Without hesitation I would say that my friendships are the most important aspect of my life.
I grew up with a group of girls (The Great Girls Gang). Our friendship began for some of us, in kindergarten. We were carpooled to Temple Shalom. The others from the Gang we met in Grade 1. We remained friends from then on. There was a core group of us - we would meet at school, and play in each others' homes after school and on weekends. We formed the Great Girls Gang and we met in the shed in Sandy's garden. We painted the shed and made curtains, and gave each other exotic names like Njanga. We took minutes of our meetings. What exactly we met about I forget now. We remained together throughout our school years. When we began having boyfriends we always had a cardinal rule - never to go out with another's boyfriend after a break up. Our friendship was always paramount, and so we remained friends ... forever.
After Matric we went our separate ways, to University, traveling. We married, had children, went to live in far away countries, but always kept in touch. The moment I heard my husband was killed my friends were there for me, they reached over continents sending telegrams, and phoning. They were always my backbone, my support. We meet over the years, and as soon as we are together the years we have been apart slip away and immediately we carry on just like we did all our lives.
And of course over the years and the countries, new friendships and bonds were formed, but the old ties are forever there. We meet ... in South Africa, in London, in Israel, and now ... on Skype.
Why this entry? Because this weekend I am going to meet one of these friends, and her husband and son, in New Orleans. And I am so excited. She is a professor of English literature at Wits University in Johannesburg and will be presenting at a conference in New Orleans. Her husband survived a horrendous accident in South Africa last year, and he will accompany her. Their son lives in LA and he will be meeting us all. The last time I saw them was five years ago, in South Africa.
So ---- here is to friends, and to reunions, to love that abides and sustains.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
A Day
A day, and what a day.
My first 'wee one' of the day lives in Point Richmond. They are a Hispanic family. Mom is at home with their son, dad works in construction. When he is not out working he works on their home, which they rent. He has built a deck, painted the home and converted the rickety wooden staircase into an elegant, solid, tiled staircase. They share the home with his brother and his family who also have a young child.
Their son was an 'extreme premie' - born just on the edge of viability, at 23 weeks. His development is quite remarkable considering his fragile and vulnerable beginnings. Mom is very attentive, and has listened to the advice of the therapists and medical professionals. He had pneumonia recently - he is now on antibiotics. Mom and Dad got sick also, but they don't have health insurance, so they didn't go to see anyone. Mom has a nasty cough.
When I arrived, dad and his brother were leaving for work. Mom told me they haven't had any work for the last three weeks because of the weather. No work, no money, and now dad, uncle, and aunt, are all struggling to make their rent payment which is due tomorrow.
On the way to the next family I listened to "This Is Your Call" with Rose Aguilar. The program was on teenage homelessness in California. A young man who was homeless for many years and now works as an outreach coordinator for homeless teenagers spoke, as well as a young woman who works in an agency dealing with the homeless.I can never listen to the entire hour, because I have to go to my next family, and usually 'come in' a little late, and 'leave' halfway through the program. The young people were really articulate and spoke about the shame and fear of being homeless, of trying to keep up a front if they did go to school. Many don't attend school and so drop out of the system.
I reached my next family. I work with their daughter who has Down Syndrome. Dad is there when I go. The parents work at the same factory, mom leaves very early for the morning shift. Dad is with the twin girls, then mom comes home and dad goes to work until late at night. They work very hard indeed.
Two weeks ago dad was very upset when I arrived. A disgruntled worker at the factory had informed immigration services that the factory hires undocumented workers. "La Migra" came to investigate. The owners were fined $50,000 and dad and others lost their jobs. Mom, whose parents brought her here 20 years ago, has been in the lengthy process of applying for papers, so she is still working. Today dad told me that they have been to see an attorney and he has begun the process of gathering all the papers so that he can apply for residency. They bought a home in Richmond in 2005. In 2007 it was appraised at $350,000. He showed me the appraisal forms. The house is now worth $50,000. "Underwater."
