Not a Wild Goose Chase

 

Put simply, I cannot get my mother out of me. Why was Mom frequently correct? Typical North American psychologists and social workers agree that individuation and separation constitute important developmental stage. Baby Boomers and Generation X strive to differentiate from their parents. The trajectory for Millenials and younger groups confounds me, (though probably similar). 

My parents were immigrants, double the trouble. First generation offspring automatically discard foreign superstitions and generational differences into the dumpster of ridiculous nonsense. My mother disparaged the use of plastic bags for storing foods which I ignored--turns out she had a point. Mother refused to do take-out meals, especially drinks in the car, an enduring habit of mine. Yes, sitting down with a non-disposable cup and saucer in a cafe or at home facilitates relaxation and mindfulness. My generation and the succeeding one enriched their young children with a myriad of activities. Certainly, such practice exposes the kids to a wider world. But independent play, as my parents' generation encouraged, without adult intervention, enables self-reliance. No argument there. My mother recycled before it was a sound environmental policy. I need not continue, since the examples stretch on into infinity. If you include grandparents; fresh air, home cooked meals, walking, not too much T.V., and Saturday opera from the Met on the radio add to the list of worthwhile suggestions which I have embraced.

My parents maintained contacts with people around the world. The names and vital information were printed legibly in little leather address books, found in my parents' and grandmothers' possessions after their deaths. From A-Z, in their proper sections, one discovered--B for Bloch in London, or S for Stern in Johannesburg. My grandparents used the addresses for a back-up plan in their escape from the Nazis. 

By the time I grew up, my elders, still in possession of the well-used address books, asked me to ring "so-and-so" when I was in New York, for example. I dreaded those cold calls, feeling extremely awkward, insecure, and annoyed to bother strangers who may or may not be interested in me.

 In 2017, my sister and I accompanied my mother to Santa Fe, or rather she took us. Our mom removed a dog-eared postcard with an artist's name and number from her travel bag. 

She announced, "I'd like to contact this artist."

My sister and I groaned. The situation triggered my trauma of phoning strangers."This card is an advertisement. Why would you think the artist would see you personally?" I said too emphatically, since I dreaded the eventual phone call. My sister drove and I, relegated to the backseat, made the call. After several attempts--"Mom she's unavailable!" I yelled, while making faces that my sister could see in the rearview mirror. 

"Try again, just one more time," she pleaded.

So I did. We connected with the artist who directed us cheerfully to her home studio the following afternoon. My sister drove to a lovely residential area of Santa Fe with cactus lined streets. We arrived at our destination, and I said, "ok, Mom, here we are."

"Oh great, let's go." She replied.

We sisters refused to leave the car, believing this to be silly endeavor. Our mother left the car and walked up the driveway to be greeted by the artist. After five minutes or so, the two returned and beckoned us to the studio. We agreed reluctantly. Exploring an actual artist's studio, with a view of a beautiful backyard, peaked my interest. Another few minutes passed, and we realized this was not a wasted field trip to a boring place.

That is the day we met Sandra Duran Wilson, a talented, innovative artist and teacher, certainly "the real deal." Prolific, she creates pieces of art in multi media. First and foremost, she is gracious, empathic, and down-to-earth, not at all like other artists I met that day in the artsy section of the town. 

My mother had found Sandra in an art show on her first trip to New Mexico, which explained the wrinkled post card. The day we visited, mother, at the age of nearly 90, bought the second of two of the artist's works. I purchased two of Duran-Wilson's paintings on the Internet last week. Ms. Duran-Wilson originates from the vivid surroundings of the American Southwest that inspired such artists as Georgia O'Keefe and writer Willa Cather. 

So our intensely curious, intelligent, and old-fashioned mother was right again!

(Sisters flanking mother, in case you think we are all sisters!)

© 2021Karen Levi 

Where Do They Come From?

 How funny and strange to see people who seem to have walked out of a different century. Today, I stopped for a woman at a crosswalk in a small shopping area, pushing a cart filled with groceries. She was older--but how old could she be compared to me? Not that old. The woman wore a scarf on her head knotted under her chin and what appeared to be an apron over pants and a thick woolen sweater. All in black, not your typical Saturday afternoon outfit for a female in a Maryland suburb of Washington D.C. She crossed the street slowly, as if there was nothing special about taking a Giant shopping cart out of the parking lot. Other people occasionally take carts off the property, but her posture and movement were different. She was crouched over a bit and pushed the heavy load. Somehow, she brought to my mind a woman working her way home in a small European village. 

Her husband or male companion followed. He struck out his hands to halt traffic. I already had stopped my car. This action reminded me of manual traffic control in a tiny town without lights or signs. He, too, seemed out of our world. I thought--Tevye or Zorba. He wore a black fisherman's cap, baggy trousers, and a heavy woolen sweater. His shoes were clunky, and he walked slowly with slightly bent knees. 

When I see people like these--minding their own business, not bothering a soul--I think where did they come from? Maybe somewhere in the former Soviet Union where time has stood still. This couple was Caucasian, so I ruled out Asia and Africa.

I used to live in a area of North Bethesda that has a relatively high population of Sephardic Jews. The reason is the sephardic synagogue. Nearly everyday, a group of elderly men and women congregated nearby. They strolled, shopped, and perched on benches to converse. I say elderly, but I am what is considered elderly. These individuals dressed in a fashion that I associated with my grandmothers. The women wore scarves on their heads, skirts, and proper shoes, for example plain pumps with a small heel or tied oxfords. The men, weatherworn and wrinkled, wore caps, slacks, and zipper jackets. 

Their slow pace seemed to hearken back to fifty or more years ago. They did not speak English. I could not catch what language they spoke. Old world emanated from them. But where is the old world? We are one world now. Had they lived in a village in Turkey, Portugal, Georgia near the Black Sea? I am mystified. No one I know strolls, shops, strolls, and sits on benches.

