Category: Relationships

Sisters

I don’t have a sister; I have two brothers. But, I find the dynamic between sisters particularly interesting, maybe because I don’t have one. I could be romanticizing it based on Hallmark cards, but it seems that for some it can be a deep, lifelong friendship; a connection different than the relationship between a sister and a brother, at least from my observation. I did have a front row seat to my mother’s relationship with her sister, Simma, and a less intimate but still revealing view of my mother-in-law and her sister, and I saw common themes. Those relationships were quite layered and complicated. I was reminded of that recently because, as I am still in the endless process of going through my mother’s things, I came across a tribute Aunt Simma wrote for my mother that brought up questions. I am sharing portions of that essay because I think it offers insight into Mom and Simma and provides an opportunity to explore whether the relationship described is true of other sisters. This is Simma’s tribute:

Feige Brody: A Life

This is a wholly unauthorized, condensed, selective biography, one which, no doubt, will be considered by its subject to be semi-fictitious. Nevertheless, these are the author’s reminiscences and, therefore, are told from the author’s point of view.

Feige Marian Spilken was born in Brooklyn on November 16, 1933 to Ray Woltz Spilken and Charles Spilken. Her mother was 19, her father 29. She was named after her maternal grandmother who died too young in her early 40s. From the start she was a good girl, a mother’s girl, nurtured by her young mom whom she adored. Feige was everything adults could hope for in a baby. She was exceedingly pretty with dark curly hair, dimpled cheeks, and she was sufficiently chubby, a good thing in those days, to convince her paternal grandmother that Ray was not a bad mother….

The family moved to New London, Connecticut, where her sister Simma was born. Bubba Sarah Spilken was outraged that Ray should produce such a scrawny, straight haired baby who would not eat of her favorite dishes much preferring to eat bugs and dirt. Only Feige’s smiling, compliant presence and acceptance of those heavy, eastern European dishes kept Bubba from banishing Ray from the family. Feige was the good girl.

The great hurricane of 1938 forced the family to move to Jersey City, New Jersey. They lived above Charlie’s bakery and the girls loved bothering the bakers…

Across the street there was a saloon owned by the Landaus, the only other Jewish family in the neighborhood. Before it opened late in the afternoon, Mrs. Landau allowed the girls to play at the bar pretending to pull beer from the taps and serve customers. There were banquet rooms up a couple of flights of very narrow dark stairs. Everything was covered in sheets until the room had to be used. Feige loved telling Simma ghost stories as they climbed the stairs. She said the sheets were actually the ghosts’ clothing and would make appropriate noises to scare the daylights out of her impressionable sister.

Other favorite pastimes were staring out the back window at the not too distant Statue of Liberty and telling stories. Often, they would go to the front window in the late afternoon when the saloon opened. They liked to shout at one particular customer who looked worse for drink and had a fat, red nose. “Salami, Baloney, Pastrami,” they shouted since those were the most offensive words they knew. After the outcry they would duck, afraid the drunk would see them. That was exciting….

No matter where they lived, Feige was like a little mother to her sister. While Ray worked, Feige would entertain Simma and endure her fresh mouth and mischievous ways. One hot summer night all the windows were open when a terrible summer storm occurred… Simma wouldn’t listen when Feige told her to go to bed. Instead, she ran away making Feige chase after her. The rain slicked linoleum floors were so slippery Simma fell. Sliding into the metal radiator, her eye was bruised, turning black and blue, but it was Feige who suffered. She couldn’t stop blaming herself for the accident. She was a good girl.

Simma would refuse to go to sleep… Feige would induce her to come to their shared bed by telling her she would be allowed to squeeze and pull Feige’s copious ringlets. Simma can still feel their soft, springy, velvet luxuriousness. It was a fact that whether they were in Brooklyn, in the country with Bubba and Zada, or at a bungalow in Rockaway, Feige took care of her sister.

She was patient most times, but one lapse occurred in the late ‘40s. Simma was home in bed, too sick to go to school. Those were the days of Forever Amber, but there was no way the girls could obtain that “dirty” book. They got a poor imitation in Kitty. Feige allowed Simma to read the book but made her promise to read it under the covers, the way Feige read every night so their parents wouldn’t catch her.

When Feige came home from school, Simma asked her to define a word she could not find in the dictionary. “Feige,” she queried, “what is a whore?” She pronounced it “war.” “You know. It’s an armed conflict between nations,” Feige replied. Simma was frustrated and said, “I don’t mean a war, a ‘war.’” Feige responded, exasperatedly, “WHO-ER, stupid, WHO-ER.” What was this? Feige lost her cool and never did enlighten Simma as to the definition of the word…

Ray and Charlie always had people in the house. The two sides of the family gathered there as well as their many friends. Feige and Simma were allowed to stay up and mingle with them. One of Charlie’s friends, Jerry Cohen, would show them parlor tricks first fooling them and then teaching them. That was how they learned to read each other’s minds, an act they still perform for amazed spectators.

Days, though, were not always sunny. Feige finally caused her parents anxiety when she was 17. She decided she would like to move into an apartment with some friends. How could a well brought up girl live without her parents’ supervision? Ray and Charlie were distressed. But it was a great time for Simma. It was the only time Simma was told by family members that she was the good daughter, never causing her family any distress. Who were these people? Where had they been for the last 17 years?

When Feige started college her life changed, making it even better than it already was. She met Barry Brody. She was smitten and, indeed, got married to him as soon as they both were graduated from Brooklyn College. Feige is fond of quoting Charlie. Well, one of his precepts was that to have a happy marriage the couple should move away from their parents the first year of their marriage and get to know one another without interference. Feige, ever obedient, moved to Wichita Falls, Texas; Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts; and then back to Brooklyn with two boys in tow and a girl on the way.

