Every time I go to my mom's place, I find myself glancing at family photos and scanning the faces of long-ago ancestors for a hint of their personalities. These hearty Eastern European women and men are always seated, posed, and profoundly stoic. In the age of selfie cameras, it is an exercise in humility to consider that these great-great-great-great-great?-grandparents of mine got dressed in their most elegant clothes, assembled in a central location, and had to be positioned and framed by an expert craftsperson to have their photo taken.
My mom has always kept this wall of photos, and it has expanded and contracted based on the available square footage of anywhere we've ever lived. In my youth, these photos were clustered together at the top of our staircase. When we moved in my young adulthood, they adorned the back wall of our living room, filling space above the credenza in a busy, but still meaningful composition. In her current apartment, they decorate her tiny office area as a reminder that her loved ones are always watching over her. In a life full of many homes, this wall of photos has been the one constant.
My paternal grandmother was the same way. Her homes were always modest and never fussy or overcomplicated by tchotchkes. Rather than useless knickknacks or uninspired artwork, my Savta (which is Hebrew for grandmother) covered any flat surface with photos of her family, and especially her grandchildren. When I delivered the eulogy at her funeral, it was about my profound realization in her passing that she spent her days sat on a couch pointed, not at a television or window, but at a wall of all of the human beings she helped to create.
My mom's mother was also a fan of family photos, but hers were different than my other grandmother's or my mom's eclectic collection. Her mother was fond of many of the same images my mother has on her walls today - the ones that showcase the oldest photographs in our ancestral archive. A very sober portrait of a rabbinic man wearing a white beard and tie, or two relatives sitting - chastely - in a field of wheatgrass in a foreign and distant region on the constantly shifting borders of 20th Century Poland and Russia. Whereas my Savta was a woman of subtle and meek design, my bubbie (which is Yiddish for grandmother) was a queen of ostentatiousness. One need only look at the marble tables and dark maroon velvet settee that filled a sitting room in her house, in which few people ever actually sat.
That suburban New Jersey residence was massive as a child, full of so many floors and closets and cabinets and fun places to run around in and hide. My aunt still had a room there, even though she had grown up and moved to New York; any time I spent in her space was a lesson in punk rock thinking, long before I knew what that meant. She had a collection of stuff that I couldn't understand, but all of it was just intrinsically cool. I knew that she was cool because she had cool things - things that weren't stuffy or religious or boring. They were full of the patterns and brutalist design of the 70s and 80s, and because they were so different than the rest of the house, I first learned of rebellion, and have loved it ever since.
There was a time when I had the good fortune to live in that house with my mom, my grandparents, and my great grandmother Ada, who taught me how to cook and bake when I was barely able to speak. She also taught me about death and loss by being the first person I ever knew to pass away - coincidentally, she would have turned 119 today. This time of year kicks off a round of Jewish holidays, and every time I even think of hamentaschen - the season's traditional fruit-filled cookie - I can vividly remember the skin on her knuckles as she kneaded the dough on a large, floured rolling board.
All of these influences swirled around in my formative years. A great-grandmother who traveled by boat to a new world in hopes of building a better opportunity for her children. My father's mother, who lived a life of simplicity and love. My mother's mother, who as a young girl, sang opera and worked as an entertainer, and who, as an adult, started her own business and ran it successfully for decades. There was my mom, a proud feminist who went to work and managed my care in an age when women were still told they had to choose one or the other. And my aunt, who instilled in me that grown-ups will always speak as if they know what they're talking about, even though they rarely do. These women broke down barriers and intersected generational wisdom and progressive thinking. They ran their homes and built their families and dared to forge new traditions without ruining the old ones.
These are the women who raised me.
But they were not alone - there were family friends, including two women who would open their homes to me today in an instant if I ever needed anything. There were other aunts and cousins and members of our communities. There were teachers - so many teachers - who taught me everything I know, or at the very least, taught me how to learn it for myself. There have been politicians and writers and poets and musicians and storytellers and filmmakers and actors who have had a profound impact on my life. There have been bosses and managers and leaders, and coworkers. There have been friends and love interests, confidants, and flirtations, and I've known women who were born as men and men who were born as women. I have been awed by their courage to embrace the true, more authentic versions of themselves.
These women have all impacted my life, to be sure, but what I think of these days is how difficult or challenged their lives were while they made mine so much better and so much more informed. They have given me the wisdom of their experience, and always for free and without asking for reciprocity. Why would they need me to impart my knowledge - I got it all from them.
The common theme with every woman I've ever known is that they've experienced far more pressure, more expectation, and more demand than any man I've ever known; they face more scrutiny and doubt, more cynicism, and more challenge. Despite all of this - or perhaps because of it - they are each full of tough love. They have a hard edge that encircles an endlessly giving heart (which is probably one of the best human qualities imaginable). I am better for knowing them, and in my middle adulthood, I'm intensely focused on doing what I can to try and return them that favor. Because I have learned a lot from these women.
I've learned about pain and anguish, about difficulty and adversity, about society and gender expectations. I've learned about parity and equality, diversity, and inclusivity. I've learned about history and tradition, but also progressivism and rebellion. I've learned humor and wit, passion, and intelligence. I've learned love and compassion.
I've learned everything I need to know about my ancestors just by looking at them in photographs today; my existence is a testament to their endurance. These matriarchs and sisterhoods of women in my family endured deeply entrenched ideologies that subjugated them and silenced them. They kept their family lives together while their husbands and sons and brothers pursued intellectual and financial practices. They departed their homes for new ways of living, and raised children with ideals and hope. These women fought for balance and stability, visibility and respect, and I'm so grateful to know that at least some of them have gotten what they've asked for, even though they shouldn't have had to ask for it at all.
These were my ancestors - and yours. Their inner lives have been full of struggle, between a world that continually pushes them off their paths, and their desires to be happy and fulfilled and hopeful. These are my contemporaries - and yours. I'm so grateful for the lessons and so sad that they were learned through such difficulty. And I am motivated and inspired by them to do what I can to make tomorrow a little less complicated and a lot more equal.
Please note: this was at one time titled, “Some Dude's Thoughts On International Women's Day.”
Rita Rosenberg, my maternal grandmother.