As I soared through the air, I thought about how bad hitting the sidewalk was going to hurt.
It's a strange feeling to be completely unable to stop something from happening even though you know the result ahead of time. But I had already set this spill in motion.
I had gone for a run pretty late. It was light when I left but had gotten dark by the time I headed home.
Evening is a great time to run around the Jackie O Reservoir in Central Park. You can see the entire city skyline as you round the oval. The lights are just beginning to flicker on.
The view helps you remember how enormous and beautiful the city can be _ something that's easy to forget when you're in it day to day.
I was in the last block or two of my course, so I was running my fastest on a slight downhill.
I was thinking about something else _ I can't even remember what now _ when my toes struck a partially erupted sidewalk. I think it's what happens when water gets between the cracks and into the dirt beneath the concrete.The sidewalk's slabs act like tetonic plates or icebergs as they bump into each other and rise.
My forward momentum launched me into the air. It seemed like moments went by before I hit the sidewalk. I remember thinking that I should put my hands in front of my face and wondering if anybody was watching.
"This is going to hurt," I said, as I hit the pavement and slid, ripping the skin off my left lower leg, left hip and shoulder.
When I stopped sliding, I rolled to my back, striking the back of my hand on the sidewalk, causing more cuts and bruises.
I didn't lie there long. It's a pride thing, after all, no matter how badly hurt you are.
As I rose, I noticed a workman across the street who was looking at me. "Do you need help?" he shouted over.
"No," I whimpered, "I'm fine."
A bicycle deliveryman who had apparently been at the corner when I fell got on his bike and rode to me. He was not convinced by my claim that I was fine. "Be careful," he said, as he rode away. Too late, I thought.
I limped home periodically stopping to look at my abrasions under the light or wipe the blood that was dripping down the front of my leg. The skin on my hip looked like road pizza, so did the skin on my lower leg. The back of my knee had already swelled up. My palms burned from sliding across the concrete.
But as I surveyed my wounds, I realized I was proud. They were like a badge of honor.
Yes, I had fallen, but I had also gotten up and walked away.
I couldn't wait to show my injuries to Mark and I was already thinking about my next run...
Monday, April 30, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
Remembrance
I still remember a tiny piece of thread that was on the floor at the hospital. It was black and small. It was unremarkable, but I remember it well. I think that's what happens in moments of extreme grief.
A little boy stared at me from his mother's arms in the emergency room. I'm not sure why I remember that, but i do.
I wondered why they were there. Was his brother in the back room lying splayed out on on a table too?
I'm still amazed all these years later _ has it been 20 already? _ how the little things are still so clear to me about that night.
I was at a party with high school friends. It was in Ambler, a small struggling town of blue collar families who were trying to give their kids a better life. My high school was there.
The phone at the party must have rang. Although, I didn't hear it. The party was outside. It was August.
Somebody called me to the house.
I took the phone. It was my best friend, Tara. We had been best friends most of our lives, since first or second grade. She wasn't at the party because her mom had grounded her for something we had done a week or three earlier.
"You need to come home," she said. "Your mom called from the hospital. It's your brother. Pick me up on the way."
She practiced, I thought. I slid down the wall in anguish.
I already knew.
I walked, or ran _ I really can't recall _ to my car.
I hardly remember the 20-minute drive home on the winding, leafy Morris Road. I think my friend Claire was scared. I must have been going fast.
We arrived at the hospital around 9, I think. But it might have been later.
I ran into the emergency room. I couldn't find anyone. Maybe Tara was wrong. "No," she said.
Just then, my parents emerged from the back room where my brother must have been. They looked drawn, tired. I knew it was bad. We sat.
I saw the thread on the carpet and I wondered if it belonged to some woman's sweater who had lost somebody. The little boy looked up at me with his big, sad eyes.
After a while, Claire and Tara and I went to the bathroom. It was one floor up. I remember seeing myself in that ridiculous Gucci sweatshirt. I wanted to change into something more comfortable, normal, warmer. I wanted something to make it all go away.
