Monday 19 June 2023

When you taught me how to dance

I remember I was vacuuming or trying to and you were pulling at my trousers or trying to because I kept flagging your hand away with a sort of swiping motion, usually reserved for removing stains. I used the remote to direct away your interest. "Just a minute," I said," Let Mommy finish, just this, just that, just one more thing and then the kitchen."


You didn't realise that I had a sort of schedule,  we sort of ate around this time and sort of cleaned around that time, different activities for different days to fit different forms of development: literacy, social interaction and coordination. Had to get my ticks in before we could take part in frivolous play.


Routines, the unwanted guest, I would rather live in a world of chaotic stress then live with structure.  However it was a lifestyle choice.  One that I often reevaluated and recreated in order to be a good mother. So, as with your father's sports car and my smoking, sporadic trips to faraway places, frivolous shopping and naughty nights out, it all had to go bye byes to create a household and lifestyle that was appropriate for a tiny little miracle like you. In came the white sheets, organic sleep suits, fruit smoothies, mothers clubs, dusted mantles, clean toilets, spotless floors and ironed panties.  I wanted the perfect home for the perfect you. A happy and safe home, but was it?


As you grow, you will be barraged by domestic goddess themes, which subtly impregnate false truths and infect unrealistic expectations.  There will be pictures of women smiling while they scrub toilets and wash floors and you may feel the need to smile back, don't! They are not your friends.  They are paid to lie, run! You will overhear pensioners on buses and trains reminiscing about household pride, joys of cleaning. Well, dear, their memory is shit.  And then, of course, there is that smiling mother of your child's school friend, who wears linen trousers, eats only organic, has stain free cream carpets and an ivory sofa. Open her closets and you will free a cleaning lady.


You are not as old as my favourite jeans, but faded pencil marks on Grandma's wall reminds me that your dynamic form is ever changing and I am missing the performance because I am vacuuming, diligently, heartfelt -back and forth, back and forth.


Days slip by and time goes faster and faster as we grow older and older.  Your infancy was a flash, toddler years a breath and I am so afraid that your little girl years will simply disappear in a moment of distraction.  I understand how you could not prefer my preference for vacuuming over cuddling, wiping stained toilets over puzzle making.  Why should I simply walk to a store when I could be pushing a doll pram, skipping alongside you. You, wearing silk and satin, glitter and velvet gowns.


Interesting how easy it is to touch the Dyson button and hear that annoying buzzing motor mute.  Also, interesting that I could still slide across the laminate floors like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, "Come on join me, little one," I put my hand out to you and you took it and you laughed and so did I, and then we ran around this trying to be perfect home dancing and singing.  It was so much more fun than vacuuming. I danced techno, jumping up and down on the bed.  You went heavy metal, head banging until dizzy, thick curls everywhere.  Then you did a mix up, throwing in an ABBA pose, finding your tiara and yelling "Super duper trooper." We dressed disco with blankets for capes, twirled around, kicking toys out of the way and prancing around in princess dresses to finalise a designer look. 


Your father walked in to see us crab shuffling to the bathroom, knees and elbows moving in and out.  He stepped over plastic high heels, moved aside the custom jewellery that cluttered the counter, turned down the screaming radio and we stopped and we turned.  You with drugstore makeup smeared across your face, surprised.  You slid to him in your Peppa Pig socks, brought  your plastic microphone to your tiny mouth, pointed up to him with your other hand "I sekky and know it," and then gave a good Elvis-like shake. I looked at the dirty dishes piled in the sink, grease on the stove top, clean, wrinkled clothes thrown across the table and I stood quiet and smiled. "Have a good day at work, Dear?" Your father smiled, pulled me in and swayed with me as we did at our wedding. We then gathered you to us like a bouquet of flowers. My favourite part of the day.


So, if you want to know why you don't remember Mommy ever having a show home.  Blame yourself, kid. And, thank you because I will always be grateful. 



Today is your day little one
Mammy will not get the ironing done
Nor will she shush you while she listens to the man on the phone
or ask you to use your inside voice
Mammy will not roll her eyes when you unfold the silk sheets
Instead she will let you ride on them like a sled
or roll into it as if it was a hammock.
Today is your day little one
Mammy will not quiet you to finish gossiping with a friend
Nor will she prod you to perform
or make the moment a “growing time”
Mammy will not rehearse with you that poem
but instead we will laugh at silly verses we create
because words aren’t easily remembered
For the years you served me,
quietly putting away your outside voice
going from A to B
instead of going round it and round it again.
Tidying the princess castle into the moat,
replacing your princess dress with the pretty one just bought you
and waiting to use painting sets…
…still waiting…
For letting the other little girl go first.
Today is your day little one
We can prance around with our hula hoops,
twirling them over each other
watching them drop off our hips
Barefoot, swaying to the music, bumping Butts,
howling out of tune.
shrugging shoulders, touching noses.
cuddling in, wasting time.
wrapping up in a cocoon, together,
twirling around and around and around.
We will have such fun little one,
just you, me and that naughty little shake the doctor’s watching.

Monday 27 March 2023

Vulnerability Plus Vulnerability Equals Intimacy and Then Comes Strength

True intimacy attained through shared vulnerability. 

I just watched Everything Everywhere All At Once and  I am not sure I completely understand the movie, actually the only thing that I am sure of is that I don’t completely understand the movie.  And, after reading a few reviews, I am also sure that most other people don’t completely understand the movie. However, the power of consistent relationships in an ever-changing universe translated loudly. I watched Evelyn, surrounded by love, radiate loneliness and regret. There were Evelyns in my world, who I stared at, intently, committed, believed they fed the connection only to realise their stare became lost in the chaos behind me. I welled up.

There is a line in there, something like, we are not meant to be alone. Maybe... probably not, as it would be difficult to survive alone. It is something that I have often wondered about. However, surviving with the wrong person can be pretty horrible too. 

This weekend I had a hip replaced, ouch! and it was ouch! I hate all this be strong bullshit that accompanies stuff like this-especially when it shouts at me from my head, ringing out from some echo chamber, vibrating in my chest and belly, built during days when I had to be strong.  I hear things like ...it's a very common surgery and that some people leave on the same day etc... and I imagine doing backflips out of the surgery doors. However, the surgeon did shift my attention by explaining, stone faced,  about alignment mistakes, infections and death while slipping me a release paper to sign, both dad and I were a bit quieted after that meeting.  

