Frustration

I will tell the story of why I wanted to be an High School English teacher until the cows come home.   When my family moved to Silver City, as a freshman I lost my class room credits in High School level Algebra (which I took in eighth grade) as well as my advanced placement in English and was given no credit for the two years of Spanish that I had already taken. My standing in the National Honor Society was removed because I was a National Honor Society Student from Texas? I don't know, it still doesn't make sense.   I was placed in Algebra 1 with a teacher who did not recognize I needed more than the basics. I checked out. I stopped going. I smoked pot in the ditch behind the high school. I failed the class I'd already had credit for. Twice. I stopped being good at math. A shame, because I had been good at it. I distinctly remember feeling the thrill of Tetris-ing numbers, arranging them, calculating, making them FIT. Making numbers speak to each other in a way in which they could come to a resolve. A resolution. An absolute.  

Math used to speak to me in its own poetry.   And when faced with me and my poetic math... the instructors tossed me aside, asking only that I learn like everyone else.   

I had one exceptional English teacher. Who blinking quizzically and I think a little surprised nodded in understanding when I had informed her that, "I'd already read that book." At 12 I'd already read Animal Farm, thank you very much. And for perhaps maybe a week I sat in my desk, rolling my eyes at my classmates...they were fumbling towards "getting" it, only parroting a generic answer and always answering with a faint question mark as if they did not trust their judgment, their understanding, their own mind.   My flustered frustration could not be remedied because the instructor had an entire class room full of students who needed her attention. I did not need her attention. I needed her respect and she gave it to me. I was given other books. I was allowed to sit in the hallway and read.  

The next year... ha... another English Teacher docked my first paper a FULL LETTER GRADE... wait for it... because I was, "Using vocabulary outside high school level" and it was assumed that I was some how... stealing the work, not doing my own work, something.   It never occurred to the instructor that a 13 year old student in love with language would like to elevate her speech by, I don't know, USING A THESURAUS.   I had to stop. I struggled. I raged. I fought a good fight. And then... I gave up.   I watch what it happening to my little brother. To students in our nation. And my heart breaks. The struggles I faced with my teachers not tailoring my education to fit my needs has multiplied. Our students now face a significantly larger problem. 

Universal Teach to Test.  

I knew nothing about the PARCC. 

 I thought it was like the TASS. A two day event every few years that judged whether I deserved to be in a different class room setting. Like, for instance, I was already great at reading and writing so I no longer had to take English. I was given the chance to move on to another language. I did well in math so I was allowed to move on and start working on High School level credits. Other students needed more assistance in subjects. As an "advanced" student I was given a class to explore, use a computer and assist teachers in the class room focusing an little ones that needed a nudge in reading and comprehension.   

I was build to learn. And eventually I built myself to teach. I wanted, passionately wanted, to reach students. To nudge them into accepting their problem subjects in a way that would make it fit in their lives. Yes, sometimes, a subject has to be Tetris-ed into the right space. It can fit if someone helps you figure it out. And sometimes if you don't get help the entire system will crash down, nothing will fit, you'll panic and put anything anywhere and sometimes sooner rather than later you will FAIL. GAME OVER. And the discouraged sense of failure can not often be bucked and shrugged away. Sad and frustrated you do not start over. You walk away.   The PARCC... does not allow teachers to help individual students figure out how to make the pieces fit.  There isn't enough time. There isn't enough space. There is already too much on the universal Teach to Test schedule.  

If your student doesn't 

 get it  

the way they are supposed to get it 

in the time they are supposed to get it  

The test will tell you they didn't get it. And then the school asks the teachers why they didn't get it. The money source tells the school that because not enough students got it... funding will dwindle.  

No Child Left Behind? HA. HAHA!   What about EVERY CHILD IS DIFFERENT. And some children need to learn with tailored finesse.  

The PARCC is not a two day test. It goes on for weeks.   If a student does not participate and pass in the PARCC... they will not be issued their diploma. They will be issued something else. Whether that something else will hold the same standing when applying to college is still something I am trying to figure out.  

My little brother wants to be an Engineer. He must participate in this generic, cookie cutter education. He must suffer through this before he can bust out and BUILD.  

