Words of Thanks

03 May 2024 7 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in General Tags: , , ,

I’ve been writing thank you notes all of my life. I blame it on my mother. She made us do it. Even when I was in college she would remind me to send a note to Aunt Shirley and Uncle Bud or Aunt Tee and Uncle Alf for the gift that they sent for Chanukkah or my birthday. 

Just like Gloria, I made my kids do the same. I am my mother’s daughter after all. My children now tease me that I insisted they were not allowed to use their Bat Mitzvah gifts, including gift cards, until they had written a thank you note to the considerate person who bestowed upon them a present to mark the occasion. When it came time to open the presents at their birthday parties (a tradition I generally abhor)  there was a designated person to jot down an itemized list of gift and giver while the birthday girl read the card (you always have to read the card first, we learned that from Aunty Monica) and then ripped open the beautifully wrapped package. Thank you notes were mandatory. 

I still get queries from my twenty-something adult children asking if it is okay to send a text or an email in lieu of a hand written note. I loosened my restrictions once they went away to college and agreed to expressions of appreciation via digital means. I left it up to them. 

I prefer a handwritten note myself and try to send them as often as possible. I have two friends who always send something after we get together. The thoughtfulness is never lost on me. It only takes a few minutes to show appreciation and the effort goes a long way. 

Last week I went to a retirement celebration for a friend and she made a few remarks. She thanked her family and friends for all of the support and collaboration over the years and finished by saying: Todah Rabah, Mahalo Nui Loa, and Thank You. There are so many ways to express gratitude. 

Most people I know don’t do things for others in order to be thanked. I certainly donʻt. But it sure is nice to know when it is appreciated. In Hawaiʻi, even Da Bus expresses thanks. It is so cool. If the bus is merging into your lane and you slow down to let it go in front of you, it usually flashes an electronic expression of appreciation: The Shaka (and sometimes it even adds Mahalo.) How awesome is that? 

People make shaka for many reasons, from greeting friends from afar to just saying howzit in passing. From an early age Hawaiʻi children learn how to form a shaka with their hands. It is automatic to flash one when posing for a picture. And when the bus lights up with the shaka sign, it means thank you for your consideration. I get so excited every time it happens and I am absolutely, way more likely to let the bus go in front of me so that I can get the shaka. It involves the whole hand and not just a finger and I am proud to live in a state that values friendly, positive and gracious interactions between people, and vehicles. Are there other places where public transportation is kind and considerate in this way? 

Recently, a bill passed at the Hawai’i State Legislature to make the shaka the “Official State Gesture.” We are a state that chooses to be gracious and kind.

I was on the road last week and the bus actually let me merge in front of it and I was sorry that I was not able to flash my own mahalo shaka in return for all the bus shakas that I received over the years. The next day I heard about Project Shaka. There is going to be an official Hawaii State DMV Shaka vehicle license plate. I am totally going to get one of those and be a permanent shaka flasher to all who trail behind.

I don’t know if my mother would be on board with making hand signals to express her thanks, but I am certain that she would be pleased that her value of gratitude and appreciation instilled in me at a very young age has been passed to the next generation in my children. I also imagine that she would probably be one to let the bus go first and feel that same tickle of delight when the shaka shines its appreciation from the top right corner of the back of the bus.

Journey to the Secret Annex

05 Nov 2023 10 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in General, Literature, Rites of Passage, Travel Tags: ,


Last Spring my husband was away for a week. He often travels for business and I usually take advantage of the opportunity to binge watch shows and movies that he does not prefer. The dog and I retire to the living room after dinner, snuggle into our respective corners and slip into a romantic comedy or a series that is too heartwarming for his sensibilities. 

This time my show of choice was A Small Light, a National Geographic production that tells the story of Miep Gies, Otto Frank’s secretary, who helped the Frank family when they were in hiding. I think my husband would have liked the show, but I did not wait for his return.  I was mesmerized by this beautiful version of a familiar  narrative told in a very new way. I am a big fan of Liev Schrieber who plays the role of Otto Frank. 

This is the only dramatization of Anne Frank’s story I have seen since the play that my classmates and I produced and performed in Miss Jaskowski’s reading class when I was in the fourth grade at Charles G. Emery School in Buena Park, California– Bellehurst neighborhood to be exact. Miss Jaskowski  was a great teacher, even if she often told me to be quiet and not ask so many questions. I must have been a handful.

