Wednesday, March 29, 2017

#BlogExodus: Exalt

In addition to a celebration of the Exodus from Egypt, Passover is roughly the halfway point between one High Holiday season and the next. This timing makes it a good place to check-in for a quick spiritual accounting. To paraphrase an expression from my father (who has one for every occasion!), Passover is a good time to be sure we're not "in love with the upright pronoun" and only exalt those things that truly deserve exalting.

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima, this post is one in a series marking the days of the Jewish month of Nisan leading up to Passover, which begins at sundown on Monday, April 10, corresponding to 15 Nisan. If you want to play along, check out this year's #BlogExodus and #ExodusGram prompts

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

#BlogExodus: Launch

Yikes! It's #BlogExodus again...already?! 

I suppose it's fitting that this year, 1 Nisan falls on the same day, March 28, that since 2010 has marked (and will ever more mark) for me the launch of the Pesach season. 

Here's how I described today's anniversary on Facebook:
Seven years ago today, I went out to the 'burbs to finish the cooking for "the Passover that wasn't." What happened during the seven weeks that followed fills me with memories bitter and sweet.
In response to an inquiry from Harriet, a friend whom I only met afterward, I wrote this: "My mom went into the hospital on the day of the first seder and into hospice on Shavuot." To which Harriet replied, "That must have been unbearable. Every year must be difficult. Some sorrows we never get over, we just learn to live with them."

It is true. I know I will not get over this sorrow, but I have learned to live with it...and to find the silver linings within it. 

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima, this post is one in a series marking the days of the Jewish month of Nisan leading up to Passover, which begins at sundown on Monday, April 10, corresponding to 15 Nisan. If you want to play along, check out this year's #BlogExodus and #ExodusGram prompts

Sunday, March 5, 2017

The Fine Line Between Memory and Lore

This yahrzeit candle is for Tante Laura, who died when I was only seven (yes, 47 years ago). Nonetheless, I have many sweet memories -- although some are more lore than memory.
  1. Tante Laura and my grandmother and their brother, Uncle Max, came to this country from Vienna in the early 1920s, and worked in the garment industry, saving to bring their parents here as well.
  2. When my mom was a little girl in the Bronx, Tante Laura and Uncle Max – neither of whom ever married – rented an apartment from the Provenzanos that was right next door to Provenzano Lanza Funeral Home on Second Avenue between Second and Third streets. Directly across the street was the Church of the Nativity, and on Saturdays in the spring, my mother would watch from Tante Laura’s window as the wedding parties assembled on the steps of the church for photographs. She always described the bride and groom in the middle, flanked by taffeta-clad bridesmaids – two in blue, two in yellow, two in pink, two in green, and so on. Oh, how those young women must have captured her imagination. To this day, whenever I ride the bus down Second Avenue, I take a long glance at those windows, wondering at that early 1940s scene.
  3. When my cousin, Ted, was in college, he told his mom about a kid in his fraternity – Joe Cernigliaro – who had some connection to the Provenzano Lanza Funeral Home. Don’t ask me why or how the two guys figured this out, but on a whim, my Aunt Claire told Ted to ask Joe if his mother’s name is Adrienne. Sure enough, that’s his mom. I’m not sure if she knew my mom and Aunt Claire when Tante Laura and Uncle Max were her family’s tenants, but it’s a small world nonetheless.
  4. To say that Tante Laura was generous would be an understatement. When she made sandwiches, my mom would ask her to make hers with just one slice of bread. She did, of course, but she used the biggest, thickest one from right in the middle of the rye bread! Years later, when my parents were married and living with two young kids a few hours from New York, my mom always found a $10 bill tucked in the pocket of her coat or purse upon returning from a visit.
  5. When I was born (or maybe it was Amy?), Tante Laura made a dress from Swiss dot fabric (the dots were red) that still hangs in the closet in what had been my sister’s room at 12 Webster Road.
  6. In my mind’s eye, Tante Laura was always zaftig (and I am convinced I got those genes). She wore combs in her hair and black orthopedic shoes on her feet. To me, she resembled Golda Meir, which accounts, I think, for my fondness for the zaftig Israeli politician with the black orthopedic shoes.
  7. This memory isn’t necessarily sweet and it’s not even a memory because I didn’t learn about it, let alone understand what it meant, until long after it happened. When Tante Laura died in 1970, the gravediggers were on strike in New York and my parents traveled hastily from Maryland to New York for her funeral, returning there for her burial when the strike ended three months later. To this day, I think about this sad circumstance – and Tante Laura – whenever the gravediggers lower a casket into the ground before the rest of us cover it with shovels full of dirt. 
Rest in peace, Tante Laura, now and always.