The surgery did go well, but my body retaliated, screaming from the inside out, demanding immediate attention, a proper fuck you to everyone involved, lengthening my stay.  However, eventually, all parties calmed and it was agreed that I could be discharged. 

Your father met me with warm gorgeous hands, I felt them as he pulled my hair back and kissed me. He guided my legs off the bed, helping me to stand. I looked at him and his eagerness to bring me back to our home. This is where his imagination sat.  The day he heard them say all went well and I was ok to go home. His mind rejoined our co-created life of dinner table chats, silly jokes, running after the children, and racing after the hairy beast. Tonight, he fantasised about the warmth of a duvet that covered two bodies where skin touched.  This day, he no longer missed me. He just looked to his side and he caught my gaze.  

His relief paused in reaction to my shutter and words, "I just peed." He looked at the bed, " No, no... 5 minutes ago I peed. but what if I need to pee again and we are in the car and it is commuter traffic and I have to pee. What if I have an accident in the car?"

He smiled and said, "I have a plastic bag for you to sit on." This is actually true.  They instruct you to have a plastic bag in the car for mobility ease.

"I can't pee on a plastic bag!" The nurse replied that men usually have bottles but she didn't think that would work for me." I thought about a shewee and wondered why I hadn't ordered that. While my mind escaped to picturing me  using one and how that would work and if it would work... if I would have felt embarrassed in front of your father... if he would drive me past a trucker just for giggles... If a she wee  would have been easier to use initially instead of a bedpan.  

Your father interrupted my thoughts and said, "Would it make you feel better to try again. I looked at him and the nurse, ready and waiting to leave and I nodded.  The nurse gently smiled and understood, saying "I am in no rush." 

Eventually, we do get to the car. I look at the arduous task of moving my unmovable body into that tiny space. My foot stretched out, the crutches unyielding in shape, unable to help, a dip between the curb and the car for a foot that can’t lift, hips that can’t navigate. I freeze. Your father puts on his familiar brave face. He thinks that if he is calm and brave, I will be at ease and he's right. One part of my brain knows that he is faking it but the other part tells it to shut up and get on board. He smiles and gives eye contact and slowly, gently manoeuvres me. I feel the tenderness of each touch, the love. 

As the journey begins, I tell him I am scared. My thoughts jump and catastrophise to scenes from Fast and Furious. Until he answers, " I am too, so let's take it slow." Then he changes the subject and I am caught by the bridges that stretch out over the Tyne and what looks like a slow movement of the Sage building, one of the first buildings used in your father's efforts to win me over to the North East. Lost in the reverberations of that memory, it takes a few minutes before I rejoin your father telling me about how you and your sister have tidied the house- the oldest absorbed in laundry and the youngest making the kitchen and dining room shine blindingly and I smile. 

The world has become a game of Tetris. I need to get past the front door and up a few flights of stairs, meanwhile,  your father runs up and down those flights several times to obtain that forgotten item, becoming items. His final journey up,  he smiles, which he thinks camouflages heavy breathing. 

“I am sorry,” I say to him, again and again, and when his breathing allows,  he asks, " Why?” 

"Because you have to care for me." 

"Don't be silly." his face contorting while wrestling off compression socks. His getting me ready for shower reminds me of what we used to do for you girls but I am the mother and it doesn't feel right.

Your father, as if to dance, takes my hands and guides me upward, I take my crutches and he follows me to the shower. The first time we did this, it was accompanied by more giggles than the groans of today, trepidations existed but for very different reasons. Sorry if I made you girls blush.

I sit on my plastic shower chair, his hands pressed on my thick thighs that are layered by belly bags and I whisper, "I don't think that this is my sexiest moment." 

He, on both knees, looks up at me,  and smiles,’”You're beautiful.” I believe him, and for a moment I become shy. 

Vulnerability breathes out every pour and because he loves me, he is quick to inhale. His hazel/brown eyes give kindness and I need that kindness.  I need to know that I am safe. I can't defend or protect myself. The hazards in my world multiply rapidly causing my body to shiver. I need to believe in his strength but also his desire and compassion and I do. It comforts me when my body is absorbed in pain. He is my respite. 

Now as the weeks progress, I cannot say that the euphoria of true love and patience also progressed.  The drip drip of fantasises of my doing it better leaked in and the stairs began to creek, mimicking your father’s grimaces.  I hated the feeling of dependency and that little tasks still remained stupidly challenging. But, at the end of my rant or his silent simmer, we would check in with each other, even when we couldn't look our hands would touch. There is relief when you burst and then melt like candle wax on to your best friend, and there they are, annoyed and a bit burnt but still there, fingers touching or a hand sliding across your back as you pass.  

Life can throw a good punch and we react in ways unimaginable. I couldn't fathom reacting in unimaginable ways with anyone else but your father. I keep thinking about how difficult this would have been on my own. Or, how difficult it would be with the wrong person. There are some who might not share the vulnerability but take advantage of it by shaming, boasting superiority, crying about neglect and planting feelings of guilt. Maybe some would help due to obligation or expectation of payment, or maybe they would have left when I could no longer dance and entertain.  

In the movie Waymond recognises and accepts life’s inevitable hardships but his resilience is fuelled by seeking goodness and play and simply enjoying a laugh.  Girls, that is your father. Although his past job made him bear witness to tragedies, his innate nature continued to believe in good thriving and enjoying others. His humour drew me to him.  I loved how he saw the world and I hoped it would be contagious. It was and because of it, life is easier and actually quite nice. 

Relationships can be so complicated, but not as complicated as life. Your partner, needs to be like the air you breathe, calming, strengthening, enduring, and simply present and the assumption of presence should be a given. It should be the one thing you can count on  in case all your other surroundings tremble. That partner holding you and you holding them is the constant.  When that happens, stability spreads and, in that moment, you know that you two and the world you created, will be ok and maybe just a little bit stronger than the moment before.  

Sunday 2 January 2022

In The Ice Skating Rink

 Mother, you stared for ten minutes at each picture of each grandchild and the day passed and you were happy.

In your grandchild picture, you wear curly blond, soon to be auburn, ringlets like a crown, and a frilly dress that just hangs from your tall popsicle body. You can still hear your mother yelling, "eat, eat!"  

