The Life Inside of Us
I don't do well in tight spaces, I never have and perhaps this can be traced back to around the times when my grandparents' grandparents were crammed into boats and shipped off- fleeing- always fleeing.
I don't do well in tight spaces.
I can't see red. Or for a matter of fact, most other colours people see. This too I think can be given a source, a timeline a date an incident, an indelible mark on the ever-changing map of history.
Indentation of genetic circumstance manifests itself in my height, my short Jewish legs my eyes that are set deep within my skull my nose that speaks of Iranian plains, my hair that sings the song of the 5 rivers of Punjab.
I have upon my cheekbones, the marks of Sikh courage- pointy ridges in an otherwise round soft face. My skin harks from wheat farmers in Punjab and also of shrewd Baghdadi Jewish merchants. My identity explodes into existence at the intersection of a man fleeing prejudice and a woman fleeing pride.
I never knew my grandmother- and I feel like I shall never ever be able to let it go. Wonderfully strange and unconventional, fierce-gentle quiet-loud intelligent-wretched, scarred-perfect grandmother. I forget her name, shamefully, I can't pull it out of the treasure trove attic of memory that resides in my head.
I remember her pictures, yellowed and ageing but still truthful in her earnestness.
She was called Shoshanna. Rose among thorns, lying eternally pure.
I think she's the reason I hate tight spaces. It runs in the family.
She had no pride, I have no prejudice.
I don't do well in tight spaces.
I can't see red. Or for a matter of fact, most other colours people see. This too I think can be given a source, a timeline a date an incident, an indelible mark on the ever-changing map of history.
Indentation of genetic circumstance manifests itself in my height, my short Jewish legs my eyes that are set deep within my skull my nose that speaks of Iranian plains, my hair that sings the song of the 5 rivers of Punjab.
I have upon my cheekbones, the marks of Sikh courage- pointy ridges in an otherwise round soft face. My skin harks from wheat farmers in Punjab and also of shrewd Baghdadi Jewish merchants. My identity explodes into existence at the intersection of a man fleeing prejudice and a woman fleeing pride.
I never knew my grandmother- and I feel like I shall never ever be able to let it go. Wonderfully strange and unconventional, fierce-gentle quiet-loud intelligent-wretched, scarred-perfect grandmother. I forget her name, shamefully, I can't pull it out of the treasure trove attic of memory that resides in my head.
I remember her pictures, yellowed and ageing but still truthful in her earnestness.
She was called Shoshanna. Rose among thorns, lying eternally pure.
I think she's the reason I hate tight spaces. It runs in the family.
She had no pride, I have no prejudice.
Comments
Post a Comment