Natalie B. Hess - Remembering Ravensbrück: Holocaust to Healing

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Breshit In the Beginning, or She is Me

Happy Endings

There are no happy endings.

Endings are the saddest part,

so just give me a happy middle

and a very happy start. - Shel Silverstein, Everything on It, Harper Collins, 2011

I am on the 42 bus traveling from Center City Philadelphia to West Philly when, at one of the stops, a bulky, gray-headed lady pushing a walker, struggles up the bus steps. The access is not easy for her. In addition to the walker, she balances two bags and a brown satchel over her shoulder. A red handbag precariously rests on the handlebars of her walker. All the passengers seem to be focused on the spectacle. Is she going to make it?

All of a sudden, three people simultaneously spring into action, a burly middle-aged man and two young women. One of the young women reaches out for the walker. The second tries to give better stability to the sliding handbag. The man offers his arm for support. I feel proud of the young people, and, to tell the truth, I also feel a bit guilty for not being part of the helpful crew. These are good and caring people. For a moment the world is a better place and somehow I am in it.

And then the world isnt.

The burdened lady stands absolutely still on the middle step of the entrance ladder. You leave me alone! she shouts. You sons of bitches, leave me alone. Did I ask for your help? I did not. You stay out of my way. Fuck off. I am doing fine. Just fine. Stay out of my way. Out of my way!

The helpers, of course, immediately withdraw. A long line has been forming behind the adamant lady. The red light in front of the bus turns green. From behind the bus there are honking sounds. The bus stands still. The driver hums a quiet tune, which clearly proclaims that he is not about to budge until this particular drama has reached its conclusion. The entire collective of the crowded bus holds its shared breath while the lady with great care and interminable resolve, stumbles her way toward the first two seats, which have, of course, been vacated.

As for me? A sense of dishonor in the consciousness of my own hypocrisy floods me. What do I know about this woman and her tragedies? My heart aches for her. At this moment, she is my soul sister. Through her over-the-top behavior she is presenting the act of my own bottled-up emotions. How well I understand her pain, her need for independence, and her craving to reclaim a lost personhood.

Lets call the lady on the bus Rose. Rose who burst apart in her explosive effort to transcend the limitations of her life. I could so easily be her, but I am trying hard not to be. At age 82, when doctors, who could be my grandsons address me by my first name; when in restaurants, the bill is invariably handed to a younger person (the real adult in this show); when during casual meetings, I am treated like so much air as talk is addressed through me to any younger person. And I know that in order to survive, I must learn to be gracious. Yes, I must, but can I? Or must I become Rose?

I have experienced a profound grief and it has caught me in an identity crisis, but I refuse to be stuck in it. There are yearnings on the other side of sadness, and one can be ushered out from inside a shut down world. Who was I? Who am I now? And who do I want to be?