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.

Just the Ticket

28 May 2017 7 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Family, Hawaii, Mothers and Daughters, Parenting, Rites of Passage

Today is my mother’s yahrzeit. Today marks the 7th anniversary of my mother’s death. I can’t believe that it was seven years ago. Seven is a significant number for us Jews. We sit shiva for seven days after a person dies.  I’m surprised that there isn’t some ritual or blessing or special thing that one does when a person has been dead for seven years.

Somebody once told me, “When we are grieving, our hearts are open. When our hearts are open, it is a time to receive.” The same person told me you don’t get over grief. It is always there. Some times it is more active than others. Today it is active and today my heart is open and in my heart is where I found the significance.

So here’s the significant story.

My kids think that I am perfect. Or perhaps they think that I think I am perfect and expect the same from them. Alas, it is definitely not true. I am not perfect nor do I expect them to be. Nevertheless, I refrain from regaling them with stories of my not so flawless and somewhat adventurous youth. The mistakes and missteps I made along the way have led me to where I am today and I turned out pretty decent. So I see no need to tell them the nitty-gritty details of the fun I had straying from the path before my frontal lobe was fully formed.

Of the few stories that I have been willing to share, now that my girls are closer to the age I was when these events happened, one became significant this week.

I went to college in west L.A. where parking was at a premium: on campus, in public parking lots and on the street. I got a lot of parking tickets. Some were for expired meters, others were because I forgot to move my car on street cleaning day and a lot were just because I was too lazy to find a legal spot. In this instance I did not learn from experience. Ever the optimist, I continued to challenge the odds on a regular basis and park my car in places where it was not welcome. Of course the odds were ever against me and I collected a series of parking tickets.

Then I would forget to pay them. Yep. I’d put the ticket in a pile of things to take care of and forget about them as I immersed myself in my studies and also driving around L.A. discovering the city and new places to illegally park.

Since the car was registered to my father’s name and address, notices of unpaid fines were mailed to my childhood home in Buena Park. That’s when the phone in my dorm room would ring. My mom would call and tell me that the notice of an unpaid fine came and that she paid the ticket so that my father would not find out. There’d be some scoldings, but not really any threats of punishment. Considering how many tickets I got, it did little to deter me from my wayward parking habits.

I often drove the 40 miles home to visit on the weekends. My parents were always happy to see me. At some point over the weekend, my father would pull me on the side to inform me that a notice came in the mail for a parking ticket. He also let me know that he had kindly paid it on the sly so that it was taken care of before my mother found out about it. He was less likely to scold.

I couldn’t tell you how many times this happened, probably not too many or my parents would have gotten angry at some point. But in later years it became a favorite story that my mom liked to tell. Those parking tickets became a significant memory illustrating both my impetuous ways and my parent’s tolerance for their youngest and somewhat impudent child. On one occasion or more, my mother would cheerfully threaten, “I hope you have one just like you some day!”

Well, I had one, about twenty years ago. I don’t know if she is just like me. Neither of us is perfect, but so far she hasn’t gotten into too much trouble, except for the parking ticket last week. She recently moved to San Jose. Parking is at a premium in her neighborhood.

On Thursday I woke up to a text from her at 6 AM, “I got a parking ticket.”  All I could do was laugh. “Welcome to city life,” I responded. And then I offered to pay it for her, just this once. It seemed like the right thing to do since my parents bailed me out so kindly when I was her age.

I really missed my mom right then. I ached to call her and tell her the story. She would have laughed out loud.

The timing of this event is significant. My mom is always on my mind and in my heart and in my head, for sure. This week, however, she is more. I can feel that the grief is a bit more active and my heart has been a lot more open. They say that paybacks can be a bitch. But this one is a blessing. It is a story that comes full circle, connecting me to my mom and my memories and bringing the past into the present for us to enjoy in a new way.

 

 

 

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.

 

 

I see the light at the end of the carpool tunnel

19 May 2013 5 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Family, Hawaii, In the car, Mothers and Daughters, Parenting, Rites of Passage Tags: , , ,

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I sure felt sorry for my daughter when she got her driver’s permit. Even though she completed all of the requirements virtually by herself, she was still completely dependent on us whenever she wanted to drive.

