Faces Around a Dinner Table

by Liza Corr

On the back deck at our Nana’s apartment building my brother and I sat in ice-cold lawn chairs, the noises and bright lights of downtown L.A. below us. At first we stuck to topics we agreed on. We talked about his work as a labor organizer. We talked about college, where I’ll be happy and what kind people I want to surround myself with. As we talked ourselves into deeper conversation we headed inevitably towards one of the few things we see differently: God. These conversations always follow one general trend. They begin as a sharing of ideas and beliefs, fears and aspirations. Then, they turn angry when we realize we still see it differently. We fight. I cry. Then fall asleep. Share. Fight. Cry. Sleep.

That time, it was late and we were whispering. He explained how the structure of a predetermined set of values is necessary to leading a moral and upstanding life. “And that’s the only way to live one.” Ouch. He despises what he sees as the unaccountability of “atheism”. As his “atheist” sister, I have to defend my realm of unstructured faith.

“I’m not looking for some kind of loophole in morality. I live a lot like you do. I pay attention to what is going on around me and am compassionate. I act on my morals,” I try to explain. I add my own sting to the end of my phrase. “And I’m strong enough to live right without the threat of a God watching ready to punish.” He won’t have it. Believing one should live in accordance with one’s own moral compass is, to him, extraordinarily egotistical. “Liza you think you know what’s best- you think you know better than God?” We were stuck. No- that was just it, I didn’t believe the Koran was the word of God. His voice quivered and I cried. I hated defending myself to my role model. It seemed impossibly hard. When I couldn’t make him see, I would collapse, fatigued, and in the middle of a sentence or thought, I’d fall asleep. That time, he carried me inside and I woke in the morning on my grandma’s couch surrounded by blankets and pillows from upstairs. I smiled.

As I rested, I remembered the boy he used to be. There was an era when Powell would party hard, drink, and smoke a hell of a lot. On our last visit to my Nana’s apartment in downtown Hollywood he had come home late and passed out on the same couch I was sleeping on. That morning, he lay snoring, faced-down, bare feet sticking out of the bottom bed. I jumped on him- hitting him with pillows and pulling his covers. “Ahhhhhhhhh Lizaaaaaaaaa, wanna tell mom you have a head ache and get me an Advil?”

“But I don’t have a headache,” I knew where he was going and wasn’t going to come out of it empty handed.

“Go get me an Advil from mom and I’ll do whatever it is you want later.” Now that’s how you play the game, I remember thinking.

God, he did a quick 180. I’m proud of him for having the drive to find something that is good for him- something to help him turn his life around. That was too cliché. It wasn’t ever going in the wrong direction it just seemed more…superficial. As much pride as I feel, I still find myself wanting the boy I knew and understood. Who is this self-righteous man who disapproves of my lifestyle and tells me so- who is hates my V-necks and shorts? But the morning brings new calm. My brother and I joke and smile, wrestle and make wise cracks. We fight over the honey nut cheerios and instead go get tacos. A truce is called until the next time we find the energy to fight.

Months later, my brother told my Jewish mom about his conversion. Their own history of fighting and rebellion wedged its way between them. Then, history and politics flooded in to further their separation. Like bugs drawn to bright light I’d watch them fly in repeatedly to attack the subject of religion, get burned, flee and return to it seconds later. In retrospect, my mother’s birthday was an obviously dangerous gathering. Looking around the dinner table that night, I played my own version of Duck, Duck, Goose: Zionist, Zionist, Palestinian, Zionist, Zionist, Muslim. Among the curly haired heads and white faces, my brother’s fiancée, Summer, stood out with her dark skin and bright blue Hjab. She sat quietly, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“So how was Israel?” One of mom’s friends asked, referencing my brother’s recent convoy to Gaza.

“Gaza.” Powell corrected. And so, with false innocence issues around Gaza and Israel that had been circulating in the air were placed cleanly on the table. I watched as my mother’s friends made my brother dance. I watched as they tried to provoke him into revealing some non-existent scary, fundamentalist opinion. As he remained relatively politically neutral, their questions began to shift shape, asking questions with embedded answers: “Don’t you think that...” or “Isn’t it true…”

Then, someone said something that made him snap. It came out something like, “Well, the Jews all left Germany in the Holocaust, how come the Palestinians can’t just leave Israel?” I hope it didn’t really come out like that and hindsight has made it crueler. All I know is brother cracked, with anger and passion he cracked- just how they wanted him to.