For reading, she assigned the book Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl and then directed us to transform it into a play. We wrote a script and performed it. I was the narrator. In my best Gloria Gershun Bat Mitzvah speech voice, I stood at the podium and introduced the story that felt personal to me. Julie Cadish played Anne Frank. That’s about all I remember of the cast. I also remember making the set out of huge pieces of cardboard and creating three separate rooms. 

What I distinctly remember is that it was one of the most profoundly impactful educational experiences I have ever had. The diary of Anne Frank spoke to me. Like countless other Jewish girls who read her diary, I absorbed her words and her experiences as if they had happened to me. 

In retrospect, my love for Miss Jaskowski was not just because I felt seen and heard in her class (perhaps a bit more than she preferred), but because she was an amazing teacher using strategies that were highly innovative for her time. 

I was one of a few Jewish kids that attended this elementary school in Northern Orange County in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s. However, I was oblivious to any anti-semitism that might have characterized the area in that time. Emery School and the streets of Bellehurst were safe places to learn and play. Some of us were Mormon, many were Protestants, and there were also a few Catholics. We moved in and out of each others’ houses and lives, unaware of differences. Even so…when we read The Diary of Anne Frank, I felt deeply validated as a Jewish person in the diaspora and proud of myself in ways that are hard to explain. Miss Jaskowski gave that gift to me. 

I grew up with Knott’s Berry Farm in my backyard and had no knowledge of the John Birch Society until much later in my life. My parents joined Los Coyotes Country Club when they moved to Bellehurst, before I was born. I had no idea that we were the first Jews ever allowed to become members. Living in a neighborhood marked by remarkable tolerance, I remained blissfully naive about any lingering antisemitism. With a visceral awareness of the horrors of the Holocaust, from my naive and childish perspective, I fervently believed that such atrocities could never happen again, as long as we kept their memory alive. Was Miss Jaskowski aware of it? Did she experience any backlash for this choice? To this day, I have no idea.

By the time my husband returned home at the end of the week, I had finished the series and was filled with emotion. I greeted him at the door with a kiss and the mandate that we have to go to Amsterdam so that I can finally visit the Anne Frank House Museum. He readily agreed. I checked our calendars the next day and purchased the plane tickets a few days later. We have canceled so many trips in the last few years that we made a commitment to ourselves to stop second guessing our plans and forge ahead. Forge ahead we did. 

On September 27, 2023 we landed in London. After a few days there, a few more in Paris, several days in Burgundy visiting an old friend, we boarded a Thalys train for Amsterdam Centraal Station where we spent five glorious days exploring and appreciating the Netherlands. 

On Monday, October 9, at 9:30 AM, we entered the Anne Frank House Museum. I was so afraid that we would miss it that I made sure we left the hotel extra early and had plenty of time to walk and/or get lost and still arrive on time. How sad I would be if we screwed up this part of the trip. 

Our visit to The Anne Frank House Museum took on a stronger significance than anticipated. 

On our first day in Amsterdam, October 7, 2023, we woke up to the devastating news of the Hamas attack in Israel. The combination of horrific reports and vacation plans was unsettling as we visited the museums and canals and markets. In between tours and stroopwafels, I checked my phone more obsessively than usual. I watched for news and connected with Jewish friends around the world. Oddly, I didn’t feel so far from home or outside of my community.  It was comforting to be in a place known for tolerance and peace as brutal conflict and hostility raged around us through phone and CNN, the only English speaking station broadcast on the television in our hotel.

As soon as we started the self guided tour I was verklempt (overcome with emotion). In that moment the past became the present and the present became the past. I had carried her story and my experiences with her story inside of me since I was eight years old. Those thoughts and feelings were activated all at once and welled up inside of me, threatening to spill over as soon as I walked in the door.

The visit to the museum was only an hour, but it felt like a lifetime journey of memories, hers and mine. As I walked through the Secret Annex, the book  and fourth grade play and TV mini series all became concrete. I carefully read each and every quote and identification post throughout the space and my tears and fears softly subsided. 

Somehow, with the dim lighting, in the hush of the other visitors, I held my intent to stay fully present and invited it all inside to join me. I managed a state of reverence in this place of her story, The Anne Frank House, that transformed me in Miss Jaskowski’s fourth grade class and once again, now, decades later.

