Becoming Human

            I recently finished a screenplay, inspired by a novel I wrote, that takes place in 1963. From the beginning I wanted the neighborhood to be composed of different ethnicities coming together to form a community—to me, that is the true meaning of the American dream. Not a melting pot, but an immigrant stew, rich with a multitude of spices and ingredients. Or as Danny, Sophie’s Moroccan-Jewish trumpeter father, puts it, “a blues song sung in different languages and accents.”

1963 was a pivotal year in America. In March Betty Friedan published The Feminine Mystique. In August Martin Luther King gave his “I have a dream” speech at the March on Washington. And in November, the president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was assassinated. Two days later, millions of Americans, glued to their TV sets, watched Jack Ruby, a nightclub owner, shoot and kill JFK's alleged assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald. 

Violence had entered the American living room.

Newscasters, including Walter Cronkite, were visibly emotional. People all over the world were shown, weeping and stunned with grief. Frank McGee said on TV: "This is a moment that will be emblazoned in your memory and you will never forget it... as long as you live."

It changed the path of our country, and also the journey of TV news coverage. Images were indelibly branded in viewers' minds: the convertible procession through Dallas... Jackie's pink pillbox hat and pink suit... the smiling, handsome President suddenly crumpling in the seat of the convertible... Jackie refusing to change her bloodstained suit... Lyndon Baines Johnson being sworn in as the new leader... Oswald's smirk in his mug shot... his murder... the State funeral -- Jackie in black, little John-John saluting his father's casket....  

Less than a week later, Americans celebrated Thanksgiving in a country, and a world, changing before their eyes and spinning beneath their feet. 

People ask me how it felt to write a historical story. The truth is I never felt I was writing a "period piece"—the events I describe still burn with urgency, the words crackling with relevance: racial tension, women's rights, religious intolerance, xenophobia, gentrification. All I had to do was look at today’s headlines to see them reflected in the past. 

But 1963 was also the year of Hitchcock's "The Birds" and the musical, "Bye Bye Birdie." Beatlemania was born, and so was the Smiley Face. The first Bond film was released, and eerie Barbie Doll and Ronald McDonald commercials aired on TV. 

The thing is I'm not writing about issues -- I'm writing about people trying to figure out what it means to live life as a human being. One of my characters, reeling from the horrors of the Holocaust, only 18 years earlier, says, "To become human is the challenge. It's not enough 'to be' anymore. We have to learn to 'become.' It's the greatest war we have to fight. Against ourselves, first of all. If this war has taught us anything, it's how difficult it is to become a human being." 

It's the greatest question we can ask ourselves: What does it mean to become a human being in our world?

In 1963 the seeds were being planted in American soil, all the 'isms and issues that govern, and haunt, our lives today. Imagine if they'd been watered and cherished and allowed to grow free under the sun. 

Imagine.

It's not too late to become human.

Living in Two Countries

After all everybody, that is, everybody who writes is interested in living inside themselves in order to tell what is inside themselves. That is why writers have to have two countries, the one where they belong and the one in which they live really. – Gertrude Stein

I murdered CG. I did it yesterday morning: after coffee, before breakfast. 

I can't kill on a full stomach. Does strange things to my digestion. Problem is I'm rusty, haven't murdered anyone in years, and now I'm faced with all sorts of problems. Not guilt. She asked for it. No, it's the body! I have to get rid of the body without... Who is that man? Why is he watching me? What? What do you want?

No, I can't eat yet, thanks... I'll go to the market later. Milk, eggs, bread, okay. 

He's coming toward me. He can't have seen anything. Don't fall apart. You did nothing wrong. You did what had to be done to save...

Cheese with peppers, the kind you like. I know. I have to make an appointment with the doctor, too.... They're coming tomorrow, I'll clear up tonight after...

After I dispose of the body. And get rid of this man approaching. Okay, freeze, everyone. You mister, stay there. Hold that thought. 

The supermarket is supernaturally bright. So many suspicious people milling around the produce...

It's him! He must have followed me. How is that possible? I don't know, but it's him. The same deranged light in his eyes. He jams the cart and blocks the bananas, allowing no one else near. Entitled, knowing more than he should, daring anyone else to reach for a banana...

Now he's moving toward the... grapes. From a safe distance I watch. He reaches in a plastic bag, grabs a handful of red grapes and gulps them down, all at once. Shameless, without pleasure. 

