I’m searching. Searching for a way to begin this. This letter to you. How to begin a letter that is an ending.
And I am sure it is inappropriate. To write to your therapist. But I don’t care. Because I know of no other way
to thank you.
Thursday in your office I simply said thank you. Thank you and that I hate good-byes and closure sucks. Because
it feels too final and too fragile. And it means having to start over and that is unsafe and unpredictable and
unfun.
So I am unsure of how to begin.
Dear Erica would be too formal for this. For this letter that is a poem.
So I will start with good-bye.
Good-bye to the comfy couch and the flight and a half of stairs. A comfy couch that was a comforting reminder of
the moment of comfort that was to come. The nods and the smiles and the validations. The signs that stood in such
stark contrast to the memories and the realties that were the subjects of conversation.
Good-bye to the silence. The silence that began each session. Waiting for me to speak first. At a time when everyone
else spoke first. Telling me what to think and what to feel and how to cry and how to move on. You just sat silent.
And allowed me to breathe.
Good-bye to the suggestions that I acknowledge what I was feeling. And honor it. And notice it. And not push it
away and not analyze it and not correct it.
Good-bye to the reminders. Reminders of my strength and my compassion. Compassion for my students and compassion
for my friends and compassion for strangers and compassion for the little girl, still crying and cowering and afraid.
And now I am annoyed with myself. For the clichés.
At times when everyone else was judging and evaluating. Focus more on myself. Focus less on myself. Snap out of
it. Snap into it. Get over it. Deal with it. Forget about it. Remember it. Conflicting messages for a conflicted
spirit. You listened and you noticed. And you never told me what to do. And I had never known that before.
So I am at a loss. For what to do now and what to do next. Because you were witness to the whole thing. And I needed
to explain very little. And that was so refreshing. After months of only ever explaining and rationalizing and
pleading and circular arguments, you helped me to see it.
And name it. You spoke so little but when you did you always named it. Crazy making, scary, unpredictable, sick,
awful, grieving, compassion, disempowering, legitimate, pain. Words for feelings I did not know how to feel.
A nod or a sound of acknowledgment. A question to open up a new connection. A sounding board for my words and my
writing. A beautiful brain, you said. A complex one. An exhausting one.
So I am exhausted now thinking about this. About all the words and images this evokes. Of the hours spent crying
and trying to make sense of nonsensical things. And the patience and calmness that always came.
The talent of the perfect exhale or an understanding nod or well timed silence and stillness.
And so I end it as I began it. Searching for a way to say it. Without being cliché and without crying. And
without judgment for myself or for my writing. Knowing I will not be there to read it to you. To make sense of
it with my voice.
So I just end it with thank you and good-bye.
Starting half way through. Needing to catch up. Irrational really.
Words every thirty seconds. Like my mind. Only much slower.
Life would be much easier if the words really did come every thirty seconds. If they spaced themselves out and
gave you time to catch up.
But they don’t. They fly at super warp speeds and bend your mind into highways and lanes of traffic. Trafficking
thoughts. Keeping them straight. Separated.
And I can’t keep up. When I joined late I can’t keep up.
And it’s like my mind. Abundant thoughts and tasks and worries and plans.
Fielding each one as it comes.
Trying to keep up so they don’t get backed up. Get backed up so much that all my brain can do is shut down. Shut
down from overload of thoughts and I collapse on the couch or on the floor.
I collapse and cry and try to breathe. Crying punctuated by gasps of air as I strain to visualize a path to my
brain. A path not jammed by overpowering thoughts. Obstacles. Minutia.
She asks me what she can do to help.
And I am mute. I cannot speak. What to say first. What to do first.
So she walks me to my bed and kisses the marks on my arm. Where my fingernails dug and scraped because my skin
did not fit. Or because they didn’t know what else to do.
Because when your mind goes into overload your body is left with static energy. And it doesn’t know where to go.
An ex girlfriend once described me as Jessica Stein, except that I really am a lesbian. Nothing ever simple. The
simplest of tasks complicated from thinking through every possible consequence. Seeing holes in every line of reasoning.
See danger no one else sees. Seeing joy no one sees.
The simplest of tasks complicated. Choosing an outfit becomes dressing for the ball until the bed is covered with
exiled clothes and the dresser littered with rejected jewelry.
Dinner. Staring at the fridge. And then the freezer. And then the cabinet. And then the fridge. And by the time
I have decided what I want, I’m not hungry.
At restaurants, I make her choose. I go to the bathroom and tell her to order when I am gone. Because the pressure
is too much.
And really it’s probably all an effort to avoid bigger problems. Real problems.
Because once one thing is solved something else that was previously a small annoyance suddenly becomes a crisis.
