SheilaTGTG55's Open Salon Blog

To Mother

Tue, 14 May 2013 18:05:56 -0400

Mother –

Do not worry.

The pain of separation

I am about to feel is

Part of my journey to

Who I am and what I

Will become

My judgment must be

Honed by a series of experiences

Ones that only I can

Survive- feel- experience.

You are my rock

And if my ship crashes

Against the reef and

Waves overcome me – you

Are the scrap of earth

That I will cling to

But, you are only there

As the fall back place

I must go forward, yet again, after rest and

Sustenance – for your

Rock is yours, mine to

Use but not to keep –

I must go forward.

Mother

Do not worry.

I carry you uniquely

With me. I see you, even

When we are apart.

I hear you talking to me

And telling me what

To do what to say and

Helping me to think.

I do not forget

I place you in a compartment

Of importance and each person I meet is

Measured in someway

Against what you have

Demonstrated to me.

Do not worry. I know

I will be hurt, devastated,

Confused, upset, shocked –

But I will also be

Strong, recovered, hopeful

Determined and happy.

You have taught me how

To do these things and

So I will go forward

I will be determined

And whatever measure

Of success I will

Attain, I will reflect on

Your part in that

Your strength and your determination.

I am convinced that

Whoever I spend the

Days of my life with

Will understand me

Almost as much as you

Love me

Almost as much as you

And care for my

Happiness as much as

You have cared and

Nurtured mine

I am not afraid so

Neither should you be

You will always be with me.

Sheila Luecht 2008

A Poem for a Friend

Fri, 10 May 2013 18:05:23 -0400

In Our Time

For the beloved Bruce Tillinger, husband and father.

Days have come to end

Nights have spent their stardust

Dark it has become

And yet a fire burns bright

we turn to it for warmth, this is love

the wind blows it in every direction

The desire to know becomes great

what is next, how will it go

One spontaneous last dance

As long as it is with you,

lost in your arms I am

your dreams are mine and mine yours

Community surrounds

tall trees still reach skyward

G-d awaits us

In the end our gift is what we give each other

what we speak

what we know

what we learn

what we share with the world, love

Sheila Luecht 12/12/2008

Yom Hashoah, Still Meaningful?

Tue, 9 Apr 2013 21:04:56 -0400

Moving into spring this year I was remembering the wedding of a young couple who chose Holocaust Memorial Day as their wedding day. At the time we had a business in Skokie Illinois and it was a decade or so after the proposed Nazi march there by the National Socialist Party of America. It was our accountant's son and we went to the wedding in downtown Chicago at the then Ambassador East Hotel, where the famous Pump Room was located. It was a lovely affair and what I remember most were the kosher hand passed hor dourves before dinner.

Every year I have a mix of memories at this time. I think about this young couple and how their whole lifetime together is marked by their choice of that day in particular; to purposely stand up and commit to each other in marriage. Kind of like a testimony of their life, and that Jewish life went on after the Holocaust, a kind of 'in your face, we defy you to believe you have wiped us off the face of the earth", statement.

"There is a sense in which Emil Fackenheim was right to say that for Jews to forget Hitler’s victims would be to grant him a “posthumous victory.” But it would be an even greater posthumous victory for Hitler were we to tacitly endorse his definition of ourselves as despised pariahs by making the Holocaust the emblematic Jewish experience.

These are the concluding lines from Peter Novick’s The Holocaust in American Life. " From Dissolution by Robert Zaretsky.

There was a post war, post economic boon, kind of emergence of Holocaust teaching. It followed Americans in their awarness in the 1980's and 1990's. It was the product of some reaching out by survivors, some cinematic series, some excellent writings and perhaps the beginning use of Anne Franks diary to introduce the subject to students of all ages. That awareness built in the decades of their own education and the curiosity about it probably grew from that time.

I was a product ot that Holocaust teaching. It made an imprint on my entire life. I don't really understand it but I can speculate on a number of reasons, both historical and spiritual, perhaps even psychic.

Studying at a Catholic grammer school, the introduction of a program which included some dance was an interesting break from the usual academic tedium. We got divided up into groups and taught a number of songs and dances for the upcoming program. I was put into a group that danced the Israeli Horah. We also sang Hava Naglia. I have sang and danced that at more than one wedding since.

