My Israel Autobiography in Photos

A Retrospective

The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.

1950-'52: Pre-history - My Parents' Experiences of Israel, Before They Met 

  1960s-'70s - Shohar Posters Designed and Manufactured by Moshav Beit Herut
 

1973: a letter from my second cousin Nitza, who lived in Beit Herut, including pressed flowers

 1973: Coca-cola with Lemon and Soldiers on Rooftops; 2002; 2012

My mom (z"l) took this photo. Her dear friend Chaya Zuckerman-Bareli (right), and me at eight (left), are in Jerusalem.

 

1976: Mom (z"l) and Dad (z"l) and Me in Israel and UK; 2015: Bina and D'vori's Baby Noam

1980: Coming of Age; 2015: Middle Age

 

 

1985-'86: Ambivalently Flirting with My Future; 2014 Reunion

2002: Mom (z"l) and Me and Hebrew University

2012: Introducing My Wife to This History-laden Place

2015: Closure and New Beginnings

Emotion Parade During Our Trip to Israel

The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.

Ultimately, Relief Is the Grand Marshal

This dusty dirt road belies the rows and rows of spry, young avocado trees behind the hoary trees on the left, but doesn't surprise me with the village's cemetery just around the bend. My father's parents, his sister and her husband are buried there (z"l). In reliving the trip here, I'm not sure how orderly I can make the emotion parade, or how much I should try to do so. Here, I'm posting photos and writing about a place of which I have been conscious for more than 40 years, first through Sabta (my grandmother) and Aunt Tovah -- the generations of our family that moved there in 1948 and '47 respectively.

Until reading the name beneath my grandfather's on his side of the gravestone, I do not know or recall that my grandfather was the son of Chaim Mordechai haLevi, and had chosen to name his eldest son (my dad of blessed memory) after his deceased dad (z"l). One grave sits in a moshav in Israel and the other on the outskirts of Stamford, Connecticut. If my dad had stayed in Israel after serving in WWII in the U.S. Navy, rather than leaving and moving to the Village in New York City, I wouldn't be here to blog about standing in awe at the continuity.

This visit with my family, both dead and alive, doesn't happen till our last day in Israel and I am anticipating it the entire time. Instead of being anticlimactic or even somehow disappointing -- which a number of highly-anticipated events are in my experience -- it is marvelous. Relatively, my first cousins Edna and Meishe are two of seven first cousins with whom I'm the closest; siblings Sarit -- aka Sari -- and Yanai are the others with whom I'm closest. Meishe and Edna have worse luck than the rest of us in that their parents Tovah and Lulu both were buried already, and Uncle Lulu died when they were young, in 1967, just weeks after our grandfather died; Saba died of Leukemia and Uncle Lulu of a freakish bathtub fall if I remember correctly -- 50 years, so far, of Edna and Meishe, leaving stones on Uncle Lulu's grave, and Uncle Lulu never got to see his gorgeous, talented grandchildren, Dvori, Lilach, Anat, Eli and Omri. And Meishe's now a grandfather himself, twice already, of Ori and Hilla. What if Aunt Tovah were still living? She would have gotten to know two delightful great-grandchildren so far. What if my father were still alive? He would have gotten to know four beautiful, stellar grandchildren. What if Uncle Vevy (Zev), the father of Yanai and Sari, were still living? He would have gotten to know all four of his precious, brilliant grandchildren, rather than only Yanai's kids.

So much envy to trudge through: I envy Sari and Yanai for getting to have both of their parents for much longer than I did, and perhaps Edna and Meishe envy Sari and Yanai, too, as well as how my dad lasted a few more years than theirs, till 56, and how my mom, so far, has lasted 20 years longer than theirs. Or maybe I'm the only one who thinks this way. And how does it serve me? In this case, I think, envy is just another type of mourning. This family in Israel is a thick link to my father, who I miss practically continuously, no matter that this November, he'll already have been gone corporeally for 30 years. The ache doesn't lessen. The couple of random memories that Edna and I share about him in the car from Tel Aviv to Beit Herut are incalculably dear to me, including how he used to read her stories in Hebrew and then when he was done, asked her what they were about. "The difference was that your father could read, but couldn't speak, and Uncle Vevy could speak, but couldn't read as well." We leave the cemetery, which had been Meishe's and Edna's profound idea to visit. The white slabs of my lost relatives serve as a peaceful, sad contrast to all of the hopeful colors to come during the rest of my visit.

