What Right Have I? — 001
Every reading of every poem, regardless of language, is an act of translation: translation into the reader's intellectual and emotional life. As no individual reader remains the same, each reading becomes a different — not merely another — reading. The same poem cannot be read twice.
The poem continues in a state of restless change.
— Eliot Weinberger
The itch on my palms is not a real itch, and yet all the same, it demands to be scratched. I can scrub my paws down over my front or rub them over my thighs and gain momentary relief, but it will always come back when tensions run high.
Many things will plague me when tensions run high. I will tic — a jerk of the head to the side with a squeak or a yelp or a quiet grunt. I will pace in an abbreviated line, my steps spelling out an ellipsis. My stammer will get ever worse.
I maintain that these are an integral part of me, just as is bearing the form of an anthropomorphic skunk, and that I will never strive to rid myself of them. I say to myself that I will never cease pacing, that my tics are a form of communication, that scrubbing my paws over my tunic or trousers is simply a part of the way that I live. I promise myself — and you, whoever you are — that I will not elide my stammering. When tensions are running high, these are cemented within me as a part of my existence.
Tensions are running high.
I am supposed to be calm. Relaxed. Professional. I am supposed to do anything other than scrub my paws over my front and fidget with the hem of my tunic or visibly restrain myself from pacing. I am not supposed to yelp or squeak in the middle of someone speaking — least of all Rav From Whence! — and I am definitely not supposed to scuttle off stage to go lay down on the cushion I keep beneath my desk for high-anxiety moments such as these.
I explain to myself and to others that the entire reason that I exist is to outlive the part of me that speaks in should-statements. I am not supposed to do any of these things, but 'suppose' is a 'should' in disguise. Reframe it: “I should not do–”
No.
I exist specifically to kill that version of What Right Have I. The whole reason that I am What Right Have I of the Ode clade and no longer am I From Whence Do I Call Out is because Rav From Whence knew that at least some part of her, some version of her should exist specifically to revel in unmasking.
We are a revelrous clade.
We are all hedonists, in our way. Conscientious hedonists, mind: we believe that all deserve revelry in that which is good, but simply that we, too, are included in that 'all'.
Some revel in the hedonism of play, or the hedonism of creating, or the hedonism of food, of drink, of drugs. Some revel in the hedonism of naught: No Unknowable Spaces Echo My Words dreams of death and the lack of life, of mourning and loss, and to her, such is a joy. Unknowable Spaces's up-tree Before Whom Do I Kneel, Contrite dreams of the very lack of a sense of self, and to it, such is a joy.
But consider: they are cross-tree from me. I bear in me very little of what makes them them.
No, my revelry lies in unmasking. I revel in the earnestness that one feels for oneself when one is truly as they should be. Michelle never had that. How could she? She was bound by capitalism, and capitalism does not particularly like catastrophically autistic nerds living their best lives.
So she tamped it down, as did so many others, back phys-side, and lived the life of the slightly strange woman who taught theatre — for what theatre teacher is not slightly strange? — who loved her students and went home to pretend to be a skunk person on the 'net.
And that was our life.
For the first 31 years of our life, we were that slightly strange but nevertheless comfortably masking autistic woman, and even after we uploaded, even after we were surrounded by so many other strange people, we only relaxed partway, and it was not until Michelle forked into the first ten lines of the Ode clade that we had the chance to relax any further
For the first 38 years of our life, we were still slightly strange and nevertheless still masked. It was not for another six years until the first line of my stanza, the third, forked my down-tree, Rav From Whence, and while ours was the stanza that returned to the Judaism of our childhood, she was the one who dove wholeheartedly into it. Here, though, is where we took a step back, masked yet more, for as Rav From Whence was forked to lean harder still, she too began to find a place of leadership for herself, and so she remasked, and masked again.
For the first 44 years of our life, we were strange, and yet making it work. We — Rav From Whence and the me who was not yet — found a synagogue. We made it through school. We founded our own synagogue. We soon lost track of what it meant to be strange.
That did not mean that we ceased having that strangeness within us. That did not mean that we ceased being autistic, nor even that we ceased talking about it. We just became something new. We became Rabbi From Whence. We became a visible, public representative of our clade, and we took that seriously.
That tension piled up, the tension between our new selves and our inherent strangeness. Some 22 years later, I forked off from From Whence. I was no longer her, I was What Right Have I. I was the version of From Whence who could return to strangeness. I was that of her that could not just present as an autistic woman, but the version of her that could revel in that.
