I Am Not Anne Frank

I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are really good at heart-Anne Frank.

I have read The Diary of Anne Frank more times than I count. I went through a period between the ages of 10 and 15 where I was obsessed with books about the Holocaust. I was fascinated with how the world could have let it happen. How so many could just sit and watch and accept the cruelty happening in front of their face. I was mostly amazed by Anne. How she kept her faith and her goodness even while she was living in hell.

Anne Frank and I have the same birthday. June 12th. When I was little, I thought this meant we were cosmically connected. She wanted to be an actress and had dreams of going to Hollywood. I wanted this too. I kept a diary. I dyed my hair when I was 18 to match hers. And mostly, I promised myself that I would be as good as her. As kind as her. As dedicated to finding the strength and compassion of humanity despite the cruelty I knew existed (but had never seen or experienced except from a distance).

Well.

Needless to say, I am not Anne Frank.

I was 30 when I met Emmanuel. Having spent my younger years as a serial monogamist, I decided at the age of 28 to devote myself to singledom. To get to know who I was when I wasn’t with anyone. I took myself out to the movies, to dinner, to the bar. I traveled alone. I had casual encounters with people whose names I don’t remember. It was fabulous. And by the time I met Emmanuel, I was comfortable with being by myself. I loved it, in fact. And I was determined for it to stay that way.

I am at my friend Randi’s birthday party. There are lots of people I don’t know and I am mingling and soaking up the energy like the Gemini I am. I drink my gin and tonic too fast. I go out to the balcony for a breath of fresh air and a cigarette. I am about to light it when someone lights it for me. I look up into a pair of beautiful brown eyes. Chocolate colored with hints of green. He is a friend of one of Randi’s friends. An appropriate distance, I think. A safe enough distance where if I do something, it won’t come back to bite me in the ass. Which is great, because he has the most beautiful face I have ever seen.

The sex was good. Really good.

We are lying in his bed. His hand touches mine and I gently pull away.

None of that, I think.

“You ever been in love?” he asks.

I bolt up.

“What?” I ask ready to leap from the bed and dash out as quickly as possible.

“Relax,” he says laughing, “I’m just curious.”

I look at him.

“Many times,” I respond, “Too many times. Maybe never. I don’t know.”

“I think you’d know,” he says thoughtfully, “I think when you fall, you know.”

“I don’t know,” I say, not liking this conversation at all.

“I haven’t,” he says, “I’ve met some wonderful people. But that thing…you know? That thing where it just fits? Where it just feels right? That’s never happened.”

“Maybe that’s a bunch of baloney,” I say, “Maybe that’s a scam spoon fed to us by romcoms and Jane Austen.”

He smiles at me, but his eyes gaze is serious.

Uncomfortable.

“You really believe that?” he asks softly.

I shrug, looking at the ceiling.

I force myself to look at him, “Little scary talking about love to someone you just met, don’t you think?”

He laughs again, “You’re right. Good sex does that to me.”

I nod and smile, but my heart is pounding.

The sex was good.

And so was the conversation before.

We talked about passions and dreams and goals.

He teaches high school students how to do wood-working.

It strikes me as very sweet and manly at the same time.

I can’t remember feeling what I’m feeling with anyone before.

It’s just chemicals, I think.

Just chemicals.

Either way, I get up and start getting ready to leave.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Going home,” I say, “I have an early meeting.”

I don’t. But I have learned that this is the best thing to say. Staying over, cuddling, can lead to feelings. To expectations. Stress that I do not need.

And he is dangerous, I think.

“Oh…can I get your number?” he asks.

I stop getting dressed and look at him.

Again, his beauty takes my breath away.

But.

“No,” I say.

His face falls.

“I’m not in a place for that,” I say.

“For what?” he asks.

“You know what,” I say.

He nods.

He smirks.

“You have time for one more at least?” he asks, gesturing for me to go back to bed.

I shouldn’t, I think.

I should go.

I could get lost in those eyes.

And he is dangerous, I think again, too dangerous.

But my body finds its way back into bed.

When I finally leave his apartment, I try not to think anything of it. There’s a part of me that regrets not giving him my number. Before I left, he asked me again, but I still said no. I like my life the way it is. And he could destroy everything I’ve built for myself. I can feel this. Somehow I know that he could ruin everything. And I don’t need that headache. That headache that comes with a relationship. I had a good time and that’s all, I think. Secure in my decision, I make my way home.

I am leaving work and walking to my bus stop, when I see Emmanuel standing on the corner. He is looking at his phone. He is texting and smiling. Unexpectedly, my chest tightens. Who is he texting with that smile? Is it someone else? Has he found someone who is willing to cuddle?

