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Now, can we please end the insufferable hypocrisy and let the woman rest in peace already? Somehow I doubt it. Listening to NPR this morning, you'd think the Pope had been the one who died.
I've not felt much like writing this week (troublesome, since that's how I earn them paychecks I'm fond of spending). Still, I've wanted to comment on the death of Paul Hester, drummer for one of my favorite bands, Crowded House, and one of the few musicians I've had the pleasure of seeing naked on a concert stage. His exuberant stage antics were the second reason I so enjoyed a CH show, the first being (duh!) the music. CH frontman Neil Finn, one of my personal songwriting gods, made an appropriately eloquent statement regarding the loss of his friend. I listened to Together Alone in tribute.
With three people very dear to me going through divorces right now, the matter of relationships ending is one weighing heavily on my mind. Long-held beliefs about the institution of marriage have been challenged and are now being questioned at every turn. I could not have predicted that the dissolution of a marriage other than my parents' or my own could affect me so fiercely. At best, my closeness to their experiences has given me a far better understanding of what I want and do not want in terms of my own relationships. That doesn't make me any less sad for them, unfortunately.
Despite the drama unfolding around me, I am curiously content currently. I appreciate the shit out of my job, relish every tasty morsel of freelance writing assignments and continue to contemplate graduate school, all while busying myself with planning my next move. It's exhausting being me.
* The requisite Crowded House lyric, natch.
Am I the only one there who finds it strangely off-putting when someone of your own generation calls you "Dear?" Just wondering.
In mentioning my recent visit with friends in L.A., I omitted the primary reason for my journey (not because it’s unworthy of mention, but because it required a greater time commitment than my typical entries demand).
As most of you are aware, my grandmother is an Auschwitz survivor. After decades of suffering in near-silence, Grandma Lida decided several years ago that it was time to discuss with her family and others what she endured and witnessed at the hands of the Nazis. Over the past 6-7 years, she has been speaking on the subject throughout Nevada (where she now lives), mostly to teenaged students and faculty. Speaking has become a passion of hers, a way to help ensure that no one (least of all impressionable youth) forgets what happened.
Last week, Lida took part in a larger-scale discussion at the Holocaust Education Conference, sponsored by the Governor’s Council on Education Relating to the Holocaust and the Las Vegas Jewish Federation. (Nevada is, sadly, one of only a handful of states making Holocaust education mandatory in public schools.)
Taking place at the Venetian Hotel, the conference assembled 500 middle school students and teachers for the purpose of educating them on the horrors of the Holocaust. Ordinarily fidgety, distracted teens sat engrossed when addressed by survivors (Lida included) telling their personal stories of life in Hitler’s carefully-designed and stringently-managed concentration camps. I was only sorry the students didn’t have the opportunity to hear the accounts of every survivor present.
Lida spoke graciously and frankly; behind her, a large screen projecting a grainy, black-and-white class photo from her grade school in Hungary, followed by a similarly grainy shot of her at sixteen, her head shorn, marching along with dozens of other terrified young women at Auschwitz. She bravely described being separated from her mother—my great-grandmother—and 13-year-old sister, neither of whom she saw again. Teachers wiped away tears. My mother, sitting beside me, dabbed her eyes. My sister videotaped the discourse.
I mostly observed the students, wondering what my own reaction to such a lesson would have been at their age. I recall being fascinated in Hebrew school to learn about Anne Frank, Golda Meir, and even Hitler and Himmler. Yet these kids were hearing about history from someone who actually lived it. Could they appreciate that? Or will they recognize the value of the lesson later? In my own life, just being aware of what my grandmother endured has made me far more appreciative of my good fortune; any time I feel depressed or even mildly discontented with my life, I need only to think of her. She has provided my will to live on those many occasions when it has been suppressed.
When she had finished telling her story, my grandmother tearfully thanked her cousins who'd flown in from Budapest for the conference. Then she introduced my mother, who offered a brief narrative of her own experiences as the daughter of survivors (my grandfather had been interned at work camps in Germany). Mom explained my grandparents’ long journey to Chile after the war, how they hurriedly learned Spanish and abandoned any practice associated with their religion. (What’s perhaps funniest about this bit of family history is that today, my grandparents are the most observant of us all.)
Over the years, Lida has amassed a respectable collection of literature relating to the Holocaust. She encouraged me to read the works of key voices like Elie Wiesel and Hannah Senesh. A decade ago, she conferred upon me a memoir, All But My Life, written by a Polish survivor who had lost her entire family and most of her friends in the Holocaust. The book sat on my shelf for years, amongst several other Holocaust-related paperbacks I’d accumulated, my own interest in the subject swelling as the number of survivors declines. Turns out the author of that memoir, Gerda Weissmann Klein, was the keynote speaker at last week’s conference, sharing her heartbreaking story with the entire conference. Even the majority of teenagers--no doubt drained after hours of such speeches—remained captivated, as evidenced later by the long lines they formed at the autograph tables.
Lida has several friends within the Jewish Federation, many of whom I met that evening and to whom I owe my gratitude for giving my grandmother an outlet not only to share her story but to feel as though she’s providing some benefit to today’s youth by educating them by means of an eyewitness account, rather than a textbook. In the final minutes of her speech, Lida always reminds young students that what happened 60 years ago still happens today. All that’s required for war and mass genocide to occur is hatred, which is as prevalent in societies like ours as it is in less-developed countries. She closes by encouraging kids to respond to hatred simply by shunning it, never accepting it even in its subtlest forms, as that only fuels its fire.
