MY URBAN KVETCH

Being Jewish at Christmas (reposted from JewishBoston.com)

Being Jewish on Christmas
by Esther D. Kustanowitz

(published December 2011 at JewishBoston.com, as part of their Brief Guide To Christmas For The Perplexed)

The revelry, the songbook, the lights, the presents, lying to children about where presents come from…it’s the most wonderful time of the year. Some people love it, and Jews living in multifaith families feel the compulsion to include both Chanukah and Christmas. But many American Jews feel assaulted by the tropes, tones and expectations of Christmas. So here are a few ideas – strategies, suggestions and evasion techniques – that you can implement when it’s beginning to look a lot like, well, you know.

Allow the indignation to run through you. Isn’t there separation of church and state in the US? Then why do I have to listen to Christmas at the mall? Why is the Target lady so annoying and why do we have to be so materialistic anyway? What’s up with the emotional manipulation on TV and in movies? I have a good mind to go political on Christmas, penning articles about the “December Dilemma,” bemoaning the lack of Hanukkah songs! Bah, humbug.

Reclaim the holiday in the name of Jews. The May family, founders of Macy’s, creators of the iconic parade and setting for “Miracle on 34th Street”: Jews. Irving Berlin: Jew. Jesus: Jew. Try a strong defense with “Don’t you just love ‘White Christmas’? Irving Berlin was Jewish, you know…” “You know, Jesus was Jewish, too, and you wouldn’t even have Christmas without him…” (On second thought, maybe stick to Macy’s and Irving Berlin.) This strategy is best used in major cities with low incidences of anti-Jewish sentiment and graffiti.

Adopt a convert. Jews-by-choice, especially those without Jewish families of their own, often feel alone on Christmas, a holiday which – even if of little religious significance to them – often comes along with a Samsonite size set of emotional baggage, sentimentality and regret over leaving behind one’s born family for one’s spiritual people. Bring a convert into your home, or invite them to dinner or a party, or fry them a latke or twelve – it’s a “bring-them-into-the-manger-mitzvah” that even Mother Mary would have endorsed.

Write a “home-for-Hanukkah” movie. With all due respect to “Four Christmases,” there’s no reason that family agita can’t happen around a stack of potato latkes rather than a Christmas ham. And think of the comedy potential of a Hanukkah dinner scene devolving into a soofganiyah (traditional Hanukkah donut, filled with viscous red jelly) massacre. But don’t just write a script – ask your friends to perform and critique the darned thing - discussion points can include some of the following questions: Is “The Hebrew Hammer” good for the Jews? Where do stereotypes come from? Could Barbra Streisand movies reverse the trend of assimilation? Tawk amongst yourselves. And don’t get upset if your screenplay is deemed “too New York” (Hollywood code for “too Jewy”). You’ll have made your point.

Limmud on One Leg: Vayigash

Writing to you from Warwick, UK, where I'm attending a full Limmud conference. (As opposed to last year, when forces of nature tried to prevent me and only succeeded in delaying me. For a reminder of that fine time, check out "Snowpocalyptic Airport Sleepover," "Sleeping at JFK: Hot Tips for a Quick Nap," and of course, the crowd-pleasing "20 Things to Do at JFK Airport During a Snowpocalypse.")

Limmud regularly asks individual presenters to write interpretive pieces on the Torah portion for a weekly email called "Limmud on One Leg" - this is mine, on Vayigash (written for Limmud on One Leg, week of December 25, 2011.)

Saying kaddish for my mother this year, I spend a lot of time in shul, spending Shacharit (or Mincha or Maariv) thinking about the words, the editors’ translations, and the choreography that accompanies certain pieces of text. Recently, I was contemplating the beginning of the Amidah, the prayer in which we approach God in meditative encounter. Taking three steps back, we pray “God, open my lips”; three steps forward, and we complete the thought, “and may my mouth tell your praises.” We need this preface because we approach our Creator with a twofold fear: 1) That we will be speechless, and 2) That if we do indeed succeed in opening our mouths, the words we unleash may be not be words of praise. Then thanks to Limmud, I found myself contemplating Vayigash and the idea of “approach.”

