Lower Topia • Chapter One
Episode 3
Resolution
“Did you love Mom?
February 2023 “How did I end up not worthy of a greeting card, a phone call, gracious thank you, fleeting ‘love you’, or just a passing ‘what’s up?’ How did this happen Charlie? Do they love me? Are their belated texts, pretexts, apologies, excuses riddled with alibis, nothing less than a lack of interest or an elusive thought rooted by guilt and obligation? I hate obligation Charlie. It seems to me that we are caught up in this dizzyingly cyclic emotional ride of hope and disappointment. I don’t want anyone to do anything for me if they feel they owe me. If I didn’t warrant a call, a chat, a moment of unrequired companionship while I was available, then don’t offer it to me when I’m not.” You will grow older Charlie, and surely you will concur. But, in the meantime, I’m trying to find if our lives were really any different? Unfilled? “Was there love in your life, Charlie?”
I don’t mean to be so wistful, filling myself with melancholy thoughts; really. I guess I believe that if I knew more of who I was, what my life was like, it would be easier for me to understand who I am now. While I have Charlie’s attention, the last thing I want to do is estrange him; moaning about things that I apparently have no control over is a sure way to accomplish that. It’s obvious to me that I don’t remember very much. So, while he’s here, I need to make Charlie comfortable enough to tell me what I don’t know, don’t recall. There had to have been love back then. How else did I learn how to fill my heart with so much of it today; even though it continues to keep me in a state of nothing less than unrequited emotions in the meantime?
“Charlie, did you love Mom?”
For some reason, it wasn’t important to also ask about our father. Somehow, I understood that my sense of obligation to that man, was not out of love, but only for those moments of respect for his role. As much as I tried to remember how it was, nurturing was not a quality he possessed, at least to me; Mom out-nurtured him without any doubt. In time, I also would learn, nurturing was not a direct product of parental love. That imbalance of parental affection always baffled me. I tried to correct it when I became a parent; but it seemed obvious, or made to appear obvious to me that I failed at this task. I was resolved throughout my life believing that Dad just loved Steve more. Charlie would have to confirm that for me. I continued.
“Charlie, I would give anything to know what you should have done differently. If I had that chance to help you correct our family dynamics back then so as to make it easier for me to understand those nuances now, what could I do to make that happen? I already told you, Charlie, I just want to end up with my own social media portrait of the all-American family; the happier ones, happier times”. A breath, and then “I can’t do that now, Charlie, knowing my life as a child was a sham, a make believe happy young family. When the only person who should know the answer as to why that happened, how that happened, is now just my past; when the only person that could give me any insight what it was like back then is now just the younger being of myself, you Charlie.” This link to my previous life has been blinded by a façade of personalities masking the true unhappiness that actually resided within their souls, what else should I have expected from my life as an adult. I would give anything, I thought, if I could tell Charlie one thing to do so as to change the way the future events in our life should have occurred. I can’t help but believe that if I understood how to better appreciate the events of my youth, I would then have been better prepared as an adult to deal with my realities. Life without love might have been more doable, survivable, if I knew that it was inevitable. What made me think I was a happy child? What would have Charlie gained from lying to me that his existence was filled with angst and tension. With my mind’s momentum keeping this imagery strong, I asked, “Charlie, wouldn’t it be awesome if our life evolved with better results? I can’t help but believe that it would have allowed me to create a better future for you”. “Charles, this cannot be my fault. It cannot. I refuse to allow you to imply that. I was just a child. As any child, I was in search for affection. How I got it, and from whom I got it, and in what form I got it wasn;t important. I needed to be loved. I was just a child.” “I understand Charlie. I do. I am sorry for laying this on you.” “For laying any of it on me, Charles.” “Yes, Charlie, I am sorry for laying any of it on you.”
