#1 My Friend Jesus
My friend Jesus and I were having a conversation about Corvid-19. No, it’s not Jesus from Nazareth.
We take turns talking about the pros and cons of any subject; so this time, after a quick rock-paper-scissors game, the choice fell on Jesus to decide. He chose the pros.
“I think that nine months from now there will be many babies born,” Jesus said. I responded by saying, “I think there will be many divorces filed.” “You think so?” he asked. “I hope not,” I replied. “I think that the sense of touch and hearing will never be taken for granted by this generation,” Jesus asserted. “Especially huggers and masseuses,” I noted.
“Son! Come and help me!” my mother yells.
“Give me a minute mom! I am talking to Jesus.”
“Don’t tell me you are praying.”
“No mom, I am Jewish. Remember?”
#2 This is What Worries Me
Words. Small and big words don’t lack meaning. And now, in the time of corona, words teem before our eyes. Some bring hope, and some bring despair. Some build, and some destroy. Yet, no words can stop a small self-replicating virus throughout the planet. It searches for new hosts, and it does something that we humans are incapable of doing — it does not discriminate.
My mother, at 74 years of age, has become familiar with isolation. Gone are the hugs and kisses. Gone are the in person conversations that often repeated the same topics, same stories, same tears, and same idiosyncrasies. She sleeps. She watches the news, and she sends videos of anything that will help strengthen the immune system against the virus. Her only concern is the lives of her children, grand-children, and great-grandchildren. She does not think about herself.
My mother is a complex woman, just like the different versions she procreated in my sisters, each highlighting one of mother’s strongest traits that drives them to be expressive, passionate, or driven.
She sits by the second floor window sometimes, unable to see the outside world through the plastic opaque cover. She refuses to open the windows because she doesn’t want any flies in the apartment.
She looks towards the light nevertheless. Her hair spreads her age in black and white streaks, a female Geronimo refusing to die till she sees her wish fulfilled – me having kids of my own. Our mother loves to converse with strangers. She loves to host. She loves shiny things. She holds books like she holds babies – with care. She collects memories through mementos and photographs. She is the only woman I know to have gifted each of her children a place of their own. Her unfinished elementary education has carried her far; some life events are just inexplicably unbelievable. She survived the last offensive by the Salvadorean guerrilla before the end of the civil war. She was forced to do hard labor while American bullets rained from above on the population. Our mother still lives.
She worries about me – especially. Because, of all her children, I am the only one that never married or had any children. I can see it in her eyes. They always say lovingly, “Pobresito.” She worries for me living alone during these times. She never stops trying to be a chadchan. She tells me about Ada, a young Salvadorean university student finishing her last year of teacher prep. “Mom,” I say. “If kismet has not forgotten me, I will find a good woman and have children with her.” I say to myself, “You will have your wish, but only if life destines it to be.” It hurts to have a regret in life. Her eyes mirror that sometimes.
I am worried for my mother. She deserves to live till at least 110 years of age — just like her grand-mother. I am worried that she will not fulfill all her dreams. Her mind is always planning ahead, building something, or making something. My mother deserves longer and deeper happiness, the kind that children enjoy in their years of wonderment and discovery. Our mother thinks all the time; her mind never rests.
I am worried for my mother’s right eye because it’s the only one that works. She researches homeopathic medicine to share the results with her children. I worry for her weight because she loves food as much as she loves to read. She researches recipes and sends us her wishlist.
Above all, I worry for my mom’s memory and independence. I wish her to retain as many happy memories as possible because her hardships sometimes flood back with pain and tears. Her broken heart has never recovered. She hides it well, but when she thinks of the loss, her chest has difficulty breathing. Her face reddens as her eyes are watered by visions of the past.
Her latest research prompted her to call me thrice. She wants to know about the Shmita, which coincidentally falls on September 7, 2021. Our mother, who according to her DNA, is mostly a California Kumeyaay native, has less than 1% of Ashkenazi Jewish DNA. I tell her that those genes are calling to her to learn more about Shmita and Shabbat. She laughs. But, she insists, “What does Shmita mean in Hebrew? And what does it have to do with freeing slaves and letting the land rest?” This I know about my mother. Her first gene on the DNA sequence is curiosity.
“Mom,” I say. “Do you remember those families that have the last name Yovel in El Salvador?” Their last name means Jubilee. It’s an event that happens every 50 years. It is the culmination of seven consecutive years of shmita. Slaves are set free and land is returned to the original tribal owner.
It dawned on me that this has something to do with the plot of land she bought in El Salvador three weeks ago. She wants to plant fruit trees and vegetables for family members to eat in their time of need. My sister’s voice echoes in my ear, “Stop giving her money! She is just going to waste it!” I rather see her smile and be active, than passive and forgetful.
Ever since I have known my mother, she never eats any fruits from trees she has planted during the first three years. And when harvest time comes, she usually offers the first fruits to the neighbors. They love her avocados, pomegranates, papayas, lemons, and figs. She used to give them fresh eggs, but no more. Her yearly ritual is to pick the lowest hanging avocados from her favorite tree. When she comes to visit me at the house, the house she bought, I take a yearly picture of my mom smiling as she visits the trees she has planted. Her youth comes alive as she gently holds a set of huge and slightly brown avocados. “These are ready to pick,” she examines. She expresses her gratitude as she says, “Hay le doy gracias a mi Diosito porque me ha dado otro año de vida y me ha dado a disfrutar con gusto.” She is like a kid picking candies at the store, a kid who is grateful to be led to that moment — each year.
Now, when I visit her in her second floor apartment, to deliver food, I wear a mask, gloves, and long sleeves. Distance hurts.
“Son, help me thread this needle. My one good eye is hurting.”
“Voila mamá.”
Just like that, smaller than a needle’s eye, this current virus is loose upon humanity, looking for unsuspecting orifices to inject a permanent sleep. I dread even one getting close to our mother.
