Because of a book

Last month, I read 29 for the From Left to Write book club. Simply put, it's about a grandmother who finds herself with the rare opportunity to live for one day as another age. As the title suggests, she chooses 29. What makes the story even better is that her granddaughter gets to experience the day with her.

The first thing that ran through my mind while reading was, if I could go back to any age for one day, which would I choose? I'm sure the answer might change as I get older, but as of now, I'd relive a day of my 17th year, ginormous glasses and all. Seventeen was the year of my first real love, the year I spent carefree days with friends before things like betrayal and tragedy became known to us, before we were naturally separated by adulthood. Instead of stressing about AP tests, I would cherish each moment spent on and behind the stage, a place I miss now. Instead of worrying about peering eyes, I would kiss my boyfriend with abandon, savoring sweet moments that I didn't realize I would forget over time. Instead of taking the days I had with my friends for granted, I would hug them each a little tighter, a little longer.

As I got deeper into the book, my thoughts turned to my own grandma. I remembered first seeing a picture of her when she was about my age and wondering what she was like back then. I thought about how amazing it would be to experience an earlier time with her. Then I wondered, what age would Gram choose? After turning the last page of the book, I wrapped it up to send to my grandma along with a note, basically saying what I've shared with you here.

Yesterday, when I called Gram for Mother's Day, I asked her what her decision would have been. She told me, "Sweet 16, or somewhere around that time." I was surprised that we chose similar ages, expecting for an almost 95-year-old woman to choose a later year. Being the kind of person who needs prodding before she'll talk about herself, Gram waited for me to ask, "Why?" before explaining. She said it was because she was a free spirit back then, and she briefly reminisced about wandering through the park next to her house until she heard her mother call her from the window for dinner. It was a small, yet meaningful, glimpse into a time I know little about in the life I someone I love.

I was reminded again of the power books can have. I doubt I ever would have had this conversation with Gram otherwise. This detail, though seemingly small, helps to make a more complete picture of who she is. A warm, memorable chat with Gram and a new tidbit of insight into her life, all made possible because of a book.

Life: A Work in Progress

Five-year plans. I began making them at an early age, knowing exactly which courses I'd take my senior year in high school when I was still in eighth grade. My major was decided before I started college, and I was picking up brochures about graduate school during my freshman orientation. My mother would describe this as me rushing my life away; I saw it as having direction.

The first time one of these plans was challenged by that little thing called life, I called my dad in tears from my college apartment. "But this isn't how I planned it," I cried. There was talk of "best laid plans" and giving G-d a good laugh when we try to plan out our lives. Of course, that didn't stop little 'ole Type-A me from continuing to do so. How do you live without a plan? That'd be like making a road trip without a map. Or taking a vacation without an itinerary. I'm getting heebee jeebees just thinking about it.

Several failed five-year plans later, I now know the importance of revising my mindset. When what I want changes, when priorities shift, when life throws me the unexpected, I can whine about things not going according to plan, or I can, as Fagin so humorously sings, review the situation and think it out again (or, more realistically, do both). My life is a work in progress. Like my writing, it needs to constantly be practiced, nurtured, evaluated, and revised.

As I stare down the reality of my third layoff in two years (who says lightning never strikes the same place twice?), never mind my five-year plan. I need a new right-now plan. I honestly don't know what that looks like yet, but as I begin to figure it out, I hope to stay true to what I want (also TBD), modifying my life to reflect not only what my current reality is, but also what I need from this ensuing chapter. Until the next revision, that is.

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This post was inspired by Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes by Elizabeth Bard. I received a complimentary copy of the book for review through the online book club, From Left to Write. You can read additional posts inspired by the book here. 

Growing Up Different, Trying to Look the Same

This post was inspired by Natasha Solomons' Mr. Rosenblum Dreams in English. 

I received a complimentary copy of the book for review through the online book club, From Left to Write. You can read additional posts inspired by the book here.

As one of only two Jewish kids growing up in a small northern town where the John Birch Society was still active, assimilating is something I did without thinking about it. I always knew we were "different," and while I personally didn't mind it (I was always grateful that I didn't have to sit on a creepy old guy's lap to get presents), I didn't want anyone else to see me as such. I wore the chai my nana gave me tucked into my shirt, I said "Christmas" instead of "Chanukah" when talking to my friends, and I even played the Star of Bethlehem in my Montessori's Christmas play (I'm pretty sure I thought I was playing the Statue of Liberty... if you saw the pictures, you'd understand).

When we moved to Central Florida, I finally met other kids who were "like me." (I almost did a backflip when the first boy to introduce himself to me said that his last name was Schwartz.) It was great to have friends I could play dreidel with and go to the movies with on Christmas day, but not much changed: I was outwardly Jewish when we were together, but I quickly decorated a Chanukah bush before one of my Christian friends came to my house to exchange presents.

In high school, my circle of Jewish friends grew. Finally, there were enough of us to have a club: The Skinny Jewish Honor Society. Obviously, it wasn't a real club, but it was a natural camaraderie that I had yet to feel until then. It was also the first time I remember hearing "Jewish humor" and Yiddish idioms from people other than my family not on TV. I no longer had to remember to say "butt" instead of "tush" for fear of people looking at me weirdly, a thing much more significant than it sounds.

Surprisingly (to me, at least), my first "real" boyfriend was Jewish. I remember going to his sister's bat mitzvah after we had gone our separate ways. It was the first time I had been to a synagogue since going with my Grandma Lil when I was little, so little that the only thing I remember about the experience was the Stella Dora cookies at the Oneg. I felt lost and out of place among my own people.

When I started college at UNC Charlotte, I was the shiny, new Jew once again. If I had received a quarter for every time someone had told me, "You're the first Jewish person I've ever met," I wouldn't have needed all those student loans. My extended family lived two hours away in Greensboro, a very Jewish area of North Carolina, and it was during my visits with them that I became more comfortable in synagogue. Still, when I went back to campus, I left my Judaism at the door.

Moving to the University of Florida two years later, I felt like I had hit the mother load of Jews. Where did they all come from? I thought. (The answer was Boca.) I never knew so many Jewish people existed in one place outside of New York. Over time, I became active in Hillel, went to Israel, and began living Jewishly - openly. I finally rediscovered a part of myself that I hadn't realized I lost through assimilation.

When I returned home, waiting to start my graduate program, I attended Shabbat services on a regular basis at a temple I never knew existed, though it had been standing a short distance from my home for twice as long as I had been alive at the time. My friends knew that if they wanted to hang out on Friday night, it would be after services; there was no pretending of where I was or what I was doing.

There is still sometimes pressure to assimilate. Teaching at a rural school in Northern Florida, I was basically told to "just go with it" when I objected to them playing Christmas movies over closed-circuit TV after final exams. Go with it I did not. I brought in my DVD player and showed one of the movies from our English department's approved list instead.

These days, I'm no longer interested in assimilating. I'm confident in how I practice my faith. Though I participate in Christmas celebrations more often than not, I do it out of love for my Christian friends and in-laws, not out of desire or pressure to fit in with the majority. Our Jewish traditions are beautiful. They should be celebrated proudly, not in secret.