Neighborly

D called at noon when I was finishing up my morning sun salutations and we decided to meet for lunch at 12:30. I rushed out and got into L's car because it was closest to Clark Street and would get to Ben's Noodles faster. I'd gone about 20 feet when I noticed some noise and bumping. I pulled into the nearest alley to check it out. As I was getting out, a guy ran into the alley and told me I had a tire as flat as a pancake and to park my car on the left and he would fix it. Then he disappeared behind a gate.

It was true--the tire was flat and the guy returned and fixed it. Just like that. He was wiry and a cop. He showed me the badge to prove it. He's a detective in the organized crime division. He showed me more proof. I believed him before he showed me anything, but I think he wanted me to be street-smart and require that he show me proof. He was quick and said he owns the apartment building across the street from us, and he was doing repairs and improvements. He was fast-talking. When I told him my last name, he asked if I had good holidays, and said his wife was Jewish. I said we would have invited them to our break-fast (dinner when you break the Yom Kippur fast) but he said they go to the Standard Club. I asked if his wife was German Jewish. He said Russian. Ashkenazi. This is a standard misconception. I asked the German question because the Standard Club was started by German Jews--Jews who came to the US in early waves, were often assimilated and middle class. You used to have to be a German Jew to join, I'm told. I'm part of the unwashed masses who came over in the first quarter of the century. I mean my grandparents and great-grandparents were. We were the Eastern European Jews who were typically more religious and poorer than the (snobby) German Jews. And Yiddish speaking. And historically the Eastern Jews (Ostjuden) have embarrassed the Westjuden, because we were unassimilated and allegedly smelled of garlic and the shtetl. I grew up without being able to discern the difference between us and them, but my parents were quite aware. And in Germany, especially, in the late 19th century and early 20th, there was a big divide.

Now the misconception: Most of us from Northern Europe are Ashkenazi--those from cities as well as shtetlach (plural of shtetl, little Jewish town). That means we speak Yiddish (again, our foreparents) and eat certain holiday foods--gefilte fish, matzah balls, tsimmes (carrots), kugel (noodles), apple haroset on Passover. (Hmm, these foods seem Eastern European. What a coincidence.) We are the Jews you know, because we vastly vastly outnumber the Sephardic Jews in the US. They are generally from Arabic countries, speak Ladino instead of Yiddish, don't divide themselves up among Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox branches, and have cooler traditional clothes--shinier, for one. This is a generalization--there are Sephardic Jews in and from Spain and Italy, the former Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and other Christian countries. Many or all Sephardic Jews descend from Spain, which had a little thing called the Inqiusition where they killed all the Jews they could.

Jewish Yemenite bride

A great story about the tension between the assimilated and the unassimilated is Philip Roth's "Eli, the Fanatic."
Roth is writing about the Western Jews (assimilated Ashkenazi Jews) and Easterners (unassimilated Ashkenazi Jews who survived the Holocaust and are religious). Europe is, after all, east of the US.
And us Ashkenazim, you may recall, are more likely than the Sephardim and the general population to have the BRCA gene mutations linked to breast and ovarian cancer. Whether we're assimilated or not.
I was walking later this afternoon to L's car and it was raining. It was medium-heavy, not oppressive. A woman with a large, deep umbrella gestured for me to get under it with her. We agreed that the rain was muy frio. I said something about invierno, hoping it meant winter. When we got half-way down the block, she wanted to walk me across the street to my car but I said it wasn't necessary. After I started the car, I realized I should offer her a ride. I drove up next to her, rolled down the window, asked her, but couldn't get her attention. I turned and drove away.
I was running late. If I was a nicer person I would have made sure she saw me and understood my offer.

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B-watch & Komen-watch

B-watch
Our friend B spent last night on the floor next to his bed. His helper didn't show up last night and his cell phone was downstairs. The helper showed up this morning and got him dressed and into his scooter. B called me to come and plug in his new scooter. It took both of us about 20 minutes to figure out where on the scooter you plug in the plug-thing. I couldn't read the info booklet without my reading glasses, and B said it didn't tell you where the cord went. But as I said, finally we prevailed. You'd think that a manufacturer of scooters for disabled people would have a special easy way to recharge the battery of the thing.
B is advertising for a new helper. If anyone knows a reliable person who can dress and undress someone with MS, as well as do very light housekeeping, and, if possible, light clerical duties, let me know (in comments section). It would help if the person lived nearby--Lakeview or Uptown.


