100 Days

23 Jun

100 days. We’ve all unwittingly participated in a #100daysproject experiment. 100 days ago most of our offices and schools sent us home. Some of us were fortunate enough to continue working, others furloughed or fired. Still others put in overtime to keep us safe, healthy, and fed.

Our kids tried, some in earnest, some not so much, to concentrate on e-learning. Maybe they had a space of their own, but most likely not. But they and their teachers gave it the best effort. It was only going to be for a little while, right?

It was a lark, to be honest. Neighborhoods formed Covid-19 support email chains and planned Saturday night singalongs. We had family dinner, every night. Kids painted “Thank You, Helpers” signs and chalked obstacle courses on sidewalks. We marveled at how our stay-at-home orders cleared the smog over Los Angeles and the water in Venice.

We turned our Free Little Libraries into Free Little Pantries (umm, because we had to share what we’d hoarded?). New Yorkers, never perceived as the friendliest folks, erupted into applause each night precisely at 7 p.m. to thank their heroes.

We were all in it together. As a sign in my neighborhood said, “We’ll get through this together. We have to. We’re neighbors.”

We’ve baked 100 loaves of no-rise bread and moved on to sourdough. We’ve watched 100 episodes of bingeable television. Completed 100 jigsaw puzzles, coloring pages, Lego structures, marathon Scrabble games.  Swapped 100 quarantine recipes, tried 100 new hobbies, planned 100 home improvement projects. Deep cleaned 100 closets (Marie Kondo is so proud). Planted 100 seedlings that are now in 100 pots for 100 21st century “victory gardens.”

We’ve balanced our accounts, read books, and reconnected with people we’d long since forgotten we’d “friended” on Facebook. The Zoom Seders kicked off Zoom shiva calls, funerals, weddings, b’nai mitzvahs. And, of course,  Zoom cocktails, book clubs, cooking classes, game nights, yoga. And video reunions. So many reunions.

All the while we cleaned maniacally. For a while. We called our aging parents more frequently, often to lecture them about the importance of not leaving their homes for any reason. We scared them so much they didn’t want to go to the hospital, even when they should have.

Our seniors realized prom was never gonna happen. Graduation would be different. And for the college-bound? Who knows? Still, we were all in it together. Our littlest birthday kids had virtual parties—with cupcakes and goodie bags delivered all over town before the clown performed on-screen. The bigger kids got drive-bys and socially distant (our new portmanteau) cake sharing.

Some of us came down with the novel coronavirus, with or without symptoms. We started to hear about friends who lost parents, uncles, neighbors. We hoped our governors would extend our stay-at-home orders.

Then, around Day 70, our world erupted. We were all home, swiping through 100 social media posts. The horrors that have been happening around us for years screamed at us from 100 different directions. This time, however, we took notice. We planned 100 protests. We raised our voices together and we cried for change.

It took 100 days of separation for us to find community and humanity. For us to see imbalance in our healthcare system and our justice system. For us to acknowledge with one voice in 100 cities that change must come. We are more than 100 years too late and we owe 100 apologies. We can do better.

Let’s spend the next 100 making sure change comes—registering people to vote, keeping pressure on our politicians to reform our justice system, educating ourselves. With our hundreds of voices, let’s continue to speak at 10 decibels for those whose voices can no longer be heard and make sure that their memories will be for a blessing.


Read Aloud for Earth Day!

22 Apr

I can hear my Nepenthe chimes singing in the breeze, making harmony with the birds. Lilac wafts through the kitchen screen door (even though it’s really too cold to have it open).  The sun through my dining room window is filtered by the delicate pink petals of our crab apple trees.  It’s Earth Day and our Chicago backyard seems to know it.  Usually, we’d be off for a hike or to pick up trash or in the garden planting flowers. But with my right ankle broken and in a cast, Culture Family will settle for planning the vegetable garden and enjoying the buds and bunnies in the backyard.

Culture Sprout will be 12 soon, but this post from 8 years ago — and updated with one terrific book — still highlights some of the best kids’ Earth Day books we know of. Enjoy! And get outside for mother’s day, Mother Earth, of course.