Healthy--lucky--American adults in their seventies and eighties walk for exercise quickly--swinging their arms in an effort to increase heart rate and wearing athletic outfits. If we talk, we converse as we move, somewhat breathlessly I might add. Benches? No time for that. When we shop, we usually load groceries into a car, carry our food back to our nearby residences in reusable bags, or pull a brightly colored Whole Foods shopping cart, purchased for $29.99.

The self-sufficient friendly "aliens" I notice are, in fact, models for how we should live, especially those of us "of a certain age." We should slow down and stroll everywhere for our health but also for the environment. Strolling decreases the chances for tripping over curbs, bumps, holes, and uneven pavement. The benches are around us for a purpose. Why are we not using them? Where are we hurrying to? 

I confess, I am trying to stuff in as much living as is possible before disaster strikes, as in illness. But are we not living in a fairly disastrous world? I think, if only I do this, that, and the next activity. There is no stopping time. I am what I am. I am acting as I think is best. But, I keep going. The elderly folks who seem so old-fashioned, certainly my age, probably view me as the alien. Why is she in a rush, they might ask? Slow down, say hello, and smell the roses. I do smell flowers and notice nature, but I keep moving rapidly.

 

   

© 2021 Karen Levi

EMMY

 Her name was Emmy. I know little about her. She was my great aunt, the older sister of my grandfather Karl. I never met him either, since he died in Shanghai--a stateless refugee--before my parents had met. He might have told me about his older sister. 

No one to blame for the silence, I suppose. My mother left Germany when she was 11 years old. Her scant memories of this woman were the remaining tidbits of a living, breathing person. Thankfully, I possessed the prescience to ask my mother about Emmy during my mother's last years. My grandmother Kaethe--who lived until I was in my early 20's--never mentioned her sister-in-law who nagged her to dress more stylish. Omi Kaethe suffered severe depression and enumerable losses. Possibly, Emmy represented one more tragedy my grandmother could not bear. 

Emmy sent her teenage son, Hans, to Shanghai before World War II broke out; my mother knew Hans in Shanghai. I met him in San Francisco as a young child, but he died early on, in the late 1950's. Hans and Elfie, his wife, had a son Robert. His wife, who I knew throughout my childhood, remarried. Their son, Robert, appeared at my wedding in 1976. That was the last anyone in the family saw him. 

I am sure Emmy had friends in Berlin. She and her mother, my grandmother Klara, owned a fancy dress shop. Emmy and Klara exemplified the independent, entrepreneural, and fashionable women of the 1920's and early 1930's, a new demographic in post World War I Germany. I picture Emmy tall, handsome, and dressed in the 1920's style of cloche hats and knee length dresses with dropped waists. I love the style and emulated the mode in the 1980's when Laura Ashley clothes were the rage. I continue to wear cloche hats . 

Emmy had relationships with men, as evidenced by her last name Brodnitz. Who was he? Emmy bore a son, Hans, with someone, but who? Hans was known as Hans Mayer. Emmy must have been a dutiful daughter, since she did not leave her elderly mother alone after the war began.  She knew to send her son away though. I discovered evidence that she traveled around Germany, perhaps to evade the Nazis. Her end is terrible, sent to Estonia on a train and shot behind a depot. The Nazis tried desperately to destroy each and every Jew. However, they failed. I am here to remember.

My sister and I arranged to have a Stolperstein placed in front of her last residence in Charlottenburg--Wilmersdorf. a fashionable neighborhood in Berlin. A few people attended the ceremony today. Gunther Demning, the artist responsible for the Stolpersteine project, personally placed her stone in the cobblestone sidewalk. We say the Kaddish and her name. One of millions.

Emmy's mother Klara as a young woman. I do not have a picture of Emmy.

Stolperstein for Emmy Brodnitz (nee Wolffheim) 11/9/2021

© 2021 Karen Levi

The Holocaust is Obsessed with Us*

 In July 2021, I wrote a blog about a conspiracy of silence among therapists of the 1970's through the 1980's. I questioned why my unusual family background was discounted as an influence during my formative years of childhood. Perplexed that living in a large metropolitan area populated by a sizable Jewish population, a psychotherapist who treated me seemed unaware of ongoing research regarding the characteristics of children of Holocaust survivors. 

This week I had the pleasure to listen and watch a live streamed video of a psychiatrist from Vancouver B.C. Dr. Robert Krell, a child survivor of the Nazi invasion of the Netherlands, describe his experiences and those of other survivors and their families. Born in 1940, he emigrated to Canada--with his parents, also survivors--in the very early 1950's. He earned his medical degree in the United States. Dr. Krell treated and studied Holocaust survivors for decades. He corrobrated my observations, which I have included in the two memoirs I have written about my family. During the post World War II period,  professionals recommended that survivors forget past trauma. The denial which resulted from this advice profoundly influenced the victims and future generations.

Dr. Krell stated that the world began to regard the survivors of the Holocaust in a different light in the 1980's. Imagine, 40 years after an event, psychologists and sociologists realize that surviving trauma effected the overall adaptation of victims and their offspring. Think about the time span for a moment: given the latency between precipitating event and serious study of the negative consequences to the victims would have us considering the "boat people" of southeast Asia in 2021!

Returning to my experience, Dr. Krell clearly stated that psychotherapists, in the 1970's and 1980's, were in denial about the survivors of the Holocaust. These same psychiatrists, psychologists, and social workers were terrified to delve into a subject that possibly touched them or at the least was a horrific chapter in recent history. Though the therapists encouraged introspection, the message to "get on with your life" was the cogent message. I was told, "why are you so concerned what your mother did," or "that was the Depression, everyone did that." Actually I still hear this type of comment. But the truth is that my mother was a young child in Germany during the Depression. And my father was a child and teenager, living a fairly privileged existence, at the time, with the exception of the growing threat of Nazis.

Would my psychological growth have accelerated if I had been aware of the commonalities among children of trauma victims? If my therapist would have regarded me as part of a group? A question that occupies my mind yet remains impossible to answer. I am not complaining for I feel fortunate, but my curiousity is piqued.

