Jonathan W. Senchyne
 
 
 
 

Generations

 
 
 
 

I. It's funny that I had to leave Buffalo to find work. My grandfather lost a finger working for the money to get there. He left the Ukraine in the twenties in search of better work, better work than the logging that took his finger. He found it in the steel plant that provided enough for a home, a little bit of grass, and after awhile, a car. It seems strange that I should have had to leave too, before I lost anything of myself. Maybe that is why my father is so leery of visiting me now that I live in Brooklyn. Maybe he finds it blasphemous for me to have walked out on the place where his father settled us down in hopes of prosperity. I try to tell him that I am carrying on Grandpa’s spirit, moving to where the work is. But New York just isn’t the same. There’s no steel plant here dominating miles of the horizon, there’s nothing here but restaurants Dad says. People serving other people, no one makes anything anymore. He’s never been here before, but has heard enough stories to be able to tell you why he shouldn’t bother. Buffalo is dangerous enough he says. I finally convince him to visit me in New York. II. He smiles when he gets off the plane and I feel relieved. No matter how long you are on your own, parents are always surprised to find out that you are doing okay. Perhaps they have an inferiority complex and can’t believe they raised competent children. Dad seems amazed that I can navigate the mess that is the five burroughs and have managed to pick him up on time. In the shuttle van from JFK to my apartment in Brooklyn, Dad strikes up conversation with the driver. They both sit in the front seat as I watch and listen from the back. “Whats your name?” “Illia.” “Were you born here Ellia?” “Ahh. No. I come here from Russia eight years ago.” All of my relatives are from the eastern bloc. Dad’s side are Uke’s and Ma’s are Russian Jews. We have more in common with Illia than we first thought.   “Is the traffic always like this?” “Ahh maybe maybe yes. Some days good, some days very bad.” Dad, who thinks Buffalo’s segment of the New York State Thruway has traffic problems because it slows down to 35 mph at rush hour in some spots, is thoroughly amazed by the traffic in New York. From the Brooklyn Queens Expressway I spot the Empire State Building and tell Dad to look at it. “Hmm. Yeah it looks just like the pictures.” “Ahh, yes Manahaatan very good. Very very good,” adds Illia. Dad has trouble understanding what people with heavy accents are saying. But he continues conversation anyway. Probably a question that all the out of towners will ask for years… “So, what were you doing when the towers came down?” “Ahh, I work a lot Monday night, double she-ift. I go home to rest. My wife goes to work. I say to her I will soon go out on another she-ift. Then my son call on the telephone from co-ledge and say, ‘Papa! You no go to job today!’ I say, ‘Oh no? Why not?’ He says, ‘Turn on TV.’ When I start watching only one tower has been hit you know? Then another plane comes in like this.” Illia takes his hands off the steering wheel to replicate the horrific sight using his hands as puppets. Dad jumps as the minivan swerves into another lane. Illia regains control of the vehicle. “One plane, maybe accident. You know? But two? No. Two very bad. Very bad.” Dad and Illia, two guys from Russia who put sons through college chatting about life and trying to get me wherever it is I need to go. I am grateful for generations. III. Dad’s perceptions of The City are smashed as he looks around at the brownstones with their wrought iron gates in my neighborhood. I ask him what's up as he stares out the more than ample window of my 4th floor apartment.  “I’m just looking at the architecture. They used to take pride in their work.” I see him staring at the gates. He must be thinking about the steel.  “Yeah, what they could do with their hands,” he lets out in a long sigh.  We walk to my favorite place in all of New York City, the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. From here we can see Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge behind it, not to mention all of Manhattan. “Look at that,” Dad says. “All that rock, placed there so carefully.” He points to the Brooklyn Bridge. “You know,” he says to me turning and pointing to the bridges again, “those rocks will be there generations after that other bridge rusts away.” I wonder if any of Grandpa’s steel is in New York anywhere. It must be, and I think, well here we all are, reunited at last. We sit on a park bench and watch the brave pigeons approaching and retreating, thinking about time.

  (c) Jonathan W. Senchyne 2003