For six months she had to navigate around town with me, her neurotic Jewish mother, strapped securely next to her in the passenger seat. It was necessary  in order to earn enough hours of practice to take the road test to get her real driver’s license. She was great.

I was a wreck. Nervous Nelly does not even begin to describe my ridiculous barrage of fears and warnings and sharp scoldings that hysterically spewed forth  as she practiced driving safely behind the wheel of our family car.

At first I let her navigate the treacherous three block  drive home from the bus stop after school. My heart pounding, watching in my rear view mirror as she carefully pulled out on to the residential road and I held my breath the entire ride as we crawled along at 25 mph towards our street.

Next, we expanded a full mile to Costco for afternoon errands–taking the back roads the entire way. Eventually we hit the boulevard, with its precarious intersections and lane changes. Finally we embarked on the freeway, allowing her to merge her skills and actually get somewhere on this island besides the bus, the store and school.

It was excruciating–for both of us. I breathed deeply, my anxiety mounting each time we left the house. I apologized as we got in the car for the impulses and fears that I was simply unable to control. She said that it was okay, but I could that tell her feelings were hurt.

I remembered my own mother over 30 years ago, riding next to me, nervously pressing an imaginary brake pedal into the car floor, wearing a spot in the carpeted mat with her irrational fears and distrust of my competence.

Like mother, like daughter. Mine noticed that I grab a tight hold on to the door handle as we approached each intersection or another car dared to drive on the same road as did we.  I thought I was hiding it until one day she remarked with a thin veil of good humor on my nervous habit. Mostly she managed to suck it up with her eyes on the prize–her driver’s license.

Early on in the process her step-father assumed as much of the practice as possible, due to his reasonable and patient nature. She much preferred to drive with him. But in order to log as many supervised hours as she needed behind the wheel, she had to deal with her mother. She deserves a medal.

In a manner of speaking, she got one–her driver’s license.

Last month we took a drive together to Kapolei Hale, this time with an appointment. The examiner called her name and she drove off with this virtual stranger to take the test that, if she passed, would change both of our lives forever.

I was surprised how nervous I was. Who cares about how she felt.  I really wanted her to get her license. Why else would I have tortured myself by sitting in the passenger seat while she drove, danger eminent at every turn, facing my irrational fears deeply rooted in motherhood and a few control issues.

If she got her license I wouldn’t have to ride with her anymore.  It would free up hours of my time usually spent on the road, behind the wheel, taking her back and forth to the multitude of sports and school activities in which she enthusiastically participates. She could drive herself there and back. She could go to the store and pick up last-minute items that our family always seems to need at 8:00 PM, just when I’m ready to relax for a while. She can take her step-sister places too. The possibilities are endless.

With my eyes also on the prize, waiting passed fairly quickly. 20 minutes after departure, the examiner followed by my daughter returned, walking silently back up the hill. She turned her solemn face to me, flashed a quick smile and mouthed, “I passed.”

I can only imagine how great she felt because I was jubilant. I was free! For sixteen years I carted and ferried and carpooled this child to play dates, school, doctor’s appointments, Hebrew classes, social functions, hula practice, softball games, canoe paddling regattas.

It might be said that our relationship  formed and blossomed during all of the time spent together in the car. From out of the womb into the world, from infant seat to booster seat, back seat to front seat, passenger seat to driver’s seat, from drop off to pick up this child has been in tow. My passenger.

And now she can drive herself. It is time. On our way back from the DMV (her driving, me less nervous) I told her in a very stern voice, “You may think that having your driver’s license is your ticket to freedom,” taking a poignant pause for her to think and worry a bit, “but I have to tell you that it really is mine.”

Finally, my days of carpooling and arranging my schedule around hers are coming to a close. I have the option to sleep past 5:30 AM on school days because she is perfectly capable of setting an alarm, getting up herself and driving to the bus stop without me. And she does.

I can go out on a Saturday night without having to be at the ready to pick her up from the football game after the fourth quarter decides to end. If we need her to drive the younger teen to an activity or appointment or party we just have to ask and she is at the ready to oblige (she’d better be!)

It is such a wonderful feeling that I am not willing to taint it with anxious, unnecessary worry. We have safety precautions in place. She is very responsible and careful. It is enough.

