Seems Like Old Time(r)s

Note: This essay was written by my husband, Gary Bakst. Thank you, Gary!!! I will be sharing my take on this same event tomorrow.

It had been 2 and ½ years since I attended a live sporting event, a concert, a movie in a theater, any sort of in person event.  I surely don’t have to tell any of you why – everybody knows.  We have all made our own decisions about how to deal with the threat of Covid.  Some have been yet more cautious than I have but many more less cautious.  And I accept that there is a range of choices people can make that may fit for them. 

For me, it was time to go to a Mets game.  Linda looked ahead and noticed months ago that Saturday, August 27th, was Old Timers’ Day at Citi Field where my beloved Mets play their home games.  I have been a Mets fan since my father taught me about baseball.  We watched ballgames together, making the occasional pilgrimage to Shea Stadium to see our favorite players win or lose.  I remember one game in which Willie Mays -yes, that Willie Mays – was playing for the Mets.  He was old for a ball player and no longer capable of the elite level of performance that defined his many years with the Giants, but he was still that legend. 

I have fashioned my children into Mets fans, cajoled Linda into supporting them and now my grandchildren are being educated early about the importance of supporting our Mets.  I figure, if I can suffer, so can they.  Most years, being a Met fan does involve quite a bit of suffering.  It makes one tougher,  better able to deal with other disappointments in life. 

This year has been different.  The Mets have had other good years in their history, most notably 1969 and 1986.  But, unlike their crosstown rival Yankees, they are not perennial contenders for a championship.  It is a rare and exciting moment, a meteor streaking through the sky ever so briefly, not an annual expectation.  Perhaps with our new and improved ownership, that could be changing. 

After being away for such a long time, it seemed like the right time to head back to the stadium.  Covid surely remains a risk, but the risk of severe disease has diminished, it is an outdoor event and the special occasion of Old Timers Day combined to convince me to purchase tickets.  I went online and bought 8 tickets for the game.  I was not sure which family members would be able to make it, but the limiting factor was not going to be too few available seats.  

As an aside, the Mets have a policy for getting these online tickets that I found cumbersome and less than straightforward, so I tasked Linda with converting their emails into actual access to the stadium.  She found it easy and quick which did not surprise our children. 

My new-fangled ticket to the Old Timers game

Ultimately, we had a nice group coming to the game.  We had Linda and I, our son Daniel and his wonderful daughter, Linda’s brother Mark, his lovely wife Pam and their very nice son Sam who is also a Mets fan.  And Linda’s good friend Steven who I enjoy talking Mets baseball with over the many years we know each other.  The only person missing was our daughter, Leah, (who I have also successfully indoctrinated into Mets fandom, too) but having just had a baby three months ago, and living in the Boston area, made her attendance impossible.

Linda and I drove down to the city; we took the number 7 subway line to the stadium.  It was filled with orange and blue clad Mets fans.  The vibrations were all positive, the sun was shining and the world was a happy place.  

We all arrived in time for the Old Timers’ game.  They had assembled quite a large number of former Mets from players who were there for the Mets first season in 1962, to the 1969 Mets and the 1986 Mets and more or less every era of their existence.  The introductions themselves were fun and the former players exulted in the attention and adoration which the packed stadium poured out upon them. 

At the end of the introductions, there was a surprise.   The Mets were retiring uniform number 24 which Willie Mays used to wear.  It was a heartwarming moment and surely a signal that current owner Steven A. Cohen was ushering in a different era compared with the Wilpons who are widely despised by Mets fans.  He is doing so many things the right way, and this was just one lovely example of that. 

The Old Timers game itself was so much fun.  Some of those guys can still move pretty well and some really cannot.  Most still retain the amazing hitting and throwing skills that separate them from we ordinary humans.  It was pure joy watching them out on the field again.  We were enjoying the action on the field, the food, the drinks, the opportunity to spend time together chatting.  Baseball is unlike football and basketball.  It is slower.  Many people keep trying to make it faster.  Perhaps that is a good thing but sometimes slower has its merits.  I loved the slowness of the game. 

When the real game with the current crop of Mets began, it was more fun.  They led by 1-0, then 2-0, then 3-0.  It was a low scoring and well-played game.  They made enough good plays to overcome the visiting Colorado Rockies and the crowd exulted as the final out was recorded.

Our granddaughter spent about 4 hours there which is remarkable for a child not yet old enough to have any idea what a ball or strike is.  She was delightful and in great spirits and eventually Daniel left with her and they made it home without issue.  

The rest of us found our way onto the 7 train when the game ended, and we caught an air conditioned express train back to Manhattan.  While on the train, we learned from one of the many Mets fans crowding that subway car that our main opponents, the Atlanta Braves, had lost in the bottom of the ninth inning and the subway car erupted in joy. 

We got back home late and tired and sweaty but very happy.  Getting back out and doing something to divert my attention from my daily concerns was such a pleasure and going to a baseball game and watching my favorite team win was exactly the right salve.  I can enjoy watching any team play but if it is my Mets, then I really want them to win.  If the trip is easy and the weather is great and the food is delicious and they lose, then the bottom line is they lost.  It is unlike a movie or a show where I might say it was very good or pretty good.  This is binary: win/lose.  And they won. 

I wonder how you have made decisions about such entertainment options.  Have you been going all along, have you picked some events as appropriate and others as not a great idea?  And which types of events take you away from your worries?  

#LGM

A Simple Guide to Breastfeeding

Note: The title of this piece might be surprising – given my usual topics. Fortunately, I have been rescued from my writer’s drought by my daughter. Today Leah returns to work after her 12-week maternity leave. As she was concluding her leave, and exploring her options for continuing to provide breast milk to her baby, she was motivated to write this piece. I am grateful that she chose my blog to share it. Readers, if you have new mothers in your life, I hope you will share it with them. I think it will resonate. Meanwhile, please join me in wishing Leah good luck as she moves into this next stage of motherhood.

So you’re thinking of breastfeeding? Great!
Here are some things to consider before you begin:

First, you might as well go ahead and start crying now. Why wait until later when you can get a head start on this essential part of your journey.

Next, just to check: do you like your nipples the way they are? I hope not! You can expect all sorts of weird nipple shit. They’ll stretch, dry out, turn redder or maybe whiter. They’ll bleed. Did you know you can get scabs on your nipples? Pretty cool, huh!

Definitely count on nipple pain: some pain is normal. But too much pain means something is wrong. What is too much pain? Probably somewhere between searing and all-consuming. Anything less than that and you can skip this section.

But, on the off-chance you don’t like your particular amount of pain, don’t worry, there are many products available to help! As long as you don’t mind doing hours of research on which exact product is right for you, and you have an enormous disposable income, you can make use of any number of creams, gels, ointments, balms, pads, cups, and shields to alleviate your pain.