Because I need it to.
And now the words are finally coming at the right speed and now I have to stop. An obstacle. And I will stress
about not stressing about not writing enough. Or not writing well.
Until the next crisis comes along.
When I was in college, the Federal government talked about phasing out the penny.
It was impractical, practically worthless.
Vending machines don’t take it, meters don’t take it, and what really costs four cents or less anymore?
Yep, lots and lots of talks of phasing out the penny.
And then they made stamps cost $.32. Practical.
I wonder about what they do all day. Those legislators and elected folks. Do they do it on purpose? Spend days
and days getting paid to discuss legislation they know won’t work? Won’t work because they’re simultaneously passing
legislation that would cancel it out?
I hope people vote. I hope they vote in record numbers. And I hope it makes some semblance of a difference.
And normally I have a lot to say about this but right now I have nothing. Nothing and everything all at once. Because
in my mind it is just obvious. Obvious what the right thing is and what the consequences are.
Because it is amazing how much we spend and it is more amazing how we do it. And that people listen. And believe.
And do nothing.
And I can be as apathetic as the rest of 'em. And cynical.
In college lots of us prayed for this. For something to rally around.
Because the activist types were too divided and off track. Pulling shit out their ass because nothing was big enough
to encompass everyone.
There were the vegan folks, the president of whom wore a full length leather jacket - a guy who was ignorant enough
to tell women they should not eat meat because it was akin to rape. The women’s rights folks, the queer rights
folks…
All of us searching for a way to mobilize people.
I myself thought it ridiculous to sit around on a liberal arts campus and spend what little free time I had debating
and contemplating on the state of the world.
Instead I got involved. In the local community.
Beyond the dorms and mansions of North Broadway.
Past the track and the museums.
In the trailer parks and community agencies of Saratoga.
And while the peers I felt closest to thought of joining the Peace Corps in a developing country or organizing
folks around the sexual politics of meat, I did my own politics. In the classrooms and Head Starts and housing
developments unseen by the privilege of campus life. Unknown to those who spent their time in air conditioned student
centers, arguing over which speaker to bring next to Skidmore.
And I know advocacy and awareness are important. But they are nothing without action.
And that’s what the legislators do.
Sit around and debate.
Debate about funding schools they have never and will never visit, because their children attend elite private
schools in gated communities.
Debate about funding health centers they will never need, because we pay for them to have some of the finest health
insurance in the nation.
Debate about the qualifications of teachers, the need for more testing – test the students, test the teachers.
There’s no test to become a United States Congressman.
No MTEL no MCAS their sophomore year. No need to jump through hoops to retain their certification. No worries that
the next piece of legislation could make their $40,000 advanced degree worthless.
Like the transitional bilingual teachers.
The Unz Initiative.
One rich racist, classist, xenophobic moronic man in California and his brilliant idea to eradicate bilingual education.
And the children will suffer and the teachers, with years and years of experience, now considered uncertified.
Laid off.
And what qualifications did Mr. Unz espouse as necessary for teaching his vision of sheltered English immersion
classes?
A solid understanding of language acquisition? No.
Literacy development? No.
Oral language proficiency and its effects on academic success? No.
A sophisticated understanding of the effects of race and ethnicity and class and family structure and language
background and education background and experience with war or trauma on academic achievement? Certainly not.
Only a solid understanding of the English language.
So throw them all into one class and give them a teacher with no training in language learning or pedagogy or lesson
planning or assessment or child development.
And now I am off track and I am ranting.
Because it is irritating.
That people with no training or background in education get to decide what and how I can teach.
And what qualifies me to do so.
And what is best for my kids.
And I wonder why they feel so privileged and righteous.
Because they would never do this to doctors. Ignore medical research and force them to practice another way.
But educational research holds no water on Beacon Hill or Capitol Hill.
Because they know exactly what is best.
Even when they have never lived it.
And they know that they can spend their time debating the practicality of pennies.
Because they will never be counting them.
Divine truth. Universal truth.
She knows I love her and I know I love her and we both know that is truth.
And it is truth that she loves me.
But still people tell me I am not being honest.
Even though I have said everything there is to say, I am not being honest staying with someone I don’t love in
that way. Someone I know I will not be with forever.
It’s not fair, they say. It’s not fair if you tell her and it’s not fair if you don’t tell her. How you really
feel.
So I err on the side of honesty.
Because we both had enough lies for a lifetime.
And I know I am honest and so does she but somehow honesty does not equal truth.
Christian IM-ed me last week. And we chatted for a while. And she told me about school and her classes and asked
how I was.