I have no idea what the nuns were thinking, only I know that it was incredible to me to have this experience. It grew from the passion of the music and the words to the magic of feet moving. When I read about Anne Frank at this time, I learned more about how cultural Judaism was perceived and how religious Judaism differed. The lessons pop out in many writings and books which revolved around the blatant persecutions of all who where Jewish according to the Nazi definitions not the personal ones of the individuals. It captured me together with the hopelessness of the entire situation. You could not disclaim your faith to save yourself, even if you were not religious, you were racially, ethnically a Jew.

At the advent of WWII, the utter disbelief of this kind of persecution seemed to stall the evacuation by some Jews from Germany and the rest of Europe. They simply did not believe any persecution would apply to them. They were soldiers who had served Germany in WWI with honor and distinction, they were from all walks of life, inter married, non practicing; as far away from being a Jew as you could imagine. So how does this keep me thinking, even today about Yom Hashoah?

I read an article in the Tablet called "Do We Still Need Yom Hashoah?" Written by Ruth Franklin, the article talks about the origins of the day of remembrance, how it is not a religious holiday, it's diminishing importance in the U.S. and how the question is the meaningfulness of how the Holocaust is remembered, perhaps the ritual is not enough.

There are no official guidelines for observing Yom Hashoah. It is perhaps not meant to be a religious experience, only if religion applies to you and your feeling of the experience. The idea is simply one of remembering I think.

" The challenge, then, is to find meaningful ways of paying our respects to the tragedy. This year, I plan to continue my customary practice: I light a memorial candle and reflect on the history of my family, which includes many survivors. But I do so with the suspicion that such rituals have become obsolete. What we do to commemorate the Holocaust during the rest of the year is far more important." Ruth Franklin.

I don't know why the observance has peaked in the U.S., but I noticed it myself. There was less talk, less official remembrance noted here in the U.S. It is 60 years since the day was initiated in Israel and there is was observed in a dramatic, yet familiar fashion. Two minutes of silence, where everything stops, including the traffic on the highways and everyone leaves their car and stands beside it. All others stop and reflect too, in Israel. Here it does not seem to mean as much any more. Why?

Does time push all this into a huge heap of things which we have already processed beyond their inital pain? Do we need the pain of the Holocaust to remind us of anything meaningful in our lives today? There has been a great deal of discussion on this with the emotional memories of suvivors, their version of the truth and how historians perceive and process other significant events in history, that is the premise of the Zaretsky article. It is why he no longer speaks about the Holocaust as an expert.

I asked myself more than once if the Holocaust was something repeatable and if so would we allow it. Rwanda happened and I got my answer. Survivors of the Holocaust still walk this earth. Real people, who had real experiences in the camps. They live still. I recently read that even in the state of Israel some live in poverty, in want. How does that honor them, how does that speak to their experience? Yet Israel stands in observance of the suffering so many years ago.

Thirty five Holocaust survivors die every day and many are in a race against time to do something to help them live better lives in Israel.

Is there a relationship between the dimishing number of suvivors and the public consciousness to mourn those lost so long ago?

Yom Hashoah seems very personal to me. I remember. I think about it during the year as Ruth Franklin suggests. I live it in a way. It colors my existence as many things do to many people. When I was twenty I stood in the gas chamber at Mauthausen. It left it's mark on me, or should I said the place filled with horrific memory of those who perished whispered to me, 'never forget'. I never have.

Before

Fri, 5 Apr 2013 15:04:15 -0400

Marc Chagall's Wedding 1910 Photo found at:

tp://www.flickr.com/photos/centralasian/3204773784/

In the mid seventies, Holocaust survivors were very much alive and engaged in rebuilding their lives, but the past was not so distant. This is inspired by a true story.

Before

We jumped into the car and drove out of the cornfields.

Heading south we hit the city and keep driving until,

We reached the place.

We parked the car and headed over to the door.

A girl answered it. I remember nothing about her.

We walked into the small house and the sound was distinct.

The record player was on and a Yiddish song was playing.

I could not understand it but it spoke to me.

I wanted to know about it. Who was playing it?

It was her mother, laying on the couch.

I had not seen her there.

She was in a bathrobe, it was late in the day.

She did not see us, she did not hear us.

We were right there.

Her daughter hustled us out of the front room.

She whispered and we walked.

Soon we left the way we came in.

Before that she told us.

It was the music.

Every weekend her mother traveled back in time.