Pro tip: Do your research while the little one is chomping on your nips! It’s a great distraction.

All those products you panic-ordered from Amazon not working? Don’t worry. Just go see a lactation consultant! It probably won’t be covered by your insurance, or if it is, you’ll probably have to submit the claim yourself, but you can easily do that in your spare time. The lactation consultant will provide lots of helpful suggestions of more products to buy, different positions to nurse in, and maybe even diagnose a lip or tongue tie—just pop over to the doc to get your kid a little snip – yes, they actually snip part of the lip and/or tongue! And then you can restart learning how to nurse all over again.

Aha! Now you’re breastfeeding!

It’s the most natural thing, isn’t it? You’re doing so great. Isn’t having a baby everything you ever dreamed?

Oh, don’t go yet! There are a few other things we should cover:

How’s your supply? Not enough? That’s fine, you’re just inadequate! Your baby isn’t gaining enough weight and you’re a terrible mom. Remember I told you to start crying? See, now you’ve already gotten that out of the way and you can move onto the solution: Just find some formula. You can work on upping your supply in the meanwhile! Wait, there’s a dire, nationwide shortage of formula, so you can’t find any? You went to twelve stores and they were entirely out of stock? You tried asking five of your local online moms’ groups? Well, there are no other options but whatever you do, don’t make your own formula.

If you do decide to try upping your supply, have I got the solution for you: Try power pumping! It’s relentless pumping for an hour. It’s only partially soul crushing.

Pro tip: If your soul has already been crushed, you don’t need to worry about this!

Or you could just pump every two hours day and night for a while. That doesn’t sound good either? Did I mention the option of buying formula and feeling inadequate?

Maybe you have an oversupply. That’s awesome! Enjoy those rock-hard breasts! If you somehow don’t like feeling so engorged that you can’t lift your arms, try pumping to relieve the pressure. But not too much! That will only make you even more engorged! It’s a real goldilocks situation here.

Phew! I’m sure you have your supply figured out now. Congratulations!

But in the future, you might find small white droplets on your nips that won’t wipe away. Isn’t that neat? You either have milk blebs or thrush. No biggie. These conditions are virtually identical: in one case do nothing, in the other make doctors’ appointments for you and the kiddo and pick up medication, and make sure you both take all the medication or you’ll just pass it back and forth in an endless, terrible loop. Good thing you enjoy ruminating and scrolling through online forums to figure out which you have.

Pro tip: Try ruminating and scrolling during night feeds, the stress it creates will wake you right up!

Now, on the off chance you ever need to return to work or for some other totally unfathomable reason aren’t breastfeeding with complete satisfaction, you might consider a breast pump. Good news: there are so many to choose from!

Have you figured out which pump you want yet? No? Well it’s really great that you’re a control freak who loves doing extensive research yourself, totally by yourself, no assistance whatsoever. Did you think there would be some expert to help you? Some medical professional whose job it is to help with this medical device? Silly you!

You will find all your answers on Instagram. Yes, Instagram. Just scroll through years of posts and reviews from many different accounts and poll all of your friends with young kids. That’s a great start!

Of course, you’ll also want to figure out whether your insurance will cover a breast pump at all – if you even have insurance – and if so which one. They’re only a few hundred dollars out-of- pocket anyway. And you love calling your insurance company, so that’s a treat! You’ll also want to determine your pumping needs. Do you want to be able to move when you pump? What luxury! Consider one with a rechargeable battery. There are also wearable and portable options. Yes, those are different.

Oh! Don’t forget to measure your nipples! You need the right size. No, they don’t do that for you at the hospital.

Do you want the silicone flanges or are you cool with hard plastic?

Do you want in-bra collection cups or the regular kind? Need longer or shorter tubing? Oh, and make sure you have a pumping bra unless you prefer not to have access to your hands.

And don’t forget to replace your pump parts regularly. Good thing you have that disposable income; none of this is covered!

Are you comfortable with the fridge hack? Pitcher method?

Make sure you work on building up your freezer stash if you ever plan on being away from your child for any length of time. Just add in a few extra pumping sessions in your down time. It’s no trouble.

And I hope your child takes a bottle. Do they take a bottle? Try these 20 different types of bottles, maybe they’ll like one.

Now that you’ve got all that figured out you’re so close to breastfeeding worry-free!

Just keep an eye out for clogged ducts. They can come on fast and develop into mastitis, which is no bueno, my friend. That requires a doctor’s visit and antibiotics. But I know you love parenting and running errands when you feel like absolute human garbage.

If you do think you have a clogged duct, there are many easy at-home remedies! Try taking sunflower lecithin. It should make your milk slippery-er. We all want slippery milk. You could also try massaging the clogged area while taking a hot shower. It will likely be very painful!

That didn’t work? Okay, load up your haakaa breast pump – you have one of those don’t you? – with warm water and Epsom salt. That might do the trick.

Do you have an electric toothbrush? Turn it on and place the back of it on the area with the clog. It just might vibrate the clog right out of you – a handy second use for your toothbrush!

Repeat all of these steps until the clog is gone and make sure to be increasingly frantic as you go. That always helps.

By now I’m sure your milk is flowing in exactly the right amounts, with exactly the right amount of pain! However, you might still find your baby refuses to drink your milk. This could be due to high lipase: it makes your milk taste and smell bad! Isn’t that so funny – your milk tasting bad! I’m laughing so hard I’m crying.

But there’s a simple remedy for high lipase. For all of the milk you pump, just scald it before putting it in the fridge. So easy! You were wondering what to do with all your down time anyway. But be careful not to boil it! Never boil it. You want bubbles to form but not the boiling kind of bubbles.

I’m sure there are other things we could cover, but I’m guessing by now it’s time for another feed.

Oh, you were reading this while you nursed or pumped? Who’s the pro now!
Just keep in mind that whatever choices you make, however your journey goes, others will judge you for it! Welcome to motherhood.

Upward Mobility

Note: The following essay was written by Gary Bakst, my husband. Thank you, Gary, for you thoughtful, insightful piece.

The American dream is you work hard, and you get ahead.  Your children should have a better life than you have.  Their children should have a better life than theirs.  And, to be fair, this country has lifted millions of people into the middle class over the years, especially during the post-World War II years.  While there are all kinds of questions about how you measure this, the middle class is mostly estimated to comprise over 50% of our total population and has been over 60% at times. 

That is the dream.  Then there is reality.  Many people are struggling to achieve that goal.  Many others are struggling to hold on to that achievement.  The share of Americans in the middle class has gradually diminished over the last 5 decades according to most estimates and the percentage living in poverty has gone up.  People have fallen out of the middle class showing us that mobility can go down as well as up. Income inequality has risen.  The wealthiest Americans have seen their share of wealth grow ever larger while most people struggle to meet their expenses for food, fuel, heat, medicine. 