Christian was one of my favorite students. I had her my first year at HCA and she was of the few that year who
got me through. Even though she almost failed my class. Because she never complained and she loved to learn. And
she was honest and true. Owned up to her mistakes. Lived up to her name. The most Christian person I had ever met.
She got sick half way through the year. And her already tiny frame was nearly cut in half.
And the next year when the same thing happened to me she was the first student to notice. And I didn’t even have
her any more.
But she noticed. Something’s different, she said. I don’t know what, but something’s different. And I don’t know
if I believe in God but I do believe that Christian is close to whatever god or gods or spirits are out there.
Because she saw my spirit that day. That day after my spirit had been beaten and battered and shredded.
She saw through the armor and pretense and baggy clothes and makeup. Closer to truth than I liked.
So I lied. Everything’s fine, I told her.
And she gave me that look. The one I had given her a million times the year before. The knowing look. The one that
says, I know you’re lying but I’ll pretend I don’t because neither of us have time to get into this right now.
We IM-ed last week. Christian and I.
And I sent her the link to my writing. Because she wanted to see it.
And she sent me an email a few minutes later saying she was unable to open the link. She’s in a dorm at a Christian
school and so the link must contain what they deem to be offensive content.
And I wondered what could be offensive in my writing. Perhaps the word lesbian or the word queer. Or the handful
of times I say fuck. And I wonder if the school knows that the Bible contains far more graphic and offensive language
than any of my writing.
And I know Christian knows. Because she knows a lot.
But I wonder who else knows. How boring I am. How painfully boring my life really is.
Because at work they assume I am the young alternative progressive girl because I am a lesbian and because I was
a Women’s Studies major and because I am a poet and because I play hang spider instead of hangman.
And in the dyke crowds of Boston I am that poet. Bitchy. Intimidating. In her high heels and lip gloss and glitter.
And I wonder if they know that I wear fuzzy pink socks and cotton pajamas to bed.
That sometimes, if I’m going to be wearing long pants, I don’t shave for days and that I sing Disney songs in the
car.
That I can spend whole weekends talking to my cat and watching PBS. Or vegging out on reality TV.
And I wonder which me is more true.
Things that go together?
Things that don’t go together. That would be easier.
Lani + – well, this is a long list.
Lani + stupidity.
Lani + audible breathing or audible chewing or audible swallowing.
Lani + traffic.
Lani + bad drivers.
Lani + finding a comfortable position on the floor.
Lani + carpenter pants. Found that out the hard way.
Lani + meditation.
Lani + contact sports.
Lani + meat.
Lani + onions.
Lani + Tabasco sauce.
Lani + white bread. Only as an adult. When I was little, I wanted nothing more than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich
on white bread for lunch. Mom told me it was goyish. “Jewish people don’t eat white bread, Lani, that’s why.”
Lani + celery salt.
Lani + cold soup.
Lani + warm juice. I don’t like paradigm shifts in my food.
Lani + scales. I asked my roommate if we could move the scale out of the bathroom. Because I used to have an eating
disorder, I confided. I can’t control myself with it. So she turned it on its side and moved it next to the sink.
So I wouldn’t be tempted, she said. And it’s really not worth saying anything more.
Lani + bad poetry.
Lani + most open mics. Not because of Lani.
Lani + lesbians.
Lani + straight women.
Lani + yucky people.
Lani + yucky colors.
Lani + audible chewing. Ok, so I said that one already, but I think it bears repeating.
Lani + repetition.
Lani + men in authority.
Lani + bad parents.
Lani + bad parents who think they’re good parents.
Lani + the men on Friendster who hit on me, despite the fact that my personal profiles clearly tells them not to.
Literally.
Lani + commitment.
Lani + change.
Lani + scratchy clothes. Ew.
Lani + erotica.
Lani + a lack of white noise.
Lani + “staying out of it”.
Lani + “not taking it personally”.
Lani + failing.
Lani + letting someone else fail.
Lani + an empty mind.
Lani + New Year’s celebrations.
Lani + beer.
Lani + red wine. But not for the same reasons as the beer. Beer is just plain gross. It’s what yuppies drink in
the micro brewed fashion and what dumb frat boys drink in the cheap keg fashion and apparently what lesbians are
supposed to drink regardless. Well fuck that. Because it’s just plain gross and it makes you fat. Red wine, on
the other hand, is delicious and is actually good for your heart, but not so good for Lani’s head or Lani’s stomach.
Damn.
Lani + tarantulas.
Lani + camping.
Lani + elevators.
Lani + silk pajamas. Not that I haven’t tried them. But feeling like you’re slipping out of your skin paired with
insomnia just ain’t a good couple.
Lani + sleep.
Lani + staying awake.
