In the past couple of months, I've kinda gotten into creative non-fiction. I realize I haven't posted many pieces lately, so I thought I'd give you an example of the creative non-fiction I write. Hopefully it will also tell you something about my life. This, by the way, is the piece I used for my college essay--hey! Come back! It's interesting, I promise! Please?
The Art of Reading
“‘Nothing ahead of them now but night. Night, and great, dark North America.’” I close The Hummingbird’s Daughter and pause, letting the ending sink in for my mother. I know she will say, “Is that it?” Or, “Is that the end?” And I nod. There’s no need to say anymore.
I always ask, “So what do you think of the book?” I already know most of her thoughts. But I like talking about the story, exploring the meanings hidden within. And even after three or four years of reading to my mother, my mom still surprises me with her insights into the book.
It started at the end of 8th grade. As I floundered my way through the Holocaust memoir Night, my mother asked me to read the book to her. She wanted to understand what troubled me so badly. Dimly I remember how she asked, so cautious and careful, as if I were an animal that might fright. And I remember how difficult the task was, how I fought to keep the tears from my voice as I read. She never asked about the tears, not until afterwards. I was always grateful for that. Questions would have disrupted the story.
I do not remember why I kept reading. No, that’s a lie—I wanted to share my favorite stories from old anthologies and magazines. I read every day in the car, on the way to and from school. That brief half hour on the road became a special time set aside only for us—no one else in the family seemed particularly interested in reading aloud. Most of the early stories came from Cicada, a magazine for adolescents, and old, battered copies of Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine that my brother had brought home from the school library. Authors ranged from teenage writers like me to Kurt Vonnegut and Ursula K. Le Guin.
Reading aloud, I learned, is an art. The reader does not simply dictate to the listener; she creates worlds with her words. Each character is distinct, special; each speaks with its own voice. Mothers speak in low sopranos, ladies’ voices are high and delicate. Priests, fathers, grown men talk in a low voice—but not too deep, for the lowest voices are for the distinguished elders. The warrior speaks loudly, proud of himself; the wise woman speaks briskly, a sharp edge to her words; the child stumbles through her words, bright with excitement; and the old men and women speak softly, voices cracked and weary.
The characters take on flesh during the reading. They become friends, part of a secret community my mother and I share. We talk of them as if they were real, gossiping as if they were neighbors: “Oh, he would never do that. Oh, that is so typical of her.” Like specters they float into our conversation, an inside joke, a reference: “Remember when…?” These are friends who will never completely leave, even after the book is finished; they always remain, a step away in our imagination.
Monday, December 18, 2006
DAMN YOU AIPAC!!!
Okay, let me say this once and for all:
FUCK THOSE ISRAEL ADVOCACY CLASSES!!! FOR GOD'S SAKE, ENOUGH!!! I GET THE FREAKING MESSAGE!!! YOU'VE SPENT THE PAST EIGHT YEARS INDOCTRINATING ME, FOR HEAVENS' SAKE WILL YOU SHUT UP ALREADY?!?!
See, you have to understand. There are certain required Jewish History courses required for each grade in high school; for seniors, it's "History of Modern Israel" (which, of course, everyone calls Zionism or Jewish History). My teacher, Ms. Goldstein, is actually very good. Overall she's done a fairly evenhanded treatment of the subject--pretty difficult, all things considered. She simply states the facts: This is what Egypt planned in '67, and this is how the Israelis attacked. This is why the PLO left Jordan for Lebanon. This is what Sabaa (sp?) and Shatila was about. This is how the Peace Process went. (We just had a quiz on that today, actually.)
Now, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, the school graduates the seniors early and takes them first to Europe (Prague, Poland) and then to Israel. So my school years ends pretty soon. Subsequently, today Ms. Goldstein mapped out the rest of the year in Jewish History, and she mentioned that we would be getting a visit from AIPAC representatives about Israel advocacy.
Actually, this is fairly predictable. I mean, it is Zionism class. And, well, AIPAC is AIPAC. But let me say this once more: I AM SO SICK OF ISRAEL ADVOCACY BEING THROWN AT ME ALL THE TIME!!
There's this myth floating around in Jewish circles that there's a lot of anti-Israel (read: anti-Semitism) on college campuses. To be fair, this is partially true. But sometimes, the way they talk about it, it sounds like as soon as you go to college MY GOD THERE ARE ISRAEL HATERS EVERYWHERE AND FOR THE SAKE OF THE JEWISH PEOPLE YOU MUST DEFEND THE JEWISH HOMELAND OR ELSE THEY WILL BURN YOU AT STAKE.
Me, I think this comes from good old Jewish paranoia, which (again) is based in reality. You hear all sorts of shit coming out of Europe these days, about people defacing synagogues and attacking people in kipas, etc. Why do you think Israel constantly flips off Europe? A lot of trust kinda flew out of the window with the Holocaust, and even though Jews in the Western world generally feel pretty secure, we tend to overreact to the smallest thing.
And then, sometimes, that "overreaction" is needed. We are not lying down and letting someone bulldoze us again. You wanna impinge on our rights, you're going to have to take us down kicking and screaming.
But this is not the point. The point is, every so often the school or some other Jewish children's organization (example: Panim) gathers a bunch of schoolkids together and lectures them about Israel advocacy. It is the most boring thing in the world. Everyone kinda zones out and doesn't pay attention. I've been to many of these things multiple times (generally against my will) and only once have I seen a speaker who really held my attention. But that was because he was a very good speaker. I can't remember his name...it was Ariel or Ariyeh...member of the Israel Debate Club, something like that. But it was what he SAID that made such a deep impression on me. I still remember the stories he told us.
Beyond that one guy, though, it's been dead boring, and now as a senior about to graduate, I am DEAD SICK of Israel advocacy. ENOUGH ALREADY!!! For heavens' sake, I've been going to Jewish school since 4th grade!!! It's not like I'm completely ignorant of the situation there!!! Besides, a lot of that shit feels like propaganda, and frankly that's the last thing I want right now. I want facts. I want a balanced point of view. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to let the Palestinians off. And if someone starts to blather some anti-Israel (read: anti-Semetic) bullshit that is blatantly wrong, biased, and inaccurate, of course I'm going to speak up. Of course I'll argue Israel's point of view. But this doesn't mean I'm going to let Israelis off either, because they've pulled some serious shit in the West Bank and Gaza. I mean, I could go on and on about the ethics of the situation, but there's a few things I'm certain of:
1) No one is innocent; both sides have done nasty stuff. And, by implication, both sides have lost innocent people to this conflict, often in horrible ways.
2) Both sides deserve their own country. Woot two-state solution.
3) Both sides need to stop shooting things at each other.
4) Both sides smoke like chimneys.
Okay, I threw the last part in for kicks, though you have to admit it's true. Both Israelis and Arabs smoke constantly. Honestly, are Americans the only people in the world who DON'T smoke and regard it as a filthy habit?
But to come back to Israel advocacy: Enough is enough. Just stop. I got the message a long time ago, I don't need your lessons anymore. Leave me alone, for heavens' sake.
Honestly, you have to wonder: do Palestinian advocacy groups visit Muslim schools and lecture them about Palestinian advocay? Ten dollars say they're just as boring. "Blah blah blah Palestine, blah blah blah atrocity, blah blah blah blah blah HEY! PAY ATTENTION, DAMMIT!!"
Maybe somewhere in the blogosphere, there's a Muslim girl ranting on about how there's yet another Palestine adovcacy meeting in school. Hee. That's an entertaining image. Misery does enjoy company. To my Muslim counterpart out there in the blogosphere: How's about you and me skip those damn advocacy meetings and drop by Starbucks, mm'kay?
FUCK THOSE ISRAEL ADVOCACY CLASSES!!! FOR GOD'S SAKE, ENOUGH!!! I GET THE FREAKING MESSAGE!!! YOU'VE SPENT THE PAST EIGHT YEARS INDOCTRINATING ME, FOR HEAVENS' SAKE WILL YOU SHUT UP ALREADY?!?!
See, you have to understand. There are certain required Jewish History courses required for each grade in high school; for seniors, it's "History of Modern Israel" (which, of course, everyone calls Zionism or Jewish History). My teacher, Ms. Goldstein, is actually very good. Overall she's done a fairly evenhanded treatment of the subject--pretty difficult, all things considered. She simply states the facts: This is what Egypt planned in '67, and this is how the Israelis attacked. This is why the PLO left Jordan for Lebanon. This is what Sabaa (sp?) and Shatila was about. This is how the Peace Process went. (We just had a quiz on that today, actually.)
Now, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, the school graduates the seniors early and takes them first to Europe (Prague, Poland) and then to Israel. So my school years ends pretty soon. Subsequently, today Ms. Goldstein mapped out the rest of the year in Jewish History, and she mentioned that we would be getting a visit from AIPAC representatives about Israel advocacy.
Actually, this is fairly predictable. I mean, it is Zionism class. And, well, AIPAC is AIPAC. But let me say this once more: I AM SO SICK OF ISRAEL ADVOCACY BEING THROWN AT ME ALL THE TIME!!
There's this myth floating around in Jewish circles that there's a lot of anti-Israel (read: anti-Semitism) on college campuses. To be fair, this is partially true. But sometimes, the way they talk about it, it sounds like as soon as you go to college MY GOD THERE ARE ISRAEL HATERS EVERYWHERE AND FOR THE SAKE OF THE JEWISH PEOPLE YOU MUST DEFEND THE JEWISH HOMELAND OR ELSE THEY WILL BURN YOU AT STAKE.
Me, I think this comes from good old Jewish paranoia, which (again) is based in reality. You hear all sorts of shit coming out of Europe these days, about people defacing synagogues and attacking people in kipas, etc. Why do you think Israel constantly flips off Europe? A lot of trust kinda flew out of the window with the Holocaust, and even though Jews in the Western world generally feel pretty secure, we tend to overreact to the smallest thing.
And then, sometimes, that "overreaction" is needed. We are not lying down and letting someone bulldoze us again. You wanna impinge on our rights, you're going to have to take us down kicking and screaming.
But this is not the point. The point is, every so often the school or some other Jewish children's organization (example: Panim) gathers a bunch of schoolkids together and lectures them about Israel advocacy. It is the most boring thing in the world. Everyone kinda zones out and doesn't pay attention. I've been to many of these things multiple times (generally against my will) and only once have I seen a speaker who really held my attention. But that was because he was a very good speaker. I can't remember his name...it was Ariel or Ariyeh...member of the Israel Debate Club, something like that. But it was what he SAID that made such a deep impression on me. I still remember the stories he told us.
Beyond that one guy, though, it's been dead boring, and now as a senior about to graduate, I am DEAD SICK of Israel advocacy. ENOUGH ALREADY!!! For heavens' sake, I've been going to Jewish school since 4th grade!!! It's not like I'm completely ignorant of the situation there!!! Besides, a lot of that shit feels like propaganda, and frankly that's the last thing I want right now. I want facts. I want a balanced point of view. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to let the Palestinians off. And if someone starts to blather some anti-Israel (read: anti-Semetic) bullshit that is blatantly wrong, biased, and inaccurate, of course I'm going to speak up. Of course I'll argue Israel's point of view. But this doesn't mean I'm going to let Israelis off either, because they've pulled some serious shit in the West Bank and Gaza. I mean, I could go on and on about the ethics of the situation, but there's a few things I'm certain of:
1) No one is innocent; both sides have done nasty stuff. And, by implication, both sides have lost innocent people to this conflict, often in horrible ways.
2) Both sides deserve their own country. Woot two-state solution.
3) Both sides need to stop shooting things at each other.
4) Both sides smoke like chimneys.
Okay, I threw the last part in for kicks, though you have to admit it's true. Both Israelis and Arabs smoke constantly. Honestly, are Americans the only people in the world who DON'T smoke and regard it as a filthy habit?
But to come back to Israel advocacy: Enough is enough. Just stop. I got the message a long time ago, I don't need your lessons anymore. Leave me alone, for heavens' sake.
Honestly, you have to wonder: do Palestinian advocacy groups visit Muslim schools and lecture them about Palestinian advocay? Ten dollars say they're just as boring. "Blah blah blah Palestine, blah blah blah atrocity, blah blah blah blah blah HEY! PAY ATTENTION, DAMMIT!!"
