keke said...
Hello Nana
Feminism gave us the chance to write our own rules about who we are and who we will be. It is fun to see that that extends to nanahood. I have no children yet and struggle to see how I will fit them into my current busy life. But what makes me think I must have children one day? The thought of growing old without them. So happy to see that it doesn't stop with having children and that you get a whole new chance to explore and enjoy when your children finally get around to having children. Much love to you and special nuzzle and kiss for Cole.
3/29/2007 5:39 PM
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Cole and Me--Seeking in Celebration
The Arrival
Cole presents himself, and I hear his cry. I watch Sarah gaze at him as she says: “You’ve done it.” and then after a brief pause “We’ve done it.” Cole my grandson is here, a miracle it seems. I watch him closely from this beginning, getting to know him moment-by-moment. He is complete at the start. Everything from here on in is just an extension of who he is on arrival.
I, on the other hand, am unsure about who I am as I hold him. I will be called Nana, a familiar name attached to my mother's mother, a woman whom I loved dearly as a child. She had a round face with wrinkled skin, soft to the touch. Her hair was frizzy grey, curled each week at the beauty parlor just up the street from her apartment in Astoria. Her body had little form and moved slowly, but she generously reached out her arms and gathered me up onto her ample lap. Sitting there, I played with the skin on her upper arms that drooped and felt like dough. We were comfortable just being together. She knew me right off, and I didn’t need to know more about her than her familiar smell, watchful eyes, and predictable dinners filled with favorite foods of my childhood. Only now do I wonder what she was thinking. At the time, she never said, and I never asked.
I knew from childhood that one day I would assume the titles "wife" and "mother", but I never imagined that I would become Nana. In my mind’s eye, I am still the young girl who lay on the dock by the river naming the clouds. Like her, I wake up each morning with energy and desire to get busy for the day. I rarely sit still and when I do, I often plan what is next. Yet, unlike with my own children who I strapped to my back taking them out into the world with me, this new being calls me to sit still. The few times I have had with him I feel quiet and not in a hurry. Yet, the unexpectedness of who we are to one another puzzles me.
This musing reminds me of the day in our garden when Ron, my first husband paralyzed by ALS, asked me to look with him at a tomato plant growing in our garden. Each day he sat out on our deck in his wheelchair and watched it grow. My runnings about often kept us apart, and he urged me to sit with him. Once or twice when he asked, I took a breath, held his hand and together we watched the little plant with its two small tomatoes. It was a moment of peace for us, a rare moment. I wonder if watching Cole is like watching the tomato plants.
In searching my memory for more stories about grand mothering I remember stories of my father’s mother who died not long before I was born. I was named for her, but I knew little about her, except that my father spoke of her kindness and her talent for baking pastries, which he claimed were unequaled. My Nana was lovable and cooked a mean brisket of beef that I still try to copy, but she was timid. She and my grandfather had been together since she was a young girl. They were very close, and growing up I felt their love for one another. Each morning Nana laid out my grandfather’s clothes, and every evening she waited by the window of their street-floor apartment to see him return. He was her life, and then he died. For seven long years she waited to join him. She was so frightened and unhappy that she couldn't sleep, but she was too afraid to turn on a light, so she kept the refrigerator door ajar in order to see her way around her apartment. Occasionally she brightened, especially as she held my daughter on her lap, but it was only for a moment.
Remembering how she had been before my grandfather’s death—her pleasure at our arrivals on Sundays, her waiting for us at the window with the table set and filled with our favorite foods—I had wondered how she had disappeared with my grandfather. I knew that my images of her fear and dependence could not help me become what I want to be -- a feminist grandmother. Sarah complains when I use this term. “Mom,” she asks with irritation, “why do you have to be a feminist grandmother? Why won’t just grandmother do?” But it doesn’t.
When I reach further back into my family history, I discover more about my great-grandmother Bertha on my mother’s side of the family. The stories I heard portrayed her as respected and feared, especially by her sons-in-law. A portrait of her, painted late in her life by my great-uncle, went from family home to family home, and it was always given a central place of honor from living room to living room. In the painting, great-grandma Bertha’s grey hair is swept up and back. She is elegant in a black silk dress with a string of pearls around her neck and a cameo pin at her neckline. Her face is quiet and impassive, expressing confidence about her capacity to manage life. At the time this portrait was painted, the family was doing well, and she was revered. My grandmother and great-aunt’s told stories about her strength and elegance. They left out details of the time in which she had had to learn to manage on her own.
I, on the other hand, am unsure about who I am as I hold him. I will be called Nana, a familiar name attached to my mother's mother, a woman whom I loved dearly as a child. She had a round face with wrinkled skin, soft to the touch. Her hair was frizzy grey, curled each week at the beauty parlor just up the street from her apartment in Astoria. Her body had little form and moved slowly, but she generously reached out her arms and gathered me up onto her ample lap. Sitting there, I played with the skin on her upper arms that drooped and felt like dough. We were comfortable just being together. She knew me right off, and I didn’t need to know more about her than her familiar smell, watchful eyes, and predictable dinners filled with favorite foods of my childhood. Only now do I wonder what she was thinking. At the time, she never said, and I never asked.
I knew from childhood that one day I would assume the titles "wife" and "mother", but I never imagined that I would become Nana. In my mind’s eye, I am still the young girl who lay on the dock by the river naming the clouds. Like her, I wake up each morning with energy and desire to get busy for the day. I rarely sit still and when I do, I often plan what is next. Yet, unlike with my own children who I strapped to my back taking them out into the world with me, this new being calls me to sit still. The few times I have had with him I feel quiet and not in a hurry. Yet, the unexpectedness of who we are to one another puzzles me.
This musing reminds me of the day in our garden when Ron, my first husband paralyzed by ALS, asked me to look with him at a tomato plant growing in our garden. Each day he sat out on our deck in his wheelchair and watched it grow. My runnings about often kept us apart, and he urged me to sit with him. Once or twice when he asked, I took a breath, held his hand and together we watched the little plant with its two small tomatoes. It was a moment of peace for us, a rare moment. I wonder if watching Cole is like watching the tomato plants.
In searching my memory for more stories about grand mothering I remember stories of my father’s mother who died not long before I was born. I was named for her, but I knew little about her, except that my father spoke of her kindness and her talent for baking pastries, which he claimed were unequaled. My Nana was lovable and cooked a mean brisket of beef that I still try to copy, but she was timid. She and my grandfather had been together since she was a young girl. They were very close, and growing up I felt their love for one another. Each morning Nana laid out my grandfather’s clothes, and every evening she waited by the window of their street-floor apartment to see him return. He was her life, and then he died. For seven long years she waited to join him. She was so frightened and unhappy that she couldn't sleep, but she was too afraid to turn on a light, so she kept the refrigerator door ajar in order to see her way around her apartment. Occasionally she brightened, especially as she held my daughter on her lap, but it was only for a moment.
Remembering how she had been before my grandfather’s death—her pleasure at our arrivals on Sundays, her waiting for us at the window with the table set and filled with our favorite foods—I had wondered how she had disappeared with my grandfather. I knew that my images of her fear and dependence could not help me become what I want to be -- a feminist grandmother. Sarah complains when I use this term. “Mom,” she asks with irritation, “why do you have to be a feminist grandmother? Why won’t just grandmother do?” But it doesn’t.
When I reach further back into my family history, I discover more about my great-grandmother Bertha on my mother’s side of the family. The stories I heard portrayed her as respected and feared, especially by her sons-in-law. A portrait of her, painted late in her life by my great-uncle, went from family home to family home, and it was always given a central place of honor from living room to living room. In the painting, great-grandma Bertha’s grey hair is swept up and back. She is elegant in a black silk dress with a string of pearls around her neck and a cameo pin at her neckline. Her face is quiet and impassive, expressing confidence about her capacity to manage life. At the time this portrait was painted, the family was doing well, and she was revered. My grandmother and great-aunt’s told stories about her strength and elegance. They left out details of the time in which she had had to learn to manage on her own.
I found a photograph of Bertha walking on the boardwalk in Atlantic City beside my mother who was pushing my sister in a baby carriage. Bertha is holding her strong arms tightly in front of her, a robust and formidable woman, looking sternly into the camera. Using this picture, I made a sculpture of her head, with her seal hat at a jaunty angle and her coat collar high around her neck, giving her a regal air. I tried to embody her vitality and sturdiness. This sculpture sits on my desk, watching over me and reminding me of my capability to face adversity and not to expect someone else to take care of me.
A powerful image of a matriarch who might inspire me, but still not the right model for me as Nana. So how does a 70’s feminist turn herself into a Nana? I don’t want to be relegated to predictable Sunday suppers, but what do I want? The other day when Cole was fussing, I walked with him up a hill to a park nearby. I liked the feeling of just me and him, out together heading off on a walk. I wasn’t sure exactly where we would end up. Along the way I told him about the things that were on my mind. For a while he cooed and made sounds, and then I realized he was fast asleep, and I just kept on walking. I found myself singing as I walked.
