Resilience, hope, and resisting hate

When I think back to my childhood, I remember my friends and the games we played. I remember the woods up the street and the courtyard of my apartment building. I remember my family, my mother dancing in the kitchen, and my stuffed animals. And I remember my father railing about the Holocaust and Nazis and antisemitism.

My father was the child of Russian Jewish immigrants. He didn't know much about his family's life in Russia; the only story he remembered was one of Cossacks coming for the Jews in the village, and his father hidden in a flour barrel. My father was born shortly before World War 2 started and I'm sure his childhood was full of stories of pogroms, Nazis, and eventually what we have come to know as the Holocaust. While he didn't remember (or want to share) specific stories, this colored his entire life and outlook. His response to a trip to Israel was relief at the young people with guns, saying that this way he knew "it would never happen again." We all knew what "it" meant.

As a young child, I knew that I was Jewish and this was dangerous. Because both of my parents were secular, my only understanding of Judaism was that 6 million Jews died in the Holocaust. I knew that from a very young age and writing that down here feels like a childhood litany. I knew that Hanukah was the Jewish Christmas and it had something to do with oil lasting eight days. I did not know what Passover or the High Holidays were other than "Jewish New Year," I had a vague idea that we weren't supposed to work on Friday but we still did. I didn't know much of anything about my religion, culture beyond pain, and that Albert Einstein, Leonard Bernstein, Sandy Kofax, and Benny Goodman were Jews. I knew being a Jew meant I was at risk, that I was special somehow, and little else.

By the time I was in my teens and 20s I was hungry for deeper meaning, so I began to explore what my spiritual landscape looked like. In my 30s I had a much deeper understanding of what it meant to me to be a Jew. I began to shape an understanding of Judaism that wasn't based in fear or in anger over past atrocity. I would rather live in the present and live out loud. Now, in my 50s, I think of myself as a witchy JuBu (look it up). I observe the High Holidays, Passover, Hanukah. I try to set aside some of the Sabbath and have a bit of wine and bread, taking a moment to be grateful. I now understand myself as someone who is Jewish, and that Judaism is a religion of resilience among many other things. There is a reason that many Jewish holidays can be summarized as they tried to kill us, they didn't, let's eat. 

Anti-semitism has hovered in the air, but I've been lucky. It's rarely touched me. I've had a few people say some odd things to me (one date kissed me then commented that he'd always heard Jewish girls were sweeter; that was the only date and only kiss). I've had to explain things from time to time (I once explained Passover and why matzoh is important to a fascinated crowd in a rural midwest supermarket. They offered me Saltines with all good intentions). I've occasionally walked away from heated discussions or on rare occasions been able to ask the right question.

My social justice work has come from a place of privilege, I know this. I've worked for the rights of others and will continue to do so, but it was only in feminism that I felt my own safety might be endangered; I did it anyway. I've not felt physically endangered or even all that concerned about Anti-Semitism in the U.S. My father's fears were not mine.

All of that shifted after the 2016 election. The day after the election several synagogues and Jewish cemeteries were vandalized in Kansas City, not 15 miles from where I lived. I overheard people in public places talking about how the election showed the Jews who was boss. I was afraid to put my menorah in the front window but decided I would not live in fear. I lit the candles every night and I will do so again this year. The U.S. President may be a hate-monger and understands the power of fear, but I will not let him and his toadies define me.

Since then I have been more aware of the ways my father was right. He wasn't right to make the Holocaust the only notable part of Jewish history, but he was right that hatred is a powerful drug and that Jews have been targeted for millennia. American culture has always had a thread of anti-Semitism, but in my lifetime, until very recently, it was something to hide. Now it's out in public, and it has killed people.

Three thousand years of history, culture, art, music, life should not be defined by acts of hatred. I will not be defined by an act of hatred. I would rather create my own definitions of my life and my culture. I mourn those killed yesterday in Pittsburgh. I will say their names. And I will stand up. I will put my menorah in the window and be visible. I will remember that it is three thousand years of resilience, endurance, love.

I will still stand with those who are being attacked, whether they are of color, women, LGBT+, immigrants, Muslims, etc. I trust you will stand with me. They tried to kill us. We stood together. They failed. Let's eat.