Maybe somewhere in the blogosphere, there's a Muslim girl ranting on about how there's yet another Palestine adovcacy meeting in school. Hee. That's an entertaining image. Misery does enjoy company. To my Muslim counterpart out there in the blogosphere: How's about you and me skip those damn advocacy meetings and drop by Starbucks, mm'kay?
We Are a Family Only in Name
"We are a family only in name,"
She said,
Pressing the pedal down,
Engine revving, rumbling,
Thrusting forward into the night.
I stared out the window, thinking
Of plate glass, shattered
By a bullet, cracks spiderwebbing
From the hole. The glass
Is whole, and yet
In many pieces. Press it
And the semblance of unity falls away,
Leaving behind the broken shards.
Based on a comment my mother made despairingly about her own family. I'm proud to say that my immediate family is actually pretty close.
She said,
Pressing the pedal down,
Engine revving, rumbling,
Thrusting forward into the night.
I stared out the window, thinking
Of plate glass, shattered
By a bullet, cracks spiderwebbing
From the hole. The glass
Is whole, and yet
In many pieces. Press it
And the semblance of unity falls away,
Leaving behind the broken shards.
Based on a comment my mother made despairingly about her own family. I'm proud to say that my immediate family is actually pretty close.
Beat Up by Hanukkah Harry
What does it say about me that I tend to post only on school computers? A lot of stuff has happened but I never wrote it down. Well, I'll get to the past few days in a moment, but right now I feel like bitching.
See, it was because of mornings like this that I started this blog. No joke: I felt the exact same tension in my knees, the exact "Oh-God-I-Need-To-Get-Out" feeling. You ever feel like that? It's not like you're running away to something, or even FROM something. You're just running away. Stop the world, I wanna get off. That sort of stuff.
But let me give you a little explanation about this title. See, yesterday I dropped by the comic store and picked up a comic called "Emo Boy." The cover depicted Emo Boy getting the shit beat out of him by Santa Claus. Basically, in the midst of all that Christmas cheer, Emo Boy felt, well, emo and depressed because all these people are starving while we're eating ourselves to death on Christmas!! Etc. But then Santa shows up and...beats the crap out of him. For protesting Christmas.
And that's how I feel this morning, albeit about Hanukkah, like I'm being beat over the head by Hanukkah Harry. Today just got off to a bad start. I slept terribly (I'm a chronic insomniac) and woke up at 5:40 or so. So that's maybe 4, 5 hours of sleep. Then Mom gets pissy in the morning because no one did the dishes, and she starts shouting at me while I'm making my lunch. I'm kinda bewildered--I understand why she's pissed, but for heavens' sake, can't I make my lunch in peace?? (Yeah, that sounded self-centered even to me. Deal with it. It's my blog after all, I have the right to be self-centered here.) Then when I'm ready to go, she's still in a bad mood. So she doesn't want to take me. The following scene approximately records what happened:
Lawrie: Okay, I'm ready to go.
(Pause. Mother continues her work in the kitchen)
Lawrie: (worried about the time, seeing as she's been chronically late in the past and may well get a dentention if she's late in the future) Uh...
Mother: (to Father, in tired tone indicating the pissy mood she's in) Can you take her this morning? I really don't feel like it.
Father: (shocked, irritated) I can't do that! I've got a meeting at 9:00!
Mother: I don't see what that has to doing with anything.
Father: I gotta get dressed first!
(Pause of a few more seconds.)
I should insert here that I sincerely felt like saying, "Just give me a couple of dollars and a note explaining that neither of you wanted to take me to school this morning, and I'll walk to the metro." Partly because I was impatient. Partly because I wanted to feel like a self-righteous martyr. Partly because, well, I was pretty upset and anxious with this exchange.
So after a significant silence indicating how angry she is about the injustices imposed upon her and that she's doing this as a favor, Mom finally grabs her coffee cup and walks out the door. Subsequently, I am late because of this little argument. I mean, Mom and I talked about this morning in the car, but I still walked into school feeling like shit. The last thing I wanted to go through was Mr. Blank's nonsense about Hanukkah.
Mr. Blank is one of those really annoying people who think if they act the right way, they can be friends of the students. It's true--I've seen students become close to their teachers. But the way to make friends with your students isn't to consciously try to be friends. That always pisses me off--I don't find it funny like other kids do. I find it condescending and annoying and full of bullshit.
So he starts out minyan by passing around these dreidels for Hanukkah. "I want you to tell us a story about these dreidels," he says. And I go, Oh no. It's the last thing I want. I feel like shit, I feel all tense, I feel my knees going all tight, the last thing I want to do is to drag out some bullshit story about a dreidel. Honestly, where do they get these ideas? My problem with Mr. Blank is that every single thing he does seems to be directed at kindergardeners. I liked it when I was in 7th grade, but now that I'm a senior, I can't stand it. I don't know why. It just rubs me the wrong way. I get impatient and anxious and upset. And when Mrs. McMillan shouted at us that we weren't being mature enough for this activity, I felt like shouting back, "No, the activity isn't mature enough for us."
Not that Drisha Minyan J (or I or H or whatever the designation is, I don't care) is that mature. Quite the opposite. We ARE a bunch of sheltered, childish bastards.
But still. I just felt myself getting more and more tense throughout minyan. I can't explain it. It was just a combination of all this shit I'd been through this morning. In a way, it goes back to the Santa Claus metaphor I mentioned before.
This morning felt like someone was bludgeoning me with Hanukkah. Beating me over the head with it. Because it's in the winter, I think Hanukkah picks up a lot of the shit that Christmas gets, from the nonsense about presents to the stupid, cloying sugary songs that clog your ears. So let me say this once and for all:
FUCK HANUKKAH. AND FUCK CHRISTMAS TOO.
Not the holidays, I suppose. I mean, I light candles. I get the story. But all the bullshit surrounding it, all the hype, I just can't stand it. Especially when it's clear in the Christmas program that they just threw in the bit about Hanukkah to be nice to the Jewish kids. You know what? I don't need your goddam menorahs in the mall. In fact, I think I'd prefer to cut myself off entirely from the cynical consumerist bullshit that fills American culture this time of the year. It cheapens the holiday and turns it into a crude sweet. Where's the spirituality? The respect? I know all of this has been said before, but I'll say it again: FUCK THE WINTER HOLIDAYS. They've been turned into these disgusting exercises in capitalism. And for God's sake, turn off that damn Christmas muzak. If I hear one more "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or any of that shit, I will shoot myself. Play some of those old beautiful Christmas songs, please. Silent Night. You know what I mean.
Edit: At lunchtime they had these "Hanukkah clowns." Do not ask me what these are. Apparently clowns are the way to observe Hanukkah. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like walking into your lunchroom to be confronted by someone in full clown outfit handing out ballon animals and talking to you in this nice Midwestern accent. It is freaking scary. I don't know who is responsible for this, but I hope that they pay for it in their next life. Bad karma, man.
See, it was because of mornings like this that I started this blog. No joke: I felt the exact same tension in my knees, the exact "Oh-God-I-Need-To-Get-Out" feeling. You ever feel like that? It's not like you're running away to something, or even FROM something. You're just running away. Stop the world, I wanna get off. That sort of stuff.
But let me give you a little explanation about this title. See, yesterday I dropped by the comic store and picked up a comic called "Emo Boy." The cover depicted Emo Boy getting the shit beat out of him by Santa Claus. Basically, in the midst of all that Christmas cheer, Emo Boy felt, well, emo and depressed because all these people are starving while we're eating ourselves to death on Christmas!! Etc. But then Santa shows up and...beats the crap out of him. For protesting Christmas.
And that's how I feel this morning, albeit about Hanukkah, like I'm being beat over the head by Hanukkah Harry. Today just got off to a bad start. I slept terribly (I'm a chronic insomniac) and woke up at 5:40 or so. So that's maybe 4, 5 hours of sleep. Then Mom gets pissy in the morning because no one did the dishes, and she starts shouting at me while I'm making my lunch. I'm kinda bewildered--I understand why she's pissed, but for heavens' sake, can't I make my lunch in peace?? (Yeah, that sounded self-centered even to me. Deal with it. It's my blog after all, I have the right to be self-centered here.) Then when I'm ready to go, she's still in a bad mood. So she doesn't want to take me. The following scene approximately records what happened:
Lawrie: Okay, I'm ready to go.
(Pause. Mother continues her work in the kitchen)
Lawrie: (worried about the time, seeing as she's been chronically late in the past and may well get a dentention if she's late in the future) Uh...
Mother: (to Father, in tired tone indicating the pissy mood she's in) Can you take her this morning? I really don't feel like it.
Father: (shocked, irritated) I can't do that! I've got a meeting at 9:00!
Mother: I don't see what that has to doing with anything.
Father: I gotta get dressed first!
(Pause of a few more seconds.)
I should insert here that I sincerely felt like saying, "Just give me a couple of dollars and a note explaining that neither of you wanted to take me to school this morning, and I'll walk to the metro." Partly because I was impatient. Partly because I wanted to feel like a self-righteous martyr. Partly because, well, I was pretty upset and anxious with this exchange.
So after a significant silence indicating how angry she is about the injustices imposed upon her and that she's doing this as a favor, Mom finally grabs her coffee cup and walks out the door. Subsequently, I am late because of this little argument. I mean, Mom and I talked about this morning in the car, but I still walked into school feeling like shit. The last thing I wanted to go through was Mr. Blank's nonsense about Hanukkah.
Mr. Blank is one of those really annoying people who think if they act the right way, they can be friends of the students. It's true--I've seen students become close to their teachers. But the way to make friends with your students isn't to consciously try to be friends. That always pisses me off--I don't find it funny like other kids do. I find it condescending and annoying and full of bullshit.
So he starts out minyan by passing around these dreidels for Hanukkah. "I want you to tell us a story about these dreidels," he says. And I go, Oh no. It's the last thing I want. I feel like shit, I feel all tense, I feel my knees going all tight, the last thing I want to do is to drag out some bullshit story about a dreidel. Honestly, where do they get these ideas? My problem with Mr. Blank is that every single thing he does seems to be directed at kindergardeners. I liked it when I was in 7th grade, but now that I'm a senior, I can't stand it. I don't know why. It just rubs me the wrong way. I get impatient and anxious and upset. And when Mrs. McMillan shouted at us that we weren't being mature enough for this activity, I felt like shouting back, "No, the activity isn't mature enough for us."
Not that Drisha Minyan J (or I or H or whatever the designation is, I don't care) is that mature. Quite the opposite. We ARE a bunch of sheltered, childish bastards.
But still. I just felt myself getting more and more tense throughout minyan. I can't explain it. It was just a combination of all this shit I'd been through this morning. In a way, it goes back to the Santa Claus metaphor I mentioned before.
This morning felt like someone was bludgeoning me with Hanukkah. Beating me over the head with it. Because it's in the winter, I think Hanukkah picks up a lot of the shit that Christmas gets, from the nonsense about presents to the stupid, cloying sugary songs that clog your ears. So let me say this once and for all:
FUCK HANUKKAH. AND FUCK CHRISTMAS TOO.
Not the holidays, I suppose. I mean, I light candles. I get the story. But all the bullshit surrounding it, all the hype, I just can't stand it. Especially when it's clear in the Christmas program that they just threw in the bit about Hanukkah to be nice to the Jewish kids. You know what? I don't need your goddam menorahs in the mall. In fact, I think I'd prefer to cut myself off entirely from the cynical consumerist bullshit that fills American culture this time of the year. It cheapens the holiday and turns it into a crude sweet. Where's the spirituality? The respect? I know all of this has been said before, but I'll say it again: FUCK THE WINTER HOLIDAYS. They've been turned into these disgusting exercises in capitalism. And for God's sake, turn off that damn Christmas muzak. If I hear one more "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or any of that shit, I will shoot myself. Play some of those old beautiful Christmas songs, please. Silent Night. You know what I mean.