The Story of My Aunt Shirley

06 May 2017 4 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Family, General, Hawaii, Rites of Passage

My Aunt Shirley passed away a few weeks ago. She was my father’s sister. My dad died over 25 years ago. It’s just us now. If you think about the family tree, it’s my cousins and sisters and I that are now the living matriarchs and patriarchs on the Gershun side. That’s a lot of responsibility.

My daughter, Malina, and Aunt Shirley from our visit in 2012.

Aunt Shirley was certainly a matriarch and a hero. I am so proud to have been raised in a family of people who stand up for human rights and do the right thing. Please read this great article about how she helped persecuted Jews in the Soviet Union in the 1970’s.

 

 

Namaste

16 May 2016 1 Comment

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in General, Hawaii Tags: , , , , ,

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This is for my Mother-in-Law. She asked me to write a blog post and when the MIL asks, the only appropriate response is to comply to her request.

I haven’t been going to Friday night services much lately. Kind of not much at all. Many excuses: the husband has been traveling, so have I, we are tired at the end of the week and don’t want to drive. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it when we go. I love going to services at the Aloha Jewish Chapel. We used to go almost every week. I guess I’m just a little bit lazy these days. We light the Shabbat candles at home, say Kiddush, eat dinner together and begin our rest ASAP.

I stopped going to Shabbat Torah study with Rabbi Schaktman last year when my youngest stopped her Saturday morning sailing lessons. I don’t prefer to drive into Honolulu on the weekends, but the simultaneous scheduling of her sailing and my Torah study was perfect timing. I didn’t stop because I didn’t enjoy it. Quite the opposite. She  found an alternative passion closer to home and then, so did I.

Yoga.

I discovered a Friday afternoon Restorative Yoga practice session and a Saturday morning Vinyasa session  at the Kroc Center nearby.  I enjoy each one very much. On Friday it isn’t really a choice of one over the other. I could go to yoga, shower and make it to services on time. I’m hoping to make that my routine one day soon. The only problem is that it doesn’t really allow for Shabbat dinner with family and that’s super important to me too.

On Saturday it has to be one or the other because they happen at the same time. Torah study or yoga. I have chosen yoga—for now. Until this weekend I reassured myself that it is a reasonable alternative. My yoga practice brings me peace. Besides the physical benefits, it can be a spiritual practice and definitely inspires me to look inward, or upside down or sideways. Today something happened to confirm the story that I have been telling myself. It opened my perspective to find many connections from yoga to Kabbalat Shabbat services.

Our teacher, Min Soo, starts with one of her teacher’s interpretations of the Yogi’s Creed from the Rig Veda. We recited it together. Well, I kind of mumbled along as I don’t really know it.

May we be protected together
May we be nourished together
May we work together for the greater good
May our practice be enlightening
And may there be no hate amongst us
Creating peace peace peace

Usually I sort of zone out at this point since I started practicing yoga for the benefits to my body and figured I’m not into the, “Mumbo jumbo new age stuff.” I went to my first yoga session about five years ago after I was having trouble water skiing and my brother-in-law, Neil, suggested that yoga might help with my balance. I truly believe he was not addressing my mental state, but over the years the breath and stillness have brought some balance to both my body and my mind. Not exponentially, but enough for me to keep practicing.

At first I wasn’t comfortable with prayer hands and bowing to say “Namaste” at the end. Then I learned that Namaste simply means, “I bow to you.” No harm in that. An interpretation I read on the Urban Dictionary website is also nice, “The Spirit within me salutes the Spirit in you.” I can wrap my head around that. We’ve got spirit.

Today I finally listened closely to the words when Min Soo was speaking and it dawned on me that there some strong similarities in these sentiments to my Jewish values. Here are a few of the thoughts that passed through my head with my in and out breath:

  • Yoga is a personal practice, but we do it together. We accept ourselves without judgment. We don’t interfere with the others on their mats, but we soak up the positive energy of our collective practice. Sounds like Shabbat (or any other) services to me—without the Kiddush, Motzi and Oneg. Oh well, nothing’s perfect. We don’t always have to eat.
  • “May we be protected together. May we be nourished together,” sounds to me like the translation of some of our Hebrew prayers.
  • “May we work together for the greater good.” Hello…..Tikun Olam?
  • “Creating peace peace peace.” In Sanskrit: Shanti, Shanti, Shanti. In Heberw: Shalom, Shalom, Shalom. Do I need to explain this one at all?

