So first of all, I can't believe I wrote about this in April. I thought I last wrote about this last month. I think since I've been traveling so much lately that months and dates mean little to me. This may seem funny to my friends who know that I throw away food the second it says that it is expired.
I can honestly say until I looked down at my computer date clock just this second I had no idea what the day was.
Another reason time is unimportant is because I'm in my own purgatory right now. My coworkers will laugh at that term. "You're so dramatic. You're such a drama queen." And I am in my own way. I don't cause drama, or seek drama, but I tell stories or recall events in a very dramatic fashion. Just last week (exactly I think) I was at the airport in Warsaw, Poland telling a story. A random man stopped me and said, "I can tell you are a great educator because you are so dramatic in the way that you speak to your students." Then he gave me a thumbs up and went on his way.
Maybe he was my guardian angel, but I don't really think I have one, and if I do, it's not a random guy in Poland, rather my grandparents who I sometimes envision at my side holding me up.
I had that kind of vision was when I got engaged. He and I were walking around Lakeview, telling various people who were most important to us in person. Through my smile I was terrified. Of what exactly, I don't know. Or maybe I do know and I did know. But through that terror, holding his hand, I could feel my Bubbie and Zadie holding me up. I know it sounds freaky, but it's what I felt.
There was a time during our engagement when he told me he didn't know if he wanted to get married anymore. It was an awful time. It was, well, purgatory. But every day I went to work, and every afternoon (almost) I went to the gym, and every week I talked to trusted friends who supported me every step of the way.
In the end, when it didn't work out, as I said in my previous post, I fled my apartment into a condo where I put boxes and boxes of things without sorting them. Since last July, when the relationship I am in now, was progressing, I began cleaning out those boxes albeit fearing what I would find that I haven't seen in seven years.
So I took down a plastic storage container tonight. It looked innocuous. Bills, and such. And then there it was. The book he made me. A bound book with emails from our relationship that ended with "Will you Marry me?" Inside the book were three pictures. I remember why I saved the pictures and the book. I remember thinking that one day, when my son or daughter's heart was really broken, I would tell them the story of my heart being obliterated (dramatic) and let them know that they would be better some day, just like I am.
One of the pictures is of him telling me something at a family bar mitzvah, and me laughing very hard. The second was of us at a friend's wedding. In both pictures I look very, very happy and beautiful. There were other pictures, too. One of me signing a friend's ketubah and me at her wedding. They are some of the few pictures I have of myself wearing the engagement ring that I gave back to him on a beautiful May day seven years ago.
Finding the book and finding the pictures were something I feared for the last seven years. So how did I feel?
I felt like I was looking at artifacts. I liked seeing that smile. I liked the evidence that what happened to me was true, even though so many people encouraged me to forget about it. I'll never completely forget about it, even if should. I won't. For those who have memories that fade easier than mine, perhaps you are blessed. Although I don't think of myself as cursed.
Right now, this very second, I'm going through something similar that I went through when I was engaged and my exfiance told me he wasn't sure he wanted to marry me anymore. Actually, it's not similar at all, but in my head it feels similar.
I am waiting to hear from the U.S. government if my potential roommate will get his Visa. It is totally out of my hands. I am completely powerless. The decision is in a sealed envelope. When it is opened I have no idea what it will say.
Every single person (including him) is confident that it will be positive. I have spent the last 10 days carrying the same feelings I carried seven years ago: preparing for the worst. I've been increasing my trips to the gym, I've been meditating, and sometimes I will let someone know how much I'm suffering (dramatic) with anxiety
As for that book and those pictures, I put them away. Because deep in my heart I know that I will someday have that conversation about heartbreak with my son and daughter during another excavation, at another time, in another home filled with love.
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The perfect piano teacher
It was a day I had been waiting for what felt like an eternity. Six. I had to be six years old before I could begin. Six was the magic number. First grade. I had to be able to read well. That was the rule. I sat cross legged on the living room floor with bright blue early 80s carpet that summer watching my brother Eric play. When he would finish, I went to it, shiny, big and black with ivory, and pounded away until someone would yell at me to stop because it was annoying them.
