Boardwalking — by Elazar Aslan

By Elazar Aslan

It was a summer day, though it was late September. A perfect evening for a stroll on the boardwalk. I wasn’t alone in my opinion as the boardwalk in Ocean Grove, NJ had a lot more people doing the stroll than is usually the case in late September. I guess it’s that knowledge that this particular weather is a gift and its impermanence is quite obvious. We all seem to make more of an effort to appreciate things when we know they are approaching an end. So it was with an evening stroll in summer’s last reprieve for the year. Not that the weather was that great—haze and even patches of fog occasionally blanketed the sun.

I remember the fog because it seemed to be a manifestation of my thoughts: Old and rarely visited memories that seemed a bit hazy now. I was recounting a particular day when I was about six years old living in Iran. Though Persian-Iraqi Jews, we still managed to belong to the American country club, a haven solely for the military and ex-pats and a weekly testament to my father’s business connections. It was also heaven for children, offering great swimming pools, free movies, bingo and so many ongoing activities that were foreign in Iran, much less to a six-year-old kid.

On this particular day, my father signed me up for a group swimming class. He revealed that fact when he delivered me to the lovely young lady who was going to be our instructor. I was very angry with him because he knew I had a great fear of water and he just abandoned me there with no support or encouragement. My anger didn’t last long because it was trumped by a greater feeling—shame. Even at a young age I already knew that a “man” does not disappoint a lovely blonde woman from America. He doesn’t show fear, he doesn’t pause and he certainly doesn’t cry. I decided right there that I was going to be a model student and impress the beautiful teacher. I didn’t lose my resolve, though it was very difficult, when she mentioned early on that we would end the class with a jump into the deep end from the diving board. Not to worry, she assured us, she would be in the water ready to catch us. I looked at the diving board - it was as high as I was tall; it was daunting but not as powerful as my shame of being a coward in front of the beautiful blonde American.

The hour soon came to a close and I had participated in all the arm and leg exercises she designed for us. I was scared but still courageous as we walked towards the diving board. I was literally assessing my fear of water with my fear of embarrassment as we marched single-file to the diving board. I was not going to be embarrassed, fear of water be damned. It was at that moment that she instructed us from the water, “no not that diving board, the big one” Oh my God, she can’t be serious. Only adults jump from the big diving board. Only big adults. Only big adults that know how to swim. I was in shock and I was in the middle of the line. I followed the kid in front of me and was ‘guided’ by the kid behind me. We started to ascend the towering diving board. This one had steps, many steps. I felt like a sheep going to slaughter. With each step I wavered between the numbness of shock and the paralysis of panic. Every other child seemed to just go up, walk the plank and jump. I guess I was the only one with a great fear of water. I guess I was the only child who was going to be embarrassed and show his cowardice - in front of everyone else, especially the beautiful blonde American woman. I was next. My turn to walk the plank alone. I couldn’t do it. I was frozen. The kid behind me, lacking any empathy or patience yelled, “come on let’s go, what are you chicken?” I walked the plank to the edge. I froze again. This time it was the beautiful blonde American woman yelling up at me to go ahead and jump. It felt like hours of pure suffering on the edge—a six-year-old with great fear of water waiting to jump twenty feet into deep waters on the hope that some woman would save him. By some miracle, or perhaps sheer fatigue, I did jump. I broke the water in the deep end and she just went down and scooped me up and delivered me safely to the side of the pool.

I jumped and I didn’t die. I was so elated I couldn’t believe it. I did it! I ran looking for my parents. There they were by the side of the pool talking. My father had his back to the diving board in a heated discussion with my mother. I didn’t care.

“Did you see me? Did you see what I did?”

“We’re talking,” he said.

It didn’t matter to me. I just did the impossible and I wanted them to know, I wanted them to tell me if they saw the miracle.

“Daddy, did you see what I just did?” I repeated. “I just dove off the big diving board.“

My father could not deny my excitement. He turned and looked at the big diving board. As he was looking, I repeated again,

“I just jumped off the big diving board. I was amazing.”

He turned back and looked at me and said, “No you didn’t.”

I was undaunted; “yes I did, yes I did,” I kept telling him.

He didn’t budge. “ You are too scared of the water when it is 2 feet deep, you certainly aren’t going to jump into deep water and certainly not from up there.”

“But I did. I did.” my excitement diminished, but not my belief in the truth.

“Elie,” he said in an anger that trumped my truth, “stop lying and leave us alone.”

Perhaps it was the pain of the memory or the fading clarity, but I suddenly became more aware of my present conditions on the boardwalk. I had walked quite a bit and the weather had become a distinct duality rather than a soft mix of conditions. Over the ocean a discrete and beautiful dusk was descending, accented by a half-moon, while on the shore, clouds and mist were drizzling on the passersby. The contrast really startled me. There was an actual demarcation—clear skies over the water, foggy drizzle on land. The strength of the delineation was too unusual; perhaps I wasn’t seeing right. I stopped and asked a middle-aged couple that was walking by, “ Is this a mirage or is it raining here and absolutely clear over there—as far down as the eyes can see?” They stopped and took the time to really check things out.

“Oh you’re absolutely right, it’s crazy weather, you can’t tell if it is clear or raining.”

Pleased by the affirmation that the world was crazy and not me, I went back to my memory.

In the distance created by time, I started to question myself. I was and still am afraid of water. That diving board was very high. Maybe I didn’t jump; I just can’t imagine how I could have taken that plunge. Maybe my father was right. But I did jump. I remember the frozen stepping, the pushy kid behind me, my fear and shame in balance when I was at the edge. No, I did jump. But my father did repeatedly tell me I was a coward and this would have been an outrageous act of courage for that little kid. Well maybe I wasn’t really a coward. There are many examples of courage and valiant effort in the face of overwhelming odds. I remember those; they can’t all be imaginings. My father did mention other times that he thought I was cowardly. So which is it? As a child, was I brave or was I a coward like my father suggested many times? What am I today? Am I a coward hiding in a man’s clothing or am I truly a “man?”

The oscillation of the debate drove me back to the present moment. Once again I marveled at the highly unusual weather conditions. I couldn’t really figure out what was going on. This time two young women were walking by, and I tried to stop them so I could get some needed grounding. “Do you see the drizzle here?” I asked and quickly followed up with, “and is it completely clear over there?” They answered as they kept walking, “yes.” “Well, which is it? Is it clear or is it raining out?” They kept walking. I was obsessed with this black and white weather and needed some support. “No seriously, is it raining or is it clear?” I said more loudly so they could hear me, though they were ten feet ahead. “Really, I want to know - is it raining or is it clear?”

Then one of them paused, turned her face back towards me and said simply,

“It’s your choice.”

* * *

It really is that simple isn’t it? We are always looking for that absolute state of things. The black or white, the right or wrong, the guilty or innocent verdict. We forget that what we see is just a matter of choice. We choose the perspective and from that angle we deeply believe what we see; choose another perspective and we’ll see another “truth.” Once we look through our lens of false beliefs and conditioned conditioning we will believe what we see—there is no choice in that. Most of us do use glasses colored by our mind states to see, so there’s little choice there. No, the real choice is simply which glasses you choose to put on before you start your seeing.