Sunday, February 12, 2017

"Never Again" Means Never Again for Anybody

Some days I get so annoyed with our people – especially when we  kvetch, we groan, we complain.

Today wasn’t one of those days.

Today, I was proud to stand in the sleet and freezing rain, alongside thousands of others at Castle Clinton in Battery Park, the very spot through which many of our parents and grandparents passed on their way to the American dream: a better life for themselves and their families.

As the hail pelted us, we stood in solidarity with immigrants and refugees who seek that same American dream today.

In the cold, we stood to oppose the administration’s efforts to extinguish Lady Liberty’s lamp by slamming shut our country’s golden door. Our people has a long memory and we remember all too well the fate of the passengers aboard the MS St. Louis, turned away from our shores during another dark time in our history.

Soaked to the skin, we listened to words and music from elected officials, community and religious leaders, and recent immigrants – ever cognizant that once upon a time, we were refugees, too.

Today we stood on the shoulders of those who came before us, unwavering in our commitment that “never again” means never again for anybody.

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

I Know You Were Marching Right Beside Me

Dear The Mums,

Although I don’t know what kind of news coverage there is where you are, I hope you know that Donald Trump is this country’s new president – and that from the perspective of many Americans, he’s wreaking havoc on our democracy.

As the National Organization for Women has reported, immediately following his inauguration, he:
The new president also is having a field day with executive orders, and within 72 hours of taking office, signed executive orders to:
Even as we’re bracing for a Supreme Court nominee and other actions that will attempt to erode women’s rights and civil rights of countless Americans, an unprecedented grassroots movement is gaining momentum. Last Saturday – one day after the president’s inauguration – millions of women (and plenty of men, too) took to the streets in cities across this country and around the world, peacefully marching to demonstrate, again in the words of NOW, “that women’s rights and civil rights will not be rolled back.”

For the first time in many decades, we’re proving that we know what democracy looks like, we’re exercising our right to speak truth to power, and we’re standing up for what is right and just – for women and men, immigrants, people of color, gays, lesbians, transgender people, Muslims, and anyone who calls this country home.

I’m quite sure last week’s march was only the beginning of our work to protect the freedoms and opportunities this country offers us – and that we, unfortunately, can no longer take for granted. Secure in my own beliefs as a feminist, an American, a liberal Jew, and a human being, I am prepared to roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty in an effort to make America think again. In the meantime, I was beyond proud to join with hundreds of thousands of other sign-toting New Yorkers in the march up Fifth Avenue – and I know you were there too, marching right beside me.

Miss you…xoxo.
~ Boo!

Monday, January 2, 2017

One More Terrible Thing About 2016

As though the year just ended wasn’t horrible enough – annus horribilis as Queen Elizabeth would say – I was appalled to discover, thanks to, that in the entire 12 months I read a meager five books.

Five books?! High school students do better than that in a single semester.

Appalling, dreadful, upsetting, dismaying, and inexcusable don’t begin to describe my disappointment, but for what it’s worth, here are the volumes that captured my attention in 2016:
  1. Fire in the Ashes: Twenty-Five Years Among the Poorest Children in America by Jonathan Kozol
  2. When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi
  3. In the Unlikely Event by Judy Blume
  4. Disrupted: My Misadventure in the Start-Up Bubble by Dan Lyons
  5. The Violinist’s Thumb by Sam Kean
Having finished Susan Cain’s Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking before the new year was even 12 hours old, I guess I’d count this one as well.

Although I’m not generally the resolution-making type, determined, dogged, firm, unwavering, and single-minded barely scratch the surface of my tenacity to do better this year.  

With that in mind, I’m off to my reading chair, Anne of Green Gables in hand.