Perceptions of Holt: 3.22.95
As a teacher, I wrote and sent home a poem each Friday about classroom lessons and happenings to keep the parents of my students informed and involved.
A few nights ago I was sitting alone on a boardwalk bench doing a whole lot of nothing important. The cool night sea air was calming and the stars were out in abundance. I sat there for over an hour, taking in the hushed summer calm, breathing deeply, and just being.
Many people walked by carrying on their own conversations about life with the company they were sharing on their walks. I only heard what was spoken loudly enough to hear and caught mere snippets into their lives as each couple or small group passed. Some shared stories of their day: the frustration or successes at work or in personal lives. While others spoke of ideologies or politics. Jokes were told and laughter shared. Empathy or sympathy was offered if needed. And there was an overall feeling of camaraderie and humanity.
A group of 3 twenty-somethings was walking toward me and I overheard just a bit of their conversation about an interaction one of them had earlier that involved a Jewish man inquiring about her marital status. The follow-up response from one of the males accompanying her made me look up in disbelief:
“FUCKING Jews,” he spoke nonchalantly, “They’re ALL scum.”
“Yeh,” she agreed, “They ALL suck.”
I was honestly shocked and could only mutter, “Wow,” looking at the group, while thinking, “That. Just. Actually. Happened.”
The first male turned around and responded unapologetically, “I’m sorry but I don’t believe in Zionism and I think Palestine should be free.”
I was still in shock and said nothing. They kept walking and that was it.
But that wasn’t it. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
IT mulled around in my mind for the next hour, kept me up into the wee hours of morning and lingered for days, though it has felt like eternity. I felt those hateful words coarse through my veins and beat through my heart. They reverberated in my head like a pinball…
When I was in first grade I had a play date over and as we played our religions came up in conversation. She was Christian. Upon hearing that I was Jewish she said very matter-of-factly, “You killed Jesus.” I have no recollection what my response was. I know that we were 6. I know that at the time I knew very little of Jesus, except that I didn’t believe in him as God. And that was it.
When I was a student at Akiba, a Jewish day school, during Operation Desert Storm, the school was on lock down and high alert for security reasons. It was located near an orthodox community and on 3 of 4 corners of the intersection stood a Jewish elementary school, a Jewish middle/high school, and 2 synagogues. The area was considered a potential target so precautions were made: Outer doors were to be kept closed and locked, book bags left unattended were checked, and those students with off campus lunch privileges had to sign in and out at the office. And that was it.
When I went to Poland as a junior in high school, there were less than friendly bystanders watching the 5000 participants on my trip symbolically walk the March of Death from Auschwitz to Birkenau on The March of the Living. If I recall correctly, there were a few onlookers who made inappropriate gestures at us. We ignored them and marched on in silence. And that was it.
When I taught religious school and preschool, pre-9/11, the synagogue received a bomb threat one Sunday morning. We calmly evacuated the students and authorities were called. Regular classes resumed the following morning. And that was it.
…Yet NEVER have I experienced such BLATANT anti-Semitism as I did a few nights ago.
I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t personal. But it is.
I tried to think that it’s just an uniformed, ignorant person connecting all members of a specific religion to one country. But it’s so much more.
I tried to separate the two statements and wondered in disbelief: How could disagreeing with a specific country’s defense and subsequent response to ACTS of TERROR make every member of that religion “scum?” But I was left with no logical or humanitarian answer.
I, as a member of the Jewish religion and people, do support Israel but I do not find her infallible at all times. I do believe that Israel has the right to defend herself and should continue her offensive to rid the world of a KNOWN TERRORIST ORGANIZATION.
I also, DO NOT confuse Hamas with ALL Palestinians nor ALL Muslims. I am pro-Israel during this questionable time. But more importantly, I am anti-terror at ALL times.
I feel badly for any loss of civilian lives on either side, yet recognize that it is an unfortunate and unavoidable consequence of war. And I commend Israel for trying to prevent and avoid such losses, a fact that much of the media fails to report.
I am also an American. I am not an Israeli, although Israel would grant me citizenship purely based on my lineage. Yet based on the ignorant, uninformed, HATEFUL comment that connects a political disagreement to an ENTIRE people while walking down the boardwalk in a predominately JEWISH area of the NJ shore, it is clear that I may need to become Israeli, one day.
