Love in Hebrew is Ahava. I know absolutely nothing about Hebrew. I do know this word though. It was introduced to me a year or so ago. From what I have been able to learn, Ahava is made up of three basic Hebrew letters. I do not fully understand how it works but I do know that two of the letters form the root, which in this case means “to give”. The other letters act as modifiers. Together the meaning of Ahava comes to be “I give” or also, “love”.
Of course, at its most basic, love is giving. The very act of giving in many ways solidifies the love for another. I suppose, in those days of old, giving of one’s self to another, in whatever form of fashion, was considered an act of love. This remains so today. Giving to another, as I have read, was more than a mere act of helping or showing an affection but was instead a means of making a connection to another. By giving we take from our self and instead direct it towards another. Yet, I think that one can give to another without it coming to constitute the catch all meaning of the word “love” that is commonly tossed about today; A circumstance that in ideal cases requires a mutual giving. For me love, or giving, does not necessarily require a mutual action between one and another. Instead it is sometimes as simple as the belief in that you can somehow make a difference in the life of another. The action on the others part can be nothing more than the satisfaction gained in having done so. It is this aspect that I am hoping to capture here now.
This time last year, I wrote of the suicide of my brother, Jamie, an event that I can with absolute certainty and clarity recall, as often as I choose, in agonizing detail. This decision of his changed me , in many ways. However, the personal toll notwithstanding, I think one of the more impactful lessons learned was the manner in which I began to notice “things” about folks. Be it in their deeds or words, there have often been “triggers” that guided a response, a step of action. I had no idea the last time I spoke with Jamie that “triggers” existed. How was I supposed to? Even those who did have a hint of these, kept them from me. I was clueless. Since the precise instance of that moment though, I have tried to teach myself a lot. I slow down and try to read the signs more clearly and to ensure that the safety is on.
It’s funny, and funny not really meaning a funny thing here, I lost a second brother, Robert Andrew two years later. However, had I not ran across his obituary as I rummaged through some old things, I could not have told you the date. I did know the year but there are a lot of days in a year and though most should have not stood out, this one should have. Thinking about it now as I type, I don’t recall much of anything about 1986. I don’t think that is unusual. What is unusual is that I had to walk back upstairs to double check on the date I had just read the other day; a date I have forgotten for over thirty years. I tend to be pretty good at reading and retention, but not on this simple date. Why?
There were no triggers, associated with Rob. Instead, there were bright flashing billboards and fireworks on demand. Entrances rivaling the most spectacular and crashes of legend. Many funny; Funny in this case being just that. Full moons bought out the best (worst?). Full moon nights and ringing phones meant only one thing; Robert Andrew. I laughed aloud as I just typed this. Hemingway and Fitzgerald together couldn’t wholly capture Rob. Perhaps that is why I rarely write of him. A lot of how Jamie was, I see in many. Rob was an original. He hurtled though life as a ball of fire and as with most exhaustions of energy, you eventually run out of fuel. Rob’s tank hit empty.
But as I said, there were no signs, or at least so I thought. In hindsight Jamie’s were obvious, common actually. Rob had his own as well, they were just different. At that time, I used the term “queer” in a derogatory manner of sorts. It angered him. Of course, it is the exact opposite today. Old habits remain hard to break. I still hesitate when using that word today even though dear friends of mine are proudly so being.
As I do today, I had a lot of gay friends at that time, many with whom I remain in contact today and treasure the friendship. Some, are among the finest people I know, are productive and in most cases very happy. Robs ability to be productive can be only measured in the totality that was produced by the variety of memories left behind. If in his life of twenty nine years or so he worked an aggregate of one year, I would be totally surprised. Rob was “queer” and in his case, using flaming as a descriptor could at times be too restrictive a word. He was his own circus.
I am in no way intending to demean him here today. If you knew him well, then you know it is just the opposite. I believe he would approve of the way I have written it. He would just laugh is all. It wouldn’t have phased him in the least.
All of these were signs though. It was a different time. Even today, as folks grapple with the many variations of sexual orientation, imagine the period from the early 60’s to the mid 80’s. Ronald Ray Gun didn’t even publicly mention AIDS until 1985. There were signs, obvious as hell, but they were overshadowed by the billboards to which we were drawn.
Rob’s demise was sudden. We got a call. Arrived at the hospital and found an incredibly jaundiced person hiding the him within. I sort of lied when I referred to Rob as my brother, he was more mine and Jamie’s sister, that wasn’t due to a late in life defining event or decision. He was our sister at an oh so very young an age. It didn’t bother me or Jamie at that time, it bothers me not today.
I remember things from each of the hospitals. My favorite was upon our initial arrival at Highlands. Mom, Betty as I call her, was in route from Tennessee. Robert, in what I know to have been in a state of “whatever induced” delirium, was worried about one thing and one thing only: Betty seeing his dirty house. Doctors and dying be damned when there are dishes to be washed, laundry to be gathered and dust bunnies to be rid of, Betty’s approval was paramount. This is a really good memory for me. The house remained dirty throughout it all
The experience after the transfer to UK was decidedly different. I remember the reaction when I called the nurse and doctors aside and, in speaking of his lifestyle, (Where are you Fitzgerald?) I cautioned each with the wee bit of familiarity I had of the “gay plague”. Things changed in a hurry. What most though to be a symptom of the liver, suddenly became the 1986 equivalent of radioactive waste in an emergency room.
