A Letter to My Mom About Why I Marched in the Women's March on Washington, 2017

January 22, 2017

Dear Mom, 

It has been eight months and 15 days since I last wrote an essay to post to my blog.  The last thing I did write that was not work-related was your eulogy. But that was not really me writing it….it was a grief-stricken, defeated, motherless woman. 

And then my writing stopped.  Maybe it was the proverbial “writer’s block”, call it what you will, but the writer in me seemed to die along with you.  I would think about how my writing process would be to write my blog and then you would be the first one I would read it to.  Even the last blog, I posted eight months and 15 days ago, I read to you, before they took you to the emergency room and then off to hospice.  It was Mother’s Day, the last one we would ever spend together in this physical world.  After that, every time that I would think about putting words to “paper” (I’m always “writing” in my head) I would remember you would not be there to read it to.  

But today is different.  I am unblocking my writer self– the person I truly am– because I just experienced the most meaningful, life-changing event and I wanted to share it with you, so I decided to write you a letter.  In many ways you were right there with me at this event, probably because I was with your family- the Waltzers- your nieces, Andrea, Garie, Janie and your great-nieces Sarah, Eva and Layla.  Kim was there with me too. 

We marched together in the Women’s March on Washington, to protest the new President, Donald J. Trump a day after his inauguration.  It was a mini-Waltzer reunion- where my cousins and I marched together with our daughters to protest this new administration and the many things it stands against, many things that you have taught me to stand for.

Remember, mom, that day nine months ago when I took you to vote in the primary, and you voted for Hillary Clinton?  You were so happy.  You kept thanking me for taking you to vote.  We took a selfie together right outside and posted it on Facebook.  It was the last picture we took together before you had the stroke that changed my life forever, the very next day.   

It wasn’t only your stroke that changed my life; other things have happened, besides your death.  Lindsay and Scott have moved with the kids to North Carolina. Kim has moved out of the house and is living in Queens and now Mark and I just bought a new house in North Carolina and will be moving in the summer.  But the most surprising thing that happened was one you would never have expected, that you dreaded even…. Donald J. Trump actually won the election and is now POTUS.  Remember how Martin would tease you in the hospital and say that you voted for Donald Trump in the primary and you would shake your head and make a face?  That’s how I knew you were still “with us”.  The only thing was you couldn’t really talk and get the words out you wanted to say because of the damage from the stroke. 

I haven’t written in months.  Maybe, just like the stroke stopped you from talking, your death stopped me from writing.  And this is hard for me because you’re not here.  But yesterday changed all that. 

You have always taught me to stand up for what I believed in.  You have shared with me such wonderful stories, the legacy of your Waltzer family, a family that began with two immigrants, Morris, then Fanny, coming to America to make a better life for themselves.  Thankfully, they did, because otherwise, they most likely would’ve been the victims of Hitler’s regime.  I think of my own children moving away from me– just to Queens or North Carolina and that being a change, but your parents moved to another land, without anything!  Grandma never even saw her mother again and she was in her early twenties.  This country gave your parents- my grandparents- the liberties and the life that sometimes I take for granted.  But after yesterday, I never will.

I frequently look through the old pictures you left behind.  I realize now they are not just photographs but they tell an important story of the life I am privileged to have.  All those pictures of dad as a soldier when he fought in WWII should serve as a reminder of the time when the world threatened to take away the free will and human rights of others.  I must never presume that these rights come without working for it and protecting it.   

I remember how you told me the story of Grandpa when Jackie Robinson moved around the corner from him and a neighbor knocked on his door with a petition for him to sign to get Jackie Robinson to move out of the neighborhood because he was Black.  Grandpa refused to sign that petition and said, “He can live wherever he wants to live. It’s a free country,” and then shut the door in the neighbor’s face.  Grandpa never forgot or took for granted that he was an immigrant and what it means to have your rights taken away from you.

There’s also a picture of Dad, taken at the iconic Civil Rights March on Washington, in August of 1963. He is standing on the Mall, with the Washington Monument behind him. And yesterday, I was there at the very same place, again, where Dad stood.  Again, I stood and marched for human rights, over half a century later- civil rights, religious rights, women’s rights, LGBTQ rights.  Another woman at the march held up a sign that said, “I CAN’T BELIEVE I STILL HAVE TO PROTEST THIS SHIT 1-21-17”.  I can’t believe it either, but we cannot be silent.

