Who Knew?

by Ruth Lampert

Copyright date 9/26/08

reposted 9/17/10

I'm Jewish, all right. I have a Jewish heart, a Jewish sense of humor, Jewish taste buds, and Jewish guilt. But I was raised in a tradition of "secular Judaism" in which these traits flourished in a climate devoid of formal Jewish education or religious practice. The only thing I knew about "kosher" was the connotation in the saying "that doesn't sound kosher to me," and a vague image of bearded, skull- capped men who didn't eat pork.


My father -- a kind and deeply moral man -- was philosophically opposed to organized religion. He probably would not have approved of the summer camp I went to the year after he died, when I was 10.


We called it "Camp Chi," pronounced "shy," although today I wonder if it wasn’t the Hebrew word “Chai,” meaning “life.” Be that as it may, the director’s name was definitely “Mother Seiman." As I think about it now that sounds more Catholic than Jewish, but Mother Seiman she was. I paid very little attention to her until the evening of My Sin.


Camp life was O.K. -- I liked the songs, and can still sing all the words to "I'm a hayseed, I'm full of seaweed..." and "Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro" and "Be kind to your web-footed friends, for a duck may be somebody's mother" -- but in a lot of ways it was dumb.


For example, cabins rotated the task of setting tables for the evening meal. On my Eve of Transgression I hurried to the dining room hoping no one would notice that I was a little late (I had probably been lying on my cot day-dreaming, as usual) and the other girls were hard at it, pushing and shoving as they grabbed utensils from a large wooden box which, if I thought about it at all, I probably assumed had formerly served some other storage or packaging use, since printed on the side in big bold letters was the word "MILK." Probably the little individual milk cartons had been delivered in it, I may have thought.


My dopey cabin-mates were all crowded around it in a frenzy of gathering spoons and knives and forks, and I wondered, in my sensible way, why some of them didn't just avoid the crush by taking utensils from the nearby box labeled "MEAT"- - probably brisket had been delivered in that one. I took what I needed from it, finished my share of the tables in short order, and slipped back to my cabin, my cot, and my interrupted day-dream.


Halfway through dinner -- which I didn't think much of, mostly just cheese-filled blintzes -- the door flew open and Mother Seiman stormed in from the staff dining room. Face blazing with fury, voice strident with rage, she bellowed something about having "just learned of this blasphemy... someone with a twisted sense of humor...I expect a confession by morning or everyone in the offending cabin will be punished...bla bla bla."


What the heck was she yammering on about, I wondered? Oh well, grownups were strange, and besides, I wasn't feeling too well. My throat was sore, and my head ached.


The next morning I was in the infirmary. I stayed there until Mother (mine, not Seiman) picked me up and drove me home where Doc Kraut said I had a strep throat and was I a lucky young lady that a new wonder drug called "sulpha" was available for just such cases.


So much for Camp Chi and Mother Seiman and her inexplicable temper tantrum. Growing up I became exposed to more traditional Jews and learned, among other things, about dietary laws, including the injunction against mixing milk and meat at the same meal.
Those boxes. MEAT. MILK. The tantrum became all too explicable.
I never have kept kosher. I do scrupulously observe a personal dietary law, which mandates eating lox, bagels, and cream cheese every Sunday morning at a deli.
I espouse the spirit of Reform Judaism described by the late humanistic Rabbi Leslie Freund, whose father was an orthodox Rabbi. Leslie recalled the day he realized he really didn't believe the words he was chanting, but, he said, “I still loved the music."


That metaphor continues to inform my spiritual life. So it is that on the coming Yom Kippur I will sit, as I do every year, with fellow Jews and examine my conscience. Have I been complacent? arrogant? unkind? self-righteous? etc. etc.
I know that getting strep throat was not punishment for my childhood sin of ignorance at Camp Chi, and no God I can imagine would expect me to ask forgiveness. Still, I offer up a little apology to Mother Seiman, and if a Higher Power hears me, hey...
Couldn't hurt.

THANKS, BETTY

(or, “The Last Ism”)
First in a series of “The Owl and the Elephant”


By
Ruth Lampert

Copyright Ruth Lampert September 2010


…and thanks also to the rest of you “old timers” who have come upon the scene just in time for this blog. You, Betty White, and many like you, are bringing down walls of prejudice, this time against “ageism.” I can remember (I’m sure some of you can too, and now it’s o.k. to admit it) when newspapers and other media pictorially portrayed various minorities in physically insulting ways. Political cartoonists especially employed grotesquely big noses, huge mops of then-unfashionably frizzy hair, gruesomely thick lips, etc to depict the various minorities which I am sure you can match to the racial/ethnic stereotypes. And while unattractive _ physical characteristics (think big ears) are still employed, they are ethnically neutral. *
It is still true that we elderly are often mocked in ways that go beyond the “hey where’s your sense of humor” rationale.’ Seinfeld is over, but repeats abound; on a recent one, Jerry’s parents move to a retirement facility where an election of officers is being conducted. The residents are uniformly portrayed as ludicrously stupid. It can be said in defense that everyone on the show is portrayed as ridiculous, but by no means are they all unattractive. On another episode the principals volunteer to “cheer” lonely old people – again, the recipients of care are without exception foolish, mean, and ugly.