The myth of upward mobility is the real world for so many people.  Not that nobody is able to achieve a better life, a more comfortable financial situation.  Some do.  But, I am writing this because I am thinking about the people I see every day.  I see patients and I see staff working in our office.  So many make decisions about their care that would be different but for the cost of their medications. 

So many patients tell me about their children.  Some are doing amazing things and it is so nice to hear those stories.  I think about the kids who are accomplished professionals, or well on the way to becoming that.  Children who have their own lives, homes, families and are such sources of joy and pride to their parents. 

But it feels like many more of my patients describe children who live in a different reality.  They are dealing with unstable job situations, unstable relationships.  Some deal with addictions, depression.  Some have children but need help taking care of those children.  Many are adults living in their parents’ homes. 

As I have thought about these people, I have tried to make associations.  What is the common denominator that explains who has done well?  Of course, there is no perfect predictor, but I do think that stability in the parents sure does help the children.  I think of some of the married couples I take care of who are just such fine people.  Maybe they are not particularly wealthy, but they are terrific role models.  It seems to me that this, along with the expectation that their children will get a college education, goes a long way. 

But some other people are also fine people, hardworking and with wonderful values.  But life perhaps has just not gone the same way for them.  Perhaps they have had children but a relationship that did not last.  Perhaps they have had career setbacks.  It seems to me that it is so hard to recover from those setbacks in this country.  I know these people hold their children just as close to their hearts as others do.  But I wonder if their expectations for them are different. 

I remember when I graduated from high school, there was a mother who was crying with joy saying she never imagined she would have a child who would graduate from high school.  I recall thinking how different that was from my parents’ expectations and from my own.  Perhaps the child internalizes those expectations, and their goals and decisions are likewise impacted.  My parents had little education, but they sure did believe in its power and were determined that their children would go to college.  

It seems to me that community has an awful lot to do with these expectations.  I see people who live in small towns and may not have the same opportunities that others do.  There may not be a tradition of people going on to higher education there.  That same issue can often be true in urban areas.  While we are nearly all connected virtually, we still live in a concrete world that we see, walk on and experience.  It is a powerful message about what is possible.  

I did not intend this essay as a dissection of American public policy, but I do think that we need policies that encourage that upward mobility and the factors that promote it.  I think we should look at what personal characteristics and family dynamics are most helpful and do more to encourage them.  And I believe we need to break down barriers that prevent people in specific localities from reaching their dreams. 

I am not suggesting that money is everything.  There is so much more.  We should not equate money and success, money, and happiness.  And there are surely lots of paths to a happy and fulfilled life.  It does not have to be, it really cannot be, the same path for everyone. 

But it is hard to imagine that having the means to live a healthy and comfortable life is not better than not having those means.  Money for many of my patients is a direct barrier to health.  It seems like that ought to matter to somebody.  

It is also worth pointing out that I am not suggesting upward mobility means everyone should be richer than their parents.  For one thing, some parents are already doing quite well and there may not be that much room to go up.  How rich would a child of Bill Gates need to be if we used that definition?  For another thing, the goal is surely not endless wealth.  That seems like a bizarre set of values. We are hoping for people to be secure and happy; healthy and safe.  Money is part of that but is not an end in itself.  

I wonder if anyone else out there has thought about this issue.  What factors do you see as positively or negatively affecting these outcomes, be it at the family, neighborhood or even at the public policy levels?  How do we make the dream attainable for more Americans?

Food Firsts

by Leah Bakst

Note: Last week I was chatting with my daughter Leah and somehow the subject of the first time we tried new foods came up. I’m not sure what brought it up, but Leah explained that she had particularly vivid memories of some of her experiences. The conversation took an interesting turn.

“If that were me, it might be a blog post,” I commented

Are you asking me to write a blog post?” She knows her mother well.

Would you?” I asked, not managing to conceal my hope.

“I’ll think about it.”

A couple of days later, during our next conversation, Leah reported, “I wrote something. I couldn’t sleep, it was 1:30 in the morning, and I thought I would make use of the time.”

While I was sorry that she had a poor night’s sleep, I was delighted with the product. I think you will be, too.


Growing up keeping kosher, there were things my family would never eat. Then there were other completely unrelated foods we’d never eat strictly due to family idiosyncrasies. As an example, my father considers green peppers spectacularly offensive and calls them ‘vile fruit.’ It’s a pretty great name, but an unconventional take on a fairly standard vegetable. Given these family proclivities, there were a number of common foods I had never tried as I approached adulthood. Maybe it was all the anticipation, maybe it was just being a bit older, but I have several particularly strong memories of some of my “food firsts.” I thought I’d share a few.

I don’t think there’s a deeper meaning or some lesson here (other than the fact that I really love food). But newness can make even the most mundane things an event. What are some memorable food firsts for you? I know my mom and I would both love to hear.

~~

The thing about a ham and cheese sandwich is that when done right it sticks to the roof of your mouth. I love that. It’s so American.

In high school I’d have them at friends’ houses. I might get offered some snack options: “We could have cereal, or chips, or we could make a sandwich…”

“Oh. Hmm. A sandwich? Yeah I guess I could go for that.” As if I hadn’t been mentally preparing my ham and cheese already.

Every time I ate one, I’d have to surreptitiously insert a finger into my mouth to dislodge the gummy amalgam that collected at the roof of my mouth. It was at once gross and wonderful.

And somehow every household had the same ingredients, as if they had all gotten some goy instructional booklet. Thinly sliced ham and white American cheese, each in their own clear plastic zip bag with that deli paper around it. In my mind, it was magic.

~~

I didn’t realize that actual regular people ate their eggs with runny yolks until college. Before then I thought “sunny side up” was just something characters ordered in the movies. I pictured Meg Ryan in “When Harry Met Sally,” feigning an orgasm in the middle of a crowded diner. “That’s the kind of person who gets runny eggs,” I thought. Wild, brazen.

“Over medium” eggs were my gateway. I progressed from there. Perhaps my father – with his protective and slightly dogmatic tendencies – would not approve of my current predilection for soft-boiled eggs. (Seven minutes and forty-five seconds at a brisk boil.) But every morning I get a little thrill as I fork open my egg and the sumptuous golden yolk seeps onto the toast and greens. It’s rich on my tongue, and I’m willing to take my chances.

~~

Oysters are not only unkosher, on their face they’re incredibly unappetizing. The outside looks like a barnacle suctioned to some long-lost shipwreck; rough and knobby, cold and wet. Inside, they look mucosal.

It was a gray day on the Washington coast when I had my first. A group of us combed the shore, bedecked in colorful rain gear. I found a promising shell and bounded over to a friend to show off my bounty. As she confirmed that I had indeed found an excellent oyster, it dawned on me that I was expected to eat the thing. This wasn’t fishing; no one catches and releases an oyster!

