50 year High School Reunion

     "And you are? Ah, yes, I  remember you." Or "Oh, sorry, we were in such a large class, about 700."  These were the salutations ringing through the spaces of the Lake Merced Country Club, outside of San Francisco, last Saturday evening. My fellow classmates were friendly and pleased to be among the healthy and living. We were soberly shocked about the deceased peers and eerily wondered who would be there in 10 years. As a whole, the 60 something alumni looked trim and healthy, very few obese people. The women were looking more coiffed than the men. The classmates who are Hispanic, Black, Asian, and other darker skin mixtures definitely aged the most beautifully.Where had the intervening years gone? The day before the party, some of us--former students--took a tour of our school, an interesting and ice-breaking experience. What a joy to see the young, inquisitive, busy youngsters, staying "after school" on a Friday, unheard of in our day! The kids were actually very friendly.
     The sweetest bonds were from elementary school. Where did the intervening years go? Here I was, "Karen Levi", different but the same. I was touched by those who remembered me, being of the insecure type. More people recalled me or said they did than I ever expected; they seemed authentic, and I like to see the positive in people. Granted, I was in school with some of these individuals for about 10 years. (I attended K and 1st grade in another area of San Francisco.) My high school is an academic school, open to students from all over the city, so it did not offer non-academic courses, such as shop and home economics. However, it happened to be located not far from my elementary and junior high schools.
     Seeing old acquaintences and friends reminded me that I have always been who I am. To be recognized was a validation of who I was then and now. The reunion was a coming-home in the truest sense, a return to the me of 17 (almost 18) who became the me of 68.We changed voluntarily and naturally, but we were subjected to a great deal of criticism, judgement,  and comment. Added to that was the self analysis that occured, immense in our maturational years, when the  emphasis on "self improvement" was so prevalent. Of course, I am a better version of the original Karen, but I have come full-circle back to myself, minus all of the self trash talk. My friends and acquaintences in school were not all that different from my present social circle. Now I am educated, both academically, professionally, and emotionally, not purely influenced by my parents.
     The journey of traveling from my 17-18 year old me to 68 year old Karen was a winding road, complete with switchbacks, near disasters over cliffs, smooth riding, and driving through a fog; at times, I laughed, and then I cried. The coastal highway of the past 50 years has been a noteworthy trip. Hopefully, I am moving to the wider, straighter slightly inland highway, not boring but a bit easier to navigate. I am smiling about the reunion.

Making Peace?