I know I am going to miss her and the time we spend together in the car, talking and sharing, not to mention having a captive audience. In the short month she has been driving on her own I have had time to reflect.

I think about the music we’ve shared: CD’s with Sesame Street songs and how she’d sing along  in her sweet toddler’s voice, the Aaron Carter phase, Fergalicious on the radio and recently whatever she blasts from her iPod so I can keep up to date with her and what is trending these days.

There has been a lot of talking: constant chatter and incessant questions from the backseat when she was little, sometimes driving me a bit crazy, after learning to read she read every sign out loud, school gossip and teenage confessions, scoldings and reprimands. Every moment a blessing to bring us to this moment.

I have to admit that the relief still overrides the sentiment, leaving me not with a sense of loss, just a nice warm feeling of satisfaction. And when I miss her just a little too much, all I have to do is invite her to join me for a trip to the commissary or the mall and she is at the ready and willing.

She hops right in that passenger seat, I back out of the driveway and we roll on towards our destination, picking up right where we left off on our mother, daughter journey. And thank goodness that once again, I get to drive.

If you build it, they will come

09 Mar 2013 7 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Family, Hawaii, Kvell, Parenting, Religion, Rites of Passage, Traditions Tags: , , , , ,

When my youngest sister started calling it the ”Beach Mitzvah” a few months before the big day, the new event title stuck and we’ve been referring to it that way ever since.

That is what it was, a Beach Mitzvah. Our youngest daughter became a Bat Mitzvah last month and the service was held under a tent at Paradise Cove in Ko Olina…. and it was fabulous.

Once all of our mainland guests arrived, all of the details were taken care of and we were finally celebrating this significant rite of passage together with our family and community on the lush green grass, under the warm bright sun, along the crystal clear water of one of Oahu’s most beautiful “Secret Coves,” it is hard to imagine that choosing this venue so that our youngest daughter could perform this particular rite of passage was anything but completely deliberate.

In reality it was an act of compromise that turned out to be exactly what we wanted, a Beach Mitzvah.

It is not uncommon for these important events that are usually planned at least a year in advance to suffer a few setbacks. Caterers screw up, teenagers forget their Torah portions, people  get stuck in traffic on their way to the Synagogue.  It teaches us to focus on what is important and why we come together to appreciate the true meaning of these rituals. Ours was no exception. Luckily for us, the bumps in the road happened long before the Bat Mitzvah date.

Due to forces beyond our control and details on which I will not dwell at this moment, we switched shuls in the middle of her Bat Mitzvah study and preparation. Our new congregation, The Aloha Jewish Chapel (AJC,) is located on Pearl Harbor Naval Base with limited public access. So we had to figure out a way to bring over one hundred people, our family and local community, together for a service outside of this military installation.

Combine that with the fact that our Bat Mitzvah is quite the individual, the idea of a typical reception, a Saturday night party with a DJ and dancing, was not her idea of a fun way to celebrate all of her hard work and study. She preferred a beach party so she could swim and hang out with her friends in the cool water of the Pacific Ocean and also celebrate this paradise that we call home. That part was not a problem for us. We also prefer this type of celebration.

It wasn’t easy coordinating all of the moving parts of this particular piece of our family’s Jewish traditions, but once we “settled” on Paradise Cove, everything fell right into place—kind of like Divine intervention!

When we realized the need to hold the service outside of the chapel, it was the Bat Mitzvah herself who immediately made the connection between the Torah portion she was studying and our choice of venue. In her portion of Terumah, Exodus  25 1-16, G-d tells the Israelites to: וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם,  “Make Me a sanctuary and I will dwell in their midst.”

That’s exactly what we did. We made a mishkan, a sanctuary. We put up a tent with three sides at Paradise Cove. In the front we created a “Bima” by setting a small folding Japanese table that I bought years ago at City Mill on top of a folding 6 foot table and covering each with a table cloth. It ended up creating both a lectern on which to place the Torah and an “Ark” in which to keep it safely covered during the rest of the service.

We placed 120 plastic white chairs under the tent  in a semi-circle facing the Bima, hooked up microphones for sound, brought the Torah from the AJC and voila, G-d was definitely among us.

