I grew up in NY. Downstate NY...the "old country". Originally the Bronx, and then most of young life in Westchester County, just a 25 minute train ride from the Big Ol' (then kinda stinky-raw-but-way-awesome, but now quite shiny-and-still-has-some-awesomeness-once-you-leave-Times-Square) Apple. There's people from everywhere all crammed in, going about their lives, all the same, all very different, all moving in one general direction, forward in time. Yes, there's neighborhoods of folks of one background or another, and there's plenty of stereotyping, and old-school hangers on of perpetuating those stereotypes, quietly, subtly - often inadvertently, however, the melange of culture is so rich that often, unless one leaves that area, they have no idea that their traditions, or hobbies, or vernacular come from places far beyond where anyone in their blood line has ever tread.
Being Jewish in that area was nothing outstanding, nothing unique, and certainly nothing that would get you grilled on. Synagogues abound, bar mitzvahs de rigeur, and everyone gets a day off on the Jewish holidays. Outside of Israel, NYC has the highest concentration of Jews than anywhere else, and I presume, that in the past few decades that includes its suburbs as they continue to grow, stretching a "reasonable" commute to over 2 hours on a train - ONE way, and you're okay with that craziness. And remember, this same city that has had seven of the last 11 mayors since 1965 be tribe
members, also boasts the biggest freaking Christmas tree ever, and Santa
comes barreling down 5th Avenue as the finale to the Thanksgiving Day
Parade. So you can see, in NY - there's a lot of blend going on. But I digress.
Lots of friends were Jewish, and many were not. Of my Jewish friends growing up, however, I was the "ish" and they, indeed, were the "Jews". Their parents schlepped them to services on the weekends, they all went to Hebrew School, and only a few had anything up around the house during December other than menorahs, and even then they were referred to as Chanukah Bushes. I, on the other hand, being raised in a somewhat interfaith household (though technically it was a Jewish one, as my mother converted before my parents marriage), we waited for Santa (although our Chanukah Bush/Christmas Tree did have Stars of David on it)...right after the menorah was put away, and the Passover matzoh was stashed in an Easter basket. My parents gave me a choice of a bat mitzvah or a sweet sixteen when I was about 11. I had my sights set on a car, so I went with door number 2 (which didn't quite turn out the way I wanted, but that's another story).
Obviously, when it came to Judaism, I was the least likely candidate to be your go-to-gal.
We did attend synagogue on the High Holy Days...we'd enter the cavernous sanctuary, anonymous and intimidated. We'd always be in the back since the front was for the regulars, and Rabbi Cohen, who reminded me of Frank Perdue, would drone on and on about something and then speak in Hebrew. We would stand and sit and stand again and listen to the overzealous cantor bluster and bellow on in melodies that were foreign to me in words I didn't understand. We went to the JCC - which then was the YM/YWHA, and I did a play for Purim, cast in my first leading role as Esther - but I had no idea, unlike everyone else in the cast, what the story was about, (which went over great with the other kids as you can imagine). We had large family gatherings filled with kugels and matzah balls, we would sit shiva and help relatives cover mirrors and put stones on grave markers, family weddings were conducted under chuppahs and glasses were stepped on (and mind you, words like chuppah and shiva were never italicized in local papers following style guides of demarcating foreign words). But I had no idea why we did any of things really. They were just part of the fabric of life. No one ever explained and I never really asked.
Then I moved away.
Growing up with the last name of Goldman in NY was far from uncommon. It's like Smith or Johnson, Romano or DeLuca, Rodriguez or Ramirez. But once I left it became a stamp of identity, a marker of supposition, and apparently a flag that said, "You've never met a Jew? Well, here I am and ask me anything because I, apparently, have all the answers!"
"What do you eat?" "Can you eat this?" "What's the deal with Saturdays?" "Do you have horns that get removed in some kind of ceremony? (I know you think I'm joking about that one...but, sadly, I am not)". "Can Jews get married outside?" "Seriously, how do you live without bacon?"
The questions came fast and furious, shallow and deep, serious and utterly ridiculous (see above). I'd always be surprised at how little people knew about a culture and a religion, that for me, was no more special or outstanding than anything else. And even more surprised that people just assumed that I would have all the answers. Or even be willing to explain. For my own integrity's sake, I enrolled in a class in Judaism in my junior year of college just for catch up. The class didn't really engage me, the professor was just as dry as my Rabbi, and while I did pick up a few things here and there, all it did was really remind me how Jewish I wasn't.
