Suddenly, Missing Seymour

When the time came to order a stone for my father's grave, my mother, brother, and I struggled to come up with a word to engrave into the top. Everything he meant to each of us, boiled down to a single word. It was a daunting task.

My father, Seymour, had lots of nicknames: Sim, Sy, or, as I liked to think of it, Sigh. But the cemetery -- where my poor selfless father had recently embarked on an eternity in the company of my mother's relatives -- seemed to demand something more formal, more dignified than a nickname. FATHER. MOTHER. SISTER. BROTHER. HUSBAND. On rows of tombstones, so impersonal and so limiting, futile attempts at capturing the essence of a person.

We settled on DADDY. He was a devoted husband, a devoted uncle and cousin, a devoted friend. When he died at the age of 78, he had been a father for only half of his life. But "daddy" was who he was meant to be -- our provider, our caretaker, our protector. When I was little, I feared losing him more than I feared losing anyone. Years later, when he got sick and I had three children of my own whom I loved more than life itself, I couldn't imagine a world without him. When he died, I felt as if I had been cut off at the knees. 

My mother, the widow, had her brand of grief, and she was the one whose daily life would change dramatically. My brother and I grieved for her as much as we grieved for ourselves, and we, at least, took comfort in each other, the two children, similarly situated, similarly stricken. 

It's been nineteen years, and I am long past the days when I would burst into tears, as my ex-husband put it, every time I caught sight of an older Jewish man. I don't even consciously think of him most of the time, but somehow he remains with me, on ordinary days, and especially on days when I need a boost. I can still hear his strong, soothing voice. Whenever I pass the corner of 49th and 2nd in Manhattan, I can still remember the relief I always felt when I spotted his car, during that rough spot when I was in my early twenties and he would endure more rush hour traffic than he should have after a long day just to pick me up after work. I can still remember how everything always seemed a bit more right when he was there. 

Nineteen years, and it occurred to me today that my brother and I each have our own bank of "daddy" memories, some shared, but many not. This morning, my brother shared a favorite story in honor or Father's Day -- something about a seat from the old Yankee stadium and a few cartons of cigarettes and a special journey for a father and a son. I know the stadium relic well, but I never knew the details of how it ended up in my brother's bedroom. My father, my most adored "daddy," had somehow managed to be as unique a figure in somebody else's life as he had always been in my own. 

I am not a good sharer, and I am a little competitive. I console myself with the hope that my brother knows as little of my car rides home from work with our father as I know of their Yankee Stadium seat adventure. He can cherish his own memories, just as I cherish mine, vague snippets that have embedded themselves in my psyche, my heart, my soul. 

At the beginning, I used to dread what I called "Fatherless Day." Today, I celebrate Daddy, who has never left me. Or any of us who loved him. 

We've Come a Long Way, Baby. Sorta.

We are well into the twenty-first century, and misogyny is alive and well in the Capitol. My teenaged self would never have thunk it.

Walking along Avenue J in Brooklyn last week, I half expected to see the bus driver with the tight red curls coming up behind me to make the turn onto Bedford Avenue. Every day, for three years, it was his blue city bus that picked us up on a busy street corner a few blocks from my house to transport us to high school.The blue had seemed shiny and new, back then, compared to the old green ones. The driver seemed so young and kind, back then, though he never smiled — never even seemed to recognize us. It struck me that was his way of being invisible. I wasn't sure of too many things, back then, but I was pretty sure I didn't want to drive a bus when I grew up.

Those were the early days of Title IX. By the time I got to high school, I had just as much right to participate in a varsity sport as my brother did. Elite private universities, which had long felt compelled to admit women, still often relegated them to distinct women's colleges that did not even bear the hallowed name. Together but separate, equal but only to a point. I refused to attend any such school, on principle. My mother always worked (in addition to having her hair and nails done and having doors opened for her by my father and having dinner ready for all of us at six), so I came upon my "one from column A/one from column B" version of feminism honestly. It never occurred to me that there was something I could not do -- or at least attempt to do. I also knew, deep down, it wasn't a bad thing to be treated like a queen.

