בית קסוס

I will continue to be my full and glorious self – even if there isn't the slightest ray of hope.

So here I sit. The beginning of the end? The middle of the end? Oy vey? The end?

The corridor is dim. An array of dull eyed forms waiting to be x-rayed are staring at the ceiling…at the walls…. God forbid…eyes should meet. A Druze Mona Lisa with her elegant white scarf draped around her gentle face is lost in thought. An old Moroccan man is growling insistently to his overwhelmed wife that he refuses to allow the doctors to treat him. He's not an idiot and they better stop treating him like one. . She fingers her wedding band silently and stares into space. A young Arab man rattles his leg restlessly in anger? In fear? In frustration? And older Israeli woman with sunken dark eyes does not return my glance. Footsteps clicking. Harsh energeric clicks. Ponderous clacks. I never considered that one can read people's footsteps. But then again, there is still so much I have never considered. Or maybe considered and just lost floating in my cranial universe.

I think about the email my daughter wrote:

" Mommy

I love you and miss you.. I cry just thinking about you. Margie scared me a little talking about you not taking the meds you were supposed to take . …..this time I just got spooked…this is so quick after the last time, it took me off guard.

There is so much that I don't tell you as often as I should and it's scary to think….mom I love you more than words can say.

I learned that the people I love most – the people I share the biggest part of my soul are the people who ignite me (like a Moroccan flame) into anger? You are one of them!

Sorry I am all over the place. What I am trying to say is that you are the most important person in my life and even though I do not say it, you need to know….that when I cry I cry to you…and when I don't feel good, I suffer with you and if I feel like running to safety, I run to you.

You have given me more then life….more than food and education, more than freedom to choose. More than security...you have in all ways from day one given me the most important of all….you.

So after some tears and a lot of schmaltz I wish your body would let you be your full and glorious self and stop doing this to you.

You are in my thoughts and prayers and wishes...but most of all in my heart. Mommy I hope you feel better…maybe this letter made you happy and that your heart will expand with joy and then you won't need the angioplasty.

I love you with all my heart."

Wow……wow….wow

Sometimes I forget that I can trust her to see through her anger and see me. With moist eyes and a dizzying elation, I connect with my baby who shields herself from me most of the time.

I am pleased with the dynamic, independent intelligent young woman she has become…and I am aware of the fear she carries and the aching in her heart.

So here I sit. Waiting for the man who will take me with the wheelchair back to my warm hospital den. In the meantime it's safe there. But (shhhhhhhhhhh) the doctor's are the wolves and they do have the ability to devour me. I call it medical rape. But then I call everything rape.

Amazing how a simple act of child molestation …..can paint our every thought and every movement for the rest of our fucking lives.

Do my childhood experiences really make that much of a difference in who I am or who I could have been if they hadn't happened? Would I have had the guts to stand up to the medical authorities and scream: Don't procedure me! I don't fit the profile! Hey see me…feel me…acknowledge my distress..you don't have to waste a lot of time on me. There has to be one nurse on the floor just to listen and agree with my distress that my body is betraying me

If that man had not forced himself on me…would I have been able to stand up against this granite block of medical oppression and have my say without fear?

Probably not!

So I sit here. Trying to clear the mush in my head.

The most recurring memories of my life before the age of 23 were at age three and a half, when my father (in a most tender gesture of paternal warmth) brought to my measled sickbed a small metal frog which made a tinny clack when I pressed its innards and, at age seven when I was agonizingly forced, into the back seat of an old car to jerk off an ex-Marine who lived in our trailer court while his shy Korean wife and two somber slant-eyed children witnessed the act.

Of course, there are other memories that rise and disappear like ghostly images in a fog - some touching painfully on my chubby childhood and my adolescent (and unsuccessful) attempts to conform in a small, Christian mid-western community; and others painfully touching of my immigrant Jewish parents who struggled desperately for a livelihood and a united family in the "opulent" days of the 1950's.

So I sit here.

"Welcome aboard Flight 93 to Los Angeles. Our flying time will be five hours and 34 minutes. Our altitude is..."

Here was the real break in my efforts to release myself from a pitifully miserable childhood. I felt my life was really beginning.

"This is your captain wishing you a pleasant journey. Our stewardess will show you..."

Wiping away the blur of a teary good-bye to my parents, I struggled to stifle the thoughts of weeks gone by...thoughts clamoring to be recognized, re-lived, distorted and then thrown chaotically back into my head. But struggle as I might, my efforts not to let the past invade were as effective as trying not to think of a hippopotamus when told not to. Never mind! I've got 51/2 hours until my adventure begins.