Dr. Krell reported that survivors, including himself, often are questioned: "Can't you put the Holocaust behind you?" or "Why are you obsessed with the Holocaust?" I have had these accusatory questions posed to me. Dr. Krell eloquently answered, "The Holocaust is obsessed with us!" 

My original family is embedded in the neural pathways and cells of my brain, in the form of memory and ingrained patterns of thought. Yes, I have evolved. I am not particularly dysfunctional as a human. But just ask my niece, she will tell you. Recently, she exclaimed, "You and Mom are exactly alike. You are one." 

My sister and I are polar opposites in personality; yet, apparently our fundamental behaviors originate from the same source in time and place, which would be the 1950's in San Francisco. However, not so--our mother and father and grandmothers remained in Shanghai, Berlin, and Konstanz, Germany. Actually, the adults who raised my sister and I lived in the dark alleys and narrow streets of memories, regrets, and guilt. 

*Originally heard on October 28, 2021, by Dr. Robert Krell. https://liberation75.jwpapp.com/m/oVFrQwnl/testimony-and-trauma-introducing-the-last-chance-collection?list=PGAXsioh

©2021 Karen Levi

How to Reduce your Impact on climate change--10 simple tasks

 The clock to save our planet is running down. Your time on the planet has always been limited. Now that we are older, we visualize an end to our bodily lives. I do not know about you, but I want to leave some evidence that I made an effort to maintain the earth as a livable environment. Certainly, I feel powerless in view of such a tremendous task. Apparently, small changes accomplished by many

reduce the deleterious effects of greenhouse gas emissions. Burning fossil fuels, cutting down trees, and mishandling of land usage result in the release of carbon dioxide. Methane--another greenhouse gas--is caused by landfills, livestock grazing, and gas appliances. So, as a reminder, do your share:

• Designate one or two days/week that are no-car days
• Purchase a small or compact hybrid or electric car
• Drive/take a train instead of fly for short distances
• Compost 
• Eat less meat
• Join a tree planting effort
• Recycle, recyle, recycle
• Install solar panels if you live in a house
• Explore the source of your electric powerBuy electric appliances

Music is Holy

 

  

       After the Kabbalat Shabbat, the young woman bolstered her courage and stepped up to the rabbi, “The music inspires me more than the actual prayers. The melodies, along with the Hebrew, transport me to a place faraway. Is this, o.k.? Or am I not doing what I should?” 

      “Go on,” Rabbi Ruth encouraged the woman to continue. 

      “Sometimes, when we sing, I feel I am in a room with wooden benches. Men daven and chant. The elderly, bearded men wear tallit and sway. It could be the old synagogue in Worms, Germany that I visited a few years ago. But I am there—connected by music to people praying a hundred years ago.” 

      “There are no ‘shoulds.’ That is beautiful, Kendra. I am touched that our music transports you to the past. This is a sacred bridge. Music is certainly a form of prayer. And prayer is music.” The rabbi touched her heart as she spoke. 

      “How so?” Kendra asked the rabbi. 

      “The music connects you to prayer from the past. The music allows you to lift yourself into a mystical realm. The Hebrew words are like poetry when read and repeated. Surprisingly, the translated versions are inspiring, as well. Joined together, the words in either language, form a rhythm that is verbal but nonetheless moving.” 

      “Mm. I see Rabbi. Sometimes when we sing the music, I enter a space of raw emotion. I sense fragile, pure feeling, that is all.” 

      “That is prayer in my mind, Kendra. You are blessed. Continue your path--see where the journey leads. Thank you for sharing your thoughts. Amen.” 

      “Shabbat Shalom.” Kendra responded, as she walked away. 

Epilogue: 

The talented Lin Miranda-Manuel wrote a song, Almost Like Prayer, a validation for this little story.

Susan Pops Her Head Up

 My friend, Susan, who died in 2017, much too young from cancer, would speak out. 

Recently, I watched a documentary about Julius Rosenwald directed by Aviva Kempner. Julius Rosenwald was born in the United States to German Jewish immigrant parents in 1862. His parents followed the typical trajectory from peddler to clothier. After being apprenticed to his uncles in New York City, Julius and his brother started a clothing manufacturing business. Julius, an excellent entrepeneur, eventually partnered with Richard Sears in the Sears Roebuck Company. The rest is history as the Sears Roebuck Company grew, becoming a household name and serving a practical, often necessary role for Americans. 

Rosenwald was determined to help those in need, a Jewish value he learned from his rabbi. Mr. Rosenwald worked and lived during the Progressive Era, a time when society valued and encouraged philanthropy. The Progressive Era, much like our 1960's-1970's, saw the likes of Louis Brandeis, W.E.B. DuBois, Upton Sinclair, and Jane Addams, to name a few well-known philanthropists. 

Julius Rosenwald, encouraged by Booker T. Washington, agreed to serve on the Board of Directors of the Tuskegee Institute. Recognizing that the plight of African Americans in the South was dire, Rosenwald assisted small communities in the deep South to build schools/community centers. He provided funds, insisting that the towns match the donations with local financial, moral, and physical support. The schools uplifted young black persons through education--academic and practical--for several generations. 

The 1954 Supreme Court decision, Brown vs. the Board of Education, resulted in the desegragation of schools. The Rosenwald Schools exemplified separate but (not) equal opportunities, so prevalent in the United States in the first half of the 20th century. Therefore, the schools were deemed illegal, though they continued in parts of the South, due to noncompliance with the Supreme Court decision.

Rosenwald's actions demonstrated a fine example of Tikkun Olam, the Jewish concept of repairing the world, and he committed a true Mitzvah, as he chose to remain out of the limelight while doing good. Julius Rosenwald's support enabled the expansion of the YMCA in large cities and fellowships for young artists of all races.

So why would Susan pop her head up? Why would she speak out? She reminded me not to be complacent. I know enough history to understand the context of Rosenwald's charity, the Progressive Era. Of course, the former students of the schools he supported would be nostalgic and have fond memories of their education, quite precious during the Jim Crow era. Except what about the children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren of the students? What are their thoughts about separate schools, fellowships, and opportunities, existing alongside but not within mainstream society?

