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Palm Sunday: A Family Story And A Jew Story

The Story:
While I am Jewish, preparing to observe in the coming days the Passover seder and celebrate the victorious freedom that was ours after years spent as slaves in Egypt, the rest of my family is not.  For them it is a different holiday today.  It is Palm Sunday, one week before Easter, the day on which Christians commemorate Jesus' triumphant return from humble self-imposed exile to the glory, yet certain death, of the ancient walled city of Jerusalem.

Ira and Peanut called yesterday, Erev Palm Sunday, from the large park and playground on the property of their church in Iowa.  They were taking abreak from Ira running the sound board of contemporary Christian music and Peanut rolling around on the ground in the area of grass that had been roped off for use by the zero to three year olds in the Easter egg hunt, a patch of grass where--unlike the other areas in which older children peeked under and behind things to find plastic bubbles of sugary treasure--a huge pile of eggs had just been laid on the grass and the challenge was not to find them but rather to roll crawl scoot stumble stagger across the lawn over to the prize, then use whatever small motor skills exist if you are less than 36 months old to actually pick the eggs up and put them in your basket.

Ira laughingly described the ways in which Peanut, upon being laid down on the grass next to an egg and shown how to pick it up, first tried to put the entire shell in his mouth and then promptly fell asleep on the ground.

The Lesson:
Eighteen hundred miles away my nephew is celebrating, in his own drowsy way, his first Easter.  He is with his family and his friends, he knows who he is as well as one can when seven months old, he knows he belongs and that he is loved.  Does he understand the difference between peeps and jelly beans at yesterday's easter egg hunt, can he comprehend the waving of palm branches and the wafting of incense that mark the return of Christ to Jerusalem this morning?  Not this year and not for a long time.  What he does understand is that there is consistency, a pattern to his new life--when his father puts him down on the grass and all he can do, weary from the work of learning all he can about the world around him every moment of every day, is fall sound asleep he knows in his own baby way that Ira will be there when he wakes up.  Whether someone is Jewish, Christian, Buddhist, pagan, somewhere in between on the spectrum of faith or really on the continuum nowhere at all, everyone deserves to know who is in their family and who will be there to welcome them in the morning, whatever time of day it comes.  Welcome, Peanut, Shehechiyanu--Happy First Easter to you, little man.

Orange, Orange, Clementine: A Family Story

The Story:
My family has been fucked up, especially as far as my interactions with them are concerned, for quite some time now.  Recently, however, my parents seem to be making a greater effort to recognize the ways their comments and actions affect the rest of us and this new-found thoughtfulness has been refreshing...although I am not yet ready to believe it's here to stay.

One sweet and funny thing happened yesterday when my parents, my brother Ira and my sister-in-teeth Helen, and my nephew Peanut were opening Christmas presents.  Everyone in our family has a stocking that my mother made by hand for them, and of course since this is Peanut's first Christmas she had to make him a stocking too.  Stocking contents are traditional and predictable: packages of post-its, rolls of film, socks, LifeSavers Sweet Storybooks, spinning tops, and the like.  Once one empties out all of that booty and unwraps it, however, there is always one last treat tucked into the stocking's toe: a fresh midwinter navel orange to eat at breakfast on Christmas morning.

So Ira and Helen were opening up the gifts from within their own individual stockings, and made their way to the two matching oranges at the bottom.  After they had put everything aside they emptied Peanut's stocking and took turns holding him and unwrapping his presents so he could see.  He must have been a good boy these past three and a half months because he made out like a bandit!  He got socks, cozy stocking caps, cute clothes, a rattle, two wooden animals to build his grasping skills, and way down in the toe of his stocking: a clementine.

The Lesson:
"Well what was I supposed to do?" my half-deaf mother bellowed into the phone as she told me this story after all the presents were unwrapped last night.  "The kid's too small for a regular-sized orange--and, he doesn't even have teeth yet!  But I thought he should have a little something, in keeping with tradition and all."

At My Parents' House: A Family Story

The Story:
I am supposed to be at my parents' house in Chicago right now, where my entire family except for me is assembled preparing for that holiday which is no longer mine--Christmas.  Through a completely involuntary but totally humiliating and expensive series of events, I am still here in San Francisco.

Ira called me last night at the request of my father, for what reason neither Ira nor I were sure except that it was some combination of an attempt at long-distance family solidarity with a side of good old-fashioned guilt thrown in.  During our conversation, Ira told me both about the antics of my grandmother Winkie and her inability to understand the concept of "speakerphone," another story for another time, and also about how he and Helen got it on in his room while my dad was four steps away in the kitchen making a snack.

