Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

I was warned that my new hometown in the Pacific Northwest is not very Jewish. This was not just in comparison to New York City or Israel or southern Florida, the very Jewish places where I have lived, but in comparison to northern Virginia, where I also lived, which is not very Jewish.

On the first day of school, just weeks after we moved from Israel to Virginia, I introduced myself to the mothers at the bus stop, as my daughters shyly looked at their potential new friends. Upon hearing that we moved from Israel, one woman pointed to another mother and daughters coming towards us and said, “Look, there’s Leslie, she’s Jewish, too!” Which was a welcome, and a warning that things would be different from what I was used to.

Growing up Jewish in Queens in the ‘60s and ‘70s was to feel like any other group; we were in enough numbers to be an integral part of the city, and there were enough bagel places and delis to back that up! Our holidays were school holidays. New York was (is?) a salad bowl, but prepared by someone who doesn’t like their vegetables to touch, yet each of the different veggies were needed to make it delicious.

In Virginia, I understood what it meant to be a minority during the December “Holiday” party in the high school where I taught. There were years that I didn’t go, not wanting to be a Debbie Downer with my sour expression at the Christmas stuff, abundantly aware that this is not my holiday. Other years I went, following up the festivities with an email to the principal protesting the “our Lord was born” song that the school choir sang beautifully. Some years I let the dreidel song appease me. Not that anyone did anything wrong; it was an annual unable-to-ignore acknowledgement of what it feels like to be a minority.

When my daughters were in high school, I had to argue against their fear of missing a day of school and my insistence that honoring our holidays (Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur!) was more important. (Even teachers understand priorities.)

Which all goes to say that it’s not easy being a minority, and that a person who is a minority, but doesn’t necessarily look it, continually perceives how much she is or wants to be separate or integrated into the larger society. At this point in my personal history (where I see myself as a woman who is Jewish, American, and Israeli) and history itself with the rise in antisemitism, I have no intention of hiding my identity or only being it in my home or specific public spaces, like my synagogue or at multi-faith meetings in churches, or my writers’ group where I always talk about the latest Jewish-themed blog post I’m writing.

Since October 7^th, the feeling of being fully accepted and part of this country has been severely damaged. There is no way to watch what Jewish students are facing on their campuses and the excuses that are made for the violators, and not know this. It is heart-wrenching. It motivates me. It is to realize some responsibility for them and their plight, and to want to help them fight what has been wrought by previous generations, including my own.

On a recent Thursday afternoon, I was in the local pharmacy, wearing my new Jewish star (made by an artisan in Israel). The clerk said to me, “Good Shabbos.” I instinctively reached to touch my necklace, my statement, and looked at him and saw his name plate said Jonah. Jewish? I wondered. I said, “Thank you. Shabbat Shalom to you.” At that moment, I realized that, while this is not a very Jewish town, there are enough Jews around to not feel alone. It also made me realize that wearing my necklace was not just to proclaim my Jewish identity and pride, but to show other Jewish people that they are not alone. We are here.

In a grocery store the next day, I saw a man wearing a kippah (yarmulke). “Chag Sameach” (Happy Holiday) I said to him since it was Purim (a Jewish holiday). He looked at me, nodded, and said “Chag Sameach.” Another simple exchange. I am not alone.

Since October 7^th, when I wear either a Jewish star or Chai (חי) necklace, people often say that they like my necklace. To me this is code: I’m Jewish too. Or, I see you, you are not alone in the negative whirlwind that has descended.

But there is also this.

Before I brought my laptop for service last week, I pulled off the Jewish & Proud sticker that I got at the recent BBYO convention. A small part of me feared that an antisemite would be assigned to repair my computer, and, seeing the sticker, would infect it with a virus. I’m not pleased with myself, but I don’t know if I would do anything different going forward. I put it back on my laptop as soon as I got home—and it is here, back on my laptop. This, too, is what it means to be part of the Jewish minority, especially since October 7^th.

Perhaps the take-away point is that we are part of the continuum of Jewish history, not separate from it—there is never separate from it—this is how it has always been, unfortunately. This perspective may help each of us figure out what that means to us, and how we can ensure that our history continues (or help it to continue if you are not Jewish), still hoping, though, for shorter downturns and decreasing in intensity.

Naivete is no longer an option. Neither is ignorance.

What does it mean to be Jewish? This is the question. How has this changed and how will I change going forward?  

“She can’t even get a glass of water by herself,” I told a friend in a zoom conversation. Her usual smile faded. “It’s a lot,” I added. She repeated my statement, nodding in acknowledgement and fear, thinking, perhaps, of the future with her own parents.

