Train Uptown: Diverted

She was buxom, plump – altogether about 100 pounds too heavy. She wore faded black leggings and a black fitted t-shirt. Her softness spilled out despite the black spandex trying to hold in her body. She sat with her arms crossed on the uptown train to somewhere. Her blonde frizzy curls were piled sloppily into a lazy bun on the top of her hair. She wore thick-rimmed black and white cat-shaped glasses which minimized her blue eyes. Black flip-flops revealed toes that never saw a pedicure. A simple gold band adorned her left hand. I tried to picture her other half.

Two stops later, like a choreographed dance, a Mexican man enters the subway in the door closest to her. She slides over to make room for him. He is simple but carries a heavier load. He sits down next to her stone-faced. He places a white plastic bag in between his feet on the dirty gray subway floor.

He wears dark over-sized jeans and a black promotional t-shirt. He has a prominent black mole on his chin and a butchered Asian tattoo on his neck. His ring finger has a matching wedding band.

She puts her arms around his neck and starts to tenderly stroke his neck and hair. She says, “Well you better get in a better mood before dance class later today!”

He whispers something to her. She seems to understand and loudly proclaims, “Well you can tell me anything.” He seems somber and looks down. She gingerly links her arm through his, which sits folded loosely on his lap. He continues to say something quietly.

"I can’t even believe you’re saying this right now," she shouts. "You should just go home, then! I don’t even want to be on the same train with you!"

She grabs the white plastic bag from between his legs and pushes through the crowd to get out of the closing subway door. The door bounces off her as she stumbles onto the platform at 59th Street. Fancy NYC women zoom by her on their way to Bloomingdales. She looks lost and confused as she stares at the subway signs around her searching for salvation.

He continues to stare down, emotionless. He doesn’t look over his shoulder; his eyes gaze nowhere in her direction. He sits lifeless for three more stops and gets off.

US Holocaust Memorial Museum

In light of today's horrific shooting at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, I am re-posting this -- originally posted 6 weeks ago -- originally written in 1995.

I wrote Three Years Later: Survivors Reflect on the [US Holocaust Memorial] Museum when I was a senior at NYU.

It is magazine feature length so these are just some clips. Read the full article here.

----------

Three Years Later, Survivors Reflect on the Museum
December 1995

The steel doors are framed by thick bolts and when they slam shut with a loud thud, everyone in the elevator gasps for air. The passengers fall silent as we ascend. Anticipating something brutal, I plant my feet firmly on the floor; if I brace myself, maybe it will lessen the shock.

Suddenly a back and white image flickers to life on the television monitor above my head. I look up to see stock footage of a World War II solider standing in front of a liberated concentration camp 50 years ago. He gives the warning: what he saw – and what I am about to see, is like nothing I have ever seen in my life.

The elevator doors open on the permanent exhibition of the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. The display winds its way down – not unlike Dante’s Inferno. I walk through the stories of hell told by those who lived through it.

~

Although the initial publicity around the museum’s opening has died down, the museum’s focus on remembrance and contemplation requires it to remain in the public eye to fulfill its mission. More than just a collection of artifacts or the preservation of history, it was intended as an educational instrument. It is not enough to be a national memorial to the 12 million murdered if the lessons of history it imparts are not learned.

~

In the death camps – and on their way to the gas chambers, the victims were forced into isolation from their entire world. It was their last wish that the world know what they went through. A direct verbal account is the only way that the truth – and the accuracy of the terror – can be conveyed.

Nesse Godin, a Holocaust survivor, remembers:

“’Maybe you young girls will survive,’ they told us. ‘Promise us you will make them remember. Don’t let them forget. Zieg der verld (Tell the world)’, they cried.”

Godin was 13 in June 1941 when Germans marched into Lithuania. Soldiers rounded up Jewish men and boys to “clean up war damage.” They were taken from their native town of Siauliai and taken deep into the forest. There they were ordered to strip under gunpoint. Then they were forced to dig their own graves. Finally they were shot. Farmers nearby said that the ground shook from the sound of bullets and falling bodies. The rest of the Jews were herded into a few blocks and that became the Siauliai Ghetto. In 1944, the Ghetto was emptied. Godin survived several labor camps and a forced march. In 1945, she was liberated by the advancing Soviet army. She was 17 years old.

