I have a theory: Religion is set up so that every momentous stage of life, clergy, or a Rabbi, in this case, is around to make sure that you follow all the rules for that milestone AND that you remain in the fold.
Rabbis, Rabbis everywhere
For example, Rabbis are involved with the birth of a baby, to give it a proper Jewish name or to mutilate a body part or to have a Pidyon HaBen (symbolic "repurchasing" of a first-born male from God, to whom the baby supposedly belongs at birth). They are involved with marriage to ensure that the new couple will commit to raising their children within the fold, to swear before witnesses and their god that they will do this.
And death--hospitals and funerals are where the Rabbis MUST be because death can really shake a person's faith. The Rabbi MUST be there to give all the traditional answers; to explain to the grieving family why a supposedly benevolent deity would allow their loved one to suffer or die in the manner in which they did.
Rabbis and Mom's death
A few years ago, my mother was in Sloan-Kettering Hospital dying from breast cancer. After many laborious and emotional discussions over a period of two days, our family (my father, three sisters and our husbands) decided that we were not going to have the doctors do any additional invasive treatments or painful tests to Mom. To do so, would only cause her additional pain and suffering.
Mom was in a non-responsive state and we were unable to communicate with her for a few days.
Mom never told us what she wanted for her end of life care. She knew that she was dying but she chose to "maintain a positive attitude" -- which had always worked for her. She adamantly refused to discuss those issues with her doctor.
On one of her last visits to the doctor she was handed a DNR (do not resuscitate) form, she politely handed it back to the doctor and told him that she has chosen to live.
My father never pressed her to make any decisions since she was in such a fragile emotional state for the last few months of her life. And we, her daughters, never wanted to upset her. We wanted to treasure the time we had with her and not focus on her death. Yes, it's a form of denial. But it was what my mother wanted and it was HER life.
Having to make the difficult decision
Back at Sloan-Kettering Hospital, the doctors started a morphine drip so she could have a painless end to her suffering. Soon after, her respiration had become labored and she seemed to be struggling for each breath. But we were assured that she was not in any pain. We were told that her death could be any time now, from a few hours to a few days.
It was at this moment that Rabbi Avi Weiss entered the picture. Lou (my former husband) and I came back upstairs to join the family after a short phone call outside. I saw this man sitting with my family, around the circle of chairs we had placed together in the lounge. He was speaking softly, yet authoritatively.
Everyone was huddled close together, listening intently.
My father noticed us entering the room and stood up to introduce this man to us.
Enter Rabbi Weiss
He is Rabbi Avi Weiss. Dad informed us that he is the Rabbi of The Hebrew Institute of Riverdale, the shul that my sisters' J. and B. attend. (This was before my sister, B.'s husband, another Rabbi, got his own congregation in NJ.)
Out-fucking-standing, I thought. And exactly why is he here sitting amongst our family during this precise moment of my mother's pending death?
I had never seen this man before. I had no knowledge of a personal relationship between him and either of my parents. Neither one of them had ever mentioned this particular Rabbi, even in passing. Here this stranger was, sitting amongst us, obviously warmly welcomed and respected by my family.
After the initial pleasantries, he proceeded to speak to all of us. I realized the purpose of his presence here in our private affairs when he began spouting forth his opinions as to whether or not what we were doing, medically, for my mother, was permissible according to Halacha (the enormous body of Jewish rules and practice)
This was a personal family matter. He had no business interfering. But yet, here he was, assuring my family that it was okay with God to just let Mom go, peacefully. No shit, Sherlock?
It's her time.
“It is her time,” Rabbi Weiss tells us. “God has decided that this is the end of her earthly life.” He then cited some obscure Judaic anecdote to give credibility to his opinion.
Rabbi Weiss continued, “Your mother knows what’s going on. She knows that all her children are here with her. She is at peace. She knows that you are all doing the right thing out of love for her.” Boy, he knows everything that my Mother knows. Clair-fuckin-voyant
My sisters all looked at him with doe eyes, reveling in his every word. They were mesmerized. They seemed to need his confirmation and approval -- that what we were doing was the right thing in the eyes of this Rabbi.
The need for answers
I can’t understand it. With all of our family there, why do they want a Rabbi, who is not a member of our family, to offer validation? Why do they need a Rabbi to assure them that our medical decisions are kosher? Why would anyone even care if our personal medical decisions regarding mom’s end of life care, fall in line with what some subjective, primitive code of ethics authorizes?
So, I am expected to listen to this person, this liar Rabbi, pretending that he knows what my mother would have wanted. This complete stranger claimed to KNOW my mother’s dying wishes -- but yet her own family struggled tirelessly for days trying to figure it out? How did he receive this elusive information? ESP?
As far as I’m concerned, his sheer presence was a violation to me. He was robbing me of my right to have this time with my family, to share our grief and mutually bond with each other, as only close members of the family can understand the depth of our pending loss.
My last moments with my family before my mother died were spent listening to the Rabbi’s frequent interjections and opinions which evaluated and judged our thoughts and decisions and how they fall in line with Jewish law.
At a time when were seeking comfort with each other, my family now preferred to rely on the opinion of Rabbi Weiss to give them comfort and peace.
Of course, the Rabbi’s remarkable revelation of what he says my mother would have wanted coincides with what he believes Halacha permits. Isn’t that convenient?
What if our family decided to allow the doctors to run more tests or try to prolong her life, artificially? Would he have tried to persuade us otherwise, using Halacha to justify it? Would my family have gone along with that? Or would he have just found a way to interpret Halacha differently, in order to justify ANY decision we made as being permissible under the system?
Frustration and fruit
Essentially, the rules can be twisted and interpreted to justify any decision. The sages had such diverse opinions on everything. It would be very easy to find an opinion from a Jewish scholar that happens to agree with any particular point of view.
Nonetheless, I tried to be respectful. I kept my thoughts quiet. Every time I heard that man open his mouth, I felt my anger start come to the surface. I would excuse myself and go downstairs, and outside the hospital to purchase fruit from the sidewalk vendor. Needless to say, our table had an abundant supply of many different varieties of fruit.
At one point, my sisters and I were jotting down specific memories of my mother’s life. These memories, which may seem trivial, were very personal to us. For example, she always bought the men in the family socks for Hanukkah. She loved her crossword puzzles and crypto quotes. She drank her glass of OJ in the morning, diluted 50% with water because it was "too strong." etc. . .
During our ordeal, our large family “claimed” the hospital lounge which was on our floor, for ourselves. It was expansive enough to accommodate our group. It had a large dining table and many comfortable chairs, including several sofas. The hospital staff understood our needs and respected our privacy in this room.
The lounge became our refuge. It was the place where we would “touch base” with everyone and where we had all our updates with the doctors. We also had the all the important family discussions regarding Mom’s care, in this room.
Re-enter the Rabbi
Soon after, Rabbi Weiss strolled back into our private space (again) and summoned my father with a quick gesture of his hand. Apparently, he had something important to say to my father. While he quietly spoke to my father, I was seething inside.
Dad encouraged all of us to take a seat. I just knew that Rabbi Weiss was intending to spout off more of his subjective, primitive horseshit. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to make myself comfortable and join the group, just in case I had to make a quick escape to vomit
My father, sisters and their husbands all sat down and eagerly anticipated hearing more profound wisdom from the Rabbi.
I stayed at the dining table and picked at the cherries, trying to find the darkest ones, which I like the best. I would not join the circle. I would listen from afar and if I started to feel nauseous listening to his diarrhea of the mouth, I can just leave the room quietly, out the side door without making a spectacle of myself.
Rabbi Weiss began to speak. “I just came from your mother’s room,” he said. “She is comfortable and at peace with the decision you all made. I held her hand. I told her that her entire family is here with her; all her children, her sons in laws, her husband M. and her brother H. They are all here and they all love you. After saying that, Judy (Mom) breathed deeply and smiled. She clenched my hand, telling me that she understood what I was saying.”
My sisters gasped. They were awestruck. They spoke quietly amongst themselves. I glared at the Rabbi. I waited until his eyes met mine. When they finally did, I rolled my eyes and snarled at him. Before I could call him a fucking liar right to his face, I bolted out of the room. I hope my abrupt reaction made it perfectly clear to him that I am not buying any of his bullshit.
Wise words and lies
This fuckin’ Rabbi just sat there and LIED to us. Mom has had no outward physical response in two days. J. has been sleeping at Mom’s feet for hours upon hours. Dad had his head on her chest earlier, listening to her heart beating. He stayed like that, silently crying, holding her. Earlier, I was caressing her cheek and sobbing. I sat in her room for long periods of time just watching her, having so much more to share with her. My brothers-in-law were continuously praying over her.
Are we to believe that, against medical science, my mother miraculously responded to the voice of a virtual stranger rather than the people whom she loved more than anything else in the world? Her children and husband were emotionally groveling at her bedside, obviously devastated, but THIS Rabbi, this LIAR, managed to elicit a response from her, where no one else could.
Give me a break! All of us were seeking signs of recognition from Mom. All of us longed to have one last lucid moment with her.
Choosing faith over reason
I can’t believe that Rabbi Avi Weiss would so blatantly LIE. Isn’t there something written in halacha about LYING? Moreover, I am dumbfounded as to why my family would believe him. This truly shows the power of faith over reason.
The blunt truth is that they WANTED to believe him. My family is completely incapable of living with debilitating guilt over never being completely, 100% confident that the correct decision was made regarding Mom's end of life care. We were ambivalent and unsure of what Mom ultimately wanted. Sadly, she never told us.
We all wished that we could get that reassurance from Mom herself, that validation that she was okay with dying peacefully. Rabbi Weiss was perfectly aware of this, since he was involved with many of our private family discussions.
He knew that our biggest hurdle was having to live with the consequences of our decision. So, he chose to use his reverence and authority as a Rabbi, to invent this little communication between himself and my mother for the sole purpose of “allowing” my family to be at peace with our decision and not dwell on it.
I understand that the Rabbi’s intent was to ease our family’s pain. He displayed honest concern and warmth toward us. He didn’t want to see us suffer with the burden of questioning our decision. But he lied and created a fictitious delusion that my family still continues to believe.
And this is where I differ from my religious family. They are emotionally unable to accept that we may never know what Mom’s true wishes were. It is very possible that she would have been willing to subject her body to additional agonizing tests and procedures for the possibility of living just one more day. I admit this impasse. And I can live knowing that we may have been wrong.
I think that maybe Mom wanted us to make this decision when the time came. I think that she knew that her husband and her children would ultimately do what was best because she trusted us completely.
