tamarjacobson

Quote of the day:

I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me; lighted rooms. Virginia Woolf [from Oprah‘s Mission Calendar Inspiration]

There is a busy week ahead, starting today. I might not be a-blogging too frequently but will be looking in from time to time. Here’s the list, just in case you are a-wondering where I am:

• New Jersey Association for the Education of Young Children  (NJAEYC) conference in Atlantic City
• Board work for the National Coalition for Campus Children’s Centers (NCCCC) at and during,
• The National Association for the Education of Young Children (NAEYC) conference in Atlanta

All the while, I’ll be presenting, working, networking, grading papers, reading books, journals, traveling on trains and planes, meeting with colleagues …

But I won’t forget … I will vote. You better believe it and be sure of that. I will cast my vote. Yes indeed.

A year ago at Tamarika: The Secret Life of Memes

This is a magnet on my fridge. My sister, Elise, bought it for me after the Coast to Coast walk in England four years ago. She walked for ten days, the full two hundred miles, with a group of her friends. I joined them for the last 100. Five days of walking across England. What an amazing experience! But, see, that’s the kind of thing my sister Elise does.

She’s planning on walking Hadrian’s Wall next year and I think I will join them for the whole time. We have been talking about that lately on SKYPE. Actually, we are talking about a whole lot of things lately. Recently, after participating in a sort of human resources type quiz, we discovered that we are alike. I was ecstatic and e-mailed her:

HURRAY!!!!! I knew there was a reason I’ve always loved you so madly and look for you in every woman I know and love … we’re alike in some ways … different dads, that’s all – which makes you richer in all sorts of ways … and more secure and self-actualized – and all those things I long for …

She has always been a role model for me. Strong, kind, fair and very, very loving, Elise is a dynamic, tender, sensitive and beautiful woman. Eight years older than me, she was away from home at boarding school in Salisbury (now Harare) much of my young growing up years. When she came home, though, she was always so kind to me. She seemed to have time, interest in who I was and what I was thinking about. When I was thirteen, she was the only member of my family with whom I felt safe enough to ask about God. I knew she would not laugh or tease me for the question. I remember her coming to kiss me goodnight and I asked her, "Do you think there’s a God?" She became quiet and gentle, very respectful of my question. I remember that feeling to this day. She replied softly, "I don’t know. I don’t think so. But there are other people who think there is a God." I remember feeling comforted, satisfied with her answer. In those days, I was thinking about God and religion quite a bit.

There – in the first photograph on the left, Elise is holding me in her arms when I was a little girl. And in the second picture, there I am, with my arm around her, during the Coast-to-Coast walk. She’s holding the directions. She lead the way.

About twelve years ago she visited me in Buffalo. I was just starting to emerge from a very dark patch in my life. I had survived an excruciating divorce where I had been completely wiped out, sucked dry financially and emotionally. There were times I thought I would never recover. She spent some time with me, coming to my work place, running in the park as I walked, and meeting my friends. She took some time to experience my new surroundings. When Elise left I was so sad. She sent me a letter that I have kept always close by. I read it from time to time over the years. Recently, I read it again:

Tammy – I cried the whole way from Buffalo to Baltimore – my head was turned to the window and that is how I sat (with no sound) … I stopped at the bookshop to get some paper to write to you – there were these beautiful cards about "Departure" – "friendship", "Hardships." But I just couldn’t take their schmaltz! although I thought and felt every word. Let me try to put everything into my own words …

Tammy, I love you and when I held you to say goodbye I felt that I was going to burst – but how can these feelings help you in your mind and in your life. A person doesn’t pass thro’ the day saying – "Oh – I’m OK, I feel loved by my sister!" No – the only thing that you must know is that I am a home where you can come to sleep, to dream, to play, to stay – at any time and under any circumstances. Now – that’s No. 1.

No. 2. – You must try to continue to focus on your PHD. You are there and yet if not it also doesn’t matter because your life and position are most respected and loved, but Tam – you have made such a place a niche for yourself in Buffalo and I am scared that you will never come home. Your feelings towards your life there frighten me because I want you in Israel. Why? I don’t know – but let me try to explain. USA is far from us, far in life, in culture, in money, in time – life is difficult and we are all such lonely items (atoms) that at least let us try to soften the blows of daily living for each other … if [things don’t] work out – come home Tammy – to work, to live, to cry, to fight, to be lonely, to struggle – because all these feelings are there, as in anywhere. The anguish and pain of living alone is where you are but – come and be alone near me – please I plead with you to think about this seriously.

