Reflecting on my relationship with Amy, I wonder if she is aware of any of this… or if it matters to her. I have no idea what she remembers about our shared times. Nevertheless…
I have always loved Fall. Although it’s sad to say goodbye to summer, which is always so vibrant and suits my personality of opening my arms wide to embrace the world and say, “Here I am. I am open, loving, I want to embrace and love people, and I want to be loved.” Fall has its own special feelings, too. Fall prompts me to reflect on memories, wishes, and enjoy all that is good. It’s a time to welcome back to school, satisfy my curiosity and passion for learning, walk more briskly, crunch the leaves beneath my feet, and get out my cozy sweaters.
I always looked forward, too, to the high holidays, being at my Bubby and Zaddie’s table with my mom, dad, Aunt Regina, and her children, Herbie and Hindi. As we got older, Herbie’s girlfriend, Janice, and her mother would also come. I loved Janice’s mom, who was a widow, because she was always so happy and grateful to be included. She was also kind to me and didn’t fight with other people the way the rest of my family did. I also loved her perfume. Mostly, I loved getting dressed in the new dress my mom and I shopped for. Some of my best times with my mom were spent shopping, getting my hair cut at Best & Company, and wearing new shoes. There was nothing better than wearing my new outfit, and sometimes new shoes that I slept in the night before.
Sadly, by the time Amy could experience that part of Judaism, we no longer had large holiday meals and seders. My grandparents had passed away long ago; my parents lived far away in Arizona. Herb and Janice also resided in Arizona. Aunt Hindi was in New Jersey, and Aunt Regina lived in Brooklyn. Also, at some point, no one on my side of the family spoke to each other — they were always angry about something. Mostly, they were furious that my Uncle Max left all his money to my mom for taking care of him until he died of leukemia in Arizona. So, instead of embracing what I could share with them, I gave all that up to be loved and liked by my husband’s family. After all, their holidays seemed so much more exciting — filled with family, gifts, and cousins. It all looked perfect, except when it wasn’t. When I saw their meanness, I often pushed it aside, but it was heartbreaking for me. I wanted to believe in all that family could be — the Father Knows Best I didn’t have but always dreamed of.
So, one day, when Amy, who was about 8 years old, said to me, ‘Mommy, I’m Jewish because you are my mother. I want to be Jewish.” I did everything I could to find a way to introduce her to some aspect of Judaism I could accept. Having lived in a commune, adopting long-held secular views and believing that we are all connected on a much deeper level, organized religion no longer made sense to me. What made sense was the spiritual aspect of what people could and should share, including love, honesty, connection, spirituality, and oneness with the universe. Also, I was drawn to traditions that felt warm and heartfelt, along with the foods I associated with those customs and cherished—chicken soup, matzo balls, noodle kugel, knishes, brisket, tzimmes, challah, matzo, chocolate-covered jelly rings, apples and honey, latkes—and even drinking Manischewitz wine when I was eight at seders, watching my cheeks turn bright red as I proudly recited the Mah N’ishtanah, a part I can still recite today.
So, when Amy said she wanted to embrace and learn about Judaism, after much searching, I discovered Congregation Havurah, which was represented by a group of people who rejected the materialism of traditional temples and the repetitive prayers of a rabbi. Instead, this group founded their congregation based on rejecting the Vietnam War and hypocrisy. They were primarily young people raising their own children, wanting to genuinely teach them. We created our own services grounded in what was meaningful and heartfelt. We also established our own religious school to reflect that desire for authenticity. Despite knowing little about many of the traditions in Judaism, I was one of its founders and teachers, along with Margo Singer and Judy Brown. Together, we learned. Together, we taught our children the true meaning of Tu B’shvat, Pesach, Chanukah, Purim, Simchas Torah, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur. We explained why seders are meant to be relaxing, with people sitting on pillows and leaning, rather than sitting straight and feeling uncomfortable.
Most importantly, our children experienced wonderful times, especially at Chautauqua during Rosh Hashanah, when they could run and play freely on the beautiful grounds of the Chautauqua Institute. I took on a leadership role at Havurah to introduce Amy to these traditions and their true meanings, which I had only come to understand at that time. Best of all, there were no arguments or family conflicts—only learning and love. We also had a sukkah at Singer Farm. Sadly, Amy remembers very little of this. I also understand the desire for a loving extended family. I wanted that too. We all want the same thing.
Fall is particularly challenging for me now, and the pain of being perceived as an ‘other’ and not belonging is overwhelming. The ache of not being recognized as Amy’s mom, the one who helped foster her understanding of kindness, love, and what all these traditions stand for, is unbearable.
So, here I am again, enjoying the idea of wearing fall clothes and feeling the crunch of leaves under my feet. I have no one left to share these traditions with anymore. I feel incredibly sorry for myself. I feel sorry for what seems like losing Amy, and for what seems like not being part of the traditions I taught Amy—what I hope my grandson someday will realize is that I am not part of his family that celebrates those traditions I worked so hard to teach his mom. Yes, I feel sorry for myself, sad for him, sorry for the enormous loss. And I apologize for the many inexplicable things that brought me here.
So, what got me here? Is it karma? Is it a result of my not embracing my own parents? Is it because I didn’t honor the mother who brought me into this world and did the best she could? Am I getting my own payback?
Or… is it because I somehow offended Nancy, Max’s mother, by noticing some unsettling things in how she judged me and others, and reflecting those feelings? Is it because she scared me, and I was worried for my daughter? Is it because history tends to repeat itself? Or is it because I have something to learn from this?
The heartache feels overwhelming. I really wish I could remind Amy of the love we shared, the fun we had despite the tough times, and what everything truly means. Does she experience the real meaning of the holidays with her other family now? Does she understand that, even if her friends don’t share traditions from both sides of their families, the true meaning of Judaism is different? Does she realize that when I live so close, and I’ve learned that these holidays are about including those who are alone and about forgiveness, that being Jewish is different? It’s that very difference that makes us unique. Does she understand the importance of not gossiping about others? Does she know the core principles of Judaism, rather than the hypocrisy I rejected? Does she see that I’ve always wanted to be the best example I could be, even if I sometimes stumble, like everyone does?
And what will Ori learn? What can I teach him? Will he learn to see through life’s complexities? Will I have another chance to try again in a lifetime? And what happens now, in this lifetime? I am so humiliated, so embarrassed that Ori will realize his Bagganette will never be accepted or honored as part of the family that celebrates these traditions. Yes, I feel sorry for myself. My heart breaks. I have no idea how to improve it. But I do know love. I know I love Amy with all my heart, and I also know that being a mom is the greatest thing someone can do. It’s also the hardest and most rewarding. Maybe once again in this lifetime, I will look back on this time and see that, just like toddlerhood and the teenage years, it was all a miraculous phase through which I learned to become a better and stronger person. Maybe… Ahhh. I remember that song Amy sang to become the Annie she hoped to be in that play. Maybe….