Assignment #2

[Write about a moment in your childhood when you didn't fully understand what was happening around you. (Tension between parents often works well for this.) Since you're writing this as an adult you may choose to include the information you didn't know at the time.]

At five years old, I had the notion that everything in life had a rightful place: a baby in a crib, water in the tub, my dad in a suit and me, tucked under my mother's arm, my cheek pressed against the cotton of her t-shirt, smelling the sweet scent of detergent mixed with the familiar smell of her perfume. It was the start of fall in New York and outside, the leaves fought to keep their color and the sun hid behind a gray wash of sky. Even as a child, I could feel a lull in the mood, the dark tint of the day as winter demanded to be let in. It left me feeling unsettled but I resolved that I was where I was supposed to be – I was safe, burrowed into my mom on this afternoon.

Earlier in the week, we had made the trip to the library and picked out an armful of children's books. Today, I dug through the pile to find the perfect one. After a few moments of scavenging, I decided on Molly's Pilgrim, drawn to it by the cover illustration of a young girl with dark hair just like mine. When I held it up for my mom's consent, she smiled and nodded approvingly.

Pressed against her chest, I listened closely to the reverberations of her voice as she began to read, feeling the words as I heard them. I stayed like this, only turning my head slightly from the warmth of her so I could see the pictures. A few sentences in and I was already pleased with my choice. The book told the story of Molly, a young Russian girl, adjusting to American life after emigrating with her Jewish family to find freedom. Just before Thanksgiving, Molly's teacher asks all the students to sew a pilgrim doll and bring it in to share with the rest of the class. Excitedly, Molly brings news of the assignment home to her mom, who works all night to finish the project. But what Molly's mother creates is nothing like the pilgrims Molly had read about it. Instead, it was the image of herself with long dark braids and a kerchief of vibrant colors. Confused and upset, she berated her mother for misunderstanding the assignment. Here is where the humming of my mother's voice is jolted. And this is when her voice cracked.

Apologizing and clearing her throat, my mom continued, reading the words of Molly's mother: "didn't you just tell me that a Pilgrim is someone who came to this country from the other side of the world to find freedom?" and my mom chokes on her words again. Now, I have lifted my neck and angled my head so I can see her face; there are tears lining her eyes. She is apologizing again and I don’t understand why she can’t continue to read the words she sees on the page and not say the ones falling from her mouth.

This is the moment when I knew that she was different, that I was different. I couldn't place this emotion, this uneasiness, this feeling that something did not belong, that something had been misplaced. As the granddaughter of holocaust survivors, my life would be filled with sentences that were caught in throats, tears that swam up unexpectedly and emotions that we couldn't always decipher.

It was on that day, in that afternoon with winter closing in, that I learned not everything was in its rightful place. My family's history was displaced – memories, stories, lives, had all been moved and lost.