Compare this with “Frazier,” also currently on repeats, in which the elderly father has foibles and eccentricities and sometimes he is right and sometimes wrong - - as are all the other characters. Case in point: “being funny” is not the same as “being made fun of.”

Stereotypically, if not mean-spiritedly, just about everywhere grandmothers are linked with grandchildren and cookies. Lord knows I adore my grandchildren and great-grandchildren (I told you I was old) and my long, loving relationship with cookies is widely celebrated, but as you can see I am also involved in other activities, as are most of my grandma buddies. We even sometimes talk about men – is that hilarious or what?

Which segues me nicely to the bright, talented, pretty, energetic, “new”comedy star, Betty White. They don’t come much funnier at any age, and I predict (remember, you heard it here first, unless you already heard it somewhere else) that we will soon see many other geriatric stars, new and recycled, in the entertainment firmament.
\

As in a recent Sunday edition of the Los Angeles Times which featured a long article about 84-year-old Mel Brooks who “has a new star in the Hollywood Walk of Fame” following 15 months on Broadway with “The New Mel Books Musical Young Frankenstein, ” and a film retrospective at the Egyptian Theatre.

Other fields are sure to come forward with recognition of the on-going accomplishments of “oldsters.” (Sports stars maybe not so much) Scientists, statespersons, musicians, authors, even blog-writers, will be lauded in paeans, likely to begin: “At an age when most of his/her contemporaries are dozing off at inopportune moments (blogger’s note: o.k. so what?) he/she is busily engaged in…..”

Of course it is not just the famous who can and should be portrayed in an “equal opportunity” manner. Simply by not having the white-haired extras doing stereotypical activities, any more than African American women are no long portrayed mostly as maids, the point is made.

A caveat: hopefully this movement will not go to a place where all older people MUST be portrayed as healthy, active, accomplished, etc. It’s got to be o.k. to age as nature intended, to be frail and diminished in so many ways; I do not believe the intention was for the process to be ludicrous or demeaning.

So pay attention to what I am saying, just as if I were a wise elder.


* An aside: why do we refer to Barack Obama as “black,” when he is actually bi-racial? #

Ladies in waiting

Ladies in Waiting
by
Ruth Lampert
Copyright Ruth Lampert 2008

Anyone who says it's hard to make friends in Los Angeles has never stood in line to the Ladies Room during an intermission and experienced the intense female bonding which ensues. . For those anatomically prevented from bring privy to this activity (males) – here is how it goes: You remain in your seat in the theater until the applause has subsided, and then clamber up, down, across, or over toward your destination, utilizing all deliberate speed without, you hope, appearing frantic.


Your heart sinks as you approach the foyer and see ten ladies queued up. In the foyer, for God's sake! How many women are in line inside? How many stalls are there? The answer to the first question is "far too many;" to the second, "far too few."


Now the bonding ritual starts, with the standard opening:
"If women designed these buildings, there'd be twice as many stalls in the Ladies Room," followed by: "There'd be twice as many Ladies Rooms!" Heads nod knowingly, affirmatively.


Stage two begins when someone – perhaps you - asks, "So, what
do you think about the play/concert/lecture so far?”


Here the potential or lack of it, for deeper relationships emerges. There are those in that line who simply don't get it, and while they may be nice enough in their own way you know they are not persons you really care to cultivate. There are others who show promise of aesthetic compatibility. You make eye contact with a lady who appears, by her bearing, to be a person of breeding and good taste. If she responds with a quote from your favorite critic, you know you have made a connection.


But nothing promotes bonding like having a common enemy. At the sound of the chimes signaling only five minutes more of intermission, a chorus of anguished, outraged voices is raised.


"What? It will take at least 10 minutes for all of us to get out of here!"
"They're just trying to intimidate us; they wouldn't dare begin with this many still in line!"


"By God, I'm going to write to the management!"
"I'll e-mail my congresswoman!"
And so on and so forth.


Now critical analyses of the first half of the performance evolve to deeper intimacy with the sharing of urological experiences involving pregnancy, bladder surgery, and the efficacy of cranberry juice.


There have been poignant moments too. After having the same concert seats for many seasons, last year we sent our order in late and were assigned to a different location. We were not the only ones unsettled by this dislocation; in the line to the Ladies Room I met the woman who had been my former seat neighbor.
"Oh, I'm so happy to see you!" she cried, "we thought something must have happened to you folks. Is your husband alright?"


Had there not been a line, she might be worrying still.
Men typically don't experience either this tortuous waiting or cozy camaraderie. I do recall a concert a while back of big band music from the 40's, where to my surprise my husband's pit stop was longer than mine. As I waited for him (a first in this situation) I noticed that most of the men had gray or white hair, if any. They were all over 60. That explained it. I don't know if any friendships were formed, but what a networking opportunity for a urologist.