I wish to write until I get this pain of separation out of me but it seems that it sits very heavy this time. I wonder why? What is it that feeds me this vulnerability? What can I do without getting into a codependent situation – that can help you relieve your feelings "from/in/with" the family – or is it just things that you have to work through?

I love you like a sister – I love you like a friend. My pain of separation is great – come home or rather – always say to yourself – "there is this other home." El

Each time after I read that letter, as now, I sit quietly. I am stunned at how she understood my situation within and without. I am shocked by the love expressed, concrete, real, true. This time, though, I sense stirrings within me – deep, emotional stirrings. I have been sensing them for some time now, since March 2005, in fact, when we met up again in London. I had not seen Elise for three years and I was walking from the tube station with my friends, Judy and Alan to meet up at her father’s home. It was late afternoon and I think it might have been overcast because I remember the day being a bit gray. Suddenly in the distance I saw Elise coming toward us. I pulled away from my friends and started to run. It was not a conscious decision. My body just took over and lurched forward, leaving my friends far behind. She was running too. We ran and ran towards each other and when we embraced I held onto her and cried and cried.

I realize that these emotional stirrings are not just the deep love I feel for my sister, but, much much more than that, I am finally allowing myself to feel totally and completely, safely and comfortably, loved by her.

I do not remember replying to her letter.

Indeed, I have felt withdrawn and withheld for such a long time.

It has been exhausting – self-protection – self-defense.

So, let me say this, now, years later:

Ellie Cutter, Thank you for sharing your pain, concern and love with me all these years. Thank you for always making me feel safe, respected for who I am, and deeply loved. I have always held that image of a home waiting for me if needed, and it has given me strength and courage to do all the things I have tried to do, including, as you so wisely understood, "working through my things." I remember when I heard that my father was dying (25 years ago). Everyone told me it was foolish to fly back to Africa all that way just to be with him when he died. You were the only one who told me I should go – and you gave me some money to do it! I have never forgotten each and every act of kindness you directed my way. I have always wanted to be like you, El, and in a way I hold onto all those pieces of you I cherish. Strong, fun-loving, humorous, intelligent, fair, self-reflective, accepting, physically loving, loyal sense of family. I think I tried to compete – little sisters do that I think as they try to live up to significant adults in their lives, so much bigger, wiser and stronger – but now I think I just want to share, relax and feel comforted by mutual sisterly loving. It isn’t easy for me to feel loved by anyone. I struggle to recognize those feelings that seem to come naturally for others around me. But your ways of showing love are so concrete and sincere, that they have slowly but surely penetrated my numbness! Forgive me my distance and withheld self. Perhaps, going forward I will let down my guard more and love you back as generously as you have always loved me. Tam.

There is so much more I could say about Elise. What a great teacher she is, loyal and devoted mother, friend, and exceptionally loving and kind daughter to our mother. Indeed, she has always seemed quite fearless to me, larger than life, and stronger than anyone I know. But, for me, the most important thing she has done is penetrate my wall of defenses and shown me that I am lovable. Just by being there, constant, solid, quiet, sincere, patient, gentle, accepting, giving. Moment by moment, day by day, year by year.

Last year on Tamarika: Sing Along; Tether Your Camel First; Is This A Cartoon?; New Yorker Cartoon

Nineteen years ago I met America. I had spent the month of October visiting Buffalo to see if the offer of studying at the University could become a reality for me. I fell in love with fall, the cold, open spaces, choices, hot fudge atop butter crunch ice cream on a brownie, and most of all, the chance for a fresh start. Less than a year later I returned to begin my American adventure. One that would change me inside and out, grow me up, and give me the greatest gift of all: freedom to keep [my] channel[s] open!

On Halloween night, nineteen years ago I boarded a plane to return to Israel to tell my fourteen-year-old son, "Yes, it’s a go!" When he asked me what America was like, I replied, "It’s just like one big sit-com."

I remember being in New York City, looking for a cab to the airport. Dark and cold and everyone running to and fro. What a strange land, I thought at the time. How different, exciting, how child-like.

So let me see now: I lived the first nineteen years of my life in Zimbabwe (what was Rhodesia); the second 19 in Israel; and if my calculations are correct, by this time next year it will be nineteen years in the U.S. of A.

"Ooh, ooh ooh …" methinks, "where to next?"

[New Yorker Cartoon]

I awoke out of a nightmare calling out, "Nobody picks up after themselves any more!" Sat up in bed, tears prickling in my eyes, trying to get my bearings and remember where I was. A chorus of men had taken over my old child care center and no one was doing anything about it. Shaking my head from side to side I stumbled into the kitchen in the dark looking for coffee. Plopped into my chair by the computer and stared at the screen. I thought about a discussion I had yesterday afternoon where I had opened myself up, sharing thoughts and theories about how men were always a precious commodity in our family, owned by my mother. And how, these past few years, I had decided to bow out of the competition. "Ah, let them have them!" I had said, "The heck with it! I don’t want to play that game any more. I am too outspoken for it!" I imagined that the chorus of men taking over my old child care center in my dream represented something to do with that discussion.