As I cut my visit short for fear of contamination, my mother says “Mijo, que Dios te guarde. Cuidate mucho. No salgas a la calle.”
I smile as I look back at our mother: my mind transports me back to my childhood. For these are the same faithful, familiar and protective words she used to utter to us. She never stops being a mother, and we never stopped being her children, even if we are already grown. I smile and say, “Bye Mom.”
“Please God, keep your virus far away from our mom!”
#3 A Slice of Corona Time
It’s 2:42 in the afternoon. The sweltering heat over LA has diminished. Sitting next to my bow window and looking out towards the Southeastern skies, my gaze peers out like a novice voyeur. My chair – situated about ten feet from the side fence and five feet above the sidewalk – is my observation point.
The side garden, bifurcated by a red-brick path, swells with different types of plants and small potted trees. At its wider end, near the bougainvillea, the garden is about twelve feet wide, and at its narrower end, next to my window, it’s about nine feet wide.
A mother and her two children walk in the direction of the LA Coliseum. The mother struts with white earbuds in her ears and a cellphone on her right hand, while her young children stagger behind her, the young boy more so than his older sister.
The neighbor across the street arrives and double parks his car in front of his apartment door. He immediately proceeds to unload a gray wooden dresser. A stocky, middle aged, short woman wearing white shorts, carries one end while the man holding the other end walks backwards up the five steps to the apartment. The black Silverado truck is left unattended with the boot trunk down.
While sitting parallel to the window, I see the bright red bougainvillea about twenty feet away. It’s place in the side garden is prominent, prompting pedestrians to slow and look up at the waving branches. But, in less than an hour it will be overshadowed by the tall avocado tree’s shadow, standing just behind me to the side.
The soil next to the house, accommodates over twenty plants and small potted trees, among them, a small rue hides behind a tall tomato plant, a velvet geranium, a rose coupled with a rosemary plant, a few dispersed cacti, a lone aloe vera, a tall kale with several branches, and various types of succulents wedge between the different small trees. On the other side of the path, adjacent to the sidewalk wall, several tomato plants showcase the different colors tomatoes have until they are ripe. Cherry tomatoes outnumber the big tomatoes. Three mint plants are placed just under the bougainvillea. Next to them, a basil plant intertwined with the lemongrass plant, tower over the mint. Midway on the side, a three year old moringa tree is held fast by metal rods.
An older woman sits on the low wall surrounding the property. A butterfly flies past her back towards the ocean. She wears a scarf on her head, like the colors of the Brazilian flag. Her black shorts have white stripes on the sides, and her white and light blue, short-sleeve t-shirt bears the colors of the Argentinian flag, decorated by a pattern of small leaves.
My neighbor comes out to close the trunk with a coke in hand. He returns to his home.
The old woman looks into my garden, then she sips from a tall can covered by a white and wrinkled plastic bag. A shopping cart for old people sits in front of her, the handles resemble those of a baby carriage. Her white hair hides under her scarf. A black mask covers her face. She sits there turning her head from left to right. Suddenly she raises her right hand and examines it. Her left hand massages the inside of her wrist. The wall is a favorite sitting place for neighbors seeking to converse or rest under the avocado tree’s shade. A western breeze comes in intervals during the afternoon. The wind keeps the grass between the sidewalk and the street gutter in a constant motion. Her legs are extended, and the left leg rests over the right leg.
A man walking his bicycle passes by and looks at her. He wears no mask, but he wears black shorts and a short sleeve basketball shirt. Perhaps the man saw the similarities between himself and the old woman, minus the mask.
The neighbor enters his car and drives off.
The old woman now leans forward, with elbows resting on her knees.
A white van drives by.
Now the woman struggles to get up, shakes the dirt off her shorts and begins pushing the shopping cart in the direction of the sunrise. With her mouth half covering her face, I see the wrinkles on her left cheek as she looks at the tomatoes, and just like that she disappears behind the red bougainvillea.
#4 Covid Shift
The new hospital shift gathers for a last minute meeting led by the head nurse.
Doctors and nurses, mixed in the small crowd, stand at some distance from each other. After personally inspecting each person’s personal protective equipment, Heard Nurse McArthur gives the go ahead and individuals begin to walk down the hallway towards the Covid-19 wings. One nurse extends her left arm and does the cross over her chest and kisses her heart shaped fist. Another touches the door frame where there would normally be a mezuzah in a Jewish hospital and silently recites, “Shema Israel Hashem Eloheinu, Hashem Echod.” An old nurse touches the image of an embroidered rabbit’s foot on the side of his long shirt. This platoon of unarmed soldiers heads to a field of unnecessary or unfortunate casualties, each risking his or her own life. This week has been hard – ten of the hospital staff have been infected with Covid-19 on the second floor.
“Linda honey, where are you going?” Nurse McArthy said in a motherly tone. “Go home. You are done with your shift. It’s their turn to fight. Tomorrow you can try again.” Nurse Linda looked at Nurse McArthy’s face (it’s adorned with thick wrinkles) and said, “You’re right. There is always tomorrow.” Exhausted and beatten of any joy, Linda’s steps were slow and small. The sliding door closed behind her.
The next day, Nurse Linda arrived an hour early before her shift. She was allowed to visit patients only until her own shift came in.
She paused in front of room 2-020. She read the chart to see new changes. She shook her head and touched her heart.
Slowly she approached the patient who was awake and looking towards the sealed window. Birds flew in the distance. “How are you feeling?” Nurse Linda asked. He turned and smiled as he recognized a familiar face. “I ammmm aaa live.” He said with effort. The bags under his bony face could not hide from the light. “Diiid m y fass mi ly c all?” he asked. Nurse Linda hesitated as she looked in the directions of the plastic, wrapped, colorful flowers she bought for the man. “Yes,” she replied. “Pl eeease, t ell em I loo v thhh emmm. Pl eeease.”