Those long legs created a long gate and quite a stride, which helped you traverse the other side of the tracks. Your arms like armour, carried books. You loved your books and I believe they loved you back.  

I can feel the ocean in my chest when imagining your childhood. Your mother strived for "a normal life," to soothe the chaos born within. She married for love and he did love her and they created you and then your brother. He calmed her restlessness and coaxed her to sit  in their very own garden.  She watched him throw a ball to your brother and teach you to swim.  You gave him a hero's cuddle during story time and then he said good night.

You still wore frilly dresses when your hero died. At night, you waited with a book but no one came. You listened to your mother's loud cries and bottles dropping until you didn't. Books, like a gentle hand, led your attention away. Your brother listened, until you led him outside to play. When your mother finally emerged, it was to find a job. She left you to care for him in a new home that always seemed dusty and made your brother struggle to breathe. You cleaned the house and him, fed him, clothed him, consoled him and also punished him. You played the little mommy and he held on tight. 

I remember taking my oldest skating.  I worried about her falling on unforgiving ice.  I worried about the cold sting inside tiny cuts. I worried about others pushing her. I wondered if she would get bored or fed up in the first 5 minutes, reverting to  a not so bad plan B of hot chocolate with marshmallows. But, her intense stare surprised me.  We entered the rink and all else fell away.  She created a plan.  I would get her to the rink and around it, until she could hold herself up on the rails.  She patiently clunked behind people till she could glide and then she glided past them. She fell a few times and I rushed to her, but she got back up before I arrived.  She focussed forward on her mission.  She didn't feel the bumps or bruises form.  She didn't notice those who fell or raced around her, she only looked at her next step, her next glide.  She didn't want a break, she was fierce and I was proud. I just watched her, loved her and cheered her on. By the end of the 90 minutes she was skating and smiling and looking at me again, I existed again and we smiled and skated round together. A little bit of me stopped worrying about her after that.  I knew that she would be ok. 

That is how I envisioned your childhood, Mom. After your father died, you began your survival quest. Your quest for normality.  I remember your intensive stare where the periphery fell away and only what stood in front of you mattered. I think that this must have served you well. I think the world would have been too cruel and daunting to endure your full attention, 

You fought monsters. You held your books like a shield, your eyes intense, focussing forward. It worked. It buffered that teacher who mocked your side of the tracks, refusing to give you stickers or place your name on the happy side of the board. It muffled her resentment that a girl  unworthy took up space. You faced forward as you walked home alone, without playdates, covered with rumours that you might infect the other girls. You held your books tighter as you waved to the nice lady living next door. She asked you how school was, while a new man slipped by her and waited.  You worried for her children, who knew how long they would need to play so they could eat. Your cupboards housed only a few potatoes and you held them in your hand, you wondered about dinner. You called out to family and showed them, asking for help, but your mother shut back the door and said the potatoes would suffice. Your stomach ached, heightened by your brother's cries. You told him you must leave him to study.  

Your books led you through school to university, to science, not an easy goal for a woman in the 50's. You held your books tightly, as your brother called you back when he took too many pills, or when your boyfriend told you he would only care for you if you would just lay down your books. You refused and he wished you well.  

You did crave the normality, glanced at it through other's windows. It grew in my father's house, which you stepped into. You hid large marks smeared across your forehead and back that read damaged. His attention pulled towards your eyes, your strength, your intelligence, all ironically fertilised by that which inflicted the wounds. He gave you a little cart to carry your books and you decided to love him. Together, you bought and filled a home creating your own normal silhouettes to be displayed in your windows.  Your mother and brother smiled to my father and then tilted their heads to you, reminding you that your damage could not wash off and that they did not wash off. That you could move away but you were still with them.  

I suspect you thought yourself contagious to us, so you kept your distance. You would not sacrifice us. You let us know that the world was cruel but you would protect us with shelter and food and love. Warriors can't do much else. You did your drills and watched on as my father carried out the life you hoped for but couldn't grasp.  

When my hero died, you wanted to run and you asked me to run with you, 9,000 miles in six weeks, two women and a pop up tent. We really didn't know much about each other except that we both loved the music from Les Miserable. It played again and again and we learned all the words. However, before we learned the words it was the background of our many fights. You see you had raised a warrior in your image. You had no books to shield you only the endless hours of a Canadian summer day. And when we were finally tired of our war, we put our swords down and breathed.  You sang, "Master of the house? Isn't worth my spit! Comforter, philosopher and lifelong shit!"  I laughed and you looked at me and laughed and I sang, "Everybody raise a glass, raise it up the master's arse!" and for the first time we played. The warrior took a rest and allowed the little girl who no longer wore the frilly dress to play. We lived on tortillas and cheese, dipped in salsa, walked up mountains, jumped in puddles, drank hot chocolate and watched a million stars float across the sky. I watched the girl who was trapped in a city, plagued by missions, let go and spread out in the long grass next to me. You let go of your weights and danced to country music, spoke to strangers and breathed in clean air.  

You sang the "fuck you song" to a naughty trucker, who blocked your path. I watched, mouth open, slouched behind the car's dashboard. In awe, I found myself mouthing the words, "Fuck you and you and you and you and you," sung to the tune of So Long, Farewell. You swaggered by him, hips wiggling as fingers from both hands danced around his stunned face,  and a sweeter smile could not be found on anyone. You enjoyed that moment. We later sang it together when recounting those who smeared our backs and foreheads and you would teach it to my children as I  put my head in my hands to hide my smile. We proudly sat as Thelma and Louis finding freedom on an endless road.    

However, that trip eventually ended and life came back into play and sadly some demons pushed old defences up again and soon miles separated us even more.  Although, you always took pleasure in retelling the stories of our odyssey and I always loved listening. In those moments, we sat side by side, giggling at our misadventures, our tortilla diet and our honest friendship. 

You always wanted me to write about that trip and I always said I would. Now, I don't think you can remember much of that trip, ageing can be cruel. Oddly, that which erases parts of your life also allows you to put down your warrior shield. Over zoom, you tell me you miss me, you love me, giving me virtual hugs, at your request, I shut my eyes and feel the warmth you give. I see the little girl waiting with her book but I also now see the mother who answers her lonely daughter's calls. 

Mother, you stared for ten minutes at each picture of each grandchild and the day passed and you were happy. I know how important it is that you never forget their faces. Like the little girl focussing forward with her intense stare, you just need to take the next step. 

