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It's raining in Jerusalem.
Two weeks ago, we received horrible news that Y. had fallen and knocked out two of his teeth and split his lip; he was in hospital (we found out about it after he had already been discharged). At first the great dilemma was whether he fell or he "fell" -- who knows, with a school like his where we've seen so much? Thinking about it I had truly resolved to go beat his teacher to a pulp myself when H. went to visit Y. and reported back that he seemed very calm, which an emotionally transparent kid like that would probably not be able to manage if one of his role models really did do him that much damage. So it's a relief, but agonising to go through each time Y. gets hurt.
Today I went to pick up Y. from school; I stood under a little stone arch beside the narrow stone staircase to his classroom. On the wall beside me someone had written "Death to Arabs" which I had corrected to "Death to the stupid." I'm acquainted with an Arab woman who works in the area and besides the principle of the thing I don't want that she should have to see this shit just going about her job.
Y. came running down the stairs and asked, "Where's dad?"
"He's sick and waiting for you at the cafe," I said.
He proudly showed me his lip, where a couple of days before a dentist had worked on it to remove the stitches and the ooze/blood buildup (he was so terrified he had to be restrained). I saw a small black spot on it and said "Oh no! What a terrible wound."
"It's not terrible NOW," he told me. "That was before the dentist helped me."
"Oh. Sorry, remember I haven't seen you since your fall. When I heard about it I told myself I'd kill the stone who did that do you." A slight variation of the truth.
Energised by this news, he offered to show me the culprit himself and lead me through a few turns and quirks in the Old City's alley network until we came to a courtyard. "I won't say which stone did it," he told me solemnly. "I'll stand on one of them, and that's how you'll know which one it is." He ran ahead, stepped on a large projecting flagstone, and turned around to give me a serious look.
I caught up with him. "So this is the stone, may its name be obliterated," I mused.
"May its name and memory be obliterated!" he repeated fiercely, "Yes!" He stamped on it.
"Let it be cursed from now until the eternity of eternities."
"Yes... and now you see we are very close to the cafe already."
"We didn't even waste any time."
"In fact we were so fast we GAINED time." He took me by the arm and we hurried on.
At the cafe he and I played Castlevania for over an hour straight. It doesn't sound like a lot but all you do in Castlevania is whip skeletons endlessly, with short breaks for whipping candles and whipping flying witch heads.
Two weeks ago, we received horrible news that Y. had fallen and knocked out two of his teeth and split his lip; he was in hospital (we found out about it after he had already been discharged). At first the great dilemma was whether he fell or he "fell" -- who knows, with a school like his where we've seen so much? Thinking about it I had truly resolved to go beat his teacher to a pulp myself when H. went to visit Y. and reported back that he seemed very calm, which an emotionally transparent kid like that would probably not be able to manage if one of his role models really did do him that much damage. So it's a relief, but agonising to go through each time Y. gets hurt.
Today I went to pick up Y. from school; I stood under a little stone arch beside the narrow stone staircase to his classroom. On the wall beside me someone had written "Death to Arabs" which I had corrected to "Death to the stupid." I'm acquainted with an Arab woman who works in the area and besides the principle of the thing I don't want that she should have to see this shit just going about her job.
Y. came running down the stairs and asked, "Where's dad?"
"He's sick and waiting for you at the cafe," I said.
He proudly showed me his lip, where a couple of days before a dentist had worked on it to remove the stitches and the ooze/blood buildup (he was so terrified he had to be restrained). I saw a small black spot on it and said "Oh no! What a terrible wound."
"It's not terrible NOW," he told me. "That was before the dentist helped me."
"Oh. Sorry, remember I haven't seen you since your fall. When I heard about it I told myself I'd kill the stone who did that do you." A slight variation of the truth.
Energised by this news, he offered to show me the culprit himself and lead me through a few turns and quirks in the Old City's alley network until we came to a courtyard. "I won't say which stone did it," he told me solemnly. "I'll stand on one of them, and that's how you'll know which one it is." He ran ahead, stepped on a large projecting flagstone, and turned around to give me a serious look.
I caught up with him. "So this is the stone, may its name be obliterated," I mused.
"May its name and memory be obliterated!" he repeated fiercely, "Yes!" He stamped on it.
"Let it be cursed from now until the eternity of eternities."
"Yes... and now you see we are very close to the cafe already."
"We didn't even waste any time."
"In fact we were so fast we GAINED time." He took me by the arm and we hurried on.
At the cafe he and I played Castlevania for over an hour straight. It doesn't sound like a lot but all you do in Castlevania is whip skeletons endlessly, with short breaks for whipping candles and whipping flying witch heads.
