Randy Kadish's Blog - Posts Tagged "twelve-steps"
excerpt: Where Rivers (and People) Converge
... I walked across the room, picked up the fishing lure, and blew dust off. I thought back to the day my aunt had telephoned and asked if I wanted anything in my grandmother’s apartment.
I answered, “I’ll come and take a look.”
An hour later, I scanned my grandmother’s furniture and bric-a-brac. There was nothing I wanted. Then I saw the lure. Sol had had bigger and more expensive toys, so why, I wondered, had my grandmother kept only this one? Was it because she knew that, in Sol’s eyes, the lure had symbolized what he could only dream of becoming: a healthy boy who fished, played sports and excelled in school?
A voice inside me said, Take the lure. I looked at my aunt and pointed to the lure. “This is all I want.”
“That? You’re kidding?”
“I’m not.”
“The lure always brought back bad memories for me, but I know it was important to Sol and your grandmother. I guess someone should keep it.”
As I rode the subway home, I stared at the lure, cradled it my hand as if it were alive, and wondered who had made it and who had given it to Sol. After all, fishing was never popular in Borough Park, Brooklyn. Is there more of a story to the lure than I know? Should I put hooks on it and see if it really catches fish? No, I can’t risk losing it.
I opened the door to my apartment. Without taking off my jacket, I opened one of my photo albums and turned to a faded, black-and-white photograph of Sol, taken just before he got sick. He’s about twelve. He wears shorts and a white shirt. He looks away from the camera and smiles as if everything is right with his world. Sol, after all, is my grandparents’ first-born and only son. He is their favorite because he is such a big part of their dream of coming to America, of working hard and then seeing their male children become successful professionals: a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer.
I stared into Sol’s eyes and thought, What if Sol had lived and dreamed of becoming a famous writer, disappointing his parents the way I disappointed mine?
The next photo is of my mother, Gilda. She looks right into the camera and smiles, also as if everything is right with her world. She is, after all, pretty, very pretty, and people tell her so and flatter her. She isn’t therefore jealous of her older brother, Sol. She loves and admires him, and is not concerned when, for no apparent reason, he falls down. But then he falls again and again. Other children laugh and make fun of him. My mother often begs him to get up and show everyone he’s all right. He struggles to. The children laugh again. My mother insists they stop. They don’t, so one day she curses and chases them. She catches one and punches him. Later, Sol asks, “Why am I falling so much?”
Soon they know. Sol, the doctors say, has muscular dystrophy and will grow weaker and weaker and then die. So as the months pass, my grandmother spends more and more time taking care of Sol. Soon he is confined to a wheelchair. Often my grandmother wheels him outside. He can’t sit up straight. Children laugh, and my grandmother tells him to ignore the laughter. He cries and demands to go home. Finally he refuses to sit outside.
My grandmother tells my mother, “You have to take my place and become a mother to your younger sisters.”
My mother obeys, but feels neglected and resentful. Her resentment simmers into anger and slowly boils into rage. Soon she wishes, secretly, that Sol would die so she could go back to being a child and having parents who pay attention to her; but when Sol dies her rage doesn’t.
As the years pass, she lashes out at anyone who seemingly wrongs her, especially me, her first-born son. Is it because it is now my task, passed on from Sol, to become the family’s first big success? Is that why I can never live up to her high expectations? Though my mother loves me, she often interrupts me, tells me I’m no good. She beats me with anything she gets her hands on. My arms are often bruised so I always wear long-sleeved shirts. And not once does she apologize. ...
The Way of the River My Journey of Fishing, Forgiveness and Spiritual Recovery
I answered, “I’ll come and take a look.”
An hour later, I scanned my grandmother’s furniture and bric-a-brac. There was nothing I wanted. Then I saw the lure. Sol had had bigger and more expensive toys, so why, I wondered, had my grandmother kept only this one? Was it because she knew that, in Sol’s eyes, the lure had symbolized what he could only dream of becoming: a healthy boy who fished, played sports and excelled in school?
A voice inside me said, Take the lure. I looked at my aunt and pointed to the lure. “This is all I want.”
“That? You’re kidding?”
“I’m not.”
“The lure always brought back bad memories for me, but I know it was important to Sol and your grandmother. I guess someone should keep it.”
As I rode the subway home, I stared at the lure, cradled it my hand as if it were alive, and wondered who had made it and who had given it to Sol. After all, fishing was never popular in Borough Park, Brooklyn. Is there more of a story to the lure than I know? Should I put hooks on it and see if it really catches fish? No, I can’t risk losing it.
I opened the door to my apartment. Without taking off my jacket, I opened one of my photo albums and turned to a faded, black-and-white photograph of Sol, taken just before he got sick. He’s about twelve. He wears shorts and a white shirt. He looks away from the camera and smiles as if everything is right with his world. Sol, after all, is my grandparents’ first-born and only son. He is their favorite because he is such a big part of their dream of coming to America, of working hard and then seeing their male children become successful professionals: a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer.
I stared into Sol’s eyes and thought, What if Sol had lived and dreamed of becoming a famous writer, disappointing his parents the way I disappointed mine?
The next photo is of my mother, Gilda. She looks right into the camera and smiles, also as if everything is right with her world. She is, after all, pretty, very pretty, and people tell her so and flatter her. She isn’t therefore jealous of her older brother, Sol. She loves and admires him, and is not concerned when, for no apparent reason, he falls down. But then he falls again and again. Other children laugh and make fun of him. My mother often begs him to get up and show everyone he’s all right. He struggles to. The children laugh again. My mother insists they stop. They don’t, so one day she curses and chases them. She catches one and punches him. Later, Sol asks, “Why am I falling so much?”
Soon they know. Sol, the doctors say, has muscular dystrophy and will grow weaker and weaker and then die. So as the months pass, my grandmother spends more and more time taking care of Sol. Soon he is confined to a wheelchair. Often my grandmother wheels him outside. He can’t sit up straight. Children laugh, and my grandmother tells him to ignore the laughter. He cries and demands to go home. Finally he refuses to sit outside.
My grandmother tells my mother, “You have to take my place and become a mother to your younger sisters.”
My mother obeys, but feels neglected and resentful. Her resentment simmers into anger and slowly boils into rage. Soon she wishes, secretly, that Sol would die so she could go back to being a child and having parents who pay attention to her; but when Sol dies her rage doesn’t.
As the years pass, she lashes out at anyone who seemingly wrongs her, especially me, her first-born son. Is it because it is now my task, passed on from Sol, to become the family’s first big success? Is that why I can never live up to her high expectations? Though my mother loves me, she often interrupts me, tells me I’m no good. She beats me with anything she gets her hands on. My arms are often bruised so I always wear long-sleeved shirts. And not once does she apologize. ...
The Way of the River My Journey of Fishing, Forgiveness and Spiritual Recovery