Talk about finding balance. And at this point it isn’t an act. While I don’t think my engagement in this practice will ever overshadow any aspect of my being Jewish, it can certainly enhance it. These recent observations greatly assuage my Jewish guilt. No judgment there. Baruch Hashem.

Shanti Shanti Shanti
Shalom Shalom Shalom
Namaste

 

 

 

 

 

The story of the unhappy kugel

24 Sep 2015 6 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Family, Food, General, Hawaii, Holiday, Kvell, Mothers and Daughters, Traditions Tags: , , , ,

IMG_3985When Val asked me to make a kugel for this year’s communal Yom Kippur “Break the Fast” at the Aloha Jewish Chapel, I was excited to do so. I immediately thought of the recipe that I have for my mother’s kugel that she served at each of our family’s holiday meals (except Passover) and the memory fueled my excitement.

Her kugel is sweet and simple and incredibly delicious: pecans, butter, brown sugar, eggs and egg noodles. How can you go wrong? While not difficult to make, it takes a reasonable amount of time and a little bit of patience.

Years ago I looked up the meaning of kugel, confused by the different specimens I’ve tasted. I wondered how my mother’s noodle kugel could relate to the potato one served at Passover and the plethora of versions at other people’s holiday tables. Internet sources describe it as a pudding. I am inclined to suggest the word casserole—but not of the tuna variety.

I planned ahead for this one, buying the ingredients on my weekly trip to the commissary the Sunday before Yom Kippur. I set aside time to make it on Tuesday afternoon, before we went out to dinner and to services for Kol Nidre. There was no way I was going to bake a kugel on Wednesday afternoon, the same day I was fasting. Regardless of the fact that it would be inappropriate to cook on Yom Kippur, I knew that the enticing aroma of all of those delicious ingredients coming together in a spectacular kugel would be more than I could bear in my VERY hungry state before Yiskor and Ne’ilah. It would definitely slow the fast.

I timed it perfectly and it was the most beautiful kugel I had ever created. It felt so good to look at it and see visions of all the kugels that had come before at Gershun celebrations. It truly was my mother’s kugel. I finally had the right combination of ingredients, timing and patience to make this great achievement. I left it on the counter, slightly covered, to cool and would put it in the refrigerator when we returned from Tuesday evening services.

When we returned, before putting it in the ice-box, I decided to take a picture of the kugel next to the flames of the burning yahrtzeit candles lit for my mother and father. Maybe I’d post it on Facebook? Or maybe I’d just send the picture to my sisters so that they could kvell with me on this great achievement. Whatever the intent, perhaps it is my hubris that became a tragic flaw and led to the unhappy conclusion of this almost perfect story.

After I snapped a few shots of the holiday kugel (thank goodness I took a picture). I picked up the glass plate on which it rested, turned to the refrigerator, slipped a bit and dropped the whole thing on our stone tile floor. The glass plate splintered in tiny pieces. spraying across the kitchen floor and into the hallway. The kugel plunked straight down, lying in tact on the floor below my feet. It’s golden top sparkled with shards of the pyrex dish and I reluctantly imagined what lay beneath. It became unfit for any palate, let alone a holiday meal. My dreams of the perfect kugel shattered before my very eyes.

The end isn’t so sad. My husband helped me clean it up. The next day I showed Val the picture and told her the story. She shed a tear for my mother’s kugel, but understood. She suggested mac and cheese. No problem. After morning services, I easily whipped up a pan. No memories were invoked as it did not have the familiar delicious aroma to tease me. Services were nice, not too long. We wished each other G’mar chatimah tovah and broke the fast together as a community.

I’m the only one who really missed the kugel that holds so many memories of my mom and dad and the new years and ends of years that our family shared together.

L’Shanah Tovah.

 

Happy Birthday Gloria–Ethan, go nuts!

28 Aug 2013 12 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Family, General, Hawaii, Mothers and Daughters, Relationships Tags: ,

Happy first birthday  to my nephew Ethan. I appreciate that he was born on August 28 because that is also my mother’s birthday. So from now on, every year on August 28, I get to be happy for his birthday while I am a little sad when I think about my mom and miss her a bit more than I do on other days. I appreciate the balance.