I vividly remember washing my hands. I'm not sure why I remember that so clearly. But I do. I went back down to the waiting room.
Again, my mom and dad were gone. My mind shutdown. My vision blurred. I think now that I was probably in shock.
A doctor came out of the back and asked me to come with him. I moved in a haze of disbelief to follow him through a door. I wanted to run away.
My parents were in a small room sitting on a sheeted gurney. They hugged me. I didn't want to be hugged just then. I think I pulled away.
I don't really remember if they ever actually told me he was dead. In fact, I'm pretty sure those words were never said.
You know something like that in these moments. Nobody has to spell it out to you.
I remember walking out of there. None of use spoke. I drove to Tara's and stayed the night. I think now I probably should have gone home.
A story ran in the local newspaper the next day.
The newspaper said that my brother had crouched down in front of oncoming traffic on Route 202 at the fork in the road before Burger King and 7-Eleven. The people who hit him were on their way home from their wedding rehearsal at the local St. Helena's Church. They had tried to swerve.
I knew where my brother was going when it happened.
He had asked me before I went to the party for a ride to the arcade on 202 and Route 73. I had said no. I had a party to go and I didn't feel like dealing with him. "Why can't you just be normal???"
He hugged me and he told me he loved me, which was weird. Then, he walked to the top of the street where we had slammed screen doors and raked leaves together and walked into traffic, changing everything forever.
We all live with guilt, I think. But it can be hard. I know there wasn't much I could do. I was a teenager. What did I know?
For a while, you try to forgive yourself or the person who caused the pain. But eventually, you realize that the tragedy will always be with you. That is what you have to accept.
Peace.
A little boy stared at me from his mother's arms in the emergency room. I'm not sure why I remember that, but i do.
I wondered why they were there. Was his brother in the back room lying splayed out on on a table too?
I'm still amazed all these years later _ has it been 20 already? _ how the little things are still so clear to me about that night.
I was at a party with high school friends. It was in Ambler, a small struggling town of blue collar families who were trying to give their kids a better life. My high school was there.
The phone at the party must have rang. Although, I didn't hear it. The party was outside. It was August.
Somebody called me to the house.
I took the phone. It was my best friend, Tara. We had been best friends most of our lives, since first or second grade. She wasn't at the party because her mom had grounded her for something we had done a week or three earlier.
"You need to come home," she said. "Your mom called from the hospital. It's your brother. Pick me up on the way."
She practiced, I thought. I slid down the wall in anguish.
I already knew.
I walked, or ran _ I really can't recall _ to my car.
I hardly remember the 20-minute drive home on the winding, leafy Morris Road. I think my friend Claire was scared. I must have been going fast.
We arrived at the hospital around 9, I think. But it might have been later.
I ran into the emergency room. I couldn't find anyone. Maybe Tara was wrong. "No," she said.
Just then, my parents emerged from the back room where my brother must have been. They looked drawn, tired. I knew it was bad. We sat.
I saw the thread on the carpet and I wondered if it belonged to some woman's sweater who had lost somebody. The little boy looked up at me with his big, sad eyes.
After a while, Claire and Tara and I went to the bathroom. It was one floor up. I remember seeing myself in that ridiculous Gucci sweatshirt. I wanted to change into something more comfortable, normal, warmer. I wanted something to make it all go away.
I vividly remember washing my hands. I'm not sure why I remember that so clearly. But I do. I went back down to the waiting room.
Again, my mom and dad were gone. My mind shutdown. My vision blurred. I think now that I was probably in shock.
A doctor came out of the back and asked me to come with him. I moved in a haze of disbelief to follow him through a door. I wanted to run away.
My parents were in a small room sitting on a sheeted gurney. They hugged me. I didn't want to be hugged just then. I think I pulled away.
I don't really remember if they ever actually told me he was dead. In fact, I'm pretty sure those words were never said.
You know something like that in these moments. Nobody has to spell it out to you.
I remember walking out of there. None of use spoke. I drove to Tara's and stayed the night. I think now I probably should have gone home.
A story ran in the local newspaper the next day.