In this Torah portion, Jacob’s son Judah approaches the viceroy – an unrecognizable Joseph – to beg for Benjamin’s freedom. As Judah approaches, he petitions Joseph-in-disguise through a paragraphs-long retelling of the history of the brothers’ arrival in Egypt. His mouth opens, and what comes out is verbal choreography: preparatory steps back that integrate the viceroy into the larger story as Judah sticks to his liturgy: “this is who we are, this is where we came from, this is what we need.” Approaching the man in power, and using deferential language, Judah indicates his intention to enter into relationship with the viceroy and his willingness to assume responsibility for his brothers, whatever the consequences.

The act of approach is both art and intimacy. It takes confidence and strength, sensitivity and humility. Proximity - a literal step closer to a thing, an experience or a person - is the first step toward face-to-face encounter, and the closer you are, the harder it is to hide your identity or conceal your intentions. By stepping forward into a new experience, or coming face-to-face with a challenging person or piece of learning, we enter into a relationship that is scary but intimate, honest, exciting and holy. Judah’s monologue is rewarded with revelation and embrace. But after our Amidah, we must retreat from that intimate moment, without the powerful relief of a forgiving embrace from a long-lost relative. Instead, we have another set of back-and-forth steps, accompanied by a prayer for peace over all of Israel.

Perhaps the message here is that, although we are reluctant to disengage from the intimacy, the approach itself enables us to connect more honestly with everyone. As we tell our stories and engage with texts and people, let us always approach with the sense that this work, approached with humility and candor, can transform us all.

Where to Stash Your Fragile Crembo: A Crembox (Barur...)

Oh, Crembo (or Krembo), you Israeli treat with a chocolate exterior and creamy interior. This is how you got the magical Hebrew combonym or portmanteau of a name, Crembo; you are the dessert treat with cream ("creme") in it ("bo"). You are so delicious, but you are so fragile. (Ah, like zee life.)

But now thanks to the magical Crembox, Israeli children everywhere can take their Crembo to-go, without fearing for its safety, whichever flavor they choose - blue (vanilla) or brown (chocolate). (Eef only zere vas a Crembox for zee heart...)

It even comes with slightly unnecessary instructional photos, showing you how to lovingly place your Crembo into the Crembox and fasten the bottom, to protect your Crembo from the trials and traumas of its undoubtedly very short life.

True, I think of "boxes" as square, but maybe that's me thinking inside the box.

So why it's not called a CremboBo, I'll never know(know), except that it kind of sounds like an African river in a Rudyard Kipling story. (I know, that's "Limpopo," but still, that river was all set about with fever trees, which sound like cedar trees, which grow in the Lebanon and in the north part of Israel, so that's a coincidence that cannot be ignored.)

Plus, it's not clear if this model is meant to accommodate other Crembo variants, like the Manbo, which instead of containing an impressive single gentleman, apparently has some sort of whipped cream in the middle and comes in flavors like mango and banana.

Want to see how a Manbo is made? Check out this video, which seems to have been filmed partly in the 40s and partly in the 70s, and features the secret of Crembo's delicious taste: it's handwrapped by children.  Or if you prefer a more polished version from an Israeli news channel, check out this video.

Epiphany: A High Holidays Meditation (inspired by IKAR)

Every year, IKAR asks community members to reach into their experiences and share with the community some thoughts that have been helpful or experiences that have transformed them in some way. The collection of thoughts appears in shul as a book, giving people something else to read if the liturgy fails to inspire at various parts of the service. Last year the theme was "unstuck" - this year, the theme was "epiphany." You can read more about the framing of this exercise here.

 

As we head into Yom Kippur in California - and as my friends in other places have already ushered in the Day of Atonement - I am wishing you all epiphanies and miracles in this new year. Here is my entry on "Epiphany."

 

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Epiphany is part surprise, part revelation - a mundane moment elevated as some essential truth is unveiled. The word itself is in some ways reflective of the mystery and unsettling nature of the experience - plosive in sound at its start, elegant at its end, but indicating a state of being that is fundamentally altered. In that way, moments of epiphany are not unlike grief: they are felt as nakedness, as illness, as grief, as instability. Deep grief is a lens that obscures clarity and context - your immediate environment is off-balance, thrown askew by loss. Your awareness of mortality, weakness, and the futility of living within human instability deepen, and threaten. But epiphany also contains fragments of revelation - dreamlike messages that are not in the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire, but in still, small voices within us that speak up and demand that we take notice.