My sister commented that it’s not very often that the Torah gets to go outside—kind of like a Torah field trip. We decided that it must be enjoying its few moments in the fresh air. We certainly did.  And boy did we celebrate.

In some ways it was not much different than a typical weekend family celebration. We shuttled guests between airport and hotels. We coordinated schedules with 25 out of town visitors. On Friday, we enjoyed Shabbat dinner and Erev Shabbat services with our family at the AJC. On Sunday we had a barbecue at our house  for our family to be together again. And every minute of it was very special.

But I have to say that the Beach Mitzvah was particularly poignant. The pieces of this puzzle transformed so magically and beautifully we couldn’t help but feel the inspiring presence of G-d—in our Bat Mitzvah who’s sweet voice chanting from the Torah reminded us that she chooses to take her place among generations of Jews who have chanted those same words and made similar sanctuaries in their own communities and homes and hearts, in the united pride of parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings and friends and in the sublime paradise of the mishkan we created by the beach on the leeward side of Oahu for our beautiful and wonderful and amazing Beach Mitzvah.

Hawaii Five-O–a JUBILEE

31 Oct 2012 6 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Hawaii, Rites of Passage Tags: , , , , , , ,

I am turning 50 in late December. That’s right, the big Five-O! Let the celebration begin.

I recently learned that a jubilee is actually from the Old Testament. It occurs on the 50th year after seven cycles of seven years.

“This fiftieth year is sacred—it is a time of freedom and of celebration when everyone will receive back their original property, and slaves will return home to their families. “

While the jubilee year is more directly related to fields and property, I feel a different meaning. I am not referring to the slave part, but I can totally relate to this being a time of freedom and celebration. I am making sure that this year is clearly that. I can even stretch the idea  to visiting with my childhood friends and the chance to reconnect to our past as a way of receiving back my original property!

I started this celebration at the beginning of my vacation last summer when I had lunch in New Jersey with my childhood friend Anne Blumenstein, whom I’ve known since 3rd grade, right before her 50th birthday and continued at the end of the trip having brunch with our other friend, Jennifer Lorvick, in Marin County. She turned 50 on April 1–no fooling.

I met Jennifer and Angie for lunch in Santa Rosa in July. Jennifer is to the left of me.

I had lunch with Anne in New Jersey in July.

The three of us were on the newspaper staff together in high school and have remained friends ever since. It’s too bad we couldn’t have lunch all together. But I was happy to eat twice on two different coasts!

It really heated up last week when I traveled to Southern California to join Kathy (Brown) Goetsch, to celebrate her big Five-O. I was not going to miss this one. And I don’t plan to stop this party until the end of the year!

If I didn’t call you while I was in So. Cal., please forgive me. We’ll catch up another time. I am sure that I will be back.

I’ve learned over the years that on these short trips I cannot get together with every friend I’ve ever known when I was growing up. I’ve also found that gathering with groups of them can be somewhat unsatisfactory. While I get to see a lot of people at the same time, we don’t really get a chance to catch up in any meaningful way. The older I get, the more meaning I seek.

On this trip I was very strategic in my choices. Besides Kathy’s big event, I only saw three people who also turned 50 this year: Donna (Freed) Paul, Jon Sherman and Margo (Boston) Ludwig. Let me explain.

Margo and I went to pre-school together. That is how long I have known her. Our parents carpooled and we played. By the time we got to Jr. High we chose different social circles, but the fact that we were classmates in pre-school, McComber Jr. High School, Sunny Hills High School and UCLA makes for a pretty long shared history. We have remained connected.

Outside the delicious Mexican restaurant where I had lunch with Margo.

She  invited me to her party last July, but I couldn’t make it. Our October afternoon together where she lives in beautiful South Laguna Beach totally made up for it.

Then there’s Jon Sherman. Not only did we go to elementary, Jr. high and high school together, but we were passengers together in the infamous Hebrew School carpool of our childhood days!

My Hebrew School classmates from my trip last January. Jon is the one who is right next to me.

One of my mother’s favorite stories was of another parent calling to suggest that if Jon and I did not stop fighting in the back seat that she would no longer pick us up and take us to our weekday afternoon Hebrew study. We were active in Temple youth group together and were generally Jewish together in our home town of Buena Park, California.