My excitement was palpable. We pulled up to her driveway in August of 1982. Her neighborhood had cozy houses with huge, beautiful trees. As I entered, the entire house smelled of cookies. There she was in her trademark sweatpants and bare feet.
“Hello, Sharna. You look just like your dad. I’ve known your mom since we were young girls. Are you ready to begin?”
Hers was different from ours. More modest, but more approachable. Worn but still perfect. A candy bowel sat atop the wood.
“Ok, Sharna, now take your right thumb, no the other thumb, put it here, no here. Good! That is the letter ‘C.’”
Week after week when I was so small that my legs dangled from the bench, I would come to Mrs. Peters’ house and play the piano.
“You played very well this week,” she said to me when I had learned my first song.
“Thank you,” I said. “I can also sing and dance.”
She would laugh this amazing laugh. A laugh filled with hoarseness and vigor. A laugh from her belly. An uninhibited, unapologetic laugh.
I elicited the same laugh a year later right before my brother’s bar mitzvah.
“What are you doing this weekend, Sharna?”
“It’s my brother’s bar mitzvah,” I said. “Are you coming, I’ll be wearing my hair like Princess Leah from Star Wars?”
“No, Sharna, I wasn’t invited,” she said.
I paused and assured her, “Oh Mrs. Peters. Your invitation probably just got lost in the mail.”
She told those two stories to everyone she knew. They were her favorite stories for years.
Every week I would come and play the piano.
“Did you practice?” she would ask.
“Yes,” I would tell as a half truth. I did practice, once maybe twice that week.
She didn’t care if I practiced. She didn’t care that I lied even though she knew every week by how poorly or well I played. We spent a half an hour filled with laughter, music, next week’s “homework,” and that coveted candy. When she would go answer the phone I would pet her dog (I forgot the name!) and shoo away Oscar the mean cat.
The truth is, if Mrs. Peters wanted to, she could have fired me as a student. Most music teachers definitely would have. I barely practiced, I lied about it (eventually she stopped asking), and I wasn’t particularly talented. It’s not like my parents were paying her tons of money to teach me. Maybe $10? Less?
But Mrs. Peters loved me. She just did. I felt that love every time I entered her house. I felt it every time she played the “left hand” and I played the “right hand.” I felt it when she waived good bye from her front door when I walked to my mom’s car. I felt it when occasionally I would play well and she would clap. I felt it when she bought me special Chanukah music (because all she had in her stock pile was Christmas music).
Week after week I would take lessons, almost every week until I was 18. Even when I came home from college I would take lessons. By the time I was in high school, I could play Mozart, Bach and Beethoven-as they rolled in their graves. But as it became clear (when I was 8) that I would not become a concert pianist, Mrs. Peters introduced me to popular music to hold my interest (which we played after the classical music).
Playing piano brought me great joy, even though I wasn’t great at it. When I was upset about something, when I was nervous, I would play on my parents’ piano, and pounded away until someone would yell at me to stop because it was annoying them. When I went to college my freshman year, I played on the baby grand in Foster Harper. When I lived in Israel after college, I played piano in the dining hall at the kibbutz. At the high school I worked at, I would play in the student lounge.
Again, let me be clear. I am not good at piano, but I can play piano. I miss notes, I change rhythms, I have no ear and I can’t memorize a piece to save my life. However, the hours of joy that my limited skill has brought to me are innumerable. I hate playing in front of people outside of my family. It is hard for me to play in front of close friends. My hands shake terribly and I feel sick and insecure.
But that neurosis is not because of Mrs. Peters. She somehow overcame my low self esteem to give me this incredible gift of music. As a kid with Mrs. Peters I wasn’t insecure, I wasn’t fat, as a middle schooler I wasn’t unpopular or ugly, and as a high schooler I wasn’t boyfriendless wearing the wrong clothes. With her it was always about the love of the sound of the music. Put a piece of sheet music in front of me, and I will make it come to life. I will play it. My hands will hit the white keys hard, the passion of the notes enveloping my fore arms. My foot, hitting the pedal, amplifies the notes so that they are probably louder than the composer intended. And if I’m really feeling comfortable, I will sing along, and if I’m there long enough, even harmonize.