*And one more Earth Day note. I’ve linked to Indiebound in case you want to buy online. But, why don’t you walk to your independent bookstore instead? You get outside and your Earth Day books won’t require fossil fuel to get to you!*

My update starts with a special call out to my friend Jen Cullerton Johnson‘s book Seeds of Change. Published in 2010, Seeds of Change has become a classic of the environmentalist literature and continues to accumulate accolades. Because I can’t really do it justice, here is the blurb from her site:  “A non-fiction children’s book Seeds of Change demonstrates the connection between people and nature. A frank and inspiring invitation into the life and work of Wangari Maathai, Noble Peace Prize Winner and founder of the Greenbelt Movement.” Jen donates a percent of every sale of her book to an environmentalist cause, so please click here to purchase Seeds of Change.

When Culture Sprout was four years old, I volunteered to bring an Earth Day activity to her classroom.  As with most pre-school things I did, this prompted a trip to the library and the bookstore in search of something to read to the children.  After thumbing through about a dozen books, I settled on one that I thought would appeal to boys and girls, and would ignite discussion and action. I had no idea that I was discovering an author and a character who would change the way my daughter thinks about the world. Nor did I know that we would spend the next three springs eagerly awaiting the release of the next book in what has grown to be a series.


The eponymous character in Michael Recycle is a “green-caped crusader,” a young boy who flies around the world teaching people how to better protect the earth from trash, pollution, and over-production. Patterson’s language makes for a rollicking read-aloud and Michael’s optimism and can-do attitude appeal to pre-school and elementary school children.

In Michael Recycle, Michael teaches a town the three cardinal rules of recycling: reduce, reuse, and recycle. While he at first fights environmental evils solo, in subsequent books he meets other earth-saving heroes and/or convinces little villains to join him. In Michael Recycle Meets Litterbug Doug he tackles the eponymous litterer, forever winning his heart and loyalty. Michael Recycle Saves Christmas introduces Solar Lola and teaches us about solar power, making gifts out of “trash,” and the dangers of materialism. And new this spring, Michael Recycle and the Tree Top Cops shows us how we can all become earth activists, this time in the service of saving the Redwood Forest.

What I love about Patterson’s books is that their lessons and strong environmental views are not hammered into the reader. Rather they are couched within charming rhymes and accompanied by Alexandra Colombo’s lush illustrations.  The first book ends with ten ideas of how the reader can help (or help their parents) protect the earth, inviting each child to become an environmental superhero. We can all be superheroes, Patterson seems to say if we focus on the evils we can help conquer.

Some more Earth Day favorites:

Fancy Nancy: Every Day is Earth Day (Jane O’Connor, illustrated by Robin Preiss Glasser, 2010): Not much needs to be said about Fancy Nancy. She’s a favorite in pre-schools everywhere. O’Connor has followed up the original glittery Frenchified books with a line of I Can Read volumes, of which Fancy Nancy: Every Day is Earth Day is my personal favorite.  I love Fancy Nancy for her vocabulary—O’Connor isn’t afraid to introduce little kids to big words (and French words). I also love her for giving me, in this book, two of my favorite mantras: “Less than a mile, bike in style,” and “Please take note. Always bring a tote.”

Culture Sprout weighs in with this favorite for more autonomous readers:

Ivy & Bean: What’s the Big Idea? (Annie Barrows, illustrated by Sophie Blackall, 2011). The seventh book in this utterly charming series about best friends who “never meant to like each other,” Ivy & Bean: What’s the Big Idea taught Culture Bean about global warming.  Ivy and Bean’s science assignment is to find a way to combat global warming. After a series of hysterical mishaps, they decide that little girls can’t solve global warming on their own—they need to get grown-ups to care about the earth. At the end of the book, Barrows has included a brief primer to explain global warming and several ideas about how we, including little girls, can help.

What are you reading or doing for Earth Day?  Please add a comment and help me build my “Every Day is Earth Day” reading list and activity idea list. Ideas for all ages are encouraged!

  1. When the Earth Moved: What Happened to the Environmental Movement by N. Lehman for The New Yorker
  2. 5 Smart Ways To Celebrate Earth Day (news.health.com)
  3. My interview with Ellie Patterson

A Letter to President-elect Trump

11 Nov

November 11, 2016

Dear President-elect Trump,

On Wednesday, for the first time since you declared your candidacy, you said you would be a president for all Americans. As someone who did not support you, and who lamented the tenor of your campaign, I fervently want to believe you. But, in the wake of your election so much violence and hate has already been directed at people of color, immigrants, gays—my neighbors, friends and loved ones. The perpetrators are committing these acts in your name, stating that they feel justified in tormenting their fellow Americans because you were elected.

