The Other Man, Hitler

My marriage officially ended in 2016. I blame Hitler. He really fucked things up for so many of us. How’s that for the understatement of the century? Now, even my own children, born over 50 years after liberation, have to suffer. (That may be the most Jewish sentence ever written, by the way.)

In a recent 60 Minutes episode, there was a segment around the virtualization of real life Holocaust survivors that capture, through interviews completed in the past, their responses to a multitude of questions. As such, people today can interact with them as if they are alive, long after they have passed. Essentially, the power of artificial intelligence is being used so that these survivors can share their stories forever. It’s a pretty amazing thing to witness and great for future generations to hear “directly” from those survivors who were first hand witnesses to one of the greatest atrocities of all time. A bit creepy, maybe, but amazing, too.

As an aside and given the times we are living in, it makes me wonder how teaching history might be forever changed (and for the better) if we could do the same thing for other atrocities, such as slavery. For example, what if we heard from Africans forced over a 400 year period into a world of slavery today? Might this not give us a first hand account that would settle the question once and for all if sins of our forefathers impact the plight of our society today? It might give many of us who otherwise do not have one, a perspective and compassion regarding who we really are and who we have an opportunity to become when we put on a different set of eyes.

This brings us back to Hitler and 60 minutes. In this particular segment, one woman, Eva Mozes Kor, responded very differently to the question about forgiveness. Whereas others could absolutely not forgive the Nazis for what they did, leading to the obvious loss of family members, lives and trauma that would be carried around for lifetimes, Eva chose to forgive. In doing so, she may have spared her future descendants an actual further trauma.

Eva was not only a survivor of the Holocaust and the concentration camps but also of the immoral and horrific experiments of Josef Mengele. Having been a twin, she and her sister were of special interest to his malicious intentions. Her granting of amnesty to one of Mengele’s “colleagues”, and all Nazis, was a headline moment, as you can imagine. This was not understood, nor accepted, by many of Eva’s community who, themselves, were forever traumatized by the camps and the atrocities therein.

To be honest, I think I fall into the latter group, not that of the former. To confess, I recently was on the receiving end of a dirty look from a worker at ShopRite and I’m just now getting over it. The mental fortitude it must take in order to summon up this level of forgiveness seems unimaginable to me. Particularly since Hitler destroyed my family unit, too.

Let me explain.

My ex-wive’s father was born in 1942 and as has been told to me, was raised by nuns in the concentration camp that housed his mother and father until liberation. His mother survived liberation but his father died soon after.  His mother remarried and he grappled with both the devastation of the Shoah (frequently referenced Hebrew term for “Holocaust”) and, from all I have been told, the lack of connection with his step-father, and perhaps to some extent, perhaps his own mother.

Like many survivors of the Holocaust, he navigated to one of two ends of the “post-Holocaust spectrum” – doubling down on his Judaism and becoming a well renowned Orthodox Rabbi while others concluded there could be no God that would ever allow for such an atrocity and abandoned religion altogether. His commitment to a higher being was equally matched by his disregard for his own family unit- or at least his first one. Score 1 for the “big guy in the sky” … and 1 for Hitler?

My ex-father-in-law married my ex-wive’s mother, (I know – enough with the “Exs), who was born to two parents who, themselves, fled Europe for first Palestine and then Canada, not being granted entry into the U.S. They did so, however, not without leaving behind other family members.

As is the case with so many families, it is difficult to discern the entire truth from the trickle of tidbit facts revealed over generations but suffice it to say that there was some notion that my ex-wive’s grandmother may have knowingly left behind a brother desperate to leave Eastern Europe and the rest can be left to conjecture, imagination and speculation.

That these two people, children of the Holocaust – directly or once-removed, found each other in the earliest years of their budding adulthood and in each other, even for a brief moment, is not without significance. One can reasonably imagine that they found a liberation of their own which had set forth a cascade of pain and suffering that is not separated from the Holocaust nor the fact that I now have two children who will always grapple with the plight of so many divorced children – what happened and why?

When my wife decided to divorce it fell into the “irreconcilable differences” category – a broad brushed category that provides little details. Nowhere in the state of Pennsylvania was “separation due to epigenetic inheritance of Holocaust related trauma” an option. Nowhere. Not that any divorce is one-sided. But, that’s for other blog posts previously written and yet to be written.

Scientists have proven and continue to study genetic changes that occur due to traumatic events. However, it is not just the change to the victim of that event but that these genetic changes stemming from the trauma suffered may be passed down to future generations. Specific to the Holocaust, scientists have shown that trauma experienced by Holocaust survivors was capable of being passed on to their children. We understand how your own life experience can affect your children emotionally but now there was also budding evidence of that on a genetic level – and not just for children but for subsequent generations, as well.

