Child Welfare

On Friday, I took a break from working 12-hour days writing a huge grant to benefit children in the foster care system in Santa Clara County so that I could fly down to San Diego for the college graduation of my son’s girlfriend Tina (from San Diego State University). Tina and Akili have been going together for over four years and he is pretty much part of her family by now, as she is part of ours. Yael drove down from L.A. to celebrate with Tina too. And after the incredibly long ceremony (Tina was at the very back of a huge number of graduates who needed to walk), Tina’s family and ours went out to eat. Her parents, siblings (with spouses), and their children, plus our family (minus Sudi) were at the table. Included in the group was Emmett, Tina’s new nephew, born a month ago. After spending the whole week working like crazy writing about the impact of childhood trauma on infants, toddlers, and preschoolers; and attempting to craft a complete description of the wonderful safety net that Santa Clara County is trying to put into place for these unfortunate little ones, I was especially moved to behold the way in which Tina’s family cherished their newest little member.

Emmett was a preemie so he doesn’t do much yet other than sleep and eat. He slept most of the time, but did grace us with a few waking moments so we could see his eyes. While awake, he peered ever-so-intently into the faces of each member of the huge bustling family into which he had been born as he was passed from hand-to-hand and adored by everyone; welcomed over and over again by this mob of loving family eager for him to begin to participate actively in their lives.

So should it be for every baby.

Tina is “the baby” of her own family, and yesterday her parents were the first ones in the arena and just about the last ones to leave, and we screamed and hollered when Tina walked across the stage. From birth to adulthood. So should all children be cherished and adored.

What Came Back after the Blast

Last week I sent an “email blast” to give folks a heads up that Memories from Cherry Harvest will be released June 18 and is available for preorder from booksellers now. As a result of the email blast, I received emails from quite a few people about their own exciting work. In some ways, I feel as though I have been sitting on the sidelines all these years because I have not had the opportunity to fully offer my gift to others. Meanwhile I have been enjoying the gifts of other writers, artists, musicians, and creative souls. So this past week, when my little message about my own creation ventured out, and then returned with such abundance in its wake, I felt like it was at last a fair exchange. Here is a sampling of the discoveries the blast brought in.

I learned about two novels written by Rosine Nimeh-Mailloux. Rosine’s younger brother Mike lived with my family for a couple of years when he was in high school. Rosine and Mike are Chrisitian Arabs whose family was forced to flee from their home in West Jerusalem when Israel became a state in 1948. They moved to Bethlehem (where Mike was born). Rosine was an exchange teacher in the town where I grew up (she taught English). She befriended my parents, and when the INS forced her to leave the U.S., she went to Canada, and my parents took in Mike, whom she had managed to rescue from the war-torn Middle East and had brought to the U.S. Rosine and I have not communicated for many years, but when I sent Mike the email about my book, he forwarded it to her. A flurry of emails between Rosine (who lives in Ontario) and myself followed and  the upshot is that she is sending me her novel entitled The Madwoman of Bethlehem. Her is the link to find out more. She is also the author of a book of short stories about her family’s experiences in the turmoil of the Middle East entitled Mustard and Vinegar.

I have a friend, Professor James McIntosh, who taught American Literature at the U. of Michigan at Ann Arbor. I have never taken a class from Jim, but we became friends and enjoyed many an evening of literature-talk together. His wife was the curator of the campus art museum for many years. They are lovely folks. Jim’s area of greatest expertise is American lit. of the 1800s. This week I learned that Jim is the editor of a Norton Critical Edition of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short works entitled Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Tales. The second edition is just out. Scholarly work, not “creative” writing, but Norton, well that’s quite impressive. Jim is sending me a copy so that I can read his foreword in the edition. Here is the link to find out more. 

In a completely different direction (not literary or high-brow.) My Cousin Joe’s teen daughter Emily is a singer and she is featured in a pop music video posted on YouTube last week to sell her song “The New Cleopatra” on iTunes. Here is the link to her debut on the music scene. (If you feel inclined you can view the page and click on the “like” button to give Emily a boost.)