“Save your energy. I will continue to read your favorite book.”
He nodded, and his eyes seemed to smile.
The first agreement is to be impeccable with your word. It sounds very simple, but it is very, very powerful.
He looked at her surprised. She had read the same passage the day before. She must not remember he thought.
Why your word? Your word is the power that you have to create. Your word is the gift that comes directly from God…. It is through the word that you manifest everything. Regardless of what language you speak, your intent manifests through the word. What you dream, what you feel, and what you really are, will all be manifested through the word.
Nurse Linda paused and looked up to the patient. He was crying and sobbing. He motions her to continue.
The word is not just a sound or a written symbol…. it is the power you have to express and communicate, to think, and thereby to create the events in your life. You can speak. What other animal on the planet can speak?”
With a loud voice he mustered his head above his chest and yelled,
“IIII vooo ted fooor hhhh im, IIII vooo ted fooor thaaa t S O ….
The monitor gave that familiar and horrible sound, announcing the departure of another soul.
Nurse Linda ran to him as she yelled for help. Her protective shield fogged, so she moved to the side, as others came to try to revive the patient.
She stepped outside and placed her shield on her hands, and as she raised her head, streaks of tears ran down to her gown.
In a distance, familiar faces awaited for her to begin the shift. She never told him that she recognized him wearing that red Make America Great Again hat. In the video interview, he was ferocious and militant, a devout Christian. His conviction to create a great America propelled him to yell in Linda’s direction during the protest, “Go back to Mexico! You are not our friends!”
She looked at the other soldiers and was happy to see each one standing there.
“Vaya con Dios,” She said to herself, clenching her right fist over her heart.
#5: Two interviews
A Conversation About the New Normal
The following is a melange, virtual, and asynchronous conversation with two Angelinos.
9 May 2020
In a time when many unknowns are still being answered, the coronavirus has already changed the way we live – with unwilling separation.
Andrew, a 63-year-old Angelino teacher retiree, and Isabel, a 37-year-old transplant from Nashville, Tennessee, have come to terms with separation from their loved ones.
Life in the time of the coronavirus is a grinder of choices and considerations, any of which can tag someone with a fatal outcome.
Interview
How long have you lived in California?
Andrew: 62 out of 67 years.
Isabel: Six years
Do you have any kids?
Andrew: I have one. Benjamin!
Isabel: No
Do you live by yourself?
Andrew: Most of the time
Isabel: No, I live with two other roommates.
Have you been infected with Covid-19?
Andrew: No. Not to my knowledge. I was just tested three days ago negative.
Isabel: Yes I have.
What’s it like to experience this virus?
Isabel: For my experience, it was …Do you want to know what the symptoms were like? Or what I went through? Or what do you mean?
Yes. What’s it like to you, and if you had to explain it to someone else?
Isabel: I had a mild infection with the virus, and the symptoms for me were similar to that of other common ailments including seasonal allergies, sinus infection, premenstrual symptoms, as well as symptoms of high stress. Those symptoms included cough, sinus issues, body aches, extreme fatigue, occasional shortness of breath, a total loss of sense of smell and taste, and those are my primary symptoms. I didn’t develop the key symptoms that they kept talking about. I never had a fever. I did not experience difficulty breathing. I didn’t have any tightness in the chest. I had a very mild cough, nothing persistent or that seemed to match the description of what they wore seeing other patients with the symptoms. I think for me, one of the most challenges was…the worst part of the experience was not knowing if I was sick or not. Because I was an essential worker, and I was still going to work. And I didn’t know if what I was experiencing was symptoms of the virus or it was just my allergies or PMS. And I was under a lot of stress at work because things were changing so rapidly and we were figuring out how to operate. Business hours were closing; ours were changing. Throughout the day, you’d get your updates. You were reminded of so many protocols, so it was a very stressful time at work, but I knew that there were carriers who were asymptomatic or people that didn’t know that had very mild symptoms.
And at the time, there was not much testing available. It was very difficult to try to get a test if you only had mild symptoms.
What is a description of you as an essential worker?
Isabel: I work for a regional store that provides essential products, and food, and care for pets.
Do you think that Covid-19 will fade away this year? Or is it likely to stay around for a few years, just like the last worldwide pandemic over 100 years ago?
Andrew: The virus will be with us for the rest of our lives. Viruses don’t just disappear.
Do you think it will be as active?
Andrew: The virus will always be active, but eventually we will have a vaccine. And, it will probably get control of getting sick with COVID. The virus will be around just like the other viruses. They are all here.
What are your take-aways or advice that you can give about facing Covid-19 in public or in private places?
Andrew: If you are going to take risks, make sure that they are well calculated; otherwise, don’t be stupid.
Isabel’s heart and concern turn towards her parents, likewise, Andrew’s heart is centered on his son’s safety and not his own.
The ancient prophet Malachi once proclaimed, “He will turn the hearts of the parents to their children, and the hearts of the children to their parents.” I think he meant God would do that, but if you look closely, this virus has done the same.
#6: The Hidden Artist
During this week’s cleaning, I remembered buying two oil pastel paintings drawn and colored by Yisrael Kushner, a man in his late fifties, and a man in his world. I wondered how he’s doing.
Nestled at the edge of Jerusalem’s city limits, southwest of the old city of Jerusalem, lies an Occupational Center for Adults with Autism. Yisrael is back after being quarantined from Covid-19.
His eyesight fails him sometimes.
When he walks, he does so slowly as he touches the wall to keep him steady. He often stands next to someone, not knowing who it is until he hears a voice. Sometimes he grabs my forearm and pulls me closer for inspection. His trimmed white beard and his black yarmulka hiding his bald head signal the presence of a mystic rabbi. His black glasses often tilt near the tip of his nose. When he’s upset, his right-hand forms a salute as he hits his nose repeatedly with the side of his index finger.