It is a lot. It’s a heck of a lot to take care of someone who no longer does ordinary tasks for herself and for whom the future portends doing even less. This is not a helpless child who you teach to be independent. This is my parent who is losing her independence, which means that she will be increasingly dependent on me.

It is a lot, on so many levels. I’m trying for it not to overwhelm me. Although, to be aware, constantly, of another person’s daily needs is an invasion of my own mental space and sanctuary.

It’s not that I object to thinking about other people, or this specific person, or that I think I’m an island, it’s that there’s always this awareness, a shadow person on/in my mind.

But I’m also aware that it could be worse. Which makes me feel like I’m spoiled and lacking.

But I’m also aware that I could be worse. Which makes me feel like I’m caring and accommodating.

Life on a different kind of edge.

As she takes what feels like an eternity to go down the two steps from the house, painstakingly pushing her walker over the threshold, then one sneakered foot over it as if it’s a minefield, then the other, positioning her feet as if they are both dainty and leaden, I try to be empathetic. Breathing in compassion for this woman who strode around Manhattan at a native New Yorker’s brisk pace. I try to see that version of her, not the little old lady who’s afraid of walking because she’s afraid of falling because she’s afraid of breaking a bone because she’s afraid of dying.

I force myself to slow down, remember that I’m in no rush, that letting her work through the motions at her pace is all that matters at this moment. I don’t need to huff and puff with frustration. I can be still, leaning my heart into her motions, finding the better version of myself, the one for whom patience and humility are not just for strangers or contemplation. Life as continual lesson.

Rabbis teach that the challenges we face push us to become the person we need to be. There are no choices in the challenges, just how a person reacts to them. Acknowledging this wisdom helps me accept that there is no alternative life in which I should/could/would be living on a yacht in the Caribbean with, perhaps, a gentleman serving me. This is the life I need to grow within to fully be me at this moment in my life.

What is the challenge that most challenges you right now? How are you accepting it?

Parents Moving to Live Near their Adult Children—It’s a Thing!

I’m on the mother migration trail (on which I’ve noticed quite a few fathers too). There are no covered wagons to hitch, nor stakes to claim then settle for the coming generations. No, this migration trail is forged in the heart of mothers (especially the single ones) who see the empty nest as a diminishment, an unwanted interruption in her motherhood role, and for whom family needs to be held together by more than an occasional holiday visit or weekend phone call. We’re on the move, kids! Watch out!

We’re driven to reach the people who are home: to collapse distance and complicated scheduling. Calls and zooming are no longer sufficient, especially once children’s lives became steady, dependable—imagine that! Migrating to be near the people who will sit around my kitchen table, enjoying my cooking as a comfort and reminiscence—even bringing to-go containers knowing that leftovers for them are a given. People for whom talking about this and that, scheduling a walk tomorrow, and not saved for a visit that involves planes and Airbnb’s, is meaningful in a natural, this-is-everyday-life, way. This is the new promised land.

Once, the next generation would return home, to be near their parents who were moored in place. But not now (or with so many of the people I know), not with family homes sold because of divorce or relocations for better jobs or any job, or retirement to warmer climes. So many of us did not stay put, but, amazingly, our children are starting to settle down. They are not tempted to come to where we ended up; they have no connection to our new places. They are determined to find the perfect balance of work and life style. If we want them to live near us, we need to adopt their hometowns.

My brother, who stayed near the home base and whose children have done so too, seems to be the outlier amongst my friends. They are the people who stayed in the old country while the more adventurous, or desperate, relatives joined those westward trails, seeking new opportunities and different possibilities. This journey is more than about being a mother (or father) living near her children; it’s about being the type of person who pushes herself out of her comfort zone, who doesn’t want to settle with what has been, who still believes that what will be can be different, guided by internal and external discoveries.

Many mothers and fathers (alone or together) are on this unmapped trail. Our guides are love and connections: people-as-place. The compass points are not grounded in the earth, but in our hearts. More on this journey as I make this new place home.

What are some of the places, figurative and literal, that your path brought you to? Who or what did you follow?

I’m branching out! I just started a Substack called Sharing Insights . This will be another home where I plan on sharing insights, as well as providing support, empathy, consolation, and lighthearted moments that show our hearts are made of/for compassion and love.

I plan to continue posting here, generally the same posts because there’s just so much that I can do and think and feel and write.

So please, either continue subscribing here or, if you’ve gotten comfy on Substack, I invite you to subscribe to my newsletter, Sharing Insights, there.  

Thank you thank you thank you for being a reader. Thinking of you helps me write.

The main topics that will continue to write about include: being a woman, a mother, and soon! to be a grandmother, retirement, single living, caregiving, elder care, Judaism, and Israel.