My one priority other than seeing all of my available relatives is first to stop at the community pool, where I had spent significant times at 15, during the Summer of '80, when I lived with my second cousins, Gila, Shmuel (z"l), Moti, Ron and Nitza. It is a bit out of the way and it is definitely a youngest-child-syndrome moment, where just like my older sisters Deb and Kayla had done for me my whole early life, and perhaps they think they do still, Meishe and Edna are proxies and indulge me. This is the only time Pat intervenes and says, "Sarah, the rest of your relatives are waiting to see you." In response, I feel less guilty than determined to peek at the pool.

Probably, I could pause here to wonder what else Pat was thinking of all of this -- a dimension of my history to which she hasn't had direct access prior -- but the reality is that I am fully self-absorbed and unconsciously taking for granted that Pat can be self-sufficient during the visit, beyond my making initial introductions, where I consciously refer to her as my wife; I follow our dear friends David & Gerard's advice to use the term "wife" as often as possible to make up for all of the years that we couldn't. My cousins prove to be completely, naturally, genuinely welcoming to us. Their warmth makes me feel proudly beloved.

My dad of blessed memory always talked about the *Pirkei Avot*/*Ethics of the Fathers* statement, "K'neh l'chah chaver," which was the concept that friendship is so precious, we should be willing to pay for it. With that in mind -- not knowing how warmly we'd be received -- I bring gifts for family of all ages. Though I am not satisfied that they are amazing enough -- bunches of IBM logo'ed items...a cup, toddler T-shirts, mini golf umbrellas and rebus notebooks, plus a couple of Mickey Mouse paint-sets from my mother, a child's puzzle from the Jewish Museum in New York, and a Beijing Olympics key-ring for Dvori, since I remember that she is a champion swimmer and instructor -- I hand them out quickly upon our arrival, which helps me channel my nervous excitement at being met by known and new faces.

Of course, I need to bring gifts because they always give us gifts, even when we are visiting them in their home-country. Maybe they are similarly familiar with the *Pirkei Avot* saying, or maybe they're just generous. They give Pat & me each some special Dead Sea revitalizing products as well as a fantastic 2012-2013 Israeli art calendar. The thing is, in choosing gifts for them, I can't think of anything American that they don't already have access to, and the IBM-logo'ed products, at least, are not generally, publicly available, and they really are a reflection of how I've spent nearly the past two decades in the States and and India. In fact, my IBM service counts for 22 years this month. We also wish we could have brought them bottles of the New Jersey State Fair-winning Iris honey from the Presby Memorial Iris Gardens, where Pat serves as Treasurer of the Board, here in Montclair, but we figure that it could be a Security challenge, or else disastrous if the bottles break in our luggage.

Also, I'm hoping that some of my memories are bonus gifts for them; theirs are to me, certainly. I've got an aerogramme from Aunt Tovah, dated November, 1980, that refers to Anat's precociousness as a toddler. And as I'm sitting here, reflecting now, I'm recalling how when Dvori was an infant and I was 11, I blew at her eyes to watch her long eyelashes wave at the wind and no one stopped me. Probably, no one other than Dvori saw me do it. She was smiling, or at least, not crying during my experiment, so I don't think I did any lasting harm.

And I've got a nice photo of my oldest cousin Gila with her husband, Shmuel and her parents, if I remember correctly, and me at 15, which I show to Gila and which she asks Meishe to photocopy. Of course, this being 2012, he has a photocopier in his home. And Gila's daughter Nitza recalls two memories that I had forgotten: She took me to school with her during my first or second visit, when I was eight or 11, and she remembers that I ran the 60 meter dash really fast. (It was not a trend.) Nitza also remembers how exciting it was to receive a package from me, from the United States: "You sent those [molded rubber] Sesame Street finger-puppets, and to this day, I can't throw them away. I still have them." (My dad (z"l), who was a game and toy designer, had brought them home -- enough to share some, so I did.)