When I return to Brooklyn, I marvel at how little has changed, at least on the surface. The old ladies sitting outside brick apartment buildings on folding chairs on their concrete beach. Housewives wheeling metal grocery carts down rutted sidewalks. The mixed aromas of ethnic foods. Horns blaring, double parked cars holding their ground. On a Friday, as it was this time, Orthodox Jews scurrying about, the storm before the calm of Shabbat.

It remains a land of mom and pop stores with dusty wooden floors and narrow aisles and shelves packed with apartment-sized miniature versions of things. Not a Starbucks or a Crate and Barrel or a gourmet grocery chain in sight. Window displays are functional, not pretty. Still, if you’ve ever tasted a kugel, the haphazard rows of bulky trays makes you salivate. The city buses are still cumbersome and noisy, and still blue.

I walk by my old high school, a venerable place, across the street from Brooklyn College, another venerable place (although I would never have actually enrolled there; that was beneath those of us with grander dreams). The college campus captivates me now. It is green, it is open, it is pretty, just like any campus. A moving mosaic of ethnicity criss-crosses the paths cutting through the manicured lawn. It strikes me as a haven of opportunity. Why had I never noticed that before? Maybe the bus driver with the red curly hair would have given anything to go there. I see young women and young men, all convinced they are destined for greatness. Indeed, some are.

So many years later, we take all our equality and, more importantly, our dignity for granted. Yet, so many years later, if you are a woman in the Senate and you challenge one of the old white guys, you are reprimanded. You are reminded that you are primarily there to be seen but not heard. With so much left to fight for, we appear to be backsliding. So many years later, a bumpy ride on the big blue bus.

Excess Baggage

I'm glad United Airlines has been working hard to rectify its image issues. I can once again approach my gate confident I won't be forcibly dragged out of my seat -- not only because of the bad optics but because nobody of any consequence would be willing to sit in the middle seat in Row 26.

It's the latest idea in airport indignity -- if you search on line for the cheapest ticket, you had better read the fine print. The print is so fine, in fact, that United takes it upon itself to cover its aft section and send you several emails after your purchase is completed, "reminding" you, in case you missed it, that you must pretty much board without carrying anything more than a change of underwear and a lipstick.

I fear we are only a year or two away from seats on the wing unless you pay a surcharge. I decided this made no sense (what does, these days?) and I also decided that a purse and a tiny bag that, together, would fit under the seat in front of me, would be acceptable, since I wouldn't presumably complying with the spirit of the new rule, not taking up valuable overhead bin space. I'm a short Jewish woman; diminished leg room is a small price to pay.

Apparently, though, this has nothing to do with spirit; it's about zero tolerance (and, I suspect, a bit of humiliation for the basic economy folks now relegated to the airborne equivalent of steerage, forced to sport a scarlet "Group 5." The moment I clicked on the "no bags to check" option on my laptop, I got the message in red (albeit tiny) print. I  would have to actually interact with a United ticket agent if I thought I was going to sneak through with some extra stuff. Seriously. The self service ticket dispensing machine at the airport was equally vigilant. I, along with several fellow passengers, awaited assistance from the one agent unlucky enough to be spending the day responding to bright yellow alerts on the self service screens.

Damn it. He was well trained. He knew immediately the pale green straps from my backpack were not decorative edging on my white sleeveless blouse. You'll have to check one of those bags, he told me, unable to deny that the two of them would easily fit under the seat in front of me, with extra room for a small child. He reminded me of the seventeen post -purchase emails I received informing me of the new indignity I mean rule. Shame, shame.

I assured him I could combine them -- knowing full well I couldn't -- but he let it slide. He warned me about how serious they would be about all this at the gate. I took my chances. The guy at the gate barely glanced at my ticket, much less my bizarre attempt to fit a large square purse in a small round tote.

Crazy world.

Pittsburgh? Paris? Please!!

  

Back when I was trusting and naive....

Well, back when I was even more trusting and naive, I fell for the old "jostle and lift" routine on a crowded subway more than I care to admit. Polite and woefully not suspicious, I would apologize profusely for being bumped while the bumper's pal stole my wallet.