When friends (who aren’t pianists or musicians) hear me play for the first time that are incredulous. “I didn’t know you played.” I offer full disclosure that I don’t really.
But the truth is, I do. I can play for hours. I play Natalie Merchant, Fiona Apple, Mozart, Ben Folds, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, show tunes, Rent, Phil Collins, Disney Music. I’ve played a couple of times in public. I played in a band for one performance with as a keyboardist on my stomach because someone forgot the stand. I played at my youth advisor’s wedding. I played in contests (always earning second in a competition against myself).
Had Mrs. Peters given up on me, had she “fired” me, my fingers would have been silenced. Instead she gave me an incredible, irreplaceable gift: the gift of music.
As a teacher applying to jobs, you are asked to write these hideous educational philosophy statements. I always struggled with that. Teaching is such an innate skill for me, that even after a master’s in education, it seemed to be an impossible task.
Because to be completely honest, sometimes as an educator, I embrace mediocrity. I don’t see the point in telling a kid that she has to be perfect, when perfection isn’t a realistic goal. My standards are high. I still give readings to the equivalent of Mozart. But some kids aren’t going to get there, and making them feel like shit about it serves no useful purpose. And the only times in my life where I quit something was when the coach or teacher used perfection as the standard of success.
I understand that this can’t work in every aspect of life. But really, how many of us are ever actually perfect at anything? And how many of us have stopped doing what we love because we weren’t good enough?
I want the writer who can’t spell to write. I want the dancer who is clumsy to dance. I want the soccer player who can’t run fast to play. I want the actor who isn’t Broadway bound to act.
And I’ll tell you, the times when I sacrificed my joy of something to meet the standards of someone else’s definition of perfection, I lost a part of my soul and only regained it once I reclaimed whatever it was that brought me happiness.
I wonder if anyone ever counted how many children Mrs. Peters taught to play the piano before she died on Sunday. I wonder if anyone knows how many people are out there to whom she gave the gift of music. I wonder how many people remember the different candies for every season that they received after a lesson. I wonder how many people can still hear her laugh in their ears and in their hearts and most importantly at their fingertips.
View Mrs. Peters Obituary
My educational philosophy
My excitement was palpable. We pulled up to her driveway in August of 1982. Her neighborhood had cozy houses with huge, beautiful trees. As I entered, the entire house smelled of cookies. There she was in her trademark sweatpants and bare feet.
“Hello, Sharna. You look just like your dad. I’ve known your mom since we were young girls. Are you ready to begin?”
Hers was different from ours. More modest, but more approachable. Worn but still perfect. A candy bowel sat atop the wood.
“Ok, Sharna, now take your right thumb, no the other thumb, put it here, no here. Good! That is the letter ‘C.’”
Week after week when I was so small that my legs dangled from the bench, I would come to Mrs. Peters’ house and play the piano.
“You played very well this week,” she said to me when I had learned my first song.
“Thank you,” I said. “I can also sing and dance.”
She would laugh this amazing laugh. A laugh filled with hoarseness and vigor. A laugh from her belly. An uninhibited, unapologetic laugh.
I elicited the same laugh a year later right before my brother’s bar mitzvah.
“What are you doing this weekend, Sharna?”
“It’s my brother’s bar mitzvah,” I said. “Are you coming, I’ll be wearing my hair like Princess Leah from Star Wars?”
“No, Sharna, I wasn’t invited,” she said.
I paused and assured her, “Oh Mrs. Peters. Your invitation probably just got lost in the mail.”
She told those two stories to everyone she knew. They were her favorite stories for years.
Every week I would come and play the piano.
“Did you practice?” she would ask.
“Yes,” I would tell as a half truth. I did practice, once maybe twice that week.
She didn’t care if I practiced. She didn’t care that I lied even though she knew every week by how poorly or well I played. We spent a half an hour filled with laughter, music, next week’s “homework,” and that coveted candy. When she would go answer the phone I would pet her dog (I forgot the name!) and shoo away Oscar the mean cat.
The truth is, if Mrs. Peters wanted to, she could have fired me as a student. Most music teachers definitely would have. I barely practiced, I lied about it (eventually she stopped asking), and I wasn’t particularly talented. It’s not like my parents were paying her tons of money to teach me. Maybe $10? Less?