As the engines whined westward, I relaxed and let the most insistent memories take over. After five frustrating, competitive and overwhelmingly depressing years at Ohio State University, the morning (three days before graduation) upstaged all the crowding mental images.

"Registered letter," a low voice called out from behind the door of my cluttered basement efficiency. Another 'Congratulations- you made it ' message I thought listlessly as I jarred open the door. There stood a dumpy black man - past middle age - in a rumpled postal uniform. I couldn't even manage a polite smile for the tired looking mail carrier as I took the letter.

"What is it?" asked Susan my older sister who was visiting me.

"Don't know yet," I replied looking at the manila envelope. In the left hand corner, I read the name ...Jack Vaughn, Director, Peace Corps, Washington. I had applied to Peace Corps months before but had long given up the idea of a positive reply. If this was a fat rejection slip, it would do little to the depression at the "Great Fear of Job Hunting" that I was recently experiencing.

"Congratulations" the first letter in the packet started. "I am happy to inform you that been selected to train for Peace Corps Service in the Philippines, as a member of an educational improvement team, tentatively assigned to elementary English. Out of a large number of applicantS for the Peace Corps, only a few are invited to enter training. You are among this group because there is a need for individuals with your background and because your personal qualifications for overseas life seem to be of the highest caliber. We believe Peace Corps can make a difference.." Scanning the rest of the letter, I read...Philippines...teaching English...eight weeks training in Hawaii...Language Tagalog."

"I'm in! I'm in! I'm accepted. I'm going to be a Peace Corps Volunteer," I screamed, wildly throwing my arms around my bewildered sister.

Joy upon joy. No more anguish. The US Government was going to take care of me. Between calls to my parents, my friends and acquaintances I visualized myself on some isolated island in the Philippines with young naked children after me for bits of chocolate (like I saw in GI movies on the late show). I could see myself in intimate conversations with the village women advising them on birth control, sanitation, nutrition and their general plight. Of course there would be a male volunteer - preferably Jewish - with whom I would live discreetly in a little shack. Oh yes! I would loose my virginity on a romantic tropical isle.

But seriously, this was my chance - my calling - to make a contribution to lessen the suffering of mankind for which I felt so much personal guilt. Someone must care about the poor, unloved, unwanted humans in the world - and since so few would - I must shoulder this grave responsibility. A childhood dream of mine was to make a million dollars to set up a huge animal shelter and take in all stray dogs and cats. When I got older, this desperate need to comfort and love animals was more acceptable when expressed in human terms (so out little puppies and kittens! Make room for millions of hopeless,faceless people in dark corners all over the world.)

Dialing the telephone number of my closest friend, Robbie, the thought occurred to me that besides not knowing anything concrete about the Philippines, I really wasn't sure where it was.

"Suzanne, please make lunch," I said hanging up the phone and fumbling for my coat and gloves. "I've got to go to the library and find out where the hell I'm going.

Suzanne smiled at me patiently - the type of motherly smile that made me feel silly.

I ran out of the apartment still buttoning my blue winter coat that had seen its last season. But I immediately returned in a frenzy. Where did I put my library card? Oh, damn it. Why does this always happen to me? I went to my desk drawer, throwing out the complete contents of old letters, telephone bills and little scraps of 'reminder notes' that I always made for myself but rarely remembered to look , half a stick of Juicy Fruity. On top of the pile, I found the torn, dirty little card that was so important to me now. All the while Suzanne looked at me with a quiet smile of eternal wisdom and love. Yech! Grabbing the tattered paper, I again raced out of the apartment into the bare crisp spring day. I felt my temples thud and a hot flush rise into my cheeks as I ran to the campus library. A surging emotional energy was exploding inside me. "I'm in. I'm in. I'm in. A temporary reprieve from the lonely and extreme effortof finding a place for myself in this demanding cruel world" I kept chugging out the words like the little engine that could Panting painfully, I reached the mammoth library, went directly to the card catalogue, found the section on the Philippines and went to work on the books with a zeal that I had never had for my assignments for my journalism courses. There it is...

PHILIPPINE ISLANDS

Location: group of islands and rocks off the Southeast Asian Malay Archipelago.

Area: 7,107 islands with a total land area of 115,758 square miles.

Climate: mildly tropical in the lowlands, cool and bracing in higher altitude as in the

City of Baguio. It generally comprises of two seasons - dry, covering the

months of November through May, and wet June through late November.