As nothing is without controversy these days, the verdict may be out on epigenetic inheritance for a while. Let us, for a moment, assume this theory actually is wrong. It doesn’t really matter. Hitler, the other man, still owes me thousands of dollars in alimony, child support and therapy bills because he contributed to the dissolution of my marriage. I’ll even settle. But can I forgive?

I make light of Hitler as “the other man” not to in any way dismiss the real trauma he has inflicted on millions directly, but it is to make a point. The way in which the Holocaust played a role in my marriage never left. My ex-father-in-law’s entire existence, to this day, is grounded in the Holocaust.  It will be for the remainder of his life. As proof, in preparing for my wedding, in which I agreed to have him officiate at the request of my ex-wife, he said, in front of 125 witnesses: “let us not forget the 6 million”. I get it but can we have one occasion where we don’t need to conjure up the entire plot of Schindler’s list? I remember trying to deflect that moment later on when asked about it: “I’m not sure I can find a banquet hall large enough.” Inappropriate? Maybe. For both of us, if you ask me.

My mother-in-law eventually divorced her ever-more-religious husband and went on to become a powerful economist and well-known visitor to Canadian television stations in the 90s. She, in my opinion, never resolved the juxtaposition of having left a culture she grew to resent and, at the same time, often still judging others according to it. My experience with her was that she was not able to find love in herself or for my family.

These two individuals would come to be grandparents to my own kids. Had these to-be-grandparents been born to their own parents never influenced in their youth by the atrocities and life-changing decisions they had to make in the 1940S, would they have been more loving, less fearful and more trusting?

We will never know. I could never make sense of how my ex may have suffered as a child being neglected by her own parents. I could never resolve her need to be independent and yet still please a father from whom she was estranged. I tried to fill the void and clearly, I failed. Miserably. The only one who could do it was another man and he died on April 30, 1945.

Eva Mozes Kor figured it out though. In fact, today, her son, Alex, has said that “being a child of Holocaust survivors has been a source of strength and perseverance”. Why is that not the case for my children, who are the grand-children and great-grandchildren of Holocaust survivors and witnesses? Could it have to do with this idea of forgiveness?Eva Mozes Kor realized that in always being a victim and carrying around such anger, she would be trapped forever. It would be worn like a heavy coat, never to be taken off regardless of weather condition. She understood that the most empowering way to alleviate suffering was through forgiveness.

Liberation day from the Nazi regime was May 8, 1945 but for many, true liberation still remains elusive. The alleviation of suffering through forgiveness – that is true liberation. Today, I can only speak to one part of a two-part way of living that my own children must navigate between. For me, I desperately want them to claim their own lives and reset their own genetic and spiritual code. I don’t know if forgiving Hitler is in the cards, though. I think I will have to start with forgiving myself first. Liberation is only possible that way. I hope to find it some day but more importantly, I hope it finds my children first.

Until next time,

Marc

I’m not the Dalai Lama

Dear neighbor –

I’m sorry I lost my shit on you the other day. I’d like to try and explain where I am coming from – not to excuse myself but maybe to provide some context.

We, a bunch of mostly privileged white people, were protesting in solidarity. It was quite beautiful. Peaceful. Cathartic even.

During the entire time, as people also drove down the street honking and we all lined up, masked warriors, on either side of Main Street cheering as if it were a parade, I was wondering to myself, “is this what we should be doing?” But it’s small town America and it was good to manage expectations. A show of community with signs declaring “I can’t breathe”, “Say their names” and “BLM” was a welcome change from otherwise friendly suburbanites walking their dogs and taking in the warmer weather.

So, when that blonde, white woman showed up with her giant TRUMP banner and matching red mask with TRUMP sprawled on the front, you could understand how that was troubling for most there. You, too, I suspect.

What you did not see was that I calmly approached her, amidst a lot of noise, to give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, our town has a lot of Trump supporters, too, and I suspected many were protesting racial injustice along with their fellow Democrats and Independents, also. Racism is not a political issue – it is an American one. For anyone to assume that more conservative members of our town do not feel as strongly about rooting out systemic racism as more liberal ones do is both ignorant and misinformed.

So when she started yelling at me after my asking if she were here to support the cause, I told her to leave. I wasn’t the only one. As it got more heated, I did, too. Because, you see, I’m tired of being bullied. And many of us “libtards” have been bullied in this country far too much lately.

Is this a bigger issue than what is going on in the world? Absolutely. Do I want to separate it anymore? Absolutely not. Because, you see, bullies aren’t just people who throw you into lockers in high school, or call you “faggot” or threaten you with false and intimidating lawsuits in the midst of a divorce. They are white, blonde woman who feel entitled to tell an entire community to just f*ck off. And I’m tired of it.