Friday 10 September 2021

Roots that Bind

 Your pink-tinted skin and lips blotted by wild flowers earned you the nickname “The English Rose.” These women worried about you getting too much sun so they pulled you into their homes saying, “Such a pale thing.” Their voices and movements leap-frogged each other in a sort of chaotic dance, and you stood silent, eyes darting, quietly soaking in the chaos.  Food filled the table you sat at and they said, “Eat, eat, you’ll like it,” it was familiar, that tone, those words. That day, I watched your smile and it felt infectious.


Today, I watch a different smile, one accompanied by a nervous giggle. I’ve asked how your day went, time with your friends. You describe them as girls you can be yourself with, you don’t have to try, they get you… This description allowed your father and me to finally let go of inhaled breath collected throughout the years. We watched you navigate through a social labyrinth that screamed out at every wrong turn.  For many years, you chose to keep a safe detached distance, affording only to mimic from the periphery, showing a curiosity for others but not being close enough to experience their curiosity for you. 


This changed with your visit to the States. You only needed a moment of consideration before deep diving into the family. I could see it as you played with your cousins, enjoyed new foods, or listened intently to the stories about people we used to love.  You eagerly squeezed into the back seat of a crowded car for an unorthodox tour of Boston, and recognised your strength by kayaking across the lake, creating bonfires and finding your way out of a hike that went wrong. With each feat, you heard the family applaud.  


You observed our family’s script, the essence of my script, life according to us, that didn’t always involve all those fussy rules. A world dismissing the unnecessary, the waving away of  protocols and social mores. You paused, often, mouth open, unsure, but then joined in. It was freeing for a new teenager, where invisible rules hid in every aspect of your life.  “Us” that word that now included you, ensured your right to this identity and a claim to all stories told. It felt a safe place for you. I understood this because when the rest of the world felt complicated, this is where I went.


You brought that sense of belonging home, growing friendships where secrets passed through whispers and snapchats. Where comfort settled the need to understand the formula. For your birthday, we filled the table with food and you girls laughed, ate, and then escaped to just be silly. You brought that warmth home, adding it to your story.


However, today, snacking in the kitchen, you wondered where Judaism fit into that script.  I looked out the window pushing my belly against the sink. 


“Mam, I was on the bus and this group of boys came to talk to us.”


“Ok” I replied. I felt the warm water rush over my hands as I finished the dishes. I shut off the water,  walked to you and leaned against the island to watch you twirling your spoon through yogurt. 


“They were introducing themselves and then pointed to one of their friends and said, he’s the Jew boy because he lives near the Jews,”  and that is when you became Jewish outside of our home, as pointed out to them by your friend. You became Jewish to the boys who stared.


You looked up and giggled. I held my breath, trying to not react. I just said, again, “OK.”

You continued, “Well, you could feel the tone change. They all started saying ‘ew Jew’ and then one boy said, ‘ Jew, get off the bus.’” You giggled again.  I had giggled like that. So, had your Bubbie, my Bubbie and so on….


During that visit across the pond, you commented on how my accent changed, a little bit New Yorker, a little bit Jewish, you mimicked Yiddish words. Growing up, my cousins and I mostly saw each other during the holidays. A time when people are only separated by generations. Us, the youngest generation, would run crazy around the house, while the oldest generation, would encourage us out the door.  I always thought of them as the elders, the high council. They would sit together, after a meal, digesting, and while the left overs were being stored away, they would ponder and then solve world problems: comments followed by silent consideration; sentences interrupted only by the dessert. Those fresh flowing colours laid upon antique dishes, each plate bringing stories from past generations. Fragile witnesses, to something quietly understood, held in a shared consciousness but rarely expressed.  


I remember my great aunt’s drooping red lids captured what seemed to be a blue mist. I stared and it felt hypnotising bringing me in closer to watch her as she spoke of her past, a rare moment. Sitting, hands on knees, legs spread, as if ready to stand, she glanced and then nodded at  her siblings, who reciprocated with their own nods. “To them, “ she said referring to her elders, “The West was filled with cowboys and lawlessness, they didn’t understand East Coast/West Coast. They saw my father as crazy. They asked why would he leave his home? His wife? His five children, all of us under 8?” And then she would laugh,  “The States, this far off country, they thought was so uncivilised!”  I would hear them laugh at that part of the story, followed by silence and then a whisper,  “The irony.”  In his 7 year absence, the children created imagined memories of their father, filled in by stories from their uncles, aunts and grandparents, who gathered to raised them in his absence.   


A dangerous world affected not only their childhood but also lingered in their current world. They never spoke of it but you could feel it, the darkness that seeped into the room, intertwined with the scent of food.  The quiet that came over them as “we remember.” An acceptance of their world, its threats and their helplessness amongst it. Memories of windows crashing, sweeping of glass, bloodied relatives walking with their faces downward to not scare the children, hugs given for the purpose of hiding, long walks back and forth to school where they knew to stay together.  To keep safe they tried to disguise themselves, camouflaged in the backdrops of their world. Finding safety only in their home. 


My grandmother never spoke of the days before she stepped on American soil.  She refused to speak her childhood language. She identified as Jewish and American only, but Jewish seemed whispered unless said behind closed doors. Her and her siblings hid that world away behind their new anglicised names, but that world would not leave my grandmother, no matter, her education, job or the very American man she married to kill her roots. The little girl inside her still saw the men who starred as they leaned against her window, slurring rants that fogged the glass, banging at her door, until boredom moved them on.


My Bubbie would say, “Be careful who you tell you’re a Jew to, know that there are those that will hate you for that, be ready.” In the next breath she would say, “And for all those who died, you must fight them.” She made me promise. Her words repeated loudly when I watched my school  teacher smile or when I opened the door for the mailman. Who was “that person” who hated me?


As a young mother, my grandmother, cried at the absent letters from her relatives over seas.  She watched the news of the holocaust and waved her brothers and husband off to fight. My grandfather died shortly after the war, leaving only my mother and uncle to carry the weight of my grandmother’s trauma. It seemed too much for my uncle, who would never truly participate in the world. 


