The Lies They Tell

by Tuvia Tenenbom

  The cloud of loneliness is Sea Island’s best friend. I close my eyes and I hear Randy Newman singing his “It’s Lonely at the Top.”

  You’d think I’d be happy, But I’m not…

  Oh, it’s lonely at the top.

  Gate Twenty-Eight

  The most beautiful women in the world live in Puerto Rico – The Jews are busy counting cash

  I GET BACK TO MY CARAVAN, MR. GRAND CARAVAN, AND DRIVE NONSTOP until I reach Florida, the Sunshine State, and the last state in the Union I will visit before I return to New York.

  There are born-again Christians and there are born-again drivers; I belong to the second group. From having almost no driving experience just a few months ago, I have turned into a driving addict. I love it. Man belongs with machines, let me tell you.

  Another of my discoveries is this: the car is man’s best friend.

  Where shall I go in Florida? I ask Caravan and Caravan says, Let’s just drive. We drive, here and there, there and here, stop there and stop here, until we reach St. Augustine.

  Over half a century ago, amidst mounting civil unrest, the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. was taken to jail here, from where he wrote a letter to a Jewish rabbi, asking him to come down to St. Augustine with as many rabbis as he could bring along to join the protests. They came. Does anybody here still remember this?

  I go for a walk on the streets of St. Augustine, which I think is the oldest continuously occupied city in the United States, and within the first five minutes of my walk I’m stopped by a lady who asks me if I’m a Floridian.

  Of course I am. Always was, always will be. I’m German, I’m Jewish, I’m Jordanian, I’m lesbian, I’m a Saudi. Anything anybody would like me to be.

  The lady is happy to hear that I’m a full-blooded Floridian. She shows me some papers, constitutional amendment petition forms, and says that it would be great if I signed the petitions. If she and her comrades collect enough signatures, she tells me, the amendments will be voted on in next year’s election. Since the number of signatures must be in the high thousands, she and her friends have already started to collect signatures.

  What are the petitions about? One is about solar energy and the other is about legalizing medical marijuana. In short: climate change and weed. She is, I assume, a caring individual who’s committed to higher social and ethical values and driven to ensuring a more positive society.

  I ask her if she lives here, in St. Augustine. This is a touchy subject. She is from Florida just like I am. She is, let’s cut to the chase here, from Michigan.

  Why does she care so much about Florida? Well, she doesn’t. This petition drive, she confesses to me, has nothing to do with values and everything to do with profits. Business entities, whose core values are higher profits, hired her and others to come here and pretend that they are caring Floridians. I am a naïve lesbian Floridian. I never entertained the thought that climate change, at least in part, is a huge financial issue.

  I keep on walking in the historic district. There are lots of crosses around: here’s a statue with a cross, there a monument with a cross, and here a cathedral.

  I try to engage in a conversation with some people next to a statue that looks like Jesus, to see if they remember the rabbis and Martin Luther King, but they only remember women. They are from Puerto Rico, which has “the most beautiful women in the world,” as they promise me.

  I keep on walking, discovering other things. For example: an old fort by the name of Castillo de San Marco. According to the National Park Service, a US government agency (a bureau of the US Department of the Interior), “America Begins Here.”

  Great. But wait, there’s more: “Castillo de San Marco symbolizes the clash between cultures which ultimately resulted in our uniquely unified nation.” I am, I guess, at the biblical sixth day of creation – of America. Entrance fee: ten dollars.

  Bobby from New Jersey, enjoying the sight of the fort, is upset that he has to pay money to see such an important national treasure. “I think that Jews are running this place and that’s why it costs money to enter,” he tells me. At closing time, he muses, the Jews must sit around counting all the tens and the fifties, because that’s what Jews do. “I’ve been dodging Jews all my life,” he says, “because all the Jews want is to take money from people they are in contact with.”

  Bobby is a religious man, a good Christian, and a flaming Democrat to boot. He adores President Barack Obama and he even has a nickname for him: Barry.