You felt the need to school me and I get it. I’ll assume what is often termed “noble intent”. You had a kid there, which, while most people chose to keep their kids at home (it was a “protest” after all), I can see you were trying to be a good father. You told me it wasn’t the message but the tone. You didn’t hear my tone originally. You only heard it after. And it was a mad one.

When is the right time to get angry? Our democracy is tilting toward authoritarianism one snowflake at a time and so many of us who say “none of us are free until we are all free” think we can solve this with healthy debate every time? It takes both sides. And when other liberals implore me to take the “high road” and see all sides, there needs to be an acknowledgement that some sides are just plain wrong.

Why talk about the “right side of history” without admitting that, yes, in some cases that means there is a wrong side? A very, very bad wrong side. A blonde, Trump holding woman wrong-side that was convinced that the protest was uncalled for and we should be talking about something else. Today, we have much, much more at stakes than I think you understand. And it’s for our children. Not for us.

All the “No place for hate” signs on our lawns and signing of social justice petitions online won’t help if we can’t confront the causes of the disease head on. I understand I offended you. But I did it in person – not hiding behind a Facebook post or by painting a damned rainbow on my driveway. Would you have warned me about my tone if I were black and angry? (And to be fair, would I have been as bold if it were not a white woman but a large white guy?)

There is a place for peaceful protest. There is a place for anger. There is a place for the in-between. Thursday, I found the place for anger. I wonder when those who are just as angry are going to feel it so much that it just can’t stay inside their heads any longer. Don’t get me wrong. I meditate. I write. I reflect. I stumble and fall and then have to start again. And it’s so tiring. I’ll start again. But I’m not the Dalai Lama – not even close.

As a white guy, I have been quiet, literally, far too long and when you multiply me times millions and over decades, you get to why so little progress has been made. You can see why people of color – the very people you want to sit side by side with – are fed up.

I learned a hard lesson this week. Black people are tired of telling us what is wrong and what we need to do. So, Thursday, I did what we’ve been told over and over and over again. And I did it loudly. It wasn’t necessarily the most evolved way. I’ll give you that. But, I did it.

Again, I’m sorry if I offended you. I know I did and I apologize, for real. I don’t expect you to get angry, too, but now you’ll understand next time you might see me calling it out. I wasn’t trying to offend you. I was starting to stand up to the bully and I have a long way to go. Yeah -it’s about racial justice but it is a little bit about me, too.

Until next time, Marc

Being White. Crying Black

I’m mad. At the world. At myself. And then at a lot in between.

I don’t blame the African American community for wanting to burn down our country. They are subject to a system that refuses to work from them.
At the same time, I struggle with how that is going to help.

It is important to protest, to send a message. Again, I don’t blame them one bit.

I am tired of being caught in the middle of the heart and the head. A heart that bleeds in pain for oppressed communities and a head that feels that they don’t need more white people who “want to help”. I am white and I cry black as I watch what is happening to an entire community that is being told they are not wanted here.

I want to help, not just protest. I don’t know how and first, I have to deal with feelings of anger, guilt, and sadness.

I read an article on CNN yesterday entitled “A guide to how you can support marginalized communities.” It was largely bullshit. Talk to your kids. Learn history. Call people out on their misinformation. These are things many of us are doing already. But it’s not big enough. It’s not bold enough. I don’t know what is.

Here is how I feel:

I want to have more Black friends. I really do. I feel like this has always been something I wanted – not just Black but more diversity. This has been one of the main benefits of performing stand-up comedy. Most of my non-white friends have come from this and I am grateful. My experience outside, however, is that unless it is a work or school situation, communities tend to stick together. It’s not for lack of trying on any part and perhaps it has to do with not living in a city, but it’s a problem. It’s only when we spend time with each other that the power of ideas can be seeded in ways in which the “whole is greater than the sum of the parts.”

I want to know who the anti-Trump spokesperson is who is going to tweet 15 times per day and explain to people that it’s not just voting for a person, it’s voting for a future in which issues get decided, policies get made, arguments get escalated and voices do not just get heard but also eventually drown out racism. We have an apathy problem in the U.S. among young and minority voters and it is slowly killing us. It’s one of a multitude of causes but it’s an important one.

I want white people to admit that we are fearful. We have many Trump supporters on the Republican right that know without insidious tactics like gerrymandering, we are going to have browner and blacker seats at the table and we, as white people, are going to have a lot to get used to as our nation finally moves in a truly open fashion toward the melting pot many of us were falsely told we lived in. We have to acknowledge white privilege without feeling either as if it is not true, it is true and deserved or guilty to admit it. As an example, I can take advantage of being born with an able body while still acknowledging the fortune of having been so.