My arms grew tired, and I realized that the next time I would have to put him in a stroller or a baby carrier, but I knew that there would be a next time, many next times. Just Cole and I heading out, not certain where we would land, but relaxed and easy with one another and just a little bit excited about what we might find along our way.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
A Reader's Story
A Seeker's Story by Dan
Inspired by the Bob Dylan song "When you're lost in the rain in Juarez, and it's Easter time too," in January of 1970 my college roommates and I drove non-stop from Columbia, Missouri, to Juarez, Mexico, where we spent a week at the Hotel Diamante, drinking continuously. A beer was one peso, or about 12 cents at the California Club. The pesos were the size of silver dollars, and if you changed $20 into pesos your wallet wouldn't close and your pants would sag with all the coins. I've been back 18 times since that first trip.
Mexico was the first place I ever tasted free-range chicken. Having been brought up on processed food, I didn't recognize it, and thought maybe it was goose or turkey. It's the first place I ever saw or smoked a Cuban cigar.
In all my weeks of driving and wandering around, there were some scary incidents and some wonderful ones. I remember camping on the slopes of the Copper Canyon and hearing drumming coming from way down at the bottom. The drumming kept going for hours, getting gradually louder. I thought "the Indians are preparing their attack." Finally, a boy of about 14 showed up. He was hiking to the next town and keeping time with a drum. He had already walked a distance of about 20 miles and was going another 20. He seemed to think there was nothing extraordinary about this. At one point, I found myself sitting on a cliff, looking at sheep grazing thousands of feet below me. There were clouds floating between me and those sheep, and I could hear the tinkling of their bells, so faint they were almost inaudible.
Once I impulsively drove down a sandy road toward some palm trees, and suddenly arrived at a pristine beach. It seemed empty except for an old man in a khaki suit who waved hello. As I walked toward him, I gradually realized when I got closer that he was naked, and evenly tanned a nut brown all over. He said he used to be an alcoholic but had stopped drinking and was now living the natural life. Later, he offered me some un-refrigerated cheese. When I hesitated, he assured me that cheese was alive and needed to be out in the open air. So I ate it. When I awoke in the middle of the night, projectile vomiting, I vowed to add another rule to the book by which I lived my life. "Never accept un-refrigerated cheese from a naked alcoholic in Mexico." To this day, I've lived by that rule.
Finally, on our last night there, we decided to get dressed, go into town and eat a real meal. We sat at a little outdoor restaurant on the beach and found they only served one thing, fish. I actually saw the fisherman pull the fishing boat up onto the sand and hand the cook my meal. I think the bill came to $2, including beer.
Since the financial crises of the early '90s, the $2 meal has gone the way of the nearly extinct California Condor. On my travels in Mexico, I saw one of those condors. It was lying in the middle of the highway in a remote part of Northern Mexico, and it's wing tips stretched way off the pavement and into the mesquite. It was like coming upon the Japanese monster bird "Rodan", asleep on a narrow desert highway. As I approached, the giant bird flapped those enormous wings and, seemingly in slow motion, took flight.
That's one of the reasons I keep going back. Because unexpected things always seem to happen every time I go to Mexico.
Inspired by the Bob Dylan song "When you're lost in the rain in Juarez, and it's Easter time too," in January of 1970 my college roommates and I drove non-stop from Columbia, Missouri, to Juarez, Mexico, where we spent a week at the Hotel Diamante, drinking continuously. A beer was one peso, or about 12 cents at the California Club. The pesos were the size of silver dollars, and if you changed $20 into pesos your wallet wouldn't close and your pants would sag with all the coins. I've been back 18 times since that first trip.
Mexico was the first place I ever tasted free-range chicken. Having been brought up on processed food, I didn't recognize it, and thought maybe it was goose or turkey. It's the first place I ever saw or smoked a Cuban cigar.
In all my weeks of driving and wandering around, there were some scary incidents and some wonderful ones. I remember camping on the slopes of the Copper Canyon and hearing drumming coming from way down at the bottom. The drumming kept going for hours, getting gradually louder. I thought "the Indians are preparing their attack." Finally, a boy of about 14 showed up. He was hiking to the next town and keeping time with a drum. He had already walked a distance of about 20 miles and was going another 20. He seemed to think there was nothing extraordinary about this. At one point, I found myself sitting on a cliff, looking at sheep grazing thousands of feet below me. There were clouds floating between me and those sheep, and I could hear the tinkling of their bells, so faint they were almost inaudible.
Once I impulsively drove down a sandy road toward some palm trees, and suddenly arrived at a pristine beach. It seemed empty except for an old man in a khaki suit who waved hello. As I walked toward him, I gradually realized when I got closer that he was naked, and evenly tanned a nut brown all over. He said he used to be an alcoholic but had stopped drinking and was now living the natural life. Later, he offered me some un-refrigerated cheese. When I hesitated, he assured me that cheese was alive and needed to be out in the open air. So I ate it. When I awoke in the middle of the night, projectile vomiting, I vowed to add another rule to the book by which I lived my life. "Never accept un-refrigerated cheese from a naked alcoholic in Mexico." To this day, I've lived by that rule.
Finally, on our last night there, we decided to get dressed, go into town and eat a real meal. We sat at a little outdoor restaurant on the beach and found they only served one thing, fish. I actually saw the fisherman pull the fishing boat up onto the sand and hand the cook my meal. I think the bill came to $2, including beer.
Since the financial crises of the early '90s, the $2 meal has gone the way of the nearly extinct California Condor. On my travels in Mexico, I saw one of those condors. It was lying in the middle of the highway in a remote part of Northern Mexico, and it's wing tips stretched way off the pavement and into the mesquite. It was like coming upon the Japanese monster bird "Rodan", asleep on a narrow desert highway. As I approached, the giant bird flapped those enormous wings and, seemingly in slow motion, took flight.
That's one of the reasons I keep going back. Because unexpected things always seem to happen every time I go to Mexico.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Reflection on Seekers: My Story
Ellen's Story – Conquering fear
The stories of the women I interviewed provided me with a mirror that reflected back on my story and led me to re-write it for survivial. I had always been afraid yet Eva and Joan -- the Seekers -- reminded me of the ways that I stood up against fear.
As a child when I was afraid of the dark, which happened often, my parents would stay with me through the night never gently letting me know that I did not need to be afraid. I took this fear with me as I grew up and it paralyzed when my husband Ron became ill and ultimately died. Unlike me , my daughters Caitlin and Sarah responded to their father’s illness by developing their physical and survival skills. Both of them backpacked and hiked. They became raft guides and learned to save boats and passengers when a river unexpectedly turned them over. The two times I went with them, I fell overboard, unable to keep my balance. One of those times I remember hearing Caitlin yell, “Sarah you get the boat, and I’ll get Mom.” I wondered what would have happened to me if I didn’t have two daughters to save me.
Caitlin hiked in Siberia as part of an exchange program with Russian and U.S. youths. She went to British Columbia to write a travel guide and explored Indonesia on her own. Sarah, alone in the house with a nurse who didn’t know what to do when Ron’s alarms went off, saved her father’s life by reconnecting his tubes to the ventilator. At sixteen, as a junior lifeguard, she saw a small boy fall into the pool. She jumped into the water, pulled him out, and gave him CPR while the other senior lifeguard stood by the side of the pool frozen in fear. My daughters went out into the world to learn how to respond to danger. At fifty, I had to learn what they learned as teenagers.
When I was too depressed to make any decisions, I made a rule that if anyone asked me to do something I had to say “yes.” It was because of this rule that I found myself on my way to Katmandu to hike in the Himalayas with a small group of trekkers. Ron had been an ardent hiker. Before he died he told me that his only regret was that he had not spent more time in the mountains. My fears had gotten in his way. When asked to go on the trek to Nepal I said “yes,” thinking how much Ron would have wanted to go. I took the trek in homage to him. I was still afraid, but now with everything lost my fear didn’t seem to matter.
We were a group of seven. I only knew one other hiker well. We had two leaders, a handsome American named Jock and a flamboyant Nepali named Gumbu. They were our leaders for a twenty-two day hike to see the great mountains Jannu and Katchenjanga on the eastern border between Nepal and Sikkim, a route recently opened to foreign visitors. I shared a tent with a young woman named Kathleen who had a gleeful smile and deep laugh. She and I became the naughty kids on the trek with our messy tent and slow pace, but we grew close and helped each other make it up and back.
On our first day in Katmandu, we went to Pashupati, the Hindu Temple of the dying. We looked at the Temple from across the river, watching family members pray over their dying loved ones. Although sad, it felt comforting as I realized that I was not the only one in the world who was grieving.
