Who I Am

My name is Elise, and I am Jewish (part 2)

(My Name is Elise and I am Jewish part 1)

I love books. Of course, I wouldn’t be on substack if I didn’t love books, writing, reading, journaling, anything having to do with language actually. When I write, every syllable is carefully chosen in order to elicit a feeling, a desire, a want or need to the reader. It is there to get across what is happening in my brain. It is my stream of consciousness that I want to convey in order to bring others into the goings on in my world.

Writing is the way I try to bring those who don’t know me into the reality in which I live. Now you can say that is generally narcissistic to think that anyone else would care about my life, but I think it is a way for others to also see themselves. We are so many people in one.

I am a woman on the verge of retirement age, well they say its retirement age, but do you know anyone other than a civil servant who has a government pension that retires at 65? (and even then alot do not retire) And what does it mean to be of retirement age? How am I supposed to feel? What does it mean to think that you are supposed to just give up everything you have worked for and hand it over to others without offering a whimper?

Yes, I get it. Generations ago, people did not live well into their 80s and 90s like they do today. The average mortality age was 62 when social security was created. They lived harder and harsher lives than we do today as well. When you used to say 65 it would conjure up elderly, hunched back, grey haired, crones who held their grandchildren on their knees and knitted sweaters by the fire. Well, not anymore.

So what does it mean to be 65? (I will let you know when I get there- God Willing.) Never take anything for granted, though. As we have been taught for eternity, you can get hit by a bus just crossing the street. Life turns on a dime and it doesn’t always turn for the better.

I am also a wife, having been married for 42 years, 43 this June. The ups and downs of married life are interesting. Nothing is perfect and there are times when it would be easier to give up the ship. But, then what? What is it that ends a marriage or makes a marriage work? Is it the commitment of 2 people? Is it mutual respect? Is it the acknowledgment that you are better together? Is it us against the world? So much has happened over these decades, but when I look at my husband I see the very young 23 year old man-child I married. He is no different today than yesterday. A provider, a lover, someone who cares for our children more than he cares for himself. A person who has worked diligently to build a life for his family, and when he gets knocked down he gets right back up. (He was also really handy yesterday when the toilet stopped working.)

I am a mother. I love my sons very much. I worry about them every minute of every day. I talk about how they are autistic, with amazing brains and talent, but needing support in so many other ways. Neither fish nor fowl in a world not really ready to understand them. There are trials and tribulations and fights with society. Trying to help them build futures, because one day, we will be gone and they will have to stand on their own, and need to understand a confusing world. (Let’s talk about night terrors and angst associated with trying to make sure that everything is in place for them for when we are gone. The old saying that God only gives you what you can handle is bullshit. But sometimes you have no choice in what you need to learn to handle and how strong you have to be.)

Cancer survivor. Yeah that’s me too. It’s not a big part of me. It is something that lingers in my psyche though. I am one of the lucky ones. Caught early enough that I didn’t need chemo, only radiation and a few years of that horrible medicine that keeps the cancer at bay. Life goes on and you learn to live with the fear every time you go for a mammogram. You read up on how to eat better, and how to exercise better in order to avoid a recurrence. You also convince yourself that even though they tell you not to drink alcohol, that that glass of wine at night will not hurt you because, well sometimes you really need that little bit of chemical stress relief. And of course, you secretly were terrified that since you had had breast cancer you would also get ovarian cancer, because you know, female shit and all, and were quietly happy when you had your ovaries removed along with your uterus for completely noncancerous different reasons. (Grapefruit size fibroids that were causing all kinds of problems. No reason at this time of life to keep the ovaries. So begone they were. It’s not like they were used for anything anymore anyway.)

Writer, reader, lover of beautiful art, singer of songs, fashionista who lives in sweats and pjs, travel vlogger watcher, news junkie, puzzle lover- particularly crosswords and any puzzle involving language, coffee drinker, exerciser-pilates, peloton, light weights, low-impact (well I am almost 65) and core programs, friend, pet parent, color palette aficionado- red, pinks, purples (you see there is a rhyme here), iPhone gamer, chauffeur, carer, and above all human being.

I think that one of the things I have taken to heart over the years is something I was taught as a 15 year old. Well, the rabbi who taught me this lesson (described below), when I think back on it wasn’t much of a teacher. Being excited about knowing Jewish and Israeli history he told me I needed to be more humble and let others have a chance to answer his questions. (Schmuck). He regaled me with a story about how hard it was for him to learn Talmud and thinking he had done an amazing job, while after 1 year of learning he had only gone through 150 pages. That taught him to be more humble. Being a child I took that so to heart, I actually stopped raising my hand in class. I thought that was how it was supposed to be. That this man couldn’t tell the difference between a child eager and happy to learn, and someone with bravado, only shows that not everyone deserves the moniker of “rabbi.”

But the one thing he taught me when asked how you would describe yourself, I said, “I am firstly a Jew.” His response was that was how the Nazis saw us. That we should think of ourselves firstly as human beings and then as Jews.

I wonder actually how perhaps he was wrong. With the worldwide rise in antisemitism it is a concept I am thinking about daily now. We can think of ourselves as human beings first, but what if the world doesn’t let you? What if the world will define you? What if the world has decided who you are first and foremost? Why not embrace that? Why not take it to heart? Why beg to be seen as something the world will never see you as? But moreover, why do we even have to define ourselves as human beings first? Why is it not just a given? Why do we have to tell others that we Jews, are people like everyone else and entitled to the same respect they demand for themselves? Why do we accept that others even get to define us? When do we get to define ourselves?

So I write to parse ideas of who I am and what I hope to become one day. I write to think things through as my brain crashes into itself. I write to let others know that they are not alone, but mostly I think I write to let myself know that I am not alone.

IT IS DAY 557 OF THE HOSTAGES BEING STARVED AND HELD IN THE TERROR DUNGEONS OF GAZA 🎗️

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