MY URBAN KVETCH

Mother's Day Posts Even/Especially a Non-Mother Could Love

So is my mom in the 7%? And if not, can you connect us, Skype?

Three years after losing my mother, I'm beginning to gain some perspective.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still devastated at my mother's absence and irritated by the onslaught of media messaging. And while I appreciate the sentiment, Skype telling me to call my mom on Mother's Day is a bit much - unless they actually can connect us, in which case, a resounding "yes" and "my bad for calling you out."

But halfway through Mother's Day here on the West Coast, I'm encouraged by the variety of posts I'm seeing - primarily on Facebook, but in other media outlets as well (see some interesting links below) - that indicate love for mothers past and present, hopes for future maternal roles, and the acknowledgement that although this holiday is an invented Hallmark one, its presence can be one that inspires some and hurts others.

Especially that last circumstance is something I'm seeing explored more and more, and although I don't envy the hurt that provoked the shift (because I do have my own), the fact that more of us are speaking out about this day as complicated (for some, suddenly so) is a good thing. It creates empathy among us all, increases appreciation and encourages us to reach out to those who make an impact regardless of whether they're biologically mothers or not.

As some of you may know, I have published two Mother's Day pieces - "Dealing with the Mother's Day Motherlode Now That Our Mothers Are Gone" last year, focusing on the media onslaught, and this year's "Marking Mother's Day When Mother is Gone" in the NY Jewish Week, which (if the Facebook Like counter is a reliable measure) has been read hundreds of times since it appeared on Wednesday. I've been blessed with really great feedback on these pieces, and have been very gratified to see this subject covered so well by other people who are putting their lives back together again after loss, and putting words to the process to share publicly. I wanted to use this space to share four pieces - not written by me - that I found moving, helpful and resonant over the last few days.

Dealing With the Mother's Day's Motherlode, Now That Our Mothers Are Gone

Possibly one of the worst ideas for a Mother's Day card ever. We all know what happened to Bambi's mother, right?

Isn't Mom the Bomb? 82 Ways to Tell Mom You Love Her. Don't forget about Mom! It's Mom's turn. Mother's Day offer! Make Mom feel special. Treat Mom to the dinner she deserves! What mom really wants. Ready to Party Like a Mother? Tell your mother you love her. Make sure Mom gets the message.  - subject headers from emails received mid-April to mid-May

 

Mother’s Day is here again, which is great for most people whose mothers are still alive. But for those of us who have lost our mothers, this holiday presents an onslaught of media messages urging us to reach out to someone who we can no longer touch.

“I was overwhelmed by the onslaught of Mother's Day displays in stores, radio commercials and especially those pull-at-the-heart strings attempts to convince people to buy flowers, cell phones, and clap-on lighting devices,” said Rebecca Soffer, an independent producer and writer in New York whose mother died in a car accident in 2006. 

Bex Schwartz, a New York-based creative director who lost her mother "relatively suddenly" in April 2010, spends the weeks leading up to Mother’s Day in what she describes as “a state of fury. That first year, all the omnipresent Mother's Day shit made me sad. But now every time I see an ad or get an email telling me to shower my mother with love (and gifts) I just get angry.”

"When you don't have a mother, suddenly it seems like the entire world does." remembers Soffer. That first year, she joined a friend's family for brunch, but "as lovely as they all were, all I could think of was how uncomfortable, and even angry, I felt among them."

Time makes the pain different in its depth or sharpness, but doesn’t erase it. “I am tired of people telling me that, now that I have a daughter, Mother's Day will no longer be sad for me,” said Shannon Sarna Goldberg, NYC-based food-writer and blogger who gave birth to her daughter Ella last year. “True, this is the first Mother's Day in 15 years where I feel like I have something to do other than be annoyed and sad and generally brooding. But to say that the presence of a child (or any additional relationship) will negate the loss of one's mother shows a lack of understanding of what it means to be motherless, and a lack of recognition of the sanctity about what our moms mean to each us.”

The first few years are predictably rocky, as the shift happens from omnipresent-but-innocuous Hallmark holiday and excuse for family gatherings to a wrenching reminder of what has been lost. “I was in too much pain; it was easier to try to shut down the meaning of Mother's Day because I was an only child and my father was in too much pain to ask me to remember her with him,” Soffer remembers. “I ended up talking a long walk along the Hudson at the end of the day, far away from restaurants, Duane Reade card displays, and, most importantly, families.” But after a few years, she missed acknowledging a day with so many memories attached. “I decided to try out ways to feel connected with my mother instead of expending so much energy ignoring her.” 