     Battle, War, Combat, Fight--common terms used to describe a response to illness. This metaphor, as in the "War On Cancer," originated in the 1970's. However, the reader will be surprised to know that the use of military terminology hearkens back to the 17th century. The image of a soldier combating an illness with weapons is typically invoked by professionals and lay persons. I read blogs of people who have cancer, and the war vocabulary is a part of the patient's lexicon.
    A few years ago, I thought in the same terms--be a warrior, "kill" the cancer cells, scads of "knights" on horseback attack the deviant malignancy with lances. A violent battle will be waged against the spread of dangerous cells; by all means, everything possible should be attempted to bring a person back to health, even a 91 year old. Get rid of the nasty tissue gone haywire. But, and here is the but.
     Waging war, as a metaphor, is also utilized to face mental illness and drug addiction, as in the "War on Drugs". "We will do all we can to fight this"; "Why doesn't he fight harder?"; and "Why does she give in?" are phrases people use.
     Americans seem to have difficulty accepting what we cannot control. We do not have dominion over nature. A sick body is a sick body; a sick brain is a sick brain. I love healing and health. But nature is independent of our minds.
     I am powerless to conquer mental illness. Certainly, there are drugs and psychotherapy which eliminate or decrease symptoms, but the illness remains. Alcoholism is an excellent case in point. I am impotent to change my son's addiction to alcohol.
     Many individuals I have met in support groups and workshops view me as complacent towards my son's addiction. Others have criticized me for "not trying everything in my power", not understanding that my son has to desire change before it occurs. (Though, of course, "others" are not privy to what I have attempted.) Evidently, I do not "fight hard" enough.Whatever that means exactly?
     Common knowledge still purports that alcoholics are lazy. I admit to thinking the same on occasion. If my son drinks again, he is a loser, not a fighter. Truthfully, I do not know how it feels to be a substance abuser. But how can an alcoholic be a failure if his/her brain metabolizes alcohol differently?
     How many obituaries read, "He fought the disease valiantly" and lost? The deceased did not lose. He became ill. My son did not lose. He became ill. I did not lose. I am helpless to change another's brain. Helpless sounds pathetic. I am far from pathetic. Each day, I strive to live life with joy, meaning and empathy. My son probably feels terrible when he drinks. He grew up with sensitive, educated parents who gave him all the advantages and assistance we could offer. Various treatment modalities were attempted with limited success.
     Doctors are ultimately powerless in the face of cancer, mental illness, and addiction. I think physicians have difficulty experiencing the effects of cancer and treatment on their patients.  When a doctor has eliminated all the remedies, vanquished in war, he/she tends to leave the scene of the battle. One rarely sees a doctor at the bedside when a patient is dying.
     Cancer is one of our curses, like mental illness. People formerly died of common infections, diarrhea, heart disease. We have the ability to save most people from these illnesses, but we will never completely combat nature. This is so clear, as a hurricane batters an archipelago in the Caribbean.
     We do not respect nature. Control over numerous aspects of our environment has been gained. And, one day, humans may be able to eradicate cancer and addiction. But we will never overcome the natural world completely.
     Acceptance is difficult. I do not sit in a lotus position, repeating the mantra, "Illness come to me, I accept thee." I am frightened of cancer and other debilitating diseases. I seek to live by a basic tenet of Alcoholics Anonymous--turn an illness over to a higher power. But, I am not Mother Theresa. Witnessing a formerly healthy person struck down by a mental or physical illness is agonizing. I turn to anger, instead of sadness and acceptance. Only in the very old, am I able to be at peace with disease.
     I am working diligently to live with problems and just be; to not feel required to act, especially when all therapies have been exhausted or refused. My aim is to tolerate negative outcomes or those I did not choose or imagine.
     Living with repugnant results is antithetical to our belief that we orchestrate endings and beginnings. People ask, "How are you?" and I am supposed to respond, "fine". The next question is "How are your children?" How does one answer? "I am accepting life as it comes." Maybe, I should use that rejoinder. I believe most people want to hear--"So and so got a promotion in a start-up in California." And "So and so is pregnant with her second child." Some individuals turn their heads or walk away if one answers negatively, a response which is like putting your hands over your ears and yelling, "I can't hear you!".

Amy Tan and me

   
     Amy Tan and I have a great deal in common; though she is talented, and I just work hard. Not to say, she does not persevere. We were both sensitive girls brought up in the 1950's and 1960's, in the San Francisco Bay Area, by immigrant parents. My parents were German Jewish refugees from Nazi Germany. Her mother and father escaped Communist China.
     Our mothers were damaged by trauma, too proud to admit their issues, revealing their past lives in spurts and bursts later in life. Coincidentally, they earned licensure in medical fields, to earn extra money. Our fathers were ambitious but missed the mark in becoming "well known" in a competitive environment. In their quest for success, they encountered privileged, native English speakers, with connections. Amy Tan's father strove as a pastor, engineer, and inventor, my father in business and politics. Amy Tan's parents were unabashed in their exalted hopes for their children's futures; my parents concealed their dreams with, "do the best you can". I continually felt that my efforts were short of the highest levels.
     In her book, Where The Past Begins, Amy Tan expressed these thoughts eloquently. We, like other children of immigrants, were affected by the rip tide of regrets, fear, and anger that permeated our households, equally sensitive and attuned to nuances in our parents' mood swings. Tragically, Amy Tan's older brother and father died within six months. Thankfully, I did not suffer this tragedy. However, like her, I lived in fear of a brain tumor, other ailments, and an early death. Amy Tan is a well-known author; however, she worked in the field of language disabilities for a short period of time. I was a Speech-Language Pathologist for 36 years. Our lives have been dominated by words,sentences, and a love of language.
     November 8, 2016 was a watershed moment for many Americans. Amy Tan wrote about the terrible days when we realized that the worst of our country would be laid bare--zenophobia, racism, sexism, isolationism, extreme materialism, ignorance. We came face-to-face with the hidden despot; the autocrat lurking in the shadows; the man who would voice the worst sentiments of fearful citizens. Amy Tan's family was familiar with discrimination, and my family knew firsthand what damage a  dictator could wreak.  We wondered who are fathers would have voted for. I knew without a doubt that my father--a loyal, staunch Democrat-- would have voted for Hillary Clinton. Ms. Tan was not sure, since her father was an Evangelical Christian. Like Amy Tan, I have been deeply upset about the deceit and disregard for human life that permeates the Executive Branch of the government.
     I rely on memory and imagination in my life, reaching back to past events to interpret the present. Imagination has been a safe place for retreat and calm. My father regaled me with tales of imaginary friends, who I do not remember at all. I must have been quite young. A rich fantasy life enables me in my writing and in daily life. My daughter and I enjoy spinning yarns for fun. In her recent book, Amy Tan describes at length the role of memory and imagination in her writing.