The house in which I grew up at 5081 Somerset Street in Buena Park, California was a fun one. We were encouraged to play (as long as we got good grades and read a lot of books). My mom, Gloria, went to great efforts to provide the opportunities. We had tons of stuff to do outside beyond the requisite bike and bat: a swing set, a ping pong table acquired with blue chip stamps applied to pages of books with wet sponges, hippity hops, kick balls, and even stilts.

Inside our home we had cupboards of board games, floor space to play marbles and jacks and the living room was not formal. Instead, it was set up so that we could hang out with our friends and play air hockey or pachinko, color large posters and do jigsaw puzzles. We even had a player piano.

By the time that we were teenagers and entertained gentlemen callers on the weekends, there was a multitude of ways for a young man to occupy his hands in that room without ever touching one of Gloria’s daughters. She was fun and smart!

We were also encouraged to have a “collection.” Each of us had one displayed on shelves in our room: Martha collected miniature pianos, Betsy (boo) collected deer figurines and I collected dolls from around the world. In the family room next to the TV was Gloria’s collection: nutcrackers.

There was a big poster on the wall that said, “Peanut butter is love. Spread some around today.” Not only did it appropriately decorate her collection below, it was also an inclusive nod to my father’s particularly strong affinity for peanut butter. Nowhere in this blog post will there be even a hint of suggestion that either of my parents might have been a bit nuts. That’s because they weren’t.

Underneath the poster were two bookshelves about 3 1/2 feet high that held an odd assortment of nutcrackers shaped like animals and machines. On top there was a bowl of nuts (still in the shell) and the opportunity to step up to the counter to crack one and eat it whenever one so desired.

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Her collection included a great variety: a small wooden contraption that Martha actually made for her, gifts that relatives brought back from Israel over the years and my all time favorite which is a pair of woman’s legs that my Great Aunt Tee gave to her. I loved that particular nutcracker long before its suggestive nature dawned on me along with the impressive significance that it came from a woman who was probably born in the 1800’s!

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I don’t know how the collection started, but I do remember when it made a distinct transition. Well, I don’t remember exactly when, but one year my parents went on a trip to New York City. (I’m sure my sisters can provide more specific details.) It was a big deal because my parents didn’t travel much. They returned from New York City with Uncle Alf.

Uncle Alf was married to my Great Aunt Tee which makes him great too. They lived in Omaha. He did not go to New York with my parents. Nor did he return with them. From their great travels, my parents brought home a toy soldier nutcracker. It was like the one from the ballet that had a white goatee and moustache just like our Uncle Alf, so that’s why we named it after him.

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I don’t have the original in my home as I believe one of my sisters has him in her care, but it looks like one of these.

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It wasn’t until this very moment, writing this blog post that I noticed that both Aunt Tee and Uncle Alf had a connection in my mother’s collection. Hmmm…

With the addition of Uncle Alf to the general collection came a new focus: toy soldier nutcrackers. Once again, it was fun. Over the years my mom collected all kinds of variations on the theme. We purchased them for her as Chanukkah gifts, birthday gifts, “I saw this and I thought you might like it” gifts. She collected cheap versions and expensive ones. The collection grew—exponentially.

Fast forward several decades and 3 homes later to her lovely abode at 125th Street in Johnson County, Kansas where she and her adoring paramour Aaron lived together in her final years. Even there you could easily find her collection that followed from Buena Park. Even New York City’s Uncle Alf was present along with my old favorites: the legs, the squirrel and the gifts from Israel.

Aaron & GPG1, 1-23-10

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For a long time the nutcrackers had their own room. Gloria had shelves built in the guest room where they lined the walls to stand guard over sleeping grandchildren and out of town visitors. The impressive collection had expanded to posters of nutcrackers and bookmarks and pretty much almost anything that sported their image.

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Finally, about 5 years or so before she died, she was done. She did not get rid of them, nothing as drastic as that. When Aaron moved in and they redesigned the guest room as his office, the nutcrackers were respectfully relegated to the basement. Once again shelves were built and they were displayed, but not in such a prominent position.

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She politely asked us to stop buying them for her, she no longer had room or interest.

