“Call Me Ishmael”
Take the first sentence from your favorite book and make it the first sentence of your post.
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.
I was trying to find myself, maybe. Or I was trying to find someone who would, in turn, find me. It was a silly notion, to think that escaping everything I knew would lead me to some sort of epiphany.
An old newsreel from the 80s described the Rosenberg electrocution. It showed that, although Julius Rosenberg died after the first round of electrocution, it took five rounds of electric shock to stop Ethel’s heart. To be honest, I don’t really know the truth behind the Rosenberg trial. Did they deserve the death penalty or was it all for show, as some suggested at the time?
Either way, it made me feel strange. It made me question the world, question the way we, as human beings, treated each other. Were we so eager to blame someone for the evil in the world that we would electrocute — in other words, murder — a couple just to prove a point?
Then again, they were probably 100 percent guilty and deserved every bit of electric shock.
New York was every bit as edgy and dangerous and beautiful and terrifying as everyone had told me that it would be. And I think that was the best part about it. Because, well, what’s the point of living your life if it isn’t a little bit terrifying and a little bit beautiful?