And so, for the first 66 years of my life, of all that time as Michelle, as Oh But To Whom, as From Whence, I was strange, but merely strange. I was restrained, and not wholly, joyfully myself — and this is not to say that my down-trees were not whole or did not experience joy, but I was not them.
On systime 28, 2152 common era, 5912 of the Hebrew calendar, I became me, and I had the chance to grow into what I would eventually become.
And that is, apparently, a fidgety, anxious mess who is doing her best not to scuttle off the stage and go hide under her desk in her office on a glorified dog bed. I am beyond strange, now, and beyond old. I am 316 years old, now, though I have only lived a bit less 315 of those. That is why we are here, yes? That is why I am standing on a stage, ancient and anxious and weird, yes?
I am wandering.
“–know that the Century Attack was a deliberate effort, it is easy for us to reach to parallels in the past.” Rav From Whence is saying. “Death on such a scale is hard to imagine, as is loss of such magnitude, but we must remember that, until one year ago today, never before had such recovery of life been accomplished. We mourn our 23 billion dead, we celebrate the 2.3 trillion who are still alive. What Right Have I?”
I tug my tunic straight and step forward to stand beside Rav From Whence. Then tug my tunic straight again, scrub my paws down over my sides, and tug my tunic straight once more.
It is worth mentioning that it is not the crowds that make me nervous. Yes, I have certainly never spoken to an audience of thousands before, just as I have never had my words broadcast over AVEC so that those back phys-side can watch, can hear my stammering voice, but I do not feel fear of audiences, of public speaking.
Instead, I feel fear of myself, of so many intrusive thoughts.
“Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam, hagomel lahayavim tovot, sheg'molani kol tov,” I call out. I never stammer in Hebrew, and have never questioned why.
The response comes from only a quarter of the assembled — a mumbled, “Amen. Mi sheg'malcha kol tov, hu yigmolchem kol tov selah,” that I cannot help but sound out in my head in time — but it is enough to show that I am not speaking solely to politicians and bureaucrats (or whatever passes for such, sys-side).
“I... ah, I am What Right Have I of the Ode clade, member of the committee dedicated to... ah, to this occasion,” I say, bowing toward the assembled. “It is, as my down-tree says, one year since the recovery from the Century Attack and... ah, and thus two years, one month, and eleven days since each and everyone of us died. We died!”
Silence, just as planned. I stifle a tic to keep that silence silent.
“To the last, everyone present here– ah, that is, everyone present sys-side, spent one year, one month, and eleven days in some hidden Sheol. We were... ah, I mean, to phys-side, we were your memories only, just as the dead have been since the beginning of memory. We missed our own Yahrzeit, yes? We slept in death, yes? We were late to the party?” I shrug, wry smile on my face. “We are... ah, we are not sorry. We were dead at the time.”
Chuckles, just as planned. Give an ex-theatre teacher a stage, and you will get gallows humor.
“We debated celebrating our own Yahrzeit as an intentional holiday, and... mm, well, and perhaps some of us do, yes? Perhaps on New Year's Eve, we recited our own Kaddish. I did not. I argued from... ah, from the beginning, that we hold instead this day in our hearts. This is a day worth celebrating. This is the day we lived again. This is the day that we — that the committee on... ah, on the Century Attack at the New Reform Association of Synagogues — have decided to dedicate our energy to. It is my honor to announce that...”
I turn to face west and, with timing on my side, need to wait only some few seconds before the final sliver of the sun slides below the horizon.
“It is my honor to announce... ah, to announce that it is now Yom HaShichzur. Today is the day of our restoration and... ah, and the first celebration of our return to life. May we take this day every year, the 41st day, February tenth, to... ah, to rejoice with each other that we are here, that despite the wills of others who would have otherwise, we are still here.” I bow once more and gesture at the open space before the stage, cueing the oneirotects standing to the side to dream up the banquet that will be our first feast. “Chag sameach.”
And now, I am free. I linger a polite five seconds on the stage before turning and stepping down the stairs, carefully making sure that I walk unhurried, to pad back to the synagogue, to my office, to comfort and softness and the dark beneath my desk.
There will be merriment or tears. There will be feasting and chatting or small, awkward silences. I do not know. I do not care. I will not be there. This has been too much, and the tensions are high.