Two Train Cars

Odd as it seems, my sister, brother, and I embarked on a transcontinental rail trip, with our parents, in August 1968. The train conveyed us from San Francisco to Los Angeles, across the southwest to Louisiana, and further southeast to Tampa, Florida, not a straight path across the country, We visited our dear family friends in Florida. No one traveled by train in those days.The railroads suffered financial setbacks, and passenger routes rapidly diminished in the 1960's. Most Americans traversed the nation by airplane or car.

17 years old on my birthday in June, the assasinations of  Martin Luther King and Robert F. Kennedy occurred in April and June, respectively. These tragedies forced me to face the unrest and conflict occurring in the United States, centered around the Vietnam War and Civil Rights. Unsavory aspects of our country entered my mind, as I faced my senior year in high school. A few years before, I watched a movie about migrant workers, "Harvest of Shame", and digested the bitter truth of extreme poverty in an affluent nation. 

I clearly remember the August morning we boarded the train, wearing nice clothes for travel. I sported a yellow and blue pinstriped summer suit, which I loved. We wore our respectable outfits until Los Angeles. Then we changed into comfortable clothing for the hardcore adventure of traveling across the barren land of the southwestern United States--hot, brown, dry, with isolated cabins and cacti dotting the landscape. Occasionally, if you looked carefully, you might see a lonely farmer or shepherd waving his/her hat in the hot sun. 

Phew. Luckily, we had air conditioning in our car. But, sleeping was nearly impossible for me, in sticky naugahide coach seats that barely moved backwards. The fun aspect of trains is that one can walk through the train which my siblings and I did to asuage boredom. 

Something was very curious in the next coach car, I discovered. There was a strong, musky smell in the hot, stagnant air. I could not avoid noticing that everyone in the train car was black, "negro" as we said. There were large dark women, with huge arms, crowded in seats they shared with their small children. Thinner, weary, wrinkled men, sat together--some ate chicken. The compartment was generally quiet. The people were too drained to talk or laugh. Pitifully, they perspired profusely; the carriage was stifling. There was no air conditioning or ventilation! Horrified and shocked, I knew this was not accidental. How could it be? How did all the white people have tickets for one car and the black individuals for their own car? 

This was 1968 not 1948. Our family--minus my brother who was not yet born--took the same trip in 1958. I was too young to recall much of that trip. However, I do remember separate water fountains, for "white and coloreds". Fondly, I remember popsicles in Tampa and refreshing glasses of iced tea at Lake Ponchetrain (New Orleans). 

Back to 1968, four years post Civil Rights Act--obviously, the segregated cars were accomplished when people bought tickets. In those days, travelers purchased tickets from an agent, at a ticket office. I surmise that the clerk noted the passenger's race and assigned him/her to a railcar. The conductor verified all was in order on the day of travel. 

I asked my parents repeatedly about the situation, but they did not respond with a direct answer. They did not disagree, but they were reluctant to utter the truth of what was in front of their eyes. I had not yet read about the nightmarish freight train cars used by the Nazis to transport Jews and others to their deaths. Did my parents make an association? Or am I overly optimistic in crediting them with connecting the present to the past?

From that day hence, I knew with confidence that a rotten core existed in the center of our country. I learned it was racism. There had already been race riots the summer before, in 1967. After the recent assassinations, there was more violent unrest in cities. And the Chicago riots after the Democratic National Convention were in a few short weeks. 

Never again would I view a scene or situation at its surface level. From that August morning, as the train roared down the tracks in New Mexico and Texas, I began to peer beneath the surface of interactions and scenes. Certainly, I committed many stupid errors. In college, I learned about institutional racism and Jim Crow. My years working in a diverse public school system opened my mind and molded my opinions. I was not consistently fair or compassionate with parents and students. But, I learned unimaginable lessons about disadvantaged minorities, that are the bedrock of my values. I read, watched, and listened. Friendships developed with African Americans.

The years progressed. I dug down deeper, in myself and in our nation's experiences. I usually discovered an awareness that was not so pleasant. Though, there have been times when I have been happily surprised!