He looks around furtively. Sneers. The mad light in his eyes. "They're not ripe yet."

His voice is strangely high-pitched, creepy, in such a big man. And his words: They're not ripe yet. 

They're not ripe yet. 

Oh my God, of course not. They're not ripe yet. The girls. The pretty girls. He knows what I've done. He's saying I acted too soon. I should have waited.

But I had to silence her. The questions she was asking would have led right back to...

Yes, but now they'll have more questions about what happened to her. And once they start digging, they won't stop till they get to the heart.

He's at the Bread aisle. He turns back. One look. And a nod. To let me know he knows.

I'm getting out of here. 

No, I don't have coupons. 

Yes, I'll give a dollar for the fund.

I forgot the eggs, the milk, the bread...

Hi! I didn't see you. Yes, I'm fine. No, I haven't seen Ann. Definitely, we'll get together soon. Bye!

Why did she ask me about Ann? Does she think I've done something to her? 

It's true that someone else needs to notice CG is missing. Not just the mad-eyed man. 

My phone. Hi, sweetie. Yeah, I'm good. Just leaving the market. How are you? Really? That's great. Listen, I have a question. If someone said to you, "They're not ripe yet," would you take that as a warning...?

Tossing and turning all night, moving my people around, a dream in which we're all crammed in a supermarket, moving our carts, eying each other with suspicion, and he's there, of course, moving toward me with deadly threat....

I return to my people this morning. After (black) coffee... Ah, here they are, frozen as I left them. CG, dead. Banana Man watching. A new person, a woman, enters. "Have you seen...?"

Wait. No. I've got it. 

CG, get up. A brief reprieve. You're not ripe yet. There's one more thing you need to do before...

I know I forgot the milk and eggs, but I bought bananas.... They're not ripe either?

They never are, he says, his mad eyes focused not on CG, but on me.  

I'm coming, I'm coming, just give me one more minute....

You, that's right, all of you, including you, CG, just wait right there. I'll be back tomorrow. 

Celebrating Love

Lovers in St. Petersburg

        Some of you may remember that when I set out on my voyage last August, I decided to use "love" as the focus of my blog posts and explorations of the world. The idea came to me in London, when I walked along the Thames and saw an exhibit celebrating love in all its forms and inviting the passerby to enter the "tunnel of love." 

       I've never not been fascinated, even obsessed, by the question of love. Like many girls, I wanted to be Nancy Drew, but with one caveat: I wanted to be a love detective--to seek out the mysteries, secrets, wonders of love. I snooped and spied on everyone, strangers and friends, trying to get to the heart of what I considered the greatest mystery of all: why do we fall in love with one person, and not another? 

       I read romance comics--anyone remember those hoary, moralistic tales?--and devoured love stories wherever and however I found them. I wrote my first love story at age 14 and proudly handed it in to my English teacher. It was a terrible imitation of Colette and D.H. Lawrence (did I mention I was a very precocious reader?), a sensual realization by a woman that her lover has left her and will never return. The woman breathes in their sheets and pillows, still smelling of their lovemaking, and she knows she will never forget his unique scent and the love they shared. Keep in mind this was written by a girl who had been kissed a couple of times, but who gleaned her knowledge by following people, staring at them and eavesdropping on conversations, and of course imagining what exactly Lady Chatterly and her lover did without having a clear sense of the depths and heights, and even the humor, of passion. All I knew was there was a world out there I needed to explore. 

          The teacher ripped it to shreds in front of the entire class. She called my writing, "obscene," a word I'd never heard of before. After that, years passed before I shared my writing again. 

        Today I may have a clearer sense of the realities of love, but I'm still every bit as curious (my husband says, "nosy") as when I was a kid and picked up The Royal Road to Romance by Richard Halliburton, an early 20th century traveler and adventurer, simply because of its title. Little did I know it was the beginning of the merging of my two great passions: love and travel. I'm not searching for definitive answers anymore: there is no one true solution to the mystery of what is love or who we love. And there is no one voyage that will tell me: this is it, the final border, no more to see, nothing left to explore. There will always be more. Many great travelers have said that we travel in order to understand the landscape of ourselves. Love, like travel, teaches us to see with all our senses. It is a promise and a gift. 