Rabbis are there at every one of life's passages, just to make sure we never forget the importance of religion. But it is at death that they are playing with fire emotionally. This is when their pious lies can do the most damage.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
How Religion Makes Death Even Harder
Judaism has rules for everything --rules to tell you what to eat, what to wear, who you can fuck and when and how to grieve. But it is the rules and restrictions around death and dying, especially when they must be obeyed along with the countless regulations about the Sabbath, which continue to amaze me.
Death and Shabbat
It gets really confusing when someone you love DIES on the Sabbath and your entire family is Orthodox. This happened with my mother.
She was admitted to Sloan-Kettering Cancer Hospital in NYC where it was determined that her breast cancer has metastasized throughout her body and that any treatments at this point would allow her to live for an extra week or two. But she'd be in constant pain, and eventually the cancer in her lungs would make it impossible for her to breathe.
My father, sisters and I made the decision to start a morphine drip and let her die peacefully.
When I arrived back at the hospital early Saturday morning. All my sisters were already there. They stayed at a hotel in the local area so they could walk to and from the hospital.
I was told that my mother had taken a dramatic turn the previous night, which was a Friday, and she died during the night. I was pissed. They knew that she'd taken a turn for the worse the night before. They knew this and were able to be by her bedside. I ended up going home to look after my son, who was being shielded from this for the time being. A phone call would have been nice.
Nobody told me
Someone could have called me to tell me that my mother was living her final moments and given me the option to be with her.
But no. My family had to observe the Sabbath. Which meant that they could not make any phone calls. They actually expected me to accept this as an excuse as to why nobody called me. I didn't. I never forgot how they didn't allow me those last moments with my mother because of their self-imposed rules.
At some point, that Saturday, my sister E. mentioned that J, her husband, was home with her son and he was not aware that my mother passed away during the night. E. desperately wanted to communicate this to him but her religion forbade it. She couldn't just call on the phone and speak with her husband; that would violate the Sabbath restrictions.
Tricks to get around the rules: the shabbos goy
Instead an elaborate ruse was instituted in order to circumvent the rules which they created for themselves.
See, these rules do not apply to anyone who is not Jewish. My husband, at the time, was a non-Jew. Even though I am an outspoken atheist, my family and other Jews still consider me Jewish (against my will). In their system of rules, you cannot knowingly ask another Jew to violate any of the Sabbath rules. Hence the use of the shabbos goy --a non-Jew who does work for a Jew on the Sabbath.
In this situation, my (now-)former husband (Lou) was to serve as the shabbos goy. E. asked to speak to him alone. This enabled her to communicate with him what she needed him to do without having someone Jewish hear her plan to violate the Sabbath rules.
E. told him the phone number and had him dial the phone, an example of "work" that is forbidden to do on the Sabbath. Once the answering machine picked up, Lou and E. pretended to be engrossed in a conversation regarding funeral arrangements.
Hopefully, E.'s husband would be near the answering machine when it picked up and could be privy to what all of us already knew, that my mother had died.
This is legitimate in their rulebook because the phone call was made by a non-Jew and the conversation would be "overheard" and taking place on the answering machine. Thus, no Jews can be guilty of violating the Sabbath.
Staying clean
Jews also have many rules regarding death and how NOT to be contaminated by the "unclean" status of a dead person.
After my mother died, she was still lying in the hospital room. One of my brothers-in-law, a Rabbi, stood guard at my mother's body until she was moved to the morgue.
Then there were shifts of people who were to stand guard over her body until she could be buried. These people, usually family members, were to say the traditional Mourner's Prayer and make sure that her soul was not stolen by an evil entity (Jews don't acknowledge a devil, but an "evil eye") before she could be buried.
Keeping her soul from being stolen
What the fuck? Can you imagine that? What would it look like if my mother's soul was stolen? How would I know? How do you chase down and catch a non-existent entity, like a soul, and stop the thieves, who are also presumably invisible? Oy vey.
Anyway, when my mother was still in the hospital room before she was moved to the morgue, we were given the opportunity to spend whatever time we needed with her.
My sister E. was visibly shaken. She took me aside and asked me if I have been in the room to see Mom since she died. I had, and I encouraged her to do the same. She told me that there are strict rules regarding touching a dead person.
I could see an inner struggle within her. Her religion told her it was forbidden to touch a dead person because that would render her unclean (whatever that meant). But she knew that this would be her last opportunity to touch or talk to our mother before she was put in the ground.
I tried to muster up some sympathy for her and her predicament. But as far as I was concerned, these rules are bullshit and were made up by a control freak tribal leader during ancient times. I told E. that if she really wanted to hug Mom and tell her goodbye, this was the time to do it. I said that if she didn't she might regret passing up this opportunity.
I don't know what she ended up doing but I know that her religion placed an additional burden upon her and the grieving process.
Death is hard enough. For religion to complicate it with extra burdens of ritual, prohibitions and guilt...is unconscionable and morally repugnant.
Death and Shabbat
It gets really confusing when someone you love DIES on the Sabbath and your entire family is Orthodox. This happened with my mother.
She was admitted to Sloan-Kettering Cancer Hospital in NYC where it was determined that her breast cancer has metastasized throughout her body and that any treatments at this point would allow her to live for an extra week or two. But she'd be in constant pain, and eventually the cancer in her lungs would make it impossible for her to breathe.
My father, sisters and I made the decision to start a morphine drip and let her die peacefully.
When I arrived back at the hospital early Saturday morning. All my sisters were already there. They stayed at a hotel in the local area so they could walk to and from the hospital.
I was told that my mother had taken a dramatic turn the previous night, which was a Friday, and she died during the night. I was pissed. They knew that she'd taken a turn for the worse the night before. They knew this and were able to be by her bedside. I ended up going home to look after my son, who was being shielded from this for the time being. A phone call would have been nice.
Nobody told me
Someone could have called me to tell me that my mother was living her final moments and given me the option to be with her.
But no. My family had to observe the Sabbath. Which meant that they could not make any phone calls. They actually expected me to accept this as an excuse as to why nobody called me. I didn't. I never forgot how they didn't allow me those last moments with my mother because of their self-imposed rules.
At some point, that Saturday, my sister E. mentioned that J, her husband, was home with her son and he was not aware that my mother passed away during the night. E. desperately wanted to communicate this to him but her religion forbade it. She couldn't just call on the phone and speak with her husband; that would violate the Sabbath restrictions.
Tricks to get around the rules: the shabbos goy
Instead an elaborate ruse was instituted in order to circumvent the rules which they created for themselves.
See, these rules do not apply to anyone who is not Jewish. My husband, at the time, was a non-Jew. Even though I am an outspoken atheist, my family and other Jews still consider me Jewish (against my will). In their system of rules, you cannot knowingly ask another Jew to violate any of the Sabbath rules. Hence the use of the shabbos goy --a non-Jew who does work for a Jew on the Sabbath.
In this situation, my (now-)former husband (Lou) was to serve as the shabbos goy. E. asked to speak to him alone. This enabled her to communicate with him what she needed him to do without having someone Jewish hear her plan to violate the Sabbath rules.
E. told him the phone number and had him dial the phone, an example of "work" that is forbidden to do on the Sabbath. Once the answering machine picked up, Lou and E. pretended to be engrossed in a conversation regarding funeral arrangements.
Hopefully, E.'s husband would be near the answering machine when it picked up and could be privy to what all of us already knew, that my mother had died.
This is legitimate in their rulebook because the phone call was made by a non-Jew and the conversation would be "overheard" and taking place on the answering machine. Thus, no Jews can be guilty of violating the Sabbath.
Staying clean
Jews also have many rules regarding death and how NOT to be contaminated by the "unclean" status of a dead person.
After my mother died, she was still lying in the hospital room. One of my brothers-in-law, a Rabbi, stood guard at my mother's body until she was moved to the morgue.
Then there were shifts of people who were to stand guard over her body until she could be buried. These people, usually family members, were to say the traditional Mourner's Prayer and make sure that her soul was not stolen by an evil entity (Jews don't acknowledge a devil, but an "evil eye") before she could be buried.
Keeping her soul from being stolen
What the fuck? Can you imagine that? What would it look like if my mother's soul was stolen? How would I know? How do you chase down and catch a non-existent entity, like a soul, and stop the thieves, who are also presumably invisible? Oy vey.
Anyway, when my mother was still in the hospital room before she was moved to the morgue, we were given the opportunity to spend whatever time we needed with her.
My sister E. was visibly shaken. She took me aside and asked me if I have been in the room to see Mom since she died. I had, and I encouraged her to do the same. She told me that there are strict rules regarding touching a dead person.
I could see an inner struggle within her. Her religion told her it was forbidden to touch a dead person because that would render her unclean (whatever that meant). But she knew that this would be her last opportunity to touch or talk to our mother before she was put in the ground.
I tried to muster up some sympathy for her and her predicament. But as far as I was concerned, these rules are bullshit and were made up by a control freak tribal leader during ancient times. I told E. that if she really wanted to hug Mom and tell her goodbye, this was the time to do it. I said that if she didn't she might regret passing up this opportunity.
I don't know what she ended up doing but I know that her religion placed an additional burden upon her and the grieving process.
Death is hard enough. For religion to complicate it with extra burdens of ritual, prohibitions and guilt...is unconscionable and morally repugnant.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Sabbath toilet paper?
On the lighter side, Orthodox Judaism has created many hours of hysterical laughter for me by the sheer ridiculousness of its rules and regulations.
One visit to my sister's apartment in Riverdale comes to mind. My youngest sister, E, is nine years younger than me. She basically grew up when I was no longer living in the family house. She was six when I was put in the hellhole and I didn't live at home after that for long stretches of time.
Full-time Orthodox Judaism
E. was the only one of the four of us girls to receive a Yeshiva education. (full-time Jewish Day school) She experienced ALL Judaism ALL the time. 24 hour Orthodox Judaism.
Barely out of High School, E. became a young bride and began doing her Jewish duty of breeding for the Jewish people.
E. ventured off into Sephardic Judaism because that was the brand of Judaism that her husband subscribed to. While my two remaining sisters stayed within the Modern Orthodox sect.
Where is the toilet paper?
One trip into Riverdale to visit my sister after she had her first child was memorable. It was a Saturday-- The Sabbath. This is when the observant ones pile on the restrictions.
Right before we planned to leave, I needed to use E.'s bathroom. Trying to maintain basic hygiene, I looked for some toilet paper. There was none to be found. I looked under the sink--nothing. I had to pull my pants back up and exit the bathroom and quietly try to find E. to ask her where the toilet paper was kept.
E. told me that the toilet paper was sitting right on top of the toilet. I looked again and all I saw was some shredded paper in a makeshift tissue holder. Scraps.
I left the bathroom again and found E. and told her that I did not find the toilet paper.
