Shiva

 Shiva

    The first week back after surgery was hectic with a lot to catch up on. Our new social worker started, I had a couple of medical appointments, and some of our many June fundraising events made for late evenings.  I could not fit Natalie’s wednesday funeral in among all that, so I  decided to go to the shiva thursday after work.

    Usually when I go to Newark I take the train, but since the bus station is so close to my office I figured that would be most efficient.  Entering the bus station I cut through every day, my tired body wanted to follow the usual route home, but instead I stopped in the bathroom to see if some cold water would wake me up.  Dodging a woman mopping, I nearly collided with an adult woman who was roller blading on the wet tile floor while talking to her young daughter (not on rollerblades) who was in a stall.

     The bus was old and battered, with cracked seats and windows so scratched and dirty they were hard to see through.  It was clearly intended for commuters because there were no stop announcements.  Normally I would count the stops in a situation like this, but it quickly became clear that the timetable only listed the major stops and we were stopping a lot more often.  I wound having to guess based on what I could see through the dingy window.  Mostly what I saw was very industrial, warehouses and factories, graffiti and broken pavement.  But then we got to an area that was more built up, so I got off there and had guessed correctly – I was at Newark Penn Station, although the bus had left me in the labyrinth of parking lots behind the station.  

     I made my way around to the front.  The facade of Newark Penn  still has the grandeur of the heyday of train travel when these stations were built, but the sidewalk outside was full of people in wheelchairs slumped in the heat while others went around asking for change.  I called Mike and he sent an Uber to get me, since he lives in a leafy neighborhood that is more of a suburb.

    Despite his African accent, the Uber driver had clearly been driving in Newark for a long time – he cut across parking lots and down side roads.  Arriving he asked me if this was the house.  “I don’t know,” I told him.  “I’ve never been here.”  This is Mike’s second, bigger Newark house with room for his two children and his parents and I had only been to the old one.  Getting out, I could see a group of black women and children by the gate at the end of the driveway but between my old glasses and the fading summer evening light, I couldn’t make out Mike’s Namibian wife, Marie.  Just then, their biracial daughter Hope, with her characteristic energy detached herself from the group and came racing toward me at top speed.  “Hi!” she said, stopping just short of knocking me over.  “Hi!” I said watching the uber driver, who was politely waitng  - I guess to make sure I was not completely lost – break into a wide smile.  Hope does that to people.  She took me by the hand and led me to her mother who directed me to the front door.

    I found everyone gathered in the large living room, which featured an elegant marble fireplace.  These houses were built before Newark was torn apart by drugs and violence starting in the mid-1960s, and they mostly fell into disrepair before being rediscovered by people seeking more affordable options than NYC has to offer.

    Mike had warned me that his Dad was getting forgetful.  Marty, always a short, slender man, looked more frail but remembered me right away, rising from his seat to give me a hug.  Marty is from an orthodox family, and two of his relatives, both dressed formally with yarmulkes on, were sitting on one couch while Marie’s sister sat on another.  Later Marie confessed that she was hoping I would happen to be wearing a message about Gaza because she can’t stand the two men’s smug support of Israel.  Hope was dashing around the room, doing headstands and somersaults among the padded furniture.

    Marty stuck close to me, telling me about how the US needs a labor party.  “A lot of young people are pro socialism, these days,” I told him. “How are they learning about it?” he wanted to know.  “They get most of their information online,” I explained.  “When I was at Yeshiva,” he said “we had Hebrew classes in the morning and English in the afternoon.  One day, one of the other boys gave me this pamphlet and it was about socialism.  I hated yeshiva, I left as soon as I could when I turned 13.  Learning about socialism was the one thing I got out of it.”  Later he told me about a feminist Marxist sect, and went upstairs to get me their newspaper.  It had more actual content than most of the Marxist newspapers and less of the standard propaganda.