When Nitza and her mom Gila, along with Nitza's darling young son, enter Meishe and Bina's living room, I spring up and hug them. I also introduce Pat, but want to sit closer to them to be able to talk and leave Pat on the couch. By now, everyone is talking with her and she is enjoying the conversation and a sort of melon that she says later tasted like a more delicious version of cantaloupe, but which isn't the same color.

Pat looks perfectly comfortable, and I take the golden opportunity to sit down especially next to Gila, who is just a few years younger than my mom and she kindly lets me speak halting Hebrew with her, rather than English, even though she understands English perfectly. It is so cool! Gila, Nitza, Edna and Bina all are sitting near me at the same time and we have a history! At this moment, I don't need the Dead Sea serum; I am 30 years younger, just reminiscing with them. And being around typically remote people who still remembered my dear father (z"l) brings him back to life for me for a bit, even if just for the length of our visit.

The time with my Israeli family is too brief, as we are meeting my mom's 90ish-year-old friend for lunch Chaya back in Tel Aviv, but it leaves Pat and me wanting more, and I hope our Beit Herut-based family feels the same way. Gila (second from the left in this last photo) says to me emphatically, "I'm all alone in that big house, so next time you and Pat come to Israel, you must stay with me." We'd love to and hope to. What a rich visit, with 22 of my emotions on parade, some internally and some externally: awe, anticipation, surprise, nostalgia, envy, mourning, ache, appreciation, amusement, peace, sadness, hope, courage, warmth, pride, love, vulnerability, nervousness, excitement, wonderment, and renewal -- with relief leading the way...relief that I could pick up with my family where we left off, that the family, including Pat, warmly received one another, relief that I could communicate in Hebrew, even if at a pre-Kindergarten level, and relief at the ease we felt, being with all of them.

In a State of Anticipation

The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.

Anticipation and Agitation

Ever since graduating, I have been reading whatever I want, including Billy Collins' poetry, the rest of *Carry the One* by Carol Anshaw, the science fiction issue of "The New Yorker" even though I'm not historically a big sci-fi fan, and now, a few Dara Horn novels from the library at my sister Deb's recommendation. Otherwise, though, I'm agitated by the bonus time I have. Just writing about it decreases the agitation a bit, though, so I'll keep going.

It's like I'm uncomfortable with sitting still till I figure out how to spend the time. An IBM mentor said, "You could spend more time with Pat, you could become a volunteer...." Another friend to whom I bemoaned my less-than-routine exercise regimen over the past several months said, "Now, you'll have more time for exercise."

I have been trying to spend more time with Pat, though I'm finding that I keep feeling compelled to do more in the work realm to fill the gap, like last night: We were going to eat out and I was doing LGBT Community stuff for IBM past 6 pm on a Friday. And I didn't even realize Pat was waiting for us to head to dinner.

As far as volunteering, do I work with LGBT youth? Do I do something with animals? Do I become a docent?

Certainly, I have more time to blog now. Do I start vlogging (video-blogging)? This might be among my more tedious posts, but it's actually helping me to splay my anxieties here. If I have time back, I need to be using it well. What if I just get swept up into the mindless part of Facebook? What if I use social media as a tranquilizer, rather than as a way to feel more connected to humanity? What if I just become average again? When I was in school, I was special because I was heroic -- working full-time while studying part-time. How virtuous. Now, I'm just another person, going to and coming from work.

I want to be special always. I want not to pressure myself so much. Why can't I just relax? The classic observation that therapists and all of my close friends have made is: "You're very hard on yourself." I want to be more at peace. After all, I'm far from how I was in my early-20s: daydreaming with a spoon of ice cream in my hand, then mouth, then hand, then mouth, telling myself, Any day, I'm going to start writing. And it'll be published and loved by millions, and I'll be famous. A childhood friend remarked recently that she just assumed she'd be famous and it hasn't happened yet. Me neither. Still, since my 30s, I have written and then blogged routinely, have had a creative job, and since my mid-20s, no longer numbed myself with sugar, so that's huge. Who am I trying to convince? Myself.