But I think... children should be building their own futures. When left to their own devices children have the capacity to build things we never knew could exist. They absolutely surprise and astound. And when they struggle the good teacher, the creative teacher, can help them figure it out when given time and space. Sometimes it takes a few tries. But Let it Go, kid. You'll get it.   The PARCC test compromises our students, our teachers and our future.  

It compromises THEIR futures.  

I know stuff you didn't think I knew.

deep breath

I put on CC cream this morning.

deeper breath

I now know that CC cream is. CC stands for color correct. I mean, um, I thought my color was good. And it is. I have this nice light olive undertone that doesn't lean on red or yellow. It's just not UNIFORM.

And our skin isn't supposed to be uniform. UNLESS you want to play around with highlighting specific features. And in that case you need uniform so there will be no distraction from the feature. If I want to be all about the eyes one day I have to create a uniform canvas so the light and natural rosiness to my mid-cheek doesn't distract from the shadowing I have done with my eye creases. If one day I want to throw some illuminating, highlight on said cheeks then I need to throw the clean canvas on the scars on my right eyelid.

See? I know these things. I just... haven't participated in a long time.

Last night one of my best friends, Ariel, got me home, made me wash my face and quizzed me on what my routine is. Then corrected me in places that I needed to develop.

First, I habitually dry my face the same way I dry my hands. I rub moisture away. Sometimes harshly. Apparently I should be patting at the remaining moisture on my face. I guess it is so I don't lose all the hydrating awesomeness of the water.

Same with removing eye make up. Scrubbing will make no difference. I should be. No. Now I am using a moistened q-tip to peacefully remove the darkness that is hiding under my bottom eye.

I'm using the last of the CC sample I have and now I have to decide if I'm going to try something else or if I will be brand loyal to the first CC cream that I've tried. I'm pretty sure I will be following the path of Brand Loyalty.

I am not going to investigate what it will take to Prime my entire face. Forget that noise. I will use my eye shadow primer y ya. That's all she wrote.

Bronzer is deposited in the shape of a 3 from temple to under chin. Illuminator in the shape of a c around your eyes.

I have been using a neutral color pencil and a feathering tool for my eyebrows. I won't draw them on Que Cholita because that is just not my style. But I'm happy with what I got from It Cosmetics. I like that their Tightline Mascara is awesome enough that I can run out of the house without eyeliner and feel confident that I don't look half done. The sample of CC Cream that I tried is also legit.

I know all about Brand Loyalty. One of my mom's besties, Rodney, was a Redken stylist through and through. When I found out that we have a Redken salon at Ulta I had a total Gleegasm. Redken is essentially the aroma of my childhood. Being the first kid with an immaculate China Doll bob, the first girl to try a perm, the first teen to color my hair plum... the time line of my life.

I know that I have never regretted a bottle of OPI nail polish. I typically buy the seasonal mini packages so I can explore color and not feel like I've let half a bottle of polish go to waste.

I am excited to explore and develop my own Rave Review of Chi. Because honestly... there are days that I seriously not only need to Tame my Mane... but SUBDUE ENTIRELY my curly hair that has decided to FRO THE FUCK OUT. Because honestly ain't nobody got time.

I checked at work in the Redken bay of our store. No Cleanse Bar. I was HEARTBROKEN.

A day later a young man asked me about a gel for his hair. Not knowing much about much anything I said, “Let's go look at what Redken had to offer. Because everything they have smells the best. And that always helps, right?” Then gave a look at the young lady in tow. She nodded enthusasically.

Could not find what he wanted in Redken. Thankfully one of our stylists reminded me that we have a Men's bay where we keep male oriented product. Found a pommade for him and I discovered....

MEN'S ISLE IS WHERE WE KEEP THE REDKEN CLEANSE BAR.

ALL OF THE LOVE EXPLODES FROM EVERY SKIN CELL.

I have it in my purse right now. I keep huffing the package. I cannot wait to get home and have a bath.

And maybe it seems like the silliest thing to be excited about--my reintroduction into the “Beauty Industry.” When I say it like that it's pretty CRINGE inducing.