Susan Levin

In memory of Susan Levin who died of cancer, too young and too curious to suffer this deadly disease. She was a supporter of my writing, and for that I am forever grateful. I only met Susan after she was diminished in illness, though not in spirit. She joined my synagogue after her husband died, perhaps to assert herself a bit. Susan joined the choir too. She used a walker and quietly sat down with the sopranos. Susan knew the liturgy very well, partly due to being married to a cantor. I do not know if she grew up in a devout home. As I wrote, I knew her for a very short time. Beneath, all of the layers of clothing--was she always cold or was she dressed modestly--the beret, the walker, and the pale face of a cancer victim was a feisty, fiery woman, not afraid to express herself. All I know is that cancer is taking too many lives in their golden years, too often. May the light shine brightly for Susan.

Death in Three Parts--my birthday card

Death in three parts. My mother is dying, whether she opts for "treatment" or not, her body's cells are deteriorating rapidly. She is almost 92, so this is not a tragic, unthinkable death. Like a hardy plant succumbing or a mighty tree turning grey, with bare branches the year long, all should be so lucky to know a life well-lived. A life of 90+ years is a gift, a matter of luck and moderate living, nothing too extreme. If we could view this advanced stage of life--including death-- with optimism, that would be wonderful.
Then, there is the other death--a drug overdose of a young man at 28 years old. A sickness--drug addiction--turned his brain into a poison-seeking machine programmed for destruction. Dead, lying alone in a dingy room somewhere, in the darkness forever. Herein lies the true tragedy. Yet nature has worked in its mysterious manner. This brain was only to last less than thirty years.
My son is also dying. He may not know it, but I do. Another victim of deadly addiction, alcohol in his case, no less able to control the progression of the disease than my mother is able to stop the cancer cells.Why must parents and siblings watch this painful demise? Why must we pick up the random pieces of a life not lived? Why must we bury the young while we slowly die of the malignancy of torment, pain, and disbelief?

Stolpersteine

     Gunter Deming is changing the sidewalks and doorways in cities throughout Europe. Citing the Talmud, he said, "a person is only forgotten when his or her name is forgotten." Deming, a German artist, started the Stolpersteine Project for this reason. His organization installs bronze plaques for the victims of the Nazi attrocities in front of the building where they last resided. Stolperstein literally means "stumbling stone" in German. The intent is for people to stumble over the stones. When one looks down at the cause of the near tumble, one sees a square bronze plaque, with the words, Hier wohnt...."(Here lived) One stone, one name, one person, one life. These stones are being laid all over Germany, the Netherlands, France, and Belgium. More recently, the project has extended to Poland, Austria, the Ukraine, Hungary, Argentina, and Mallorca. The plaques are visual reminders of what transpired at a specific location.
     This is another example of reparations--recall, remembrance, responsibility-- by a German organization to the victims, and their families, of the genocide perpetrated by the Nazis. Few Americans seem to know about the program, which is a mystery to me. The plaques are everywhere Americans travel, but one has to look down occasionally.
     To quote Inge Rhein, an American citizen born in Germany and a friend of mine, "Recently I thought if there were one such stone for every person(Jews, Roma, homosexuals, people with disabilities, political adversaries, journalists) Germany's streets would be paved with gold."