Lani + medication.
Lani + her mom.
Lani + sociopaths. Found that out the hard way too.
Lani + memories.
Lani + bad hair days.
Lani + bitter tea.
Lani + a bad orange.
Lani + any banana.
Lani + fruit salad tainted with bananas.
Lani + fruit salad tainted with canned citrus.
Lani + the unknown.
Lani + the unexplained.
Lani + sexism.
Lani + racism.
Lani + people who claim to be anti-one or both of those because usually professing that without solicitation means
you’re not.
Lani + beauty magazines.
Lani + mascara that clumps.
Lani + blue mascara.
Lani + jewelry that is too big.
Lani + jewelry that is not too big, but that doesn’t fasten securely and falls off into the toilet today after
work.
Lani + fishing jewelry out of the toilet.
Lani + exercise equipment made for people over 5 foot 5.
Lani + coffee shop counters where she isn’t tall enough to see over them.
Lani + subway cars where she isn’t tall enough to reach the handles.
Lani + tall people who grab the low handles on subway cars.
Lani + audible chewing. In silent spaces.
Lani + being told there is still 5 minutes to write when she has written all she can think of.
Lani + boredom.
Lani + telephone calls.
Lani + telephone calls from people who are bored. Why make me bored too? I was fine before you called.
Lani + holding her classes in the hallway on the floor.
Lani + forgetting to give kids stickers.
Lani + job politics.
Lani + national politics.
Lani + state politics.
Lani + red delicious apples.
Lani + radishes.
Lani + beets.
Lani + red food, apparently.
Lani + itchy skin.
Lani + dirt in fingernails.
Lani + broken fingernails.
Lani + imperfection.
I liked letting it get soggy. My cereal.
I liked it soggy so that it wouldn’t crunch so much.
But usually mornings didn’t allow time for me to wait for my cereal to mush to meet my sensory needs.
Mornings were rushed and frantic and frustrating – and they still are.
In high school I didn’t eat breakfast. It was too early and I just wasn’t hungry. And by 2nd period class, I would
be famished.
In college I didn’t eat breakfast either. Because I wasn’t hungry because it was too early or because I wasn’t
hungry because I wasn’t ever hungry.
My semester in Jamaica put an end to that at once. Neither the family in Kingston nor the 74 year old grandma in
the mountains, both with whom I lived, let me dare to leave the house without breakfast. And I mean breakfast.
Cereal didn’t cut it.
Now I have to try to remember to eat.
And I hate that. Remembering to eat.
I am happy I am hungry. Happy and disappointed, both at the same time.
Because some things are just not curable.
Breakfast is like mornings and mornings are like home. And home was like hell in the mornings. And most times,
but mostly mornings.
4th grade.
It was a party. At school.
Mom and I had spent the night before baking cupcakes. Tons of them.
And we had laughed and giggled and packed them all neatly into boxes. And boxes were wrapped neatly in bags. All
the night before. All so I wouldn’t be rushed in the morning.
And I slept well and thought about the party the next day.
The next day in Mr. J’s classroom.
Mr. J’s classroom that was never scary and never mean and never confusing and always safe.
Mr. J. who made me want to be a teacher more than anyone I had had before.
Mr. J. who was the first teacher who didn’t put me in the middle math group, but who challenged me to be as good
at math as I was at writing, even though I fought that.
Mr. J who let us keep journals and responded to us in them and when he responded yes, I could start a poetry club
during recess twice a week, I beamed. “You could have asked me. You didn’t need to write it in your journal.” He
winked when I read it after he handed them back.
And it didn’t matter that I knew nothing about poetry and it didn’t matter that I only started it to get out of
recess and it didn’t matter that when I cleared it again with Mr. J., his breath smelled of rocky road coffee and
packs of cigarettes and so I held my own breath as I smiled and giggled.
And so I had made the cupcakes as much for Mr. J. as I had for my class.
And I was ready to go that morning. That morning at home after the wonderful evening of baking and frosting and
neatly packed boxes.
And then the argument.
About what I don’t remember – or I do and that is why I don’t want to write about it – but it was insignificant
and stupid and I tried to end it but it was too late and I was walking to school.
And ¾ of a mile is normally fine, but with boxes inside bags and extra boxes for extra cupcakes for Mr.
J. it was too much.
And I begged and I pleaded.
It was too heavy, I said. Too much.
Cumbersome would have been a good word to know then, but I was 9 and all I knew was that I didn’t know anything.
How something so wonderful and perfect could go so perfectly wrong so quickly.
And I should have just left the boxes in bags at home, but I wasn’t about to let on. To my class or to Mr. J or
least of all to my mom.
