Read Online Pat Boone Fan Club by Sue William Silverman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sue William Silverman
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Hill. Dear Graham, Dear Graham, Dearest Graham . . . I think, but don’t write, on the onionskin. Ari . . . his red beret, his Uzi. He speaks only a few words of English, just enough for me to know that, during the Six-Day War, he parachuted from planes to kill the enemy in hand-to-hand combat . . . tumbles from the sky like a shooting star, billows to earth in nylon clouds, his soundless stealth beneath moons desert-hard and dry, like his knife, its scentless glitter . . . his muscles taut, his breath ancient as sand.
He, too, knows his identity, his function.
Ari is my first Jewish boyfriend, yet I’m relieved he and I speak sparingly to each other. Back in DC , I grew exhausted listeningto Graham, to myself, to my friends. All I heard was our shrill self-righteousness, faith by slogan: “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today? ”
The Six-Day War: the indelible simplicity of capturing territory in less than a week. Now, here, I focus on Israelis planting apricot fields, while America’s orange jelly is napalm, hot and endless.
How am I a Dove at home, against the war in Vietnam, while here I am a Hawk?
I put down my pen.
Beneath my bare feet the floor in my bungalow is gritty with dust and sand. Out the window, yellow-green fields flow to orchards, to the hamsin -hot summer, air brittle with the friction of insect wings. In the distance, a Soviet-built MiG-21 zips open the sky. It plunges toward earth—quick—dropping a bomb on an Israeli town or military encampment before blazing back toward Syria. Too far away to hear. Its silvery light ebbs to black. A plume of smoke hazes the horizon.
This, while a blank aerogramme rustles in a desert breeze.
At home, I watched the faraway Vietnam War on television in bright, primary colors, grenades seeming to explode in my living room. Here, where the war is close, only miles away, it seems distant. Here in the solitude of this small room, I feel safe.
My hair dries. I braid it, fastening the end with the rubber band. I lie on my mattress stuffed with straw and covered by a rough wool blanket. If I press a damp palm against the inside walls, my sweat almost sizzles, even the walls almost too hot to touch.
Shouts of children from the kibbutz school float through the window. A donkey brays. Sheep bleat in a distant field. I drift, my head on the hard pillow, gently rocked by slow concussions of sound. Light burns dust into air.
All day in my Capitol Hill office, typewriter keys clacked, phones shrilled, bells rang for roll calls, quorums, votes. Once I found those sounds exciting, meaningful. I worked for Congressman Edward Koch and was part—a small part—of the most powerful government in the world. A hippie flower child with turquoise love beads, I answered letters from Koch’s constituents, drafted inserts for the Congressional Record , wrote “Dear Colleague” letters. I researched legislation to halt construction of the Supersonic Transport. Before I resigned my job, Koch was also working on legislation to make the tax code more equitable for single, unmarried people. “Mr. Chairman and members of the Ways and Means Committee, I am pleased to have this opportunity today to testify before you in support of what I believe to be essential legislation correcting major inequities in our present tax system. Unfortunately, approximately 30 million, namely those who are single, are discriminated against . . . .”
Congressman Koch introduced resolutions to halt the fighting in Vietnam.
But no words seem to change anything, seem to matter.
Dear Graham . . .
I wonder: Has he burned his draft card yet? Has he decided to go to jail or Canada?
Graham, I never told you . . .
. . . After work, I turned off my IBM Selectric in room 1134 of the Longworth House Office Building. My tasseled Pappagallo shoes tapped marble corridors. In my miniskirt, I took the elevator to the basement, rode the small trolley beneath the Capitol to the
He, too, knows his identity, his function.
Ari is my first Jewish boyfriend, yet I’m relieved he and I speak sparingly to each other. Back in DC , I grew exhausted listeningto Graham, to myself, to my friends. All I heard was our shrill self-righteousness, faith by slogan: “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today? ”
The Six-Day War: the indelible simplicity of capturing territory in less than a week. Now, here, I focus on Israelis planting apricot fields, while America’s orange jelly is napalm, hot and endless.
How am I a Dove at home, against the war in Vietnam, while here I am a Hawk?
I put down my pen.
Beneath my bare feet the floor in my bungalow is gritty with dust and sand. Out the window, yellow-green fields flow to orchards, to the hamsin -hot summer, air brittle with the friction of insect wings. In the distance, a Soviet-built MiG-21 zips open the sky. It plunges toward earth—quick—dropping a bomb on an Israeli town or military encampment before blazing back toward Syria. Too far away to hear. Its silvery light ebbs to black. A plume of smoke hazes the horizon.
This, while a blank aerogramme rustles in a desert breeze.
At home, I watched the faraway Vietnam War on television in bright, primary colors, grenades seeming to explode in my living room. Here, where the war is close, only miles away, it seems distant. Here in the solitude of this small room, I feel safe.
My hair dries. I braid it, fastening the end with the rubber band. I lie on my mattress stuffed with straw and covered by a rough wool blanket. If I press a damp palm against the inside walls, my sweat almost sizzles, even the walls almost too hot to touch.
Shouts of children from the kibbutz school float through the window. A donkey brays. Sheep bleat in a distant field. I drift, my head on the hard pillow, gently rocked by slow concussions of sound. Light burns dust into air.
All day in my Capitol Hill office, typewriter keys clacked, phones shrilled, bells rang for roll calls, quorums, votes. Once I found those sounds exciting, meaningful. I worked for Congressman Edward Koch and was part—a small part—of the most powerful government in the world. A hippie flower child with turquoise love beads, I answered letters from Koch’s constituents, drafted inserts for the Congressional Record , wrote “Dear Colleague” letters. I researched legislation to halt construction of the Supersonic Transport. Before I resigned my job, Koch was also working on legislation to make the tax code more equitable for single, unmarried people. “Mr. Chairman and members of the Ways and Means Committee, I am pleased to have this opportunity today to testify before you in support of what I believe to be essential legislation correcting major inequities in our present tax system. Unfortunately, approximately 30 million, namely those who are single, are discriminated against . . . .”
Congressman Koch introduced resolutions to halt the fighting in Vietnam.
But no words seem to change anything, seem to matter.
Dear Graham . . .
I wonder: Has he burned his draft card yet? Has he decided to go to jail or Canada?
Graham, I never told you . . .
. . . After work, I turned off my IBM Selectric in room 1134 of the Longworth House Office Building. My tasseled Pappagallo shoes tapped marble corridors. In my miniskirt, I took the elevator to the basement, rode the small trolley beneath the Capitol to the
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