My Son the Entertainer and Some Words on My Mother Tongue

Anyone who meets my son Ivry (who is now six) for the first time is immediately drawn to him. I'd like to think it's because of his firey red hair, but I am now convinced that it is also his bubbly, extremely funny and energetic personality that cause people to laugh and leave their comfort zone even for a brief moment.

While we were waiting for the bus to take us home to Pittsburgh, he asked the bus driver, "Does this bus cost 50$?" The bus driver laughed. "No, but if it did, I'll take two of them!"

He has the social confidence of a champ that I never had for whatever reason, while growing up in New York City.

How about when he asks the lady on the bus line in front of us, "Do you have a gingy?"

She closes her book and says, "I think I need a translator."

"A gingy. Do you have a gingy?"

Ivry's father replies, "A redhead."

"No, I'm afraid I don't. But I do have a red cat. Does that count?"

For tourists, the "Ivry" language seemingly resonates - particularly I've noticed, with Asians.

We had just arrived at the Jefferson Memorial in Washington D.c. and already a Chinese tourist took his picture and smiled.

"Now, I want to take a picture of you!" Ivry exclaimed. (see photo above)

And with that, the Chinese tourist says, "Welcome to China!" and gave him a big hug.

For non-Americans, giving a hug to a child they have never met before is normal and I would go so far as to say even culturally normal. I don't have a problem with it at all and it is this kind of hug, that brings me "home" again because I know we are understood.

Israeli culture is exremely child-centered and traditionally based and I never felt any space divide between myself and young children in my 18 years of living there, but I know parents here in the States, who would be shunned by such a display of outwardly affection.

It took me a long time to realize that this division of spaces is uniquely an American concept, yet it varies from families to families and from within cultures of the American life.

Take another example - The Asian female passenger on the bus behind us was so taken to Ivry that she sat next to him where he was playing her video game, (which she "loaned" him) and hugged him all the time while I bought pizza during the bus break. From the corner of my eye, my guard was up because we were in a public place, but I felt we both spoke the language of "diversity" because they spoke the same "language" and so, I immediately let my "guard" down.

Everywhere I take Ivry, I speak to him in Hebrew. It is my way of passing on his heritage to him, which is quite interesting since my father maintains that I refused to speak Hebrew with him as a child.

But now, as a mother, my values have shifted. Not only do I want my son to know his heritage, but it is my way to extend my mark, across cultural boundaries and find my home in this diverse, pluralistic world.

People immediately turn their heads when they hear those guttural sounds and each time I am beeming with pride, because I have managed to maintain our Israeli identity in a country that is so vast and colossal, that it is easy to just fall back into old patterns and speak English.

Growing up in New York City, I was surrounded by so many nationalities, cultures and ethnicities. My father is Israeli and speaks four languages, my mother has Spanish/Polish roots and at one time, she was able to speak Yiddish, Spanish, French and English.

But I was always abashed by my heritage and wanted to just be American and speak English. Since I've come full circle though, I realize that it is more than okay to speak Hebrew in public places. In fact, I remember when my husband took the oath to become an American citizen last September, and the judge had said, "You all have essential duties of an American, but please do not forget your culture, your language and your heritage. This is what American prides herself on."

I knew then I was part of a much bigger circle of diversity that had grown from living in another country. I was also part of a cultural entity where my mother tongue was a "window to the world" so to speak and no matter what kinds of looks and faces I got, I was going to feel proud to be an American and proud that I brought my husband here to the States.

So back to my son the entertainer.... on our way back from the Jefferson Memorial to the Washington Monument, my husband stops to ask the policeman some directions.

My son asks, "So where's your horse?"

"I left him at the barn today. But you can see the police on horses near the Washington Monument."

"Okay, thank you sir!" My son replies.

"You're welcome, sir."

"Good-bye sir!"

"Good-bye."

And so, Ivry skips along the promenade of the Potomac River and sings, "shmaggegi, Shlmiezel, Shlmazel."

Oy.

If my mom's mental faculties were intact, she would be laughing hysterically.

Is Ivry learning another mother tongue?

Kool Aid Memories

All night long, the winds battered against the window. Maya tried to think what it was before the hot pre-summer winds of Israel started. Ah, yes. This summer she’ll hit the creeks of Northeast USA and maybe even the sandy beaches of California. She’ll feel cool again. Just like when she first ate Kool-Aid for the very first time.

She first dusts the suitcase off, then slowly opens the zipper, missing the one that actually opens the suitcase. Its wheels have been eaten from many airports. Its frame is a bit bent out of shape, torn in some places, stronger in the handle, however always reliable. She is tempted to buy a new one, but it has been with her since she immigrated to Israel in 1990.