Some thirty years before to her country.

The one which expelled her like so much spoiled food.

The same one which consumed her family, her loves, her village,

Her way of life.

The end of her life was all she knew.

That it would end.

Until that time, she lived in the past.

Every seven days she went back via music.

She closed her mind to everything else and went back.

There was music, there was laughter. There were her brothers.

She ate the food prepared by love. She drank the kosher wine.

She sat on the chair which was hoisted high above.

At her own wedding, she was.

Her husband no shy bridegroom, but a deep love.

He was a fighter, a provider, a mensch.

They would survive, they married to seal the promise.

Life would get better, it would go on.

Somehow it went on, but he was lost.

She never knew what happened.

If she did not have her daughter,

She would think it was all a dream.

It was a dream after all. This was not their daughter.

This was her daughter, from someone else.

She just wanted to finish the wedding party.

Just let her finish.

But it was interrupted. Her life was interrupted.

So she traveled back every seven days to try and finish it.

But she could only get to the bad part and then it was time to

Wake up again.

Second Grade Sleepover

Wed, 3 Apr 2013 19:04:12 -0400

When I was in second grade we were living in a Chicago suburb. I had gone to public school for first grade here because when we moved here the Catholic school was too crowded to take me. So my first real Catholic school experience began in second grade. I was tall then too. I did not really fit in but I did manage to have a friend.

Her name was Sharon and she lived in a nearby town. She invited me to her birthday party which was a sleep over. It was in the early 1960’s. Her brother was a big fan of Star Trek and I seem to remember watching him watch the show. He was glued to the TV set. Sitting way too close, you know what I mean? Her mom was pretty, her hair was brown and wavy and she wore it down to the top of her shoulders. My mom was older and she never looked like that to me. This woman had a great figure, and was very bright, kind, but seemed kind of sad too.

When I was invited to her birthday party and found out it was a sleep over I was very excited. I felt special because Sharon told me I was her best friend. I never knew what that was either because I guess I was quiet and had a sister near my age so the best friend concept appeared to be covered.

I walked home from school and told my mom about the party. She told me I could not go. Okay, what, WHAT???? No matter how hard I tried to negotiate or plead, cry and stamp my feet, I could not get her to change her mind. I just had to go to school the next day and tell Sharon that I was not able to come to her party. Well, as best friends, this was a devastating blow. Who could imagine that a sleep over birthday party was something so horrible that your best friend could not attend?

Apparently Sharon went home and cried her eyes out. The next day came and Sharon announced that her mother would be calling my mother. I felt a glimmer of hope, but I knew how stubborn and unreasonable my mother actually was. She was the one they were talking about when the tee shirts came out that said, “She Who Must Be Obeyed.” My mother was an older mother. Nothing got by her. She was worldly. I had no idea why she was not allowing me to go, but I knew that there was no use in continuing to question her. When I got older and joined the debate team in high school, I really learned to counter attack and press for evidence and logic. I was unschooled at this point. Years later, well beyond high school, my mother claimed to rue the day I joined the debate team. That is a story for later.

Anyway, I get home and announced to my mother that she will be receiving a call. I can still see her stiffen up and get her game face on. In World War II my mother was a Wave. She was in the Shore Patrol, apparently had some power with that and never forgot what it did for her confidence. I recognized that game face all right, even at that age.

Well, the dang phone did ring. I was all flushed and hanging on the sliding door to the kitchen. It started out as I had predicted, the game face turned into the game tone and then….well then something happened. My mother became quiet; she became pale and almost docile in demeanor. Their conversation ended and she turned to me. I did not know what to expect, was I going to get yelled at for listening, doing something to her, what?

My mother stood up, she had been sitting on the funny round stool that looked like something out of the Jetsons, at her ‘phone desk’, part of the kitchen counter.

She looked at me as if something inside of her was making her stomach swirl. I suddenly felt something which I would later recognize as compassion for my mother. I saw her go from pounce to prayer in a millisecond. She told me I could go to the party. I was thrilled and could only see the excitement that lay before me. I was so pleased I started jumping up and down and running up the stairs to see what I would take and then running back to ask what kind of present we were going to get Sharon.

I had never really asked Sharon where her father was. I guess even at that age I was not that inquisitive about people’s private lives, only if it somehow affected me. I was then and have always been a good listener. I also fill up space with chatter if someone does not want to talk. I also like silence if that seems important. I have been told I am an affirming listener. I make eye contact, I engage people. I guess I knew that Sharon’s dad did not live there. It was her mom, her brother Jim and Sharon.