More to Anticipate Anxiously

The other thing that's happening is I'm feeling agitated about Pat's and my upcoming trip to Israel, which Pat is giving me as a graduation present. I want so badly for her to love it like I do. I find Israel to be an addictive place. I need to go back there at least every decade, now that I can afford to. This is Pat's first trip and I wish I could wipe away her worries about terrorism. She's coming with me to Israel with the same attitude I had about going with her to Alaska: I knew she wanted to go, so I went. Last night, Pat said, "But you liked the glaciers and the whales." She realized that those were the high-points for me. I also liked swimming in a community pool in Juneau and reading on the ship. And the ship's naturalist, who looked and sounded vaguely like Alfred Hitchcock and who gave great lectures.

I keep saying, I think you'll be pleasantly surprised, and I hope she is. In addition to wanting to control Pat's reaction to a whole country, I'm feeling anxious about seeing family while we're there. Pat & I have been together for just about 20 years and yet these relatives, other than my first cousin Maishe, who's been here for a Bar Mitzvah, have never met her.

Israel can be fraught with danger for me, too, though different from the danger that worries Pat -- the danger of flashbacks to my early, tortured romantic reaches, all of which were ultimately thwarted there: a lovely Israeli girl at 15; at 20: a Costa-Rican guy on his way to Jewish conversion; a Jewish-American guy, who also went to the University of Michigan; a Jewish-Australian guy with Israeli parents; a French woman, who was also deeply closeted then, and who was also on her way to Jewish conversion; a tall, handsome Orthodox-Jewish-American guy for whom I wore a modest skirt on our one date; two Jewish-American women I met through my program, a couple of months apart; and a wonderful Israeli childhood friend who became a gorgeous, rugged-looking, gracious-acting man -- the ultimate clue that I could not be attracted to men sufficiently to make a life with one.

If I catalog all of this Israel-based romantic fumbling, maybe I'll feel less haunted by it. Instead of feeling celebratory about this trip, I'm feeling overwhelmed at the prospect of being in Israel for the first time with someone who loves me back and with whom I've been in a healthy, 20-year relationship. In all of those cases of misbegotten cupidity, the people loved Israel, but didn't love me. Finally, I'm with someone who loves me, but who does not necessarily love Israel. It's not that she dislikes Israel, it's just that she isn't drawn to it -- kind of like how the objects of my affection in Israel ultimately felt about me. I have to go meet some friends shortly, by 9:30, so I wonder if I will want to write more later, or if I've already said more than enough....

Loss-Rain-Sunshine-Gain

The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.

Pluses and Minuses Since Friday

• Loss: No more bonus stimulation of part-time graduate school.
• Gain: Columbia-blue regalia ownership, and opportunity to don the ensemble for graduation on 15-16 May.
• Loss: Friend Riva being in metro-New York for just a few days.
• Gain: Friend Riva teaching me about pouncing as we toured Dürer and Beyond at the Met.
• Loss: Pat leaving for her annual golf trip in Tennessee.
• Gain: Renewal of my appreciation for Pat while missing her presence.
• Loss: Finishing my colleague Alysa Turkowitz's dissertation on how LGBT grad students navigate the classroom; I wanted it to continue, like a good movie or book.
• Gain: Honor at having been among the interviewees included in Alysa's dissertation.
• Loss: Sunday relaxation.
• Gain: The opportunity to prepare for a hugely important meeting at work.
• Loss: Lap-time with our feline daughter Phoebe during a two-day, off-site workshop in New York City.
• Gain: Two-day workshop on how to help a key population with its learning needs.
• Loss: My cousin Joe Silverman (z"l), to Parkinson's, Pneumonia and a stroke, just a couple of nights ago.
• Gain: Memories of Joe's and Joy, his wife's, kindness to my family after the death of my dad (z"l) in 1982.
• Loss: Maurice Sendak (z"l), an icon from my childhood, who drew the most appealing stories he could imagine.
• Gain: Learning that Maurice Sendak was gay and had a 50-year companion via this obituary
• Loss: Rain on and off since Friday.
• Gain: A front-garden full of pale- and dark-purple irises.

