Rock Steady
Susan has Lyme Disease. Her husband has Parkinson’s.
Their child is autistic. Instead of shrinking into victim mode,
Susan founded Rock Steady Boxing. This organization,
member average age 89, holds biweekly classes at the Jewish
Community Center in Aventura, Florida.
Movement is key to keeping Parkinson’s symptoms at bay.
I volunteered there when my Lyme symptoms weren’t as severe.
This morning, I decided not to dwell in victim mode either.
Few things help shift me out of it — outside of helping others.
Service has always been an integral part of my life,
from working with youth aging out of foster care to
helping men coming from prison live independent lives.
Empowering them to supersede their circumstances.
The book Are You My Mother? always resonated with me.
I felt profound empathy for the animal characters until
they identified their rightful mothers.
The JCC, “Are you my community?”
I asked unwittingly.
I entered the gym of trembling, Parkinsonian octogenarians.
Except for the 30+ year age difference, I identified with them.
Punching bags, boxing gloves, the smell of sweat, and elderly neglect
permeated the room. The music is 1970s Bar-Mitzvah disco.
A mirror ball mingles with the gym’s fluorescent, track lighting.
The JCC’s attempt to recreate Studio-54.
Well, we are sweating, dazed, confused, and holding on to each other.
Israeli trainer Avi leads the calisthenics of Rock Steady Boxing.
Many RSBers are wearing leashes. Being pulled around and bound
so they do not fall down.
Let me hold you, Schlomo.
Who is there to hold me?
Do I need a leash to maintain my balance?
Hold on, Lana, reclaim my stance!
Ronald. I thought the Parkinson’s screwed with his brain.
He texted me to say he left for Spain. He sought to reclaim
his citizenship granted to all Jews expelled from 1492.
Ronald and I went to lunch. We talked about lives lost.
He expressed his attraction for me. My social life, once rich,
is now populated by Parkinsonian octogenarians.
And I am grateful for the human connection.
Let me lend you protection,
Ronald. I will just teach;
I won’t walk you like a dog on a leash,
but please we both beseech — rock steady.
There’s the punching bad, Ronald.
Hit it hard; hit it for me. Let’s knock it down.
Avi plays “On the Radio” by Donna Summer.
Ronald lets out a bellowing sound, voice asunder
of anguish. Where are my NYC contemporaries,
the poets, yogis, think tankers of society?
I pulled the leash. “Move over, Ronald,
I’ll throw a few punches.” Are you my community?
Rachel is standing by, shaking, her nerve endings
quaking under the assault of her brain unhinged.
She isn’t wearing a leash. But can’t stand on her own,
only occupying about 4.5 feet. A Holocaust survivor.
I taught History of the Holocaust at two universities.
I cannot be a victim or professor when she has numbers
tattooed on her arm. In this moment, I am a fellow,
not-so-steady boxer. She sways to the music as my
two arms hold hers, frail weightless ones raised to
punch the Everlast bag. Rachel cannot; she lags
behind. Even Ronald on leash made clear contact.
Yet there is so much lack, with so much hope.
Look, these 89-year old survivors are fighting.
Fight back, Lana. It seems absurdly irreverent to
bring up a tattoo in this milieu. I will get new ink.
My current one is a Chinese symbol for integration.
Sadly ironic, I completely disintegrated. To Lyme.
Time for an updated sign. The tat will be a phoenix
rising from the ashes. Shit! Awful Holocaust reference
without deference to the mass suffering. Class is ending.
Live! Work out in the gym. Sign in. Alas, I am stopped.
I am not a member. Are you my mother? My community?
I see Rachel leaving. “Lana, will you be here on Thursday”
she asks in a thick Romanian accent? I give. I want to live.
Yes, I’ll be here Thursday. Thank you, Rock Steady Boxing,
for my temporary community. Parkinsonian octogenarians
could be my mother. For now, service as mother to daughter.
Daughter to mother. Boxers to dancers to fellow survivors.
Whatever the relationship, the JCC is inspiration enough for me.
