Connections

Winter has now officially arrived. Am I the only one who enjoys this time of hibernation, short days, and long nights? It is my last week before I return to work. Soon it will be 2010, and I realise that it is really only this year (2009) that I truly entered and acknowledged the digital age! I have at last surrendered, and now I write a blog and read from a Kindle. I hardly recognise myself!

My life has always been one of coincidences - synchronistic happenings which occur in different countries, at different times. Seemingly miraculous meetings with people from my different and varied experiences, places, and interests.

I remember a long ago very dark winter in London, trying to descend the stairs into the tube at Oxford Circus, being jostled by the teeming crowds. I banged against someone and we both turned around to either shout, or apologise to each other. I found myself staring into the face of Michael Klein, last seen years before at Northview High in Johannesburg. Or the time when I walked through the stiles at Earls Court station, at rush hour, and heard a voice from above, "well, if it isn't Nesta." I looked up into the face of the tall man hovering above, Peter Cimring, also from high school. Peter was a year ahead of us, a really clever guy. He suffered from congenital cirrhoses of the liver and sadly he died in a pensione in France a few years later. These seemingly random events heralded a lifetime of similar occurrences.

Doris Lessing has described these events as being synchronistic, rather than coincidental. Everything exists simultaneously. Past, present, and future are constructs we have created in order to function. Every person, place, object, and thought, are interconnected. For the most part we are closed to these experiences. But they seep through. How often is it that we think of someone only to have them phone us in the next minute? When I wrote my first, (unpublished) memoir, I sat typing in my cottage in Rockridge in Oakland. It was at night, and I typed about Raymond (Rafi - my late husband)'s nightclub in Tel Aviv. The phone rang, interrupting the flow of my writing. I answered and heard a man ask if I was Nesta, who lived in Israel. This was the man who co-owned the nightclub with Ray, a tall, brash American who returned to America at the time we moved to a kibbutz. I remember Ray telling me that he heard he had died of a drug overdose! He assured me he was alive and well, and then he asked whether I was still with Raymond, and I told him Ray had been killed in the Yom Kippur War. This man had obtained my number through a potential business partner of his, a South African man who lives in San Francisco.

Last week I checked my e-mail to find invitations to people on Facebook that I last saw 35 years ago! One woman is Danish, I told her I still own a pair of socks she knitted for me 35 years previously. I have connected with family and friends in Australia, Denmark, South Africa, Israel, Canada, all in a week. My sister-in-law found me online and we reconnected. She and her family live in Toronto.

These are the same connections and synchronistic experiences, but they now happen in the digital age. Thanks to the web, the internet, e-mail, skype, videos, we don't even have to step away from our sofas or tables to meet old friends.

Indeed, we are all connected.

Winter solstice

2009 draws to an end. My mom died exactly today a year ago, and I lit a yahrzeit candle. Last night was the last night of Hanukah, and also erev shabat. A blaze of dancing lights illuminated my space.

It is no surprise that I have spent quite a while thinking about eyes, and sight. I am grateful beyond belief that this time the surgery appears to have done what it is supposed to do. My pressure is appropriately low. My bleb, the doctor assures me, looks wonderful!!! This news is truly joyous.

These past few years have revolved around my eyes. Although prior to my first eye surgery in 2006 I had glaucoma, I used drops and had no problems. However, at the beginning of 2006, after some truly horrendous events happened at work, and which I will write about at some stage, I awoke one morning unable to see out of my left eye. It was as if a dark grey curtain descended and I could not raise it or pull it aside. I thought maybe I had 'squished' my eye while asleep, and soon the world would become clear, but the curtain remained static. I am not sure how, but I drove myself to the ER in Kaiser, Richmond. The lovely young doctor who checked me and my eye stated that the pressure in the eye seems to be so high that she thinks her machine may not be reading it correctly. She sent me to the eye department where a doctor confirmed the reading and put me on steroid drops. As it happened, I had an appointment with my 'glaucoma' doctor the next day. The pressure did not decrease even with the use of steroids and my regular drops. Thus began my saga. My doctor sent me to the glaucoma specialist. This doctor is truly wonderful, but I have had to see him far more times than I care to count. He has been respectful and thorough in his care. He involves me in decision making, explains what he is doing, the reason for the surgeries and the subsequent ghastly procedures. If it were not for him, his care, and his humor, I am not sure how I would have managed.