The next day we took two small planes to get to Sukatar where the trek began. On our second day of hiking, one of our group had heart problems and had to be rushed back to Katmandu, but the rest of us kept on. The path was narrow and rocky. We walked across thin swinging rope bridges and hung on the side of the path overlooking an abyss where yaks ran down the mountain with no concern for us. Each morning, we awoke to find a Sherpa at the door of our tent with a small bowl of hot water and tea. The hot water was for Kathleen and me to share for washing. We giggled as we decided which part of us we would wash that day. Days for hair washing were particularly hilarious.
We walked for seven hours a day. The beauty around us was indescribable, especially the red rhododendron forests and the jagged mountains covered with snow. One afternoon I looked across at a peak on the other side of a ridge. I saw our guide Gumbu running along the path with his long white scarf blowing in the breeze. I felt as if I was being transported away from my grief. I had the sense that, as hard as it was to keep climbing, if I made it up the mountain and back I would survive, but I wasn’t sure that I would make it.
In the middle of the night, at 13,000 feet I woke up gasping for air. Kathleen went and found Jock who gave me altitude medicine, which worked to ease my breathing but left me dragging my way up the path one slow step at a time. Finally, we made it to our last camp near the base of Katchenjanga. We were above 16,000 feet. Once we turned back I knew that I would make it back down. I rarely had felt Ron’s presence since his death, but the day we began our descent I knew that he was with me. I was infused with love for him, for myself, and for life. I was ready to face whatever was next. I learned that to be a seeker I had to take on challenges even when I was afraid and to accept events over which I had no control. I am no longer afraid of the dark.
The stories of the women I interviewed provided me with a mirror that reflected back on my story and led me to re-write it for survivial. I had always been afraid yet Eva and Joan -- the Seekers -- reminded me of the ways that I stood up against fear.
As a child when I was afraid of the dark, which happened often, my parents would stay with me through the night never gently letting me know that I did not need to be afraid. I took this fear with me as I grew up and it paralyzed when my husband Ron became ill and ultimately died. Unlike me , my daughters Caitlin and Sarah responded to their father’s illness by developing their physical and survival skills. Both of them backpacked and hiked. They became raft guides and learned to save boats and passengers when a river unexpectedly turned them over. The two times I went with them, I fell overboard, unable to keep my balance. One of those times I remember hearing Caitlin yell, “Sarah you get the boat, and I’ll get Mom.” I wondered what would have happened to me if I didn’t have two daughters to save me.
Caitlin hiked in Siberia as part of an exchange program with Russian and U.S. youths. She went to British Columbia to write a travel guide and explored Indonesia on her own. Sarah, alone in the house with a nurse who didn’t know what to do when Ron’s alarms went off, saved her father’s life by reconnecting his tubes to the ventilator. At sixteen, as a junior lifeguard, she saw a small boy fall into the pool. She jumped into the water, pulled him out, and gave him CPR while the other senior lifeguard stood by the side of the pool frozen in fear. My daughters went out into the world to learn how to respond to danger. At fifty, I had to learn what they learned as teenagers.
When I was too depressed to make any decisions, I made a rule that if anyone asked me to do something I had to say “yes.” It was because of this rule that I found myself on my way to Katmandu to hike in the Himalayas with a small group of trekkers. Ron had been an ardent hiker. Before he died he told me that his only regret was that he had not spent more time in the mountains. My fears had gotten in his way. When asked to go on the trek to Nepal I said “yes,” thinking how much Ron would have wanted to go. I took the trek in homage to him. I was still afraid, but now with everything lost my fear didn’t seem to matter.
We were a group of seven. I only knew one other hiker well. We had two leaders, a handsome American named Jock and a flamboyant Nepali named Gumbu. They were our leaders for a twenty-two day hike to see the great mountains Jannu and Katchenjanga on the eastern border between Nepal and Sikkim, a route recently opened to foreign visitors. I shared a tent with a young woman named Kathleen who had a gleeful smile and deep laugh. She and I became the naughty kids on the trek with our messy tent and slow pace, but we grew close and helped each other make it up and back.
On our first day in Katmandu, we went to Pashupati, the Hindu Temple of the dying. We looked at the Temple from across the river, watching family members pray over their dying loved ones. Although sad, it felt comforting as I realized that I was not the only one in the world who was grieving.
The next day we took two small planes to get to Sukatar where the trek began. On our second day of hiking, one of our group had heart problems and had to be rushed back to Katmandu, but the rest of us kept on. The path was narrow and rocky. We walked across thin swinging rope bridges and hung on the side of the path overlooking an abyss where yaks ran down the mountain with no concern for us. Each morning, we awoke to find a Sherpa at the door of our tent with a small bowl of hot water and tea. The hot water was for Kathleen and me to share for washing. We giggled as we decided which part of us we would wash that day. Days for hair washing were particularly hilarious.
We walked for seven hours a day. The beauty around us was indescribable, especially the red rhododendron forests and the jagged mountains covered with snow. One afternoon I looked across at a peak on the other side of a ridge. I saw our guide Gumbu running along the path with his long white scarf blowing in the breeze. I felt as if I was being transported away from my grief. I had the sense that, as hard as it was to keep climbing, if I made it up the mountain and back I would survive, but I wasn’t sure that I would make it.
In the middle of the night, at 13,000 feet I woke up gasping for air. Kathleen went and found Jock who gave me altitude medicine, which worked to ease my breathing but left me dragging my way up the path one slow step at a time. Finally, we made it to our last camp near the base of Katchenjanga. We were above 16,000 feet. Once we turned back I knew that I would make it back down. I rarely had felt Ron’s presence since his death, but the day we began our descent I knew that he was with me. I was infused with love for him, for myself, and for life. I was ready to face whatever was next. I learned that to be a seeker I had to take on challenges even when I was afraid and to accept events over which I had no control. I am no longer afraid of the dark.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Seekers Acknolwedge Regrets and Remain Open
Eva #4
Eva brings to this period of change the openness and curiosity that she had as a young child, playing outside with Serbian children. Like then, she is now drawn beyond the boundaries of what she already knows. She moves forward and at the same time, she acknowledges regrets about decisions that she would have preferred not to have had to make. Eva spoke to me about how hard it was to leave her work with the immigrant Bosnian community. She said:
“I wish that I had not had to leave my job with the Bosnian community here in the Bay area. It has been painful giving up the work that I was doing with the people in that community. I have a friend who has helped me understand what happened there. She has helped me see that the most important part of my job was to support the Bosnian refugees so that they develop their strengths, and to provide only enough information that would enable them to establish themselves in their new community. I realized that when former clients call now, I help them best by encouraging them in taking action on their own. When people call, I explain to them that I am no longer authorized to help them directly. Instead, I encourage them to rely more on themselves.
“Recently, a woman called me and asked me to call Kaiser Hospital for her because she couldn’t understand the woman on the phone, who was speaking too fast. I told her that I understood how hard that must be for her, but I was sure that she would do better if she called the woman back and asked her to speak more slowly.”
Eva believes in her resourcefulness and in the resourcefulness of others. For her, this has often meant letting go of relationships before she wished to do so. She believes that the art of life is knowing when to stop old relationships and when to start new ones. During this time of lost connections, Eva reaches out to the women in a dream group that she has been part of for five years, and by email she reaches out to her world community of old friends and new acquaintances. Like Joan, another Seeker, she expands her capacity to spend time alone through meditation and her new practice of chi gong.
Eva again:
“ I have begun to practice chi gong. A friend told me that she had joined a chi gong group. Since it was nearby, I went to meet the teachers. There are two teachers from Korea. They teach us to meditate, to learn physical and breathing exercises, and to chant together. I reflect on my situation, and separate from my momentary reactions. It has elements similar to Christianity. It is about unconditional love of your neighbor and about detachment from ego.”
Eva thinks about what it means in this culture to be single, fifty-five and out of work. She knows that her age makes it harder to find a good, well-paying job. Everything costs more, so she needs a reasonable salary. Although she has been here for ten years and has a strong resume, she knows that looking for work at age fifty-five isn’t easy. She is willing to consider possibilities that she has never considered before.
“I think about trying to start a business on my own, but it may be too much. I look at all the different experiences that I have had, but it will take time to know if this is the right choice for me. I am working with a project called the Women’s Program. It is a nonprofit agency for low-income women who want to learn how to run their own small businesses. I am learning new skills, hearing the stories of other women, trying to find out what I might do next. I think in three to six months I will see a clearer path.”
Eva, thrown back on her own resources, remains open to what fate might bring to her door. Although sometimes she dreams of having a life partner, she does not have energy now to spare on anyone who isn’t honest and open in a new relationship. Except for occasionally answering a personal ad for fun, Eva puts herself out into the universe by sending resumes, working with the women at the Women’s Program, speaking with friends, and practicing meditation. She just passed her driving test and has her first driver’s license. She is looking to buy a car. She is heading out and letting the universe know that she is ready for whatever is next.