Now that I think of it, we were also on our high school newspaper staff together. Hmmmm, I’m starting to detect a theme of carpools and newspapers and Jews. I couldn’t have planned it better.

I have to mention that Jon’s wife Melanie also celebrated her 50th birthday this year. I always enjoy socializing with this couple and catching up, our backseat fighting a thing of the past. I wish I hadn’t forgotten to take a picture!

Donna and I were roommates for several years after graduating from college. Even though we were English majors at UCLA at the same time, we didn’t really connect until later when we were both Sunday school teachers at Temple Emanuel in Beverly Hills and became roommates the summer before I entered the teaching program at UCLA. She still lives in the area and has embraced dancing hula in L.A.!

Donna and I enjoyed a nice afternoon together in downtown Culver City.

And now for the main event: Kathy Goetsch’s 50th birthday celebration extravaganza in Fullerton, California and beyond. We had a blast and it was just like being back in high school.

Our friend Carmen came south from the Seattle area so that we could celebrate together. Kathy’s husband, Billy, hosted a party in Kathy’s honor and many other childhood friends showed up.

Carmen, Kathy and me in Kathy’s backyard before                 her 50th birthday party.

Jody (Cheechov)  Nolan was there. I’ve known Jody longer than I’ve known Kathy. We were in the same girl scout troupe and all cruised together in high school. Kathy and I were in her wedding many moons ago.

High School Reunion in Kathy’s backyard at her  50th birthday party: Carmen, Kathy, Jody and me.

Lori Goetsch came too. She’s Kathy’s sister-in-law and I knew her before I knew Kathy. Did I mention that Kathy’s husband was classmates with my older sister and we grew up down the block from each other?

Kathy’s sister-in-law Lori Goetsch is also a childhood classmate of mine. We were on the swim team together in elementary school.

The party was a great success and we ladies got up on Friday morning, packed our bags and headed for Long Beach where we boarded the Catalina Express to spend a weekend together talking story, eating lots of awesome Mexican food, listening to music, drinking a bit too much, sharing old memories and making new ones.

The ladies before boarding the Catalina Express.

Catalina Island

Colleen, me, Kathy and Carmen at a jazz concert in Catalina.

Las chicas at the cantina. At least by age 50 we are certainly old enough to have an adult beverage or two….

When I say it was just like high school, I really mean it. Carmen’s laugh is just the same, coming just a few seconds behind the rest. Kathy won’t stop teasing me–even if I’m not laughing anymore. Jody still loves her cats and we all have a great time together. We may have married, matured, had kids, got new cats, but fundamentally these ladies have not changed. That’s what makes it so cool.

We had fun together then and we have a great time together now. We care about each other and take care of each other. It is such a pleasure to reconnect and quite reassuring to realize that I chose such wonderful friends in my youth that are totally worth hanging on to.

I can’t wait to spend the next 50 years enjoying their friendship.

My husband’s childhood comes to life at Ko Olina Resort and Marina

01 Jul 2012 6 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Family, Hawaii, In the car, Parenting, Rites of Passage, Traditions Tags: , , , , ,

Last night we met Ruth and Steve Levine at Longboard’s in the Ko Olina Resort and Marina. “So what,” you say, thinking that every detail of our social life is not really interesting enough to share on Facebook, let alone in a blog post. And I would usually agree with you. But not this time. This time I will share.

Ruth and Steve Levine lived next door to my husband in Monsey, New York where he grew up in the 1970’s. He ate at their dinner table, played ball in their backyard and road in the back seat of Ruth’s big black Cadillac to Hebrew School when she drove the carpool.

And that’s where this story gets interesting.

I often write about our Kapolei Hebrew School Carpool. It has been the saving grace to transporting our children several times a week to and from Temple Emanu-El’s School of Jewish Studies. This is especially true on weekdays when Honolulu’s dense traffic can trap us on H1 for almost an hour in each direction, turning what should be a simple 20 mile commute into a demanding and grueling journey for both driver and passengers alike.

My friend, Laurie Hanan, and I started carpooling over 5 years ago when our older daughters were in grade school. We have continued with our younger kids, adding in other West Side Jewish families including the Gottlieb’s and the Stiglitz’s, as schedule and convenience have allowed.

