On January 13, 2018, an employee of the Hawaiian Emergency Management Agency issued a ballistic missile alert. Thirty eight minutes later, a second message was sent, describing it as a “false alarm.”
Here’s a modern day math problem:
After launch, a missile travels 4600 miles.
At an average speed of 306.67 miles per hour,
calculate the duration
of the end of known life
on a Pacific Rim Island.
OK. this is not Algebra class.
So I’ll give the answer:
15 minutes.
Less than half the time of
the 38-minute false missile launch debacle.
Either way,
not much time to get a life in order
gather supplies
say goodbye.
Out from the mists of long ago, I heard the question:
What would you do?
My worst Titanic nightmares
were not of the images of freezing to death on an ice float
nor of running out of energy to swim
nor of being separated from loved ones
but the images of
understated dignified death preparation
a husband and wife tucked into their twin beds
a father, mother and two small children cozied up with a book and a blanket
waiting to slip gently into eternal slumber.
This is my terror:
that the calm, serene, existential acceptance of Death
would evaporate as the water began pooling
that the wet cold would be impossible to ignore
as I attempted to sing a soothing lullaby
that I would not sleep through
the sounds of screaming and wailing from other passengers
that I’d give up the peaceful façade
lose all my energy trying to keep my head above water
trying to keep my kids’ heads above water –
I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t smother them first
but you never know, do you? –
I’d want to scream and cry out
and I wouldn’t know, since I wouldn’t have done any advance reading,
that drowning is a silent, quiet kind of torment
I’d hold my breath, only to realize I’d involuntarily
open my mouth in a last frantic attempt to get air
then be forever silenced
by water reaching my larynx.
Yes, in my nightmare
I will have misjudged my ability to
die bravely
in Zen-like acceptance
of the threat I cannot out-win.
I’d go to my death knowing I was wrong
panicked and exhausted and guilt-ridden
and feeling fucking stupid.
I grew up in the suburban 70’s
Jewish and proud of it
assimilated and Bat Mitzvahed
delighted to miss school on the High Holidays
smugly telling friends about 8 nights of presents
leaving a trail of matzoh crumbs on the long cafeteria tables
burdened only by twice-a-week Hebrew school
and its annual assault of
black and white images
train cars
death camps
emaciated skeletons shuffling into cement showers
epidermis hanging loosely over protruding bones
eyes dull and beseeching
incongruously normal in size.
I was told these stick figures were real people,
MY people,
but that was impossible.
My people were fleshy and alive
bossy and warm.
I was told that some fought
some resisted
others said prayers
recited Kaddish
others merely moved forward
following the person in front of them
meek and docile
into the showers
knowing they’d not walk out.
We played What would you do?
We boasted, preened our superiority
avowing bravery and selflessness.
We would be the Resistance Fighters.
We would be the ones to
kill a guard before being shot
stage an escape
save everyone on the train car
organize a resistance movement
give our food to the children.
None boasted we’d
whimper or weep
beg to be spared
fall to our knees and have to be dragged by our hair
cling cowardly to the caricature of life
and its absurd still-breathing form.
If I were on the Titanic,
in Theresienstadt or Treblinka,
on Flight 93,
on the north shore of Oahu,
knowing with certainty that this was the end
I have no way of knowing who I’d turn out to be.
Math Problem:
If the true self travels at the speed of shame
and the coordinates for aspirational self cannot be located in a two- three- or four-dimensional space,
what is the real-life distance between
who we are
and who we wish to be?