It hasn't happened in quite a while --not because I've gotten any wiser, but because I spend a lot less time on subways and, anyway, I usually just leave my purse somewhere safe, like in plain view on the front seat of my car.

If America circa 2017 is any indication, I'm not the only one who falls for the jostle and lift on a regular basis. Every day we get jostled; every day we remain polite; every day our most prized possessions are lifted. While we sleepily follow the rules, a motley team of shameless con artists has taken a sledgehammer to all that we hold dear. All that we have, for so long, taken for granted, like the stuff in my wallets. With much higher stakes.

Jared. A pampered and entitled rich boy, crooked by birth and by marriage. Michael Flynn. A has- been military guy who somehow went awry. 45. Our narcissistic ego-maniacal greedy and moronic president. The perfect foils for the forces of true evil, the ones who really want to throw us into chaos. Hey look over there. We look over there, while the sleeping giant is being slain.

Every day, we watch the previous day's news pale in comparison to the latest ridiculousness, while we hope to elect somebody new in four years -- FOUR YEARS. While we seriously debate whether our president can invoke executive privilege for criminal conversations he has freely discussed. While we feel embarrassed by our President's behavior toward our allies, while our allies band together so they can avoid falling prey, the way we did. While we wonder who the heck would fall for the Paris versus Pittsburgh bullshit, or the indignant screaming about wasting our tax dollars while we pay for his wife to stay in her gilded Manhattan penthouse.

I'm all for playing by the rules, if I only understood what they are.

Touching the Sun

It was better than coffee, that infusion of vitamin D I got this morning when I turned on the news and saw the story about NASA's plans to visit the sun. A cool story, particularly welcome in the midst of the steady onslaught of "breaking news" of new revelations about our apprentice-president, tidbits that shock for a nano-second before we shake our heads and file them away with so much other crap we can barely remember.

Touching the sun, in a contraption that could fly me from here to Tokyo in a minute -- an appealing side note to a mom who would certainly relish the opportunity to deliver a quick hug to a son who lives far away. Still cool, though, even if I never get to hitch a ride.

The other day, I watched a show celebrating what would have been President Kennedy's 100th birthday. I was mesmerized -- by photographs that evoked such youthful optimism, the speeches that inspired, the grandness of purpose. The fairytale of Camelot, overblown but not altogether ridiculous. I watched the posthumous fulfillment of his dream, a man -- an American man -- walking on the moon. America first, in a good way. Winning, in a good way.

I had just turned four when Kennedy was killed, and to this day I'm not sure whether I remember watching the funeral or whether the indelible images of his children, so close in age to me, have tricked me over the years into retrieving a memory that could not possibly belong to me. Either way, I often wonder how different history might look had he been allowed to finish out his term, blunders and all.

He was a product of his time, I suppose, just as 45 is a product of ours. Telegenic, charismatic, articulate, Kennedy took full advantage of the magic of television. No doubt, in the 21st century, he would have availed himself of the tweet.

Ask not what your country can do for you....  

If we cannot end now our differences, at least we can help make the world safe for diversity. 

Let us not seek the Republican answer or the Democratic answer, but the right answer. Let us not seek to fix the blame for the past. Let us accept our own responsibility for the future.

Lock her up.

Fake news.

Covfefe. 

There's always a learning curve with a new job, but seriously? We can land a man on the moon, get to Tokyo in a minute, touch the sun, but we can't recruit somebody with a bit of dignity, grace, and experience to take the reins of the free world?

Camelot may have been an illusion, and this may be a nightmare, but hope springs eternal.

Slicing Life

I watched a friend react to bad news yesterday.

It was a few moments after the actual moment, so what I saw, really, was not the reaction, but the beginning of the "after." It was imperceptible, the sign that life had suddenly changed in some significant way for someone in our midst, except maybe he seemed a tiny bit less enthralled with the pizza we had all been sharing. No matter; more for the rest of us.