But Mrs. Peters loved me. She just did. I felt that love every time I entered her house. I felt it every time she played the “left hand” and I played the “right hand.” I felt it when she waived good bye from her front door when I walked to my mom’s car. I felt it when occasionally I would play well and she would clap. I felt it when she bought me special Chanukah music (because all she had in her stock pile was Christmas music).
Week after week I would take lessons, almost every week until I was 18. Even when I came home from college I would take lessons. By the time I was in high school, I could play Mozart, Bach and Beethoven-as they rolled in their graves. But as it became clear (when I was 8) that I would not become a concert pianist, Mrs. Peters introduced me to popular music to hold my interest (which we played after the classical music).
Playing piano brought me great joy, even though I wasn’t great at it. When I was upset about something, when I was nervous, I would play on my parents’ piano, and pounded away until someone would yell at me to stop because it was annoying them. When I went to college my freshman year, I played on the baby grand in Foster Harper. When I lived in Israel after college, I played piano in the dining hall at the kibbutz. At the high school I worked at, I would play in the student lounge.
Again, let me be clear. I am not good at piano, but I can play piano. I miss notes, I change rhythms, I have no ear and I can’t memorize a piece to save my life. However, the hours of joy that my limited skill has brought to me are innumerable. I hate playing in front of people outside of my family. It is hard for me to play in front of close friends. My hands shake terribly and I feel sick and insecure.
But that neurosis is not because of Mrs. Peters. She somehow overcame my low self esteem to give me this incredible gift of music. As a kid with Mrs. Peters I wasn’t insecure, I wasn’t fat, as a middle schooler I wasn’t unpopular or ugly, and as a high schooler I wasn’t boyfriendless wearing the wrong clothes. With her it was always about the love of the sound of the music. Put a piece of sheet music in front of me, and I will make it come to life. I will play it. My hands will hit the white keys hard, the passion of the notes enveloping my fore arms. My foot, hitting the pedal, amplifies the notes so that they are probably louder than the composer intended. And if I’m really feeling comfortable, I will sing along, and if I’m there long enough, even harmonize.
When friends (who aren’t pianists or musicians) hear me play for the first time that are incredulous. “I didn’t know you played.” I offer full disclosure that I don’t really.
But the truth is, I do. I can play for hours. I play Natalie Merchant, Fiona Apple, Mozart, Ben Folds, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, show tunes, Rent, Phil Collins, Disney Music. I’ve played a couple of times in public. I played in a band for one performance with as a keyboardist on my stomach because someone forgot the stand. I played at my youth advisor’s wedding. I played in contests (always earning second in a competition against myself).
Had Mrs. Peters given up on me, had she “fired” me, my fingers would have been silenced. Instead she gave me an incredible, irreplaceable gift: the gift of music.
As a teacher applying to jobs, you are asked to write these hideous educational philosophy statements. I always struggled with that. Teaching is such an innate skill for me, that even after a master’s in education, it seemed to be an impossible task.
Because to be completely honest, sometimes as an educator, I embrace mediocrity. I don’t see the point in telling a kid that she has to be perfect, when perfection isn’t a realistic goal. My standards are high. I still give readings to the equivalent of Mozart. But some kids aren’t going to get there, and making them feel like shit about it serves no useful purpose. And the only times in my life where I quit something was when the coach or teacher used perfection as the standard of success.
I understand that this can’t work in every aspect of life. But really, how many of us are ever actually perfect at anything? And how many of us have stopped doing what we love because we weren’t good enough?
I want the writer who can’t spell to write. I want the dancer who is clumsy to dance. I want the soccer player who can’t run fast to play. I want the actor who isn’t Broadway bound to act.
And I’ll tell you, the times when I sacrificed my joy of something to meet the standards of someone else’s definition of perfection, I lost a part of my soul and only regained it once I reclaimed whatever it was that brought me happiness.
I wonder if anyone ever counted how many children Mrs. Peters taught to play the piano before she died on Sunday. I wonder if anyone knows how many people are out there to whom she gave the gift of music. I wonder how many people remember the different candies for every season that they received after a lesson. I wonder how many people can still hear her laugh in their ears and in their hearts and most importantly at their fingertips.
