Revelations
Nothing biblical here (as in the final section of the New Testament), although the British dictionary has this origin: c.1300, "disclosure of information to man by a divine or supernatural agency," from Old French revelacion and directly from Latin revelationem (nominative revelatio). For me, I am puzzled about this word, one whose basis is that of "to reveal" -- what happened to the "a" in the extended spelling or put more simply, why isn't it spelled "reveal-ation?" Or reversed, spelling reveal as simply "revel" or "reveel?" In German, even with their "w's" pronounced as "v's," don't think about trying to Anglicize the spelling because the word "reveal" in German is specific to your usage of your meaning, as in 11 different verbs, according to one online translation site...and none of the verbs look even close to the English spelling of "reveal." But I digress, because I use the term here as those "ah-ha" moments, those few and far between sparks of correlation that come out of nowhere, that idea or that stray piece of the puzzle that suddenly completes the picture and yet is visible only to you. Sometimes, it can give you goosebumps when it steps beyond solving the mystery in a book or movie and instead strikes you on a deeply personal level. So bear with me as I present an extended excerpt from Alexandra Risen, a Ukranian mother now living in Toronto, reflecting on her being the first in her family to break from tradition, to move away from her home and parents, to seek college in another city, to leave a stoic upbringing where she felt loved but never seemed to see any signs of it, to be the child that even her sister seemed to resent.
From her book and memoir, Unearthed, her first: Within a few months, I was ready to leave. I didn't want anyone at the airport, and this offended the family. I was the one leaving, so I insisted we say goodbye at home, which is why we were assembled at the kitchen table. Easier for all of us, I decided. Quick and uncomplicated on familiar ground. Father sat in his usual spot, silently staring into his coffee cup. Sonia sat across from him, arms crossed. I traced a pattern on the crocheted tablecloth with my index finger, sticking it through the larger holes and moving around the breadcrumbs trapped underneath. I decided that a tablecloth with holes defeats the purpose. The smell of fried fat hung over us because it was a rare day that Mom didn't fry something in lard..."Your father made you something," Mom said. "Me?" I asked. Made me something? I squished a crumb. "Yes, it's over there." She said it gently, which was unusual when she communicated on his behalf. A large red toolbox, about a foot high and two feet across, sat on the adjacent living room carpet. My throat constricted, tighter and tighter. Impossible. "For me?" I asked Mom. My father still looked down. I wished he would look up, look me in the eye just once. Say "Yes, I did," I willed. Nothing. "You might need it out there on your own," she said. "Although it's pretty heavy." I peered at Sonia's face for something. Nothing there either. She looked down, too. I stood, walked to the box, and touched the rough metal. I knew right away he'd welded the pieces together himself, because the seams were perfect. I recognized the red rust primer paint; he used it up on most of his ironwork -- our rain barrel, Mom's plant stands, and the fence. Sometimes he added a black shiny finish coat, like on the fence, and sometimes he didn't...I imagined him in the garage with sparks flying around his enormous welder's helmet. He had never made me anything. Hardly spoken to me, and now I was getting a f**king toolkit. As I opened the lid, the smell of tar and iron and oil filled my nostrils. It was the fragrance of his garage, bottled in a metal case. An assortment of used tools filled the kit, collected from the railroad shop and the neighbors' garbage cans. The black rubber flashlight with the CN logo was there. I shut the lid, locking in the perfume of his solitary life..."Thanks," I said, looking up and over to the table. Look at me, I willed. And then he did. He raised his head slowly, and his eyes, grayish green, met mine squarely for the first time in our loves. Then he looked down again. What a remarkable color. The rest of us were born with such dull brown, boring eyes that my sister called them hazel to make them more appealing...My father made me a toolkit. Sonia uncrossed her arms and rummaged through her handbag. She withdrew a small conical figurine made of straw, and handed it to me. An angel with delicate wings. A tiny piece of paper was attached to it with a miniature pearl string, It said, "Sisters are special angels who always carry a spare set of wings in their pockets." An angel? My sister shunned religion as much as I did. An angel, even a symbolic one, made no sense coming from her. She was Einstein. Who was the angel? We both knew it wasn't me; it must be her..."Thanks," I said. I wasn't sure if I could handle any more. Everyone was acting out of character. She said nothing. She slumped into the same position as Father, two bookends across the table. An epiphany then: she is Father. Her hands, her talents. Her studying to be a dentist, her soldering jewelry and stained glass windows as hobbies, the sewing, the crocheting. All the Barbie clothes she made for my dolls. That's why she never discussed anything personal with me. Instead, she made me things with her graceful hands. She is Father. The realization hit me like one of his hammers..."Are you okay?" Mom asked. "I have something for you in the bedroom." I couldn't wait to leave the room. To leave the two soul mates who faced each other, but had never really met. Mom handed me an envelope. "It's from me. And your father. You'll need some money to get started." "Thanks," I said. Guilt, heavy guilt, weighed me down and made me feel every inch a failed daughter. "I know you guys are disappointed in me. That I'm leaving." "I left my family younger than you," Mom said. "It was the war, and I survived. You'll be fine." What? Was I getting her blessing? "Always use what's between your ears," she continued. "It's only dirty paper in that envelope. That's what money was during the war. It was dirty paper lying in the streets. Study hard. That's worth something." The envelope suddenly did feel dirty in my hands. I needed to be alone somewhere to think. Mom was giving me advice? It was the toolkit all over again. I was speechless. "I've always wanted to travel, to see some of the world. You and me are alike that way," she said. "We take risks." Now? Now this personal revelation? "And your sister is like your father -- that's how you two turned out," she said. She knew. She knew all along. I suddenly understood that I was her adventurous sentimental favorite despite my shortcomings. I felt sick..."I think I'll take a last walk in the ravine," I said, and I raced out the back door, the screen slamming behind me. I didn't see Mom's garden, the garage, or the raid barrel through my streaming tears, as I ran into the trees.