Marching with a Mask; Learning a Lesson

  Guilty as charged with the crime of grasping my purse to my body when passing a young black male on the street, especially when alone. White people on the defensive would remark I have good reason to be cautious. Once, I was mugged by a young, dark man while walking alone in an isolated area of San Francisco. Dumb move on my part? Yes. Regardless, one time should not cause a change in a lifetime of behavior. I grasp my bag because of the instituional racism that is branded on my brain. Fear of black people is embedded in our culture and reinforced by media, movies, and television programs. The message has been loud and clear--white women be cautious of young black men! I grew up in the ancient times of the mid 20th century when adults in my environment uttered racist statements unabashedly. But back to black men. It should be noted I have been on both sides. My son is brown, and I witnessed a woman grab her purse close to her body when she walked into an elevator. I stood beside my son, but the woman did not guess we were mother and son. 

Today, I walked briskly down the Rockville Pike, yelling chants, such as "No Justice No Peace". "No Racist Police", etc. with my black, brown, yellow, red, and white brothers and sisters. As I returned to my car, now dragging myself in the humid Maryland summer heat, several young black men passed me--some dressed in "urban" garb-- and nodded. I realized, we are friends, compatriots, fellow warriors in a fight for justice. They probably thought, what a nice white grandma. I thought what a nice young man!

Soft Spots

The soft spots on an infant's head do not remain a long time. So it is with my psyche. I feel a softness so seldomly these days. This morning, I listened to a Zoom production of "Yerushalyim Shel Zahav", and a softness opened up in me. The music, the beautiful voices of the female cantors, and scenes of Israel unlocked a sweet sadness. The pictures of Jerusalem triggered the old, idealistic promise of Israel, gone forever. One of the singers in the Zoom production was a former cantor at Temple Emanuel in San Francisco. She sang at my mother's funeral in July. Immediately, I recalled the perfect moment of her pure voice, singing a psalm, for my mother in the hush of a chapel.
In these awful times, I find myself angry, afraid, and aghast at the daily demise of our Democracy. Simultaneous to the present deterioration of commonly-held values, I am sincerely shocked at the extent to which people defy common sense. There is a pandemic. Nearly 100,000 people have died--parents, siblings, children, colleagues, friends, lovers. But--what--due to  ill-conceived illogical thinking and association with fear of the future, racism, zenophobia, and resentment, Americans have twisted medical advice on its head. Doctors and scientists no longer are experts. Charlatans and snake oil salesmen-like characters are the new experts. P.T. Barnum was correct.
My body is tense; my blood pressure is probably up. My mother would say, "don't let it make you sick". Easier said than done. Our country is a sad joke. I recollect Charlie Chaplin in "The Great Dictator".  I was never a chauvinist about America. However, this situation is beyond anything I could have dreamed, in a nightmare. In a seriously distorted turn, I am applying for German citizenship.
Before I go any further, I must return to softness. Pull my shoulders down, take a deep breath, and remember the unfolding of peonies, the Canada Geese that have taken over the shore of our local pond, the birdsong. Breathe again, read, and then look for the new duck couple at the fountains.

