Tolerance and Hope

For a quiet moment, I stared anxiously at the beautiful black and white photo that was printed on the small plastic white card I held reverently in my right hand.  I couldn’t stop staring at the face of 13-year-old Helen “Potyo” Katz.  I couldn’t seem to turn away from the haunted look in her large dark eyes.

“Bring your card over here,” I suddenly heard the young museum docent say to me.  “If you place the card into one of the computers, you’ll get a print out about your child.”

I smiled and followed the young woman over to one of the computers that was lined up against the far wall.  I placed the card into the slot on the front of the computer.  A few second later, I picked up the single sheet of paper that had seeped out of a nearby printer.

Helen “Potyo” Katz

The same black and whiter photo of the young girl with the large dark eyes stared up at me from the page.  I quickly read through the text that was printed on the pure white paper.  I suddenly found myself choking back tears as I read the last two paragraphs.

“Potyo and her mother were immediately separated from her brother and sisters, and they were murdered.  Potyo was 13-years-old.”

“Potyo was one of 1.5 million Jewish children murdered by the Germans and their collaborators during the Holocaust.”

I took a deep breath and looked at the three tall card dispensers that were stationed at the front of the room. Each dispenser held stacks of white plastic cards.  Each card presented a picture and name of a child murdered during the Holocaust…

1.5 million children…

Looking at the stacks of cards I still couldn’t seem to wrap my head or my heart around that number.  I was still contemplating this fact when my friend, Allison, walked up beside me and asked if I wanted to go downstairs and attend the presentation by the guest speaker. Affirmatively shaking my head, I quickly followed Allison to the elevators and we rode in silence down to the lower level.

Allison and I had decided to tour the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles, California, because we both have a huge interest in the Holocaust, World War II and the events of the 1940s.  The exhibits at this museum were beautifully and respectfully designed to honor the people of the Holocaust.  I was pleased to see though that the museum also paid tribute to all people who were targets of hate crimes. All minorities that have suffered violence and discrimination are respectfully honored at the Museum of Tolerance.  Looking at the displays was a sobering and profound experience.

Allison and I took our seats in the large back room on the second floor that had been set aside for presentations.  As I sat comfortably in the plastic seat on the end of the third aisle and waited patiently for the presentation to begin, I glanced anxiously around the room.  I was pleased to see that the audience contained many young people.  A large majority of them were with a school group.  Others were sitting next to their parents.

A few minutes later, a short, slender man with dark hair walked up to the front of the room.  He introduced himself as Michael though he was known to his family as Miki.  For the next hour, I sat riveted to the presentation as Miki spoke of his experiences in the Auschwitz concentration camp during the Holocaust.  I found myself swept away as he talked about the separation of his family, the condition of the concentration camps, and the brutality he witnessed on a daily basis.  Listening to Miki’s words, I couldn’t keep the tears from flowing down my face.  I wanted to scream.  I wanted to cry out loud at the details of Miki’s horrific life story.  I had to continually turn my head to the open space on my left and forcibly breathe out to keep myself from screeching.

I was not alone in this grief.  Miki’s story was so intensely horrific that the audience reacted in shock and despair.  I looked around the room and saw many people in tears.  I struggled to hold in my sobs as I noticed a young blond boy gripping his mother’s hand and patting her arm as tears ran down both their faces.

When his hour was over, Miki still had not completed his entire story.  As terrifying as the story was, I didn’t want Miki to stop talking.  This moment was so incredibly enriching to my soul, I didn’t want it to be over.  I have read many books about the Holocaust, but hearing a first-hand account made the events more personal and realistic.  I wanted to remain connected to the people in that room, who were joined together to honor the tragedy and awesome courage of another person’s life.

When Miki had to end his presentation, Allison and I stood in the line of people walking to the front of the room to thank Miki for telling his story.  Allison and I patiently stood by as we watched audience members move up to Miki one at a time.  Now, I didn’t fight back my tears as I watched the young blond boy and his mother approach Miki.  Miki asked the boy how old he was to which the boy responded “Thirteen.”

“Thirteen!” Miki repeated.  “Aaahhh…that’s the age I was when I was sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp.”