Eva brings to this period of change the openness and curiosity that she had as a young child, playing outside with Serbian children. Like then, she is now drawn beyond the boundaries of what she already knows. She moves forward and at the same time, she acknowledges regrets about decisions that she would have preferred not to have had to make. Eva spoke to me about how hard it was to leave her work with the immigrant Bosnian community. She said:
“I wish that I had not had to leave my job with the Bosnian community here in the Bay area. It has been painful giving up the work that I was doing with the people in that community. I have a friend who has helped me understand what happened there. She has helped me see that the most important part of my job was to support the Bosnian refugees so that they develop their strengths, and to provide only enough information that would enable them to establish themselves in their new community. I realized that when former clients call now, I help them best by encouraging them in taking action on their own. When people call, I explain to them that I am no longer authorized to help them directly. Instead, I encourage them to rely more on themselves.
“Recently, a woman called me and asked me to call Kaiser Hospital for her because she couldn’t understand the woman on the phone, who was speaking too fast. I told her that I understood how hard that must be for her, but I was sure that she would do better if she called the woman back and asked her to speak more slowly.”
Eva believes in her resourcefulness and in the resourcefulness of others. For her, this has often meant letting go of relationships before she wished to do so. She believes that the art of life is knowing when to stop old relationships and when to start new ones. During this time of lost connections, Eva reaches out to the women in a dream group that she has been part of for five years, and by email she reaches out to her world community of old friends and new acquaintances. Like Joan, another Seeker, she expands her capacity to spend time alone through meditation and her new practice of chi gong.
Eva again:
“ I have begun to practice chi gong. A friend told me that she had joined a chi gong group. Since it was nearby, I went to meet the teachers. There are two teachers from Korea. They teach us to meditate, to learn physical and breathing exercises, and to chant together. I reflect on my situation, and separate from my momentary reactions. It has elements similar to Christianity. It is about unconditional love of your neighbor and about detachment from ego.”
Eva thinks about what it means in this culture to be single, fifty-five and out of work. She knows that her age makes it harder to find a good, well-paying job. Everything costs more, so she needs a reasonable salary. Although she has been here for ten years and has a strong resume, she knows that looking for work at age fifty-five isn’t easy. She is willing to consider possibilities that she has never considered before.
“I think about trying to start a business on my own, but it may be too much. I look at all the different experiences that I have had, but it will take time to know if this is the right choice for me. I am working with a project called the Women’s Program. It is a nonprofit agency for low-income women who want to learn how to run their own small businesses. I am learning new skills, hearing the stories of other women, trying to find out what I might do next. I think in three to six months I will see a clearer path.”
Eva, thrown back on her own resources, remains open to what fate might bring to her door. Although sometimes she dreams of having a life partner, she does not have energy now to spare on anyone who isn’t honest and open in a new relationship. Except for occasionally answering a personal ad for fun, Eva puts herself out into the universe by sending resumes, working with the women at the Women’s Program, speaking with friends, and practicing meditation. She just passed her driving test and has her first driver’s license. She is looking to buy a car. She is heading out and letting the universe know that she is ready for whatever is next.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Seekers Trust in Themselves
Eva #3 - A Seeker's Story (See below for more about Eva)
Eva stayed in Berlin for thirteen years until political events again thrust her out into unknown circumstances. In 1990, Eva divorced Pedrag, and in 1991 the situation in Yugoslavia deteriorated, when war began among different ethnic factions. Fifteen thousand Yugoslav refugees came to Berlin, and the situation at the refugee center where Eva worked changed. The needs of such a large number of refugees were overwhelming.
In 1989, just before these events, the Berlin wall came down. Eva was at home and watched what was happening on TV. For her and other immigrants, this wasn’t a moment of celebration. Instead these hordes of East Germans frightened the immigrants in Berlin who were already struggling to make ends meet. Eva, as an immigrant herself, didn’t know where things were headed as the streets filled with East Germans, all wanting a better life. She didn’t know who these people were, or if what they wanted would unbalance her fragile life. As the town overflowed with thousands of people, even getting to work became difficult and unpredictable as people shoved and pushed their way onto overcrowded buses and trains.
“At first I didn’t know what to do,” said Eva. “This situation in Berlin, for the next two years, was very unstable, especially for anyone who wasn’t German. It was almost impossible during those years to get a job if you were not German, so helping the new Yugoslav immigrants became more difficult. The first concern of the government was to get jobs for the East Germans. Radical anti-immigrant groups from East Germany started to come into Berlin and crowd the streets. I didn’t like to see this chaos. As the situation changed, I again felt vulnerable. When Yugoslavia disintegrated into civil war, things for me just got worse. I felt as if I couldn’t stay, I couldn’t go back, and I didn’t know how to go forward.
“A number of events led me to leave Berlin and to come to the United States. One of my co-workers at the Yugoslav center, a Macedonian Turk, who had been very helpful when I first began my job, told me that the war in Yugoslavia made it impossible for us to remain friends. For him, the ethnic clashes in Yugoslavia created a breach between us, and although I didn’t feel any differently toward him, he believed that our separate histories meant we could no longer be friends. He told me that I could never return to Yugoslavia because so many people had died, and the world I knew existed no longer. Now that Tito had died, he said, I had no country. As he said these things to me, it hit me. I had left Yugoslavia, but I had never closed that door. As I understood the narrow thinking of my friend, I realized that he was right—I could never go back.
“During this time, I met a Hungarian woman who lived in California. She described to me her life in San Francisco, and we struck up a friendship. She told me that if I ever came to the United States, I should look her up. After she left Berlin, I began to dream about finding a way to go to the U.S.
“I had another experience that pointed me in this direction. I went to a wedding of two young friends from South America. They had no money, so a group of us cooked them a wedding dinner. I made a goulash, and another woman made the wedding cake. With nothing, the young bride made decorations for the wedding feast. It was a warm and loving event, and it made me realize that I didn’t have this kind of simple joy in my life.
It was at this point that Eva took herself away from everything familiar and came to the U.S. She said:
“When I found myself alone in the U.S., I called the Hungarian woman I had met in Berlin. She helped me find an apartment, but then left me on my own since she really had no time for me. One of my first cultural shocks was to find out that some Americans appear friendly but don’t really mean what they say. The friendship we had started in Berlin had little substance in San Francisco. Once again I was alone, but as has often been the case, I soon met someone who helped me. The apartment I rented had belonged to a lesbian couple who had broken up and had left their furniture behind. One of these women returned to the apartment to find some of her things. I invited her in and asked her to stay for a cup of tea. This first conversation lead to many more and she became a friend, a real friend. Through her, I met an immigration attorney who helped me establish myself here. It is often this way for me. When I think I have reached a dead end, someone or something appears that leads me to whatever is next.
“It was a scary time. I had no job. I knew almost no one. I had to keep going no matter what, since there was no turning back. Deep down, I wasn’t sure that anyone would help me. I looked around for a community to join and found a Presbyterian church. When I went to meet the pastor, he asked me what I wanted from the church I told him that I wanted nothing, except to join, and to offer my skills to the community. I told him that I was making enough money from baby-sitting, and I had an attorney helping me with my visa, but what I wanted was to be in a community. I said to him. ‘I teach. I cook. What does the church need?’ He took me at my word, and found ways for me to use my skills in the church for the next five years. I taught Christian education. I organized social activities, just as I had done all my life.”
Eva’s generous spirit radiates from her and draws others to her, especially in moments of her greatest isolation. She believes that it can‘t be otherwise. Reaching out nourishes her spirit, provides for others and strengthens her ability to find ways to take care of herself. She does all this while carrying her grief and loss from giving up home, family, and country. She often finds herself alone.
When I asked her about this she said, “I sometimes feel grief, but mainly when I am alone.” She reached for a tissue. Just mentioning the grief connected her to her many losses, disappointments, and separations. Her tears flowed. She said that she feels pain, but does not assume that it is about her. It does not stick to her, or to her sense of worth.
Eva explained, “It is very simple. Through the years, I have come realize that if I am rejected, it really doesn’t involve me. It is more about other peoples’ perceptions, projections, expectations, or whatever. It is how the world is set up. I may be perceived by others as good or bad, but that isn’t up to me. The way to deal with the possibility of rejection or judgment is for me to keep my mind clear and to talk to other people about the dangers of an environment in which we judge and reject each other.
“You have to step out of a situation to realize that it is mostly not about you. It never was just about you. If someone who has been my friend or lover turns away, it is about things that are much more complex than whether I am good or bad. Most people have others who depend on them, as in a family, and then these people protect each other. I live alone, and instead of a family, I create a community that depends on me, and that I depend upon. I am free to change this community when the situation requires me to do so. We live in a world that is fragmented, where families are fragmented, where change is often necessary. I know that there is no guarantee that I can count on the protection of others. Security does not come from holding on, it comes from knowing that you can’t count on protection, and therefore you take care of yourself as best you can, mostly by reaching out to others. I generate a group of friends who give me some sense of security. Right now, I am in a period of insecurity. I have lost my job, and I am on my own. So I turn to friends and new experiences to help me through.”