Edit: At lunchtime they had these "Hanukkah clowns." Do not ask me what these are. Apparently clowns are the way to observe Hanukkah. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like walking into your lunchroom to be confronted by someone in full clown outfit handing out ballon animals and talking to you in this nice Midwestern accent. It is freaking scary. I don't know who is responsible for this, but I hope that they pay for it in their next life. Bad karma, man.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
WOOT!!
OHHHHHHH YEAAAAAAHHHH!!!
It's finally come--the big day. 18 years ago, a few minutes after 12, my mom gave birth to yours truly. Man, I'm pumped. I'm finally an adult! I'm finally an adult!! From now on, in the eyes of the goverment I'm responsible for myself. No more parents' signatures for permission!
I realize that, for now, there's not going to be such a huge impact in my life. I will continue living with my parents; when I go to college, they will be the ones to pay. I still do not drive. And I still have the same independence they usually give me. Many of the rights I now have--for example, the right to buy porn or a weapon--I will not exercise. And I still cannot drink legally (not that I like alchohol anyway). But I will be able to vote. I will be able to do things without my parents permission. Simply knowing that I am now legally an adult is enough for me.
And yet, this coming-of-age still isn't complete. Like I said, I can vote, but even this vote does not count for much. Why? Because I live in DC, America's last colony. And we do not have a voting representative in Congress. We only have a delegate who can proprose legislation. Eleanor Norton Holmes, bless her, does a wonderful job--but she is unable to fully represent the people of Washington DC, thanks to the laws of this country. How ironic that the capital of a country that prides itself on its legacy of freedom does not even have that most basic right--self-representation.
Moreover, DC's status in the country allows other congressmen who have nothing to do with DC use this city for their own agenda. For example, a few years ago, a few Congressmen tried to loosen gun-control laws in DC to satisfy the gun lobby. Did they live in DC? No. Did they care at all about DC? No. They only wanted to curry favor from the powerful lobbyists on Capitol Hill. As for the Washingtonians, they didn't want any of such nonsense. We were satsified with the way things were. Ironically, this took place during the same year when there were a record number of juvenile murders--19 of which were committed with a gun. Fortunately, the legislation did not get passed, but DC remains at the mercy of Congress.
So, dear readers, do this favor for a girl on her birthday--write to your Congressman and ask them what THEY are doing about DC rights. This isn't a matter of Republican or Democrat--this is matter of the basic rights of citizenship. This is about fulfilling the promises made to ALL Americans with the creation of this country. It is past time we get our proper representation in Congress.
NO TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!!
It's finally come--the big day. 18 years ago, a few minutes after 12, my mom gave birth to yours truly. Man, I'm pumped. I'm finally an adult! I'm finally an adult!! From now on, in the eyes of the goverment I'm responsible for myself. No more parents' signatures for permission!
I realize that, for now, there's not going to be such a huge impact in my life. I will continue living with my parents; when I go to college, they will be the ones to pay. I still do not drive. And I still have the same independence they usually give me. Many of the rights I now have--for example, the right to buy porn or a weapon--I will not exercise. And I still cannot drink legally (not that I like alchohol anyway). But I will be able to vote. I will be able to do things without my parents permission. Simply knowing that I am now legally an adult is enough for me.
And yet, this coming-of-age still isn't complete. Like I said, I can vote, but even this vote does not count for much. Why? Because I live in DC, America's last colony. And we do not have a voting representative in Congress. We only have a delegate who can proprose legislation. Eleanor Norton Holmes, bless her, does a wonderful job--but she is unable to fully represent the people of Washington DC, thanks to the laws of this country. How ironic that the capital of a country that prides itself on its legacy of freedom does not even have that most basic right--self-representation.
Moreover, DC's status in the country allows other congressmen who have nothing to do with DC use this city for their own agenda. For example, a few years ago, a few Congressmen tried to loosen gun-control laws in DC to satisfy the gun lobby. Did they live in DC? No. Did they care at all about DC? No. They only wanted to curry favor from the powerful lobbyists on Capitol Hill. As for the Washingtonians, they didn't want any of such nonsense. We were satsified with the way things were. Ironically, this took place during the same year when there were a record number of juvenile murders--19 of which were committed with a gun. Fortunately, the legislation did not get passed, but DC remains at the mercy of Congress.
So, dear readers, do this favor for a girl on her birthday--write to your Congressman and ask them what THEY are doing about DC rights. This isn't a matter of Republican or Democrat--this is matter of the basic rights of citizenship. This is about fulfilling the promises made to ALL Americans with the creation of this country. It is past time we get our proper representation in Congress.
NO TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!!
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Silly story
A funny thing from today--
Before I tell this story, I should explain to you about the senior trip. After many years slaving away under a double-curriculum of super-hard courses, my Jewish school awards the seniors by taking them abroad, first to Europe (Poland and Prague) and then to Israel. We graduate at the end of the first semester, and then it's off in February! Woot!
So today after school my friend Ary, who I like to call Sephary, passes by me complaining about a letter. "The letter for my waiver," she says. "My military waiver, so they don't conscript me when I'm in Israel." Sephary, you see, holds dual citizenship in America and Israel because her mom is Israeli. However, she's lived in America her whole life, and I'm petty certain she doesn't want to join the army. Apparently she's been having a hell of a time getting a waiver, though. First of all, the forms are in Hebrew. Second of all, aforesaid Hebrew appears to be the same dense, bureaucratic nonsense that you find in ALL languages, as even her mother and grandmother--both native Israelis--can't read the damn thing. Lastly, for some reason the teacher who was supposed to write a letter for her put her down as a male (!!). Now, I would call Sephary many things, but masculine is definitely not one of them. Sufficed to say, she was pretty pissed.
Before I tell this story, I should explain to you about the senior trip. After many years slaving away under a double-curriculum of super-hard courses, my Jewish school awards the seniors by taking them abroad, first to Europe (Poland and Prague) and then to Israel. We graduate at the end of the first semester, and then it's off in February! Woot!
So today after school my friend Ary, who I like to call Sephary, passes by me complaining about a letter. "The letter for my waiver," she says. "My military waiver, so they don't conscript me when I'm in Israel." Sephary, you see, holds dual citizenship in America and Israel because her mom is Israeli. However, she's lived in America her whole life, and I'm petty certain she doesn't want to join the army. Apparently she's been having a hell of a time getting a waiver, though. First of all, the forms are in Hebrew. Second of all, aforesaid Hebrew appears to be the same dense, bureaucratic nonsense that you find in ALL languages, as even her mother and grandmother--both native Israelis--can't read the damn thing. Lastly, for some reason the teacher who was supposed to write a letter for her put her down as a male (!!). Now, I would call Sephary many things, but masculine is definitely not one of them. Sufficed to say, she was pretty pissed.
Monday, December 4, 2006
Succubus
I build my walls
With eyeliner and black polish
And dyed-dark hair, rebelliously spiked;
I grid myself with chains for war.
FUCK YOU
With your pretty perfect hair
And your Barbie-doll smiles
And your greasy blue eyes
You cookie-cutter children in your
Little bubble world--
I see your sneers, and smile
In your plastic faces, plastic insults
Hollow, echoing back
Your empty fashion talk
Of boys and girls and gossip--
You talk and talk and talk and
GOD, don't you ever shut up?
--Covering the holes you've carved
Deep within your souls--
How much? How much?
How much do you cost?
Fifty dollars? One hundred?
Or that DARLING skirt from macy's?
When did you sell yourself
To match the illusion
You dreamed in your mirror?
Witch, bitch, I hear
The hate you hurl behind me
And laugh, for I read
Your secret names
Within the words--
For I know, I KNOW
the truth behind your hatred--
I know your secrets, I see the holes
Of your mind, your soul,
Your daily hara-kiri
On the altar of your idols--
And I myself, impenetrable,
Indefinable by your
Polyester standards--
Gnostic turpitude, if you will--
I feel your hatred,
And revel in its warmth.
(Written for a class assignment about teen social structures. For all the sad outcast girls, there's always one misfit that nurses a bitter hatred for the popular girls. I was trying to get some of that burning acid Sylvia Plath gets into her poetry, though I'm nowhere nearly as good as she is. And, well, some of my own thoughts undoubtedly went into this poem. "Gnostic Turpitude"--the crime of being opaque--comes from "An Invitation to a Beheading," the crime for which Cinncinatus C. is convicted. Maybe a bit heavy for this poem, but it popped into my head, and I had to put it in. Yay Nabokov.)
With eyeliner and black polish
And dyed-dark hair, rebelliously spiked;
I grid myself with chains for war.
FUCK YOU
With your pretty perfect hair
And your Barbie-doll smiles
And your greasy blue eyes
You cookie-cutter children in your
Little bubble world--
I see your sneers, and smile
In your plastic faces, plastic insults
Hollow, echoing back
Your empty fashion talk
Of boys and girls and gossip--
You talk and talk and talk and
GOD, don't you ever shut up?
--Covering the holes you've carved
Deep within your souls--
How much? How much?
How much do you cost?
Fifty dollars? One hundred?
Or that DARLING skirt from macy's?
When did you sell yourself
To match the illusion
You dreamed in your mirror?
Witch, bitch, I hear
The hate you hurl behind me
And laugh, for I read
Your secret names
Within the words--
For I know, I KNOW
the truth behind your hatred--
I know your secrets, I see the holes
Of your mind, your soul,
Your daily hara-kiri
On the altar of your idols--
And I myself, impenetrable,
Indefinable by your
Polyester standards--
Gnostic turpitude, if you will--
I feel your hatred,
And revel in its warmth.
(Written for a class assignment about teen social structures. For all the sad outcast girls, there's always one misfit that nurses a bitter hatred for the popular girls. I was trying to get some of that burning acid Sylvia Plath gets into her poetry, though I'm nowhere nearly as good as she is. And, well, some of my own thoughts undoubtedly went into this poem. "Gnostic Turpitude"--the crime of being opaque--comes from "An Invitation to a Beheading," the crime for which Cinncinatus C. is convicted. Maybe a bit heavy for this poem, but it popped into my head, and I had to put it in. Yay Nabokov.)
The Paint-Set
Last night
I dreamed
Of a Chinese paint-set
Like the one I owned as a child.
With wolfshair brush
Crooked carefully in my hand
I painted vast scenes
Of my imaginings
On crackling rice paper:
Red and blue, yellow and white
With daubs of black, here and there.
Grinding my inkstone
Into waterydark blackgrey I
Traced the mysterious sigils
Of Bamboo, Luck, and Blossom
To match my perfect pictures;
Masterpieces!--or so I thought,
And hung hem on the wall.
Pasted there, alone, forlorn,
They tranformed magically
From lovely landscapes
To children's copies
Of fine work foreign to their minds
Old mistakes blaring
From behind the painstaking layers
Of green, green, green;
The black, tracing river currents
Standing unblended
In the midst of waterfall blue--
I sneered, staring
At spidery Chinese letters
Bloched by a trembling
Western hand.
Last night
I dreamed
Of a wolfshair brush
Dipped in deepest blue
That swept, S-shaped,
Across a sky of white rice paper
Again and again:
A waterfall of color
With currents greenblack gliding through
And foaming white delicately daubed
By a bamboo-handled brush
A perfect painting
Like the Chinese Masters
Pressing, pressing, bursting through
Old dams in my imagination.
(Based on an actual dream. Could probably use some work.)
I dreamed
Of a Chinese paint-set
Like the one I owned as a child.
With wolfshair brush
Crooked carefully in my hand
I painted vast scenes
Of my imaginings
On crackling rice paper:
Red and blue, yellow and white
With daubs of black, here and there.
Grinding my inkstone
Into waterydark blackgrey I
Traced the mysterious sigils
Of Bamboo, Luck, and Blossom
To match my perfect pictures;
Masterpieces!--or so I thought,
And hung hem on the wall.
Pasted there, alone, forlorn,
They tranformed magically
From lovely landscapes
To children's copies
Of fine work foreign to their minds
Old mistakes blaring
From behind the painstaking layers
Of green, green, green;
The black, tracing river currents
Standing unblended
In the midst of waterfall blue--
I sneered, staring
At spidery Chinese letters
Bloched by a trembling
Western hand.