The newspaper said that my brother had crouched down in front of oncoming traffic on Route 202 at the fork in the road before Burger King and 7-Eleven. The people who hit him were on their way home from their wedding rehearsal at the local St. Helena's Church. They had tried to swerve.
I knew where my brother was going when it happened.
He had asked me before I went to the party for a ride to the arcade on 202 and Route 73. I had said no. I had a party to go and I didn't feel like dealing with him. "Why can't you just be normal???"
He hugged me and he told me he loved me, which was weird. Then, he walked to the top of the street where we had slammed screen doors and raked leaves together and walked into traffic, changing everything forever.
We all live with guilt, I think. But it can be hard. I know there wasn't much I could do. I was a teenager. What did I know?
For a while, you try to forgive yourself or the person who caused the pain. But eventually, you realize that the tragedy will always be with you. That is what you have to accept.
Peace.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
The Broker Blues
They sit in rows like cardboard cutouts behind desks in an office building on Broadway.
Many of them are on the phone. A few are talking to nearby coworkers. Two or three stare straight ahead and wear a look of boredom or indifference. A receptionist chews her gum and plays with the nail on her pinkie finger.
They are apartment brokers _ hated by most apartment hunters and many apartment dwellers.
The bilateral hatred is evidenced on Craig's List, which has a filter that allows renters to cut out the middle man and search for apartments that are being listed directly by owners.
I used to think the website created the filter for people who wanted to avoid costly brokers fees, which start at one month's rent but can go much higher. I've come to believe that it is much more than just a cost issue.
The hungry brokers seem to snarl when Mark and I walk into their cage on the Midtown Manhattan building's second floor. They have no windows to the outside and no walls between them.
Most of them are in their late 20s or early 30s. They appear to be measuring our worth as we stand waiting for acknowledgment.
How much does the couple make? What is their credit score? How much will they pay? How far can I get them to go?
Phones ring and announcements are made from some disembodied voice over an intercom system.
"John Young," the invisible announcer says. "Line one."
We laugh at the office stuffiness and the tight-panted girl who just drew a disturbingly lascivious look from a suited broker.
"Fill this out," demands the receptionist, whom I would assume was the disembodied voice.
We fill out our form: name, address, occupation...
Reason for moving?
"Location." (Somewhat of a lie because we have to move for financial reasons.)
What will you do if you don't find an apartment?
"Go homeless." (Also probably not true.)
The man we had talked to over the telephone walks over and introduces himself. His name is Paul. He is a sexually ambiguous man who falls somewhere between a used car salesman and a waiter. When he's not overselling you just want him to shut up.
Finally, he punches some keys into a computer and pulls up a listing of apartments.
About an hour later, we walk out with his coworker (grunt), Lesley, and a list of apartments.
We look in the Midtown Manhattan area on the West Side first. This would be the best place for us to live - closest to work.
They are all tiny.
In one, you can't open the oven without hitting the fridge. In another, Mark would not be able to get in the shower because it's jammed in so close to the toilet. Neither of them has any closet space. Both seem unlikely to fit our bed.
The third is mottled with mold and mildew and stinks like the person who lived there before never cleaned.
"Are they going to be renovating that," we ask the super.
"No renovation," he says. "That's just paint job."
That's just disgusting.
A fourth unit is on the 6th floor of a spiraling walk-up and consists of a kitchen with two small rooms on either side. There would be no place for a couch, kitchen table and bed. One of them _ and possibly our cat Jasmine _ would have to be sacrificed.
We end the day having a Guinness with our heads in our hands. We've felt the despair of apartment hunting before. But this was going to be even more difficult than usual. We want an easier commute and that's going to be hard to find in our price range.
We tell the broker to head North. We won't mind Harlem as long as we're close enough to the subway and near shops and restaurants.
Our second day begins at an apartment rather than in clone-land.
The apartment in the 100's is a huge improvement over the day before. Although, again, our broker's henchwoman doesn't seem to be able to figure out what keys she needs or the agency doesn't have them. Again, we end up having to buzz all the apartments until somebody lets us in.