Sabbath toilet paper
E. said, "Elisha, it is Shabbat." (as if I'm expected to keep track of THEIR gazillion rules and the ones that apply on the Sabbath)
"What do you mean, E.?" I asked her.
"We can't tear anything on Shabbat. It is one of the 39 Sabbath restrictions mentioned in the Torah." E. replied.
This was too crazy for me. "So you don't wipe your ass on the Sabbath, E.? That doesn't sound very hygienic."
"Elisha," she assured me, "We do wipe ourselves. We just pre-tear the toilet paper ahead of time. That is what is on top of the toilet, in the tissue box. The pre-torn toilet paper we use on Shabbat."
Holy Jesus Fucking Christ. Pre-torn toilet paper. Un-fucking-believable.
One visit to my sister's apartment in Riverdale comes to mind. My youngest sister, E, is nine years younger than me. She basically grew up when I was no longer living in the family house. She was six when I was put in the hellhole and I didn't live at home after that for long stretches of time.
Full-time Orthodox Judaism
E. was the only one of the four of us girls to receive a Yeshiva education. (full-time Jewish Day school) She experienced ALL Judaism ALL the time. 24 hour Orthodox Judaism.
Barely out of High School, E. became a young bride and began doing her Jewish duty of breeding for the Jewish people.
E. ventured off into Sephardic Judaism because that was the brand of Judaism that her husband subscribed to. While my two remaining sisters stayed within the Modern Orthodox sect.
Where is the toilet paper?
One trip into Riverdale to visit my sister after she had her first child was memorable. It was a Saturday-- The Sabbath. This is when the observant ones pile on the restrictions.
Right before we planned to leave, I needed to use E.'s bathroom. Trying to maintain basic hygiene, I looked for some toilet paper. There was none to be found. I looked under the sink--nothing. I had to pull my pants back up and exit the bathroom and quietly try to find E. to ask her where the toilet paper was kept.
E. told me that the toilet paper was sitting right on top of the toilet. I looked again and all I saw was some shredded paper in a makeshift tissue holder. Scraps.
I left the bathroom again and found E. and told her that I did not find the toilet paper.
Sabbath toilet paper
E. said, "Elisha, it is Shabbat." (as if I'm expected to keep track of THEIR gazillion rules and the ones that apply on the Sabbath)
"What do you mean, E.?" I asked her.
"We can't tear anything on Shabbat. It is one of the 39 Sabbath restrictions mentioned in the Torah." E. replied.
This was too crazy for me. "So you don't wipe your ass on the Sabbath, E.? That doesn't sound very hygienic."
"Elisha," she assured me, "We do wipe ourselves. We just pre-tear the toilet paper ahead of time. That is what is on top of the toilet, in the tissue box. The pre-torn toilet paper we use on Shabbat."
Holy Jesus Fucking Christ. Pre-torn toilet paper. Un-fucking-believable.
How Judaism Divides Families
I never really got over the fact that my parents refused to see me get married in 1992. I committed the unforgivable sin of marrying a non-Jew. I never expected a huge shindig or anything. But watching my sisters get married and seeing all the money which was spent on their marital unions was a huge trauma for me when mine wasn't even acknowledged.
Playing favorites: the Jewish Way
Witnessing my parents shower them with approval and validation killed me inside. I still have a hard time coming to terms with my family’s choice of religiosity. In my opinion, it is not the uniting force it proclaims to be; it is a dividing one.
Not only did my parents blatantly refuse to attend my marriage ceremony -- they sabotaged the chance that any of my other relatives would attend also.
Sorry, Grandma
My grandmother was up from Florida, and she said that she wished to see me wed. I agreed to drive two hours on the day I was getting married to pick her up at my parents' house and then drop her back off in the afternoon.
The morning of my marriage, my grandmother called me and told me that my mother (her daughter) would not allow her to come see us get married.
"So what? Grandma. Who cares what she thinks? Just let me come get you." I cried.
"Elisha," she replied, "Your mother has made it perfectly clear that if I leave the house to see you get married, I would not have anywhere to stay when I come back up to visit from Florida."
That was just like my parents to use any control that they might have and exploit it to their agenda.
Banning my grandmother and my other relatives from my marriage ceremony is deplorable.
All Jewish, all the time, no exceptions
In every important step in my life, my parents chose their Judaism over their daughter. In 1993, when I gave birth to my first son, he had a medical condition (hypospadias) which means that the hole of his penis was slightly lower than it should be.
An operation could fix this 100%. I was planning on having a circumcision done in the hospital but I was not going to have any religious ceremony. It was not to be a religious ritual but a medical procedure.
Since my son was born with this defect, the doctors advised us to have the operation performed when he was one year old because of the risks of anaesthesia. They told us to hold off on the circumcision until the surgery; they would do them both at the same time.
They sneaked the Rabbi in!
The morning of the operation, my parents were at the hospital with us. Boy was I surprised to see my parents' Rabbi, walking from the surgery area toward us. He quickly greeted my parents and said a few words to me and my husband.
Apparently, my parents took it upon themselves to have their rabbi perform their Jewish circumcision rituals on MY SON, WITHOUT MY CONSENT! The audacity of that floored me.
They were completely aware that I had no intention of adhering to Judaism. Not to mention the blatant disrespect toward my husband, who is not Jewish. They were willing to resort to devious, conniving practices in order to be able to claim my son as a Jew.
I actually let this one slide because their rituals are meaningless to me. A rabbi playing with a little blood on the operating table under the supervision of an MD did not bother me. I felt that a Jew is only a Jew if he/she claims to be one.
Cockamamie genetics
However, in the Jewish tradition, anyone born of a Jewish mother is considered a Jew, regardless if that person doesn't believe any of it. That seems a bit arrogant to me. As if a person's genetics is more important than their beliefs. But that's tribalism for you.
My parents' Judaism continued to interfere with our relationship. They do not and cannot understand why their actions were disrespectful to us.
Refusing the bribe
When we moved into our community in 1995, my parents offered us $300 a month to help with the rent IF we agree to send our son to a yeshiva (Jewish parochial school). Our finances were such, at the time, that $300 would've helped immensely.
At first, we agreed to it. I rationalized that my son would get a private education out of it. But I resented what looked like blackmail to me. The final straw came when Dad asked me NOT to bring my non-Jewish husband to the financial aid meeting.
This is my son's father. How dare my father attempt to exclude him! Oh yeah, he’s ashamed of his non-Jewish heritage (does he remember that I share that same non-Jewish blood, since I was adopted?).
I backed out of the deal. It seems that even though I was married and with a child, my parents still wanted to exercise control over me and my family. I have never allowed that.
I think that it is obvious that I resent my family’s religiosity. It is a divisive wedge. And mine is but one of countless stories of how religion creates misery and ruins lives.
Playing favorites: the Jewish Way
Witnessing my parents shower them with approval and validation killed me inside. I still have a hard time coming to terms with my family’s choice of religiosity. In my opinion, it is not the uniting force it proclaims to be; it is a dividing one.
Not only did my parents blatantly refuse to attend my marriage ceremony -- they sabotaged the chance that any of my other relatives would attend also.
Sorry, Grandma
My grandmother was up from Florida, and she said that she wished to see me wed. I agreed to drive two hours on the day I was getting married to pick her up at my parents' house and then drop her back off in the afternoon.
The morning of my marriage, my grandmother called me and told me that my mother (her daughter) would not allow her to come see us get married.
"So what? Grandma. Who cares what she thinks? Just let me come get you." I cried.
"Elisha," she replied, "Your mother has made it perfectly clear that if I leave the house to see you get married, I would not have anywhere to stay when I come back up to visit from Florida."
That was just like my parents to use any control that they might have and exploit it to their agenda.
Banning my grandmother and my other relatives from my marriage ceremony is deplorable.
All Jewish, all the time, no exceptions
In every important step in my life, my parents chose their Judaism over their daughter. In 1993, when I gave birth to my first son, he had a medical condition (hypospadias) which means that the hole of his penis was slightly lower than it should be.
An operation could fix this 100%. I was planning on having a circumcision done in the hospital but I was not going to have any religious ceremony. It was not to be a religious ritual but a medical procedure.
Since my son was born with this defect, the doctors advised us to have the operation performed when he was one year old because of the risks of anaesthesia. They told us to hold off on the circumcision until the surgery; they would do them both at the same time.
They sneaked the Rabbi in!
The morning of the operation, my parents were at the hospital with us. Boy was I surprised to see my parents' Rabbi, walking from the surgery area toward us. He quickly greeted my parents and said a few words to me and my husband.
Apparently, my parents took it upon themselves to have their rabbi perform their Jewish circumcision rituals on MY SON, WITHOUT MY CONSENT! The audacity of that floored me.
They were completely aware that I had no intention of adhering to Judaism. Not to mention the blatant disrespect toward my husband, who is not Jewish. They were willing to resort to devious, conniving practices in order to be able to claim my son as a Jew.
I actually let this one slide because their rituals are meaningless to me. A rabbi playing with a little blood on the operating table under the supervision of an MD did not bother me. I felt that a Jew is only a Jew if he/she claims to be one.
Cockamamie genetics
However, in the Jewish tradition, anyone born of a Jewish mother is considered a Jew, regardless if that person doesn't believe any of it. That seems a bit arrogant to me. As if a person's genetics is more important than their beliefs. But that's tribalism for you.
My parents' Judaism continued to interfere with our relationship. They do not and cannot understand why their actions were disrespectful to us.
Refusing the bribe
When we moved into our community in 1995, my parents offered us $300 a month to help with the rent IF we agree to send our son to a yeshiva (Jewish parochial school). Our finances were such, at the time, that $300 would've helped immensely.
At first, we agreed to it. I rationalized that my son would get a private education out of it. But I resented what looked like blackmail to me. The final straw came when Dad asked me NOT to bring my non-Jewish husband to the financial aid meeting.
This is my son's father. How dare my father attempt to exclude him! Oh yeah, he’s ashamed of his non-Jewish heritage (does he remember that I share that same non-Jewish blood, since I was adopted?).
I backed out of the deal. It seems that even though I was married and with a child, my parents still wanted to exercise control over me and my family. I have never allowed that.
I think that it is obvious that I resent my family’s religiosity. It is a divisive wedge. And mine is but one of countless stories of how religion creates misery and ruins lives.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Religious Abuse - A high price to pay for not conforming
An ongoing frustration of mine and one I tend to go on endless rants about is the onslaught of religion in our society.
Religious abuse of children
Richard Dawkins is rightfully incensed about the routine subjection of children to religious indoctrination. Some children die because their parents choose prayer over medical treatment.
I'm luckier than that, but religious abuse takes many forms.