All of us have to do more – if you truly believe we need to heal. Yes, we need to be angry and protest and write and argue and pray. We have to take progressive, positive action, too. This is where I am most lost. I am going to be looking into organizations like SURJ (Showing Up for Racial Justice) to see not just how I can get involved, but also how I can get other involved. Speaking about the issues and debating is important. That’s how I learned about SURJ.

We are going to die if we don’t come together. It is dire. We have no leadership. I am tired of worrying whether some of you reading will think that I am being too emotional or don’t have all the facts or am getting on an anti-Trump bandwagon. You need not read my blog posts any further and I sincerely respect that.

But now, I am tired. I am angry. I am fed up. And, I’m white. Imagine how over one-third of our population who see their men being murdered every day feel.

Thank you for allowing me the platform to share with you.

Until next time, Marc

This Memorial Day has to mean more

Sitting outside with my family taking in the warmth of the sun, enjoying a walk, run and swim, it’s easy, as it is many Memorial Day holidays, to forget the reason many of us get to enjoy a three day weekend in the first place.

Every year, there are articles, blogs and no lack of opinions that remind us to return to the true meaning of Memorial Day – a call (if not that loud) to remember and honor the thousands of Americans who perished while serving a greater common good in defense and servitude to the United States.

This Memorial Day, has to mean more, though.

The fundamental gaping hole that still exists between glamorizing the strength and fortitude that compels many to enlist in our armed forces is still miles separated from the reality of what happens when they return home, often with experiences that present as physical disablements, mental health issues or both.

True, we have Veteran’s day to honor our Veterans and Memorial Day is to honor those who never made it back. But, the truth is, many of our living veterans are dying a slow death, relegated to the margins, still. Many started out in disenfranchised communities to begin with and the promise of a potential “leap-frogging” to a more hopeful life never manifested. Our record of taking care of these Veteran’s has much to be desired. It’s not far from how we are taking care of our essential workers today.

That’s exactly why this Memorial Day has to mean more. In my opinion, the chasm between servant of our country and “essential worker” is getting blurrier and blurrier. We have a country that still is largely functioning on a daily basis – from the meals we eat through the care we receive all the way onto the security we enjoy – on the backs of people who have not been afforded the same economic, educational or societal opportunities than many of us have.

So, what to do about it? The first thing is you have to vote. The people who are in charge are more and more not the same social status as the ones for which their laws are being developed and decisions being made. We are not doing enough and continue to not do enough.

This Memorial Day has to mean more because we have essential workers who feel like veterans and many of whom, we may be memorializing soon without their own holiday.

The sunlight on this holiday weekend must serve more than acquiring a nice bronze tan to welcome in the summer. It must broaden a light on the inequities that permeate our country and can no longer be ignored.

This Memorial Day, it’s time to start talking about things that matter and as we socially distance, even as we start to “reopen” as a society, let’s not think there is a “back to normal”. Normal only worked for some of us. I’m willing to sacrifice. It’s my turn. Voting. Writing. Speaking. No longer apologizing.

It’s not nearly enough. It’s a start.

Our most vulnerable citizens are often the ones being taken advantage of by false promises and platitudes. Let those be built on the backs of others but not you or me.

Until then, thanks to all those who work to keep us safe, fed, cared for and healthy, regardless of whether we agree on politics or not. You are essential.

Until next time,

Marc

Where the streets have no name

I remember learning that Bono, lead vocalist for U2 (assuming anyone exists that might not know who Bono is), wrote the lyrics for “Where the streets have no name” about identity. It was a response to the fact that it was easy to identify one’s religion and economic status simply based on the street on which they lived.

This was in Belfast and it’s probably true in most places these days, too. The one thing that self isolation has helped to showcase is the irony of an equalization that takes place when we are all subject to a microscopic virus that is hell bent on uprooting life as we know it, and at the same time, the very real inequities that exist to respond based on one’s zip code.

I am no longer qualifying my writing with the precursor “without getting political” because, as it turns out, everything is political these days – including a virus – whether we like to or not. So, this is just a warning of sorts to say that my intention is not to state my opinions as fact nor to make excuses for having opinions. That’s the beauty of choice – no one has to read, believe or otherwise change their opinions on anything.

Now that that has been established: It saddens me that we are so divided as a nation based on where we live, particularly in light of a virus that connects us to each other in ways we still have yet to fully realize since, believe it or not, we are really in its infancy still. I don’t believe that any governing figure truly wants to keep businesses closed and see our economy further dive into depths not seen since the Great Depression. How could this possibly be a smart move for anyone politically?

At the same time, we have to ask ourselves to what extent we are willing to make health decisions for those in the most disenfranchised zip codes – and yes, they exist in every state – even those with lower Covid-19 numbers expected to yet rise.

