IsInOhNy

I am from the oven, the days when we compared ourselves to chocolate chip cookies baking. When I said, “Look, Mom! There’s Arafat!” and my mom told me to shush. I am from the gasmasks, the not understanding the seriousness of it all. I am from the sirens. I am from the lucky ones, the father who said, “Why should we stay to hear ‘Sheer L’Shalom’?” The ones who went to the café, and only found out about Rabin later. I am from the father who left the radio on while he was in the shower and the mother who was upset he let it play. I am from the sirens. I am from going to Dad’s work in one of the glass-windowed buildings, and him not being there one Chanukah. I am from not understanding how Syria could be ‘above’ us, and imagining the two countries as coexisting on the same plane, we just couldn’t see the other one. Maybe that would make things easier. I am from the sirens. I am from the tornadoes, The wondering whether Mom is okay at the paper while playing Candyland in the basement. I am from the all clear, when we got a call saying Mom was fine. I am from the sirens. I am from the non-canned peaches, the ones that actually had skin and a pit. From the waiting around with Mom when my friend’s mother never showed up. I am from the phone conversation where I told Mom there were two men with guns across the street from Grandma Baker’s house, From my mom telling me to get away from the windows and to give the phone to Grandma. I am from the sirens. I am from biting my tongue when Mom introduced me as ‘Rebecca’ to her family, From having to learn how to respond to that name as well. I am from being one of two in my kindergarten class to ‘vote’ for Al Gore. I am from the “See you later alligators” and “In a while crocodiles” that aren’t true anymore. I am from the sirens. I am from the blizzard warnings, Hoping for no school, the ice skating on all the neighbors’ yards. I am from the truck that told us to go inside, and the hot chocolate we drank once we got home. I am from the sirens. I am from the scary turkey farms, one which my teacher owned. The small town where you left your car doors unlocked, until someone actually stole money from our car. I am from the neighbors watching across the street in the middle of the night, gossiping about my brother’s birth, while I went to the wrong house, thinking, “The house is on the left,” and yet going to the right. I am from the sirens. I am from the great-grandmother who still remembered it was my sister’s and my birthday, the day before she passed. I am from my cousin Yaron, who only lasted three days. I am from family trees, visiting cemeteries, taking pictures with tombstones. I am from the sirens. I am from the cynics and the stubborn mules, those who view the glass as half empty. I am from the optimists and the busy bees, those who view the glass as half full. I am from those who should change their name to Schadenfreude and those who don’t know the meaning of the word, both figuratively and literally. And I am from those moments that draw us together. I am from the sirens. I am from the different faces, the emergencies that don’t make me wonder anymore. I am from the Boulevard. I am from the sirens.