Even after the winds have already quieted, Momma’s voice comes through the zipper.

“Don’t forget to label the clothes.”

“He’s only two years old. No summer camp,” she says.

In goes the baby’s swimsuits along with old maroon jellies. And the cotton swabs. And the book on Penquins. She is a bit unsure when it comes to packing, so she hopes to listen to good advice. But it’s just a squeaky voice with no real words --just a blotted sound. The voice swoops in and out and she quickens the pace, unfolding each article of clothing and flinging them to get rid of dust. Presents of clothes from her mother’s friends she never used. She flattens each corner and crease against the vinyl lining just to make sure each inch of the suitcase is filled. After much debate, she limits to herself one journal and a book. Mom’s advice, of course.


Taking down the suitcase from the top of the closet is like letting the memories fall again. She is not sure which memory to put in and which should stay out. But her two year old makes the final decision, a choice that overwhelms all. He sticks in the “I love New York City” T-shirt she bought for him two summers ago when they visited her Alzheimer’s stricken mom in New York City. She’ll have to explain to her son her mom is now a grandma. It will be ten years this August since her diagnosis of Alzheimer's.

Just when she wanted to take her little redhead and suck on popsicles near a creek in Earlton, New York where she went to a Jewish sleepaway camp for so many years, she is reminded that their first stop is in fact, New York City.

Summer in New York City. Maya, the Mom, pictures her son fidgeting over an ice cream popsicle while she watches the even streaks of strawberry and orange blur after a long dirty haze and hears the factory workers across the street. Dad’s paintings stayed in the same position while mom's dusty cassettes of her concert days remain hidden behind a bag of books in her closet. Did her mom really know how fast her fingers could fly?

She’ll only be staying in New York City for a week or two, before she finds the right home. It’s enough to remind her how she  longed to get out of the city as a teenager and now that she’s coming back to the States for good, she keeps her mom away from a visible distance – far away so she can close the squeaky voice shut.

But it doesn’t stay shut.
Many summers ago, Maya looks for her Mom in a sweltering hot Grand Central Station after she returned from nine weeks of summer camp. Mom waved frantically. Maya kept the her Kool-Aid pink mouth tongue curled tightly under her mouth. (Momma never knew how much Kool Aid she ate.) Bloody red stained from the night before, she bundled under a blanket in the dark with an almost dead flashlight battery with friends who loved Kool Aid just as much as she did. Those confessions go into the suitcase too.

Rounding up the final things, she takes down the file folder with all of mom’s precious documents and important papers of her Alzheimer’s. With the suitcase finally padlocked and closed, she know there’s one thing she’ll do right after recuperating from jet lag. She’ll walk down the Hudson River Walkway with her little son’s hand in hers as she dreams of Kool-Aid.

Kool Aid Memories

All night long, the winds battered against the window. Maya tried to think what it was before the hot pre-summer winds of Israel started. Ah, yes. This summer she’ll hit the creeks of Northeast USA and maybe even the sandy beaches of California. She’ll feel cool again. Just like when she first ate Kool-Aid for the very first time.

She first dusts the suitcase off, then slowly opens the zipper, missing the one that actually opens the suitcase. Its wheels have been eaten from many airports. Its frame is a bit bent out of shape, torn in some places, stronger in the handle, however always reliable. She is tempted to buy a new one, but it has been with her since she immigrated to Israel in 1990.

Even after the winds have already quieted, Momma’s voice comes through the zipper.

“Don’t forget to label the clothes.”

“He’s only two years old. No summer camp,” she says.

In goes the baby’s swimsuits along with old maroon jellies. And the cotton swabs. And the book on Penquins. She is a bit unsure when it comes to packing, so she hopes to listen to good advice. But it’s just a squeaky voice with no real words --just a blotted sound. The voice swoops in and out and she quickens the pace, unfolding each article of clothing and flinging them to get rid of dust. Presents of clothes from her mother’s friends she never used. She flattens each corner and crease against the vinyl lining just to make sure each inch of the suitcase is filled. After much debate, she limits to herself one journal and a book. Mom’s advice, of course.


Taking down the suitcase from the top of the closet is like letting the memories fall again. She is not sure which memory to put in and which should stay out. But her two year old makes the final decision, a choice that overwhelms all. He sticks in the “I love New York City” T-shirt she bought for him two summers ago when they visited her Alzheimer’s stricken mom in New York City. She’ll have to explain to her son her mom is now a grandma. It will be ten years this August since her diagnosis of Alzheimer's.

