Oneiron

  This fresh-smelling, carless strip of land is something Shlomith wants to experience with every fiber of her being. She slows her pace, despite the endorphin joy urging her on. She breathes deep and fills with air. But she can already see the end of the promenade. She will have to turn right, back into the world of automobiles, smoke, and pollution.

  Prohibitions and commandments are all too familiar to Shlomith. When she leaves the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, a grass-green sign decorated with maple leaves tells her all the things she shouldn’t have done during her honeycomb dash. NO RIDING BICYCLES, ROLLER SKATES, SCOOTERS, SKATEBOARDS. But can you fly here . . . ? NO BALLPLAYING OR FRISBEE. If she floats above the surface of the earth, she could hardly be a danger to anyone . . . NO ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES. What about punch-drunk love? Or deteriorating madness? NO LITTERING. Future trash, paper tissues intended for wiping snot and sweat, are also stuffed in the same zippered back pocket as Shlomith’s money. The pocket bulges with a crumpled tissue that has been used once but is still good and now lies under the roll of bills. If you look closely, buttock-free Shlomith has a pitch-black bunny tail on her rear end because of the wad of paper. NO DOGS OFF LEASH. Shlomith lopes away, forward, every surge consuming calories. With each bound she diminishes, becoming lighter than air.

  Shlomith charges down Columbia Heights, where the WATCHTOWER waits below, a strange, colossal beige building complex, the headquarters of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, which resembles a two-star hotel in Mallorca. The building complex extends on both sides of the street, and those two blocks are connected by a tiny skyway with ten windows, which you have to go under if you want to continue down the street.

  But what joy! Beyond the skyway Shlomith can already see a glimpse of her next destination, the handsome neogothic Brooklyn Bridge. From this vantage point, the structures of the suspension bridge appear as if they form a part of the hodgepodge architecture of the Jehovah’s Witnesses’ headquarters, like some sort of cobweb rigged up for decorative purposes. The bridge itself is handsome. It’s like an outdoor church erected to holy optimism, and no one who ascends the bridge can help but have her pessimistic thoughts dispelled. (Determined suicides are an exception.) Odes have been written to the bridge, and many have jumped from its sides with boyish athletic intentions, as well as darker motives. The case of the cartoonist Otto Eppers is one of the most well known. In 1910 seventeen-year-old Otto climbed the bridge and jumped off, surviving the splash without a bruise, unlike many less fortunate aspirants. The tugboat Florence plucked Otto out of the water according to plan and took him to shore, where the police awaited the daredevil. Charges were filed against Otto for attempted suicide. Although the charges were later dropped, this chain of events, or, more precisely, its final act, raises bewildering theoretical questions. First of all: what individual fact makes an act suicidal, and can any outsider, and on what basis, define that? Because Otto was just insanely brave. Secondly: how can you punish anyone for attempted suicide? (By hanging, as was the case in nineteenth-century England. The body was also posthumously desecrated, a practice the church didn’t discontinue until 1823. In France suicide was lèse-majesté prior to the Revolution. In ancient Greece, one had to request permission for suicide from a court. We also know of a case in which doctors stitched together a prisoner who had slit his own throat so that he could be hanged properly.) Isn’t surviving suicide—if a person, unlike Otto, really wants to die—a punishment in itself? Shouldn’t a suicide candidate receive something more like, say, a hug after a failed attempt?

  In any case, with its 5,989 feet of length, the Brooklyn Bridge remained the longest suspension bridge in the world for twenty years (until 1903, when the Williamsburg Bridge was built over the same East River). In consolation for the bridge, let it be said that it is and will remain, now and always, the world’s first suspension bridge built with metal cables (firsts, unlike lengths, are not threatened in the record books by anything other than lies).