Critical Thinking

Often, we are told to utilize our critical thinking skills. Or commentators and politicians report that schools fail to teach reasoning and problem solving; educational practices do not include the teaching of "thinking skills".
I will not address the educational aspects, since I do not have the facts. However, using our "noggins" can result in challenging circumstances. The probability is high that one's thought processes, about an issue, event, or interaction, will differ from the common viewpoint. Furthermore, strategies for solving problems may contrast with those of the majority. These are common results of reasoning, strategic thinking, and analyzing any given situation or conflict in our daily lives.
Negative reactions from colleagues, friends, and family are common. People demonstrate anxiety at novel viewpoints or solutions. "Thinking outside the box" is viewed as impossible or crazy; listeners initially dismiss new ideas or methods of behavior. We are all guilty of these reactions--some more than others. So the critical thinker confronts the downside of creative strategies or novel reasoning--accusations of being judgemental; ignoring; and outright rejection. A good reason why someone might be reluctant to voice their personal opinions.
Critical thinking leads me to Profiles in Courage, which I finished in my pandemic frenzy of reading. My first caveat is that John F. Kennedy certainly should have shared the Pulitzer Prize with Ted Sorensen who did all, most, or some--depending on the book review-- of the writing of the book.  I decided to read the book because it was mentioned as illustrative of the contrast between senators who rubber stamp their party's opinion vs. those who act with courage.
JFK and Sorensen selected well-known and lesser known United States Senators from 1803--1948 to demonstrate courageous thinkers, willing to risk life, profession, political office, and status, to express their opinions. These men (women did not run for the Senate until 1932) developed their viewpoints of various bills in the Senate independent of the majority position. They processed their thoughts logically, carefully, and independently, based on their knowledge, values, and life experiences, in other words critical thinking. All of these men suffered greatly--some died prematurely. The senators were chastised by vociferous politicians, journalists, and voters. Young Senator John F. Kennedy believed these men to be deserving of recognition as courageous.

Thoughts from Rabbi Elliot Kukla

Rabbi Kukla is a rabbi in the San Francisco Bay area. He suffers from a chronic disease. His recent article in The J rang true to me. (The Jewish Bulletin of the San Francisco Bay Area)
The Coronavirus is not a blessing; there is no silver lining. The virus is a curse, like cancer and other horrific diseases that affect human beings. Anyone who proposes these ideas probably has not suffered, as uncountable humans have over the millenia. Bad, awful diseases, wars, relationships, diseases occur. Having a child with a disability of any sort is not a blessing. It is bad, bad luck. Destruction of any kind--whether it be disease, accident, or human-caused--is not to be valorized. Horrendous events facilitate creation, expression, a sense of purpose--to develop an improved world. One can appreciate the cleaner air and less traffic during the Pandemic of 2020. However, saying that this is the purpose of the virus is to ignore the human suffering. Cleaning the earth is a long-standing goal for all human creatures, not a crusade we follow when we are struck down by an illness.
Viktor Frankel, Holocaust survivor, proposed that our reaction to negative situations presents an opportunity for humans to demonstrate choice, creativity, and compassion. However, I doubt Dr. Frankel rationalized the killing and imprisonment of millions as justified--No. One is genocide; the other is learning in the face of adversity.
To return to Rabbi Kukla, relating the current situation to that of the Jews wandering in the desert after their escape from Egypt---
"In the open space that this pandemic bring to us, we have a chance to pause and begin building a new more just world."
"Like the actual desert, what makes moments of transition so unnerving, and so filled with potential, are the wide, open spaces, the huge arching skiy and expansive sandy plains of the desert."

Coronavirus 2020

Another grey day

Of solitary walkers

Hidden in their thoughts

Coming down the path.

“Watch out! That’s not 6 feet.”

My world has shrunk to a 3 mile radius.

Is this the last Spring?

Should I play the Rites of Spring?

I move through the day as if I am to survive.

I might not.

We live in a ghetto.

Pretty yes, well-off yes.

Beautiful flowers.

But the enemy lurks.

Invisible, deadly

As the Nazis.

Just not seen or heard or felt.

Lurking, no guns necessary.

Just weird round things with

Coral-like protuberances.

Orange/blue; red/blue.

Today I opened a letter from April 2, 1941, from my treasure trove of letters. I inherited hundreds of letters, that were hidden in metal boxes, in my mother’s guest closet, when she died in July. This letter is exactly 79 years old. Written in German, I translated the message, that was from my grandmother’s Uncle Julius to my grandmother.

They were in constant communication by letter. Topics ranged from family gossip to serious matters, such as attempting to save Elise, Julius’ sister and my grandmother’s mother and help her escape from Frankfurt am Main. The war was in full-swing in Europe. Chances of a 69 year old woman leaving Germany clandestinely were nil. Nevertheless, the relatives persisted. Julius was not in a safe place, enduring the incessant bombing by the Germans in London. His communication outside of England was limited due to the war. My grandmother Trude was safe in an alien land, struggling to survive in post-Depression America.