"Are you a broker?" a woman asks before figuring us out and refusing to buzz us in.
It seems pretty rude but I definitely understand. I wouldn't want these people randomly ringing my bell either.
Finally, the mail lady lets us in.
Again, no closets, too many stairs. But it is much closer to what we want.
Then, we walk into a sub-first floor apartment.
Here, in NYC, they call them garden apartments. They are actually on the same level os the sidewalk. But the home's entrance is about a floor above street-level.
This is going to be like a cave, I thought, ready to call it a day.
When I walked in the door, the first thing I see is the light shooting into the rear of the apartment, brand new hardwood floors, exposed brick and a high ceiling.
The spacious living room gives way to a set of sliding doors that open to a lawn large enough for a picnic table, grill, flower boxes and baby pool if the summer was too hot.
The bedroom is actually large enough for our bed and a dresser. There's ample closet space.
"We'll take it," I declared.
A couple hours later, we were back at the broker's bland office.
There was already a bid on the apartment. Somebody had put an application in, but it hadn't been accepted. Apparently, this person's credit was less than stellar so they had agreed to paying a year of rent up front. (Can you say drug dealer?)
But, wait, there's a chance. If we would fill out the credit apps and get them over to the landlord (cost $100) there might be a chance.
"I can't make you any promise," Paul said, "Let me ask you this, how much is this apartment worth to you?"
Even the suggestion of getting into a bidding war over an apartment is ridiculous. No matter how fiscally irresponsible I can be, I'm not crazy. We reject the idea and return to crossing our fingers.
We left the office at 6 p.m. after two days of apartment hunting. My legs hurt, feet hurt, head hurt and I was generally frustrated. But I had hope.
It is fading...
peace
Many of them are on the phone. A few are talking to nearby coworkers. Two or three stare straight ahead and wear a look of boredom or indifference. A receptionist chews her gum and plays with the nail on her pinkie finger.
They are apartment brokers _ hated by most apartment hunters and many apartment dwellers.
The bilateral hatred is evidenced on Craig's List, which has a filter that allows renters to cut out the middle man and search for apartments that are being listed directly by owners.
I used to think the website created the filter for people who wanted to avoid costly brokers fees, which start at one month's rent but can go much higher. I've come to believe that it is much more than just a cost issue.
The hungry brokers seem to snarl when Mark and I walk into their cage on the Midtown Manhattan building's second floor. They have no windows to the outside and no walls between them.
Most of them are in their late 20s or early 30s. They appear to be measuring our worth as we stand waiting for acknowledgment.
How much does the couple make? What is their credit score? How much will they pay? How far can I get them to go?
Phones ring and announcements are made from some disembodied voice over an intercom system.
"John Young," the invisible announcer says. "Line one."
We laugh at the office stuffiness and the tight-panted girl who just drew a disturbingly lascivious look from a suited broker.
"Fill this out," demands the receptionist, whom I would assume was the disembodied voice.
We fill out our form: name, address, occupation...
Reason for moving?
"Location." (Somewhat of a lie because we have to move for financial reasons.)
What will you do if you don't find an apartment?
"Go homeless." (Also probably not true.)
The man we had talked to over the telephone walks over and introduces himself. His name is Paul. He is a sexually ambiguous man who falls somewhere between a used car salesman and a waiter. When he's not overselling you just want him to shut up.
Finally, he punches some keys into a computer and pulls up a listing of apartments.
About an hour later, we walk out with his coworker (grunt), Lesley, and a list of apartments.
We look in the Midtown Manhattan area on the West Side first. This would be the best place for us to live - closest to work.
They are all tiny.
In one, you can't open the oven without hitting the fridge. In another, Mark would not be able to get in the shower because it's jammed in so close to the toilet. Neither of them has any closet space. Both seem unlikely to fit our bed.
The third is mottled with mold and mildew and stinks like the person who lived there before never cleaned.
"Are they going to be renovating that," we ask the super.
"No renovation," he says. "That's just paint job."