In my childhood, no one ever asked me any questions about being Jewish. In my teens, the only questions I got were from my Jewish friends about why I didn't have a Bat Mitzvah or why we didn't go to temple regularly. People just didn't ask. I don't know why. I guess it was a combination of that they didn't really care and a lot of it they already knew, no matter their religious affiliation. Besides, all the attention got drawn to Tina Santos...the lone Jehovah's Witness at our school, who always had to sit in the Library during holiday parties and when cupcakes were handed out for birthdays. Come to think of it, I guess we did ask her a lot of questions for a little while until she finally said she had no more answers, it was just Jehovah's bidding. We never really understood what that meant, but we did know she had reached a breaking point when she ran out of the cafeteria in tears one day. So the questions stopped.
But the ones directed me have not. They still come, less and less frequently as generally the folks I'm around have settled into a less caustic approach at life as we have all aged together. Well, that and my married name doesn't have a mezuzah mounted on it anymore. My shock and awe have dulled over the course of 20 some odd years into a warm embrace, as I've come to anticipate them now, as part of my own Jewish journey. Ironically, they've actually allowed me to develop a stronger sense of Jewish identity than any of my prior years, and much to my own surprise, have ingrained in me a spirit of ambassadorship, as it were, a sense of obligation to represent the faith, the culture, the people in the most authentic way I can. As I've delved deeper into the nuts and bolts of Judaism I've come to realize that I was actually living my life much more Jewishly than I had thought. Things I did on a regular basis, thoughts I had, perspectives I've come to, all well in line with the current thinking of Reform Judaism.
As my son is working toward becoming a Bar Mitzvah in the next few months, and I become more and more involved at my synagogue, discovering and exploring my Jewish identity is becoming a pretty popular part of my life. And likely, I'll be expressing more and more about it, as I wrestle (in traditional Jewish style) with what all of it means, and how or if it will provide any kind of framework for my living.
When I sat down to write this, I actually had the intent of being somewhat snarky and flippant about it, as I've always found it pretty funny that somehow I'd become an "expert" on Judaism - based solely on being typically the only one in the room, both figuratively and often, literally. But as I've been processing, and my fingers have been banging away at the keyboard, an enlightenment has settled in of sorts. Keep those questions coming. They allow me learn, and they allow me to teach. I've often heard the best way to learn is by teaching...so have at it. I won't make up the answers, I promise.
L'Shanah Tovah Tikatevu and Shalom.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
I Miss Old Things
Recently, a local high school and it's surrounding community celebrated it's 100th anniversary. It was in the paper, there were some celebrations, I believe some historical markers may have been placed - or at the very least, talked about. It's a decent number of record, especially in an area filled with brand new everything - new roads, new houses, new strip malls, new lights, new, new, new.
I grew up in a town that was founded before the United States was - 1664. Just a couple of generations after those pilgrims landed in Plymouth and the British set up shop in Virgina. I never really gave much thought about it when I lived there. There weren't any celebrations in Eastchester about it that I recall; perhaps after the first 300 years they get blase. When that town turned a century old, there were some other things on its plate at the time - a revolution a-brewing, so to speak. There's a now defunct quarry in the town from which marble was unearthed and transported to Washington DC to build monuments and many of those vast, enormous edifices of government. There's a house down the street from the high school that we would tour as it was a stop on the Underground Railroad. A one-room school house from circa 1835 still stands in stellar condition. Finally, there's St. Paul's Church, built in 1765, which is now technically in a town called Mt. Vernon as time has changed some things - a place where George Washington directed the parishoners to bury the tower bell, that was cast in the same foundry as Philadelphia's Liberty Bell, during the Revolutionary war to protect it from the British (so they wouldn't melt it down). Rumor has it, that at one point, the town was used as a temporary capital of the US during the Revolutionary War, though I can't seem to find much to back that up - but I do remember hearing that somewhat frequently when I was a child.
Considering the harsh winters of New York, so much has weathered so well over time. But of course, things were built to accommodate the climate and were certainly built differently back then - built to last. To endure. To hold memories and secrets within.
As I grew older I developed an affinity for things old - for gravestones, tilted with time, for wooden double-hung windows with exposed pulleys, for thick oaken doors that now sit sub-street level because of the development around them. I loved to come upon stone fences that still run through forests or old stone pump houses tucked into greenways, grown over with moss, mother nature reclaiming her property. I would give all of these things their own stories, since I didn't have anyone to tell me their true ones.
I miss those things.
Of course, after a trip to Europe my perspective greatly changed on what was considered old. Tour after tour of church after church after ruin after church of buildings and structures erected hundreds to thousands of years before made me blush at my wonder of my local history. It was all so overwhelming for so many reasons I almost shut down and at one point I said I just couldn't do it any more.