I must acknowledge the incredible generosity of Sheldon Adelson, owner of the Venetian Hotel, who kindly donated not only the space for the conference, but an excellent meal and staff necessary to conduct the event. Organizers provided paper on which attendees were encouraged to express their gratitude to the Adelsons, but, aside from writing them a personal letter (which I have), I’m open to suggestions as to how to properly thank a billionaire philanthropist for a gift that may seem minuscule to him but that meant the world to many.
P.S. I'm pleased to note that the aforementioned cousin J has linked to me! His blog is about as different from mine as can be, which is probably why I like it so much.
The sheer magnitude of my disgust with G.W. and his cronies is immeasurable these days, as they merrily go about their business of destroying America. My antipathy simply cannot be expressed in words. So I'll let this amusing little film help make my point. (Thanks to A for sharing.)
...for a new post, I KNOW, but I just flew home after another whirlwind trip that included a four-hour drive on top of a brief flight that seemed much longer due to criminally long lines for security at LAX. I mean, really LAX, why is it you are so ill-equipped to handle the amount of traffic scurrying through your gleaming glass doors? It's not as though L.A. just recently turned into a bustling metropolis, folks. Pick up the pace, y'all.
At least Oakland Airport has their shit together. As someone who travels by air 4-5 times a year, my vote goes to THE OAK for being da bomb of the airport world. (Oops... I just unwittingly said "bomb" and "airport" in the same sentence. Is that Herr Ashcroft I hear knocking at my door?)
Anyway, I humbly congratulate OAK for being the first in my dozen or so post-9/11 airport visits to notice (and, sadly, confiscate) my handsome pocket-knife, the same knife I inadvertently carried undetected through security at Newark a mere three weeks after that awful September morning.
What else? Naturally, spending time with family and dear friends (though briefly) was wonderful. As an added bonus, I had a rather unexpected visit with some east coast cousins over coffee at Rocca in Santa Monica, during which BJ nearly knocked me off my chair by mentioning how much he and Jonathan enjoy my blog. This very blog! Naturally, I blushed, inquired as to why they'd never posted comments to let me know of their sneaky readings and encouraged them to comment in the future. I, for one, never tire of discovering just who out there is tuning in, especially on those rare occasions when the news is of such pleasant surprise. So, let this serve as an official greeting to BJ, C and J, and anyone else who's been reading without providing me the honor and pleasure of knowing it! Nudge nudge, wink wink, all you secret readers...
At least someone in this increasingly Puritanical country gets it right!
Interesting, also, to note that California was the first state to legalize interracial marriage (in 1948). That's almost enough to make me proud of having spent more than 20 of my 33 years here. Almost.
Has anyone else noticed the length of the average store receipt has spiraled out of control lately? Buying just a few items these days nets me a four-foot long receipt, cluttered with advertising and other crap that effectively buries the numerical figure essential to my financial record-keeping. Ridiculous waste of paper, if you ask me. I'm surprised stores aren't cutting back instead of steadily increasing the amount of register tape they use on a daily basis.
On a lighter note, the other day I visited a Subway sandwich shop in order to feed my near-unquenchable honey oat bread addiction (who cares what's actually on the bread, right?). Anyway, when the woman in line behind me was asked what kind of cheese she wanted on her sandwich, she replied, "Normal." I nearly laughed out loud. So, "American" is now equated with normalcy? Can't you just hear the new slogan of the radical right? "America: The New Normal." Now, everyone turn in your dark-skinned neighbors to the Department of Homeland Security before they attack!
I wouldn't be surprised to spot a plurality of those sadly ubiquitous "Support our troops" ribbons affixed to this woman's car, right next to her Bush/Cheney and "Jesus loves me" stickers. Hmm... judgmental much? I suppose. But that's typical human nature, isn't it? I'm simply exercising my right to be normal!
More Subway-related hilarity: when driving my regular route through town, I pass a large Subway billboard with the familiar logo and "Eat fresh" slogan beneath it. Motoring past yesterday, I noticed someone had gone to the great trouble of climbing the massive billboard to replace (using identical color and print style) the word "fresh" with the word "shit." Thanks for the chuckle, whoever you are.
After seven months in Iraq and a horrific five-day journey home, my friend Craig has returned to his family. The smile on his daughter Mia's face says it all...
When he has some free time (not likely anytime soon), Craig may want consider contributing to a wonderful website I recently discovered: Eyewitness to History. Fascinated by history since childhood, I've been drawn for days to this site, with its incredible first-person accounts of the most important periods in history. I, personally, am fortunate enough to know some amazing people with their own remarkable stories to tell. Very fortunate, indeed.
Confession time. I'm posting this here (avoiding a lengthy letter to The Ethicist) in the hopes that someone out there will absolve me of my sins against commercialism and the betterment of our national economy.
A few weeks ago, I purchased a rather expensive book online at Amazon.com, where it was offered for $29.99 instead of its far less feasible $49.99 list price. Add some sales tax on there and I spent roughly $32, warily exposing my Visa card to the cyber-elements.
As prompted by Amazon, I trek over to the local Borders store, receipt in hand, to pick up my long-desired new book. A grim, multi-pierced clerk with no more than 16 years on this planet graciously hands me my book housed in a plastic bag to protect it from pesky drops of water falling from the sky. I cheerfully and lovingly transport my new book home, where I begin perusing it straight away.
The following day, I receive an email from Amazon, gently reminding me to pick up my purchase at Borders. I delete it, figuring Borders simply had not yet alerted Amazon to the fact that I had, indeed, picked up the book.
Amazon continues its daily automated emails, urging me to retrieve this item for which they had so hastily charged my credit card. Eventually, I am informed that since I had neglected to pick up the book, my precious $32 had been refunded.
Now I feel guilty (only slightly), but honestly, is it my fault the pubescent lad at Borders neglected to inform Amazon that they'd surrended the book? Or have I permanently endangered the good karma I've toiled for years to accrue?