The Ache That Follows You
At some point in graduate school, as my lower back continued to disintegrate, the winter in the Northeast and Mid-Atlantic made my joints ache. It was the kind of pain that takes breath away. You’re just bracing from total collapse.
The Museum
During my visit in April, I finally went to the Jewish Museum of Florida-FIU, housed in restored synagogues, one of which was the first in South Beach.
I arrived when the museum was supposed to open, but the door was locked. A gem of an Eastern European Babushka came running up, muttering about traffic, and unlocked it for me.
When we got inside, she sized me up. There is an unspoken mutual examination that two people of Jewish heritage do when they first meet, deciding if they are both, in fact, safe and the same. With my high cheek bones, eyebrows that each have their own trust funds, and forehead that is never fully relaxed regardless of the amount of botox administered, I passed. We both let out a collective sigh that almost sounded like a groan that felt ancient, ancestral, and sanctified. She gave me a discount on my admission ticket.
By the Water
I was staying in the South of Fifth neighborhood at a no-frills hotel affordable enough for a graduate student. I was tired after the museum. My muscles were over-firing, holding up a back that desperately needed repair. I thought about staying in my room or finding a café to get some accounting homework done, but I had to hit the beach one more time to deepen my already dark tan.
I walked down Fourth Street, crossed Washington, Collins, and Ocean Drive, and made my way onto the beach. The sand was dry from living below the relentless sun. I laid my towel down in an area I thought would be quiet.
The King of the Hill Fucker
I was lying on my towel after a quick swim to the sand bar that pops up during low tide when I heard someone say, “Boston is great for playing hockey. The winters are tough though. I bet you’re not used to them if you’re just coming from Columbia.”
I sat up and reached for my water bottle, trying not to pretend I was listening. I had noticed the man who was talking when I was walking back from the water to my towel. He was with his wife and two daughters. They had gone swimming while he started drinking Bud Light from a can. He looked like the typical King of the Hill idiot from Boston who gets into a violent brawl because someone said something negative about the Red Sox, commits a felony, and gets off in court because he is labeled as a supposed pillar of the community.
“How tall are you? Below 5′ 10″? How much do you weigh? Less than 200 pounds?” He was talking to a boy who was with his mom and dad. I winced. As if it’s ever acceptable to ask a teenager still in the tail end of puberty those questions. And from a girl dad?
The Boy Pushes Back
I know both Boston and hockey well. I grew up in a small town in New York that borders Massachusetts. Most of my friends went to college in or around Boston. My sister lives there. I also went to boarding school for a year.
“I am not here to crush your dreams,” as if that was not his intention, “but no one makes it to the NHL that is smaller than 5′ 10″ and 200 pounds.”
The boy’s dad got up and walked towards the public restrooms.
“When I play, people say I’m a good skater and to keep going. I just started this past season.” The boy’s voice was laced with both fear and determination.
The man was standing in my sun, threatening my tan.
“You should play Division III hockey in Boston, and work in finance after graduation. That’s the American dream. I went to law school, but opened a bar instead of passing it.”
Fire in Me
He was the poster child of white male privilege, smug in the certainty that he got to decide who gets to dream, and who needs to remain practical.
Earlier that morning at the museum I learned about how Nathan Stone opened The Blackstone Hotel, the first major Jewish-owned hotel, after being turned away from the Roney Plaza, even though it was nearly empty.
The fire in my gut shifted into my throat as I remembered seeing a pamphlet for the Patrician Hotel, where the words “Gentile clientele” were printed in bold, a reminder my ancestors were not welcome.
“Unless you think differently.” Damn, he noticed I was listening.
I stood up to match his performative intensity.
“I think he can do what he wants.” I needed to sound calm, Gentile enough to cut this man down.
My People’s Space
I looked at the boy and his mom. They were sizing me up the way the woman and I had earlier at the museum, in that mutual ancient way where people are deciding in real time if you are safe and if they belong.
They could see the fire in me. The fire that always burns. The fire that says, “Not on my watch. Not here. Not where my people already built and defended space after being told no, a hundred times over.” In 1954, The Blackstone Hotel defied segregation and accommodated 500 Black Baptist ministers. If Nathan Stone could break the rules to fight prejudice, I could show this boy and his mom that there are people like me who will always put their foot down.
The Real American Dream
“You want to talk about the American dream?” I said, turning to the man. “I lived the version people worship. I worked at the K Street law firms in DC where your law school friends probably ended up. I bought my first condo at 30. By 34 I was lying on that condo floor crying hysterically, telling my parents my life had no meaning. I only chased the dream people like you hand out, and it was killing me.”
He squinted at me. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
For the first time, he shut his mouth.
Twenty Feet Tall
I turned back to the boy. “When you play hockey, just focus on having fun. The rest will unfold. You can take risks. You can fail and still be whole. Just make sure you’re good to your parents and eventually finish school. Don’t box yourself into somebody else’s dream before you’ve even had the chance to see your own.”
The boy nodded his head. I could see his hope remained intact. He’s a dreamer. I can tell because I am one too.
I grabbed my towel and walked away, wearing just my bikini. I felt like I was 20 feet tall, carrying the strength of my people who built their own space and made sure others had a place to belong. My ancestors once struggled just to find a place to sleep in Miami Beach. Even with my back deteriorating, even when I wasn’t at my strongest, I had the strength to chew out another mediocre white man trying to patronize in a space my people built.
Coolest Girl in School Chronicles 