Lilac Colored Glasses

Or in this case…a freylakhn Pesach

That was all it took to trigger a string of memories and emotions typically kept filed away in a dusty white box close to the furthermost corners of the area marked “childhood.”

My grandpa, Dan, was the youngest of six children. I say was because he’s now the only sibling left, but originally there was the eldest and only girl, Charlotte and four older brothers: Saul, Zola, Alex and Bernard.  I never met Saul, who I think died before I was born, and I was never particularly close to Charlotte, Al or Bernie but as a young child I had a special place in my heart for my Uncle Zola.
Looking back, I can’t even say I saw him that much, but I still remember his distinct, raspy voice, his square black glasses and the tufts of white hair on the sides of his otherwise bald head. He had the kindest blue eyes and when we saw him, typically on Thanksgiving and possibly Rosh Hashana, although memories of that aren’t as vivid to me, he used to give us these bone crushing bear hugs as soon as we walked through the door. I always had such a weird mix of joy and apprehension on Thanksgiving because of those hugs; because they were tight to the point where they almost hurt but that was somehow also the fun part of it. I always looked forward to seeing Uncle Zola.

Then when I was eight Uncle Zola had a series of heart attacks and strokes. I honestly don’t remember much of that, just hearing that Uncle Zola had a stroke and not really knowing what that meant other than it made it hard for him to talk or move. Hearing that he had a heart attack and knowing that heart attacks killed people, so Uncle Zola must be really strong because he was still alive. Following all the attacks, my mother took me and Scooter (who was five, so I doubt he even remembers) to see Uncle Zola at his apartment. I remember feeling a bit awkward because usually when we saw Uncle Zola he was at my grandparents’ house and being in his apartment was strange and sort of scary. When we saw him he was frail and there was no giant bear hug. I do think he might have held me or my brother on his lap while we talked and after a while my mother rose and said we had to go, but that we’d be back soon and we’d bring him some plain yogurt, because that was the kind he liked. He started to cry as we left, asking us not to go yet, and my mom promised we’d be back soon as we slipped out the door. I remember feeling confused because I never knew that grown up men cried and also because plain yogurt was really yucky. I thought we should bring him yogurt with fruit in it because that tasted better.

That was also the last time I saw my Uncle Zola.
He died shortly after our visit.

Now, I remember almost nothing specifically about his funeral. It was the first one I’d ever been to but I’ve been to so many funerals in my lifetime that they mostly seem to just run together at this point. Most of the funerals I’ve been to took place at Ralph Schugar’s Funeral Home in Pittsburgh and I assume this one probably did too although I figure we were sitting out in the pews for Uncle Zola’s funeral. I’ve had the distinct displeasure of sitting back in the “close” family room three times in my lifetime and I imagine I’ll probably see that room several more times before I leave the land of the living. But this is all besides the point.

Remember I was eight, and this was my first encounter with death. And the thing that bothered me the absolute most about all of it?
Uncle Zola never got his yogurt.
We had promised to bring him his favorite yogurt and we didn’t get to give it to him before he died. Even now, as an adult, knowing that the promise wasn’t intentionally broken, that yogurt was most likely the farthest thing from his mind when he passed, my throat still closes and my eyes still burn and prickle with tears.

Twenty years later and part of me still aches over not bringing that yogurt in time. And I’m sure it’s something deeper. Some unexpressed or incomplete form of grieving for a man I remember only in flashes of images and wisps of recollection. But something in me has tied all of those feelings of sadness, confusion, grief and guilt to plain yogurt.

We moved later that year and I kept a picture of my Uncle Zola in my room along with a large portrait of my father’s father, Kenneth, who I was named for and who died before I was born. And I slept with the eyes of the deceased on me, and that’s what I wanted. The story goes on a bit and I could talk about it I suppose, but I don’t think I will. Because this isn’t about all that came after the death of my uncle.

