TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 211

[Tobie Shapiro]

April 30, 200000000007


Dear Heads of State, All of You,

	Feyna's been working on a five page paper 
due for her English class about current Asian 
Stereotypes in the United States.  Most of the 
students in the class are Asian.  Her thesis is 
that stereotyping, though still present, has 
improved over time.  She starts back in 1849 with 
the gold rush and the importation of Chinese 
labour to work in the mines, progresses to work 
on the transcontinental railroad, and the 
internment of the Japanese  during World War II. 
Yes, those were worse days than now.  She got an 
extension from the teacher to turn in the paper 
today, Monday.  It was actually due on Friday. 
But last week was devastating for her, and she 
didn't get to it.  The teacher was kind enough to 
take her at her word.  She'd been worrying 
herself to death about this paper for a few 
weeks.  Now, she pulled an all nighter and hasn't 
slept a wink for twenty four hours.  She just 
worked on the paper.  It's going to be well over 
five pages.  She works so hard!  Her slow 
processing gets in the way, as does her ADD, OCD 
and anxiety disorder.  But she plowed through.

	The paper, of course, is of the highest 
caliber, but it is late.  And it's not done yet. 
She's going to have to bring in what she has (I'd 
say she's probably half done, though she'd 
probably plotz if she heard that.  She thinks 
she's almost done.) and plead her case.

	I am so glad I'm not in school anymore. 
Every time I see my kids hunched over their 
schoolwork, I am filled with sympathy and 
gratitude, both.  How did I survive the constant 
crash and burn of my formal education?  My papers 
were always late, too.  And they were of 
similarly high caliber.  But I didn't have the 
ADD, OCD, anxiety and slow processing that Feyna 
has to deal with.  She's pretty brave.





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Put That Thing Away

	After Dweller and I parted to go our 
separate ways, he stayed in the house we'd just 
bought, and I began to wander, finding temporary 
places to stay.  At first, I stayed with Millie 
Rosner, my cello teacher, nee goddess.  Then, 
after she lectured me soundly, cruelly, in front 
of a room full of other cello students, I slinked 
away to lick my wounds.

	After Millie's public throttling of me, I 
could no longer remain at her house.  Humiliating 
me in front of all those fellow cellists was 
inexcusable, even though at the time, I took on 
the shame full force.  I was bad.  I was awful. 
I was throwing my life away.  Thing is, I didn't 
know what my life was, yet.  There was very 
little I could do to find it and throw it away. 
I was searching.


	Nearly  immediately following Dweller's 
and my separation, Harry Lum, the painting 
instructor at the UC Berkeley extension invited 
me over to listen to music on his very 
sophisticated stereo system.  He asked me what I 
wanted to hear, and I told him Brahms, Mozart, 
Haydn, chamber music of any kind.  I warned him 
that I didn't like Boccherini.  Poor Boccherini. 
Could he help it that his cello concerto became 
an old chestnut, loved by some, reviled by 
others, including myself?  Boccherini was a 
cellist, and he wrote many difficult prominent 
parts for the cello, mostly, as I saw it, 
posturing, noodling,  "Look what I can do, Mom!" 
sort of stuff.  So I decided I hated him.  I was 
a young woman of definitive opinion.  No, I did 
not mince my words.  So Harry Lum put on a 
recording of a Boccherini string quintet.  He 
thought I wouldn't recognize it, but I did, and 
right away.  What a cad!  Of course, what I 
didn't admit to him was that I kind of liked the 
piece.  So there you have it, embarrassment all 
the way around.


	One of the other students in Harry Lum's 
painting class was a woman named Florri Aversa. 
Florri was as funny as they come.  She did very 
serious political paintings.  She said they were 
awful, and they were.  Politics and art seldom 
mix well, like religion and art.  You get 
posters, propaganda, proselytizing.  She laughed 
at her art work, and she laughed at everything 
else under the sun.  So much enjoyment in a human 
being!  She was the significant other of the head 
of the philosophy department at UC Berkeley.  He 
was not doctor anything to me.  He was Burt. 
Florri was a junior high school teacher in Boston 
and was taking a sabbatical for a year in 
Berkeley.  She educated me about the women's 
movement.  In Burt's house in the hills, a few 
people had come over for dinner.  She was an 
excellent cook.  Before dinner, while the coats 
were being taken, she told her guests that there 
had been a cat burglar in the neighborhood.

	"Oh dear.  Is everything safe?"