I look at the paintings, and I can imagine Yisrael in the art workroom, where we, along with Mihal Shema, the artist in residence, and all the adults with autism who came in and out of the workroom, play out the same routines that individuals with autism relive each day; and those of us who work with them, are sometimes led to experience the same routines, joys, humor, recurring conversations, same questions, violent outbursts, and the peaceful and quiet times that often arrive at the end of each day.
Yisrael’s painting and drawing collection go back for decades, even before I met him in the late 90s. We had the opportunity to sit together for years. I would trace or draw a figure from a magazine picture, and he would fill in the corresponding oil pastel or pencil color. But, it’s Michal Shema’s directions or preliminary drawings that set the foundation for Yisrael’s work. If Autism had colors, Yisrael would have already used them, sometimes even mixed with scaped saliva.
I found a WhatsApp message from Michal Shema. I looked at the still frame and recognized Yisrael. When sitting, Yisrael’s default posture is that of someone lost in deep reflection. His eyes looking forward, while his right elbow rests on the table, his forearm points to the ceiling. His right-hand rests in his left elbow pit.
Michal Shema: What do you say to Joseph? Say something to Joseph. Look at the camera. Say something to Joseph.
Yisrael Kushner: Joseph is here? Joseph do you know that Daniel died?
Michal Shema: No, but now tell him about it.
Yisrael Kushner: Joseph, do you know that Daniel died, Joseph?
Michal Shema: Tell him. How are you? Ask him.
Yisrael Kushner: How are you, Joseph?
Michal Shema: Regar ….?
Yisrael Kushner: O.K.
Michal Shema: What do you wish for him?
Yisrael Kushner: Regards.
At his best disposition, Yisrael muses himself with instant replays of previous conversations, kissing Yael or thinking about people, often looking slightly upward and to the side, like a Chasidic Ashkenazi version of Shepard Fairey’s iconic portrait of Obama.
I can hear him talking to me in a low pitch, scratchy, grandfatherly voice.
Maybe you will marry an orthodox woman?
Maybe you will stay here in Israel and work here?
How are your sisters Rutti, Sandra, Rosa, and Shula, also called Lee?
When are you coming back?
Right, that you are 52 years old?
I remember the last time I saw him in January. He managed to land an unwanted kiss on Yaell Levi – his life long infatuation. I cannot be upset with Yisrael – his autism sometimes gives hints of his inner world. The irony of it all is that Yisrael comes from what could be considered Chasidic royalty among orthodox Jews, and Yael comes from a secular family. Yisrael’s attraction to Yael would never have become an opportunity for a “Shidduch” in real life.
He is not like the others, sometimes Yisrael gets teary-eyed, not like Michael, who on rare occasions cries out loud like someone who has lost a loved one, whose tears run steadily as his mouth remains open. Or Leah, who cries loudly when she remembers that she threw her baby brother out the second-floor window.
Yisrael exists to help some of us improve our human condition. He provides us with opportunities to ossify our characters with empathetic and caring traits. Yisrael might as well be an angel in disguise, helping anyone who comes into his sphere of existence, in colorful and unusual ways.
#7: One Short Conversation
Throughout my life, I started posing questions to adults to understand details about a given topic. My first serious question was answered with a slap from a nun who saw my questions as insolence towards God. That left a clear mark in my mind, that I needed to learn tactfulness. Though this was only realized in hindsight and after many years past my adolescence.
So far, my most important conversation to date has been with Shmulik Pressman, a son of American Jewish immigrants to Israel. He’s in his early forties now; and since I met him in the late 90s, he has slowed down in energy and the number of interactions with others.
At the time, he lived in a group home for adults and teens with autism, in a new neighborhood called Beit Arazim. The two-story house was located adjacent to the entrance and about a five-minute walk to the edge of the forest. The house was divided into two groups, those over 21 years of age and teenagers who were still going to special education schools. Shmulik was already an adult. He always walked up to people and looked deep into their eyes. His eyes, opening like a cross-cut section of light green agate, sprinkled with yellow dots, disarmed anyone of any fears or apprehension. He seemed to study a person’s eyes and hummed to himself, as he slowly tilted his head from left to right, while simultaneously twisting both his nipples like screws, his right one clockwork and his left counter clockwork.
During a Sabbath, it was Shmulik’s turn to go for a personal walk.
As soon as he heard we were going, he asked, “Cards please.”
I gave him his set of poker cards and he walked straight to the locked door. His head already rocking slightly, was a sign of his thinking process or self-regulation. His flapping left hand was a clue to the degree of excitement, adding a few turns in place for good measure. Shmulik and I exited the house; intuitively, most of the resident house members walked in the direction of the forest. As we entered the dirt path, the sun could still be seen straight up through the pine tree branches. Shmulik’s pace was always faster than most. It was as if he was escaping from somewhere or as if he wanted to absorb as much of the world before returning home. I decided that we needed a rest, so I took his cards and asked him to sit on the edge of a mound, overlooking the valley towards Maalot Lifta, an abandoned Arab village from the War of Independence. I rested my head on the ground, while Shlumlik sat in his default position, buckled knees in front of him and legs extending behind him in a frog-like manner.
Shmulik asked me, “Tell me the story of the lion and the strawberry.”
I had made up many versions of this story before, and I just wanted a mini rest from work.
I told him, “I have a question.”
Shmulik repeated, “Tell me, no?”
I said, “Later. Shmulik.”
I looked at him and asked, “What is the meaning of life?”
He looked at me and then turned to look straight forward, rocking half his body back and forth as if davening or praying. He continued to turn his nipples. At this point, being a Sabbath and all, I refrained from telling him to stop. He can be himself for once.
After a few minutes, he turned to me and said, “The good.”
I asked him, “What is good?”
His hands flapping, as if not believing this incredulous line of questioning. He returned to his swaying back and forth.