  Forget the protesting Jews, and let’s concentrate on the “rich Jews.” About three hundred miles from here is a place called Boca Raton, where some rich Jews live. Let me meet them. Let me see, with my own eyes, the Jews in this country who “give money to politicians,” as the US government official told me in Alaska, the same Jews who control Obama and make his hair gray, as Johnny of Charleston said.

  • • •

  Mr. Caravan must have more testosterone than my dear departed Captiva, because we reach Boca Raton faster than a “wetback” swimmer reaching Mexico. Boca Raton. What kind of a name is this? Peter, a Jew living here, tells me that Boca Raton means Rat’s Mouth. And he also tells me that “Boca Raton is the ‘Promised Land’ of the Jewish people. The Promised Land is not Israel; it’s Boca Raton.”

  Boca Raton is not just one unit. Here you have gated communities, protected around the clock by security personnel. Each community is different. Some have golf courses and tennis courts, others have gorgeous waterfalls on their streets, plus assorted clubs with funny names where “members” go to be spoiled a little more than usual.

  Boca Raton, by the way, is not Sea Island. The rich of Boca Raton make sure that you know how rich they are, and they will do everything possible to ensure their home looks better than yours.

  I get myself into one such gated community, where I go to visit Alvin. Alvin is Jewish, and he has tons of money. He has a beautiful home, one that looks more like a splendid museum than a house, and there he lives with his wife and a Peruvian lady – whom I believe is their maid. I can’t tell because Alvin and his wife are progressive liberals and they will never say “maid.” A Peruvian who cleans your house, please remember, is never a maid but a Friend of the House, Our Dear Friend or even Just Like a Member of the Family. Like the Hilton’s engineers.

  What I want to find out about this rich Jew is how he views his Jewishness and what being Jewish means for him. Here’s what he says: “I care about being Jewish. I’m not happy with the way the Israelis treat the Palestinians.”

  Tell me, Alvin: What else makes you a Jew besides your criticism of Israel?

  “I’m Jewish in my heart.”

  Alvin, who is not a religious person by any means, expands on this statement by saying: “I don’t think the Jews have the message of Jesus Christ. Jews don’t have that message. The Jews are not as focused on helping others as the non-Jews.”

  Caravan, my Dodge Grand Caravan, listens to this outside and I can hear him sing:

  Dodge the father

  Ram the daughter.

  You stay home and stroke it

  I’ll go to her house and ram it.

  I walk out to calm Caravan down, and we drive on. Until I reach Coral Springs, where I meet Miriam Hoffman, a Jewish intellectual, who for twenty-five years had taught Yiddish and various courses on Jewish topics at Columbia University in New York. Miriam, born in 1936, is one of the smartest people I know. I first met her about twenty years ago, but have not seen her in ages. Today we meet again.

  “My impression of the Jews that I’m surrounded by in this area is that they are ignorant and primitive,” she tells me. “I come from New York. I never knew such primitivity and ignorance among the Jews. In New York I never came across ignorant Jews. I came across ignorant professors, Jewish professors…”

  Miriam knows American Jews; she’s one of them. “Many Jews in America are liberal,” she tells me. “They are not sure what ‘liberal’ means, actually. Loving ‘Negroes’ is liberal
. Hating Jews is also liberal. Something is wrong with us.”

  • • •

  Here’s a tidbit from today’s Haaretz:

  The American Anthropological Association overwhelmingly passed a resolution Friday to boycott Israeli academic institutions. The association’s 12,000 members worldwide will now be asked to approve or reject the decision, which delegates at the association’s annual conference in Denver, Colorado passed by a vote of 1,040 to 136.

  It doesn’t matter what the “members worldwide” will decide. What matters here is this: 1,040 to 136 of America’s elite have nothing better to do than mess with the Jews. Americans won’t learn from the Europeans how to cook, but they learn from them how to hate Jews.

  • • •

  Before I leave Florida, I finally find diversity. Location: Ocean Drive, Miami’s South Beach.

  From about Fifth Street to Fourteenth Street there are endless eateries and drink joints all at the ready to serve the world’s tourists, of whatever race or ethnicity, and to lighten their wallets. Cruising lovingly on the street is a stretch limousine tempting the eaters and drinkers with “all nude adult entertainment,” if they so wish, once their bellies are full and while there’s still something left in their wallets.