  When Shlomith has jogged under the skyway connecting the Jehovah’s Witnesses’ headquarters complexes (now she has a stitch in her side), she reaches tiny Everit Street and then Old Fulton Street, along which we find the first signposts for the most difficult portion of the route: how to access the footbridge. Look sharp now, copycats and wanna-be Shlomiths! Even the best map from Barnes & Noble won’t reveal the route, since the network of roads here is anything but laid out nicely in a grid. And to top it all off, the thick orange worm named the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway (which leads the cursed lines of cars onto the bridge) obscures the cartographic information that a walker, runner, or cyclist needs most at this point. A green sign leads cyclists forward with a helpful arrow and those who need the stairs to the left, as well as those whose destination is the Manhattan Bridge (but best to keep quiet about that or else this guided tour will end up with altogether too many bridges).

  So we turn in the direction of the arrow onto Front Street. Walk forward, past Dock Street, but don’t go overboard and end up on Pearl Street, because then you’re under the bridge and probably lost, even though it is a majestic sort of place in its own seedy way and even though you’ll find a helpful sign there too, BROOKLYN BRIDGE (STAIRS), although its arrow points at a corrugated steel wall. Choose the cross street labeled York Street and start going that way. On the left you’ll see a red-brick industrial building, with white lettering in vintage script stretching across the entire wall between the third and fourth floors reading THOMSON METER CO. WATER METERS. There isn’t anything else to see on that bit of road. (If you must know, in 1887 the Scottish-born inventor and manufacturer John Thomson patented a water meter for controlling and billing water usage. Naturally he began mass-producing the device for sale; a round meter that works on the same principle is found in nearly every building nowadays.) Now you’ve reached Washington Street and you’re almost at your destination. Walk for a moment watching the left side of the street. There it finally is: the bridge and the road that dives under it, or in other words the place where walkers enter the bridge.

  In that shaded place under the bridge is a small sales cart and on the cart a yellow and blue Heja Sverige! sunshade to attract attention: 2 HOT DOGS + COLD WATER OR COLD SODA CAN—$4. Apparently people coming from the bridge or going to the bridge are hungry, or at least enough are that it’s worthwhile to stand in that exhaust-fume-choked rathole and sell bottled and canned drinks and snacks packed in cardboard and wrapped in paper. (Shlomith never buys anything from this establishment, but nothing would stop you from buying two discount hot-dogs and a refreshing beverage you may need as the heat of the day continues to rise, and God help us, it is hot up on the bridge . . .) In front of the hot-dog stand is a sign defaced with stickers and tags that says BROOKLYN BRIDGE (STAIRS). For once the arrow points in precisely the right direction: finally, after all this time, we see the stairs we need.

  For a first-timer, finding these stairs must be similar to the joy experienced by the archaeologist Carlo Fea, when he began to unearth the triumphal arch of Septimius Severus, which had been buried in sludge in the northeast corner of the Forum Romanum at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. But one must not linger distracted by daydreams, since Shlomith has already moved on. She runs along the handsome bridge toward Manhattan, and we let her run. She knows full well where to turn after reaching the island, where to find a pleasant route (although after the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, “pleasant” is a very relative concept) to her final destination, the Lower East Side, the intersection of East Houston and Ludlow. She walks into Katz’s Deli, which has been immortalized in film and advertises its excellence with its red brick walls and signage in various fonts: thick, red neon letters, a lettered tower protruding into the sky like an antenna, and more restrained posters and placards. Katz’s—that’s all! Known as the Best—since 1888!

  Shlomith sits in her usual spot, next to the wall under Liza Minnelli’s photograph, and places her usual order. She is unquestionably now Shkhina, not just Shlomith, because of course
the staff and regulars at the restaurant know her. She’s a sightseeing attraction herself! People come just to look at her. The glances are furtive and polite as always in the big city. Sometimes someone (usually a visiting foreigner, a gallery buff who’s up to date with the trends of the art world) comes over to exchange a few words with Shlomith. “How goes the hunger?” the buff might ask in the hushed tones of an initiate.

