I watched chunks of Senator Cory Booker’s 25-hour speech in the Senate. I did not see or listen to the whole thing. I saw enough and read enough about it to offer some observations.
First, I was impressed with his stamina. My voice isn’t strong enough to talk for an hour, much less a full day. Yes, he had some breaks where other senators spoke, under the guise of asking questions, but he stood for all of that time and spoke with passion and emotion. It was quite a feat. It is not surprising that he was an athlete in college and continues to work on his fitness. As an amusing aside, my husband was impressed with his bladder. He needed control of both to get through that ordeal.
I saw some of the comments on social media during the event. Most lauded him. Of course, I live in a Democratic echo chamber, so I didn’t see much right-wing commentary. They may have been critical or sarcastic or who knows what – perhaps they mostly ignored it. Some, even in the progressive corner, were critical – saying it was a stunt or asking what good was it doing. I think there is a legitimate point there. It was a stunt. The question is: did it do any good?
It is true that Senator Booker wasn’t fillerbustering a proposed bill or administrative appointment. But, I think there was still merit to what he did. We need people to get motivated. We need people to be informed. To Booker’s credit, he didn’t read the phonebook like some in the past who have fillerbustered. He spoke substantively. Yes, some of it may have been repetitive, but there was a logic to that. After all, who would be watching the whole thing? Plus, people need the central messages to be repeated so they grasp them. It remains to be seen whether he was able to get folks energized.
Sadly, there are limits to what the Democrats can do to stymie Trump, especially given the aggressive, outside-the-norm, methods of slashing and burning government agencies that the administration is pursing. The Dems simply don’t have the numbers in Congress to stop legislation or prevent appointments. They are taking him to court, but that is slow and, in some cases, appears to be ineffective because rulings have been ignored. Plus, in many instances the damage has already been done. If someone is fired, or an office is closed, it isn’t so simple to just put it back in place even if there is a court order. There is likely mass confusion as to what happens next when an action has been countermanded.
For folks who are angry at the Dems, I ask: what would you have them do? It is easy to criticize. I criticize when they aren’t at least raising their voices. I was profoundly disappointed in Schumer’s capitulation on the budget. Perhaps he thought it was necessary to avoid a government shut down, and that may be so, but he should have put up more of a fight first. At least make some gestures at resistance – push them a little further, see if there is even some concession.
Aside from noting Booker’s stamina, I was impressed with his intelligence and passion. Some of his colleagues in the Senate showed themselves to be articulate and knowledgeable. We make fun of politicians for many reasons, accusing them of being self-serving or corrupt. Some may be that. But Tim Kaine, Senator from Viriginia, Chris Coons, Senator from Delaware, and Chris Murphy, Senator from Connecticut, were among the speakers who displayed deep knowledge and commitment. They deserve to be recognized and respected for their efforts. Unfortunately, the realities of power in our country require that elected officials raise crazy amounts of money to run for office, which leads them to have to practically sell their souls (or be ungodly rich themselves), and that, in turn, makes us suspicious. Add to that the idea that many of our fellow citizens don’t respect academic achievement, or value people who are intellectuals and you end up with someone like Marjorie Taylor Greene being more well-known and popular, instead of well-educated, widely-read public servants like the aforementioned senators.
I know many say that all politicians and all government workers are corrupt. I am not that cynical. I look at some of the individuals who spoke yesterday, most especially Cory Booker himself, and I believe their sincerity. I believe he is a man of genuine faith – not the false piety of Trump and many of his followers. You can disagree with Booker’s philosophy of government or his approach to the economy, but he speaks from his heart. He wants government to improve the lives of Americans. I can’t say the same about our president.
Will what Cory Booker did make a difference? Time will tell. I plan to attend the protest in Albany on April 5th. I plan to continue to express my opinions, on my blog and by writing to Senators and Representatives. I will support candidates whose platforms offer a better way forward. I hope others are similarly motivated. I hope the tide can turn. I have to believe that most Americans are unhappy with the approach to budget cutting that has been taken – the cumulative impacts will take time to register, but they will be real. They are not cutting waste, fraud and abuse. For all their talk about that, they haven’t taken the time to find it! Musk wants to cut and ask questions later. Sadly, the damage is already being done, we are beginning to suffer a brain drain where researchers and academics leave to more hospitable countries/institutions, among a myriad of other negative effects.
I applaud Senator Booker. I believe history will be kind to him. I just hope we can look back and see it as a turning point – not even so much a turning point in policy, but a turning point in our national dialogue, to put the focus on substantive issues and to place value on our democratic processes instead of the politics of divisiveness. I hope the Senator is proven right when he said that the power of the people is greater than the people in power. I hope we choose to wield it, rather than ceding it to Trump, Musk and DOGE. I hope enough of us are willing to make “good trouble.”
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 teenagersMom (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 PaulaSophia (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?
This photo came up as a memory on Facebook a couple of days ago. It was bittersweet to see it. I remember that day clearly. It was only a year ago. Gary and I were in Florida for our annual pilgrimage to see the Mets during spring training. We took a short drive from our hotel to take a walk by the beach. Gary did his thing – he likes to show he can still climb a tree – and I snapped the photo to document it and sent it to our children, who, in turn, would hopefully show our granddaughters.
At the same time that we were enjoying this ordinary moment of levity, I was struggling with a difficult and painful decision. My mother, whose health had been failing, took a dramatic turn for the worse the night before. We had only just arrived in Florida. Though Mom had not been doing well, I had spoken with my brothers, the hospice nurse and her aide before leaving and we thought she was stable. We were wrong. Thus the question: Should I return and go to New Jersey, or should I stay?
Gary and I contemplated that as we walked along the beach. I had several conversations with my brothers before our walk. Both of them encouraged me to stay in Florida. Mark was heading down to Jersey from Albany with his wife, Pam, so he would be there. Steven and his wife, Cindy, lived 15 minutes away from Mom so he visited regularly. Steven was quite insistent that I stay in Florida; they would handle things. I had been very involved with Mom’s care up to that point, they didn’t want me to cut short our brief vacation. We were scheduled to be away for a total of five days, and we were on our second day when things went south.
