Consensus

It’s a bracelet I searched out in the back of a drawer, a cuff bracelet that is more ornate than something I would choose for myself these days. But I love it. I have always treasured it. And I’m a little surprised that it still fits and delighted that it does. Because it isn’t just any bracelet. Not to me.

* * *

When I heard that the US Congress had agreed to eliminate daylight savings time — this happened a few weeks back apparently — I thought to myself, oh, so they can actually reach consensus on something so trivial? How nice. If only they could reach consensus (or something beyond the slimmest of majorities) on issues that matter. You know what I mean… consensus on the mega-qualified Supreme Court nominee, Judge Brown Jackson; consensus on faster and more lethal arming of Ukraine; consensus on voting rights.

OK, OK, OK. I told myself I would not wax political when I write here. I told myself I would stay upbeat. But…

These past few years I am constantly recalling the words of an old friend who told me that “everything is political” — that message offered during an extended period in my life when I existed in the blur of single motherhood and trying to cobble together a sufficient living to keep food on the table and a roof overhead. Life was political then too; I was too immersed in daily tasks of ordinary survival to realize it.

These days?

I find myself heartbroken by what is taking place in Ukraine. I find myself appalled by too many other micro happenings in the US to process, not to mention the macro happenings. I find myself engaged, once again, in my own private acts of defiance against the invisibility that remains inevitable (it seems) when it comes to growing older, to no longer having employment, to isolation in an ongoing pandemic — yes, yes, I know — we are certainly safer with our masks, our vaccinations, and our boosters, but let’s not pretend that it is over. Let’s not dismiss hundreds of deaths a day with such ease.

Indifference. Indifference to death. Why is it that we grow so indifferent so easily, especially to suffering?

Maybe it’s just fatigue. Or the reality of our own daily battles. Or a matter of picking our battles.

* * *

Each day, usually, I find at least a few moments of contentment. Joy, even. Often in the visual — the way the light insists on shining through the sheers in the front room of this old apartment; the exuberant colors in a Fauve painting as I page through an art book; the heady scent and flood of images that follow with a single drop of perfume on each wrist. A delicious Frenchman selected that fragrance for me many years ago. I still smile, remembering our time together.

I’m fortunate, despite the loneliness that comes of so rarely seeing my sons, despite the aches and pains that frequently sabotage my daily doings, despite worrying about money like so many of us, despite the excessive solitude that I know I tolerate relatively well compared to others. I am not bored, I keep my mind busy, I persist in setting myself challenges and goals even in a much narrowed lifestyle. And I do not live in a war torn country, a country decimated by an unconscionable aggressor.

* * *

His name was Sasha. He had sandy blonde hair and fair skin and was, like most of the men I have been attracted to in my life, on the tall side, which next to my 4‘11“ frame, made us an odd couple. That wasn’t the only element of our odd coupledom; I was a 16-year-old American girl camping through the (then) U.S.S.R., and he was a 20-ish-year-old Ukrainian student. Our dates were innocent – a walk, a conversation on a park bench, a movie. He took me to see The Sound of Music, which tickled me even then since I knew the plot and the music (of course), but I found understanding the Russian beyond my capabilities at the time.

I have a grainy Kodak photo of Sasha and two friends sitting on the bench where we would meet, Kyiv’s beauty in the background. And in a little jewelry box tucked away in a dresser drawer, I keep a silver bracelet that he gave to me. I never quite understood why he gave me a gift except that our week together felt sweet and special to both of us. It is the bracelet that I wear on my wrist these days. I’m not sure why exactly, but doing so touches something in my heart. It connects me to a time of my own innocence. It connects me to the region where my grandfather was born. And I seem to need this particular connection right now.

Sasha. Such a lovely young man. Still, such a tender memory. But what of all the young men and young women and old men and old women and the children, dear God, the children and babies that are now being slaughtered? I can’t quite believe it is happening. I see images on the news, apocalyptic images, and I can’t fully grasp that it isn’t some ridiculous film out of Hollywood. I can’t just pretend it isn’t happening. I can’t shake off the knowledge that so much evil exists in the world — evil that should trump indifference.

God knows, there is an insane amount of violence in the US, gun violence in particular, and an unwillingness to address it in any real, serious, consequential way. And the fact that we have only recently enacted a federal anti-lynching law is stunning; are we so blind to blind hatred, still? Are some of us so willing to believe lies? I know the answer to both of those questions; no need to tell me.

* * *

Consensus. Strange concept. We decide not to mess with our clocks twice a year, but issues of life and death? Issues of basic human dignity? Where is the common sense in our acts of consensus and our lack of it? Where is the consensus on genocide while it’s happening? Why do human beings do this to each other? I don’t understand.

* * *

I will never know why Sasha gave me this bracelet, nor who made it, nor anything else about it. But I’m glad that despite the decades that have passed, I never lost it. I’m glad that it still fits. And I wonder what became of Sasha.