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.    

We Shall Live

So, how's everyone holding up? 

Not too good? 

Yeah. I can relate. 

I've been thinking out loud with Han—who mostly listens politely then returns to his perpetual doomscrolling—about what is the takeaway here? We've been slammed between the eyes with horror, sadness, fear for our trapped families . . . 

I managed to listen to two shiurim last week. The first was redemption of captives via the strict lens of halacha. What is allowed, what is not. I liked it. It kept to clear guidelines, made by the elders of the past, in times when captivity was definitely more common than today. 

The second . . . to preface, I usually enjoy this rabbi's thoughts. I'm often very taken with what he has to say. But this time, I was left unsettled. 

He made sure to open that we do not judge. No one can say why some were killed and others were spared. But he brought a myriad of anecdotes about how keeping Shabbos seemingly saved a number of individuals. Either they would have been at the rave, or within the kibbutzim themselves, they were ignored by the terrorists. 

We should learn, the rabbi said, that we should be upholding Shabbat better. We aren't judging those who were killed! Not at all! But we should still learn from this. 

This bothered me. I figured out why. 

The rabbi is from a Sephardi community that has a different background than those of Ashkenazim. This community, as a whole, has been slowly progressing in better observance over the years. Nor did they experience the war the way European Jewry did. 

That is what I kept thinking. What of the Holocaust? My great-grandparents were all observant. They lived in towns, not vast, cosmopolitan cities, full of impious distractions (the way I practically do). They kept Shabbos. They kept kosher. They kept everything. 

Straight to the gas. Along with children and grandchildren.  

This Sephardi rabbi doesn't have this history. He doesn't have this narrative. Maybe some Sephardim shrug to themselves that the Ashkenazi Jews had it coming with their Reform movements, with their attending theater on Friday nights. But six million people weren't all the same. Chassidic movements were completely wiped out. Reb Elchonon Wasserman, murdered. Along with my great-grandmother, who would say Tehillim every chance she had. Along with my great-aunt and her six children. Along with my Zeidy's wife and little girl. 

Additionally, it's not like the terrorists were from an alien planet. They knew it was Shabbos. They knew it was Yom Tov. They chose that day, specifically, for its sleepiness and relaxation. They knew people's guards would be down. 

Third point: Lasting change does not come from fear. Embracing mitzvos must come from a place of free choice. Otherwise it will not last. 

So what is, the takeaway, then? 

I guess I realized that there isn't one. This is the Jewish experience. We can sit and parse our logic and facts, but I just remember that scene after the pogrom in Anatevka, when the wedding party begins to sadly clean up the damage, and Tevye looks to the sky, asking God "Why?" 

Then he continues on, the same Jew, enduring. Like Dara Horn said.

Or maybe it's just b'damayich chaii—by your blood, you shall live. These words I invoked at my sons' brissim. This phrase can have more than one meaning, I realize. For the more they persecute, the more we proliferate. 

As Obi-Wan Kenobi said, "If you strike me down, I'll become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

But . . . I'm still so sad.   

Shhhhhhh

Be private. Travel and tell no one. Find a partner and tell no one. Live happily and tell no one. People ruin beautiful things.

I saw this on IG, and . . . well, this is something I can get behind. 

Social media has its pros, and lots of cons. I don't follow people whose whole purpose is to display their lives through the editing lens to the universe. I would fall for their bushwa so fast. 

I follow informative accounts instead, and if one bikini shot goes up, one gender reveal, I click unfollow. I should not be privy to something that should be private. 

But that's an extreme. Sometimes we share too much socially, to the people we consider our friends. 

There is something to be said for privacy. The quote above didn't say, "don't post it." It says, "tell no one." We like to think, "I can tell my friends. They'll be happy for me!" 

But maybe they won't. Would you? Some people can carry that generosity of spirit and be truly happy for someone else's good fortune, but even then, they could still be struggling with jealousy. 

After I had Anakin, it was with a sinking heart that I texted a friend, who I haven't seen in years but still sporadically keep up with, the news. She was married before me and still does not have children, and I know she longs for them. She had to be told, but I could not, and did not, expect her to be happy for me. She had managed to be gracious by Ben's birth, sending a gift and attending the bris, but this time, she did not respond to my text. I understood. 

When I was still single, I attended many vorts and weddings of those younger than me. When I received the news that my cousin's daughter was engaged, I angrily stomped to that vort, slapped a smile on my face by the door, then went in and gushed mazel tov to the giddy 20-year-old. It was bad enough I was being pitied; I didn't want to appear pitiable.

Then, when I got engaged to Han, I felt no need to announce it anywhere. 

It's very hard to be happy for someone else, especially when they acquired their blessings with seemingly little effort. The quote finishes off, "People ruin beautiful things." Others ruin things out of envy, out of sadness. No need to put a stumbling block in their path.