After much contemplation, we decided to stay, believing that there wasn’t much I could add. My brothers are capable people. Mom was sleeping most of the time. Despite that, I was still torn. Did I need to see her? I decided I didn’t. I remembered how painful it was to see my father during his last days. Those images stayed with me for years, crowding out memories of him as a healthy person. It was also possible that I would get back in time to see her since our trip was so brief. Though I was deeply conflicted, I didn’t have a strong gut feeling, so we decided to stay in Florida.
I was able to enjoy the sunshine and warm air. I had the welcome distraction of the baseball games and dinners with friends. We visited Gary’s mother. In between, I talked to my brothers and thought about Mom and continued wondering whether I was doing the right thing. My brothers and sisters-in-law were handling some rough stuff – administering morphine, watching Mom to see if she was uncomfortable while she mostly slept. I felt guilty leaving this final stage to them, but I was also relieved.
Gary and I flew back north on Monday. Mom was still hanging in there. Before we left for the airport, I called my sister-in-law Pam’s cell phone, knowing she was sitting with Mom. Pam told me Mom’s eyes were closed, and she seemed comfortable. I asked her to hold the phone next to Mom’s ear. I told Mom I was coming to see her the next day but if she was ready to go, it was okay. I told her I loved her, that she was a great mother and that she earned her rest.
We arrived back in Albany late on Monday. Mom was still breathing. I got up early Tuesday morning and was packing my things to drive down to New Jersey when my phone rang. Mom’s aide, Ama, said she believed Mom had passed. She was waiting for the nurse to come to confirm it. I was surprised and I wasn’t. I thanked Ama for all she had done for Mom. I felt lost – now what should I do? After calling Gary, who was at work already, I wandered around my bedroom deciding if I still wanted to go down to New Jersey. For reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me, even now, I wanted to go. Maybe to see visual proof that Mom was gone, maybe to help Steve and Cindy with the details….
Ama was indeed correct. The next few days are a blur, planning the funeral, sorting through her things.
It was Mom’s time – I knew that. I wondered whether what I said to her on the phone made a difference. I didn’t exactly feel guilty about not being there, though I wondered if I would have offered her some additional comfort. I had been with Mom through most of her medical issues over the last years. I think I offered her comfort then. A year later I am still not sure how I feel. I am not riddled with regret, and I have been spared thinking of Mom as the sick version of herself. When I remember her, I think of her vibrant self. I am grateful for that. I still think of calling her to share good news.
I am also grateful to my brothers for protecting me – I think that is what they were doing by encouraging me to stay in Florida. I believe that they thought I had pulled my weight in caring for Mom, and they stepped up to see her through to the end, painful as it must have been.
Aside from knowing that it was Mom’s time, I know one other thing: there is no “right” answer as to how to handle the end of life. There is only doing the best you can and making decisions with love and compassion. After that, if you are a believer, you give it up to God. If you aren’t, and I am not, you give it up to the great unknown.
Note: Mom passed one year ago today – February 27, 2024. We miss her but take comfort in the long, happy life she had.
So much to say. I hope I can express it coherently.
I want to follow up on my last blog post which explored the role of the civil service. In that essay I mentioned that we all had a general understanding of the separation of powers. Now I’m thinking maybe we don’t. Given what has transpired in the last week, I think it is important we take a deeper look at the roles of the different branches of government. I have seen it at work up close and personal throughout my career. I believe it is an essential concept, a foundational construct, of our Constitutional democracy and it is being dismantled day by day.
Elon Musk, empowered by President Trump, is upending a structure that has existed for centuries, and he is doing it without a transparent plan for what replaces it. This is a critical issue. It isn’t simply reducing the size of the federal workforce that is underway here; it is the gutting of its ability to function. Some may think that there is so much fat in government that if you cut the staff you would still have an operating agency. That might have been true if cuts were planned, surgical reductions. Across the board cuts or offering all employees a buyout without regard to who is critical, eviscerates programs. In some instances, whole programs have been shuttered. Many of the cuts target either Trump’s perceived enemies or his and his billionaire friends’ interests – not the interests of the majority of Americans.
There are two problems with how things are proceeding. First is one of process – the way thing sare being done – they demonstrate a total disregard for laws and regulations in implementing these changes. The second is one of policy – what will be the consequences of these changes for the American people? Is this what we signed up for? These processes and policies have hurt people already and we have not even begun to feel the full impact.
Our Constitution does not empower an autocrat or an oligarchy. There is an executive, but that executive does not function as a legislature or judiciary. There can be some argument about where the line between making the laws and executing the laws is drawn – and the courts mediate that – but there IS A LINE. Let’s take a look at the line.
I worked years ago for the Legislative Commission on Expenditure Review in New York State. This entity was a bipartisan committee that had staff charged with reviewing programs to see if they were complying with legislative intent. In other words, we would look at the language of the legislation that authorized a given program, for example purchasing by the Office of General Services, to see if the program was operating in accordance with the law. To understand the purpose of the program, we looked beyond the plain language of the statute. We looked at the history of the bill (the bill jacket) and then we reviewed the operations in practice. The purpose of our review was not a traditional financial audit, that was the responsibility of the Office of the State Comptroller (OSC). We audited the performance of the program. Was it effective? Was it efficient? Was it accomplishing its mission? Was it being done in compliance with the law? We made recommendations when there were areas that were falling short.
So, that is how it is supposed to work: The Legislature, with input from the Governor’s office and the public, enacts a bill; the Governor signs the bill and it becomes law. Funding, negotiated by the Governor and Legislature in the budget process, is allocated. An Executive branch agency, as directed by the Governor, creates that program. The Executive branch implements and administers it, enacting regulations through administrative procedures (which the public can comment on) to flesh things out. The Legislature periodically oversees the program by having staff review it. A separate entity, OSC, reviews the financial operation. In sum, power and accountability is shared.
This balance of powers, this separation of responsibilities, plays out at the federal level, too. The names of the entities are different, but the functions are performed by separate entities. Power is not concentrated in any one branch. Is there potential for leakage? Are there instances where the system doesn’t work? Absolutely. Especially when Congress fails to act by not fulfilling its responsibilities.