 I learned many years ago, that African Americans refuse to be treated as children or uninformed citizens. African Americans prefer self determination in lieu of paternalism. What struck me after watching the film was the awful state of education I witnessed in my life long after Rosenwald's time? How do the Rosenwald schools relate to tracking of Black students, de facto segregation, bussing, standardized testing, affirmative action, and now the inclusion of critical race theory in the curriculum? The Rosenwald schools reinforced the status quo of racism by providing separate but not equal education. This was not Rosenwald's fault; however, it must be said. 

Certainly, the education of all students of color improved during the 20th century. Progress continues, albeit with strong protests from some white parents and politicians. Backlash against improvements in the education of all students, especially those of color, occurred cyclically in the 20th century; we now find ourselves in such a period in the 21st century. 

Kempner's movie and a discussion my synagogue held with Dorothy Canter did not include a reckoning of a wider and longer perspective. Yes, Julius Rosenwald was an exemplary American Jewish citizen. And yes, the schools still standing should become historical landmarks. (Some are, I believe.) Nevertheless, we should ask critical questions--with a historical viewpoint-- to advance contemporary education for students, including those who are minorities. 

Eat Popcorn

 On Thursday night, I noticed a striking picture on Twitter from @unequalscenes. The photo of a man riding a bike on a flooded street in New York City during Wednesday nights' torrential rain caught my attention-- the man was delivering pizza. I, like hundreds or thousands, commented in shock, dismay, and anger. What the hell is this? Some selfish blockhead ordered pizza during a serious storm? There are so many jarring aspects to this photograph, hence it went viral. I am pleased to see that a photographer has made it his business to record the inequities of our world. There is a website--unequalscenes.com/projects, that explains the efforts of this photographer. 

Inequity, perhaps that is the word I need. Inequity is not new, but I notice contrasts between the rich and poor, women and men, entitled and excluded, younger and older to name a few, occurring with increased frequency in my immediate environment. What path did we take, what corner turned, what ship sailed that takes people to new destinations of self absorption? Who, what, where did the older generations go wrong? How did increased self-esteem evolve into me, me, me!

An opportunity may exist, but the choice to act upon it is voluntary. Yes, one can call Uber Eats or Grubhub to order a pizza. And food delivery can be useful. However, if there is a raging storm, why would an individual think that someone else should risk their safety to satisfy a desire for pizza? Where is conscience? In my previous residence, I saw one latte, etc. being delivered. WTF to be blunt?

I remember asking my mother, "What is conscience?" I read the word as con--science. She explained the concept to me. As a child, I visualized a person on my shoulder or in my brain advising me on right vs. wrong. Of course, I developed an overactive superego, but that is another story to tell.

I do not ask why the worker went out in the rain? I know the answer. I ask why do consumers think they should do or because it is available. As I have written before, I am imperfect. I buy unnecessary items. I indulge in specialty foods and drinks. However, I do have a conscience. I know when to stop. And I taught my children this idea and concomitant behaviors.

How is it that FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) is a legitimate concern? Every day we decide and then act. We forego one experience for another. Hopefully, we accomplish what is necessary and remain cognizant of our family's needs and our well-being. Then we can have fun. 

I am extremely conscious of the days racing by. I am sad beyond sad that I cannot travel now. But I know that this is what life has thrown at me. Yes, I am missing out. Yes, I cannot go to the theater or concerts. I hate it! And I hate the virus. My solution is to substitute other activities for traveling or going out at night. 

So please, when a hurricane is raging or the earth is shaking or a fire is on the horizon, eat popcorn instead of pizza. 

I CANNOT "LET IT GO"--IN MEMORY OF MY MOTHER

Recently, I engaged in another frustrating interchange with a relative about the COVID-19 vaccine. She is polar opposite to me on a variety of subjects. Her history is troubled, and she has embraced evangelical Christianity for many years. That in itself is not problematic, but as a result,  this type of Christianity has influenced her to choose paths that lead to extreme thinking. How does a bright woman--born to a Jewish mother--become a rabid follower of right wing conspiracy theories? Her arguments are delineated logically, but, to me, they are strangely alien and paranoid. Her personal viewpoints are couched in research, which is dubious or outright fallacious. 

A few weeks ago, she commented--on social media--that New York City's requirement of proof of vaccination for in-restaurant customers was "like the Nazis." Needless to say, she caused a firestorm of protests, beginning with her sister. My sister and I followed with outrage, as did many individuals of various genders, races and ages. She or her husband went on to say that requiring proof of vaccination was similar to the Nuremberg Laws of 1935. These comments are inflammatory, dangerous, and misleading. That is clear. But, what concerns me is there are an increasing number of Americans who expound these ideas. My conscience does not allow me to "let this go" any longer. For years, I have heard justification for Trump's presidency--what he said, did, and allowed to happen--from her. I know I am powerless to change this person. She is "free" to say what she wants. You know, "it's a free country." The communication of misinformation, with dangerous consequences, should be a crime. However, disseminating lies is rarely punished.

The Nazi comment was hurtful because my parents were Holocaust survivors. As my mother said, when she watched the Charlottesville march, "those aren't real Nazis. They don't even know what a real Nazi is like." I was shocked at her statement because I thought Charlottesville was bad enough. Nonetheless, individuals born after World War II have no idea about fear and suffering. We simply do not! And that sensitivity and awareness decreases as the years rapidly fall away from post World War II America. I, at least, grew up with adults who had actually experienced Nazis. My peers grew up with parents who had fought in World War II. Someone born in the 1980's or 1990's and onward may not have ever met a person from the World War II era. The suffering endured by those involved in the Korean War, the Cold War, and Vietnam have not effected people born after those horrible conflicts.

