Halloween

We hated Halloween. The yellow of the walls in my room made it feel like it was always sunny, but every October Michelle and I sat longingly at my window, wishing we could be part of the neighborhood for at least this one day. Like bank robbers plotting their next hit, we would plan all the details of how we could pull it off. The kids outside in costume gave us a million ideas for characters; it looked like they used pillowcases instead of plastic, grocery bags to haul all the loot. This year Halloween was ours.

Maybe we should wear a stocking over our faces; if the neighbors recognize us we’ll get busted for sure. I could see my parents sitting with the sketch artist right now: “She’s 4’10” and plump...” my mother would grab the pencil if she could draw at all. This crime was severe—a felony I think, with consequences I couldn’t imagine.

The year of our great transgression, Halloween fell on a Saturday. In our family, Saturday was the day rest; no driving, no electricity and most important, a relaxing afternoon full of naps, snacks and low key activity. After temple we had a big lunch, and as my father filled his plate with seconds of everything, I knew the warden would sleep well that afternoon.

The kids on our block could have chosen to dress like us for their costume; we didn’t realize we were already dressed unusually.  As we changed our clothes and got out the previously prepared bag of mom’s makeup, our naiveté shined.  My stomach was in knots as we snuck out the back door with our pillowcases in hand.  The free candy from the goyim excited us as much as cash excites a scandalous criminal.

Sculptures of witches and ghosts decorated the middle class homes of Plainview that afternoon, reminding us at each house that this holiday celebrated ideas we knew nothing about. With each step, our illicit activity increased. Ringing doorbells was a crime as we didn’t use electricity on Shabbos.  I wondered if the candy was kosher, and how God would sentence us for this illegal act. The expressions on the faces of the neighbors confused me; how did they know we were breaking the law? Didn’t we look like the kids that went to public school and got to fill their pillowcases every year?

No one told us that trick or treating happens in the evening. We didn’t even realize that we were the only kids dressed and celebrating at 2 PM this Halloween.  We got to the house with the Great Dane at the end of the block, the one with the crazy old man that no one ever sees and trepidation had me frozen. I could hear footsteps behind me but was too scared to look back. “Ailene and Michelle, WHAT DO YOU TWO THINK YOU’RE DOING?” Busted.

In one sense, this crime came with a life sentence. The judge in this case was bigger than our parents, according to them. Learning about guilt, we suffered the consequences and relived them at the end of each October. As I sat in my yellow jail cell, I felt regret and repentant.  I communicated with the judge in my thoughts, begging for forgiveness and questioning why I was chosen to not receive the gifts of this holiday. Was I being punished for some other illegal act, committed before I was even born?

Preserving a Memory

Dylan was born on Father’s day. The third Sunday of June that year also happened to be Christiaan’s birthday. Since his father’s death almost three years ago, Dylan and I dread the beginning of summer, knowing that Father’s Day weekend is not just another holiday for us. This year we spent the entire weekend of this Hallmark holiday in June, in bed watching TV. I want to preserve his memory, I just don’t know how.

When I first moved from New York to Eugene, I was amazed by the fruit trees. I used to walk down the block and I knew exactly where to find figs, pears and blackberries. Growing up in the city, I thought fruit came from the fruit store, and nuts must be born in a can. I never considered that jam was made out of actual fruit. Had I been asked back then, I would have said that jam is not made from fruit, and leave it at that, not knowing where it comes from.

Christiaan’s memory is fading and rotting, like the summer fruit on our kitchen counter.  And just as I know nothing about preserving fruit, I know nothing about preserving memories. Were it that easy to pour his ashes into a pot and add some pectin to create a flavorful, new configuration, I would do it. But unlike fruit, a person’s memory is not preserved by cooking it.

Before Me

They were at a pool party during the summer of 1967. She was a teenager and he in his early twenties.  In terms of exposure to the world, they lived like the Amish. They drove cars instead of horses, but not on Saturdays. They used electricity six of seven days a week as well. Getting married was the goal and dream of every child; without any thoughts of marrying outside the faith.

Her head floated at the top of the water like one of those red and white balls at the end of a fishing line. Before getting in the pool, she spent at least an hour ironing her dark, Jewish curls. His glasses were thick, and with water constantly splashing on his face, he could barely see. Grandma Mollie told him to go to the party because “there will be a lot of nice Jewish girls there”. Grandpa Phil reminded her that the son of one of his clients is having a party with “nice Jewish boys from the Yeshiva”. They didn’t think about it; they went because that’s what they did in Flushing, New York.