       I believe love is the most profound form of travel: it teaches us to explore another human being with the same curiosity, humility, wonder and compassion with which we explore a foreign country. And to return to ourselves, hopefully, with a new generosity and tenderness. As we approach the 4th of July, our day of independence, let's celebrate the freedom to love and marry whom we choose. Happy Freedom Day, everyone! 

Entering the Woods

“No dawdling or daydreaming,” warned the mother of a school friend. “Go directly to school and come directly back home.”

Her words filled me with horror. To walk back and forth from school and not stop to notice the cornstalks bursting through sheets of ice. Not stand beneath a tree and puzzle at the cottony gray veils spreading between branches—a witch’s shawl, I thought, but later learned it was deadly gypsy moths. Not crouch over a brass key found on the sidewalk, and shiver, knowing it was a clue dropped by a spy who was watching right now to see who dared pick it up.

Every day was an adventure, a treasure hunt crammed with mysterious characters and wondrous sights, and how on earth could I get to the heart of the world if I didn’t dawdle, daydream, and step off the path? At nine, I already knew I’d be a writer and accepted my destiny: to always be late, to go off the clearly marked, brightly lit path, and to make it to my destination via the most winding route imaginable.

Today, I see my friend’s mother’s warnings echoed and transformed into time management software, templates and graphs offering shortcuts that speed you through the creative process. No pain. No wasted minutes. No blundering in the dark. Someone has already mapped your journey for you and connected the dots.

It may not be fair, but I kind of blame Little Red Riding Hood’s mother for our obsession with speeding to our destination while ignoring the by-paths that tempt along the way. Go directly to Grandma’s house, she said. Don’t go off the path or talk to the Wolf.

Even as a kid, I loathed this tale and its cheerless message: Complete your mission and do not stop to smell the flowers or acknowledge the danger that lurks at the side of the road.

It’s often tempting when we start a creative endeavor to follow the safe, clearly marked path. Others have gone before you and left behind signs and guideposts. You won’t get lost on that path, and you may get to Grandma’s house in record time, like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, looking at his watch and muttering, Hurry, hurry, there’s no time to waste.

The forest of tall, narrow birch trees outside St. Petersburg—

trees like guards hiding secrets, maybe fairy tale monsters.

But you know what? I’m here to tell you that if you want to truly create a book, song, painting or magic illusion from your soul, you need to step off the bright-lit road and explore the deep dark woods. The roads are not marked. No dots are connected, and you have to hack your way through in order to create a path no one else has ever walked. Strange sounds accompany you, unknown creatures howl, and vines wind around you. You will be alone for a while. You will get lost. You will get scared. And you’ll hear the sound of your own voice crying out in the wilderness. It may seem the sun will never rise again and you’ll be lost forever.

That’s the time to gather your strength and courage for a final effort. Our ancestors, who told fairy tales around a fire at night or in a kitchen, understood one of the primary messages of the tales: a character must undergo a sea-change, dramatic and profound, in order to become the hero or heroine they are meant to be. Entering the woods—whatever form they take—is like entering the deepest, darkest part of yourself. If you write, your characters need to undertake this journey as well as you do. If you brave the woods and face the dark terrors that haunt you—your personal Wolf—you will glimpse light at the end of that long night.

And when you finally emerge from the woods, you may find yourself at Grandma’s house after all.   

Or a castle on a mountain.

Or ancient ruins by the sea.

Or your own backyard where it may appear you’ve been doing nothing but lying on the grass, while in reality you conquered dragons, saved (and taken) lives, discovered the cure to a dangerous virus, touched a star.

I confess that my favorite versions of Red are the ones in which she does it all: picks flowers, chats up the Wolf and gets his measure, and makes it to Grandma’s where she outwits him, and in the process manages to clear the woods of that dangerous beast. All in a day’s work. And then she, Grandma and the Huntsman settle down for tea and cookies. Now that’s a story that warms my heart.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 

                           --Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

A note: In case you wonder, I do own a watch. Several months ago, in preparation for a three and a half month sea voyage spanning three continents, I bought a large, complicated watch that looked like it could do everything but navigate the ship. Sadly, it was so complicated I never could figure out how to change the time in each new port. Neither could anyone else. I’ve since taken it off and set it on my bedside table. I feel much more relaxed though it emits resentful beeps at unspecified times (5:39, 7:53) that remind me of my friend’s mother. Dire warnings, I’m sure, which I’m happy to ignore.