She instructed me to insert the shucking knife near the hinge, and with a twist I revealed my mucosal snack. There was no backing down now.

I ate the oyster in one gulp. It was bright and briny. Salty and slick, but gritty with sand from a poor shuck job. It was as primal and energizing as the ocean itself.

I’m not sure I even liked that first oyster. Or my second or third for that matter, though I like them now. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. I felt brave and capable and sublimely connected to our vital, living world.

~~

One note: Many of my adult food firsts are definitionally unkosher because I grew up in a kosher household. This brings up some complicated feelings, and for me, this meditation on new food experiences would be incomplete without recognizing that fact.

You never forget which foods are unkosher. Before each carnitas burrito, each cheeseburger, each cup of New England clam chowder, there’s a tiny moment when your breath catches in your chest, and you renew your decision to step away from your ancestors. At least that’s how it feels to me.

I feel guilty every time. But I also can’t imagine going back. If I did keep kosher, it would assuredly be for my father. (Frankly, there are worse reasons to do something.) But I don’t believe in a higher power, I don’t believe in a spirit, a soul, a metaphysical anything. I certainly don’t believe there is a moral mandate to eat or not eat certain foods based on the laws of kashruth – if there were a god, I cannot believe they would care one iota about which foods I consume.

If my family is disappointed I’m not keeping kosher, I can’t imagine my lack of belief in a higher power is any kind of salve. Is this just adding insult to injury? I honestly don’t know.

I do know that it has taken years of wrestling with what I owe my heritage and what I owe myself to arrive at a tenuous equilibrium. Perhaps time will grant me more clarity. For now, I will at least be sure to savor all of the wonderous things I am lucky enough to experience, and cherish the strong ties to my heritage I am lucky enough to have.

This picture isn’t really relevant to the story, but I like it. Leah and I looking triumphant!

Remembering Ray

by Barbara Spilken

Editor’s Note: Today’s post is written by my aunt, Barbara Spilken. It is about my grandmother, Nana. I have written many blog posts about her. Thank you, Barbara, for sharing your tribute to her. The photos come from the Spilken family collection.

I woke up in tears this morning. April 18, 2021 marks 50 years since my mother-in-law’s death. Not many people are fortunate enough to find inspiration to last that many years from anyone much less their mother-in-law. Most in-law relationships, if we are to believe Hollywood, are strained at best. I was blessed with a different reality.

Though I only knew Ray (Rachel Spilken) for three years before her untimely death, she shaped how I live my life and the values I strive to uphold. I was 18 years old when I first met her.

Ray was the sun to family and friends that orbited her. She welcomed people to her home, regardless of their station in life or if they had a disability or lived on the margins of society. My family of origin did not offer such a generous and loving atmosphere. I drank in this alternative and vowed to try to live her values.

Whether I have accomplished that is for others to say. I believe Ray’s legacy is going strong in our family. Her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren are caring human beings, loving their families, involved in philanthropy, each trying to make the world a better place in their own way.

Everyday I wake up to see Ray’s large, beautiful mahogany dining room table in my house. It is a reminder to gather those we love, to share our burdens and our celebrations, to break bread as often as we can  –  to stay connected to each other.

I was welcomed by my husband, Terry, into his world. His mother extended to me every kindness and taught me these values. I hope I have done and continue to do them honor.

Terry and Ray in 1969

This year in which we have sustained many losses has inevitably led me to think about the meaning of life, I am comforted by my reflections on Ray. Her legacy of love and care continues to ripple through the generations that have followed. What more can one hope for?

At my wedding – January 10, 1971

A View from the Vaccine Front Lines

Note: The following essay was written by my husband, Gary Bakst, a physician in New York’s Capital Region. Thank you, Gary, for sharing your experience and insight.

It has been a miserable year for all of us dealing with COVID-19.  The virus has killed over 500,000 Americans and infected about 30 million of us.  Some are still dealing with “long haul” symptoms, ongoing effects of the virus.  Sadly, many have lost loved ones to this scourge.  By now, very few of us do not know someone who has had it. 

Beyond the illness itself, the precautions being taken to prevent infection have entirely changed the way most of us live.  We are mostly staying home, working remotely, and avoiding gatherings.  There are no concerts, no theater, no ballgames.  Many of us are not willing to go to restaurants, bars, health clubs or yoga studios. 

For those of us still working in person, teachers, grocery workers, and health care workers, etc., there is the real risk of infection.  And in our office, that concern has similarly been significant.  There are about 90 employees in our office.  We represent substantial diversity in all kinds of ways:  race, age, religion, rural vs. urban, health status, educational and economic status. 

And we have about 300 people who come into our office on a daily basis for doctor’s appointments, to see physician assistants, nurse practitioners, diabetes educators, podiatrists or our surgeon.  They come in for labs and ultrasounds and bone density measurements.  It is a lot of people and a lot of appointments.  Altogether, since the beginning of the pandemic, it represents about 80,000 visits. 

Given the prevalence that COVID has had in our community, it was inevitable that, at some point, people who work in our office would test positive for the virus.  Yet, through the end of November, we had not had one employee test positive.  Our precautions were working. After the Thanksgiving vacation, that started to change. We had first one and then several and then a substantial number of employees test positive.  By and large, it did not feel like transmission was happening within our office although there was quite a bit of worry over that possibility.  Mostly, it was people who presumably became infected outside of work, possibly via contact with asymptomatic people who did not know that they were carrying the virus.

We had at least one example of a physician acquiring infection from contact with a patient who did not know they had the virus.  Personally, I had two consecutive Fridays in which a patient called (or a family member of that patient) that they had tested positive the day after their visit.  Sometimes people just don’t really think they have COVID – maybe they had minor symptoms and got tested but they answered our prescreening questions indicating no such issues. Getting those Friday calls led me to quarantine apart from Linda and certainly raised my anxiety level. Fortunately, I didn’t get the virus and neither did Linda.

Unfortunately, some of my patients have been very seriously ill with COVID-19 and several have died from it.  Many of them were lovely, sweet people with wonderful families.

Most of the employees who tested positive had minor symptoms or were asymptomatic.  Several were more significantly ill.  Several had to miss work for weeks or even months.  Those who were sicker longer have had some issues in terms not feeling entirely themselves even after returning to work. One of the many frustrating things about this pandemic is the unpredictability of the disease.

By early January, I had reached the point where I was seriously thinking that we needed to shut down the office for 10 days.  Then, the vaccine took effect.  I got my first dose on December 28th. It was 2 weeks after we received the first dose that all of this stopped.  Not all of our employees chose to get vaccinated, but the overwhelming majority did. 