View Mrs. Peters Obituary
My educational philosophy
Friday, October 10, 2008
Doctor saves my dad's life; tugs at my feminist heart strings
The following writing could be gender neutral or appositive towards men. However, to write as such would be disingenuous to my current state of emoting feminism. With that said, feel free to apply it to whomever you choose.
A 6:30 a.m. I entered the surgical prep room where my dad was already in bed donning a hospital gown. My brother, a physician, was chatting with friends at the hospital and making my dad feel at ease.
Then she walked in. Dr. Talia Baker. Transplant Surgeon. At age 41 she is one of the top transplant surgeons at Northwestern University Hospital. She is about 5’6, thin build, blue eyes and dark hair worn in a hybrid layered cut/bob.
Talia has three kids, all under the age of five. She majored in history and then decided to go to medical school. She speaks confidently that “your dad will do just great in the surgery.” I believe her.
Eight and a half hours later she emerges from surgery looking tired but cheerful. She explains with depth and precision why my father’s surgery took so long and complications that she anticipates. I imagine her standing in the surgical room (did I mention it took 8 hours!) cutting my father open, maneuvering through the layers of scar tissue, flipping his liver, and then resecting it and resecting it again until comfortable that the margins are centimeters free of cancer. I imagine her wearing her mini binoculars on her glasses so that she can see precisely the hernias from previous surgeries and the hundred or so bile ducts that have formed as a result of liver damage.
As she anticipates my dad’s recovery, I resist the urge to tackle her with a huge hug of thanks. As soon as I can, I go to the intensive care unit to see my dad. He is doing fine. Many tubes, a mask to help him breathe, but he is just fine. He is even cracking jokes half true to his personality and half fueled by the pain medication and left over anesthetic.
As I return to the surgical waiting room I see the magazines that my sister in law bought to entertain us while we awaited my dad’s emergence from surgery: People and US magazine.
To be fair, I read US Magazine especially if I’m feeling stressed because it helps get my mind off reality. But then I wondered…
How would our world be different if we lauded the Talia Bakers in the world? What if the top selling magazine covers featured women whose contributions mattered, instead of focusing on Britney’s drug problem, Lindsey’s drug problem, Paris’ drug problem, the extra fat on so and sos stomach and the 30 pounds someone was paid to lose by a diet company whose results are unreliable. Why are we focused on who got what plastic surgery and who is dating or cheating on whom?
In addition, why do we fuel the hyper commercialization of young people with marginal talent whose biggest achievement is attaining stardom because of aggressive publicists or being related to famous parents?
Imagine a magazine that features the winner of the Science Olympiad. Or an artist that created art. Or a composer of music. Why are we not featuring these kids’ successes instead of solely focusing on the rich, famous and f-ed up? What if we knew the stories of the genetic counselors who guide a woman at risk of having a child born with a genetic disease through conception and pregnancy; or the special education teacher who teaches her students to read; or the speech language pathologist who teachers her autistic student to speak; or the volunteer in Africa who counsels victims of rape? Or the attorney at the ACLU who protects a woman’s right to choose? Or the aid who cares for an elderly woman with Alzheimer’s?
Perhaps in this post feminist age, in this uber obsessed celebrity culture, this is the final battle women must fight: the battle to celebrate and promote achievements, even permeate the culture with such accomplishments, which are completely unrelated to looks or sex appeal.
Imagine young women dumping the Hillary Duff and Hannah Montana posters for ones of Condoleeza Rice shaking hands with a Saudi Prince? Or of Justices Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Sandra Day O’Connor at the U.S. Supreme Court? Or of the top doctor of their town with her arm around a patient she saved after a car accident?
If the day comes when women are revered for what in reality benefits our society rather than the materialism that overwhelms Americans then perhaps this next generation of young women will become “the greatest generation” of the 21st century. If we continue to revere women only based on their breasts, hair, and waist size, I have no doubt that the future of our country is bleak and Barbie better watch out or her next job will be as a contestant on “The Biggest Loser.”