Legislation can be vague. The Executive is left to interpret things and in that process a program can go sideways or it may overreach. Oversight can be inadequate. Oversight activities, within an agency and by the legislature can be underfunded and understaffed given the breadth and scope of the work of government. Agencies themselves have a role in preventing corruption by having internal controls and systems set up to prevent and/or detect malfeasance or other inappropriate actions. Inspector generals (IGs) and internal auditors within departments help to oversee this, in addition to the separate entities I described above. Removing those internal checks and balances threatens the integrity of the agency. We have seen the removal of IGs already. At the federal level the Government Accountability Office (GAO) performs a similar role as the state’s OSC. Congressional committees are responsible for oversight. All of this might be clumsy and time consuming, but it serves a purpose. Private sector entities can afford to be more streamlined, though they have some of the same concerns and limitations.
As is always the case there is a balance. Oversight is costly and you don’t want to create a whole other bureaucracy parallel to the one that is performing the service. But, some checks are necessary and pay for themselves by preventing or recovering losses. Finding the balance is difficult, but ridding the system of the whole process is certainly not the answer!
What happens when all of that is stripped away – both the separation of powers and the oversight – as is happening with the Trump administration? What will replace it? The judgement of one man, or a committee of men? Why should we trust them? What are their interests? What happens when Congress forfeits its authority and responsibility to oversee activities, as the Republicans appear to be doing? The system, carefully calibrated to prevent concentration of power and corruption, is rendered impotent. Is that what the American people want?
As I argued in my last blog post, we need to improve the system. We need to address the paralysis that plagues our Congress so that it can function as intended. But, we should not throw the baby out with the bathwater. The checks and balances, the division of responsibilities must be preserved. We can’t allow Trump and Musk to ransack our democracy. Please write and/or call your representatives!
For a while, after the election, I put my head firmly in the sand. I could not follow the news. It was all too overwhelming. But, there was only so long I could maintain that approach. I have looked up and I am frightened by what I see of the actions taken by the Trump administration. I cannot be silent.
I started this essay about a week ago and I keep having to change it, add to it, amend it. I can’t keep up with the transgressions. It is also hard to prioritize which of his moves are the scariest. Right now, I am leaning toward Elon Musk hooking up private servers to the Office of Personnel Management to communicate with all federal employees (and have access to all of their information). No one elected Elon Musk, and that is just the first problem with this scenario.
Perhaps in second place is the attack on DEI, especially blaming it for the tragic collision between the jet and the army helicopter resulting in the loss of 67 lives. Again, there are so many things wrong with the Trump Administration’s reaction to that calamity that it is hard to know where to start. One can assume that whenever things go wrong the playbook will call for blaming previous administrations and DEI.
It seems like the Trump administration strategy as they start their new term is the equivalent of a military blitz. Send everything in all at once so we are caught off guard and don’t know what to respond to first. Before you know it, the whole system will be upended. Some may have voted for him for that, but I don’t think the majority did. In fact, when you look at the numbers, Trump didn’t even win a clear majority of the vote. He has no mandate. Upending the system will have many unintended consequences (or if they were intended, they will be damaging in ways most Americans did not sign up for).
I have a master’s degree in public administration and policy from Columbia University. I completed my comprehensive exam to earn a PhD in public administration and policy at the University at Albany, but I did not write a dissertation – that means that I took all the coursework for that advanced degree but didn’t do the final piece. I share this because I have some background, some credentials, with which to evaluate what the Trump administration is doing. Most people do not want to get bogged down in the weeds of policy or administration. I understand that, and I am not going to go that far in this essay, but we do need to take look behind the rhetoric.
Most of us learned, at some point, about the separation of powers which characterize our government structure. You don’t need to go to graduate school to understand that. At a fundamental level, Trump was violating that by trying to freeze federal funds already approved by Congress. He offered no rationale or plan for going forward. Fortunately, his power grab was stopped, but it will not be the last attempt. We will face similar challenges in the future and these questions will need to be faced: Should federal agencies even comply with those orders? Are they constitutional? If they are unconstitutional, can they be disobeyed? Do they have to be obeyed until the courts decide? Meanwhile, how much damage will be done? Which brings us to a subject that is not sexy but may be increasingly important in this current environment: the role of the civil servant.
One of the first things you learn when you go to graduate school in public administration is the history of the civil service. I will not bore you with the details. It is important, though, to know why, in a general sense, we have that system. It was installed as a response to rampant corruption and a belief that the government was not being responsive to the people who fund it. Before the civil service existed, government hiring was through the spoils system – where family members and loyalists were rewarded by elected officials with positions in government without regard to their competence. It was called the spoils system from President Andrew Jackson’s quote ‘to the victor goes the spoils.’
This led to two major problems – ineffective policy and a culture of bribery. The needs of the people were not a priority. This was how things were run from 1828 (before 1828 it was also a system of patronage, but positions were awarded to elites; Andrew Jackson broadened it to include the ‘common man’ in 1828) until 1893 when the Pendleton Act was passed and created the federal civil service. Most states followed suit and created their own versions. It is important to note that the civil service does not cover the highest positions in federal or state agencies. It was understood that it was appropriate that the leadership reflect the will of the President. Secretaries/commissioners of departments and layers below that are political appointees. There was also recognition that under those policy-making positions it was important to have a class of employee who was not beholden to politics or parties, who could maintain stability and provide service when administrations changed – thus the creation of the civil service.
An essential element of the civil service was to provide a pathway to jobs with the government that was open to all, as opposed to through connections or bribery, and that would test for competency. Over the years the system has evolved with more specialized testing especially as government work required more expertise (lawyers, doctors, engineers, etc.). There have also been measures to make the workforce more reflective of the demographics of the country, ensuring that barriers to women and minorities were removed.
The civil service system has its flaws. For one thing, tests are never perfect. There is also no question that it is too difficult to fire employees who are lazy or inept or worse. But that does not mean we should throw the baby out with the bath water. We need to improve the system. President Trump appears to be trying to circumvent the whole structure. It suits his agenda to have everyone beholden to him and the MAGA universe. This would be a case of history repeating itself if we don’t learn from what happened before.