This was a generation of our elders who were well acquainted with social isolation, deprivation, and fear. Uncle Julius endured and survived The Blitz. His extended family had been scattered literally to the four corners of the globe. He feared for the life of two brothers and his sister. (The worst outcome came to pass.) My grandmother understood coping with the scarcity of items—from Depression to World War II rationing. She worried senseless about her mother (and never breathed a word of it to me).

The memory of Elise, Julius and Trude is a blessing and a reminder to be strong. I am certain they were frightened, as we are. Ours is an invisible enemy; theirs’ was the Nazis. Londoners spent the nighttime underground to avoid bombs. My great grandmother hid from probable deportation to an unknown terror. First, she was spared—as the healthy of us have been—but then the fearsome foe arrived. We hide from our nemesis, round balls with weird protuberances popping out—a virus.

As a child, I waited for World War III, part of my survivor’s guilt transmitted by my parents. If they—and all the Jews—suffered, then surely would I. I think my “World War III” has arrived in the form of a deadly virus and an ill-equipped country that should have demonstrated more foresight. So I wait now, in my house, for what is to come.

A Personal Interpretation SOCIAL ACTION AND THE CORONAVIRUS—19 (COVID-19) A.K.A.—This is not a drill.

                                                

            Coronavirus and social action, you ask? Strange notion, I know, given we are told “to wash our hands” and to “distance ourselves from others.” These seem like personal actions not social. But, by using proper hygiene, etiquette, and social distancing, we are protecting others. Every choice has social implications—always has—but now the stakes are higher and are life or death for some.

            Common Jewish ideas resonate--Tikkun Olam comes to mind—repairing the world, a concept found in the Mishnah, referring to helping those at a disadvantage. In this case, young people avoiding crowds, to stem the tide of disease, ultimately protecting older people. Tzedakah, usually thought of as giving money, can be the contribution of effort, time, and insight. Opting to be cautious in our public actions, to stay home, and lend a hand to a less fortunate person are all types of tzedakah. We demonstrate a mitzvah, an anonymous act of kindness, by following the local, state, and federal guidelines for social distancing and cleanliness during this pandemic. Every time one “catches” a cough in the elbow, one is potentially safeguarding others. Remaining at home, not going to your beach house, and changing your habits potentially saves many people from the current disease. These are mitzvahs.

I believe in the Golden Rule and the Talmudic saying—to save one life, saves many. Americans, generous indeed, continue to follow the mantra—me first. Even the seniors—who have been given a courtesy to shop in relative isolation—are hoarding. Obviously, the attitude is selfish and counterproductive. Whenever my daughter takes boxes of food off a market shelf, she notes, there are so many—six, ten—remaining for others to buy. Is the behavior learned or is it genetic? Regardless, a lesson for all to follow.

The frightening aspect of this pandemic is the unknown. The unknowable and uncertain commonly sends normal individuals into panic mode. We cannot shove the issue to a distant continent , for example, “Oh, Ebola is in Africa. Africa is very far away. And we certainly have better sanitation. We have hospitals.” As the King said (King and I)—“Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.” The usual protective  methods for denying our risk, devices to persist in a chaotic world, are useless at the present. For example, we rest easy at night because we received a flu shot and have no underlying conditions. Oh, and we go to the doctor, and even had the pneumonia immunization. And we are not old, are we? Yes, the risk increases with 60, rising in the 70’s and 80’s. Consequently, we relax. At the least, our children and grandchildren are safe. Not so fast. Reports flashed on our phones say that half of the hospitalized for COVID-19 are “young” people. There is no vaccination, and COVID-19 is in our city! Some of us are carriers of the virus.

In conclusion, we are one community; helping ourselves is protecting our neighbors. Wash your hands, do not go to the office, walk outside, keep six feet away from others, work at home or virtually, sing, dance, practice a musical instrument or give a concert on your balcony, read, paint, write, cook, eat, drink, pray and hope we can survive. This is real. There is no escape. I am just as scared as you are.

THIS IS THE REAL DEAL!

Karen Levi

March 20, 2020