Your candidacy proved that words have power. The power to get you elected, to be sure. More importantly, your words have power. They have the power to incite violence—even if that was not your intent. And we have to hope that they have the power to heal.

If you truly want to be a president for all Americans, to begin a period of post-election healing and work toward the peaceful transition of power that is the hallmark of our democratic experiment, then use your words now. Come out of your tower and address the people, your people. Lead them by publicly denouncing and condemning the violence that is being done in your name. Speak to Americans who are afraid of your policies and tell them that you do not support acts and words of hate. That you will lead by respecting our rule of law and our culture of civility.

And then, consider appointing a cabinet that looks like America—all the colors of the human rainbow, all the genders of the human being.

This country was founded so that all who live here can pursue life, liberty and happiness. Our constitution, which you will shortly swear to defend, guarantees all Americans equality and these inalienable rights. We have sealed this guarantee for more the 200 years with the peaceful transfer of power. We have been a beacon of hope and an example of democracy, learning from our mistakes and revising our laws to be ever more inclusive along the way.

I am a proud American. My grandmother’s family fled pogroms in Russia to find refuge in the promise of the United States. My great-great uncle lied about his age to become the oldest officer to serve in the Army during WWII, surviving the Bataan death march and the war in his defense of democracy. My husband became a naturalized citizen a few years ago because he, like I, believes it is our responsibility to vote.

On Tuesday I cast my eighth vote for president. I did not vote for you. On Wednesday morning I woke up to find that you would be our president. And now, I must trust in your leadership. I must believe that as a father you do not want your young son to believe that “Trump’s America” is one filled with hatred and vitriol. That you want your legacy to be an America that is greater for all of us.

As I’m sure you know, many of your citizens are lamenting your election. They are protesting, mostly peacefully; they are posting on social media; and they are planning on working for their values and ideals. They need to see that you have put the election behind you and will now work for the good and welfare of all Americans, regardless of their race, religion, gender, ethnicity, national origin or political leanings.

Please, Mr. President-elect, use your words to heal. Use your words to show America that we can be greater than the rhetoric of this election. Use your words to mend fences and help us treat our neighbors as we would be treated ourselves.


Ilene S. Goldman


17 Feb

So true…

Serving Those Who Have Served Our Country

11 Nov

For the past couple of years, I’ve blogged on Veterans Day even when, like this year, I’ve been a bit remiss about blogging on other days.  Last year I remembered a man I am proud to have called a friend and whose cause I was honored to assist, Jimmy Proffit.

DSCN1311There are more than 50,000 homeless veterans on our streets today. I am glad that my father was never one of them, nor my friend Linda’s brother. I am ashamed that our country cannot take better care of these lost soldiers.

Today, I want to mention other veterans who have been inspired to serve their brothers and sisters no longer in arms who are in desperate need of help:

This morning I heard a feature news story on our local NPR station about another local couple whose similar altruistic impulses moved me to tears. Soldiers Committed to Remaking the World (RTW). Daniel and Arbetha Habeel founded RTW in 2010 to serve veterans. A retired, disabled Viet Nam era veteran, Mr. Habeel and his wife recognized, like Jimmy Proffitt and his wife Virginia had, that there are far too many homeless veterans on our streets. Whether unable to work due to physical disability, broken by PTSD, or simply ill-equipped to reenter the civilian world, these veterans often cannot easily access resources. It could be that the resources don’t exist, or that they don’t know how to track them down. We’ve all read about the backlogs at VA hospitals, for instance.

Mr. and Mrs. Habeel began by offering homeless vets a place to stay. They were affiliated with another veterans service organization and during a fundraiser for that group, homeless vets who were hungry rang the bell and asked for a meal. The Habeels fed them, charging whatever small change the vet could offer. When the vets offer nothing, the Habeels fed them anyway. They realized that the veterans living in the park across the street from their Washington Park home needed more services–food, shelter, transportation, clothing–and set out to provide it. They have been doing so for five years, taking no government funding in order to serve veterans who have had discharges other than “honorable.”