It has every capability of being perceived and received as an Industry. And some of the Industry can slight the confidence of those who embrace their Natural Beauty entirely. Hello, Girlfriend over here won't shave her pits unless wearing something sleeveless because honestly the pores and follicles on the thin and sensitive skin of my under arms do not need to be daily accosted by three razors. I'm all about Natural Beauty. I would fit and fuss greatly if anyone tried to change my mind about some of that.

Yet, the Industry, has every capability of helping people find the simple little aspects of their own beauty that they have perhaps... overlooked, forgotten or have neglected. Or finding a way to highlight a feature in a new way, creating a new look and building a new confidence or magnifying a confidence that already surely exists.

And that sort of “Industry” is something some of us could use. As a woman with a scarred eye, a wibbly eye orbit and an occasionally hyper-extended knee or turned over ankle... I could use the boost.

I could use the boost, y'all. And if that means back tracking on the type of person I've been for a good long while... sorry not sorry?

I am not going to worry about your disappointment so much. Because honestly, I have more important things to do.

Like, ask my boss what a girl has to do to get more Redken Cleanse bars in the store. It is going to be my GO TO GIFT this season.

Getting "pretty"

 I started a new job at Ulta Beauty.

A bit of a switch for me. People who know me know that I'm don't wear make up very often.

*ahem* or at all.

Yet here I am, really excited about my new job at a beauty store.

First, I want to talk about why I am don't typically wear make up.

I'm awesome as hell without it.

For some... there is some questionable junk in make up, hair product, etc.

It's a lot of work! Ain't nobody got time to “get pretty.” Especially if you're already pretty.

I am awesome as hell without it. I don't get any more awesome with it. BUT I do get to look different. Smokier. Sexier. Sweeter. Sparkly-er.

With a simple black line on my eye lids I can let you know, by a look alone, if I'm in NO mood for your shit (melted/smoky line) on your mark, get set, go- ready for anything (simple line) ready for anything as long as it leads to the bedroom (cat eye-- peek variation relying on your mood, tease-fest to eat you alive)

I can say it all with just a look. But I've gone ahead and played the English Major card for... a good long while. I'd rather just use The Words. If you can't get it into your earhole that I want, I need, I'd like, Let's GO... then darlin'... that's YOUR fucking problem. Not mine. Because I've used The Words to demonstrate as such. And if you need a girl to passive-aggrisive spell shit out for you... then you're not for me.

This dynamic is easier with my female (and a few male) friends. Again, not my problem. Me and my Vs? We already know how to translate our shit. A smoky eye won't tell anyone close to me that I'm in no mood... because they know me well enough to tip toe around my fit and fussing. That is why we're friends.

Feminist card. That's why I roll hard and ugly when random idiots tell/yell me to, “SMILE!”

Or whistle at me. God, help them, if they actually SAY anything. Because I will KNOCK THEM DOWN ALL OF THE PEGS.

So. Awesome as hell without it. To a point of annoyballs. Why do men think they can come up on me and talk their game when I WANT NONE OF IT? Smoky eye or no, son, get UP OFF MY SPACE.


2. For some... there is some questionable junk in make up, hair product, etc

Carmine. That's been my thing over the years. I mean. Do I really want bug butt on my face? In my food? Um... for a long time the answer was NO. And it was a difficult decision because it means giving up my Burts Bees tinted balms.

Recently I've started thumb through reading “The Perfect Red” by Amy Buttler Greenfield. And... yeah, part of me is a little horrified. Bug Butt. Ick. And another part of me is horrified... Spain taking yet another thing from the Aztec. Seriously. The Aztec were BRILLIANT creators. They discovered and supplied the world with the truest red that we'd ever seen. And you know... like... they did it NATRUALLY.

And then we come into my other arena of nervousness with beauty products. What side of the fence am I when it comes to Natural, Organic, Vegan, etc. Is there such a thing as Fair Trade Argan Oil? If local beauty options aren't available to me how much do I want to spend in Commercial Industry?

That's even more work! So it looks like I'm on Team Make it up as I go along.

I can go back to buying Redken, on a semi-strict rule of rationing. I need to figure out if my store has the Redken Cleanse Bar available. Because that bar is LEGIT. I'm not even going to worry about it. It's that good. No questions asked.

And that's how it's going to be.