Now, Feige was a devoted wife, mother, cook and baker. The girl who in her parents’ house had to be told that the outside of the pots and dishes had to be washed as well as the inside, was suddenly the happy homemaker. She, like Ray, loved to entertain family and friends. There was always lots of good food around which is still true whether the Brodys were home in Brooklyn or in Livingston Manor, or, now, in Boynton Beach. Their houses were and are gathering places for everyone they know, and their hospitality is boundless.

One more point of kindness, showing what a good girl and sister Feige is. A year after Simma’s husband died, Feige and Barry were afraid she would have nothing to do during the summer and suggested they all take a trip to Europe together. They planned to go to London, Paris and Amsterdam but the French changed all that. They would not allow American Air Force planes to use French airspace when they on their way to a bombing mission in Libya. The planes went the long way around. One ran out of gas and crashed killing the American crew. Feige was up in arms while putting her foot down. She would not go to France. She said there were two choices: cancel the trip or find something to replace the Paris portion. There was a replacement, a circle England tour. It was Simma’s first sight of England and Oxford, a romance that continues to this day. Thank you, Feige. By the way, Feige still has not gone nor will ever go to France. You are a good girl, Feige Marian Spilken Brody. Happy birthday with love from your sister, Simma Spilken Sulzer.

Mom (left) and Simma as teenagers
Mom (left) and Simma in England

Unfortunately, both Simma and Feige have passed away so I cannot ask questions that arise from the narrative. For example, Simma notes that after the great hurricane they moved to Jersey City and lived above Charlie’s bakery (Charlie was their father). I thought the bakery was owned by Charlie’s brother. A minor point in one sense, but not so inconsequential in understanding their economic circumstances.

It’s also interesting that Simma comments in a positive way about Mom’s chubbiness as a baby – at that time, and in their culture, having a plump baby was a sign of good mothering. I think we still believe it’s okay for a baby to have round cheeks, but only up to a point, then we start to worry. The never-ending judgment of mothers continues unabated to this day.

Another recurring theme is the importance of story-telling and reading. Mom was a devoted reader. In fact, as her daughter, I would get frustrated trying to get her attention when her nose was in a book. Often, I would just give up. On the positive side, my brothers and I grew up to be readers ourselves and continue to enjoy good stories.

Simma mentions the parlor trick of reading each other’s minds. Mom and Simma performed that gag many times to the amusement and bafflement of our family. I didn’t know where they learned how to do it, now I do – Jerry Cohen! Very late in life, Mom finally revealed how it was done, though I doubt I could remember the steps well enough to do it with one of my brothers.

Simma characterizes Mom as a happy homemaker after her marriage and arrival of children. I don’t think of Mom that way. She enjoyed cooking and baking for the purpose of entertaining guests (and to a much lesser extent feeding her family), but that was the end of her homemaking enthusiasm. Keeping a close eye on her young children (!), cleaning, sewing, and ironing were not high on her priority list. I don’t think she was a happy homemaker. I don’t hold that against her, but she probably should have been a bit less laissez faire when it came to overseeing her young children.

There are so many other interesting elements to this essay, starting with Simma’s disclaimer at the beginning. She acknowledges that her perspective may be quite different than Mom’s. I don’t think she is referring to the vagaries of memory. When Mom and Aunt Simma would tell a story from their shared past, which may have involved the same people and same incident, they understood it in totally different ways. Mom seemingly came into this world as a glass half full kind of gal; Aunt Simma not so much. Often, Mom saw people through rose-colored glasses and that certainly applied to how she viewed their parents.

I find it illuminating, too, that Aunt Simma describes Mom as a good girl. Mom, by her own description, was compliant and she wanted to please her parents. Aunt Simma was more rebellious, chafing at the restrictions put on them as children. Mom credited Simma with getting them a later bedtime, even though she was the younger one. Simma was the trailblazer, according to Mom. She also spoke of Simma’s insistence on picking out her own clothes. As a young person Simma was given a budget with which to buy her own outfits – she would rather buy one stylish item, instead of several cheaper things. Mom wore whatever her mother got for her.

That brings me to the first of several common themes between Mom and her sister and my mother-in-law and hers. That dynamic, the good one vs. the rebellious one, seemed to play out in both. Paula described herself as obedient – she did whatever her mother asked her to do as a child. Sophia was less cooperative. Unlike my mom, who was the eldest, Paula was the middle child with an older brother, Bernie, and Sophia about three years younger. Years later, when I met them, Sophia commented that their dad told bedtime stories to Paula, not to her (though they shared the same bed – just like Mom and Aunt Simma). Paula claimed that he was telling the stories to both of them, but that was not Sophia’s perception. Paula recalled feeling loved by both of her parents, despite the traumatic premature death of their father (he was murdered by the Nazis). Sophia did not carry the same warm memories of paternal affection. This mirrors the differences in my mother’s and aunt’s tendency to have disparate perceptions of people (though in Mom and Simma’s case not necessarily different views of their father).

Sophia (left), their mother, Lea, and Paula
Sophia (left), David, my father-in-law, and Paula

Another similarity between Mom and Paula was their choice of a spouse when compared with their younger sisters. Mom and Paula were lucky in marriage, enjoying long, supportive, loving relationships. No doubt they had their ups and downs, as all marriages do, but they had husbands who were welcomed into the family and were much loved by their in-laws. Simma and Sophia were not so blessed. I imagine that difference in marital harmony impacted their relationship as sisters, as well.