Remember to make comments and send your stories. If you want to contact me directly email me at: Ellen@Berkleyfamilytherapy.com
Eva stayed in Berlin for thirteen years until political events again thrust her out into unknown circumstances. In 1990, Eva divorced Pedrag, and in 1991 the situation in Yugoslavia deteriorated, when war began among different ethnic factions. Fifteen thousand Yugoslav refugees came to Berlin, and the situation at the refugee center where Eva worked changed. The needs of such a large number of refugees were overwhelming.
In 1989, just before these events, the Berlin wall came down. Eva was at home and watched what was happening on TV. For her and other immigrants, this wasn’t a moment of celebration. Instead these hordes of East Germans frightened the immigrants in Berlin who were already struggling to make ends meet. Eva, as an immigrant herself, didn’t know where things were headed as the streets filled with East Germans, all wanting a better life. She didn’t know who these people were, or if what they wanted would unbalance her fragile life. As the town overflowed with thousands of people, even getting to work became difficult and unpredictable as people shoved and pushed their way onto overcrowded buses and trains.
“At first I didn’t know what to do,” said Eva. “This situation in Berlin, for the next two years, was very unstable, especially for anyone who wasn’t German. It was almost impossible during those years to get a job if you were not German, so helping the new Yugoslav immigrants became more difficult. The first concern of the government was to get jobs for the East Germans. Radical anti-immigrant groups from East Germany started to come into Berlin and crowd the streets. I didn’t like to see this chaos. As the situation changed, I again felt vulnerable. When Yugoslavia disintegrated into civil war, things for me just got worse. I felt as if I couldn’t stay, I couldn’t go back, and I didn’t know how to go forward.
“A number of events led me to leave Berlin and to come to the United States. One of my co-workers at the Yugoslav center, a Macedonian Turk, who had been very helpful when I first began my job, told me that the war in Yugoslavia made it impossible for us to remain friends. For him, the ethnic clashes in Yugoslavia created a breach between us, and although I didn’t feel any differently toward him, he believed that our separate histories meant we could no longer be friends. He told me that I could never return to Yugoslavia because so many people had died, and the world I knew existed no longer. Now that Tito had died, he said, I had no country. As he said these things to me, it hit me. I had left Yugoslavia, but I had never closed that door. As I understood the narrow thinking of my friend, I realized that he was right—I could never go back.
“During this time, I met a Hungarian woman who lived in California. She described to me her life in San Francisco, and we struck up a friendship. She told me that if I ever came to the United States, I should look her up. After she left Berlin, I began to dream about finding a way to go to the U.S.
“I had another experience that pointed me in this direction. I went to a wedding of two young friends from South America. They had no money, so a group of us cooked them a wedding dinner. I made a goulash, and another woman made the wedding cake. With nothing, the young bride made decorations for the wedding feast. It was a warm and loving event, and it made me realize that I didn’t have this kind of simple joy in my life.
It was at this point that Eva took herself away from everything familiar and came to the U.S. She said:
“When I found myself alone in the U.S., I called the Hungarian woman I had met in Berlin. She helped me find an apartment, but then left me on my own since she really had no time for me. One of my first cultural shocks was to find out that some Americans appear friendly but don’t really mean what they say. The friendship we had started in Berlin had little substance in San Francisco. Once again I was alone, but as has often been the case, I soon met someone who helped me. The apartment I rented had belonged to a lesbian couple who had broken up and had left their furniture behind. One of these women returned to the apartment to find some of her things. I invited her in and asked her to stay for a cup of tea. This first conversation lead to many more and she became a friend, a real friend. Through her, I met an immigration attorney who helped me establish myself here. It is often this way for me. When I think I have reached a dead end, someone or something appears that leads me to whatever is next.
“It was a scary time. I had no job. I knew almost no one. I had to keep going no matter what, since there was no turning back. Deep down, I wasn’t sure that anyone would help me. I looked around for a community to join and found a Presbyterian church. When I went to meet the pastor, he asked me what I wanted from the church I told him that I wanted nothing, except to join, and to offer my skills to the community. I told him that I was making enough money from baby-sitting, and I had an attorney helping me with my visa, but what I wanted was to be in a community. I said to him. ‘I teach. I cook. What does the church need?’ He took me at my word, and found ways for me to use my skills in the church for the next five years. I taught Christian education. I organized social activities, just as I had done all my life.”
Eva’s generous spirit radiates from her and draws others to her, especially in moments of her greatest isolation. She believes that it can‘t be otherwise. Reaching out nourishes her spirit, provides for others and strengthens her ability to find ways to take care of herself. She does all this while carrying her grief and loss from giving up home, family, and country. She often finds herself alone.
When I asked her about this she said, “I sometimes feel grief, but mainly when I am alone.” She reached for a tissue. Just mentioning the grief connected her to her many losses, disappointments, and separations. Her tears flowed. She said that she feels pain, but does not assume that it is about her. It does not stick to her, or to her sense of worth.
Eva explained, “It is very simple. Through the years, I have come realize that if I am rejected, it really doesn’t involve me. It is more about other peoples’ perceptions, projections, expectations, or whatever. It is how the world is set up. I may be perceived by others as good or bad, but that isn’t up to me. The way to deal with the possibility of rejection or judgment is for me to keep my mind clear and to talk to other people about the dangers of an environment in which we judge and reject each other.
“You have to step out of a situation to realize that it is mostly not about you. It never was just about you. If someone who has been my friend or lover turns away, it is about things that are much more complex than whether I am good or bad. Most people have others who depend on them, as in a family, and then these people protect each other. I live alone, and instead of a family, I create a community that depends on me, and that I depend upon. I am free to change this community when the situation requires me to do so. We live in a world that is fragmented, where families are fragmented, where change is often necessary. I know that there is no guarantee that I can count on the protection of others. Security does not come from holding on, it comes from knowing that you can’t count on protection, and therefore you take care of yourself as best you can, mostly by reaching out to others. I generate a group of friends who give me some sense of security. Right now, I am in a period of insecurity. I have lost my job, and I am on my own. So I turn to friends and new experiences to help me through.”
Remember to make comments and send your stories. If you want to contact me directly email me at: Ellen@Berkleyfamilytherapy.com
Monday, March 12, 2007
Stories and Legislation: Refugees and Immigrants Speak out
Refugees and Immigrants Share Stories With Congress, Talk About Immigration Legislation
Press Release
Refugee and Immigrant Community Leaders from Over 30 States Share Horror Stories with Congress Call for an End to Immigration Raids and Reject Temporary and Guest Worker ProgramsWASHINGTON, D.C
On Tuesday March 13, the National Network for Immigrant and Refugee Rights (NNIRR) and the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC) will hold a press conference at the Friends Committee on National Legislation (FCNL) at 245 Second St., NE, as part of the "National Days of Advocacy" (available by teleconference). Community leaders, youth, farm-workers, refugees, and domestic workers will share their personal stories and call for fair and just immigration reform. The speakers represent over 200 members of immigrant and refugee communities who will meet Congress this week."We are here to deliver a clear and powerful message to Congress: they must pass a fair and just legalization program that protects the rights of all undocumented immigrant and refugee workers, families and communities, and ends the heinous practice of immigration raids and deportations," declared Catherine Tactaquin, Executive Director of NNIRR. "We reject temporary or guest worker programs that do not reflect the hopes and many contributions of immigrants and their families in the U.S. These programs have only proven to benefit big companies while treating immigrant and refugee workers as cheap, disposable labor."Monami Maulik, a member of the NNIRR delegation added, "Guest worker programs could also trick undocumented immigrant families into being deported in a practice we refer to as Report-to-Deport. Raids and detentions that traumatize our families and shatter our communities must end."Alexis Mazon from Tucson also called for demilitarization of border and immigration control. "Since 1994, over 5,000 migrant dead have been found along the U.S-Mexico border. Militarization has not deterred unauthorized migration and instead caused migrant deaths.", she said."Congress must provide legal options and access to permanent residency and protect the labor rights of all workers, native and foreign-born," Ms. Tactaquin added. "They must expand legal immigration and the reunification of families.
"SPEAKERS ON THE TELECONFERENCE:
Ms. Catherine Tactaquin - Executive Director, National Network for Immigrant & Refugee Rights
Mr. Christian Ramirez - Base Building Coordinator, American Friends Service Committee
Mr. Sotero Cervantes, Former Bracero Worker, Stockton, CA
Ms. Alexis Mazón is a representative of the Derechos Humanos Coalition (DHC). Human Rights Abuses in Border Communities
Mr. Mohamed Traore: The Effects of Immigration Detention and Deportation. Mr. Traore is a resident of Jersey City, New Jersey. His spouse, Aissata Bah, was arrested and detained when the couple appeared for her status adjustment interview.
Monami Maulik is the founder of Desis Rising Up and Moving (DRUM), a New York - based community organization that addresses the impact of immigration policies on the city's South Asian community.
