Carol Goodman Kaufman

a.k.a. Carolinda Goodman

Carol

Identity Crisis

by 1 Comment

I have been thinking about running for public office. After all, wouldn’t that be a wonderful way to demonstrate not just in words, but through action, how much I value the democratic process in this country that welcomed my grandparents?

On the other hand, campaigning can be rough, and this has been a crazier than usual campaign season. Here in Massachusetts, Senator Scott Brown has been hammering Elizabeth Warren about her claims of Native American heritage.  I worry that if I declare my intention to run, somebody may decide to challenge my “claim” of being Jewish.

Warren relates that her parents had to elope because her father’s family hated the fact that her mother had Indian blood in her — and of two tribes, no less. Now, Native Americans have historically been vulnerable to not just regular old name-calling, you’re-not-marrying-into-my-family type of discrimination, but to actual herding into reservations like so many bison. So, while some of Warren’s relatives proudly regaled her with stories of her Cherokee and Delaware heritage, others worried about experiencing discrimination, so they would keep it quiet. Still others — perhaps from her father’s side — were ashamed of that branch of the family, so would deny it.  Brown’s campaign staff uses that self-protecive denial to “prove” that she has no Native American blood.

Jews, too, have experienced discrimination for thousands of years, having been subject to the Crusades, the Inquisition, pogroms, ghettoes — and concentration camps. My possessing both Levite and Israelite tribal blood would certainly have put me in line for the cattle cars. And while my parents and grandparents were proud of their Jewish heritage, I know people whose grandparents and parents changed their names and assimilated completely into the dominant culture. Among the more famous examples, former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright’s parents converted to Catholicism and hid their Jewish identity from their children, hoping to avoid the same fate their parents and extended family faced at the hands of the Nazis. To start life with a clean slate and no history must have felt very freeing to them.

For generations, minorities who wanted to get ahead in America felt that they had to hide their ethnicity. Then, as society began to open up, they were able to declare their ethnicity and religious affiliation without so much fear of discrimination. So, Warren identified herself as part Indian, saying that she did this in order to meet others with whom she would have something in common. When I went to college and grad school, I identified myself as Jewish, in order to get on certain mailing lists to meet other people with whom I might have something in common.

How can Elizabeth Warren prove that she is part Indian? After all, as Scott Brown loves to point out, she doesn’t “look it.” She has no documentation, although some of her recipes do appear in an Indian cookbook.

How can I prove that I am Jewish?  I don’t “look it.”  As Warren’s did, my parents and aunts and uncles and grandparents told me that I was Jewish. Like Warren, I don’t have documentation, although some of my recipes appear in Jewish cookbooks.

First we had to prove that we weren’t Native American or Jewish to get ahead. Now we have to prove the opposite. Irony, anyone?

If I should run for office, would Scott Brown’s war-whooping supporters mock me by singing tunes from “Fiddler on the Roof?”

I may have to re-think the whole campaign thing.

On Art Posters, Freedom, and Tolerance

by 1 Comment

My friend Vera was a Russian studies major back in college. At one point in the middle of our senior year, she came back to our suite one evening, very excited to tell us that she had been chosen to be a member of a panel that would debate a group of visiting students from the Soviet Union. (No, not the former Soviet Union. The actual USSR. I know this dates me, but please read on.)

In due time students arrived and the program went on. I honestly don’t remember much about the panel discussion, but something that happened during their visit has stuck with me ’til today.

The men came to our suite as part of their tour of the campus. They were accompanied by minders/handlers/KGB — I really don’t know, but some scary looking men. One of the students, Mikail, came to my room. He stopped dead in his tracks as he passed through the doorway and his eyes opened wide like proverbial saucers as he took in the various posters on my walls. You all probably had similar stuff: a Ben Shahn, a Gauguin, a Calder.

“What is all this?” he asked.

Puzzled by the question, I answered, “It’s art.” What did he think it was?

“Where did you get it?” he asked.

“Um, museum gift shops, poster stores, book stores.” As I listed my sources, I suddenly realized that he had probably never seen anything other than government controlled “art” before this, so I couldn’t resist adding, “We can buy any kind of art we want here in America.” (His minder/handler/KGB guy was not in the room at this moment.)

Mikail nodded his head and became very quiet.

I have often thought of Mikail over the years, especially when the Soviet Union ultimately collapsed in 1991. Had I somehow planted a seed in our visitor’s mind? Was Mikail pondering the freedom we have here? Did he participate in the revolution that saw the end of Communist rule? Did he go out and buy lots of art posters?

Why do I bring up that long-ago visit now? Because I wonder if there may be a connection with the mass protests and horrendous violence currently taking place across the Muslim world, allegedly in response to that stupid video produced in California.