Back at the office a director was speaking to a meeting of families of 'consumers' about the upcoming budget cuts. As yet there are no specifics of what will be cut, but she was strongly encouraging the families to 'speak up' - their voices need to be heard.
The future seems dim indeed.
My first 'wee one' of the day lives in Point Richmond. They are a Hispanic family. Mom is at home with their son, dad works in construction. When he is not out working he works on their home, which they rent. He has built a deck, painted the home and converted the rickety wooden staircase into an elegant, solid, tiled staircase. They share the home with his brother and his family who also have a young child.
Their son was an 'extreme premie' - born just on the edge of viability, at 23 weeks. His development is quite remarkable considering his fragile and vulnerable beginnings. Mom is very attentive, and has listened to the advice of the therapists and medical professionals. He had pneumonia recently - he is now on antibiotics. Mom and Dad got sick also, but they don't have health insurance, so they didn't go to see anyone. Mom has a nasty cough.
When I arrived, dad and his brother were leaving for work. Mom told me they haven't had any work for the last three weeks because of the weather. No work, no money, and now dad, uncle, and aunt, are all struggling to make their rent payment which is due tomorrow.
On the way to the next family I listened to "This Is Your Call" with Rose Aguilar. The program was on teenage homelessness in California. A young man who was homeless for many years and now works as an outreach coordinator for homeless teenagers spoke, as well as a young woman who works in an agency dealing with the homeless.I can never listen to the entire hour, because I have to go to my next family, and usually 'come in' a little late, and 'leave' halfway through the program. The young people were really articulate and spoke about the shame and fear of being homeless, of trying to keep up a front if they did go to school. Many don't attend school and so drop out of the system.
I reached my next family. I work with their daughter who has Down Syndrome. Dad is there when I go. The parents work at the same factory, mom leaves very early for the morning shift. Dad is with the twin girls, then mom comes home and dad goes to work until late at night. They work very hard indeed.
Two weeks ago dad was very upset when I arrived. A disgruntled worker at the factory had informed immigration services that the factory hires undocumented workers. "La Migra" came to investigate. The owners were fined $50,000 and dad and others lost their jobs. Mom, whose parents brought her here 20 years ago, has been in the lengthy process of applying for papers, so she is still working. Today dad told me that they have been to see an attorney and he has begun the process of gathering all the papers so that he can apply for residency. They bought a home in Richmond in 2005. In 2007 it was appraised at $350,000. He showed me the appraisal forms. The house is now worth $50,000. "Underwater."
Back at the office a director was speaking to a meeting of families of 'consumers' about the upcoming budget cuts. As yet there are no specifics of what will be cut, but she was strongly encouraging the families to 'speak up' - their voices need to be heard.
The future seems dim indeed.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Life is Strange
Happy New Year!!!! Life, as usual, continues its hurley gurley.
Some interesting updates from work.
Today I had a very good talk with Carmela, the woman I wrote about in my very first blog, "I have a Problem." Her son, who attended our program (and did very well,) turned three today. When I got back from my home visits I went to see him, to wish him happy birthday, and to say goodbye, and good luck. I had just missed them. They came in for the celebration in his honor, then she took him home. I called her and we had a really heartwarming talk. She thanked me for helping so much when he was a baby. Then she invited me to their new home. They moved from North Richmond to an apartment in San Pablo which she says has more room for the family. She has a car again and is in school. She is working three days a week, and she says her life is really good now. Her two daughters are doing very well, as is her son. They are a happy family unit. I told her how much I admire her and what a brave, strong woman, and a good mother she is.
Yesterday I received three new referrals. As usual, I read the paperwork, the names and addresses, evaluations and medical information on the children. The first name of a guardian of a little boy was familiar to me, but the surname wasn't. I called and told the woman who I am and what I do,then I asked whether I knew her.She said "You sure do, you used to work with my little boy who was stabbed to death."
Of course I knew her. This tragic and horrendous event had happened just over six years ago. It had deeply affected everyone involved.