Which brings me to our present situation, our plague of 2019--?. COVID-19 is probably as close to true suffering as all of us alive today will experience. I am astounded  when I hear of the selfish acts of my fellow citizens. I am guilty of self-centeredness, since I grieve the loss of the opportunity to travel. I am self-centered, and I focus on reducing this behavior constantly. But there are many among me who feel "they must do-----". I do not need to elaborate, since we all have seen pictures and heard the stories of individuals traveling for pleasure during the pandemic, one example of our self-absorption. I get into trouble by speaking of this. It is true that we all do what we feel is ethically sound. But are we truly making the effort, striving for our best selves? Questions to ponder as we pray, meditate, or think quietly. And, for Jews, 'tis the season.

The main thread of this essay is egocentricism, whether it is refusal to get vaccinated based on the right not to or going on a pleasure trip to escape. I can do what I want to do, no matter. This is our American credo, the basis of our upbringing. We are now reaping the bitter fruits of the primacy of free will and supremacy of the individual. Rugged individualism has its merits but has been tempered by altruism throughout my life. There has been a tug and pull between these philosophies, a balance. Ayn Rand, in her book The Fountainhead, had a character who counteracted the libertarian. As I remember, he was weak and pathetic, but he existed. Now, I see people in our country who truly believe that their freedom of choice is the only factor in making decisions, the best examples being the possessions of automatic weapons and not following normal health precautions. But, almost more frightening, are those who appear liberal, but are actually self-centered to the max. They are the wolves in sheeps' clothing as warned by Jesus in The Sermon on the Mount and described in Aesop's Fables.

As I previously mentioned, Mea Culpa. I am selfish. But, I do temper my self aborption with self-monitoring. I am just as fallible as the next person. However--I have not gone off to a villa in Bali yet. 

One more mention of my mother, she loved the book The Fountainhead and fashioned herself somewhat of a libertarian much to my chagrin. But, I know she never would have refused a vaccination to help to decrease the spread of a deadly virus. She valued health over all else. Why the anti-vaxxers may ask? She saw too many people and loved ones die.

For further reading: 

https://www.ineteconomics.org/perspectives/blog/libertarians-and-the-vaccine-give-me-liberty-and-give-them-death

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/The-Panic-Virus/Seth-Mnookin/9781439158654

Conspiracy of Silence--A Few Thoughts off the Couch

 "Conspiracy of Silence" is a term I have heard, though I am not sure of the where or who? Googling the phrase revealed that the words were not attributed to anyone in particular. I apologize if I am usurping a catchy expression. Family, friends and acquintances know of my interest in the Holocaust, particularly the effects on the offspring of survivors. Forgiveness, remembrance, and awareness of all forms of genocide are issues that concern me. 

So I was shocked to discover that research regarding the survivors of trauma and their children is not a new area of scientific inquiry. Contrary to what I believed, studies of survivors and their children have been occurring at least since the middle of the 20th century.  I discovered the research while writing two memoirs. 

A fine fellow I know who works for the United States Holocaust Museum (USHM) sent me an email in May 2021 about a virtual conference for Second Generation Survivors (2 G's). I signed up and attended, selecting those talks that peeked my curiousity. Before the first words were spoken, I was amazed. You mean we are a group? People know about us? I listened to the array of international experts. They spoke about intergenerational grief, never again, anti-semitism, the new Germany, among other subjects. Participants were invited to view movies--old and new--and listen to survivors and the children of survivors. 

During these presentations, streamed from Toronto, listeners chatted. For the first time, I read the words of strangers who experienced their childhoods much as I had. Women and men from the four corners of the globe described parents unable to express emotions, yet blurt out horrific events from their pasts, and deny their histories. Individuals related stories of parents who were overly indulgent or stingy, protective, secretive, prone to sudden bursts of anger, and strangely preoccupied. These behaviors occur in all populations. However, the exact combination of characteristics displayed by the participant's mothers and fathers--who were Holocaust survivors--was uncanny. Various studies document these personality attributes as common among survivors of trauma, including the Holocaust. 

As I participated in the conference, I learned of Helen Epstein, whose parents from Prague survived the Holocaust. Helen was born in a DP camp, grew up in New York City, and teaches and writes. I looked up her work, and I found she had written about the offspring of Holocaust survivors. Her first book--Children of the Holocaust--was published in 1979 when she was a young woman. 

1979? I gasped. How did I not know about this? Never had there been a peep from rabbis, intellectuals, and most importantly psychotherapists. I was married to a man who has a PhD in Social Work, who did a dissertation on a subject related to Jews, and worked with refugees for a Jewish Social Service Agency in Boston. How did this information go unnoticed by agency directors, professors, and his colleagues? He said he was unaware of the research. Groups for 2G's were forming at Boston University in the mid-late 1970's, literally in my backyard.

The most egregious omission, however, are the Jewish therapists I worked with over the years in the Washington D.C. area. Not one thought, mention, or question from these professionals occurred to link my parents' past to the description of my childhood. I should have sorted out the pieces of the puzzle, and I had to some extent. However, my psychotherapy in the 1980's was focused on my problems. I was told to assume responsibility and not blame my parents, generally excellent advice which I repeat to my children. However, disregarding a social/historical reason for quirky--often hurtful--behavior invalidates a patient's experience. Viewing personal issues from all perspectives, in my opinion, increases self-esteem and awareness in an anxious or depressed person.

I have read the same argument in books about racism. Certainly African Americans must take responsibilty for their lives. But to attribute all dysfunctional behavior as individual pathology avoids the subject of racism and its profound effects. Therin lies the weakness of a psychoanalytic approach. Not all human psychopathology is caused by the aberrant thought processes of a patient. We live in and out of our heads. Ultimately, the patient is responsible for change, no matter the cause. However, understanding the context of childhood decreases self-blame and self-hatred on the part of the person seeking help. 

Years ago when psychoanalysis was popular, therapists were required to undergo treatment. I do not believe this is the case now. Personal transformation is damn difficult. The professional should comprehend the process in a personal sense, including awareness of their pasts and difficulties in coping with relationships. Returning to the original topic, it is unfortunate that therapists of the mid and late 20th century avoided the topic of the Holocaust due to their discomfort of or relationship to the tragedy. Not talking about the Holocaust was part of the Zeitgeist; however, for therapists, especially Jewish ones, to deny this reality was a major error. In short, a conspiracy of silence prevailed.