That unfortunate fact is exactly why I support Israel. That hateful statement I overheard is proof that I NEED her. She is a safe haven for me and my family, no questions asked, purely because I am Jewish.
I cannot say the same for ANY other country, especially based on the recent global anti-Semitic violent acts and demonstrations that have surfaced with unabashed JUDENHASS (Jew-Hatred).
And that is why #IstandwithIsrael #AmYisraelChai #NeverAgain
On Saturday I ran to Delaware. It sounds like a Forrest Gump moment, but it’s honestly only 3 miles down the road. Yet, as I crossed the state line my inner voice spoke, “Well, since I made it this far I might as well keep going.” And so I did. I figured, just up the hill to the end of the next town.
While running through the town, a young man who appeared to be wholly out of shape was eating an ice cream cone and heading toward me on the sidewalk. I moved to the bike lane to allow him to pass and he yelled angrily, “You’re doing it wrong!” I have no idea if he was talking to me or someone unseen behind me but my inner voice retorted, “At least I’m doing it!”
I came to the end of the town and thought just down this next hill. On my way down hill, “I’m sexy and I know it” started playing. I chuckled and quickened my pace, checking the clock and thinking, “I’ve got time,” so I started the climb the next hill.
On my way up, a group of riders politely formed a single file line while I moved to the grass to afford them more space. We passed one another with nods of appreciation and approval. A silent “keep going” and an unspoken “you’re almost there” pushed me on.
I reached the top and saw Winterthur ahead in the not so far distance. “Holy Crap!” I thought! That’s awesome! Might as well get there! And so I did…
I turned around at the light to start the run back thinking about where I was just one year ago:
I was (ahem) training for the Broad Street 10 miler. I was still nursing K-Mad, had just started running in March and had yet to make it past 3 miles on the treadmill let alone run on actual pavement. Yes, I was once athletic, but not really so much anymore, though still in relatively good shape-ish.
About 2 weeks before the race I was convinced it wasn’t gonna happen so I pretty much stopped “training.”
The night before the race, my parents insisted that Mr. TheKing and I go out and they’ll watch the kids. We had an incredible time! A great dinner, amazing drinks, followed by glow bowling and fantabulous bowling alley wine! It was ridiculous! By the time we got home, well after midnight, there was no way I was racing.
A few hours later K-Mad woke up to eat. I gave her a bottle, (knowing there was no way I should feed her,) and looked at the clock. “Well, I should shower if I’m doing this,” I thought. And so I did.
I slept the whole way to the race. We got there and Joe gave me a $20 just in case I needed to “cab it” to the finish line. It was a joke, with more than a hint of “but seriously” undertone.
The race started and I was doing well. Avie and I were chatting and it was time for me to slow down and for her to take off. Then I ran with Abbie & Joe for a bit and slowed some more.
I was angrivated when bands played so loudly that I couldn’t hear my own music or when my shoes stuck to pavement from Gatorade other runners had tossed, but kept going.
I came around City Hall and other runners were cutting me off to high five the crowd. I thought, “What the? I’m running here! Do you know that guy or something?” A few minutes later I realized that I knew him too. It was Ed Rendell. I kept going.
I got choked up when I saw fathers standing on the side with their kids and signs that read “Go Mommy” and it pushed me to go. So I kept going.
Then I passed a sign meant for encouragement that read, “4 miles down!” Wait…what? What did that say? 4 miles down?!?!? I still have 6 to go!!!! I’m not even HALF WAY?!?!?! {It should be noted that in subsequent years I realized that the lady holding the sign was standing 2 miles south of where she should have been.}
There was a cacophony of thoughts noisily running through my head:
“chug, chug, chug, puff, puff, puff, I think I can, I think I can”
“So I dug right down to the bottom of my soul, to see what I had inside…”
“Well, I ran this far, I might as well keep going”
“Just do it”
And so I did…2 hours and 4 minutes.
I could not move for a few days following the race and was definitely dehydrated, but I did it…
The run back home from Wintethur on Saturday was just plain fun. My music was loud and my rhythm was in step. The climbs were welcomed as I blasted up them and my legs seemed to “regenerate” heading down.