Actually the Ladies Room line was professionally useful to me too. When discussing psychological aspects of a play, for example, it sometimes leaked out (no pun intended) that I was a professional psychotherapist, and those who shared my viewpoint sometimes asked for a business card. I did not receive any direct responses to this kind of outreach, but I did once receive a call from a prospective client who said, "I found your business card on top of the tissue holder in the Ladies Room at the Music Center. I was impressed with your marketing ingenuity and thought you might help me deal with some of my frustrations starting a new business.

And besides, a therapist who goes to the opera is a therapist I can relate to."


Doesn't it seem that would have made the cost of the tickets tax-deductible? My accountant said "don't even think about it."

Job Chutzpah

Job Chutzpah

by

Ruth Lampert

Copyright July 2010

In the unlikely event that there are some among you some who do not know the meaning of “chutzpah,” it is defined on the web as a Yiddish word meaning “unbelievable gall; audacity; insolence.”

I first became aware of this smarmy trait in myself back in the day when I was applying for a job in Tucson, Arizona, where I had recently arrived with my then-husband and my then-and-now children.

It was to be my second job in Tucson. I had left my first, as Secretary to the President of the University of Arizona, under false pretenses. But then, the job title was itself somewhat false and pretentious..

I had climbed up the University career ladder in only a few short weeks from a menial, boring clerical job in which I had earned the disdain and dislike of my co-workers by finishing all my assignments in about one third of the allotted time. This was less a reflection of the excellence of my work than of the prevailing job ethos which seemed to be: “Least accomplished, least demanded.”

I was promoted to the large cadre of Secretaries to the President, where, as but one of many workers, I had almost nothing to do. (It did not occur to me then, as it does now, to wonder how much the President himself had to do) I discussed my situation with the Head Secretary, (and how busy was she, really? Did her undoubtedly generous salary reflect the illusion that she supervised many hard-working underlings?) In any case she said, in what I am sure were meant to be reassuring tones, “don’t worry about it dear, we know you’re here if we need you, and that’s what counts.”

Well fine. I was bored out of my skull. In desperation I read through all the confidential files of all the professors, and they were pretty boring too. So much for blackmail as an adjunct profession. I secretly read books smuggled in from home. I tried to do some writing but I was so uninspired I couldn’t think of anything to write about except how un-inspired I was, and that didn’t stretch very far. (Not then it didn’t. The reader has probably noted that over time my ability to stretch material has increased markedly.)

Finally, I activated the defense which had served me well in the past, and would again in the future: I became sick. I went to our friendly family doctor. He could find nothing physically wrong, and said, with a perfectly straight face, “probably it’s stress; your job must be very demanding.” Did he know? Had he treated others before me with the same syndrome? In any case I apparently qualified for a generous sick-leave, during which, for some reason, I was not at all bored.

But we were financially strapped, so when my leave ended I resigned the University job and signed up with an employment agency, where I learned of an opening for Secretary/Registrar at the Tucson Art Center.

Now that was a job I wanted. The site was a renovated small family home near downtown Tucson. The milieu was comfortable, and artistic in a creative but not “artsy” way. The Director, Frank Sanguinetti, and I hit it off immediately. It was all but a done deal when he asked, or rather commented off-handedly, “You take shorthand, of course.”

Oooops. Now this was before dictating and recording devices had come upon the office scene. Shorthand was the skill that set secretaries apart from lowly stenographers,( although it not been a requirement for the Secretary to the President gig.)

So I did what had to be done. I lied.

“Yes of course…uh…that is, “I haven’t actually taken it for a while, so I am kind of rusty,” I improvised. “It will take me a few weeks to brush up.” “Will three weeks be enough time?’ he asked. (Did he know?) “Oh certainly “’ I replied. That concluded the interview, and I dashed over to the nearest bookstore where I bought an instruction manual in Gregg shorthand. In three weeks I had taught myself enough to get by. “It’s coming back to me, but kind of slowly” I explained to Frank with a straight face. He appeared to believe me.

Thus began my career as Secretary/Registrar.

The job didn’t just live up to my expectations, it exceeded them. In addition to the usual secretarial tasks of answering the phone and taking dictation (ha ha) I learned simple bookkeeping from the wonderful, now long-departed Mr. Alfred Panofsky, helped mount shows in the small museum portion of the “Center” and even learned a little art history.

I remained there until we moved from Tucson back to the Los Angeles area, where I found myself again in the position of lying about my qualifications, but this time by denial, not exaggeration. I had learned to type in high school and was very good at it; for some reason the skill was in something of a decline. I soon found that at this time no matter what job I applied for, if the prospective employer discovered I could type, that was it, I was hired – as a typist. I didn’t want to be a typist. Oh how I did not want to be a typist. (I think I once wrote a piece called “I’m In A Typing Pool and Sinking Fast” but perhaps I read that somewhere. Please note that plagiarism is not among my smarmy qualities.)

So whenever I was asked “can you type?” I said I could not, and I did not offer to learn. A sin of omission.

There is a lot more drama (or tedium) to the saga of how I finally became a licensed Marriage and Family/ Gestalt therapist, and though it did take some chutzpah to get there, ethics and integrity in the work itself were never compromised. And that is the truth. I retired as a therapist a year ago, and, obviously, continue to write. Usually truthfully.

So you see, boys and girls….oh the hell with it, draw your own moral to the story.