I sighed, adding, “I do pray a lot, Charlie, that if I could only go back in time, not necessarily to your time Charlie, but to that moment when I should have ended the argument by taking her home like she wanted, rather than to Eisenhower Park, where I unfortunately convinced her to stay and be happy with me. But I didn’t understand then, Charlie, how I could have survived life without love; that the love I thought I had as a child was only being masked by the illusions that were masterfully created for me. Charlie, I was lied to. Not by you, but by the impressions you were given to share with me. I understand now, there was no love in your time. As an adult, the love that I thought had filled my childhood had, in actuality, only existed as a void of empty promises; a result of an unhappy family lacking adoration, and contentment. That’s all I had going for me. Right? My upbringing with a family where unhappiness begets unhappiness, birthing bitterness and animosity, that would weigh me down like cement shoes of a 1920’s victim being readied to be buried at sea. All I had to work with then as a young adult was a child’s world caught in some wishful dream full of love and affection. But in reality, that love was elusive, and without any blueprint. So, I drew an image so abstract that it had no discernable interpretation.” The truth, the sad truth, I conceded to myself, was that my life, up to now, had simply sucked. The reality, the sad reality, is that this sad truth will prevail.
My mind rested for a second, exhausted, my focus returns dutifully to my original question once again. “Did you love Mom, Charlie?”
I figured that if I knew he did, then that would have helped me decide what I eventually felt for this woman myself; a time-honored love for a woman that I called Mom. But there was this strong probability that Charlie didn’t love his mother. That it was just a shallow, cold respect for the matriarch that demanded reverence.
Finally, Charlie answered the question. “I don’t really know Charles.” I figured that a child’s love for his family is a direct fabrication of his environment. And if this were true then wouldn’t a peaceful happy setting induce more affection? Charlie thought longer about his upbringing in the only way he could. Was he happy? “I don’t recall her yelling at anyone when I was a baby, Charles. It didn’t seem as though there was any web of tension, nothing like what you have described to me that would exist in your time. I hugged her a lot, pretty sure I got a lot of kisses. You have to understand something Charles. I might have been a child, but it wasn’t long before I realized that being the only blonde-haired offspring in this family didn’t hurt my chances of being her favorite son; getting spoiled because of it would be a perk that I made sure would endure. Steve was at school all day, Dad at work, and all day I was the center of this woman’s life. For good or bad, the blonde haired, blue eyed beloved child was hers, and I knew I had no immediate competition.” While Charlie retreated for a moment, I thought about what Charlie inferred by regarding his favored status due to his fair features. I recalled that the patriarchal portion of my family had all inherited the traits of the Ashkenazi Jew of eastern Europe. They didn’t make fair-headed children like the Sephardic folks did. My father’s family were, without doubt, Ashkenazi. Black hair, curly to a degree, pale complexion, dark irises were all stereotypically superficial traits embellished for the shear entertainment of the Anglo-Saxons; they added long noses as an embellishment for their jokes. It seemed obvious to me, from hearing it over and over, I blended better with the goys. Ashkenazi Jews as a population had long been viewed as a group of people that were proud of their seclusion from their fellow European neighbors; by religion and cultural practices. They were true protectionist to a large degree; these socially isolated Jews practiced their separatist idealism proudly, well into their future progeny. My brother showed those physical traits, and was nurtured into that social idiosyncrasy, but not always willingly. My brother, being first born, was also the heir of our religious hierarchy. He garnished this status with the help of a natural singing voice, and intelligence that was off the educational scales. He was his father’s son. And, my father was proud of that fact. I, on the other hand, wore my mother’s genes far more proficiently. “Charles, I can tell you for sure” Charlie engaged again, “that this alone made me the favorite child with my mother. Since my family was ruled by this matriarch, I milked that cow for all it was worth. It helped that I was named after my mother’s mom, Celia. Steve after Dad’s father, Zalman. And, Charles, as a moniker, quickly changed when I responded better to ‘Charlie’. Mom refused to honor my request and called me her ‘beloved Charles’.” Charlie rested once again. So, that is why I hated the name Charles.