The connecting to the liver was obvious. Rob was a prodigious drinker and I have often wondered why I never became an alcoholic. It seems to run in the family. It should have run in my genes. From my experience, these folks enjoy themselves in a more, let us say, entertaining manner, but I know they suffer.
When Rob would come to my house for any extended time there was one rule: NO HARD LIQUOR. That aggravated Rob but didn’t really bother him. There were beer stores all around. He could drink 36 beers in one day (I have seen him do so) and seemingly remain sober. However, he could take less than a jigger full of red liquor and be flying higher than that of a Griffon Vulture (Look this one up it is a pretty far out bird). Such is the play between the mental and the physical.
Robs drinking produced one of my favorite poems. I can’t say for sure if it is an original of his, but nary a more appropriate poem has been written for someone I knew so well. It is really good, regardless of whoever may have first penned it. It went like this:
“Mary had a little wine, some bourbon and some gin
And everywhere Mary went, she never knew she’d been”
Naturally, during the long wait in the emergency room, many came and went. We couldn’t see Rob; Only the nurses and doctors in their “end of the word gear”, darting to and fro. Betty arrived and, her being her and me being me, an argument ensued. I don’t know what it was over, I do know she brought it on. Exiting hospital, and escaping via the back roads surrounding Lexington, flying over Paris Pike, launching at the apex of each vertical, I found myself again through rushes of adrenalin. Rob passed in what seems today a short time after my return. I can’t be sure. I don’t remember. As a matter of fact, except for the cold of the funeral, I remember little else past this point. Why is this.? What was that date again?
Jamie and I were closer. We gave, of ourselves to each other. Did I love him more? No, I don’t think so. It was just a different type. The things I “gave’ to Rob were just different. The three of us were formed by the union of the same, yet beyond, and even within that, we were day and night. Each of us.
That is how it with families today. That is how it is within the individual that is wholly part of that family. Many are alone, both figuratively and literally. Many in a good place; Others not so. Each though carries a sign. At 61, I read a lot more signs these days. Some of the reasons are obvious. I have just spoken of this. Others not as so. Yet, at this particular stage in my 62nd year, they endure to me more.
I get interested in things that perhaps I shouldn’t. Not in a bad way. Not at all. It is more so an attempt at giving and the reward it might bring. We all need that. I know of no one who does not suffer in a manner. Certainly not me. Most suffering, I suppose, is of a garden variety. Many suffer these lesser maladies with a balance that defies explanation. They command respect and pass almost silently in their journey though the screaming times of life. Yet, the most silent can speak louder than the most vocal. You just have to listen closer.
The best of some have to steer through the worst of others. The worst in others often hidden from those of the best. A weakness maybe? A sense of unnecessary shame as well. Confidence and belief in one’s own self the most likely culprit. Who doesn’t want to be liked, to be accepted?
Can’t you recall the smile of one you have reached? The variation in the departing or welcoming hug or both. Some are perfunctory. Others express a thanks in a myriad of ways. The latter is the only one that matters. There are too many voices that echo endlessly through a void yet there are still too many that are willing to listen. Maybe it is just a matter of noticing more the silence in the voice that is speaking loudly.
I listen more and more with each passing day. I like it. Everyone has a story of their own that is of the life that only they have lived. Few are not interesting. In a way the stories are all the same. I know those that I believe to be exceedingly happy, and though they are among the most welcome and memorable, they are without any doubt, the exception. Why does a baby cry? Who knows? I think it is akin to the vet talking to my dog. They each think the other knows what they are relaying. Most times it is nothing more than a best guess handed down by a grandmother of someone from long ago. But as we grow older, things become easier to recognize, easier to relay, but the understanding of such is often the equivalent of my dogs having their temperature taken: They really don’t have a clue as to what is going on.
Today, I am most comfortable in small things. For one such as me, one who was politely, yet firmly, asked to leave Shriners Hospital until they got done with Adams pump refill, I no longer accompany Paula back into the vet’s examination room but I think I need to start doing so. Seeking comfort in doing small things, can bring rewards beyond compare; There is nothing more rewarding in life than understanding and being a positive part of another. Of course, If I am wrong on this, I have 3 FUPS, an ex-boyfriend on 4 legs and a Sally to lean on. We do understand and hear each other, except for maybe Travis who is either certifiably deaf or the greatest example of elegant stubbornness that has ever been known.
So, what am I saying here? I think if anything it is that I have seen the signs. They are everywhere. Some require a reading of the very fine print. Many times, the instructions are within. Though just letters on a page, they speak with a voice of their own. Hopefully, not alone.
You can reach others through giving. You can offer love. A hope even. A voice alone remains just that. To a generation today, AHAVA is a lotion. I good one I think but falling noticeably short of Ahava. Regardless, if I give you something or say hello. Open a door or offer to help. If I listen patiently (Terribly hard for an old man with juvenile ADHD) and even speak directly and with aim, it is most likely done so as a variation of hope. Saying hello is but a simple means of negating two voices alone and, if only for an instant, giving to another and to yourself. It is rare that I don’t say hello. It seems just only now that I am more interested in the response, as we should all be. To give, Ahava if you wish, is not such a bad thing. Reach out to someone. Just don’t pass them by without saying hello.
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Feel the Burg 