The biography that Simma wrote for my mom is full of love and warmth. Their later years were more complicated. When I visited in Florida, years after Dad died, Mom told me that she believed Simma didn’t like her anymore. I didn’t know what to say. I tried to find fault with her perception but didn’t convince her. So many things might have gone into that – the loss of their respective husbands, deteriorating health, and perhaps long buried resentments/jealousies. At one point, after Simma died and Mom was feeling guilty that she hadn’t been able to offer her sister much comfort at the end of her life, I read her this essay and other cards from Simma that expressed love and appreciation. Sadly, it didn’t seem to ease Mom’s regret.

Paula and Sophia appeared to experience a similar distancing towards the end of their lives. Again, many things contributed to that, not the least of which was physical distance with Sophia living in Tucson, Arizona while Paula split time between New York and Florida. The progression of Paula’s Alzheimer’s disease created an additional challenge.

 Sibling relationships are complicated. Though DNA is shared, personalities can be dramatically different and that was certainly the case with Simma and Mom and Paula and Sophia. Many people are estranged from their siblings, and it is understandable given how fraught family life can be. The potential for deep resentment is great – add mental or physical illness, or other serious problems and the bond can break. That was not the case with my mother or mother-in-law, but the end of life challenged the connection. There is no doubt, though, in both cases, the sisterly relationship was one of the most important in their lives.  Whatever their differences, they remained deeply tied to one another.

What is your experience or observation about relationships between sisters?

A Poignant Celebration

“There was a lot of warmth in that room,” Gary said to me as we left a celebration in honor of his uncle Sol’s 100th birthday. I readily agreed.

It was an interesting gathering. If one reaches that auspicious age, it is almost certain that you have outlived your spouse (possibly spouses), siblings and most, if not all, friends. This is true of Sol. So it can be bittersweet to plan a party.  Who do you invite? Sol’s son, Ben, faced this question.

Sol is a Holocaust survivor, like Gary’s parents. I have written a great deal about Gary’s parents, David and Paula and their remarkable story. I don’t know the details of Sol’s experience. Sol married David’s sister, Batya, in America. The two couples were part of a tight knit survivor community. There were about five or six families that socialized regularly, centered in Rosedale, Queens. Their children grew up together.

Gary told me stories about those years – how the mixture of family and friends would gather at his house most weekends – the kids playing various games while the adults chatted (and maybe argued, especially about politics). How they went to the Pennsylvania Dutch country with the Majewskis, who lived down the block, and how the Majewskis had all the coolest toys – they often hung out at their house. As often happens with college and adulthood, the kids went their separate ways, maintaining only occasional contact.

I didn’t know what to expect when we arrived at the party. I wondered who would be there. Ben and Rochelle, Sol’s step-daughter, set up displays of photographs of Sol that captured his life over the many years. We studied the pictures, looking at the young faces. When we sat down at a large rectangular table that sat the 25 guests, Ben welcomed everyone and explained that when he thought about who his father would want to share this momentous milestone with, he thought of that core group of survivors. Since the original members have passed on, Ben reached out to the second generation to gather to celebrate Sol, the one who remains. They all represented the heart of Sol’s life.

Sol lives in Florida. When we go to visit Gary’s Mom, we see Sol as well. Until about a year ago, he was in remarkable shape. It is only these last months that there are signs of his age, his short-term memory is starting to fail, and his strength is waning. When Ben extended the invitation to us, after briefly discussing it, we realized it was a milestone that should be recognized so we would both attend. After all, as several observed at the party, it was an opportunity to gather for a happy occasion, not a funeral which is more often the impetus for second and third generation survivors to gather.

I do not know the details of Sol’s journey, I don’t believe he participated in Steven Spielberg’s Shoah project, so there is no testimony to watch, as I have watched my in-laws’ videos. Based on the research our niece Laura did as part of writing her book, The Shoemaker’s Son, I do know that Sol suffered horribly. One of the factors that made his situation even more challenging is that his family was poor to begin with. The Nazis did not differentiate between rich Jews and poor Jews, but having some resources to bribe or trade could buy time when one was on the run, hiding in the woods. Sol bears the scars of his painful experiences. I believe he and his brother were the sole survivors from his family. Once he got to America, he had a successful business as a glazier, but the memories of deprivation were never far from his thoughts. His tightness with money is legendary in the family.

Several of the attendees made remarks, sharing memories of Sol, honoring his tenacity, and his love of family and friends. Jokes were told. Some of the speakers managed a great imitation of Sol’s accent – an echo of their own parents’ accents of blessed memory.

Sol sat at the head of the table. He enjoyed himself. He made his own remarks: he thanked everyone for coming and expressed his love for all. He told us that this was likely his last birthday. Everyone pooh-poohed that and Ben pointed out that he has been saying that for the last 40 years, so he took that as a good sign. Of course, no one knows what tomorrow will bring for any of us.

Gary was moved to be in the presence of that group – the familiar sounds of the voices of the past, the warmth of the connections, the strength of the bond that links them – even if they haven’t kept in close touch. Not only were they honoring Sol, but they were acknowledging the legacy of the survivors who were no longer physically present – though they are kept alive in their collective memory. Despite the fact that I don’t share their history, I was happy to be part of the poignant celebration.

Sol Feder, with his remarkable head of white hair, surrounded by family and friends

Reflections on Our 40th

Sunday, July 30th, 2023 will mark Gary and my 40th wedding anniversary. So many thoughts and emotions run through my mind. We have been together for more than four decades! Wow! I have written an open letter that I am sharing here. This letter is open in more than one sense: it is public for you to read (obviously), and it is honest.