    Before they left, the two orthodox guys wanted to give Mike the Hebrew mourners’ blessing, so he fetched his yarmulke from the vestibule and put it on while they stood over him and prayed.  Mike’s family is not at all observant and I had never seen him wear one before, but the shiva followed the traditional customs, the covered mirror and the boxes for mourners to sit on.   After they left, Marie wondered why they had not eaten any of the large amount of food laid out in the dining room, and Mike explained that they doubted whether it was kosher enough.  

    Marty was thinking about his lost wife.  “She was getting better,” he said.  “They told us she was getting over the infection and that she would be home in a week.  And then in the middle of the night her heart gave out.  She didn’t want CPR which would break her ribs.  She didn’t want any pain.”    “It sounds like it was quick,” I said, to reassure him that she wasn’t suffering.  “Michael was so upset about losing his mother,” he said.  “He cried and cried.”  It felt like he was still trying to absorb what had happened, and later on he repeated the whole thing, forgetting he had already told me.

   “Natalie painted all of these,” he said, gesturing to the art on the walls.  “I remember that from your house in Brooklyn,” I said, pointing to one.  Then he pointed to a smaller painting in a much different style.  “Brock did that one,” he said, referring to his special needs grandson who had occasionally flitted through the room, the extra people making him anxious.

     Marie, who had just returned from her research in Africa at the news of Natalie’s death, began talking to me about the end of USAID and the effect of AIDS on the educational system.  She explained that since most schools were lucky to have even one teacher qualified in any given subject, the loss of teachers to AIDS left the students with gaps in their education.

     By then it was 11pm, and I started consulting schedules to figure out whether the bus or train was the better option for getting back – either one would still leave me with the hour+ trip back to Bay Ridge.  Meanwhile, Mike figured out that it would only take 40 minutes to drive, so he borrowed Marty’s car and we headed to Brooklyn.  Standing on my doorstep, he hugged me and seemed not to want to let go.  It felt like by holding  on to me there in Brooklyn, he was holding on to how things used to be instead of returning to Newark and his mother’s absence.  I gently reminded him that he had to be up early to take the kids to school, but finally I had to pull away and step through the screen door, where hungry cats were waiting for their late dinner.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shiva

    The first week back after surgery was hectic with a lot to catch up on. Our new social worker started, I had a couple of medical appointments, and some of our many June fundraising events made for late evenings.  I could not fit Natalie’s wednesday funeral in among all that, so I  decided to go to the shiva thursday after work.

    Usually when I go to Newark I take the train, but since the bus station is so close to my office I figured that would be most efficient.  Entering the bus station I cut through every day, my tired body wanted to follow the  usual route home, but instead I stopped in the bathroom to see if some cold water would wake me up.  Dodging a woman mopping, I nearly collided with an adult woman who was roller blading on the wet tile floor while talking to her young daughter (not on rollerblades) who was in a stall.

     The bus was old and battered, with cracked seats and windows so scratched and dirty they were hard to see through.  It was clearly intended for commuters because there were no stop announcements.  Normally I would count the stops in a situation like this, but it quickly became clear that the timetable only listed the major stops and  we were stopping a lot more often.  I wound having to guess based on what I could see through the dingy window.  Mostly what I saw was very industrial, warehouses and factories, graffiti and broken pavement.  But then we got to an area that was more built up, so I got off there and had guessed correctly – I was at Newark Penn Station, although the bus had left me in the labyrinth of parking lots behind the station.  

     I made my way around to the front.  The facade of Newark Penn  still has the grandeur of the heyday of train travel when these stations were built, but the sidewalk outside was full of people in wheelchairs slumped in the heat while others went around asking for change.  I called Mike and he sent an Uber to get me, since he lives in a leafy neighborhood that is more of a suburb.

    Despite his African accent, the Uber driver had clearly been driving in Newark for a long time – he cut across parking lots and down side roads.  Arriving he asked me if this was the house.  “I don’t know,” I told him.  “I’ve never been here.”  This is Mike’s second, bigger Newark house with room for his two children and his parents and I had only been to the old one.  Getting out, I could see a group of black women and children by the gate at the end of the driveway but between my old glasses and the fading summer evening light, I couldn’t  make out Mike’s Nigerian wife, Marie.  Just then, their biracial daughter, Hope, with her characteristic energy detached herself from the group and came racing toward me at top speed.  “Hi!” she said, stopping just short of knocking me over.  “Hi!” I said watching the uber driver, who was politely waitng  - I guess to make sure I was not completely lost – break into a wide smile.  Hope does that to people.  She took me by the hand and led me to her mother who directed me to the front door.