That's just disgusting.
A fourth unit is on the 6th floor of a spiraling walk-up and consists of a kitchen with two small rooms on either side. There would be no place for a couch, kitchen table and bed. One of them _ and possibly our cat Jasmine _ would have to be sacrificed.
We end the day having a Guinness with our heads in our hands. We've felt the despair of apartment hunting before. But this was going to be even more difficult than usual. We want an easier commute and that's going to be hard to find in our price range.
We tell the broker to head North. We won't mind Harlem as long as we're close enough to the subway and near shops and restaurants.
Our second day begins at an apartment rather than in clone-land.
The apartment in the 100's is a huge improvement over the day before. Although, again, our broker's henchwoman doesn't seem to be able to figure out what keys she needs or the agency doesn't have them. Again, we end up having to buzz all the apartments until somebody lets us in.
"Are you a broker?" a woman asks before figuring us out and refusing to buzz us in.
It seems pretty rude but I definitely understand. I wouldn't want these people randomly ringing my bell either.
Finally, the mail lady lets us in.
Again, no closets, too many stairs. But it is much closer to what we want.
Then, we walk into a sub-first floor apartment.
Here, in NYC, they call them garden apartments. They are actually on the same level os the sidewalk. But the home's entrance is about a floor above street-level.
This is going to be like a cave, I thought, ready to call it a day.
When I walked in the door, the first thing I see is the light shooting into the rear of the apartment, brand new hardwood floors, exposed brick and a high ceiling.
The spacious living room gives way to a set of sliding doors that open to a lawn large enough for a picnic table, grill, flower boxes and baby pool if the summer was too hot.
The bedroom is actually large enough for our bed and a dresser. There's ample closet space.
"We'll take it," I declared.
A couple hours later, we were back at the broker's bland office.
There was already a bid on the apartment. Somebody had put an application in, but it hadn't been accepted. Apparently, this person's credit was less than stellar so they had agreed to paying a year of rent up front. (Can you say drug dealer?)
But, wait, there's a chance. If we would fill out the credit apps and get them over to the landlord (cost $100) there might be a chance.
"I can't make you any promise," Paul said, "Let me ask you this, how much is this apartment worth to you?"
Even the suggestion of getting into a bidding war over an apartment is ridiculous. No matter how fiscally irresponsible I can be, I'm not crazy. We reject the idea and return to crossing our fingers.
We left the office at 6 p.m. after two days of apartment hunting. My legs hurt, feet hurt, head hurt and I was generally frustrated. But I had hope.
It is fading...
peace
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Nepal in the nail salon
So I discovered tonight that the woman who does my nails here on the Upper East side is from Nepal.
It was a shock to me only because I just finished reading a novel that was based loosely on her country's travails.
The book, "The Inheritance of Loss," sucked me in as books about in the region often do. I loved "The God of Small Things" and I've enjoyed the few Salman Rushdie books I've read.
The region is still so raw. Reading about even its current history is amazing.
The Nepalese still haven't been able to become a unified nation in so many ways and have remained much like an early United States.
I'm no expert by any means. But this is from the CIA's site: A Maoist insurgency, launched in 1996, gained traction and threatened to bring down the regime, especially after a negotiated cease-fire between the Maoists and government forces broke down in August 2003. In 2001, the crown prince massacred ten members of the royal family, including the king and queen, and then took his own life.
I mean that's like some Shakespearean shit, right?
And things haven't improved much today. The king dissolved the government in 2005 and retained absolute power until April 2006. The nice king allowed parliament to reconvene in 2006, but the country still hasn't had elections.
I can't imagine what her life has been like. She hasn't been here very long and appears to be about my age.
I wanted to ask her about the scars on her arms, but I didn't. They look like burn marks. But I hate reporters who always have to pry. I mean, I'm not writing a story. I asked her about her country and she didn't offer personal information. So why should I push? Maybe I will ask someday.
But something struck me in our conversation. I talked about the British, who, while they didn't colonize her country, held considerable sway. She replied that the U.S. was good friends with the British.