Many conversations raced through my head, recalling my most memorable exchanges with people I cared about, like my rabbi’s answers to what’s most important in life and my questioning of Jewish responsa or my friend Anita’s meaning of life – Family, God, and good deeds. Many more definitions came, but none were so simple and succinct.
After several minutes, he turns to me and says, “More good.”
I laughed because it took a man with autism to combine everyone’s most poetic and complex meanings into two simple words without a verb.
Since then, I adopted his meaning and added my own words.
The meaning of life is to do what is good and right for yourself, others, and nature. Everything else is just religion, tradition, or ceremonies.
#8: One Wondering Note to Self
Present-day
I read Genesis 4:6-8 in a new light.
Lamah khara lekha? Why are thou wroth? VeLamah naphlu paneikha? And why is thy countenance fallen?
And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel, his brother, and slew him.
For those who view the Bible as a source of factual history, this is the beginning of human nature’s struggles and not a struggle against a snake. For those who do not accept the Bible as a spiritual source, the story of Cain and Abel represent the two archetypes that have manifested themselves throughout human history.
Flashback to 1980
My heart is pounding within my scrawny adolescent frame. I was given the task to look for my older cousin in the cemetery morgue. A few days earlier the army had arrested many university students, and we feared he was one of them. As I approach the cube-like building, surrounded by tombstones and the smell of death, I notice many dead flowers adorning loved ones. My father had been resting among these dead bodies for over a decade already. But now, a simple metal door and a step down to the floor separated me and the truth. I covered my mouth and nose with my left hand as I entered this semi-lit room. It was almost noon, and a few people were inside crying at the confirmation of finding a loved one among the pile of bodies. The white thick walls were either shedding old paint that revealed red bricks or these were splashes and streaks made from blood. I didn’t cry that day because after turning many mutilated bodies, I didn’t find my cousin’s face. But, we never found his body.
Flashback to 2001
After a deafening sound, I raise my eyes and I see many people crouching or laying on the intersection of Jaffa and King George Street in Jerusalem. Many waited for a second bomb to go off. I saw the shattered windows at Sbarro restaurant and ran towards it. I spent about five minutes inside, yet it seemed like an eternity. The door was partly blocked by a baby carriage and the remains of its occupier. She laid there in pieces, her right eye falling out of her right socket, and parts of her body maimed. Soda and blood were everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, and on the bodies. The flesh seemed to cling to the walls like fresh ground beef. One overweight young female survived. I screamed at her to see if she was alive; and at the first sign of life, I pulled her arm to get her up. Walls were inclining inwardly on the right side as if waiting to cave in. I left Sbarro, stained in my soul, walking slowly towards my apartment, with a flashback flooding images of maimed and gashed bodies. I took a shower to wash away the blood on my face, my arms, and my clothes. I put those clothes in a plastic bag and threw them in the trash. I cried for my cousin, for that baby, and for the many parts that will never be whole again.
Present-day May 2020
These same questions can be asked of the policeman who killed George Floyd but in a modern lens. Why are you angry or hateful? Why has your face depleted of life?
George Floyd’s story is the same story of Cain and Abel. Cain wanted to control what Abel owned, how he expressed himself, and how he found meaning in life. Cain killed Abel because he could do so in front of God. Now, the media is witness to the same anger that has been passed down through human DNA. This angry history of humanity can be identified in the self-image of individuals or groups of people. The Greeks, Romans, Vikings, and Ghengis Khan killed many people because they could. Europeans killed more than 20 million natives because they pursue God, Glory, and Gold, but the killings were done in anger. Hatred turned Turks to commit the first modern holocaust on Armenians. Nazi killed Jews and more because they too were angry. The Hutus slaughtered the Tutsi in Rwanda because they could. Now, my generation, when looking in the mirror, must bear witness to its own fallen face, on how it went from a society of hope to a society of hatred and racism – a fallen face precedes the killing of innocent individuals.
#9 To the Sons and Daughters, I Never Had
Each generation unfolds its kismet according to the lot it’s been dealt with, and my destiny, presented with choices and circumstances, has changed. It remains to be seen if it was for better or for worse. Although now, at 53 years of age, being single, without a mate and without children, it’s become a constant and quiet sorrow, wrapped neatly with indignation.
For this reason, I dedicate this reflection to you – the sons and daughters I never had.
Knowing yourself is the first step to understanding human nature: what you value and who you value says who you are and where you are. Who you are, comes through not only through your words and actions, but also through your silence.
The meaning of life is, according to Micah the Jewish prophet: Do justice. Love kindness. And walk humbly with your God. I would add that for us, it means to do what is good and what is right, not just towards ourselves, but towards others, animals, and nature.
Humanity’s greed, carelessness, control of others, apathy, and shortsightedness will destroy every chance to save our planet, its inhabitants, and nature.
You as my firstborn, are the strength and goodness of all our ancestors, As long as you accept the firstborn responsibilities, an innate and unspoken list of blessings will follow you. Trust me. I would pray, in my own unprescribed way, hopefully to a God that answers, that loving-kindness, health, peace, love, trust, empathy, and consciousness will follow you every day of your life and the lives of your siblings.
The first sound I would teach you would be to say, “mommy.” Then you will learn to say, “Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Echad.” But, if that is too long for you, I will teach you to say “Todah,” which means thank you.
The second thing I would teach you would be to honor your mother. I will model this so that when she is advanced in age, you will look at her with tender eyes, a deep smile, and an extended hand to support her frame.
This life is not always a source of joy or peace. There are some humans, who by choice or lot, wake up each morning to hurt, to tempt, or trip your steps. Be brave. Even if it hurts, even if you succumb to temptation, and even if you fall, get up and keep moving. You have a choice to live and to enjoy your existence, in spite of all challenges and circumstances that may question your being.