The only people who spent much time in the basement were her kids and grandkids when we came to visit and the cleaning lady. But the nutcrackers did not seem sad and neither did my mom. She was finding other ways to have fun.

After she died we tried to donate the collection as a whole, but did not find a willing recipient. Our affection for the collection was not to be found elsewhere. So we each took tokens to our respective homes for ourselves and our children, gave some to others with fond memories and the rest was finally packed away and dispersed to parts unknown.

Last month I went on a trip to Leavenworth, Washington with two of my childhood friends. While walking through this oddly themed Bavarian town we came across the Leavenworth Nutcracker Museum. Imagine that! While we did not enter the museum itself, we browsed through the gift shop. My friends were very accommodating, having spent a significant portion of their adolescence enjoying the fun nature of my childhood home and cracking a few nuts in their tenure there.

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The gift shop was impressive and I saw many old friends in their collection, relishing the memories they prompted. It was bittersweet not being able to call my mom and tell her all about it, but a great photo opportunity.

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So, Happy 1st Birthday, Ethan. I hope your life is filled with fun and that you get good grades and read a lot of books. But most of all… today go nuts.

And mom, Happy Birthday. I miss you.

mom on phone

Time for a change

24 Nov 2012 4 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in General, Hawaii, Kvell Tags:

If you are reading this, then you have probably noticed the new look. It was time for a change. We are rearranging and renovating the house and yard and the change has done us good. We are enjoying the space anew.

Did I mention that I am going to celebrate my 50th birthday soon. I am embracing the jubilee with a sense of celebration and renewal. I can be a creature of habit and have decided to make change, embrace change, try to change and change it up in any way I can, including the design of this blog. I hope you enjoy it as much as I am.

And the cool thing is, I can always change it again!

To give generously from the heart without asking for anything in return

22 Feb 2012 2 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in General, Hawaii Tags: , , , , , ,

The other day Teenager asked me if I would ever live in Honolulu. I thought for less than a second and responded with a solid, “No, I like the west side.” We’ve been spending a lot of time driving back and forth to Town lately and more than once the thought has crossed my mind how nice it would be to have a place where we could spend the night and avoid the traffic that plagues us on much of those journeys.

Then I thought of the congestion and the lack of space and the crowded coastline and I knew that I would not be looking to Honolulu as a place for my primary residence, not just yet.

Then, on Saturday morning, I arrived at the Yee King Tong Cemetery near Punchbowl (National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific) to meet my friend Shareen for our volunteer stint judging student essays in the Eddie Aikau Foundation’s annual Eddie Would Go essay contest and I totally changed my mind.

I turned left into the lane that leads to the cemetery and the adjacent Aikau home and entered one of those wondrous places I like to think of as “Real Hawaii.” If I could live somewhere like that, Honolulu or anywhere, I would move in a heartbeat.

I could feel the aloha the minute I arrived.

The foundation holds the annual contest as part of their mission to “share Eddie Aikau’s life, contributions and accomplishments while promoting education and the advancement of Hawaiian culture.”

Here is the 2012 prompt:

As a City and County lifeguard, Eddie Aikau often risked his life to make sure the beaches were safe for everyone. He made the ultimate sacrifice by giving his life in an attempt to save the crew on the Polynesian voyaging canoe ―Hokule’a‖.
Eddie’s actions reflected the Hawaiian values of KOKUA (to help) and KAHIAU (to give generously with the heart, without expecting anything in return).
How do these values inspire your actions and how do they influence your decision of who to help, when you can’t help everyone.

I read the essays thinking about the teenagers who wrote them. How lucky they are to have a role model like Eddie Aikau. They wrote with ease about Kokua and Kahiau. They told stories of helping their parents and their grandparents and volunteering with their churches and school groups to feed the homeless and donate clothes and toys. Kokua and Kahiau are  embedded in the aloha that runs in their veins.

I couldn’t help but relate the concept of Kahiau to that of Tzedakah–to give generously from the heart without asking for anything in return is certainly righteous. We give because it is right. And the highest form of giving is when the giver does not know the receiver and the receiver does not know the giver.

It all came together for me near the big mango tree in the side yard of Myra Akau’s house (she is Eddie’s sister). Kahiau, Tzedakah, Kokua, Aloha–In a place like this, no problem.