Dearest Gary,

I am oh so grateful. I am grateful to have a partner in this difficult world. I never would have made it through the Reagan, Bush (Dub-ya) and Trump years without you! I know you are there for me, come what may. If I face a health or emotional challenge, I know I can count on you. You haven’t always been perfect, but who is? Sometimes you have surprised me by understanding me better than I understand myself.

I am proud of us. It hasn’t always been easy. The rough times were when we were each stretched to our limit – where there was little to no margin in time or energy and there was anger and/or resentment as a result. But, even when those times occurred, we stayed committed – to each other, to our family. The foundation of respect remained. Fortunately, more often when one of us was stressed to the max, the other had something left to give and gave. I don’t know if other couples give up too soon. The truth is we never really know what goes on behind closed doors, in the privacy of a home. I only know our life together. I think our effort has been well worth it. The good times have far outweighed the bad (and I can say that as someone who has a tendency, when things are bleak, to not see the light – luckily this is not a quality you share).

I have so many memories – we have shared so much. You know my oldest and newest friends– it is worth noting that even my newest friends have been around for decades. You know my family and I know yours, including those who have left this earth but remain in our hearts. There is so much we don’t have to explain to each other.

When we started this journey, I had no idea we would be so lucky. When I was a kid, I could not imagine having such a rich life. We have shared our children’s bat and bar mitzvahs, their weddings, the birth of grandchildren. We have traveled across this country and abroad (with more yet to come!). We have shared professional success. You have had an especially admirable career, making a difference in many lives. I take pride in your many accomplishments.

We’ve gone to concerts, movies, plays, ballets, museums, and all kinds of performances. We have had meaningful discussions about all of it. Once you retire, I look forward to adding books to our conversations (no pressure – well, maybe a little pressure)!

We’ve looked at magnificent scenery, searched for rainbows, laughed our asses off (just this morning I laughed till I cried at a parody you wrote of one of those drug commercials) and eaten more meals together than we can possibly count. (And, let’s not forget that I have cooked more meals for you than you can possibly count!)

We have also maintained our own interests and identities. We have given each other space for that, too.

It is amazing to me that our love has continued to evolve and ever deepen. In the beginning of a relationship, when you first fall in love, it is an intoxicating thing. I remember my friend in graduate school, after spending time with us, told me she wanted what we have – she said she wanted to have someone look at her the way we looked at each other. I think the romance is hard to sustain. As our lives have gone on, through the drudgery, the ups and downs, the losses, I don’t know if we have always looked at each other that way, but I know sometimes we still do. When those moments occur, they are even more precious, more meaningful since they have been hard-earned.

40 years feels like a milestone worth celebrating. I don’t know what the future will bring. I hope we will get to keep loving, talking, laughing, exploring, comforting and learning for as long as our health will allow. I am grateful, proud, and fortunate that we have come this far. Thank you for all you have given me.

Happy anniversary, my love.

Your Linny

college graduation
my master’s graduation
our wedding
June 2023 in Croatia

Sunshine

I don’t normally post on Friday, but my schedule has gotten all out of whack! I’ve been working on my book and a first draft is complete, but it has taken energy and time away from the blog. We’ve also been traveling – more on that soon. Thank you for bearing with me.

Does everyone who is lucky enough to have a grandchild see rays of sunshine when they look at them? Do they see sparks of light in the child’s eyes? An aura of yellow joy surrounding their head?

Grandchildren don’t always behave perfectly, I will acknowledge that, but they are sources of delight. Even when they are crying, they are adorable (it is much easier for a grandmother to say that!).

I see and feel my granddaughters’ radiance when I look at them. They are full of energy and curiosity. They emanate light and are full of life.

It is interesting because it seems to be a cycle – there is a feedback loop at play. A newborn baby arrives, you look at him or her with wonder. They in turn do the same. As a Mom or Dad it may take some time to fall in love with the little being – though for some the feeling is instantaneous; an almost chemical reaction upon first seeing the baby. For me it took time. I felt protective immediately, responsible for this vulnerable life, but I can’t say I felt the bond of love as soon as they emerged. That happened over time and grew in intensity. As your love grows, and you shine it on the baby, it seems to be reflected back in full measure. Unfortunately, this may not happen for everyone – if it did in every instance, the world would be a better place. It was my experience, though, and it seems to be happening for my children.

As a grandparent, in some ways, it is simpler. We don’t bear the awesome responsibility. We can simply bask in the wonder and love. Our grandchildren may prefer to be held by their mom or dad, but we get to build a bond, too. The feedback loop of love develops. I think babies know when someone is looking at them with deep love, enjoying, valuing their very existence.

I can appreciate the charm and adorableness of other babies and toddlers. I love my great-nephews tremendously. And I am delighted by my friends’ grands.  I have to be honest, though, the phenomenon of light beaming from their eyes and smiles is reserved for my granddaughters. I imagine that is true for other grandparents – they see it in their own but not so intensely when they look at others.

I was thinking about this the other day after one of my granddaughters left after a weekend visit. She spent the weekend charming everyone who came in her orbit – especially me and Gary. One of my daughter’s friends stopped by with her perfectly adorable little one, but I was struck by how I was only seeing that halo of light around my granddaughter. I was thinking about this phenomenon when I had an ‘aha’ moment.