Last night
I dreamed
Of a wolfshair brush
Dipped in deepest blue
That swept, S-shaped,
Across a sky of white rice paper
Again and again:
A waterfall of color
With currents greenblack gliding through
And foaming white delicately daubed
By a bamboo-handled brush
A perfect painting
Like the Chinese Masters
Pressing, pressing, bursting through
Old dams in my imagination.
(Based on an actual dream. Could probably use some work.)
Desperation
I am smothered, SMOTHERED,
Drowning in thick layers of wool,
A scarf wound round my face,
My mouth, my eyes--
I am blind, choking
Thick wool filling my mouth,
Dragging me down, down,
Down into the deeps,
Struggling, scratching, screaming,
"Help HELP"--but the wool
Stuffs my cries,
Smothering, strangling,
Silence.
(Something I thought of while bundling up for winter.)
Drowning in thick layers of wool,
A scarf wound round my face,
My mouth, my eyes--
I am blind, choking
Thick wool filling my mouth,
Dragging me down, down,
Down into the deeps,
Struggling, scratching, screaming,
"Help HELP"--but the wool
Stuffs my cries,
Smothering, strangling,
Silence.
(Something I thought of while bundling up for winter.)
Ugly Equations
Talking about Haley makes me want to right this. Settlements are a painful subject among Jews. Something I should tell you before I go on--what happens to one Jew, happens to all. No joke. In such a small community, everyone is a relative or a friend or an acquaintance. You hear this about Israel, but it's true for the whole world. True story--a friend of ours once walked into a shop looking for a gift for the family. She got to talking with the shopkeeper, and guess what? The owner knew who we were. The owner was our relative Diane. I have already told you about Halley in the West Bank, and I want you to understand--she is a real person. She is not just a statistic, or someone in the newspaper pictures. She is real. She has four kids. Ayelet dropped out of college but is now working. Noa, who is a little older than me, has just entered Community Service (an alternative to army service). Her husband Danny--a wonderful man, by the way--got a cancer in his neck and, after surviving for several years in relatively good health, finally died (may he rest in peace). So whenever they talk about evacuation in the West Bank, the thought of Halley niggles in the back of my mind. I want you to know this, that you should understand how painful this subject is for Jews, because believe me, many of them in and out of Israel have relatives in the West Bank and formerly Gaza.
I support the peace plan. I support the two-state solution. And I understand that evacuation is necessary for that to happen. It's the inevitable equation. And there are many, many other Jews like me. Most Jews in the States are fairly liberal and also support withdrawal, though of course there is a sizable chunk with their doubts. Similarly, during the withdrawal last year, I believe (though I'm not certain) that a slight majority of the Israeli population also supported withdrawal (whether they do now is another story). But how, how do you tell your relatives, "Pick up and leave the homes you built behind." Jews shouldn't expell Jews. For thousands of years we have been chased from one end of the world to the other, forced out of Spain, France, England, Germany, old Judea, Iraq (chaval! The old Babylonian community!), Egypt, you get the idea. The whole POINT of Israel was to provide a refuge, one place where they would never be expelled again.
Jews shouldn't expell Jews, but sometimes you need to amputate a diseased limb.
Gaza belongs to the Palestinians. We built our homeland in Old Judea; it's only fair they build theirs. And so there needs to be a sacrifice. But the soldiers wept when they forced the settlers out and for good reason too.
Which is why I get so pissed at Hamas!! Why they hell are they firing rockets?!?! Hell, why are they spending money on rockets in the first place??? What about homes? Schools? Hospitals? Basic infrastructure, for heavens' sake?? It gets me so pissed off. Israel fucked over the Palestinians--there's no doubt about it. And undoubtedly the government should contribute to rebuilding Palestinian infrastructure and help get people out of those Godforsaken refugee camps. But why does Hamas spend so much money on rockets? Why is it that most Palestinians live in poor housing while their leaders live in palaces? Look, I know how most of the world feels about Palestinians and Israelis. People like an underdog, and the Palestinians really do live in nasty conditions. So all this money pours into the Palestinian cause. Millions of dollars. Billions, even. Where does that money go, pray tell?
I know the equation. For every Halley in Israel, there's another among the Palestinians. And those Palestinian Halleys have had a nasty time, to say the least. And I understand the desire to defend home, land, family. After all, every Israeli (almost, haredim, ahem ahem!) serves in the army. Everyone--theoretically--puts his life on the line. So I can understand the Palestinian militias. But how can any mother let their son (or daughter now) go off on a suicide bombing mission? Don't you WANT your children home alive?
Man, I'm depressed now. I've got more to say--a lot more--but I honestly don't feel like talking about it now. I'll post the lastest poetry instead.
I support the peace plan. I support the two-state solution. And I understand that evacuation is necessary for that to happen. It's the inevitable equation. And there are many, many other Jews like me. Most Jews in the States are fairly liberal and also support withdrawal, though of course there is a sizable chunk with their doubts. Similarly, during the withdrawal last year, I believe (though I'm not certain) that a slight majority of the Israeli population also supported withdrawal (whether they do now is another story). But how, how do you tell your relatives, "Pick up and leave the homes you built behind." Jews shouldn't expell Jews. For thousands of years we have been chased from one end of the world to the other, forced out of Spain, France, England, Germany, old Judea, Iraq (chaval! The old Babylonian community!), Egypt, you get the idea. The whole POINT of Israel was to provide a refuge, one place where they would never be expelled again.
Jews shouldn't expell Jews, but sometimes you need to amputate a diseased limb.
Gaza belongs to the Palestinians. We built our homeland in Old Judea; it's only fair they build theirs. And so there needs to be a sacrifice. But the soldiers wept when they forced the settlers out and for good reason too.
Which is why I get so pissed at Hamas!! Why they hell are they firing rockets?!?! Hell, why are they spending money on rockets in the first place??? What about homes? Schools? Hospitals? Basic infrastructure, for heavens' sake?? It gets me so pissed off. Israel fucked over the Palestinians--there's no doubt about it. And undoubtedly the government should contribute to rebuilding Palestinian infrastructure and help get people out of those Godforsaken refugee camps. But why does Hamas spend so much money on rockets? Why is it that most Palestinians live in poor housing while their leaders live in palaces? Look, I know how most of the world feels about Palestinians and Israelis. People like an underdog, and the Palestinians really do live in nasty conditions. So all this money pours into the Palestinian cause. Millions of dollars. Billions, even. Where does that money go, pray tell?
I know the equation. For every Halley in Israel, there's another among the Palestinians. And those Palestinian Halleys have had a nasty time, to say the least. And I understand the desire to defend home, land, family. After all, every Israeli (almost, haredim, ahem ahem!) serves in the army. Everyone--theoretically--puts his life on the line. So I can understand the Palestinian militias. But how can any mother let their son (or daughter now) go off on a suicide bombing mission? Don't you WANT your children home alive?
Man, I'm depressed now. I've got more to say--a lot more--but I honestly don't feel like talking about it now. I'll post the lastest poetry instead.
Denver
Whoosh! I'd be a mess if this had been a full schoolday. The past week was pretty tough, and this weekend we flew to Denver and back. You heard right--quickie 24-hour trip. We were visiting our cousins Bev and Moe. They're on Dad's side of the family. Strange--we've always been closer to Dad's family than Mom's. We keep up with Diane and Jac and the rest of the clan over in Israel, but we don't often see the relatives in Ohio. In fact, I think I was surprised when I learned that we had relatives in Akron. Mom just isn't as close with her family as Dad is to his. A story she likes to tell about Grandma Barbara and Grandpa Sandy is when Dad introduced her to them, they just opened their doors. "Welcome." And, well, I guess you've heard about the stuff that's gone down recently. Oh wait--I didn't tell you the lastest adventure. But that can wait a moment. First, Denver.
Moe looked much better than I expected. After watching Grandpa Sandy slowly decline over the years, and watching Grandma Betty fall apart completely, I expected him to be bedridden. Or something. But he looked like a healthy old man--just one with an oxygen tank. He also had some trouble moving around (he used a wheelchair and walker), but that I'm used to because Grandpa Sandy always needed a walker or cane because he had lost a leg to diabetes.
We went to this Tex/Mex bar and hung out. I think it might have once been owned by the family. Here's the thing--the dinner with the relatives was also a business meeting with some of Bev's associates. Well, I say meeting--it was more like a get-together between people in the same business. I felt odd--kind of like the city cousin come to visit the small town cousin, God forgive me for saying. But really, it did feel odd. I don't go to bars (being a minor and not liking alcohol anyways) and I don't like Tex/Mex. That, and I was tired after a 3-4 hour plane ride. I also had this lingering, awful headache--probably from altitude sickness.
Still, it was nice to see the family. Missy had a baby almost a year ago--Zoe. And she's ADORABLE!!! But you know me--I go bonkers over wittle babies. Must be a girl thing or something. Zoe is surprisingly quiet--she didn't really cry or complain about anything. Just pointed or reached for the person she wanted to hold her. But she walks very well already and has two teeth! Eeeeeee!! Debbie is also pregnant via artifical insemination. The baby's due in July. Maybe then we can go out there for a longer visit. Well, maybe not me--Mom wants me to stay in Israel when the school Israel trip finishes. Complete immersion, etc. (Dad's not so excited).
Anyway, Bev took us down to her glasses store. It's really remarkable--she gets these glasses from all over the world, and they look NOTHING like the boring old frames you see in most stores. You get these crazy, goofy European glasses that are just darling. For example, one of the pairs I just got has this lacy red frame--it's kind of hard to describe, but it's adorable. Mom says it's like going into a candy shop, and she's right. The shop is amazing. Thing is, when people talk to you, they usually look you in the eye. So glasses can make a big impression if they're the right kind. Which is why it's so important to get a good set of glasses. I believe in the value of looking good (though I don't always follow through on that value!), though one should not go over the top. Just make a small effort to look nice, because it makes a much better impression on the rest of the world. Heh heh--listen to me going on like some fashion mogul. I don't really follow fashion--just buy the clothes I think look nice. I suppose this comes from being the granddaughter of a textiles businessman (Grandpa Sandy).
Anyway, I asked Moe how they got into the glasses business, and he said they'd been working in it for twenty-some years. They were involved in importation mainly at first. Later they got a factory--a bad decision, Moe said. Later, when importation became very expensive ("you needed a lot of money to import," to quote Moe) they set up the glasses store in this small mall in Denver. All of their kids live in Denver, which is very nice, I think.
You have to understand--our family in general is spread all over the States. Texas, for example, and Ohio, Conneticut, South Carolina, and of course our little clump in the DC area. Grandma Betty and Grandpa Ben live up in Baltimore, Uncle Jeff lives in a suburb, and Uncle Steve lives...somewhere near. I think in Virginia. Like I said, we don't keep up as much as a family with Mom's brothers, not because there's a family split, but because they're just not close. Though they've been calling each other a lot with this crisis over Grandma and Grandpa.
There's also the overseas family. I think Mom has a cousin in Hong Kong, but I don't know anything about him. Ben-Ari actually comes from the Israeli side of the family, but he moved to Toronto to get a medical degree (med school in Israel is very crowded, probably because all the mothers want their kids to grow up to be nice Jewish doctahs). He met and married Eve there, and they've just had a baby--Noam--so I'm pretty certain they're rooted there. Then, of course, there's not one but TWO branches of the Mazer/Goldberg clan in Israel. Ben-Ami and his wife moved there even before 1948 I believe (not certain, though) and lived on a Moshav. Later Diane and Jac moved there with their kids. Most of the family still lives around Jerusalem, I believe, except for Haley, who married Danny and moved out to the West Bank. Near Nablus. Yeah. Tough situation. I'd like to see them when I go to Israel, but Mom will never let me go out to the West Bank. I wish they would move in-- at the very least to the bloc near Jerusalem. What should I say--go abandon the place you've spent most of your life in and move somewhere else? I love Haley and the kids, but we don't talk politics with them.
Moe looked much better than I expected. After watching Grandpa Sandy slowly decline over the years, and watching Grandma Betty fall apart completely, I expected him to be bedridden. Or something. But he looked like a healthy old man--just one with an oxygen tank. He also had some trouble moving around (he used a wheelchair and walker), but that I'm used to because Grandpa Sandy always needed a walker or cane because he had lost a leg to diabetes.