Dedicated to the memories of:

• Joyce Feinburg, 75, of Oakland
• Richard Godfried, 65, of Ross Township
• Rose Mallinger, 97, of Squirrel Hill
• Jerry Robinowitz, 66, of Edgewood
• Cecil Rosenthal, 59, of Squirrel Hill
• David Rosenthal, 54, of Squirrel Hill
• Bernice Simon, 84, of Wilkinsburg
• Sylvan Simon, 86, of Wilkinsburg
• Daniel Stein, 71, of Squirrel Hill
• Melvin Wax, 88, of Squirrel Hill
• Irvin Yungner, 69, of Mount Washington

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(c)2018 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Finding the holiday spirit

I know people who love this time of year. The day after Thanksgiving, or maybe even before, they are decorating, planning, wearing brightly colored sweaters and more. Whether Christmas is a religious or secular event, they are thrilled that it's the holiday season.

I am not one of these people. Please don't think I'm a Scrooge, bah-humbugging everyone's fun, but Christmas isn't that big a deal to me. When I was a child I loved Santa, the tree, and the gifts. As I grew older I loved (and still love) finding gifts for those I cherish, but I became more aware of the complexities of Christmas. For one I'm not Christian, so the season sometimes feels a bit oppressive. For another it was often a time of family stress. Christmas began to be associated with careful navigation through hazardous waters and an increasing frustration with commercialism.

As an adult I finally found some Christmas spirit through rituals Kevin and I developed. We hosted a big open house every year. I loved and still love filling the kids' (now adults) stockings. I enjoyed the ritual of finding and cutting down a tree. None of it really felt like mine, but it was a fun thing to be a part of and a great opportunity to show people that I love them.

Then Kevin got sick. By this time in 2013 we knew something was seriously wrong but we didn't know how bad it was. Christmas now hold memories of the last weeks we had together before his diagnosis. Since his death, my stepkids and I have developed some wonderful new rituals, but it still feels a little strange for all that it is also loving and warm.

I know just how lucky I am because I know what I have lost. Christmas is now a mixture of love and sorrow.

So how do I navigate this time of year? How do I find holiday spirit so I at least won't be a drag for those who love Christmas beyond all else? This year I'm looking for the stories. I'm reminding myself of all the good times, all of the love and light and laughter. This is, of course, what we do at the holidays. We tell each other stories, the same ones we've been telling for years. They are part of the holiday ritual now.

My holiday stories are about spilled wine, unsteady menorahs, finding the right tree, baking bread, playlists, welcomed strangers, losing electricity, merged traditions, teaching the kids to gamble by playing dreidl, sledding miracles and more. For you the stories may be about a child being born, shelter from the cold, family and friends and sweaters that just didn't fit. I don't know yours and you don't know mine, but I do know these stories are lights in the darkness. They are stories of hope and love and faith in something when the world is cold and unwelcoming.

Keep telling your stories. Keep listening. They are our guideposts to find a deeper kind of holiday spirit than anything you can buy in a store.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

A plague of loss

One of the many things I cherish about my relationship with Kevin is our approach to the Holy. Kevin was a faithful Christian. I am a struggling Jew. We had many conversations about what it means to have faith and how that faith could be expressed. This was one of the things that bound us to each other in the early days of our relationship; it was one of the things that helped us navigate the end.

Though Kevin and I came from different traditions and had different understandings of faith, god and spirituality, we found common ground. We respected each others beliefs, talked about it frequently and eventually built new rituals that honored us both. The new traditions honored religious calendars, community and common ground between us. Many of you may have heard about or participated in our Christmas celebrations. Far fewer knew about our Passover celebration.

Blood
Frogs

I was raised in a secular home. It was only once I was involved with Kevin that I really began to explore what it means to have more than 3,000 years of history behind me. While I am unlikely to ever be deeply observant, being Jewish has become an important part of my identity, one that is tightly bound to my Christian husband.

Lice
Enraged beasts

As I explored more of my own heritage, with Kevin's encouragement, I found that I particularly love Passover. I love the ritual and story of it, that it celebrates freedom and memory and does so through food and narrative. Kevin and I attended friends' Seders and then began to host our own. It was another piece of common ground for us, as descendants of enslaved people and as people questing for our own understanding of the world.

Cattle disease
Boils

Every year I would consider the Seder and the story told. I would look to my own heart for the parts that had the most meaning. I developed my own Haggadah and sought a deeper understanding of the ritual. Soon I noticed that the naming of the plagues always brought me to tears and I would find myself shaking as God forbade the angels from celebrating the death of the Egyptian firstborn, stating that all beings are beloved. It helped me understand the depths of enslavement, if it took something so terrible to break it. It helped me feel empathy for all people and helped me remember that everyone wants to feed their family, everyone loves their children, everyone grieves. I would encourage those at my Seder table to consider how truly terrible each of these plagues were, how they are more than words on a page and drops of wine on a plate, but each one brought pain, loss and grief.

