Oscar Andrew, Yoon Sung Hur, Leana Spain
Simone Kearney
Int Seminar 1: Memory
28 October 2018
Objects
He stares down at his worn out boots, the suede wrinkled and covered in a collection of dust and an array of stains ranging from 99 cent pizza sauce to excrement. He thought back to all the times he sat at his dining room table in the cramped apartment he shared with a few roaches, putting on those boots and feeling the leather on the inside continue to form to his feet as he prepared for another ten hour work day down in the subway. It must have been at least a decade of wearing his timberland boots to work, it was as if his feet knew nothing else but their manky and warm interior. He begins to wonder how much longer he’ll be able to wear his boots for, will they last another year? Will he last another year?
He glances down and nudges the hammer hanging from the loops along his left thigh. He doesn’t want to feel like a caricature of a construction worker but sometimes it’s hard when a job requires one to keep their dreams in the attic. He thinks it funny that the hammer is a symbol of power because if it was, he wouldn’t feel as if he was chipping away at his life instead of hammering a new one. If only life were that simple, if one could choose a new way of life instead of always living in the past. Hammers to him meant determination but not power. Determination is simply pushing through to something better but power is having the confidence to know you’ll get there.
Putting on his hard hat, feeling its grooves as it sinks onto his head, he had just gotten off one subway to spend the rest of his day in another. His helmet wasn’t so much of a harness from danger but a lawsuit prevention that also helps with small falling rocks. He likes to replace them every year, it makes him feel that with a new helmet he has a new chance to change, but this time it was starting to take shape and not in the ways of the past, in which so many times he had felt let down by life and had a despair take a hold of him and wrap around him and drag him backwards.
Places
On the 9th day of September in 1940, unrecognisable colossal grey flies laid its countless eggs on Tel Aviv. As soon as the slender oval shaped dusty eggs made an intimate kiss with the surface, the city screamed blood, howled under the bright yellow roe. Nothing was ever flowed into the city, but countless pebbles started ebbing away to undecided locations and he was one of them.
Light crawls through the giant windows set on the sides of Grand Central Terminal. Under those crippling lights, with a pattern of an old chessboard, he finds peace. There is a presence of shadow that lies beneath those bright lights and busy people. In the pathless field of darkness that sings a lullaby to flowers, he makes a path that reminds him of the memories he had in Tel Aviv.
Splash. Another bright blue bruise engraved, just like the colour of salty ocean that is set in front of him. He is at the end of the road which he has built. He sees a harbour, a tide of familiar pebbles.
Portrait
Hair: A dark brown. The color of an old, oak tree.
Eyes: Almond shaped like his mother’s. They are the same color as the ocean water at his favorite beach in Tel Aviv.
Lips: A dusty pink. Full and round, but when his face is resting expressionless, his lips disappear to a flat line
Ears: He has large ears, this is something that he is very insecure about because growing up as a child he was always teased about his abnormally large ears.
Nose: Sits like a valley upon his face. It has a large pointy, hook towards the bottom.
Body: Slender, lean- but not skinny. His arms are long, and his fingers reach far and thin to the tips. His abdomen is toned, and chiseled from his teen years of working in a strenuous physical work environment. His hips are defined by the muscle that lines his lower body.
Legs: His legs are the accents of his body, and his most noticeable feature. They are long, and are what give him his extensive height boost.
Feet/Toe: He has considerably large feet, and toes that are covered in a dark hair.
