Because of You

I don't think any description I could ever render would do it justice but I am going to have to try. I want to describe my grandmother's apartment. It was such an eclectic mix of oddities, like her sister's porcelain clown collection, or the 1970's mustard colored patchwork wall paper and the ornate ginourmous chandelier, about seven different sets of dishes, horrendous paintings that couldn't be characterized in any genre, the bright pink bathroom with sea horses on the wall or every mirror ceremoniously adorned with taped pictures of us at different awkward stages. There was a dumb waiter and a claw foot tub and a double sink. It was an apartment that had never been updated or renovated; save for painting. It had been painted so many times that there were no edges; they were all rounded from being painted so many times. A visual is necessary and a picture would tell the thousand words that don't exist in my vocabulary to accurately portray what the unique transcendant experience of that apartment was.

I am listening to an internet radio hip hip station and 'So Sick' by Ne-Yo is playing. I don't like the song. But when I was squatting in my grandmother's apartment after she died we had no cable and no internet and no music save for a cassette player with an Englebert Humperdink tape, a Billie Holiday tape, an Enrique Iglesias tape and a Frank Sinatra tape that I had purchased for my grandparents years ago. So that left me with the radio. And this song was on often during those lonely days I spent cocooned in my grandmother's apartment trying to inhale every drop of what was left of her. And what was left of her was her apartment. Her apartment that had been in the family for over 60 years. Despite my family scavengering through it days after she died there was enough of her left in the apartment to still feel lived in by her. Except it wasn't. It was lived in by me and my sister. I went there for escape; it was my sanctuary. I felt safe and loved and at home there even though she wasn't there anymore; her essence remained. The strength of her spirit fortified my ailing one. Being there inspired me to write. Being there empowered me to think seriously about doing my job well but to plan for a viable plan B because I was treated like the red-headed step child at work. I have written about my grandmother and her strength of character and how much she loved me and believed in me already. But during those gloomy days of January and February and March and April last year I was struggling at work and losing all sense of self and confidence in who I was and that I had any value or was capable of any contribution to the world. So I relied upon her spirit, strength and undying faith in me and spent a lot of time in her apartment listening to the radio. Or reading the paper or just lying on the couch feeling untouchable and safe and loved. I was untouchable when I was there. I was part of another universe where the past and present converged. I wasn't part of what went on downstairs, outside in the real world. I wouldn't have been surprised if I had looked out the window and seen horses and carriages. She told so many stories about the neighborhood, "second avenue was the fifth avenue for Jews," and "all the famous actors from the Yiddish theater lived in this apartment house," and I knew from my father what every storefront on the block had been throughout the years they'd lived there that sometimes I was confused when I went outside and it was today and not yesterday.

I wore her old nightgowns to sleep. I sat in her chair in the kitchen with her robe wrapped around me drinking tea, the site of many of our late-night conversations the summer I lived with her when I was studying for the bar exam. That summer was very special to me. I chose to live with my grandmother for a reason. I wanted to pass the test. I knew that if I lived with my parents I would have all of my distractions to keep me busy. The internet, the music, the television, sharing a room with my sister, living with four other people, one of whom would always be available for conversation and no quiet place in the apartment to call my own for the summer. And from my grandmother's downtown apartment, my commute to Bar/Bri was halved.

My plan was to live like a monk for three months. I had a suitcase full of clothing and I had my grandmother. I slept on the couch in the living room. She was very clear about the rules. The bed had to be put away before I left in the morning. The AC had to be turned off (not that it worked anyway), the windows had to be returned to exactly two inches open. The curtains had to be closed and any trace of my belongings put away. My grandmother ran a tight ship. I knew that going in and believed it would inspire me to be regimented because I'd have no temptations in her apartment. I would have a schedule and discipline, two qualities I had never even attempted to foster before, and I would pass the test. I woke every morning at 7:00am and was in bed by 11:00pm every night. My grandmother who, "walked the floors," all night was sometimes asleep by 7:00am but often awake while I ate my cereal and made my lunch in my bleary state.

I went to class at Brooklyn Law School. Then I went to my law school, dropped off my shit and went for my one indulgence, my run. I always allowed myself to run as far as I wanted to. Sometimes I actually got lost, I ran so far. I returned to the library, studied and before July 4, was always home to eat dinner with my grandmother. I'd call her during the day to see what she wanted. We'd get pizza, we'd get BBQ's, we are both big on the crave concept and would have a hankering for something random that I'd run out and get for us, like cold borscht but the white borscht or lobster chow mein. I read a lot that summer and we traded books and stayed up talking about them. My father warned my grandmother before I moved in with her that I am notoriously irresponsible about calling to check in and I have no concept of time and would she, the insane paranoid worrier, be able to handle that. Her response was, "I'm a modern woman, of course!" And she was a modern woman. Our conversations about the books we read reflected that we shared many of the same values and she was excited about the opportunities I would have in my life that were not available in hers like trying on different boyfriends but not 'needing' to get married either for money or because it's what's done. I would be able to be independant and make my own decisions.

After July 4 the routine changed and although my bedtime was still 11:00, I was staying at the library until 10:00. Grandma didn't like that so much but it was what I needed to do. After the bar exam, the inevitable happened. I went out and got trashed which is exactly what you're supposed to do after you take the bar exam. I didn't call my grandmother. I came home to her standing vigil by the door waiting for my swaying, slurring, completely out of control self and she went to town on me for coming home so late and for not calling she went on and on and on. It was painful. She had called my dad enraged at me and he said, "Ma, I thought you said you were a modern woman?" She yelled, "I LIED!"

R.I.P. Esther Florence Berkowitz Herman 9/01/11 - 11/11/05