	"I'm not worrying about it," she said. 
"If I catch her at it, I'll scratch her eyes out!"

	"It's a woman!?"  They sounded shocked.

	"Of course, it's a woman," Florri 
responded, acting taken aback.  "Didn't you just 
assume it was?"

	Ha ha!  The joke is a lesson.

	Florri knew a couple who lived in north 
Berkeley who had a spare bedroom they were over 
willing to have me stay in for a while.  A while 
is what I needed.  I gathered my gear from 
Millie's house, and brought it over to their 
house.  I entirely forget the couple's names. 
What I do remember was  how independent they were 
from each other.  A married couple, they came and 
went as they pleased, barely checking in with 
each other.  It was a disturbing arrangement to 
me.  The husband approached me on the second 
night I was there, and asked if I wanted to go to 
a movie.  That sounded good.  I accepted.  I 
asked if his wife were coming.  He said, "No," 
that he was sort of hoping we could get to know 
each other better, by ourselves.  It took me some 
time to catch on to his gist.  I removed my 
acceptance.  Maybe a movie didn't sound so good 
after all.

	My head was swimming.

	At the time, Yvonne and I were playing in 
a string quartet.  Yvonne played second violin. 
Jeff Mark played first.  Yvonne was the far 
superior violinist, but Jeff was the one with the 
ego.  Our old high school friend, Julian 
Woodruff, played viola.  Yvonne and Jeff were 
carrying on a sort of courtship.  It was nothing 
serious, but they went out, maybe even stayed in, 
together.  After I split up with Dweller, Jeff 
started flirting with me.  I was flattered.  Oh, 
yes, flattery was a good idea when your life 
makes no sense and you have no clue what on earth 
you're going to do next.  Flattery is also very 
effective when you've said goodbye to your 
husband who made love to you once a month, with 
his eyes closed, quietly.  So I batted the 
flirtation back at Jeff, and the whole thing went 
much farther than I'd intended.  Without our 
having planned anything, Jeff was visiting me in 
the evening at the married couple's house.  There 
he was, in my bedroom.  I thought about Yvonne, 
and I became confused as to how very interested 
she was in Jeff.  It was convenient to regard 
their relationship as casual.  I had asked Yvonne 
about Jeff.  The flirtation between us was 
obvious.  I asked her permission.

	"Why Jeff?  Anyone but Jeff."

	I was too vermischt (mixed up) for this. 
Never make decisions or take action when you are 
vermischt.

	Yvonne said, "Do what you have to do."

	And I suppose I betrayed her in some way. 
It was eating at me.  Still, there we were, Jeff 
and Tobie sitting on the single bed in my 
temporary quarters, both of us knowing how this 
script was going to play out.  Awkward is the 
word that described the whole scene.  We got 
undressed, each of us peeling off our own 
clothing.

	And then I saw it.

	Jeff's personal penis was the largest 
thing I'd ever seen.  It was grotesque.  Is this 
what men think women want?  This is the feather 
in a man's cap?  How could he cart that thing 
around?  Did he have to buy it an extra seat on 
an airplane?  Was he saving money for its college 
education?  Did it have its own social security 
number?  The thing was so enormous that no man 
could have enough blood in him to achieve a 
serviceable erection.  It was rubbery.  It was 
frightening.  What if he decided to hit me with 
it?  I could get an impressive head injury.

	My ethics returned to me immediately. 
Suddenly, the attraction I'd had for Jeff 
evaporated.  What I wanted was to erase the whole 
evening, deny the whole entanglement.  I had only 
one strategy left open to me.

	I pressed my legs together and told him, "No".

	"No?"

	"Yes, no."

	"Yes?"

	"No.  No.  I can't.  I just can't."  I 
thanked God for the huge obstacle that prevented 
me from betraying Yvonne.

	I did not tell Jeff what the problem was. 
He was probably very proud of Mr. Winkie.  Leave 
him his illusions of dignity.  I explained about 
Yvonne and how I just couldn't do this to her. 
It was true, too.  That shmuck punched a hole in 
my sails.

	Jeff wadded up his equipment, loaded it 
into his pants and went home.  I never wanted to 
see another penis for as long as I lived.

	My senses came right back to me.  Yvonne 
and I had always chosen each other over men.  Men 
are transient.  Best friends are forever.  If 
either Yvonne or I had had a penis, we wouldn't 
be friends today.  Those things get in the way. 
It's probably better if the man beats off in the 
corner.  They keep busy that way.

	Spare me.



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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net