A Letter to My Mom About Why I Marched in the Women’s March on Washington, 2017

January 22, 2017

Dear Mom, 

It has been eight months and 15 days since I last wrote an essay to post to my blog.  The last thing I did write that was not work-related was your eulogy. But that was not really me writing it….it was a grief-stricken, defeated, motherless woman. 

And then my writing stopped.  Maybe it was the proverbial “writer’s block”, call it what you will, but the writer in me seemed to die along with you.  I would think about how my writing process would be to write my blog and then you would be the first one I would read it to.  Even the last blog, I posted eight months and 15 days ago, I read to you, before they took you to the emergency room and then off to hospice.  It was Mother’s Day, the last one we would ever spend together in this physical world.  After that, every time that I would think about putting words to “paper” (I’m always “writing” in my head) I would remember you would not be there to read it to.  

But today is different.  I am unblocking my writer self– the person I truly am because I just experienced the most meaningful, life-changing event and I wanted to share it with you, so I decided to write you a letter.  In many ways you were right there with me at this event, probably because I was with your family- the Waltzers- your nieces, Andrea, Garie, Janie and your great-nieces Sarah, Eva and Layla.  Kim was there with me too. 

We marched together in the Women’s March on Washington, to protest the new President, Donald J. Trump a day after his inauguration.  It was a mini-Waltzer reunion- where my cousins and I marched together with our daughters to protest this new administration and the many things it stands against, many things that you have taught me to stand for.

Remember, mom, that day 9 months ago when I took you to vote in the primary, and you voted for Hillary Clinton?  You were so happy.  You kept thanking me for taking you to vote.  We took a selfie together right outside and posted it on Facebook.  It was the last picture we took together before you had the stroke that changed my life forever, the very next day.   

It wasn’t only your stroke that changed my life, other things have happened, besides your death.  Lindsay and Scott have moved with the kids to North Carolina. Kim has moved out of the house and is living in Queens and now Mark and I just bought a new house in North Carolina and will be moving in the summer.  But the most surprising thing that happened was one you would never have expected, that you dreaded even…. Donald J. Trump actually won the election and is now POTUS.  Remember how Martin would tease you in the hospital and say that you voted for Donald Trump in the primary and you would shake your head and make a face?  That’s how I knew you were still “with us”.  The only thing was you couldn’t really talk and get the words out you wanted to say because of the damage from the stroke. 

I haven’t written in months.  Maybe, just like the stroke stopped you from talking, your death stopped me from writing.  And this is hard for me because you’re not here.  But yesterday changed all that. 

You have always taught me to stand up for what I believed in.  You have shared with me such wonderful stories, the legacy of your Waltzer family, a family that began with two immigrants, Morris, then Fanny, coming to America to make a better life for themselves.  Thankfully, they did, because otherwise, they most likely would’ve been the victims of Hitler’s regime.  I think of my own children moving away from me– just to Queens or North Carolina and that being a change, but your parents moved to another land, without anything!  Grandma never even saw her mother again and she was in her early twenties.  This country gave your parents- my grandparents- the liberties and the life that sometimes I take for granted.  But after yesterday, I never will.

I frequently look through the old pictures you left behind.  I realize now they are not just photographs but they tell an important story of the life I am privileged to have.  All those pictures of dad as a soldier when he fought in WWII should serve as a reminder of the time when the world threatened to take away the free will and human rights of others.  I must never presume that these rights come without working for it and protecting it.   

I remember how you told me the story of Grandpa when Jackie Robinson moved around the corner from him and a neighbor knocked on his door with a petition for grandpa to sign to get Jackie Robinson to move out of the neighborhood because he was Black.  And Grandpa refused to sign that petition and said, “He can live wherever he wants to live. It’s a free country,” and then shut the door in the neighbor’s face.  Grandpa never forgot or took for granted that he was an immigrant and what it means to have your rights taken away from you.