A walking tour of Nuuanu

12 Feb 2012 1 Comment

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in General, Hawaii Tags: , , , , , , , ,

I took a walk with my friend Linda today. We were waiting for our kids who were at Sunday school and decided to make good use of our time. She wanted to show me a few sites in the Nu’uanu area where Temple Emanu-El of Honolulu is located. I had no idea what a treat it would be.

We walked down  Pali Hwy from Jack Lane towards the city. I’ve never walked that way before. I always go up. We ended up on Nuuanu Avenue. I felt like a total tourist, enjoying looking at the Asian Temples and local graveyards that line the road. I had to take pictures and share them here.

I thought they were all beautiful, but found the Oahu Cemetery quite special as I looked at grave markers that hold names from ancient and recent Hawaii history. I also enjoyed a brief visit to the small Jewish section in the back.

Thanks, Linda.

Let’s talk about the F word…

01 Nov 2011 6 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Family, General, Kvetching Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Every where I go I bump into people who are doing it, on street corners, at the local supermarket, at my kids’ school.

It’s hard to turn around these days and not find somebody asking for money in support of a program or a cause or a trip to the mainland for a championship game. The F word of which I speak has more than four letters. It has 11–FUNDRAISING. But the sound of it is becoming just as distasteful as the vulgar term that usually comes to mind.

I am not unwilling to support a worthy cause. On the contrary. I am an enthusiastic supporter of all causes worthy. I just don’t agree with the  plethora of methods employed to garner my precious support and am not sure that other people’s definitions of worthy match mine.

My husband created an acronym that aptly relates to the title and shares the sentiment. In order to avoid being accused of using profanity, I will spell it out for you: Fundraising Using Children and Kids.

Yesterday I went to the Kapolei Safeway and met a group of cub scouts who were set up next to the entrance. I approached their table without being asked, eager to support an esteemed organization such as theirs. They were selling popcorn. I like popcorn. I was ready to buy. The smallest bag was $10. TEN DOLLARS for a bag of caramel corn? I couldn’t believe it. The one that had nuts was $20. That’s nuts!

That’s what got me thinking about how fundraising has become big business and that too many people besides the actual beneficiary are out there  making money off of my support.

Raise your hand if your kids have had to sell Zippys chili tickets, huli huli chicken tickets or some other kind of tickets for their school or sports team? Then raise your hand again if you ended up buying those tickets, picked up the said chili or chicken and applied it to the next potluck invitation you received.

Or maybe you paid for an entire box of  48 bags of M & M’s because you and your kids ate them over the course of the past month.

I would rather write a check than sell all of those tickets and candy. It is cheaper, so much easier and I can write it off as a charitable donation.

I would also rather support a car wash. That seems like good value for my money and reasonable return for effort.

I wonder how much money each of us spends buying snacks and candy and magazines from every kid that comes knocking on our wallets. What if I applied the money that I spend on your kids to my own and you kept yours to yourself and we all stopped asking everybody to support each other and simply took care of ourselves?

At least these young peddlers  are selling something. I have ranted before about the groups who stand on street corners with scoop nets asking me to drop some cash from my car window so that they can travel to the mainland for “The most amazing opportunity ever.” Usually it is a sports team that has qualified for a national tournament. It looks like begging to me: Children standing on a street corner asking strangers for money so that they can go on a trip to play a game. I say, if you can’t afford it, don’t go.

I also think that these leagues should provide a viable way for their teams to garner support. Find sponsors for these kids. Apply for grants. Give them jobs.

We have come to think of so many luxuries and privileges as necessities for our children and then ask other people to spend money in support of them. Let them concentrate on school and local activities, earn a scholarship for college, get a job and then travel to their heart’s delight.

Please do not misunderstand me. I know that there are many children in our community and beyond that cannot afford even the basic necessities. I am not talking about them. I am the first in line to organize a school supplies drive for these students and to donate money to organizations that feed and clothe and house them. I also think that they deserve the opportunity to participate in extra curricular activities and sports. I am willing to make a donation in support of that too.

I also know only too well that our public schools are under funded and in dire need of support. That is an entirely different blog post.

I just think that our community fundraising efforts have evolved in a  direction that ends up using our children as a means to a somewhat capitalist end and in the process we end up selling ourselves and them a little bit short.

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