It was a 9 mile round trip trek full of oncoming traffic, 2 quaint towns, and a plethora of hills that I cannot even guess on their incline or grade.
I got home and checked my time: 1:40, averaging 11 minute miles, a whole minute less per mile than last year. Not too shabby. Bring it on Broad Street! Let’s do this!
PS: I use the Charity Miles app when I run because its just something nice to do for others while I’m doing for myself. You can use it for walking, running or biking and has a variety of charities to choose from each time you use it. Check it out here: http://www.charitymiles.org/
I’m standing in the cardio room at the community center on Saturday morning waiting for class to begin. I just dropped all three kids off at “kids club.” It’s the first Saturday I’ve actually made it to class. Weekdays are one thing, part of my routine. But Saturdays? Pffft…I’m usually a little slower, more relaxed, and in no hurry to get anywhere. Or we’re out of town. But my favorite instructor was teaching, so I went for it.
“Cardio Kick Boxing,” she announces. The room simultaneously filled with silence, groans, and hidden excitement. I’m thrilled and ready for the torturous hour that will test my strength and prove my weakness.
I get out my “There’s a Chance this is Vodka” water-bottle and place it on the window edge that overlooks the indoor pool and take my spot.
There’s a lady who looks at my water bottle and launches an attack, shrouded by my own mistaken assumption of polite small talk, “That’s exactly why all high school water bottles need to be approved,” she hisses like a cat, claws out, “I should know. I’m the school nurse and I approve the bottles.” My bottle and sense of humor apparently, did not get her endorsement, but I am amused by her candidacy, and kinda feel like I should stop by detention after class.
I nod and give her a confused half smile, take a sip from my unauthorized bottle, and walk to my spot in the room.
I notice my soft reflection in the glass. That’s enough for me. I can see my shape and form and correct as needed, and still see right through me.
The actual mirror is too damning. There is just too much glaring back for me to stand there. I honestly don’t need to see the sweat beads, red face, and overall “I’m working my ass off” appearance in hi-def. I’ll leave that area to the ladies who somehow don’t appear to break a sweat and maintain perfectly managed hair (and makeup?!?!?!) throughout the grueling workout. How does that even happen? (Seriously, if you are one of those ladies, please share your knowledge and secrets. Inquiring minds want to know…)
The music begins and with that, we are all in our rows pushing forward in place. I put on weighted gloves for an extra push and start jabbing. I take them off. The straps are too big and I envision one flying off my hand during a jab-cross sequence and shattering the window in front of me.
The sequences get faster and faster as the beats per minute increase. Step-hop-knee-jab-pause-uppercut. Step-hop-knee-jab-pause-uppercut…
The moves get more involved and more complex. Faster and faster and faster. I’m feeling awesome yet winded, coordinated yet confused.
And suddenly I’m back in middle school doing the Hora (grapevine), the running man, Kid-n-Play, the MC Hammer shuffle. I feel like Vanilla Ice: Will it ever stop?!?!?!?! (Yo, I don’t know.)
Now we’re doing sumo squats and hooks. I’m looking at a transparent me, flinging my arms across my chest while I attempt to sit on air. I can vaguely make out my ears protruding out of my head beneath my hat. I’m blowing out my cheeks as I blow out the air. I focus on the outlined reflection: my form, my (not so defined) muscles, my discolored face…and I realize that I am a gorilla.
I look ridiculous! But who cares? Even my pigtail braids are sweating! Keep going! Oooh-Oooh. Aaah-Aaah.
We switch to a new set. I can’t figure it out. The lady next to me can’t either. We look at each other, smile, and laugh in acknowledgement. It’s like we’re uncoordinated sole sisters for a few beats. We finally catch on for the tail end if the last set…I make a mental note to remember the move for next time and forget it by the time the next set begins…
We move into Karate Kid mode. I’m wax-oning, wax-offing, doing a modified crane roundhouse type thing while blocking and painting the fence. Chop! Chop! Chopping broccolay!
The instructor asks if we need a break. No reply means we keep going just one more short set before water. The school nurse is irate. I am amused.