So, we marched, four of the Waltzer women with their daughters and even their granddaughters, daughters-in-laws, sons-in-laws and grandsons marched in the other Women’s Marches in New York and Chicago.  You and your iconic wedding picture with all the Waltzers were in that march, thanks to the signs Sarah made: “TWAT”- The Waltzers Against Trump.  And the Waltzers who couldn’t be in the march were there in spirit. We made history, mom, (or herstory).  Women’s marches were all over the world. 

You would be SO proud, Mom.  We stood up for what we believe in, for what our family believes in. And it’s because of you and because of those stories you shared countless times.  Those stories are my legacy mom and I thank you for sharing them.  Because now I know what those stories mean and why I marched.

I love you, Mom.  I cannot put my arms around you and tell you that or hold your hand and feel you squeezing back like only a mother can do.  But I can use that love to give me strength to carry on everything you taught me that is important.        

That picture of us after we voted in the primary together- the last thing we did together serves as a reminder of my civic duty and as a citizen of this world.  I thought it was something we would look at together while we watched the inauguration of Hillary Clinton or we would even take another picture when you would get to vote for Hillary in the actual election.  Unfortunately, that never came to be, but such is life, it is full of things we don’t plan.  

Thanks to my friend, Maritza, the picture now sits in a frame with a quote engraved from Abraham Lincoln, All that I am or hope to be, I owe to my Angel Mother.  She gave it me when she came to pay a shiva call.  Yesterday, you, my Angel Mother were with me.  I know that, for sure.

Always in my heart,

Jeannie    

Mother's Day 2016

It is almost 1am as I'm writing this and so now it's officially Mother's Day 2016.  It is my daughter Lindsay's third Mother's Day, my thirty-third Mother's Day and my mother's 62nd Mother's Day.  But this is not a happy Mother's Day at all this year.  You see my mother had a stroke 18 days ago, just two days before my 60th birthday.  Needless to say, it was not such a happy birthday either, even though it was a milestone one; the sting of my mother's condition left a haunting feeling of sadness around me. And trust me, if I could read her mind (which would be really helpful now because she can't talk), I would bet she feels absurdly guilty that she ruined my birthday.   

My mom is in rehab now, slowly recovering.  She has lost her ability to speak and much of her coordination.  We have had days where she was doing really well, when she sang happy birthday to my brother all by herself and has even joined in a conversation with a sentence or two.  However, the last few days she has not been speaking at all, except to tell me once she wanted to go home.  

I wish I could take her home.  I wish I could pick her up and carry her home just like in that children's book by Robert Munsch, I Love You Forever, the book I could never read through without getting thoroughly and completely choked up at the end.  Now I am living that book every single day for the past 18 days. 

I will not despair, though.  I have inherited my mother's stubborn positivity and I have decided to make a list of just some of the things (20) I have cherished about her since she came to live with me almost six years ago. 

Here goes...

What I Cherish About My Mom, Sylvia: 

1. Every morning when I give her a cup of hot water and lemon, she holds up the cup and says, "Here's to a wonderful day!" 
2. She sings to Sonny, our dog, and I'm pretty sure he likes it. 
3. She talks Yiddish to Sonny and I'm pretty sure he understands her. 
4. She tells Sonny that he's her best friend.  
5. She tells me how wonderful I am every day.  
6. The smell of her skin from Dove soap, the only soap she'll ever use. 
7. Her smile. 
8. How she loves to dance. 
9. When she asks me where I'm going to work that day, and when I worked in Wyandanch, she kept on saying, "Wine and Dance?"
10. When she refers to Facebook as Spacebook. 
11. How she sings "Happy Birthday" to everyone she loves on the phone (or on Facebook). 
12. How she loves my grandchildren. 
13. How she inspires me to be a better person, and I know I have a long way to go to be the person she is. 
14. How she forgives everyone. 
15. The stories she tells, some over and over, and then some new ones I never heard before. 
16. When she asks me for a glass of wine before dinner and a cookie or piece of cake after dinner. 
17. When she tells me whatever I cooked was so delicious, even when, honestly, it's not. 
18. When she says, I can't see, I can't hear, but otherwise I'm fine.  
19. When she thanks me for everything I do for her, even though I know I should probably do more. 
20. How she said, "You made my day" after I took her to vote just one day before her stroke.  

I could never imagine what a day would be without her.  It is just too painful to even consider.  I have not heard her voice in three days and I am lost.  My house is eerily empty without her in it.  