“Get out. You are not welcome in my house.” Powell was quickly reminded that it was not, in fact, his house. The whole table leaned in, pleasantly shocked.

“We just want to talk it out. He should feel free to share his opinion.” Bullshit. They wanted to see a family fight and to psychoanalyze that. As they argued the meaning of their words and ideas was lost; instead I listened to their body language. It didn’t matter to me who was right; I cared about how each person treated the being he sat next to. Powell sat with his back to Summer, protecting her, his chest puffed up like a blowfish. Marcie, one my mom’s newer friends sat to his left, brandishing a condescending pointer finger close to my brothers nose. My mom sat back in her chair, horrified, scared, sad, embarrassed, and somehow validated. Validated in the sense that the maniacal son she had told her friends about did, to her, exist. And, Summer. Summer still sat, hands still folded neatly in her lap. Only now her eyes filled with tears. Not one fell. I envied her as I tried to wipe my cheeks dry. I hated that I cried. Absolutely hated it. Poor little emotional Liza I saw them think. I got up- hands over my nose and mouth. Outside on the steps I let myself cry and hiccup back to some state of calm or maybe even strength. Coming back inside I sat down next to summer taking the spot of some party guest who was quick to jump ship. If I couldn’t speak because my tears wouldn’t allow it, I’d show where I stood physically. What did words mean anyway? She looked at me and smiled. I reached for her hand. Under the table she squeezed my fingers together. I hoped she found some kind of solace or comfort in my callused hands. As the war raged on Summer and I sat, hand in hand, quietly at the end of the table. Her pain was so apparent it made me sick no one else noticed. For the rest of the table this conversation was nothing but politics. For Summer, it meant pain; it meant the death of family.

And then I actually got sick. I made it halfway to the bathroom before releasing my chicken dinner on to the kitchen floor. I was surprised I was so sensitive. Tears and now this? It may have been the food. I hope it was the food. Emotion like that isn’t normal for me. I don’t cry. I don’t. And yet my tears fell freely at the dinner table. This was beyond embarrassing, beyond a few graceful tears, this was puffy eyes and overactive tear ducts; this was a bright red nose clogged with snot; this was a mouth that couldn’t keep it’s food down. This was, disgusting. I wiped the corners of the mouth with my right hand, my nose with my left and I did my best to clean up my eyes with the back of both hands. God, if anything it was a good distraction- I was so busy feeling bad for myself that I could hardly hear or think about the fight in the next room. Splashing cold water on my face and swirling it around in my mouth felt good. The water soothed my itchy eyes and my shoulders relaxed. I cleaned up my mess and went upstairs. I had to talk to someone. 917-0044. It rang and went to voicemail, “Hi you’ve reached Rachel’s cell phone leave a message and I’ll call you” Shit. Redial. Try Maya? 388-3898. Pleeeaaase pick up. Voicemail again. My dad maybe? I tired it. My own voice picked up, giggling, telling me both my dad and I were gone and that we will maybe call you back if you leave an extra nice message. I hung up. With Maya, Rachel and my dad off the list, I couldn’t figure out whom to call next. It would usually be my brother. Annoying. The next number I called made me feel like such a drama queen, like that sad teenage girl from some stupid chick flick. 384-4441 after two rings, he picked up. He wasn’t my boyfriend. I made that clear to him. I guess he wasn’t not my boyfriend either. What was I doing calling him when I was obviously so upset?

“Hey, Hey, are you ok?” Ew. God, his voice was so sensitive. I’m not a baby.

“Yeah, I’m fine. There’s a genocide going on in my dining room and I just needed to get out.” On the phone with him my voice found its strength.

“Liza, I’m so sorry, I wish I was there, god, I want to be there for you.” Shit. I knew I shouldn’t have called. I don’t need you too be overly emotional also. I wanted to hear him say something smart, something insightful... or at least something strong and masculine. The way he was talking, his voice reminded me of a noodle- bland and soft.

“Ok well, great, it was nice to talk to you. Call you later?”

“Wait….” Click. Bad idea. I walked back downstairs watching my bare feet stick to the hardwood floors. I love that feeling, bare feet and hardwood floors on a hot night. And that air, God did it taste good. It was warm and still carried the smell of grilled meat. My dress was light, and for a second I was somewhere else- maybe somewhen else. The war raged on not only for the rest of the night but continued. Continues, excuse me. Where it will land, who will win and at what cost, will fill the next 12-point font, Times New Roman, Double spaced pages of my life.