This is where I had an epiphany of sorts. It rarely occurs to me what people who have moved here from other lands think of us. (That's a little of the "Ugly American" I've always tried not to be.)
I told her that the Brits once colonized America. I told her that they once ruled us.
"No," she said. "You're good friends _ America and the British."
"We kicked them out," I said.
"No," she said.
"We had a revolution to get them out," I said. "We declared our freedom in 1776."
"I never knew that," she said. "I can't believe it."
My knowledge about her country is spotty at best. So, why should I assume she knows everything about this country?
I left there tonight feeling like there's so much that binds us. We just don't know it.
I suppose I'll always be an optimist at heart.
Peace.
It was a shock to me only because I just finished reading a novel that was based loosely on her country's travails.
The book, "The Inheritance of Loss," sucked me in as books about in the region often do. I loved "The God of Small Things" and I've enjoyed the few Salman Rushdie books I've read.
The region is still so raw. Reading about even its current history is amazing.
The Nepalese still haven't been able to become a unified nation in so many ways and have remained much like an early United States.
I'm no expert by any means. But this is from the CIA's site: A Maoist insurgency, launched in 1996, gained traction and threatened to bring down the regime, especially after a negotiated cease-fire between the Maoists and government forces broke down in August 2003. In 2001, the crown prince massacred ten members of the royal family, including the king and queen, and then took his own life.
I mean that's like some Shakespearean shit, right?
And things haven't improved much today. The king dissolved the government in 2005 and retained absolute power until April 2006. The nice king allowed parliament to reconvene in 2006, but the country still hasn't had elections.
I can't imagine what her life has been like. She hasn't been here very long and appears to be about my age.
I wanted to ask her about the scars on her arms, but I didn't. They look like burn marks. But I hate reporters who always have to pry. I mean, I'm not writing a story. I asked her about her country and she didn't offer personal information. So why should I push? Maybe I will ask someday.
But something struck me in our conversation. I talked about the British, who, while they didn't colonize her country, held considerable sway. She replied that the U.S. was good friends with the British.
This is where I had an epiphany of sorts. It rarely occurs to me what people who have moved here from other lands think of us. (That's a little of the "Ugly American" I've always tried not to be.)
I told her that the Brits once colonized America. I told her that they once ruled us.
"No," she said. "You're good friends _ America and the British."
"We kicked them out," I said.
"No," she said.
"We had a revolution to get them out," I said. "We declared our freedom in 1776."
"I never knew that," she said. "I can't believe it."
My knowledge about her country is spotty at best. So, why should I assume she knows everything about this country?
I left there tonight feeling like there's so much that binds us. We just don't know it.
I suppose I'll always be an optimist at heart.
Peace.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Sader for the non-practicing Catholic
My good friend expanded my knowledge tonight by inviting me to her Seder.
It was a learning experience in more ways than one.
I got to read parts from the story of Passover. And, I gained a whole new appreciation of the religion.
I always had respect for its traditions. But this was the first time I ever sat around with young, interesting peers talking about Judaism in a more intellectual and, at times, humorous way.
I'm not saying I'm going to ask three times. Still, I thought, maybe in gaining a better feeling for one religion I would gain more of an appreciation for all of them. I've never liked religion.
But the night wasn't entirely kosher.
I went off on one twenty-something who does human resources for Deloitte Touche.
Turns out, as a consultant, he sets up plans for "merging" companies.
"So you tell them who to fire," I said.
"Yes," he said. "but I don't feel great about that."
(He really did say it that quickly.)
"So," I said, "You rationalize it by saying somebody else would do it if you didn't."
"Yes," he said.
"That must be hard to live with," I said.
"Yes," he said. "But somebody else gets a job because of it."
"But what about the people who lost their jobs?" I persisted. "What about them and their families?"
There was a very long and pregnant pause. Everyone was uncomfortable. (I also made a comment about how I had heard the "If I didn't do it, somebody else would have" comment before.) I admit, I probably should not have said that.
But my father lost his job after many years because somebody like this young man suggested he should, and we were on our fourth or fifth glass of wine.