  Slowly, feigning enjoyment, Shlomith-Shkhina consumes her half pastrami sandwich. Between the two slices of bread is an obscenely thick layer of thinly sliced turkey which has been salted, partially dried, rubbed with herbs, and finally smoked and steamed; the recipe originated in a time before the refrigerator. Romanian Jewish immigrants brought the delicacy to the United States in the mid-nineteenth century, and it is even enjoyed by those who don’t care much about Him Who Is, Him for whose glory the Orthodox must eat food with recipes originating during the age before refrigeration. The manager, Dan, always brings Shlomith-Shkhina the other half of the sandwich in a paper bag with the bill. “Shlomith, please take this to eat later tonight. Our treat.” Shlomith takes the paper bag and leaves a princely tip, which is all part of the routine.

  Shlomith-Shkhina steps out of Katz’s Deli onto East Houston Street with tired but happy legs. She totters a few blocks to the west, toward Sarah D. Roosevelt Park, and descends into the underworld, down to the F train, which returns her to Park Slope, to Seventh Avenue right near her home.

  The daily hunger and euphoria, the pain and the torpor, the hollow, mental anguish and the tight-rope walker’s ingenuousness, the supernatural effort and the irrational self-denial, the numberless sleepless nights, the endless search for knowledge, the follow-up calls, the full notebooks, which could have sealed a whole apartment building of drafty windows—all this becomes her prayer, the fruit of her lips, tfila. Shlomith-Shkhina’s final performance, which dozens of performance researchers from around the world have come to observe. The auditorium of the Jewish Museum is full to overflowing. Officially it seats 230, but now a quarter more than that are here. Some sit on the floor.

  On the sixteenth of August, the red stage curtains rise. A stir runs through the crowd. There stands Shlomith-Shkhina, finally, a microphone in her hand, in her underwear, surrounded by ugly heaters blasting warm air. She is like something exhumed from the grave. She’s so thin she can’t be alive. So angular and pale, as if dented all over. But there she stands, obviously alive, ever so slightly moving. Shlomith-Shkhina raises the microphone to her lips and makes a sound: “Ladies and gentlemen!” The sound comes from somewhere deep. Robust and hollow, it carries through the hall. From such an insubstantial body one would expect little more than weak squeaks punctuated by panting, but now, Shlomith-Shkhina’s voice is as strong as steel. And so Shlomith-Shkhina begins to speak for the last time on earth.

  JUDAISM AND ANOREXIA

  LECTURE PERFORMANCE

  JEWISH MUSEUM

  16.08.2007

  * * *

  Ladies and gentlemen! I’d like to welcome you all to this lecture, which I’ve entitled “Judaism and Anorexia”. As you can see, this is a topic that touches me at a very personal level. I stand before you, surrounded by these glowing heaters, nearly naked. I’m freezing. The downy blanket of hair on my skin, my lanugo, is fluffed up like a baby chick; due to the lighting behind me, you see it as a gleaming aura. Me you see as a silhouette, not as a person, even less so as a woman. Instead of a person, you see a symbol, instead of a woman a metaphor—you see a sign.

  I know I’m far too thin. I know I’m disfigured and ugly. One would even be justified in saying that I’m dying right before your eyes. Am I playing with fire? Most certainly. Am I a narcissist? Perhaps to some degree. Insane? I don’t believe so. Am I incompetent? No. Am I glorifying the sickness called anorexia in the name of art? Absolutely not! Am I encouraging Jewish girls and women to follow my example? No, no, no!

  You may ask in confusion, “Why have you done this to yourself, Shlomith-Shkhina?” Over the next forty-five minutes, I’ll attempt to provide answers to that question.

  *

  As you know, I’m a Jew. That sentence contains the first question: what does it mean “to be a Jew”? Is this a matter of religion or ethnicity? Both options are possible to argue. First of all, “Jewish atheist” is not a paradoxical concept. Personally I’ve never been able to believe in God, but I still feel Jewish in my blood and soul. Secondly, however difficult, it is possible to convert to Judaism. All you have to do is make a serious study of the fundamentals of the religion. However, joining the ethnic group is not a matter of choice. You’re born into it and you remain in it.