For me, driving the Hebrew School Carpool has turned out to be more than just convenience. It has become a rite of passage as I have embraced the tradition of Jewish Mothers before me, my mother and mother-in-law included.

Thus, meeting Ruth Levine and her husband last night was more than just being nice to dear old friends of my husband’s mom. It was like meeting an icon. I was in the presence of a super star, the Real Deal:  The Carpool Driving, Jewish Mother from New York who had survived driving my husband in their Hebrew School Carpool of the 1970’s. I was not going to let this moment pass.

We have heard the stories from my mother-in-law of how he used to hide in the back seat when other mothers dropped off the kids at the shul in the afternoon to try to get out of attending classes. We have laughed together at anecdotes filled with his antics that caused so much tsorres for these moms, knowing that the stories have happy outcomes. He became a Bar Mitzvah, he went to college. He grew up, married a nice Jewish woman (eventually) and is an officer in the army and doing quite well, thank you very much.

Meeting Ruth was the opportunity to hear these stories again–her voice adding color and depth to bring alive these beloved tales of my husband’s childhood.

With a serious face she told us hilarious stories of a neighborhood of boys, leaving their bikes on her front porch, playing ball in her backyard, breaking her windows, grabbing corn and cucumbers from her garden to take home to their mothers. She called my husband by his childhood nickname, “Henry Pippenpo,” which was bestowed upon him by Ruth herself. And  she shared with us the story that we came to hear: the day that he hid in the back seat and tried to ditch Hebrew school. Of course she caught him.

She counted the boys as they exited the black Cadillac and noticed that all 6 did not disembark. (How she fit 6 kids in the back of her  Cadillac was not revealed, but I assume it was in the days before seat belt laws such as “Click it or ticket.”)

Aware of his hidden presence on the floor of the back seat, she exited the parking lot. Instead of turning left to go home, she turned right. She returned to the Synagogue, leaned into the back seat and grabbed him by the neck. Nothing got past the keen radar of this sharp and experienced Jewish Mother.

Caught in the act, he had no choice but to do what she said, get out of the car and go learn some Hebrew, “Like a good Jewish son should do.” While he did learn Hebrew, I’m not so sure that he learned his lesson right away as I hear he tried it in another mother’s car along with a plethora of other antics. But eventually he must have.

Ruth Levine was clearly happy to see him. She warmly told me that he has mellowed over the years and I had to agree, praising my wonderful husband to the highest degree.

This is why it meant more than just aloha and hospitality that we went to meet Ruth and Steve last night at sunset. It’s one of those moments that brings us full circle– or at least in the vicinity.

Hearing her tell the tales in the setting of this gorgeous leeward resort, accompanied by the  breeze of our local trade winds, both transported me back to our childhood carpool days and joined us together in the present. It somehow magically connected our west side carpool with their East Coast original as tradition has the power to do.

And it further installed me among the legions of Jewish Mothers from recent generations who have carpooled through the antics of their kids and the frustrations of traffic to provide every opportunity possible for their children, driving them on the journey to success.

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Remembering my mother on Memorial Day Weekend

27 May 2012 5 Comments

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Family, Hawaii, Mothers and Daughters, Relationships, Rites of Passage, Traditions Tags: , , ,

Today I am thinking of my mother, Gloria P. Gershun, who died suddenly two years ago today. I think about her every day, today is just a little bit more out loud. I miss her very much.

Two days before she died, she had lunch with her friends and went shopping for a purse at Nordstrom. She was only sick for two days and very alive and kicking every single one before that.

On Thursday, I went to the Searider Productions Awards Banquet at Wai’anae High School and presented a scholarship in both my parent’s memory to a wonderful young man, Mr. Michael Gooch.

On Friday, my family went to Kabbalat Shabbat services at Temple Emanu-El in Honolulu and said kaddish.

Tomorrow Rabbi Schaktman is participating in the Lantern Floating Ceremony on Sunday at Ala Moana Beach Park where he will be floating a lantern on behalf of our congregation which will carry a yahrzeit list. I have added both of my parents’ names. It is a beautiful ceremony and a deeply moving way to remember our loss.

