#eicha

Mashber (breaking point): A crisis, birth, a wave

20: EMOTIONAL ANGST | Shoulder to Cry On | "It's not your fault." Alt 2: Communication Barrier

~

Janet's water breaks on July 18th, but her child doesn't come out until noon of the 19th. Part of her wonders hysterically if the child did it on purpose, knowing the date.

(She spends half her time bouncing on a big plastic ball, humming "Eyni Eyni Yorda Mayim". Part of her seriously considers naming the child Efrayim.)

Janet's child is seven weeks old when they welcome the new year, and despite it all she finds herself humming "Hayom Harat Olam".

At eight weeks old, she put her child to sleep with Un'tane Tokef.

At this point, she realises that her previous plans aren't going to work. Raising a rootless child is not a real option.

(There's an infantry version, a childish part in her that longs to pay it forward. The rhythm and melodies and every tradition she once swore to leave behind.)

And besides, she remembers bitterly, it's not like denying their heritage ever helped any of them.

~

Janet's child is five years old when they have This conversation. She is putting the final touches of her warpaint: eyeliner, sharp as a fresh Lulav. Her child is sitting on the bed, biting lips and serious.

"Mummy," her child asks. "Why did Mr. Smith say that you're a cake? "

Janet puts down her eyeliner.

"What do you mean, honey? Can you tell me exactly what happened?"

"Um," her darling child hesitates. "In the Chrismas party. At Caleb's parents? I finished- I said hi to everyone and. Umm. Caleb said they have sweets and he said I can't get the grown-ups cookies and I said I can and he said nu-uh and I said I do it. And there were a bunch of people stand by the cookies table and I couldn't go 'way and then they say mean things! They said that you're a cake and you killed someone and that dad only marry you 'couse you're escotic and-and-"

Jant's child is crying, and she closes her eyes and hate' for a second. Hate everything and everyone that got her kid to feel that way. That made her child feel hurt.

Janet takes a deep breath, and looks at her child. "some people lack the proper intellect to hide their small-minded brains. Don't let them know they got to you - but never forget who they are".

"But why they say you're a cake, mummy?" her kid isn't sobbing, but there's pain on the tiny faces. "I don't understand. You don't even like cake! you prefer biscuits 'cause they're smaller and less messy!"

(There's something pure and sweet in the innocence of childhood.)

And there are many things she can say. Many different ways to talk about hate and prejudice and decades of hurt and pain. There are many ways to talk about it, but she choses the way they always did it.

(She tells her child a story)

"well. Years ago, there were people who came from a distant land. And their clothes were different and their names and the way they spoke. Most of them didn't speak English when they came. And they were asked to write their names, they couldn't do it in the letters you know. The letters that the guards on the border wanted them."

"So why didn't the guards learn to read their language?"

"Because. Because sometimes, that's how people are. and so the weary people, the poor and tired who came from across the sea, were told to use an X."

"So they all signed with X?"

"No. Because, if you turn it over - the letter X looks like a symbol of the people that weren't kind to them. It looks like a symbol that, for many many years, was easy to rise and mark pain for their parents and kin. A mark that was a sign for hundreds and hundreds of years of pain."

"So they didn't use the X?"

"No. No, they didn't. They put down their name as a circle. a round shape, with no sharp edges to hurt others. And in their langauge, that shape was called Kayk. And ever since then, when some people try to be mean, they remind to this people and their kids where they come from: from the poor, weary people who came to a strange land - looking for a better life."

Mother's earrings are long, like teardrops. As the light breaks through, it almost looks like magic.

"And that's bad?" asks the child, still sitting on the bed.

"You should find your own thoughts," mother takes a second to point her soft brush. "What do you think? Is going far, far away, looking for a better chance in life, a bad thing?”

The kid's mouth opens, but the mother shushes them.

"No. Not yet. Don't answer me now. Think about it, and tell me about your thoughts when we'll be back from the gala."

And as she finishes the final touches, she can hear the child behind her take a deep breath.

"You said they call it to those people and their kids," the words are soft. "So why they calling you?"

And this is a long awaited conversation,  one she can't have right now. So she take her child, her only-born, her loved one. 

And as the weight of innocence is warm in her arms, she says, "because knowledge is power. And you will always be judged by things you can't - and shouldn't - change about yourself. Because small minded people are always out there. But at least you'll know the truth behind the words said."

"Is it the story of our family?" asks her too-clever child.

"Yes," she says. "And no. This is a story of Our People. This is a story of Our Kind. But this isn't the only one. Not even the most common. This isn't The Story of our family, but it's one of the stories of Us.”

~

Janet's child is only fourteen years old, and there are many things she regrets she never said:

(I'm sorry)

(I love you)

(I know)

(You are my child)

Janet is dying.

She is drunken, but not with wine;

And right in front of her:  this cup of staggering; the beaker, this Kos Tre'la.

There are many things Janet wishes she told her child, and one she'll never regret:

"You are part of a long, brave dynasty. Never forget who you are. Never let anyone make you feel bad for who you are." (We shall outlive them)

The Five Scrolls in multilingual micrography

Ruth, Song of Songs, Ecclesiastes, Esther, and Lamentations

Scribe and illuminator: Aaron Wolf Herlingen of Gewitsch, Moravia (ca. 1700–1757)

Vienna, Austria, 1748. Handwritten on parchment; black ink and gold leaf, L: 19.1; W: 15 cm