I did go to a musical the other day in a theater that has been continuously used as a civic building of some sort or another for that same century as the high school. The current proprietors are very proud of the history of the building, as they should be, but for some reason, it just didn't seem that old. It didn't feel that old, or smell that old. You could have told me the place was 40 or 50 years old and I wouldn't have doubted it. But some of that I suppose has to do with the climate. Even with the hurricanes, rain and lots of sunshine are easier on things than hail, snow, and ice. Just ask all the folks who move down here.
One day, I suppose things here will get that old, but instead of staying, many will be replaced since, as I mentioned before, things just aren't built to last - even with the milder climate. Perhaps they'll stay on the same foundations, or within the same property markers, but since they were put up with limited funds, or in ways to save a dollar, you won't be sitting in the same seats within the same walls as your predecessors from centuries prior. You won't peer out the same windows that watched history being made.
Because of time and natural erosion, Florida has lost much of it's land, where the first peoples settled thousands of years ago. So much of that history is lost to the depths of the Gulf and to the Atlantic, whereas up north, beneath the stone structures of our European history, lay millennia of life, with their own sacred stories to tell.
I suppose its up to us to create that history for here. My neighbors and I...from my street to my town to my county...we are making the stories to tell. Someday, we'll be the stuff of the old things, since the "things" we make today are so limited in lifespan. And maybe, just maybe, someone will miss us.
I grew up in a town that was founded before the United States was - 1664. Just a couple of generations after those pilgrims landed in Plymouth and the British set up shop in Virgina. I never really gave much thought about it when I lived there. There weren't any celebrations in Eastchester about it that I recall; perhaps after the first 300 years they get blase. When that town turned a century old, there were some other things on its plate at the time - a revolution a-brewing, so to speak. There's a now defunct quarry in the town from which marble was unearthed and transported to Washington DC to build monuments and many of those vast, enormous edifices of government. There's a house down the street from the high school that we would tour as it was a stop on the Underground Railroad. A one-room school house from circa 1835 still stands in stellar condition. Finally, there's St. Paul's Church, built in 1765, which is now technically in a town called Mt. Vernon as time has changed some things - a place where George Washington directed the parishoners to bury the tower bell, that was cast in the same foundry as Philadelphia's Liberty Bell, during the Revolutionary war to protect it from the British (so they wouldn't melt it down). Rumor has it, that at one point, the town was used as a temporary capital of the US during the Revolutionary War, though I can't seem to find much to back that up - but I do remember hearing that somewhat frequently when I was a child.
Considering the harsh winters of New York, so much has weathered so well over time. But of course, things were built to accommodate the climate and were certainly built differently back then - built to last. To endure. To hold memories and secrets within.
As I grew older I developed an affinity for things old - for gravestones, tilted with time, for wooden double-hung windows with exposed pulleys, for thick oaken doors that now sit sub-street level because of the development around them. I loved to come upon stone fences that still run through forests or old stone pump houses tucked into greenways, grown over with moss, mother nature reclaiming her property. I would give all of these things their own stories, since I didn't have anyone to tell me their true ones.
I miss those things.
Of course, after a trip to Europe my perspective greatly changed on what was considered old. Tour after tour of church after church after ruin after church of buildings and structures erected hundreds to thousands of years before made me blush at my wonder of my local history. It was all so overwhelming for so many reasons I almost shut down and at one point I said I just couldn't do it any more.
I did go to a musical the other day in a theater that has been continuously used as a civic building of some sort or another for that same century as the high school. The current proprietors are very proud of the history of the building, as they should be, but for some reason, it just didn't seem that old. It didn't feel that old, or smell that old. You could have told me the place was 40 or 50 years old and I wouldn't have doubted it. But some of that I suppose has to do with the climate. Even with the hurricanes, rain and lots of sunshine are easier on things than hail, snow, and ice. Just ask all the folks who move down here.
One day, I suppose things here will get that old, but instead of staying, many will be replaced since, as I mentioned before, things just aren't built to last - even with the milder climate. Perhaps they'll stay on the same foundations, or within the same property markers, but since they were put up with limited funds, or in ways to save a dollar, you won't be sitting in the same seats within the same walls as your predecessors from centuries prior. You won't peer out the same windows that watched history being made.
Because of time and natural erosion, Florida has lost much of it's land, where the first peoples settled thousands of years ago. So much of that history is lost to the depths of the Gulf and to the Atlantic, whereas up north, beneath the stone structures of our European history, lay millennia of life, with their own sacred stories to tell.