There’s also a picture of Dad, taken at the iconic Civil Rights March on Washington, in August of 1963. He is standing on the mall, with the Washington Monument behind him. And yesterday, I was there at the very same place, again, where Dad stood.  Again, I stood and marched for human rights, over half a century later- civil rights, religious rights, women’s rights, LGBT rights.  Another woman at the march held up a sign that said, “I CAN’T BELIEVE I STILL HAVE TO PROTEST THIS SHIT 1-21-17”.  I can’t believe it either, but we cannot be silent.

So, we marched, four of the Waltzer women with their daughters and even their granddaughters, daughters-in-laws and grandsons marched in the other Women’s Marches in New York and Chicago.  You and your iconic wedding picture with all the Waltzers were even in that march, thanks to the signs Sarah made: “TWAT”- The Waltzers Against Trump.  And the Waltzers who couldn’t be in the march were there in spirit. We made history, mom, (or herstory)!  Women’s marches were all over the world. 

You would be SO proud, Mom.  We stood up for what we believe in, for what our family believes in. And it’s because of you and because of those stories you shared countless times.  Those stories are my legacy mom and thank you for sharing them!  Because now I know what those stories mean and why I marched.

I love you, Mom.  I cannot put my arms around you and tell you that or hold your hand and feel you squeezing back like only a mother can do.  But I can use that love to give me strength to carry on everything you taught me that is important.        

That picture of us after we voted in the primary together- the last thing we did together serves as a reminder of my civic duty and as a citizen of this world.  I thought it was something we would look at together while we watched the inauguration of Hillary Clinton or we would even take another picture when you would get to vote for Hillary in the actual election.  Unfortunately, that never came to be, but such is life, it is full of things we don’t plan.  Thanks to my friend, Maritza, the picture now sits in a frame with a quote engraved from Abraham Lincoln, All that I am or hope to be, I owe to my Angel Mother.  She gave it me when she came to pay a shiva call.  Yesterday, you, my Angel Mother were with me.  I know that, for sure.

Always in my heart,

Jeannie    

Thankful…

It is 6:53 on this Sunday morning of Thanksgiving weekend 2015.  I am awake since 4:51am… thanks to my bladder, a 21-pound dog that somehow manages to take up a king size bed, and my incessant thoughts.  The whirring noise of the dishwasher is a constant reminder that I forgot to put the dishes up last night as I sit in my kitchen between the break of dawn and sunrise.  I drink my green tea in a Norwegian Cruise Line thermal cup because all the mugs are in the dishwasher. 

I’m not the only one who’s been up this early; I know that my cousin Andrea in Connecticut is awake too because she “liked” something I posted on Facebook less than an hour ago.  It’s funny how the world has gotten so small because of technology.  We can think the same things and respond to one another without uttering a sound, just with the touch of a 6-inch screen. 

My mother comes into the kitchen.  My alone time is ended. I will be interrupted countless times as she starts her day.  She asks if I’m angry with her.  She always asks that when I’m preoccupied.  I don’t answer.  She comes over to show me her hands- how much softer they are, because I massaged Aquaphor into them last night before she went to bed.  Then she says, “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”  There is such sadness in her voice and her expression when she says it; it brings tears to my eyes. 

Thankful…that has been the theme for the last several days, interspersed with black Friday, day after black Friday, midnight madness and cyber Monday sales. We pause, between shopping, cooking, overeating, taking down old holiday decorations, putting up new holiday decorations, and appreciate the things in our lives that make us human.  In between feeling and acting as if we need more and more, we realize the abundance we already have…or do we really?

The day is brightening now; the dog comes to greet me with his stump of a tale wagging and his earnest eyes.  Now he’s curled up on the window seat, comfy and content, even though he’s sitting on cushions and pillows that desperately need to be replaced.  It doesn’t faze him in the least because his tummy is full and he has his people around whom he loves and love him back.  He knows the true meaning of thankfulness.  

