Happy Freedom Day!

As I am about to enter into the time of Passover, I begin with a tale that had me feeling like a captive emotional prisoner in my own world.
The past two weeks have been hell.
It started off because my mother fell ill. She is a vulnerable older woman with heart disease. A story in and of itself. She needed emergency surgery and the last time she had been "under" was 18 years ago when her challenging life began. We were all under panic and concerned if she would wake up post surgery.
The feeling of waiting and wondering and hoping was sharp. Sitting wasn't possible and breathing was hard especially when you think you are about to lose someone, like a mother. I was trapped in my own emotional world. Numb. Worried. Panicked.
And while some call this neurotic, I call it love.
When we finally got word from the doctor (she was in Florida for all of this) that everything went smooth, we could finally breath and sit. There was relief, clarity and emancipation. I felt free.
One week later. Her service dog, Marvin, literally fell ill.
This dog is the equivalent to freedom for my mother. He has given her independence and companionship. He has walked along her side for 6 years. Has held her hand through tough times and has never failed her.
We thought that this was the end of Marvin. The end of an era that brought love and happiness to our mother and our family.
And on this day, this morning, Marvin got up to walk. We don't know 100% what happened to him--we are still waiting for those details, but regardless of the diagnosis, Marvin, on the first day of Passover, a time in the Jewish calendar to appreciate freedom, we are all of that. Free from that agony of waiting. Free from our own emotional enslavement. We are here and we will remember deeply the pain our ancestors went through. The inability to sit or be comfortable is something we will remember in their honor.
Both my Mother and Marvin are here today for unknown reasons. Their vulnerability, our vulnerability has never been more apparent and our need to appreciate life and freedom has never been more lucid.
Call it luck, call it a miracle. I call it Freedom. Freedom to feel how you need to feel in these critical times and the freedom to know/ feel that we are certainly free.
To all those caring for someone, enslaved by burden and hardship, let this story give you peace.

Stop to pose.

He grew up and saw everything happen on Palmerston Ave. This man has walked old narrow streets lit up by old posts. Him and the posts are still there. He stopped to pose.

Making Memory Permanent

Jodi Rodoren’s recent article: Proudly Bearing Elders’ Scars, Their Skin Says  ‘Never Forget’ speaks volumes to the bond between Holocaust survivors and their grandchildren and the intense level of commitment these descendents have towards their grandparents. (Read article here) 

The article warmed my heart and brought me back to my academic days. (I wrote about how relationships between Holocaust survivors and their grandchildren differ from “normal” relationships between grandparents and grandchildren). Where was this tattoo fad in 2006 when I needed proof of varying levels of intensities in relationships.

To do something (that goes against the grain in Jewish tradition) like getting a tattoo as a method of action to “never forget” is fascinating, especially if it’s a grandchild. I’ve heard this before as my cousin in New Jersey has been talking about getting his and to be honest, I’ve considered it even though my grandparents were not survivors. Nothing speaks permanence more than black tattoo ink.

The Holocaust is something that I have chosen to remember not only because I want to remember the horrific experiences victims of Nazi persecution went through (I wish I didn’t have to) but because I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again; and the one thing that can help prevent it, is talk about it; so, why not get a conversation piece tattooed on your forearm and have a chat? Bring the atrocities of our past to the forefront not only to swamp survival tales, but to be advocates of never again? 

But what does getting a tattoo really do? 

Is it comforting (for both the survivor/ grandchild)? Does it hold promise? What purpose does it serve? Does it need a purpose? Will all Jewish grandchildren have the number of their grandparents tattooed on their forearm—can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em kind of thing?

I wonder if it gives survivors the assurance that their grandchildren will never forget them for as long as they live? From a posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) standpoint, how have survivors reacted to this article? Will they resurface old wounds or “scars”? Is it, as Jodi suggests, “offensive”? 

My response: With that number comes responsibility. With that number comes a story and if a young person, a grandchild wants to ink that number into his or her arm, I hope and pray he or she is prepared to tell the story that accompanies it and pass it on. Grandchildren deal with the impact the Holocaust has on their grandparents in varying ways and if this is one of them, then, bring it. Just back it and don’t get lazy.

For starters, I’m going to tattoo a couple stories into my brain.

Intergenerational Art Show coming soon...

November 15, location:Tba

A blend of holocaust survivor art and young professional art will be showcased.
Maybe hear the artistic tunes of one Holocaust survivor.


Looking to curate.

ZNews - "Beyond Age Rage" Book Launch--BUY THIS BOOK!

My generation on Holocaust remembrance day...Yom Hashoah...

People my age think Holocaust survivors are invincible--that they will live forever; forever part of, engrained, enmeshed in the fabric of our heritage, our every tradition, our identity—

But we are far too blessed—we, my generation, Jewish youth are seldom apathetic and as a result, we are prone to taking Holocaust survivors and their testimonials for granted—take the Shoah for granted--We grew up with it. But, it is the Shoah that has built our foundation, the basis of our very survival—we, my generation is who we are today because of the people who went through hell and back—the people who hid, the people who escaped death and survived concentration camps, the people who gave us, my generation choice because they had none.

You gave us reason, or better yet, passed on reason to live—not only to live, but be thankful to live. It is you, the Holocaust survivors of the world, that me and so many other younger generations can do what we want—freely, without persecution—so, I say, we will be damned if we don’t tribute our survivors the way they deserve—we my generation, owes it to all of them.

How dare I or my generation turn a blind eye on the possibilities that the Holocaust can happen again—we should never be so complacent—how dare we, my generation turn a blind eye on Eretz Yisrael.

We, my generation owe it to you our survivors, to us and our children and our children’s children to live H’kol Israel, free, in peace, humbled by our Judaism, grateful, forever, for our past. We will never turn a blind eye.

Let us learn from our survivors, but more importantly, celebrate them.
Elise Kayfetz, 2012 on Yom Hashoah