I suppose its up to us to create that history for here. My neighbors and I...from my street to my town to my county...we are making the stories to tell. Someday, we'll be the stuff of the old things, since the "things" we make today are so limited in lifespan. And maybe, just maybe, someone will miss us.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
The Story of Mother and Daughter in 2.6 Miles
(originally presented on Facebook the day the story occurred as dated. One of things on my list to move over...better late than never. I saw a little girl learning to skate the other day and it brought back this memory)
This is a true story, that happened today, Jan. 3, 2011. It has not been edited.
My daughter learned to skate on roller blades today. She's had crappy, cheap versions of them in the past, with unmanageable, flat wheels that are only good for about 2 minutes before they get too pocked to roll. Yes, I bought them for her, perhaps with the cloaked understanding that they would keep her slow, keep her close, and keep her from falling too often.
Then as young girls are wont to do, she asked for better skates. She said she wanted to move like the other kids on the street - winding in and out of driveways, using their wheeled freedom and exhilerating speed as a small escape from the trappings of flip flops or sneakers.
So I finally gave in this recent holiday season. I found the coolest pair I could for the budget I was willing to invest, and they are pretty cool, actually. Black with hot pink trim and some Ed Hardy-esque stylings on the sides. But the important thing was the wheels. Real wheels, capable of manuevering up and down, over and under, in and out of the obstacles of suburban developments.
She kept asking to use them, since Christmas, and I kept putting it off - explaining that she had to find her elbow and knee pads first in our garage (and if you've ever seen my garage, you know my plan was set to buy some substantial time). So finally today she dug them out.
And I, reluctantly, agreed to help her out.
She held on so tightly at first, I thought my arm was going to fall off. My daughter, for seven, is quite tall, and is the size of an average 10 year old, and now up on her skates is even bigger (thank goodness for my 70 inches of height, or I might feel a bit overwhelmed!). But there she went, more walking than skating, scraping the ground with the sides of the wheels, intent on not falling down, pulling harder and harder on my arm.
My son was on his bike, riding ahead, and returning often to check on our progress as he dutifully taunted his sister about her inability to keep up with him or even our small dog. She took it all in stride, and was dead set on getting this skill mastered.
A few wobbles here, a couple of whoopsies there - she admitted she was glad to have put on the pads that I insisted on. But she kept going. And her strides became longer. And her grip became looser.
She'd let go for a second, then grab on again desperately. Laughing all the way.
And her strides became longer, and her grip became looser. And she'd let go for longer.
Eventually, her brother had had enough and challenged her to a race of sorts, insisting he could lap us around the lake before she could reach the 300 feet to the stairs. Her head went down, her elbows up, like a roller derby girl and she accepted. But she grabbed my hand and said, "come on, Mama, we can beat him." I was surprised she wanted me along. My pace grew faster, until I had to break into a trot - and then I realized that I...I had to let go.
I was holding her back.
She turned her head, and asked why I let go - and I said, "don't worry! Just go, just go, honey! You can do it - I'll be behind you if you fall!" She smiled and took off. I'd swear I saw a glint in her eye.
Her brother still won the race. And she was happy when I caught up. She was so excited about what she'd done - how far she'd come in such a short time - so proud of herself. Exhileration was an understatement.
But now we had the bridge to tackle. A long wooden bridge, in good shape for the most part, but with some boards in need of repair, some nails that need to be banged in, and it winds over a creek and some wetlands, before descending back into the paved trail. She wasn't ready to do this alone.
We got over the bridge together, giggling at the immense sound of her roller blades over the weathered wood. She compared it to a wooden roller coaster - and said she couldn't wait to try it again, but alone next time.
At the bottom of the bridge, returning to the smooth pavement, she took my hand. She said, "you know, Mama, I don't need to hold your hand now. I just want to because I love you." I smiled, and held her hand tighter than she expected.
Soon, I sensed her mounting frustration at our speed. I let her go and said, "go on - go as fast as you can - just watch the acorns!" And she went. I watched her take off, accelerate and round one of the corners of the trail, past the old uprooted tree, which since her birth had almost all but disappeared back into the earth. And she was out of my sight.
She hollered back, "I'm doing it, Mama! I'm doing it! I'm really doing it! I'll meet you at home!"
"Okay!" I shouted back, choking back that inevitable lump in the throat that gets implanted when one becomes a parent. "I'll be there soon..."