When I was growing up my maternal grandparents lived upstairs from us. I’ve written about my relationship with Nana in many blog posts. I recounted how each day I came home from school, put my stuff in my room, and went up to visit. I was greeted, on a daily basis, by “Hello, Sunshine.” Nana called me Sunshine with such regularity that I thought it was my middle name. My parents named me Linda S. Brody, they didn’t give me a middle name, just the initial (apparently they couldn’t agree on a suitable ‘S’  name; I was named after my father’s grandmother, Lifsha Surah – in Yiddish). For the longest time I thought the ‘S’ was for Sunshine.

I didn’t think of myself as a source of light growing up – I felt I was kind of a sad kid. I think I was dismissive of Nana’s term of endearment. I liked that she called me that, but I didn’t internalize it. It occurs to me now that perhaps my view was distorted. Nana saw something. Now I think I understand it. It gratifies me to reflect on that; to believe that she felt what I feel. I wish I understood this sooner, there is something validating in the realization. But, I guess you know when you know and certainly better late than never.

My granddaughters are my sunshine.

Nana and me – on our front porch in Canarsie – sometime between 1969-71

“Woke”

Note: Today is my son’s birthday. Today’s essay has nothing to do with that, so I want to give a shout out to him here. Daniel, you are a treasure and I love you beyond measure. See what I did there – I was channeling your father. Wishing you a wonderful day and an even better year ahead with your fabulous family!

Last week Gary and I were visiting with family and friends in Florida. Several different people made the same comment: ‘I don’t know what ‘woke’ means. I don’t get it. What does it mean?’

It wasn’t entirely clear to me where the folks raising the question were coming from. We were in Florida after all, where, I imagine, the word gets bandied about regularly –  most often by Governor DeSantis who uses it as a punching bag, a politically expedient bogeyman. In those conversations I didn’t want to pursue the topic too far because we were having a relaxed, enjoyable visit – we were on vacation. Now I am back home, and the question lingers, and I feel unsatisfied in not addressing it.

I believe I have something to offer to the discussion. I’d like to suggest an analogy. Let’s say you have a longtime friend, someone you’ve known since childhood, whose nickname was Shorty. You and his family and friends have always called him that. Now, as an adult, this person, whose given name is Joseph, tells you they don’t like the nickname and would prefer to be called Joe. I would hope, as a sentient human being, who respects the years of friendship, you would say, “I didn’t realize it bothered you. I will call you Joe.” To my mind, that is an example of being ‘woke.’ You have heard someone’s concern and you have responded accordingly.

You might be tempted to respond by saying, “We call you Shorty with affection. It’s cute. You aren’t short anymore, what’s the problem?” You may be thinking, ‘it’s no big deal, why is he making a thing of it.’ But, while you may have those thoughts, hopefully you would resist giving voice to them and respect their wishes.

I think a ‘woke’ person responds with an open mind, is willing to hear a person’s concerns and change the words they use in accordance with their wishes. It is really that simple.

Human behavior, though, isn’t that simple. At the risk of stretching the analogy too far, I’d like to take a closer look at the dynamic.

The first step is Joe being willing to say how they feel. It may have taken years of feeling insulted or uncomfortable for him to finally tell people to stop calling him Shorty. I don’t know about you, but I want to be a person that Joe can approach. I want to communicate to my friends and family that I am open to hearing what they need. I don’t want anyone to worry that I would make fun of them or be dismissive. To me that is part of being ‘woke.’

Let’s say some time passes and the next time you see Joe you call them Shorty – old habits die hard. Here’s another opportunity. It is possible that Joe loses it and gets angry. To my mind that would be unfortunate, perhaps understandable, but an extreme reaction. Let’s assume for the moment, he doesn’t react that way, but instead just gives you a look that communicates his displeasure. Hopefully you would apologize, saying that you will try harder to get it right and please be a bit patient. In that situation, if you offer a sincere apology and offer to do better, you are ‘woke.’

Now instead of this operating on a personal level, expand the idea more broadly. Representatives of a community disavow a term that has long been in use. Why not stop using it? Not every single person in that community might agree, some may not find it insulting. Communities are rarely monolithic. But, when a consensus emerges, why not respect it?

Similarly, when we come to understand more about our history, for example we learn more about treatment of Native Americans at residential schools, we need to acknowledge it. It doesn’t displace everything else we know, it doesn’t necessarily become the focus of the narrative of the story of our country, but it can’t be swept under the rug and ignored either. There is a balance. Our children are capable of understanding that – the good, the bad and the ugly. Again, there may be extremists who want the story of America to be shaped entirely by slavery. I think that would be a distortion. Thomas Jefferson and George Washington should be examined as the complex figures that they were – the great ideas and leadership they provided along with the things they got wrong.

The truth is, we shouldn’t need concepts of ‘woke’ or ‘politically correct.’ If people exercised compassion and empathy, we wouldn’t. If people acknowledged that there is always more to learn about history, about cultures other than our own (and even our own), we wouldn’t need ‘wokeness.’ Sadly, many people are not capable of that without being ‘policed.’

There is no doubt there are people who overreact. There are those who are unwilling to be forgiving of others who slip and use outdated language, or of those who simply haven’t kept up. It takes two to tango. There is nothing gained by being so strident and rigid. Some of that may come from a lack of trust, from not believing in the sincerity of those who profess to be trying. I come back again to a tenet of Anti-Defamation League training – which says that you should start by assuming the best of intentions on the part of the other person. They may prove unworthy of that assumption but start by giving them the benefit of the doubt.

Based on my understanding, I see nothing wrong with being ‘woke,’ or ‘politically correct.’ It is something I work on.