"YOu came to our house, and he loved you so much. You remember when he began the program how he cried and sat on your lap for three hours Then he started doing so well. You know the father, the one who did it, they said he was mentally ill and they sent him to Napa Hospital. Apparently he died there a while ago, he had kidney problems."
"Yes," I replied, my heart pounding, "I remember everything. I remember you were really sick at the time. How are your older son and daughter, I remember them too?
"God has blessed me. I am fine. The cancer is gone. My older son, you remember he was in the home when it happened. He is an alcoholic, and before all that happened he never drank. My daughter is really good, she does still go to therapy, but she is in college now, and working."
I sat there, the phone glued to my ear, my mouth wide open, occasionally exclaiming.
I met a wonderful man, and we got married. We bought a home and I did what I always wanted to, I had a day care in our home. Then Nesta, you will never guess what happened."
I didn't want to guess, I couldn't imagine.
"He had a heart attack and died, in our bedroom. I couldn't help but laugh, it seems like everyone dies in my home. I quit the daycare. But I am strong and God is good. I got a call from my cousin who lives in the midwest. She said her daughter is pregnant and cannot be a mother. She has seizures and takes medication and that will affect the baby, but do you want the baby? I flew there and was there when he was born, and brought him back with me.
Do you remember the other one, how stiff he was? This one is the same, and his leg even turns in like the other one. But he is the sweetest little boy, and now the Lord has sent you back in to our lives. God is good."
Some interesting updates from work.
Today I had a very good talk with Carmela, the woman I wrote about in my very first blog, "I have a Problem." Her son, who attended our program (and did very well,) turned three today. When I got back from my home visits I went to see him, to wish him happy birthday, and to say goodbye, and good luck. I had just missed them. They came in for the celebration in his honor, then she took him home. I called her and we had a really heartwarming talk. She thanked me for helping so much when he was a baby. Then she invited me to their new home. They moved from North Richmond to an apartment in San Pablo which she says has more room for the family. She has a car again and is in school. She is working three days a week, and she says her life is really good now. Her two daughters are doing very well, as is her son. They are a happy family unit. I told her how much I admire her and what a brave, strong woman, and a good mother she is.
Yesterday I received three new referrals. As usual, I read the paperwork, the names and addresses, evaluations and medical information on the children. The first name of a guardian of a little boy was familiar to me, but the surname wasn't. I called and told the woman who I am and what I do,then I asked whether I knew her.She said "You sure do, you used to work with my little boy who was stabbed to death."
Of course I knew her. This tragic and horrendous event had happened just over six years ago. It had deeply affected everyone involved.
"YOu came to our house, and he loved you so much. You remember when he began the program how he cried and sat on your lap for three hours Then he started doing so well. You know the father, the one who did it, they said he was mentally ill and they sent him to Napa Hospital. Apparently he died there a while ago, he had kidney problems."
"Yes," I replied, my heart pounding, "I remember everything. I remember you were really sick at the time. How are your older son and daughter, I remember them too?
"God has blessed me. I am fine. The cancer is gone. My older son, you remember he was in the home when it happened. He is an alcoholic, and before all that happened he never drank. My daughter is really good, she does still go to therapy, but she is in college now, and working."
I sat there, the phone glued to my ear, my mouth wide open, occasionally exclaiming.
I met a wonderful man, and we got married. We bought a home and I did what I always wanted to, I had a day care in our home. Then Nesta, you will never guess what happened."
I didn't want to guess, I couldn't imagine.
"He had a heart attack and died, in our bedroom. I couldn't help but laugh, it seems like everyone dies in my home. I quit the daycare. But I am strong and God is good. I got a call from my cousin who lives in the midwest. She said her daughter is pregnant and cannot be a mother. She has seizures and takes medication and that will affect the baby, but do you want the baby? I flew there and was there when he was born, and brought him back with me.
Do you remember the other one, how stiff he was? This one is the same, and his leg even turns in like the other one. But he is the sweetest little boy, and now the Lord has sent you back in to our lives. God is good."