Sighing deeply, the early morning, dream tears disappearing, anxious feelings dissipating.

Ada jumps up onto the table by the computer, tail swishing back and forth. She wants to play. I pick up her favorite toy: two large red feathers attached to a string, attached to a pole. When I wave it in the air the feathers flap like a bird. Ada runs after it and jumps high in the air trying to catch it every time. I watch her running back and forth and smile to myself. She plays the game over and over again, pretending the feathers are a bird she is trying to catch.

I think to myself as I swing the pole around and about Ada’s head, "I’m not playing any more. Not pretending I have a chance. Not wanting the chance. I don’t want to be a yes-woman all the time to buy their love. Been there, done that. I just want to be all the me I can be. And, hey! If they don’t like it … well, the heck with it!"

Sun comes up. It’s time for work.

A year ago on Tamarika: Quizzically

Mike and Mar-Mar, 2004

Janna and me, 2004

Elise and Gila

Me and Gilad

Richard fishing

Gilad

Jan and Tam

A road in Zimbabwe

Me, Oh so many years ago!

Thanksgiving.

Very seldom do I find myself writing about politics. There are at least two reasons for that. The first is that there are so many experts out there who say it all so much better than I could. The second is that, politically, I mostly feel despair about any hope of my opinion or vote counting for anything with those dominant war-mongers and control freaks out there. It all just feels so out of my hands, as if we are living in some terrible dark ages with patriarchy as huge and wild, expansive and dominant as ever. Violence as the only means, segregation, labeling, categorizing and punishment as the only way. So little compassion. I have had to hold tight to the belief that my interactions with students, colleagues, friends, conference participants, or bloggers might, perhaps, make a little difference in one or two lives from moment to moment. Or have tried to focus on the mini-universe of my own world to make changes within me as a way through the darkness of these times.

A number of experiences have re-energized and pushed me towards hoping for more. First of all, I read, A Hope in the Unseen. That moved me to a deeper understanding that, in fact, I do not fully grasp the extent of racism and injustice in this country. It humbled me in ways that feel too difficult to describe at the moment. Am still digesting this. In fact, it changed the nature of my presentation about bias at the conference this week. Speaking at the National Black Child Development Institute, I came to my presentation participants and knelt before them with my words. Bowed my head towards them and asked permission that I, as a white privileged ex colonial woman, talk about bias at all. The discussion became deep, truthful, and authentic between us. A new dimension was reached. We tore open patriarchy and white privilege in ways that only courageous people full of love could have done.

And all the while, this week I was reading Barack Obama’s The Audacity of Hope. His knowledge and understanding about compassion filled me with a feeling that all might not be lost. He writes about what it is like to be a black man in America even as one who sees himself through luck and circumstance occupying a position that insulates him from "most of the bumps and bruises that the average black man must endure." Obama writes, acknowledging all sides to the excruciatingly painful story about race:

I can recite the usual litany of petty slights that during my forty-five years have been directed my way: security guards trailing me as I shop in department stores, white couples who toss me their car keys as I stand outside a restaurant waiting for the valet, police cars pulling me over for no apparent reason. I know what it’s like to have people tell me I can’t do something because of my color, and I know the bitter swill of swallowed-back anger. I know as well that Michelle and I must be continually vigilant against some of the debilitating story lines that our daughters may absorb – from TV and music and friends and the streets – about who the world thinks they are, and what the world imagines they should be.

To think clearly about race, then, requires us to see the world on a split screen – to maintain in our sights the kind of America that we want while looking squarely at America as it is, to acknowledge the sins of our past and the challenges of the present without becoming trapped in cynicism or despair. I have witnessed a profound shift in race relations in my lifetime. I have felt it as surely as one feels a change in the temperature. When I hear some of the black community deny these changes, I think it not only dishonors those who struggled on our behalf but also robs us of our agency to complete the work they began. But as much as I insist that things have gotten better, I am mindful of this truth as well: Better isn’t good enough. (Page 233)

Yesterday I heard the news from CNN: "Gay couples have the same marriage rights as heterosexual couples under the New Jersey state constitution, the state Supreme Court rules." I excitedly forwarded the Breaking News e-mail I received to a friend, expressing my delight in working in a State that seems to be more enlightened than others. She replied: "Yes, and won’t this piss off the conservatives even more… east coast hethens!"