I consider myself to have been "religiously abused." This means that I was forced to absorb -- and consider true -- a bunch of myths of the Jewish variety. I watched with great dismay as my parents became more and more religious. And this, of course, includes subjecting their children to the same level of religious belief and practice with complete disregard about how the children feel about this.
I participated in the breaking ground of our family's conservative synagogue. My parents weren't half-hearted, wishy-washy Jews. They actually obeyed the laws of Kashrut (kosher) and observed the Sabbath with all the restrictions that entailed.
We walked to shul every Friday evening, and every Saturday morning was spent listening to the Torah being read and davening (praying) in services for FOUR hours. My sisters and I attended Hebrew School and the only parent-approved social functions were the ones organized by the temple.
Somewhere along the line, (in the 80's) my father decided that this Conservative Synagogue was not traditional enough for him. Our family's break with this shul was over the hiring of a female Rabbi. This was not acceptable to my father and he opted to attend an Orthodox shul five miles from our home.
Deprived of a normal childhood
This obviously meant that I could not have any normal social life like every other teenager. Even if I had the option of NOT going to temple on Shabbat, my parents wouldn't drive me anywhere because driving is restricted on the Sabbath.
My mother eventually started the temple's library and handled all the donations and kept everything organized. She became very active in the Sisterhood and my father was President of the temple for 5 years in the '80's. We lived next door to the Rabbi and his family and they became a fixture at our house for years.
The problem with this lifestyle is that I never believed any of the prerequisites of Judaism, and I resented all the restrictions which were placed upon me due to my parents' beliefs.
I went to a public school but yet I was not allowed to have non-Jewish friends. Well, I had them because my parents couldn't prevent what went on at school. However, I couldn't bring them to my house and spend time with these friends outside of school.
So, I did a lot of sneaking around; especially when it came to dating non-Jews. There was also tremendous arguing which went on in my house over these religious rules that my parents chose to burden me with.
In 1985, I was 15 years old. I always had a terrible time at school because I was teased endlessly. I had Tourette Syndrome and my tics annoyed the other kids and kids are just cruel in general, at that age. I was also sent out in the hall to take tests when my tics were really bad. This would never fly nowadays -- we have laws preventing discrimination against students with disabilities.
All I ever wanted during that time period was to attend a different school. I thought that would solve some of my problems. Little did I realize, though, that these problems at school, would have continued where ever I went because my parents were unable/unwilling to advocate for me.
They could have threatened a lawsuit over the bullying I was subjected to. They could have made the school enforce their own "no bullying" policy. They could have demanded that I not be isolated in the hall. Something. Anything to get under the authorities' skin and demand that something change.
The cowardly "solution": deception and betrayal
So, in 1985, my parents told me that I was going to go to a different school. It would be a school where I would actually LIVE there. I was sooooo exited. A new school AND NOT having to live in my parents house with their stupid religious rules. New people, new teachers. I couldn't wait!
So, I get all packed up with my new clothes, that my parent bought for me for the occasion, and we went on our way. I fell asleep in the car, so I missed the sign on the grounds of this school.
When we went inside, I was interviewed with such questions like, "Do you think about killing yourself?" (no) "Do you drink or do drugs?" (no, not at that time, anyway) "Are you depressed?" (a little, but who wouldn't be in my situation?)
They led me down the hall to the place where I would be staying. The lady asked me, "Why are you here?" as she unlocked each adjoining door. I naively replied, "To go to school." She just smiled.
When we got to the area where the dorms were, I asked for my luggage. She said that it was being inspected and would be up shortly. Meanwhile, I was introduced to some of the other kids who asked me similar questions as to why I was there.
When my luggage came up, my makeup mirror, hairdryer, shoelaces and belts were all missing. I asked the lady where the rest of my stuff was. She said, "You can't have them here."
"Where the fuck am I?" I yelled.
She said, "South Oaks Psychiatric Hospital."
Thrown into the nuthouse
HOLY SHIT. I ran into my room and threw myself on the cot and screamed in agony. Almost instantaneously, three men in white coats ran into my room and told me that I was not to behave in this manner. If I did, I would be put in a straight jacket, shot up with Thorazine and sent up to the "Flight Deck," a highly supervised unit where the REAL violent kids were -- or, at least, the ones who were ordered by the court to be there.
Words can't describe the betrayal that I felt. My parents TRICKED me. They told me that I was going to a private school and I end up locked in this mental institution. I couldn't use the phone to call them. I was locked in this hellhole with crazies. I witnessed WAY too much for my sheltered, Jewish upbringing. (that is an entirely different story, in and of itself).
They put me away in here because I wouldn't follow their "house" (religious) rules and I rebelled. I wanted to be a normal teenager. Instead, I couldn't go out (with girls or boys) with non-Jews, couldn't go out on a Friday night or Saturday, couldn't go anywhere to EAT with anybody. Just school and temple.
Depressed? Who wouldn't be?
They told the institution that I was "depressed." That was how I got in.
After 30 days, the doctors reviewed my case and we had a meeting with my parents. Our insurance coverage only paid for the first 30 days UNLESS there was a severe issue which required continued incarceration. (oops, I mean "hospitalization." lol)
The doctors told my parents that they were scheduling me to be released within the next two days, with a prescription for an anti-depressant and to follow up with my psychiatrist.
My parents actually REFUSED to take me home.
I spent 6 months (most of the kids stayed less than 3 months) locked up there, against my will, and my parents paid $5,000 per week, out of their own (and my) pockets, just to keep me there.
I spent my "Sweet 16" locked up in a mental institution. I didn't belong there. All the doctors agreed. I rose up the ranks in their system of "earning privileges." Almost immediately, I was granted weekend passes to go home.
BUT MY PARENTS WOULDN'T TAKE ME HOME.
Why? Because the weekend passes started on Saturday mornings and they won't drive on Shabbat.
So, when the people who "behaved" and followed the rules, got to go home and get the hell out of the locked institution for 2 days, I was alone on the ward with the staff. Occasionally, my parents visited me on Sundays, but we had "Family Counseling" to attend to. This resulted in many unhappy and angry visits.
I didn't see my sisters for six months. More religious abuse.
Stole my money to lock me up
Later, I found out that my parents used ALL MY MONEY that was saved for my future to pay for this incarceration. They also had to take a loss because the cost EXCEEDED the balance in the account.
I had approximately $50,000 - $80,000 saved from bonds from when I was born and gifts from my Bat Mitzvah. I'm not sure precisely how much was there but I was told at least $50,000. I assume that there was some interest which accrued in 15 years.
I was always aware of this money and was informed that is not to be touched. It is for college expenses or a car or a down payment on my first home. Whatever. It was MY nest egg.
Desperation
After finally being released from the hellhole, I continued to be "abused" by their religion. One day when they were at temple, I left. Packed up my shit and I went to stay with a guy I just met.
Foolish, I know. But I was desperate to get out of my parents' house. After finding out some stuff about this guy, I decided it wasn't smart for me to continue to associate with him. I lived with several different people for the next year, or so. I refused to go home and be subjected to their crazy rules.
I was three months from my 18th birthday and I was not going to school or doing anything productive with my life. My flitting from house to house with strangers just wasn't working out.
Back to the loony bin
I made the voluntary decision to GO BACK TO South Oaks, the mental institution. Yes, I CHOSE to go back to that environment. At that point, ANYTHING was better than living with my parents. I was familiar with the structure of the institution. I excelled there. I liked the staff. They liked me. And I was popular there.
How pathetic it is that I would chose to go back to an institution rather than live with my parents.
Upon my 18th birthday, I immediately signed myself out of the institution, as that is the freedom which adulthood provides. I was allowed to sleep in my parents' basement, on the floor, in a sleeping bag, for a month, after being released. (One of my sisters took my room when I was gone.) There were five bedrooms in that house. One was vacant. Yet, I slept in the basement, like a dog.
Oh, and they locked me down there at night, so I couldn't go out (escape). It was then I developed mild claustrophobia, which I still have to this day (although claustrophobia is not difficult to avoid -- just don't put yourself in situations where you would feel boxed in).
It is so sad how far my parents went to try to get me to conform. According to them, I was a bad influence on my sisters. They were glad to have someone else take care of me. It was a high price to pay, but they'd pay any amount so I didn't subject the rest of their little sheep to rebellion.
Three little sheep
It was also a good lesson for my little sheep sisters. (I have three sisters. More about them at another time.) My incarceration in the mental institution instilled in them what precisely would happen if they choose to rebel and think differently than their parents. It said, We will get rid of you and treat you less than human if you do not obey. So, little sheep, don't even think about it.
It worked.
Two of my sisters married rabbis, and the third lives in the same Jewish enclave (when Jews create ghettos for themselves, they're called something else, but the result is the same). Their children all attend the local Jewish day school, where two of my sisters teach.
Judaism is no different from other religions: piety and correct ritual trump good behavior, almost always. My Mother passed on a few years ago. My father now lives in Israel, where he follows as many of Judaism's innumerable rules as possible, considers himself a good Jew, and has no remorse (that I know of) for the inhumane way he treated me.
Religious abuse of children
Richard Dawkins is rightfully incensed about the routine subjection of children to religious indoctrination. Some children die because their parents choose prayer over medical treatment.
I'm luckier than that, but religious abuse takes many forms.
I consider myself to have been "religiously abused." This means that I was forced to absorb -- and consider true -- a bunch of myths of the Jewish variety. I watched with great dismay as my parents became more and more religious. And this, of course, includes subjecting their children to the same level of religious belief and practice with complete disregard about how the children feel about this.
I participated in the breaking ground of our family's conservative synagogue. My parents weren't half-hearted, wishy-washy Jews. They actually obeyed the laws of Kashrut (kosher) and observed the Sabbath with all the restrictions that entailed.
We walked to shul every Friday evening, and every Saturday morning was spent listening to the Torah being read and davening (praying) in services for FOUR hours. My sisters and I attended Hebrew School and the only parent-approved social functions were the ones organized by the temple.
Somewhere along the line, (in the 80's) my father decided that this Conservative Synagogue was not traditional enough for him. Our family's break with this shul was over the hiring of a female Rabbi. This was not acceptable to my father and he opted to attend an Orthodox shul five miles from our home.
Deprived of a normal childhood
This obviously meant that I could not have any normal social life like every other teenager. Even if I had the option of NOT going to temple on Shabbat, my parents wouldn't drive me anywhere because driving is restricted on the Sabbath.
My mother eventually started the temple's library and handled all the donations and kept everything organized. She became very active in the Sisterhood and my father was President of the temple for 5 years in the '80's. We lived next door to the Rabbi and his family and they became a fixture at our house for years.
The problem with this lifestyle is that I never believed any of the prerequisites of Judaism, and I resented all the restrictions which were placed upon me due to my parents' beliefs.