I have to leave, he said. I was confused. I thought he had loved the pizza. I could swear he just ordered another one -- same toppings, same doneness. He must be joking. I pinched another section of charred cheese and sausage between my thumb and forefinger and shoveled it in. Most people eat pizza from the tip to the crust. I eat mine from top to bottom. Topping to bottom. I can't really think of anything that would make me stop, right in the middle.

I just got some horrible news, he said. His face was a mask of nothingness, his tone deadpan. Suddenly, the pizza, with the perfect toppings and the perfect doneness, seemed unappealing.

We all have our "befores" and "afters" -- the moments in our lives when a shock carves an indelible crack deep within our psyche, a permanent reminder of the moment when one thing changed everything. The bigger the shock, the deeper the gash, the nastier the scar.

It was a cousin. An adult cousin. A victim of a senseless car crash on a beautiful Thursday in May, at a time in his life when everything seemed right with the world. A single moment, and then the "after." I had met him once, briefly. He had given me a Dr. Brown's diet black cherry soda, my favorite. That's all I remember about him, really. Other than he played the drums, and he and his wife seemed very happy.

I have experienced my own devastating moments, shocking instants that have cut so deep that nothing has ever seemed quite the same. Mercifully, they happen with a relative infrequency, at least relative to garden variety tidbits of sad news. But it's the kind of thing we all dread, that text or that phone call that lets us know life has done a one-eighty. An inexplicable and unimaginable seismic shift.

This morning there is a lot of leftover pizza, perfect toppings, perfectly done. And there is that reminder, even for those of us whose lives remain largely unaffected by this particular tragedy, how important it is to savor every bite.

Feng Shui, Mom Style

I could swear the doors used to be blue. The apartment doors in the building where I grew up were, indeed, blue, many years ago. They've been beige for a long time, but it's still jarring.

It's been a while since I spent any time in the apartment of my childhood, where my mother still lives. Little has changed -- my mother likes it that way, insists upon it actually. Like the strands in her fluffy helmet of white hair, everything has its place, in that pushed-against-the-wall-lined-up-like-soldiers kind of way.

I am here only for a few days, helping out while she recovers from an ill-timed broken hip. My mom and I, and Effie, from the home nursing service -- we tap dance around each other, trying to figure out our roles. The three of us emerged from our bedrooms at the same time this morning, on an awkward collision course in an apartment where a family of four once coexisted comfortably. It has long been a home for just one.

My mom, fiercely independent, hates this. She has summoned me already this morning to reiterate her position -- that this home nurse thing, no matter how lovely Effie is, will be ending soon. Theoretically, mom is makes a good point. With her walker, she navigates her way through the narrow hallways of the 1950's era apartment like a champ. Without assistance, she gets dressed, showers, does everything, really, that a person needs to do to get by. She doesn't need any help, she says.

Why, then, do I feel as if I have been doing squats, the way I used to do them in the gym when I cared enough to have a personal trainer, dipping down just far enough to brush against a teasing seat before being called upon to lift up again. One more thing, she calls out, to either me or Effie. We take turns.

She doesn't need help, she says, and I suppose that's true, if we're talking about needing help in the usual way. But my mom -- who does very little in anybody else's definition of "the usual way" --  needs everything to be in its place. In that pushed-against-the-wall-lined-up-like-soldiers kind of way. Bring me this, she says, reciting the exact location of whatever small item she needs with GPS like precision. Minutes later, "this" needs to be put away, in the same exact spot. She will check, if not today, as soon as she is able, and she will straighten and tidy up the invisible misalignments. Each item must be whisked away as soon as it is no longer useful; efficiency be damned -- it's all about order.

When I find myself getting frustrated, I remind myself of my mother's independence. I have been spared the kind of daily running around others my age do, and not only because I live a plane ride away. My friends keep checking in. How's mom? I text back: Bat shit crazy. And, oh yes, her hip is healing nicely. 

Everything is still, I suppose, as it should be. When I say "bat shit crazy," I don't necessarily mean it in a bad way. It's a good thing, actually, in a pushed-against-the-wall-lined-up-like-soldiers kind of way.