  Ocean Drive of South Beach is where diversity is most triumphant. Near me is an old white man shouting at a young Russian girl: “You know you want to!” Ahead of me is a black guy who tries to sell me cocaine (and if I don’t want cocaine, he assures me that he can get me weed just as easily). To my left is a Latin girl in a bikini that shows off her breasts and her ass, inviting all who marvel at the size of her treasures to come in and eat while staring at them. A few feet ahead is a stage where a tall white girl in a bikini stands with a mirror to her back so that no Cuban patron loses sight of the full size of her behind.

  Yet, I soon discover, the diversity here is not totally complete. The police, for example, are not represented here at all.

  Why? I don’t know. Joe doesn’t know either, and he’s trying to do something about it. Joe, sitting in a park across the street a couple of blocks down, is a Cuban American, and he is a success story.

  Almost.

  Born in Cuba, Joe studied in college, was a businessman, and for years raised a wonderful family. He even bought his daughter a business in north Miami Beach. Then, Joe got on drugs – marijuana, cocaine, heroin (in that order) – and lost everything. He served years in prisons and now he is homeless, spending his days where I meet him: in a park right off the beach.

  He became homeless in 1985, and since then he hasn’t seen his children and doesn’t know what his grandchildren look like. His daughter hasn’t come even once to say hello. Classified by the local authorities as a “habitual violent offender,” he was arrested numerous times in this park as well. What had he done? “Beat up crack dealers” in the park. In the old days he served time for drug offenses; now he occasionally serves time for beating up pushers.

  It was rainy the last few days, and Joe lays out his clothes on the grass to dry out. People in the area know him and give him food every day. That’s his life. He reminds me of the immortal words of Blanche DuBois in Tennessee Williams’s A Streetcar Named Desire: “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

  Joe tells me that he doesn’t want to live in a house. A house for him is a prison, where he feels confined. The park is good. He points to the beach behind him, which he calls “my backyard,” and he says that he likes it here. He sits on a box and watches the ladies go by. Could life be any better? This is not New York; here you can look at the ladies.

  There is a public toilet a few feet behind him, and that’s where he goes when nature calls. If it rains, he has a place with a roof over it, a place he keeps to himself so nobody steals it from him. He has invited Pinky, a blond homeless lady, to sleep there as well to protect her from the rain. Pinky is newly homeless, doesn’t know the ropes yet, but Joe is sure she will learn soon.

  Life on the street is good, life on the street is free.

  Every morning at six thirty Joe goes to a nearby grocery, where he takes the trash out to the dumpster, and for this service he gets a free breakfast. What else can a man ask for? This is total freedom, and Joe is happy.

  So he says. Joe is a religious man, a Catholic, and he believes in life after death.

  How many more years will you be here? I ask him.

  “I hope,” he says, “I can go to Heaven today.”

  You want to die?

  “Yeah. One of these days.”

  Henry, maybe, will be waiting for him there. When Mr. Caravan hears this, he cries. I wish I could do something to help you, I say to Joe.

  “Don’t worry about it. If I can’t take care of myself, nobody else can,” he says.

  Can I give you something? I think he mumbles a “yes,” but I’m not sure. He looks at me and he is quiet, like a fish. I give him a twenty-dollar bill, just so that he has something on this earth. His eyes shine; he didn’t expect it, and he’s thoroughly thankful.

  “I can eat for three days with this! Thank you very much. God bless you, man.”

  What a kind man this Joe is.

  I get into Caravan and we drive. Direction: Miami International Airport. Once we arrive I leave Caravan at the rental place, to take care of Miami’s Cubans. But as I walk away, Caravan looks at me one more time and says: Dude, who are you for real? German, Jew, Saudi?

  Thanks for reminding me, Caravan! Let me check if the DNA results are in. Oh, yes, they have arrived. On my iPhone!