Our streets have names and these names are often associated not just where we live but how we live, whether it is our decision or not. If we can not see the connection between us as citizens of one nation then at least we should be compelled to stop sitting on a moral high horse without caring whether disenfranchised communities are left to fare for themselves because their ability to socially distance is less, because their access to health – both care and well-being is less, because their ability to rise from an economic downturn is less and yes, because their overall value as human beings is less.

Covid-19 is a wake up call to who we really are as people – not as Americans, or Democrats, or Republicans, or Christians or Jews or Muslims or Parents or Children or Small Business owners or Teachers or Front-line workers but as people first. If not now, then never.

It’s time for us to believe we live in one neighborhood and for just once, treat each other as we all live on one street with no name but a common direction.

Until next time,

Marc

Firsts. Lasts. Mother’s Day

One of the themes I have tried to reinforce to my kids over the years is around the lifetime of “firsts” that awaits them. We all have different experiences but I know, for me, I often felt trapped as a teenager – physically and emotionally – with no real understanding of the greater world that awaited.

Most of the focus of this has been on the external world that they could anticipate outside of their home, their family unit, their town and their current group of friends. Only in recent years have I recognized the equal importance that inner freedom has as much as outer freedom, perhaps more, but you have to start somewhere.

I have always been excited, and to be honest, a little sad, about the life that awaits them – a life that doesn’t include me as much but is rightfully theirs to pursue. We have spoken about life after high school – first glimpse of physical freedom while at college (and my son will attest that I was actually “spot on” with that one, especially having a premature exit from college due to a pandemic), first loves, first jobs and a slew of first travel experiences, to name a few.

I didn’t do my job, however. The truth is that many “firsts” are born out of “lasts”. This, I recognize, was not a discussion I was ready to have.

Often, when I am running along the canal near my home, particularly when I’m struggling (literally and/or metaphorically), I force myself to consider that this is my last run. This is the last time I will feel the cool breeze skim my face, or see the geese in the canal or watch the patterns of light streak the leaves on the trees as the gently sway, hanging over the water. It gives the whole experience a heightened sense of purpose.

That’s how I feel this mother’s day. Because this is the first one without my mom. I recall contemplating whether to visit her and my dad last Mother’s Day as there was nothing all that special planned. I know I thought that I would regret it if I didn’t and something would happen in the future. Little did I know that less than a year later, she would be gone.

I remember making the trip by myself and just spending time with my parents in their den. We didn’t do anything in particular other than just talk and I think we ordered in Chinese food, if I recall. I did the 3 hour drive back home that evening as I had work the next day and received a very grateful note from my mom. Looking back, I realize I chose to spend that day with her for my sake as much as for hers. It was the last Mother’s Day with her and this is the first without her.

You see, I was painting a partial picture for my kids. A lifetime of firsts does await them. The reality is that they are not all joyful. They could all be meaningful, though. That counts. That’s where the growth happens. That’s where we are called back to our humanity as misguided forces try to push us away into our own myopic systems of living where jobs, playdates, work commitments, the health challenge de jour and other ancillary distractions, continue to try and keep us in a haze.

I’m grateful for the firsts. I’m grateful for the lasts. I’m grateful for having a mother who never wavered from her commitment to family.

On the day we buried my mother, I spoke briefly about her and this is what I said:

As I said my last goodbyes to my mother this weekend, I whispered in her ear that, if she could, to please show me a sign that she heard me and is ok.

Reaching. Grasping. Begging. Call it what you will but it’s a child’s last attempt to hold onto what has moved on.

I went to sleep that night hoping I might wake up recalling a lucid dream – where she appears as I remember her at a healthier time. It was not to be. At least not yet.

But then I did realize something from the evening before – and as silly as it may sound, it involved the simple act of cracking open a fortune cookie. My dad, sister, Aunt, Uncle cousin and I went to get something to eat after a very long day. My fortune simply read “Never give up” and I stuck it in my wallet, which I don’t typically do.  I realized in the morning, there it was.

Never give up. Not typically one to be subtle – or turn down a decent meal – could this be the message my mother was sending?

You see, for anyone who knew my mother – I mean really knew her, those three words hold more meaning than I could ever convey in a well crafted memorial.

My mom never gave up – even when you wished she would once in a while. Sure, she could give in – accept the situation and dance with new rhythms handed to her – age, health, the elements of time – but she would never give up. Whether it was slowly walking on the bumpy sand from boardwalk to beachfront balancing with a chair in front of her and my dad at her side  so she could spend time with her family in Ocean City or reworking schedules to never miss a concert, play, ceremony or other grandchild’s event – she never gave up. Ever.

