Soap

My father grew up in Yonkers in a very poor part of town. His father, my grandfather, worked at the GM plant and my grandmother did a little bookkeeping .  She also washed every piece of fruit with any kind of skin:  apples, pears, peaches with Rokeach kosher soap.  For those not familiar, in a kosher kitchen all meat and dairy is separate and cannot be mixed together.  There was a red bar of soap for the "meat" dishes and pans and a blue bar of soap for the "dairy" dishes and pans.  I'm not sure which one she used to furiously wash the fruit.

My father grew up in an orthodox Jewish family.  They were modern in their style and dress but the house was strictly kosher and all holidays and days of observance were strictly enforced.  My dad had a brother, 5 years younger.  My grandfather would get up very early, go to work, come home, eat and go to sleep.   When he was awake he would often be in front of the television smoking Camels watching, "The Little Rascals."  He and my father had a barely-existent relationship.

My grandfather left school after 3rd grade to be a "runner" on Wall Street.  He would run messages and papers from one building to another.  His father was born in Poland and came through Ellis Island in the late 1890's, escaping the extreme poverty and anti-semitism of the time.  Since my grandfather was not a man of many words I don't know much else.  I remember him being quiet and kind.  He would run to the store to get me Cocoa Puffs when I came to visit   He died on his son's (my dad) birthday when I was 12.

My grandmother was a much stronger presence and I know a lot more about her.  She was born in Lithuania and came to the U.S. when she was 2. She grew up in a middle-class home and came over through Ellis Island in 2nd class-not steerage- like most immigrants.  In 1920 my grandmother was offered a scholarship to Columbia University which was unheard of for a Jewish woman in those days. She declined the offer and spent the rest of her life blaming everyone else for her decision.

I can see how my father came to a place in his life whereby he would become a husband to a domineering and depressed woman as well as becoming a neglectful and absent father to his child.  So many patterns repeated.  So many lessons never learned.   I can say, however, that the fruit in my house growing up did not taste like soap.  So maybe some lessons were learned.

A Staten Island Minute

My parents moved back to New York when I was 2 and we settled into an apartment in Staten Island.  Our apartment was at the top of a flight of very steep stairs.  I was allowed to neither descend nor ascend these stairs on my own.  I remember riding my tricycle in the parking lot behind the apartment building by myself.  Strange how I was not allowed to go up some stairs by myself but it was okay to, literally, play in traffic.  We had a balcony that housed a small plastic pool in the summer months.  The pool eventually blew away in a storm leaving me devastated.  I was probably jealous of it's escape and it's subsequent freedom.

I started preschool at the Staten Island JCC when I was 3.  I'm sure my mother saw this as the first step to  my master's degree  but she refrained from lecturing me about grad school until I was at least in 5th grade.  I loved preschool.   It was fun.  I had friends, I played, we had Kool Aid and Oreos.  My teachers were sweet and attentive and maternal.  We sang songs, we danced, there was a play kitchen.  My best friend was a girl named Stacy.  Her mom sold Tupperware. My mother would never be bothered with something so "menial" as Tupperware.  She had a finished basement and a brother named David. They had pitchers of lemonade in their refrigerator and a cookie jar.  I spent a lot of time there.  It was so different from my house.  In my house we had Sanka instant coffee and Manischewitz gefilte fish in jars.  Stacy's house was so much more fun and way cooler.  I grew up in other people's houses. I always gravitated towards friends who had these big families, watched the Donny and Marie Show together and  played board games on Sunday night.   I knew my family was different even at a very young age.  I didn't know how yet but I did know I'd rather be somewhere else than where I was.

My mother said she used to take me on the Staten Island Ferry but I have no memories of this.  I wish I could conjure up glamorous images of me and my mother sailing the Upper New York Bay but I don't have any.  We moved to the midwest when I was 4.  I would return to New York yearly since that was where every other member of my family resided.  It would remain a huge part of my life until my 20's when I stopped going on a regular basis and instead headed west to find a home.  I would love to go back one day, find the apartment in Staten Island and go up and down that flight of stairs.  By myself.

Good Beginnings

"I thought I was going to die."  My mother, 9 months pregnant was waddling through the parking lot of the mall.  "It was June.  In Houston.  So humid.  I lost the car.  I walked and walked.  I thought I was going to die."  This is the first story my mother tells of my existence.   Notice a few things here:  1.  The focus isn't on me.  2. The story involves inconvenience, discomfort and a general sense of misery.  3.  The story doesn't end with, "I found the car.  I got in the air-conditioning and felt so much better.  I was so happy."  There is no happy ending.  Ever.  That basically sums up my mother's perception of the world and life.  Both hers and mine.

"I was sick.  I mean, I was really, really sick."  My father recalled the night before I was born. "I was in the waiting room and it was obvious you weren't coming that night.  So I went home.  I was really sick." This is the first story my father tells of my existence.  Again, notice a few things here:  1.  The focus isn't on me. 2.  The story involves inconvenience, discomfort and a general sense of misery.  3.  The story doesn't end with, "I went home and got some sleep.  Early the next morning I came back to the hospital and there you were.  I was so happy."  There is no happy ending.  Ever. And even if my father felt there was he would of been told by my mother he couldn't have a happy ending.  Too bad.

So armed with depression and anxiety my parents brought me into the world.  This is my story.  It is a story of love, struggle, determination, success, failure, sarcasm, music, humor, friends and family.  And guess what?  There IS a happy ending.