The Lesson:
Damn!  Not even I have gotten any action at my parents' house.  The backseat of a taxi in Jerusalem, the fitting room at Banana Republic, a Fourth Grade classroom just after dismissal on the last day of school before Winter Break: proudly, yes.  My parents' house in Chicago: disappointingly, no.  Way to go, Ira and Helen--and the Peanut was asleep on the floor, no less!  You've definitely changed the definition of what "being on one's best behavior" while home for the holidays means.  And really, I am not one to shy away from a challenge.  I just don't think there's going to be anything I can do about it on *this* trip.

Two Very Different Peas From One Crazy Pod: A Family Story

The Story:
My brother Ira is amazing and I adore him and it blows my mind how we are from the same family.  Really, it makes no sense how two people who grew up in the same household could get along so well yet be so profoundly different.

Let's do a little compare and contrast...

Ira:

• has a wife named Helen and a baby named Peanut
• lives in Iowa
• owns his home
• hunts
• has accepted Christ and goes to church
• fresh and clean

Zelda:

• was partnered for almost five years with a man, then had a secret ungirlfriend for awhile, and is now single
• lives in San Francisco
• rents a studio apartment for four times her brother's monthly mortgage payment
• is mostly vegetarian with occasional lapses into chicken
• is a Jew by choice and goes to temple
• tattooed and pierced

The Lesson:
Huh?!

Alef And Dr. Animal Are Getting Married!: A Love Story And A Family Story

The Story:
After five and a half years together, Alef and Dr. Animal have decided to get married.  She told me two Sundays ago at Kabuki as we were preparing ourselves for the High Holidays through both insightful reflection on the past year and also those very refreshing cucumber slices you can put over your eyes in the dry sauna.  We were in the dressing area and I had a hard time containing my excitement but since I did not want anyone to sound the infamous Kabuki Gong of Silence I had to try and, as we say in Third Grade, control my reaction.

We talked about it more loudly during lunch and we've talked about it a bunch of times since then and I am so happy for them and it is going to be so much fun and it is a year from now, next October, in New Hampshire and we are going to buy Alef a beautiful dress and their engagement party is going to be at Cesar in November (but not on a Friday or Saturday night since that costs $10,000) and she is going to wear her grandmothers' ring and this is absolutely delightful news for the new year.

The Lesson:
Mazel tov Alef and Dr. Animal!!!

What I Did In Iowa: A Travel Story and A Family Story

The Story:
Last weekend in Iowa, I...
•slept on the couch
•got to go to Peanut's daily check-up to see how much weight he'd gained
•shopped at a really great Target
•drove through a rainstorm in the middle of the night to Hy-Vee, the supermarket, to buy $50 worth of breakfast stuff for Sunday morning after Helen decided she was very tired and so overwhelmed with all the necessary preparations for taking Peanut outside the house that she could not both go out to breakfast with Ira's and my parents, and also go to church
•made cream cheese & cherry french toast, fruit salad, turkey bacon, and fed all this with bagels and cream cheese and coffee and juice at 8:30 in the morning to my entire family
•went over to dinner at someone's house and was served a meal comprised entirely of yellow or white foods with no green vegetables anywhere in sight
•did lots of very small but very dirty laundry
•figured out that Peanut is like a bird in that if you cover up his head with a towel (loosely of course) that he first becomes quiet and then falls asleep
•went to church where the woman behind me asked if I was Ira's mother to which despite being on my previously-agreed upon Best Behavior I replied, "No, but I AM Jewish," at which point Ira hit me and we left
•tried to play nice with my parents, specifically my mother
•woke up at five a.m. and drove for six hours in the pouring rain back to the airport with stops at both the McDonald's in Monmouth, IL to take a nap and Winkie's house in DeKalb, IL to pick up a sack lunch to eat on the plane and say a quick hello

The Lesson:
I spent five days without one minute of time to myself except when I was in the bathroom with the door closed or when I was asleep.  For someone with an (albeit despised at times) one-person life, a situation like this can be hard to manage.

I Am In Iowa: A Family Story

The Story:
It is Friday night and I am in Iowa.  I lived here in this unfailingly flat yet straightforwardly beautiful state for five years, but moved west to California in 1997.  Since that time I have only been back once, two years ago, when Ira and Helen got married.  Now I am here once again, staying at their house with them and their five-day-old son who just got his real name recently but whose blog name is Peanut. 

I do not belong here anymore, it is obvious.  People can tell I'm no local as I walk down the street, just my style or even to some extent my shape I suppose.  A woman working at Target said to me today, "You don't live around here, do you?"  Um, no.  What gave it away--my headband, my handbag?

There are no other Jews in my family, I know no Jews in Iowa so tonight my Shabbat candles, although I brought them in my luggage, will remain unlit.  I feel disconnected from the nascent community I am beginning to finally build for myself, I feel disappointed to not be at Ani's housewarming party in the Marina, I feel lonely for a Shabbat sleepover at Alef's or Pirate Girl's house.  I love Ira and Helen, I love Peanut, but it is strange and humid here and I am struggling with wanting to go home.