Note: when I mention this subject, people commonly respond, "but this can be said about all parents." True, but that does not erase the fact that specific combinations of characteristics in parents--who survived the Holocaust--deeply affected their offspring in problematic ways. My points do not diminish the positive traits of people who have survived trauma.

Nothing New--Sad all the Same

 I read stories about refugees stranded in Mexico, attempting to enter the United States legally. These are women, children, and men fighting for survival. Their struggles are no different from the millions of unfortunate people who have attempted to leave a dangerous homeland. In this case, a good number are escaping a violent death at the hands of gangs who are no less than terrorists. Avoiding certain murder forces families to risk safety and security for a chance at life. Guatemalans running from thugs in their villages is identical to the Chinese escaping Communist rule in 1949. The Jews who left Spain during the Inquisition possessed the same instinct for survival as the Rohyinga in Myanmar, fearing death (by Buddhists if that can be fathomed). The examples are endless. 

Most Americans understand why slaves attempted escape; so why do they chastise their brown brothers and sisters who plead to gain access to the United States? Desperate refugees focus on food, shelter, and a means to survive. I abhor the attitude of Americans who are anti-immigration. All citizens have forbearers who arrived from elsewhere, with the exception of Native Americans. 

My ex-husband and I adopted two children from Latin America. One motivation to adopt internationally was the awareness that children frequently are in dire situations without a safety net. It is tragic that circumstances have continued to deteriorate for poor people in these countries. Governments south of our border are commonly irresponsible and corrupt. But how much of the weakness has been caused by American intervention? How many times has the U.S. government interfered with elections? 

"America!"

It is April 30, 2021. COVID is raging in India. I am not from India or of Indian heritage. I am human. How can I not care? People around me say, "Oh, I can't read that." How can one not "read that?" The victims on the south Asian subcontinent are us. We are them. It is as simple as that. 

Today, I cancelled a lunch date. The weather was not conducive to sitting outside. I worried that my friend would think I am silly. But COVID is insidious and burrows into our bodies literally and figuratively, like a nasty tick. I will not eat inside a crowded, small restaurant/market. I am fearful of COVID, eventhough I received my two Phizer vaccinations. I wear my mask as a shield now. Incredibly lucky that these are my concerns; ridiculously trivial when one sees pictures of crowded cremation grounds--smoky, hot, and virus infested--and caskets piled up, in makeshift tents, to be buried at all hours, in Brazil and Peru. 

I am transported to India, last year to Queens, New York. Baby boomers, like me, not particularly unwell, frail, or old are destroyed by the claws of a virus that squeezes the air capacity out of the lungs. The human causalties are not street people or beggars, though the latter are tragically dying by the hundreds of thousands. The sick are mothers and fathers, wed in the 1970's, who led a typical life, working, playing, crying, and laughing. They are the Indian version of me, living retirement years. 

Who or what is the cause of these disasters? We are. Humans should not handle wild animals without protection, let alone eat them. Last year, the world was caught unawares. Though that is an insufficient reason for what came to pass. But in 2021? How can a country like India, with large pharmaceutical companies, neglect its own people? Money--probably. Always follow the money. I can imagine....And an increase in private health insurance in India which translates to money in someone's pocket. There but for the "grace of God" go we in the United States. If a certain insane, tyrant had won the election, we might have been India. The world would have said, "America."

A Rose By Any Name Would Smell as Sweet

       I came across the name Cohany today. The person whose last name is Cohany is Jewish, but I thought, mm, sounds Irish too. What's with this? 

      This is what Google states: Cohan is a variant of Cohane, which itself is an Anglicized form of the Irish Ó Cadhain. Cohan is also a variant spelling of the Hebrew surname Cohen. This version of that name is commonly used in France (among Jews). 

      Then there is Brody? Instinctually, I would say the name is Irish also. But, did you know that Brody is a common Jewish name, originating from Poland.

      According to Google: Brody is a name of either Jewish or Irish origin. Often associated with the Ukrainian city of Brody, the name has been used both as a surname and a given name.  The name originated with the noble families of Ireland and later Scotland when it was colonized by Irish settlers during the late 6th and early 7th centuries.So, I was close. Not Polish but Ukrainian. The borders between these two regions shifted throughout history. 

    It is common knowledge that the names of immigrants were shortened by impatient or uncomprehending border officials at Ellis Island and other ports of entry. "Next, what is your name?" the clerk asked brusquely. "Ahem, Wolffheim," the dishelved foreigner responded. "What? We'll call you Wolf. Next." 

    Frequently, immigrants changed their names voluntarily, desiring to blend into the melting pot, which was a common description of the United States. It is an outdated term. Now, we are a plate, with dishes from many lands, which are separate but often leak into one another--as in, "Oh dear, my french lentil salad dressing is mixing with the sesame noodles." This happens at potlucks which, in my area, consist of dishes from different ethnic groups, rather than bland covered dishes. But, I digress. 

     My grandfather tried, "Lee" to generate more business. He attempted to be a silver poslisher in affluent homes when he arrived in the United States. Imagine, an entrepeneur turned silver polisher? His surname was "Levi." He did not realize that "Lee" is a common Chinese name, and in San Francisco in the 1930's that designation decreased his opportunities. There is a long history of anti-Asian behavior in California.

     People constantly ask me about my surname. "Why is 'Levi' pronounced 'Levee' rather than 'LevI?' I explain that my relations were German Jewish. The "i" is pronounced "ee" in German, resulting in "Layfi." (Levi)  I suppose the name game in the United States will forever be confusing, since we are a country of immigrants. I mispronounce foreign names, but I try to be polite, not dismissive about names. In the past, I wondered if "Levi" was the Sephardic version; but, my rabbi said, "not really." Due to the fact that the name is transliterated from Hebrew, one could choose any spelling. And, lo and behold, there were "Levis and Levys" in a cemetery in Morroco.

