TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 114

[Tobie Shapiro]

January 8, 20000000007


Dear Ones,

	Monday morning is my day to take my 
Fosomax.  It's a miracle drug.  Several years 
ago, my bone density X-ray showed up with me 
having Osteopenia.  That's a precursor to 
Osteoporosis.  And we have this drug now, 
Fosomax, which you take once a week, and it 
encourages bone density.  My bones just grow more 
dense from taking this stuff.  It's amazing.  But 
the drug comes along with a list of instructions 
that all have exclamation points after them. 
Take with PLENTY OF WATER!  An eight ounce glass. 
DO NOT EAT ANYTHING BEFORE OR AFTER TAKING 
FOSOMAX!  WAIT AT LEAST HALF AN HOUR BEFORE 
TAKING YOUR DAILY MEDICATIONS OR EATING ANYTHING! 
DO NOT LIE DOWN OR RECLINE FOR HALF AN HOUR!  DO 
NOT GO BACK TO BED!  The instructions scared me 
so much that I put off taking the damn things for 
a month.  I was afraid maybe I might bend over 
and simulate reclining.  Or maybe I'd have 
terrible side effects.  Could the stuff be so 
toxic that flipping over on my side would corrode 
my esophagus?  But now I routinely take this 
stuff, and as I sit here pounding on the keys, my 
bones are growing denser.  And I didn't lean over 
even.  I've been upright since 6:00.




                          ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß
                           ××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××


Trading places

	My mother was driving across town from 
Silver Spring, Maryland, where we lived, to 
someplace in Washington, D.C.  I don't remember 
what the purpose of the trip was.  In order to 
get from one part of town to the other, you had 
to drive through some of the worst slums in the 
United States.  It was a hot day.  This was 
before seat belts, so I was sitting right at the 
passenger's window, my legs crossed in front of 
me, my arms folded up on the window ledge.  It 
was a great big old black car with huge round 
shapes on it, like a cluster of black balloons 
lumbering over the road from here to there.

	I watched as the neighborhood changed. 
Soon we were driving through a whole new world. 
I remember dirt, mounds of dirt, no sidewalks, 
one room houses with broken windows, the front 
doors open to let in the air from the suffocating 
humid heat.  The floors inside the houses looked 
like dirt, and outside every house were groups of 
black people of various shades, crowding around, 
standing, squatting, sitting, all together, 
looking out at the diminished world.  I was 
probably five years old, and as we drove by, my 
eyes fixed on the eyes of a small boy, about my 
age.  He was sitting next to the feet of his 
father who was  leaning against the house.  A 
pregnant woman stood in the open doorway.  There 
was broken glass from the front window scattered 
on the brown earth.  I saw the boy and he saw me. 
Our differing fortunes struck me suddenly.  I was 
privileged, bouncing around in my mother's big 
black car, with my clothes in one piece, and my 
concerns taken care of by my parents.  No life or 
death issues.  There was no hunger in my belly, 
no Cossack at my door.  Here was a poor soul, by 
accident born to a poor family in a poor 
neighborhood.  What chances and opportunities was 
his life going to offer him?   I felt a shaft of 
communication pass between us.  For an instant I 
saw a big black car rumbling past with a little 
girl my age, staring out the window, and our eyes 
met.



                          ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß
                           ××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××



Catatonia

	Usually, I carried on through the 
obstruction of my home life.  I went off to 
school and came back in the afternoon, lazed 
around and did homework.  Maybe I had a 
rehearsal.  Maybe I had a long session with 
Yvonne on the phone.  We talked endlessly.  In 
the hallways, when we passed each other, we would 
hand each other the notes we had written the 
night before.  I took a piece of eight and a half 
by eleven paper, folded it up into quarters then 
eighths and tore it up into rectangles which I 
stapled together to make a little book.  I would 
give it a title on the front, write on all the 
right hand sides of the pages, reach the end, 
then flip it over and start back the other way. 
I filled dozens of these books and I think Yvonne 
still has them all, saved away someplace.  She 
was always the organized partner, and never threw 
anything away.  Somewhere, those breathless 
teenage rants are preserved for such time as her 
son, Yuri, comes across them while he is going 
through his mother's effects after we've all 
blown our final gaskets in our generation.  My 
poor kids will be going through a hundred 
journals: my life since age nine.  There is no 
escaping it.

	We passed our notes and moved on down the 
hallway to our separate classes.  At night, we 
would call each other on the phone and talk for 
as long as possible, even reading the notes to 
each other - the notes we were going to exchange 
the next day in the hallways at Berkeley High 
School.  Yvonne helped me through my upbringing. 
She was there, as a witness, to vouch for my 
battered version of reality.  She saw my father 
at his worst, and likewise I saw her mother and 
her mother's boyfriend, Sharad, at their worst. 
We understood.  We two understood all our 
worries, all our fixations, and all the unhealed 
wounds, where our selves were halved and 
quartered, then in eighths, stapled together and 
read both directions.  She could verify for me 
that I wasn't crazy:  I did see my father's 
abuse;  it wasn't normal.  I saw her mother's 
paranoid schizophrenia, the extreme acts, the 
fragility, and Sharad's mean mindedness, his 
sexism.  A hand would go up in the air from his 
luxuriant chair.  He'd snap his fingers. 
"Sandwich!" he'd proclaim.  And Yvonne had to go 
make him a sandwich.

	We two were badly beaten, no visible bruises, but badly beaten.

	Once in every while, I would break down. 
My stamina, the drive that got me through the 
days would collapse, and I'd descend into a deep, 
unconsolable, paralyzing depression.  This would 
last a couple of weeks, at least.  During that 
time I would lock myself in my room, and sit, 
catatonic, staring out the window, tears 
streaming down my face, contemplating the ebb and 
flow of human misery.  Everything I saw would be 
a metaphor for my paralysis, my untenable 
situation.  I would go through the motions by 
going off to school in the morning, and coming 
home in the afternoon.  Then I'd take my position 
by the window and weep, motionless, soundless. 
This was the only way to keep my father away from 
me, both psychologically and physically.  He 
would never cross the threshold to my room, would 
send no messages after me.  He pulled no scenes, 
and refrained from leering at me.  My mother 
would worry, wringing her hands, but when she 
approached me and got no answers, not a sound 
from me, she would recede and leave me to my 
self.  No one knew what to do with me.

	Maybe that was the idea.



                          ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß
                           ××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××
-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net