Memories
At my grandmother's funeral in New York, and then at the memorial service we held locally at my parents' synagogue, I shared some of my favorite memories of her. Here are the two best; I think they beautifully capture both my grandmother's fabulousness and the wonderful relationship she and I shared.
1. From ages 13 to 15, I was something of a punk rocker. At 14, I sported a lovely little burgundy mohawk. I wore bizarre, mostly black clothing, dozens of rubber o-ring bracelets interspersed with rhinestone bangles, combat boots, a diaper pin through two piercings in one earlobe, and rather bizarre makeup. It was the mid-80s. You get the picture.
This story must have taken place in 1985, my sophomore year in high school. It was the first day of Rosh Hashana, and my grandmother was in town for the holiday (as she was almost every year, from my early childhood through 2004). My father and I were chanting the Haftarah portion together, in Hebrew, before the whole congregation. I was wearing some sort of oversized blouse, a wide metal-studded belt, a great deal of strange jewelry, a long black skirt slight high on either thigh, fishnet stockings, and boots. And the mohawk.
My grandmother, for some reason, was standing in the back of the sanctuary while I was chanting. A woman about her age was standing near her. She approached my grandma and said, "isn't that your granddaughter?" When my grandma replied that it was, the other lady said, "does it concern you that she's dressed so strangely?"
My grandmother gave her a whithering look, and said, "she's standing on the bimah chanting the Haftarah. What's to be concerned about?"
2. I spent the 1990-1991 school year in Strasbourg, France. At some point during the year, a friendship with a guy from my college began to take on a long-distance air of something . . . more. His letters were becoming increasingly amorous, and at one point he wrote that we were perfect for each other, perhaps even destined to marry. Not long after I received this disconcerting declaration, my grandmother came to visit me in France. One night, as we sat in a lovely cafe together, I told her about the boy and his letter.
My grandmother listened, then asked me, "do you want to marry him?" I sputtered, reminding her that I was only 20 years old and had no intention of marrying anyone just then. My grandmother declared, "well, if you think you want to marry him, you better sleep with him first!"
