Memorializing Friends

When I was in high school I felt that documenting my life was one of the most important things I could do. I took pictures wherever I went and bought plain photo albums, filling about 4 of them with pictures from my teenage years. I decorated the covers with magazine clippings, making montages with all-things grunge, like Doc Martens, quotes from Pearl Jam and Nirvana, and phrases like “inspire”, “friendship is forever”, “no to conformity” and the like. The puff paint has worn away on the covers, but there’s still enough residue to make out the part that says: ”My Life (fill in the year)”. 

My dream back then was to open up the albums at some point in the future, and look back wistfully at a time when we were happy, inspired, principled; when we saw the world as if every avenue was open to us. I imagined going through the pages with my children, sharing stories of my adolescence.

Yet those photo albums have been on the same shelves for years; unopened, not shared. There’s even a thin layer of dust on some of them.

My Life: 1996. Grunge photos are on the back!

I may have fantasized about all possibilities that the future held for us, but I never imagined that what would bring me to open up the albums would be the death of one of those friends.  

Reva passed away suddenly about a month ago, a young woman of about 37, daughter, sister, wife, mother of a beautiful toddler. Her death has shaken me…awoken me from my metaphorical slumber.

We had not kept in touch for years, but I thought of her often. Not surprisingly, she wasn’t a Facebook user (she always did like her privacy), so I didn’t receive many updates about her life. Yet her death brought together a once close-knit group from high school who are now scattered across the world. For a small group that once shared a one-room synagogue and one small hallway that comprised our high school (yes, our school and shul were that small.), the distance that now separates us is tremendous.

Last week, we relied on an online memorial ceremony to gather together, sharing memories of Reva. How ironic to use an online social networking tool to remember a friend who valued her privacy offline. Friends recounted a vibrant young woman who was dedicated, principled, loved to question and share ideas. She didn’t see the value in small-talk; she thrived on making real friendships based on deep, authentic conversations.

This online memorial was actually the second one I participated in this summer. In early August, we commemorated the first yartzeit of Ayala Pamela, another friend of mine and young mother who passed away at the age of 40 from breast cancer five weeks after her diagnosis. Her illness spurred groups around the globe to pray on her behalf, yet within five weeks, she left this world for a loftier one. (For those curious, we used Google Hangouts and Skype.)

These were two simple, deeply soulful women who had strong, authentic friendships. Both of the memorial ceremonies included friends who logged in from their living rooms from around the world. How ironic to use social media - meant to connect people together- for mourning the loss of the deceased, especially for one who chose not to even have any Facebook presence. Yet these online ceremonies were powerful, cathartic, inspiring.

A few weeks ago, an Israeli friend once saw my collection of photo albums and commented that I was ‘too sentimental”. I keep too much stuff from the past, she said.

If only she knew the extent of it, I thought.

I made those albums for posterity; so I’d always be able to remind myself of my youth and the inspiring people who gave me the foundations that built who I am as a person.  For me, there is no such thing as being too sentimental; there is documenting your roots so you can always know from where you came.  The memories of Reva and Ayala will go on specifically because there are sentimental friends out there who wish to document their lives and remember their legacies.

Losing these two friends has reminded me that life is short.  It’s crucial to concentrate on what is fundamentally important. It is easy to get caught up with everyday life and its challenges, its frustrations and annoyances. We sometimes forget about the people who have led the way to our successes and accomplishments. More frequently, we take for granted how quickly it can all be taken from us.

How apropos for Elul.

Admittedly, I am wistful this time of year, for that time when we would see our closest friends every day, in person and not over a computer screen.

I am wistful for the time when we had our mentors accessible to us, guiding us, teaching us, inspiring us.

I am wistful for when life was simple.

I am wistful for a time when the framework and rules were clear; when we questioned as much as we wanted, aspiring for clarity and truth. Little did we know that adulthood would bring so many unanswered questions, mainly where the justice is in taking away two wonderful women who created families of their own, who left a host of loyal friends who gather together across the globe to share memories of how much they meant to them.

My lesson from mourning these two friends is not to wait until another friend passes on to contact them. Pick up the phone, go visit. Spend Shabbat together, and yes bring your spouses and children. They should get to know each other simply because you are all meaningful to each other. If you choose to meet for coffee during the week, you will survive leaving work early, taking a slightly longer lunch break and don’t worry, your spouse will figure out how to make dinner for the kids. While you can, go spend time with the people who inspire you to be exactly who you truly are or aspire to be.…

Sadly, the deaths of two young women, Reva and Ayala Pamela, were the catalysts for such a reflection. I hope to use our time here in this world to stay connected with and impacted by people whom I cherish.

New Year's/Old Years

This stormy weather out there reminds me of my years in New York: the sound of the winter winds howling outside, the balls of hail bouncing off of the window panes, the air so cold that the minute the door opens to the outside, you’re already shivering. I am thankful this only lasts a few short days here in Jerusalem. The cold makes me cranky and my body moves slower. I hate cold drops dripping on me. Yet there is something endearing about being forced to get inside and spend some quiet time at home. Instead of wandering around town, the cold weather pushes me into the space that I’ve created for myself. Whether I like it or not the winter tells me: "Go be in your own space and enjoy it." Apparently I have difficulty with appreciating what I have.

