Why

I am listening to Kendrick Lamar. Tiny nearly

broken air pods in my ears. Why God, why

do I gotta suffer? The music is as loud as I

can make it. To drown out fumes. Bus 68

to Mount Scopus. The University, two worlds pass

one another Through a window.

Why God, why do I gotta suffer? White Jerusalem stone

apartment blocks. Lines of laundry. Fifty feet

high. Black. Skirts and trousers. Baby clothes.  An old

women carrying three plastic bags sits. Next to me, her

bags spill over. Onto my feet. A bottle of bleach.

Two tubs of margarine. Jam. Her wig

starts to fall as she bends to pick up her bags. Sweat

drips from her nose. And it is winter.

Why God, why do I gotta suffer? She looks at

me. Eyes wide. I say, hakol beseder. She

smiles and gets off at the next stop. I watch

her catch her breath. The bus rolls

on. And past. Collecting teenagers in

school uniforms. Moms who refuse to sit, but

lean on strollers. Laden with bags, the bus

goes up and up and up. Empties

out. Two men board and check with a machine.

If everyone paid. They catch a few. Soldiers

never have to pay. Two men in fedoras board the bus.

Play with their peyas, wrap the ringlets

around their fingers. Move back and forth

like they are praying, davening like a

crescendo. Eyes closed. Why God, why do I gotta suffer?

I’m told I can’t talk about war. To my

students. I remind myself. One stop from the

University. Instead we talk about Churchill.

And Orwell. And Sontag. One stop from

the University and I blast Lamar in my tiny

nearly broken airpods.