Family, Mortality, Life...

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

And Other Light Topics for a California Morning

"What's with your family?" asked my cousin -- let's call him Mark -- at dinner last night at a Turkish restaurant in the Tenderloin neighborhood of San Francisco.

"My uncle died and we're here on Sunday instead of at the funeral; my dad was estranged from his brother, so we'll just go to the shivah to see his kids when we get back, but we wanted to be here and see you and not cancel this trip," I had just finished saying.

And just prior to that, we had been talking about how my mother and her sister had been estranged until the very end of their lives, too. My mother and my aunt both spent time separately with his mother of blessed memory, but never together.

"Ruthie [my aunt's name] was great --" Mark began.

I really didn't want to hear this; I was jealous that Mark knew my aunt and I didn't. "Was she funny?" I asked competitively, since my mom can be hilarious.

"She was...eccentric --"

Good. Not funny, though.

"I remember being at a wedding of cousins in Ohio [I guess we weren't invited to whatever the wedding] and Mike [her husband] and she were doing yoga on the balcony of their hotel-room. Everyone thought that was just...."

So I'm here the next morning, overlooking Union Square from our 18th-floor hotel-room and can't start the day in earnest before trying to figure out how I'm feeling:

Mark's and my childhood is so gone. Mark is half a year younger than I and his mother was the social-glue that kept our families together, and she's been gone from cancer for several years now.

My mom still calls Mark now and then, and Mark loves her, but when we were kids through college, our families would get together for holidays at their home in northern-New Jersey and spend full days together. Mark and I always were the tall ones among our siblings, and the gay or lesbian ones...though that was not revealed till we were 21; our height was always visible, and probably our sexual orientation, too, but....

"Your mother called my mother when you came out, for advice," Mark mentioned last night, and I'm trying to picture the two of them, puzzling it out. Pat recalled last night that when Mark's mom met Pat, she said simply, "Welcome to the family."

Pat and I loved her. His mom was a sexy version of my mother -- fun and funny and very kind. And he's like her.

Mark lost his leg, from the knee through his foot, to cancer a couple of years ago. And he's HIV+. And still tall and charming and fun and funny. He walks with a cane, but otherwise, he's the same tall cousin I've always enjoyed walking down the street with. I feel especially formidable when we're together.

When will he die? When will my mother die? When will Pat die? When will I die? My uncle's death accentuates my mother's longevity and adds a desperate edge to it for me, meaning, makes me feel more anxious about how much longer we've got together. Any of us, and especially my mom and me....

If the view out my window, of sunny, home-filled mountains in the distance, and Louis Vuitton windows decked out in Pride colors in the foreground isn't God's reminder to live in the present, I don't know what is.

Time for breakfast and more pride.

Organic and Conventional Family

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

Which is Better for Me?

Fur is flying and inhuman sounds of satisfaction are reverberating from her throat. She wipes her pink nose along my forearm and then my little striped, pointy-eared daughter beds down in my lap for a nap.

Every night, I tuck Phoebe in; she sleeps on our bed in the guest-room while Toonces prefers to join us in our room. I kiss Phoebe's little head and put a piece of my clothing over her body, up to her little neck so that she's even happier with her spot between the two pillows, resting on a sweater I've turned into a cat-comforter.

Pat and Toonces and Phoebe and I are a happy family.

Is Any Family Conventional?

Facebook has raised my consciousness about my genetic, extended family because a bunch of them have profiles. Last night, as a way to wind down from the week, I logged on to Facebook while we were watching a tense movie, "Nothing But the Truth," and saw a note from my first cousin. Her father, she was told by the hospice, did not have long to live, and she had also given birth recently to a boy, who she said resembles her dad.

Growing up, I barely knew my father's brother, my aunt and first cousins. The daughter and I became friends as adults. To me, he was more myth than man -- a hero who had been on the Exodus, who hadn't disembarked when the British made all English-speakers leave; fluent in Yiddish, he feigned no fluency in English and cast his fate with his shipmates'. Probably, it was the most heroic thing he did in his life; how do you top that? Now, I guess, he's dying.