The protesters live in countries in which their governments control everything, from how they dress to how they can worship to what they can say – to what they can consider art as opposed to what would be branded as heretical. But, with all the technology available today that enables instant communication, including discussion and argument, how is it that people in these countries don’t know how we operate here? That we have the freedom to dress as we like and worship as we wish and to say what we believe, stupid and hateful stuff included. And that we, for the most part, respect each other’s right to do so? Do they not understand this, or do they need to hate us in order to displace their own frustration at being under the thumb of repressive regimes?

Perhaps it is because some of these countries restrict access to information from the outside world. According to the Committee to Protect Journalists, Iran, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Tunisia, and Egypt are among the worst online oppressors.

Or, is it simply the uneducated, illiterate masses that are goaded into the violence?  After all, according to the United Nations, only 66% of Egyptians are literate, 62% of Yemenites, 62% of Pakistanis, 38% of Afghanis, while masses of Libyans (with a 98% literacy rate) are now protesting the deadly and destructive rioters.

During the so-called Arab Spring, I prayed that a seed or two of our way of life had become implanted in the students who had come to our universities from these countries, that the idea of freedom had burrowed deep into their psyches, gathering nutrients, so that after a long dormancy was actually about to flower into something beautiful. I hope I will see that in my lifetime.

I wonder where Mikail is now, and what he has hanging on his walls.

Celebrating Creation and Creativity

by 1 Comment

At this time of year, during the Rosh Hashanah celebration of the world’s creation, we are encouraged to engage in serious reflection. In reality, we tend to spend a lot more time in the kitchen preparing big feasts, making beds for the onslaught of returning children, and setting the table. But, this past Sunday was such an absolutely glorious day that, in the middle of making the brisket and setting the table, we decided to take a break.

Joel, Avi, and I walked down to this year’s “stART on the street” fair in Worcester. The City had closed off blocks and blocks along Park Avenue to allow over 200 artists and artisans to display their wares. Live music added a joyous atmosphere, as did the aromas of street foods being prepared in trucks lining the route.

I marveled at the range and type of artistic talent. There were, of course, the traditional paintings and photographs. But, we also saw jewelry made from recycled glass and pocketbooks fashioned from hardcover copies of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. Quilts and tote bags made from recycled food wrappers hung from one booth, while garden lighting crafted from vintage teacups and saucers was in another. I fell in love with knitted children’s hats that looked like turkeys and hedgehogs. Joel bought a bowl crafted of a beautiful walnut.

Now that the holiday preparations are (mostly) behind me, I have had some time to reflect on the meaning of it all. The variety of artistic expression I witnessed at the fair demonstrated for me at a micro level the inspired work of the Big Creator. To wit: The gorgeous weather on weekend and holiday that morphed into a wild wind and rain storm and that returned to calm today. The hummingbirds that return every spring after wintering in South America to feed at my morning glories. The magnificent palette of colors that is beginning to appear on the trees. And most of all, my toddler grandson Max, a one-of-a-kind combination of genes, sweet cheeks, giggles, and mischief.

To a Happy and Healthy and Creative New Year!

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

by 2 Comments

The chicken is the only animal that seems not to have crossed the road out here.

One cold and snowy December night, as Joel and I negotiated our way down a slippery, sloping road, a bear suddenly darted out of a neighbor’s yard on the left, crossed the street in front of our car and jumped over the fence surrounding another neighbor’s property. We were somewhat shocked, but frankly excited, to have our first up-close encounter of the bear kind. We also marveled at the bear’s agility at clearing the post-and-rail fence.

Not ten seconds later, a deer ran from the same yard and leapt over the very same fence. We were thrilled at the deer’s grace, but wondered what could have caused both animals to run like that. And, why would the deer head in the same direction as the bear? Had the lion and the lamb really come to lie down together?

Months later Joel and I headed out to dinner around dusk. As we turned onto the main road toward town, a bobcat crossed in front of us. We disagreed as to the kind of cat it was, he believing that it was just a house cat, and I asking when he had ever seen a house cat the size of a Springer Spaniel. Our next-door neighbor confirmed the sighting when she found the bobcat sunning himself in her driveway.

Other neighbors have reported seeing bear and moose on our property.

Then, a flock of turkeys convened a rather lengthy meeting in the driveway, causing me to be late for an appointment while I waited for them to adjourn.

And, ust last weekend, as I was driving to visit old friends, a deer darted from the woods and crossed not 20 feet in front of my car. She did not look both ways before she crossed.