So here I am: my warm apartment, a snuggly new pair of Old Navy pajama pants, and memories.

Ten years ago. New Year’s 2003. New York City.

I was young and clueless on so many levels. Looking back, I had so much going for me: a decently-paying job, a beautiful apartment in NYC, wonderful friends and a caring, affectionate boyfriend.  I shouldn’t have had a worry in the world, but at the time I was too uptight to realize that. I had (and still have) this talent at looking at what’s missing; what’s not perfect; what’s not there. So much so that I sometimes completely overlook what actually is there. What actually is going right. 

If I would’ve known then what I’d be like ten years later, would I have made the same choices?

Would I have said goodbye?

Would I have left the only man that I ever truly loved?

That evening, I had bought a bottle of sparkling grape juice along with a sleeve of small plastic cups (I had known that it was illegal to consume alcohol in public spheres; if nothing else, I've always been responsible and terribly socially conscious.) Boarding the A train, I set out for a 1.5 hr subway ride to JFK. I had encouraged him to go to London with a group because I felt it would give him clarity, inspiration. Maybe that was my way of giving us both some space. Likely it was a combination of all of that.

Somehow I had timed-out the journey accurately enough that I caught him just as he was boarding that same train. The doors opened, I was thrilled. Exhilarated to see him,  and proud of myself for having such damn good timing. 

We toasted a Happy New Year on the subway car back up to Manhattan, celebrating with a group of strangers, probably student-tourists trying to save a penny by not taking a taxi to the city (like us).

I recall being happy; lonely; happy. Always riding this see-saw ride, navigating between being in love and fearing the future.  Being in love, and yet always wondering what else, who else may be on the horizon. Somewhere better, someone better.

Ten years later, I look back. I see that life is about choices.

Nothing is perfect. No one is perfect. There comes a time when we all choose. Priorities. And we have to somehow deal with those imperfections called life. We grow, we make progress, we learn. 

Most importantly I am learning to be present and appreciate what I have in life. In many ways I am a perfectionist, and I'm damn good at avoiding things I don't think I can do perfectly. 

My desire is to be cherished. To cherish. To value the present and embrace the wonderful man who lays next to me. To build. To bring inspiration and meaning to those around me. Priorities.

I had that. I could have had it for longer, but I was too uptight to realize how good it was.

Then again, maybe memory is playing games on me. After all, I was not stupid or blinded. Yes I loved, and I was loved, but there were problems, issues. I had issues. I couldn't commit. I was scared. I certainly wanted to build back then, but my foundations wanted to be built halfway across the world. 

Ten years. 

Celebrating New Year's with memories from the Old Years.

But overall, delighting that this storm is bouncing off my window sill in Jerusalem.

On Grandma's 100th Birthday

I still remember walking into my grandmother’s modest house in Elmont, New York. We would always enter through the door in the backyard because she had turned the front of the house into a second-level apartment which she rented. I would walk in the door, which immediately had us standing in her kitchen, and I’d reach for the refrigerator door because I knew that’s where the kept her stash of M&Ms. She would stop me in my tracks, welcome me, and then quickly look at my hands. “You have to stop biting your nails, J.,” she constantly reprimanded me. Even at the age of six or seven, I had already developed a habit that continues to this very day. “Oy vey, your nails are so short,” she whined in her raspy voice, “it’s so bad for you!” “Ok, ok, ok, I’ll stop,” I would tell her over and over again. I’m now thirty-two, and sometimes my fingers still hurt from biting them. Oops, sorry Gram!

We were always pretty diligent about visiting my grandma. My mom had an exceptionally close relationship with her, and I believe both she and I take after my grandma in many ways. And so, today, what would have been her 100^th birthday, I would like to reminisce about my grandma, Ann S., and maybe try to shed some light on who she was.

Ann (Anna) S. was born on Stanton Street on the Lower East Side on August 12, 1912 to Molly (Malka) and Hymie (Chaim) W's. As far as I know, the W's had many children, but only four girls survived beyond infancy: Sarah, Gussie, Dora and Anna.  At a certain point, they moved to the Bronx, then seen as moving up the socio-economic ladder. Even back in the 30s and 40s, my grandmother was already challenging societal roles: she became a working woman, and became the main breadwinner of her family. I don’t know what her parents did for a living, but they were immigrants from Poland, presumably limited professionally and linguistically. "Anna", as they called her, was a first-generation American, worked as a bookkeeper in New York City, and helped finance her family. When she wasn’t working in the office, she worked hard at home.  I believe they were Orthodox Jews growing up, but once she had her own family, she chucked frumkeit and Yiddish. She chose a more cultural-Jewish route, making the world's best matzah ball soup for yuntifs, chopped liver, and went to the Elmont Jewish Center a couple of times a year. During her early adult life, she dedicated her life to helping her parents, and also helped her sisters raise their children.

