Many years ago I saw the documentary Punch Me in the Stomach by Deb Filler. In this film, which Filler wrote and starred in, she presents her father's story of being rounded up and taken to Auschwitz. In a scene I can never forget, Filler (as her father), tells how he and the other Jews were given their uniforms then told to lie down; the cots were set up in fours--two pushed together sideways, up against two beds, foot to foot.
There we were, taken from our homes, to lay on these cots waiting for what they would tell us to do next. We lay down, and we looked at each other. All we could do was laugh.
My rendition above barely captures the absurdity that Filler so aptly conveyed. I recall nodding deep in my gut; innocent people in the midst of productive lives of working and caring for families--pulled from those lives, put into pajamas and instructed (like children) to lie down--what to do next, indeed!
As I visit unfamiliar neighborhoods, in my search for the place to move, that "what do I do next?" comes to me in an eerie way. Two weeks ago, when in Nyack, I said to my friend, "after I settle into my apartment with the beautiful views, take a walk, fill the cupboards--What will I do?" I didn't realize in that moment, that what I meant was, how do I handle the sense of estrangment, I already felt.
Nyack is so unlike Manhattan which has a constant palette of "what to do's." Answering that question, for the past eight years, has been easy. Just, go out again. But, in a place where I'm not yet part of the community, where traffic doesn't stream (and scream) past my window, there are no subways, not blocks and blocks to walk, what in the world will I do?
I want to figure that out. A quieter, slower pace (with beautiful vistas) tempts me. But the fear that I'll feel lost, is one that has held me back many times. So often I'm at the edge of a diving board I stood on at 7 then 8 then 10 and so on, but could never trust I'd land ok. Yet, I keep edging there...
On the bus ride home from one of my excursions, Deb Filler's father lying on the cot, waiting for what to do next, echoed in my head. I felt how profoundly that history, via my parents, shapes me.
The Brooklyn Bridge--behind me now for almost eight years--only one of many in need of crossing.
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