Returning to literary connections, I want to mention Helen’s poetry and that of her daughter Dorothy. Although I did not first find out about my Scottish friend Helen Lawrenson’s new book of poetry this past week, it was only a couple of weeks ago that I learned of its release. I met Helen in Dundee in 1970. As long as I have known her, she has written exquisite poetry that uses the beauty of the natural world to teach life lessons, always delighting the reader with her keen eye for detail. Helen lives in Wormit, just across the Firth of Tay from Dundee. Here is the link to the information about her chapbook of poetry entitled Upon a Good High Hill. I already knew about Helen’s poetry book, but this past week Helen’s daughter Dorothy’s poem “September” was selected as one of the Scottish Poetry Library’s Best Scottish poems of 2011! Here is the link to Dorothy’s poem. Here is the link to it online. But I’m going to be so bold as to reprint her poem here in its entirety since it’s brief, beautiful, and reminds me so much of the poetry her mother wrote when I first met her over 40 years ago.

SEPTEMBER

By Dorothy Lawrenson

This far north, the harvest happens late.

Rooks go clattering over the sycamores

whose shadows yawn after them, down to the river.

Uncut wheat staggers under its own weight.

Summer is leaving too, exchanging its gold

for brass and copper. It is not so strange

to feel nostalgia for the present; already

this September evening is as old

as a photograph of itself. The light, the shadows

on the field, are sepia, as if this were

some other evening in September, some other

harvest that went ungathered years ago.

[Published in Painted, spoken, 22]

Obviously, I am not the only one who has been busy. And as I send word out into the world about my humble accomplishments, word continues to come back to me about the accomplishments of others. We are all doing what we do, following our heart where it leads us. And that is a very fine thing.

Girlfriend Power

My friend Rajni is on my mind this week. I met Rajni when we were both 16 years old. We have the same birthday. In my 16^th year, my family lived in Dundee, Scotland for one year. I attended the Morgan Academy in what was the equivalent of my junior year of high school. This was in 1970-71 so it was before the British education system switched to “comprehensive.” Prior to the switch, schoolchildren took an exam in 6^th grade that determined whether they would attend a university-bound school in grades 7-12 or a vocational school. The Morgan was for university-bound children. Children tracked to the vocational school were not prepared for university but rather for a trade. If they wanted to go to university they would have to attend a junior college for several years to complete the coursework necessary to advance to a university.

I was allowed to attend the Morgan because my father was teaching at Dundee University so I suppose the powers that be assumed I was college-bound material. Even so, for my first month at the school I was placed in sophomore-year classes because they assumed that an American child could not perform up to the level of a British child. After one month, they realized that I was way beyond sophomore year and they moved me up to junior-year level classes. My younger brother and I were the only Jews in the school. We were practically the only Jews in the whole city. My friend Rajni and her two sisters were the only East Indian students at the school and the only Hindus. Everyone else was Christian. Interesting, huh?

Back before the switch to comprehensive education, the powers that be automatically placed all Indian and Pakistani students (and there were many) in the vocational schools. Even though most of them spoke excellent English and many were very bright, they were never allowed to go up to the university-bound academy in Dundee in 1970:  rampant racism. One of Rajni’s older sisters had duked it out with the authorities and managed to get into the Morgan (the very first Indian student to attend). She was a star student and she paved the way for her younger sisters, all of whom were allowed to attend in her footsteps.