“What kind of criminal was I? I was one of the lucky ones; I survived. So when I look at the people at the museum, I remember the cries of 'Zieg der verld’ and I see the world,” says Godin, 67, a museum volunteer. We need this museum. It preserves history and it teaches. Being memorialized is not enough. We cannot bring back the dead.”

~

Death preoccupies my thoughts as I stare at the blue-and-white striped prisoner uniforms hanging limply in a two-story column in front of me. They are frayed, torn, tattered, missing buttons. I recognize this uniform on thousands of emaciated bodies in the black and white photographs surrounding me. I see a gray-haired, short man two feet away from me; he has a tear rolling down his face. I wonder if he wore one of those uniforms. The air feels thicker; each breath is harder to take.

~

Before the Holocaust, there were nine million Jews in Continental Europe; within a dozen years, two-thirds of European Jews had perished. You watch the video footage from the television monitors above and stare deeply into the eyes of the Holocaust victims who are captured on the black and white film. All the eyes convey signals of death; even the faintest glimmer of life was quickly shattered by a Nazi’s boot.

I gaze at the display of a Nazi uniform. The brown assaults my eyes, but what sears all my senses are the red armbands with their piercing black swastikas. I picture that uniform from the view of a concentration camp victim who’s lying on the floor being stomped on by those tall, black, powerful boots.

I am just a visitor to the museum and will probably never understand. Not even the most imaginative description of the Holocaust can truly reflect the horror and the carefully planned savagery. No account can re-enact the emotions of the victims – and the survivors. And still, even survivors who emphasize the inability of any narrative to fully portray their suffering, even they want the story to be told.

~

Ann Shore is the President of the Hidden Child Foundation, an organization within the Anti-Defamation League. Children who hid their Jewish identities to survive the war comprise this 6,000-member organization. Shore was 12 years old in 1942 when the police in Zabno stuck a gun to her and asked her where her father was. She told them she didn’t know. They ran to the basement, where he was hiding, and shot him dead. Shore, her mother, and sister fled to a farming village and hid in a small farm until the end of the war.

“The museum is very meaningful to the Holocaust survivors,” Shore says. “We feel deeply moved by it because it’s our lives they’re showing. But the museum is not for us. We are the story. The museum transcends the story.”

~

There is a family photo – everyone is smiling; the father seems proud. Their table is adorned by rolls and wines and smiles; a depiction of life before the war. A mother and her young son sit on a hammock together. Two grandmothers are photographed wearing polka-dotted dresses and holding canvas bags. Another pictures reveals twin sisters with matching bows in their hair.

~

She was four years old when the killing began. “I realized that Jews died a double death,” Eliach says. “The first was the horrible murder by the Nazis and the second was that their memory was being obliterated. I wanted to rescue this one town from oblivion. I was determined that these Jews would not be remembered only as victims. When I stood on the massive grave in Eishishok, I saw it not as skulls and bones but as people begging to be remembered the way they were.”

Eliach’s exhibit in the museum aims to give the murdered people back their faces and their identities. “I want people to go away from the museum and think. Not just about the emotional reaction, but I want them to think about preserving democracy and what happens when democracy fails. I want people to make a commitment to safeguard democracy. I want them to walk out to the streets of Washington with a message, with knowledge, and hopefully, encouraged to think.”

~

When the museum opened in April 1993, the ones who lived through the horror could finally tell their stories to the world.

“We are the last survivors to tell our story and you are the last ones to hear it,” Shore says. “Just remember that so much more is gained by love than by hate. Because hate can become self destructive.”

The museum’s concerted effort is to educate children. Godin speaks to students in inner city schools in Washington D.C. She tells them:

“You wonderful people, look at each other. Don’t see a religion or a color. See a person. be a little kinder, be a better human being. Treat each other a little better. Learn to tolerate each other and live.”

Happiness is Finding Your Place...

It wasn’t until my third summer in my apartment that I really started enjoying the luxury of a New York City balcony. By balcony I mean fire escape. But it’s a special fire escape – it has a concrete base so no tightrope maneuver necessary to stand outside my window.

Nonetheless, perched above 97th street on my very own outdoor space, I get high as my senses happily drive into overload. The sound of Reggae music competes with the birds’ choir. The sun sets beyond Central Park on the West Side as scrubs-wearing hospital employees meander home. The perfect temperature warms my shoulders while a cool breeze blows the hair off my face. The smell of the Mexican restaurant’s fajitas outweighs the smell of detergent escaping through the Laundromat vents.

I spy a small boy blowing bubbles, some of which drift my way – they hover just out of grasp; little haloes that float about in this little bit of heaven.