So, I am sending out cosmic vibrations, prayers, chants, meditations, positive energy, anything, ANYTHING to bring her home to me.  

Amen.

Cherish your mother.  You only get one.  No matter what, if anything, about her annoys you, trust me, you will only remember what made her special.  

When I Asked My Mom About Abortions Before Roe v Wade

I have found my writing voice again.  It's a voice that is hidden most days because of demands of work and life and grand-parenting and taking care of my almost 92 year-old mother.  I am the author of three blogs and they have become my on-again off-again hobby– a place where I go to feed my soul because of the stories I have to tell.  Stories are important- they raise awareness, they build community and human connection, they foster compassion and empathy and most importantly, they inspire.  

Therefore, in response to the unproven allegations and inaccurate statistics about Planned Parenthood and the diatribe being exchanged about what a woman does about a pregnancy,  I am responding to Lena Dunham's request about asking your mother about abortion before Roe v Wade. My writing voice is back; albeit through my 92-year old mother's story, because I did ask her about abortion before Roe v Wade and this is what she told me.  

When I was in my early twenties, I was in love with a man named Jack.  I dated him for about three years.  I thought I would end up marrying him.   He didn’t make a great living.   He kept on putting off getting married, using the excuse that there wasn’t enough money.  He did tell me that he loved me though.  And he would say, “If I marry anyone, it would be you.”

And then I met Jack’s mother.  She was a European immigrant, like my parents.  The meeting didn’t go well.  It was clear to me that she just didn’t want any part of me.  Soon after that Jack told me he was going out of town on a job.  He said he would see me when he came back.   At least a month went by and I didn’t hear from him.  Finally, my sister in law, Ruth, who knew his family, told me that Jack had met someone and gotten married.  I was devastated. 

I ended up going to work during the week and staying home every weekend, depressed, feeling unloved.  I thought I would never find anybody because of my looks.  You see, when I was a little girl I got teased a lot about my crooked teeth and my chin.  Even playing “spin the bottle” with my friends, there was a boy who refused to kiss me on the mouth.  I always felt that I was not beautiful.  Having an older sister, who was adored for her beauty, made me feel even less beautiful.  I wasn’t jealous of her; I just felt that I was the ugly sister.  After Jack left me without so much as an explanation, I needed to make a change.  I went to a plastic surgeon, who happened to be my sister in law Ruth’s friend, and got my chin and my nose fixed.   I felt better about myself and wanted to try again to find someone to love me. 

My family was always telling me to go out.  They would say, “How are you going to meet anybody if you stay home?”  So I started to go to dances, first with my friends and then by myself.  I met guys but most of them were Christian.  I was afraid my parents would disown me if I married out of my religion.   Then I met someone who happened to be Jewish.  It’s so many years ago, I can’t remember his name.  I told him the story about Jack.  I wanted him to know because I didn’t want to get hurt again. 

The nameless man and I started to date.  He told me how much he loved me.  He even said once that I would make a wonderful wife.  I fell in love with him too.  I started to feel happy again.  I had not slept with him yet, though.  I slept with Jack and that got me nowhere, so I wanted to protect my heart.  However, he asked me to go away with him.  He had a friend with a cabin in the country.  It would be romantic.  I told my parents that I was going away with some girlfriends.  We had a wonderful weekend.  I let him make love to me because I trusted him.  I didn’t have any protection; I thought it was up to the man to use protection.  Jack had always used it.  

Soon after our romantic weekend I missed a period.  I was afraid that I was pregnant.  I thought that when I told him, that he would say, “Okay, we’ll get married.”  After all, he did tell me he loved me.  But that wasn’t the response I got.  Instead, he said to me, “How do I know that it’s mine?  It could be Jack’s child.”  I kept telling him that was impossible, that it was definitely his, but he was insistent.  Not only did I feel horrible then, but more shocked than when Jack had left me. 

He did take me to a doctor he knew, but I paid for it.  It was confirmed that I was pregnant.  He didn’t give a damn; he just wanted me to abort it.  I felt awful.  I wanted this baby; I even started to love it.  I didn’t know what to do and I was all alone.  I turned to my mother and she said, “Get rid of it.”  She showed no compassion for me.  She didn’t want any part of it or me.  I was so ashamed.

I told my older sister about it.  She stood up for me; she was so angry at him.  She called him and cursed him and told him he should have an accident with his car.  She wanted me to give the baby up for adoption.  She even offered to raise it herself with her two children, even though she didn’t want any more children.  I couldn’t do that; I couldn’t give my baby away.