I went to a public school but yet I was not allowed to have non-Jewish friends. Well, I had them because my parents couldn't prevent what went on at school. However, I couldn't bring them to my house and spend time with these friends outside of school.
So, I did a lot of sneaking around; especially when it came to dating non-Jews. There was also tremendous arguing which went on in my house over these religious rules that my parents chose to burden me with.
In 1985, I was 15 years old. I always had a terrible time at school because I was teased endlessly. I had Tourette Syndrome and my tics annoyed the other kids and kids are just cruel in general, at that age. I was also sent out in the hall to take tests when my tics were really bad. This would never fly nowadays -- we have laws preventing discrimination against students with disabilities.
All I ever wanted during that time period was to attend a different school. I thought that would solve some of my problems. Little did I realize, though, that these problems at school, would have continued where ever I went because my parents were unable/unwilling to advocate for me.
They could have threatened a lawsuit over the bullying I was subjected to. They could have made the school enforce their own "no bullying" policy. They could have demanded that I not be isolated in the hall. Something. Anything to get under the authorities' skin and demand that something change.
The cowardly "solution": deception and betrayal
So, in 1985, my parents told me that I was going to go to a different school. It would be a school where I would actually LIVE there. I was sooooo exited. A new school AND NOT having to live in my parents house with their stupid religious rules. New people, new teachers. I couldn't wait!
So, I get all packed up with my new clothes, that my parent bought for me for the occasion, and we went on our way. I fell asleep in the car, so I missed the sign on the grounds of this school.
When we went inside, I was interviewed with such questions like, "Do you think about killing yourself?" (no) "Do you drink or do drugs?" (no, not at that time, anyway) "Are you depressed?" (a little, but who wouldn't be in my situation?)
They led me down the hall to the place where I would be staying. The lady asked me, "Why are you here?" as she unlocked each adjoining door. I naively replied, "To go to school." She just smiled.
When we got to the area where the dorms were, I asked for my luggage. She said that it was being inspected and would be up shortly. Meanwhile, I was introduced to some of the other kids who asked me similar questions as to why I was there.
When my luggage came up, my makeup mirror, hairdryer, shoelaces and belts were all missing. I asked the lady where the rest of my stuff was. She said, "You can't have them here."
"Where the fuck am I?" I yelled.
She said, "South Oaks Psychiatric Hospital."
Thrown into the nuthouse
HOLY SHIT. I ran into my room and threw myself on the cot and screamed in agony. Almost instantaneously, three men in white coats ran into my room and told me that I was not to behave in this manner. If I did, I would be put in a straight jacket, shot up with Thorazine and sent up to the "Flight Deck," a highly supervised unit where the REAL violent kids were -- or, at least, the ones who were ordered by the court to be there.
Words can't describe the betrayal that I felt. My parents TRICKED me. They told me that I was going to a private school and I end up locked in this mental institution. I couldn't use the phone to call them. I was locked in this hellhole with crazies. I witnessed WAY too much for my sheltered, Jewish upbringing. (that is an entirely different story, in and of itself).
They put me away in here because I wouldn't follow their "house" (religious) rules and I rebelled. I wanted to be a normal teenager. Instead, I couldn't go out (with girls or boys) with non-Jews, couldn't go out on a Friday night or Saturday, couldn't go anywhere to EAT with anybody. Just school and temple.
Depressed? Who wouldn't be?
They told the institution that I was "depressed." That was how I got in.
After 30 days, the doctors reviewed my case and we had a meeting with my parents. Our insurance coverage only paid for the first 30 days UNLESS there was a severe issue which required continued incarceration. (oops, I mean "hospitalization." lol)
The doctors told my parents that they were scheduling me to be released within the next two days, with a prescription for an anti-depressant and to follow up with my psychiatrist.
My parents actually REFUSED to take me home.
I spent 6 months (most of the kids stayed less than 3 months) locked up there, against my will, and my parents paid $5,000 per week, out of their own (and my) pockets, just to keep me there.
I spent my "Sweet 16" locked up in a mental institution. I didn't belong there. All the doctors agreed. I rose up the ranks in their system of "earning privileges." Almost immediately, I was granted weekend passes to go home.
BUT MY PARENTS WOULDN'T TAKE ME HOME.
Why? Because the weekend passes started on Saturday mornings and they won't drive on Shabbat.
So, when the people who "behaved" and followed the rules, got to go home and get the hell out of the locked institution for 2 days, I was alone on the ward with the staff. Occasionally, my parents visited me on Sundays, but we had "Family Counseling" to attend to. This resulted in many unhappy and angry visits.
I didn't see my sisters for six months. More religious abuse.
Stole my money to lock me up
Later, I found out that my parents used ALL MY MONEY that was saved for my future to pay for this incarceration. They also had to take a loss because the cost EXCEEDED the balance in the account.
I had approximately $50,000 - $80,000 saved from bonds from when I was born and gifts from my Bat Mitzvah. I'm not sure precisely how much was there but I was told at least $50,000. I assume that there was some interest which accrued in 15 years.
I was always aware of this money and was informed that is not to be touched. It is for college expenses or a car or a down payment on my first home. Whatever. It was MY nest egg.
Desperation
After finally being released from the hellhole, I continued to be "abused" by their religion. One day when they were at temple, I left. Packed up my shit and I went to stay with a guy I just met.
Foolish, I know. But I was desperate to get out of my parents' house. After finding out some stuff about this guy, I decided it wasn't smart for me to continue to associate with him. I lived with several different people for the next year, or so. I refused to go home and be subjected to their crazy rules.
I was three months from my 18th birthday and I was not going to school or doing anything productive with my life. My flitting from house to house with strangers just wasn't working out.
Back to the loony bin
I made the voluntary decision to GO BACK TO South Oaks, the mental institution. Yes, I CHOSE to go back to that environment. At that point, ANYTHING was better than living with my parents. I was familiar with the structure of the institution. I excelled there. I liked the staff. They liked me. And I was popular there.
How pathetic it is that I would chose to go back to an institution rather than live with my parents.
Upon my 18th birthday, I immediately signed myself out of the institution, as that is the freedom which adulthood provides. I was allowed to sleep in my parents' basement, on the floor, in a sleeping bag, for a month, after being released. (One of my sisters took my room when I was gone.) There were five bedrooms in that house. One was vacant. Yet, I slept in the basement, like a dog.
Oh, and they locked me down there at night, so I couldn't go out (escape). It was then I developed mild claustrophobia, which I still have to this day (although claustrophobia is not difficult to avoid -- just don't put yourself in situations where you would feel boxed in).
It is so sad how far my parents went to try to get me to conform. According to them, I was a bad influence on my sisters. They were glad to have someone else take care of me. It was a high price to pay, but they'd pay any amount so I didn't subject the rest of their little sheep to rebellion.
Three little sheep
It was also a good lesson for my little sheep sisters. (I have three sisters. More about them at another time.) My incarceration in the mental institution instilled in them what precisely would happen if they choose to rebel and think differently than their parents. It said, We will get rid of you and treat you less than human if you do not obey. So, little sheep, don't even think about it.
It worked.
Two of my sisters married rabbis, and the third lives in the same Jewish enclave (when Jews create ghettos for themselves, they're called something else, but the result is the same). Their children all attend the local Jewish day school, where two of my sisters teach.
Judaism is no different from other religions: piety and correct ritual trump good behavior, almost always. My Mother passed on a few years ago. My father now lives in Israel, where he follows as many of Judaism's innumerable rules as possible, considers himself a good Jew, and has no remorse (that I know of) for the inhumane way he treated me.
Adoption revelation; feelings of betrayal
My first post, just to get things started, is a journal entry which I wrote a few years ago. It was intended to be part of a first chapter of an autobiographical book that I eventually planned to write. I suppose a lot of us have a dream to write and publish a book about their experiences.
I am choosing to start this blog with my first traumatic experience which I recollect as vividly as if it were yesterday. This could possibly be the beginning of the "Indignant Elisha" which permanently resides within me.
--------------------------------
The first secret revealed – Adoption
On a brisk Autumn day way back in 1980, at the tender age of 10, my entire world, as I knew it, was turned upside down. I was suffering from a neurological disorder, recently diagnosed as Tourette Syndrome. I had many uncontrollable tics. Some tics were transient, such as jerking my neck, banging my knee, spinning around in a circle and eye blinking. My dominating tic was that I barked. I emitted a loud guttural yelp on the average of every 15 seconds. Sometimes I barked more, sometimes less. It all depended on my anxiety level.
Scientific knowledge and research about Tourette Syndrome was lacking in 1980. There were hardly any drugs that were known to treat Tourette Syndrome. Doctors were proscribing potent psychotropic drugs, such as Haldol to try to control the tics.
Haldol is predominantly used to treat manifestations of acute and chronic psychosis, including schizophrenia and manic states.
I did have some refuge from my tics, during this short 2 year time period due to this proscribed medication. Unfortunately, Haldol had severe side-effects. The most extreme side-effect for me, was lethargy. I was tired all the time. I’d fall asleep in class and when I got home from school, I had a snack and went to sleep, sometimes for the evening. I was barely functional.
Having Tourette Syndrome was also a detriment for me socially. Having tics made me an outcast and I was ostracized by the other children. I was constantly subjected to harassment.
Of course, they had no knowledge or understanding of Tourette Syndrome. But these kids were brutal to me. I was taunted and teased at every available opportunity when an adult wasn’t present to witness it. Of course, telling an adult then deemed me a “rat” or a “tattle tail,” so I couldn’t win either way.
I received a bit of leniency, however, from my teacher, Mrs. Kneer, with regard to homework assignments. She permitted me to be excused occasionally from the homework if my symptoms were exacerbated.
This reprieve had an interesting effect on the other children. They resented me for receiving, what they saw as, “special treatment,” from the teacher. I was teased for being different, I was teased for being a tattler and I was resented by my peers for what they perceived as favoritism from the teacher.
On this particular day in 1980, our class was outside for recess. The children were running around and playing on the jungle gym. I was sitting alone, by the flagpole, waiting for school to resume, when a girl from the fourth grade, approached me. I have seen her before, but we had never spoken.
She mocked me, “You are adopted.” She said this very slowly, placing emphasis on each word. When I didn’t respond to her, she started singing in a taunting manner. “Elisha is adopted, Elisha is adopted.” She was twirling around singing her new jingle, obviously enjoying herself.
I planned to ignore her, as I have been doing since kindergarten. Ignore it and it will go away, they say. However, ignoring it never worked. The kids were relentless. The teasing didn’t stop when I failed to acknowledge it. However, my lack of response prevented the teasing from going any further into a full blown argument. But I still did try to ignore the taunts, at that age, anyway.