You’re being ridiculous, I think.

I start to turn around, walk the other way so he won’t see me, but he looks up and his eyes find mine.

My breath hitches.

He smiles and walks over to me.

“You stalking me?” he asks with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” I respond.

“No,” he says, “I promise. I’m meeting a buddy for dinner.”

“Is that who you were texting?” I ask before I can stop myself, before I can think.

I freeze.

He looks amused.

He nods, “Yea. He’s a friend I haven’t seen in a minute.”

“Ah,” I say feeling my face glowing red, “That’s nice. Well. See you around.”

I start to walk away before I can say anything else, before he can say anything else, before I ask him out.

I curse his beautiful face under my breath.

I get to my bus stop and thank all the gods in all the universe that it shows up quickly. I get on it. I sit by the window. I look to see if Emmanuel is still there but he’s not. Of course he’s not. My hands find my phone, they go to Facebook, my fingers type his name and click Friend Request.

Three seconds later, he accepts.

It is six months later and I am storming out of Emmanuel’s apartment. He has asked me to be exclusive and I have refused.

(I’m not seeing anyone else but that isn’t the point).

I can hear his footsteps behind me. He calls my name.

He grabs my arm, and I shake him off violently.

I turn.

“Don’t touch me,” I say.

I flinch at the look of pain on his face.

At his confusion.

He asked me to go steady, and I screamed in his face.

I yelled that he was being too controlling, too suffocating.

I knew I was being venomous, unnecessarily cruel, but I couldn’t stop myself.

I could feel the spit flying from my mouth as I screamed.

And yet here he is.

Standing in front of me, saying it is ok.

That we don’t have to be monogamous.

That we can have whatever relationship I want as long as he gets to see me.

There is a part of me that thinks he is crazy too.

He is crazy for putting up with my nonsense.

I reach out and touch his face.

His hand holds mine.

I pull him to me and hug him tightly.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to his chest.

“Don’t be,” he says, “If you’re not ready, you’re not ready.”

I’m ready, I think.

I’m ready, but I’m not.

I’m so afraid of needing him. Of not being able to do things without him. Of losing the independence it took so long to find.

I’m ready, my heart screams to my brain.

But my brain doesn’t respond, so my mouth refuses to speak.

It is four years later, and he is waiting for me to respond.

“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.

“I need a commitment,” he repeats for the hundredth time.

“But why?” I ask for the hundredth time, “I’m committed to you. You know I am.”

“We don’t live together,” he says.

“We don’t need to live together, do we?” I ask, “Don’t you like your space, don’t you-

“I want to share my life with you in every way possible,” he says, looking at the ceiling, pools of water gathering in his eyes.

I turn away from his tears, pretending not to notice.

We are silent for a long time.

I don’t know how long.

Eventually he gets up, with his back to me.

I want to reach out, to touch him to say okay let’s do this.

Let’s get married.

Let’s move in together.

But I don’t.

I stay where I am.

He turns toward me.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispers, “I can’t keep waiting for you to want to be with me.”

His mouth closes. Opens again. Closes. He wants to say more but he doesn’t.

He looks at me, waiting for me to respond.

My heart is telling me to shout, to tell him to stay, to give him what he wants.

But I don’t move.

I just look at him.

He sighs and walks away.

It is a week later, and my mind is filled with thoughts of Emmanuel.

He hasn’t called me.

I haven’t called him.

I don’t want to contact him unless I’m sure of what I want to say.

Sure of what I want in general.

He’s too good for you, the voice in my head whispers.

It’s good he got away before he realized how ugly you are.

I shake my head.

I picture Anne Frank.

I imagine her telling me how good I am.

How good Emmanuel is.

I can hear her telling me that truly living means taking advantage of everything the world has to offer.

Of letting yourself fall in love, even if it's terrifying.

I pick up my phone.

I dial his number.

It goes immediately to voicemail.

He blocked your number, the voice says.

He wouldn’t do that, I tell the voice.

I leave Emmanuel a message.

I wait.

Another week has gone by with no response.

I feel like my heart is breaking.

I have never known this feeling.

This kind of pain.

Like my body might just collapse from the weight of it.

Like I can barely breathe thinking that I might never see him again.

I am about to call him.

To try one more time.

My phone rings.

It’s Tanya, Emmanuel’s sister.

I stare at the number.

She and I were friendly, but not friends.

She kept her distance.

I guessed it was because she knew I kept Emmanuel at a distance.

I stare at her name.

I answer.

“Hi Tanya,” I say.

I hear crying on the other end.

“Tanya?” I say, my stomach suddenly doing panicked flips.