I remember numbers on translucent skin, those of the family who “made it.” Their stories came to me indirectly, through my mother. As she spoke to me of what she overheard, we crouched down, like children huddled around a camp fire, our fantasies putting us in the places they had been. We would fight the fight they couldn’t and then maybe we could heal the wounds of those we loved, maybe I could heal my mother’s wounds.  Hebrew school, echoed “I must remember,” with films of naked women waiting in line, emaciated, sexless people collecting others last belongings.  It was my responsibility to remember, to say never again. As a child, I felt a warrior, but a warrior driven by the fear born in someone else’s blood. 


Growing up, the hatred waiting outside our neighbourhood was pointed out to me. We heard the stories of graffiti on temple walls, bomb threats, we watched the police patrol the streets, sit in the parking lots during Shabbat.  But often the prejudice I experienced directly was more of an irritant than a threat. It would come in the form of bizarre observations made, questions asked of me because “ I didn’t look Jewish. “  

 

“So, when is the messiah coming?” Or  “Why did you kill Jesus?” Usually, my mouth would dry, I would inhale before walking away, allowing them to enjoy a different form of entertainment. 


When I was 18, I attended a cool person’s party. I was never cool so I hid behind a lit cigarette and a drink, watching them, listening to their language, while slowly being pushed into the inner circle. The quarterback of our high school football team stood centre. I watched his fans listen and wait for  cues to laugh, what words to repeat. I joined because I could mimic, and banter flew, but then it turned racial, disguised as a harmless joke. It wasn’t harmless and it wasn’t directed to me but to the man next to me who wasn’t Jewish. As to my training, I spoke out. “Those jokes aren’t cool. People try to joke about Judaism too, but it is not ok.” The tone changed. The cool kid laughed as he looked at his friends and then me. “I can’t stand Jews.” He said this quite matter-a-factly and then continued,  “In fact, we needed more of those ovens.”  


That is when my world blurred with rage.  I screamed as I felt my friends pulling me away, back to my car. He watched, tutting, his friends’ heads down, saying nothing. My friends excused my sensitivity, justifying it by reminding each other of my father’s recent death. It wasn’t due to the death of my father. It was due to a lineage of those with subtle accents, whispering stories of others who couldn’t scream. I became their voice.  That story replayed over and over again for me as I listened to your story of the day you ingested a particular type of fear. 


At your birth, they commented on your “exotic” looks and asked the origin. I said, ”Me, my daughter looks like me.” I assimilated into my new country, the UK, absorbed into my new traditions and decided that you would belong to a kinder world, instead of one poisoned by generations of trauma. I would enjoy sitting with you in this world, unlike the scared women before me. You didn’t need to know of those who hated. However, here we are, at this counter, you smoothing out your hair before twirling it again and I watching you in silence.


“I told them I was only half Jewish and that you weren’t even that Jewish.” I watched you begin to cry. “I was scared.” You looked at me, afraid again, ashamed. Even though that part of your world, the vulnerable part susceptible to those who hate, had gone unspoken, as with osmosis, it seeped in. 


“Of course you were scared. You did the right thing, you kept yourself safe.” 


You exhaled loudly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.” 


I traveled around the counter and whispered, “Of course you wouldn’t know what to do.” You hadn’t been built that way, to hate or to expect hate. No, one lurking in your world until today. Today, what I tried to create for you was stolen and replaced by the same toxins that had also infected my world. I would say that to your father later when he held me as I cried. 


And then it happened to your sister (I decided to update this letter):

A few months later, the littlest one of you experienced similar on a WhatsApp group chat. A few years earlier, you were introduced to this historical hate. The teacher brought it to you in pictures of treacherous men with big noses, wearing yellow stars under the new vocabulary word “propaganda.” She also spread out pictures of men and women waiting at gas chambers, and children in ghettos behind fences staring.  The little boy, three seats down whispered, “If we lived back then, they would have taken…” You looked at him to see his finger pointing towards you; the other children followed his finger to you, the only Jew in the classroom, actually in the school. 


You burst through the door shouting questions, “Is it true, Is it true…How could it be true?” As you coughed through strained breaths and roughly threw words together that sketched out the lesson.  Refusing to drop your bags, refusing my kiss, even refusing to eat the cookies waiting, you wanted answers, maybe you wanted me to tell you the teacher got it wrong but she didn’t.  I stood unprepared, I just nodded and then picked up my shoulders. 


You then breathed out carrying the words, “Why didn’t you tell me?” We both stood in the quiet, staring, I bent down, looked at you and pick up my words from deep in my chest, confirming this hate exists, chipping more away at your innocence. You struggled with that. You struggled to sleep, worrying about being taken away like the children before you, it was months before I could leave your room when your eyes were still open. 


Those words in the WhatsApp group echoed the lesson, echoed what had been said to me so many years ago. Your pain reverberated and I absorbed it. Your sister held you. She understood. My shoulders raised again, this time to carry your pain, I had no other words to give. 

Monday 27 July 2020

I AM Karen

 “Karen” is the new label for a woman who acts  “entitled” (whatever that means). A woman who is capable of creating discomfort in others, typically by losing her shit. Let me tell you, little ones, we all lose our shit and sometimes that causes us to become assholes. It’s OK because those moments in time, don’t define us. They are simply moments in time and those times happen because the world can be harsh and because we struggle and because our body reacts to those struggles.


Historically, women, who didn’t fit the mould, who made a choice to be honest, assertive or just openly pissed off instead of continuing the drive to be liked were labeled. Terms like hysterical, bitch, bossy, ball-buster, permanently on-the-rag etc… It all worked well to cage us.


I spoke to your dad with outrage about this fully swallowed term. I asked, “Couldn’t they see the sexism?” 


Your dad answered,  “Well, there is a Ken to the Karen.” 


Oh… right… ok, so was the term sexist if there was a male counterpart? I still think it is, as I see many more “Karens” flagged up on social media than “Kens.” I am not an academic in this area, I haven’t researched it. It is just my experience of seeing many women shamed in our society, given a more contemporary version of the Scarlet Letter branding. 


However, there is also the issue of shaming attached to the label Karen or Ken. It is the hot potato game, before we get burned we pass the potato on to burn someone else and then we are safe.  Or, we push others down to feel a momentary lift. Or we just watch it and don’t speak up, maybe, for a moment, we fit in or we simply feel a sense of relief that, this time, it is them and not us. Since, Karen and Ken aren’t very welcoming, we can shame them without much kick back. I have done it and, girls, you will too. To shame another has a strong pull and is so much easier to do than to sit with compassion. 