Today, I just couldn’t contain myself. What the heck is she talking about? Adopted? Why would this virtual stranger approach me with this ridiculous revelation? Why is she lying and singing about it?
My curiosity got the better of me. I asked her, “Who told you that I was adopted? That’s crazy!”
She stopped twirling around and said with confidence, “Jill Edelstein told me, and she is telling everybody.”
Jill Edelstein is my sister, Jennifer’s, best friend. Jennifer is one year younger than me. (actually, 11 months) In 1980, she was in fourth grade and I was in the fifth. Jennifer and I subjected each other to a tremendous amount of sibling rivalry. We constantly bickered and fought for our parent’s attention.
Since we were so close in age, there was a lot jealousy between us. We fought over the usual kid stuff; toys, friends and attention. We never got along. Her door was always closed to me. We lived in the same house but we either fought with each other or ignored each other. There was never any sisterly bonding to balance it out. That was too bad, because the way we treated each other as children, remained a constant source of resentment, even as adults.
All afternoon in class, I wondered why Jill Edelstein would make up such a lie. I know she liked to spend time with Jennifer, but I didn’t think that she hated me. Jill was always pleasant to me. Does Jennifer know that Jill is spreading these rumors about me?
Then it hit me. I bet it was Jennifer who told Jill to say this about me, just to hurt me. She must have had Jill spread the rumor, to assure that it won’t be traced back to her and then she can still claim that she’s innocent.
I began to get angry. Jen is always manipulating situations and lying to our parents so I would get in trouble. My mother was constantly playing referee with us.
Later, it became obvious that this manipulative behavior from young Jennifer stemmed from her wanting more attention from my parents. She was envious of the time that my parents spent devoted to me and my medical problems.
Her child-like mind saw favoritism from my parents. She didn’t understand that for 5 years, we had no clue as to why I was experiencing tics. Jennifer believed that I could just stop my tics if I wanted to. She saw it as MY method to gain attention from my parents. My parents would tell her that she is not allowed to tease me about my tics, because that made my tics worse. But that didn’t stop her from rolling her eyes and making faces at me behind their backs.
On this day, I eagerly awaited the school bus to take me home so I could confront Jennifer. I was so angry. She was going to be in so much trouble when I tell Mom what she did. I was so sure that this was a devious plot thought up by my sister to make my life even more unbearable than it already was.
When the school bus let me off in front of our house, I ran up the lawn and burst into my house, ignoring my mother when she asked me about my day. I sprinted up the two flights of stairs and planned to barge into Jennifer’s room and start yelling at her, accusing her of starting the nasty rumor.
Instead, Jennifer was calmly waiting by her door for me. She was leaning on the railing. It looked like she had been crying. Her face was all splotchy and her eyes were watery.
“Elisha,” she said gently, “Come in here.”
What is going on? Jennifer and I never have any civil discussions. She has never, ever invited me in her room before. I was confused, so I decided to hear her out. I entered her room slowly.
She quietly closed the door behind us and sat on her bed. That was a switch. Usually she slams the door in my face, when I was still outside in the hallway.
I was standing there, staring at her, dumbfounded. She is acting really weird. I got a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
She kindly informs me, “Elisha, you are adopted.” That burst any bubble of hope I had for any calm conversation with her. After what I heard on the playground earlier, I was in no mood for her crap. I became defensive immediately.
“Shut up, Jennifer. I know it was you. I know that you are the one telling everybody that lie. I hate you. I’m telling Mom.” I yelled.
She didn’t get angry at me for threatening to tell on her, nor for telling her that I hate her, which was her typical reaction. Usually, we would race to find Mom, to be the first to tell on each other.
Instead, she calmly said, “Wait, don’t tell on me yet. Just listen to me first, please Elisha.” She pleaded. Her eyes expressed sadness and she looked at me with such pity. She was practically begging me to stay and listen to her.
“Ok,” I relented. I can always tell on her later, I thought.
She sat down on her bed and took a deep breath.
“Yesterday,” she began, “I was over at Jill’s house and we were sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine. One of the articles was about adoption. Jill asked her mother about it because she didn’t understand what it was.”
She goes on to tell me that Mrs. Edelstein explained to Jill what it meant to be adopted. But Jennifer already knew so she was not really paying attention to the conversation until Jill asked her mother if she, herself, was adopted.
Her mother replied, “Of course not.” Jill asked her mother about some of her cousins and if they were adopted. No, there are no adoptions in their family.
Determined to find someone that she knew who was adopted, Jill asked her mother if Jennifer was adopted.
Mrs. Edelstein replied, “No, but Elisha is.”
Jen told me that she was surprised to hear this, but after thinking about it, she believes it could be true.
“Look,” Jen said, “You are average height and weight, we are all small and round. You have blond hair and blue eyes, with very light skin. We all have brown hair, dark eyes and olive skin tone.”
“Mom already told me that I resemble Papa’s side of the family, so there.” I said, defensively.
She still remained calm. “You have to admit that it COULD be true. Just think about it. Plus, why would Jill’s mother lie?”
She had a point there. Why would Mrs. Edelstein make that up? But I still didn’t want to believe her.
My emotions took over again. I was unwilling to accept the possibility that I was adopted. It was a crazy idea.
I angrily yelled at Jennifer. “Stop it, it’s not true. Mom and Dad would never hide that from me.”
She was getting frustrated with me. She lowered her voice, and got real close to my face, and said, condescendingly, “You know it’s true. You just don’t want to face it. It explains everything, Elisha. You are not like us. You don’t look like us. And now that I know that you are not my REAL sister, I don’t have to like you.”
I had enough of this. Now she’s doing what she always does, saying anything to try to hurt me. I opened her door and announced, “ I’m telling on you, NOW. You are going to get in so much trouble”
I raced down the hallway toward the stairs. I flew down the stairs while wailing, “Mommy, tell Jennifer to stop telling everyone that I am adopted.”
My mother was at the stove and my Dad was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. They glanced at each other, looking very nervous all of a sudden. When I didn’t get the shock that I expected from Mom upon hearing what I was telling her, I felt that queasy feeling in my stomach again.
My father slowly rose from the table and said, “Come here, Elisha.”
“Nooooooooooooo,” I wailed. I tried to run back up the stairs to my room, but my feet were plastered to the floor.
My mother gently caressed my arm. “Come sit, Elisha.”
She led me into the dining room. She patted her lap to indicate that she wanted me to sit with her. I didn’t want to. I stood there sobbing.
My mother finally admitted, “Elisha, you are adopted. I am so sorry that you had to find out this way. But we love you as if I carried you in my womb. You are our daughter and nothing will ever change that.”
I had so many questions running through my head. The first one that popped out of my mouth was,“Who is my real mother?”
In retrospect, my mother’s response to this question was perfect. I have recited parts of it to other people, in the future, when they didn’t seem to understand the difference between a “real mother” and “biological or birth mother.”
“We are your real parents, Elisha.” Mom continued. “We love you and take care of you. We wake up with you when you have a bad dream. We take care of you when you are sick. We help you with your homework and take you to your friends’ houses. We feed you and clothe you and provide you with a warm bed to sleep in at night. This is what real parents do. You may not be our biological daughter, but you are no less our child than any of your sisters. Your birth mother was not able to do all these things for you, and she wanted you to have all the opportunities that the world can offer. Your father and I tried for four years to have a baby. When we heard that you were being born, we wanted you terribly. Our hearts ached for you. We couldn’t wait for your arrival. When the call came, we jumped on the next flight to Florida to pick you up and take you home. You, Elisha, made us a family. You are so special to us, and we love you so much.”
Her profound words didn’t resonate with my ten year old brain. All I heard, at that moment, was that my mother wasn’t my mother and everyone in my family is not related to me. My whole life has been a lie. Who am I?
“Ok, then who is my birth mother? Just tell me” I persisted.
Mom continued to try and reinforce the difference between a parent, who raises a child, and a birth parent. But I only focused on getting the name of my birth mother.
“I don’t know who she is Elisha, it was a closed adoption. A special agency handled all those details for us” She finally answered. (This turned out to be a fib. They had the adoption paperwork which provided her name and other limited information. I understand their reluctance to give me this information at such a young age.)
“So, how come my sisters aren’t adopted, if you couldn’t have babies? I asked.
Mom said that sometimes when a woman wants a baby so much, this desire overwhelms her entire life and she can’t think of anything except holding a new baby in her arms. When she can’t get pregnant, she gets discouraged and unhappy. It is hard for a women’s body to make a baby when she is always upset.
“Elisha,” Mom continued, “once we returned home with you, peacefully resting in my arms, our dream came true. I finally had my baby Elisha and I was happy again. I got pregnant right away after you came home.”
I was calming down. I sat on her lap. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked.
Dad now chimed in, “We had intentions of telling you when you were a little older.”
“When?” I asked.
Mom and Dad looked at each other. They obviously had not determined a specific age in which they would have told me. “I don’t know.” Dad finally said, “Maybe when you were 13.”
This was all too much for me. It really didn’t sound as if they had any plans of telling me. I was getting mad again.
Why would they keep this from me? How could they lie to me?
I thought, at the time, that this was the ultimate betrayal; finding out that you are not who you thought you were.
“How did Jill’s mother know?” I asked.
“Well,” Mom began. “She lives around the block and she knew that we were adopting you.”
I felt betrayed. “How could you do this to me?” I pleaded with them.
“How could you not tell me?” Little did I know that this theme of keeping secrets, under the guise of “protecting” me would permeate our family for decades to come.
My father replied, “Originally, your mother and I had wanted to tell you when you were old enough to be able to understand, like in kindergarten or first grade. But then you started with the tics and we had difficulty finding out what was going on. You remember, Elisha, how many doctors we took you to? Some thought you were having an allergic reaction, others felt it was behavioral and you were just looking for attention. We were all struggling to figure out how to help you. We didn’t feel like we should burden you with anything else. We didn’t know how you would react.”
This revelation in 1980 was the event that triggered all my feelings of insecurity. It was always in the back of my head that I, somehow, didn’t belong in this family.
For a few months after the secret was revealed, I actually feared that my parents would send me back to the adoption agency, if I misbehaved.
That fear of being abandoned and rejected is a major part of my psychological make up, to this day.
My parents’ tendency to withhold important information from me becomes a reoccurring theme in my life. They consistently underestimated my capacity to deal with painful or unpleasant experiences. They thought that by keeping certain things hidden from me, they are shielding me from feeling the pain that would evidently arise when faced with certain truths.
For years and years, during my childhood, I would ask my parents for information about my birth mother and birth father and their families. I would ask for the name of the adoption agency which handled the adoption. I even requested the name of the lawyer they retained to oversee it.