So I walked. A half hour just to get to the end of my street. And the bags dropped and the boxes overturned.
And a tan car drove past 3 times. And on the fourth time it stopped. And I froze.
She was beautiful. Blond and smiling and perfectly timed, but scary as hell.
“You look like you need a ride,” she said.
And I wanted to run. I wanted to run as fast as I could like all the after school specials had said to. “Stranger!”
I would scream. “She’s a stranger!”
But instead I said nothing. I sat and stared and tried to hide the dried tears from under my eyes.
“I swear I’m not crazy, sweetie. You just seem to be having a really hard time.”
And my 9 year old mind didn’t know where to go. “Well if she kidnaps me, I suppose it couldn’t get much worse”
was all I could think.
And I got in and she made me smile.
She helped me with the boxes inside bags and drove me down Ballardvale road to South School, less than a mile away.
And when she actually stopped the car, I exhaled for the first time all morning.
I made her drop me off across the street. So that school wouldn’t know.
“Take these,” she said. “It’s all I have here with me. And take care.”
Toffee candy. I hated toffee candy, but I kept it hidden in my closet until 9 years later when I left for college.
As a reminder.
I crossed the street to school, fumbling again with the bags. And I ambled to the office. I was late. Really late.
“How’d you get here with all that?” the secretary smiled.
I froze.
“I walked.” I choked back tears as it came out.
The secretary leaned forward. “You didn’t wanna walk, did ya, honey?”
I knew enough not to answer.
So she helped me carry the smushed cupcakes in rows inside bags inside boxes two doors down to Mr. J’s classroom.
Where Mr. J. was waiting. With a big hug and an even bigger smile.
And I exhaled. For the second time that morning.
In my dorm my freshman year of college, a girl down the hall had a stress wall. A whole wall covered with bubble
wrap.
And I contemplated having one too.
The utter release that would come with each pop of air. The visceral catharsis of hitting, punching, bludgeoning
that wall. Hearing pop after pop – a cacophony of pops. The crackling of hundreds of plastic bubbles bursting in
symphony or the slow and steady and even tempo of one at a time, like a metronome.
A release. An orgasmic release all on one wall.
And then I heard that each time one bubble pops it emits harmful chemicals into the air. So my stress is not all
that is released.
And I wish I hadn’t cared. I wish I had just gone ahead with the stress wall regardless. Because I needed it. And
deserved it.
But that’s not the way my mind works.
Thinking things through from only one angle. Thinking of just one consequence for each action.
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
I wish. I wish it was just a single reaction.
Because in my mind there is never just one. Just one next move or one turn or one opinion or one angle or one perspective
or one way or one ending.
Endless possibilities.
And it makes school easy. Easy and hard, both at the same time. Because I write good papers. I anticipate the arguments
before even the professor does and I see multiple sides to each debate and so my opinions and pedagogies are informed
– well informed by theory and research and previous practice.
And sometimes the professors sound like echoes of voices past. Past teachers and past authority figures and past
friends. "Don’t think so much," they insist. "It’s not that complicated."
The ones who know me would never dare say that. Or they smile right after they do.
Because it’s like saying don’t breathe. Or better yet, "Don’t blink so much." We aren’t conscious of
how we blink. And if we try to think about blinking less, we’ll most likely end up blinking more.
Thinking about not thinking is something I do often. And it has never proven an effective strategy.
"When are you in the moment?" my therapist asks.
When am I in the moment?
I need to ponder this one. I need to consider it from every angle.
"When I’m dancing," I offer. "Or exercising. Sometimes."
"So when you’re in your body? When you’re working your body?"
And then I’m not in the moment because I’m remembering back to my very first time at Kripalu. The yoga center in
Lenox.
And I was dumb enough to go to a meditation workshop. I scanned the list of activities for the week and I needed
to plan out how I would relax. I stressed out about relaxing. How I would rush from one yoga class to the next
meditation workshop to lunch to the breathing workshop to the outdoor walk. But now again I have lost the moment.
Because the point was that we only meditated for maybe 10 minutes. About 8 of us. In a small, sunny quiet room.
Overlooking the mountains.
And all I heard was everyone breathing and all I wanted was to go and smother each one of them because they were
messing me up. Like when the rabbi at my bat mitzvah told his wife Lilian, “Don’t talk to me. I’m counting” as
they danced. They were messing up my meditation. Or I was.
Because I was thinking about not thinking. For 10 minutes. And it was a long ten minutes.
And to make matters worse, after we were done with this torture, every other person in the group commented on how
spiritual their journeys had been. On how it seemed only like a few seconds, a blink of an eyelash – don’t get
me started on blinking again – and how they had found it all so enlightening.