There is another aspect of this changing perspective on civil servants that deserves attention. Starting in about 1980, with the candidacy and election of Ronald Reagan, there has been a steady stream of insults hurled at government employees. Some of that may be a result of those flaws in the civil service system mentioned above. I think of the negative experiences many had with the Department of Motor Vehicles back in the 1970s when a trip to apply for or renew a driver’s license was an all-day affair in Brooklyn. The public facing clerks could be surly and seemingly inefficient. But, that was not an indictment of government as a whole. It was a failure of management and some aspects of the system, but it does not follow that we don’t need a Department of Motor Vehicles or the civil service. In fact, today, I believe, the DMV functions pretty effectively. We renew our licenses (for the most part) and registration online. When we go to the office, it is set up to process customers efficiently. Vehicles do need to be registered, and they need to be inspected. We need commercial trucks to be regulated for the safety of everyone on the roads.
We can argue about how much government is necessary; how much regulation is needed when balanced with the red tape created. That is fair game, and we can agree to disagree. But, disparaging the public workforce is counterproductive. Who wants to go into public service when it is so disrespected? So devalued? Government needs the best and brightest. I will never understand politicians who degrade the folks who implement their policies.
I went into public service because I wanted to help people. I wanted to make a difference in the quality of life of my community, to contribute what I could to improving services. Sometimes I felt frustrated because the work I did was far removed from that goal, so I looked for other opportunities. But even when I was buried in the bureaucracy of the department of tax and finance, I still believed I was doing something worthy. Collecting taxes in a fair and efficient manner is necessary. No one likes paying taxes, but without them essential services can’t be delivered.
The take-aways I offer are four-fold:
Know our history – let’s not repeat the errors we have made in the past.
Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water. Change structures, improve efficiency, but we should not dismantle whole systems impulsively and without planning for what replaces it and understanding why it was established in the first place.
Stop demeaning public service. Even if you are a libertarian, you need to value the essential work of the government and the people who do it. Insulting people is unhelpful to say the least.
Recognize that public and private management are different in important ways. The model of private business, where profit is the motive, is often not appropriate for the provision of public goods. Sometimes it may fit, and it may make sense to move certain functions to the private sector or adopt their systems, but many services don’t lend themselves to that approach.
We can’t sit back and allow the dismantling of our government without proper checks and balances. We need to make sure Congress hears us. We need to support organizations that are bringing lawsuits that raise legitimate questions about whether constitutional lines are being crossed. Please pay attention. Though it is tempting to put my head back in the sand, none of us can afford to do that.
Apparently, I set goals for 2024. Who knew? I didn’t remember that I had done that until Facebook brought it to my attention as a memory. It was interesting to review! It probably helps to keep them in mind if one hopes to achieve them! That is probably the first step in successful goal management – review them periodically. Considering that I didn’t, it is interesting to find that some were met.
So, what were those goals? The first one was to read Moby Dick. Nope – didn’t happen. Totally forgot I wanted to do that. I did read 27 books and the only reason I know that is that I track it on Goodreads. Though I didn’t read Moby Dick, I did get a lot from reading Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, a very different classic text. As an aside, I also particularly enjoyed Elizabeth Strout’s Abide with Me (I love her books) and The Personal Librarian. I have to admit, I don’t feel bad that I didn’t achieve that particular goal.
Another item on my list was to write almost every day. I noted that I had only written 29 blog posts in 2023. My unstated goal was to update the blog weekly which would mean 52. Well, I wrote 27 in 2024. (Same number as books I read – coincidence?) I seem to be moving in the opposite direction. In fairness, I also suggested on that list that maybe my goal should be to reassess how frequently I put up a new essay. I didn’t do that either. The truth is I can’t decide if it is good to put pressure on myself to produce pieces, or if I am comfortable taking a more freeform approach and write when I feel like it. I go back and forth – feeling kind of guilty when I don’t post for a while and then thinking that there isn’t any particular standard I need to meet. One concern is that I do want to have a readership, and it is likely to be difficult to build and sustain an audience if there isn’t a continuing conversation. I’m not sure where that leaves me. Not surprisingly, I’m continuing to have an internal dialogue on this with no conclusion. Perhaps 2025 will bring a resolution to this! Knowing me, probably not. Let’s be real.
Next on the list was to send 10 query letters to literary agents – this is how I will get my book published. I sent eight and entered one memoir writing contest. I’ll count that as a win. Unfortunately, I literally got zero responses to those inquiries, but that brings me to the next goal: Accept rejection and move onward. Fair to say I achieved that, too. I continue to work toward getting my book published. It is slow going and frustrating, but I haven’t given up. Ultimately, I can decide to self-publish, so one way or another, I will put it out there. I’m not ready to abandon my hope of having an established publishing house pick it up, there are still a lot of avenues to explore. Let’s hope 2025 brings progress on this.
My sixth goal was to stop wanting more. I included a short poem on that topic within the list (https://stories-i-tell-myself.com/2023/12/31/goals-for-2024/). This may be the thing I’ve been most successful with and oddly enough it has happened organically. It wasn’t something I had to work at consciously– something shifted. I let go of some expectations that were not serving me and that was the result of coming to peace with certain realities. Of course that doesn’t mean I wasn’t ever disappointed, but generally I felt more content. I’m glad I reviewed this list and came upon this realization.
I ended my list with two concrete things: plan a trip and sort through the clutter. I’m batting .500 on those. I planned several trips (and loved them) and am continuing to plan more of them. I enjoy both the planning and execution of travel (not the flying part – there is always such aggravation with airports, delays, crowds, etc.), but I continue to love going to new places and they don’t have to be exotic or far away. We took a long weekend to Ausable Chasm, in the northeast corner of New York State, and had a great time exploring (in fact that led to a blog post).
A view from our trip to Ausable Chasm
Sorry to say I made little to no progress sorting through the clutter. I don’t think I’ve added to it, so that is good. I’ve been conscientious about not creating new piles of paper or adding knick-knacks. Gary, with his increased time off, has been cleaning out the garage – can I get credit for that? I’ll take that as a no.
This review was a good exercise, even if it was unplanned. Maybe this should be my approach: make a list of goals for 2025, forget about them and then be surprised when Facebook reminds me. It worked relatively well in 2024.
Do you make a practice of setting goals or making New Year’s resolutions? What works for you?
Since October 7th when Hamas brutally attacked Israel, committed acts of horrific violence, and all that has followed, I have struggled with a range of emotions. I have always given a lot of thought to my identity as a Jew, but this has been a more challenging time, and it has been hard to sort out my feelings.