Chicago Standdown happened yesterday. I had the privilege of volunteering once at Standdown. Started by Vietnam veterans Robert Van Keuren and Jon Nachison in San Diego. According to their website, “nearly 200 Standdown events occur each year and it is estimated that over 52,000 veterans are served each year by these programs and approximately 27,000 volunteers help to make this happen.” Government organizations participate in these events and veterans can learn about services there, but the barbers and cooks are community members. Chicago Standdown occurs twice a year at the Humboldt Park Armoryand serves 700-800 veterans each time. Follow the fourth link below to hear a moving story about Standdown and how it helps vets from Seattle to Morriston NJ.

The lights on my porch are green this week. Every time I walk into the house, I think about those who have served our country in war and in peace. Have you said thank you? #GreenlightAVet


Liar Temptress Soldier Spy, A Book Note

30 Apr

Liar Temptress Soldier Spy by Karen Abbot

Recently, I became an accidental student of the Civil War. While standing in the checkout line at the library (yep, I LOVE the library), I noticed a book with an intriguing title–Liar Soldier Temptress Spy. I popped out of line to look at it.    karen-abbott-photoThe topic, the under-sung stories of four women who served the Confederacy and the Union as spies (one as a soldier!) told by a historian, Karen Abbott. The cover blurb by Erik Larson (Devil in the White City), naming Abbot “the John Le Carré of Civil War espionage,” sealed the deal. Larson made my beloved Chicago’s true history of serial murder during the 1893 World’s Fair come alive, like only the best murdery mystery writers can. If he thought Abbott was worth reading, then so did I.


Belle Boyd (Credit: Library of Congress)

I was not disappointed. Liar Temptress Soldier Spy starts a bit slowly as Abbott introduces each of her four characters in turn, providing biographic background that explains how each woman came to care about her cause enough to take huge risks to support her side of the war. Seventeen-year-old Belle Boyd, an ardent rebel hailing from Martinsburg, Virginia, supported her cause using all of her beguiling (and belligerent) traits. Smart and beautiful, she had proven her determination by the age of eleven when, told that she was too young to attend a dinner party, she rode her horse into her parents’ dining room and declared, “Well, my horse is old enough, isn’t he?”  Before her mother could raise a hand or voice, a guest (a politician or Revolutionary war hero, no doubt) intervened to ask Mrs. Boyd to “tell me more about your little rebel. Six years later, on July 4, 1861, when Union soldiers demanded that her mother fly their flag and then physically threatened her, Belle did not hesitate to shoot. She survived her offense by following up with a charm defensive and spent the rest of the war spying for the Confederacy.


Emma Edmondson as Frank Thompson (image credit: Wikipedia)

Emma Edmundson, seeking to escape her father’s disregard and her mother’s sadness over having born daughters, became Frank Thompson, and upon leaving her native Canada, volunteered for the Union Army. Serving from 1850 through most of the war, she remained undetected, cross-dressing, living as a man among men, and amassing a reputation for cunning, bravery, and compassion. In one brilliant moment of spying on the Confederate Army she “masqueraded” as a woman to cross enemy lines. When terribly injured in a battle, she cared for herself, unwilling to be discovered (and dismissed with dishonor or, worse, tried, for her patriotic deception). After the war, Edmonson/Thompson was recognized for her exemplary service and her case paved the way for remuneration and pension for women who had served.


Rose O’Neal Greenhow, Confederate spy, with her daughter, Little Rose (Smithsonian Magazine, The Granger Collection, NYC)

Southern widow Rose Greenhow used her social position in Washington D.C. to penetrate the upper echelons of Union leadership and pass valuable information to the rebel leaders. Like Boyd, it was her deepest desire to be recognized as valuable to the cause, especially by their beloved Stonewall Jackson. Like Boyd, she was eventually found out, jailed, banned from the north, and exiled. Greenhow, however, was sent to Europe to President Jefferson Davis to try to persuade the French and British leaders to recognize the Confederacy as an independent nation.


Elizabeth Van Lew (credit: Smithsonian Magazine, (The Granger Collection, NYC))

It may have been Elizabeth Van Lew, however, who won the war for the Union. A wealthy abolitionist in Richmond, Van Lew’s servants were all paid former slaves. Once she acquired a slave, she freed them and kept them on if they wished. This, plus her vast social circle, allowed her to be the center of a spy ring that penetrated as deeply as Davis’s private office, so that she was able to send accurate information, on a daily basis, to General Sherman. Van Lew, despised by Richmond, deserves her place in history as much for what she gave up to support Lincoln and the Union  as for her heroic actions.

