Thrown to the Wolves

I came out of the womb and was told:

Here are some wolves for you to start with

We’ll replenish as time goes by

In fact, we’ll give you a life’s supply

It’s a promise, which they did keep

I was born

To two Romanian parents

I was born in Palestine

But they told me it was Israel

It’s been so for over 10 years, they said

It’s yours now, it’s our holy land

This land is no longer theirs

Since then, the lies kept piling up

Placed in a grave I became a tumbleweed

Or less romantically: A weed.

Thirty years later I arrived in the US

Not permitted to work yet, illegal, they said

If you leave now

You won’t be able to come back in

Yes your mother died at 57 in that ‘holy’ land

But you can’t attend her funeral they said

So I gave my brother a note I wrote for her

I asked, please, lay it on her shrouded body

This is not permitted, said the Rabbi

There will be no ‘placing’

Material objects in the grave hole

Even in your so called own land

But my brother, the rebel, with many causes

Dropped it nonchalantly in that dug up hole

When she was already there, well underway

To being fully covered, deep in the holy land’s soil.

Five years later, at 35

Awarded with a holy green card

Married, mother of a son

Pregnant with a daughter

And with a ‘real job’, they said

I became a textile designer

The only two years

I have worked in corporate in my entire life

I never spoke to the big white wealthy boss

He never spoke to me either

His name was Phil, Jim, or Doug

I can’t quite remember

He lived in Manhattan Beach, on the strand

Along the Pacific Ocean

I do remember Sherri and Sherry

One was my boss, Sherry with a Y

But the other Sherri once told me

That in a meeting my Sherry said to him

Excusing my inadequate work:

What do you expect?

She is just a little girl from Bethlehem.

I am 67 now

Earlier this year I went to Romania

The birth place of both my parents

I was there once before, 50 years earlier

When I was 17, with my mother

And the one she married in a civil ceremony

And this time I saw faces

That looked like my ancestors faces

Crying and laughing at the same time

Tears as rain

I heard the language and the sounds

And the music my ancestors made

The facial expressions my ancestors wore

On their bothered faces

The temperament my ancestors owned

Melancholic, stern, warmhearted, stirred up

Loving hearts, wailing, offering chocolate

Inborn traits

Inner landscapes, ancient

I have them too

And I have concluded, simply, that

I am Romanian.

And also

that the place where we are born

Is not necessarily the place where we belong

And that sometimes, most of the time

We belong nowhere

With no body

And that it’s possible, perhaps surprising

But possible

To find solace

In just that.

To hush little baby

Hush

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