I have attended presentations, in person and on Zoom, to hear what others have to say. I have read books, some recently published, including one entitled “On Being Jewish Now,” edited by Zibby Owens. It is a compilation of 75 essays by authors and advocates, all written in the wake of October 7th. As I write this, I have read about ¾ of them. They offer interesting perspectives, but none, yet, have hit the mark for me. Most of the authors explain how they have been moved to assert their identity as a Jew, even if there is some fear involved. They may not have been particularly observant before but found comfort and meaning in turning to Jewish rituals. They write about the pride they feel and the importance of their alliance with Israel. My feelings are more complicated. I have been thinking about what it means to be proud of being Jewish and about pride in general.
“Think about times you’ve been proud of yourself. Jot them down. I’ll give you a couple of minutes and then let’s share.”
This was the prompt from a Weight Watchers lecturer at a meeting I attended about two decades ago. She was urging us to call upon those times when we did hard things and apply those same skills to our weight loss goals. This exercise sticks with me because I could not think of a single thing to be proud of. Nothing came to mind – certainly not my identity as a Jew. I share this not to elicit sympathy or to fish for compliments. I am writing about this because it was then I realized that this was an issue for me, and there are implications.
I sat for those few minutes in that meeting bewildered, reviewing various experiences in my life. I was already married, had two children who were still quite young, and I was working for the state. Nothing resonated with being proud.
When others at the meeting shared their triumphs, it was enlightening. Graduating from college, completing a project, losing weight, finishing a 5K, recovering from addiction, leaving a toxic relationship….some of those things I had done, I just didn’t feel particularly proud for having done them. I realized that I have this tendency to think that the quality of what I do isn’t special or that it was expected. Everyone in my family graduated from college, in fact both my parents had master’s degrees. When I finished a 5K race, I’d look at the time and think, “Could I have gone any slower?” It isn’t a healthy perspective. This exercise made me aware of it. In the years since, I have tried to be fairer in my assessment, but it doesn’t come naturally. Today if I was asked the same question, I would be able to come up with a couple of examples of times I was proud of myself. I’m making progress. But, all of that is different than taking pride in my identity as a Jew.
One of the essayists in “On Being Jewish,” Lisa Barr, a writer of a number of best-selling novels, who I also saw speak on a panel that was addressing antisemitism in publishing, described how she was motivated to be “loud and proud” of her identity as a Jew in the aftermath of October 7th. I have been thinking about that sentiment.
I tend to consider accomplishment rather than identity when I think of sources of pride. If you are born something, does that merit feeling proud of it? I asked Gary, my husband, if he was proud to be a Jew. He thought for a moment and said yes.
“I’m not suggesting you shouldn’t be proud, but can you explain why?” I asked.
He thought for a bit, which is something I appreciate about him, he is thoughtful in the truest sense.
“I think Jews have contributed a lot to the world – in science, in medicine, in the arts…in all kinds of ways. It was the first monotheistic religion. Jews have made the world a better place… And, then there is my parents’ experience.”
As I have recounted elsewhere on this blog, Gary’s parents are Holocaust survivors. This is a source of tremendous pride (and pain) for Gary. Their Jewish identity was the cause of their suffering due to the poisonous hate of the Nazis and their collaborators but was more importantly the basis of the strength and resilience that helped them to survive and flourish.
I understood what he was saying, and though my parents were not survivors, I am part of that legacy in a larger sense.
In my heart of hearts, I wasn’t sure if that’s how I felt, especially about the first part of what he said.
“It’s funny,” I responded, “but I remember as a kid I felt that pride. When a Jewish person did something impressive – whether it was winning a Nobel Prize or Mark Spitz winning all those Olympic medals, I felt a certain satisfaction. But I’m not sure I feel that anymore. I wonder why?”
I was thinking that in a way it was like how I felt about being an American. As a child I felt proud of my country, now it is much more complicated. I have a clearer understanding of why that has changed – I have been disappointed in our country’s shortcomings often enough to wonder if we can ever realize our foundational ideals. I realize that the story of America that I absorbed as kid is far more complex and not quite as heroic. In a way, perhaps some of the same thing has happened with my Jewish identity– or maybe as one matures into adulthood it is natural to see things in a more nuanced way.
Being Jewish is complicated. It is an ethnicity and a religion. I don’t believe in the God of the religion, but I do believe in the core values of Judaism. The central theme, as I understand it, is justice – Judaism demands that we do our best to be a righteous person. This resonates with me. But, reconciling my lack of faith in God while accepting the values being espoused is tricky. Frankly, I haven’t been able to do it since I can embrace justice and fairness as a humanist, without the trappings of religion. At the same time, some of the rituals, particularly the ones we practice at home (lighting Chanukah candles as a family and singing the prayers, conducting a seder) are meaningful to me and those traditions are rooted in the religion.
The ethnicity is part of me. It is engrained in my DNA. I like the humor, the slightly skeptical worldview, the food, the propensity to question anything and everything. I bond over those qualities when I meet other Jews, especially from the New York City metropolitan area. While I take pleasure in my ethnic identity, I’m not sure I would say I’m proud of it, but maybe I should be.
Adding another layer of complexity to this question of pride is the place of Israel in Jewish identity. Zionism has become a dirty word to many with much undeserved baggage assigned to it. Zionism is simply the belief that Jews should have a homeland. Zionism does not, in and of itself, define the borders of that homeland – that is a disputed subject even among Jews. The idea that we need a homeland is hard to argue with given our long history of persecution, whether that persecution was a result of religious, ethnic or racial hate. As I have expressed in another blog post, I support the state of Israel. It is as legitimate as any other country. It is also between a rock and a hard place in terms of defending itself. There are many forces determined to wipe it off the face of the earth. How it defends itself is subject to widespread criticism, much of it unfair given the existential threat it faces.
While acknowledging that, I do have concerns about Israel that I can’t deny, even in the wake of October 7th. The first is the rightward movement of the government over the years. I do not support the Netanyahu administration, and it has gotten worse and worse in recent years. However, there are many countries, including our own, where I have not supported the government, but that doesn’t mean that the nation becomes illegitimate. Now that Trump is president-elect, our right to exist isn’t in question. While I can acknowledge that it can be hard to separate the two, Israel seems to be held to a different standard than other countries in this regard.