     Names are informative, suggesting a complex historical load that was borne on the backs of the people who emigrated to the United States. An African surname connotes the story of a proud and tenacious people who survived the perils of colonialism. Russian surnames tell us that this family was probably forced out by a totalitarian regime. A Vietnamese name, such as Ngyuen, reminds us of the horror of the war in Southeast Asia. Hispanic names evoke the troubled past of north and south America, beginning with the Spanish and continuing with our involvement in central and south American governments.

     The Ms. Cohany I know explained the history of her surname.  Her uncle left Lithuania for Israel and her father for the United States before World War II. Their name was Katz, a German sounding name, possibly related to Cohen, but to me is "cat" in German. The Germans controlled what is now Lithuania for a period of time. The brothers thought that Cohany--deriving from Cohen--did not sound German. So there it is. And an immigration official on the east coast of the United States probably thought, Oh, he's Irish like me. 

    Surnames at best describe a segment of a person's identity.

Wedding Store

        

        Another sight on my daily walks is a wedding dress boutique, of all stores to be near me. I have no reason to visit that shop, since I am forty-five years past my wedding day. I peer into the shop and happily notice women of all races inside at any given time. Phew. At least the shop is not that elitist. The space is lit with white modern light fixtures. There are small dressing rooms surrounding a large mirror and a platform

    I watch youngish women step into the store with their mothers and friends. I see their reflection in a three-way mirror. The women stand on a platform and view themselves this way and that. Many have an insecure look, being exposed as a bride in a mirror. Childlike, they put a finger up to their lips or cross their arms to cover their midsection. They do not seem like brides, more young girls trying on princess gowns. The young women are unaware that they can be viewed from the street.

        Most people probably walk by and ignore the establishment. But, I find it impossible to ignore a wedding dress boutique with an abundance of tule, lace, silk, and satin. I am drawn to the various shades of white and the lusciousness of so much splendor. Weddings are auspicious events in the life of a woman, an undeniable truth, women’s liberation notwithstanding. Either girls dream about getting married, or hope they will never marry. But marriage is a milestone, an entry into adult life, whether the couple is up to the challenge or not.

        I imagine—but cannot see—the miniature pearls and sparkles adorning the bodices of the dresses. Odd to see the twenty to thirtyish women, with their sloppy buns or ponytails, in strapless wedding gowns, modeling their choices. I think strapless wedding gowns are dumb. So few women look attractive in this style. Imagine, being afraid that your dress might slip down during the wedding and reception?

        My mind wanders to happiness. Will the women be happy? Who are they marrying? Will they be content? Thoughts travel to my wedding. I loved my wedding dress, an unusual flowing white gown with a hood instead of a veil. Bizarre as it sounds, the material was polyester. It was 1976 after all. The advantage of polyester is that it does not wrinkle. I fancied myself an angel or a spirit floating about the evening. The dress enabled me to be an ingenue, beguiling yet innocent, not that I was completely without experience. The dress fit me figuratively and actually. I was guileless, and the outfit emphasized my figure softly.

        Back to the young women of the 21st century who are rarely innocent but equally unjaded, I daresay. Do they understand what extraordinary compromises and adaptations will have to be made? Do they foresee that a strong, empathic partnership will be vital for the marriage to survive? Perhaps, it is better that they remain dewy-eyed. I wish them the best and not so much knowledge that their dreams will be destroyed before they begin. I hope the couples are compatible sexually and enjoy common interests. Mazel Tov!

 

 

Shirley Temple Hair

Owners look like their dogs and vice versa. Dogs and their keepers adapt to one another, so their appearances bear a resemblance. I saw look-a-likes in dog and mistress the other day. I viewed the canine and human from behind. The dog and mistress waddled their backsides slightly, not too much just a bit. As my eyes moved up, I observed the most remarkable similitude. The woman and the dog sported the curliest light brown hair I have ever seen. The shade was apricot, the description used for blondish—brownish poodles. The woman’s hair was the identical cheerful color, not like an apricot more the crust on a perfectly baked baguette or wheat shimmering in the sun. Small ringlet curls about two inches long covered their head and body respectively, perfect curlicues, not frizzy in the least. The spirals bounced. I was astounded. Did the woman copy her dog’s curls? The dog appeared to be a poodle mix, probably the very popular Labradoodle (yellow Labrador Retriever mated with Standard Poodle). Everyone who is anyone has one now. Of course, not me. I always picked rescue dogs, and these popular mixes were already spoken for or never abandoned. Or was the dog owner always a blondish-brownish curly haired person? Is that why she selected the breed? Upon closer inspection, I realized that the woman needed a haircut. The dog’s hair was actually better groomed. These are the crazy sights on my daily walks. Most people do not notice these quirky occurrences. The woman with the curly hair is probably reasonably affluent. Her clothes looked classy and coordinated. She wore a stylish, black down coat and hip high top black sneakers; and the dog, of course, is not cheap, since the combination breeds with poodles are very popular. As the woman walked along the brick path, bordered by a stone wall, I guessed she was headed for one of the beautiful brick brownstones that remind me of being in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Most people do not think of lovely brownstones when they think about Northern Ireland. However, when I visited Belfast, my hotel was near a university which was situated in an area of well-maintained townhouses. I wonder if the woman is happy and healthy? I did not see any indication of her emotional or physical states. She walked at a good pace on a brisk, sunny March day which told me she valued exercise to some degree. And that was it. Gone into the distance, out of my field of vision. I have not seen her again.

It is High Time

     High time that people are educated about speech and language. As is my usual stance, I am baffled that Americans remain misinformed. Speech Therapists work in every public school in the United States. I provided speech therapy to hundreds of children in my 36 years of service. If one does the math, probably millions of people have been affected by a speech/language disorder of some kind.  There are those who have suffered a stroke and the concomitant speech and language deficits. King George VI, Queen Elizabeth's father, stuttered uncontrollably for years until he worked with a speech therapist. The story was the basis for the movie, The King's Speech. Now, we discover that our new President was treated for stuttering and has developed fantastic strategies for maintaing fluent speech. As recent as last Wednesday, at Biden's Inauguration, a young, gifted poet recited her magnificent work. It was revealed that she too had overcome speech problems as a child.