Shame, I suppose has a purpose, it keeps others in line, it pushes down what is bubbling up. It quiets voices that drags us from our comfort zone. And, sometimes,  it just feels good to strike out and feel justified. But, what if we need discomfort?  Discomfort take us off the treadmill and forces us to stop, breathe, and soak in the view? 


For the shamed, those exiled emotions, thoughts and behaviours don’t die, they just become fertile land for self-shaming.  That horrible stone at the bottom of your belly, that heavy cloud that pushes at the back of your neck and your shoulders, that self applied tattoo across your forehead that people stare at when you enter a room, that thought that curls your body up and pushes a quiet moaning out in the middle of the night. The amnesia that steals away your memory that your soul was born beautiful. 


At that moment, we want to stop the pain and we do lots of awful things to stop the pain. I have seen this as a therapist but also experienced this as a girl and woman. Ironically,  it is those times that “Karen” or  “Ken” take form.


I have had many “Karen” moments as has everyone I know, but I was lucky to have most of those moments before the blessing and curse of social media. Now, a picture of one moment in time captured with a few words is left for interpretation with no thought to bias, context, or state of mental health. In reality it is just a moment in time, showing someone  struggling to interact with the world. Where all the fucked up shit they contend with, burrowing into their body, momentarily escapes. 


One memory, in particular, comes back to me. I was in a museum with your grandmother somewhere in Canada and after waiting in a very long line, a woman, who seemed to hate her job or hate me, sort of sighed, snarled, tilted head back and forth and asked me for money for a ticket.  The price didn’t include the discount, I think it was the equivalent of 50 cents. I explained (with a long line behind me and Grandma next to me) why I was entitled to the discount. I pointed to the sign, but she didn’t care, refused my discount and just said that I was wrong. I started to get louder, explaining that I had a university degree, implying that she didn’t, and I could work out basic percentages and read the pricing categories on the tariff on the wall. She replied, “Well, good for you.” And the line grew and the snickers started, and I looked to my left and Grandma had joined the chorus. I started to demand my 50 cent discount! Berating the small town that the museum was located in (meaning that they must have nothing better to do than making tourist feel like shit etc..) She finally gave in, and I turned to walk away. People stared. Grandma gave me distance to lessen our association, and we made our way around the corner.  I think that I bumped into a few walls at that time, as I was walking through a blur of tears. I pretended to look at some exhibitions, with my mother standing quietly next to me. I remembered whispering through broken breaths, “Why didn’t you help me?” “Why didn’t you stand by me?” 


She asked, “Why?” 


I replied, “Because you are my mother and that is what mother’s do.” 


She simply said, “Well, it is done now.” 


But it wasn’t done, I carried that snickering for ages, that shame.  Had it been on social media, so that the pain could be continuously inflicted and shared,  I can’t even imagine how I would have contended with that, as my world was a bit fragile at that time. 


So, now for the back story, I was 21 years old on a 9,000 mile trek through Canada and the States, in a two person pop-up tent with no itinerary. I loved my mother very much but we struggled, only pretending to understand the very different languages we spoke.  When she suggested this trip, I questioned intent but not to her. 


The first few weeks of this road trip were filled with outbursts. She couldn’t escape me now.  We were both formidable combatants. But we fell silent from the screams, temporarily, when overcome by star-filled skies, or breathing in cool mountain air from a cliff’s edge. She would take my arm to protect me and I would let her.  


Three years prior, after a night of partying, I woke, head in hand, dry throat, to a knocking at the door. There was a phone call for me (the time before mobiles). I took a sip of water from the glass at the bedside table and walked to the payphone in the middle of the hall. "Yes," I said.  It was my mother, she had called to tell me that my father died, and just like that, my world was gone. 


The rest of that day, week and month were a daze. Auntie Sue and Uncle Steve came home soon after.  We all seemed to exist in parallel universes, wandering about the house but not acknowledging each other. I set the kitchen table for dinner, 4 places, instead of 5, but no one came. We went from being a loud busy family with a revolving door, to a busy for distraction family who functioned silently and then slowly disappeared. I just kept sitting at the kitchen table watching the empty seats. I did return to university. I came home often to check on my mother and my dog. I worked two jobs to relieve my financial burden. 


My mother didn’t seem to notice me anymore.  I became a repulsive force, like the wrong side of a magnet. I couldn’t catch her eyes anymore. She has beautiful eyes.  She had lost her father at a young age, which corrupted her world overnight, and now it was happening again. I remember her whispering to the window, while cleaning dishes, “This was not suppose to happen. I did everything right.” I watched her from an open door of her bedroom as she stare at his closet as if in a trance.  She felt cursed, continually experiencing retribution. What had she done? She had tried to find redemption all her life, rescuing those in need, volunteering, fighting for the underdog and still this…. I moved in to console her but she moved away.


Three months later we moved my great-uncle into my bed and I moved to the den.  He was a larger than life man, standing at 6’4”, blue eyes, and of few words. A father figure to my mother and she loved him. Soon the cancer left him to hardly make an imprint under my floral sheets. I struggled.  I started to have panic attacks when crossing bridges, silence felt threatening and then I couldn’t sleep. I fell out with friends and struggled to gain closeness with new friends and felt incredibly alone. The world grew terrifying.


My uncle wanted to die in my home, in my room, in my bed, Instead, I accompanied him to the hospital. I couldn’t face his next step.  For two days, I stayed away and when I finally did arrive, someone else lay in his bed.  The nurse explained, they had just finished changing the bed sheets and had not had a chance to call me.  I turned to leave and the elevators opened, it was his brother and sister, I explained that they were also too late. He had died alone. I explained that to my mother, who walked away and closed the door behind her. I called my brother and sister who came home and quietly cried. We never seemed to figure out how to share our sadness only our distance. 


My insomnia worsened as did my panic attacks, but I disguised it well.  I started to do much better at school, create a bigger social circle, make amends with old friends but the world still remained threatening.  I was always just making it. However, I learned how to survive feeling not good enough. I became the rescuer  like my mother, staying up to talk to the friend in need, doing that extra favour, joining with a cause. 