Mr. Singh (alias) of Fairfax, Virginia received asylum in 1999 and worked with AFSC to sue various federal agencies for causing cuts to his Supplemental Security Income (SSI) benefits.
Ms. Cristina Gutierrez is a Mexican mother from Tucson, Arizona who was fired by a child care center after she spoke with her boss about child abuse taking place there. Visuals: Colorful Banners. Panel of Speakers Representing Direct Experiences of Refugees and Immigrants.
***About National Network for Immigrant & Refugee Rights (NNIRR)The National Network for Immigrant & Refugee Rights has been advocating for fair & just immigration reform since the early 1980s. NNIRR represents a diverse grouping of grassroots community organizations throughout the continental United States. NNIRR is a leader in the progressive voice of the immigration rights movement, on border justice, international migrant rights, and popular education for the immigrant rights movement, and is located in Oakland, CA.About the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC)The AFSC is a Quaker organization that includes people of various faiths who are committed to social justice, peace and humanitarian service. Its work is based on the belief in the worth of every person and faith in the power of love to overcome violence and injustice. AFSC supports the rights and dignity of all people regardless of their immigration status. AFSC works to uplift migrant voices and strengthen the migrant-led efforts to advocate for fair and humane national policy.
National Network for Immigrant & Refugee Rights 310 8th Street, Suite 303 Oakland CA 94607
Press Release
Refugee and Immigrant Community Leaders from Over 30 States Share Horror Stories with Congress Call for an End to Immigration Raids and Reject Temporary and Guest Worker ProgramsWASHINGTON, D.C
On Tuesday March 13, the National Network for Immigrant and Refugee Rights (NNIRR) and the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC) will hold a press conference at the Friends Committee on National Legislation (FCNL) at 245 Second St., NE, as part of the "National Days of Advocacy" (available by teleconference). Community leaders, youth, farm-workers, refugees, and domestic workers will share their personal stories and call for fair and just immigration reform. The speakers represent over 200 members of immigrant and refugee communities who will meet Congress this week."We are here to deliver a clear and powerful message to Congress: they must pass a fair and just legalization program that protects the rights of all undocumented immigrant and refugee workers, families and communities, and ends the heinous practice of immigration raids and deportations," declared Catherine Tactaquin, Executive Director of NNIRR. "We reject temporary or guest worker programs that do not reflect the hopes and many contributions of immigrants and their families in the U.S. These programs have only proven to benefit big companies while treating immigrant and refugee workers as cheap, disposable labor."Monami Maulik, a member of the NNIRR delegation added, "Guest worker programs could also trick undocumented immigrant families into being deported in a practice we refer to as Report-to-Deport. Raids and detentions that traumatize our families and shatter our communities must end."Alexis Mazon from Tucson also called for demilitarization of border and immigration control. "Since 1994, over 5,000 migrant dead have been found along the U.S-Mexico border. Militarization has not deterred unauthorized migration and instead caused migrant deaths.", she said."Congress must provide legal options and access to permanent residency and protect the labor rights of all workers, native and foreign-born," Ms. Tactaquin added. "They must expand legal immigration and the reunification of families.
"SPEAKERS ON THE TELECONFERENCE:
Ms. Catherine Tactaquin - Executive Director, National Network for Immigrant & Refugee Rights
Mr. Christian Ramirez - Base Building Coordinator, American Friends Service Committee
Mr. Sotero Cervantes, Former Bracero Worker, Stockton, CA
Ms. Alexis Mazón is a representative of the Derechos Humanos Coalition (DHC). Human Rights Abuses in Border Communities
Mr. Mohamed Traore: The Effects of Immigration Detention and Deportation. Mr. Traore is a resident of Jersey City, New Jersey. His spouse, Aissata Bah, was arrested and detained when the couple appeared for her status adjustment interview.
Monami Maulik is the founder of Desis Rising Up and Moving (DRUM), a New York - based community organization that addresses the impact of immigration policies on the city's South Asian community.
Mr. Singh (alias) of Fairfax, Virginia received asylum in 1999 and worked with AFSC to sue various federal agencies for causing cuts to his Supplemental Security Income (SSI) benefits.
Ms. Cristina Gutierrez is a Mexican mother from Tucson, Arizona who was fired by a child care center after she spoke with her boss about child abuse taking place there. Visuals: Colorful Banners. Panel of Speakers Representing Direct Experiences of Refugees and Immigrants.
***About National Network for Immigrant & Refugee Rights (NNIRR)The National Network for Immigrant & Refugee Rights has been advocating for fair & just immigration reform since the early 1980s. NNIRR represents a diverse grouping of grassroots community organizations throughout the continental United States. NNIRR is a leader in the progressive voice of the immigration rights movement, on border justice, international migrant rights, and popular education for the immigrant rights movement, and is located in Oakland, CA.About the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC)The AFSC is a Quaker organization that includes people of various faiths who are committed to social justice, peace and humanitarian service. Its work is based on the belief in the worth of every person and faith in the power of love to overcome violence and injustice. AFSC supports the rights and dignity of all people regardless of their immigration status. AFSC works to uplift migrant voices and strengthen the migrant-led efforts to advocate for fair and humane national policy.
National Network for Immigrant & Refugee Rights 310 8th Street, Suite 303 Oakland CA 94607
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Seekers Often have no place to land
Eva #2
After finishing university, Eva became a journalist. Life continued to be stressful. Estranged from her family, Eva faced the developing chaotic political situation in Yugoslavia. She said to me in our interview:
“It was during 1975-1978, when I worked on the newspaper, that the Yugoslav government put pressure on Hungarians who lived there. As things became centralized, we all looked over our shoulders. At the paper, I was constantly asked what I was doing and what I was writing about. The newspaper was watched by the government, and the editors responded by questioning what they believed might be ethnic intentions on the part of reporters. More and more, they began to question my work. Paranoia was sweeping the country. Every day new accusations were made by one ethnic group against another. Rumors ran rampant. No one knew what to expect next.
“As a Hungarian, I had to be especially careful and correct about what I wrote. One day, I wrote an article about a local politician that made it to the front page. I was tired the night I wrote the article, and I misspelled the politician’s name. Others had checked the article and missed the error, but I was held responsible for the mistake. This was viewed as an act of political subversion. I was made to write a number of apologies that were published in the paper, sent to the politician and to others concerned about this mistake. It was a small thing, and looking back, I see it as stupid, but at the time it was considered serious by everyone at the paper. In this environment of paranoia, no one was on my side, and all I had done was misspell one name. This was terribly painful to me, because I had felt part of this community.
The editor-in-chief and the other reporters had been my friends, and suddenly I was an outsider. I was a respected reporter, but following this incident, the chief editor said that I could no longer write as a reporter for the newspaper. He said that I could go back to my town and send in articles about local events there, or go to the library and work in the Documentation Office on other peoples’ articles. This was my punishment for one misspelled word. It is hard to explain, but in that environment, I couldn’t speak up on my own behalf, because no one was willing to support me. I decided to stay on and work at the library on research, because I knew I had the right to stay, although living in this poisonous atmosphere was terrible. Colleagues who had placed me in this position felt guilty, and they dealt with their guilt by ignoring me and isolating me further. It was a horrible scene, but I needed to go through it. The only other choice was to return home to provide help in the care of my ill father, but that seemed like a hopeless choice, since my family, like my country, was slowly starting to fall apart.”
Eva told me that she had paid a high price for a small mistake when the editor stopped her writing for the newspaper. She said that it felt as if the editor had “broken the pencil” which held her capacity to write. Only recently has she considered taking up that pencil again. However, she is proud that she was strong enough to refuse to leave before she was ready. Her experience at the newspaper was an example of how circumstances outside her control could escalate quickly and lead to her being ostracized from a group with whom she believed that she had had close ties. She was left looking for a way out of her misery. She said:
“During this time, I met the man I married. He was studying medicine. When he finished his studies, he invited me to return with him to Berlin, where he had been offered a position. I looked at the situation and decided that, just as when I had left my small town there wasn’t anything for me where I was, and that I would have to go on with my life somewhere else.
“I left Yugoslavia in 1979. The day I left, I went by myself on a train after saying good-bye to my parents. They were miserable with my decision, but they knew that they couldn’t change my mind. Although I was proud of my strong will, and I acted as if the choices I made came to me easily, I was disturbed by going so far away, especially as my father’s physical condition had deteriorated.
“As I sat on the train going to Berlin I must admit I felt great relief, relief from pressure. I didn’t know what to expect, but I felt relief. When I got off the train, my husband-to-be Pedrag wasn’t there to meet me. He came an hour late, a bad sign from the beginning. I called his home number and he wasn’t there. I sat at the train station, wondering what to do, when he finally showed up.”