Up until that point, the tension, the fear, in the office was palpable among many of our staff. Everyone handled it in their own way.  Some were clearly less concerned, and a few had to be repeatedly reminded to keep their masks on. 

Albany Medical Center saw up to 38 employees test positive on a single day in that period.  After vaccination – just over 90% of their employees chose to receive the vaccine – that number fell to either zero or one positive test per day.  Most of the employees who tested positive were those who chose not to get vaccinated. 

In terms of side effects, many of our staff did have some side effects.  Half of us received the Pfizer vaccine and half Moderna.  I did not notice any difference between those two vaccines in terms of side effects.  I personally only experienced mild arm pain with both doses (of Moderna).  But many in the office had more side effects with the second dose.  Some had fever and chills, some were achy, some had nausea, some were exhausted.  These effects generally lasted typically 12 to 36 hours.  I do not know of anyone in the office who had anything worse or anything that lasted longer.

There have been several concerns that people have raised regarding getting vaccinated.  I want to briefly comment about them:

  1. “They were developed too quickly – something must not be up to standards.”  Actually, they were subjected to exactly as much testing as all of the other vaccines that are produced, it was just that certain steps were done in parallel rather than sequentially.  While all kinds of factors allowed it to be brought to the public more quickly including the promise that our government would pay for many doses, no vaccine went to market until all of the usual safety and efficacy studies involving tens of thousands of people were completed. All three vaccines have been authorized by the FDA.
  2. “Since political pressure was brought to the process it must be tainted.”  While there has been all too much politics involved in so many aspects of our response to the pandemic, those in charge of the vaccine process, thankfully, resisted pressures to short cut the steps we take to ensure that these vaccines work and that they are safe.
  3. “The new technique of using RNA to make a vaccine means that my DNA will be altered or somehow there will be long term effects of the vaccine”.  The messenger RNA does not get into the cell nucleus and does not ever do anything to our DNA.  It is degraded fairly quickly and does not persist in our bodies.  mRNA vaccines have been used before and have been safe and effective.  However, never before has an RNA vaccine been used on this scale so it is absolutely reasonable to continue to monitor for potential adverse effects. 

We are now many months since the first volunteers received the vaccines and their safety record has been very impressive.  Their efficacy has similarly been very impressive as seen in our office.  And the disease that we are combating is dangerous.  We will not overcome it without vaccine.  More than 500,000 Americans have died from it.  With over 50 million Americans vaccinated, not one person has died from vaccine.  The risk of vaccine is so clearly low and the risk of being unvaccinated so very clearly intolerable, even tragic. 

Personally, I am so very grateful to be vaccinated.  I feel less vulnerable and less likely to infect other people.  Being vaccinated has not yet had much effect on the things I choose to do or not to do.  I am still quite careful at work and reluctant to go to places where people gather.  But I am hopeful that much of this will change as more of the people I know receive vaccines and I am encouraged that the availability of those lifesaving shots is increasing week by week.  I hope you are able to access a vaccine soon or have already had one and that it makes your life better and safer. 

A Different World: Wichita Falls, TX 1954

Note: This is another essay by my mother, Feige Brody. Here she looks back on her time accompanying my father to Wichita Falls, Texas, where he served in the U.S. Air Force. Mom was newly married and just 21 years old.

I walked into Idlewild airport (now JFK) in New York in 1954. I was taking a flight to join my husband who was stationed at Sheppard Air Force Base in Texas. Hours later I landed in Dallas, a whole different world. Signs jumped out at me, ‘No Colored Allowed’ above water fountains, bathroom entrances and restaurants. ‘Whites Only’ plastered along the brightly lit walls. It shocked me like a slap in the face. I felt revolted, but why was I so appalled? I read books, I saw movies, read newspaper articles, I knew segregation existed. So why was I so upset?

I lived in a different world. My neighborhood in Brooklyn was integrated. I went to elementary, junior high, high school and Brooklyn College with Negroes, as African-Americans were called at that time. We had one Chinese student whose father owned the laundry around the corner, and I knew Hispanic kids, too; my classmates were all colors from different countries around the world. It seemed to me that they joined school clubs and played team sports, in fact some went on to play on professional teams. We took pride in that. This was a time when Jackie Robinson was a beloved member of the Brooklyn Dodgers. The ballparks and arenas that I went to weren’t segregated – watching games at Ebbetts Field, Madison Square Garden, and the Polo Grounds we all sat together. On the surface, at least, it seemed to be an integrated society.

When we went to the movies, we saw famous white actors in black-face, where Fred Astaire imitated Bojangles, and we didn’t think anything of it.  I was oblivious to the racism implicit in those movies or the wider culture. I didn’t see the subtler signs of racism in Brooklyn. When I arrived at the airport in Dallas, it was blindingly obvious.

Barry picked me up in a beat-up blue Pontiac with 150,000 miles on the odometer. It had dings, scars and scratches from battles won and lost. Riding to the air force base we struggled with the balky car fan which provided little relief from the oppressive heat and the erratic radio reception.

The ride was even more nerve wracking because Barry did not have his driver’s license yet. He had just learned to drive, my father taught him in Brooklyn before he left, and this was the very first car he ever bought; no one in his family had one before. Barry was waiting for his license to come in the mail. I kept my fingers crossed that we didn’t get pulled over by the police.

We started our slow drive to Wichita Falls through a landscape totally new to me. I expected to see oil derricks, but they weren’t anywhere to be found. Instead I saw houses with what looked like water pumps in their yards but were in fact oil pumps. I later learned that the derricks wasted too much oil and were replaced by numerous, smaller pumps.

Our trip took us past small towns – some had signs “No Colored Allowed.” Another shock to my system.

As we got closer to the air force base the air quality changed. An odor of rotten eggs and something metallic overwhelmed us. I learned that Texans say they blow the odor to Oklahoma overnight and they return the stench to Texas in the morning. I didn’t realize until then that Oklahoma was just a stone’s throw away from Wichita Falls.

We arrived at our rented apartment in town as they had no room for us on the base. Unable to open the door with the key we had been provided, a neighbor came over saying, “You have to poosh and pool.” Barry translated, he pushed and pulled and got the door open.

That first day, Barry drove me to do some basic shopping. I had to learn the lingo: I got a sack, not a bag, and pop, not soda. I was coming out of the store as a young Black woman walked toward me and she stepped off the wide, shady sidewalk into the sunny, dirty gutter. She never looked up and I couldn’t catch her eye. I was confused. That’s when I noticed the “Whites only” sign on the supermarket. The woman went through an alley to place her order at a side window. She wasn’t permitted in the store. I rarely went into town again. I lived in an all-white neighborhood and went to a small store on the corner. I didn’t see a Black person unless I went to the base.