We went to this Tex/Mex bar and hung out. I think it might have once been owned by the family. Here's the thing--the dinner with the relatives was also a business meeting with some of Bev's associates. Well, I say meeting--it was more like a get-together between people in the same business. I felt odd--kind of like the city cousin come to visit the small town cousin, God forgive me for saying. But really, it did feel odd. I don't go to bars (being a minor and not liking alcohol anyways) and I don't like Tex/Mex. That, and I was tired after a 3-4 hour plane ride. I also had this lingering, awful headache--probably from altitude sickness.
Still, it was nice to see the family. Missy had a baby almost a year ago--Zoe. And she's ADORABLE!!! But you know me--I go bonkers over wittle babies. Must be a girl thing or something. Zoe is surprisingly quiet--she didn't really cry or complain about anything. Just pointed or reached for the person she wanted to hold her. But she walks very well already and has two teeth! Eeeeeee!! Debbie is also pregnant via artifical insemination. The baby's due in July. Maybe then we can go out there for a longer visit. Well, maybe not me--Mom wants me to stay in Israel when the school Israel trip finishes. Complete immersion, etc. (Dad's not so excited).
Anyway, Bev took us down to her glasses store. It's really remarkable--she gets these glasses from all over the world, and they look NOTHING like the boring old frames you see in most stores. You get these crazy, goofy European glasses that are just darling. For example, one of the pairs I just got has this lacy red frame--it's kind of hard to describe, but it's adorable. Mom says it's like going into a candy shop, and she's right. The shop is amazing. Thing is, when people talk to you, they usually look you in the eye. So glasses can make a big impression if they're the right kind. Which is why it's so important to get a good set of glasses. I believe in the value of looking good (though I don't always follow through on that value!), though one should not go over the top. Just make a small effort to look nice, because it makes a much better impression on the rest of the world. Heh heh--listen to me going on like some fashion mogul. I don't really follow fashion--just buy the clothes I think look nice. I suppose this comes from being the granddaughter of a textiles businessman (Grandpa Sandy).
Anyway, I asked Moe how they got into the glasses business, and he said they'd been working in it for twenty-some years. They were involved in importation mainly at first. Later they got a factory--a bad decision, Moe said. Later, when importation became very expensive ("you needed a lot of money to import," to quote Moe) they set up the glasses store in this small mall in Denver. All of their kids live in Denver, which is very nice, I think.
You have to understand--our family in general is spread all over the States. Texas, for example, and Ohio, Conneticut, South Carolina, and of course our little clump in the DC area. Grandma Betty and Grandpa Ben live up in Baltimore, Uncle Jeff lives in a suburb, and Uncle Steve lives...somewhere near. I think in Virginia. Like I said, we don't keep up as much as a family with Mom's brothers, not because there's a family split, but because they're just not close. Though they've been calling each other a lot with this crisis over Grandma and Grandpa.
There's also the overseas family. I think Mom has a cousin in Hong Kong, but I don't know anything about him. Ben-Ari actually comes from the Israeli side of the family, but he moved to Toronto to get a medical degree (med school in Israel is very crowded, probably because all the mothers want their kids to grow up to be nice Jewish doctahs). He met and married Eve there, and they've just had a baby--Noam--so I'm pretty certain they're rooted there. Then, of course, there's not one but TWO branches of the Mazer/Goldberg clan in Israel. Ben-Ami and his wife moved there even before 1948 I believe (not certain, though) and lived on a Moshav. Later Diane and Jac moved there with their kids. Most of the family still lives around Jerusalem, I believe, except for Haley, who married Danny and moved out to the West Bank. Near Nablus. Yeah. Tough situation. I'd like to see them when I go to Israel, but Mom will never let me go out to the West Bank. I wish they would move in-- at the very least to the bloc near Jerusalem. What should I say--go abandon the place you've spent most of your life in and move somewhere else? I love Haley and the kids, but we don't talk politics with them.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Death
Neither god nor skeleton nor
Pretty-faced girl, but rather
A sweetsmiling granny in
Slippers and bathrobe
With a hot mug of Alzheimer's
Clasped between her bony fingers.
She feeds it, drop by drop
To her patients lying abed
Slowly slipping away from her
Silent ministrations.
And then, afterwards,
A heartworm in the guts of survivors
Gnawing and gnawing and--
The pain strikes, a bolt of lightning,
Electric shock, a burst of tears
Geysering at random moments:
It's not the missing so much as the
Regret, softsharp within,
Of memories never made.
Actually, this poem is more about my Grandfather--no, the other one--who died a year ago in August. It wasn't unexpected--he'd been sick for years (diabetes), and had suddenly begun declining early in June. We were actually about to visit when we got the call that he died. I'm grateful that he went fast, instead of lingering for months on end--it's better that way. But since then, I've learned all this stuff about my grandfather--in particular, what a strong man he was. Oh, he had his flaws, but everyone who knew him remembers him as this engine of a man who got up around five or six and went to bed at one or even later. The grandpa I knew was a fragile, slow (literally--he moved very slow because he had lost a leg to diabetes) old man, very dignified and intelligent to the very man. And I wish I'd known him as the man he was for most of his life. It depresses me. I know, I know, this sounds very soppy, but it's true--it's not the losing that hurts so much as the regret. You regret all those times you didn't visit, that you didn't say anything, that you'll only have a handful of memories already fading with time.
Pretty-faced girl, but rather
A sweetsmiling granny in
Slippers and bathrobe
With a hot mug of Alzheimer's
Clasped between her bony fingers.
She feeds it, drop by drop
To her patients lying abed
Slowly slipping away from her
Silent ministrations.
And then, afterwards,
A heartworm in the guts of survivors
Gnawing and gnawing and--
The pain strikes, a bolt of lightning,
Electric shock, a burst of tears
Geysering at random moments:
It's not the missing so much as the
Regret, softsharp within,
Of memories never made.
Actually, this poem is more about my Grandfather--no, the other one--who died a year ago in August. It wasn't unexpected--he'd been sick for years (diabetes), and had suddenly begun declining early in June. We were actually about to visit when we got the call that he died. I'm grateful that he went fast, instead of lingering for months on end--it's better that way. But since then, I've learned all this stuff about my grandfather--in particular, what a strong man he was. Oh, he had his flaws, but everyone who knew him remembers him as this engine of a man who got up around five or six and went to bed at one or even later. The grandpa I knew was a fragile, slow (literally--he moved very slow because he had lost a leg to diabetes) old man, very dignified and intelligent to the very man. And I wish I'd known him as the man he was for most of his life. It depresses me. I know, I know, this sounds very soppy, but it's true--it's not the losing that hurts so much as the regret. You regret all those times you didn't visit, that you didn't say anything, that you'll only have a handful of memories already fading with time.
Letter to My Mother, 11/20/06
Another poem from class. Actually, it comes from an exercise I invented: Write a frank poem about your parents. It was part of a presentation on Sharon Olds.
Letter to My Mother, 11/20/06
Yesterday
You shouted at me.
Called me a liar and
Told me my essay was crap--
Ruined!--all because
Of one line:
"You'll never get into college,"
You said. "It's amateurish
And contrived. They'll
Never let you in with that."
I shouted back
"It's MY essay, MY application!"
And when dad took my side
(You, turning to scold him)
I ran upstairs to grab my purse,
And return, wallet in hand,
To send in the application--
Not to finish it, but to
Anger you more.
MY card, MY application
And none of your damn business!
Later on you came down with
A perfect cup of tea.
Chai, with milk, and
Two sugar cubes on the side--
You know I drink my tea like
They do in Turkey:
Sugar cube clenched, melting
Crunchysweet between my teeth
And hot liquid scalding my tongue.
I remember your face
At 10 o'clock last morning:
"Things are going to change,"
You said, and introduced
The latest development in the crisis
With grandma and grandpa
Frozenserious like the way
You told us, five years before,
About the spot they'd found
On your latest mammogram.
I took your words emptily
And never shed a tear
Patted the bed beside me. You
Sat down, my arm around you--
We never said a single word
Letter to My Mother, 11/20/06
Yesterday
You shouted at me.
Called me a liar and
Told me my essay was crap--
Ruined!--all because
Of one line:
"You'll never get into college,"
You said. "It's amateurish
And contrived. They'll
Never let you in with that."
I shouted back
"It's MY essay, MY application!"
And when dad took my side
(You, turning to scold him)
I ran upstairs to grab my purse,
And return, wallet in hand,
To send in the application--
Not to finish it, but to
Anger you more.
MY card, MY application
And none of your damn business!
Later on you came down with
A perfect cup of tea.
Chai, with milk, and
Two sugar cubes on the side--
You know I drink my tea like
They do in Turkey:
Sugar cube clenched, melting
Crunchysweet between my teeth
And hot liquid scalding my tongue.
I remember your face
At 10 o'clock last morning:
"Things are going to change,"
You said, and introduced
The latest development in the crisis
With grandma and grandpa
Frozenserious like the way
You told us, five years before,
About the spot they'd found
On your latest mammogram.
I took your words emptily
And never shed a tear
Patted the bed beside me. You
Sat down, my arm around you--
We never said a single word
Sunday, November 26, 2006
In Memorial: Pierre Gemayel
Yes, this is late, but I'm afraid I've been kept out of my blog for the past few days. Damn you Blogger Beta!
But now is not the time. Right now, I want to write about Pierre Gemayel and Lebanon.
First, I'd like to point out the sheer tragedy of the situation. The brutality is simply breathtaking--they surrounded his car and poured lead into it. You look at pictures of the car, it's a wreck. Gemayel was a young man (34!) with life ahead of him and did not deserve this kind of death.
But what is truly breathtaking is the sheer chutzpah that goes into this assassination. They did this in broad daylight--broad daylight!! The assassins are saying, "We do not care about the sanctity of life. We do not care about civilization. We do not care about the will of the people. We do not care about accountibility or law and order. We do not give a DAMN about the democratic process." By assassinating Gemayel--an action they must have known would destabilize Lebanon--they prove that they do not care about the well-being of Lebanon. It disgusts me.
More importantly, it convinces me that the perpetrator is Syria. Gemayel was a minister in the government--with his death, the government slips closer to destruction. Assad is trying to stop the tribunal at all costs. But more importantly, he is trying to throw Lebanon into chaos. A Lebanon in the midst of a civil war would give him the opportunity to reassert his hegemony over the country. Hell, he might even be able to send in the army.
I hope to God that it wasn't Hizballah though. Yes, I know--it's Hizballah we're talking about, a bunch of thugs. I know the disregard they've shown for international law, e.g., declaring war on Israel WITHOUT THE CONSENT OF THE REST OF THE LEBANESE PEOPLE. And they are certainly more interested in their own power than the democratic process, as can be seen by their earlier threat to mobilize until Hizballah was given one third of the ministerial posts (e.g., veto power). But I hope Hassan Nasrallah cares enough about his own country not to pull something like this. But I would be naive to count out the possibility.
Overall, a terrible tragedy for Lebanon. Hopefully, the new mobilization of the March 14th coalition will stop Hizballah in its tracks (and indeed, Hizballah did postpone the planned demonstrations). What would be better is for everyone to stop and think: is this what we want for our country? Where assassinations and murder determine political decisions? Because I am sure that any sane Lebanese will say "No" to that option. They've been though a civil war. They don't need another. Things have gotten much more tense since Gemayel's death, but hopefully people will stop before that tension becomes war. (Though if you read the Post, it would seem like the country is on the verge of a war!) Okay, okay, burn a few posters and shout a few obsenities (frankly speaking I sympathize, though I'm not about to burn anything) but don't carry it beyond that. As such, thanks to all the politicians who, while calling for action, have still urged for peace.
My condolences go out to Gemayel's family and friends in this difficult times. Rest in Peace Pierre Gemayel--may your death not be in vain.
P.S. For a blog with excellent insight on the situation, I recommend beirutspring.com. Great blog for all those interested in Lebanese affairs.
But now is not the time. Right now, I want to write about Pierre Gemayel and Lebanon.
First, I'd like to point out the sheer tragedy of the situation. The brutality is simply breathtaking--they surrounded his car and poured lead into it. You look at pictures of the car, it's a wreck. Gemayel was a young man (34!) with life ahead of him and did not deserve this kind of death.