I must admit that many of the occurrences where I requested this information stemmed from arguments that I had with them. My requests for information were designed to hurt them. I wanted them to feel that I wished that I could live with a different family.
But there were a few times where I had actually sat down calmly with my mother and pleaded with her for any information that she has regarding my birth family. She was adamant. There was no information since the adoption was closed.
Legally, she said, to protect all parties involved, this personal information remains sealed. Mom told me that my birth mother was not given any of our names nor were my parent’s privy to any of her personal information.
That never seemed right to me. Obviously there must have been hospital files for me and my birth mother, since I was born in a hospital not a barn. There must have been some kind of signed contract between all parties; making this entire transaction legal. My birth mother’s name MUST be on that, right?
Did my parents just take a baby home to claim as their own with absolutely no paperwork to prove the validity of the adoption? I don’t think so.
In 1987, at the age of 17, I picked the lock in my parent’s room for the secret cabinet. I located my adoption papers, hidden all the way in the back. I grabbed my purse, not even taking care to lock the cabinet back up or closing their bedroom door.
I raced to the Smithtown library to make photo copies, because I knew that my parents would make me give the documents back to them, once they came home and found them missing.
After making the copies, I sat down on a comfortable sofa in the library and perused the documents. There were pink and yellow hospital receipts for services rendered. All the names were redacted. These papers indicated that all the hospital expenses were paid by my parents.
There was a legal contract written entirely in Spanish, stamped from Juarez Mexico, signed by a -------- Gonzalez Esq. and endorsed by a judge from a court in Mexico.
I found a letter from the Helen Tanos Hope adoption agency, informing my parents that they are on their list and adoption placement is pending. And another paid receipt to the adoption agency, from my parents.
Where is the name of my birth mother? Why is all the pertinent information blacked out? Could my parents be telling me the truth, that they really do not have any information about my birth family?
But I have the name of the adoption agency. So, I knew that the records were out there somewhere. I was aware that once I was 18 years old, I could begin to start seeking out this information.
I searched this manila envelope for more clues. I read the hospital records more thoroughly trying to decipher the medical jargon.
Stapled to this mass of colored papers was a small rectangular pink receipt. It was delicate in texture, like tracing paper or tissue paper. I could barely make out the print. It was the hospital television rental bill for $7.50. This was for television usage for the three days that my birth mother stayed in the hospital after giving birth to me. It, also, was paid by my parents.
Looking closely, I was able to read some information. The name of the hospital was North Shore University Hospital in Dade County, Miami, Florida. My birth mother’s name is Rosalie Franke and her address was listed. Her current phone number was also revealed.
Bingo. Now I know her name and where I can possibly find her.
Resting against the inner walls of the large file envelope was a smaller, business sized envelope. It was slightly stuck to the sides but was easily pried free.
It was addressed to my parents from the Helen Tanos Hope adoption agency. Inside, was one page of information about my birth mother. She was unmarried and thirty years old at the time of my birth. (1970) She had placed another female baby up for adoption in 1968, two years prior to my birth, using the same adoption agency. Both babies were born by cesarean. She is of Irish descent with blond hair and blue eyes. She is 5’3” and 120 pounds. Her religion is listed as Protestant. In 1970, she worked at a brokerage firm in Miami.
Under the heading, “special requests,” it was written that my birth mother wanted the baby (me) to be adopted by a Jewish family. That was an odd request considering that her religion was listed as Protestant. Why would she specifically request placement in a Jewish family?
When the form specified “birth father,” the following information was given: Married, 30 years old, undisclosed name, brown hair and green eyes, 5’6”, 180 pounds. Religion: Protestant. He worked at a warehouse.
That was all the information in the files about my birth parents. Why was my birth father’s name not disclosed? Why is there almost nothing about him?
I reread the letter. He was married, but not to my birth mother because she is listed as being unmarried. Wow. What a revelation.
The only conclusion that I can come to was that I was the product of an affair between my birth mother and this married man. It was probably a long term affair since she had a previous child who she also gave up for adoption, probably by this same man.
I am choosing to start this blog with my first traumatic experience which I recollect as vividly as if it were yesterday. This could possibly be the beginning of the "Indignant Elisha" which permanently resides within me.
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The first secret revealed – Adoption
On a brisk Autumn day way back in 1980, at the tender age of 10, my entire world, as I knew it, was turned upside down. I was suffering from a neurological disorder, recently diagnosed as Tourette Syndrome. I had many uncontrollable tics. Some tics were transient, such as jerking my neck, banging my knee, spinning around in a circle and eye blinking. My dominating tic was that I barked. I emitted a loud guttural yelp on the average of every 15 seconds. Sometimes I barked more, sometimes less. It all depended on my anxiety level.
Scientific knowledge and research about Tourette Syndrome was lacking in 1980. There were hardly any drugs that were known to treat Tourette Syndrome. Doctors were proscribing potent psychotropic drugs, such as Haldol to try to control the tics.
Haldol is predominantly used to treat manifestations of acute and chronic psychosis, including schizophrenia and manic states.
I did have some refuge from my tics, during this short 2 year time period due to this proscribed medication. Unfortunately, Haldol had severe side-effects. The most extreme side-effect for me, was lethargy. I was tired all the time. I’d fall asleep in class and when I got home from school, I had a snack and went to sleep, sometimes for the evening. I was barely functional.
Having Tourette Syndrome was also a detriment for me socially. Having tics made me an outcast and I was ostracized by the other children. I was constantly subjected to harassment.
Of course, they had no knowledge or understanding of Tourette Syndrome. But these kids were brutal to me. I was taunted and teased at every available opportunity when an adult wasn’t present to witness it. Of course, telling an adult then deemed me a “rat” or a “tattle tail,” so I couldn’t win either way.
I received a bit of leniency, however, from my teacher, Mrs. Kneer, with regard to homework assignments. She permitted me to be excused occasionally from the homework if my symptoms were exacerbated.
This reprieve had an interesting effect on the other children. They resented me for receiving, what they saw as, “special treatment,” from the teacher. I was teased for being different, I was teased for being a tattler and I was resented by my peers for what they perceived as favoritism from the teacher.
On this particular day in 1980, our class was outside for recess. The children were running around and playing on the jungle gym. I was sitting alone, by the flagpole, waiting for school to resume, when a girl from the fourth grade, approached me. I have seen her before, but we had never spoken.
She mocked me, “You are adopted.” She said this very slowly, placing emphasis on each word. When I didn’t respond to her, she started singing in a taunting manner. “Elisha is adopted, Elisha is adopted.” She was twirling around singing her new jingle, obviously enjoying herself.
I planned to ignore her, as I have been doing since kindergarten. Ignore it and it will go away, they say. However, ignoring it never worked. The kids were relentless. The teasing didn’t stop when I failed to acknowledge it. However, my lack of response prevented the teasing from going any further into a full blown argument. But I still did try to ignore the taunts, at that age, anyway.
Today, I just couldn’t contain myself. What the heck is she talking about? Adopted? Why would this virtual stranger approach me with this ridiculous revelation? Why is she lying and singing about it?
My curiosity got the better of me. I asked her, “Who told you that I was adopted? That’s crazy!”
She stopped twirling around and said with confidence, “Jill Edelstein told me, and she is telling everybody.”
Jill Edelstein is my sister, Jennifer’s, best friend. Jennifer is one year younger than me. (actually, 11 months) In 1980, she was in fourth grade and I was in the fifth. Jennifer and I subjected each other to a tremendous amount of sibling rivalry. We constantly bickered and fought for our parent’s attention.
Since we were so close in age, there was a lot jealousy between us. We fought over the usual kid stuff; toys, friends and attention. We never got along. Her door was always closed to me. We lived in the same house but we either fought with each other or ignored each other. There was never any sisterly bonding to balance it out. That was too bad, because the way we treated each other as children, remained a constant source of resentment, even as adults.
All afternoon in class, I wondered why Jill Edelstein would make up such a lie. I know she liked to spend time with Jennifer, but I didn’t think that she hated me. Jill was always pleasant to me. Does Jennifer know that Jill is spreading these rumors about me?
Then it hit me. I bet it was Jennifer who told Jill to say this about me, just to hurt me. She must have had Jill spread the rumor, to assure that it won’t be traced back to her and then she can still claim that she’s innocent.
I began to get angry. Jen is always manipulating situations and lying to our parents so I would get in trouble. My mother was constantly playing referee with us.
Later, it became obvious that this manipulative behavior from young Jennifer stemmed from her wanting more attention from my parents. She was envious of the time that my parents spent devoted to me and my medical problems.
Her child-like mind saw favoritism from my parents. She didn’t understand that for 5 years, we had no clue as to why I was experiencing tics. Jennifer believed that I could just stop my tics if I wanted to. She saw it as MY method to gain attention from my parents. My parents would tell her that she is not allowed to tease me about my tics, because that made my tics worse. But that didn’t stop her from rolling her eyes and making faces at me behind their backs.
On this day, I eagerly awaited the school bus to take me home so I could confront Jennifer. I was so angry. She was going to be in so much trouble when I tell Mom what she did. I was so sure that this was a devious plot thought up by my sister to make my life even more unbearable than it already was.
When the school bus let me off in front of our house, I ran up the lawn and burst into my house, ignoring my mother when she asked me about my day. I sprinted up the two flights of stairs and planned to barge into Jennifer’s room and start yelling at her, accusing her of starting the nasty rumor.
Instead, Jennifer was calmly waiting by her door for me. She was leaning on the railing. It looked like she had been crying. Her face was all splotchy and her eyes were watery.
“Elisha,” she said gently, “Come in here.”
What is going on? Jennifer and I never have any civil discussions. She has never, ever invited me in her room before. I was confused, so I decided to hear her out. I entered her room slowly.
She quietly closed the door behind us and sat on her bed. That was a switch. Usually she slams the door in my face, when I was still outside in the hallway.
I was standing there, staring at her, dumbfounded. She is acting really weird. I got a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
She kindly informs me, “Elisha, you are adopted.” That burst any bubble of hope I had for any calm conversation with her. After what I heard on the playground earlier, I was in no mood for her crap. I became defensive immediately.
“Shut up, Jennifer. I know it was you. I know that you are the one telling everybody that lie. I hate you. I’m telling Mom.” I yelled.
She didn’t get angry at me for threatening to tell on her, nor for telling her that I hate her, which was her typical reaction. Usually, we would race to find Mom, to be the first to tell on each other.
Instead, she calmly said, “Wait, don’t tell on me yet. Just listen to me first, please Elisha.” She pleaded. Her eyes expressed sadness and she looked at me with such pity. She was practically begging me to stay and listen to her.
“Ok,” I relented. I can always tell on her later, I thought.
She sat down on her bed and took a deep breath.
