Speaking for Sarah

This morning on the subway a police officer actually initiated a friendly conversation with me. I was half awake and was quite startled. Usually, the demeanor of New York's Finest is not conducive to conversation. (My friend N., who is on the force, told me once that they are supposed to keep everything "on the downlow," i.e., be vague and uninformative when a civilian asks why, for example, there is a knot of officers loitering on her corner.) Anyway, in the subway, I was holding onto a pole with one hand and then switched to the other for no particular reason except restlessness or perhaps the need to shift my weight as the train lurched. I became aware that one of the burly male police officers standing next to me had said something to me. Confused, I said, "Huh?" or "What?" and he said, confidingly, "I hate holding on to these things. I used to work at night and I see what goes on. They never clean these subways. Well, maybe they mop the floor once in awhile (gesturing downward as he spoke) but that's about it." I really couldn't think of an appropriate response. I do in fact share his squeamishness, I am ashamed to admit, but no particular rejoinder came to mind. ("Well, I try to wash my hands if I'm going to eat something afterwards" seemed almost too inane even for his admittedly inane opening.) Then he turned to his colleague and they discussed the merits of "that alcohol stuff that you can wash your hands with"--the first guy said he had a big bottle of it in his locker. Then the second guy said, "yeah, you can use that to refill the little bottles." They were both wearing those orange mesh vests that workers wear to be seen in the tunnels, so I was thinking maybe they were actually transit cops, which would account for their more laid-back attitude. Although they did seem to be wearing NYPD uniforms. They got off the train before I did, and the second guy gave me a nice nod and wished me a good day. I was glad for the acknowledgment, since I had been feeling depressed, tired, and invisible.

More excitement followed. About three or four kids came barrelling through the car, I hope on their way to school since it was just before nine. They were kind of slapping the poles as they went through and one of them more or less grabbed my hand instead of the pole as he went by. He said, "I'm sorry, miss"--I said it was okay, and then I heard him telling his friends, "I held that lady's hand."

All in a day's commute.

From the New York Times on Friday, September 23rd, an article about a musician who has stayed on in New Orleans:

"My experience with the hurricane, and I am ashamed to say it, has been beautiful," Mr. Melancon (pronounced may-LAWN-son) said. "There is no rumble of trucks on Magazine, I have seen stars above New Orleans for the first time in a while - God's freckled face, and everyone who is still here is wonderful. I'm very comfortable." The way he said comfortable - COME-te-bul - made his isolation seem a blessing, but the circumstances would be frightful to most.

I never heard that expression before--God's freckled face--and it seemed, well, comforting. We don't get to see many stars here in New York either.

Last night I sat shiva for my friend's father, who had died suddenly earlier in the week. Sitting shiva is the Jewish tradition of holding a kind of open house for seven days after a death in the family. People come by, bring food, keep you company in your grief. There are various rituals nd observances that are prescribed for the house of mourning: mirrors are covered, mourners rip a piece of their clothing, do not wear shoes, and are supposed to sit close to the ground on uncomfortable three-legged stools. (Last night a few of us that were left at the end of the evening were pondering the reasons behind these customs. "Why a three-legged stool?" "Don't you know? If you don't know, nobody does." "Let's look it up. What, you don't have the Jewish Book of Why?" General merriment.)

Sitting shiva is a flexible concept, depending on the degree of religious observance in the household. I grew up in the most secular of Jewish homes. Prayer, synagogue, religious observance, were not part of our lives, and indeed my parents were, if anything, scornful of that aspect of Judaism. But yet when my mother died 18 years ago we held a kind of shiva--we did not have a rabbi come to the house and we did not have prayers, but people came over and kept us company and brought food and told stories. And my father chose to have a rabbi officiate at the funeral service (although he did ask him somewhat worriedly if he planned to talk about God. The rabbi's response, I am told, was "I'm a rabbi. I have to talk about God.")

My friend, J., grew up in a Jewish home with a similar attitude toward religious observance. I learned last night that his father, always an independent thinker, had as a young man (well, a young man of 13) refused to be bar mitzvahed, something that took courage in an Orthodox home circa 1938. J. himself has followed in his father's tradition--skeptical about organized religion of any sort and not drawn to the rituals of Jewish religious observance. But his older sister, K., at some point did become interested in those rituals and goes to synagogue, and it was at her home that we sat shiva.

I got to K.'s home a little after seven, because I had been told that there would be a service led by a rabbi at 7:30. There was lots of food, of course, and relatives that I didn't know and a couple of friends that I did know. It was hot--K. only has air conditioning in one of the bedrooms and it had been a hot, sticky, humid day. Some of us went outside into the little backyard but it wasn't much better out there. J., uncharacteristically, was wearing a suit. I learned later that it was his father's, as was the tie (very 1950s Dick Van Dyke-ish, grey with jazzy green rectangles and geometric shapes) and the watch.

When it was time for the service to start, J. said he felt more comfortable not being in the room. He said he would sit outside in the backyard, where he could listen to if he wanted to. I felt torn, since, after all, wasn't I there to comfort him? One of his other friends said something of the kind: "I came to be here for you, so whatever you want to do is fine." She said she would sit outside with him in the backyard. So did N., his cousin.

But I felt a longing to be in the room with the rabbi and the other people and hear the service, even though I had only met J'.s father a couple of times. Like K., I too love the rituals. About 7 or 8 years ago, I began wanting to learn more about Jewish observance. I went to synagogue regularly for a little while and then, more recently, intermittently. I'm not sure why I don't go more often--perhaps I carry with me the family ambivalence. But when I do go I feel like I've come home. I love hearing the prayers, the melodies, the Hebrew words. I like the sense of community.

So I went upstairs to the air conditioned bedroom where the rabbi was giving out prayer books and I joined the service. Some of the melodies and the words came back to me as we prayed, more than I would have thought. K. spoke about their father and I felt glad to be there to hear about him.

When it was over, I went outside to where J. was sitting in the backyard with a couple of people. It was dark out there, and a little cooler, finally. I felt a little sheepish, or like I had failed him somehow. But then he asked me, "So, did you pray for me?"

"Yes," I said. "I did."