 

If you're lucky, those voices bleed into waking life - then, you can walk into a virtual or actual room - whether it's a Facebook wall, or a Tweetstream, or a minyan - of people with other human experiences, people who have grieved and survived, who have wept from the depths of their souls, and who show you how to glean meaning and laughter after experiencing loss.

These people are our existential continuum, context personified: living reminders that as long as we are here, even if we're single, or feeling abandoned, or mourning a loss, we have our human family around us. When we are low on strength, we can borrow against the collective, each withdrawal its own promise that, when our reserves are replenished, we will give back to those who support us - sharing embraces, tears, experiences and words. This privilege, this community covenant, is both epiphany and miracle.

Shanah tovah and g'mar chatimah tovah.

That Time of Year Again: Rosh Hashanah Rewind (2004)

My first ever broadcast TV appearance back in 2004, thanks to Teresa Strasser. In case Hollywood's watching, allow me to say in my defense that I have every confidence that were I to be on TV again, I would not spend the first minute and a half swaying back and forth in an approximation of shul.

Wishing a wonderful and happy new year to all my Jewish readers. (Yes, I DO have non-Jewish readers. I've got range.)

 

Finally, Gefilte Fish Meets Its Match

The old joke goes...

"When contemplating the fish populations of the ocean, how can one identify the Gefilte fish?
[pause for effect]
It's the one with the carrot on its head."

Gefilte fish gets a bad rap, but is considered integral to many Ashkenazi Jewish holiday celebrations. If you've always hated this particular format of pureed and cooked fish, now a leading creative online marketing agency in Israel brings you your chance to shoot it down from the skies in an engaging, interactive card/video game - a mashup of the traditional mashed-up fish and the classic video game Space Invaders. Presenting...Gefilte Invaders! (You can play on the K/Logic site or below!).

"I have always had a Gefilte Fetish," Asael Kahana, K/Logic's creative director said. "There is something so iconic about this dish's presentation and look. Same with the classic Space Invaders game that is a cult classic still today. I combined both because I thought that Gefilte fish may have a long tradition, yet people would really rather shoot it than eat it. The result was a great reminder of tradition and classics in an engaging interactive card for our customers."

Kudos to K/Logic for creatively wishing customers a Shanah Tovah.

9/11/2011 - Ten

That morning, I woke up around 8:30 am and started getting dressed for work and for my regular walk about 20 blocks uptown to work at the Jewish Theological Seminary. I was already late, and although I didn’t punch a clock at JTS, I was eager to get out of the house. Listening to my regular morning radio show on Z100, I heard a shift in the DJ’s tone. “By the way,” he said, “if you don’t have your TV on, you might want to go ahead and turn it on – the World Trade Center is on fire.”

Back in those early moments of that clear September morning, we had no idea what we were witnessing – smoke billowing from one floor of the WTC, we assumed, was from an internal fire, perhaps an explosion of an undetermined origin. I called my mother in New Jersey to make sure she was watching. (Checking the official timeline reveals that this phone call might have happened shortly before 9am.) We watched CNN together for a few minutes, as the announcer shared a new theory, that a small plane had accidentally flown into the tower. It was surreal, and sad. But at that point, we didn’t even have the tragic imagination to begin to understand what was happening, that we were under attack, that two other planes were currently en route to additional targets in the DC Metro area. But it was while we were watching that tragedy – which we assumed to be tragic, but concluded - that we saw the second plane (9:02:59).

At first I thought that CNN had gone to an instant replay. But the tower in the “replay footage” was already smoking - we realized with horror that this was a second plane. My heart jumped, and I jumped off the couch, and said out loud, on the phone to my mother, “Osama fucking bin Laden.” I don’t know why, but that was my purest, most immediate response; perhaps it was some sort of flashback to the first World Trade Center bombing, which my college roommate’s boyfriend had escaped from. At that moment, I knew I couldn’t go to work. I was staying home, phone-tethered to my mother, until I knew what was going on.

9/13/2001 - Email to Friends (Unedited)

[Esther's note: This was an email I sent to friends in the early hours of September 13, 2001.]