Who hasn't been there at some point in our lives, young or old, that realization of something seemingly lifeshattering. Perhaps some of us will never get to that moment with out families, to discover where our similarities merged and where they genetically diverted from blood relatives...not the simple stuff like that crooked tooth or that gait or that same pattern on hair on our legs. But to steadfastly march ahead as your own drummer and midway through recognize that haunting thought...you're just like dad (or mom) for better or worse. Imagine the almost-maternal tug that an orphan or foster child or perhaps even an only child must feel in wondering about that knowledge. Some of this is intriguing to me as I started listening to a series of lectures on our aging brains, a series presented by psychology professor Thad A. Polk. In one portion of his lectures he talks about telomeres, an enzyme that protectively sits at the ends of our genetic strings. Each time our cells divide and repair, a portion of that age-preventing enzyme gets cut. After 50 or 70 times, the enyzme is gone and our cells can no longer duplicate...we grow old and wear out. But why is that? (lobsters, hydras, and many forms of cancer have cells which can duplicate indefinitely) This theory of aging seems almost obvious but in actuality wasn't answered until the 1930s when Russian biologist Alexey Olovnikov stood in a rail station and had a revelation...if someone were dangling out of the back of the train and trying to make a copy of the track below, when the train stopped he would missed an entire section, that of the track in front of him. So it must be with our genetic strands, he thought, each duplication somehow coming up short yet remaining intact as if there was some sort of built-in delay or protective coating...telomeres.
Our imaginations and creativity come from seemingly nowhere other than from living life. Inventions are made, insights are gained, dreams are realized. Some of my friends seem to possess a "street smarts" or quick-wittedness that'll I'll never have, making me envy those undercover agents and others who can get themselves out of difficult situations. But that's not me, not in my genetic makeup. Neither it seems is that even rarer gift of discovering what author Risen did, that moment when she she could visualize just where she fit in, as if her family tree had suddenly dimensionalized and was exposing her to far more than a simple chart. My brother points out such things in my family but somehow --like a child standing too close to the screen-- I seem to be able to see only those distant things and not the things close up, things like my family. Should that suddenly happen to me, however --especially now in my later years-- I may just redefine that word. Indeed at that point, it may --for me, at least-- prove to be something Biblical, no questions asked.
From her book and memoir, Unearthed, her first: Within a few months, I was ready to leave. I didn't want anyone at the airport, and this offended the family. I was the one leaving, so I insisted we say goodbye at home, which is why we were assembled at the kitchen table. Easier for all of us, I decided. Quick and uncomplicated on familiar ground. Father sat in his usual spot, silently staring into his coffee cup. Sonia sat across from him, arms crossed. I traced a pattern on the crocheted tablecloth with my index finger, sticking it through the larger holes and moving around the breadcrumbs trapped underneath. I decided that a tablecloth with holes defeats the purpose. The smell of fried fat hung over us because it was a rare day that Mom didn't fry something in lard..."Your father made you something," Mom said. "Me?" I asked. Made me something? I squished a crumb. "Yes, it's over there." She said it gently, which was unusual when she communicated on his behalf. A large red toolbox, about a foot high and two feet across, sat on the adjacent living room carpet. My throat constricted, tighter and tighter. Impossible. "For me?" I asked Mom. My father still looked down. I wished he would look up, look me in the eye just once. Say "Yes, I did," I willed. Nothing. "You might need it out there on your own," she said. "Although it's pretty heavy." I peered at Sonia's face for something. Nothing there either. She looked down, too. I stood, walked to the box, and touched the rough metal. I knew right away he'd welded the pieces together himself, because the seams were perfect. I recognized the red rust primer paint; he used it up on most of his ironwork -- our rain barrel, Mom's plant stands, and the fence. Sometimes he added a black shiny finish coat, like on the fence, and sometimes he didn't...I imagined him in the garage with sparks flying around his enormous welder's helmet. He had never made me anything. Hardly spoken to me, and now I was getting a f**king toolkit. As I opened the lid, the smell of tar and iron and oil filled my nostrils. It was the fragrance of his garage, bottled in a metal case. An assortment of used tools filled the kit, collected from the railroad shop and the neighbors' garbage cans. The black rubber flashlight with the CN logo was there. I shut the lid, locking in the perfume of his solitary life..."Thanks," I said, looking up and over to the table. Look at me, I willed. And then he did. He raised his head slowly, and his eyes, grayish green, met mine squarely for the first time in our loves. Then he looked down again. What a remarkable color. The rest of us were born with such dull brown, boring eyes that my sister called them hazel to make them more appealing...My father