Abbot makes these stories come alive, alternating between the women in a seamless way and connecting their stories via in-depth historical accounts of battles and the machinations of war. Her extensive archival research allows her to attribute to the women thoughts and words that they wrote in their letters and journals. She describes the near-misses, the penury brought on by the war (I could smell it!), the shear ingenuity of the codes and techniques they used to pass messages, and their innermost thoughts about the people and issues of the day. More than a women’s history, this is a readable, compelling history of the Civil War that illuminates the issues and concerns that nearly fractured our Union. And more than a history of the Civil War, this book educates us about early spying techniques, the gruesome results of battle, and the deprivations (physical and emotional)  caused by the war and its aftermath.

As I was reading the book, I happened to be in Washington, D.C. on the 150th anniversary of the assassination of President Lincoln which I marked (with Culture Sprout) by seeing One Destiny at Ford’s Theatre. We also visited the Spy Museum where we spent a lot of time looking at the exhibit on Civil War spies. More on those later….

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Remembering a “Veteran’s Veteran”

11 Nov

I have not blogged since 9/11 when I posted my annual remembrance of Jeffrey Gardner, a childhood friend who perished in the World Trade Center.  A lot of things have been banging around in my head, half-baked and not written. They will come soon, really soon I hope.

Today, though I want to pause on Veteran’s Day to remember another friend, Jimmy Proffitt. Jimmy passed away last month after a long battle with leukemia. If there ever were people who epitomized the term “salt of the earth” it was Jimmy and his widow Virginia. He was a man of modest means who made an enormous difference in the lives of veterans and homeless people in Chicago. His energy and his dedication to his fellow humans inspired me and everyone who came in contact with him. His death leaves a void, to be sure, but his mark on his community will be felt for years to come.

My notes from last Veteran’s Day:

More than 25 years ago, Jimmy and Virginia found themselves with leftover Thanksgiving dinner. They made about 30 sandwiches and a thermos of coffee and headed to downtown Chicago. Once there, they found homeless men and distributed the food. Recognizing the incredible need, Jimmy and Virginia continued to make sandwiches for Chicago’s homeless. Every Sunday, with the exception of Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day weekends, they circle Chicago’s loop with their small army of helpers. The Chicago Homeless Sandwich Project today distributes more than 1,500 bagged lunches each week. They also provide hot and cold beverages, clothing, and a ready smile to the increasing number of homeless on our city’s streets.

We have been privileged to ride with Jimmy many times, handing out sandwiches and seeing firsthand the need he fills. Jimmy tells us that more than 75% of the homeless on our city streets are veterans, men (and now women) who have come home from war so damaged that they cannot hold a job, or who lost everything while they were serving (job, home, family) and have not been able to get back on their feet.

Jimmy was called to serve his country, and while his own life has been modest compared to many more visible philanthropists, he may be the most philanthropic person I know. Next to the hospital that saved our child, The Sandwich Project is our favorite charity and I encourage to click the link above, read about the supplies they use each year, and find out how you can help.


I wish I had thought to call him a “veteran’s veteran,” but I give all credit to the headline writers of The Herald NewsWhat does that mean? Well, it means that Jimmy continued to serve his country and brothers long after he left the Marines. If our actions define the name we leave in the world, Jim Proffitt left an illustrious name, one which we should all strive to emulate.

May his memory be for a blessing

–“Joining to Bid Farewell to and Almost Homeless Veteran,” The New York Times, 2/5/2011 by Don Terry

Remembering Jeffrey Gardner on 9/11

11 Sep

There’s no easy way to say this: My childhood friend Jeffrey Gardner died on 9/11, a victim of terrorism. I pause today to think of him and what his death, and that of the others who died that day, as well as the countless more who have died since in the “War on Terrorism” means in our culture today.  I think Jeffrey would find it meaningful that this year’s anniversary during Elul, when Jews around the world prepare for  return, for the Jewish High Holidays, the Days of Awe during which we repent and hope to be written in the book of life for another year. For if ever there was a man who deserved be written there–who in many ways might have been said to define “life”–it was Jeffrey Gardner.

For 13 years I’ve written a memorial post on this day. That first post surfaced in an Internet search and put me back in touch with my best friend from elementary school, so I like to think that the gifts Jeffrey gave us in life continued past his untimely death. Today as I get ready to hoist my bike on the car and then go for a long lakefront ride, and as I plan a philanthropic event for pediatric healthcare, I can’t help but think that the values Jeffrey lived do, in fact, live on in many of his friends. Maybe not with the same gusto, but still. And we all think of him often.