Population: 35,883,000 as of 1968 with 3.5% annual increase.

Culture: Native culture influenced by Spain when F. Magellan discovered it in March 15,1521.

Religion: The Philippines is the only Christian country in the Far East. Though there are other religions (the Muslims in the Southern part of the country and the Pagans in the Mountains of Luzon), its people are primarily Catholic.

Languages: There are 87 dialects, with Filipino as the national language. English and Spanish are official languages.

Economy: The Philippines is mainly an agricultural county though it is rich in ores and

fish.

The major products are rice, sugar sugarcane, abaca, coconuts, tobacco, ramie, mahuey, rubber, cotton, kapok and a great variety of fruit. There is increased industrial growth.

History: 300 years of colonization by Spain after which the United States had control of the islands for 50 until its independence.

Exchange Rate: $1.00 - P3.90.

Now with some basic facts under my belt, I didn't feel nearly as stupid when I returned to my apartment to make more phone calls.

"Hello, Robbie? Robbie - guess what?" Pause. "The most wonderful fantastic thing has happened to me. I'm going to Hawaii in three weeks as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Yea, I just got my acceptance. To the Philippines. Can you imagine? This is insane!"

Glancing every once in a while at my recent notations, I knowingly spewed out the facts about the country and made up stories of what I would be doing there.

My excitement diminished considerably after my 9th call. To mere acquaintances, I assumed the role of affected indifference. "Of course, I knew all the time I would be accepted." I voiced confidently to a biology student who helped me pass last semester's exams. "I was just waiting for confirmation."

Now after three weeks of rushed planning, filling what seemed like hundreds of forms, a quick medical examination and a strained family parting at Pittsburgh Airport, I was flying over vast stretches of neon patched 1968 America.

When I arrived in Los Angeles, I found that my departing flight to Hawaii was still another five-hour wait. It's not that I didn't know anybody on the West coast, I could have planned it differently.I could have called Bill in Riverside. My tender beloved Bill who so mercifully relieved me of my frigid virginity in one balmy night of paradise. He did me a favor and I relieved him of what he called "blue balls"….a condition of being so horny his scrotem were frozen in pain. And alas not because of me…but because he fell a little in love with petite Robbie – my best friend and roommate who had joined me for a few days on last year's visit to him. He was so kind and so sensitive. I can still cherish his hand on my cheek awing in the softness of a young women's deflowered face which only deepened years of love and yearning for him.

BUT

He wasn't Jewish and the psychiatric drugs he was taking made him foam slightly at the mouth which repulsed me. He was the "mentch". Soft spoken, kind, gentle, friendly, shy. If his father would not have been beating his mother, he would never have attacked him with a knife. I was really sad when Bill disappeared from my Junior year at Ohio State University. I really did love being with him. He was "institutionalized" and medically "electrocuted" and drugged to clear his head. And then he was told to get as far away from his family as he could. Hawaii was further west than California….I wonder why he didn't chose Maui.

So I sit here softly frightened of missing the saltless, tasteless noon time meal if I don't get back to the cardiology ward in time.

Really? Do my childhood experiences really make that much of a difference in who I am or who I could have been if they didn't happen?

Had I not been constantly told that we (Jews) were different than the hoards of "others"…well my mother made me understand that we were the likes of Albert Einstien, Victor Frankel, Freud, Rubenstien, Bernstein.. Teddy Kolleck. The German-Austian royalty of Jews. And the "muza-ratten" (the hoards of rats) were unthinking unsensitive, low-lives, with no class. JESUS . What a load to put on a little Jewish girl!

Bill didn't look like a "muza-rat"…and he was so much more of a man than that little Jewish fraternity shit that tried to get his teeny-weeny penis into my vagina when he would slum around my apartment after a real date because he felt "so comfortable with me"…….I wasn't dating material….but he thought I was an easy screw if he could just get it up. He was so self-involved that he couldn't see that I also had a terrifying struggle to allow someone "in". He even may have gotten that little thing in but it REALLY didn't count as my first attempt at making love.. Stupid little Jewish boy! I was aching to be loved ….so ripe to love and he so missed the mark

Bill hadn't.

So Bill returned my California visit six months later right before my graduation

So he said he came to be with me…..ME!

But Bill wasn't Jewish…and I had not yet gained the awareness that people carry their prejudices from well intentioned false family and cultural education.

But besides Bill not being Jewish, I couldn't help but think that his mark was somehow to see Robbie again.