I imagine that if I had a daughter, she will have her mother’s witts, looks, character, sense of humor, femininity, confidence, kindness, wisdom, resourcefulness, sagacity, nurturing nature, punctuality, and joy of life.
You, my daughter, would not just be daddy’s little girl until you have children of your own, but you would also be my second teacher after your mom. For it’s likely that you will have your mother’s witts and temperament.
If fate had been allowed, you would already have two siblings. An unborn fetus was rejected by someone who I loved, and who on her own and without me knowing, terminated her pregnancy. Sometimes men are kept in the dark. If you should ever be in the same situation, be kind to the potential father, even if he is undeserving. Men need to know that a piece of them will not exist because of a woman’s choice. Hopefully, your destiny and your children’s destiny will be aligned with planned affections, the kind that still exists when the bones are bridled and the flesh is shriveled.
I wish that in your union with a man, that you will have what you need and want from a man, a partner, a lover, a friend, and confidant who will keep your secrets even when all is not well between the two of you. But, first, be happy on your own. Never think that someone else will complete you.
When it comes to relationships, be kind to yourself. Remember that you too are human.
There are individuals who are just right for you, and there are individuals you are just right for them. The trick is finding those with whom you are right for each other.
Love is not universal in meaning. But, deeds and body language can speak truth and love, even when no one is looking.
Children, live the present with meaning and remember to make good memories unforgettable.
# 10 My Great-nephew Calvin “Moshe” and My Nephew Yair
“Uncle, how come we don’t talk anymore?”
“That’s my fault, Calvin. I let my jobs, hobbies, and other relationships cut down the time you deserve and the time that I miss.”
“That’s O.K. Did you know that I taught Eliott how to wave?”
“Wow! That’s great. Show him how to put all his right-hand fingers and thumb together and then move them slightly up and down in front of him, as he smiles.”
“Uncle, he’s only one and a half. And what does that mean?”
“Have some patience! This is a good sign for your baby brother to learn besides sign language and English.”
“Mom told me that when she was six she asked you about where babies come from. Is that true?”
“Yeah.”
He is silent. Then, his nine-year-old voice says, “Uncle, tell me the same story.”
“Are you still in love with Zeida?”
“Yes. She is the only girl I like.”
“Well, let’s not forget that Rio made you pause your liking during second grade.”
“Yes, but that was only for one year.”
“One year, one month, one moment, if you change your feelings that easy, is that really love?”
“I don’t know. Uncle, I gotta go. Bodi is calling me.”
And just like that, his best friend returned Calvin to adolescent reality.
Bodi and Calvin have been friends since the womb. Both mothers met when they worked together at a Brentwood children’s boutique, Eventually, they would become pregnant at the same time and their friendship would become stronger.
Calvin left me thinking about life’s random thoughts that come to children and about my own random thoughts.
After hearing how our leader spoke about immigrants, I thought back to the moment I arrived in this country and the reason I came here. Then, I thought back to the moment I decided to emigrate from the States because racism was not a reason to stay. But, once I had lived for more than five years abroad, including in Spain, France, and Israel, I realized that humanity’s default quality was its unapologetic imperfection. We hate freely. It’s easy to be kind to people we love or care about, but it is another thing to be kind to a stranger or an immigrant, one for whom our best intentions close our eyes and plug our ears to their realities. Apathy is a human imperfection that spreads like a virus.
I wanted to tell Calvin that the beginning of love is respect. The Latin root for respect is “spect,” which means to see. Re means to do “again” or “again and again.” Calvin never gets tired of looking at Zeida. His eyes light up when he speaks about her. I know that feeling very well. His innocence though will be crushed once he learns more about humans.
My older nephew Yair who just finished his freshman year in college interrupts and asks, “Uncle what do you think about what’s happening between the states and the government’s way of dealing with the Corona?”
“Yair, California is like my mother. And the government, headed by the president, is like my father. He is married to 49 other wives. He takes a lot of my mother’s money and he gives it to his other wives that give him lots of compliments. He has lots of mistresses, but lately, he is having an affair with a Russian man.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Yair, all you need to know is that when it comes to your health and safety, like in most cases in life, you can depend more on your mother than on your father. California has done everything to protect us from this pandemic, while the national government has, for the most part, left each state to take care of itself.”
“Oh, I get it.”
“Don’t take my word for it. Do your research, and help your generation save the world from itself.”
“O.K. But, you know I still don’t know what I want to be?”
“Just be willing to live not just for yourself, but also for others, and in spite of others.”
“Okay.”
#11 Remembering My Family and Armenia
Seating under the wooden pergola at Lake Balboa, my mother and I soak in the early morning light and indulge in the soft cherry blossoms flanking our bench in this social distancing Spring.
To break the silence, I ask my mom, “Mom, tell me stories about Yerevan and Leninakan.”
“Why do you want to hear those stories again? Enjoy the lake and the sunny weather.”
“Yes, but I like hearing you tell those stories. Please, mom.”
Mother acquiesces with a smile.
“O.K., one time, your grandmother and I were sitting in a park just like we are now, except that it was in Leninakan. Just like you, I too asked my own mother about her life stories and her parents.”
While sitting with your grandmother, I asked her, “Mother, tell me about my father.”
Your grandma looks at a distance, at the other end of the city square where an old khachkar, a stone cross, stood witness to Armenians’ struggles and sufferings. Her memories nudged a smile as she thought about Arman, my father, touching that same stone with his right index while tracing the name Elvin, your resilient grandmother. Your grandfather used his fingers as painters used their brushes to paint art, except he would write Elvin with water.
Your grandmother played hard to get until your grandfather would do something romantic or thoughtful for her. He obliged on countless occasions in private and in public. One time, your grandfather overheard your grandmother talk about a memorable hike she did with her family around Tavet Monastery. She loved picking the red, blue, purple, and pink flowers found in the fields. Your grandfather trekked to the site on a weekend and came back with a bouquet of flowers for mother.