The blessings we have are for us alone. Bracha comes to quiet, private places. In this age of oversharing, perhaps we should become reacquainted with discretion. 

Grief is Allowed

I've been reading It's OK You're Not OK by Megan Devine, and frankly, she sounds pissed. 

She was actually a grief counselor before she lost her husband in a horrific accident, but found herself unequipped for what followed. But she notes that there was the pain from her grief, and then there was the pain that others inflicted on her. 

People are often quite clueless about the ravages of grief. They also exacerbate the pain with cliches and irritation that the griever is so distraught. 

This was highlighted for me recently when I finished was Han refers to as a "lady book," or chick-lit. I shan't name the book, since I'll be spoiling galore, but it follows multiple characters. 

One is a woman in her 50s, whose husband dies of a heart attack in front of her. 

Another is a woman in her 20s, whose fiance calls off their wedding three days before the shebang. 

Obviously, both take to their beds. 

However: 

Approximately six weeks after her husband dies, the widow's friend demands that she has to get out of the house, she has to move on, come to a get-together. The widow begrudgingly agrees, and drags herself outside and has a good time. 

The jilted bride wallows in her misery, to the point where she no longer follows her friend's lives. When she surfaces, she finds herself begging her friend for forgiveness as said friend chastises her for being so "selfish" by falling off the planet. Almost bride is chastened and apologizes. 

Both of these situations annoyed me. 

Grief comes in multiple forms. There's losing family, and there's losing a dream. Even people who develop celiac disease experience the grief of a future life where they can't mindlessly eat in a public setting. 

But grief is not allowed. 

Six weeks is not a long time. That's not even the span of a season. A widow is expected to process and file away the loss of her husband of 30 years in a few days? Heck, my mother's been gone for over six years and I'm not remotely over it! 

As for our almost wife? Um, yeah, she's allowed to move into bed and go dark. No, no one died, but she had her heart ripped out, the future as she saw it dissolved, and she had the humiliation of explaining to her friends and family that the wedding is off. 

Then her friend tells her off? Her friend didn't even go through what she did. So who is she to cast judgement? 

What was even more surprising was that the author's note in the beginning explained that she herself had lost her husband recently. Sooooo . . . she should know what grief is. She should know that grief is allowed, that there is no set time period, and that those in active grief should be cut some slack. 

There are times in life when we have to adjust to a new reality, which will sometimes involve grief. It's allowed.

The Old Heroes

 Another takeaway from Picard 3: 

For those who actually have an interest in watching it, I'll try to keep it vague enough not to cause spoilers. 

The whole intent of this Season was nostalgia. They brought back the original TNG cast, threw in some DS9 villains, and featured a couple of Voyager characters. 

*Sniff* It was perfect. 

Enough time has passed that our TNG peeps are parents, like LaForge and Riker. This brought a new dimension, seeing them as family folk, no longer willing to risk their lives every Tuesday for the heck of it. 

Yet they are also, quite clearly . . . old. The youngest actor is Levar, at 66—everyone else is close to or above 70.

Yet it is because of their age and experience that they end up saving the galaxy. 

There was this tweet a few years back by Kathryn Ivey: 

Why is "the chosen one" always a teenager? We're really gonna put the fate of the universe on someone with an undeveloped prefrontal cortex? Give me a story with a chosen one who is a 42 year old mom that has already seen some s**t and is totally out of f**ks to give

She has a point. The "chosen one" is usually a clueless child that has this insane burden thrust upon him. He doesn't need life experience, because he was selected to be an unwitting tool for forces beyond his ken. With regard to general fictional teenage heroes—adults are the clueless ones who need saving. 

It sort of reinforces the trope that adults "don't get it," and yes, while that may be true for some people who were stupid their whole lives, most adults, due to their age alone, are "it-getters" (credit to Jon Stewart). 

So while it may be that I am watching the last vestiges of my youth trickle through my fingers, it is also with the dawning horror that the kids today will find me irrelevant for my inability to take a decent selfie. 

But there is more to life than technological savvy. 

There was a scene in Picard where Jean-Luc is dining in a bar near the Academy, and he is besieged by starry-eyed cadets begging him for background details of his exploits. Jean-Luc has become an icon, a once hero. But he's not a relic of the past. He's not done yet. It's his experience that keeps him from becoming obsolete.

Ma would get so frustrated when she told us to do something a certain way and we wouldn't listen. She wanted to save us the trouble, that she had learned the right way to go about it, so couldn't we just listen?! She was usually right.

Moshe Rabbeinu is the closest we have to a "chosen one," and he didn't start leading until he was 80. He had life experience first as a prince, shepherd, husband, father. Because we don't believe that being chosen means you magically get there with no effort. The chosen people were chosen to bring our excellence, and we failed to such an extent that we were persecuted and murdered for 3,000 years. 

Moshiach is gonna be old.