How Could I Hate These Germans

     No Volkswagens, no German spoken, and no mention of Germany pre and post World War II. I grew up understanding the German language; my grandmothers spoke German to each other, but I did not learn to speak German until I studied the language in high school. Though an A student in German, I spoke awkwardly and with a terrible American accent. It was a loss for sure.
     I understood my parents' discomfort with Germany in the 1950's through the 1960's. My parents are Holocaust survivors. My paternal grandmother taught me some pride in German achievements. She frequently pointed out a statue of Goethe and Schiller in the Golden Gate Park and read contemporary German literature. Both of my grandmothers listened to opera by German composers.      By the late 1970's my parents' frozen views towards Germany thawed. I visited Germany in 1973 by myself; my friends refused to join me. My mother and father followed a few years later and revisited several times, taking my sister and brother. My father enjoyed being wined and dined by former classmates in his birthplace of Konstanz am Bodensee (Constance). My mother ventured to Berlin, but she was wary of the place. I nurtured distrust and dislike for Germans through the decades.
     Around the millenium, I read of changes, attempts by Germans to appologize and memorialize the Jews and others who were murdered. My sister-in-law met a woman, Jani Pietsch, who wrote a book about the Jews of Schoneiche, who'd lost their entire belongings--house and all--to the Nazis, immediately following Kristallnacht. My curiosity deepened. This woman--Christian, a bit older than me--researched and produced a book about Jews? This was positive. I began to read about Germany's liberal governmental policies. This was no longer a fascist state. Germany was more liberal than the United States!
     Fellow American Jews disdain Germans and Germany. Comments such as, "I wouldn't set foot on German soil," are commonly uttered by Jews. They laugh nervously and put on fake accents. This is no longer funny. We cannot hate forever. As the 2000's progressed, our country seemed to become more narrow-minded--the far right, the Christian evangelists, and angry white men. Rampant shootings occurred by young white males. The culmination of hatred came in the form of a huge businessman with fake blonde hair and an orangy artificial tan winning the presidential election in 2016. He had a base?
    What was happening? White supremacists were getting bolder in the United States. These frightening right wing terrorists commenced their violence in the mid to late 1990's. No one could say that groups akin to European skinheads were purely a problem "over there". They were here, way back in the 1970's in Skokie, Illinois and more recently in Charlottesville, Virginia. I remember my father talking about the John Birch Society.
     My roots are in Germany, at least as far back as the 18th century. My ancestors most probably felt equally German and Jewish. So, how can I merely ignore German culture and history, rich in literature, music, and science to name a few fields? And Germany in the early 20th century, was a fertile ground for new growth in architecure, art, literature, and lifestyle. Germans were militaristic for sure, but what country or background is 100% good? And, of course, there were the Nazis. Everyone is familiar with the conditions that led up to Hitler gaining power. I make no appologies for Germany. But, we see firsthand how hatred raises its ugly head within a climate of unrest, change, and divisiveness. Look at Pittsburgh, Atlanta, Christ Church.
     Back to Germany 2019. So there is Klaus, Jani, Andreas, and Inge. All Germans in their 40's, 60's, and 70's. They are artistic, literary, intelligent and committed to bridging the gap between Jews and "Gentile" Germans. One of these people has discovered he is Jewish. These are just four humans I have met, three of them in the process of visiting Germany in 2014 with my mother. My relationship with them deepened when I wrote a memoir. Inge is a former colleague and a friend who lives near me in the United States.
     Jani Pietsch, the woman who wrote the book about the Jewish people forced out of their homes following Kristallnacht, has organized an annual event, Denk Mal Am Ort (Think of the place). With her daughter, Marie, also an artist, they encouraged Berliners to inquire if their abodes had been previously inhabited by Jewish occupants. German, Jewish citizens who were compelled to escape Germany or were deported to the concentration camps. Some of the present householders accepted the challenge and  have opened their homes, on one weekend in May, so Berliners can see firsthand where and how Jewish people lived. Persecution becomes real and more likely to decrease when one identifies with the "hated" other and observes common humanity.
     My sister and I will be traveling to Berlin on May 1st to participate in Denk Mal Am Ort. The flat my mother lived in as a child will be opened, by Andreas and his wife. Klaus, an upstairs neighbor, will be present too. I will read from the book I wrote about my mother. Jani and Marie will be coordinating the event all over Berlin.
     How can I hate all Germans? Americans do not open up their homes in Oklahoma, Missouri, Georgia, or Florida, so we see where Native Americans lived and were displaced, murdered, and robbed. How many years passed before an African American Museum appeared in Washington D.C.? Who said "people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones"? It was Chaucer in the 14th century. Hatred of the other is ancient. Germans did not invent genocide, but evil Germans were responsible and ruthless as mass killing evolved into the unthinkable. Americans, Jews and non-Jews, are required to look within at our loathing, resentment, and hostility.