And then it was my turn.
"That felt like the longest 10 minutes of my life," I blurted. "I felt the floor and I heard the
breathing and it wasn’t at all relaxing."
And they asked if I enjoyed yoga and I said kind of. Or tai chi and I said I’d never tried it.
"I can walk and meditate or pet my cat and meditate or salsa and meditate" – I try to convince them.
"I just wanted to get up and run around the room. Run outside. Jump around. And I can sit for hours and watch
tv but I can’t sit for hours on a hard floor and think about not thinking."
“Sounds like you just need to be in your body,” the facilitator replies.
Right.
Where else would I be? Can I be somewhere else?
And of course I know the answer to that. Years of living with an eating disorder has thrown the answer to that
directly past my face and into my consciousness. I can easily be out of my body. Disassociated.
And then I usually go to my head. Where I live constantly anyway. A head and a body out of synch. Perpetually.
Nevermind connected to a spirit.
At school we have lots of things for kids to use for sensory integration. And I am a firm believer in the necessity
and use for all of those. The bouncy balls. The bumpy mats. The stretchy bands. The squeezy grips.
But what about something for personal integration? For an integration of mind and body and spirit. And something
that really works. That isn’t about sitting on a hard floor in the mountains and pretending that that is going
to help us.
And now I am thinking of 8 different places to go from here.
And one day I will do that. A kind of choose your own adventure memoir. I loved those books. Because I wasn’t committed
to just one choice. Just one perspective.
"Why do you need to think so much? I mean it’s who you are, but why do you need to? Why do you need that level
of intellectual stimulation? That kind of a challenge? Is there some element of it that is meant to push people
away? To detach from people?"
And as much as I hate those questions, and as much as I don’t have answers for them, and as much as they make me
want to cry and squirm and crawl out of my already tight fitting skin, I love them. Because they make me do what
I love most. Think. Think about thinking.
I need to read more. More biographies of other thinkers. So that I can feel less alone.
Because at the end of a day of teaching reading and thinking about reading and researching reading and reading
about reading, the last thing I want to do is read and so I curl up and watch stupid tv and flavorless shows. To
turn off the thinking, if only for a moment.
But the books always have and still do and always will introduce me to my peers. To the ones who were also told
not to think so much. The ones who had the sense to get some of it down on paper. Or one perspective of it.
My therapist says it’s the same thing for her – thinking and writing. And I just laugh.
I had a bucket for camp.
A plastic bucket for the shower. With shampoo and conditioner and soap and every other product a young Jewish girl
could need as she spent her summer at Jewish camp.
And as our mothers would drop us off they would cry and then they would get over it and they would all head out
for an evening of Chinese food.
And we would put out clothes on our assigned shelves or in our assigned drawers or in our assigned cubbies. Our
clothes and paper and pens and envelopes and stamps and flashlights and bug spray.
And this is not the piece I want to write. This piece about Jewish summer camp with communal showers of naked girls
all with buckets. And self consciousness eroded quickly and you could always tell the new girls because they were
the ones who showered in their bathing suits or who stood wary for a few moments at the edge of the shower for
the first week of camp.
And this is not the piece I want to write. Like the youngest kids – the alephites – or the oldest kids in dalet.
Like about how they had their own showers in their cabins but for others – for those of us in the middle – in bet
and gimel – we all showered together. And the older girls would push their way forward in line. Privilege they
would call it. And we would take showers of cold water. And dream of the day we had privilege too.
And the older girls seemed unphased. At how we stared at their bodies. Their bodies in every possible stage of
development. Breasts and curves and hair we did not yet know. And they shaved their legs on the front steps of
the cabins. And the summer when I did too, I looked pathetically at the younger girls. Pathetically and enviously.
And this is not the piece I want to write. Because I already wrote it. Years ago. About how I learned to laugh
at summer camp. That summer when I finally had privilege to shower first. That summer when Josh Baer had more privilege
than I did. And used it against me. And so did the counselors and the directors and I’m sure they never imagined
I would be writing about them years later.
And I wish this piece could flow like the laughter one did. Because I would like to have more like that. More that
flow and connect and that I can perform if one day I perform again. And this one isn’t it.
Because all I was given was an empty pail and it took me 10 minutes to figure out where to go from there. To cans
of paint or steel drums or the clanging of pots and pans or the emptiness of a stainless steel pail.
And this piece feels empty. Devoid of feeling or sense or usefulness or practicality.
And not everything needs to be a finished piece and not everything needs to be performable and not everything needs
to be perfect.