Your grandma said to me, “Ahh, he’s a good man. He always works hard to bring everything we need and he encourages you to be a professional. But, you know that. Why do you ask?”
I replied, “I just want to know how you two met.”
Then I asked, “Did you love him right away? Did he love you right away? Are you sorry you never knew another man in your life?”
Grandma replied, “My heart is always beating for Arman. He has a way to warm my heart in every season.”
Your grandmother turns to the water fountain and sees young lovers seated roundabout. She slowly raises both hands and grabs my face.
“Elen dear, I knew I would love him when I first saw him at the oldest pulpulak in Yerevan; this water fountain was popular back then. It was before we moved to Leninakan. He was with his friends, and it was the day before Vardavar, the yearly water festival. My friends and I arrived at the water fountain as Armen and his friends were already drinking. Armen looked back and saw me. Armen, as only he can project an imposing figure, abruptly made his group of friends open a path for us to approach the fountain as they waited. We locked eyes. Even when I drank water, his smile was constant. When both our groups had finished drinking water, he came over and asked me for my name. I motioned with my right index for him to get closer as I began to trace my name on the wet surface. I remember his lips pronouncing each sound of my name as he read each letter I wrote. ‘Aaalveeen,’ he said. He is no painter, but he traces or writes my name to remind me of how we met.”
I said to your grandma, “Father is romantic that way. He always manages to insert your name in whatever he is speaking about and with whomever. Your name is a daily habit. Only, God is second to you.”
She smiled every time I mentioned him.
“Mom, how did you meet dad?”
“Are we talking about all the generations now?”
“Come on, I want to hear how you two met.”
“Look at that boat in the middle of the lake. Only birds are sitting on it.”
“Yes, that’s cute; now, tell me about dad.”
“On one of those outings with your grandmother, she turned her attention towards me. Mother insisted I started to look for a suitable mate. This was against tradition, but she wanted me to find a husband. During vacation, I worked for a month in Yerevan. On my days off, I either returned to Leninakan, also known as Gyumri, or I stayed in the city and frequented the city parks to draw the scenery. On one occasion, I took a break from drawing the skylines and trees, so I started to doodle on a page. I drew my name on the left side of the page and wrote the question: Who knows my name?”
“Ehe, Elen right?” A man’s voice asked behind my right shoulder.
I was so embarrassed because he saw the big heart in the middle of the page.
“Yes, that is me. And who might you be?”
“I am someone who knows your name. My name is Narek,” he said.
I invited him to sit on the bench, but only after seeing that he was really interested in talking to me and I didn’t get any bad feelings about him. We talked about many things, including our cities, families, jobs, and hobbies. It turned out that Narek liked to write poetry, more like to make an attempt at poetry, as he put it. I offered to draw his portrait then and there; he agreed. He was very patient for having to sit for about an hour. He smiled all the time. I like that about him. His eyes seem to smile at me all the time. As the late afternoon gave hint to the impending sunset, I gave him his portrait. He was very thankful, and we parted, but not before knowing how to find each other.
Soon after, in a serendipitous way, as if Kismet were at play, Arek, a close friend to Narek’s family, suggested Narek visit Alvin and Arman’s home because they were Arek’s old friends.
Narek came to meet my family for a weekend. After the formal introductions and a long conversation with my family, I and Narek were left alone to speak in the living room. Unbeknownst to my family, Narek and I were already acquainted. I offered your father some hot tea. He nodded yes with a smile. I walked over to the shelf and motioned him to come over to where I was standing. Then, I asked him if he had a preference and with an open hand pointed to the variety of teas. He opened a crystal bottle and smelled it. He then continued to smell different teas.
I asked Narek, “If you already have a favorite tea, I can tell you if we have it.”
He said, “That would be the easiest, I suppose. But, sometimes you discover a new favorite through smell.”
At that point, he leans forward towards me and slowly breathes deeply as he closes his eyes. He opens his eyes and says, “As of now, my new favorite starts with the letter E.”
I smile of course and chuckle with wondering anticipation.
After tea, I decided to give Narek a tour of Leninakan.
My parents were surprised at my eager hospitality; little did they know.
We spent the morning exploring the city. I led him to Kumayri, the oldest part of Leninakan; he was impressed with the Armenian architecture, which is not found even in Yerevan.
By noon, we were both famished and decided to visit Elvin and Aram’s favorite restaurant on Pyzhkov Street. Narek’s taste buds always levitate towards pilaf and khash, to this day. Can you believe it? Who eats so much rice, and cow or sheep feet?
After lunch, we ventured into what would become the famous Ryzhkov Street. Narek was beside himself when he found a shop that sold glass blowing art. He immediately proceeded to explain to me the process of making each piece. I was impressed with his thorough knowledge and passion for this art form. After seeing a few more art shops, we made our way towards the All Saviour’s Church, and after contemplating the structure for several minutes, we headed South. We walked for about 200 feet and found ourselves in the Alley of Khachkars. Narek took my hand and led me to the most prominent Khachkar.
I asked him, “What do you want to see?”
He smiled and used his right index to point to the stone. He said, “According to ancient Armenian tradition, this stone represents the four virtues that we humans have.” As he pointed to the top part he said, “This is love.” Then he moved his hand clockwise to the right side of the stone and said, “This is obedience.” Then he moved his finger to the bottom and said, “This is modesty.” And finally, he moved his hand to the left side of the stone and said, “This is patience.”
“But today,” he said. “The top part means E. The right part means L. The bottom part means E. And the left part means N.” He kissed his hands and touched the upper part of the stone. I turned away for a moment, wondering nervously.
“Let’s go!” I said. “It’s getting late.”
“Mom, tell me about his proposal.”
“Patience Armine!”
Narek returned to Leninakan for the chance to spend time with me. Without Narek knowing, his father had received my father’s approval for marriage; khos-gab was secured two weeks before Narek’s birthday. Arek had much influence on both our fathers.