On Wednesday, April 20, 1955 I went into labor and had my first child, Steven, at the air force base hospital. I went in at noon and delivered at 3:00 p.m. and I came home on Friday. I was prepared to give birth without family or friends present, but I was not prepared for natural childbirth! It was without any drugs for pain because the hospital staff were on their lunch break and when they returned at 1:00 it was too late; it would have been dangerous to the baby.

I called my parents on Sunday I told them we had the bris. Mom corrected me, telling me it was a circumcision (since it wasn’t officiated by a rabbi or performed by a mohel).

Barry and I survived being new parents with Dr. Spock, Mother’s telephone advice and a caring pediatrician. The pediatrician advised bringing Steven out in the fresh air. On a sunny, mild day I took Steve out with a blanket and put him on the grass. A neighbor came running out, shouting, “No, no! Chiggers!” She explained that chiggers were tiny bugs living in the grass and similar to mosquitoes, but they bit you and stayed under your skin. You have to light match at the site of the bite and watch it crawl out. It was the last time we walked on the grass. I never heard of that in Brooklyn.

My parents flew to visit us one long weekend. Barry went to the base with a friend and gave Dad that beat up blue Pontiac. Dad couldn’t get over the way he was treated when he went to the base or the PX. He was waved through security without needing to stop. After my parents left, the airmen were in formation as the general passed. Barry had to smile because the general was the spitting image of my father. Calling home, my father said, “No way, they were just being polite.” The thought on base was that the general came to do his inspection early, in disguise. The beat-up blue Pontiac was a ruse.

There were good things about our time in Wichita Falls, besides the birth of Steven. We made a life-long friend in Oliver Hailey (who went on to become a playwright with a show on Broadway). And our neighbors did help, especially the one who took a huge scorpion out of my bathtub. We were glad to leave and looked forward to our next assignment at Westover Air Force Base in Chicoppee Falls, Massachussetts.

We packed up the car. They didn’t make car seats for babies yet, so we put a small mattress across the back seat and tucked Steven in. Leaving at midnight, we drove until 3:00 a.m. and were somewhere in Arkansas when we realized we were hungry. We pulled into a small shack that said ‘Eats’ in big letters.

Stopping, leaving Steven sleeping the in the back seat, we walked into an all-Black restaurant. We saw no outward sign; we had no idea. They served us politely and one of the patrons kept an eye on Steven, looking out the door and telling us that all was well. As we left, I knew if the opposite had occurred, a Black family stopped at a white restaurant, it would not have gone the same way.

We arrived in Brooklyn for a brief stay between assignments. It was good to be back. Home is where the heart is.

Two Stories

Note: The following two stories are written by my mom, Feige Brody. She is 87 years old and resides in an independent living community in New Jersey. She has been taking time during this period of enforced isolation during the pandemic to reflect on important, formative experiences in her life. She has also tried to capture the flavor of the time. We hope you enjoy them.

THOROUGHBRED

The only time I came running home from school was when I was sure I had failed the Spanish Regents exam. That was the culminating test after three years of instruction. It included verbs, vocabulary conjugation, translation, grammar and, even history of Spanish-speaking countries. It was a high-stakes test before they used that term. If I failed, I might fail the class and it could affect my graduation.

            When I reached home, I ran to my bedroom and collapsed, sobbing into my pillow which woke my dad who had been sleeping. He came into my room, towering over me.  I felt I was a failure, a disgrace to the family.  He knew I was a decent student. I had made honor roll. But this was a disaster even though I had studied hard.  During that school year, I went every morning to an 8:00 a.m. class that Mrs. Kennedy, our Spanish teacher, held to give students extra help. She gave up her time and we gave up our sleep.

            I hated feeling I had disappointed my Dad who was proud to be the first in his family to graduate 9thgrade.  His schooling ended when he had to go to work to help support the family, so his younger sister and brother could continue their schooling. I continued sobbing and hitting my hands into the pillow.

            Dad, a gambler who loved sports and who had taken me to many afternoon ballgames and horse races, reminded me of the times we went to Aqueduct, Belmont and even Saratoga far away in upstate New York.  I knew about the jockeys like Eddie Arcaro, Ted Atkinsons. I knew the owners and the colors they used. I would stand at the finish line with the ground shaking beneath my feet, the horses thundering by, watching them with their nostrils flaring in a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds. 

            As he stood next to my bed, Dad reminded me of those races. This is what he said, “Every one of those horses are thoroughbreds and they all want to win but there can be only one winner. Every one of them continued running hard; no one ever gave up, even the last horse, because they are thoroughbreds.  And you are a thoroughbred.  You did your best, no one can ask for more.”

            I stopped sobbing and thought what a wonderful gift he gave me, what a compliment.  I’m a thoroughbred, I thought to myself. As he left the room, he reminded me, “The good times take care of themselves, the bad times we celebrate. If this is one of your bad times, think what you would like to do.” He gave me a small smile and left the room.

            I blew my nose, dried my eyes and turned my thoughts to how we might celebrate. I later learned I got an 83 on that test, enough to rescue me from failing the class for the year. The lesson I learned from my father was more important than that Spanish class.

LOCAL JOINTS

Veselka. The name feels like velvet on my tongue. I would be coming from work, heading to the LL subway line on a cold wintry day, when the aroma came wafting through the air. Veselka was a Ukranian restaurant in the East Village on 14th Street. It had unpronounceable main dishes, with a local crowd speaking Russian and a polyglot of other languages. The crowd was mostly first and second-generation Americans, longing for the food their parents and grandparents made. I would get a bowl of tasty, hot borscht and then I’d head home.

            I remember neighborhood Brooklyn restaurants, too. When I went to P.S. 191 and J.H.S. 210 I would go home for lunch. Every once in a while, my mother, who worked full time in the bakery, didn’t have time to go shopping so she gave me and my younger sister some money to eat out. Oh joy! I’d go to the Jewish deli on the corner, Bartnofsky’s. Despite its unglamorous name, my mouth waters thinking of it. The table would be set with sour pickles, mustard, ketchup, silverware, napkins and sauerkraut – the smell tantalizing as soon as I entered the store. I’d order a well-done hot dog with a side of baked beans or French fries. It cost 25 or 50 cents. If I didn’t go to Bartnofsky’s, I would go to the luncheonette where the very cute ‘older’ guy (probably not yet 20, making money for college) worked. I had a secret crush on him, my heart beat faster as I barely managed to blurt my order out. “Salami and eggs, please.” He smiled when he handed me the dish, making my day. Then I went back to school

On Saturday my sister and I would go around the corner, on St. John’s Place, to the Congress movie theater. We would be led by the matron to the children’s section and sat on grimy, often damp seats. After a whole afternoon of cartoons, shorts, a newsreel, and finally a main feature, we would exit to the blinding sun. Across the street was the very exotic Chinese restaurant. We would say hi to Joe, we couldn’t pronounce his real name, and he, in turn, greeted us in Yiddish. He would say, “One combination plate coming right up!” The food would come piping hot: wonton soup, egg roll, fried rice and chicken chow mein. The meal included tea and ice cream for dessert. All for $1.00!