A 6:30 a.m. I entered the surgical prep room where my dad was already in bed donning a hospital gown. My brother, a physician, was chatting with friends at the hospital and making my dad feel at ease.
Then she walked in. Dr. Talia Baker. Transplant Surgeon. At age 41 she is one of the top transplant surgeons at Northwestern University Hospital. She is about 5’6, thin build, blue eyes and dark hair worn in a hybrid layered cut/bob.
Talia has three kids, all under the age of five. She majored in history and then decided to go to medical school. She speaks confidently that “your dad will do just great in the surgery.” I believe her.
Eight and a half hours later she emerges from surgery looking tired but cheerful. She explains with depth and precision why my father’s surgery took so long and complications that she anticipates. I imagine her standing in the surgical room (did I mention it took 8 hours!) cutting my father open, maneuvering through the layers of scar tissue, flipping his liver, and then resecting it and resecting it again until comfortable that the margins are centimeters free of cancer. I imagine her wearing her mini binoculars on her glasses so that she can see precisely the hernias from previous surgeries and the hundred or so bile ducts that have formed as a result of liver damage.
As she anticipates my dad’s recovery, I resist the urge to tackle her with a huge hug of thanks. As soon as I can, I go to the intensive care unit to see my dad. He is doing fine. Many tubes, a mask to help him breathe, but he is just fine. He is even cracking jokes half true to his personality and half fueled by the pain medication and left over anesthetic.
As I return to the surgical waiting room I see the magazines that my sister in law bought to entertain us while we awaited my dad’s emergence from surgery: People and US magazine.
To be fair, I read US Magazine especially if I’m feeling stressed because it helps get my mind off reality. But then I wondered…
How would our world be different if we lauded the Talia Bakers in the world? What if the top selling magazine covers featured women whose contributions mattered, instead of focusing on Britney’s drug problem, Lindsey’s drug problem, Paris’ drug problem, the extra fat on so and sos stomach and the 30 pounds someone was paid to lose by a diet company whose results are unreliable. Why are we focused on who got what plastic surgery and who is dating or cheating on whom?
In addition, why do we fuel the hyper commercialization of young people with marginal talent whose biggest achievement is attaining stardom because of aggressive publicists or being related to famous parents?
Imagine a magazine that features the winner of the Science Olympiad. Or an artist that created art. Or a composer of music. Why are we not featuring these kids’ successes instead of solely focusing on the rich, famous and f-ed up? What if we knew the stories of the genetic counselors who guide a woman at risk of having a child born with a genetic disease through conception and pregnancy; or the special education teacher who teaches her students to read; or the speech language pathologist who teachers her autistic student to speak; or the volunteer in Africa who counsels victims of rape? Or the attorney at the ACLU who protects a woman’s right to choose? Or the aid who cares for an elderly woman with Alzheimer’s?
Perhaps in this post feminist age, in this uber obsessed celebrity culture, this is the final battle women must fight: the battle to celebrate and promote achievements, even permeate the culture with such accomplishments, which are completely unrelated to looks or sex appeal.
Imagine young women dumping the Hillary Duff and Hannah Montana posters for ones of Condoleeza Rice shaking hands with a Saudi Prince? Or of Justices Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Sandra Day O’Connor at the U.S. Supreme Court? Or of the top doctor of their town with her arm around a patient she saved after a car accident?
If the day comes when women are revered for what in reality benefits our society rather than the materialism that overwhelms Americans then perhaps this next generation of young women will become “the greatest generation” of the 21st century. If we continue to revere women only based on their breasts, hair, and waist size, I have no doubt that the future of our country is bleak and Barbie better watch out or her next job will be as a contestant on “The Biggest Loser.”
In memory
Several years ago an adult publicly berated me in front of more than a dozen other adults. One of my student’s parent, who I didn’t know very well, Mrs. Fox, witnessed the public scolding and within 24 hours called the adult to tell him/her that his/her behavior was way out of line and that he/she needed to apologize to me. In addition, Mrs. Fox called my principal and insisted that she call in the adult to apologize to me in person. Mrs. Fox then called me to make sure that I was okay and to assure me that I had done nothing wrong.
And then life went on.
