Day 124: My Grave Adventure

Under the heading of unexpected new experiences, today I got locked in a graveyard and had to scale an iron fence. But… that was not my goal. The goal was to view Brooklyn’s landmark Green-wood (yes, with the hyphen) Cemetery, which greets visitors thusly:

Founded in 1838, Green-wood is a sprawling landscape of greenery, mausoleums, statues and history. Expansive and peaceful, it’s a beautiful spot for reflection, remembrance and rest. It’s hard to believe that across the street from the entry gate is a gas station, and that a subway and convenience store are just one avenue over. 

In 1776, the Battle of Long Island was fought on the grounds of what is now the cemetery, and some of the pathways have names like Battle Avenue and Warrior Path, while others are named for flowers. The website boasts famous “residents,” including Leonard Bernstein and Jean-Michel Basquiat, though the only name I recognized was Cooper-Hewitt, as in the design museum. 

There was a obelisk monument for Louis Board, who lived a miserly life, and left a large fortune to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. “His benevolence and humanity were universal,” reads the epitaph. 

A monument stands over the remains of 103 of the 278 people burned to death in the Brooklyn Theatre Fire of 1876. 

The grave of Ted Morello, a longtime reporter for the Associated Press of Pakistan and one of the first members of the U.N. Correspondents’ Association, reads: “Journalist, Husband, Father, Brother, Friend.” His epitaph: “‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world,” from Tennyson’s “Ulysses.”

There was a barely noticeable lone marker beneath a tree bearing the name Henry W. Holly. It struck me because my name is Holly and I was named for my grandfather, Henry. 

Some of the stones are so old, the inscriptions are worn down beyond recognition. There are generations of families, people old and young. Those are the saddest, of course, the people who died before they really had a chance to live, young soldiers and children. One small white stone reads only “Baby Amy.” 

 

It was very interesting to see how — and I don’t care for this this term, so apologies — patriarchal some of the gravestones were. Not that I’m shocked by this fact. Remember, Green-wood goes back to the 1830’s, before feminism was officially invented. Many of the spots where women were buried read “wife of…” or even “Catherine, his wife,” if a husband died first. Meanwhile, there were more than a few monuments to men that were inscribed “my husband.” There was a distinctly greater sense of women mourning men than the other way around. 

An expanse of green was dotted with small stones, different from the larger, more ornate structures throughout the space. Some of the headstones had been visited recently, for Easter, and were decorated with flowers, stones and trinkets. Atop the grave of a 20-year-old boy was a small toy firetruck.

The stonework and statuary was just beautiful. There were two memorials built into a small hillside, next to a tree with long, gnarled roots, behind a row of small gravestones. There was a large mausoleum that resembled a castle, and another that reminded me of a Hobbit church. 

Morbid though it might seem, I’ve long had a affinity for cemeteries. I spent many hours as a girl sitting on the steps of a mausoleum in the Druid Ridge Cemetery across the road from my grandparents’ house in Baltimore. I marveled at the Cimitero delle Porte Sante in Florence, and visited the graves of Louisa May Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau at the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, Mass. My favorite cemetery of all time (yes, I have a favorite cemetery) is in Amherst, Mass., and I don’t recall the name of it. I spent a summer there when I was 16, and I passed hours among the thin and crumbling gravestones. 

I’ve never given much thought to why I like cemeteries so much, but if I had to elucidate it, I’d say there are two things that appeal to me: First, cemeteries have always been very peaceful places to me, perhaps because they are final resting spots. It’s a platitude of sorts to say “he is at peace,” but there’s a sense of truth there as well. To me, cemeteries don’t typically have a sense of struggle or anxiety. And second, just imagine all the stories beneath your feet. 

Now that all being said, I don’t want to be trapped in a cemetery. The sign said the gate locks at 5 p.m. So at 4:45, I began to head back toward the entrance, but as anyone who has ever met me knows, I have an abysmal sense of direction. And Green-wood is 478 acres. So with four minutes to spare, I found myself at the back gate… which closed at 4. Awesome, right? 

There was no way in Hell I could make it to the main gate by 5. And the sign read: “If you get locked in, wait for the caretaker,” or something to that extent. Pop quiz: How often do you think the caretaker comes around after hours on a Sunday? Yeah, me too. 

So I called up my monkey ancestry (yes, I know, apes and monkeys are different, and no offense to the Creationists), and climbed over the fence (ballpark 10 feet), which landed me about a half-mile from where I’d started. 

And here’s the bitch of it all. When I finally did get back to the main entrance, five streets and three avenues from where I’d exited, guess what was open? That’s right, the main gate. The one with the sign that claims to close at 5. 

So I uttered some not-nice words and chalked it up to adventure. 

Day 110: Shalom Easter

Where, I wondered, would be a good place to avoid Easter crowds today? 

The answer? A Hasidic Jewish neighborhood.

So off I went, to Borough Park, Brooklyn, which allegedly has the highest concentration of Orthodox Jews outside of Israel, according to several Internet sources (I’m not testifying to this fact). 

The first sign of the devotion to Orthodox culture I saw was a school bus with Hebrew letters I spotted from the subway. Then, across the platform, a family — a couple probably not much older than me, and six girls. 

When I got off the train, I immediately noted that most of the stores had signs in either Hebrew lettering or Yiddish, often both. I’m not terribly well-versed in the Orthodox or Hasidic culture and practices, so I find the opportunity to observe a little more closely to be interesting. There’s plenty to be learned by reading, of course, but sometimes it’s nice to just see what you can see. 