made me a toolkit. Sonia uncrossed her arms and rummaged through her handbag. She withdrew a small conical figurine made of straw, and handed it to me. An angel with delicate wings. A tiny piece of paper was attached to it with a miniature pearl string, It said, "Sisters are special angels who always carry a spare set of wings in their pockets." An angel? My sister shunned religion as much as I did. An angel, even a symbolic one, made no sense coming from her. She was Einstein. Who was the angel? We both knew it wasn't me; it must be her..."Thanks," I said. I wasn't sure if I could handle any more. Everyone was acting out of character. She said nothing. She slumped into the same position as Father, two bookends across the table. An epiphany then: she is Father. Her hands, her talents. Her studying to be a dentist, her soldering jewelry and stained glass windows as hobbies, the sewing, the crocheting. All the Barbie clothes she made for my dolls. That's why she never discussed anything personal with me. Instead, she made me things with her graceful hands. She is Father. The realization hit me like one of his hammers..."Are you okay?" Mom asked. "I have something for you in the bedroom." I couldn't wait to leave the room. To leave the two soul mates who faced each other, but had never really met. Mom handed me an envelope. "It's from me. And your father. You'll need some money to get started." "Thanks," I said. Guilt, heavy guilt, weighed me down and made me feel every inch a failed daughter. "I know you guys are disappointed in me. That I'm leaving." "I left my family younger than you," Mom said. "It was the war, and I survived. You'll be fine." What? Was I getting her blessing? "Always use what's between your ears," she continued. "It's only dirty paper in that envelope. That's what money was during the war. It was dirty paper lying in the streets. Study hard. That's worth something." The envelope suddenly did feel dirty in my hands. I needed to be alone somewhere to think. Mom was giving me advice? It was the toolkit all over again. I was speechless. "I've always wanted to travel, to see some of the world. You and me are alike that way," she said. "We take risks." Now? Now this personal revelation? "And your sister is like your father -- that's how you two turned out," she said. She knew. She knew all along. I suddenly understood that I was her adventurous sentimental favorite despite my shortcomings. I felt sick..."I think I'll take a last walk in the ravine," I said, and I raced out the back door, the screen slamming behind me. I didn't see Mom's garden, the garage, or the raid barrel through my streaming tears, as I ran into the trees.
Who hasn't been there at some point in our lives, young or old, that realization of something seemingly lifeshattering. Perhaps some of us will never get to that moment with out families, to discover where our similarities merged and where they genetically diverted from blood relatives...not the simple stuff like that crooked tooth or that gait or that same pattern on hair on our legs. But to steadfastly march ahead as your own drummer and midway through recognize that haunting thought...you're just like dad (or mom) for better or worse. Imagine the almost-maternal tug that an orphan or foster child or perhaps even an only child must feel in wondering about that knowledge. Some of this is intriguing to me as I started listening to a series of lectures on our aging brains, a series presented by psychology professor Thad A. Polk. In one portion of his lectures he talks about telomeres, an enzyme that protectively sits at the ends of our genetic strings. Each time our cells divide and repair, a portion of that age-preventing enzyme gets cut. After 50 or 70 times, the enyzme is gone and our cells can no longer duplicate...we grow old and wear out. But why is that? (lobsters, hydras, and many forms of cancer have cells which can duplicate indefinitely) This theory of aging seems almost obvious but in actuality wasn't answered until the 1930s when Russian biologist Alexey Olovnikov stood in a rail station and had a revelation...if someone were dangling out of the back of the train and trying to make a copy of the track below, when the train stopped he would missed an entire section, that of the track in front of him. So it must be with our genetic strands, he thought, each duplication somehow coming up short yet remaining intact as if there was some sort of built-in delay or protective coating...telomeres.
Our imaginations and creativity come from seemingly nowhere other than from living life. Inventions are made, insights are gained, dreams are realized. Some of my friends seem to possess a "street smarts" or quick-wittedness that'll I'll never have, making me envy those undercover agents and others who can get themselves out of difficult situations. But that's not me, not in my genetic makeup. Neither it seems is that even rarer gift of discovering what author Risen did, that moment when she she could visualize just where she fit in, as if her family tree had suddenly dimensionalized and was exposing her to far more than a simple chart. My brother points out such things in my family but somehow --like a child standing too close to the screen-- I seem to be able to see only those distant things and not the things close up, things like my family. Should that suddenly happen to me, however --especially now in my later years-- I may just redefine that word. Indeed at that point, it may --for me, at least-- prove to be something Biblical, no questions asked.
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