The Lesson:
Shabbat shalom from Iowa.

New: A Family Story

The Story:

(Ira's hand with Peanut's footprint, click to enlarge)

The Lesson:
My nephew is here :)

Alef's House: A True Story

The Story:
In case for some reason it has not been made abundantly clear in my previous writing here, let me state now for the record that I adore Alef and that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Alef and I have been pals for almost exactly five years and I knew she was fabulous the first day I saw her at the conference center in Tiburon in the seat across the aisle from me with her Birkenstocks off and her legs folded up, criss-cross-applesauce, on the blue molded plastic chair in which we were cursed to sit for eight hours that day.  She had some version of an "I'm Here, I'm Queer" totebag from a conference or march or protest in Washington, D.C., and I could tell instantly that she was one of the cool kids and I wanted to be her friend.

Since that time we have coached one another through the heartbreak of love affairs ending and the confusion of purchasing new underwear at Victoria's Secret.  She has been there both times I've moved, in 2003 and again last year, yet somehow I have managed not to be there either time she's moved and for that I feel overwhelmingly guilty.  We were roommates and travel companions for three and a half weeks in Israel two summers ago and once we made it through that and were still on speaking terms I knew not only a) that she is faster at getting ready in the morning than anyone I have ever met, EVER, but also b) that we would be friends for the rest of our lives.

Alef has done one million compassionate things for me but perhaps the most impactful, the one which I will never forget and to which I cannot help but always feeling indebted, was the night in August 2003 when all of us were together in Berkeley.  She and Dr. Animal had just moved to their cottage behind Whole Foods and everyone was over for a housewarming barbecue to celebrate.  All night long things were very tense between #7 and I, and Alef could tell because as we were preparing to leave for BART she pulled me aside by the back door and asked me what was wrong.  They were leaving the next day for Costa Rica and I knew she must have a thousand things on her mind so without really going into it I sketched out the current trouble and my overwhelming confusion to her.

"Here, I have something for you," she said, pressing the extra set of housekeys into my palm and folding my fingers shut over them.  "Come stay here for the next few weeks while we're gone.  I think it might help you figure things out."  Gratefully and guiltily I tucked the keys into my bag, hurriedly I hugged her goodbye as we left for the train.  The next day I moved in to their garden cottage filled with books and tea and music and candles and notes she had left me, and as I fell asleep on her side of their beyond-heavenly $1,500 mattress that night I felt terrified and brave all at the same time.  I knew I had to move out of my apartment, I knew it was time to try something else.  It was August 7, 2003.

Since that time Alef's house, both the one they lived in then and the one they live in now, has been a completely magical place to me because of the liminal role it has served in my life.  I adore going there almost as much as I adore her, and as she was tucking me into bed lst night during the first of what I hope are many Shabbat Sleepovers in the Beast (Pig Latin for the East Bay just so you know) I pointed out what a good pair we are since she has the gift of hospitality and is always willing to indulge me when I want to come over, while at the same time I have the gift of transportability and never mind making the shlep from the city.  An ideal match, we decided together.

The Lesson:
It feels very good right now to know that Alef's house is one of the places that I can call home.  I even left my dirty laundry there in the guest room (on accident! oops...) to seal the deal.  She said she would just leave the sheets on the extra bed for me for next week.  I can't wait :)

None Of The Above: A Family Story

The Story:
Without going into the gory details, I am sick.  Like, sick to my stomach.  I have been sick since before I left Jerusalem and have continued to be sick since I've been back.  The situation has become so unusual and troubling that I have now been to Kaiser not once but twice.  The first time I went was the day after I got back, and in a profound show of what will certainly now be lifelong friendship Pirate Girl came with me, even into the examining room. 

After another week of this with no change, I called the advice nurse this morning only to find out that once again, like last week, my nurse is gone for the day.  I made an appointment with the same nurse Pirate Girl and I saw last week, but she just kind of made sympathetic clucking noises and sent me to the lab for (another) blood test.

On the phone tonight, my parents were curious about how my transition back to the States is coming along.  I told them I'm fine, still jet-lagged all day and sleepless all night but that otherwise I am getting unpacked and caught up with everything.  How is your stomach? they wanted to know.  Pretty much the same, I said.

My father, nationally-renowned psychological expert on trauma, quickly and authoritatively diagnosed my tummy trouble as being the result of one of two things.  "Either you have a little PTSD going on from having been in Israel during the invasion of Lebanon, completely stressful and understandable," he explained, "Or you're pregnant.  Frankly I hope it's the first and not the second, but your mother and I have always taught you to be independent and nothing really surprises us about your choices anymore so really, whatever.  I just hope you feel better soon."

The Lesson:
No and no, but thanks anyway Dad.