Happiness is finding a place that’s your little accessible heaven on earth and being able to go back there. Anytime.

Me vs. the Public Toilet

My shit stinks too – just not in someone else’s bathroom – mostly because I won’t drop my load there. How ironic for those who know me since I won’t blink an eye at a two-hour conversation discussing the merits and different kinds of bowel movements. I’ll tell anyone who listens how my nerves send me to the bowl; tests in college, a work review, my wedding day … nothing is too scared for my stomach – or its rapid release into the porcelain god.

But ever since I was young, I cannot go on public toilets. I can go number one, but not number two. When I pee on a public toilet, I always squat and never sit. It amazes me how people can just sit down, barely a wipe of the filthy seat, and unload their bowels. Instead, I’ll hold it in for a day until I get to a familiar toilet.

Ironically I’ll pee anywhere. The hesitation is in reference to poop only. I’ll pee in anyone’s bathroom, a parking lot, in the middle of Third Avenue in Manhattan (OK so sometimes the Manhattan peeing has to do with booze).

At my old job, I found a bathroom in the hallway, near the elevator where the regular people didn’t go. We called it the ‘Executive’ as if only for the privileged few. Once in the Executive, there was a lining procedure. Using paper towels, I would double line the seat. If there were no thick paper, there would be a triple layer of toilet paper.

I blame my mother – as always – for creating this neurosis. First of all, she potty trained me too young. In Russia, it was just the thing to do. I was so anxious to please the potty, the anecdote is that at 10 months, I pulled a pot out of the kitchen cupboard and took a crap in it. My mother carried a potty with us everywhere we went through immigration. Russia, Italy, Vienna, America – Galina’s toilet habits span oceans and cultures. She never let me sit on a toilet seat. She would lift me up over any public toilet seat to pee until I was too heavy to hold with my legs perched open over a toilet.

So now 30 years later I battle the toilet demons with my 7-year-old son. “Don’t touch anything!” I yell whenever we go into a public toilet. Recently he stopped coming into the women’s bathroom with me and wants to go big-boy style into the men’s room. I let him go and cross my fingers he flushes with his foot.

Incidentally, according to Australian health specialists, there is such a thing as the perfect pee.

Flowers in Riverdale

Surrounding the fancy private school were some flowers the morning after the rain. I take photos of too many flowers but it's my blog and I'll post flowers if I want to ...

Ending First Grade with Hatching Chicks

One of my first-grader's favorite memories from this year was the hatching of chicks. Last week, after their first grade show, I snapped some pix of the chick-a-dees. Each class got to vote on the names for the chicks. Jake's class came up with Fluffy and Cocoa; clearly this was the week that most of the boys were out with the flu. Jake came up with the name Tony Baloney. I think that rocks way harder!


Hatching in progress.


This was home for 21 days.


Still in the incubator waiting for siblings to hatch.


Peek-a-peck.


Chicks come in many colors and fuzzies.


Reading the newspapers - after all, they do live at Horace Mann.

Memorial Day in our Nation's Capital

Washington DC is iconic. It is hard and rigid; everything seems a shade of off-white, creamish, gray. Erected in the same type of marble and limestone, many of the buildings use similar designs and look like they were made from the same block of imitation Greek Legos.

Aside from the population of academia (which comprise a large chunk of the residents), the city seems filled with men in suits, Hillary Clinton wannabes, homeless, political hookers, and a catch-all of government service workers. Friendliness was a PS many failed to include. While New Yorkers have a bad rap, the DC-ers, whether they’re local or politico-transplant, are slow on the uptake and not so generous with their hospitality.

Things seem spread out but close together – the heart of the city seems to be this large monument park. They found a piece of land, labeled it Capitol and tried to redeem the title with the cement tributes to those that founded this country on morals and virtues we’re still trying to emulate. What future monuments will be erected for our children? Will the future generations recognize a gap in leadership integrity?

The Washington Monument is like the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, the Sears Tower; it’s the tallest thing you see – an unspoken logo. From the circular plaza holding the infamous phallic tower of bricks, you can see the Lincoln Memorial. Here you are in a book of postcards, in a slide show, in any movie montage set in the nation’s capital.

The reflecting pool between the Lincoln and Washington Memorials, like a mirror, instantly double the memorials. Like jewelry, this rectangle of water is sparkly adornment for an otherwise hard and dry expanse.