In trying to cope with Mother's Day, the challenge is to synthesize our losses within the construct of larger society, while this day-with-capital-D goes on around us, punctuating our landscape with signs of celebratory sales and elaborate floral arrangements. So we search out ways to remember.

Unveiling

These are my unedited remarks from the unveiling and memorial service held in NY for my late mother, Shulamit Michal (Englander) Kustanowitz yesterday, May 6, 2012. Thanks to all of you who have supported me this year and who will support me in the future. - Esther

This past year, when people would see me in a moment of sadness, they'd console me in a book full of ways. That book is already in process, but doesn't have a publisher yet (in case you know anyone). But one of the go-to ways for other people to console me was to say "Don't worry, your mother's proud of you." To which I often wanted to respond, "Duh." 

 

My mother may have had her secrets and preference for privacy, but the one thing that was never a mystery was how she felt about her children. She treasured each of us as an individual, taking care to keep our report cards and SAT scores secret so that not a one of the three of us would feel competition when it came to grades. (Of course, there was no competition because Jack would have always won, and we knew that.) I think she really loved that we were all so thoughtful - a word that Simmy used to speak about her at the funeral last year - in our endeavors, whether it was writing or music or comedy. She may not have understood the need for a show like Silent Library - those of you who know this show know what I'm talking about - but she was proud that her child was making it work and getting work out of it. 

 

She was proud of her grandchildren, and amazed that she'd lived to see them. She was proud that we had found communities that embraced and nourished us, that even though we were all freelancers, she supported us in our more creative, if less stable, career paths. She cherished laughter and as her condition became more serious, I took the responsibility of bringing her laughter very seriously - getting her to chuckle was hard, but when achieved, it made me feel for a few minutes like I'd made a difference for her. She was always the first person with whom I shared my published pieces - sometimes her response was brief, at other times, longer and opened a discussion, but always supportive.

 

But it's not always a given, in all families. I have become aware that not all parents give their children positive feedback. 

 

Was my mother proud of me? Of us? Duh. If I have any regrets or unfinished business with my mother, trying to figure out if she was proud of me is not one of them.

A Pesach Prayer

My mother, z"l, had a love-hate relationship with Passover. She loved having the family around - that was always true - but the stringencies of the holiday, and the prodigious effort it took to get the house clean and the food prepared and the seder table ready often led her to proclaim that if the rabbis had been in charge of "making Pesach," the rules would have been different, more lenient, more livable.

But that perspective didn't stop her from being a stickler as to how we prepared. She was incredibly organized and masterminded the operation, which began right after Purim and continued for the four weeks until Passover began. She had a box of Passover information, inherited from her mother, with schedules, shopping lists, timelines and menus that were decades old; every year, she opened the box, and spent hours revising and updating things for that particular year's needs. (I'm planning to visit this box of inherited insanity later today when I arrive at the ancestral home in New Jersey for our first Passover since my mother's passing in May 2011.)  

My mother was the general, and we were the army of footsoldiers at her disposal. Every year, we sequestered the "chametzdik" dishes and pots and pans in boxes and replaced them with their finally-ready-for-prime-time counterparts, which had waited in the wings in the basement for nearly a year, tensing for their moment in the sun. We washed and cleaned and vacuumed and cooked, and straightened rooms and made sure everything was ready for the big show. 

The climate in the house also grew tense, and usually, especially after my mother's movement became more difficult and I inherited the bulk of the seder prep, there was always one day that was so stressful and exhausting that I couldn't take it anymore and simply disintegrated into sobs. Luckily, we could just catch those tears as they fell and recycle them at the seder as salt water. (We didn't, but we could have.)

Decades before, my mother had written a Haggadah designed for children, to answer the questions that kids like me might have about such a holiday. (A new copy of this book is inexplicably for sale at Amazon for $127) But she had taken to joking that she could write a great book about how to make Pesach, but who had the time?

Even as her physical strength waned, my mother found the time, at least to start this project. Last Passover, my mother shared with us at the seder the prayer she'd written. According to the outline of my father found in my mother's computer, this prayer was intended to be Chapter 9 in a book on Passover preparation. I haven't seen the half-manuscript yet, but my father recirculated the prayer to us, so now I'm sharing it with you - my prayer for my mother's prayer is that it fosters a culture of gratitude and appreciation for all the hard labor that goes into this intense holiday. May you all have lovely and meaningful Passover experiences that leave you appreciative of the freedom and love that surround you. Chag sameach!