3. It IS a lot of work.

It's a lot of work to wake up early and set my curls or knock them out. A lot of work to shellac my face, contouring features that I'm pretty sure no one near me even cares about. I mean, do y'all seriously care where my cheek bones are?

Honestly. I want to forget my cheeks. As the ONLY woman in my family to NOT have been issued Aztec Peak High cheek bones... I am so fucking OVER my cheeks.

I'm over my nose too. Which is cute and all... but when I'm standing next to the row of Sanchez noses in my family... it hurts my heart that I was not given a Power Nose.

What was I given? Curls that didn't set until my 30s. Ageless, black-head resisting T-zone. Under eyes that yellow/green at noon. “Break Outs” that consist of maybe two or three zits. But God Bless them... My family did dote upon me DNA that gave me... bangin' ass and tits. Awesome tits if I weigh 100 or expand 200 lbs. My tits always look RIGHT.

Honestly it's already a lot of work to figure out which bra will keep my Blouse Bunnies for hopping up, out and all over. And you want me to do my hair and face too?

Nah. I'm good.

Last July, after the accident, once the rehabilitation started I told my mother, “I can either re-learn to walk OR fuss with the mountain of hair on my head.”

She cut it quick. #PRIORITIES.

That's not saying I'm not up for a little work. I'm just... down on my luck in the self esteem apartment.  My current boyfriend is one of those guys. He actually likes me for my PERSONALITY. Seems like a joke, right? I mean, seriously, he's not all up on the bangin' T and A? NOPE. He's not. He, for some odd reason, likes my personality-- as shit talky as that is. That's what he's into.

So my only option in strategically “keeping him interested” is to... what? Keep talking shit?

I mean, that's, like, totally easy. It's just... it's sad, sometimes, most times, to be only “pretty.” He only ever calls me “pretty” and only ever with that word. I am not beautiful or breathtaking. There is nothing exceptional about me. Nothing divine about what he sees that is different from the divinity of anyone else.

I couldn't draw anything out on my face that would entice him any further. I am “pretty.” And without telling the long story of how men have treated me in the past decade... I'm at that point in which... I'll just take pretty. I'm pretty sure I can't get anything MORE than that. Would you want to work at being “pretty” enough to hold that station? Because that's where I live. It's a delightful bummer.

I don't have to work. But.. I'm not getting paid. So. Yeah.

That's where I... urgh... I guess just have to get beautiful for myself. And that's hard for me, because honestly I've never HAD to. I already felt beautiful without any work and I had the positive reinforcement that I was not wrong about that confidence. So getting all beautified is a complicated process for me. I'm learning as fast as I can.


I've learned how awesome lip crayons are. So my years long battle with lipstick... is over. I concede! Crayons are just better. Truth.

I'm going to try to Facebook less and Blog more

In the past few days I haven't been feeling very well. Mentally. No. Not mentally. Mentally I'm fine. I know how to ride the waves of my bi-polar. I know how to manage that without drugging myself.

I mean, some might say that dosing myself with a glass of wine to settle my nerves, sooth my anxieties or subdue my excited-ness is “technically” drugging myself.

But, like, I don't care.

For the most part I have lived my adult life much under that banner.

I don't care.

Not that I don't care about people, things, events or causes. If you know me well enough you know that I care deeply about those sort of things. Deeply and often to a fault.

Socially, I haven't been feeling very well. I'm hot under the collar, sweating bricks, paranoid about... what other people think.

Not only that. Worried about what other people have decided to perceive.

Sometimes people view me as a fathomfraction of who I truly am.

It never used to wound me. I flew my, “I don't care.” flag and moved on, moved away, recognized that there was nothing I had done to deserve this and nothing I could do to fix it.

With one exception. When I was in an abusive relationship the definition of not caring became... don't think about it, don't do what it is you did to deserve this, fix it. FIX IT NOW AT ANY COST FUCK FUCK FUCK FIX IT. Become whatever it is that he wants. Become something he doesn't want to punch or rape. Be that, for fucks sake. HOW FUCKING HARD CAN IT BE TO JUST BE THAT?!

Survival mechanisms. That above rant is only a fraction of what your brain processes on a daily when you're in that sort of relationship.

