Janie Before Jane - Remembering My Sister on Her Birthday

Janie in the 1967 Dobbs Ferry High School Yearbook

Chairperson for the Costumes for Drama Club

Today is my sister's birthday.  It's the first birthday since I was born (27 months later) that I am here in mortal form and she is not.  I believe her soul is hovering somewhere in Larchmont, close to her children and grandchildren, perhaps in the kitchen where she spent so many hours teaching her beloved Allison and Jonah recipes for the holidays.

A true Cancer, Jane evolved into her role as devoted mother, Grams and balabusta homemaker, "hostess with the mostest" for the annual Father's Day barbecue, Passover seders, Thanksgiving dinners and Rosh HaShanah feasts.

But Janie-before-Jane seemed to be destined for other goals.  Janie was a wild child, a free spirit and an artist in search of her true calling.

Janie and Grandma in Springfield, MA c. 1958

My earliest memory of Janie is in Kenwood Gardens, an apartment complex in Toledo, Ohio.  She would play with the "big kids" in the playground while my mother checked in from a second-story window.  The apartment might have been our home or a neighbor's.   I remember staying upstairs with my mother and friends.

On Fridays, I waited impatiently for the challah to bake in the oven, eager to taste my own miniature version.  Janie would be downstairs actively engaged, privileged to be on her own and stand her own ground, especially among the boys.

In those days, before elementary school, she looked rugged and tomboyish.  She was husky and athletic, confident and confrontational, a natural-born leader, smart as a whip, and insufferably "bossy" - or, as my mother saw it, determined to get the best out of everyone in every situation.  I envied her tremendously because she seemed to have everything I lacked: freedom, a quick mind and new clothes (which would become my hand-me-downs).

Above all, Janie was the first. The first to go to sleep-away camp, the first to drive, the first to go into Manhattan with friends (and no grownups), and the first to go away to college, albeit only 40 minutes from home in bohemian Greenwich Village, She became the oldest of three when we lived in Springfield, MA during the late 1950s.

Always the center of attention, Janie called the shots, ordering people around to the very end.  (Who insists on a vanilla cupcake with vanilla icing in Manhattan?!  No substitutes, just fill the order exactly).

Janie in the 1967

Copy Editor for the Dobbs Ferry High School Yearbook

Janie was Jane Yvette Gersh until shortly after graduation from NYU. Daughter of Mildred and David (Daddy's little girl), she was always Janie to her family and closest friends. Janie Gersh loved saddle shoes in 3rd grade, Bobby Vee in  6th, the Beatles in 9th and Barbra Streisand forever.  In 10th grade, she arrived in the WASP-y floral-fashion 'burbs covered in black from her thick liberally applied mascara to her suggestive fish-net stockings revealed beneath a way-above-the-knee black and white tweed faux leather-detailed skirt with faux leather vest to match. 

Janie was, at a glance, totally badass Bronx, from the tip of her teased up bee-hive to the points of her soft black leather boot-shoes.  Looking much older than her 14 years, she seemed tough as nails and ready for the fast crowd headed toward perdition.  Eventually she found herself among the artsy students who signed up for Drama Club, Chorus and Yearbook. 

The move to Dobbs Ferry, however, proved traumatic.  Forced to adjust, she revised her wardrobe to fit in with those who valued creativity, applying to college and the burgeoning Pop Art trends infiltrating the fashion industry.

Once she discovered Drama Club, Andy Warhol and the British Invasion her life seemed transformed from torment to exuberance.   Chairing the Costume Committee for the Drama Club filled her days and nights.  She designed and sewed costumes for Molière's Miser, Strindberg's Ghosts, and Anouilh's Antigone. 

At the time, she seemed destined for a career in fashion, which she followed through magazines imported from London, purchased on 42nd Street, where foreign periodicals could be found in those days.  She read Rave, Fab and all the other English glossies that offered news about her latest pop favorites:  Cilla Black, Dusty Springfield, Sandie Shaw, Marianne Faithfull, and, above all else, The Animals, because of her mad crush on Eric Burdon, their lead vocalist.  She wore Mary Quant makeup, Mondrian- inspired shifts, paper dresses, white Go-Go boots, and mini-skirts that went "up to there." 

She was theatrical, spunky, and hip beyond her years (and way beyond the provincial Dobbs Ferry High School Class of 1967).  Allergic to conventional standards, she distinguished herself among her peers as a cosmopolitan maverick, who was poised to make it in the big leagues of  the Big Apple: either in the fashion houses on Seventh Avenue or the luxury department stores on Fifth (Saks, Bonwits, Bendels, Bergdorfs, or their boutique equivalents).

Jane in her kitchen in Livingston, NJ  1980s?

On June 20, 1971, she became Jane Y. Hecht, married to Joel Hecht.