It has been an eventful year with much to be thankful for.  I have been feeling guilty because I never formally wrote a blog entry to welcome the birth of my grandson, Ryder Dylan.  He arrived on March 21^st a day after spring and a spring snowfall.  Ryder is eight months old now, crawling and pulling himself up and trying to take his first steps.  He is the epitome of how time flies, no zooms, by.  But more than that, he has brought so much joy into our lives…his smile can brighten a room, reminding me of my brother-in-law, Scott, who is gone almost 4 years now. 

This past year my life has been spent juggling my time between taking care of my mom; working full time and helping my daughter take care of my two grandchildren, when I can. In between I fell halfway down a flight of steps onto my head (the day before Ryder was born), found out I had pancreatitis instead of a concussion and then had gall bladder surgery at the beginning of the summer.  Consequently there has been little time to write blog entries.  I have come to abhor the term, “sandwich generation” because it diminishes my situation by comparing it to a lunch meal.   

Everybody is awake now.  My older daughter called me at 8am and my younger daughter (who is normally asleep at this time) is puttering around the kitchen. And this just confirms the challenge I have in writing a blog entry, because even though I can block out the sounds of the microwave, the opening and closing of the refrigerator, the ruffling of cereal boxes and clinging of utensils to dishes, I have to respond to the complaints of the day or several questions. 

However, I shall not complain.  (That is what I wrote on my kitchen chalkboard a few days ago…Thou shall not complain.)  Instead I will pause and consider my abundance:

My husband who makes the bed (except not today), does the dishes and the laundry along with fixing almost everything that breaks,

My two daughters who make me proud-

One who has proven to be an excellent pre-school teacher as well as fabulous mother, and

One who has completed her first NYC marathon this year, besides for having a terrific career.

My son-in-law who is a fabulous father and who works so hard for my daughter and grandchildren

My two grandchildren whom I can never get enough of, especially when I tell my granddaughter I love her and she answers, “I love you more.”

My dog (How could you not be thankful for your dog?)

The rest of my family

My friends

My home (even though it is falling apart and depleting my bank account)

My sweet 92-year old mother…who is thankful for me

And, even though sometimes I do feel like the luncheon meat squeezed into the proverbial generation of sandwiches, those two pieces of bread- are what holds me together more than squeezing me in.... and they're what I’m most thankful for. 

And So We Wait...

Five more days until Spring arrives after a long, brutal and too-snowy winter.  I look out my kitchen window past Sonny, who sits guarding the house, propped comfortably on a pillow of the window seat.  Finally, I can see the grass on my front lawn thanks to the rain all day Saturday.  There’s only a few vestiges of the latest snowfall peaking out below the bushes.  In a couple of days it will be St. Patrick’s Day.  Corned beef and cabbage will be on special at the local food stores.  Green will be ubiquitous.  The trees will begin blooming, tulips and daffodils will start sprouting and the birds will be singing announcing the vernal equinox.  All this I can be sure of; the only thing I can’t be sure of is the day of my grandson’s birth, which can be anytime between now and early April.  And so we wait. 

Two things I will always remember awaiting the birth of my grandson is the long hard winter that preceded his birth, along with the long, hard pregnancy his mother had to endure.  Lindsay, not even 5 feet tall and maybe 96 pounds soaking wet when she’s not pregnant has a basketball shape protruding out of her slight frame.  Inside is a cute little mystery man.  His three-dimensional sonogram pictures look different from his older sister.  This is a very different pregnancy and a very difficult one for my daughter. 

Lindsay had three stomach surgeries before she was 30 years old.  One was at 19, when they removed her appendix, another was at 28 when they had to remove her bile duct, gall bladder and “re-design” her intestines.  Soon after that she had to have a surgical hernia repaired; therefore, she has a piece of mesh holding everything in.  This is tender territory when you are gestating another human being.  Her ob/gyn explained that she doesn’t have the muscles like other women because of her scar tissue and surgical hernia and that is what is causing her this pain.  She told me that even the water from the shower hurts her as it beats on her belly;  yesterday she described the pain as knives in her stomach. 