Now the boy and the man stood staring at each other for a moment of profound silence.  Then, the boy suddenly threw his arms around Miki and held him in a long embrace.  I watched as the two generations held onto each other, trying to find some peace and understanding in life’s atrocities.  When the two separated again, I watched in awe as other young kids—13-, 15-, 17-year-olds—each took a turn to shake hands or hug Miki while thanking him for sharing his story.  I watched as one young girl with long dark hair offered her hand to Miki.  Her chin quivered violently as she tried to hold back the tears that were swimming in her eyes.  Miki took her hand looked into her eyes and said, “It’s okay to cry.”  He paused and then added, “And it’s okay to laugh.  We are all just human.”  The young girl’s tears now spilled down her cheeks as she embraced Miki quickly and then ran from the room.

Allison and I were the last in line and now we stood in front of Miki.  As Allison talked to him, I addressed the short, dark haired, elderly woman standing beside him.  Miki’s wife and I stared at each other for a second before embracing.  As we held onto each other, words just slipped out of my mouth.  I whispered to her, “You are beautiful.”

The woman pulled away and stared at me for a minute.  “Oh, no, not me,” she now said with a gentle laugh as a sweet blush eased across her cheeks.  Her suddenly rosy face and shy smile gripped my heart.  “Of course, you are,” I answered as the woman embraced me again.

I turned then to Miki and choked on my words as I said to him, “It was an absolute privilege to hear your story.”  Miki and I shared a gentle hug.

As I pulled away and turned towards Allison, I suddenly heard Miki’s wife excitedly say to him, “Did you hear what she said to me?  Did you hear what she said?!”

I turned back around to find the woman beaming joyfully at me as she stood next to her husband.  She seemed to be waiting anxiously for me to repeat the words.  “I told her she was beautiful,” I said even though my tears caused me to choke on the last word as the woman’s smile suddenly radiated out around the room.  I wanted to run back to her, take off the big white sunglasses she was wearing, stare into her eyes and ask, “Hasn’t anyone ever said that to you before?”  The woman seemed so pleased to be addressed in such a manner.  I suddenly realized that it was not ego that made her want my words repeated, but a deep aching need that we all have to be acknowledged and humanized.

I turned around then and followed Allison out the door and down the hallway to the bathroom.  I stepped into one of the stalls, leaned my head against the wall, and cried.  I don’t think I’ve wept that hard in a long time.  After a few minutes, I stepped out of my stall at the same time Allison came out of hers.  For a moment, we stood staring at each other as we noted our tears…

And then suddenly we smiled…

And then we started to laugh.

Because it really is okay to cry…

And it is okay to laugh.

Allison and I walked out of the bathroom and back into the main hallway.  We looked at a few more exhibits until the museum closed at 5 pm.  I didn’t want to leave.  I loved being at the Museum of Tolerance.  I certainly wouldn’t say it is the place that make me the happiest.  I certainly wouldn’t say it is the place that makes me feel the most alive.

The Museum of Tolerance, instead, is the place that makes me feel the most human…

I was always concerned that in years to come people would forget about the Holocaust, that it would simply over time just fade away into the pages of dusty old history books.  I think about the evil that people continue to do to each other.  I worry about the disrespect we, including myself, demonstrate to each other on a daily basis…

….but then I think about all of those young people who cried, and laughed, and honored a Holocaust survivor…

And I know there’s hope for the next generation.  Oh, yes, there is tremendous hope for the generations to come.

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New Year’s Eve

I should have known better than to go to the grocery store on New Year’s Eve.  I knew that the store would probably be busy with last minute customers who were preparing a New Year’s celebration that night.  I could have probably waited for a couple of days to go to the store.  I just thought it would be easier to pick up a few groceries now on my way home from the gym.

The parking lot of the grocery store was crowded but I finally found a space in a small side parking lot and carefully eased in between two large SUVs.  I parked the car and ran into the store.  Thankfully, it didn’t take me long to grab the few things I needed and, within twenty minutes, I was back in my car ready to drive home.

But before I could start my car, I suddenly caught some movement in my rearview mirror.  I turned to my left and looked over my shoulder.  An elderly man was carefully walking between my car and the SUV parked on the left side.  I sat in the car waiting for the man to get into the passenger side of the SUV.  He was a large man, well over six foot, and heavyset.  His pure white, wavy hair was cut short and his large glasses sat squarely on his round fleshy face.

I stared at him for a moment and tried to be patient as I waited for him to get in his car.  I was anxious to get home now and it seemed to be taking this man a long time to move out of the way.  Maybe he didn’t know I was waiting, I thought.  Maybe he couldn’t see me.  I waited another minute and then started the car. I didn’t want to scare him, but I just wanted to go home now.  The man looked up at me for a moment and then opened the front passenger door and started to climb inside.  For a moment, he struggled to get his large body into the car.  Then, as the man pushed himself forward, his door came hurtling at my car and smacked against my back driver’s side door with a loud Thwack!  The impact was so strong, my whole car rocked from side to side for a moment .  I turned back around in my seat to stare at the man as he resumed the process of getting into the car.