Friday, December 31, 2010
Happy happy
In South Africa we would hear whistling and drunken shouts of "happy happy" wafting into our homes from the streets on the last day of the year and the very first day of the new year. So I add my very own shouts and whistles, 'happy,happy,'to each and every one of you, my loyal followers and faithful friends. Here's hoping that 2011 will be a year of health and peace, inner, if not outer.
The last week of 2010 has been one of connecting with friends and enjoying all that this breathtakingly beautiful area has to offer.Yesterday a friend and I went to San Francisco via the Richmond/San Rafael Bridge and the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a cold clear winter's day - everything has been washed sparkling by the rains and green abounds. We hiked along Land's End and Ocean Beach. Every time I am in the midst of this beauty and can see Mount Tamalpais, Mount Diablo, the Farallon Islands and see the waves breaking on Baker's Beach I am filled with joy and gratitude that I live in this place. It is with this feeling of gratitude an abundance that I bid farewell to 2010.
Love to you all.
The last week of 2010 has been one of connecting with friends and enjoying all that this breathtakingly beautiful area has to offer.Yesterday a friend and I went to San Francisco via the Richmond/San Rafael Bridge and the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a cold clear winter's day - everything has been washed sparkling by the rains and green abounds. We hiked along Land's End and Ocean Beach. Every time I am in the midst of this beauty and can see Mount Tamalpais, Mount Diablo, the Farallon Islands and see the waves breaking on Baker's Beach I am filled with joy and gratitude that I live in this place. It is with this feeling of gratitude an abundance that I bid farewell to 2010.
Love to you all.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Help
I wrote an article about the India trip which has been published in Namarupa Magazine, and I am trying to copy the article on to my blog but I don't know how. Here is a link and I hope it works. Please let me know. There are some amazing photos taken by my brother, so good luck.
PS as you may see, nothing! Because it is not working. I will ask for help, but will also add this to the writing section in my website, so those who want can access it,eventually. Oh, the woes of the technologically challenged.
PS as you may see, nothing! Because it is not working. I will ask for help, but will also add this to the writing section in my website, so those who want can access it,eventually. Oh, the woes of the technologically challenged.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Post Thanksgiving
A strange title, "post Thanksgiving." Of course I should constantly be giving thanks, and in fact, I do. What I mean by 'Post Thanksgiving" is for the benefit of my many loyal and faithful followers who live in far away countries that do not celebrate Thanksgiving. This is my favorite American holiday, as it is (or was) mostly non commercial. and is centered around family, friends, and food. What could be better? Also, I enjoyed five days off work. Today is a new week and the end of the Thanksgiving holiday - hence post Thanksgiving.
Yesterday, a cold and rainless Sunday, a friend and I met for a walk around the Berkeley Marina. We both love this time of the year when, on clear and crisp days the views of San Francisco and the Marin Headlands are clearly delineated. It is the time of the year the burrowing owls come to rest. I love to find them in the scrub after I stop mistaking the squirrels for owls.On our way back to our cars we saw quite a large grous of what appeared to be teenagers and very young adults dressed in medieval looking costumes jousting with foam swords. I remembered how when I first came to America and lived in Oakland, I saw a group of people every Thursday night at Rockridge Bart Station. They were dressed in armor (real) had swords not covered in foam, addressed each other as Sir Galahad, or Lady so and so, and judging by the clanging sound of their weapons, appeared to be really jousting. They belong to A Society of Anachronists. This group looked similar, although their clothes were far more makeshift, and their helmets and shields were made from cardboard. They spoke normally. The foam on their weapons didn't exactly clang.This group was having fun, playing outdoors in nature.
After watching a while we moved on and saw two young women in costume sitting on rocks. We asked what this group is and they told us, AMTGARD and explained it is worldwide, and they do have rules etc. As everyone looked so very young I asked whether older people could join, and the one said: "Of course, my husband is there playing, he is 39."
Everything is relative!