One day, Narek approached his father and said, “I want to marry Elen.”
Narek’s father smiled and said, “I’ve known this since the first time you came back from the park. You couldn’t stop talking about Elen.”
“Her father’s present to you is khos-gab before your birthday. What are you going to do?”
“I am leaving for Leninakan tomorrow,” Narek said without hesitation.
Narek arrived in Leninakan before noon on a Thursday in mid-June. He stopped by the flower shop in the center of town and headed straight to my job. He knew where I worked because one of my cousins had suggested giving me a surprise visit on a future date. Plus, another cousin, cousin Dovin, already knew he was proposing that day, so he arranged to have flowers ready when your father arrived.
Half an hour before the workday was over, your father walked into the office and said to Anna the secretary, “I have a special delivery for Elen.” Anna looked at Narek and winked at him. My cousin Dovin had called ahead to arrange entry into my office area. All of a sudden I hear voices and people talking under their breaths. A few of my co-workers came to my desk and started asking me questions. Soon, the entire staff stood in front of my desk, smiling. Then, as if choreographed by a dance instructor, the crowd split into two groups, and behind them, Narek stood in the middle.
He shows up with a loose, long sleeve, light blue shirt and navy blue pants. He is handsome. He walks towards me and grabs my hand while walking me to the front of my desk. Narek bends his right knee as he holds my right hand with his left hand.
He says, “These are for you,” as he gives me the flowers. But, then he reaches into his right pocket and takes out a small box. He lets go of my hand for a moment and opens the box.
He then asks, “Elen will you marry?”
All my co-workers lean towards me to hear my answer.
At that moment I answer, “May I have a day or two to give you a definite answer?”
He smiles and looks into my eyes. “Yes, please.”
“But, I am keeping the ring,” I said.
My female friends came over to see the ring and hugged me hoping to get a hint of a final answer.
Narek and I spent the following day walking through the city, sitting, and talking. No one complained at me being absent from work the next day. That was the most we’ve ever talked about anything without stopping. The following day, which was Saturday, my family knocked on the guestroom’s door and called him into the yard for an urgent matter. Narek was half asleep and went quickly to the yard, where half of my extended family had gathered. I stood in the middle of the courtyard and waited as he approached me. I raised my voice and said, “Yes, yes, Narek, I will marry you!” He kissed my hands, my lips, and my forehead. I think he forgot that my family was present.
“Ahh, you never mentioned that you said ‘Yes’ two times, before.”
“Wait, do you remember the shirt that your father wears every year on his birthday?”
“Yes, that light blue shirt that barely fits him? Wait, no! Is that the same shirt from the proposal?”
“Yes, it is. And what no one knows is that every year he finds the time, when no one is around, and proposes to me anew. Usually, he says, “Will you be my wife this year too?”
“I didn’t know that. That makes total sense now. It explains why he always paid us to do errands on his birthday.”
“Mom, tell me about the day you left Armenia.”
“It’s getting windy Armine.”
“Please mom.”
My mother looks towards the East and is lost in her own thoughts. We sit on the park bench looking at the horizon, both imagining different images of that day.
Suddenly, my mom speaks.
“As I look out my window, and as the plane turns on the ramp, my eyes are set towards the East, towards Yerevan and the mountains. With my right finger, I write Narek inside a heart.
You see abandoning a country is not easy, but it’s easy when you know someone has your back. You don’t have to eat the Aghiblit on Surb Sarkis, but you do have to know who meets your needs, at least.
“I don’t want to eat a salty cookie that tells me who I will marry, and here in California, only traditional Armenians keep Surb Sarkis as the Armenians’ Valentine’s Day.”
“Armine dear, your wants are not always aligned with what you need. Only you know what or who you really need in your life. It’s time you too started drawing someone’s name in your heart.”
Mother hugged me so tight, that I felt like a little girl again, believing in love, romance, and the happily ever after. Her tears blended with mine as their warmth rolled down our cheeks.
“Why are you crying, mom?”
“I cry because, today, Narek gave me a poem he wrote for me years ago.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s not what it says, it’s what the first letters of each line spell over and over.”
“What’s that?”
“My name.”
Mom smiles and grabs my right index with her left hand and begins to trace the letter A on the left side of the note. She then draws a big heart in the middle. On the right side, she draws a big question mark. She lifts my index and kisses it, and then she places it over my heart as she puckers her lips and throws a kiss.
#12 What’s a Home?
A home, not to be confused with a house, is where one’s existence has the most significant expression of being at ease, comfortable, content, nurtured, and delving into meaningful growth. The most excellent ingredients of a home are love, care, happiness, empathy, encouragement, loyalty, honor, health, presence, and peace. We often think of the house as the physical place where we dwell, eat, sleep, and care for our daily needs. And sometimes, we may refer to home as the same. But our home is also the interior of our being, unfolding its dreams, hopes, desires, and wants. If we are lucky, we, too, are experiencing, despite ourselves, a metamorphosis in our daily lives.
We choose how whole or empty our home will be. It will be full of something that focuses our time and energy, or it will be shared with someone or others besides ourselves.
For someone bound to honor a father and/or a mother, a home is full of life that includes a life partner, children, pets, a garden, a bussing kitchen, a satisfying bed, a comfortable sofa, a built-in desk, and a porch where the rain can be watched under a blanket. For an explorer, a home is where life unfolds temporarily – even for decades.
A home is also the place where one sets roots to build a home. Roots come in all sizes. We decide how deep we want them to be. The hardest decision is where to plant those roots because that will have life-changing consequences. The end of one’s life is something we hope will arrive with little or no suffering and pain. Those of us who have loved ones and dear friends with us will enjoy our home till the end. However, those of us who are rooted in solitude will not doubt experience our end alone – without fanfare and tears in sight.