Maps of the World

The other night, time stood still. At least in my dream.

My childhood girlfriends had all gathered together. I have not seen many of them since the day we graduated from high school, yet each one was utterly recognizable. Nobody had aged. It was a room filled with unwrinkled skin, flat tummies, body parts as yet unaffected by gravity. Virtual prom queens from a gritty place where there actually were no proms or homecoming dances. Products of much rougher streets than the ones on which we all now live, we had all somehow managed to avoid the ravages of thirty-six years.

We are, for the most part, second generation Americans. Except for Mimi, one of my oldest and dearest friends. Her parents are immigrants -- her dad a Holocaust survivor, though he never spoke of it, her mom, Etti, from Turkey. Etti is the only person I have ever known from Turkey; had it not been for her, my only tangible image of that country would be of the terrifying prison in Midnight Express. Thanks to Etti, though, Turkey is a place, in my mind, filled with boundless energy, people who possess immeasurable love for family and friends, and the irresistible aroma of little delicacies made with phyllo dough and meat. I never knew what they were called, never cared. All I knew was that when Etti cooked up a batch, there were always some reserved for me.

Recently, a friend told me that though she loved her father, she often wishes he had done something more with his life. Charitable work, possibly, tireless involvement, perhaps, with people or organizations outside the small box of his family and job. I get it; we all wish that about ourselves. It's a constant struggle for me, that fear that I will die before I get around to accomplishing something that will put me on the map.

We forget sometimes about parenthood, about motherhood in particular. My mom often told me a story of the day her mom, my "nana" of beach chair fame, dragged her downstairs and over to the building next door to confront a girl who had harmed her, with fists and with words. As we all would have been, my mom was mortified as she watched her own mother hold this girl by the arms and instruct her to slug her. An eye for an eye, an embarrassment of biblical proportions. My mother never laid a hand on the girl, and I suspect nana never expected her to. It was a story of raw mother instinct, something that has always stayed with me. Back then, nobody would have thought to call the cops, to file charges. Nana was innocent by reason of motherhood.

Etti is dying. Frankly, I couldn't tell you what charities she favored, or how much time or money she devoted to any of them. But Etti has been on the map of my world since I was in grade school, her modest but warm apartment a place in which I was always welcome. No GPS bitch required. For her own children, she is and always has been the map itself, their guide, the definer of boundaries, the "x" marking the spot. The spot they called home, the place where they would always be safe. How much more can one be expected to do with her life when she is, to a select few, the center of the universe?

I can still hear Etti's voice, strong, distinctive, marked by a thickly accented and meticulously enunciated English. Her accent made me laugh sometimes. I particularly liked the way she pronounced comfortable (come-for-table); it seemed to make so much sense. Come to my table. Eat my concoctions made with meat and phyllo dough. Please, make yourself at home.


In my dream the other night (remember? this all started with a dream!), as all the Brooklyn prom queens of my generation gathered and marveled at how well time had treated us, none of our parents were visible. We assumed, though, as children of all ages do, that they were there, even though many of them have been gone for a while. Yes, they were all there, somewhere in the background, fiercely protective, watching over us, keeping us in tow, keeping us safe.

Etti, a woman I have always thought to be one of the strongest people I know, has been fighting lung cancer for several months, and is now faced with an unexpected infection that seems to be winning the battle. Surrounded by her children and grandchildren, she is, in the words of her daughter, being pragmatic and strong. Of course she is; she does not know how to be anything else. She has directed the doctors not to resuscitate, and her condition is deteriorating fast. She is not losing the battle, though, or giving up; she is simply fighting it on her own terms. As only Etti can.

My dream notwithstanding, I am fully aware that time marches on. Yet, I refuse to believe Etti will ever leave us. The truth is, no matter what happens, she never will.