And it sucks that when you first rediscover writing there is years worth of stuff to get down and you write brilliantly
and cathartically and everything feels like a masterpiece and everyone is amazed that you only just started writing
and just started performing and less than 3 years later nothing is left and the things that are don’t move you
in the same way and it’s not as new and it’s not as amazing.
Because the pail is empty. And that is not the piece I wanted to write.
I pledge allegiance to the flag
Of the United States of America
And to the Republic
For which it stands
One nation
Under God (Skip)
Indivisible
With Liberty and Justice for All
I stopped saying the Pledge in high school. I stopped saying it when I thought it was brainwashing. They made us
stand for it anyway. So I stood silently.
When I was a teacher, I said it. I said it to be a good role model. But I always skipped that line. The one that
was added in years later. Because the country needed God.
This year I was not a classroom teacher.
Had I been, I would have taught them what every last line meant. Maybe then they wouldn’t have always said “I pledge
of allegiance to the flag…”
Drove me crazy then and still does today. Not because they’re saying the wrong words. But because of what that
signifies. That they have no idea what they’re saying. And don’t care.
At camp, we recited the pledge every morning at our flag raising. And every evening as we lowered both the US and
Israeli flags we sang Hatikva.
For seven years I sang that song each and every night all summer long. Having virtually no idea what the words
meant. Like the pledge, but worse. Worse because even if I wanted to I couldn’t have understood them.
Never being told what either flag stood for. Never being allowed to decide for ourselves whether or not we wanted
to pledge allegiance to either the United States or Israel. Just swallowed into it.
My mom grew up having no idea who the fuck Richard Stanz was. What? Who? You know, one nation for Richard Stanz.
Oy vey.
And I grew up having no idea why I was pledging my allegiance to a country of which I was not even a citizen. On
the other side of a war town planet. Where my grandfather had fought and bled and bombed innocent lives. So the
world would be better for all of us. Or some of us.
And I am not Pro-Arab and I am not a traitor to my people and I am not a bad Jew. Or maybe I am.
I just wish someone had told me there even was another story to tell. One without an organized military and occupations
and hidden truths.
And maybe if I lived there I would feel differently. If my grandfather had stayed there, on the land he fought
so hard to win, instead of then coming here.
And I know why he did it. I know what was happening.
And I also know I will never know. What it was like. Being driven out and herded like cattle and separated and
confused branded and terrorized and gassed and burned.
I will never know. That’s what I’m sure they would say. And I’m sure they are right.
But sometimes being a few steps removed is not at all a bad thing.
Because you see the hypocrisies. You see the occupied becoming the occupation. And the battered become the batterers.
And the wounded becoming the slayers. And it doesn’t make sense. Because it’s not supposed to.
And there’s no bad Jew in that. Because it’s not at all Jewish to hurt people just because you can. Or to feel
entitled to something that may not be yours. Or to covet what is not yours. Or to worship false idols.
False idols like flags and anthems and pledges.
Kol Od Balevav
Pni ma
Nefesh Yehudi
Homiyah
Ulf a-ah-the mizrach
Kadima
Ayin l’tzion Tsofia
Od lo avda tikvateinu
Hatikvah bat schnot alpayim
L’hiyot am chofshi b’artseinu
Eretz tzion yerushalayim
L’hiyot am chofshi b’artseinu
Eretz tzion yerushalayim
I sing as I write. I sing to help me remember. Even though I wish I could forget.
They forgot. Forgot why they were claiming the land in the first place. Why people need a safe land to call home.
What happens when people are arrogant and entitled and blind. When they ignore the pleas of those with fewer resources.
Three people were stabbed at a Pride Parade in Jerusalem. By a Jewish religious extremist.
And I generally don’t associate homophobic extremism with Jews. But then again I am in Boston. In Boston and not
Jerusalem. Here we celebrate three hundred fifty year old towns and 200 year old buildings. And there the Muslims
can’t visit the dome of the rock because it would be unsafe. Unsafe for whom.
So three people were stabbed. By someone claiming to be a Jew. Because apparently some laws are more important
than others. Fucking false idols.
Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam asher kidishanu b'mitz'votav v'tzivanu l'had'lik neir shel Chanukah.
Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam she'asah nisim la'avoteinu bayamim haheim baziman hazeh.
Amen.
I lit them last night at Mom and Mark’s. The Chanukah candles. Except I went right to left. Oops.
Matt and I used to alternate nights. Lighting the menorah. Except I rarely wanted to. I was afraid of the matches.
It all began with two piles of presents on the dining room table. The Matt pile and the LB pile. The LB pile was
usually smaller boxes. Because I valued quality over quantity.
Eight presents each. Choosing one each night just before the lighting. Not concentrating on the lighting or the
chanting because we were just too excited about presents.