It’s about the rush of emotions, the disorienting feeling of sadness and the guilt of breaking a promise that I experience this morning when I opened my single serving pot of plain yogurt and the realization as I lifted the spoon to my lips that plain yogurt really isn’t so bad after all.

I’m Jewish.

I think I’ve covered this before but I was raised in a Jewish household by two Jewish parents. I went to Sunday school for ten years, Hebrew school for five years and I was bat-mitzvahed and confirmed and in a Jewish youth group for a year.
For the record, I do not believe in a god or multiple gods. Deities hold no value for me, but I still consider myself Jewish in culture and heredity.  Ironically, about ten years back, I held a firm belief that Judaism was a religion and not a culture. After all, people can convert to Judaism or choose to switch up their religious beliefs and worship Christ, Allah, or The Green Man. You can’t convert to a culture. I can’t say some prayers, take a bath in a holy tub and become Latino or Thai or Swedish. So you see, the idea of Judaism being a culture just didn’t mesh with me.

But as I became more and more solidly confident in my belief in no god (read that I stopped pussy footing with agnosticism and settled into atheism) I also found that I was unable to separate myself from the aspects of Judaism that were part of my identity. I enjoy the Jewish holidays because they’re unique and usually teach some sort of lesson, or they commemorate some interesting and ancient custom. I love spending the time with my family, I love the artwork in mezuzahs and Seder plates and kiddish cups. I love the look of the Hebrew language because it’s different and unique and goes thousands and thousands of years back into history. And I identify very strongly with the Jewish appreciation for the ancient and for preserving history. I love the stories behind Purim, Channukah and Passover and the traditions involved in Sukkot and TuBeshvat. There are life lessons to be learned in all of those stories and they are lessons that can still be taught and appreciated without using god as the driving force.

When I left America I thought I’d be leaving my association with Judaism behind. I mean, I’m living in Flanders for goodness sakes. The Jewish population anywhere but Brussels and Antwerp is almost non-existent. It’s like being in elementary school all over again, having to explain to people what Rosh Hashana is about, or Channukah even. And sadly, the outspoken Jewish community in Belgium is the Orthodox community in Antwerp. I’ve spoken to some Jewish women there who tell me that in Antwerp there is no such thing a conservative or reform Jew. You’re Orthodox or you’re out. It’s a piss poor attitude to have and it reflects poorly on the Jewish community here. It also doesn’t help that the Orthodox Jews in Antwerp are often associated with Vlaams Belang, the poorly veiled rascist(currently they are anti-Muslim)/sexist party here in Flanders. And on top of that, last year the Antwerp Orthodox community began crying “antisemitism” at every tiny little thing they could. It is very unsavory and I choose not to associate with it. It also makes me sad because this is the example of Judaism that gentiles get from the media here. That and the injustice going on in the Middle East.

As an American Jew I was raised with some biased perceptions of Zionism and what exactly it is all about. Growing up I always learned that all of the countries surrounding Israel hated them for being Jewish and wanted to blow the country up, except for Jerusalem, which they wanted for themselves. I was taught that Israel was the Jewish homeland and a place given to us after the Holocaust so that any Jewish person could go there and be safe from persecution (when I was 7 the irony of escaping persecution by moving to a country that was constantly in the cross hair of several missile launchers pretty much went over my head). I was taught that no one gave Israel or the Jews a fair shake and that anyone who wanted to take land away from them was mean and wrong.

And maybe, in the beginning, all of that was true.

But now Israel is a strong country and it’s using it’s strength to institute apartheid in Israel. I mean, for thousands of years Jews have been picked on, persecuted, made to feel less than others for who they were. And yet this is basically what is going on now in Israel against anyone who isn’t Jewish. And while my gut instinct is, and probably always will be, to stand up for Israel and the Jewish people living there, I can’t help but acknowledge the glaring racism going on right now in a country that was created to allow religious freedom for the eternal minority. When the minority becomes the majority, and all they can do is use oppression against others, what good does that make them? How are they any better than their enemies? How is the Israel of today so unlike the other Middle Eastern countries opressing the Jewish minority in the past?