Besides western medicine I tried homeopathy, acupuncture, and tibetan medicine, to no avail, glaucoma is my inheritance.

After each surgery I experience a sense of vulnerability that is difficult to put into words. Our working bodies are such intricate, magnificent machines. When something goes wrong, one's whole experience in the world is changed. My spatial and depth perception changes, leaving me feeling as if I have drunk a little too much. I bang into objects, feel wonky, and the worst part is that my memory seems to float away. I cannot recall simple things. My doctor insists there is no correlation between the surgeries, subsequent procedures, and my mind, but I know there is. Because the pressure did not decrease substantially after the first two surgeries he would stick a needle into my eye. This is a technique devised by a sadist cum torturer to 'needle' the eye and open the bleb. The other, possibly even worse procedure, required me to 'massage' my eyeball and press the contents upward. I couldn't bring myself to do this because every time I pressed into my eyeball I felt like vomiting. With the blessing of the passing of time, and a decrease in my pressure, the memory of these horrors faded, only to resurface with this latest surgery. But I have not required any of these invasive procedures this time. It is miraculous. I actually feel good, my mind seems to have remained relatively intact, and I feel okay in the world. This is a really blessed way to end the year. I am thankful indeed.

Recuperating

Why this strange title? I had eye surgery on November 10th and am now at home recuperating. This is my third eye surgery, but the first in my right eye. I have out of control glaucoma, and the surgery is called a trabeculectomy. If you are interested, you may look it up. As far as I understand it, the procedure involves creating a new drainage area in the eye by cutting, pasting, stitching, and creating something called a bleb.

The recuperation period is six weeks during which time I am not allowed to lean over (anything that involves my head being lower than my heart), or to pick up anything heavier than 5 lbs. Memory of painful events is blessedly short. Now, three weeks after the surgery, I remembered that before each such surgery I fantasized about trying out every one of the variety of restaurants which grace my neighborhood. Every day I would take a book, eat lunch and write a review of the restaurant, or cafe. In truth, I do no such thing. I simply do not feel up to this pleasant task.

My days are spent resting. I sleep inordinate amounts, then take sedate little strolls around the neighborhood. I love this time of the year, late late fall. When the sun shines, and it often does, the quality of the light filters out shadows and the leaves on the trees, the pebbles on the road, and the houses on Albany hill and in the Berkeley/El Cerrito hills are sharply delineated. The sun turns home and apartment windows into sparkling gemstones. The fallen leaves crunch underfoot.

Over the last few days I walk to a neighborhood tearoom, drink a pot of tea, listen to classical music, and read. This feels like such a civilized way to pass the time. Back in South Africa, promptly at 4 in the afternoon Martha, our servant, brought in a tray bearing a pot of tea, cups, saucers, a small jug of milk and a plate of biscuits. The only change in this routine would be cake instead of biscuits. Years later, in America, I learned that what we call biscuits they call cookies. Cookies for us were what cupcakes are to them, and what they call biscuits we never heard of.

I say toe-mah-toe.

What Happened

Here's the thing. The woman who has cleaned my home for the past couple of years has vanished. I will call her Sonia.

Sonia knew I would be away and the last time she cleaned my home before I left she left a note saying goodbye, wishing me a safe trip, and asking me to call her when I return. This has happened over the past few years, and she has always returned.

I called her as I said I would, but her cell phone is now blocked to incoming callers. This is new. I called her home number and a child answered. He spoke english perfectly, in other words it did not sound like her seven year old son. I asked for Sonia and whomever answered called a woman to the phone. She had no idea who I wanted and confirmed that I had dialed the correct number.

