Trauma is Trauma

Is anyone still here? 

I would perfectly understand if you've moved on. Obviously, I haven't been blogging.

It's not that I don't want to. It's that, to me, this annus horribilis has made my usual observations . . . petty. It has made most of the happenings in my life . . . inconsequential. 

How can I get upset about anything? How can I even write about anything, at all, when anything at all is so obviously trivial in the face of the suffering others have to bear? 

So even though I've had thoughts and observations, I couldn't bring myself to blog about them. It felt insensitive, for being too mundane. 

But then, a few months ago, "The Kidnapping I Can't Escape" by Taffy Brodesser-Akner was printed in the magazine section. I like her as a writer, and the article did not go where I thought it would. 

It begins with a retelling of a harrowing ordeal from 1974. Her neighbor, Jack Teich, was kidnapped from his driveway. During his nightmare, the kidnappers claimed they were for the Palestinian cause, but was later discovered to be a disgruntled ex-employee. Unbelievably, Jack was freed after the ransom was paid—which rarely occurs. 

As friends with his children, Akner thought of him as fine. He was fine, right? He went back to work. He went on with his life. He was fine.

Then the article shifts, much to the reader's puzzlement, as Akner describes the birth of her first child. I think every woman out there who has been in the same position of vulnerability and agony felt her experience. After hours of labor, the doctor performed a procedure on her—without her knowledge or consent—to speed up the process. 

When she returned home, she was a wreck. She describes, in excruciating detail, how she unspooled. Most assumed it was post-partum depression, but eventually another therapist informed her it was PTSD: she was traumatized. 

What followed then was shame. Other people go through trauma, she wondered, and they're fine. They're fine. How am I not fine, too? So she made sure that, at least, she appeared to be fine.

Then Akner was working on a novel, inspired in a way by her neighbor's kidnapping, and asked to meet him to discuss his experience. She didn't think anything of it; he was fine, after all, right? 

When she arrives, she sees how he carefully unlocks the door, then relocks it when she comes in. His property is under 24-hour security. Lights are always on. For the year after the kidnapping, he would go to work, but do no work. He couldn't focus. He wonders if he could have made a run for it into the woods next to his house, but then his family within would have been at the kidnappers' mercy.

Then Akner realized: Jack was not fine. Not remotely fine. Of course he wasn't fine. 

Tolstoy tells us that all happy families are alike and that each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. A few years ago, I wrote a different novel, my first novel, about divorce, which was inspired in part by the divorce stories of several people I know, and I came to the conclusion that, actually, all divorces are exactly alike. I tell you this because I’ve now come to understand the same thing about trauma: Happy, well-adjusted people are all different. The traumatized are exactly alike. I’m about to tell you a story that is nothing like a violent kidnapping — almost laughably so — but what I’ve learned over the years is that trauma is trauma. Something terrible happens, beyond what is in our own personal capacity to cope with, and the details don’t matter as much as the state we’re thrown into. Our bodies and brains have not evolved to reliably differentiate a rape at knife point from a job loss that threatens us with financial ruin or from the dismantling of our world by our parents’ divorce. It’s wrong, but explain that to your poor, battered autonomic nervous system.

Luke holds that we were all traumatized by 10/7. I had stupidly watched Instagram reels that motzei Shabbos, and sobbed for days following. I sobbed on the train platform while my brother muttered to me, "We're in public, Lea." 

I'm not claiming my experience was the same as those who went through hell, or live half-lives of terror while their sons are in battle. But pain is pain. One person's agony doesn't cancel out another's. 

This goes for other pain we may experience in life—not just a terrorist attack and subsequent war.

To be continued.

Age Can Be a Number

I recently read Vera Wong's Unsolicited Advice for Murderers, featuring Vera Wong, the tough Chinese "auntie" who insists on investigating a mysterious death. 

The book itself was pleasant. No complaint there. My quibble, however, is in how Vera Wong is described: a little old lady. 

That would be correct if she was, say, 80. However, our protagonist is a mere 60 years of age, and she is repeatedly referred to as "old." 

Old? I kept thinking. 60 isn't old. Ma died in her mid-60s, and no one said, "Well, she lived a long full life." It was "How tragic, so young."

I wonder if this is because 40 is inching ever closer, but truly, I don't see how 60 is "old." 