A PRAYER , by Shulamith E. Kustanowitz (2011)

Now that everyone has taken their places in the synagogue and at the table, let’s take a moment to honor all those who have worked to make this holiday possible, especially the women who did most of the work. Today’s men do a lot of the chores, but in the past, generations of women shouldered nearly all of the responsibility that kept our tradition and history alive for the Jewish people during the year, but especially on Pesach. And they did it one year after another, one generation after another, one century after another, one millennium after another.

A Pesach Prayer

Blessed be all those who attended to the logistics that make a Seder possible. 

Especially, the women who, for centuries, did it all by themselves:

            Cleaning the house, including closets and windows;

            Getting clothes for everyone in the family and making sure they were ready;

            Buying what was needed – the food for meals and for brachot, the wine for ceremonies and for pleasure, the utensils for serving ease and for beauty;

            Watching the prices so nothing would cost more than it really had to;

            Changing the dishes, silverware and pots;

            Kashering what needed it;

            Polishing what needed it;

            Cooking what was wanted;

            Preparing the soups, meat, side dishes, cakes and snacks;

            Getting treats for the fussy eaters and distractions for difficult guests;

            Working no matter how tired they were;

            Getting to shul anyway;

            Smiling when people told them they were unreasonable to think it was all so hard that they would need a lot of help,

            and

            Being told that no one else complains.

Enable us to appreciate good help when it’s offered and to get through this holiday in good spirits toward each other so we can value the miracle that the Exodus from Egypt truly was and the amazing things that the world has witnessed since then.

And be grateful for the good that has been done for all of us, whether we all helped or not.

Amen.

 

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.

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

 

Aba Kustanowitz Goes to Kosherfest - The Video

To recap, in the beginning, I started a blog. (Hint: You're reading it now.) Years later, my Aba started a blog. Several months ago, I started doing video. And now my Aba's doing video, live from the floor at Kosherfest.

That's right - from squeezable hummus, falafel filled with tehina and popcorn (in a box) to beverages like watermelon juice, tequila in painted skull bottles, and sangria (in a box), my father was there and covered it all.

So to go behind the scenes at Kosherfest (and perhaps also my childhood), view the video - and if you like it, share with a friend or leave him a comment. I happen to know that he enjoys both comments and traffic. 

Kol hakavod, Aba! (And don't you dare invade Twitter!)

Apples, Trees and Blogs: A Father's Day Post

As many of you know, I started blogging in 2004, and basically have spent many hours since then trying to explain the culture of blogging and social media to many people, including my parents. Apparently, although it may take a while to sink in, I'm eventually very convincing:

Jewish Humor Central is a blog to start your day with news of the Jewish world that's likely to produce a knowing smile and some Yiddishe nachas. It's also a collection of sources of Jewish humor--anything that brings a grin, chuckle, laugh, guffaw, or just a warm feeling to readers. Our posts include jokes, satire, books, music, films, videos, food, Unbelievable But True, and In the News. Some are new, and some are classics. We post every morning, Sunday through Friday. Enjoy!

My Aba, Al Kustanowitz (pictured left with my nephew Gil), started his blog, Jewish Humor Central, several months ago, and has since become the model blogger: he gives credit to his sources, adds people to his blogroll, posts regularly (a little too regularly, if you ask me - setting an impossible bar for posting by those of us who aren't retired), and tries to vary the content of his posts, adding photos and videos where possible. He takes the work of humor very, very seriously: he pulls from sources ranging from the Wall Street Journal to Voz Is Neias, 

And lately, he's taken to asking me lots of questions about stats, traffic, and the whys and wherefores of SEO. As I've been saying, sometimes the tree doesn't fall far from the apple. We both laughed a lot at this concept, until an actual tree fell on my parents' house in New Jersey slightly before Pesach. (Ah, comedy!)

So here's a message from "Apple Kustanowitz," asking for your help with a Father's Day gift for "Tree Kustanowitz." Since my father's notoriously difficult to buy for (especially since his birthday was just in May), I'm asking your help to give him the one thing that I can actually give him by tapping into my network: an increase in web traffic or an explanation of how search rankings work. 

Here's how you can help:

1) Add Jewish Humor Central to your blogrolls.
2) Recommend Jewish Humor Central to a friend.
3) Sign up for the Jewish Humor Central Feedburner feed.
4) Link to Jewish Humor Central in a blog post.
5) Share a link from Jewish Humor Central on Facebook or Twitter, or "Facebook Like" Jewish Humor Central.
6) If you have a favorite SEO trick to share, or just want to wish my father a Happy Father's Day, email Al Kustanowitz at [email protected].

If we can give him a significant boost in traffic today, we'll give him the best present ever. (Yes, the blog-nerdiness runs in my family.) Thanks for your help!