I am no longer in THAT abusive relationship but I am in a social position where I have been questioning my every move, every word.

I've been compromised. Normally who I am wouldn't give two flying fucks.

But this manipulation, recalculation source is coming from something I care very deeply about. I am in a position where I can speak to people, be a professional about something I love, have a desire to learn things that I didn't think I wanted to know but it turns out is useful as fuck. I want to create ownership of projects and design more useful ways of figuring things out.

I want to initiate resolve as quickly as possible so I can move on to bigger and better things.

But some situations. I can't resolve. I can't ask to have help towards resolve. Because my thoughts, my opinions are being perceived as... “negative” not passionate. “Curt” not precise. Some concerns are being labeled as only existing in my own head. And I'm being asked to not “take things so personally.”

If what you DO and SAY is being re-manufactured to mean something you would NEVER REPRESENT... you'd take it personally too.

So this is my attempt of releasing it. With luck letting it go.

So I can get back to my, “I don't care” attitude of what others think I should and shouldn't be, how I should speak and when I should quiet.

I don't care.

I'm a happy person. A hard working. I'm sometimes brain boggled. Sometimes.

I'm going to try to Facebook less and Blog more. 

*deep breath* 

Being Jewish is ALL SORTS OF FUCKING AWESOME ON FACEBOOK RIGHT NOW. 

No, it’s not. But, in fact, and I’ve been preparing myself for this, it is maybe/never/almost always/ sometimes/not certain-- awesome to be a Jew. 

EVER. ALWAYS. EVERWAYS. That’s my new word. Getting jacked EVERWAYS is totally a thing. 



And it is totally a thing happening in my Facebook feed. Right now. Right. Fucking. NOW. 

I’ve been quiet about this entire thing for weeks. After the great Hobbby Lobby Outburst of 2014 I became wise to the way of keeping friends on Facebook. No one ever deleted me but enough people decided to personal message me or share their ideas in feed (the same ones they shared with me) with the world about how what I’ve been through and what I’ve done and what I support makes me a baby killer. 

But, like, they didn’t TAG me or anything. It wasn’t, like, PERSONAL. Not at all. 

I bashed back with my share of thoughts and battles were had. Fucking FACEBOOK BATTLES. 

It’s not worth it. So I quieted myself. According to Facebook I’m totally over the Hobby Lobby thing (I’m not). According to Facebook I have NOTHING to say about “illegal” immigrant children here from Central America. Also according to FB I have nothing to say about GMO’s, fair wages, minimum wage in America… 

I quieted myself because I wasn't going to do this. Again. Not with Israel. Because I suspect it sounds like this.



It actually sounds like this WITHOUT having said ANYTHING at all. 



In the past few weeks… 

I have had “friends” contact me to tell me that if I do side with Israel I am only siding with Israel because I am a Jew by CHOICE and that I feel that I HAVE to side with them to “fit in.” They've also let me know, as if I wasn't aware, as if Judaism has some how brainwashed me (like it brainwashed me into not eating bacon?), that it’s totally all right for me to be angry at Israel. 

Yeah, because us Jews (even of the by Choice variety) are really BIG ON FITTING IN! 



Shut up. You JERK. 



And I don’t know if you assholes fucking knew this, but like I’m already a little miffed at Israel (or rather the Jewish system currently enabled) that solidifies the standard that makes it impossible for me to make Aliyah. 

You don’t actually know what that means to me, do you? 

Do you actually care? Do you have any idea how much my heart is ALREADY broken? That for YEARS now, I’ve been struggling with people who tell me I’m not a “real Jew.” 



And you think I’m siding with Israel to… FIT IN? 

NO FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU SO MUCH. 



And I get privately accused of supporting an American President that isn't supporting Israel ENOUGH. Oh, lovely. The attitude of, “Well, you’re a democrat, Naomi. You VOTED for the guy who isn't the least bit concerned or extending a hand to help. If he were a better (republican?) President he’d MAKE America go in there and HELP. HELP NOW.” 

Yes. Um. Because all presidents ever do is MAKE American’s/ our Nation do stuff. It doesn't, like, have anything to do with Congress or anything. I don’t know if YOU got the memo in… GRADE SCHOOL… but we have, like, THREE branches to our government. 