I started to roll down my window.  I didn’t know what I was going to say.  I hadn’t prepared for a confrontation.  I should however get out and check my car.  But then, I looked at the man who was now half in and half out of his car.  My furious eyes locked with his tired grey eyes. Despair and loneliness were etched into a face full of wrinkled grief and saggy sadness.  I couldn’t say anything then.  Instead, I met his eyes, smiled at him, and  put my window back up.  I waited until the man was finally settled into the car and shut his door.  I looked again behind me and began to slowly ease out of the space.  As I backed up, I meet the man’s eyes again, and I suddenly held up my hand and waved to him.  He never smiled or said anything, but slowly his hand came up and he waved back.  A strange look of surprise covered his face.

I pulled out of the parking space and drove home.  As I got out of the car, I looked at my back passenger door.  A thin, small, shallow scratch was carved into the grey paint.  I thought about the incident as I smiled then and traced the scratch with my fingertips.  It’s a car; it’s only a car…and if you’ve seen my car, you know it ain’t no Cadillac!  Besides, my car is hardly ever clean. The inside of my car looks like I’m going on a five-day road trip; the outside looks like I’ve just returned.  The additional scratch, I decided, just gave my car more character.  What difference does it really make anyway?  What would I have said to the man?  Would I have gotten angry?  Screamed at him?  Yelled?  What right did I have to attack the man’s dignity over a minor accident?  The car certainly is not worth the worth of an elderly man.  What did a small scratch mean in the whole scheme of things?

I started to laugh at the absurdity of life and the changes that have happened to me in the past year.  My gosh, how I have changed.  A year ago, I might have gotten upset.  A year ago, I would have demanded some retribution.   But today, now, it was a year later from the person I used to be.  2015, the start of a new year…and the scratch really didn’t seem to matter.

I walked into my apartment then and my new year’s celebration suddenly began early.  I usually wait until midnight on December 31.  But my emotions were beginning to run over.   I thought about the elderly man.  I thought about the incident.  I thought about all the struggles, joys, and challenges in my life over the past year and I started to cry.  I sat on the floor of my studio apartment and cried for the man and cried for myself and cried for the world.

An hour later, I was exhausted.  I glanced at the clock.  It was only 2:00 pm.  Yes, my New Year’s celebration happened very early this year.  I always cry on New Year’s Eve.  I released the old fear and worries.  I cleansed my heart of any lingering sadness.  I prepared my mind for the challenges ahead in the new year. I have washed away the old and I am ready for the new.

I rolled on the floor and laughed for a while before finally pulling myself up.  I turned on my computer and continued working on the novel I had started a few weeks ago.  My mind and heart were so clear, I could suddenly see the world around me in a whole new way.  I am ready now for the joys, challenges, and changes the new year will offer!

Have a safe and happy 2015, everyone!

Marilyn

I’m going to reveal a secret. I think it’s time I confessed. Whenever I am alone at home, in the car, or at work, I am constantly singing. I can’t seem to stop. Lately, I have found myself bursting out in song even when I am at the grocery store. I will stand right in the frozen foods section and belt out a few verses of “Heat Wave.” My voice, however, quickly dissolves into a heavy sigh or raging cough whenever someone approaches. I don’t sing around other people. I don’t want anyone to tell me that I am off-key or out of tune. I already know my voice is weak and pitchy. But that doesn’t stop me when I am alone. I still continue to sing using my hairbrush or television remote as a microphone. It’s a childhood activity I have never outgrown.

So I continue to sing and scribble down lyrics on napkins or in my class notes. I have been writing songs since I was six-years-old. In high school, I would sit in the back of the room scribbling silly love songs in my notebook instead of paying attention to my history lesson. I had dreams of being a singer/songwriter back then. Unfortunately, the dreams are recurring. By all rights, I should be Shania Twain or Taylor Swift. I can close my eyes and see a complete picture of myself on stage dramatically singing my songs to a large cheering crowd.

In reality, though, when the dream ends, I’m not on stage. Instead, I am usually in the audience. I love to go to concerts. It is the only thing I splurge on. I will go without new clothes and shop for groceries at the 99 Cent Store just to have the extra money I need to buy a concert ticket.