Character
He longed for his home in Tel Aviv, wondering where his family had landed…were they safe? Had the bombs hit them? He had no idea, the only thing he knew to be true was that he was physically safe, regardless of how he felt right now he had escaped the bombings. His heart was battling with his mind, creating a raging storm within himself so that, instead of butterflies in his stomach, all he could feel was the pains of thunderstorms and heartaches. He debated back and forth about sending his family a letter, he wanted them to know that he was safe but he didn’t even know if they were safe…was he being selfish? Did he have a right to feel bad when, for all he knew, they could be buried under a pile of rubble? He tries not to think about it too much for the fear of breaking down and ruining his only chance to survive in this new-found murky and brazen world of New York. He felt intimidated, he was not bold and confident, it felt as if everyone and everything around him was leering at him, taunting him, daring him to be like them, knowing that he wasn’t. But he had to be strong, maybe he could help build himself up so that when, or if, his family comes to New York, he would be waiting for them as pillar of comfort, that same comfort he needed right now. In the pursuit of comfort he realized how completely, and irrevocably alone he was. He would continue to work in a career that does not bring him nearly the same happiness as his family. Working in construction only made him realize how much more he missed his family, and his old life in Tel Aviv. With these thoughts occupying his mind, he could hardly focus on work anyway. Strolling through the corridors of Grand Central made him yearn to be back walking along the beach that both dazzled and dizzied him. This was not home, but could he find a way to continue to live his life here in NYC? The hope that his family might one day travel to him on the harbour he was working on him helped keep him going.
Story
I woke up to find myself standing (t)here, soaked in a sultry warmth. I couldn’t tell if it was the sweat of my exhaustion from anxiety or the relief of having survived. I glanced out of my window, in hopes to bring some kind of clarity to my mind. Grey that stands tall in front of me blocked my view. New York loomed ahead of me, tall and ominous peering down at me as if it was asking me if I could make it through its treacherous mazes and entrapments, was I doing the right thing by coming here on my own without my family? I couldn’t help but feel as if I had made one huge mistake, leaving my family behind is something I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive myself for. I could still remember the day when Tel Aviv was crying blood, dyeing the sea into a colour that wasn’t so pleasant to look at. I had scrambled to get out of the way of the glass shards tearing through the sky, grabbing only what would get me passage to America, I had already told my family that if something happened like this I would make sure they would have a life to arrive at. The days that followed the bombing in my home country all blur together like a fog that I can’t quite see through anymore. I didn’t know where my life was heading, and I still don’t. I keep trying to tell myself that everything will end okay but all it creates is an echo that lingers like ringing in my ears. The ringing is a constant reminder of memories I would rather forget, but although it is hard I know I am more fortunate than some people who didn’t even have the chance to escape the horrors of that unforsaken day. The memory is now gnawing my flesh, my bone, my everything to the level that I cannot function under those darkness where I am dependent on a hopeless hope that my loved ones are safe in Tel Aviv.
But here I am in New York, my feet rooted to a new path, crawling my way through the grueling new project I have set myself. New York City is supposedly the city of dreams…the place where hope can grow and manifest into more than just a feeling, people are everywhere,p so why do I still feel so hopeless and alone? Leaving those voiding thoughts behind, I am heading out to a new workplace of mine. Being one of the first transplants from Tel Aviv, I wanted my work to have more meaning than that of providing for my family out of need, I wanted to feel as if we are a part of something bigger than being just another family torn by war. So that is why I am working harder than everyone else at Grand Central, trying to build a line to the Harbor. Despite my optimistic thoughts, I still feel like an isolated island when I am working to build a future of not only mine, but others. All I can do is keep pushing forwards, living in the past cannot help when I am working to provide a future for so many others like myself and my family.
The end of construction is nearing, and I am breathing the salty air of this new place near harbour. The smell of salt in the air is a reminder of the blue, terrifyingly beautiful beaches in Tel Aviv, and how much I’d rather be there than here. As I stared out over the rolling waves, crashing over each other as if they were all scrambling to reach the shore, I thought of my family. I thought of my mother’s almond shaped eyes, and her long dark hair that was as straight as pins and needles. As a train of thoughts started surrounding myself, a very familiar language suddenly filled the atmosphere of the harbour. Would my mother think she had raised a coward or a pioneer, or was I brave in my own right? I felt torn between praising myself for the courage it took to come here, and hating myself because of those three questions that drifted through my mind. I see the people from my hometown, getting off at the harbour. Just as the waves lapped at the docks, their feet clambered off the boats and onto the planks, both having arrived at their destination feeling as if their existence was in the wind.