“Pedrag had been born in Belgrade and moved to Germany when he was seven. His family was very mixed. His father was half-Hungarian and half-Austrian. His mother was part Serbian and part Slovenian. Pedrag’s father had been married earlier to a Hungarian woman whom he had divorced when he had an affair with Pedrag’s mother, who was only fifteen years old at the time. Once they married they moved to Belgrade, and then to Stuttgart, where Pedrag grew up in middle-class family who focused their resources and attention on him.
“When Pedrag brought me, a Hungarian woman, to meet his family, his parents resented me from the start. From their point of view, my biggest sin was that I was Hungarian, just like Pedrag’s father’s first wife. Without knowing me, they assumed that I caused trouble. I thought they might be right in some way, perhaps because I had left my family; perhaps because I had lived with their son before marriage in violation of my rejected Catholic upbringing, or perhaps because I was still vulnerable as a result of what had happened to me in Yugoslavia. I believed their criticisms of me might not be wrong, and for a long time I didn’t speak up for myself.”
Alone, Eva lost her sense of herself. Without friends, a family, a social network of colleagues, or a country, she was vulnerable to the prejudices of her in-laws, who didn’t know her. The family never spoke of these criticisms directly to her. Instead, they spoke of them to Pedrag, who was under the influence of his family and didn’t stand up for Eva. He responded to their complaints by telling his parents that she was only in Germany for a six-month visit. When they married, he didn’t tell his parents of their marriage until after a year.
Eva continued, “Once they knew we were married, they started a more active campaign against me. They telephoned every Sunday and spoke to Pedrag for one hour. They refused to speak to me, and gave me the cold shoulder whenever they had the opportunity to see me in person. Every Sunday, they asked Pedrag when we would divorce.
“I tried very hard, but we just had no chance. We separated after only three years, but stayed married for eleven more. After we separated, we stayed together in the same house. It was a strange mixture of friendship and kinship. “I managed during that time by focusing on my work.
When struggling Eva puts her mind to what she can make work. Keep posted for the next episode of her story. Add a story of your own when you had no place to land.
After finishing university, Eva became a journalist. Life continued to be stressful. Estranged from her family, Eva faced the developing chaotic political situation in Yugoslavia. She said to me in our interview:
“It was during 1975-1978, when I worked on the newspaper, that the Yugoslav government put pressure on Hungarians who lived there. As things became centralized, we all looked over our shoulders. At the paper, I was constantly asked what I was doing and what I was writing about. The newspaper was watched by the government, and the editors responded by questioning what they believed might be ethnic intentions on the part of reporters. More and more, they began to question my work. Paranoia was sweeping the country. Every day new accusations were made by one ethnic group against another. Rumors ran rampant. No one knew what to expect next.
“As a Hungarian, I had to be especially careful and correct about what I wrote. One day, I wrote an article about a local politician that made it to the front page. I was tired the night I wrote the article, and I misspelled the politician’s name. Others had checked the article and missed the error, but I was held responsible for the mistake. This was viewed as an act of political subversion. I was made to write a number of apologies that were published in the paper, sent to the politician and to others concerned about this mistake. It was a small thing, and looking back, I see it as stupid, but at the time it was considered serious by everyone at the paper. In this environment of paranoia, no one was on my side, and all I had done was misspell one name. This was terribly painful to me, because I had felt part of this community.
The editor-in-chief and the other reporters had been my friends, and suddenly I was an outsider. I was a respected reporter, but following this incident, the chief editor said that I could no longer write as a reporter for the newspaper. He said that I could go back to my town and send in articles about local events there, or go to the library and work in the Documentation Office on other peoples’ articles. This was my punishment for one misspelled word. It is hard to explain, but in that environment, I couldn’t speak up on my own behalf, because no one was willing to support me. I decided to stay on and work at the library on research, because I knew I had the right to stay, although living in this poisonous atmosphere was terrible. Colleagues who had placed me in this position felt guilty, and they dealt with their guilt by ignoring me and isolating me further. It was a horrible scene, but I needed to go through it. The only other choice was to return home to provide help in the care of my ill father, but that seemed like a hopeless choice, since my family, like my country, was slowly starting to fall apart.”
Eva told me that she had paid a high price for a small mistake when the editor stopped her writing for the newspaper. She said that it felt as if the editor had “broken the pencil” which held her capacity to write. Only recently has she considered taking up that pencil again. However, she is proud that she was strong enough to refuse to leave before she was ready. Her experience at the newspaper was an example of how circumstances outside her control could escalate quickly and lead to her being ostracized from a group with whom she believed that she had had close ties. She was left looking for a way out of her misery. She said:
“During this time, I met the man I married. He was studying medicine. When he finished his studies, he invited me to return with him to Berlin, where he had been offered a position. I looked at the situation and decided that, just as when I had left my small town there wasn’t anything for me where I was, and that I would have to go on with my life somewhere else.
“I left Yugoslavia in 1979. The day I left, I went by myself on a train after saying good-bye to my parents. They were miserable with my decision, but they knew that they couldn’t change my mind. Although I was proud of my strong will, and I acted as if the choices I made came to me easily, I was disturbed by going so far away, especially as my father’s physical condition had deteriorated.
“As I sat on the train going to Berlin I must admit I felt great relief, relief from pressure. I didn’t know what to expect, but I felt relief. When I got off the train, my husband-to-be Pedrag wasn’t there to meet me. He came an hour late, a bad sign from the beginning. I called his home number and he wasn’t there. I sat at the train station, wondering what to do, when he finally showed up.”
“Pedrag had been born in Belgrade and moved to Germany when he was seven. His family was very mixed. His father was half-Hungarian and half-Austrian. His mother was part Serbian and part Slovenian. Pedrag’s father had been married earlier to a Hungarian woman whom he had divorced when he had an affair with Pedrag’s mother, who was only fifteen years old at the time. Once they married they moved to Belgrade, and then to Stuttgart, where Pedrag grew up in middle-class family who focused their resources and attention on him.
“When Pedrag brought me, a Hungarian woman, to meet his family, his parents resented me from the start. From their point of view, my biggest sin was that I was Hungarian, just like Pedrag’s father’s first wife. Without knowing me, they assumed that I caused trouble. I thought they might be right in some way, perhaps because I had left my family; perhaps because I had lived with their son before marriage in violation of my rejected Catholic upbringing, or perhaps because I was still vulnerable as a result of what had happened to me in Yugoslavia. I believed their criticisms of me might not be wrong, and for a long time I didn’t speak up for myself.”
Alone, Eva lost her sense of herself. Without friends, a family, a social network of colleagues, or a country, she was vulnerable to the prejudices of her in-laws, who didn’t know her. The family never spoke of these criticisms directly to her. Instead, they spoke of them to Pedrag, who was under the influence of his family and didn’t stand up for Eva. He responded to their complaints by telling his parents that she was only in Germany for a six-month visit. When they married, he didn’t tell his parents of their marriage until after a year.
Eva continued, “Once they knew we were married, they started a more active campaign against me. They telephoned every Sunday and spoke to Pedrag for one hour. They refused to speak to me, and gave me the cold shoulder whenever they had the opportunity to see me in person. Every Sunday, they asked Pedrag when we would divorce.
“I tried very hard, but we just had no chance. We separated after only three years, but stayed married for eleven more. After we separated, we stayed together in the same house. It was a strange mixture of friendship and kinship. “I managed during that time by focusing on my work.
When struggling Eva puts her mind to what she can make work. Keep posted for the next episode of her story. Add a story of your own when you had no place to land.
Check out this event for more stories
From Katy Butler
Dear Friends —
I’m inviting you to come hear how I took matters into my own hands at the age of 22, driving cross country to become a famous writer in San Francisco, carrying with me a Triple A map, $300 I’d earned selling mescaline, my 7 clippings from the Aspen Times, and a guy with a puppy and no sleeping bag...
More at D.I.Y. http://www.porchlightsf.com/thismonth.html
Dear Friends —
I’m inviting you to come hear how I took matters into my own hands at the age of 22, driving cross country to become a famous writer in San Francisco, carrying with me a Triple A map, $300 I’d earned selling mescaline, my 7 clippings from the Aspen Times, and a guy with a puppy and no sleeping bag...
More at D.I.Y. http://www.porchlightsf.com/thismonth.html
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Monday, March 05, 2007
A Seeker far away from home and family
Eva–A Seeker who steadies herself in an unstable world
Seekers are women who live in a world of frequent change. They live away from their families-of-origin, feeling confined by family expectations. They focus on the present, and search across age groups and cultural communities to find alternatives that strengthen their sense of independence. In these ways, Eva is a Seeker.
Beyond middle-age, she stands slim and tall, and to look at her, she might still be in her thirties. Right now many things are uncertain in her life. Not long ago, she left her job as a community health manager with the small staff of a resource program with the Bosnian immigrant community in the San Francisco Bay area. Familiar with change, Eva finds herself on her own, out of work, uprooted from close ties, reconstructing her life from almost nothing once again.
