This holiday, I read a non-fiction book titled ‘Children of the Holocaust’ by Helen Epstein. It details the unexplored plight of the first generation born of Holocaust survivors. It is an interesting perspective to consider – what were the effects on their children? What must it feel like to know that your parents were part of some atrocious act that is the subject of so many history books?
Reading accounts from this generation has enabled me to better understand the human psyche. Each one of those children could relate to the need to do something about the holes in their lives that were a result of having lost a part of their parents to a war they could not fathom.
In some sense, I feel as if I am a part of this clique. We all are children of survivors. I’ve grown up hearing my parents’ somewhat morbid stories of their childhood, everything that determined who they became. My father would always conclude these stories by telling us that his children are now his life, and he’d never want for us to go through the things he has. As would any parent.
But this left me with more questions than answers, more uneasiness about how I wanted my life to develop. Does it disappoint my father when I take food for granted after having heard his experiences of not having had food for days? Of course it does. But I feel as if I’d lost the carelessness generally awarded with childhood. I sometimes feel as if my life is the replacement of my father’s misplaced one, and that I must take advantage of every moment to be happy, in his stead. This is burdensome.
The effort is like trying to graft a foreign branch to a native tree. The graft would not take. Sometimes I need to be sad.
My life is little less than a cosmic blip on the universe’s radar, fading before it can even be seen. This life of mine is so tiny in the greater scheme of things; but I still would like the chance to live it as I see fit, instead of living within the boundaries that are forced upon me. Do I consider the expectations of others, or do I disregard them in the name of individuality? Is the real me lost between the yellowed pages of my parents’ past?
The truth is that we have only one lifetime to live, and we cannot spend it searching through the past for ourselves, because we’re not there. We’re here. My parents were different people before I came to be, and I’ve come to respect that. In the same manner, they ought to respect that my lifetime is mine. I need to make my own mistakes.
I do not want to live just because I happen to be alive. Routine bothers me. I want to be alive so that I may live.
It’s just, no one gives me time. Time to discover who I am right now so that I have an idea of who I want to someday be.
YOLO
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