     First, definitions--Speech Impediment is not an acceptable term. It is to speech disorders what idiot or moron would be to those cognitively challenged. So, no, do not use the term. That CNN newscasters and the New York Times use these terms is indicative of being grossly misinformed, to put it kindly. The use of Speech Impediment was frowned upon when I was in graduate school in the mid 1970's. It is a term of the 1920's--1950's. There are different areas that encompass speech/language disorders. In the interest of not boring readers--Speech problems involve sound discrimination and production--articulation; stuttering--fluency; and voice--pitch, volume, quality, and prosody. Language problems relate to the comprehension and expression of oral language. Comprehension encompasses understanding vocabulary, grammatical structures, and auditory (aural) memory. Expression is defined as the oral production of vocabulary, syntax, and grammatical endings. Speech pathologists (therapists) treat individuals with deficits in the pragmatics of communication, the use of language--commenting, topic maintenance, and the complexities of the reciprocal back and forth of human communication. Speech Pathologists in medical settings also address breathing, swallowing, and chewing.

     President Biden had a fluency disorder which he probably deals with currently to some degree. No, he does not have dementia. No, he is not tired or lazy. No, he is not a bad speaker. And yes, he may ramble, but stutterers often do to avoid a block or being stuck on a word. This is a very embarrassing and humiliating situation for a stutterer. Amanda Gorman, the aforementioned poet, probably had a significant multiple articulation disorder as a young child. I treated children with this disorder which typically takes years of hard work to overcome. She referred to the /r/ sound, which in American English is a common--non-critical-- problem for man, due to the tongue placement necessary for the crisp /r/ sound and vowel--/r/ combinations considred correct pronunciation in certain parts of the country. Don't freak out Boston and the south, where the /r/ is often dropped. Many individuals have lisps or difficulty with the /s,z,sh,dg,zh/ sounds. Considered a mild difficulty, speakers who lisp either protrude their tongues for /s,z/ or produce slushy sounding words like shoe, George, mirage. 

     For some odd reason, there have been and currently are newscasters who have uncorrected speech patterns. Another common phenomenon--now that I have your attention--is the use of vocal fry. Young men and especially women purposely attempt to lower their natural pitch, thereby causing a raspiness to their voices, not a good idea for the health of the vocal cords.

     Just today, on Fresh Air on NPR, I heard a discussion about vocal cord damage in the form of polyps. Frequently, singers suffer from this damage which may or may not be corrected by improved vocal habits and/or surgery. Julie Andrews was unfortunately affected by surgery to remove polyps which caused permanent damage. My point in mentioning the program on NPR is that the discussion did not involve a professional in the field. The speaker was a former singer and now writer for the New Yorker magazine. I am sure the gentleman is a good writer, but he is not a speech pathologist or a medical specialist in laryngology. It is the latter two professionals who study the vocal mechanism and structure and should be supplementing any public discussion on the topic. 

     But, not quite yet. Speech pathologists are overlooked, much as nurses formerly were ignored. The majority of speech therapists are women who are highly educated and trained in the field. Just as physical and occupational therapists, the experts in their respective disciplines, are disregarded or underestimated for their important role in rehabilitation and special education. We are not just the helper in the hospital or school setting. We are not speech teachers rather experts in the complex field of speech/language disorders. Speech Patholigists are called upon to treat all manner of infants, toddlers, preschoolers, children of all ages, and adults. A speech therapist could have explained Biden's occasional vocal gaffes and errors rather than let his enemies begin yet another negative misinformation campaign.

     I am retired, and I am devoting my energy to writing now. I have been away from the field for eight years. I am surprised and dismayed that misconceptions continue to circulate as we enter the third decade of the 21st century.

"Be Best" (on the eve of the best--LAST--hours of the Trump years)

What a stupid, stupid phrase. Be Best what? Be the best person you can be is probably what someone in Melania Trump's circle was thinking. But, advisors do not speak English in the White House? No one could inform Melania, a native Slovenian speaker, that this phrase is grammatically incorrect? Perhaps--Be the Best. or Be Better. However, all of these phrases mean absolutely nothing--zilch, null, void--which is what sums up the #45 First Lady or FLOTUS. A pretty face, no not that. Attractive, yes. Beautiful clothes--sometimes. Statuesque and gorgeous hair: I will give Melania those characteristics. She was the least of our problems but seriously a little grace, courtesy, and common sense? 

Never a fan of Pat Nixon or Nancy Reagan, but they were polite. Laura Bush had warmth during her husband's worst moments. Barbara Bush exuded strength and purpose. Melania is the Slovenian model, who did not bother to learn proper English nor demonstrate kindness. She could have attempted to stop her husband from throwing papertowels; bent down to hug a child separated from his/her parents; or read a book to an elderly individual. But Princess Diana she is not. Zilch, zero, zed. Nada, nothing, null. I read that Melania did not even invite Jill Biden to tea which is a tradition.

 How can an individual given an opportunity to have influence do so little? I seem to ask that question frequently about people. She has not cried, laughed, smiled, or frowned. All she gave us was barely a smirk complemented with narrowed eyes. 

What was Be Best? I thought the slogan referred to ceasing bullying on the Internet. The intended campaign did not occur, and her husband was the meanest bully to appear on the national stage. Today, #45 touted his wife's work by commenting about opioids and foster children. If only, if only opioid use could have been decreased and foster children helped. How sad, sad. So sad. Four years of horror + nothing. What does that equal? Just bad, bad trouble. 

Americans are sick, stressed, frightened, confused, and angry. I think we are unaware of the tension that lies within our bodies and between us, due to the last four years. I speak not of the obvious divides but the subtle snipes which occur daily. We are scared of the future actions of #45, even with 24 hours to go in his term. 

Our beautiful capital city is an armed camp which will take years to disassemble. I am ashamed and disgusted. Elections and the transfer of power are no longer seamless. Trump has managed to create ugliness in four years. 

Now is the time for truth, communication, and healing.