I became more and more self-sufficient, relying on nobody.  Dealing with university bureaucracy, landlord issues, car troubles, health issues, insurance, angry neighbours  etc… And in those few years,  I endured a few more deaths of people I loved. I qualified my life as G-ds bad practical joke. I stopped reaching out for support as accepting it felt uncomfortable and, instead, found some solace, in giving others support. I learned how to cope as I went and with each experience, I became more self-assured not of my abilities but that the world was capable of extreme cruelty, that I too was cursed in some way, that I deserved these hardships, bad things happened to me because maybe, at my core, I was bad.  That is why no one protected me, that is why people left me, not just my father in death, but my mother in life. I was in this fight alone, and as I fought feral,  I would usually win, but each win reinforced that I wasn’t ok.


That trip, rehashed all of it. How dare she suggest this trip.  How dare she want to play mother and daughter now. I don’t need her now! She left me overwhelmed, afraid and in pain for three years! She often had caught sight of my fear and to her it was a famiiar fear and still nothing? How dare she want a relationship now! And why now? Was any of this real? Was I being used?  I felt used.  These and more comments spit from my mouth reverberating within our car, parked outside the museum. There was no response, so this time I walked away from her and slammed the door behind me.  A few steps away I stopped to slow my breath, to unclench my sweaty fists. I wanted to scream, to run away into the mountains behind the building. But my damaged body that had moved through  three years of insomnia  and  panic attacks, instead, entered the building and stood in a line. 


I felt my mother behind me, and I seethed.  Looking forward at the sloth-like cashier in front of me and her look of disdain at her life, at her job, at me. I put my cash on the counter, looked up to see her slight smile as she enjoyed telling me that I had gotten it wrong.  I hadn’t got it wrong. I deserved that fucking discount as I deserved many other things. At that moment my rage, my shame, my incredible sadness took shape and Karen stepped in to be my voice and she was a fucking wonderful friend. She told me that I was entitled to love, entitled to kindness, entitled to protection, entitled to be present in this world, entitled to have been a child for a little bit longer and  then she turned to the cashier, her dead stare conveyed that damage creates fierce warriors. I collected my 50 cents, and Karen held my hand leading me away from the crowd to a quiet place where she stood by me as I felt my pain.

Sunday 18 August 2019

My thoughts on Meghan Markle: From one immigrant to another


Did I ever tell you girls about the time I immigrated to the UK? It was challenging as my expectations differed from the reality. I, looking towards an adventure, found something much more complicated. My naiveté, however, did serve a purpose, it allowed me to wear optimism-tinted glasses. Although, a crystal ball would have probably been more useful. 

I remember watching a video about a fawn, seeking protection from a maternal source, cuddling into a lion. The lion allowed this, even licked away the newborn’s birth fluid and the onlooker, from behind the phone, ooo’d and ahhhh’d.  The magic of a Disney-themed movie seemed to decorate all our worlds, until the lion realised hunger and then, well, not so Disney. I looked away. I hate thinking about that video, the cruelty of nature and the cruelty of watching something struggle for survival, an innocent becoming aware of it’s ending, and mostly the enjoyment of the person sharing the video.

I remember preparing for my move, bouncing about like a character from Sex in the City, wonderful wonderful friends, good job, nice house.  I travelled, gossiped, giggled loads, got involved with causes, worked out, sang loudly in my car, tried that new restaurant, watched that new play etc… The Future’s So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades (Song reference, girls, look it up). I only answered to myself and I knew all the rules, I called them instincts such as when and how to talk to strangers, make friends, what to wear to a party and how to cross the street. I didn’t stand out.  I wasn’t different, unless I wanted to be. When I had an idea that made eyebrows flare,  it was because I thought “outside the box” or “lacked tact” or wanted to impact my audience. People reacted to the point or the action or me being me, it had nothing to do with my country of origin. 

When you move to a new country, you are dressed by others in a heavy outfit, sort of a not-so-welcoming welcoming gift. It adheres to your skin. People are inundated by stereotypes and preconceived notions, egged on by manipulated reality TV and a new you is crafted while your real self screams to be unbound. How fucking unjust. 

I reacted by embracing who I was, asserting myself and and shoving my strength down their throats.  Well, that is what I would like to say to you, but it didn’t really go that way. I hid. My voice quieted. I observed and copied others and tried to assimilate to the rules but the rules kept changing. Slowly, quite covertly, my true self faded. In the quest to make things work,  I questioned myself, my belief system and looked outward for guidance. I felt emotionally, physically and financially vulnerable. Once my Pollyanna self realised this movie was more indie than Disney: no assured happy endings; no comeuppance for the baddies, no walking off into the sunset with a cheeky over the shoulder look back, no acknowledgement from her man of how she saved the day; not even an 80’s song playing in the background, I cried, not a little but a lot.  It was usually into my pillow, journal or in the shower.  Sometimes I cried till my eyes swelled and my hair was wet.  Your dad, stood by my side but stood a bit confused, no forthcoming answer in sight, no quick fix. And, when things can’t be easily fixed, people become frustrated. This wasn’t his movie either. 

My support network existed, but existed thousands of miles away and I didn’t want them to know how scared I was and how sad I was and that maybe this self-styled overachiever might be failing. A new marriage, a new family, new potential friends, a new ever-changing book of rules and the oldest one of you on the way. I, an “older Mam”, desperately wanted you. Your father and I couldn’t wait so we chose not to. I met you before I met my first year anniversary in this country. Your big chocolate brown eyes pulled from me a new maternal love engaging a fierce instinctual desire to protect. I needed to keep you from the lions, keep you safe, your home safe and keep me safe and, to be honest, I didn’t always know how to do that. Sometimes, I felt exhausted trying to figure it all out. In fact, hormones and huge life changes bring on lots of feelings. I looked for guidance.  I went to books, coffee mornings, mid-wives, family etc…while smothering my own voice, my own yearnings and that is never good. 

People happily played armchair warrior, screaming at the screen of my movie. I listened, quietly, respectfully, dutifully, taking notes, assuming these keepers of the formula, whose motives were pure, were simply trying to help. I thinking that it must be just me that doesn’t get it. However, it wasn’t me, and their intentions weren’t always pure. It took me a long time to figure that out but once I did, the world seemed to make more sense and, suddenly, I had a bit more insight and a lot less stress. 