The Lincoln Memorial, under a night sky is stunning and dramatic. Yet upon the steps and below the gigantor’s feet, it is ransacked by middle school kids where they obnoxiously read anything but the ‘Respect Please’ signs. Varying groups assemble in matching t-shirts; a stark white memorial dotted with a sea of blue, green and tie-die. Middle schools from Ohio, NJ, neighboring Baltimore. Some snap pictures, some are texting, and some giggle and flirt. They are not war age yet; they don’t have children yet. The war is a lesson they’re just learning; just one reality life has to slap on their faces.

Particularly poignant – on Memorial Day – and on a day when our country is still at combat – are the dedicated war memorials. Mothers still put yellow ribbons around their trees and wear pins with stars on them.

The World War II Memorial seemed to be the least crowded. 16 million faught in a war now memorialized by a fountain overlooking the Lincoln Memorial. Pillars bearing the names of country or states who fought in the war encapsulate the fountain. There are no individual names; just locations.

The Korean War Memorial is striking. In a triangular, spread out formation, silver soldiers stand, dramatic and disoriented – lost in a field but solidified for perpetuity. Expressions of sadness, despair, shock and honor are smeared on their faces. They all wear heavy ponchos and carry machine guns. A rainy battle eternalized under a sunny sky in Washington DC. The dichotomy is extreme. Behind the metal soldiers, there is a black granite wall etched with soldiers’ gray faces. Those lost in a war many in our generation know from the TV show, MASH.

My fist visit to the nation’s capital was about 20 years ago. From that trip, most impactful was the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial. I remembered the vast expanse of a seemingly endless list of names. The Memorial seemed larger than life then, but for so many different reasons.

Hundreds of Harley-riding veterans congregate at the imprinted expanse of black granite that reveal their reflection. The base speckled with bouquets of plastic red roses in celephane decorated with red, white and blue. I read the names, but can’t see past my own face. I watch the reflections of tragic reunions. Veterans look at each other, shake hands, and say Welcome Home. The Washington monument and American flags bare witness.

A government worker dedicated to the memorial stands with a ladder, a big book of names and some pencils. Quietly, old couples approach her and ask her to do a pencil etching of a name. She props the ladder against the black wall and quietly and respectfully scratches the pencils over the specifically ripped piece of paper. She hands it over to the sad requestors.

They all look at her as if to say, “My son gave his life for this country, and now I have a pencil etching of his name.” Maybe I project; somehow I will never see war as rational. Somehow I’m always the one drawing peace signs in my mind, wishing everyone could sing kumbaya with doves flying overhead. Peace, love and rainbows. Only the unicorns are missing from my dreamscape.

The White House is beautiful; it’s set back as far as a jail and probably more protected. One of the most famous homes in the world; now home to two little girls. Thousands of people stick their digital cameras in between the iron gates each day and try to snap a picture of someone else’s home. What does this home say about the people inside or this nation? I’m not sure why anyone is so infatuated by the mansion – it looks similar to many other DC building. People want a picture of what the home represents – the freedom, liberty and other incidentals that this country has been fighting for the last two centuries.

Within the concrete buildings and under the perfect sidewalk, in between the shades of white, there seems to be lurking an aura of corruption and evil. Some degree of immorality that maybe, hopefully is on its way out. An ornate building currently under construction served as the shredding paper ground for the Iran Contra scandal. A mysterious building has no identifying marks, but is guarded by men with lots of ammunition and shallow faces.

Secrets, like ghosts, seem to whisper all around Washington DC.

Food options, like the rest of the city, seem spread apart and bland. Around the mall area, snack stands dot the periphery. Choices abound in the form of hot dogs, pretzels, or egg rolls. A few blocks inland from the land of the monuments and dried grass there were few unappealing restaurants. We had a good meal at the Chinatown Express. They made fresh dumplings and noodles in the window and then served it up to us for $5.95 each.

The visit to Arlington National Cemetery under a blistering sun and blazing blue sky was a day that has imprinted itself onto my memory bank and will remain there like a mental tombstone. It was Memorial Day weekend so the energy was exponential; a Rolling Thunder reunion had all the Harley vets dressed in leather vests and jackets laden with patches declaring, affirming, remembering. They were the living foreground to the cemetery’s background.

Along the white tombstones I walked. They were like rows of teeth in a shark’s mouth; otherwise dark and seemingly unending. It reeked of death and sadness. I saw a cemetery of children; I saw mothers with holes in their hearts that couldn’t be replaced by an American flag. There were grievers, there were veterans, there were tourists.