            All of those restaurants are gone, lost to all but my memories. It isn’t just the food that stirs my reverie, but the clamoring of people coming and going, the good-natured shouting, “No, I want this table near the window!” And the rattling of dishes and clinking of silverware, and, oh yes, the wonderful scents. Every once in a while, I catch a whiff of something that brings it all back. It wasn’t Nathan’s or Juniors, the more known or established places in Brooklyn. Rather, it was the local joints where we would be recognized and treated as the neighbors we were that are etched in my memory and heart.

An Unpleasant Interlude in Jersey City

NOTE: This is another story written by my mother, Feige Brody, who during this pandemic has been reflecting on her childhood.

Chicago bustled and New York never slept, but Jersey City had no such energy. When my family lost everything in New London, Connecticut, with the hurricane of 1938, we moved in above Uncle Irving’s wholesale bakery in Jersey City, in a railroad flat. The best thing I could say about it was that it had running water and heat.

But we were really on the wrong side of the tracks. The railroad was on one end of the street and the other four corners had rundown bars. The men that frequented those bars were not called homeless then, they were called drunks and slept in the gutter or wherever they fell. The smell was horrific, of feces, urine and garbage, all mingling. I had to be careful where I walked never knowing what was under foot.

Simma (my sister who was not school age yet) and I were the only children on the block so there were no friends to play with. I went to school by walking to the corner where I could join kids who were coming from the right side of the tracks. After school, walking home they would turn at that corner and I would be alone. I was always terrified, with my heart pounding and my palms sweaty. I was afraid some drunk would be sleeping on the steps and I would have to climb over him to get home. Never once was I actually bothered, but the fear persisted for the entire year and a half that we lived there.

Across the street from my uncle’s bakery was a fancy saloon. The owners were very kind, and they let Simma and I play there. The floor was a high-polished wood and we would run and slide – back and forth. Sometimes we made up elaborate games with our paper dolls on that floor. We were allowed to play the piano, softly, and jumped up and down the steps that led to apartments. It may have been a saloon, but it was our playhouse. Once in a while a man would be at the bar talking to the owner, making arrangements for a party or celebration. Then Simma and I would sweep up our play floor and help set the tables to prepare.

One day, leaving the saloon in a hurry, I ran past the owner’s dog, who was gnawing on a bone. As I bolted past, he took a bite out of me! Dad rushed me to the hospital where I was surrounded by medical personnel all dressed in white. I was put in a bed with bright white lights shining down on me and once again I was terrified. I was given an injection with a huge needle into my belly to prevent rabies. Fortunately, we soon learned the owners had papers that showed the dog was not rabid, so I didn’t need more shots. Dad took me home. I never did get over my fear of dogs.

We were still in Jersey City in 1939 when Mother got sick with rheumatic fever. Fortunately, the Sisters of St. Joseph came each day to wash, feed, bring water and provide whatever relief they could. I continued to go to school and each afternoon coming up the stairs at the end of my day, one of the sisters would be standing at the top of the stairs, gesturing to remind me to tip toe and be quiet, because every noise would bring Mother more pain. The good Sisters were intimidating in their long black habits, leaving only a bit of their face showing, and looking so unfamiliar to me. I was sure they meant to be kind, but I was terrified of them. (Ironically, many years later I was a reading teacher at St. Joseph High School in Brooklyn and became friends with several nuns.)

With my mother being ill, her brother, Jackie, who had been living with us, left to stay with other aunts and cousins. Uncle Jackie was nine years older than me and was more like an older brother. He was the one who rescued Simma and I when I accidentally set fire to the curtains with a candle that I lit hoping to show Santa Claus the way to our apartment. With Jackie leaving, I was desolate.

I don’t know if there were pills that could have alleviated Mother’s pain, or maybe we couldn’t afford them, I will never know. While my parents would talk about the hurricane, they did not talk about her illness.

Since I could not stay in the apartment to play after school, I was left to my own devices. Though I knew it was forbidden, I went to the railroad tracks where older boys were playing. I would walk along, imitating those boys, balancing on the tracks, until I heard a rumble and then I hopped off and raced next to the train. I watched the train streak by, the conductor blowing the horn. It was a bit of fun in an otherwise dreary time. Once I fell and cut my knee and it bled a lot. I ran home and clomped up the stairs. I heard Mother cry out in pain. The sisters yelled at me, but one of them cleaned my knee. The skin healed over a small pebble that remained as a reminder. After many years it dissolved.

Eventually Mother recovered and in 1940, Dad having saved some money, bought a partnership in a Brooklyn bakery. We moved to the apartment above that store and Uncle Jackie was able to join us again. My third life began there. For the first time in a long while I felt safe in a friendly neighborhood, with lots of other kids. I realized the fear I carried in Jersey City was useless, there was nothing more to fear.

My mother (Feige) on the right, my Nana, on the left, years after Jersey City – in happier times

A daughter’s comment: I am so glad my Mom has written these stories. I know it isn’t easy for her, on several levels, but it enriches our understanding of her life. I am struck by the trauma she endured – losing everything in that devastating hurricane, moving to a cheerless place, worrying about her mother’s health, getting bitten by a dog. It was quite an eventful and painful early life. Yet, she was resilient. She did keep a fear of dogs, understandably (that was also reinforced by later scary encounters), but she was (and is) an optimist. She turned her attention to the bright blue part of the sky, as her father instructed her to do. Fortunately the third part of her life brought far more pleasure and much less fear. As the country emerged from the Great Depression, her family’s fortune turned for the better, too.

A Reckoning

NOTE: Today’s blog post is written by Gary, my husband. He was reflecting on the fact that we have, depending on the data source, reached or exceeded 200,000 American deaths from Covid-19. Gary and I feel that we have become numb to the loss; maybe complacent is a better term. He wrote this as part of a letter to our children. I asked if he would allow me to share it on the blog. Obviously, he said yes.

            One other thing you need to know. In our family since Trump was elected, we have referred to him as the CF. CF stands for character flaw. We were naming his flaws, dishonest, misogynist, selfish, ignorant, when our daughter Leah noted that there were too many to count and that in fact, he was just a giant Character Flaw, hence he is the CF which is how Gary refers to him the letter that follows.

            Today is the final day of summer with fall well entrenched in the air and the days rapidly shortening.  Fall officially begins tomorrow morning.  It is a time for introspection for us as Jews with the high holidays underway and the annual fast less than a week away.  It is a time of bounty with harvests, apple picking and pumpkin picking and a time when leaves begin to change color leading to what will be the prettiest time of the year.  