Six months later, I experienced a broken engagement. While my close friends and immediate family were amazing, most people were extremely uncomfortable - understandably I guess. Not Mrs. Fox. She called to check in, not in a nosy intrusive way, but just out of concern, and then invited me to her home for Shabbat lunch.
“Any time,” she said. “And please call me Bev.”
And then life went on.
Until last month. Until Mrs. Fox passed away.
Mrs. Fox has touched the lives of many. As a wife, a mother, educator and community member she was loved and respected by all who knew her. She had a bounce to her step and an infinite amount of energy. And, when I did finally go to her house, for Sukkot lunch, I learned she was a fabulous cook – rivaled by her daughter Renana’s gift for baking
Whenever someone that I admire passes away, I think about how I can honor their memory. When my Bubbie died, I honored her by hosting meals for friends to celebrate Shabbat. When my Zadie died, I promised to be as generous as he was, giving charity to the homeless asking for a dollar because, as he used to say, “you never know who is the righteous one.”
I promise to honor Mrs. Fox by refusing to ignore injustice even when it would be easier to continue walking. I promise to make uncomfortable phone calls when someone has suffered: be it a break up or the loss of a loved one. I will comfort those in need to the best of my ability.
I have been lucky to know many amazing people who [hope to] influence change through politics, activism, volunteerism, teaching and preaching. However, what I learned from Mrs. Fox is that you change the world not through [only] addressing the meta issues, but by how you care for individuals in distress and need. I can’t help but think if every person in the world cared for one another the way that Mrs. Fox cared for the people she came into contact with, the global problems would work themselves out. Think about how many other people witnessed my scolding or knew about the broken engagement. They were all good people, but perhaps they were uncomfortable, perhaps they felt awkward, perhaps they didn’t have time. Mrs. Fox prioritized my well being, a virtual stranger, but nevertheless a stranger in need.
With the passing of Mrs. Fox, there is a little less benevolence in the world.
Unless.
Unless we transmit her recipes of kindness through our own selfless acts so that she lives on - not just in all of our hearts but the hearts of others who never knew her.
May her memory be for a blessing.
And then life went on.
Six months later, I experienced a broken engagement. While my close friends and immediate family were amazing, most people were extremely uncomfortable - understandably I guess. Not Mrs. Fox. She called to check in, not in a nosy intrusive way, but just out of concern, and then invited me to her home for Shabbat lunch.
“Any time,” she said. “And please call me Bev.”
And then life went on.
Until last month. Until Mrs. Fox passed away.
Mrs. Fox has touched the lives of many. As a wife, a mother, educator and community member she was loved and respected by all who knew her. She had a bounce to her step and an infinite amount of energy. And, when I did finally go to her house, for Sukkot lunch, I learned she was a fabulous cook – rivaled by her daughter Renana’s gift for baking
Whenever someone that I admire passes away, I think about how I can honor their memory. When my Bubbie died, I honored her by hosting meals for friends to celebrate Shabbat. When my Zadie died, I promised to be as generous as he was, giving charity to the homeless asking for a dollar because, as he used to say, “you never know who is the righteous one.”
I promise to honor Mrs. Fox by refusing to ignore injustice even when it would be easier to continue walking. I promise to make uncomfortable phone calls when someone has suffered: be it a break up or the loss of a loved one. I will comfort those in need to the best of my ability.
I have been lucky to know many amazing people who [hope to] influence change through politics, activism, volunteerism, teaching and preaching. However, what I learned from Mrs. Fox is that you change the world not through [only] addressing the meta issues, but by how you care for individuals in distress and need. I can’t help but think if every person in the world cared for one another the way that Mrs. Fox cared for the people she came into contact with, the global problems would work themselves out. Think about how many other people witnessed my scolding or knew about the broken engagement. They were all good people, but perhaps they were uncomfortable, perhaps they felt awkward, perhaps they didn’t have time. Mrs. Fox prioritized my well being, a virtual stranger, but nevertheless a stranger in need.
With the passing of Mrs. Fox, there is a little less benevolence in the world.
Unless.
Unless we transmit her recipes of kindness through our own selfless acts so that she lives on - not just in all of our hearts but the hearts of others who never knew her.
May her memory be for a blessing.
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