At my lowest when the universe seemed to conspire to teach me lessons I was unwilling to accept, it was my mother who repeated “you can’t give up, you just have to go on”. This is the fortitude that drove her deep devotion to family. This is the resolve that kept her going. This is the message that in the darkest of moments we must never lose grip of, no matter how tired we may be of holding on.

It will never be the same without my mother here on this earth but I remain grateful that we are able to witness the power of persistent love. I hope we all can take that with us today and for all time.

I love you mom and I promise, I’ll never give up.

May all the mothers and all those who are showing up as mothers take heed in your work. It is work. And it matters. It matters a lot.

Until next time,

Marc

Confessions of a Covid Confinement

Marc Kaye, April 25, 2020

 

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted to this blog.

Like “this just may be another one of those Marc things that just disappears forever” long time.

I always felt that I may come back to it as my writing never stopped (though to be truly honest, it took a few long hiatuses).

 

The one thing that a global quarantine has given everybody is more time to think – if we can pull ourselves away from whatever series we are binge watching at the moment (“Better Things” anyone? It’s pretty fantastic.)

 

I’ve been grappling with a lot of conflicting feelings this year – more than usual.

I was pretty sick starting in January and work was really starting to get busy.

Then, unexpectedly, my mother passed away toward the end of February.

This was all before the world came to a grinding halt.

My mother’s passing stirred up a lot for me – so much so that things are very unsettled for me still.

And now, two months into her passing, I realize that I have been using COVID to my advantage – in a way that I’m not particularly proud of, but doing so, nonetheless.

 

The Saturday that my father, sister and I saw my mother, or the physical part of her, for the last time, was a day that I still have trouble processing. My dad watched his wife of 51 years and my sister and I watched our mother of 40 plus years disappear – forever.

 

A mere hour after that, I was picking up a pizza for us to eat with my Aunt and Uncle while calling my son at college to let him know his grandmother had died and he would have to fly back the next day. My sister and I split phone/texting duties to inform family and friends and then with my dad, we were at a funeral home (which I realized was the Ponderosa restaurant my parents would occasionally take us to after Hebrew school) to choose a casket (we got “the David”) and make funeral arrangements. That was all between noon and 3:30. Death, pizza, United Airlines, and “The David”. Sounds about right.

 

That’s what my family does. This is who we are, at our core. We spring into action. There is no respect in rest and for anyone that knows my family (me withstanding), they complete tasks with the precision and timeliness of a military operation. This has always been a struggle for me who appears sloth like in comparison.

 

Being Jewish “helps”, too. There’s none of this “goyisha mishagas” – a funeral a week later or wake or hanging around. Ritualistically speaking, the body is to be buried within 24 hours, though there is a little leeway for those of us who don’t subscribe to the most orthodox of practice. Still, it ain’t a week. It seems that maybe it should take longer to bury someone than to binge watch the first episode of “The Office”. But then again, what do I know?

 

I haven’t in it me yet to write about my mother passing away or the Shiva or anything since. I think about it every day – sometimes more than that. It took me 5 months to write about dropping my son off to college without falling into a rabbit’s hole lined with darkness. It’s going to take me sometime to get to a place where I can write about this one but I will get there. I have to because I can’t carry it around for much longer. I have no option.

 

The deflection of “springing into action” was a convenient distraction from things like feelings – which, let’s be honest, just get in the way of happily living in the delusional state of pretending like everything is “fine” – a favorite word of mine, personally.

 

For me, this meant figuring out, with my sister, how to divide the future weeks to be with my dad in Connecticut (where we each live about 3 hours from him – in opposite directions) so that he would not be alone. To be clear, my sister and I took upon ourselves to determine that my dad should have one of us with him at all times. It was our decision and my father was never consulted. He didn’t seem to mind or disagree. Covid-19 had other plans, though.

 

Luckily, my dad is amazingly resilient and has the personality set point and fortitude of a man who is always willing to take it one step at a time. I, on the other hand, have to understand what a ‘step’ really means and by the way, is a forward step for me a backward step for someone else? How do I know ‘forward’ is unidirectional and is it possible to retrace the steps and redirect? You get the picture.

 

Then, right as my son was home with me for his spring break in early March, the world came to a pause – one sporting event after another concert after another office closing until it hit college campuses. Before I could plan out my Connecticut time with my dad, I was on my way to Pittsburgh to pack up my son’s things and within the week, I had two kids with me full time while working from home and dealing with their additional disappointments of having their own social connections cut significantly.

 

It was only March but grief has no timeline. It is only a mechanism for shooting us into a spiral of past regret, future angst and present mourning. The more distance we try to put between us and grief, the longer the days get. I don’t know enough about physics to explain it but it seems to work that way – for me, anyway.

 

And so onto the confession part.