The other concern is more fundamental. I worry about the tension between religion and ethnicity in defining the government of Israel. Since being Jewish is both, what is the role of religion in the governance of the state? I am not suggesting it is a theocracy; it isn’t (there is no official state religion) or that it will become one. I do worry, though, that since the Rabbinate does have some official roles – in regulating marriage and divorce, for instance, there can be friction and actions that make me uncomfortable.
Most of Israel’s founders were secular Jews, at least that is my understanding. In its initial establishment, Israel was more of a socialist state. Over the 66 years of its existence, it has become more of a capitalist economy. It is also a parliamentary democracy – so the prime minister is selected by either the majority party (if there is one) or a coalition of parties that can agree on an individual. Israel hasn’t had a clear majority party in many years. As a result, the ultra-orthodox Jewish (Haredi) parties have an outsized influence on politics and policies. They have been instrumental in allowing Netanyahu to stay in power. The Haredi, according to the most recent census data, make up only 14% of Israel’s population, but it is growing faster than other segments. Perhaps, my concern that it will drift toward more religious influence is unfounded. I hope it is.
The bottom line of all of this is that I find it hard to be as full-throated in my backing of Israel as I would be if I supported its administration. That may not be entirely fair, given what I wrote above, but it is how I feel. From what I read and hear, this is not as problematic for other Jews.
Where does that leave me in terms of being proud to be a Jew?
Minority groups that are subject to discrimination often encourage taking pride in that identity. Whether it is the LGBTQ community, or Blacks or indigenous people, movements have focused on lifting the esteem of the members of the group. Group members themselves are vulnerable to buying into the negative stereotypes and that is destructive in many ways, so it makes sense to staunch that impulse. Jews are no different. Urging Jews to take pride in their identity can be helpful in the face of the rising tide of antisemitism.
Going back to the author who said she was ‘loud and proud’ of her Jewish identity; I have no problem being loud about it. Anyone who knows me, or reads my writing, knows I am Jewish. I make no effort to hide it. The more challenging part is expressing pride – but perhaps that has less to do with the complexities of being Jewish and more my personal hesitation in feeling proud of myself. Or, perhaps, it is a perfect reflection of my Jewish identity because it is a quintessentially Jewish characteristic to struggle with different ideas.
I went to the Museum of Modern Art. I hesitated before buying my ticket online because it is holiday season in New York City and that means crowds. There are always crowds at New York City’s most iconic attractions: MoMA , the Metropolitan and the Museum of Natural History are among them. But, this time of year is a whole other thing.
My strategy for any place with crowds, including Disney World, is to take the path of least resistance. I don’t have my heart set on seeing any one particular thing – I will see what I can see. Most of these places have so many choices, so much great stuff, that you can’t really go wrong. With that in mind, I decided to venture forth to MoMA.
Indeed, it was crowded, but I’ve been to exhibits where it felt like you were packed like sardines, moving slowly along a conveyor belt to see the art, which definitely detracts from the experience. This was not that – at all. In fact, I found galleries where I could sit down and look at the pieces leisurely.
I’ve commented before on this blog about the fact that works of art, or my response to them, change over time. I find I like things that I didn’t appreciate years ago. I see other works that I loved as a young person that don’t move me as much. I love that about art. These days I gravitate to things that are whimsical – especially in sculpture. For example, this work by Thomas Schutte (an artist I had never heard of before):
The museum devoted a whole floor to an exhibit of Schutte’s work. It was incredibly varied – paintings of all sorts, sculptures of all sorts. On one card next to a display of drawings, it described a project he had undertaken that I found interesting. “Over the span of one year, Schutte drew his reflection from a round shaving mirror, recording his moods and temperaments in diaristic sketches. ‘It’s the attempt to fathom oneself,’ Schutte remarked, ‘and it failed miserably.’” I was amused and heartened by his willingness to share this. We usually only see an artist’s best work and we aren’t necessarily even aware of their failures. I can’t say I loved all that I saw of the Schutte exhibit, but it got me thinking and I appreciate that.
I also find now that I have more appreciation of canvases that are saturated with color, like these:
RothkoVuillard
They made me think about my mother. I remember Mom telling me that she had never appreciated Rothko until someone told her to sit down, take a few minutes, and let the color envelop her – and then she got it. She got what he was communicating. As the card next to the painting explained:
“For Rothko, art was a profound form of communication, one capable of conveying the ‘scale of human feelings, the human drama,’ as he described. Through works like these, he hoped to create the conditions for silence and contemplation.” I’m not sure I “got it,” the way my mother did, but I saw and felt more than I have in previous viewings.
It was funny to me, as I walked through the galleries, different pieces reminded me of different people. Besides my mom, who is always accompanying me when I go to an art museum, in my mind at least, I worked with a woman, Courtney, who had an appreciation for color. She told me about Pantone – the folks who catalogue colors and tell us the color of the year (for 2025, they just announced, it is mocha mousse, by the way). When I looked at the Matisse exhibit, which highlighted his paper cutouts, you could not help but be struck by his color choices. The display of Matisse’s array of colors, made me smile and think of Courtney.
Matisse: cutout that was a design for a holiday-themed stained glass, the resulting stained glass (not created by Matisse) and his color palette for his cutouts
No visit to a museum is complete without stopping in the gift shop. MoMA and the Metropolitan have stellar gift shops. I have to restrain myself. I picked up a few Hanukkah presents, but didn’t overdo it.
Here some other shots from my visit. I ended my day by walking, amidst a million of my closest friends, to Rockefeller Center to see the tree. I may not celebrate Christmas, but I can appreciate the twinkling lights that brighten our winter.
Views from inside the museum:
Some classics:
WarholSeuratDali
Does anyone convey loneliness or isolation more effectively than Edward Hopper?:
Two more interesting sculptures (at least to me), one on the right by Schutte (which had to do with the influx of immigrants in Germany in the 1990s):
Aunt Clair’s ashes were sitting in a cardboard canister in the closet of our Manhattan apartment. The third anniversary of her passing was coming up soon. Her final wishes were to have those ashes spread over her parents’ graves. For many reasons, it had not been possible to make that happen, and as her yahrzeit (Yiddish for anniversary) approached, I was distressed.