Later, we took a cab together, he and I. He was sweet.
"Sorry if I was a bitch to you," I said.
"No, you were fine," he said.
But, to be honest, my apology wasn't entirely heartfelt.
I do think he and everyone like him who's willing to do something just for money is at fault no matter how much he tries to rationalize it. In fact, his rationalization seemed to go against everything I had learned about Passover. What I loved about it was wishing away world poverty, racism, hatred and all other inequality. Yet, in my mind, he seemed to be part of it.
So, again, I had confronted the hypocrisy of religion. This time, it was Judaism rather than Catholicism.
Maybe we all do need to take more responsibility for the things we do, just the way the Seder seemed to suggest. That's the real lesson I learned.
\
Peace.
It was a learning experience in more ways than one.
I got to read parts from the story of Passover. And, I gained a whole new appreciation of the religion.
I always had respect for its traditions. But this was the first time I ever sat around with young, interesting peers talking about Judaism in a more intellectual and, at times, humorous way.
I'm not saying I'm going to ask three times. Still, I thought, maybe in gaining a better feeling for one religion I would gain more of an appreciation for all of them. I've never liked religion.
But the night wasn't entirely kosher.
I went off on one twenty-something who does human resources for Deloitte Touche.
Turns out, as a consultant, he sets up plans for "merging" companies.
"So you tell them who to fire," I said.
"Yes," he said. "but I don't feel great about that."
(He really did say it that quickly.)
"So," I said, "You rationalize it by saying somebody else would do it if you didn't."
"Yes," he said.
"That must be hard to live with," I said.
"Yes," he said. "But somebody else gets a job because of it."
"But what about the people who lost their jobs?" I persisted. "What about them and their families?"
There was a very long and pregnant pause. Everyone was uncomfortable. (I also made a comment about how I had heard the "If I didn't do it, somebody else would have" comment before.) I admit, I probably should not have said that.
But my father lost his job after many years because somebody like this young man suggested he should, and we were on our fourth or fifth glass of wine.
Later, we took a cab together, he and I. He was sweet.
"Sorry if I was a bitch to you," I said.
"No, you were fine," he said.
But, to be honest, my apology wasn't entirely heartfelt.
I do think he and everyone like him who's willing to do something just for money is at fault no matter how much he tries to rationalize it. In fact, his rationalization seemed to go against everything I had learned about Passover. What I loved about it was wishing away world poverty, racism, hatred and all other inequality. Yet, in my mind, he seemed to be part of it.
So, again, I had confronted the hypocrisy of religion. This time, it was Judaism rather than Catholicism.
Maybe we all do need to take more responsibility for the things we do, just the way the Seder seemed to suggest. That's the real lesson I learned.
\
Peace.
Mark and Me
Mark got a job, and his schedule is opposite of mine. We've been in this situation before, but it's much worse now. This is what I wrote about it:
When he goes away, my life is on hold.
It isn't that I don't have fun - I can go to a movie and enjoy it, or
shop without his constant pull - but it's not the same.
After eight years, we've gotten to the point where I'm never entirely
happy without him.
Maybe if I had never met him, I wouldn't know the
difference. Maybe I would think this was happiness.
But it's too late.
I look forward to him when I get up in the morning, and I watch
out the window for his cab at night.
He makes me laugh from my diaphram, and with his kiss on my forehead I
know everything's all right.
Sometimes, I can tell that we are thinking the same thought.
Peace
When he goes away, my life is on hold.
It isn't that I don't have fun - I can go to a movie and enjoy it, or
shop without his constant pull - but it's not the same.
After eight years, we've gotten to the point where I'm never entirely
happy without him.
Maybe if I had never met him, I wouldn't know the
difference. Maybe I would think this was happiness.
But it's too late.
I look forward to him when I get up in the morning, and I watch
out the window for his cab at night.
He makes me laugh from my diaphram, and with his kiss on my forehead I
know everything's all right.
Sometimes, I can tell that we are thinking the same thought.
Peace
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