It took me so long to relearn that all people have more similarities than they have differences.

was too frightened to go sightseeing on my own, so I simply sat in the muggy terminal, leafing through a magazine whose contents I could not concentrate on. Pretty pictures and nice phony stories could not be as exciting as my own life was going to be!

"All passengers for Flight 237 to Honolulu, please go to Gate 8 for boarding." That's me! I jumped up, made a quick trip to the ladies' lounge, checked my make-up, patted my hair and felt ready to meet 'my people' - the trainees that would be on the flight. As I entered the gate, I saw many young people who looked like they, too, were on their way to an adventure. But a sudden pang of self-consciousness swept over me. Should I go up to them and ask them if they were headed for Hawaii as Peace Corps trainees? What if they weren't. Better wait until someone approaches me...but, no one did.

I got into the plane, sat down by an"adventuresome"looking young man and tried to think of something interesting to say about the wonderful weather in California.

"Certainly is a beautiful day to go to Hawaii," I stammered. The man looked at me curiously and nodded his agreement...then returned to the newspaper he was reading.

"Are you a Peace Corps Trainee? I blurted out, determined to start a conversation.

"No, I'm not," he answered, again giving me no encouragement to continue the 'chat'.

Creep. If he had been one of the Peace Corps people, he wouldn't be such a stiff. About twenty minutes after take off, I got out of my seat and went towards the toilet at the end of the plane to see if my hair was still in place. There a group of excited young people were laughing and talking.

"Are you Peace Corps Trainees?" I asked one of them. Yea. You too" came back an enthusiastic response. "Yes, me too." I answered happily. I fell into an empty seat and radiated as questions and answers were thrown across the aisle. Where are you from? What university did you attend? When did you apply? When did you get accepted? Did you apply for the Philippines? Did you know that the training would be in Hawaii? What program are you in?

The conversations continued through the Henry Fonda-James Stuart western 'Fire Creek' high above the thousands of billowy clouds whose shadows dotted the sea below.

Even into snack time and past freshen up (where smile-strained stewardesses passed out luke warm wash cloths), the trainees did not seem to tire of the same questions. When they could find no more to say to one, a seat was made and the assembly line introductions were renewed. Same questions, same answers - different faces.

"Look," shouted a dark-haired, puffy-eyed graduate of NYU who had already introduced herself as Cindy - or was it Mindy? "There's an island!" Another surge of excitement as trainee strained over trainee to get their first glimpse of Hawaii. I bent forward over one the Jewish looking make trainees to peek out the window. Of course I made sure our shoulders touched. Far below was a dark land mass with white capped mountains peering through the clouds. HAWAII!!! The excitement even grew as we saw other islands outlined by foamy waves.

We were met at Oahu airport by some lei-laden Peace Corps staff members who helped us get our bags checked for our next flight to the big island of Hawaii. And off we were again! This time I was seated near the male trainee, I had brushed shoulders with when we first saw the islands. To my delight he was Jewish, rather good-looking and a very cooperative 'chatter'.

What a beautiful name I thought. Marc Spreshner. He told me he had been a trainee in another Peace Corps program and was to have been assigned in Uganda. But he had be deselected on his first try and reapplied a year later.

"Training can be pretty crappy", he told m. I hung to each word he uttered thinking 'better listen to him, - he knows!' He told me about the rotten staff members in his last training program. "I think they were anti-Semitic, but they told me I was full of shit, when I tried to appeal my deselecting," he continued. "I really had to bust my balls to get into this "Poor Marc," I comforted him, while my mind wandered to the living arrangements he and I would have in our little grass shack in the islands. How understanding I would be to this persecuted man - who I was already in love with. He told me about the incessant criticism he got from one Wasp staffer in particular. "It must have been terrible." I said to his obvious pleasure, wondering if he would help me with my hand luggage when we landed in Hilo.

The plane finally taxied to a halt. Even before I could grab my bag from under my seat, Marc was gone.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Too many things have been happening since I arrived at the Peepeekeo Training Center - but I'll try to fill you in.

First of all the training Center is situated about half a mile inland so we're practically sitting on the ocean. Behind me is Mauna Kea, a 13,796 foot snow-capped volcano. You can't imagine what I felt - waking up to the view this morning. And at last night's sunset the whole sky was literally on fire! Wait till you see my pictures.

We live in barracks...21 giddy girls in mine. The oldest woman is a widow in her mid-sixties. She will be a secretary in Manila but she must train with the rest of us. There are about 15 married couples who have their own accommodations. Three institutional-like meals a day and lots of exercise will assure a certain weight loss. Otherwise there is no weight problem to contend with. I am amongst many chunky-chics here.