 

You see, before we found ourselves doing things we’d never imagine because, you know – “we’re Americans, damn it – we’re not alarmists!” – like setting up cleaning stations for our groceries, using Zoom like it was water and wearing face masks for the rare occasion we even leave our homes – before all of that, I was socially distancing myself mentally from most people.

 

March came along and it just worked beautifully. I didn’t have to email anyone and say that I’m not really feeling like hanging out or text someone that I’m not in a place to text back right now or look anyone face to face to have them call my bluff when I insisted everything was ‘fine’. In an ironic way, Covid-19 just fell into my lap.

 

And I felt bad about it.

 

My work got crazier and busier than I can remember in recent times. I started feeling irritated and longing for more meaning in my job and building resentment – even in light of knowing so many were being furloughed, losing their jobs or on the front lines of a global pandemic.

 

And I felt bad about it.

 

My kids found themselves chained to our house and eating dinner with me more often and distracting themselves with things like exercise and Netflix and I loved having them in my presence, regardless.

 

And I felt bad about it.

 

I found myself having trouble personally connecting on Zoom with people asking me if everything was ok and making the excuse that “I just am more of a face to face kind of guy” (which actually is true).

 

And I felt bad about it.

 

I kept thinking about how meaningless my last contact was with my mother or how much more difficult this would have been if it were my dad instead.

 

And I felt bad about it.

 

Socially distancing wasn’t the problem. Socially connecting was.

 

With each news bite that we may start to re-enter society (which, don’t get me wrong – I desperately want as much as anyone), I had a small pang of terror. I have no FOMO (“Fear of Missing Out)”. What I have is the opposite -FOTI (“Fear of Tuning In”). While everyone was thinking about the next time we could celebrate birthdays together, I couldn’t help feel this need to escape to a remote mountain top somewhere for an extended period of time alone. Would this whole quarantine thing be over before I had taken ample advantage of the opportunity to really tune in and deal with all my crap?

 

So, there it is – my confession in the time of Covid. If you’re reading this, know that it’s not you and it’s not even Covid (well, maybe a little). It’s a longing to go back to 2019 – just for 30 minutes to sit, eyes closed, take it all in one last time, and be better prepared for 2020. I’m working through it now and I realize, there’s no more hiding, no matter how powerful the mask.

 

Until next time,

Marc

 

 

 

 

The Pursuit of Joy

I have been thinking about David Bowie a lot this month.

I’m not sure why.

It might have started when I really listened to “Heroes” closely. I mean, I have heard that song hundreds of times (if not more) but for some reason, I really listened closely, not to the lyrics, but to the layered music and how it just fills up the space.

I may have thought about Bowie because he died three years ago this month. I was just thinking, “can it be he has been gone two years already” and it turns out I was wrong. It’s been three years. Geez.

The thing about Bowie that I always admired is that I always got this sense that he carried this embedded sense of joy with him and with everything he did. Even his parting album, Blackstar, referenced death with a confidence, and some might say joyful sense of confidence that comes from being active in the process, not governed by it.

For me, Bowie was one of those people who, rightly or wrongly, I considered to always be doing the exact thing he was meant to do. You may know people like this. I have met cashiers, CEOs, performers and even an accountant, who I recall walking away and thinking “that person is in the right profession.” It wasn’t that they were happy all the time, but there was an overriding sense that they were content with who they were and what they were doing. That’s joy, or at least how I see it.

It made me think of how to bring more joy into my life, starting with my job. I have a good job but it’s not the thing that makes me who I am. It’s not the type of thing where you might say – “yeah, knowing Marc, that’s the best gig for him.”

I’m willing to accept that. I think the expectation that we love what we do and find joy is a tall order. It is nice and I do think, for me, at least, it is something to aspire to. However, it is a job and a little perspective may be in order, particularly when it’s not just about you.

It has been humorous to hear colleagues, unaware of my “side vocation” (thanks to a different last name), say things like “you should try comedy or you need to be in a creative job” unfamiliar with my little secret (which, let’s face it, may not be a secret at all and more of a comedic version of “don’t ask (if he’s a stand-up) and don’t tell (that you are).” In any event, that sense of joy that people like David Bowie seemingly bring to their endeavors cannot be simply a matter of luck, no matter how flawless it may seem. At some point, I have to square up to the reality that it may also be a choice. Ouch.

That’s the real twist in all of this. It takes work to find the joy in the whole thing – the process of work, the process of making music and even the process of dying. Maybe that’s what he meant when he wrote in Lazarus: “This way or no way, you know, I’ll be free just like that bluebird. Now, ain’t that just like me?”

Maybe if I try a bit hard, it can be just like me, too.

