loss, beauty, & goodbye
at about 3:30 this afternoon, i lost a friend.
his son probably will not say kaddish for him, because they weren't close and the son's not religious.
so i'm going to do it.
i met jack walking out of my synagogue fixing my shoe. i have a tattoo on the top of my right foot, and as some of you might know, jews aren't supposed to have tattoos. it's a thing. i used to try and hide mine if i was around religious people so i wouldn't offend them. i noticed as i was leaving that you could see the turtle on top of my foot, and i think i cursed.
jack was standing near the door, grinning the biggest grin you ever saw.
'don't worry,' he told me, rolling up his sleeve. there was a number there, tattooed up the forearm. i can still see it perfectly and i only ever saw it that once. 'mine makes them nervous, too.'
jack was 96. he grew up in poland and he knew the name of my great grandmother's town. he nodded gravely when i told him where she was from and told me that it was a good thing she had a bad feeling about what was coming. (the town was chyror. depending on what year the map you look at was made, it's either in poland or russia or the ukraine. hooray borders. the nazis levelled it. it was a jewish town. enough said, yeah?)
he was never as religious as his parents wanted. when the holocaust started, he was still single and dating a non-jewish woman. he was with her when the germans came for his family.
he hid. i asked where, over a long cup of coffee once, but he didn't want to talk about it. ever.
he never wanted to talk about the fact that he couldn't get on a train, either.
eventually, the nazis took him, too.
jack went to auschwitz.
'a moron with a needle' carved a number into his arm, and there he was. he was there when the camp was liberated, but before that, that winter, a ranking SS guard ordered him to help unload dead bodies from an incoming train.
jack spat in his face.
then he got to spit out several of his teeth.
but he didn't have to move any bodies.
he came to the united states after the war, lived in new york city for a while and met a sephardi woman. they had a son. when the son grew up, jack and his wife moved to highland park. his wife died 15 years ago and jack continued to go to her synagogue for the rest of his life.
he was known to walk out of yom kippur services and light a cigarette, sometimes in front of the rabbi.
he was known for waving to everyone he met in town. every day he lived was a gift. he never adopted the mindset that he was punished or that god or the universe turned his/its back on him because of what he'd had to survive.
he just smiled. and kept living.
you already know about the supermarket... that was typical. jack was and is important to me because i don't really remember my grandparents. jack thought like i did, in a lot of ways, and he became important to me very quickly. people i connect with always do.
before i left, jack told me that he regretted not singing eshet chayil to his wife on friday night, or even at their wedding. it made him too self conscious, he said. he told me that one day someone was going to sing it to me. one day, there would be a man that cared about me and believed i was all of the things in the poem.
i told him not to hold his breath. i was rapidly becoming jewish on my own terms, and not on orthodox ones.
jack wanted me to be happy.
i spoke to him about three times since i moved. every time, he asked if i was happy. every conversation, though, began with the following question: 'are you living your life out there on your terms, or on theirs?'
i spoke to him monday morning, when he knew it would be the last time he could carry on a conversation. he asked what my holiday plans were, and i told him. we hung up. but he called me again and i wrote down a lot of that conversation, because he called to say some very specific things...
'if they came for you tomorrow,' jack said, 'what would you do?'
'kick and scream,' i said.'
'you always kick and scream. it's good. that body doesn't belong to you. your mind does. all you can ever do with your body is learn to control the kicking and screaming. too many people went quietly. you kick and scream until you're sure you're hurting and then find it in you to kick harder and scream louder.'
'...if they came for you tomorrow, would you be happy with what you did today? the way you lived it?'
'it's 10 a.m., jack.'