            At the same time, it is a time when summer plants wither and die, flowers fade, and soon, frost covers the morning landscape.  You can smell the change in the air.  That warm, soft smell of summer is giving way to the smell of leaves and the mornings start to become foggy with the sun slower to burn off the haze.  So, while it is a time of beauty and bounty, it is also a time of loss and withering. 

            This year, of course, it is a time to mourn in very specific ways.  For so many people, it is a time to mourn the loss of certainty with jobs lost, incomes lost; with lives upended, people suddenly stuck at home.  People are working from home more than ever before; people are stuck home without daycare available to them and schools are still struggling, even with the school year already underway, to find ways to deal with COVID and still provide for the needs of their students, their teachers and other staff and the families that depend on them. 

            Everything is upended.  Things we have taken for granted are no longer true.  Going out to eat, going to a movie, going to a ballgame, a museum, a concert are all either no longer possible or are so very fraught.  

            There are different counts of how many Americans have died of COVID but it appears to me that we have, in fact, reached another tragic milestone:  200,000 dead Americans.  As brutal and horrible as this reality is, as many people have died, have lost loved ones, often dying alone in ICUs with family unable to be with them, the fact that it did not have to be this way makes it so much more tragic. 

            The CF has been accused of mismanaging the pandemic, but that accusation wildly understates what he has done and how serious the crimes he has committed are.  People make mistakes but they are not all created equal.  If a doctor makes a mistake, someone could be harmed, someone could die.  If an air traffic controller makes a mistake, many people may die. 

If a president makes a mistake – let’s say President Obama failing to block a resolution unfairly condemning Israel, there can be repercussions on an international level.  The Palestinians, in that case, became yet more emboldened in their rejectionist policies.  But that was, relatively speaking, a minor mistake.  A much larger mistake was President George W Bush invading Iraq.  It broke that country apart, opened a Pandora’s Box of Sunni and Shiite militant groups, bolstered the Iranian regime and paved the way for the creation of ISIS.  It cost many, many lives in the region, cost thousands of American soldiers’ lives and cost us enormous sums of money.  It also harmed Israel by permitting Iran to send advanced weapons to Hezbollah (and more recently also to other militant Shiite groups) over land through Iraq and Syria. 

That was a gigantic mistake.  It has repercussions that have continued to harm us and will continue to harm us for some time.  But it was still a mistake.  (Not a mistake by Cheney – intentional on his part and on the part of others.  But, I believe, a mistake on W’s part). 

            The CF, however, did not make a mistake.  He thought that his intentional sabotage of our efforts to confront the coronavirus pandemic would bolster him politically.  It has not worked out that way – that was a mistake.  But he absolutely, positively intentionally lied to us about the pandemic and he has blood on his hands.  I cannot tell you how many people have died because of the CF’s lies, but I am absolutely certain that he lied and that deaths resulted.  We know that from innumerable reports over these months.  We know that from the audio tapes recorded by Bob Woodward. 

            And we know it from the words of the CF himself.  He admitted that he lied.  He lied while admitting it – when he tried to sell us on the excuse that he did it to avoid fear among the American people.  Nonetheless, he lied to us.  And, because he lied to us, and because he also presided over an administration that left its job, the job of organizing our response to the virus, of generating strategies for confronting it, to the states, lots more Americans died.  Lots of Americans became sick, many suffering a devastating illness, many suffering a very long term illness, many never regaining all of what they lost.  Many lost loved ones.  Many will never be whole again. 

            Think about it for a minute.  Someone in that position, someone who has chosen to take a position that has enormous responsibilities, that places the health, safety, even the lives of the American people in his hands.  He has actively campaigned for the position, been in that position and had years to familiarize himself with the responsibilities inherent in it.  He has been given a huge challenge to save Americans’ lives.  That challenge is his duty – his sacred duty – as the person given all of the titles and powers and resources that come with the job he chose to take.  

            And he intentionally chose to let Americans die instead.  He said things – it’s a hoax, the media and the Democrats are hyping it, it’s no worse than the flu, it will soon disappear, it will magically disappear, the best thing you can do if you have a mild case is to go to work with it.  He’s said things – open up the economy, open up the schools, open up sporting events, open up anything and everything, open them up quickly and regardless of the consequences.  

Think about this for a moment, during the entire time that we have been confronting this horrific, deadly plague, he never once – never – took the position of waiting.  He never said that those people in that meat packing plant should not be there until they figure out how to safely operate it.  He never said that eating in a restaurant in a state with incredibly high virus prevalence might be dangerous.  Not even once. 

            The intent is as horrific as the crime itself; it is unforgivable.  It is something people should be learning about for generations to come, forever.  When we learn about American history and we think of people who have been traitors to our country, we should not first think about Benedict Arnold whose name itself has come to be synonymous with such treachery.  In the future, that distinction should belong to the CF.  (“He took money to provide classified information to the Russians.  He’s a CF.”  “She hacked into the computers of our electrical grid and demanded ransom payments in order to not plunge millions of Americans into darkness during a heat wave.  She’s a CF.”)

            200,000 Americans and counting.  It is sad, tragic, horrific.  It is worse than that because it is also treachery.  And it is a disaster that is far from over. 

            Another tragedy, of course, is the passing of the magnificent and beloved Ruth Bader Ginsburg whose life is exactly the opposite of his.  She did not come from wealth.  She faced obstacles that she ought not have had to face because of her gender, because she was a mother.  Nobody took her entrance exams for her.  Nobody used their money and influence to help her get into the places she got into.  And, once there, she was consistent, moral, ethical and used her passion, abilities and energies to help others.  She was a good and loyal friend to many and demanded more of herself than of others. 

            And she should also be remembered forever.  She should be remembered as a hero, a role model and an inspiration to us all.  Women, in particular, will find inspiration from her good works and, as Jewish people, we can allow ourselves just a bit of nachas that it was one of our own who did all of this. 

            Her story is one that we can all think of when we wonder what it is that we can do to make the world a better place.  For crying out loud, she was 5’ 1”  and probably never even weighed 100 pounds.  So much greatness in such a little package.  She could fit in aunt Rochelle’s clothing. (Editor’s note: Gary’s sister is also a petite person as anyone who knows her can attest – also, not a person to be underestimated.)

            While the political part of what is going on now is very concerning, and while it may take a while to know what the outcome of it will be, the greatness that she embodied is something we will hold onto and let us allow some of that light to shine on us.  

NOTE: I wanted to share this because I think we need to look at the totality of what Trump has done through this pandemic. It can’t be emphasized enough. We need to look for the light in the midst of the darkness, and RBG’s legacy can offer that, but we need to reckon with his actions and that many have been complicit in it. We can disagree about what would have been the best strategy to fight the virus, but his lies cannot be forgiven.