In that spirit, I am reposting lat year’s memorial:

In 2012, Culture Husband and I visited the 9/11 Memorial to culminate our anniversary celebration. Somehow it seemed appropriate, even necessary, to visit the memorial and remember even as we celebrated. When we returned to NYC in December, we took Culture Sprout there as well. In fact, we stayed at a new hotel by the memorial and from our balcony we could see the people teeming toward the security line and the edge of the memorial park.

As I wrote last September, even in the cold of December, atmosphere was eerily like the memorials on the beaches of Normandy–all obvious signs of the destruction, horror, and blood are gone. But there is something in the air and light, in the way other visitors walk slowly and whisper, in the quiet, respectful aura of this place despite the hustle and noise of the surrounding city that took our breath away. Charlotte seemed to intuitively understand the sobriety and sacredness of the memorial.


It’s hard to tell a kid that the world is a dangerous, scary place. Even harder to tell her that someone you loved was felled by hatred and intolerance. But, recently she has said she’d like to take on world peace as a life goal. It’s a big one, but maybe, just maybe, she’s got a guardian mensch guiding her.


Each year for a long time I’ve posted an essay about Jeffrey, about what his life and death meant to me.

Politicians continue to fight over the completion of the 9/11 Museum, leaving the memorial and legacy painfully, shamefully unfinished. We’re still at war around the world–a war whose opening salvo was loud and silent at the same time (remember the deafening silence when all air traffic stopped?) And, yet, Syria indicated today that it might be willing to declare its chemical weapons. Do we have reason to be cautiously optimistic?

I ask you to please take the time to read my essay and remember that while “America was under attack,” as Andrew Card famously told President Bush 7 years ago, very real people were being injured and murdered. The ripple effect of their loss cannot ever be forgotten.

(Originally written on 9/11/2006)

Jeffrey B. Gardner died 5 years ago today when the World Trade Towers collapsed. I had known Jeffrey for as long as I can remember, growing up in the same town (Livingston, NJ) and attending religious school at B’nai Jeshurun together.

More than a boy I grew up with, Jeffrey was a dear friend throughout my high school and college years. We were both socially conscious teenagers and active in our temple youth group and in JFTY, the Jersey Federation of Temple Youth.

Like all of the people who have signed his guest book, I can attest to Jeffrey’s special qualities–his goodness, kindness, wisdom, and sense of fun. I can also recall his pride as he listened to his father sing in the temple choir on the high holy days, his clear affection for his siblings, and his love for his mother. Jeffrey and I, along with 20 other Jewish teens, spent a special summer together in 1982. As part of the JFTY Urban Mitzvah Corps, we lived in a fraternity house at Rutgers (later Jeffrey’s alma mater) and volunteered for various organizations in the New Brunswick area. We worked with the elderly, disadvantaged children, and the disabled. In the evenings we studied and played, enriching our Judaism and bonding as a group in a way that is immeasurable. Jeffrey lived his Jewish values and he taught us how much fun (and mischief) we could have within the limits of a moral, thoughtful life. My father had a special place in his heart for Jeffrey. Not just because they were in the same business, but because Jeffrey was respectful, forthcoming, and friendly. In business, my father could count on Jeffrey, just as I could count on him as a friend. Since Jeffrey’s death, I’ve learned that he continued to live those values for the rest of his far-too-short life. He read the Christian Bible and the Koran in order to understand other people’s belief systems. He volunteered with Habitat for Humanity throughout the hemisphere. He worked hard at his career and prospered. In his obituary, his sister Amy noted that he had a sun tatooed on his ankle because “a good day was as bad as it got. ” Jeffrey shone like that sun. Even when we weren’t in touch for a long time (we hadn’t spoken for about 3 years before his death), I felt his presence and the mark that he made on my life. On that perfect sunny September morning, a day eerily like today in Chicago, hatred killed Jeffrey. The irony that intolerance killed a soul who embodied tolerance is not lost on me. I dedicate today to Jeffrey–as sad as I am for his loss, I strive to live a life of which he would have been proud, to be tolerant and kind and strong as a tribute to his memory. Rest in peace, dear friend. You are indeed Z”L (Zichrono Livracha), of blessed memory.