I felt that this baby was a part of me.  But I also knew I couldn’t have it and raise it on my own.  Not in the 1940s.  It was right after the war ended.  Times were still tough.  I knew my mother would throw me out.  And I knew that finding someone to marry me with a child born out of wedlock would be impossible. 

So the nameless man, or I should just call him “the bastard” took me back to the same doctor who confirmed the pregnancy to give me an abortion.   Again, I paid for it--with all the savings I had.  I was at least lucky that he was a doctor and was kind to me.  I heard stories of woman who had gotten abortions by people who were not doctors and they became very sick or even died.  But it was not something that anyone talked about openly.  Women were not supposed to have sex before they were married.  I remember the bastard even said to me after I got pregnant that when a woman has sex she remains “dirty” but a man can wash himself off.  

The day of the abortion, the bastard picked me up and drove me home.  I don’t remember if it was a weekday or weekend.   I remember feeling so sorry that I ever let any man touch me.  I was very much ashamed of myself and so guilty that I had to do this.  I think about it all the time.  I think about my baby and how old it would be.  This was not an easy choice. 

There was no one else in the doctor’s office at the time.  I was all by myself when the doctor did the procedure.  I remember him being very gentle.  At the end, he told me  “It was not a boy or girl.  It was just in the beginning.”  I believe he wanted to comfort me.  I was very grateful for that but it was still hard.  Afterwards, I bled, but I was fine.  The bastard called me to find out how I was.  I said to him, “Why? Do you care?” and I hung up. 

If a woman gets into trouble and she can’t take care of that baby, I think it’s up to the woman to take the responsibility for choosing what to do.    When abortion was legalized I was very happy about it because there are a lot of bastards out there.

She's one heck of a woman, my mom.  Despite being visually and hearing impaired, she's quite spunky and has a lot to say.  I asked for her permission to share this because, again, women's rights might be in danger. So she agreed to it, in honor of her three daughters, her sister, her three granddaughters, her many nieces and great nieces and her one great granddaughter.  After all, this is a blog about generations and the older generations need to share their experiences to educate and inform the younger ones.  Let the mistakes of the past be something we learn from and not return to.  

Goodbye to 2012– The Year I Didn’t Write

My last post was August 28, 2011.  It was about Hurricane Irene, a distant memory of a forgettable, uneventful storm.   I have no idea why I didn’t write in September, October, November and December, but if you saw me now as I type away on my laptop, you would see my dog, Sonny, lying on the keyboard because my lap is unavailable.  So maybe I could blame him for my writer’s block because he is making this difficult.  He has moved now to rest his head on my wrist, so I could also blame him, eventually, for carpal tunnel syndrome because I am still pecking away despite this inconvenience.  There’s always one excuse or another that could keep you from doing what you intend to do.  I always intended to write, but found myself just not writing, instead.  I could get up now but there’s something about a dog snuggling up to you that makes you want to endure any discomfort.  In a sometimes cruel, cold and bitter world, an animal’s love always warms me. 

While we are on the subject of cruel, cold and bitter world, let’s talk about 2012.   This past year has been one of the hardest I have ever been through.  Hence, writing at all was not something that appealed to me.  I was constantly in an emotional turmoil.  It began while I was away on a business trip.  Naturally, it would happen while I was on a business trip because I travel about 50% of the time.  This time I was in Providence and I got a phone call at around 7am from my husband, Mark, who had fallen on the ice in the backyard while taking the dog out. 

 “I think I broke my shoulder,” he told me through his pain and then proceeded to explain how disfigured it looked. 

“You probably dislocated it,” I told him.  Get Kimberly to take you to the hospital emergency room. 

About an hour later I got a phone call from Kim while the doctors were trying to “relocate” Mark’s shoulder. 

“He’s not cooperating,” Kim sighed.  In the background I could hear him screaming.  “What’s going on?” I asked. 

“Well, they can’t seem to put it back in, so they’re going to have to get the anesthesiologist.” 

“Call me back when it’s in,” I said. 

Ten minutes later, when Kim called, Mark’s screaming was replaced with his snoring that I could hear as if I was there.  “Done,” she said, “And the doctor said that all the drugs he had in him could have put all of us out, including you.” 