September 13, 2001 (12:09:27 AM)

Dear Friends,

I hope this email finds you and your loved ones well in a week marked by terror, fear, misery and sadness. (I apologize if some of you get this email twice.) For those of you outside New York, thank you for your concern. I am fine, having been far from downtown on Tuesday. I am sure all of you have been glued to CNN while trying to contact loved ones and make sure that everyone is ok. I have begun to hear the personal stories that I know will continue to pour in over the coming weeks.

So far, I have only heard stories that conclude with escape; these triumphant survivals do not alleviate the emotional burden that we all bear these days, and I wait for the other shoe to drop, as we learn the
identities of those who have been lost. I have also been inspired by the difficult but essential work done by New Yorkers trying to help: the fire fighters and policemen who rushed into chaos, debris swirling
around them like disintegrated evil; the thousands of New Yorkers who showed up at blood centers citywide; the hundreds of Upper West Siders who factored food and water for Red Cross workers into their purchases; and the social workers and mental health professionals, including my cousin, who spent their day staffing a Red Cross sponsored missing persons hotline. These unbelievable efforts are also the basis of an adhesive that can rebind us as a city, one community at a time.

I wrote the following over the past two days, and have submitted it to the Jewznewz.com website as well as to the Jewish Standard in New Jersey. Please feel free to share your stories with me as well.

With prayers for peace,
Esther

The Words of War

In the wake of Tuesday’s coordinated attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, I am haunted by floating phrases, sound bites provided by the media that repeat over and over, creating a mental state that is at best cluttered, at worst, disintegrating.

“Worse Than Pearl Harbor.” Pearl Harbor was chosen for its proximity to a military installation, a clear act of war by the Japanese. The explosions at the World Trade Center struck at civilians. The oppressor
is as yet, unnamed. Are we at war? And if so, with whom? We don’t know. Are the casualties worse than at Pearl Harbor? We don’t know. What we do know is that Tuesday’s first attack was an attempt to destroy what New York represents: grandeur, capitalism, tourism. The Twin Towers were an identifiable landmark. A destination for tourists. A setting for romantic movies. A center of commerce. The second target, the Pentagon is a symbol of the inner workings of the United States military. Together, the targets were not just postcard panoramas, not just buildings and people: in a one-two punch peace of mind, national security and democracy all bit the literal dust.

“Handing Out Candy.” In the West Bank town of Nablus this was how Palestinians reacted to news of the attacks in New York and Washington. Yasser Arafat later condemned the attacks before the international
media, conveying shock at the events and sending his condolences to President Bush and the American people. But the PR damage had already been done. The world had already seen how Palestinians, the people he represents, celebrated the terrorist acts. Revelers waved Palestinian
flags, laughing and dancing in the streets, distributing candy in honor of the explosions, which they called “sweets from Osama Bin Laden.”

“Are You Okay?” On the streets of Manhattan, stripped of our essential public transportation, pedestrians flowed into the street, trying to get to or from work. Every few blocks, you could hear radio coverage of the news from a parked truck or van. People clustered around it, desperate for information and for community companionship. They stopped to ask friends if they were okay and if everyone they knew was accounted for. My brother Jack called my parents from Jerusalem to find out if we were okay. When my phone finally started working, I got calls from friends outside New York, asking me if I was okay. When it occurred to me that this was a direct reversal of the phone chain that Israelis and their families' experience whenever terrorism strikes the Middle East, I began to cry. I had made such phone calls before; I had never expected to be on the receiving end.

“Barukh Dayan Emet.” When religious Jews hear of death or tragedy, the usual response is “Barukh Dayan Emet” (Blessed is the true judge). During times of trauma, observant Jews seek out the help of God, sometimes reciting Psalms to alleviate feelings of helplessness and to reassure ourselves that God will protect us. But the judgment that led to Tuesday’s destruction and loss of life was not God’s. We still don’t know who is responsible or what their motives were. But, after this week, any illusions that we are safe here, under the aegis of America and God, have certainly been shattered.

“...Condemns the Attacks...” International leaders from Chile to the Vatican weighed in with statements against the attacks. Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon announced that, in solidarity with a violated
America, Wednesday would be a national day of mourning in Israel. The war against terror, Mr. Sharon announced on CNN, is an international war, pitting the free world “against the forces of darkness who seek to destroy our liberty and our way of life. I believe that together we can defeat these forces of evil.” With Vladimir Putin, Gerhard Schroeder, Jacques Chirac and Tony Blair all expressing solidarity with the US, and with Islamic Jihad and Hamas denying involvement in these attacks (albeit somewhat less enthusiastically) the obvious question remains. So who is responsible? Public assessment of the coordination and scale of the terrorist acts indicates the handiwork of the elusive Osama Bin Laden. His spokespeople, of course, deny his involvement.

As I write this, I have lowered CNN to a murmur in the background of my studio apartment,. But it seems like every hour, there is something new to report: an additional building in the World Trade Center complex collapsed. Explosions of undetermined origin were underway in Kabul, Afghanistan, purported home of Osama Bin Laden. From beneath rubble in and around the collapsed buildings, victims called relatives on cell phones. SWAT teams surround a Boston hotel to take suspects into custody. The Empire State Building, evacuated at the slightest threat.

Thousands of people who worked in the destroyed buildings in New York and Washington are classified as missing or injured. The New York death count, currently at “at least 82” will only climb. Part of the Pentagon has collapsed from the force of the explosion, in which an estimated 800 are missing or dead. The Twin Towers have been erased from the New York City skyline. The smoke still billows forth. Citizens of New York and Washington are still screaming in pain and grief. The fires continue to
burn as the smell wafts north.

The words of war continue to make their impact. Slowly, stories begin to graft faces and identities onto previously anonymous victims. One survivor, covered with a mottled combination of dust and blood, reported on rescue efforts: “They told us to make a human chain, and we got each other out of there.”

It was these words that affected me most. Whether or not we believe in God, or Osama Bin Laden, or capitalism, or democracy, we need to remember that in the wake of tragedy, the human chain is what provides us with comfort. And though Psalms pale in importance when people we know and love are missing, we continue to recite them individually and in groups, trying to find meaning in the words that form a historical chain between the author of the Psalms and our modern selves.

In the coming weeks, we will need to believe in humanity with a whole heart, as general shock gives way to more specific horror, and as the pain of grief’s sharpness yields to thoughts of vengeance. Our fear and anger threatens to enslave us, but we need to break free of them and learn, once again, to believe that it is the human chain that can bring about redemption, that can resurrect both our hope and our peace of mind.

9/11 - Retrospective

On September 13, 2001, I wrote an email (full text linked) to some friends and family, with some first reactions to what had happened to America two days before. This email was from an account that expired about five years ago, and I had lost access to all the things I'd sent years before.

Those words should have been gone forever. But thanks to Facebook, I put out an APB on my lost words, and a friend - who had been on the initial distribution list 10 years ago - searched his mail, found my words, and returned them to me. This proved to be a gift to me - a chance to revisit my state of mind and mourning so many years ago, and to see what has and hasn't changed since that day.

But this isn't my real 9/11 post. My real 9/11 post is somewhere in the air between my brain and the keyboard, and aspires to arrive before the 10th anniversary, over the next few days. This is both prelude to that post and retrospective of posts past, a visit from and with my old words, with their different levels of shock, trauma, distance and contemplation. I share these words, from that previously-lost email, from this blog and from articles I've written - and dated 2001, 2003, 2007, 2008, and 2009 respectively - below.

"The real 9/11 post" - that's tomorrow's job.

"Opening the Dor" - Envisioning East Bay's Jewish Tomorrow

I am honored to be attending and co-facilitating at Opening the Dor, an event in Berkeley, CA, geared to engage East Bay Jews between the ages of 21-45 in creating a collective vision for a vibrant East Bay Jewish community. 

Areas of focus will be Arts & Culture, Social Justice, Spirituality, Gender and Judaism, Technology/Social Media, Leadership Development, Philanthropy, and others, with focus groups facilitated by local organizations of the Jewish community. (One guess where I'll be.) Participating organizations include Birthright Israel NEXT Bay Area, G-dcast, Moishe House, Progressive Jewish Alliance-Jewish Funds for Social Justice, ROI Community and others.

Bay Area peeps, hope to see you there on Monday, September 19. (Check out the Facebook event page or the registration page for more info and to save your place.) And if you can't be there in person, follow us on Twitter at #openingthedor.

Some of the Things You Wanted to Know About Kaddish (But Were Afraid to Ask)

If you’ve just lost a family member, you may find yourself considering Kaddish, a traditional prayer said by mourners during daily services, which helps the grieving to reconnect to community and society in the aftermath of a serious loss.

