| William Blake Jr. 2006-05-01, 1:24 am |
| Yesterday I went to my grandmother's 90th birthday party. Four
generations were there, at a sumptious dinner in my cousin's mansion -
the American dream, Russian-Jewish style, with extended family, all
highly individual people who have all gone through their individual
experiences yet retained identity as a family and as a nation.
I was the beloved grandson, and for a long time I was the one everyone
worried about. And yet here I was, working again, on my own again,
looking good again, and being able to say that my translations are
being used in dissertations and websites worldwide.
My 9-year-old nephew's paintings were on the walls of the house. There
was one after Monet; one after Van Gogh; and some in his own distinct
style. People were raising toasts to my grandmother, saying such things
as "God promised Jewish people to live till 120"
I walked outside and called the lady, a 30-year-old blonde Algerian
beauty. I was hesitant to call her, but the agony was too great, and I
decided that I would risk it anyway. She comes from a Muslim family -
her father is an Algerian businessman who is well-read and intelligent;
her mother is American; she is the best of both worlds. My former boss
encouraged our relationship - he was himself a Lebanese Christian, and
during that entire time our visitors said things that reflected
different sides.
There was a liberal American couple who saw on my eyes what was
happening and said I was a good person and told me that when two people
love each other all kinds of challenges come along, and they have to
face them - problems from within; problems from other people - and it
becomes necessary to solve all these problems so that love can blossom.
This makes sense; the cultural war is both inside and outside, since
culture exists in both places, and energies can either be externally
imposed or internally lived.There was a Muslim man coming to talk about
how he has never tasted alcohol and how he has supposedly remained
righteous even though he was born in America.
There was a tall Middle Eastern man coming in to say menacing things
about her supposedly playing games - he did not know that the little
dude that told him to come back knew the game that he was himself
playing: The game of coming into relationship expecting woman to do bad
things; treating her badly until she does; and then claiming that he
was right all along. There was a dude with a cell phone standing
outside, until my co-worker walked outside with a knife - at which
point the dude flicked him off and was off. And then there were these
bulky dudes coming inside, obviously to intimidate - until, finally
tired of this, I walked past them carrying a huge set of boxes of bread
and glaring at them murderously - I also punched brick wall with my
fist once on a blue moon - and then they stopped coming.
I had to do lots of mental work throughout this whole situation. When
she asked for something and a co-worker told me that she was trying to
control me, I said, "No, she is asking me for a favor." She said that I
understand. When the same co-worker was telling me that man needs to
beat the woman in order to gain her respect, I said that to make the
woman's will one's enemy means to destroy the source from which can
come her love and to prevent her from giving what she wants to and is
equipped to give. I brought the lady poems, flowers, perfume, ear
rings. But the main duty was that of seeing malignant forces and
resolving them. Both the forces on the left and the ones on the right.
The ones on the left I addressed here among other places; the ones on
the right I addressed there. And of course people on the left saw in me
the stuff that I was dealing with on the right, and people on the right
saw in me the stuff that I was dealing with on the left. That, I get
tired of quite easily; but I also recognize that as an occupational
hazard and accept it.
Well. I did not write here about this situation: Some poems, some
posts, but nothing complete - and after I left that place of employment
and found someone else to replace me I honestly thought that I would
forget about her, but I didn't. They tell me she's happy, that what
needed to be done has been done, and I am in a good place as well. Why
then this agony?
I was reading a book about Islam, perhaps the only religion I haven't
studied before, and my uncle was unhappy until I told him that I was
only doing this to understand, not to practice. If Christian way is
surrender to Christ - and Islamic way is scales of justice - then the
correct synthesis is Christian grace with works and doing good deeds.
That way the Gandhi prescription - to be all religions at once -
becomes real.
I did not try to fall in love with this woman. I just find it
impossible to be without her. By all rational considerations I should
be happy to have done what needed to be done, and I am. But every time
I think about her I feel the tugging, piercing, agony in heart and
brain. And I am not sure I want to turn it off, even if that were
possible.
The role of cross-cultural lovers is that of peacemakers. The people
would think twice of declaring war on the next country when their sons
and daughters are married to people in that country. But nothing would
hurt my family more than for me to be with someone from the enemy camp
or to accept their creed. So it's either we split or we transform our
cultures and guide them toward peace. And I am not sure which one it
will be.
Love can be indeed sweet. It can also be agonizing. I am not sure why
this situation has as much pain as it does. Maybe it's because I'm
picking up on her own mindstate, which of course is in pain; or maybe
it's something from around her and within her tearing me to pieces.
I've never been happier than I am now, and I have rarely been in more
pain. I was told that it is these kinds of experiences that one
remembers for life.
This situation is what any novelist looks for. This has everything:
Passion, religion, politics, poetry, family, big social issues. To be
both a character and a writer is to combine the subjective and the
objective and arrive at a complete perspective, one that experiences
from within and observes from without - knowing both the experience and
the external effects. That then becomes the way to understand
completely.
I would not have it any other way.
Ilya Shambat.
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