Tales of the Invisible Ben

What Little I Know

Happy Passover, readers! This weekend, my extended family gathered for its annual family reunion/seder here in the city. It's a decades-old tradition, and for most of that time, I considered myself a member of the youngest of the three generations who attended. The same generations were present this time around. On the far end of the table sat my grandfather and his two sisters, both in wheelchairs. Scattered around the table was my father, his cousins, and their associated spouses. And then there were the grandchildren, including yours truly, by now a far cry from the four year old who wriggled his way uncomfortably through the four questions.

But now for the first time, there was a fourth group noticeably present: the great-grandchildren. Yes, several of my second cousins have had children, and although these new additions to the family have been present for the past several years, they were not particularly active participants. But this year, they were up and about, turning cartwheels and being adorable. They were justifiably the center of attention, even distracting us from the terrible quality of the overcooked bricks of meat served up under the name of "brisket."

As I looked on from the sidelines, one of my father's cousins observed that I was like that once. He was right, of course, and I responded that we all were once. But as I watched from the sidelines last night, I felt the passage of time more sharply than before. Somehow, when I wasn't looking, the boundaries between generations shifted and we grew up. My sister is a month and a half away from graduating medical school and moving out to the midwest to start a residency. I'm in the midst of writing a dissertation. Even the youngest members of my age cohort is now an undergraduate. When did this happen? I don't remember...

Passover is supposed to be about answering questions. Why is this night different from all other nights? Why do we eat matzah instead of leavened bread? Why do we eat while reclining? Yet as I sat around the table, I found that I had more questions than answers. My cousins asked about my research. After giving my standard response, they followed up with questions about the originality of my claims and the overall arc of my argument. Though I'm relatively certain that the history I am writing is unique, at this point, I have not gone beyond formulating arguments for the individual chapters, and therefore found myself stammering, grasping at straws to figure out the broader significance of an as yet unfinished thesis. This is the subject that has consumed my life for the better part of two years and still my ignorance outweighs my knowledge. And that in turn raises new concerns. Do I know what I'm doing or am I just faking it? Could I work even harder? What mistakes have I made and which are still capable of being fixed? In each case, the answer eludes me.

The irony, of course, is that when I was younger, I had a knack for being the one among my friends who had the answers. Whether making plans for a Friday night out, working on a take home exam, or playing on a quiz team, I could pride myself on having the answers. Now it seems that I am ill-suited to my old role. The dynamics are changing and my old friends are in new places, places that render my old sense of understanding less complete. This weekend, two of my friends announced that major changes were in store in their lives. One is having a child. Another is joining the National Guard. In two months, a third will be getting married. None of this is entirely unprecedented, but for some reason coming all at once it feels as though I'm standing still, clinging to the last vestiges of my past and watching as it gets pulled away by the inevitable passage of time. What does the future hold? Where will we all end up? Will all of us find someone? Obviously, these are the types of questions whose answers no one can ever know, and intellectually I know that to be the case. My gut rankles against the idea of a riddle that can't be solved, but there's nothing to be done.

In the end, I do not wish for time to stand still. There is something of a natural order to life and, as the saying goes, a time to set aside childish things. But even if I do eventually reconcile myself to the uncertainty of the future, I would feel better knowing that some of those questions had clear cut answers. And even moreso knowing that no matter how little I know, things will end up for the best.

Of course, I can't even know that. None of us can. Families grow and friends change and into what we can't really say. But that doesn't stop me from wondering about the answers to the questions I do not know, all the more so as the realities of time's passage grow more evident with each passing year.