Until next time,

Marc

Tiffany Haddish, the Buddha and Me

You may have heard that the actress/comedian, Tiffany Haddish, had a not-so-great New Year’s Eve a few weeks ago. She bombed on stage. It happens to the best of us.

Not long after that happened, I decided to do a longer set at a comedy club largely based off of new material I worked on during the Christmas break at the end of December. This is never a good idea unless you’re maybe Jerry Seinfeld or Chris Rock where the audience can give you a lot of leeway if you are “working things out” because, well, you actually are Jerry Seinfeld or Chris Rock.

I get really eager to do new stuff. I write a lot and have enough new material to try out at an open mic every night for the next few months if I actually got to an open mic every night, which I don’t. For whatever reason, I had a “just go for it” attitude.

I didn’t bomb but I was definitely not happy with my performance. I just did not get the audience reaction consistently as much as I would have hoped. Nor should I have. This was pretty much all new stuff, after all. 

I had another gig the next night at the same venue and all day I was stressed out about it. I had a lost sense of confidence particularly since this whole comedy thing is so judgmental. You have a great set and finally a booker considers you. He or she hears or witnesses something that doesn’t feel right and you’re out of luck for the next year or longer.

While I felt some sympathy for Tiffany Haddish, I also saw the outpouring of people coming to her defense. She’s not going anywhere and people know she is not just that one bad performance. When you’re “a nobody”, the pressure to have that one performance represent whatever is needed for the person judging you (the right tone, the right material, the right look, the right amount of laughs) could be overwhelming.

All day that Saturday as I was preparing for that evening, I was wrapping myself in a cloak of doubt and uncertainty. Then I remembered something I read in “Why Buddhism is True” by Robert Wright. We have evolved to have feelings so we would be compelled to perceive things in a certain way to protect ourselves in order to pass on our genes (“it’s probably a stick but it could be a snake so best to feel anxious and fearful”). The problem is that these feelings do, in fact, lead to perceptions that drive thoughts that ultimately lead to behaviors.

This is something I keep reminding myself time and time and time again for years now. In this case, I had feelings of frustration and despair that made me perceive myself as an imposter of sorts which drove thoughts of unworthiness and a behavior that led me to first question whether I shouldn’t be giving my attention to some other endeavor. Once I took a pause to see a barrier between what I was feeling and what I was perceiving, I could start to separate it out a bit and get down to the business of watching my set, taking notes and preparing again.

And it worked. I kept three or four things from the previous night, tweaked them and weaved them into a set that went great. And the perception I had that I was not good enough to get booked again went away, too (and luckily was confirmed).

So, it seems that Tiffany Haddish might have been a lot more evolved than me because clearly she has been able to overcome a much more visible flop sooner than I did. She’s probably a closet Buddhist.

Until next time,

Marc

My Waiting Problem

I’m at Logan Airport in Boston. My flight was delayed four times – and counting (the night is young as it’s only 6:42PM). It’s the end of the day and all I want to do is go home. All I want to do is crawl into bed. All I want is…

That’s the problem. “All” I want is asking a lot because these are “first world problems”, to coin a phrase. I’m sitting in the airport, enjoying  a glass of wine and actually writing something instead of checking email, taking work calls or trying to navigate carpool schedules that are not possible thanks to poor weather in Philadelphia.

It reminds me of the “I just want to be happy” mantra. Really? That’s all – just unadulterated happiness? Why, that isn’t asking much at all (he responds sarcastically).

I’m not good at waiting. With our “always on” cell phone culture, it’s only gotten worst. For example, way before smart phones were “smart”, I was never one to read in the bathroom. That never even crossed my mind. The bathroom was for getting in and getting out as fast as possible, lest a parent should knock on the door to inquire if “everything is ok in there”.

Then one day it happened. I realized I became one of those people – scrolling through Facebook while sitting on the “throne”. (You’re welcome for the image.)

It occurred to me that I pretty much never was in the moment and that’s when I realized I have a waiting problem. It is my problem – in the bathroom, at line at the airport or supermarket, in traffic, on a teleconference with no chance of getting a word in edgewise – you get the picture.

It’s my waiting problem. Then this whole Buddhist thing came along and the waiting thing became a chance to exercise (learn) patience and take in the moment. It worked, too – sort of. If nothing else it taught me how to not try and distract myself at every moment I feel frustrated, irritated or bored. Boredom is essentially not being able to just be in the moment.

It’s not that I don’t long for things to be different or get an anxious wave of internal angst every time the board at the airport changes to show yet another further delay. It’s just that I’m starting to recognize it for what it is – the grasping of wanting for things to be anything other than they actually are – you know, that whole “reality” thing.

I’m not enlightened – just waking up – though sometimes sleep, the best distraction of them all, is just to appetizing to ignore.

Until next time,

Marc