It’s not surprising that Rajni and I became instant friends. We were both presumed inferior intellectually until proven otherwise. She was my best friend for my year in Dundee. Both of us had to work twice as hard as the other students in order to prove ourselves, and prove ourselves we did. Although we have not seen one another since 1980, we stay in touch. Rajni went on to become an exceptional woman. She completed her law degree at university and practiced law for several years. I remember her once telling me that she had a fantasy of appearing in court in a sari, just to make a point about the competence of Indians. It was just a dream. She never did it. But here is what she did do:  Rajni became the very first Asian (Indians are referred to as Asian in Britain) judge, either male or female, in all of Scotland! This occurred many years ago. She has served as a judge for most of her professional career. This is an extraordinary accomplishment. But I am not at all surprised. Rajni is an extraordinary person. (She is also, by the way, married to a lawyer and has two grown sons, both college graduates accomplished in their fields.)

This past week, I sent Rajni an email to let her know that Memories from Cherry Harvest will be available in print on June 18 and that I will be sending her a copy. She replied in a brief email:  “I cannot express my joy for you as eloquently as you. You were a huge influence on me in the short time we were at school as best friends. I look forward to reading your book.” I am touched and humbled by her words. I wrote back, jokingly, “Behind every hugely successful woman is a terrific high school girlfriend.” It’s more than a joke, though. Our girlfriends, our women friends, are often the only factor that makes the difference between success and failure, between perseverance and collapse, between hope and despair. Back in 1970, before “feminism” and “women’s lib,” before the ERA was passed in Congress (though never ratified by enough states to become law), all we had going for us was each other, our sister-girls who cheered one another on and believed in each other. That’s how we made it through. I believed that Rajni could do anything she set her mind to, and she knew I believed in her, as she has believed in me all these years. I’m proud to have been a small part of her accomplishment; she is certainly a small part of mine.

I ♥ Facebook

Last week, a beautiful elder in my community, named Isis, passed into spirit. Although significantly disabled by her many chronic health issues by the end of her life, Isis was an active Facebook user. When I heard that she had passed over, I went to her Facebook page and posted a brief good-bye to her. When I returned to her page this week, I discovered that many, many people had done the same thing that I had done. Her Facebook page is now a monumental tribute to a life well-lived by a marvelous, generous, enormous spirit. It is loaded with beautiful messages, images, remembrances, music, poetry, blessings, and prayers. It has become a vehicle for a collective mourning by a host of people, most of whom do not know one another, but who had their lives touched by Isis. On Facebook, I can still visit the living Isis by scrolling back on her page and reading her own musings and hilarity from months and years gone by, peeking at her photos of herself with her grandchildren.

Facebook gets a lot of bad press. It can be a massive waste of time, a black-hole of a time-sucker. It’s accused of being pretend communication, not real communication; a wasteland of shallow and useless multimedia junk; a collection of superficial and phony relationships; useless bunk. If you’re on Facebook you need to get a life, etc. etc. etc. Well I don’t buy it. I love Facebook and I don’t care who knows it. Like most things in life, one must exercise restraint; but when done in moderation, there is a lot of benefit to reap from Facebook.

I go on Facebook every day when I take my lunch break. I click on very few links to videos, music, or articles. I am selective. But I do click on a few things. And I find most of them entertaining, informative, funny, uplifting, beautiful, inspirational, and moving. (If they are not, I can tell right away, and I close them up and go somewhere else.) I am reminded that there is a wealth of wonderful life out there, more than I could ever absorb. But I can enjoy a taste of it with my lunch. I resolved a while ago to use Facebook to emanate and absorb positive energy and I take care to do so by the choices I make when engaging with it.

Through Facebook, I have been able to become a part of the everyday lives of distant friends and relatives in ways never before possible. For example, when I was a teenager I lived in Scotland for a year. I remain in contact with quite a few good friends from those long-ago days. Until Facebook, our lives were extremely distant with little communication. But there are a few of these old buddies with whom I now converse regularly on Facebook, several times a week in fact, and we are again in each other’s daily lives. One of these friends (she lives in Fife) has two daughters who are grown, whom I have never met, and they are friends with me on Facebook too and I have developed a wonderful relationship with them. Sometimes I talk with them and their mom (my dear childhood friend). How cool is that? I am part of the daily lives of many relatives who don’t live near me, most notably some of my husband’s family in Chicago. And I can see what my children are up to and laugh at their silliness and listen to some of their music and see photos of them in their far-off grown-up lives. There are so many people with whom I share frequent communication who would otherwise not be a big part of my life if not for Facebook.

