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This was the flaw in making a bargain with yourself. There is no one else there to agree to the terms.
“But what does namaste actually mean? It means: I bow to the divine light within you and you bow to the divine light within me.
“A lot of the families I grew up with were Jewish but they also had Christmas trees.” This the boys absolutely could not process. “Are you serious? Christmas is Jesus Christ’s birthday.” Lewyn very much doubted this to be true, or at any rate the whole truth of the matter, but
“Jesus’s last supper was a Passover Seder, you know.” From the look of them, they did not know.
What the heck did you learn in Sunday school?” “Whole lot of Antichrist,” said Jim. “And how I was going to hell if I was ‘unnatural.’ Nothing about Jewish Passover being the Last Supper.”
“So, the lamb represents the sacrifice to God from back in the days of the Temple. The egg is rebirth. The horseradish is the bitterness of slavery. The parsley is the renewal of spring. This stuff,” he pointed to the charoset, “it represents the mortar the slaves had to make in Egypt. Also the sweetness of life.”
When one suffers, everyone suffers. When one of us is still enslaved, no one is really free. That’s the big moral of the Seder. Of course, we’re Jewish, so we specialize in disagreeing about what things really mean. My mother, for example, used to say, this is what it boils down to: They hated us. They tried to kill us. We’re still here. Now let’s eat!”
“Every Passover should call us to social justice,” the rabbi’s reedy voice concluded. “The Seder reminds us that the political is personal, so take it personally and do something about it.”
Anyway, I gave up. Or no, I didn’t give up, exactly, I just downshifted to maintenance. Psychic maintenance.” “Hers?” said Sally, crossing her legs. “No. Mine. Hers is out of my control. Or so my therapist—my multiple therapists—tell me.”
“We beat on, don’t we? Because we believe in the green light, this American utopia where we’re judged by the content of our character and our work ethic and our God-given abilities. You know, I’m frequently asked if I’m trying to be some kind of example to ‘my people.’ This is a serious question, so I want to be very precise when I answer. I ask them: Do you mean the people of western Virginia?”
I’m not claiming racism and all the other isms haven’t always been a part of life, just that I don’t feel I need to apologize for something that was done in the past, by somebody else. I didn’t slaughter any Native Americans. I’m not burning any witches or lynching somebody because I don’t like the way they looked at my wife. I honestly don’t care if you’re a lady or a gentleman or a Vulcan or a Hobbit, and to be completely honest, I also don’t care what bathroom you use. I just kind of wish you’d shut up about it.”
Our mother, as long as Lewyn could remember, had hoarded and imbued with great significance such tiny moments, all while seeing so little of who the three of them actually were, and even less as they’d each learned to deflect her oversight. Johanna had been happiest when they were small, he thought, all three dependent on her and competing for her attention.
He did not know why they were this way any more than he’d ever known. Hostilities might be at a peak, but they weren’t new;
“I want to talk about some things. I’m tired of us all being so … you know, nobody connected. I don’t know you enough. I don’t know Harrison at all.”
“Fuck applying to college!” I shouted. “Fuck this ridiculous, pathetic, thoroughly manufactured ‘rite of passage’ that’s supposed to tell you if you’re qualified to make money in America, and reassure your parents they did a good job raising you. It’s the most asinine thing! I don’t care about any of it.
“The real racism is the assumption that some ethnicities need a leg up.” “Or a handout.” “Or a handout. Precisely. It’s what Eli has been saying since he was seventeen.” “And what Eli says…”
Just because you already knew everything, that doesn’t mean … I don’t know. That you win.” “The person who knows the most wins. Not necessarily the smartest. The one who knows the most.”
“So it was a bad time, that year.” He nodded. “And there was this moment, I remember thinking, I’m just going to reach out for anything that makes me feel better.” He stopped. “I’ve always thought, good thing it wasn’t drugs. I’d be dead.” “Well, religion is the opiate of the masses, I’ve heard.” “Something to that.”
At some point it becomes real to you in spite of evidence. You just … stake your life to one particular story.”
“I’ve hardly led a deprived life, Mom.” “In most ways, no. But I could have done better. And not just with you. Which is ironic, since making my family happy is pretty much all I’ve thought about for the past four decades. There’s a lesson there, probably.” “Is there? What is it? Secure your own oxygen mask first?” Johanna considered. “Maybe. Yes.”