Just when she wanted to take her little redhead and suck on popsicles near a creek in Earlton, New York where she went to a Jewish sleepaway camp for so many years, she is reminded that their first stop is in fact, New York City.

Summer in New York City. Maya, the Mom, pictures her son fidgeting over an ice cream popsicle while she watches the even streaks of strawberry and orange blur after a long dirty haze and hears the factory workers across the street. Dad’s paintings stayed in the same position while mom's dusty cassettes of her concert days remain hidden behind a bag of books in her closet. Did her mom really know how fast her fingers could fly?

She’ll only be staying in New York City for a week or two, before she finds the right home. It’s enough to remind her how she  longed to get out of the city as a teenager and now that she’s coming back to the States for good, she keeps her mom away from a visible distance – far away so she can close the squeaky voice shut.

But it doesn’t stay shut.
Many summers ago, Maya looks for her Mom in a sweltering hot Grand Central Station after she returned from nine weeks of summer camp. Mom waved frantically. Maya kept the her Kool-Aid pink mouth tongue curled tightly under her mouth. (Momma never knew how much Kool Aid she ate.) Bloody red stained from the night before, she bundled under a blanket in the dark with an almost dead flashlight battery with friends who loved Kool Aid just as much as she did. Those confessions go into the suitcase too.

Rounding up the final things, she takes down the file folder with all of mom’s precious documents and important papers of her Alzheimer’s. With the suitcase finally padlocked and closed, she know there’s one thing she’ll do right after recuperating from jet lag. She’ll walk down the Hudson River Walkway with her little son’s hand in hers as she dreams of Kool-Aid.

"The Night I Found My Mom"

I had been cleaning the floor under the kitchen table after Friday night's dinner on my knees, which I sometimes did with my son's baby wipes. As I expected, my twenty month old son hugged me from behind, then laid his head on my back. He held a half eaten apple in one hand and a pacifier in the other and said, "Ima" for "Mother" in Hebrew. He smiled. I stopped what I was doing and looked at his tender sweet face.

It was just me and him that night. My husband was working. Mom's presence was everywhere but yet nowhere. I was thousands of miles away from her, living on a kibbutz in Israel for the last sixteen years. She had been living with Alzheimer's for the last ten years. Way before her diagnosis, she was a concert pianist. Every Friday night, I put on her concert tapes. I hear her say, "Dorit! Go to your room! I need to practice!" in her own nervous way. For years, Chopin mazurkas lulled me to sleep. As a child, I twirled in front of the full length mirror, on a parquet floor in an artist loft in Greenwich Village hoping my mom would notice me.

I will never forget the day we separated at the airport. I could see the deep fear and worry. She wanted to accompany me through the checkpoints and when she saw she couldn't, I quickly grabbed my things and pecked her withered cheek. When I felt I was far enough from her, I turned around. She wildly waved her hands. "Don't forget to wear a sweater!"

It would be seven years until I would see her again. I had come back from my settled life in Israel. She was already stumbling over words and sentences, trying to make sense of a tabloid and asking me questions. She squinted in front of the television. She couldn't sign her name. There papers all over the floor, bills were left unpaid and letters remained unopened. Her hair was unkempt, she didn't cut her toenails and had scabs all over her body. In a panic, I took her to our family doctor who knew me since I was a child and whispered in my ear, "She's showing signs of depression. Take her to a neurologist." It was then I realized that she wouldn't be the same mom. Alzheimer's had taken over.

In a matter of weeks, I sold the 1920 Grand Steinway piano to pay for bills and in its place was a twin size futon bed. The downstairs which she used for piano playing, now was her home. Her home health aide played her mazurkas on a tape recorder. I hoped to hear her say, "Honey, bunny, I love you," but I didn't. I thought that maybe my long absence had something to do with her depression.

In the middle of one night during a visit back in 1998 when my mom was still in the early stages of dementia, I saw her wandering in her corner downstairs. It was after midnight. It was now or never.

"Mom, I'm sorry I left you. I know it's been hard for you. Please don't be angry with me," I said.

"Oh," she said in one big laugh. "Honey, don't worry about that," she said. For a moment, I felt as if she was my mom again.

"It was my right and privilege to be your mom," she said emphatically.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Her love, once confirmed through music, was now directed to me.

I didn't know what to say. She had never spoken to me like this. Hugging her felt good. The sound of the mazurkas came back. It felt good to be home.

Those sentences are the last real connection I had with my mom. Sadly, she doesn't know she is a grandmother and she can't say my name anymore. But at least I know that night back in 1998 will go down as the day I found home and my mom.