet. And yet, not around other things. Countless, actual anti-Semitic things, that the Republicans have demonstrated over and over and over again. I’m writing this piece to try to understand why Omar was so quick to be deemed an anti-Semite, an enemy, someone who needed to resign, while:
Steve King has been in the House, is still in the House, yet he has voiced repeatedly his white supremacist views. How many times, over the course of his career, has the Jewish community been up in arms about him, and what he stands for?
Republicans, Fox News, Breitbart, and countless right wingers have cited George Soros, a Jewish liberal donor, as an enemy. (And when it comes to money in politics, btw, I am not disagreeing there.) However, his Jewish faith is often the basis of the hatred towards him, and his name has become a rallying point for the Alt-Right. So how many times, over the course of all of those mentions, have the Jewish Community called for resolutions against those news sources, and those Republicans?
Right wingers just love using the term “globalist”. It’s a noted anti-Semitic slur, by the way. How many Jewish people have been outraged over that?
David Duke has come out, on multiple occasions, lauding President Trump. David Duke. Former Grand Dragon, or whatever LARPer term the KKK uses, leader of the KKK, known for their hatred and desired wiping out of the Jewish population. David Duke and the KKK endorsed, and still endorse, Donald Trump. Funny. Didn’t hear much from the Jewish community then, nor did or have the Jewish community recoil an inch from Trump.
Kinda odd, isn’t it, that this time, this tweet, it just happens to be involving a woman who wears a Hijab. It just happens to be over a woman who isn’t white.
Now, to be fair to this dear friend of mine, and to all of the Tribe, my friend did admit that both sides are guilty, that Jews have the hate coming from both the left, and the right. But my question to her then was, well, if it’s the same, then where was this text to me about Steve King? Where were these vocalized fears when Trump made his infamous “both sides” remark? Where’s this concern when I hear people on MSNBC defending leaders who claim to be pro-Israel yet support White Nationalists? In one hand we have a Congresswoman stating her disagreement with lobbying power and power of money in politics. And in the other is a man vocally, publicly, supporting a group who chants “Blood and Soil” in the streets. You say that, because of that one tweet, Omar and all of her fellow freshman congresspeople on the left “wants us gone”. But what about the man who outright says he supports a hate group who actually does want the Jewish people gone?
Well, I still don’t get it, not as a Jewish person (nor as a rationally thinking human being, for that matter). And maybe it’s not important that I do. Like I said, we’re living in interesting times. So, what I have to hold on to - if I’m going to come out of this mess of a time with my Jewish identity still intact - is what I loved about it from the beginning. That being Jewish is what you make it for yourself. And that just because many of your own community is far removed from where you are, doesn’t mean it’s no longer a community where you can feel at home.
Times which have led me to question many things since 2016: my sanity, my patience, my willingness to accept that I know people who believe the earth is flat - just to name a few. But unexpectedly, I began questioning something else: my Jewish identity.
It had never been something I sat down and defined for myself, in permanent marker, on my proverbial drawing board of an inner self. It was simply a part of my identity that I had always understood, almost innately. I had felt it, I knew it. It was part of who I was. Maybe that stems from growing up in a Jewish household. Shuttling to shul on Saturdays, then back for Hebrew school on Sundays. Being happily and proudly Bat Mitzvahed at 13. Or maybe it was continuing to take Jewish classes well into high school, exploring things like Jewish philosophy and appreciating that I was blessed with a religion that not only allowed, but encouraged me, to question everything.
But then 2016 happened, and the tectonic plates of my religious confidence were shook.
Not because of what I believe in, or because I stopped believing in something. It was because of the astounding behavior and hypocrisy I began to see from people with whom I had always felt some sort of connection, and in whom I had always felt a community. Suddenly, they were launching into posts and articles and conversations fully supporting an administration that was ugly and hateful, and I felt the rug pulled out from under me. After Charlottesville, when their support grew only more fiery and intense, their sourcing of Fox News and Breitbart became only more prominent, I felt myself pulling even further away.
I was totally unable to understand.
But for me, I needed to. I ran down the list of all the possible reasons why they could support what they were supporting. No, these were not devoutly religious people, they were reform, maybe Conservative at best. No, they were not single issue voters in regard to Israel, a plethora of issues determined their political stance. No, they were not of boomer age, they were my age. No, they were not raised with extreme privilege, they were of middle class backgrounds. No, they were not from secluded communities, they were from the five boroughs. No, they were…I don’t know what they were, or who they even are, apparently. Because the parallels between myself and them seem countless in number, and yet here I stand, and there they do.