I watch attacks on Meghan Markle and I am rubber banded back to the video of the Fawn and the lion. I am rubber banded back to whispers in playgrounds as I tried to make friends, I am pulled back to dinner parties where I am politely acknowledge as “his wife” engaged with as a bridge or obstacle when making their way to him, shoving aside the 35 years of history and identity, I created. To them, I existed but without significance.  

When you came along, I had ideas of how I would raise you, of how we would be together but even that was affected. I questioned everything. It was no longer about you and me but about adapting us to them because obviously there was something I wasn’t getting. I am sorry sweetheart. You and your sister are blessings and skipping a few chapters in our book, I did get it eventually. However, it hurts to watch other new mothers attacked.  There is so much that I would like to say to Meghan and if I would write a letter, it would say this. 

Dear Meghan Markle,

I hope you don’t mind my writing this letter as I don’t know you. I only know what the media wants me to know.  They have created a design of you and now sell it to me as if I am on the high street.  We are both strangers to each other and my need and my act of commenting on your life seems not only presumptuous but also arrogant. Please appreciate that I do this not simply for you but also for my girls, who are being sold very perverse ideas of our world, immigration and the role of women.

Of course, I want my girls to always be happy, but I know that is impossible because happiness doesn’t live in isolation. So, I want them to be alright when they are not happy. I want them to embrace how incredible it is to be a woman, to love uncontrollably, to dance, laugh and roar when needed, to create and/or nurture life if they want to or to be OK with not doing that. I want them to explore and experiment with who they are and where they fit in to this world and then find that comfy, cosy little place where they feel they fit. I want them to create deep and enduring friendships that feel spiritual. Other’s who see them, truly see them, sharing in their laughter, holding their hands on slippery floors and cuddling them when words no longer suffice. I want them to know how fucking fantastic it is to be a woman.

However, media, society or whatever it is, seems to work really hard at not allowing us our strength, our right of being. The beauty and power of women connecting are mocked, as we are inundated by images of women battling against each other like street cats in a ring. 

Instead of appreciating our capacity to nurture life and the gravity of that choice, we are measured by it. Then graded on how well we do. Instead of allowing our bodies to be storybooks and change form, we are pressured to disguise our sagging skin and wrinkles, lumps and bumps, pretending change didn’t occur. We cannot even celebrate ageing, our continual metamorphoses, meaning we have not only battled life’s challenges but have won. We cannot just be. 

Which brings my thoughts back to you and your right to just be. Our worlds are very different and I can only try to understand your world by what we have in common, which is transitioning lives: immigration, marriage and motherhood. All of these encompass change and with change comes difficult choices and realisations. New beginnings must also accompany some level of loss. Somehow it is very difficult to reconcile the two, the grief in this new found joy. Identities, to a degree, are dynamic, we adapt to survive, but the changes are subtle to protect us from being overwhelmed. However, you have gone through quite a few changes and I can’t imagine that the affects on you were subtle. 

Trying to be perfect when managing those changes … well I cannot even begin to imagine or discuss. A quest for perfection is a sadistic journey as it doesn’t exist. It is a carrot at the end of a stick. Life and growth involve sometimes not being OK, accepting mistakes with compassion instead of shame and appreciating that those mistakes are a vital connection to your many successes. But, how do you achieve that trapped behind a looking glass? 

You are a new wife, a new mother in a new country and that is no small feat, and because you actually did marry a prince, crying into a wine bottle surrounded by friends is a bit more challenging. You created life, and although people minimise that miracle of nature, they shouldn’t. The gravity of giving or caring for a life is the enduring truth in many people’s stories, giving many a foundation, in a confused world but being a mother is incredibly hard.Your autonomy over body, mind, hormones etc… has been affected, dramatically. That precious but unique realisation should be welcomed with compassion. However, I don’t see much kindness coming your way. I see people instead trying to define you, instruct you and basically judge you. 

I keep thinking of these new life experiences as that ride at the fair where the floor moves. The person tries to hold their balance while getting from point A to B. But, for you, with this ride, there is an industry of thousands paid to wait and watch you fall, even grease the floor if it can get them a better picture. If you do fall, skirt flying, bruised, eyes welling then, instead of being given a hand, you are blinded by the flash of cameras. It all feels very cruel. 

I think that instincts would have most tighten their grasp on the rail while smiling. Don’t smile if it is not real, it is wasted, you can’t change their perceptions of you because it is not about you. The media does it for money, but the people who buy into the media… well… I suppose it is a bit more complicated. I think there is a lot of hurt people in the world, and to cope some distract from self, or deflect from self to you.  Others find it easier to judge your world than their own. Criticising without accountability feels powerful, superior in position, allows importance, momentarily releasing a bit of their own self loathing as they pretend that it rightfully belongs to you.  Don’t buy into this, it is not yours and it is not you. Their relief doesn’t last, so no matter how you respond, they will always return to the well. This sort of thirst can’t be saturated. 

The important thing is that you surround yourself with people who get that attacking others is wrong, very basic concept, something we learn as toddlers but then forget when the world becomes a bit scary.  Surround yourself with people who are capable of love and choose to share it with you. People who love honestly, love all of you, all the bits and pieces and, then, love them back. 

I also want you to know that I support you. I support your right to not be under a microscope, I support your right to not be beaten up by images of perfection, I support your right to love your child, your husband, your friends but also yourself. I support your right to be a priority, to be cared for, to be cheered for. I support your right to change or take refuge in sameness. For those who go on about you being in the public eye and blah blah blah, I support you telling them to fuck off. Yes, I get that you have commitments and responsibilities etc… that are on a much greater scale to mine and there will be things you feel a responsibility to do, but it doesn’t mean you will always have to Polly Anna your way through it or sell your soul to appease. When I decided to stop trying to figure out what everyone else wanted, it released an energy that felt powerful. I grew like Alice in Wonderland, so did my perspective, more importantly, the mean people shrank. I remembered my significance in the story of my life. 

You are incredibly significant, born worthy, don’t apologise for that. The world is challenging and sometimes can feel lonely and sometimes we need to be alone, even if it just to take a breath. I truly believe that I am surrounded by thousands of others who share these thoughts.  I hope someway you can feel that, a little like a cosmic cuddle. I appreciate that we don’t know each other but I don’t think that is a prerequisite for caring.


Go well and be well because that is what you deserve. It is what we all deserve.

Warmest Regards,
From one immigrant to another