Tonight we have invited a few friends and neighbors over for a barbecue that has nothing directly to do with my mom. We always have a party on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend and after thinking about it a bit, I decided that just because it is the anniversary of her death does not mean we have to be sad on purpose. She certainly would not want us to change our plans.

I lit the yahrzeit candle this morning when I got up. Somehow the twinkling flame brings the feel of her presence just a bit us closer to us on this day. I wouldn’t want her to miss the party.

May her memory be a blessing and inspiration to us all.

I would like to share the bio that my youngest sister, boo, wrote about my mom.

Gloria Polsky Gershun, b. August 28, 1929, d. May 27, 2010
Gloria Polsky grew up in the small town of Marfa, Texas with her parents Blanche and Walter Polsky and her younger sister, Barbara. She graduated from high school in Omaha, NE at the age of 16 and received her bachelor’s degree from the University of Iowa in 1952. She met Theodore Leonard Gershun at her best friend’s wedding in November of 1947 and Gloria and Ted were married on June 20, 1948.

Gloria and Ted moved to Southern California in 1961. They lived there for nearly 30 years, where Gloria kept their household, volunteered with many community and school activities, and raised three daughters — Martha, Elizabeth (Betsy) (boo), and Lorraine (Lorrie) — in a happy, suburban Jewish home filled with books, food, friends, laughter, an orange player piano, and a ceramic lion’s head which lived in a birdcage.  When the girls grew older, Gloria returned to school, pursuing her lifelong love of books by earning a Masters in Library Science from California State University at Fullerton in 1975.  She re-entered the work force, first as a school librarian and then as a public school administrator for nearly 15 years.

When Ted passed away in 1990, Gloria retired and moved to Kansas City, where she made many good friends and built a full and satisfying life as an active participant in the Jewish community, a committed volunteer, and an avid shopper. In 2004 Gloria met Aaron Rabinovitz, who became her second life partner until her death in 2010. She is remembered for her optimistic approach to life; her lifelong willingness to try new things; her generosity to her community, family, and friends; her deep commitment to sharing her love of books; and her unfailing ability to find the right outfit for every occasion and the right gift for every person.

The Silent Passing of a Great Generation of GI’s

19 Jan 2012 Leave a comment

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Family, Hawaii, Rites of Passage, Traditions Tags: , , ,

Since I did not grow up in Hawaii, my family and childhood friends live very away. Same for my husband. I am enamored of the idea of a lot of extended family living nearby: cousins to play with our kids, Aunties to pick them up from soccer practice, critical mass at the Seder table.

It would be wonderful if we lived near high school classmates and all our kids were in and out of each others’ backyards playing football and tag.

But it’s not like that. We only visit a few times a year and then we return to Kapolei. We have made Hawaii our home.

We’ve done okay when it comes to forging relationships that feel like family, making friends at work and at the kids’ schools, joining the local Jewish and Kapolei communities. We have an arsenal of reliable babysitters to watch, drive and even tutor our kids. We do alright having lived so far away from our original home towns for several decades.

What’s most uncomfortable living on an island in the middle of the Pacific is when a family member on the mainland is seriously ill or dies. When somebody gets sick I feel helpless that I cannot offer a hand or perform the mitzvah of bikur cholim, visiting the sick. The best I can do is say a blessing for good health, misheberach, and keep that person in my thoughts and prayers.

If somebody dies it is even harder. Not only is it difficult to travel at the last minute for a funeral, the fact that Jewish tradition demands the funeral be held so quickly makes it almost impossible. How can I get that far so fast? In contrast I’ve noticed that the Samoan culture holds the ceremony much later. They wait so family can arrive from far away. I’m not sure which I prefer.

When my Uncle Buddy passed away on January 6, I did not travel from Honolulu to Omaha for the memorial service and burial. I felt very sad when I learned that he was so sick and felt distraught when he died.

When I was discussing with my sister why I felt so particularly sad, she mentioned that it is partly becauses it is the passing of a generation. My friend Toby and David said, “We are the older ones now.”