Three minutes to go. Just the cool down and stretch…
I glance up to see the woman from kids club summoning me…and just like that, class is over for me before it ends and I disappear to tend to other doodies…
When I was in middle school or high school I bought a belt from The Gap. It’s a good belt. Strong brown leather with a silver buckle. Not like the cheap ones that have 6-12 months of wear in them that are sold today. No, this is mighty fine belt. Only, my belt was too big. Oops. I bought the wrong size. So Joe, my stepfather, hammered 4 more holes into the belt and I was good to go.
I wore that belt in the smallest hole for years. But as time went on, the belt had to be loosened a notch here, a few more there…
After 20+ years and a lot of living, the belt finally settled on the third original hole. It has remained on that hole for years. There are many reasons that the belt had to be loosened. None of them are excuses. It just happened, and life went on.
About 18 months ago I took up running. I didn’t take it up to lose weight. I didn’t even take it up to get in shape. I started because my sister invited me to run in the Broad Street 10 miler, so I thought, “Eh! Why not?”
After a year of just running, I added some basic low weight strength and ab workouts. My endurance was lasting longer, my pace was quickening, my mind was clearing, and life went on…
It took another 6 months, but I began to actually miss running on the days I didn’t run and to feel almost lethargic without the follow up toning. And without me noticing it, I was tightening the belt, and life went on…
I recently joined the local community center upon moving, just over 2 weeks ago. They have a daily aerobic class that’s actually at the perfect time. (That never happens!) But I LOATHE group workouts. They make me feel uncoordinated, clumsy, and quite self-conscious.
Seriously, I can still free style dance circles around many people. My flexibility hasn’t wavered much since college and I can still do the running man with J-Lo and The Fly Girls if asked. I happily attribute my mad grapevine skills to my heritage and the Horah, and would gladly dance till dawn for any celebration be it zumba, a wedding, a dance marathon, or just for fun. Yes DeBarge, I can feel “the rhythm of the night”.
But there’s something about working out in groups…
But I decided to make this a daily attempt to try something new, to meet people, to get in better shape, the list could go on as life goes on…
Anyway, (I think) I am currently in the best shape of my life since high school. That being said, today’s class was “cardio party.” It was awesome. There was dancing, jumping, boxing, kicking, and an “ab lab” at the end. It’s the perfect class for me and my belt.
Yet it’s still a class, a group…as in not alone, in front of other people. The class was pretty much split into three groups. The first were seemingly just like me: (Younger?) stay at home or part time working moms who dropped one or more of their little ones off at the “kids club” before heading to class. Looking around I knew I was in good company, and that these ladies were hard core to get rid of the infamous “baby belly” and that I could learn from them, and possibly make friend or two.
Then there were the older (middle aged?) women. They could clearly advise me on child rearing and such, but I wasn’t so sure about this class for them. I mean really, the sound track alone might be too loud.
And finally, there were the seniors, as in citizens…senior citizens, complete with an AARP card and more. What in the world? Running, yes, but cardio party?!?!? I was, totally ready to break out my “I know CPR! You, call 911!”
{And I wouldn’t want to forget the lone male in the class. From the looks of him, he lifts…a lot. The dancing and rhythm wasn’t so much his thing, but he was great comic relief for the instructor, and honestly did keep up relatively well.}
Anyway, heading into the class I thought, “I got this!” But let me tell you, the seniors schooled me. I mean, kicked my arse to the curb, how the “H” are they still going when I’m so friggin winded SCHOOLED me.
I can honestly say that I cannot wait to lose another notch on my belt with these inspirational women, because they know that life really does go on…
Honestly, I don’t have a scale. I don’t measure my self worth in looks, weight, or what notch my belt is on. I think I’m similar to many women. There are days that I look in the mirror and think, “hells yeah, I still got it!” And others when I’d rather not even look because the reflection reflects my mood and glares, “come back never” even though you know to just give it a day or two…
I don’t expect, or even want, to reach that last hole in my belt again. But I will say, that with a very basic exercise routine and even more basic dietary changes (trying to keep it to what GOD/ Mother Earth for realz made, except for wine, caramel, brownies & s’mores) I just feel better & healthier.
So here’s to a happier and healthier new year! This year I challenge you to go get schooled, go get in shape, go get better at whatever you’re trying to better about you. Just go & get it!