Now, having grown up in the Berkshires, I am well aware that much of it is country, but I don’t recall ever seeing a single deer (or bear or coyote or fox or moose or wild turkey) as a kid. My dad did find a huge snapping turtle once, and my cousin Wilma collected snakes, but that is just about the extent of the wildlife I encountered. Some experts say that, with so much development, there is less forest area for the animals, but still others say that Massachusetts has more forested land now than at the time of the Revolutionary War.

So, why are many animals now cross into my yard? Could it be the wild apples growing here? The great view? Or, perhaps the cows pasturing up the road that attract them?

Hmm … perhaps they cross here to get to the udder side?

 

 

 

Babies and Dogs and Bears, Oh My!

by 1 Comment

Thirty-two years ago, on a beautiful spring afternoon, Joel and I brought our infant son, Seth, to visit his great-grandfather Jack in his Brookline apartment. Not long after we arrived, Seth did what all babies do: he wet his diaper all the way through to Grandpa’s slacks.

“Grandpa,” I said. “Please give me your slacks and let me bring them to the dry cleaner.”

“No,” he replied.

“But I can have them back in an hour.”

“No,” he insisted. “It is a privilege to have a great-grandchild to pee on me.”

I have been thinking about that exchange recently. I now have the opportunity to be watered by my own grandson (although diaper technology has evolved to the point at which that situation has not yet occurred), and it is a wonder to be at that stage of life, and an absolute privilege to have a grandchild. If Max’s diaper needs to be changed, then I am happy to do it.

When Rascal was alive, I never minded picking up after him. I adored that black lab and miss him every day. He really was a member of the family.

But I draw the line at bears and deer and moose and coyotes. While it is truly wonderful to live in the country and see wildlife up close, these beautiful, strong, and graceful animals do eat all the apples from my trees and then leave their calling cards. Week by week, the scat (scientists’ name for poop) increases all along my driveway. And, as beautiful as the visitors are, I really don’t want to clean up after them, even with a plastic bag over my hand – or even two or three plastic bags. (The cows that wander into the yard from down the road would require a large trash bag.)

I guess I believe that, like cooking on the grill, outdoor cleanup is best left to my husband. Which brings me to grilling. I am terrified of the propane tank, afraid it will explode in my face.  I don’t particularly like the old charcoal grill, either, but am willing to cook on it because charcoal can’t detonate. Can it?

All this makes me wonder: Have I flunked feminism?

Hummingbirds are back!

by 1 Comment

Like the swallows at Capistrano, the hummingbirds are back. In our case, it’s a family of three that has been coming to us for the past four years. First, some history: The local police chief informed us that having a regular bird feeder with seed was not a good idea, given the bears in our neck of the woods. In fact, a big news story at the time reported on a mother-cub duo that invaded the home of television personality Gene Shalit, just a few miles down the road.

I first got interested in hummingbirds during a trip to Costa Rica. On return home I purchased a beautiful, sculpture-like feeder from a birding shop.  As beautiful as the feeder was, it had two little test tubes that needed to be refilled every day — those tiny birds eat a lot to maintain their high-velocity wings. Then, of course, one of the test tubes broke and I couldn’t find one the right size – even on a website devoted solely to, yes, test tubes.

Rather than continue to search for one little test tube and spend my days pouring nectar, I bought a standard feeder. You know the ones, the big glass tube with red trim and yellow plastic flowers. Tradition has it that the red is supposed to attract hummingbirds. (Of course, I also see the birds feeding at my pale lavender wisteria and white snap pea blossoms.) This new feeder can hold four cups of fluid and needs refilling only once every week or two.

This particular feeder hangs from a wrought iron post directly outside the dining room window. We find ourselves staring at it as we eat, hoping to catch a glimpse of the rapid-flying beauties. Every ten minutes, like clockwork, a bird approaches the feeder for a snack. And, each bird is different. One has a red band around its neck, another a white breast, while a third is pale green. The birds move so fast that at first it was hard to see the differences among them, but with time we have come to know our feathered friends. Plus, with the help of the sports setting on my camera, and some patience, I have been able to capture some very good images of our summer guests. A couple photos are included with this post.

The first three years we had the feeder, the birds zoomed in, took a sip, and zipped away. This year, they have begun to linger. Are they slowing down with age? Or, are they feeling more comfortable with us than when they first started coming to our yard?

A few weeks ago I pulled into the driveway to discover the wrought iron post parallel to the ground, and the feeder emptied of all fluid. The previous night’s heavy rainstorm had affected nothing else – neither a twig nor a leaf was out of place — so I was surprised that this one thing had fallen.

Until our neighbor Andy informed me that he saw a bear lumbering up our driveway.

Apparently this bear had a sweet tooth. And we have a wildlife preserve. I am very glad that the hummingbirds can fly very fast.