Komen-watch
Our friend S went out with Nancy Brinker when she was just a Homecoming Queen runner-up from Peoria. Now she's a Dallas socialite and founder of Susan G. Komen for the Cure, named for her dead sister. In today's post, Capitol Fax talks about Komen and contributions. You see how important apostrophes are when you read the last sentence. Does he mean politician's or politicians' cash?
Reports Rich Miller of Capitol Fax:

"Only days after Antoin 'Tony' Rezko was indicted on federal corruption charges last fall,[Illinois] Gov. Rod Blagojevich's campaign moved quickly to try to limit the fallout and gave to charity political donations directly linked to one of the governor's former top advisers and fundraisers.But one charity eventually turned down the tainted money and sent the Blagojevich campaign a check back in March for $44,846.03, according to state-mandated campaign disclosure reports the governor recently filed.Officials for the Texas-based Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation, now known as Susan G. Komen for the Cure, said they returned the money because they do not accept political funds. [*]Despite the Komen foundation's explanation, state campaign disclosure records for the past seven years show the foundation and its Illinois affiliates previously accepted $2,110 in politician's cash, ranging from an ad in a program book to fundraising tickets to outright donations."

In other Komen news: Earlier this month, the Komen gave $2 million to oncologist Insoo Bae of the Lombardi Comprehensive Cancer Center at Georgetown University Medical Center to continue to study the the interaction between environmental carcinogens and genetic risk for breast cancer. The Lombardi Center reports that Bae is looking at the way genes and environment combine to cause cancer. Specifically: "Bae will examine a range of environmental carcinogens – such as cigarette smoke, alcohol, and dietary factors – to identify those agents that increase the probability that BRCA1 defective cells will become cancerous." Komen needs to keep going after the causes of cancer, and spend less time and money tying pink ribbons around everything that breathes and everything that doesn't. The Bae research is good news for us Ashkenazim, those mostly likely to have a BRCA1 or 2 mutation in our genes. As for me, I'm waiting to hear from the jolly genetic counselors about what my blood sample revealed. According to them, I have an 18 percent chance of having a BRCA gene defect. I probably don't. It would be nice if I didn't. About 90 percent of Jews in the U.S. are Ashkenazi, from West, Central and East European countries. The rest are Sephardic, from Mediterranean and Arab countries. They're more likely to have mothers who belly-dance. We're the ones whose grandmothers spoke Yiddish. Yeah, yeah, I know that your German-Jewish grandmother quoted Goethe and didn't know from Yiddish. I'm speaking in general.

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Post-Funeral

The week was framed by death of parents, starting with a funeral on Monday. Friday I stopped by the home of a colleague of L's. Her mother had died; the service was private, but her home was open for what we call "shiva," but others might call an open house. She and her partner are Jewish, and they have adopted and raised two African-Americans. The parents are white. I mention race because the daughter came in later than expected that afternoon. She had been stopped by the police. It may have been a case of DWB, driving while black. She said the cops told her that she resembled an accused murderer. They asked about her last name, saying, That's not a black name. She explained that she was adopted. They brought her in and another cop said she didn't look like the suspect they were looking for. I suppose she can't sue for false arrest because she wasn't arrested. Perhaps for police harassment? Her parents are activists, the type who would know how to pursue such things, if they were inclined. What business is it of a police officer whether someone's last name "matches" her race?

I have a memorial service on Tuesday, for the parent of another colleague's of L's.

A month or so a student gave me a bouquet for helping him with his thesis. One stem of orchids has survived all this time, two fuchsia-and-white dendrobia at the bottom, and buds on the top. My mother-in-law told me that if you spray the buds with water they'll blossom. I tried it and it's true. The top ones have opened. Now, I hate when people make analogies between Nature and Life, but here I am about to do it myself: The bottom flowers are like an earlier generation. By the time they die out, the new flowers are out and they have no knowlege or relationship (OK, add anthropomorphizing to my list of sins) to the older flowers, so they are not saddened by their demise. OK, this is the way I've thought of it: Ashkenazi Jews name their babies after relatives who have already died. I'm named for my grandfather. I feel no sadness at his death, because it preceeded me. I remember once in grade school trying not to laugh at something, biting the insides of my cheeks and trying to think of something sad: the death of my grandfather. But it wasn't sad because I hadn't experienced the loss. That is my simple point. And you turn the loss into a gain when you use the name for a new person. Turning sadness to joy. I should see birth as a wondrous thing but all I see when I look at an infant is a lot of trouble. Time, trouble, sleepless nights. That's why I don't have children. And someday my name will go to a relative who isn't here yet. A child named Cancer Bitch.

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