So, keeping all that in mind (yes it’s a lot to keep in mind…I warned you in the title), you’ll understand that living where I am, I tend to see the global Jewish community in a less positive light than I used to. I’ve had all sorts of shades of grey mixed into my thinking these past 18 months. But then I read this and followed the link to here.

Now, that’s what I’m talking about! That’s the Jewish community I identify with and love and miss being a part of. I mean, you gotta love it. Crazy Baptist church led by homophobic anti-Semite Fred Phelps comes to picket against you…what do you do? You get people to donate money for each minute of time the protesters are protesting outside of your synogogue. It is one the most brilliant passive aggressive tactics in the history of anything! Really, if there is a way to make a bigot eat more crow than this, you’ll be hard pressed to find it:

“Once the total amount has been raised, we will be sending an acknowledgement letter to the church to let them know that their appearance helped to raise money to support LGBT causes…We are delighted that Fred Phelps will help raise money to strengthen the work we do to create a progressive religious voice”
–Congregation Beth Simchat Torah

…post cute gratuitous pictures of children who are not yours. (hover over for caption-y fun)

Noor, CB’s younger niece (officially mine too in 11 months)

I love the little dress, but just pointing out…have you ever seen a grey dress for a baby this young? Only in Belgium, people.

Rune, CB’s older niece (officially…11 months….blahblah)

From what I’m told she looks a lot like CB when he was a baby…awwww

thanks to Cabanamom for sending the pictures!

I don’t talk about my brother much, but CB and I were listening to some music today and it inspired me to tell you a little story about Scooter.

Now, my brother and I both enjoy music, but our tastes vary in some extreme ways.  When we were younger I was the major music enthusiast and I often forced him to listen to CDs when he had no interest. For a while we shared the same favorite CDs* but as younger siblings usually do, he eventually branched out and refined his tastes separately from mine.

Scooter and I both attended Indiana University of Pennsylvania and his freshman year was my 4th year. At the time he was a voice major and was training in opera singing while I was an aimless psychology-turned-english literature major. I was dating a guy four years my senior who was crazy about music, but not any of the music I was into (which was mostly neo-grunge, hard rock and some folk spattered with occasional musicals like Rent) and I was really starting to get into some different genres. I started listening to, amongst others, Phish, Lou Reed, Cowboy Junkies, Jane’s Addiction, Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash.  I had heard of all of these artists before but I never really listened to their music.
My brother on the other hand was really getting into opera, orchestral pieces and musicals. He usually had something like The Planets by Gustav Hulst playing in his car while I had a mix CD with Simon and Garfunkel, the Grateful Dead, the Velvet Underground and Nickelback.

Anyway, this would have been early on in 2003 because I remember Scooter and I often drove home together from Indiana to visit our grandmother who was sick with cancer. So we were headed home in my car, which meant I got to pick the music. I tuned into my favorite radio station (at that point in time I think the CD player in my Pontiac was no longer functioning) and Johnny Cash was singing his latest hit, a cover of NIN’s “Hurt.” I turned up the volume and told Scooter to listen, as this was one of my favorite songs.

After a few lines Scooter made a sour face and snorted, “Ugh, this sucks. Dude sounds like he’s dying.”

I looked back at him for a second and said, “Scooter, this is Johnny Cash!”

“Yeah, so? Still sounds like he’s dying.”

“You dumbass. His wife just died and he’s really sick. He is dying.”

Poor Scooter! I’ve never seen someone look as horrified and guilty as he did just then.
Really, one thing about my little brother, despite the fact that he puts himself across as a blowhard, he really cares about people. He talkes like a hardass but he cares more about people than almost anyone else I know.

So there we were, I was actually trying not to laugh at his faux pas and he just looked at me with this mortified look on his face, opened his mouth…closed it again…and then exclaimed:

“Awww no. I’m such a dick.”

*-This included a huge range of styles. At one point our mutual favorites included Carmina Burana, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and Fuel