A Gift

Today, December 20th, 2022, my Dad, Barry Brody, would be 90 years old. Sadly, he only got to celebrate his 72nd birthday, and he was not well when that milestone arrived. We did not understand at the time that he had an aggressive form of chronic lymphocytic leukemia (CLL). We thought CLL was an indolent blood cancer that would take years to become a problem and that he would likely die of something else. Now we know there are different forms of the disease. Dad died four years after his diagnosis.

I mention this only because his deterioration was a surprise and a mystery, and for years clouded my memories of him. I wondered if there was more I could have done. Today I am not thinking about that – I am thinking instead of the legacy he left and the gift he gave me.

Dad was strong – in every sense. He was broad shouldered and powerfully built. In my mother’s eyes he wasn’t tall, he was 5’11”, but I thought he was. As much as his physical presence, though, was his strength of character.

I pulled out a box I have of memorabilia – letters, notes and mementos from celebrations. Included among the papers were copies of remarks made at Dad’s funeral by various speakers. One of his friends noted that Dad wasn’t capable of being dishonest. He couldn’t mislead you or play games. Actually, he liked games – real ones – particularly cards and tennis (and he was very competitive even when playing Spit with his granddaughter). But he didn’t play mind games, he didn’t play with your emotions. He said what he thought and behaved in a manner consistent with his words.

My brothers and I were lucky to have him as a role model. He gave us a great work ethic and showed us what it meant to be a partner in life. My brothers and I have reaped the benefits in stable family lives and successful careers. I’ll be celebrating my 40th wedding anniversary next summer, while my brothers have already surpassed that milestone.

Dad had his challenges. As his oldest friend said in his eulogy, he and Dad bonded in fighting off bullies in junior high school. Dad was Jewish in an Italian neighborhood where antisemitism was ubiquitous.  Dad was also overweight. The combination made him a target. Interestingly, the friend who reflected on the bullying episode was Italian. Their bond was strong, lasting a lifetime.

Dad found his way through that, but he carried baggage, like we all do from the hurts and insecurities of childhood. As a consequence, he was sensitive to my struggles. Among the letters I found were several written to me while I was in college.

My first two years at SUNY-Binghamton were very difficult. Though I made some good friends, I often felt lonely and lost. It wasn’t that uncommon for me to call home crying. Dad’s letters were encouraging – reminding me of my worth, his belief in me and that he and my mom were there for me.

Dad frequently said or wrote me the thing I most needed to hear. At my sweet sixteen, I had a sign in book. He wrote, “ Dear Linda, I am sure that you will “cultivate” a most rewarding life. Your sensitivity and sense of justice are your blessing and cross to bear. I hope that you enjoy the years to come as much as I have enjoyed your first sixteen years. Love, Dad”

He recognized my essential qualities and the struggles they created. It is kind of a thing these days to say “I feel seen.” My Dad saw me and he let me know he approved in word and deed. There is no better gift a father can give his daughter.

One of my favorite pictures of me and my dad

A Remembrance of Aunt Diane

Note: I wrote and posted a piece about my Aunt Diane in September of 2016, not long after I started this blog. I have updated and edited that essay in her memory. She died Monday, April 25, 2022. She was 92. She joins her sister, Clair, who passed away this past November, and her brother, my dad, Barry, who died 17 years ago, in the unknowable great beyond. They were each unique and important to me and I miss all three.

When we met at the burial site for Aunt Diane this past Wednesday, the rabbi told us that death takes us all, no one is spared.  He went on to say that the ritual of gathering at the cemetery reminds us to recommit to living life meaningfully. He told us that we were fortunate to be able to leave that afternoon though Diane could not– we should make the most of the time we have. He urged us not to waste it. I stood in the chill wind, somehow it is always colder and windier at cemeteries, I took in the huge expanse of grave markers as far as my eye could see, and I understood the truth of his words.

It’s funny how I hadn’t noticed it before – the likeness around the eyes. The line of the brow. The particular shade of blue, flecked with gray. The first time I saw Aunt Diane after my father died, the likeness unnerved me. During subsequent visits it comforted me. I felt like I got two-for-one: a visit with Dad, too.

My father was the middle child, one sister (Diane) three years older and another sister (Clair) two and a half years younger. They were three of the smartest people I have ever known. It’s kind of amazing that three siblings could each be so sharp. They had different personalities to be sure, but they shared incisiveness, a capacity for insight and intelligence that was as impressive as it could be intimidating. They also shared lively, large, blue-gray eyes. I always wished I had inherited those eyes.

In a traditional Jewish family, especially of that era (Dad was born in 1932), the son was the prince. Typically the family’s aspirations were tied up in the success of the son. Not so in my dad’s family. While I take pride in the fact that it was the eldest daughter who became the doctor, it seems that my father was overlooked. By his description, corroborated by Aunt Diane, he was not given encouragement or attention by his parents. It is a mystery that will never be solved.

Visual evidence of the family dynamic: photo taken at my dad’s bar mitzvah in 1945: Diane (16 years old) seated in front, (l-r): Clair (10 years old), Selma (my grandmother), Leo (my grandfather), Barry (my dad, age 13).

Growing up I didn’t know Aunt Diane that well. We celebrated Passover and Thanksgiving together most years, but those were large gatherings and didn’t provide much opportunity to have intimate conversation. I knew that we all respected Aunt Diane and called upon her whenever there were medical issues that needed to be addressed. I remember her reassuring presence at the hospital when I had eye surgery, by an ophthalmologist she recommended, when I was 5 years old and again when I was 21.