When I finally caught up with her, she was beaming. She said, "you know what, Mama? I even fell. I fell pretty hard, but I got myself back up again. I didnt' need anybody to help me. I didn't even use a thing...I just did it myself. And look at me, I'm okay!"
"That's awesome, honey. I'm soooo proud of you!"
"I'm okay! I'm okay! I can't believe how far I came today!"
You have no idea, little one. You have no idea.
My daughter learned to skate on roller blades today. She's had crappy, cheap versions of them in the past, with unmanageable, flat wheels that are only good for about 2 minutes before they get too pocked to roll. Yes, I bought them for her, perhaps with the cloaked understanding that they would keep her slow, keep her close, and keep her from falling too often.
Then as young girls are wont to do, she asked for better skates. She said she wanted to move like the other kids on the street - winding in and out of driveways, using their wheeled freedom and exhilerating speed as a small escape from the trappings of flip flops or sneakers.
So I finally gave in this recent holiday season. I found the coolest pair I could for the budget I was willing to invest, and they are pretty cool, actually. Black with hot pink trim and some Ed Hardy-esque stylings on the sides. But the important thing was the wheels. Real wheels, capable of manuevering up and down, over and under, in and out of the obstacles of suburban developments.
She kept asking to use them, since Christmas, and I kept putting it off - explaining that she had to find her elbow and knee pads first in our garage (and if you've ever seen my garage, you know my plan was set to buy some substantial time). So finally today she dug them out.
And I, reluctantly, agreed to help her out.
She held on so tightly at first, I thought my arm was going to fall off. My daughter, for seven, is quite tall, and is the size of an average 10 year old, and now up on her skates is even bigger (thank goodness for my 70 inches of height, or I might feel a bit overwhelmed!). But there she went, more walking than skating, scraping the ground with the sides of the wheels, intent on not falling down, pulling harder and harder on my arm.
My son was on his bike, riding ahead, and returning often to check on our progress as he dutifully taunted his sister about her inability to keep up with him or even our small dog. She took it all in stride, and was dead set on getting this skill mastered.
A few wobbles here, a couple of whoopsies there - she admitted she was glad to have put on the pads that I insisted on. But she kept going. And her strides became longer. And her grip became looser.
She'd let go for a second, then grab on again desperately. Laughing all the way.
And her strides became longer, and her grip became looser. And she'd let go for longer.
Eventually, her brother had had enough and challenged her to a race of sorts, insisting he could lap us around the lake before she could reach the 300 feet to the stairs. Her head went down, her elbows up, like a roller derby girl and she accepted. But she grabbed my hand and said, "come on, Mama, we can beat him." I was surprised she wanted me along. My pace grew faster, until I had to break into a trot - and then I realized that I...I had to let go.
I was holding her back.
She turned her head, and asked why I let go - and I said, "don't worry! Just go, just go, honey! You can do it - I'll be behind you if you fall!" She smiled and took off. I'd swear I saw a glint in her eye.
Her brother still won the race. And she was happy when I caught up. She was so excited about what she'd done - how far she'd come in such a short time - so proud of herself. Exhileration was an understatement.
But now we had the bridge to tackle. A long wooden bridge, in good shape for the most part, but with some boards in need of repair, some nails that need to be banged in, and it winds over a creek and some wetlands, before descending back into the paved trail. She wasn't ready to do this alone.
We got over the bridge together, giggling at the immense sound of her roller blades over the weathered wood. She compared it to a wooden roller coaster - and said she couldn't wait to try it again, but alone next time.
At the bottom of the bridge, returning to the smooth pavement, she took my hand. She said, "you know, Mama, I don't need to hold your hand now. I just want to because I love you." I smiled, and held her hand tighter than she expected.
Soon, I sensed her mounting frustration at our speed. I let her go and said, "go on - go as fast as you can - just watch the acorns!" And she went. I watched her take off, accelerate and round one of the corners of the trail, past the old uprooted tree, which since her birth had almost all but disappeared back into the earth. And she was out of my sight.
She hollered back, "I'm doing it, Mama! I'm doing it! I'm really doing it! I'll meet you at home!"
"Okay!" I shouted back, choking back that inevitable lump in the throat that gets implanted when one becomes a parent. "I'll be there soon..."
When I finally caught up with her, she was beaming. She said, "you know what, Mama? I even fell. I fell pretty hard, but I got myself back up again. I didnt' need anybody to help me. I didn't even use a thing...I just did it myself. And look at me, I'm okay!"
"That's awesome, honey. I'm soooo proud of you!"
"I'm okay! I'm okay! I can't believe how far I came today!"
You have no idea, little one. You have no idea.
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