'so what have you done today? do more!'
a lot of what he said is none of your business, but the two things above pretty much apply to everyone.
the last thing jack did when i spoke to him monday morning was make me promise not to call him back, because he wanted the last thing i heard him say to be what he'd planned to say.
it was this: 'i told you one day a man would sing this to you. i am not a liar.'
he sang 'eshet chayil.' then he told me he loved me and hung up. i was in tears.
this morning, on my ferry ride, i shut my eyes standing on the deck looking out at puget sound, with my hair whipping around my face, and i let last year go. i separated out, in my mind, all the regrets i have, all the things i could pinpoint that i had done wrong or wanted to do better. (this is part of the observance of rosh hashannah and it's called tashlich.
when i opened my eyes, i felt like i was flying over the water, not sailing. it was mindblowing. last year, when i did this, i was standing next to the creek in highland park.
i said something about it being amazing, or about being overwhelmed at where i was. mike, standing next to me, told me that just meant there was 'more room to throw 'em.' (the regrets).
a lot went into that water today. my resentment for my sister not helping when mom got sick. my hatred of my former boss. my anger with myself for not moving sooner. my anger with seth for everything... some very heavy things went into that water.
i had a great day. a beautiful day. it was 'take your mike to work day,' and the first time he'd been to bainbridge island. it was the first time since i've been out here that i've been able to show someone important to me my world, here. there's not a lot out here that's just mine. there are places i like, because i've been to them. because other people have shown them to me.
he even saw me fly a little.
beautiful day.
at about 3:30, i felt... wrong. sick. like i wanted to heave. i was cold all over and i knew something was wrong. my mind immediately went to jack.
i knew.
i taught two classes. i taught my modern class--my favorite class of the week-- and my jazz class and i checked my phone when i had a second, which was when i was back on the ferry.
i had a voicemail. it told me that jack's lungs gave out after more than 70 years of smoking at about 3:30, PST. he'd left a list with a nurse of who to call. the list had my name, his son's name, and the rabbi's name.
i cried in the bathroom on the ferry. then i let a few people know what happened. i got on a bus without my legs giving way like they did when chris died, and i came home.
i keep hearing him singing. and i keep going over my day in my head.
if they came for me tomorrow, would i be happy with how lived my day?
yes.
did i spend it doing something, anything, that i didn't enjoy? no. did i spend it making a difference? yes. did i spend it with someone i cared about? yes. did i make anyone smile? yes.
and i'll smile.
and i'll keep living.
his son probably will not say kaddish for him, because they weren't close and the son's not religious.
so i'm going to do it.
i met jack walking out of my synagogue fixing my shoe. i have a tattoo on the top of my right foot, and as some of you might know, jews aren't supposed to have tattoos. it's a thing. i used to try and hide mine if i was around religious people so i wouldn't offend them. i noticed as i was leaving that you could see the turtle on top of my foot, and i think i cursed.
jack was standing near the door, grinning the biggest grin you ever saw.
'don't worry,' he told me, rolling up his sleeve. there was a number there, tattooed up the forearm. i can still see it perfectly and i only ever saw it that once. 'mine makes them nervous, too.'
jack was 96. he grew up in poland and he knew the name of my great grandmother's town. he nodded gravely when i told him where she was from and told me that it was a good thing she had a bad feeling about what was coming. (the town was chyror. depending on what year the map you look at was made, it's either in poland or russia or the ukraine. hooray borders. the nazis levelled it. it was a jewish town. enough said, yeah?)
he was never as religious as his parents wanted. when the holocaust started, he was still single and dating a non-jewish woman. he was with her when the germans came for his family.
he hid. i asked where, over a long cup of coffee once, but he didn't want to talk about it. ever.
he never wanted to talk about the fact that he couldn't get on a train, either.
eventually, the nazis took him, too.
jack went to auschwitz.
'a moron with a needle' carved a number into his arm, and there he was. he was there when the camp was liberated, but before that, that winter, a ranking SS guard ordered him to help unload dead bodies from an incoming train.
jack spat in his face.
then he got to spit out several of his teeth.
but he didn't have to move any bodies.
he came to the united states after the war, lived in new york city for a while and met a sephardi woman. they had a son. when the son grew up, jack and his wife moved to highland park. his wife died 15 years ago and jack continued to go to her synagogue for the rest of his life.
he was known to walk out of yom kippur services and light a cigarette, sometimes in front of the rabbi.