But what is truly breathtaking is the sheer chutzpah that goes into this assassination. They did this in broad daylight--broad daylight!! The assassins are saying, "We do not care about the sanctity of life. We do not care about civilization. We do not care about the will of the people. We do not care about accountibility or law and order. We do not give a DAMN about the democratic process." By assassinating Gemayel--an action they must have known would destabilize Lebanon--they prove that they do not care about the well-being of Lebanon. It disgusts me.
More importantly, it convinces me that the perpetrator is Syria. Gemayel was a minister in the government--with his death, the government slips closer to destruction. Assad is trying to stop the tribunal at all costs. But more importantly, he is trying to throw Lebanon into chaos. A Lebanon in the midst of a civil war would give him the opportunity to reassert his hegemony over the country. Hell, he might even be able to send in the army.
I hope to God that it wasn't Hizballah though. Yes, I know--it's Hizballah we're talking about, a bunch of thugs. I know the disregard they've shown for international law, e.g., declaring war on Israel WITHOUT THE CONSENT OF THE REST OF THE LEBANESE PEOPLE. And they are certainly more interested in their own power than the democratic process, as can be seen by their earlier threat to mobilize until Hizballah was given one third of the ministerial posts (e.g., veto power). But I hope Hassan Nasrallah cares enough about his own country not to pull something like this. But I would be naive to count out the possibility.
Overall, a terrible tragedy for Lebanon. Hopefully, the new mobilization of the March 14th coalition will stop Hizballah in its tracks (and indeed, Hizballah did postpone the planned demonstrations). What would be better is for everyone to stop and think: is this what we want for our country? Where assassinations and murder determine political decisions? Because I am sure that any sane Lebanese will say "No" to that option. They've been though a civil war. They don't need another. Things have gotten much more tense since Gemayel's death, but hopefully people will stop before that tension becomes war. (Though if you read the Post, it would seem like the country is on the verge of a war!) Okay, okay, burn a few posters and shout a few obsenities (frankly speaking I sympathize, though I'm not about to burn anything) but don't carry it beyond that. As such, thanks to all the politicians who, while calling for action, have still urged for peace.
My condolences go out to Gemayel's family and friends in this difficult times. Rest in Peace Pierre Gemayel--may your death not be in vain.
P.S. For a blog with excellent insight on the situation, I recommend beirutspring.com. Great blog for all those interested in Lebanese affairs.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Grandparent Crisis, part 2
Latest update--apparently Grandma isn't coming to stay with us after all. Mom told me while driving me home today (that's right, I still don't have my license. Shut up.) that the doctor suddenly changed his mind. He isn't going to declare Grandpa incapable, at least not yet. First they're going to run those neurological tests. Afterwards? Maybe. After all, the disorientation may have just been a temporary flash. The doctor suggested calling Adult Care Services (or whatever the equivalent of Child Care Services is), but Mom isn't going to do that, not yet. She says that the government will only interfere if it's really, really obvious that the person is suffering neglect. And how (to quote Mom) do you show a person isn't eating? ...Don't look at me like that. It's not like she's wasting away. Well, she is, but slowly. Over the years. In that aging sort of way, you can contribute it to the general downhill slide. Grandma eats, just not much.
It's almost ironic. When I was young, I didn't eat a lot. Still don't eat so much (least in the mornings). I weighed very little as a child. My grandparents were always asking me everytime they saw me--"How much do you weigh?" And if I'd gain pounds, Grandpa would give me money. Well, he's a grandpa. He probably would have done that anyway, you know how grandparents spoil the kids. But it was like a reward for gaining weight. And then Grandma was always urging me to eat, eat. She always had a stash of candy to feed me, God, I remember that stash. Mom says she used to do the same when she was young. Maybe something left over from the Depression?
And now, when she's very old and not doing so well, Grandma still urges me to eat. I'm eating, I tell her, what about you? I won't eat if you don't eat. I weigh a perfectly normal amount, 120-something at last count (long time ago, admittedly)--it's Grandma who's underweight. And she's still telling me to eat. And barely touching the food on her plate. It's heartbreaking. Every meal is a struggle. Another reason why it's so painful to visit them.
They're still coming down from Baltimore for Thanksgiving. Mom might drive them down. I think she wants to take away Grandpa's license--she's afraid that he'll hurt somebody. She's been talking about that a lot lately--guess the disorientation thing really scared her. What if he crashes the car into the curb?--that kind of thought. Well, the doctor told her that you can't take a license away against someone's will, unless there's an incident. But she told me tonight that what he said wasn't true. If she reports Grandpa, he'll have to take a driving test, and officials will decide whether he can drive or not.
It's almost ironic. When I was young, I didn't eat a lot. Still don't eat so much (least in the mornings). I weighed very little as a child. My grandparents were always asking me everytime they saw me--"How much do you weigh?" And if I'd gain pounds, Grandpa would give me money. Well, he's a grandpa. He probably would have done that anyway, you know how grandparents spoil the kids. But it was like a reward for gaining weight. And then Grandma was always urging me to eat, eat. She always had a stash of candy to feed me, God, I remember that stash. Mom says she used to do the same when she was young. Maybe something left over from the Depression?
And now, when she's very old and not doing so well, Grandma still urges me to eat. I'm eating, I tell her, what about you? I won't eat if you don't eat. I weigh a perfectly normal amount, 120-something at last count (long time ago, admittedly)--it's Grandma who's underweight. And she's still telling me to eat. And barely touching the food on her plate. It's heartbreaking. Every meal is a struggle. Another reason why it's so painful to visit them.
They're still coming down from Baltimore for Thanksgiving. Mom might drive them down. I think she wants to take away Grandpa's license--she's afraid that he'll hurt somebody. She's been talking about that a lot lately--guess the disorientation thing really scared her. What if he crashes the car into the curb?--that kind of thought. Well, the doctor told her that you can't take a license away against someone's will, unless there's an incident. But she told me tonight that what he said wasn't true. If she reports Grandpa, he'll have to take a driving test, and officials will decide whether he can drive or not.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Feel it in My Knees, Part 2
Which brings us to today. And college. And applications. And essays. And arguments.
God I so fucking hate this entire process. It is hell. Hell on earth. I swear, AP and college board are you enemies, they just want to fuck up your life as much as possible. And sometimes I wonder, what the fuck is with these colleges?!! These crazy applications!!!
Fortunately, I managed to get most of my applications over and done with much earlier. But I still had my pittsburgh and common app to send out. today I decided to send out the Pitt one. Which brings us to the current situation.
See, my mom ain't satsified with my college essay. She's an editor--I guess it comes naturally. And there were some slight improvements she wanted to make. I can't tell you why I get so upset every time she brings it up--I think it's fine, and I just want to send the damn application off. We were shouting back and forth. Dad was getting involved, too:
Lawrie: Alright alright, I made all the changes!!
Mom: No you didn't! You didn't take out this phrase here!!
L: That's because I wanted it in!
M: It's stupid and you should take it out! It'll drag down your entire essay!
Dad: No it won't. It's colloquial.
M: Look, I'm an editor, I know these things! And you said you made all the changes!
L: Well I did!
M: You didn't change that line! That's the most important change!
L: I wanted it in!
M: Then you didn't make all the changes! You're lying!
Etc.
I just got so upset that I actually got my debit card and submitted the damn application itself while my mom and dad were arguing over whether the phrase "No, I'm lying--" was acceptable or not. And of course all the agony over my grandparest poured into it, we were all just shouting at each other. Talk about a breaking point. I just couldn't stand it anymore. I felt so unhappy and tense. I still feel that way right now. And that's when I started thinking about you, dear friend. I needed to get this stress out somehow. Hence these two posts. Just so you know how shitty my life is at the moment.
I remember reading a phrase somewhere, "Stop the world, I want to get off." Boy, do I feel that way now.
God I so fucking hate this entire process. It is hell. Hell on earth. I swear, AP and college board are you enemies, they just want to fuck up your life as much as possible. And sometimes I wonder, what the fuck is with these colleges?!! These crazy applications!!!
Fortunately, I managed to get most of my applications over and done with much earlier. But I still had my pittsburgh and common app to send out. today I decided to send out the Pitt one. Which brings us to the current situation.
See, my mom ain't satsified with my college essay. She's an editor--I guess it comes naturally. And there were some slight improvements she wanted to make. I can't tell you why I get so upset every time she brings it up--I think it's fine, and I just want to send the damn application off. We were shouting back and forth. Dad was getting involved, too:
Lawrie: Alright alright, I made all the changes!!
Mom: No you didn't! You didn't take out this phrase here!!
L: That's because I wanted it in!
M: It's stupid and you should take it out! It'll drag down your entire essay!
Dad: No it won't. It's colloquial.
M: Look, I'm an editor, I know these things! And you said you made all the changes!
L: Well I did!
M: You didn't change that line! That's the most important change!
L: I wanted it in!
M: Then you didn't make all the changes! You're lying!
Etc.
I just got so upset that I actually got my debit card and submitted the damn application itself while my mom and dad were arguing over whether the phrase "No, I'm lying--" was acceptable or not. And of course all the agony over my grandparest poured into it, we were all just shouting at each other. Talk about a breaking point. I just couldn't stand it anymore. I felt so unhappy and tense. I still feel that way right now. And that's when I started thinking about you, dear friend. I needed to get this stress out somehow. Hence these two posts. Just so you know how shitty my life is at the moment.
I remember reading a phrase somewhere, "Stop the world, I want to get off." Boy, do I feel that way now.
Feel it in My Knees, Part 1
Every time i get tense, I can feel it in my knees. So right now, when I'm feeling that funny "oh-crap-my-life-sucks" feeling in my knees, I know I'm tense. All the shit really hit the fan this weekend, and what I was hoping would be a nice break from the tough times at school has turned into a nightmare.
First, grandparents. You have to understand, this goes back to when I was thirteen. At least, that's when I date it back to. 2001-2002 (seventh grade): The Year My Life Turned to Shit. Nothing wrong in school or friends, just everything else when wrong. Bat Mitzvah (huge stress), brother got sick, Mom got sick (as in cancer sick, but don't worry, they caught it very early and she's fine), Dad lost his job, I got my foot run over, and all through this a hellish renovation. And Grandma starts to fall apart. That was seventh grade.
But all those problems I noted above got solved by the end of the year. The renovation ended. Mom's cancer was solved very quickly--it was very tiny, just beginning, so they zapped that tumor to nothing. Dad got another job. Jacob got better. I was wearing thick shoes and socks when my foot got run over, so I came out okay. But Grandma didn't get better.
Turns out she'd had a series of mini-strokes. She couldn't function so well anymore. At first, it was (relatively) minor--I mean, she could still keep it together, though she was notably fragile. But over the years it's just gotten worse and worse. She can't order from a menu anymore. She doesn't know how to make choices. She gets disoriented very easily. She can't follow conversations. She has a hard time forming sentences. You get the idea.
This is hard enough to watch by itself, but to make things worse is the situation with my grandfather. All this time my mother and uncles have been fighting it out with my grandfather over how grandma should be treated. They wanted to put her in assisted living, where she could be taken care of. He wanted to keep her at home. But they were worried (for good reason) that he wouldn't take care of her. Senior neglect. Like he wouldn't make sure that she was eating, bathing, things like that. I could go on and on. Like when he got upset because she lost control and urinated on herself. There's more, but I don't want to go into great detail. It feels like airing family secrets. But you get the idea.
And the thing is, as we got deeper and deeper into the fight over the years, all this stuff came out of my mom. I always knew she didn't really have a great family life growing up--I knew, for example, that as soon as she graduated she just piled her stuff into a friend's car and drove off, and never came back (not permanently, at least). But all these ugly stories started coming out, all these reflections on her family life, just started coming out. It was like a revelation. I never thought of my mom as coming from one of those SERIOUSLY dysfunctional families you hear about, with manipulative parents and mean siblings and everthing. And it was depressing, to impose this image onto my grandfather. I mean, he's my grandpa, right? I'm supposed to love him. But how do I deal with these stories?