Hail
Locusts

Now, in my season of grief, this is even more acute. Before the grief was a theoretical thing. Now it is intimate and personal. Kevin's death and my grief feels like my own plague and I keep wondering what I have done to deserve such punishment. Of course I know cancer is not my fault. Of course I know I did nothing to make him ill or deserve this loss. But grief has its own language and own fickle logic. In the middle of the night my heart cannot help but ask why, over and over again, wondering if there was something I could have done to change what has happened.

Darkness
Death of the firstborn

For the first time in many years, this year I am not hosting a Seder. I will go to a friend's home and say the prayers with her community. I will be the welcome stranger. I will close my eyes and hear Kevin's voice mixed in with all of ours as we recite the story together. And as we place drops of wine on our plates to signify the losses incurred by the plagues, I will add one extra.

(c)2015 Laura S. Packer

Santa, faith and miracles

If you are under the age of, oh, 20, you may want to stop reading now. I'm going to talk about some things that you might not want to know. If you're over 20 you might want to stop anyway, because I hope to challenge some of your assumptions and shattered beliefs. Though, really, isn't that what blogging is all about?

It's the season where overweight elderly men in decidedly out-of-fashion red and white suits are all the rage. You know who I'm talking about. Mr. Claus. Santa.

I have no interest in Santa-bashing. I'm not going to explore his better-than-the-NSA security (after all, he knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you're awake), nor will I deign to impugn his fondness for bouncing kids on his knee. I trust that he is what he seems to be, a kindly old man, a great listener, a generous soul who manages to accomplish miracles over the course of one night.

That's right, I'm suggesting that maybe, somehow, Santa is real. Sure, at some point in your life someone told you that your parents put those presents under the tree, that it was all a sham. When I found out, I cried. I felt deeply betrayed by my family, by all the people who said they were Santa, by the world. Some of the magic was gone. But the kid who told me that was wrong.

I'm tempted to go into some kind of Yes, Virginia-esque rant about how Santa lives in all of us, but I won't. Instead I'll simply suggest this. Of course Santa is real. He is believed in by hundreds of thousands of kids all around the world, and reality is highly subjective. For them, he is real, flesh and blood, no-sense-questioning-the-miracles kind of real. There are other things thousands, millions of people believe in with less evidence than Santa, that they have absolute faith in. UFOs. God. Miracles. Who am I to disuade them of their belief brings them comfort and joy while harming no one else? Who am I to say that the things they believe in aren't real? Isn't that part of what faith is about - believing in something you can't prove is real? Kind of like string theory?

Sure, Santa needs help with his miracles. We all need help with miracles. I think it's kind of miraculous that my Jewish parents went to the trouble of drinking the milk, eating the cookies and leaving me notes on Christmas (not to mention giving me gifts) so I wouldn't feel left out when the other kids got visits from Santa. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I appreciate that miracle, it was a wonder for me as a kid. And I didn't feel left out.

I think it's kind of miraculous that so many people at work gave to Toys for Tots so kids they didn't know would have something to play with this holiday season.

I think it's kind of miraculous that we're all still here in the first place.

So maybe Santa is that force in the world that reminds us to be kind to each other, that we can extend ourselves a little bit more to help each other out. That listening to one another doesn't cost anything beyond some time and patience. If Santa is kindness and listening and patience - those miraculous forces that can change lives and the world - then I'm a believer, no matter what anyone says. It's worth having faith in something.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer

Lights in the darkness

Tonight is the first night of Hanukkah. When I was a child, my family didn't really observe any of the Jewish holidays. As an adult I am finding they have growing importance and meaning, but because I am coming to this now, I am creating my own meaning in addition to the traditional ones.

I know, Hanukkah in America has been overblown so Jewish kids have something to feel good about while all the Christian kids have Christmas. But it is more than that. Like so many Jewish holidays, it chronicles a story of survival and the celebration is about making it through adversity with some miracles thrown in for good measure. They tried to kill us, we survived, let's eat! We've been telling that story for a long time. All humans can tell that story, regardless of ethnicity or religion.

I also believe it's no mistake that this holiday, the festival of lights, happens now, in the darkest days of the year. We light candles to give thanks for past miracles and for this moment in our lives. It's a reminder of the gifts of our lives, even in the dark, in this moment.

These messages - of survival, of hope, of determination, of memory - are captured in the photograph that heads this entry. It speaks for itself.

For the next eight nights I will light candles and tell stories of surviving adversity, whether it's about having enough oil to re-sanctify the temple, beating illness, saying goodbye, or just making it through another day. I'll make latkes. I'll consider the darkness and power of one small light in the night.

(c) 2007 Laura S. Packer