I’ve been saying Kaddish daily (unless something prevents me) since my mother’s funeral on May 15. On days when I go twice a day, this represents a 200% increase in my normal weekday synagogue attendance. Sometimes I’m late, and occasionally, I miss it entirely - sometimes because I overslept, because of a work obligation, or because I had the opportunity to do something social that I know my mother wouldn’t want me to miss on her behalf.

This new commitment is a challenge: sometimes it’s a hassle, sometimes it’s upsetting, but on the whole I find the structure is encouraging a return to whatever my new normal is supposed to be - going out there into the world and into my Jewish community at-large, and putting one foot in front of the other, rejoining society through a new kind of daily grind.

The beneficiary of a day school education, I knew most of the words to kaddish already, but I had no idea what the experience of saying kaddish was supposed to be like. During shiva, I tried to keep up with my father and brothers; after that first seven days, on my twice daily visits to the Conservative synagogue that is halfway between my home and my office, my confusion continued. The more times I went, the more questions I had.

I wished I’d had a guide that approached the Kaddish-saying experience with honesty, information and humor. (And pop culture references.) So that’s what this is - a guide in process, which will hopefully help and perhaps pry a wry, reluctant smile from people going through a process of mourning.

A Tish'ah B'Av Visit to the Kotel (2010)

Will get back to real posting soon, but in the interim, I wanted to mark Tish'ah B'Av, a Jewish day of mourning the loss of the Temple in Jerusalem, among other tragedies to befall the Jewish people. Yes, there were a few.

Last year, I went to the Western Wall on the eve of Tish'ah B'Av, with my FlipCam and a few friends, and then spent the better part of the next morning writing the post linked above about divisions in Jerusalem, and editing the footage on my new Mac. This is the (somewhat too-long-for-most-attention-spans-5-minute) result. Strange commentary and incongruous credits by me (you can tell I was experimenting with iMovie), and closing music by DJ Nova Jade.

Marzipan & Meaning: Jerusalem Reflections

Two things you should know before reading this blog post.

1) There are those who believe that in Jerusalem, the layer between dreams and reality are thinner, as if there's some cosmic connection between that place and a plane that we don't understand. In some people, this manifests as a belief in their own prophecy. Whether you're calling it supernatural, mystical, or collective unconscious, there's something special about the place.

2) My mother, Shulamit, was grandmother to four grandchildren: Gil, Dov, Julia and Ella. She loved them all equally, with all of her heart. But the first one, Gil, was the one who transformed her from "just" our mother into "Savta Shuly."

Now, the story.

While I was in Jerusalem, three weeks after the passing of my mother, these things kept happening to and around me that made me feel her presence: walking down the street in Jerusalem, at the daily minyanim I attended to say kaddish, in erev Shabbat breezes that seemed to blow air straight into my lungs in a way that made me gasp, in angels who appeared in human form to help me when I was crying during services, and in one particular case, in a carton of rugelach.

"EMa’ariv": Contemplating the Evening Service

I wrote this a week or two ago and read it to a group of friends Erev Shavuot at my Jerusalem apartment, as part of a session of learning focusing on Ma'ariv (the evening prayer service), the moon and the stars. It marked the end of shloshim, the marker of 30 days since my mother's death, and my movement from one stage of mourning into another, in which I will be trying to increase my movement back into the community, although I remain a mourner for the rest of the year. Part of that movement is getting back to spending time with the international community of friends that I am lucky enough to have, and which expanded due to this week's ROI Summit. Wherever you are, I'm grateful for you, and I wanted to share this with you. Shabbat shalom from Jerusalem. 

Over the last three weeks, I’ve gone to shul twice a day for three services – Shacharit in the morning, and then one joint Mincha and Maariv service. (I admit having missed about three of these services due to airplane travel, but mostly, I manage to get there.) And while I read the words, I have started remembering things that my mother used to say about different phrases and words in the prayer service. But while some of these memories are hazy – and I hope they’ll clarify with time and meditation – I have been repeatedly struck by phrases in the Ma’ariv service, which my mother loved so much she told me about them repeatedly. I never asked her to expand upon her relationship to prayer in general, and to all of the prayer services, but I can try to explore – as I say the words daily - why my Ema liked Ma’ariv.