And the thing was, it wasn't just hearing these awful stories from mom, it was seeing the way grandpa acted about grandma. Because grandma was really going downhill, and grandpa simply wouldn't accept that. She hunches over, and he would tell her to stand up straight. She can't stand up straight! It's miserable. And every so often there would be a crisis of some sort, and then I'd come downstairs on weekends to eat my cheerios, and there's mom having this scary conversation clearly about my grandparents over the phone. Depressing. Seriously sad. And this has been going on for years.
I should mention at this point that I always regarded my grandfather as very healthy for his age. He regularly swam at the local JCC--even boasted about the number of laps he could still do. Very healthy. Good shape. I just want you to understand that before I go on.
Now you see, in the past year or so I've slowly become aware that grandpa isn't doing so well himself. Getting, well, a little senile. But I never thought it more than that.
But this Friday, we get this call from his doctor. Apparently grandpa went somewhere and got seriously disoriented, had no idea where he was. So he called his doctor and told him the problem. The doctor called us to tell us that there's probably something wrong with his brain. As in, defintely not able to take care of grandma. As in, maybe Alzheimer's? Mom mentioned that as a possibility, I dunno. How scary is that? But there's definitely something wrong. It's finally reached the breaking point. The shit has really hit the fan. I guess it's not much of a surprise. Only, instead of the problem being about my grandma, as I expected, it's about my grandpa.
So mom comes into my room today and says, things are going to change. They're finally taking grandma away from granpa--sending in a sheriff to take her out of there. And so she'll be with us for a few days. I took it in silence. I already knew about the troubles; this was just a new development. And Uncle Leonard will be coming up from Houston after they take this action. He's a lawyer. He'll know how to handle the situation.
I just took the news blankly. It's weird, but whenever I get these Life-Shaking Revelations, I never react that loudly. Not usually. I guess I just shut off, detatch myself. I felt empty, in a way--like I should have some dramatic, Hollywood reaction. But I felt nothing. Just like I should comfort my mom. And also, "Oh shit."
Because you see, I've come to dread seeing my grandparents. There, I've said it. I feel like I should. It's my duty, isn't it? Like you hear all these old people complaining their kids don't visit them--well, I'm not going to be one of those people. And yes, I love them, but in a way that make it harder. It's so depressing, to see Grandma all falling apart. Almost smothering. I get tense and unhappy. I can't stand it for long. And as soon as I see them, I want to leave. I don't say any of this to them, of course, though I've mentioned something like this along the lines to my mom. Not as an insult. But you have to understand, I've got a pretty good relationship with my mom.
And now my grandma is coming to live with us. Not now, but in the future. Probably. God. I don't know what I'm going to do.
I'm sorry if this post is a little scatterbrained and grammatically incorrect, but I think you can understand that I'm not very together at this moment.
First, grandparents. You have to understand, this goes back to when I was thirteen. At least, that's when I date it back to. 2001-2002 (seventh grade): The Year My Life Turned to Shit. Nothing wrong in school or friends, just everything else when wrong. Bat Mitzvah (huge stress), brother got sick, Mom got sick (as in cancer sick, but don't worry, they caught it very early and she's fine), Dad lost his job, I got my foot run over, and all through this a hellish renovation. And Grandma starts to fall apart. That was seventh grade.
But all those problems I noted above got solved by the end of the year. The renovation ended. Mom's cancer was solved very quickly--it was very tiny, just beginning, so they zapped that tumor to nothing. Dad got another job. Jacob got better. I was wearing thick shoes and socks when my foot got run over, so I came out okay. But Grandma didn't get better.
Turns out she'd had a series of mini-strokes. She couldn't function so well anymore. At first, it was (relatively) minor--I mean, she could still keep it together, though she was notably fragile. But over the years it's just gotten worse and worse. She can't order from a menu anymore. She doesn't know how to make choices. She gets disoriented very easily. She can't follow conversations. She has a hard time forming sentences. You get the idea.
This is hard enough to watch by itself, but to make things worse is the situation with my grandfather. All this time my mother and uncles have been fighting it out with my grandfather over how grandma should be treated. They wanted to put her in assisted living, where she could be taken care of. He wanted to keep her at home. But they were worried (for good reason) that he wouldn't take care of her. Senior neglect. Like he wouldn't make sure that she was eating, bathing, things like that. I could go on and on. Like when he got upset because she lost control and urinated on herself. There's more, but I don't want to go into great detail. It feels like airing family secrets. But you get the idea.
And the thing is, as we got deeper and deeper into the fight over the years, all this stuff came out of my mom. I always knew she didn't really have a great family life growing up--I knew, for example, that as soon as she graduated she just piled her stuff into a friend's car and drove off, and never came back (not permanently, at least). But all these ugly stories started coming out, all these reflections on her family life, just started coming out. It was like a revelation. I never thought of my mom as coming from one of those SERIOUSLY dysfunctional families you hear about, with manipulative parents and mean siblings and everthing. And it was depressing, to impose this image onto my grandfather. I mean, he's my grandpa, right? I'm supposed to love him. But how do I deal with these stories?
And the thing was, it wasn't just hearing these awful stories from mom, it was seeing the way grandpa acted about grandma. Because grandma was really going downhill, and grandpa simply wouldn't accept that. She hunches over, and he would tell her to stand up straight. She can't stand up straight! It's miserable. And every so often there would be a crisis of some sort, and then I'd come downstairs on weekends to eat my cheerios, and there's mom having this scary conversation clearly about my grandparents over the phone. Depressing. Seriously sad. And this has been going on for years.
I should mention at this point that I always regarded my grandfather as very healthy for his age. He regularly swam at the local JCC--even boasted about the number of laps he could still do. Very healthy. Good shape. I just want you to understand that before I go on.
Now you see, in the past year or so I've slowly become aware that grandpa isn't doing so well himself. Getting, well, a little senile. But I never thought it more than that.
But this Friday, we get this call from his doctor. Apparently grandpa went somewhere and got seriously disoriented, had no idea where he was. So he called his doctor and told him the problem. The doctor called us to tell us that there's probably something wrong with his brain. As in, defintely not able to take care of grandma. As in, maybe Alzheimer's? Mom mentioned that as a possibility, I dunno. How scary is that? But there's definitely something wrong. It's finally reached the breaking point. The shit has really hit the fan. I guess it's not much of a surprise. Only, instead of the problem being about my grandma, as I expected, it's about my grandpa.
So mom comes into my room today and says, things are going to change. They're finally taking grandma away from granpa--sending in a sheriff to take her out of there. And so she'll be with us for a few days. I took it in silence. I already knew about the troubles; this was just a new development. And Uncle Leonard will be coming up from Houston after they take this action. He's a lawyer. He'll know how to handle the situation.
I just took the news blankly. It's weird, but whenever I get these Life-Shaking Revelations, I never react that loudly. Not usually. I guess I just shut off, detatch myself. I felt empty, in a way--like I should have some dramatic, Hollywood reaction. But I felt nothing. Just like I should comfort my mom. And also, "Oh shit."
Because you see, I've come to dread seeing my grandparents. There, I've said it. I feel like I should. It's my duty, isn't it? Like you hear all these old people complaining their kids don't visit them--well, I'm not going to be one of those people. And yes, I love them, but in a way that make it harder. It's so depressing, to see Grandma all falling apart. Almost smothering. I get tense and unhappy. I can't stand it for long. And as soon as I see them, I want to leave. I don't say any of this to them, of course, though I've mentioned something like this along the lines to my mom. Not as an insult. But you have to understand, I've got a pretty good relationship with my mom.
And now my grandma is coming to live with us. Not now, but in the future. Probably. God. I don't know what I'm going to do.
I'm sorry if this post is a little scatterbrained and grammatically incorrect, but I think you can understand that I'm not very together at this moment.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Better Exercise, Better Result
Actually, the title's deceptive. I think this exercise was kinda stupid, but I liked what I got out of it.
As I'm sure you've noticed, I take Creative Wrting at school. We just entered the poetry unit. Today we were given a poem, called "Once in the 40s." I type it up, just so you can compare with what followed.
We were alone one night on a long
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
my wife and I, and left our ride at
a crossing to go on. Tired and cold--but
brave--we trudged along. This, we said,
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time
when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.
So we had to type this poem up, triple space it, print it, and then write new lines in between each line. Weird, huh? I can't say I really like the idea--I want my poetry to be my own. I get really hung up when people ask me to imitate other writers. How do you expect me to do that?? Style is something natural, it just FLOWS--and I don't want to pick that flow from the story. Style is part of the fabric; pulling it out unwinds the piece.
Still, it wasn't like she was telling us to imitate the writer. Just put our lines in between his. Still not something I'm a fan of.
Actually, it got me thinking of Simon and Garfunkel. You know "Scarborough Fair"? I love that song. I'd love to perform it a cappella in a choir someday, though I'm sure it would be tough. But done right, it would be gorgeous. Maybe I'll suggest it to Mrs. P., who leads both choirs in school (I'm in the Women's Choir). I doubt I'll get a chance to sing it since I graduate in January--more on that later--but maybe in the future they'll do it and it will sound so pretty.
But Scarborough Fair. You know how Simon wrote this complementary song to it, "Canticle"? You can hear it at the end of each line if you listen carefully. That was what I wanted to achieve. I didn't want to add to the story the poem told; I wanted a complement. Or something. So here's how it turned out:
We were alone one night on a long
(empty freezing and flat)
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
(wrapped up in darkness, so cold so chill)
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
(eyes watching not saying a word)
my wife and I, and left our ride at
(abandoned at the center of the world)
a crossing to go on. tired and cold--but
(like gladiators, alone in arena)
brave--we trudged along. This, we said
(so isolated in the noise of the crowd)
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
(to play back regret, a dusty old tape)
where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time
(watch--stop--pause, and listen)
when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find
(to crackling dreams, burnt away to ash)
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
(the fuel for a fire so needed fro warmth)
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.
So my words (in parenthesis) were supposed to complement it--not be a part of it. Do you get it? And then we were supposed to rework our lines into yet another poem:
(empty freezing and flat)
(wrapped up in darkness, so cold so chill)
(eyes watching not saying a word)
(abandoned us at the center of the world)
(like gladiators alone in arena)
(so isolaed in the noise of the crowd)
(sword so bloody, surrounded by bodies)
(stories ended in a single thrust)
(a game, a sine, a dark melanoma)
(a blotch inerasable, marking the past)
(so play back regret, a dusty old tape)
(watch--stop--pause, and listen)
(to crackling dreams, burnt away to ash)
(the fuel for a fire so needed for warmth)
(that gives off smoke--the wisps of ghosts)
(stand silent, accusing)
(in the dark of night.)
The second verse is better, I think. Could use some work, but hey, first draft. I kinda like it, what do you think?
As I'm sure you've noticed, I take Creative Wrting at school. We just entered the poetry unit. Today we were given a poem, called "Once in the 40s." I type it up, just so you can compare with what followed.
We were alone one night on a long
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
my wife and I, and left our ride at
a crossing to go on. Tired and cold--but
brave--we trudged along. This, we said,
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time
when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.
So we had to type this poem up, triple space it, print it, and then write new lines in between each line. Weird, huh? I can't say I really like the idea--I want my poetry to be my own. I get really hung up when people ask me to imitate other writers. How do you expect me to do that?? Style is something natural, it just FLOWS--and I don't want to pick that flow from the story. Style is part of the fabric; pulling it out unwinds the piece.
Still, it wasn't like she was telling us to imitate the writer. Just put our lines in between his. Still not something I'm a fan of.
Actually, it got me thinking of Simon and Garfunkel. You know "Scarborough Fair"? I love that song. I'd love to perform it a cappella in a choir someday, though I'm sure it would be tough. But done right, it would be gorgeous. Maybe I'll suggest it to Mrs. P., who leads both choirs in school (I'm in the Women's Choir). I doubt I'll get a chance to sing it since I graduate in January--more on that later--but maybe in the future they'll do it and it will sound so pretty.