For their service, these Americans get a plot of land on a national cemetery and a token white headstone. We visit, we mourn, we remember. The government puts a small American flag by each tomb; some get a bouquet of plastic flowers.

Sad is not the death of individuals, but the failed lessons. Wars worth repeating, lives worth losing. Families destroyed, generations cinched.

I walked the hills of Arlington Cemetery in silence behind a veil of tears. From the sun beating over head it was like a field of would-be candles where all the wicks had burned down. What remained was a field of reminders of the fires that used to burn, hearts that used to beat, souls that used to love.

Washington DC represents this nation’s capital. From here rules were created, rules are regulated. Here, heroes are remembered and immortalized. Here is where we walk through a living archive of a young country’s rise. Here is where the banner yet waves; for the home of the free and the home of the brave.

********

Below are some photos from the trip. See a full album here.

Washington Monument at dusk.

The Lincoln Memorial as reflected in a case of military Metals of Honor.

Wreaths and Reflections. Vietnam Vet's Memorial.

Remembering at the Vietnam Vet's Memorial.

Vietnam Veteran's Memorial on Memorial Day.

There was one missing next to the purple heart.

Korean War Veteran's Memorial.

This is the view from the backyard of the White House.

It was a cemetery full of children. Arlington National Cemetery.

The stones are placed by middle school children.

Changing of the guard ceremony at Arlington.

Arlington National Cemetery.

JFK's grave with an eternal flame.

All of the white monuments look better at night.

A view of one of the cream buildings at night.

Ode to Mississippi, the Step Turtle

Mississippi the Turtle has lived at my house for the last 3 years. My boyfriend was going away on a trip, dropped her off and decided this would be a better home for her. So now she goes on walk-abouts in my Manhattan flat. We forget about her for a week or so sometimes and out she'll come, dragging a bunch of dust from under the couch with her.

Recently we took Mississippi out on the fire escape and to Central Park. Here are some photos. The video is priceless - she braves a jump off the ledge.

Incidentally, she was named after the Grateful Dead song, Mississippi Half-Step Toodeloo.


On the fire-escape before the big jump. She's contemplating.

Here's the video of her jump!




In daddy's hands.


Cozy in the grass of Central Park.


From behind the blades of grass...


And a piggy back ride for our rubber dinosaur. She thought it was a relative.

Wedding Wishes

To HER on her WEDDING DAY:

There’s no such thing as a perfect person – only a person that’s perfect for you. Trust yourself to know that you found him – and hold onto that trust in yourself and in each other.

Remember this day and how you feel about each other. Life will be rocky and there will be days when your mind will teleport you right back to this day and you will beam with happiness and it will make it all better. Embrace every emotion.

Be true to yourself. Be happy. Don’t struggle so hard when you don’t have to. Know that he loves you. Believe him. Love him back completely. Respect yourself and respect each other. It all started when you liked each other as people; don’t forget to like each other. Laugh – every day – or as much as you can. Life gives us the tears; it’s our job to laugh in its face. Celebrate love and celebrate romance; it’s not corny – it’s maintenance, like oil for a car.

I hope the day was all you dreamed about and more. I hope your life together is all you imagine with sprinkles on top (or should I say cheese?).

Be Happy.

To THEM on their WEDDING DAY:

Wedding cards were just too cliché and by the time you’re ripping this open to see how much the check is for, the wedding is already over ☺. This card is designed to transition you onto the next part. So: HAPPY HONEYMOON!

Have an amazing guiltless time. Take pleasure in every succulent minute.

I know that there will be hundreds of guests and you may not remember everyone – but rest assured we’ll remember you and the testament that you made to each other in front of us. CONGRATULATIONS, by the way. Thank you for having us share in your wedding day.

We wish you a lifetime filled with love, laughter, holding hands, drinking wine, dancing, eating amazing dinners, traveling, and everything beautiful in this world. Try not to go to bed angry. No matter what happens throughout the day, when you get to bed at night, it’s just the two of you in your world. Hold onto each other every night like you’re the only two on earth.

There are so many beautiful quotes that have been written about love; I don’t have to struggle to recreate the words or the sentiment. Here’s one I love:

In the end, nothing we do or say in this lifetime
will matter as much as the way we loved another.

Cheers to love…

May Flowers

I snap flowers all around ... these are from the bus stop waiting for my son to come home from school...