“Yesterday,” she began, “I was over at Jill’s house and we were sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine. One of the articles was about adoption. Jill asked her mother about it because she didn’t understand what it was.”
She goes on to tell me that Mrs. Edelstein explained to Jill what it meant to be adopted. But Jennifer already knew so she was not really paying attention to the conversation until Jill asked her mother if she, herself, was adopted.
Her mother replied, “Of course not.” Jill asked her mother about some of her cousins and if they were adopted. No, there are no adoptions in their family.
Determined to find someone that she knew who was adopted, Jill asked her mother if Jennifer was adopted.
Mrs. Edelstein replied, “No, but Elisha is.”
Jen told me that she was surprised to hear this, but after thinking about it, she believes it could be true.
“Look,” Jen said, “You are average height and weight, we are all small and round. You have blond hair and blue eyes, with very light skin. We all have brown hair, dark eyes and olive skin tone.”
“Mom already told me that I resemble Papa’s side of the family, so there.” I said, defensively.
She still remained calm. “You have to admit that it COULD be true. Just think about it. Plus, why would Jill’s mother lie?”
She had a point there. Why would Mrs. Edelstein make that up? But I still didn’t want to believe her.
My emotions took over again. I was unwilling to accept the possibility that I was adopted. It was a crazy idea.
I angrily yelled at Jennifer. “Stop it, it’s not true. Mom and Dad would never hide that from me.”
She was getting frustrated with me. She lowered her voice, and got real close to my face, and said, condescendingly, “You know it’s true. You just don’t want to face it. It explains everything, Elisha. You are not like us. You don’t look like us. And now that I know that you are not my REAL sister, I don’t have to like you.”
I had enough of this. Now she’s doing what she always does, saying anything to try to hurt me. I opened her door and announced, “ I’m telling on you, NOW. You are going to get in so much trouble”
I raced down the hallway toward the stairs. I flew down the stairs while wailing, “Mommy, tell Jennifer to stop telling everyone that I am adopted.”
My mother was at the stove and my Dad was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. They glanced at each other, looking very nervous all of a sudden. When I didn’t get the shock that I expected from Mom upon hearing what I was telling her, I felt that queasy feeling in my stomach again.
My father slowly rose from the table and said, “Come here, Elisha.”
“Nooooooooooooo,” I wailed. I tried to run back up the stairs to my room, but my feet were plastered to the floor.
My mother gently caressed my arm. “Come sit, Elisha.”
She led me into the dining room. She patted her lap to indicate that she wanted me to sit with her. I didn’t want to. I stood there sobbing.
My mother finally admitted, “Elisha, you are adopted. I am so sorry that you had to find out this way. But we love you as if I carried you in my womb. You are our daughter and nothing will ever change that.”
I had so many questions running through my head. The first one that popped out of my mouth was,“Who is my real mother?”
In retrospect, my mother’s response to this question was perfect. I have recited parts of it to other people, in the future, when they didn’t seem to understand the difference between a “real mother” and “biological or birth mother.”
“We are your real parents, Elisha.” Mom continued. “We love you and take care of you. We wake up with you when you have a bad dream. We take care of you when you are sick. We help you with your homework and take you to your friends’ houses. We feed you and clothe you and provide you with a warm bed to sleep in at night. This is what real parents do. You may not be our biological daughter, but you are no less our child than any of your sisters. Your birth mother was not able to do all these things for you, and she wanted you to have all the opportunities that the world can offer. Your father and I tried for four years to have a baby. When we heard that you were being born, we wanted you terribly. Our hearts ached for you. We couldn’t wait for your arrival. When the call came, we jumped on the next flight to Florida to pick you up and take you home. You, Elisha, made us a family. You are so special to us, and we love you so much.”
Her profound words didn’t resonate with my ten year old brain. All I heard, at that moment, was that my mother wasn’t my mother and everyone in my family is not related to me. My whole life has been a lie. Who am I?
“Ok, then who is my birth mother? Just tell me” I persisted.
Mom continued to try and reinforce the difference between a parent, who raises a child, and a birth parent. But I only focused on getting the name of my birth mother.
“I don’t know who she is Elisha, it was a closed adoption. A special agency handled all those details for us” She finally answered. (This turned out to be a fib. They had the adoption paperwork which provided her name and other limited information. I understand their reluctance to give me this information at such a young age.)
“So, how come my sisters aren’t adopted, if you couldn’t have babies? I asked.
Mom said that sometimes when a woman wants a baby so much, this desire overwhelms her entire life and she can’t think of anything except holding a new baby in her arms. When she can’t get pregnant, she gets discouraged and unhappy. It is hard for a women’s body to make a baby when she is always upset.
“Elisha,” Mom continued, “once we returned home with you, peacefully resting in my arms, our dream came true. I finally had my baby Elisha and I was happy again. I got pregnant right away after you came home.”
I was calming down. I sat on her lap. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked.
Dad now chimed in, “We had intentions of telling you when you were a little older.”
“When?” I asked.
Mom and Dad looked at each other. They obviously had not determined a specific age in which they would have told me. “I don’t know.” Dad finally said, “Maybe when you were 13.”
This was all too much for me. It really didn’t sound as if they had any plans of telling me. I was getting mad again.
Why would they keep this from me? How could they lie to me?
I thought, at the time, that this was the ultimate betrayal; finding out that you are not who you thought you were.
“How did Jill’s mother know?” I asked.
“Well,” Mom began. “She lives around the block and she knew that we were adopting you.”
I felt betrayed. “How could you do this to me?” I pleaded with them.
“How could you not tell me?” Little did I know that this theme of keeping secrets, under the guise of “protecting” me would permeate our family for decades to come.
My father replied, “Originally, your mother and I had wanted to tell you when you were old enough to be able to understand, like in kindergarten or first grade. But then you started with the tics and we had difficulty finding out what was going on. You remember, Elisha, how many doctors we took you to? Some thought you were having an allergic reaction, others felt it was behavioral and you were just looking for attention. We were all struggling to figure out how to help you. We didn’t feel like we should burden you with anything else. We didn’t know how you would react.”
This revelation in 1980 was the event that triggered all my feelings of insecurity. It was always in the back of my head that I, somehow, didn’t belong in this family.
For a few months after the secret was revealed, I actually feared that my parents would send me back to the adoption agency, if I misbehaved.
That fear of being abandoned and rejected is a major part of my psychological make up, to this day.
My parents’ tendency to withhold important information from me becomes a reoccurring theme in my life. They consistently underestimated my capacity to deal with painful or unpleasant experiences. They thought that by keeping certain things hidden from me, they are shielding me from feeling the pain that would evidently arise when faced with certain truths.
For years and years, during my childhood, I would ask my parents for information about my birth mother and birth father and their families. I would ask for the name of the adoption agency which handled the adoption. I even requested the name of the lawyer they retained to oversee it.
I must admit that many of the occurrences where I requested this information stemmed from arguments that I had with them. My requests for information were designed to hurt them. I wanted them to feel that I wished that I could live with a different family.
But there were a few times where I had actually sat down calmly with my mother and pleaded with her for any information that she has regarding my birth family. She was adamant. There was no information since the adoption was closed.
Legally, she said, to protect all parties involved, this personal information remains sealed. Mom told me that my birth mother was not given any of our names nor were my parent’s privy to any of her personal information.
That never seemed right to me. Obviously there must have been hospital files for me and my birth mother, since I was born in a hospital not a barn. There must have been some kind of signed contract between all parties; making this entire transaction legal. My birth mother’s name MUST be on that, right?
Did my parents just take a baby home to claim as their own with absolutely no paperwork to prove the validity of the adoption? I don’t think so.
In 1987, at the age of 17, I picked the lock in my parent’s room for the secret cabinet. I located my adoption papers, hidden all the way in the back. I grabbed my purse, not even taking care to lock the cabinet back up or closing their bedroom door.
I raced to the Smithtown library to make photo copies, because I knew that my parents would make me give the documents back to them, once they came home and found them missing.
After making the copies, I sat down on a comfortable sofa in the library and perused the documents. There were pink and yellow hospital receipts for services rendered. All the names were redacted. These papers indicated that all the hospital expenses were paid by my parents.
There was a legal contract written entirely in Spanish, stamped from Juarez Mexico, signed by a -------- Gonzalez Esq. and endorsed by a judge from a court in Mexico.
I found a letter from the Helen Tanos Hope adoption agency, informing my parents that they are on their list and adoption placement is pending. And another paid receipt to the adoption agency, from my parents.
Where is the name of my birth mother? Why is all the pertinent information blacked out? Could my parents be telling me the truth, that they really do not have any information about my birth family?
But I have the name of the adoption agency. So, I knew that the records were out there somewhere. I was aware that once I was 18 years old, I could begin to start seeking out this information.
I searched this manila envelope for more clues. I read the hospital records more thoroughly trying to decipher the medical jargon.
Stapled to this mass of colored papers was a small rectangular pink receipt. It was delicate in texture, like tracing paper or tissue paper. I could barely make out the print. It was the hospital television rental bill for $7.50. This was for television usage for the three days that my birth mother stayed in the hospital after giving birth to me. It, also, was paid by my parents.
Looking closely, I was able to read some information. The name of the hospital was North Shore University Hospital in Dade County, Miami, Florida. My birth mother’s name is Rosalie Franke and her address was listed. Her current phone number was also revealed.
Bingo. Now I know her name and where I can possibly find her.
Resting against the inner walls of the large file envelope was a smaller, business sized envelope. It was slightly stuck to the sides but was easily pried free.
It was addressed to my parents from the Helen Tanos Hope adoption agency. Inside, was one page of information about my birth mother. She was unmarried and thirty years old at the time of my birth. (1970) She had placed another female baby up for adoption in 1968, two years prior to my birth, using the same adoption agency. Both babies were born by cesarean. She is of Irish descent with blond hair and blue eyes. She is 5’3” and 120 pounds. Her religion is listed as Protestant. In 1970, she worked at a brokerage firm in Miami.
Under the heading, “special requests,” it was written that my birth mother wanted the baby (me) to be adopted by a Jewish family. That was an odd request considering that her religion was listed as Protestant. Why would she specifically request placement in a Jewish family?
When the form specified “birth father,” the following information was given: Married, 30 years old, undisclosed name, brown hair and green eyes, 5’6”, 180 pounds. Religion: Protestant. He worked at a warehouse.
That was all the information in the files about my birth parents. Why was my birth father’s name not disclosed? Why is there almost nothing about him?
I reread the letter. He was married, but not to my birth mother because she is listed as being unmarried. Wow. What a revelation.
The only conclusion that I can come to was that I was the product of an affair between my birth mother and this married man. It was probably a long term affair since she had a previous child who she also gave up for adoption, probably by this same man.
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