But Scarborough Fair. You know how Simon wrote this complementary song to it, "Canticle"? You can hear it at the end of each line if you listen carefully. That was what I wanted to achieve. I didn't want to add to the story the poem told; I wanted a complement. Or something. So here's how it turned out:
We were alone one night on a long
(empty freezing and flat)
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
(wrapped up in darkness, so cold so chill)
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
(eyes watching not saying a word)
my wife and I, and left our ride at
(abandoned at the center of the world)
a crossing to go on. tired and cold--but
(like gladiators, alone in arena)
brave--we trudged along. This, we said
(so isolated in the noise of the crowd)
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
(to play back regret, a dusty old tape)
where we wanted. We said we'd come back some time
(watch--stop--pause, and listen)
when we got rich. We'd leave the others and find
(to crackling dreams, burnt away to ash)
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
(the fuel for a fire so needed fro warmth)
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.
So my words (in parenthesis) were supposed to complement it--not be a part of it. Do you get it? And then we were supposed to rework our lines into yet another poem:
(empty freezing and flat)
(wrapped up in darkness, so cold so chill)
(eyes watching not saying a word)
(abandoned us at the center of the world)
(like gladiators alone in arena)
(so isolaed in the noise of the crowd)
(sword so bloody, surrounded by bodies)
(stories ended in a single thrust)
(a game, a sine, a dark melanoma)
(a blotch inerasable, marking the past)
(so play back regret, a dusty old tape)
(watch--stop--pause, and listen)
(to crackling dreams, burnt away to ash)
(the fuel for a fire so needed for warmth)
(that gives off smoke--the wisps of ghosts)
(stand silent, accusing)
(in the dark of night.)
The second verse is better, I think. Could use some work, but hey, first draft. I kinda like it, what do you think?
Monday, November 13, 2006
Sunday Tea
Just in case you think I suck as a writer, I'm gonna post one of my flash fictions from Creative Writing. I intend to use this blog to publish myself. Who knows, maybe someone will actually read them. HA HA! Just kidding.
This one is called "Sunday Tea."
I don’t like the strange woman. She’s too big, too stiff, and she has this look on her face, this big grin, like a Barbie doll, with lipstick smeared all over her lips. I don’t know why she smiles so much, but I smile back, even though she kind of scares me. You’re supposed to be polite to guests, that’s what Mum always says. But I don’t think Mum likes her, either. She seems pretty nervous. Still, she puts on a pot and makes tea for all of us. The lady sits herself on the sofa and looks around as she waits for the tea.
I want to leave but Mum tells me to stay. She hands the lady a cup and they both sip the tea, talking about St. Mary’s. Mum and Dad have been talking about that place a lot lately—it’s this school they’ve been looking at. We visited once to look at the grounds—it was very pretty, but I got bored eventually. They want me to go there. Real competitive, they say. You’ll learn all sorts of things. Live with a whole horde of girls your own age. Won’t that be fun? I told them I already knew girls my age, and they said New girls. They’re very interested in St. Mary’s.
(I’m not. I don’t want to go. It scares me.)
Mum asks about payment. The lady talks about assisted tuition and scholarships, and I play with the carpet fringe. Boring, really. Mum laughs, kind of strange—like she’s nervous about something. I slump against her armchair, hoping the conversation will end soon. The lady talks about dormitories, meal plans. We take very good care of our girls, she says. I close my eyes and think of dragons.
So it’s settled? Mum asks, and the lady gets up. She nods and stretches, holding out her hand. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Walcott. You’ll get the acceptance papers in the mail. She bends down to look at me, smiling so wide. I’ll see you next year, okay, Jessica?
No, it’s not okay, I want to say, but I smile back. Mum smiles, too, and the lady smiles, and I smile—we all smile at each other, like we’re the happiest people in the world. And finally the door closes behind the lady.
I don’t want to go to St. Mary’s. But I’m going next year. And I know I will smile when I say goodbye to Mum and Dad, to the neighborhood, to London itself. Smiling like the happiest girl in the world.
This one is called "Sunday Tea."
I don’t like the strange woman. She’s too big, too stiff, and she has this look on her face, this big grin, like a Barbie doll, with lipstick smeared all over her lips. I don’t know why she smiles so much, but I smile back, even though she kind of scares me. You’re supposed to be polite to guests, that’s what Mum always says. But I don’t think Mum likes her, either. She seems pretty nervous. Still, she puts on a pot and makes tea for all of us. The lady sits herself on the sofa and looks around as she waits for the tea.
I want to leave but Mum tells me to stay. She hands the lady a cup and they both sip the tea, talking about St. Mary’s. Mum and Dad have been talking about that place a lot lately—it’s this school they’ve been looking at. We visited once to look at the grounds—it was very pretty, but I got bored eventually. They want me to go there. Real competitive, they say. You’ll learn all sorts of things. Live with a whole horde of girls your own age. Won’t that be fun? I told them I already knew girls my age, and they said New girls. They’re very interested in St. Mary’s.
(I’m not. I don’t want to go. It scares me.)
Mum asks about payment. The lady talks about assisted tuition and scholarships, and I play with the carpet fringe. Boring, really. Mum laughs, kind of strange—like she’s nervous about something. I slump against her armchair, hoping the conversation will end soon. The lady talks about dormitories, meal plans. We take very good care of our girls, she says. I close my eyes and think of dragons.
So it’s settled? Mum asks, and the lady gets up. She nods and stretches, holding out her hand. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Walcott. You’ll get the acceptance papers in the mail. She bends down to look at me, smiling so wide. I’ll see you next year, okay, Jessica?
No, it’s not okay, I want to say, but I smile back. Mum smiles, too, and the lady smiles, and I smile—we all smile at each other, like we’re the happiest people in the world. And finally the door closes behind the lady.
I don’t want to go to St. Mary’s. But I’m going next year. And I know I will smile when I say goodbye to Mum and Dad, to the neighborhood, to London itself. Smiling like the happiest girl in the world.
Depressed and Angry
Lord.
I finally turned in my portfolio into Creative Writing today, only to be reminded hey, you had a presentation to make. I felt like shit. It's a long story why I felt so upset, having to do with the large workload I had lately. But we were supposed to write poems that day. About directions. I tried. It didn't work. I was just too angry. So I wrote this instead:
"You had a project due today." "I forgot, I was working on your paper." "You should have remembered." "I know." "You've been late very often recently." "I'm sorry. There's so much to do." "You need to keep up." (But last night I stayed up past 1, all to finish your paper. Doesn't that count? Doesn't that count?) "By the way, another response is due tomorrow." "What?" "That's right. Make sure you get both in. You need to learn to make time. You're almost 18. Act your age." (I am 18, and the only thing I've learned here is how to sacrifice. How much time to give up. How much sleep to go without. How hard to push myself before I crack.)
Not exactly a masterpiece. But maybe that gives you an idea of the crap I'm going through right now. I'll try to tell you about it another time.
I finally turned in my portfolio into Creative Writing today, only to be reminded hey, you had a presentation to make. I felt like shit. It's a long story why I felt so upset, having to do with the large workload I had lately. But we were supposed to write poems that day. About directions. I tried. It didn't work. I was just too angry. So I wrote this instead:
"You had a project due today." "I forgot, I was working on your paper." "You should have remembered." "I know." "You've been late very often recently." "I'm sorry. There's so much to do." "You need to keep up." (But last night I stayed up past 1, all to finish your paper. Doesn't that count? Doesn't that count?) "By the way, another response is due tomorrow." "What?" "That's right. Make sure you get both in. You need to learn to make time. You're almost 18. Act your age." (I am 18, and the only thing I've learned here is how to sacrifice. How much time to give up. How much sleep to go without. How hard to push myself before I crack.)
Not exactly a masterpiece. But maybe that gives you an idea of the crap I'm going through right now. I'll try to tell you about it another time.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Let's Begin
So: you're wondering, what is this blog about? "Writing into Space?" What the hell kind of title is that? Well, my original title was "The Bitching Corner," but then I decided against it. Who knows, maybe I'll change it eventually (if possible). But the truth is, I suck at titles. There, I've said it. And when I do think of good titles, I can't think of anything to go with it.
Some introductions are in order, though:
I am, in no particular order, female, Jewish, American, and white. Middle-class. East Coast. I shan't give you my name or age, for fear of predators; I once got some sketchy emails and I've been pretty cautious since then. But that's another story. You may call me Lawrnce, or Lawrie for short. Why Lawrence? Inside joke, involving history class, the Civil War, and a crappy, four hour-long movie that mauled the great book it came from. Kudos if you can guess the movie.
You: cyberspace. At least, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not stupid; I know just how many blogs are out there. Thousands. Millions. Most are only read by the author's friends. Me, I don't know if I'll even tell my friends about this. Why? Let me tell you about confession.
When I was a little kid, I used to be fascinated with confession. The idea of going to some place and confess your guilt anonymously really appealed to me. And that is what this is about. I'm not here to weepingly confess my guilt to you; I am only here to talk. Write. Post my thoughts. And all this anonymously. In short, this is an outlet.
It came to me yesterday, when I came to school very tense and upset. I felt very bitter and angry. Have you ever felt like your brain is overflowing with feelings? You feel ready to explode, you need to let it out, never mind what it is. That was me, 8:15 AM on Thursday. I thought about going to my guidance counselor, but I decided not to, because I knew she would respond with answers to my situation. Is there a problem, honey? How can I help? And that's the thing: I didn't want help, I didn't want solutions. I wanted to shout. To rant. And I wanted someone to sit and listen. Because to say it into air would do nothing. Perhaps this isn't rational, but I wasn't in a very rational mood then.
I started scribbling my feelings in my assignment notebook, just desperate to get it out. And that's when it struck me: I need a blog. I need someone, something to write to. Not just a notebook, like a diary: someone, someone who will read my thoughts and listen. Someone anonymous, who doesn't know me--who I can confide my deepest thoughts because they will never meet me, never give me away. I am writing into the depths of cyberspace--hence the title. Crazy? Paranoid? Perhaps. And like I said, I realize few if any will read this. But the illusion is enough.
What to expect: anything, everything. Tomorrow, for example, I will post those thoughts I was writing into my assignment notebook. After that, who knows? Essays. Stories. Thoughts. Observation. Comics to Israel to fantasy and everything in between. I hope you enjoy it.
Some introductions are in order, though:
I am, in no particular order, female, Jewish, American, and white. Middle-class. East Coast. I shan't give you my name or age, for fear of predators; I once got some sketchy emails and I've been pretty cautious since then. But that's another story. You may call me Lawrnce, or Lawrie for short. Why Lawrence? Inside joke, involving history class, the Civil War, and a crappy, four hour-long movie that mauled the great book it came from. Kudos if you can guess the movie.
You: cyberspace. At least, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not stupid; I know just how many blogs are out there. Thousands. Millions. Most are only read by the author's friends. Me, I don't know if I'll even tell my friends about this. Why? Let me tell you about confession.
When I was a little kid, I used to be fascinated with confession. The idea of going to some place and confess your guilt anonymously really appealed to me. And that is what this is about. I'm not here to weepingly confess my guilt to you; I am only here to talk. Write. Post my thoughts. And all this anonymously. In short, this is an outlet.
It came to me yesterday, when I came to school very tense and upset. I felt very bitter and angry. Have you ever felt like your brain is overflowing with feelings? You feel ready to explode, you need to let it out, never mind what it is. That was me, 8:15 AM on Thursday. I thought about going to my guidance counselor, but I decided not to, because I knew she would respond with answers to my situation. Is there a problem, honey? How can I help? And that's the thing: I didn't want help, I didn't want solutions. I wanted to shout. To rant. And I wanted someone to sit and listen. Because to say it into air would do nothing. Perhaps this isn't rational, but I wasn't in a very rational mood then.
I started scribbling my feelings in my assignment notebook, just desperate to get it out. And that's when it struck me: I need a blog. I need someone, something to write to. Not just a notebook, like a diary: someone, someone who will read my thoughts and listen. Someone anonymous, who doesn't know me--who I can confide my deepest thoughts because they will never meet me, never give me away. I am writing into the depths of cyberspace--hence the title. Crazy? Paranoid? Perhaps. And like I said, I realize few if any will read this. But the illusion is enough.
What to expect: anything, everything. Tomorrow, for example, I will post those thoughts I was writing into my assignment notebook. After that, who knows? Essays. Stories. Thoughts. Observation. Comics to Israel to fantasy and everything in between. I hope you enjoy it.
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