Yesterday, a cold and rainless Sunday, a friend and I met for a walk around the Berkeley Marina. We both love this time of the year when, on clear and crisp days the views of San Francisco and the Marin Headlands are clearly delineated. It is the time of the year the burrowing owls come to rest. I love to find them in the scrub after I stop mistaking the squirrels for owls.On our way back to our cars we saw quite a large grous of what appeared to be teenagers and very young adults dressed in medieval looking costumes jousting with foam swords. I remembered how when I first came to America and lived in Oakland, I saw a group of people every Thursday night at Rockridge Bart Station. They were dressed in armor (real) had swords not covered in foam, addressed each other as Sir Galahad, or Lady so and so, and judging by the clanging sound of their weapons, appeared to be really jousting. They belong to A Society of Anachronists. This group looked similar, although their clothes were far more makeshift, and their helmets and shields were made from cardboard. They spoke normally. The foam on their weapons didn't exactly clang.This group was having fun, playing outdoors in nature.
After watching a while we moved on and saw two young women in costume sitting on rocks. We asked what this group is and they told us, AMTGARD and explained it is worldwide, and they do have rules etc. As everyone looked so very young I asked whether older people could join, and the one said: "Of course, my husband is there playing, he is 39."
Everything is relative!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Veterans Day
Yesterday morning I drove to my eye doctor (not good news), and listened to the radio. There was a report on the film HBO will air for Veterans Day on PTSD. (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.) Of course this phenomena is not new. A woman they interviewed had researched letters written by soldiers during America's Civil War. She then reviewed court cases in which families tried to get compensation when their breadwinner returned "changed." Apparently this was a very difficult thing to prove and there were many court cases. Someone read harrowing letters written by a soldier in the Civil War. In the first few he described how he saw some men in his camp suffer terribly - they could not sleep at night, some stopped eating, they became paranoid and had outbursts of anger. He described how some of them took their own lives. He himself wrote that war is awful, but he will not succumb to the taking of his own life.
After a few years the tone of his letters changed and it was evident to his family that he had 'succumbed' to the numbing horrors. After he returned home his sister wrote how she and her mother had to hold him down when he had fits and rages. He was no longer able to work.Apparently he went on a hunting expedition with friends from his platoon. They were aware he was a danger to himself and forbade him to accompany them. It was while he was alone in the woods that he shot himself.
A mother of a soldier from Minnesota who served in Iraq, read her son's tragic and horrifying suicide note. He drank as he wrote the note. He stated this and apparently the writing and content became progressively worse. He described how he could not stand seeing people die and that he had killed people. Now he said was the time to take his own life. After cutting out images of his face from his driver's and personal photographs because he could no longer 'face' himself he put his dog tag to his temple and shot himself through his temple.
When I first came to America 30 years ago a therapist told me I had PTSD. I laughed at him. It has taken me all these years to realise the horrors of the war that I went through in Israel in which my husband was killed. Those events shaped my future and changed my life and my relationships forever. But even now I have many moments when I think, what is wrong with me? I must be crazy, will I never get over this? It wasn't so bad. What happened to us wasn't so bad. Many wars are far far worse.
I caught snippets of another radio show yesterday in which they interviewed a young widow from Kosovo who told how she goes to the cemetery all the time because she cannot and will not, and does not ever want to forget.A young American woman described how she met her husband at the tender age of 16. It was love at first sight, and after dating for several years he proposed to her and gave her a beautiful ring. She herself went to find the perfect ring for him. She had it engraved with the date he proposed to her on the inside. He was killed in Iraq and apparently his personal affects were returned to her, but not his ring. Later one of his commanders and his wife invited her for the weekend and when she walked into the guest room she saw a box, and inside was the ring which the commander had found. She sobbed with happiness and sadness and said at least she has the memories of their perfect love.
Then a young man from Korea described being separated from his family and reuniting with his sister years later. Thankfully, I had to go to a meeting, because I was riveted to these stories, and at the same time sobbing my heart out.