That was a Tuesday, January 17, 2012.  The beginning of what was to be a year that got worse and worse.  That trip I worked until that Saturday, January 21st, when a big snowstorm was due to arrive.  The snowstorm shortened my workshop to 1pm, when I got another phone call from my older daughter, Lindsay, who was extremely distraught.  My brother-in-law, Scott- Mark’s brother, had collapsed.  They did not know his condition.  They only knew that he was taken to the hospital and they were meeting my sister-in-law there. 

I headed out to Logan Airport in a snowstorm, uncertain of my brother-in-law’s condition, uncertain if the weather would delay me from getting to the airport and uncertain if my flight would even take off.  Luckily, I was travelling with a colleague and friend, Jenn, who tried to provide me with reassurance that all would be well.  But it wasn’t to be.  While I was driving on I95, Mark called and tearfully told me his brother was “gone”.  Jenn drove the rest of the way home.  I barely remember pulling off the highway through tears as the snow fell around us.  I do remember a police officer pulling over to ask if we needed help when Jenn told him what happened.   

There are no words to describe how sad we were to lose Scott.  He had a “larger than life” presence, the sweetest man I knew, whose smile lit up a room and he was always smiling.  When I look at my sister-in-law, his absence is larger than life, as well.  Nothing prepares you to lose someone in an instant, especially when they are 54 years old.  They say time heals.  But time only makes you used to the situation, really.  It just makes the initial shock more distant.  The hurt and emptiness of loss never really fades.

Soon after Scott passed away, near Valentine’s Day, Lindsay and Scott, my son-in-law, told us they were expecting their first child on October 20^th.  Lindsay had decided to try to get pregnant when her uncle died.  She didn’t want to wait any longer because she had learned that “life was too short.”   We were elated.  I was even planning to get back to my writing and start a new blog, the sequel to Mother of the Bride: A Wedding Journey, about becoming a grandmother.  Our joy was short-lived, though, because at her 12-week sonogram, we found out the baby’s heart had stopped beating and had died at 10 weeks, 4 days.  The curse of 2012 was back.  My reluctance to write became even more intense. 

And 2012, the year to forget, went on dropping more and more misfortune onto our lives.  Mark dislocated his shoulder three more times- twice in his sleep and once when we were commemorating Scott’s six-month anniversary of death at the beach while he was playing smash ball.  We were supposed to scatter Scott's ashes on the beach that day.  Mark knew that he probably needed surgery on his shoulder but late in August his hernia started acting up and he had to get surgery on that, instead, which put him on disability for three weeks.  I won’t even go into detail with the dental work he has to go through, as well.  Let’s just put it this way- my husband is falling apart.  I make him sleep with a sling now.  My new pet name for him is "Humpty Dumpty". 

2012 was not only a miserable year for us, unfortunately, but for many others.  As mild and nondestructive as Hurricane Irene was; Hurricane Sandy was quite the opposite.  I remember lying in bed that night in late October with my mom and Kim after the power went out, watching a movie on my iPad.  I cannot recall what movie it was; however, I can vividly remember the sound the shingles of my roof made as they were blown off and hit the side of the house.  We had no power for two weeks.  But we were the lucky ones.  My brother-in-law’s home was in the ill-fated Rockaways and the beach and boardwalk a block away from my sister-in-law’s townhouse has become a memory just like my brother-in-law sitting on his beach chair enjoying it.   The damage of Sandy will last way beyond 2012.

And just when we were almost to the end of this calamitous year, in December, the unthinkable and unimaginable happened– Sandy Hook Elementary School.  Twenty first-grade children and six school staff were gunned down leaving a bucolic and “safe” town in devastation.  This catastrophic event left an entire world with profound grief and questions, but also with the realization of how fragile life really is. 

On December 28, Time Square held a Good Riddance Day 2012, where people had the opportunities to destroy their bad memories from this year via mobile shredding truck, dumpster or sledgehammer.   Hmm…as if it was that simple to alleviate the pain some have suffered. 

But I will not end this with doom and gloom, even though this could be certainly called the year of doom and gloom for many.  Because there is always hope.  My hope right now is the size of a sweet potato and she resides in my daughter Lindsay’s belly.  She will enter the world in 2013 in June or quite possibly in late May.  She represents the rainbow after the storm and I sing to her every chance I get.  I want her to know my voice when she arrives.  She will be the fourth generation and I can just picture my mother holding her.

So, now I must continue my writing because my stories will become my little sweet potato’s legacy.  I will even launch my new blog in 2013: Mother of the Mother to Be: A Grandma Journey.

Happy New Year, everyone!  May 2013 bring you peace, joy and happiness….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSZxmZmBfnU