Writing Your Story

“You live as long as you are remembered.”
^{~ Russian proverb}

 

My mind has "run the gamut" of emotions these past years. With some (extended) family illnesses, and then with my sister (only sibling) passing away, it is hard NOT to think of mortality. What struck me very deeply was that when my sister passed, I became painfully aware that I was the last one left of my nuclear family (our parents died in 1977 and 1979 respectively); every family story, our very own history, it's only mine to tell anymore.

 

There are so many little snippets of my life, some funny, some sad, that I want to live on even past my own life's run. So, I began to write "The story of Chelle". This is not a memoir, certainly not one meant for public consumption, however it's my sincere hope that each one of my FUTURE family will get to cherish some of these stories and perhaps pass them along to their descendants. It's mere snippets, little memories, that have given me moments to chuckle, to remember, to know how many of these memories have made me who I am today.

 

It's been said that, just like DNA, all our ancestors live on inside us. I believe that is so true even when we haven't really known the folks who passed some traits down to us. Ironically, I met a distant cousin from a branch of my family I never even knew existed. It all started with a bit of (excuse me) spit… and the results of my DNA turned up a long list of potential relatives. Surely, I wasn't going to explore each one, but one profile popped up that intrigued me.

 

Turns out this gentleman and I are distant cousins on my paternal grandmother's side of the family. He connected me with another relative (unfortunately the DNA services do NOT share with each other so we may only find relatives through others). My new-found relative, and at this point a very dear friend, is a second cousin. We are quite close in age, and if you didn't know differently you might think that we grew up together because we share so many similar values and traits.

 

I am not looking for immortality, or maybe in a way I am? I just want some of my memories to live on for my children. As a writer maybe it is not unusual for me to take to writing these thoughts and memories down but considering my ego, I am just recording these memories for my family. When I recently told my daughter about my project, her loving quip was that I had an advantage… I could tell everything from MY personal standpoint since there was no one left to counter. Yep, she's got a point, LOL.

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I Was Named for My Grandfather

 

In the Ashkenazi Jewish faith that I was raised in, it is customary to name a newborn baby for a deceased loved one — I was named for my maternal grandfather, Reuben. This tradition both honors the deceased, keeps them “alive” by connection, and it is believed helps to form a bond between the ancestor and the child.

 

I heard many wonderful stories about my grandfather and quite ironically, both my sister and I have very distinct memories of being read bedtime stories by him… even though he died long before either of us was born.

 

My grandfather was a loving man, a smart businessman, a devout Jew, and an actual HERO. Living in the Deep South, my mom grew up amidst many prejudices towards Jews, towards Blacks, and basically anyone who didn’t look the same. It was also customary for many families to have hired help in their homes, and most every housekeeper was Black. My grandma was criticized by her neighbors because she would often sit and have coffee with her housekeeper, and my mom and the housekeeper’s son would sometimes sit in the parlor and play board games together.

 

Mostly for safety reasons, the races did not normally mingle on the streets of the town they lived in, and no Black man was allowed to confront or get physical with a White person. Yet there was the one day my mom and a girlfriend had gone into town and were accosted by a couple of drunken White men who had stumbled out of a bar. They loudly told the men to keep their hands to themselves, but they wouldn’t listen.

 

As “luck” would have it, the housekeeper had sent her son into town to pick up groceries. The young man was across the street when he heard my mom and her friend yelling at the drunken men. One of the men had grabbed my mom’s friend by the arm and pulled her in tightly. At that point the housekeeper’s son ran across the street and loudly confronted the men. In both surprise and anger, the wrath of the drunks turned to this young Black man who firmly stood his ground and demanded that the two young ladies be left alone. The two girls walked up the street, followed by their rescuer who made sure that they were not harassed again.

 

That night when my grandfather returned home from work he found their housekeeper crying hysterically in my grandmother’s arms. They explained to him that there had been a death threat, a vow to lynch the young Black man for having the audacity to confront the White men; it didn’t matter that the White men were drunk and accosting White teenage girls. My grandmother had helped to hide the housekeeper’s son long enough to wait for my grandfather to come home and decide what to do.

 

That night my grandfather, a Jewish merchant in the south, contacted a friend in North Virginia and arranged for transport for this young man to somewhere in New York State. And then he rolled the young man up in a heavy carpet and tied the young man to the undercarriage of his delivery truck. He promised to bring the young man to safety, hoping that he would not get stopped along the way.

 

          My grandmother and the housekeeper kept a vigil at the kitchen table until the next morning when my grandfather walked in. He told the housekeeper that her son was safe and passed her money so that she could afford the transportation up north to join him.

 

          I watched the movie “The United States vs. Billie Holiday” on Netflix the other night and I was reminded of this heroic story my mom always told me. I am so proud to be named for my grandfather.

Billie Holiday sings "Strange Fruit"

 

 

 

Heritage

“I mean, they say you die twice.
One time when you stop breathing and a second time,
 a bit later on,
when somebody says your name for the last time.”
― Banksy

The older I grow, the more important it seems to me to know about my heritage, the generations that came and went before me. While it is important to me to know, it is more important that I leave a record of our past for the future generations. Maybe it is a way of not letting go of those loved ones I’ve already lost. Maybe passing on the stories of our heritage will keep my memory alive after I am gone.

I recently had a DNA test done and have actually been able to connect with a few more distant cousins (we really don’t use numbers, a cousin is a cousin). I’ve enjoyed hearing stories of the different branches of the family. Actually a little more than ten years ago a cousin came to my sister and me and said he was trying to put together a detailed family tree ~ he actually managed to track down a huge number of relatives even without these DNA kits so many are using today.

I’ve also been using a site that features old and varied newspapers and, wow, my own Mom had quite a social life in her hometown; I wish she was still around to talk with me about it. Using the internet and the many search sites (yes, some ARE free) has helped me find connections and learn stories of my family’s past. I learned that a number of my “great-aunts and great-uncles” never escaped the horrors of concentration camps and I am so sorry that many of their lives were cut so short that they didn’t get much chance to leave a legacy. I found out about a paternal great-aunt I never knew existed and am still trying to learn more about her.

In my quest to learn more about relatives and discussions with new-found cousins, I’ve come to believe very strongly in the “six degrees of separation” and have listened to stories about folks who were close friends of distant cousins, or even had connections to folks I already knew. I’ve learned about business ventures and accomplishments with my own family, and most importantly I’ve been able to share in the joys, and sometimes sorrows, that life brings. It is absolutely fantastic to share as family.

For now I have many of my notes and records in a computer file but I have hopes of actually printing a master book of all my ancestral and current family tree. The hardest part will be keeping the different branches separate, but separate only on paper. And I will include information about myself and my husband as well as our offspring and their spouses. And maybe one day a young child will be able to ask about me and I will kind of live on through these recorded stories.