Look into that shit. 

And like all three branches working in tandem might pull it together and somehow figure out a way to “help.” But, like, what’s the WORLD gonna say once we go and step OUR toes over the line? Because, I’m not history buff or anything, but, if I recall… don’t countries and nations sometimes THROW A ROYAL HISSY at us? The types of hissies that screw up our access to things like OIL or other natural resources (though, ahem, maybe if like, our President that can MAKE us do things could MAKE us invest in resources that are more worldly and not as exclusive… like, I don’t know… fucking SOLAR ENERGY… JUST SAYING). 



And you’re mad at me because I voted for a President that is MAYBE thinking about that kinda shit? 

Because I’m already pissed at him about a WORLD of stuff. To be fair, he’s the President of the United States of America. He get’s PAID for me to be pissed at him. All presidents get paid for that. To be fair, he can get paid for pissing off more people than he’s already ticked off. But he’s “working” on that or whatever. I’m not giving him a pass. I’m just saying. 



And gem of gems. 

Supporting Israel means I’m totally ok with war, dead civilians and makes me anti-Islam. 



shut your hole, when that happens on a personal message, I don’t respond. I ponder what the fuck is wrong with you that you don’t know who I am at all. And sometimes it doesn’t happen on a personal message. It isn’t ME that you’re targeting. It’s ALL of Israel. It happens IRL, on the feed, for all to see. It’s your right to share what you’ve read, how you feel. 

But you’re my friend and you don’t think about me. I’ve thought about you. That’s why I haven’t posted anything. Because I don’t want you to think (more than some of you already have) that I’m ok with this. 



I AM NOT OK WITH THIS. 



People are dying and I am not ok with this. 

It’s just lovely when you post articles about how MORE people are dying on one side over the other. I’m upset about death on EITHER side. Here you are, posting this one sided argument, always the same side of the argument. Here I am, reading EVERY article. Sinking sometimes. Outraged others. And I never post anything in response or retaliation. 



Because. 

War is Hell. 

And I didn’t want to make it worse. 

But. 

War is Hell. 



And now you know what side I’m on. You knew.
Many of you have WOUNDED me. 

Some of you aren't sorry. 
Some of you didn't know you were hurting me. 
None of you thought I’d take it so personally. 



God forbid any of you meant it. 



I was mindful in my silence, on this issue… because when you throw punches-- at me or not-- I can still get hit.

Deathday Report

About a week late, but still on Shabbat.  



What is there to celebrate a year after laughing at Death's attempt to collect?  



I'm still living.  

With patience and wrestled will power-- I can still drink small amounts of wine. Small by Old Naomi's definition.  

I'm working.  

I'm thinking about the work I want to do with my life.  

I'm managing the full time job/chore of my TBI.  

I am becoming aware of the type of Advocacy is needed for TBI.  

I'm re-thinking the work I want to do with my life. But maybe that is nothing new.  

I am still a writer wrestling with subjects contained. 

I am maybe stupidly, maybe foolishly and frustratingly, maybe pre-maturely, maybe... maybe... falling in... catastrophic maybe incompatible love. That is new.  

I am still laughing. 



 And that is pretty big news because part of this list, most of this list is split down the middle with many un-laughable things.  



Of all the things to survive with the most mythological creature-back-from-the-dead strength... well that would be, no fucking joke, my sense of humor.  



What is there to mourn?   A life,  just starting to make sense.  

A job working with younglings, not quite what I'd wanted but what I would have been so good at.  

Great friends who are now far away, some of them moving even further.  

A wonderfully full spiritual life in a community that I was happy to trust, not with blind faith but with an earned with great confidence in spans of time in which trust was hard pressed to be earned.  



And it is not to say that I can not have these things again. It will not be in the same place. Not in the same shape.  



I mourn only what I'd worked so hard to earn.  



But, that is life, no? The constant cycle or earning and re-earning. Attempting to establish permanence in an element of life only do discover the foundation is faulty or  the rug  yanked from under foot or the finish line has been reassigned.  



So really, nothing has changed.  



My sense of humor is still strong. I am still cranky about not having enough of what I want and having too much of what I don't need. I am still lonely in loving.  



Nothing has changed.

