Greetings from the Other Side

Life Isn’t All Sunshine and Rainbows The path between fear and desire, gilded with lava, flows like gold. I follow with cautious tread. My heart beats, thumps, pounds. And I say your name once more. Now Joseph had also become a constant in my life. However, there were circumstances that raised red flags for our family members. Joseph was much older than I, nineteen and a half years to be exact. He had been previously married for twenty years to a woman who, on paper at least, was much more suitable for him. She was Catholic, Italian, and only two years younger than he was. And although Joseph and I felt good about each other and about ourselves when we were together, the differences between us had become bones of contention to our parents. Mary blamed Joseph for taking her daughter-in-law away from her. Also, I was “a perfect stranger, an outsider” to her because I wasn’t Italian. She showed no interest in meeting me or getting to know me. My parents adamantly opposed our relationship, and they flew in from Florida to persuade us to part ways. First, they appealed to Joseph. My mom asked that he listen to, consider, and try to understand their position as parents. She elaborated, “There is just too large an age difference between Benita and you. You’re old enough to be her father. And you were married for twenty years. Do you realize that you were married when Benita was only a toddler?” Then my dad continued, “Have you considered that this might be a rebound relationship, Joe, and that both of you might suffer? Or maybe you’re going through a midlife crisis; after all, you are forty-seven.” My mom chimed in, “Benita is young and impressionable.” And she pleaded with Joseph, “You know that this relationship isn’t right and will not last. We’re afraid that she’ll get hurt badly.” I watched Joseph’s face as my parents expressed their objections, but I couldn’t read his thoughts. He listened to them intently and looked into their souls. He understood they wanted what was best for me. He knew he could love me and take care of me. He knew he could enrich my life emotionally, culturally, and intellectually. And above all, he knew that our bond of genuine compatibility was a sure blueprint for success and happiness. After a brief pause, Joseph addressed them and affirmed his feelings. “Esther and Mark, I understand all your concerns. Let me assure you both, my intentions are honorable. I love Benita, and I will take care of her, cherish her always, and protect her from harm.” I felt Joseph was sincere, but my parents were not convinced. So my mom appealed to me. “Benita,” she asserted, “when you are sixty, Joseph will be close to eighty. He’ll be an old man. He may get very sick; he may die. Would you be prepared for something like that?” I responded, “I’m twenty-seven years old; Joseph is forty-seven. We can’t foresee the future. Anything could happen. Joseph could outlive me. We could die together in an accident. We’ll cross that bridge, if and when we come to it.” In retrospect, I certainly see how prophetic my mom was! And eventually we did have to cross that bridge. Finally, addressing us both, my mother concluded her arguments. “You are not of the same faith. Benita was raised Orthodox Jewish. She studied in Hebrew school. Every Saturday morning, she went to synagogue with her bubbe. She was brought up in a kosher home. We celebrate our religion. We have traditions. You are Catholic.” (I’m glad they didn’t know he was an altar boy in the church.) “You are worlds apart. And should you have children, what would they be? How would you raise them?” I had not entertained children. I had not even entertained marriage. Maybe I was young and impressionable, but I was spellbound. I was blind to anything that might put Joseph in a bad light or would veer either of us away from the other. Once again, I responded. “I guess we would teach them about both religions, and when they were old enough, they could decide for themselves. It’s another bridge we might have to cross. But technically, Mom, you know at birth children are considered to be the same religion as their mother.” We had reached an impasse—Joseph and me on one side and my parents on the other. Feeling at loggerheads, frustrated, and with little to no recourse, my mom screamed out at Joseph, “Get the hell out of this apartment. You don’t belong here.” Joseph stood, about to comply with my mom’s order. He was a gentleman, indeed. But very calmly, I protested, “Mom, you can’t throw Joseph out of this apartment. He lives here.” And it took all the emotional strength I could muster to continue. “But you may leave, if you wish. You are a guest.” Joseph looked at me, realizing just how strong and impenetrable our bond was. In later years, he would defend me to my parents. How strange the world is! My mother was beside herself. She grabbed a pair of scissors from the pencil cup on the desk; cut a two-inch slit in her sweater; and, through tears, proclaimed, “You are dead to me. You are no longer my daughter.” (In the Jewish tradition, it is a symbolic gesture of mourning to tear a piece of clothing when a loved one dies.) My parents stormed out of the apartment. Sitting in the oversize green wingback chair in my living room, I felt very small. I heard the sound of the slamming door echo loudly in my ears. My heart thumped rhythmically, increasing in velocity until I felt it tear through my chest. Fear turned into panic, and I recoiled with the thought that I would never see my parents again. They had forced me to choose between Joseph and them, and choosing Joseph was the only choice I could make. That night, I cried in his arms. I had been disowned.