Eva told me about where she grew up:
“My family was Hungarian. Originally, the city where we lived belonged to Hungary, but after World War I, the border was moved, and this part was given by treaty to Yugoslavia together with all the inhabitants, including about 400,000 Hungarians. Ethnically, we identified ourselves as Hungarians, but nationally, we had been made into Yugoslavs. I grew up with a mixed identity. We spoke Hungarian at home, although the language of Yugoslavia was Serbo-Croatian. I also went to Hungarian schools until my eighteenth year. At University I majored in Hungarian literature and language, but I took a mix of other subjects including Serbo-Croatian.
“The Hungarians and the Yugoslavs were acutely aware of their ethnic differences because of grievances from World War II. Many ethnic killings between the two groups had led to resentment and fear, especially in minority communities like the Hungarians. The first generation after the war, my parent’s generation, isolated themselves in grief. The second generation, my generation, had a different attitude. We wanted to mix with other groups, and to leave our villages and to go into the bigger cities. There we made new friends and dated Yugoslavs. My husband was a Serb.”
These days Eva lives on the second floor, in a one-room apartment. The ceilings are high and the windows are large, making the space light and airy. It is decorated simply with only a few reminders of other places where she has lived. In a book, kept in a drawer, are pictures of Eva as a young child, pictures that show her spirit and rebelliousness. At eighteen months, dressed up in a long dress with a bow in her hair and held in her mother arms, Eva is looking away with a determined stare. Her mother is holding her close, as if she is afraid that Eva will jump out of her arms. Eva said that their relationship was always strained. Even when she was a small child, Eva’s mother tried to clip her wings—or as Eva said, make her wear shoes smaller than her feet. As she grew older her mother tried to contain Eva’s developing body and spirit by dressing her in unattractive clothes that fitted poorly and were particularly unfashionable. As Eva matured into an attractive young woman, her mother’s discomfort with her grew.
Eva told me more about her family life:
“When I think of myself as a child, I was both alone and at the center of a community. Then it was a community of extended family members from my mother’s side of our family. When I was born three families from my mother’s side lived together in one house. Our building was in an industrial part of the city that was large enough for living space and for a mill. This building was the only building left from the family wealth; after the war, the family money and property were lost, and we became poor. There was much deprivation and few supplies. There was no money, and we bought everything with coupons. We had to stand in line to get oil and flour. We had to stand in line to get anything—much of our day was spent in line. The depression of war deeply affected my parents. They seemed to have no joy in life.
We shared everything, but since no other children lived in our household, I was often alone. The larger extended family was separated after World War I, when part of Hungary became part of Yugoslavia. Although we identified ourselves as Hungarians and spoke Hungarian at home, the town we lived in had become part of Yugoslavia. The other four families on my mother’s side of the family had moved to the part of the country that remained in Hungary. I had young cousins in those families, but they lived far away, and I never saw them.”
Eva learned early that political circumstances can disrupt family relationships. The separation within her mother’s family followed from the separation of Hungary from Yugoslavia. These ruptures within the family affected the family members who had remained together in Yugoslavia. Although they continued to live together in one building, they were unable to re-establish a sense of trust in one another, as if anyone might leave at any time. Eva said family members were polite, but never close. She also told me about their isolation from their neighbors.
“Most Hungarians were isolated from their Serbian neighbors, since, as part of an ethnic minority, they were fearful of people of different origins. I didn’t share this view and played outside with children from all ethnic groups whenever I could. Our neighbors next door, who had a little boy my age, were Serbs, and since he became my best friend, I learned Serbian at an early age. As a child I resisted prejudices, and I pushed against any attempts for others to impose barriers around me. All along I had a very difficult relationship with my mother.
Much of this was due to the fact that I was close to my grandmother and she wasn’t.”
Many things led to Eva’s decision to separate from her home and family. As an only child, held too tightly by her mother, she was greatly influenced by her grandmother, who took her traveling at a young age and set an example of independence. While growing up, she saw first-hand the despair of family members who chose to live close to home and who experienced little joy. She grew up at a time when many young people of her generation moved beyond their towns and families. Her choice, to move far away from home and go to university at eighteen, met with strong family opposition.
More to come of Eva’s story. Are you a Seeker? Have you lived far away from home and family? Tell us your story.
Seekers are women who live in a world of frequent change. They live away from their families-of-origin, feeling confined by family expectations. They focus on the present, and search across age groups and cultural communities to find alternatives that strengthen their sense of independence. In these ways, Eva is a Seeker.
Beyond middle-age, she stands slim and tall, and to look at her, she might still be in her thirties. Right now many things are uncertain in her life. Not long ago, she left her job as a community health manager with the small staff of a resource program with the Bosnian immigrant community in the San Francisco Bay area. Familiar with change, Eva finds herself on her own, out of work, uprooted from close ties, reconstructing her life from almost nothing once again.
Eva told me about where she grew up:
“My family was Hungarian. Originally, the city where we lived belonged to Hungary, but after World War I, the border was moved, and this part was given by treaty to Yugoslavia together with all the inhabitants, including about 400,000 Hungarians. Ethnically, we identified ourselves as Hungarians, but nationally, we had been made into Yugoslavs. I grew up with a mixed identity. We spoke Hungarian at home, although the language of Yugoslavia was Serbo-Croatian. I also went to Hungarian schools until my eighteenth year. At University I majored in Hungarian literature and language, but I took a mix of other subjects including Serbo-Croatian.
“The Hungarians and the Yugoslavs were acutely aware of their ethnic differences because of grievances from World War II. Many ethnic killings between the two groups had led to resentment and fear, especially in minority communities like the Hungarians. The first generation after the war, my parent’s generation, isolated themselves in grief. The second generation, my generation, had a different attitude. We wanted to mix with other groups, and to leave our villages and to go into the bigger cities. There we made new friends and dated Yugoslavs. My husband was a Serb.”
These days Eva lives on the second floor, in a one-room apartment. The ceilings are high and the windows are large, making the space light and airy. It is decorated simply with only a few reminders of other places where she has lived. In a book, kept in a drawer, are pictures of Eva as a young child, pictures that show her spirit and rebelliousness. At eighteen months, dressed up in a long dress with a bow in her hair and held in her mother arms, Eva is looking away with a determined stare. Her mother is holding her close, as if she is afraid that Eva will jump out of her arms. Eva said that their relationship was always strained. Even when she was a small child, Eva’s mother tried to clip her wings—or as Eva said, make her wear shoes smaller than her feet. As she grew older her mother tried to contain Eva’s developing body and spirit by dressing her in unattractive clothes that fitted poorly and were particularly unfashionable. As Eva matured into an attractive young woman, her mother’s discomfort with her grew.
Eva told me more about her family life:
“When I think of myself as a child, I was both alone and at the center of a community. Then it was a community of extended family members from my mother’s side of our family. When I was born three families from my mother’s side lived together in one house. Our building was in an industrial part of the city that was large enough for living space and for a mill. This building was the only building left from the family wealth; after the war, the family money and property were lost, and we became poor. There was much deprivation and few supplies. There was no money, and we bought everything with coupons. We had to stand in line to get oil and flour. We had to stand in line to get anything—much of our day was spent in line. The depression of war deeply affected my parents. They seemed to have no joy in life.
We shared everything, but since no other children lived in our household, I was often alone. The larger extended family was separated after World War I, when part of Hungary became part of Yugoslavia. Although we identified ourselves as Hungarians and spoke Hungarian at home, the town we lived in had become part of Yugoslavia. The other four families on my mother’s side of the family had moved to the part of the country that remained in Hungary. I had young cousins in those families, but they lived far away, and I never saw them.”
Eva learned early that political circumstances can disrupt family relationships. The separation within her mother’s family followed from the separation of Hungary from Yugoslavia. These ruptures within the family affected the family members who had remained together in Yugoslavia. Although they continued to live together in one building, they were unable to re-establish a sense of trust in one another, as if anyone might leave at any time. Eva said family members were polite, but never close. She also told me about their isolation from their neighbors.
“Most Hungarians were isolated from their Serbian neighbors, since, as part of an ethnic minority, they were fearful of people of different origins. I didn’t share this view and played outside with children from all ethnic groups whenever I could. Our neighbors next door, who had a little boy my age, were Serbs, and since he became my best friend, I learned Serbian at an early age. As a child I resisted prejudices, and I pushed against any attempts for others to impose barriers around me. All along I had a very difficult relationship with my mother.
Much of this was due to the fact that I was close to my grandmother and she wasn’t.”
Many things led to Eva’s decision to separate from her home and family. As an only child, held too tightly by her mother, she was greatly influenced by her grandmother, who took her traveling at a young age and set an example of independence. While growing up, she saw first-hand the despair of family members who chose to live close to home and who experienced little joy. She grew up at a time when many young people of her generation moved beyond their towns and families. Her choice, to move far away from home and go to university at eighteen, met with strong family opposition.
More to come of Eva’s story. Are you a Seeker? Have you lived far away from home and family? Tell us your story.
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