And before we were even done with amen the wrapping paper was ripping. Which was always hard. Because dad was and
is ocd and wrapping is one of his – you know – things. Keeping Scotch in business.
And then there was either giggles or sighs or awkward silences.
But now I’m bored with Chanukah. With writing about Chanukah. Because really it’s not all that exciting. Nor all
that important.
At school I brought my kids dreidls and gelt. Because they were learning about celebrations so I thought I’d share
my own.
And most teachers had already covered Chanukah but the kids didn’t care. Another chance to play. And party. And
learn.
Christian has one of the worst speech delays of all of my kids. But nothing else is even remotely delayed. Because
he knew every rule and every letter name and every word to the dreidl song. “If you get schhhhin, you gotta put
one ind, and if you get gimew, you get awwwww of dem, and if you get hay, you get hav, and if you get nun, you
get nond.” Got it, Christian. Thanks for the tip.
“Oh dreidw dreidw dreidw, I made you out of cyay…”
Thanks again, Christian.
Adorable. Fucking adorable.
All of them. Staring at the golden gelt and inspecting the dreidls and exasperatedly trying again and again to
make the dreidl spin upright for just one second before it toppled over.
And no one really won and no one really lost. Because it’s kindergarten and we just played over and over. And giggled.
Like crazy.
They waited so patiently in the beginning. During the story and when I instructed them to go sit down, but not
to touch anything and to wait for directions.
And I can only imagine how hard that was. To stare at a golden coin covered table and colorful plastic dreidls
and sit motionless. They were better at that than I was – always ripping the paper before I was supposed to – before
I was even done with the blessing.
But they listened. Exceptionally.
And that’s part of what makes them so awesome. Truly awesome. Not even just in the cool sense of the word but awesome
– as in awe inspiring and full of awe.
And they were full of awe themselves when I told them they could choose two coins – one big and one small – and
choose one to eat now and one to save for later.
Because gold coins apparently bear very little resemblance to anything edible to a 5 year old Puerto Rican or Dominican
child in Lawrence.
“Eat it? Is really chocolate?”
“Yes, it’s very yummy chocolate.”
And inevitably one child in each group would stare at me incredulously as he went to put the whole piece, wrapper
and all, in his mouth until I or another child caught him just in the nick of time and demonstrated how to unwrap
it.
“Wow!” Awe and wonder and amazement that something delicious actually did lie under something that already looked
so beautiful and precious.
“Mmmmmmm…Is really good.” And a giggle. An infectious chocolate covered wrapped in gold giggle. “Where I can get
those? Where they live?” asks Joseluis.
And little did they know that the surprises had only begun. Because in my other box was a pile of plastic dreidls
– an assortment of pastel and primary colors. And already huge eyes widened further with amazement.
“For us? We can keep it? At our house?”
And I nodded and gave each one the color of their choice. And told them on the way back upstairs to put it right
in their cubbies.
But that was too tall an order because all they wanted to do was show their teachers and their friends.
“Look! Look! Mira! I got a chocolate and a dreidl!”
“That’sss chocolate?”
“Si chocolate!”
“Wow. Cool.”
And I love how little it takes. To make us all so happy. And giggly. And awe struck. And proud.
The next day I went to Carole’s room to get my kids. And she has some of the happiest kids I’ve ever seen. I went
early for snack.
“Look! My feet they touch the floor! I growing!” declares Christian (yes, another Christian).
“Wow Christian! That’s great!”
And he smiles even bigger which I thought impossible and his giggle starts and mine starts too.
“You really are growing. Because you’re in kindergarten. That’s wonderful. Give me a hug.”
And Christian springs up and into my arms as we giggle knowingly. Because I so know that feeling. That legs dangling
aimlessly in space. That exhausting feeling. Hoping and praying for another inch. For them to grow just another
inch to touch the floor.
And then I take Oneal and Ariel and only two days earlier it was such a hard day. Because Santa was making his
rounds to visit classrooms and that afternoon they would be sitting in his lap in the lobby and the excitement
was palpable.
And then we heard the ho ho hos and bells and they started looking frantically around.
“Where he is? Where’s Santa?”
And they saw him and the book I was reading was rendered meaningless. And they tried. To pay attention.
“It’s just really hard to concentrate with Santa Claus right there,” confessed Ariel.
And I was more impressed with his honesty and sincerity than with his syntax, though both were awe inspiring.
And two days later he emptied his pocket for me. Revealing a small plastic red dreidl.
“I keep it in my pocket cuz I love it so much,” he whispered.
Awesome.
If you have enjoyed Lani Radack's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at radacklani[at]hotmail.com and thank her for posting her Work.
Click here for a list of all of Lani Radack's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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