I am at a loss. I know Sonia's last name, but I also know that her husband has a different last name, because the woman always keeps her maiden name. I know they live in Richmond Annex, but I do not know the exact address. I do not know where her son goes to school. A short while before I left she told me she was having problems with her young son. She didn't elaborate, but she said he was 'misbehaving' and that she and her husband were concerned. I gave her some phone numbers of places I thought could help. What I never asked Sonia was whether they were here legally.

Because I left South Africa at a very young age, I never had a servant. I felt conflicted about hiring Sonia, after all, I am perfectly capable of cleaning my house, but I don't have much time or energy for doing so. Now this situation feels a bit like South Africa where people had servants, but never knew their last names or anything about them.

Where can she be?

My mind is reeling - could she be a victim of domestic violence?

Could she or her husband have been taken away by the ICE?

Have they just upped and left?

These concerns are not just flights of fancy, I have come across of domestic violence situations too frequently. Sometimes the mother takes her children and runs to a shelter. All too often she returns to her abuser. Of course services such as counseling and shelters have suffered tremendously from the recent cuts, so who knows if she even found a place.

I know many families who live in fear of the ICE.

I have come across families who have upped and left. I have arrived at homes where I had been a week before and the home is empty, as if an entire family had never been there just a few days ago.

I don't know where Sonia is.

I am back

Hi - I am back. I returned two weeks ago, straight back to work, and the nitty gritty details of living!

My trip was really good. It was meaningful in terms of my parents and my family. My sister kept all of my mom's stuff and we went through the meticulously filed piles. It took a week during which we entered another world, that of our ancestors. Our sifting through photos and boxes and objects shed light on where we are now, our life choices, and our history. We alternated between crying and laughing, sharing memories. Mom kept all our letters, our school reports, a lock of my hair, essays, all carefully preserved, and shipped from South Africa to Israel. I read my fathers' letters he had written home during his years of service as a legal officer during the Second World War. He had such a clear vision of South Africa, of Capitalism, of his experiences in the Middle East. I found the letter in which he announced his engagement to my mom. We sorted out paperwork, put aside objects for relatives and friends. Thus we worked through 90 years of a life well lived!

Then my sister, brother-in-law and myself went with a tour group to Montenegro. No, it is not in Africa, nor is it in South America. It is the newest country in what were the Balkans, nestled between Croatia, Bosnia Herzegovina, Albania and the Adriatic. Quite beautiful - rugged and raw. We drove jeeps up forested mountains on hairpin bends which passed for roads, hiked through the last remaining rainforest in Europe, and had hair raising adventures. Besides anything, it is so refreshing being away from any news, from the internet, from microwaved food, from the ridiculous pace of life we all live.

Returning is always somewhat unsettling. First, there is that state of jetlagged induced insanity to overcome. Then, for me, the shock of America, with, as a friend put it, its 'tidy widy' sterile suburbs and malls. In the Safeway in Marin the clerk nearly fell over herself with her pleases, thank yous, have a good day and false smiles, I felt like slamming her! Of course, when I am dealing with gruff rude clerks in Israel I miss the bland and polite American way. Such is life!

Of course ...returning to work which I will write about very soon.

Vacation

I have a blog on one of my beloved families in progress, but, as ever, like everyone I am pressured for time.

A few short notes: At work we are having a 4.5% pay cut. It could be a lot worse, and the company I work for has handled this in an exemplary fashion. They have been transparent, and caring, for workers and consumers. As we all know, we are going through extremely challenging times.

On a lighter note, I leave on Sunday for my annual trip to Israel. My mom passed away in December and this will be the first time without her, so I have mixed feelings about this trip, but am very excited to see my family there. I doubt whether I will post anything from my travels, so ... I will be back on line in about a month. Thanks for taking your time to read these posts, and of course, any feedback is welcome.

All the best!