One thing I do know is that Orthodox Jews have particular (and perhaps, to outsiders, peculiar) practices of dress. The women adhere to practices of tznius, or modesty, so I was sure to dress in a manner that was respectful (long skirt, shirt that didn’t show cleavage, trench coat over). Married women don’t show their natural hair outside the home, so most ladies had on wigs. 

The men are more recognizable, perhaps (payot, hats, black coats, often tallit), but I’m less familiar with the whys and wherefores of their practices. Frankly, I’m a little more interested in the roles of women, and the interactions between men and women. I noted, for example, in a music and movies store,  that a shelf of DVD’s was indicated as being intended only for females.

My first exposure to the Hasidic culture was around age 11. My parents were doing some business with a photographer, and he came to our apartment. In my attempt to be grown-up and polite, I extended my hand and said “nice to meet you.” He recoiled, or at least, that’s how I remember it. I didn’t know that Hasidic men do not touch women other than (as I understand it now) their wives, mothers, daughters and sisters. I was naive (and a child) and he was abrupt, so I was insulted. 

As I’ve learned a bit more over the years, however, the understanding I’ve come to, and this might be flawed, is that a lack of physical contact, sometimes even a lack of eye contact, is not meant to indicate that women are sub-par, but that it’s meant to preserve the specialness of contact between a husband and wife. The traditions are very different than what I (or most people I know) have grown up with, and from an outside point of view, it’s easy to look upon it as repressive and regressive. The only thing I know now is that I would have to conduct extensive research and interviews before even beginning to come to that, or any, conclusion. More research than can be done with a fast Google search.

I did notice one behavior that gave me pause, however. Several times this afternoon, I held doors for women with strollers, and not one said “thank you.” And several other times, men squeezed by me in store aisles, even bumping into me a couple of times, but none said “excuse me.” That made me curious. Was it because I was female? Because I am clearly an outsider? Or are they just being New Yorkers? For the record, plenty of us do have good manners. Or was there another reason? 

I like it when I walk away from a new experience with more questions than answers. I think figuring out the questions is just as important as knowing what the answers are. That said, if anyone would like to share any relevant knowledge or recommend resources for learning more, please do so. 

 

 

 

Day 108: Putting all my eggs in one basket

Or, more accurately, seeing if I have enough eggs to fill a basket… if one can refer to ones uterus as a “basket,” but people call it an “oven,” so I guess basket is fine. I’m not especially reverential about this topic. I use the term “knocked up” quite liberally, and I’m not into lotus flowers or Earth mother goddesses, so basket is good.

Anyway, I got this test today — the AMH (Anti-Mullerian Hormone) test, which as far as I understand it, measures the presence of a hormone that more or less predicts how many eggs you have at present, or what your “ovarian reserve” is. I say “as I understand it” because I’ve not interviewed any medical professionals or fertility specialists, on the matter. No, it doesn’t actually tell you how many eggs you have, it (according to my doctor) basically tells you “cool for now” or “not cool.” And no, it’s not just something New Girl made up.

As it happens, the test itself is just a blood draw. Nothing new. The part that’s different is the reason for the test. I don’t really have to think about getting a routine CBC, and I’m an insane hypochondriac, so I’ve had a bunch of “check for diseases” kinds of tests. This one, though, I actually had to think about. It’s new because it’s a conscious decision to collect a very important piece of information.

I started to go over all the “what if” scenarios in my head. Which, in some ways, is a little foolish because the purpose of this test is to help curb the “what if’s.” It’s that lovely juxtaposition of “knowledge is power” and “ignorance is bliss.” That is, until it’s not.

Actively considering ones fertility, and especially talking about actively considering ones fertility, feels complicated because, well, babies are a loaded topic. We’ve all heard about the biological clock, but there’s also the sociocultural clock, the one that strikes when it seems so many of your peer group are having children, and more than that, that social connections are dependent on it. Many of my friends who have children have more “mommy friends” than non-mommy friends. If people have babies, you have to talk about the babies. And then if you don’t have babies, you’re like, “well, now what?”

But the other side of the sociocultural clock coin is the one that says “put off your personal life (marriage, reproduction, etc) until you’ve achieved an acceptable level of professional/financial/artistic success.” And in that case — again, I’m no expert here, but I do know this — your biological clock does not give a rat’s ass about your sociocultural clock. Your ovaries do not care whether you’ve made partner at your law firm. They also, by the way, don’t care about how you look. I have a very young face, but my plumbing knows I’m not that young (34, for the record).

And I won’t even get into the shit that comes down on women who say they don’t want babies at all. Clearly, I’m interested, otherwise I wouldn’t be checking to see if I’m short on eggs, but I have friends who don’t want kids, and they get “well, maybe you’ll change your mind” reactions. That’s so rude. No one ever tells a woman who says she wants to have children “well, maybe you’ll change your mind.” Jesus. Why do we want to guilt people who don’t want kids into having them? Aren’t there enough crappy parents in the world?

Back on track…

Last year, The Atlantic published a really good article that basically says “look, don’t flip your shit about fertility, but don’t wait too long either.”

So, today was about me, not waiting too long (hopefully), but not flipping either.

For the record, this was actually kind of uncomfortable for me to write, because it feels a bit more personal than I want to be, but The Metropolitan Opera doesn’t do rush tickets on Friday night, so I couldn’t go see La Boheme. So checking out my potential egg supply was my newest experience of the day.

Hey, at least I’m timely.