So much to grok...

Passover is never supposed to be easy.

My third year in “being” Jewish, participating in my Judaism… was, by no means, supposed to be a day in which I knew exactly what was supposed to happen, when it was going to happen, how I was going to make it all happen… there are moments where I still have difficulty explaining WHY it happens…

So, no. Third year “IN” (while still not being certified, classified or signed off of being OFFICIALLY “in”)... was not going to be easy.

Not an ounce of me expected it to be. Again, that’s part of the entire dynamic. I am, and thankfully I know it, very much a “Stranger in a Strange Land.” Foreign and happy to adapt? But also familiar and confused by the basics? Entirely born Jewish but not raised as such. This makes Jewish “things” potentially… difficult.

My Passover with my “non-Jewish” family was lovely. A two hour extravaganza of sharing and celebration. Conversation and Acceptance. My baby brother, while disappointed by the lack of challah and latke, is happy to celebrate and learn. I have promised latke latter in the week! My  Mormon raised father (of step-ish shape) is happy to navigate conversation without political combativeness- a large feat for my opinion driven and well learn-ed father. My mother, potentially chaos driven by not one but TWO broken baby birds (Ace has juvenile diabetes and I have my TBI), sits at the table, matriarchal strength ever and always at hand… observing, injecting knowledge, mediating conflict… ruling with subtle strength.

Only some daughters are so lucky to learn from and live with such a well structured mother.

A time zone away another half of my heart, my Jewish family, celebrates.

And while I love my family I am also heart broken to not be with my family.

SO heartbroken to not be with Littlest on his first Passover because only a year ago (during Passover) his existence was announced to us. While I had my suspicion that he was present I rejoiced with surprised at the declaration. So heartbroken to not let him pass through my arms while family spoke or change his clothes to let parents organize the seder or opt to tempt him with an appropriate table nibble.

Heartbroken to not be with Little Marx. Last year I did take a turn with titters and giggles about some “nonsense” or another. A simple and delightful break from and otherwise obligatory day. Just sensitive, girlish driven moments of laughter and song and silliness. And to not be with Little and her friends today… heart wrenching.


It is sinkingly sad to not be with Anna to help with the meal. This year I was in charge of the only the meal alone! Two courses wore me out to the core and if not for an entire bottle of wine I would have lost hope. I did not navigate my interfaith family through a seder plate. We all sat down to dinner. I did not navigate or compose my own Haggadah. We sat down with and looked over select portions of OTHER Haggadah (because next year I will have one of my own composed). I did not worry and fret on where the furniture had to be to accommodate my familys guests. I certainly did not have to manage all of that with a brand new human Marx at my hip.

If I’d been there I’d have made myself as useful as possible doing dishes, cooking, moving furniture, changing diapers… any simple (or complicated!) chore.

I miss my secondary Sisters. My siblings in arms, one my fellow Gothy alto and the other my fellow English major. Both knowing bits of my heart that can not, without dark and twisty words, be explained.

And, after having watched what seems like a silly gift from my friend Jamie, heartbroken completely to not have learned new songs from him in this last almost year. Months without his choral advisement. Months without having access to bending his ear over a glass of beer. Months without a friend telling me to stop apologizing for things that are simply not my fault. Months without having a friend that can get me to listen to reason without making it sound like I’ve been stupid and silly for not having heard reason before.

Oh dear. I have been gone from them, my family, for almost a year.

Tonight I had to miss them but also learn to be singular… and then plural with “new” and “unfamiliar” others in a another language. It wasn’t as much agony as I thought it to be. Simply an eventual and potentially expected conundrum.

“Do You Want to Build a Snowman” is actually about a shared experience that ideally could be replicated through invitation… only both people present to the memorable event are remembering it differently.

 It is the silly apologetic moment of the movie “Frozen.” Elsa, a little terrified of hurting or messing up. Anna, her memory is a little erased that terrified or messing up is even a possibility. Anna is happy to rebuild a memory that Elsa is forced to remember the consequences of.

I may have over English/Literature geek majored the stuffing out of the story… but it’s kinda… PASSOVER as heck.

All sorta reminding me that love is a little about knocking on doors you don’t expect to open… but also opening doors before it is too late.