Ongoing Violence

This foggy Tuesday morning, August 4th, 2009, I sat down to my morning-before-work cup of coffee, and opened the San Francisco Chronicle. The following headline glared out of the Bay Area section:

"Richmond criminals don't care who gets hit, indiscriminate gunfire is on the rise in Richmond."

Then followed a disturbing article by Chip Johnson. Ten people were killed in Richmond in July, and, according to the article, it appears that the killers, mostly very young men, do not care who they hit. Apparently city and county social service programs have identified Richmond families with criminal pasts that extend across at least four generations.

This morning I was to see a famiy in North Richmond. The mother is an obese young woman from Mexico. She has four young boys and on my weekly visits she tells me terrible stories of the things that happen with her neighbors, and on the streets. She relates these stories in the presence of her children. I am there to see her twin boys of 18 months who, thankfully, do not understand her, but the older boy, of six and eight are always present because of summer vacation. They listen, interject, and add their versions. Three weeks ago she told me about her neighbors, who also happen to be relatives. The father deals drugs and sometimes hides them in her mailbox if he thinks the police are coming. He keeps a gun in his infant daughter's chest of drawers, and has taught his eight year old son to use it. Furthermore, over 4th of July he plied his eight year old son with liquor, until the boy passed out. She found him passed out on a patch of grass. She told me she pushed him until he woke and she told him to breathe out, and she smelled the liquor onhis breath. His mother works all day and doesn't want to hear what goes on in her absence, she said.
"Great," I thought, a delinquent in training. I have to report child endangerment and neglect, and so I did pass this information on. The next week she told me that she and her boys were at a nearby park, (an open lot) the day before. It was about 7 p.m. and young boys were playing soccer. A car came by and someone stuck out a gun and shot two of the boys playing soccer. The bystanders saw the car speed away, then stop on a corner and two men ran out and fled, while another climbed in and drove away. According to her one of the boys was killed on the spot and the other was shot in the head."Two brothers," she said, "one fell down 'pobrecito' and there was blood everywhere. He asked for water and someone came to give him some, but a policeman pushed him away."
She told me this as she reclined on her couch. The twins ran between the two sofas and the older boys played with the toys I had brought for the twins. When she described the car they both ran to the window to point in the direction it came from. She continued: "The ambulance came after half an hour. Can you imagine the boys' mother? I don't know where the father is. She will go back to Mexico. Last night I couldn't sleep because I kept seeing the blood pouring out of his head."
She described the supposed killers saying they were Latinos. The police had already distributed fliers to the residents asking for witnesses to step forward. She won't say anything because she doesn't trust the police. She said she knows a woman who told the police about a gunman, and then her husband was killed. She thinks that was because the police let everyone involved know she had informed on them.
I listened in horror and suggested she tell the police what she saw, because it is anonymous, and if people don't talk, this insanity is just going to continue. She said she will speak to her husband when he gets home. When I left the home a red car sped up to the corner not even one block away. A man standing on the pavement walked up to the car, leaned in and yelled at the driver who sped away and began spinning donuts in the street. He drove his car around and around, rubber burning, tires squealing. This display of out of control testosterone truly petrifies me, so I ran back into the house where the boys crowded at the window, looking at the car. I waited until it sped away and quickly made my getaway.
One day that week I drove home down San Pablo Avenue, and just beyond Potrero Avenue I saw a man holding a cardboarad sign at the side of the road, it read: "Please donate money for funeral."
That weekend a boy of 14 years old was killed. Another of my families, also Latino, asked whether I heard about it. The mom told me they were driving back from OSH Hardware and the road to their home was cordoned off because of this shooting. She has pre-teen nieces and nephews who attend local schools. They told her that would be gang members are driven somewhere by a gang member, handed an assault weapon,, and when the gang member points at someone they are told to shoot them.
I did not want to believe her, and now this article confirms what she said. "The victim is often in the wrong place at the wrong time, a victim of indiscriminate gunfire."
That this is disturbing is putting it mildly. Something is very very wrong.