    I found everyone gathered in the large living room, which featured an elegant marble fireplace.  These houses were built before Newark was torn apart by drugs and violence starting in the mid-1960s, and they mostly fell into disrepair before being rediscovered  by people seeking more affordable options than NYC has to offer.

    Mike had warned me that his Dad was getting forgetful.  Marty, always s short, slender man, looked more frail but remembered  me right, rising from his seat to give me a hug.  Marty is from an orthodox family, and two of his relatives, both dressed formally with yarmulkes on, were sitting on one couch while Marie’s sister sat on another.  Later Marie confessed that she was hoping I would happen to be wearing a message about Gaza because she can’t stand the two men’s smug support of Israel.  Hope was dashing around the room, doing headstands and somersaults among the padded furniture.

    Marty stuck close to me,  telling me about how the US needs a labor party.  “A lot of young people are pro socialism, these days,” I told him. “How are they learning about it?” he wanted to know.  “They get most of their information online,” I explained.  “When I was at Yeshiva,” he said “we had Hebrew classes in the morning and English in the afternoon.  One day, one of the other boys gave me this pamphlet and it was about socialism.  I hated yeshiva, I left as soon as I could when I turned 13.  Learning about socialism was the one thing I got out of it.”  Later he told me about a feminist Marxist sect, and went upstairs to get me their newspaper.  It had more actual content than most of the Marxist newspapers and less of the standard propaganda.

    Before they left, the two orthodox guys wanted to give Mike the Hebrew mourners’ blessing, so he fetched his yarmulke from the vestibule and put it on while they stood over him and prayed.  Mike’s family is not at all observant and I had never seen him wear one before, but the shiva followed the traditional customs, the covered mirror and the boxes for mourners to sit on.   After they left, Marie wondered why they had not eaten any of the large amount of food laid out in the dining room, and Mike explained that they doubted whether it was kosher enough.  

    Marty was thinking about his lost wife.  “She was getting better,” he said.  “They told us she was getting over the infection and that she would be home in a week.  And then in the middle of the night her heart gave out.  She didn’t want CPR which would break her ribs.  She didn’t want any pain.”    “It sounds like it was quick,” I said, to reassure him that she wasn’t suffering.  “Michael was so upset about losing his mother,” he said.  “He cried and cried.”  It felt like he was still trying to absorb what had happened, and later on he repeated the whole thing, forgetting he had already told me.

   “Natalie painted all of these,” he said, gesturing to the art on the walls.  “I remember that from your house in Brooklyn,” I said, pointing to one.  Then he pointed to a smaller painting in a much different style.  “Brock did that one,” he said, referring to his special neededs grandson who had occasionally flitted through the room, the extra people making him anxious.

     Marie, who had just returned from her research in Africa at the news of Natalie’s death, began talking to me about the end of USAID and the effect of AIDS on the educational system.  She explained that since most schools were lucky to have even one teacher qualified in any given subject, the loss of teachers to AIDS left the students with gaps in their education.

     By then it was 11pm, and I started consulting schedules to figure out whether the bus or train was the better option for getting back – either one would still leave me with the hour+ trip back to Bay Ridge.  Meanwhile, Mike figured out that it would only take 40 minutes to drive, so he borrowed Marty’s car and we headed to Brooklyn.  Standing on my doorstep, he hugged me and seemed not to want to let go.  It felt like  by holding  on to me there in Brooklyn, he was holding on to how things used to be instead of returning to Newark and his mother’s absence.  I gently reminded him that he had to be up early to take the kids to school, but finally I had to pull away and step through the screen door, where hungry cats were waiting for their late dinner.