Postscript, 9/11/2012: I think Jeffrey would have liked the Survivor Tree. He might have said that hatred cannot destroy what G-d has made, no matter what G-d you believe in. I know it made me smile on that sunny day in March, as I placed a stone on Jeffrey’s name to let him know I’d been there, wiped away my tears, and left with Culture Husband to face the city.


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I’m Not Fluffy: A Memoir

13 Apr

This story was dictated to me by my beloved Esther Williams Goldman. We all miss her every day.

“I’m Not Fluffy”

by Esther Williams Goldman

         There I was in my cage at the pound.  It wasn’t a bad place—I was warm, well fed and my litter box was pretty clean.  But, I dreamt of a new home. A place to run around, a spot in the sun for naps, a lap for cuddling, and most of all, a nice person whose head I could sleep on at night.

It was Saturday and the people started coming in. The first lady walked up to my cage.  I ran to the window and tried to be really cute, sitting up straight and wrapping my tail around me.  She said, “You’re awfully sweet.  I’ll call you “Fluffy.”  “Harrumph!  I’m not Fluffy,” I hissed and stalked back into the corner.

Another woman came by, this one with a little boy.  I thought that a family sounded good, so I pranced up to the window and pawed at it to get their attention.  “Mommy,” said the little boy, “Look at this tiny tabby. Wouldn’t it be funny if we called her Tiger?”  “I’m not Tiger,” I protested as I slinked away.

Just how would I pick a new owner who would know my name? My name is very important.  I’ve had it for my whole life and I didn’t want to someone to change it.  It suits me.

Two young men walked up to the cage and tapped on the window to get my attention.  I sauntered over and rubbed up against the window, being as sweet as I know how.  “Hey, Bill. How about her?  She’s quite the flirt.  We could name her after Angelina Jolie.”   No, fellows, I don’t think so. I’m not that kind of a girl.

It was getting late.  If I didn’t choose a family today, I’d probably be at the pound for another week. I was getting worried.

Two young women came up to my window.  I rolled over lazily, thinking that they wouldn’t figure me out either.  One of them tapped on the window.  “How cute is this one?”  I made one last effort to tell them my name.  I ran to the window, stopped, dropped down, rolled over, and began doing my best backstroke.  “Check it out!  She’s doing the backstroke.  And she looks like she has a movie star attitude.  You have to call her Esther Williams!!”

“Ohmygod Ohmygod Ohmygod, I thought, Yes!  Esther Williams.  That’s my name!  I’m named after the 1940s Olympic swimmer and MGM movie star. That’s it!  They recognize me.”  I jumped up, and began to head butt the window. “I really, really want to go home with you.”

Next thing I know, I’m in a cardboard box on the back seat of your car.  I tried to talk to you all the way home to tell you how happy I was that you chose me, that you knew my name, that you recognized me.  I was the luckiest kitty in the world.  Well, I AM the luckiest kitty in the world.

Your friend gave me a diamond-studded collar, befitting the movie star that I’m named for.

I’ve learned a lot since then.  I’ve found my favorite sunspots. I’ve dealt with moving twice and getting a little brother cat.  I’ve discovered that I love chicken and tuna fish.  And, I’ve realized that you like to call me lots of different names even though you know I’m Esther.  Some of my favorites:

Tabby Won-Kenobi, when I’m sitting still, staring into space, looking wise and thoughtful.

Queen Esther, for Purim, the Jewish holiday apparently celebrated in my honor.

The Esther Bunny, on Easter, of course.

Esther Nightingale, when I nurse you during a headache or tummy ache.  My secret?  Lie on the painful body part and purr.  It seems to cure all kinds of ailments.

Just plain Bunny.  Not sure if this is short for Esther Bunny or because my little pink nose makes you think of a bunny.

Honey Cat.  Rhymes with Bunny.  What else could it mean?

Thumper.  When I just can’t get my thumping tail under control.

And maybe a dozen other names, based on the purr of the moment.

But even though you tease me a lot, you never, ever call me Fluffy.  That’s why you’re my best friend.

Watching Princesses With My Princess, Part 1: Princess Protection Program

9 Jan

I have a confession to make: I’m a trained film scholar. That sounds more dangerous that it is, though for a while it threatened to kill my enjoyment of movies. This blog was conceived as to keep those critical, scholarly muscles toned while I pursue a career elsewhere.