  I approach Judaism in a broad, cultural sense. I would argue that even the most worldly Jew carries, perhaps unconsciously, principles of purity and immiscibility that are an organic part of our cultural heritage. In Judaism these ideals are approached in particular through food, which makes Jewish culture especially susceptible to pathologies related to eating.

  During the course of this lecture I will also investigate Jewishness through individual doctrines. These reveal the mind of Judaism, that certain something that makes Judaism unique compared to other world views and religions.

  *

  My childhood home was not particularly religious, although certain clichés of Jewish culture were visible in our day-to-day life. Dominant in my family were an ethos of success and a culture of glorifying wealth, which suffuse the entire American intellectual landscape. My father worked long hours in the book-printing industry. My mother was an overprotective, food-plying, loud-mouthed guardian spirit of the home who was one hundred percent focused on the family’s welfare. Rather dominating, sometimes smothering, according to my brother maybe even emasculating. So the prototypical Jewish mother.

  For myself, I felt that my mother’s solicitude wasn’t entirely honest. There was always a touch of martyrdom, a sacrificial mentality that a child senses clearly even without understanding it. The hand ladling out the food is simultaneously unsympathetic. A finger is outstretched in accusation: Eat, little one, eat, devour the last remnants of your mother’s strength!

  My father was completely ignorant of the power games my mother played. Maybe he was pretending; maybe subconsciously he benefited from the situation. In the evenings, after returning from work, he walked straight to the table and tucked into whatever meal was served. Me he considered ungrateful and headstrong because early on I began reacting to the tensions in the home by refusing meals.

  *

  I’ve been a prisoner of anorexia since I was a teenager. I don’t blame my mother for my disease—that would be so 1970s!—and I also don’t blame my father. My siblings are healthy even though they grew up in the same environment I did and were exposed to the same contradictory signals as me.

  Rather, I’m convinced that I have a genetic predisposition to the seductions of the siren song of not eating. If this predisposition didn’t exist, I would have channeled my negative feelings into something else. I could have danced myself to freedom like my brother did. He became a successful choreographer.

  I recovered from my disease briefly when I fell in love. Once again a very typical story. I got married, we moved to Israel to a kibbutz named Methuselah, and we had two children. That lasted the biblical seven years. Then everything fell apart. I returned to New York alone, and hunger furtively began to call to me.

  I’ve done OK with my anorexia. Deep inside I knew as soon as I returned from Israel that one day I would have a true reckoning with this demon. I would have to descend into the depths of my disease and grub up its putrid roots; and my contention is that the principle branches are found in Judaism.

  That day is now.

  In order to heal, for a moment I give my body completely to the beloved beast, to the torturously pleasurable compulsion not to eat. I will look straight into its luminous, ice cold eyes and then: Goodbye.

  Now is the moment I strike it down, here, as I speak to you.

&
nbsp; One more thing before I move on to the actual topic. Don’t be concerned about my health. In just over an hour, I’ll be admitted to a private hospital. An ambulance is waiting for me outside. When I return from treatment, I’ll be a new person, no longer Shlomith-Shkhina. I’ll be as I was born. After tonight, please greet me as Sheila Ruth Berkowitz.

  *

  I begin with the indisputable fact that Jewish women suffer from anorexia and other eating disorders on average more than the general population. Although only two percent of the United States population is Jewish,1 as many as thirteen percent of eating disorder clinic patients are Jews.2

  Strictly observant Jews have been particularly affected since at least the 1970s.3 In recent years, anorexia among teenage girls in the Orthodox community has absolutely exploded. One study of a Brooklyn Orthodox Jewish high school discovered that one in nineteen Jewish girls suffered from some kind of eating disorder. This figure is fifty percent higher than among other American girls of the same age.4

  A similar study is underway in the Toronto Jewish community. According to initial results, twenty-five percent of the high-school-age girls in the community have suffered from an eating disorder, while the corresponding percentage in the general population is eighteen percent.

  In Israel, more than one in four women diets. That’s the highest figure in the world. Israeli Jewish women, regardless of their degree of religiosity, are significantly less satisfied with their bodies than Arab women.5