War is universal. Coincidentally last night a friend from my kibbutz called me. Her brother was killed in the first Lebanese war in Israel. We both know of what the other speaks, and thinks, but we keep quiet, maybe mention it in passing, then talk of other things.
When I was last in Israel the Gaza invasion happened. A friend there said to me that it seems like every time I come there there is a war, or an uprising, or something. I noticed how, in Israel, when talking to friends our memories are indeed of wars - the debate becomes, which war, the first Lebanese War or the second? The first war of attrition or the third? The first or second Intifada? Wars are compared, the Gulf War was strange because we remained in our homes like sitting ducks, the men weren't used to this, they were used to going out to fight. Life in Israel is indeed punctuated by different wars or horrendous events, like suicide bombings and terrorist attacks. The entire nation suffers from PTSD.
At last this problem is beginning to be addressed, because we are all veterans, and all suffer the consequences of the ongoing wars, be they distant, in foreign lands, or on our own soil.There are the visibly wounded and the invisibly wounded, and there are way too many of us.
After a few years the tone of his letters changed and it was evident to his family that he had 'succumbed' to the numbing horrors. After he returned home his sister wrote how she and her mother had to hold him down when he had fits and rages. He was no longer able to work.Apparently he went on a hunting expedition with friends from his platoon. They were aware he was a danger to himself and forbade him to accompany them. It was while he was alone in the woods that he shot himself.
A mother of a soldier from Minnesota who served in Iraq, read her son's tragic and horrifying suicide note. He drank as he wrote the note. He stated this and apparently the writing and content became progressively worse. He described how he could not stand seeing people die and that he had killed people. Now he said was the time to take his own life. After cutting out images of his face from his driver's and personal photographs because he could no longer 'face' himself he put his dog tag to his temple and shot himself through his temple.
When I first came to America 30 years ago a therapist told me I had PTSD. I laughed at him. It has taken me all these years to realise the horrors of the war that I went through in Israel in which my husband was killed. Those events shaped my future and changed my life and my relationships forever. But even now I have many moments when I think, what is wrong with me? I must be crazy, will I never get over this? It wasn't so bad. What happened to us wasn't so bad. Many wars are far far worse.
I caught snippets of another radio show yesterday in which they interviewed a young widow from Kosovo who told how she goes to the cemetery all the time because she cannot and will not, and does not ever want to forget.A young American woman described how she met her husband at the tender age of 16. It was love at first sight, and after dating for several years he proposed to her and gave her a beautiful ring. She herself went to find the perfect ring for him. She had it engraved with the date he proposed to her on the inside. He was killed in Iraq and apparently his personal affects were returned to her, but not his ring. Later one of his commanders and his wife invited her for the weekend and when she walked into the guest room she saw a box, and inside was the ring which the commander had found. She sobbed with happiness and sadness and said at least she has the memories of their perfect love.
Then a young man from Korea described being separated from his family and reuniting with his sister years later. Thankfully, I had to go to a meeting, because I was riveted to these stories, and at the same time sobbing my heart out.
War is universal. Coincidentally last night a friend from my kibbutz called me. Her brother was killed in the first Lebanese war in Israel. We both know of what the other speaks, and thinks, but we keep quiet, maybe mention it in passing, then talk of other things.
When I was last in Israel the Gaza invasion happened. A friend there said to me that it seems like every time I come there there is a war, or an uprising, or something. I noticed how, in Israel, when talking to friends our memories are indeed of wars - the debate becomes, which war, the first Lebanese War or the second? The first war of attrition or the third? The first or second Intifada? Wars are compared, the Gulf War was strange because we remained in our homes like sitting ducks, the men weren't used to this, they were used to going out to fight. Life in Israel is indeed punctuated by different wars or horrendous events, like suicide bombings and terrorist attacks. The entire nation suffers from PTSD.
At last this problem is beginning to be addressed, because we are all veterans, and all suffer the consequences of the ongoing wars, be they distant, in foreign lands, or on our own soil.There are the visibly wounded and the invisibly wounded, and there are way too many of us.
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