Last year I flexed those muscles preparing and presenting a paper on film versions of Snow White. As an academic, my training and most of my work has centered around Latin American film and video, particularly feminist work and images of Jews. But now that I am not affiliated with an academic institution and have no pressure to build a curriculum vitae, I write about what I think about. And, as a mom, I think a lot about princesses. (As a scientific experiment, I’ve posted my conference paper here. I have little intention of pursuing publication, but welcome all comments.)

I’ve decided to kick off 2014 with a periodic series of reviews and rumination about princess movies, both animated and live action.

Princess-Protection-ProgramEarlier this fall I watched the Disney Channel original move Princess Protection Program (2009) with Culture Sprout.  She loves princesses and she thinks Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato are heavenly, so what better way to pass an easy 88 minutes with my kiddo?  I expected this Disney star vehicle to be a fluffy, silly movie that I’d probably keep half an eye on.  I won’t say I was riveted, but I will admit to being happily surprised at the film’s portrayal of teenage life and its deviation from the standard Disney princess format.

Princess Rosalinda Montoya (Demi Lovato) is rehearsing her coronation when her fictional country, Costa Luna (a sort of Latin American-Italian influenced place, in a Gomez Addams kind of way), is invaded by a despot from the island next door. She is rescued by the super-secret Princess Protection Program, an international agency that helps princesses imperiled by coups, crushes, and who knows what. Her rescuer, Joe Mason,  takes her to safety at his home in the bayou in Louisiana. He means to pass her off as his niece with the help of his daughter Carter (Selena Gomez).

Like most fairytales, this one is set in motion by the death of a parent, the king, and the arrival of a villain who wants to usurp power. The princess is doomed, if not cursed, to abandon her country in order to save her own life. She must rely on the kindness of strangers in a strange land. From here, the film actually exposes many tropes of fairy tales and pokes fun at our cultural obsession with royalty. You see, Rosie is ill-suited for a life without servants. She quickly learns that Carter will not help her get ready for bed, that she has to share a bedroom, and that not everyone sleeps in pink silk nightgowns. She must discover what it is like to live as a real person in a real world, including a high school full of nerds, jocks, and mean girls.

But there is another princess in this movie. The kind of princess Culture Sprout can relate to–an only daughter of  a devoted father. She also has to learn to share, and to trust.  Together Rosie and Carter have to face down the mean girls at high school, particularly Chelsea (Jamie Chung) whose sole preoccupation is with getting voted prom queen. Chelsea wants so badly to be prom queen that she’ll lie, cheat, and back stab her best friend. To beat her at her own game, Carter and Rosie enlist the help of all the wallflowers and the nerds. Shades of The Princess Diaries (Gary Marshall, 2001), to be sure, but not star-studded in the same way (you really can’t beat Julie Andrews as the Dowager Queen, unless you can get Maggie Smith.)

In the end the real princess teaches Carter that each girl has a princess within. That being a princess is not about gowns and jewels, but about being kind, caring, and thoughtful, and about taking care of the people who depend on you. The girls demonstrate pluck and courage, bringing down not just Chelsea (I’ll admit I cheered at her comeuppance) but also the general who invaded Costa Luna. In the process, they elevate the wallflowers and delight the nerds. The high school social order renovated and Rosie is successfully crowned queen of Costa Luna. (This is not a spoiler–it’s a Disney movie. It has to end this way.)

Of course, it was Disney-clean. These teens don’t smoke, drink, make out, or generally do anything more real than send text messages. But, just as there are stock good girl characters there are also stock mean girl characters. The movie is tailor-made for opening a discussion of the right and wrong way to treat people. And, while Disney princess movies (especially the older ones) generally annoy me, particularly when I enjoy them, this film tickled me. I’m not really sure why–maybe just because the feminist in me didn’t feel guilty about enjoying the film! Or maybe because if I had to define its genre, I couldn’t call it a fairytale. There is no magic, no curse, and no prince or fairy godmother to save the day. Rather, it combines the elements that make the best and most fun coming of age movies rise to the top–character growth, ingenuity, and pluck. While this isn’t quite Clueless, it also isn’t Little Mermaid (which I watched with Culture Sprout last week). Princess Rosalinda only lives happily ever after because she recognizes Carter as a friend, trusts her, and earns her respect. Together the girls prove that girls can do just about anything, or at least solve their own problems, big and small.

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