Yesterday we spent all morning filling out forms, waiting in lines for linen, getting finger-printed etc. and having 'introductory lectures'. In the afternoon we had a 'let's get to know each other' social with the 117 trainees and 25 staff members. When I finally got to bed, I had to keep pinching myself to believe that I really belong to such a lovely group of people.

Today was a free day for exploration of our surroundings. We wee up at 6:00 (I know you can't believe that anyone could get me up before 10:00 but I can't sleep late in a bunkhouse full of girls with all the excitement and juices flowing).

Four of us including Rosie, the widow - hitch-hiked into Hilo. From there we got picked up by some old Hawaiian buzzard named Danny Dee. He had a fine time driving us around in his '56 Dodge. We drove to the Kilauea Volcano National Park on the south of the island. He showed us smelly sulfur pits with his arm around one of the girls, then a spectacular cinder cone with his arm around another. At Halemaumau crater (a fiery active lava pit), he had his arms around two of us and his eyes wee rolling in their sockets. Even though we didn't like the grabs, we did appreciate his going out of his way to show us his beautiful island. And what an island it is! Vegetation so thick you can bounce on it. Red anthuriums grow every place and wild orchids surround you just waiting to be plucked. The weather is 'almost' superb. After developing a beaut of a burn from romping around the volcanoes under blue, blue skies, a mass of dark clouds snuck over and dumped on us in a matter of 15 minutes. But that didn't dampen out spirits. We got home in the late afternoon wet, frizzy-haired and happy. I went to bed and just blended in with the mattress - lumps and all - for a two hour nap.

Classes start tomorrow. I'll be learning the Tagalog dialect with 20 other trainees. And instead of teaching English, I'll be trained to teach mathematics. That's a laugh. I'm afraid to tell the staff yet that math almost flunked me out of Ohio State. If it gets too hard, I'll see about a transfer. But right now, I feel that I can do anything they ask of me.

So you got the idea at least. Our set up is like a big camping trip. Cold showers, open air, nightly group sings and huge , huge spiders. One plus...we do have flush toilets - a luxury, I'm told that we may not have in the Philippines.

As we are getting to know each other, our excitement grows and we look forward to each moment. We got that 'Espirit de Peace Corps' (Excuse the pun but I've been dying to try that out on someone.)

Ah - yes dear parents. Before I forget - I need some money. Peace Corps gives us a pittance for stamps and hamburgers but I want to travel about a bit and buy a real Hawaiian moo-moo. I'll appreciate whatever you send. Waiting to hear from you...

Much love,

April 24

Hawaii - tropical island paradise - HUMP! It's been raining for five days straight. I'm freezing. My clothes won't dry. My bed is damp and lumpy. The showers are too cold to even be considered. I'm running out of deodorant and my muscles are screaming to get out of my body from yesterday's exercises. Geeze my hip is so fucking sore. Good that the nurse finally got me an appointment to see a doctor today. Maybe he can give me something for the pain.

"M

agandang gabi po. Salmat po." I can't get those Tagalog expressions out of my head. We've been sitting in language classes for six hours a day for the last week and a half.. and its becoming a drag. But the kids in my group are a life saver. Sherry is the best of them. When she and I start cracking up, it's the end of the class. She had us in hysterics yesterday taking Luis' place as teacher and throwing her arms at us to repeat individually and in chorus the most absurd sentences. "Gusto ko'ng uminom beer. Ako ay maligaya and matangkad"

Hey, thinking of the devil, here she comes - jutt-jawed and excited. "Mo-o-o-neek," she mooed out. "He is on to me!"

"Who's on to you?" I asked, happy to see her.

"Nate is on to me," she uttered each syllable, throwig her head back like a playful colt.

"Nate?" I grimaced. "I thought you were eyeing Alan for fun and games."

"I was just fooling around with Alan just to see if Nate was interested. And Nate-is-on-to-me. He asked me to go the swimming hole with him on Saturday.

How I envied Sherry with her ginger hair cropped boyishly around a very pleasant freckled-face, her lean body, her wit and her obvious popularity in the group.. The All-American girl! She had a long-time boyfriend waiting for her in Boston, an infatuation with Alan the first two weeks of training and now "Nate was on to her".

"What about Bob?" I asked, a little distressed at her pleasure in being wooed and her indifference to her Boston beau.

"While the cat's away..." she winked at me.

"Sherry, if I loved someone and he was waiting for me back home to get married, I'd be faithful to him," I told her,