he was known for waving to everyone he met in town. every day he lived was a gift. he never adopted the mindset that he was punished or that god or the universe turned his/its back on him because of what he'd had to survive.
he just smiled. and kept living.
you already know about the supermarket... that was typical. jack was and is important to me because i don't really remember my grandparents. jack thought like i did, in a lot of ways, and he became important to me very quickly. people i connect with always do.
before i left, jack told me that he regretted not singing eshet chayil to his wife on friday night, or even at their wedding. it made him too self conscious, he said. he told me that one day someone was going to sing it to me. one day, there would be a man that cared about me and believed i was all of the things in the poem.
i told him not to hold his breath. i was rapidly becoming jewish on my own terms, and not on orthodox ones.
jack wanted me to be happy.
i spoke to him about three times since i moved. every time, he asked if i was happy. every conversation, though, began with the following question: 'are you living your life out there on your terms, or on theirs?'
i spoke to him monday morning, when he knew it would be the last time he could carry on a conversation. he asked what my holiday plans were, and i told him. we hung up. but he called me again and i wrote down a lot of that conversation, because he called to say some very specific things...
'if they came for you tomorrow,' jack said, 'what would you do?'
'kick and scream,' i said.'
'you always kick and scream. it's good. that body doesn't belong to you. your mind does. all you can ever do with your body is learn to control the kicking and screaming. too many people went quietly. you kick and scream until you're sure you're hurting and then find it in you to kick harder and scream louder.'
'...if they came for you tomorrow, would you be happy with what you did today? the way you lived it?'
'it's 10 a.m., jack.'
'so what have you done today? do more!'
a lot of what he said is none of your business, but the two things above pretty much apply to everyone.
the last thing jack did when i spoke to him monday morning was make me promise not to call him back, because he wanted the last thing i heard him say to be what he'd planned to say.
it was this: 'i told you one day a man would sing this to you. i am not a liar.'
he sang 'eshet chayil.' then he told me he loved me and hung up. i was in tears.
this morning, on my ferry ride, i shut my eyes standing on the deck looking out at puget sound, with my hair whipping around my face, and i let last year go. i separated out, in my mind, all the regrets i have, all the things i could pinpoint that i had done wrong or wanted to do better. (this is part of the observance of rosh hashannah and it's called tashlich.
when i opened my eyes, i felt like i was flying over the water, not sailing. it was mindblowing. last year, when i did this, i was standing next to the creek in highland park.
i said something about it being amazing, or about being overwhelmed at where i was. mike, standing next to me, told me that just meant there was 'more room to throw 'em.' (the regrets).
a lot went into that water today. my resentment for my sister not helping when mom got sick. my hatred of my former boss. my anger with myself for not moving sooner. my anger with seth for everything... some very heavy things went into that water.
i had a great day. a beautiful day. it was 'take your mike to work day,' and the first time he'd been to bainbridge island. it was the first time since i've been out here that i've been able to show someone important to me my world, here. there's not a lot out here that's just mine. there are places i like, because i've been to them. because other people have shown them to me.
he even saw me fly a little.
beautiful day.
at about 3:30, i felt... wrong. sick. like i wanted to heave. i was cold all over and i knew something was wrong. my mind immediately went to jack.
i knew.
i taught two classes. i taught my modern class--my favorite class of the week-- and my jazz class and i checked my phone when i had a second, which was when i was back on the ferry.
i had a voicemail. it told me that jack's lungs gave out after more than 70 years of smoking at about 3:30, PST. he'd left a list with a nurse of who to call. the list had my name, his son's name, and the rabbi's name.
i cried in the bathroom on the ferry. then i let a few people know what happened. i got on a bus without my legs giving way like they did when chris died, and i came home.
i keep hearing him singing. and i keep going over my day in my head.
if they came for me tomorrow, would i be happy with how lived my day?
yes.
did i spend it doing something, anything, that i didn't enjoy? no. did i spend it making a difference? yes. did i spend it with someone i cared about? yes. did i make anyone smile? yes.
and i'll smile.
and i'll keep living.