“Tell me you’ve heard from him,” she whimpers.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

She explains to me that no one has seen or heard from Emmanuel in over a week.

Not his work, not his friends, not anyone.

My body grows cold.

We find out that the last time Emmanuel was seen was at work.

We search the area.

We look for any clues.

Tanya has already gone to the police, and the most we can do is put up Missing Person signs.

She asks me about our breakup.

She tells me that Emmanuel was devastated.

I can feel her hatred and I don’t blame her.

I hate me too.

I am standing in front of his school. I look around me. I look at the ground. I walk every inch and see nothing.

No sign.

I look up and pray to a God I’m not sure exists.

I pray to Anne.

And then I see it.

A video camera on the corner.

There might be nothing.

But there might be something.

The police find footage of Emmanuel leaving school.

Of being grabbed by two ICE agents and shoved into a van.

“But he’s documented,” Tanya tells the police.

They shrug nonchalantly.

“It might be too late at this point,” they say as if it doesn’t matter.

As if they’re talking about a lost toy, instead of a person.

It is a month later and Emmanuel’s lawyer has finally been able to confirm that he has been sent to CECOT, one of the most notorious prisons in the world, located in El Salvador.

The prison won’t let us talk to him or see him and no matter how much our lawyer threatens, they don’t listen.

Tanya and I post on social media.

We scream into the void.

It gathers some attention but not much.

There is too much happening in the world.

Too much cruelty, that people simply scroll past the pain, and focus on the cat videos instead.

An immigrant rights association tries to help us.

They team up with our lawyer.

And for a moment, a very brief moment, it seems like maybe we’re making some headway.

Maybe there’s a chance.

I am looking at Tanya.

“What?” I say.

“He’s dead,” she repeats.

Dead.

“But, how-

“What do you mean, how? They tortured him to death,” she spits at me.

I stare at the ceiling.

I imagine that I’m not in my body.

That I’m floating.

That what’s happening to me isn’t actually happening.

That it’s someone else.

Somewhere else.

This can’t be reality.

It can’t.

Tanya is shaking me.

She’s shaking me so hard I think my head might fall off.

And I don’t stop her because I know I deserve it.

“You bitch!” she yells at me, “This never would’ve happened if it weren’t for you!” she wails.

I hold her while she shakes me. While she hits me. She presses her face into my chest and sobs. I continue to hold her. I don’t cry. I can’t. I don’t feel anything. I am on the ceiling. I am above the ceiling. I am floating so far away that nothing even matters.

I spend a week staring at the walls.

I don’t eat.

I don’t sleep.

I am lying on the ground staring at the ceiling, when I absentmindedly grab my phone.

I go to Instagram.

I start to scroll.

I see video after video of men and women and children being taken away.

Stolen in the middle of the night, in the middle of the day.

Taken without their families knowing.

Taken without any kind of due process.

Taken just to be taken.

And no one seems to be doing anything about it.

And those who try, keep failing.

Because it just keeps happening.

I can feel my heart start to beat again.

I can feel my blood start to boil.

And I make a decision.

I become my own special investigator.

I watch the video of the men taking Emmanuel away hundreds of times.

I memorize it.

I start to hang out around the school where he worked.

I make it a point to introduce myself to people who live in the area. Who might have seen him be taken.

I become friendly with a stay-at-home mom.

We start talking politics.

She says she loves what the current administration is doing.

That they’re cleaning up the swamp.

She talks about how just the other day they arrested a man who works at the school.

Someone she always thought was sketchy.

Someone who had too many tattoos to be a schoolteacher.

She mentions how one of the ‘patriots’ who took him was a friend of a friend.

I grin widely.

What are the fucking chances, I think.

I am outside his house.

The patriot’s.

His name is Tommy.

He has a six-year-old daughter named Stephanie.

She is playing outside.

There is no one around.

I watch as she bikes around the yard.

Her little feet pedaling.

Her pigtails flying behind her.

She makes a loop, over and over and over again.

Every time she loops around, I change my mind.

Take her.

Don’t take her.

Take her.

Don’t take her.

I can hear Anne Frank’s voice in my head.

You are a good person, she tells me.

You are stronger than this, she tells me.

Emmanuel wouldn’t want this, she pleads.

There is silence in my head for a moment as I watch Stephanie bike.

I watch as she tilts her head towards the sky, basking in the sunlight.

She is laughing with her mouth wide open.

She is so fully in the moment, so fully in her joy, and so blissfully unaware of the horrific things that surround her.

Drive away, Anne whispers, Drive away.

You can still find the good in people, Anne says.

But I am not Anne Frank.