There has been chatter online as to how the characters in "The Golden Girls" looked so old when they were playing women in their 50s. A reel popped up in my feed explaining that it was simply the fashions and hairstyles they had—he shows a crudely edited picture with Betty White's old-timey 'do topped with a long, sleek alternative, and suddenly she looks ten years younger. 

Seen women nowadays in their 50s? Not remotely old. At all. 

Apparently, I wasn't the only one to find this a problem, as another reached out to the author of Vera Wong, Jesse Sutanto, that by referring to her as "old," she thought Vera was 85. Jesse responds that in Asian culture, one receives more respect depending on their age, so Vera herself would be referring to herself as "old." 

Yeeeeeaaaaah, except the other characters—even the Caucasian ones—think of her as "old." 

Well, maybe it's the hairdo. Sounds a lot like Dorothy's from Girls. 

To Understand

I've been slowly (very slowly) working my way through "The Crown" (as an aside, not the point of this post, I'm finding the last season to be lace with annoying woke-ness, but anywho) and William is returning to school after Diana's death. 

This William is understandably pissed, particularly at Charles. Watching their awkward interactions, it occurred to me: 

Parents are usually able to guide their children through their formative years because they can recall their own youthful experiences to show that they have been there, too. 

But Charles hadn't lost a parent. So he's rather useless. He can't relate. He can't understand. It's not his fault; unless someone has been there, no one can. Yet William is young, in the public eye, and he's grappling with grief seemingly on his own. 

He rebuffs Charles' lame efforts, exuding angst. Until his grandfather Philip steps in. 

Philip had a tumultuous childhood. His family was driven out of Greece when he was a baby. His mother suffered from schizophrenia and was institutionalized at one point (she later protected a Jewish mother with two children during the war, and became a nun). His parents lived separately after that. He was raised by his sisters, one of whom died with her husband and children in a plane crash when he was 16. In short, he was no stranger to loss and upheaval. 

William listens to him—because Philip understands. 

Keeping in mind that "The Crown" is mostly fiction, the show humanizes the royals, showing that their lives are not as glamorous as we would think, and they are more relatable than we would have believed.

Any father or mother could find themselves in the position Charles was in—clueless how to parent a child who was thrust too young, too soon, into tragedy. 

It reminds me of the book, "It's OK You're Not OK," and the author states therein that she was a freaking grief counselor, but when her husband died suddenly in an accident, that was when she understood. And that her professional methodology until now was a load of crap. 

Sometimes it's not enough to put yourself in another's shoes. Sometimes you have to have had actually walked in the same path a bit to understand. 

This is also a PSA: If you can't understand, don't say anything.

The Multiverse?

TooYoungToTeach insisted that I read "Life After Life" by Kate Atkinson. Always up for new titles, I plucked it up from the library, only to be disappointed that a lot of it takes place in World War II. I don't like reading about World War II. Or World War 1. Or war in general. War is usually off the table for me. Unless it's by Bernard Cornwell. He does war so well. 

Anywho, the heroine of the book is Ursula, but she is an odd duck. For every time she dies, the clock spins backward to the original moment of her birth, over and over and over.

Some timelines continue with near identical repetition; others vary wildly. But we don't see how those timelines continue beyond her death; we are just hurtled back again to her first day on earth. 

What we see is that one small occurrence can alter so much—it's novelized butterfly effect, or "Sliding Doors." 

It made me wonder if the point was that we live in a potential multiverse, where infinite permutations of reality play out. In Ursula's case, some strictly involve her, others involve world events. Like, saaaaay, how would the world be different today if Hitler had been assassinated in 1930? He's also only one person. But his elimination would have altered EVERYTHING. 

I also continued to contemplate if Hashem is overseeing other realities, other planes of existence. But this quickly got far above my pay grade, and decided to quit before I gave myself a headache. 

I concluded that while there could technically be a reality where certain mistakes weren't made, where all is different, as Jews we also believe that reality is intentional. If something was supposed to happen, it does. There is only so much in our control; Ursula is mostly not the driver of her own life; she is swept hither and thither by circumstance. Bumping into the wrong man (multiple men), for instance, by seeming happenstance. 

While have times in our lives when hashgacha pratis is seemingly so clear, other times when we feel cast about in chaos. But is the chaos also intentional, except we just can't see it? 

Headache brewing. Best to leave it be.  

Own It

I've always carried with me a constant awareness of my childhood. Like when people say, "I don't like children," I'm surprised, because don't they remember they were a child once themselves?