But the relationship between my father and his older sister, while loyal and loving, could also be tense for reasons I didn’t understand. Or maybe the tenseness related to her husband, Paul. Dad and Uncle Paul had different sensibilities, they didn’t share interests or humor. They each liked to laugh, but not at the same things. It was not something spoken about, just something I sensed. It would take some unusual circumstances for me to get to know Diane on my own.

I was preparing to go to Columbia University for graduate school, but housing wasn’t available when the semester started. It was September 1980 and Columbia was rehabbing a building on 80th Street and Columbus Avenue that would be offered to graduate students. I reserved a studio in that building, but since it wasn’t ready, Aunt Diane and Uncle Paul offered to let me stay with them to spare me a 90 minute commute (each way!) from Canarsie. I lived with them for almost two months, making the easy trip from 104th and Broadway to 120th and Amsterdam where the School of International and Public Affairs was located. And, I got to know Aunt Diane. I can’t say I got to know Uncle Paul.

I spent any number of hours talking with Aunt Diane about a range of subjects, from national politics (lamenting Ronald Reagan’s nomination to be President) to Israel to health care policy to personal values. I learned she was a lot more liberal than my parents! I learned about her history, about the challenges of going to medical school as a Jewish woman in the early 1950’s where she faced both anti-Semitism and misogyny. She was a trailblazer and a free-thinker; a woman before her time, especially in terms of male and female roles.

One area where Aunt Diane was distinctly more progressive than my parents was in her attitude toward premarital sex. I knew she and Uncle Paul took a more relaxed view of the subject so I asked her if Gary could stay over with me. Gary and I had already been together for a year at that point and he was working at a lab at Columbia Presbyterian, even further uptown (on 168th street). Gary was living at home with his parents in Rosedale (Queens), leaving him with a monumental commute to the lab. Aunt Diane explained that she had no problem with it, but was not comfortable allowing something that would go against my parents’ wishes. While it was true that my parents would not sanction that in their home, I thought they would be okay with it if she was – after all, I had been away at college for the four previous years. I think my parents took an “out of sight, out of mind” approach to the subject. I suggested she talk to my mom about it. I was not privy to that conversation, but a day or two later Aunt Diane told me that Gary was welcome to stay over.

Aunt Diane was a pediatrician who worked at a clinic in a hospital on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, her patients were mostly children of immigrants. During one of those conversations she told me she didn’t believe money should be part of the relationship between a physician and her patient. As a result, she spent her career practicing in the clinic and working for the New York City Department of Health, organizing continuing education for doctors. I always respected that choice, but today as an adult fully aware of the implications of that decision, I admire it even more.

After Uncle Paul died in 2010, when Gary and I were in Manhattan, we would sometimes meet Aunt Diane for a meal, often at the diner in her neighborhood.  She still lived in the same apartment she shared with Paul on the Upper West Side, the same apartment I stayed in back in 1980, and the same one I visited when I was a child. We met her as she walked ever so slowly with a cane, making her way down Broadway. We took a booth at the Metro Diner and chatted. We talked briefly about her health status; she had medical issues, as any octogenarian would. But mostly we talked about other things, she told us stories of her adventures in Israel with Paul in the 1950s.  She asked us questions about our lives, discussed advances in medicine with Gary. As one of those meals concluded, she invited us to join her to see a movie, A Tale of Love and Darkness, based on the book by the same name by Amos Oz. She was meeting a friend to see the movie at 3:00. We would have loved to go, if only we didn’t have another commitment (which we really did have – her offer was much more appealing!).

Those meals became less frequent as time went on and Aunt Diane’s mobility and cognition declined. I will continue to think back on them, though, particularly whenever Gary and I go to that diner. I saw my father in her eyes while we sat in that booth, especially how they crinkled up when she laughed. I am grateful I got to see them for as long as I did, but also so sad that I will see them no more, a connection to my dad extinguished. I will miss Aunt Diane’s wisdom, her stories, and insights. Her memory is surely a blessing.

Dad with his sisters

Mom with her sisters-in-law

Strong Ties

When you have a group of friends, especially from college, there can be an ebb and flow to the connections. I was part of a group of four friends at SUNY-Binghamton that has remained connected for 46 years, from freshman year through graduation and the decades that followed. Wow! that is a number that is hard to fathom. Stretches of time pass without seeing each other, though social media has made it easier to keep tabs on one another, but when we gather again, we pick up where we left off. Alison, Dianne, Merle and I have all led very different lives since college but the essentials remain – our view of the world, our humor, our wish to see the best in each other are at the heart.

Most recently we gathered in Atlanta for a four-day visit. Sadly, the reason for our reunion was the death of Dianne’s husband after a grueling battle with pancreatic cancer. Dianne has lived in the Atlanta area since 1982, the rest of us remained in New York. Though our trip was prompted by her tragic loss, our time together included as many laughs as tears. There’s a Joni Mitchell lyric, “laughter and crying, you know it’s the same release” seems particularly apt. Our visit surely did not heal Dianne, a loss of that magnitude is too hard to process if it ever can be, though she is strong and resilient. Hopefully we provided comfort that she can draw on as she figures out her path forward.

The four of us bonded during freshmen orientation at SUNY-Binghamton. Alison and Dianne chose to room together, they were high school friends from Island Park, a working-class suburb on Long Island. Merle and I came from Canarsie (Brooklyn) and though we attended the same high school, we didn’t know each other well. Luckily, the four of us were assigned to the same dorm, Cayuga Hall. Many nights of drinking, dancing, studying, and talking – mostly talking – laughing and crying carried us through those four years.

