the best and the worst

My 13 year old son and I flew to Washington, D.C. on Thursday night to visit my dear friend Reya. I had planned to come alone, but she and her housemates made me realize that Casey would be warmly welcomed, and given it was spring break for Casey, what better than to give him a chance to see the nation's capitol!

Casey is in seventh grade, the year that his progressive school apparently feels that kids need to wake up and smell the fascism. He started the year out studying the Roman Empire, with every paper and assignment carrying the lesson of learning from history, and noticing how what happened then is happening in the here and now. That lesson being learned, they now have started studying the holocaust. Visiting Washington brought both of these subjects together, as it clearly headquarters our empire's government, and also is home to the Holocaust Museum.

As a child, I was sexually abused in our family’s bomb shelter. I learned early on that the world was not safe. Casey is having a different childhood. But the world at large has certainly become no safer or saner. He has grown up in a community of visionaries; social and environmental activists, witches who work between the worlds to change things in this world. And although many of us still remain fiercely optimistic, the vision of what is coming in our lifetime is not hopeful. In the last couple of years, if a room full of grown ups has been talking about environmental Armageddon or the inevitable fall of our empire, he will either leave, or actually yell at us to stop. He's told me repeatedly that what he likes about sports is that you basically know what's going to happen, there are defined rules which are followed, there's still some excitement wondering who will win or lose, yet nobody dies. It has a ritual safeness to it, unlike our world.

So, here we come to Washington, the city that so many around the world are aiming their hate at. Casey says it feels jittery. He's right.

After getting the lay of the land, we went to the Holocaust museum on Friday. From the beginning, it is set up to replicate a feeling of disorientation and crowded isolation. We had to work hard not to get separated as we were herded into small elevators. We then were both handed an identification book, each of us given the life/identity of someone who was in the holocaust, which we both could follow as we went through the museum. Reya had warned me about this, and how everyone of the many people she knows who have visited the museum, except one, were given identities which turn out to have died by the time the museum tour is over. And the stories on the identity cards are real. I was a young gypsy woman; Casey was a young Jewish boy. Towards the end of the museum tour, we sat in a little theatre and watched on ongoing film that had survivors talking about their experiences, of what they went through and how they survived. Later I realized the brilliance of the curator in ending the tour with the stories that focused on the strength of the human spirit, the moments when the best of humanity shines through the horror. We both recognized the story of one of our housemate's family friends, who ended up marrying the American soldier who "liberated" her from a camp. Seeing her kind face and hearing her warm voice as she told the story we have heard several times from Ilyse touched us both. It felt like such a small, tender world. We then opened our identification book and read the fate of the life we had followed through the Holocaust. Amazingly and surprisingly, both had survived, both may still be alive.

The world may never have been or ever will be a “safe place”. The struggle between the worst of human traits and the best can probably be found in every culture or time period, but in some cultures and times the worst seems to have gotten the best of almost everybody. Yet, I'm amazed at the power of the best, how it inevitably does seem to get the best of the worst, how love actually is more persistant than hate, although not quite so lethal. I left the museum feeling the woven strands of protection, love, and tenderness that make up the rope that tugs at my heart for my son, that connects me to him on into the future and beyond. I know that given the worst, my son has the best in him. This makes me feel safe. What a trip this is turning out to be.