Every weekend there was something; a wedding, an engagement party, a bris. Their futures were dependant on meeting each other. Becoming an old maid at 25 was not an option. She would do what her sisters, mother, and grandmothers before her did. She would marry an orthodox man, be fruitful and multiply and be a good Jew first. The thoughts about who she was and what she enjoyed would not occur to her for almost fifteen years. As the only son of three children, it was crucial that he find a good one. But, of course, no one would ever be as good as the woman in his life—his mother.

Men against women volleyball in the pool brought them to the same place, yet totally opposite. He was showing off when he jumped up to return the serve. Possibly the most non athletic man in the pool, he caught that serve with his face. As the water turned red with his blood, my mother the caretaker crossed the invisible line that kept the sexes apart. There was no thought before she assumed her position at his side as he held his broken nose, just as there was no thought before she promised to love him until the end of time.

Passive Aggressive

Today I had an experience that reminds me why I want a blog. My goal is not to rant about anything, but communication is key in life and I often find I have some difficulty feeling heard. Here, I can put it out to the world and like fishing, see what kind of response I get.

So, the Health Center at Lane (the community college) is located in the basement of a building I have never been in before. It opens at 8:15b every day except Thursday, and naturally, today is Thursday. A small group started to form at 9:30, the time I arrived, and the place opens at 10. There were maybe 6 people total, and I was about second or third. When the woman in scrubs opened the door at exactly 10, all of the people waiting filed in with no regard for how long anyone was waiting.

In my typical assertive but not aggressive manor, I announce that there is, in fact, a line and we had been waiting about a half hour so we should assemble accordingly. A young (half my age at least) thin, (half my size at least) girl spoke up about the situation: "All I need is to have my TB test read". This girl would not make eye contact with me as she spoke. She wanted to engage, or discuss what was happening, but only to get her point across (I'm still not sure what her point was) and without regard for anyone else there. Her words directed towards me were basically "stop talking to me".

As I attempted to explain to her that I was not angry, I was merely suggesting that we go up to the check-in desk in the order we arrived, she refused to acknowledge that she was talking to me. She looked to her right, avoiding my face at all costs, and belligerently refused to accept my explanation for my suggestion to file into the office in order of arrival.

As a result of this interaction, I realized that I often find myself in situations like this. I have something to say, and it comes across as defiant or aggressive.

Everyone is in their own bubble. For some, there are no other bubbles in the world--only their own.

When it was my turn to talk to the person behind the desk, I suggested that the needs of this young woman seemed infinitely more important than the needs of anyone else in this group, and I offered her my spot in line. She walked up to the receptionist and never did make eye contact  with me.

Maybe she needs a sandwich in her life; being that thin looks like it hurts. I'm glad that it's not common practice around here to carry a gun. I have a feeling people get shot over little things like this...

About Me

This is a gift; thank you to the blogger-gods, for a place to post my nonsense. I call myself a writer, so I should probably put it out there and see what happens. At worst, I am talking to myself. And at best, some conversation somewhere mentions "Team Ailene". 

I am entering a national essay contest through Lane Community College and the topic is

Education Not Incarceration. I know a little bit about both. OK. A lot about both.  I got a transfer degree at the community college and now I go to Portland State University. My goal is a PhD or an EdD in some kind of Social Science area like prison reform. I want to work with post-prison populations or something like that.

What inspired me to follow this career path was the two years I did in prison on drug related charges. While I was in there, I was a GED tutor. I currently work as a tutor at school, and I  love it. I also love cars. So, three days a week I work at the Northwest Auto Auction and I love that job too. I like to buy cars on craigslist and sell them. And I also picture someday owning a car lot or something like that. 

I  love my kids. They are each little aspects of me and sometimes that's not good. Why did they get the bad parts of me and not just the good? They're probably equal parts good and bad qualities of me. My girls are 19 and 17 and the boy is 9.

My friend thought I was going to blog about cooking. I do love to cook, but not enough to write about it all the time. I think what I'll blog about is mostly what's going on at Team Ailene. It is interesting, at least as much as most of what's on TV. Our lives are our careers. It's hard work being me, but I'm doing things I feel good about and following my passions.