I supposed, ultimately, it’s not that important for me to understand. Live and let live, right? They want to read their right-wing publications and bend at the knee of Ben Shapiro, I mean…I’ll vomit a little bit thinking about it, but sure, go nuts. And, to be fair, they probably feel the same way about me listening to Pod Save America and watching The Young Turks. However, there was a recent “scandal” in the news where the hypocrisy was taken to new levels, and made me want to write something where I could ask: how can this one be explained? How can this be justified in Jewish people’s minds? And in a conversation from just yesterday, I was shown: it can’t.
This conversation was with a good friend, a Jewish friend. She is someone I love very much, and she was begging me to reconsider my admiration for the new, progressive members of this Congress’ class. I wasn’t sure why, not at first, but as the conversation began to open up and reveal itself to me, a sinking suspicion crept across my gut. Yeah, I knew why. Because of that “scandal”. Because of Ilhan Omar, and that tweet.
The tweet criticized the clout of AIPAC in regard to policy. In other words, the problem of money in politics. I had read the tweet (now deleted), I understood what Omar was talking about (policy, not the Jewish people), and I was fine with it. However, the media apparently, was not. The tweet blew up. It’s still blowing up. It’s been in the news for over a month. One tweet. Over a month.
Now. I am sure all of you have opinions about this tweet. Have scrounged up whatever about Omar’s past, read into her other tweets and quotes, etc etc. But I am not here to write about her (in my opinion, completely misinterpreted) tweet. I’m writing about my inability to grasp how the Jewish community – including my very, very upset friend - and the whole goddamn news media could rally behind that one tweet. And yet, not around other things. Countless, actual anti-Semitic things, that the Republicans have demonstrated over and over and over again. I’m writing this piece to try to understand why Omar was so quick to be deemed an anti-Semite, an enemy, someone who needed to resign, while:
Steve King has been in the House, is still in the House, yet he has voiced repeatedly his white supremacist views. How many times, over the course of his career, has the Jewish community been up in arms about him, and what he stands for?
Republicans, Fox News, Breitbart, and countless right wingers have cited George Soros, a Jewish liberal donor, as an enemy. (And when it comes to money in politics, btw, I am not disagreeing there.) However, his Jewish faith is often the basis of the hatred towards him, and his name has become a rallying point for the Alt-Right. So how many times, over the course of all of those mentions, have the Jewish Community called for resolutions against those news sources, and those Republicans?
Right wingers just love using the term “globalist”. It’s a noted anti-Semitic slur, by the way. How many Jewish people have been outraged over that?
David Duke has come out, on multiple occasions, lauding President Trump. David Duke. Former Grand Dragon, or whatever LARPer term the KKK uses, leader of the KKK, known for their hatred and desired wiping out of the Jewish population. David Duke and the KKK endorsed, and still endorse, Donald Trump. Funny. Didn’t hear much from the Jewish community then, nor did or have the Jewish community recoil an inch from Trump.
Kinda odd, isn’t it, that this time, this tweet, it just happens to be involving a woman who wears a Hijab. It just happens to be over a woman who isn’t white.
Now, to be fair to this dear friend of mine, and to all of the Tribe, my friend did admit that both sides are guilty, that Jews have the hate coming from both the left, and the right. But my question to her then was, well, if it’s the same, then where was this text to me about Steve King? Where were these vocalized fears when Trump made his infamous “both sides” remark? Where’s this concern when I hear people on MSNBC defending leaders who claim to be pro-Israel yet support White Nationalists? In one hand we have a Congresswoman stating her disagreement with lobbying power and power of money in politics. And in the other is a man vocally, publicly, supporting a group who chants “Blood and Soil” in the streets. You say that, because of that one tweet, Omar and all of her fellow freshman congresspeople on the left “wants us gone”. But what about the man who outright says he supports a hate group who actually does want the Jewish people gone?
Well, I still don’t get it, not as a Jewish person (nor as a rationally thinking human being, for that matter). And maybe it’s not important that I do. Like I said, we’re living in interesting times. So, what I have to hold on to - if I’m going to come out of this mess of a time with my Jewish identity still intact - is what I loved about it from the beginning. That being Jewish is what you make it for yourself. And that just because many of your own community is far removed from where you are, doesn’t mean it’s no longer a community where you can feel at home.
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