Oh well, I am back into politics again. I will storm out there bright and early on November 7, and vote and vote and vote! Yes, even as I am heading out the door that day to present about bias yet again at yet another conference, this time in Atlanta. I will try not to become trapped into cynicism and despair, just as Barack Obama urges and will focus on small, personal interactions as I find a way to work, with an audacity to hope with larger, more universal causes.

I e-mailed my friend a reply this morning:

never mind those fascists … one step at a time, we must press on regardless of them … closer and closer to human rights … towards the light … away from the dark, where they reside, in dank, dark, ugliness … points of light quietly, softly, compassionately, all the while, joining hands and hearts, making a web of kindness and justice for all.

Update:

My friend’s reply to me:

yes … the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.  Martin Luther King Jr. [bold letters – hers]

Yes, Barack, yes. I have the audacity to hope that you will run for President. I read three quarters of your book on the plane and I, too, say: Run, Barack, Run!

For example:

A government that truly reflects these Americans – that truly serves these Americans, will require a different kind of politics. The politics will need to reflect our lives as they are actually lived. It won’t be prepackaged, ready to pull off the shelf. It will have to be constructed from the best of our traditions and will have to account for the darker aspects of our past. We will need to understand how we got to this place, this land of warring factions and tribal hatreds. And we’ll need to remind ourselves, despite all our differences, just how much we share: common hopes, common dreams, a bond that will not break. Barack Obama

Update: Oops, I almost forgot:

A year ago at Tamarika: When the darkness rolls away

Bags are packed and off I fly. Spreading my early childhood diversity word. At the National Black Child Development Institute. Be back soon.

I hope Ada won’t be too lonely, but I will surely miss her soft paw on my face to wake me in the morning.

I must go now and prepare my clear plastic bag …

A year ago on Tamarika: My Friend Sally

Thanks to JJ

ANNUAL NEOLOGISM CONTEST

Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its yearly contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words. The winners are:
1. Coffee (n.): the person upon whom one coughs.

2. Flabbergasted (adj.): appalled over how much weight you have gained.

3. Abdicate (v.): to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.

4. Esplanade (v.): to attempt an explanation while drunk.

5. Willy-nilly (adj.): impotent

6. Negligent (adj.): describes a condition in which you absent-mindedly answer the door in your nightgown.

7. Lymph (v.): to walk with a lisp.

8. Gargoyle (n.): olive-flavored mouthwash.

9. Flatulence (n.): emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.

10. Balderdash (n.): a rapidly receding hairline.

11. Testicle (n.): a humorous question on an exam.

12. Rectitude (n.): the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.

13. Pokemon (n): a Rastafarian proctologist.

14. Oyster (n.): a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.

15. Frisbeetarianism (n.): (back by popular demand). The belief that, when you die, your soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there. [this is my personal favorite]

16. Circumvent (n.): an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.

The Washington Post’s Style Invitational once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing ONE letter, and supply a new definition. Here are this year’s winners:

1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

2. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.

3. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

4. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn’t get it.

5. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

6. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.

7. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

8 Karmageddon (n): It’s like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it’s like, a serious bummer.

9. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

10. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.

11. Dopeler Effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

12. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you’ve accidentally walked through a spider web.

13. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

14 Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you’re eating.

[A year ago on Tamarika: A Slice of Life]

Quotes of the day:

When you learn, teach. When you get, give. Maya Angelou taught me that. Oprah Winfrey

Now, I heard the owl a-callin’
Softly as the night was fallin’
With a question and I replied
But he’s gone across the borderline (Kate Wolf)

Early, very early this morning I heard an owl. I lay very still under my blankets and listened to the silence of the dawn creeping through the sky. And there it was, "Hoo, Hoo … Hoo." A deep haunting, dawning sound in the trees nearby. My soul reached out, energy flowing through every pore. After awhile a few moments later, I sat up and following the owl call, muffled way in the distance I heard another, "Hoo, Hoo … Hoo."

A conversation!

It brought back memories of a time fifteen or so years ago of a man who taught me all about birds. I remember him waking me early one morning. He put his hand on my arm gently and said softly, "Listen …" and together we lay very still, listening to the haunting, dawning sound of an owl hoo hooing in the trees nearby. I would not have missed that for all the world.

Moments in time. Each one precious, wondrous, amazing, connecting us with our inner selves, each other, the universe. As I write this, the owl has journeyed on. I do so hope she drops by again awaking memories of moments in time. Sooner perhaps than before.

Why, so much of me is made up of haunting, dawning memories of moments in time.

A year ago on Tamarika: Mostly By Association