I did not question my mother’s abrupt change of heart about the party. As most kids I was definitely living in the moment. I remember playing in the living room while her brother watched Star Trek and seeing glimpses of that show for the first time. I think we were playing a board game. Her brother seemed very indifferent to us. We got to see the house. It was tiny, but her mother’s room was fantastic. It had a big circle mirror on a blonde wood dressing table, and the rest of the furniture matched. I remember something like a pale pink satin bedspread and pillows quilted, to match, a ruffle to the floor. It was nothing like my parents bedroom. The dressing table held bottles of perfume resting on a mirror and beside all this was a portrait in a gold metal, lace like frame. It was of a very handsome man in a military uniform. I told Sharon how handsome the man looked and she told me that was her dad and that he had died. I told her how sorry I was, it made me sad, but I did not know what to say. We just jiggled around the perfume bottles and high tailed it out of there before her mom knew what we were doing.

I remember the party as being very fun. Oddly, I think it was just Sharon and me, there might have been another person but I don’t remember them. Anyway, soon it was all over and my mother picked me up. Mrs. Wadja thanked me for coming and thanked my mother too. Some weeks later I finally asked my mother why she let me go to the party after all and she told me that Mrs. Wadja wanted to make this one wish come true for her daughter. She told my mother since her husband had died in the war, her little girl did not ask her for much and she wanted to give her something important to her. I was the gift. Yeah, me. Anyway Sharon and I were friends through most of second grade and for a few years after that. I was never a really cool kid.

Many years later my mother told me something about herself which put some of her behavior in a kind of perspective for me. I had found it very hard to understand why there was such a fuss about me going to stay overnight at a friends house. But, at the time, there was just no discussing it. In college I had the opportunity to get a minor in Sociology. I took a seminar on child abuseto round out the credits needed. I had no idea about such things. Imagine that today, being so sheltered from the world that you knew nothing about anything like that. I was in shock for many days. Hurting a child or sexually abusing them was inconceivable to me. It was perhaps the first time I understood the concept of not viewing the world through my own experiences and judging it by that solely. People come from different places and experiences; sometimes you learn from them and save yourself the experience. Other things help us to appreciate the decisions of others and where they are coming from, as opposed to measuring everything against the yardstick of our own reality.

My mother was repeatedly sexually abused as a small child by a friend of her family. She told no one. At almost 70 years of age, she told me what happened to her. I asked her if she had told anyone at the time. She told me that when she was much older she told her sisters who asked why she did not say anything sooner and did nothing then, probably because the man was either dead or they did not know how to pursue it so many years later. I asked her if she had told anyone else, my father, anyone. She said no. So we talked about it. She told me what she asked the man when she could talk, I find I cannot even repeat that here, the pleading of a child is too painful.

Defender of Innocence

So in my twenties, at the Bowl and Basket Café at the then Marshall Fields department store, on the 7^th floor at noon my mother told me her darkest secret. I think she thought I knew something about this because of my coursework, my experience as a volunteer paralegal, as someone who seemed like a fighter, a champion. We talked about it; I told her it was not her fault, that it had never been her fault. I told her that she could leave it behind that letting it out released it from her and she was free. I told her she could talk to a professional that it was okay, but she did not want to go to a counselor or doctor. She grew up with a stigma about psychiatric help. I already knew that but I wanted to offer it to her anyway. I told her I loved her. It was April, near her birthday. That month for her birthday, I sent her exotic flowers every week for her desk at work. I spent as much time as I could with her. I treated her with new respect and saw her through new eyes.

My mother could be difficult. Sometimes I could not speak to her because of her anger inside that spilled out in irrational ways. Her father was an alcoholic and her life was very complicated because of that. In her lifetime, people did not have recovery programs and even think of the damage to families and how to support them. My mother always said that she asked God to let her live long enough until her children were raised. I think she felt like she was our protector and that it was her job to keep us safe. I think she thought that if she let me stay overnight somewhere as a child, with strangers to her, something terrible would happen to me. She broke down with Mrs. Wadja because her better self could feel this widow’s pain and her great desire to do something important for her child.

April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month.

http://www.childwelfare.gov/preventing/preventionmonth/