Eulogy for My Mother

My mother, Shulamit Michal (Englander) Kustanowitz, died on May 14 at the age of 66.

I have no doubt that I will be writing many pieces about and inspired by her in the future, but right now, it's hard for me to breathe, let alone write.

Here is the eulogy I delivered at her funeral, and below, links to other pieces about her, published in the Jewish Standard, where she served as managing editor a while ago.

May her memory be a blessing and inspiration, to me and to others.

I wanted to share with you three short stories about my mother.

Story #1 started with my mother’s proclamation that chocolate chips taste best in other things – after they’ve been baked into cookies or banana cake, or folded into vanilla ice cream. Having received this hint loud and clear, we made her chocolate chip pancakes on her birthday (and sometimes Mother’s Day) every year that we were able to.  Then one day, after we’d all grown up and moved away, we finally learned that she appreciated the effort so much that she hadn’t had the heart to tell us that the one place she didn’t really like chocolate chips was in pancakes.

Story #2 : When we were kids, our mother made challah every week. When we became adults and were interested in making the challah ourselves, she sent us copies of the recipe – after listing carefully all the ingredients and how to assemble them, how to braid and bake the loaves, etc, there was one final paragraph, which read – in paraphrase – now that you have this recipe, don’t use it. She feared it would take over our lives and we’d spend our days in the kitchen, constantly baking. She urged us to go out and experience life instead.

Story # 3: When life seems overwhelming and there’s so much to do that you can’t think straight, my mother always advised me to make a list: the first thing on the list should always be “make a list,” that way you can cross it off immediately. I never did this of course, or on the few times I did, the first thing I did was to promptly lose the list.

I have so many things I wanted to talk about today that not even making a list helped. I wanted to talk about my mother’s inspiring courage during years of illness, about her unwavering maternal instinct, about her ever-increasing passion for Israel and devotion to family. But in making my list, I realized that I should focus on one aspect of her legacy. Of course, she gave us all the gift of our physical existence, but also embedded in all of us a deep commitment to storytelling that followed us through our childhood and even into our adulthood professions.

My first exposure to writing as a career was her first book - “A First Haggadah,” which my mother wrote because I was about three years old and there was no Haggadah she could find that was written for children. Throughout my childhood, I watched her blossom as a newspaper writer, an editor, and again an author. I first learned about journalism at the Jewish Standard office, and Ema and I co-authored a book review together. Her articles and bylines piled up, on subjects varying from Jewish holidays to Israel advocacy, and throughout, I watched and listened as she developed her distinct and passionate voice as a writer.

I came to understand that my mother saw writing as an extension of what she always viewed as her most meaningful role – as an educator, helping us understand the world at large as well as our place in the Jewish tradition. But by sharing those lessons with us at home and with others in writing, she expanded her commitment, challenging others to think about their roles, whether or not they were Jewish, whether or not they had an affinity for Israel or Jewish tradition.

About a year ago, my brothers, sisters-in-law and I began to create a compendium that collected some of our mother’s articles – represented were some of our favorite pieces or the ones we felt best illustrated her voice. During this process, we realized that although Jack, Simmy and I are strong in different academic areas, my mother’s passion for the written word has been a constant and inspiring thread throughout our Jewish and creative lives.

Even though today is a very sad day for us, I know I speak for all of us – my father, my brothers and sisters-in-law and my nieces and nephews, as well as the cousins and extended family and friends who are here today – when I say that we are so proud of all that Ema accomplished during her life.

We honor the same spirit that valued our love and effort so much that she wouldn’t tell us that the breakfast we had worked so hard on wasn’t what she wanted. In the weeks that come, we will try to heed the advice at the end of her challah recipe – you can bake challah every week, but it’s better to go out into the world and live your lives. And we will always love her, for being our mother, and for inspiring us to keep creativity and commitment as our constant companions, whatever we do.

May her memory keep us as safe and loved as we felt while we were blessed to have her with us, and may her words, memory and generous spirit continue to inspire us toward creativity and meaningful relationships, with Jewish life and tradition and with each other.

We love you, Ema.

And in the Jewish Standard:

Remembering Shuly Kustanowitz

Shuly Kustanowitz, In Her Own Words