  Here’s what the report says, Caravan. Listen: 94 percent Jewish Diaspora, 6 percent Eastern European. Not even 1 percent Saudi! Can you believe it?

  I thought so, says Caravan. You didn’t strike me as a Saudi. Caravan knows. He has driven around a lot of people during his lifetime.

  Caravan will miss me, I know. We are buddies. I fly back to New York. No Captiva, no Caravan, no Versa, no Fiesta, no Malibu, no Cruze. Back to the subway, with the rest of the 5,597,550 riders.

  Gate Twenty-Nine

  One thousand people come to say “I hate you”

  TOWARD THE END OF MY JOURNEY, MANY THINGS ARE HAPPENING IN the States and worldwide. Take, for example, the climate change summit in Paris. As reported in the Washington Post: “Negotiators from 196 countries approved a landmark climate accord on Saturday that seeks to dramatically reduce emissions of the greenhouse gases blamed for a dangerous warming of the planet.” Carter Stewart of Montana probably wants to kill them.

  According to Newsweek, “More than half, or 58 percent, of Republicans surveyed said they approved of US efforts to work with other nations to limit global warming.” If I phrased my questions like this, I’d most likely get the same percentage. You can try this out: ask Americans if they would approve US efforts to work with other nations to limit global sand dunes, and you’ll get 59.7 percent of Americans approving this measure.

  Time magazine chooses Angela Merkel, chancellor of Germany, as its Person of the Year. Time’s people love Merkel for opening Germany’s gates to about one million refugees. Isn’t this impressive? I ask an American investment banker.

  “Time magazine loves the Germans; they also picked Hitler as their Man of the Year,” he replies.

  In other news: A Muslim couple, followers of the teachings of the Islamic State (ISIS), storm a holiday party in San Bernardino, California, and randomly shoot its participants. Fourteen die, twenty-two are injured.

  The Donald, what a surprise, suggests that the United States bar all Muslims from entering its soil. At the same time, the Donald suggests that half of Jerusalem be given to the Palestinians and hints that all Jews are businesspeople.

  As for me, now that I’m in New York, I am invited to countless parties and events, but say no to all – except one. US ambassador to the United Nations Samantha Power is to speak at the Roosevelt Hotel as part of a conference organized by the Israeli newspaper Haaretz and an American Jewish organization, New Israel
Fund (NIF), both avowed progressive liberal institutions.

  I enjoyed listening to Samantha months ago in New York, at Abe Foxman’s tribute at the Waldorf-Astoria, and I’d like to hear her again. I go to the conference. I’m not alone. About one thousand people, almost all of them liberal American Jews, are in attendance.

  I’m a little early for Samantha’s speech and so I stand outside and smoke. Near me is a top NIF official and we talk a bit. She tells me that about 70 percent of American Jews hold the same views as NIF, and she also tells me that there are fifty speakers at this conference, forty-nine of whom are liberals and one of whom is conservative.

  What happened to the liberals? They are progressing, it seems, to the Stone Age. Be that as it may, it does arouse my attention and I go up to hear some of the forty-niners.

  What a show! Here I hear a lady, by the name of Suhad Babaa, who talks of “Palestinian boys killed in broad daylight by Israeli soldiers” as an example of the brutal and lawless Jews. The audience, liberal American Jews, applaud. Don’t ask me to explain.

  Amira Hass, a Haaretz columnist, tells these American Jews: “Anybody who intends to emigrate to Israel is about to commit a crime.” The Jewish state, if you didn’t know, is a criminal state.

  The Jews applaud.

  Bridget Todd, a black lady who is associated with Black Lives Matter, shares the stage with Amira. What is she doing here? I can’t tell, but it’s definitely an effective visual tool to illustrate to Americans what the Jews are doing worldwide: murdering non-whites.

  What else do I see here? Roger Waters is sitting in the front row of the main hall, being glorified by a Haaretz fellow who tells him how pleased he is to see such an important man at this conference. Roger, cofounder of the old favorite English rock band Pink Floyd, is still in the music business. But besides music, he has some other things on his mind, such as comparing Israel to Nazi Germany and engaging in endless activism against Israel.