Tuesday, February 05, 2013

The diary

I don't cry too often.  It does happen from time to time.  Like on MLK day at the Wisenthal Center in LA the day before Obama's first inauguration.  But generally I am pretty stoic.

And I just cried a river.  Hot tears running down my face-type cry.

I am in the Amsterdam Museum, studying the DNA of this special city.  As I love to remember- there was a time.  There was a time when the Dutch ruled the waves, and a company subjugated the world.  Over sugar and spice. 5,000 pounds of sugar for a slave's life.

As I was passing through the years, I got to World War II.  There was first a film of the Nazi occupation of Amsterdam.  60,000 Jews perished with the Nazi takeover of Holland.  Three-fourths of the Dutch Jewish population.

On the walls were the number: 60,000- with the numbers made out of little pictures of people.  In the middle were headphones.  I put them on my ears and heard the words of Anne Frank.  I closed my eyes, and they immediately started to well.

They are doing it again as I write this. 

I listened to the hopes and fears of a little girl, from the precious diary.  Passages through passages of time.  For a story that you know does not have a good ending.  And I cried like no other.

My heart was beating hard in my chest as I heard her words.  And I cried.  Tears of Auschwitz, with the piles of hair and piles of shoes- it was the shoes that got me the most that time.

Tears of the Cambodian Killing Fields, as butterflies fluttered around shallow graves.

Everyone needs a good cry sometimes- just to get the lead out.

I think I might finally be dry and can continue on the museum.

"Caught up in the middle,
I cry just a little
when I think of letting go."
-Flo Rida 

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