I also think that these men like my uncle and my father were a humble generation of people who made great contributions. They were the children of immigrants who came to the U.S. to make a better life. They did. They were the first generation in our families to go to college. They had successful careers and raised wonderful families. They lived the American Dream in a meaningful way. I’m not sure if they are called the Great Generation, The Silent Generation or the GI Generation, but I kind of think they were all three.

I am sharing these links so that you can read recent articles about my Uncle Buddy, Leonard Goldstein, and his great contributions to the Omaha community, the Russian Jewish community and our family.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/omaha/obituary.aspx?page=lifestory&pid=155362875

http://www.jewishomaha.org/page.aspx?id=148828

http://www.omaha.com/article/20120108/NEWS01/701089935#.Twn8aUKalts.facebook

The mother of them all

07 May 2011 Leave a comment

by Being Jewish in Hawaii in Family, General, Mothers and Daughters, Rites of Passage Tags: , , , , ,

In a recent dinner conversation, a friend of mine said that she identifies herself as a runner.  It led to further conversation as to how we each identify ourselves.

My husband said all the right things, “Soldier, husband, father, etc.” I did too. I gave several responses: mother, wife, community volunteer, writer, etc…. I even heard myself saying, “Retired Teacher!”

What I found disconcerting, however, is that in all my complexity, I craved some sort of clear-cut, all-encompassing, simple  label that I could use to brand my entire identity.

It wasn’t until days later when I was thinking back on that particular conversation that I came up with the perfect answer: “Jewish Mother.” I am a Jewish Mother, an identity of which I am exceedingly proud.

I remember the first time somebody referred to me as such. I did not feel so grand. I envisioned the stereotypical Jewish mother who interferes in the lives of her children, feeds the world, is demanding and controlling. Think of Fran Drescher’s mom in the TV show The Nanny.

How could I be seen in relation to that?

When I was a teenager in Southern California’s Orange County in the late 1970’s, we joked about another stereotype: The Jewish American Princess, or JAP for short. That’s how my friends and I referred to some of the  girls  who went to the same Jewish weekend camps as we did.

We saw them through the perspective of another stereotype: spoiled, materialistic, whiny and demanding. Semi-privileged that we were, we only viewed ourselves as borderline.

Borderline seemed okay with me, a bit glamorous, a tad alluring, while still human and reasonable (as reasonable as a teenager could be.)

I took that image  with me to college, Borderline JAP, and wore it pretty well. I taught Hebrew School and continued with the camps. I associated with new Jewish friends and learned more about my faith. I enjoyed a reasonable amount of comfort, but  came nowhere near the ostentatious style of others that I met.

This borderline status was still hanging in the back of my closet almost 20 years later when my friend Mark from L.A. was visiting us in Hawaii. He was the first to call me that name, “Jewish mother.”

Like I said before, my reaction was not so positive. While he did not mean it as an insult in any way, I felt a bit rattled.

I had not worn my college clothes in a very long time.  But  they were still hanging around in the back of my mind as a connection to my past. While I had no illusions that  I would fit into them again some day, I had not thrown them out either.

After the initial shock I realized how much I had changed. It has been a VERY long time since I could even be remotely mistaken for some sort of princess, Jewish American or not.

I had been a mother for longer than I had been in college. I wouldn’t let my daughter near a princess dress or tiara or anything. If I were to be described in any royal terms, “Queen Bee” would be a better choice.

I had to rethink my identity.

I quickly cleaned out my closet and left my memories to yearbooks and photo albums. But I was not quite ready to fit into my new skin. I had not made the full transition to Jewish Mother, even one without the negative stereotype.

That term was reserved for the ladies at the Temple who help with the Oneg Shabbat after services on Friday nights, the Sisterhood President, my own mother. But not me, not yet.

That was several years ago. I am happy to announce that I did grow into my own skin. I have a lovely wardrobe and I wear many hats.

After driving the Hebrew school carpool for years, making latkes for the Temple Chanukkah party, feeding my family plus many of Waianae High School’s journalism students and volunteering to donate matzah for the Sunday school’s model seder, I am pretty sure I have earned the proud status of Jewish Mother.

Yes, I might be a bit overprotective of my two precious daughters and I might care very deeply about the welfare of the ones I love. However, I am not meddlesome or overbearing, more like loving and caring.

A Borderline Jewish Mother is a perfect description.

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