Fields of Exile. Nora Gold
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for you.” Judith, nearing the porch steps now, gives him a skeptical look. “It’s true. I was putting out the garbage and saw your car coming down the street. So I figured I’d just wait and surprise you.”
“That’s nice,” she says, and gives him a quick kiss. Bobby puts his arm around her as they go into the house.
“So how was it?” he asks.
“Great!” She takes the sunglasses off the top of her head and shakes out her hair. She’s flushed and radiant, and Bobby gapes at her.
“Wow!” he says. “I haven’t seen you this happy in ages.” Then, slightly resentfully, as if Dunhill were his rival: “What was so great about it?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her back to him as she lays her sunglasses and purse on the room divider. Turning around to face him, she’s aware of a feeling of reluctance, like she is not quite ready for him yet. He’s so demanding. Always challenging her. “Mostly it’s just good to be part of something again,” she says. “The people seem very nice, too. And some of them are doing interesting things.”
“Like what?”
Bobby is leading the way into the living room, and she glances warily at his back as she follows close behind. They don’t see eye to eye politically, and Bobby views social workers as a bunch of bleeding hearts. She hopes tonight they’re not going to have another one of their arguments. Sitting with him on the black leather couch, she tells him about the profs and students she met today, the unexpectedly splendid tree-lined campus, and the smoky, noisy Lion’s Den, smelling sourly of beer. Bobby sniggers appreciatively at her description of the identity politics at Dunhill, and laughs at “Gay Lesbian Bacon and Tomato.” But when she mentions the school’s “mission,” and its focus on anti-oppression, he looks testy.
Ignoring this, she continues: “They genuinely care about social justice at Dunhill. They may not all be, as you’d say, rocket scientists” — he stares back at her stonily, refusing to smile — “but they strike me as people with ideals.”
“Ideals?” he cries. “Is this what you call that left-wing crap? I can’t believe you’re buying into that anti-oppression bullshit. All it is, is, ‘I’m a victim, you’re a victim,’ and you’re way too smart to fall for that.”
She feels her anger rising. “I’m not falling for anything,” she says. “And stop being simplistic. You know as well as I do, that isn’t all it’s about.”
“Yes, it is.” His handsome hazel eyes flash. “That’s exactly what it’s about: the Moral Superiority of the Victim. Anyone who’s not a victim — who’s at all successful — is an ‘oppressor.’ According to these people I’m supposed to feel guilty and apologetic because I’m a lawyer earning a half-decent salary, but I don’t. I’ve worked for it — nobody handed it to me on a silver platter.”
“Oh, c’mon,” she says impatiently. “No one’s saying poor people are morally better than rich ones. Just that they’ve been socially disadvantaged, ‘oppressed’ if you will, and deserve a fairer share of the pie.”
“Ah, but that’s the question: Do they, Judith? Do they? Why do you lefties assume whenever people are poor, or have miserable fucked-up lives, that it’s always society’s fault? Maybe sometimes it is. But mostly these people have fucked up their own lives, and shouldn’t blame this on anyone else. Let me finish.” He holds up his hand to stop her from interrupting. “People aren’t always at the bottom of the social heap just because of your ‘structural oppressions.’ Some people don’t work hard. Some are dumber at birth. People aren’t all equal at the starting line.”
“That’s exactly the point. But never mind — forget it.” Judith crosses her arms across her chest. She’s getting angry, but is trying to control her temper. “I’m not having this conversation with you again. We’ve been through this a hundred times, and you never understand.”
“I never understand because it doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t make sense because you’re not trying to understand.”
They glare at each other from opposite sides of the couch. Then Bobby sighs.
“Okay, Judith,” he says quietly. “Try once more. Explain what you see in this that I can’t. Because if this is where your head will be for this whole next year, we have to be able to talk about it.”
Doubtfully she looks at him. His voice has lost its combative, prosecuting lawyer’s edge, and he seems to have retracted his claws, but she isn’t sure. The voice is the voice of Jacob, but the hands are the hands of Esau. “All right,” she finally says. “I’ll try one last time, but that’s it. Yes, you’re right this anti-oppression stuff can have a silly side. But that’s true of everything. There’s nothing in life that can’t be ridiculed — even your precious tax law. As for your argument that some people ‘at the bottom of the heap’ have fucked up their own lives, yes, some have. But most of them haven’t. A single mother, black and on welfare, has a million barriers working against her. So social workers — we ‘lefties,’ as you’d say — try to eliminate these barriers and redress structural inequities, like racism, sexism, and heterosexism, so people can live lives of dignity. C’mon, Bobby, don’t look at me like that. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
“Avanti popolo.”
Bobby spent one childhood summer in a socialist Zionist camp singing “Hatikvah,” the Israeli national anthem, every morning, and “The Internationale,” the socialist worldwide anthem, every night, and this was the worst summer of his life.
Judith, sitting cross-legged, facing his sullen profile, touches him on the knee. “You must admit at least it’s a good dream.”
“It’s a stupid dream because it’s just a dream, and built on false premises. You and your ‘idealistic’ profs, and your lefty friends in Israel, you all believe deep down no one can be rich and also have a social conscience. Well, you’re wrong. Some of my clients are extremely wealthy, and donate millions of dollars to charity.”
“So what?” she asks, feeling tired. It’s been a long day, and this isn’t what she was hoping for when she came here tonight. “It’s just a tax break. One of the legal loopholes you find for them so they can pay as few taxes as possible.”
“Fuck, Judith. You spend one day at Dunhill, and you come home a left-wing Moonie.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve had the same politics, as you know, ever since high school, when I started thinking for myself. Anyway, if I were a Moonie, I’d rather be a left-wing Moonie than a right-wing Moonie like you.”
“I’m not right-wing. I’m normal.”
“Oh, I see. And I’m abnormal?”
“Well, you’re sure different from everyone else I know.”
“Maybe you know the wrong people.”
“Maybe you do.”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares down at the carpet, thinking fiercely that there’s nothing wrong with her or with the people she met today. She likes them. They make sense to her. A lot more sense than Bobby, who in under a half-hour has managed to ruin all the happiness of her day — the first day she’s felt truly happy or hopeful about anything since coming back to this country almost a year ago.
“Judith,” he says.
“What?” she answers without looking up.
“Judith.”
“What?” She whips her head upwards, glaring.
“I hate fighting with you. Why do we keep fighting?”
“Because we don’t see life the same way. We have different values, politics, weltanschauung. Trivial things like that.”
He