“So, if you were her favorite son, that must mean you loved her”. “I don’t know Charles.” Charlie sighed as I persisted. Charlie carefully finding his words. “I know I needed her Charles; I needed the comfort of her lap. I needed the encouragement of her kiss. My relationship with mom had helped me separate myself from the frustrating knowledge that Steve was more like Dad. What I didn’t understand, Charles, was that this association to Dad’s genealogy that my brother was forced to endure would eventually result in a disastrous emotional meltdown throughout Steve’s entire adult life; which would be a great story in itself if Steve ever decided to tell it. Because Dad wasn’t as fostering to me, I ended up needing Mom’s adoration all the more. I wanted to be cherished. But did I love her for that? I don’t think it made me love her any more, I just needed her; although it did make me feel special. She needed me, too. That was obvious to me Charles. I was her justification as a mother. Steve was just a prize; his brilliance was a source of pride when fostered competition with her sister-in-law’s son. Being the same age as Steve, cousin Mickey was to become a standard that became so overwhelming to my brother’s mental health. The competition between the cousins was an artificial proficiency that these two matriarchs invented for their sons to reach. I think Dad was okay with that decision, since Steve was definitely his chosen one, and this level of academia for the two offspring was as natural as fighting Bucks in the wilderness. The question would eventually be settled as to which child would emotionally survive. I know Steve didn’t. I sat a watched. Rather than being that brother to lean on, I watched from a protective distance soaking in my mother’s adoration. My father watched, too. My brother disappeared and just became an entity in our house.”
“All I saw,” Charlie finding his emotions beginning to swell within, “I don’t ever recall being held or cuddled by my father; I wasn’t honored like his ‘first born son’, the one that will inherit the title of Cohanim. Yes, he bought me toys, but it wasn’t the same as being named a successor to a important religious personage. Steve was given a nickname, I wasn’t. Steve had the opportunity to pose in front the display windows of the Alexander department store on 3rd Avenue in the Bronx, where my father created the window designs for the shoppers to gaze at. I hung out instead with mom.” Silence for just a moment, while Charlie recouped his composure; going from angry to resolute. He’s done that before, a trait he will master as an adult. He will draw himself a forest in which he will be comfortable with his seclusion. He will be safe there. He will make it as comfortable as his mother’s lap, and as encouraging as his mother’s kiss. Charlie finished his thought. “Steve hung out with Dad, and I hung out with Mom. I don’t think I loved either of them. I needed mom. I don’t think that was love, Charles.”
“How is mom?” Charlie asked although for some internal reason he figured he knew the answer. Then, quickly using his opportunity to ask, he added “Do you love her, Charles?”
“What do you understand about death, Charlie?” Charlie thinks for a moment and recalls, “Grandma Dobra died. I remember the funeral. So did Uncle Eli, Uncle Irving. And Mom’s brothers, Ed and Lou. Dad told me one of his friends from work died ‘unexpectedly’. Which always confused me, since the people in our family that died where people who Mom and Dad always told us were so sick, that they were expected not to live much longer. So, for Dad’s friend to die unexpectedly scared me.” “Why Charlie?” I asked. “Well, if ‘unexpectedly’ is something that happens, then why are people so surprised when it does? Is death expected, or isn’t it?” Charlie asked. “So, why are you asking me about death Charles? Is Mom dead? Is Dad? “Yes, Charlie. She and Dad are both dead. Mom died in 1995, she was about a month from turning 86. And Dad was about a week from being 93, dying about a year and a half after Mom.”
“Did you love them, Charles? Did you finally find reason to love them?”
“Charlie, I did love them. And, so did you. We both needed them. The first thing I confirmed when Dad died, Charlie, on that day he died, I established the fact that on that day I became an orphan. Whether or not we believe we were nurtured by them, hugged by either of them, whether or not we were jealous of our sibling because of them, angry over some neglect they were guilty of doing, or for some over-cooked steak they served us or under ironed shirt that still had that hole in it, whether or not I was still wearing hand-me-down clothes, or whether I didn’t have a spare Quarter to contribute to the Christmas ‘grab-bag’ at school, no matter what they loved us, and we loved them. We needed that love. We survived because of that love. It was that love that made me believe I could foster it myself. They were still our umbrella when the world became inclement, our floor when we needed support, and our blanket when we needed comforting. They may not have been perfect, Charlie, and they may have made us imperfect ourselves, but in their world, we were loved and we loved them for it.”
“In the end…”, I confirmed with my younger self, “…in the end, it is what we remember that counts, I guess. You had an amazing imagination, Charlie. I remember your dreams, the oak, the hammock, the beautiful wild garden. A magical place, Charlie. I kept those dreams alive, Charlie. I found solitude, consolation, shelter with those dreams. I know you realized, as I did, your dreams weren’t full proof, were they Charlie?”
