Murder has been the order of the day. Last Saturday, eleven of my fellow Jews were gunned down as they prayed. Last week, two elderly black people were shot in a supermarket parking lot, because a white man was not able to get in to a nearby church, but he was able to get a gun and point it at them for looking different than he did.
This is me, circa 1995, angry about a government shutdown. But this image resurfaces these days because I’m still as angry as I look there. About Congress’ continued, protracted failure to enact gun laws that could save my kids from growing up in fear, practicing lockdown drills, being handed lollipops to keep them quiet as a deranged (white, male) shooter stalks them in the hallway.
This, of course, is not to turn a blind eye to the fact that hate is universal. My Facebook memory from last year on this date expresses sorrow over the day’s events. I was horrified to find that I couldn’t even remember which ghastly massacre had occurred until I looked it up. It is obvious that eradicating this type of hate will take more than bulletproof legislation. But we need to start somewhere. I’ll be voting next week. (At my former elementary school.)
Last Saturday night I tossed and turned. It was difficult to get to sleep after the day’s events. When I was finally about to drift off, I suddenly heard my father’s voice. It wasn’t saying anything particularly meaningful. It was just there, in my ear, accompanied by his habitual throat clearing. Maybe he was clearing his throat in order to greet the new souls who were lost that day. It was good to hear his voice again, and it made me sad. (My father spoke English with an accent that I have never been able to replicate, and I’m very good at accents.)
A few weeks ago we were driving by my childhood home, which is a mile from our new house. I had decided I wouldn’t be passing it on a regular basis, since the azalea bushes that lined the walk are now gone, as are most of the trees I knew. On this particular day, there were renovations going on, apparently in the kitchen, which my father had renovated himself. So we got one last look at his handiwork as we drove by that day, and saw the cabinets he had installed heaped in the driveway. (At least the garage he built is still standing.)
We’re working hard to make progress on our new house. Every day brings a new wrinkle or near-calamity. The contractor was here for a walkthrough and noticed a leak sagging the drywall on the living room ceiling. Now we need to retile our shower. This morning, a tree expert walked us through our backyard and demystified our trees for us. Black cherry, mulberry, sassafras, gum. They seem to like to grow in community, so I had assumed they were all the same thing. “Birds must have planted em,” the tree guy said. The one that seems to be leaning precariously towards our neighbor’s fence turns out to be fine. But another tree, a black cherry, needs to come down. We’re trying to decide between using it as firewood or having them split it so that J., who has always dreamed of taking up woodworking, can try to make us a new coffee table.
I tried all my usual self-improvement techniques this month (giving up sugar, taking up running) but now, at the tail end of the month, it has all fallen by the wayside. November has typically been a month where I try to reignite my writing practice, but I’m almost afraid to make any sort of commitment to myself. It would certainly help to pass the time: I have some translation work coming up, but not until the end of November. I will meet my new dermatologist this Friday, the same one who treated my father. I have a CT scan on November 19th, the first in a new location, and then an MRI in December. Today’s date squares with the time when the scanxiety kicks in, and the dread, and the sense that something may not be right.
But it’s also Halloween today, so I should rehearse merriment in advance of taking the kids out tonight. Here’s something to crack a grim little smile at.