Through Facebook I have found a lot of people with whom I had lost contact and have had the splendid opportunity to see their children, their pets, their partners, their homes, and to get a glimpse into their lives. Facebook has allowed me to celebrate, mourn, laugh, shout, and share with people far and near. And it serves to remind me, daily, that there are people all over the world doing wonderful things in their lives. Wonderful big things and also wonderful little things. It reminds me that our lives are not actually as mundane as we may think. They are often rather momentous. They are filled with wonder. And the world is not necessarily a completely horrible place because just look at the goodness all around us. Look at the beauty and the hilarity that people are sharing on Facebook. I like having a piece of that. I appreciate the reminder.

Playing with My Food

Today I am pondering the fact that so many people in this country go through life without even the most rudimentary understanding of the life cycle of the foods they eat. There seems to be a huge disconnect for most people between what they see on their plate and the greenly growing creatures in the world around them. This is one of the reasons why I love living in a rural community, because people in my hometown are connected. They all have gardens, if not farms. I try to imagine what it might be like to be unable to recognize an apple tree in blossom or to have no idea when cherries are actually in season. I had someone ask me the other day what kind of tomatoes I grow. What a ridiculous question. I grow about a dozen different heirloom varieties and the selection changes from one year to the next. Some people can think of only one or two kinds of tomatoes. Some people have never seen a dramatic green Zebra tomato, a brilliant yellow Sungold, or a deep purple-red Paul Robeson tomato.  

The most mystifying thing to me of all is how people can live without growing at least some of the things they eat. Even if they only have a tiny patch of ground or a deck big enough to hold only a few pots. How can people pass up the opportunity to grow their own food?

When I was a teenager, my family visited my cousins in France. They had an apartment in Paris and a little country home on about three acres of land an hour’s drive from Paris in a town called Maule. We drove to Maule and spent the afternoon with them. They proudly took us on a tour of their abundant orchards. At one point Cousin Joseph turned to my father and asked him how much property we owned in our suburban town in the U.S. Dad replied that he had about a quarter of an acre. So Joseph asked, “And what do you grow on it?” Dad replied that we didn’t grow anything on it. Joseph’s question always stayed with me. The truth was that mostly Dad grew a lawn on it. You can’t eat a lawn. Although that’s the standard crop of suburbia. In the summer my mother would till a little vegetable patch and grow tomatoes and green beans. In retrospect, I think her little vegetable patch may have been what inspired me to a lifelong love of gardening. I clearly remember grazing on her green beans while standing barefoot in the dirt. Nothing in the world tastes better.

My half-acre yard is bursting at the seams with food. Vegetables, fruit trees and vines, herbs. Also the flowers! In the summer I grow three varieties of apple, both white flesh and yellow flesh peaches, Santa Rosa plums, cherries (they are ripe in June, by the way), strawberries (I am just finishing up the ones in the freezer from last year and there are now flowers on this year’s first crop), raspberries, blueberries. This time of year I have collards and asparagus. Oregano, thyme, tarragon, peppermint, and spearmint grow pretty much year-round.

This weekend, with the unseasonably warm weather, I confess that I’m being lured into planting early; despite the fact that we are nowhere near clear of a killing frost. I am exercising restraint, but gosh it’s difficult. I am already salivating thinking about my summer squashes (zucchini and patty pan), eggplant, tomatoes, basil, and lemon cucumbers. For me, summer arrives for real when I bite into the first homegrown tomato, round about the end of  June or first of July. I pity those people who have no idea what that experience is like, who buy hothouse-grown tomatoes year-round at the grocery store, and would not be able to recognize a tomato plant if it was growing in their kitchen sink. Homegrown food reminds me of life’s bounty and cancels out all the evil in the world in one mouthful.