I can’t even say to her, “I know what you’re going through,” because other than sciatica, I had relatively easy pregnancies.  (Although, easy would not be the word I would want to use when recalling the nine months of producing another human being.)  The sleepless nights I could relate to, the hemorrhoids, the lack of bladder control- which unfortunately remains- all these things I could say, “I know.”  Except the pain.  It causes me to feel helpless and guilty all at once- which makes me realize, I really did become my mother.  Then I think, well isn’t this our job as mothers?- to take the pain away- to “fix” our children in any circumstance.  I remember once when my niece, Julianna, was little, she had hurt her finger.  My sister, Claire, whipped out the bandaids and Neosporin from her pocketbook in a split second.  I questioned her rhetorically, “You just carry that around with you?”  “Of course I do. I’m the mother of a small child,” she responded.  I thought to myself I must have missed that in the manual they never give you to read.  My own kids always used to tell me that I’m not a real mother just because I never have tissues on hand.  I surprise them sometimes by trying to remember to buy the small packages of Kleenex, and then struggle to retrieve them in the abyss of whatever size purse I am carrying. 

The only thing I can do is help out with Lexi, so now we have had two sleepovers, which my friends were shocked waited this long to occur.  I love the sleepovers- giving my granddaughter a bath and wrapping her in the towel well enough to take away her shivers and goose bumps, reading her her favorite book five to seven times then putting her in the pack and play as she holds about a dozen stuffed animals all at once.  I even love picking up and putting away her blocks after she dumped them on the rug the fourth time, cleaning the food that she doesn’t want and throws on the floor or trying to figure out how to fix the TV from whatever she touched on the remote.  I love how she loves my mother and calls out “Nanny” to make sure she’s paying attention to her, then runs over to hug her legs.  I love it all– 
Her passion for life, 
Her giggles, 
Her temper tantrums, 
Her boundless energy, 
Her twirling around until she gets dizzy on purpose, 
Her torturing my dog as she screams Dayeee for Sonny, 
The way she says “hot” when the microwave beeps, 
The way she sings the last word of every verse of a song, 
How she calls me Mimi over and over again, 
How she calls Mark Papa and just “Mi” for Aunt Kimmy, 
The mischievous glint in her eyes when she goes to touch something she knows she shouldn’t, 
How she opens the drawer in the kitchen where she knows I keep the cookies, 
The way she says “cheers” and clicks her cup or food to yours 
And especially the way she picks up her mommy’s shirt, kisses her belly and says “uh-ber”.  
I love it all because there is nothing in the world more amazing than being a grandparent, forget the seven wonders, this tops it all. 

So, that’s why, after a very long week of traveling, by train, car, plane, taking 10 o’clock evening flights to Syracuse and getting up at 5 the next morning, being pushed and shoved on a subway, sitting through traffic, sitting through meetings, running through and to school buildings to do presentations, I still make time to be a grandma.  And that’s why when I come home on a Friday and all I think I want to do is sit on my couch and stare into space, if my very pregnant daughter calls and says, Can you please watch Lexi for a little so I can get a foot massage?, without hesitation, I say, “Of course, honey.”  Because even though I am more exhausted than I ever thought I could possibly feel, my granddaughter somehow gives me the strength to move and move quite fast for an almost-59 year-old lady.  Forget energy drinks or caffeine, we should just bottle up the energy of a toddler to revive you.  And we should call it “Pure Joy”.  This is the secret to being a grandparent that everyone says- Wait, you’ll see, it’s just the best thing ever!

And so we wait.  Lindsay is 37 weeks pregnant now.  On her last visit to the doctor, this past Monday, she was almost 2 centimeters and 70–80% effaced- familiar vocabulary for mothers and grandmothers.  The doctor told her that if she makes this much progress this coming Monday (tomorrow), he might just bring her in and induce her because of her pain.  And even though she wants to be done with the pain, her first priority is that her son will be good and ready to be born.  That’s a good way to describe what a mother does, to be willing to suffer for the sake of her child.  And being a mother is what my daughter is best at.  There is no questioning that fact.  The only question that remains is when will Lexi's "uh-ber" be good and ready to be born?  And so we wait.