Sometimes in friendships like ours there can be crosscurrents of tension where one person falls out with another or the dynamic shifts. That didn’t happen so much for us, at least not that I remember. Choices we made, classes, internships and jobs, may have separated us but the bond remained. We saw each other through break-ups, disappointments and achievements in those four years. It is kind of extraordinary that it was enough to sustain us for more than 40 years after we left college.

Some friendships are born of convenience, from work or your neighborhood, and when no longer convenient, they dissolve. Others stand the test of time. What is it that creates a stronger connection?

Scenes from Atlanta:

Widening the Lens

I feel like a voyeur, but I can’t help myself. As I continue to sift through my aunt’s things, I am captivated by letters from my grandparents (my father’s parents). I hold certain impressions of them based on childhood memories and stories I heard throughout the years. The letters confirm some of those ideas, but also shed new light and offer a different perspective.

March 7, 1975

Dearest Clair,

So how be you ketzel? Do not forget M.D. appointment and Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam is by far the best Uncle anyone ever had. We are as we were, thank the good Lord. I am now in my glory that my “friends” have gone home…..

There is so much to unpack in this brief beginning. First, the date. March of 1975, I was finishing my junior year of high school. Grandma, the writer of this letter, was 69 and would be dead 9 months later. The letter gave no hint of her failing health, she may still have been without symptoms. About four months after this, she would be diagnosed with liver cancer and things went downhill fast from there. She died December 19, 1975.

She wrote from Florida to her ‘dearest’ daughter living in New York City. Clair was the baby of the family. I doubt there were letters written to my dad that began Dearest Barry. That isn’t to say she didn’t love my dad, but I don’t think they shared the warmth revealed in these letters. Again and again, in notes from both of her parents, Clair is addressed with terms of endearment. There are many possible explanations for the absence of evidence of that affection for my dad. To the best of my knowledge, Dad didn’t save letters. Dad also had terrible handwriting, more like chicken scratching, so he may not have kept up correspondence with his parents. But, there is something more. My memory was that there wasn’t much warmth between Dad and his parents. I’ve written about their complicated relationship before. If these letters to Clair are indicative of their bond, there was a great deal of it between Clair and her parents.

Photo of Grandma and Grandpa taken by Clair around the time of this letter.

I guess it should not be surprising. Siblings can have different relationships with their parents. I can think of examples of that in our extended family. One child sees their dad as heroic while another seems him as seriously flawed. One child may feel secure in the love of a parent, another may not. Growing up I saw things through the lens of my father’s perception. Reading these letters widens the view. It doesn’t change his reality but adds to the picture I have of his family.

Which brings me to the word ‘ketzel.’ I had to smile when I read that. Dad called me that all the time when I was a child.  Ketzel means kitten in Yiddish. I didn’t know that growing up, but I recognized by the tone of his voice that it was a loving term. Ketzel is not a word I heard much if at all over the years since Dad died. Reading this letter in her Greenwich Village apartment brought my dad to me. I also didn’t know that it was a familial term – I only knew my dad used it but it makes sense that it would have been inherited along with their DNA.

Reading this letter, and the others, brought back other voices. It is nice to ‘hear’ Grandma’s voice.

Her voice comes through loud and clear. “So how be you, ketzel?” The phrasing of that is so Grandma. She was born in America, but her speech patterns had the inflections and syntax of the shtetl – at least that’s what I think it is. To me it is identifiably Jewish. Grandma was funny. She was quick with a quip, but she also had an amusing way of putting things – just like the opening of this missive.

“Do not forget M.D. appointment…” A Jewish mother reminding her daughter to take care from afar. Judging by the mounds of paper I sorted through in Aunt Clair’s apartment, she heeded her mother’s advice. She followed up on several medical conditions. Today we can access test results and other information from patient portals. Clair was ahead of her time. She kept copious records of various tests and lab reports, on paper and CDs.  

“Do not forget… Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam is the best uncle anyone ever had.” She is reminding Clair to file her taxes – which I’ll say more about momentarily. But, what a great line! Though Grandma was American born and wasn’t as close to the immigrant experience as her husband, she had a deep appreciation for her country. For whatever reason, Aunt Clair was reluctant to file her taxes. It might have been straight up procrastination, or maybe something else was at play, but Clair struggled with this her entire adult life. Taking care of details, like filing paperwork, was the bane of her existence. Filing her taxes late (or not at all some years) may have been an expression of her rebellious nature. While Clair believed in government, a subject she and I discussed many times over the years, she wanted it to be run fairly and competently. It often fell short of the mark in her estimation, and it is possible she was showing her disapproval. Her mother, in this letter, was prodding her to take care of business – but unlike the medical appointment, she didn’t listen.

Another interesting tidbit from this letter – “We are as we were, thank the good Lord.” Again, interesting syntax, not your typical ‘we’re fine.’ Grandma was thanking God that her friends had gone home. The rest of the letter goes into the details of their friends’ visit that went sour, recounted with Grandma’s trademark blunt humor. I am a bit surprised that Grandma references God, given their lack of faith, but I don’t think it represents serious reverence for a higher power, more likely just a turn of phrase.

As I read these letters I get drawn into that world, adding to the picture I already have of my dad’s family. The letters offer a glimpse into a relationship I had no access to before. It feels odd to be peeking over their shoulders, but it doesn’t feel wrong. I have an enriched understanding and by disclosing it on this blog my family can share in it too.

This effort has brought up so much rich material, there is more to explore. I hope you will find it as interesting and thought-provoking as I have.