So here I am, paying bills, running a household, pushing 40, and I don't feel quite like an adult. When did I get to be a grownup? I qualify? 

I came across this nugget by Maya Angelou: 

I am convinced that most people do not grow up . . . We marry and dare to have children and call that growing up. I think what we do is mostly grow old. We carry accumulations of years in our bodies, and on our faces, but generally our real selves, the children inside, are innocent and shy as magnolias. 

I realize now that I am the same age, if not older, than some of my childhood playmates' mothers. When I was ten, I gazed up at adults at being all-knowing, wise, and capable, but now that I'm there I see how childish behaviors can have a mighty grip on those who should technically know better. For some, adulthood does not necessarily bring on maturity.

There is something to be said for childhood innocence. But what about the wisdom we should be acquiring with age? Ma would sneer with disdain, "There is no fool like an old fool." She had little tolerance for those who should know better. Children can be excused their mistakes; adults should eventually acquire some common sense. 

I saw this quote the other day: 

Maturity is working through your trauma and not using it as a never ending excuse for poor behavior. — Ellis Anthony

Being an adult isn't just supporting oneself. It's self-awareness. It's reflection, as opposed to reacting. It's being able to have a conversation without being threatened that another has a different opinion, and being able to see their point of view. It's about taking ownership for your actions. 

Looking through Beraishis, a good many of the happenings therein is regarding personal accountability. Hashem forgives those who say, "I messed up." Whether the sin was against Him or another mortal, all is absolved. Not only that, there is even reward; because Yehuda took responsibility twice in the record, he becomes King of the nation.

I learned, relatively recently, that taking responsibility for my actions is less threatening that I thought it would be. I used to fight against when I was younger, that "It's not my fault," but even when it technically isn't (like Ben did something when I should have been overseeing his actions), it's still just better all around if I say, "It was my fault." 

 

And everyone, including me, can move on. 

"Peony"

I have been quiet this last few months. Obviously, nothing that I've been thinking of sharing has seemed important. The words that usually chase each other in my head have been rather indolent. 

But I would like to summon the interest to begin again, for writing is my . . . thing. 

In the last few months, I was introduced to the book "Peony" by Pearl S. Buck (author of the more well known "The Good Earth"). Apparently, Madame Buck was a prolific writer, having written many, many books. 

"Peony" is applicable to my audience because it has a rather surprising topic: The Jews of China. Apparently, Jewish traders settled in China has early as the 9th century (or even earlier) and established communities. There, they lived in peace, the Chinese having no quibble with them, to the point they intermarried. 

According to the historical postscript, Buck was not very accurate in terms of timeline, but it takes place somewhere in the 1800s. While the book is called "Peony," it's really about David, the young man of the household. 

The family is a wealthy one, prosperous traders. The patriarch, Ezra, has a Jewish father and a Chinese mother, a fact that his pious wife, Naomi, abhors. Ezra immerses himself in Chinese culture, while Naomi is a fervent Jew, who upholds all the practices and fiercely maintaining a distance from their Chinese neighbors. David, their son, finds himself caught between two worlds. 

Peony is a bondmaiden who was acquired in childhood to be a playmate for David. A bondmaiden was neither a lowly servant, nor quite a member of the family. She helps run the household, and adores David. 

I had always thought that America was the first time that Jews were accepted, which led to assimilation, but apparently that was not so. Because the Chinese held no primitive grudge against these Jewish transplants, they, too, assimilated. 

Buck also explains why the pull was so great: The Chinese sought pleasure. Why not be happy if that was possible? The Jews, however, espoused what they deemed to be unnecessary restriction, along with a lot of sobbing and moaning. No wonder David struggles so. 

Buck writes simply, and the book is an pleasant read until it takes a horror movie turn. Additionally, it shouldn't be expected that Buck should have an accurate understanding of Jewish law. For instance, it is written more than once that "Jewish men do not have multiple wives," when that rule was established by an Ashkenazi rabbi, and considering how Ezra is most definitely not a descendant of an Ashkenazi lineage, that wouldn't be an issue. 

Also, the matter of matrilineal descent; many who identify as Jews in the book would not be considered halachically Jewish, but according to the postscript the Jews of China went by patrilineal descent. These descendants still exist today in China, and they are proud of their Jewish heritage, even lobbying with the newly founded Chinese government to be considered a minority people. 

I don't want to provide any more spoilers, but I do recommend it as a fascinating read about a topic that is not common knowledge.