Lady J was dressed to match me, per her request, in her running outfit, pink hat, with a ponytail braid. “Mom, when I’m old enough for a phone, like 7 or 8 or 16, can I get an armband for it like you have?” She was a jumping bean of ecstatic enthusiasm, “Mom, in the race I’m gonna run like this!” She bolted down the hall to the elevator like an Olympic gymnast sprinting toward the vault.
We walked one mile down the boardwalk to the library to register for the race. Lady J was practically bubbling over and racing already. I wasn’t sure who was more excited at this point, her or I. This was our first race together and her first “distance” race.
“Mom, maybe when I’m big enough like in a year or a week I can run in a race by myself and you’ll just cheer for me and meet at the finish line, like when I’m 15 or 8, maybe 9 or 12. Those seem like good ages, ya know, when I’ll be old enough.”
We registered and I pinned our bibs on. We checked, one last time for ‘sneaky pee’ before heading to the starting line.
On our way to the line we talked about what to expect during the race and how it works. I made sure she knew that she could run ahead of me but I would not run ahead of her. I assured her that I could keep up with her, even if she sprinted the whole way, even with the stroller. And I told her there were only two rules she needed to know for the race:
Have fun & Try your best.
I looked down at her, as we took our place towards the back of the small pack of racers lining up and saw that Lady J wasn’t her usual bubbly self and any trace of pre-race excitement was nowhere to be seen.
“Mom, I’m scared,” she looked up at me and spoke with the blunt honesty that most lose as we age, “I don’t think I can do this.” Looking into her steely-blue eyes I could sense the knots in her stomach and feel the flutters of her heart.
And this was the moment. A defining moment that, as a parent, you have a choice to validate or ignore, teach or observe, be present or absent.
The. Moment.
I am generally of the ‘old school’ belief that children need to be taught to just do it, suck it up, follow through, and a whole host of other notions that modern society is just beginning to (hopefully) re-embrace.
But this brief moment deserved so much more attention than a simple acknowledgment and brushing off with a quick, “I’m right here.” or “I’ll help you.” and especially, “Of course you can!” Although all would have been truthful, none would have been appropriate, nor what she needed to hear at that moment.
I knelt down and leaned in toward her, “Can I tell you a secret?” “Uh-huh,” she answered nervously. “I am too,” I whispered those three little words into her ear. “You are?” she gasped in total disbelief. “Yup! I get scared before every race. My heart beats super fast and my legs feel wobbly.”
She reached out for my hand in understanding and solidarity and lined up next to me. “Mom? I think we can do this together,” she put on her shield of bravery, “I know it’ll be awesome in the end. Let’s have fun and try our best, even if we don’t win.” “You got it,” I winked as we crossed the start together.
Lady J sprinted out in front of me, slowed to catch her breath, quickened to a jog, and walked briefly to rest. By the half way point, she settled in to a moderate and consistent pace.
We passed a few participants along the way and were cheered on by bystanders. “Go 321!” the onlookers shouted and clapped. “Who’s 321? Who are they cheering for?” she inquired. “You, Lady J! That’s your bib number. They are all cheering for you!”
She beamed, grabbed my hand again, and quickened her pace with pride. “It kinda makes my heart feel funny when they clap for me, Mama. Like it’s getting too big.” “I know exactly how you feel, J.”
We ran the rest of way, holding hands and cheering for those we passed. When we saw the finish line I let go and told her to go and “finish strong, J!”
Man, can that girl can fly!
“We did it, Mama! We did it together! You were great! Thank you for this awesome race and running with me!” she leaped into my arms with pure joy. Tears of pride and awe fell from beneath my sunglasses for both her achievement and her overt selflessness in her moment of accomplishment.
We high fived other finishers, offering our congratulations and stayed to watch the end of the racers finish. No one cheered them on with more enthusiasm and sportsmanship than Lady J.
Best. Mile. Ever.
“To laugh often and much
to win the respect of intelligent people
and affection of children; to earn the
appreciation of honest critics and
endure the betrayal of false friends;
to appreciate beauty, to find the best
in others; to leave the world a bit
better, whether by a healthy child
a garden patch or redeemed
social condition; to know even
one life has breathed easier because
you have lived. This is to have
succeeded.” R. W. Emerson