When Aunt Clair died, I made the arrangements with the funeral home. She had no spouse or children, only nieces and nephews. I was her health care proxy. I had to identify the body before cremation. It was jarring to see my aunt without her spirit, it almost didn’t look like her, but sadly it was. The representative of the funeral home was kind and explained how things worked. I wrote about her funeral and shared the eulogy on this blog previously (https://stories-i-tell-myself.com/2021/11/08/a-eulogy-for-aunt-clair/.)
The first problem with fulfilling her wishes was that when I inquired at the cemetery, I was told it wasn’t permissible to spread ashes there. We could buy a plot and bury the remains, but there wasn’t a spot near her parents, and it was expensive. After consulting with family members and my own conscience, I decided that we would at least spread some of her ashes there discreetly. I imagine that the cemetery had its reasons, but I doubt it was because it would harm anything. I also didn’t want to take the chance of calling attention to ourselves, so I didn’t want to plan to spread all of the ashes there.
One of the things I learned through this process is that the amount of ash was more than I had imagined, though I had nothing to base my idea on. The canister was heavy, and it was tall.
I thought, given her love of biking and the frequency with which she would cycle from her apartment in Greenwich Village to her sister on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, that spreading the rest of her ashes through Riverside Park would be appropriate. I looked on the city’s website and believe it or not, it is legal to spread ashes in city parks*. It is not permissible to spread them in bodies of water within a park.
So, why were her cremains still sitting in my closet three years later? Life and death happened.
I recall when I picked up the ashes from the funeral home, the representative said, “You know how common it is for people to move into an apartment in New York City and find an urn with remains buried in a closet?”
I looked at him incredulously, “No.”
“You’d be surprised. People don’t know what to do, they put them away out of sight, forget, and they sit there for someone, years later, to discover. I’m just letting you know.”
“That won’t be the case here” I reassured him, and as I walked away, I thought, “That’s crazy. Who would let that happen?”
I have a better understanding now.
I had no prior experience with cremation; it isn’t a common choice among Jews, though apparently more are opting for it according to the guy at the funeral home. Aunt Clair wanted to be cremated, but she also requested that a memorial stone be laid at the foot of her mother’s grave. She had arranged for a footstone at her father’s grave in memory of the family he lost in the Holocaust in Poland, so she thought this was possible.
After the funeral, I brought her remains back to my apartment. After a few months passed and thinking that we would have an unveiling for the footstone on the one-year anniversary (and we would spread her ashes at that time), I began the process of ordering the memorial stone. This proved to be complicated to arrange. It was not a typical request. The cemetery didn’t want it to be confusing as to who rested in the plot. After a lot of back and forth that isn’t worth detailing, we came to an agreement about what the stone could say. It wasn’t exactly what Clair wanted, but it was the best we could do. It took more than two years for the stone to come to fruition.
When the stone was finally available, other things were going on in the family. We were not able to arrange a time for the ‘unveiling’ of the memorial and we didn’t spread the ashes. In the interim Clair’s sister, Aunt Diane, passed away, as did my mother. A whole generation was disappearing. Another year passed.
As Aunt Clair’s third yahrzeit loomed, I decided I didn’t want to wait any longer to fulfill her wishes. I wrote an email to my brothers and cousin and said I would like to visit the cemetery and spread her ashes on Friday, November 15th. Jewish cemeteries are closed on Saturdays (the Sabbath) and my Mom’s unveiling was planned for Sunday, November 17th. It would be a good time to make this happen. My cousin, who lives in Massachusetts, responded that her daughter’s due date was November 20th so she would not be comfortable traveling to NYC so close to that time. Aunt Clair would certainly understand that, as did I. It turned out the timing didn’t work for anyone but me and thankfully Gary. Despite that, I decided to go ahead with the plan
November 15th was a cool, sunny day as we drove the Jackie Robinson Parkway, a narrow, curvy roadway that connects Brooklyn and Queens and passes through a series of huge cemeteries. The trees were not yet entirely bare, the yellow and gold leaves shone in the sun. I had the location of my grandparents’ graves written down and we drove to the appropriate section of the cemetery. I thought I remembered my way to their graves. Gary and I combed the rows and couldn’t find them. I checked and rechecked my notes. Finally, I remembered I had taken a picture the last time I was there and maybe that would help. I searched my phone, those smartphones can be quite helpful and in the photograph I found a couple of landmarks that helped – a majestic tree and two large grave markers in front of my grandparents’ more modest ones with the name Feingold on them. We found the spot and now understood why we hadn’t seen them before – they were entirely blanketed in ivy.
Gary and I peeled away the ivy and exposed all the markers. Aunt Clair’s stone was there, as expected. I looked around and seeing nobody around, I took the baggie with a portion of Aunt Clair’s ashes out of my pocket and spread them over the graves. “May you rest in peace, Auntie.” I said. Gary and I paused and stood quietly for a bit. Then we got back in the car and headed back to Manhattan. Part one of my mission had been accomplished.
Gary clearing ivyAunt Clair’s memorial stone
The sun was still shining brilliantly as we made our way to Riverside Park. It was also quite breezy. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this. I carried the canister in a canvas bag. As we walked, a plan revealed itself to me. We passed a garden, now gone to seed until the spring, and I thought this was a perfect spot to provide what perhaps could be fertilizer. I looked around and nobody was paying attention – I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I also worried it might be disturbing to onlookers. I spread a good deal of the ashes throughout the garden, and nobody seemed to notice. There was still a lot of ash left.
We continued walking through the park and came upon a memorial to the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. The shrubs surrounding it presented itself as another opportune spot. Though Aunt Clair was not a religious Jew by any means, she was fiercely proud of being Jewish. This would be a meaningful location, as well. Gary reminded me to stand upwind as I poured the ashes over the bushes. I had not been as mindful of that the first time.
The canister was still not empty, and I knew of one more spot that I wanted to visit. Aunt Clair was an admirer of Eleanor Roosevelt and there is a statue of her at 72nd Street just inside the park. We continued our walk south to find it. I was pleased to see that there were plantings around the memorial. I spread the remaining ashes there.