Her older sister Dora, was widowed when her two sons were about two and five years old. My grandma helped raise Dora’s two sons, H. and R., and encouraged them both to stay in school and empower themselves.H. went on to get his PhD, and is still active in local politics. He has become a role model for me, and I love getting together with him on the rare occasions that I go to the U.S. R., too, has developed his own career, and still lives in the Bronx. My grandma used to tell us stories about their childhood friend from the Bronx, Al Pacino, who of course, went on to become one of the most famous movie stars of all time. I wonder if there's a chance that he remembers "Aunt Anna"?!

I would like to think that I get my ambition and drive from my mother, who I believe, got it from my grandma. She was a tough lady, didn’t let anyone stop her when she wanted to do something, and spoke her mind…She grew to hate my father, and made no secret of that. She also, did not like the fact that we became more observant religiously. She felt that this lifestyle was better left in the shtetl, and said, “We’re in America now! Who needs this?!” Yet, we continued in our ways. And, for some reason that I still do not understand, she wasn’t so fond of my sister Rachel, who was a cute little rolly-polly blonde baby, yet she would tease her and trip her with her cane when she started to walk. I still don’t understand why!

 

Surprisingly, my grandma didn’t get married until she was about thirty-nine years old! She gave birth to my mom at forty, and to my aunt at forty-one!  To start a marriage and have kids at that age in the 1950s was unheard of! To thicken the plot, her husband, Harry, my grandfather, was about six years younger than her. Just consider that for a moment to get an idea of how unconventional my grandma must have been. Of course these are details that I only became aware of as I got older, but now that I have some awareness of societal norms in a historical perspective, I am so curious to uncover the mystery of my grandma.  It sounds like she was so busy in her professional and family life, but to put off starting her own family, when everyone around her was presumably starting their own families at such young ages, either she just didn’t care (very likely) or it was difficult for her to handle. Most likely it was a combination of both.

My mom, M. was born in 1952 in the Bronx, and my aunt R. was born in 1953. My grandparents then moved out to the suburbs of Long Island for a better life, and so both my mom and aunt were raised in Elmont, NY. To this day, my mom’s two claims to fame are: 1) Billy Joel played at her high school prom with his then- garage-band; and 2) she is a proud participant of the original Woodstock, to which her very own father drove her for hours, while getting stuck in traffic from Long Island all the way to Saugerties, New York.

Once into adulthood, my mom and dad stayed on the North Shore, while my mom developed a successful career as an English teacher, and my aunt and uncle struggled their way their whole lives, moving around the South Shore with my cousin Brian.

Even though I was already an adult when my grandma passed away (she died in May 2002), I didn’t have the opportunity to get to know her life story. She had dementia for the last few years of her life, and just at the time in my life when I developed a curiosity to get to know her and ask her about her life, she was not lucid anymore. Yet, what always made an impact on me was how well my mother took care of my grandma. Just like my grandma dedicated her life to helping her own parents for so long (presumably until they died), my own mother bent over backwards to make sure my grandma had the best of the best care as she became elderly.

After she moved out to the Assisted Living Center, she had a stroke which left her blind. My mom spent months researching the best options for her, and chose to hire a companion nurse for her to help her with her everyday living. She specifically chose this option, I think, because she knew that she wasn’t ready for a nursing home. It would have been degrading for a woman who was used to balancing her checkbook to the penny to move into a nursing home just because she couldn’t see anymore. At the time, she was still “with-it” mentally; she was blind and needed help around the house. So my mom hired Genevieve, a kind woman with a slight southern twang, was in her late 50s and lived nearby. My mom trusted her with my grandma, and had her do help with her shopping, cooking  and light chores. My grandma, called her “Genovese” like the pharmacy, because she just couldn’t hear her name right. She stayed with my grandma for a while until her situation deteriorated, necessitating the care of a nursing home. My mom then found her the most palatial nursing home in the area: the Gurwin Jewish Geriatric Center, where we spent a lot of time. I was already in college by then, but my mom took my little sister and visited her nearly every single day.  As a divorced mom of three spoiled, high-maintenance children who had held down a full-time career for her entire adult life, I honestly don’t know how my mother found the time to juggle everything and still take care of my grandma. She knew that my grandma always made sure to have her hair permed and set once a week; this didn’t stop once she was in the nursing home. She made sure she had everything she needed, that she was comfortable and lived in dignity. 

I can go on and on, but here is a short list of things I believe I learned from my grandma:

·         Don’t be afraid to speak your mind.

·         Dedicate one room in the house for the kids to ruin. ( I say this because I have distinct memories of seeing the spray-painted graffiti from the 60s and 70s that my mom and her friends must have sprayed on my grandma’s basement walls!)

·         Sprite tastes better when it’s cold and flat.

·         Don’t bit your nails. (still do, sorry Gram!)

·         Never leave the house with hair looking bad.

·         A woman should never rely on a man to be the sole breadwinner in the family.

·         No matter how much you disagree with them, family comes first.

·         It’s ok to marry a younger man (if it was ok in 1949, it's certainly ok now!)

So I guess now you get a sense of the female role models in my family, and perhaps this sheds light on some of my own character traits. For those of you who remember my grandma, you’ll agree that she was one, feisty old lady!

I miss you Gram, you are always in my mind.