My uncle's decline brings to mind my dad of blessed memory. Really babyish thoughts are swirling, e.g., why did he get 27 more years of life than my dad? And their older sister lived for seven years longer than my dad. I do also feel sad for my cousins. There's nothing like losing a parent. But then, at least he got to see grandchildren, which my dad never did.

Where and when will the funeral be?

My other first cousin, his son -- the older of the two -- came with his father to my father's funeral and shivah. My cousin and I sat on the back-porch, where he told me about his love of *The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy* and about how he had a fascination, for real, with space and the moon, and was part of an associated club; I hadn't seen him since we were young enough to take a bath together....There's a photo of the two of us in a tub when we were really little, and I had no memories of him after that.

This intrusion by my first cousin's news into my work- and school-aholism is distracting. It also reminds me of the family reunion coming up on my mother's side later this summer.

The Other Side

Similarly, I hardly knew any of my relatives on my mom's side growing up, other than my nana, who died when I was eight. While showering this morning, I was thinking, for the reunion, what memories could I share? Random ones occurred:

When my grandmother died, my mom flew to Rochester and my dad drove my two older sisters and me there, which was an eight-hour car ride; we had taken it many times in order to visit my nana while she was alive. Everyone's biggest recollection was how, single-handedly, I ate almost a whole box of Sunsweet prunes, and then how trapped they felt with me for the rest of the ride....

Another memory: We were pulling out of the parking lot of the Jewish Home for the Aged, where my grandmother lived, and at only seven or eight years old, I said, "Look, two dogs f***ing!" I guess they were on the lawn of a neighboring home; I remember my parents' shocked laughter. That was the start, probably, of my always being funniest when I least meant to be.

Another memory: At that old-folks home, a white-haired man always stood in the hallway ranting with an unearthly, mechanical voice; he must have lost his voice-box in World War I or II. My mother taught me what shell-shocked meant when I asked her why he was always there saying things that made no sense.

When I was very young, my nana still lived in her Victorian house on Rosedale Street. Once, when we visited her there, she gave me a gift of substantial piece of clear, crystalline quartz that she said was from Florida; it launched my life-long love of rocks and minerals. That and my mother were my nana's biggest contributions to my life.

What did my uncle give me? Pride in his heroism and two nice kids to know somewhat as adults. I'm praying for his comfort, and for his kids' strength.

What do our cats give me? Parenting skills, bursting feelings of love sometimes when I look at them and sleep-deprivation, as they insist on being fed daily at 6 am, and the marching across our bodies, by Toonces, usually begins at 5:30 am daily; I'm not complaining!

Family Reunion

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

...Planned for This Summer

My third cousin Michael contacted Pat and me and is organizing a family reunion in upstate-New York this summer for my mom's side of the family. The invitation captures my imagination, as I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen these relatives since I was eight years old. Historically, we have not been a close, extended family.

To my knowledge, there's never before been a reunion of this family. The idea is so retro and so perfect at once. The names listed for the reunion include the maiden surname of my grandmother of blessed memory and of two other ancestors. My mom might be the oldest-living relative invited; she'll be nearly 84 by then.

Pat's not as enthused as I, understandably, as she has zero history with these people, and one of my relatives imagined as much and said to Pat by phone the other day, "The family's rife with gays," as though that would be an incentive.

The invitation reads in part:

"Saturday lunch and dinner, Sunday brunch, beverages, nosherei, volleyball, bocce, boat rides, tubing, water skiing, lounging, schmoozing … and the fun continues after Sunday brunch!"

Could we possibly use the weekend to have some pure, relaxing fun -- a getaway from the routine of everyday living? I hope so....What a neat time to look forward to, even to the possibility of such fun. Fun and relaxation are never pure, where family's involved, though, are they?

That reminds me: I wonder if my cousin Michelle will be there. Michelle was a couple of years older than I and her mother Ada Helen used to ship a box of Michelle's hand-me-downs to me annually, it seemed, till I was in high school. I hated wearing someone else's clothes. Last I heard, Michelle and her family (husband and kids) lived in New Zealand, so I doubt she'll be there, but....