Memories. My Facebook page is filled with childhood memories of Kiryat Haim*. Places, things, people. The boy who called me “Chikitita” during the days when I didn’t understand love, sent me a picture by private message with yearning for another time. I answered him, that I also miss those who were once close to me and whom life has distanced from me. Those who were close and whom I distanced from me. Nothing has changed and nothing has remained as it was.
אבא, ליידי ואני – חוף קריית חיים
In the street. I insist. I found the paper money in the street. He studies me with a look full of warmth and love. “Come, show me where.” When we go down the stairs, he explains to me that whoever has lost 100 lirot will surely come back and look for it. There was no anger, and he didn’t raise his voice. I point to an imaginary spot, and we sit on the nearby fence and wait. Quiet patience was what my father displayed that day. Until I broke down and confessed, that Barak had taken the bill out of Amos’s wallet and given it to me. He looked at me with gentleness, and said quietly, “Now go there and give it back.” My father, with the warmest, gentlest eyes in the world, on that day taught me how to educate at eye level.
Sunshine. Ilan was a short, little boy. Very little. One day, at the beginning of school recess, he called me fat. Just like that. For no reason. I was around ten years old then. I gulped down my tears, sternly telling myself not to cry now. My English teacher answered in my place. She had style. She complimented me and hushed him without embarrassing him. Relatively. The lump in my throat eased. I’ve had many English teachers over the years. I will never, ever forget Bilha Shemesh. She was Wonder woman for me that day. She taught me not to keep silent about injustice being done right in front of you, whether it is directed at you personally or not.
Fame. Our living room in Kiryat Haim. The late 1980’s. I am sitting with tea and petit beurre cookies, watching tv. Fame is on. Holly goes into the bathroom after a meal. She looks in the mirror and sees herself fatter than she is. She sticks a finger down her throat, leans down and throws up. I get up and go to the bathroom. Imitate her and succeed. A drunken feeling of control. I am convinced that its intentions were good, but still, Fame has taught me a little too much about eating disorders.
Years later, in New York, Lula has written and directed a film based on my questionable memories of Fame. She uses a wonderfully similar scene in Glee. That’s the way it is, the story is the same, but each generation has its Fame. A narrative of their memories.
Here, see for yourselves:
Here, see for yourselves:
When questioned, she explained that she purposely selected thin actors…that there aren’t really two, only two voices in one head.
My memories. Puzzle pieces make up my narrative for this life. Totally subjective from creation to forgetting. Objects, people, feelings and thoughts. Lessons that I have decided to learn from, to internalize and release, to continue on from. The same thing but a little different. Each particle brings me closer to my understanding of myself, the self that does not change. Only the scenery changes.
Niti
1.20.18, Tel Aviv
* My hometown
ניתי
20.1.18 תל אביב