Walking south in Riverside ParkStatue of Eleanor Roosevelt
Throughout our walk, aside from talking about mundane things, Gary and I shared memories of Aunt Clair. I felt good about what we were doing. I was grateful to have Gary to share it with. He knew her well and shared his own unique relationship with her. We had come darn close to fulfilling her wishes and I think we honored her spirit. Part two of our mission was now accomplished. I was glad she was no longer sitting in my closet.
We took a different route through the park back to our apartment, walking along the Hudson River. I felt peaceful. The sun lowered and its rays glistened on the water. The day was fading, and I was satisfied.
We gathered at Riverside Cemetery in Saddle Brook, New Jersey. In Jewish tradition, a year or so after a person is buried, you have an unveiling – literally the unveiling of a headstone or footstone that is the marker commemorating the individual’s life and death. Though it has been less than a year since my mother passed, my family gathered to observe this ritual for her on Sunday, November 17th, one day after what would have been Mom’s 91st birthday.
Photo by my brother, Mark Brody
19 of us stood around her grave on a brilliantly sunny day, unusually warm for mid-November in the northeast. It was appropriate weather given Mom’s sunny disposition (she was an eternal optimist, though, for better or worse, she shared her fears and complaints with me). She is buried between her mother, my Nana, and her husband, my father. The plot is part of an area that was established by the burial society founded by immigrants from Strickover, Poland where her father was born. Ironically, he is not buried here, he rests in Florida. But, other family members surround Mom, her brother, grandfather, aunts and uncles. There is something comforting to me about them all being together.
We began the ceremony by reading the portion of Ecclesiastes that tells us so eloquently that to everything there is a season – reminding us of the cycle of life. Then we uncovered the stone which reads:
Feige M. Brody
Nee Spilken
November 16, 1933 – February 27,2024
Cherished Wife, Mother, Grandmother, Sister and Aunt
Life-long Learner
Standing beside me were representatives of all those roles – her children, brother, sister-in-law, grandchildren ( a great-grandchild, too), nephew, nieces, and great-nephews.
I read these words: “On behalf of all of us, we consecrate this memorial to Feige Brody as a sign of our eternal love and devotion. May her soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.”
The cemetery had provided a booklet with selections that could be read, and it offered the following passage which I am transcribing here because I thought it was insightful, comforting and appropriate and might be helpful to others who are grieving a loss:
“We gather here today at the final resting place of our beloved mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, Feige to unveil this grave marker dedicated to her memory and to call to mind our cherished memories of her. When Feige passed away, we assembled here to pay our respects. At that time our grief was deep, and we felt intensely the pain of loss. Now, with the passage of time, the pangs of our initial grief have softened, yet we still feel sorrow in our hearts whenever we remember her.
Jewish tradition teaches us that those memories of Feige, which each of us cherish, can provide us with a measure of comfort. Those memories also serve as a form of immortality that comes to those we love when we remember them, and when we live our lives in emulation of the virtues they taught us by example.
Our presence here today is already an indication that Feige has achieved that immortality that comes through remembrance. Our presence is also a sign of the respect and admiration in which Feige is held by us. We still feel an emptiness in our lives when think of her because she played such an important role in each of our lives as a beloved family member and friend to many. Feige was devoted to us as we were devoted to her, a relationship of love and affection that we recall today.
Throughout the months since Feige passed away, we have each had occasions to remember the impact that she had on our lives.
We are comforted by our memories of the joys she brought to people and by the contribution Feige made to the betterment of our world.
In the biblical book The Song of Songs we learn that “The bonds of love are stronger than death.” Our memories today prove the truth of that teaching.
Even though Feige is no longer present in person, the love that we shared and the way our lives were touched by her continue to be felt. The pain of loss and separation is the price we have to pay for the years of Feige’s love and devotion.
Therefore, it is with sorrow, yet at the same time with a deep sense of gratitude, that we thank God for the years during which we were privileged to have had Feige as part of our family’s life and as a member of our community. We thank God, as well, for the love that bound us together with Feige in life and that inspires our cherished memories. It is with these thoughts in mind that we now pay tribute to Feige by dedicating this grave marker to her.”
That passage provided comfort to me. I am consoled by the notion that we attain a measure of immortality by being remembered – it helps me to reconcile the loss of my mother and father, as well as other people who I have loved in my life and still think of regularly. And, it is meaningful to me to think of how, by carrying forward their values, by emulating their integrity and generosity, I am helping to preserve their legacy. Those thoughts help me to come to peace with my own mortality. Hopefully I will have touched friends and family in a way that merits remembrance.
After reading that passage, we said a concluding Hebrew prayer and Uncle Terry read a touching poem he had written in tribute. Aunt Barbara, as a self-described “out-law” welcomed into the family by Mom, offered her heart-felt perspective on Mom (and Dad’s) generosity and the importance of our family bonds. Terry noted that he had Barbara would, when the time came, rest in this same area of the cemetery, just across from where we stood. I said a silent prayer that that would not be any time soon.
Another Jewish tradition when visiting the grave of a loved one is to place a rock on the marker. This is to signify a visitor’s presence, that the person who has passed has not been forgotten. Several years ago, when we gathered at my father-in-law’s grave, my sister-in-law Doreen painted some rocks with pictures of things that she shared with her Dad or represented him. I thought that was a wonderful gesture. I decided to do that for my parents. I painted one rock to look like a bookshelf with items my dad read regularly: Economics, Puzo (he loved The Godfather and read it multiple times), L’Amour (he loved westerns) and History. I painted another stone with Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (my mother’s favorite of her novels, and she read Austen every summer until dementia made that impossible) and a final stone with a blueberry bush (when my parents lived in the Catskills and the grandchildren came to visit, they went blueberry picking and baked muffins). I felt good placing those rocks that embodied precious memories, knowing that they would sit there for a while at least before the elements wear them away.
No Spilken/Brody gathering would be complete without partaking of food. So, we adjourned to the diner that was just outside the cemetery. Though the service was painfully slow, and we had to wait, and the orders got mixed up (no day goes by without some aggravation), we enjoyed each other’s company before going our separate ways and returning to our lives – some in New Jersey, some in Massachusetts, some in Connecticut and the rest in Albany, New York. Hopefully our next gathering will be a happier occasion, but I am left with a feeling of warmth, believing that Mom and Dad rest easy knowing that our familial bonds are strong and that we are doing our best to live out their values.
Stories I Tell Myself 