Last Saturday night, November 1, I had a ticket to see Reba McEntire at Fantasy Springs Casino in Indio, California. I have never seen Reba before and was excited for the show. I arrived at the venue early that night so I decided to go to the bowling alley snack bar and get a cup of coffee. Not being a gambler, I decided to just relax and read until the doors of the theater were open.

I sat at a small round table and alternately stuck my nose in my coffee cup and my paperback book. Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me say, “Where is the trash can? Is that the trash can?”

I looked up and saw an elderly woman standing behind me. She was slightly hunched over and she shuffled across the floor in a slow awkward tilted gait. The woman was wearing white pants and a blue striped shirt that was covered by a white cardigan. A little white hat that looked like a sailor’s cap turned inside out sat on top of her gray curly hair and drooped down around her large black framed glasses. I smiled at her for a moment and then pulled my chair closer to the table to make sure I was out of her way.

The woman thanked me and then dumped her trash in the metal can behind me. She turned slowly to go back to her table but then stopped and looked at me. She asked me if I was going to the concert that night. “Oh, yes, I’m really excited about this show,” I answered and the woman happily clapped her hands together.

“I’m going, too,” she told me. “I go see everybody. I don’t care if they’re white or black, gay, lesbian. It doesn’t matter. I just want to hear the music and see the shows. After every show I’ve ever seen I always thank God for blessing me so greatly. I got to witness the talents of so many great people and I always say thank you Jesus for blessing me so. I got to see Sammy Davis, Jr and Elvis Presley. I saw Librace four times! How lucky am I! I’m Marilyn.”

“Hi, Marilyn,” I told her as I reached out my hand. “My name is Jamie.”

“Oh, Jamie,” Marilyn stated as she grabbed my hand warmly. “How wonderful. We are going to witness a great talent together tonight. I’m 85-years-old and I’ve gotten to experience so much! God is so good!”

As I stared at Marilyn for a moment, I tried not to reveal my shock. This beautiful woman with this amazing spirit was 85? I know much younger people who don’t possess a fraction of her energy and enthusiasm. Marilyn was excited now and she couldn’t stop talking. I didn’t mind. I do the same thing when I am happy. So I put down my book and looked right at her as I listened to her voice that rattled, shook , and cracked as she continued on. “Yes, Barbara Walters turned 85 in September. I’m turning 85 in December. She retired. Why? I think I’m going to last longer than Barbara Walters. I’m so excited. I’m so lucky. What good fortune that I have seen so many shows and so much talent. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for creating all of the lovely talented people. Thank you for blessing me because I get to see all of the talent. I love to see these talented people. Black, white, gay, lesbian…I don’t care. I love them! And I’m so lucky. What a blessed life I have had to witness such amazing talent. Look how Jesus has blessed me! I’ve been in the audience at the best shows and witnessed the greatest talent.”
Marilyn’s great enthusiasm dimmed only once when she mentioned the government. Or as my friend Marilyn stated, “The fucking government…Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” She giggled as her small hands rose up to cover her mouth. I just laughed. I figure if someone is 85-years-old, he or she has earned the right to say anything. The light in Marilyn’s eyes returned as she continued to talk about all of the great shows she had seen.

A few minutes later, Marilyn’s friend arrived and they left the snack bar. I trailed them through the casino where Marilyn, who claimed to have stopped gambling four years ago, was walking around the slot machines cheering on the gamblers or offering them unsolicited advice. I felt brilliant in her presence and dazzled by her enthusiasm.

An hour later, I was sitting in the audience of the Fantasy Springs performance center listening to Reba’s amazing talent. And when the concert was over I thanked God for blessing me so. I walked by Marilyn and her friend on my way out. I leaned over and took her hand. “What did you think, Marilyn?” I asked her. “Did you have fun?”

“Oh, I used to be a schoolteacher,” Marilyn told me. “Reba gets an A plus plus plus. What an amazing gift she has. Thank you God. I have been so blessed.” I squeezed Marilyn’s hand then and left the theater after saying good night.

I walked out of the performance center with a prayer of my own. Thank you God for allowing me to witness so many amazing and beautiful spirits tonight. And thank you for the lesson I learned from my dear 85 year old friend, Marilyn. A gift is a talent we share with others; a blessing is the ability to appreciate those gifts. Thanks to Marilyn, I now know the difference. I may not be gifted like Shania or Taylor or Reba, but now I know God has continued to bless me endlessly.

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