How accessing my emunah helped me hang up my cane
F
rom early on, I was that wandering Jew. It wasn’t the world I was traversing that young; it was basically Brooklyn. Kings Highway, Ditmas Avenue, Avenue U, Coney Island Avenue.
My parents split up when I was about five, and my mom moved us from one apartment to another. We’d unpack our possessions only to repack them up, half a year later. The motif of my childhood? Cardboard boxes.
It was upending; we didn’t feel a sense of stability or belonging. But my mom was focused on survival, not on feelings. She worked long hours to put bread on the table for my older sister and me. By the end of each day, she was a spent version of herself.
I wanted her attention more than anything in the world, not just cornflakes to eat and uniforms to wear. I wanted her to see the little person I was. When I’d shout — or better yet, have a temper tantrum — she had to take notice. A cold or a flu could get me attention from her, too. It’s not that I outright feigned sickness, but that these little ailments would crop up on their own in a subconscious process where my body was listening to my heart.
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