By then, her self-image had changed.  She invented a "Sadie, Sadie Married Lady" persona, Post-Goodbye, Columbus in Livingston, New Jersey.  She was no longer Janie, but Jane: a typical affluent Jewish middle class woman, who once worshipped Jackie Kennedy, pill-box hats and Cuddle Coat ensembles purchased in the Garment District at a friend of a friend's uncle's showroom.  Turned suburban housewife, she shopped at the Short Hill Mall, trying to keep up with the Jersey Jones who patronized Tiffany's and Nordstrom's.

More Good Housekeeping than Vogue, she cultivated a maturing charm, shedding her youthful quirkiness to fit in with the local PTA and her conservative temple's congregation.  These roots produced a dynamite knack for fund-raising that served her in good stead for her last careers  She became the executive director of the Livingston Municipal Alliance Committee, a member of the Board of Trustees for Temple Beth Shalom, and variously titled administrators for Jewish Vocational Service of MetroWest for which she wrote grants and organized numerous lucrative events.

Jane serving Daniel and his friends at his 2nd birthday

Demanding Jane Y. Hecht was a far cry from rambunctious, contrary Janie Yvette Gersh, whose flirtatious flash of her light blue eyes belied a deeply felt shyness and multiple insecurities.  To compensate, she channeled her ambition through her children, whom she felt were her greatest accomplishments. Daniel and Michael came through for her too, offering her the greatest support during her battle with lymphoma.  

Jane celebrated her last birthday in Weill Cornell Hospital on York and East 68th Street.  (She had been born at Beth Israel Hospital, more than fifty blocks south.)  She passed away about a month later on July 26th.  It was the day after our mother's first Yahrzeit.  

I believe my parents called to her: "Janie, time to come home." 

And this "wild child" -- this obstinate force of nature - finally did as she was told.

I wish she disobeyed, as Janie-before-Jane would do.

My mother Mildred Gersh (1921-2016)

This is how I will remember my mother: smiling, cheery and ready for a game of bridge, canasta or Jeopardy on television.  She had been a New York Board of Education school teacher (6th grade) who rose in the ranks from sub to full-time to District 11 Reading Coordinator to Assistant Principal. She was very proud of her career and her publications.  She edited one of the first primers that characterized boys and girls in equal roles - the burgeoning 1970s feminist strategy to achieve gender parity. An early feminist she was.  I remember attending one of the first NOW demonstrations with her in NYC.  Before she left Florida "to go North" to assisted living in New Rochelle, she cast an absentee vote for Hillary Clinton.  (She loved Hillary - while I loved "Your Guy" [Bernie Sanders].)

My mother lived Hadassah.  That's not a typo - she lived it and loved it (most of the time). She belonged to Hadassah Chapter Orah-Sunrise in Broward County, Florida.  In recent years the membership dwindled to such a degree that their chapter had to merge with Hadassah Florida Broward. Things were never the same, she said during my last visit to her condo apartment in Phase IV - all pink and mauve and almond Formica to go with her summer-y, tropical retirement.  Last fall, she had ceased to contributed her reports on the state of Israel and international relations.  She was no longer in charge of the educational programs for meetings.  In the photo above, she was ready to leave the apartment for a Hadassah Luncheon. It was mid March 2016 during my Spring Break.  She returned from the luncheon with a pendent bestowed on the women honored at the luncheon.  On Sunday, May 20, 2007, she was selected by Orah-Sunrise Chapter as their "Woman of the Year" for the annual Hadassah Regional Luncheon, celebrated along with her sister Hadassah chapter honorees for that year.  (It was one of the few Hadassah functions I agreed to attend thus far.  She bought lifetime Hadassah memberships for all the Jewish women in her family.)

She also loved to knit and crochet, especially for her family - from the newest arrivals (either by marriage or birth) - to the oldest son-in-law.  Among her greatest fans and collectors, her granddaughter Natasha models her Hanukah gift for December 2014 in a photo sent by email to Grandma's account.

The arts were nurtured by both my parents, who enjoyed dance and classical music concerts, theater, museum exhibitions, and books. My mother kept up their Florida subscriptions until 2015.

The last photo of Mom in United Hebrew Rehab/Nursing.  It was on Thursday, August 4, 2016 - her birthday.  She was 95.   My cousin Lydia and I spent the late afternoon with her.  I regret that I didn't take a photograph while she was dressed in her lovely floral blouse and navy pants. She wasn't comfortable during the early part of our visit, but she smiled and asked questions - expressed interest. She seemed genuinely pleased by the birthday cards we read to her one by one.

Lydia arranged her birthday cards on the little bulletin board next to her bed.  The Yorkie is Zachary, my cousins Wendy and Arthur's dog.  She loved all the cards.  And we loved sharing her birthday with her.

My mother died on Saturday, August 6th in White Plains Hospital.  She had been taken to the hospital on Friday, August 5th, the day after her birthday.  She contracted a uti - and was delirious.  I visited her in WPH that evening and the nurses assured me that the antibiotics would kick in soon - she would recover.  She didn't.  Her heart stopped around noon the next day.  And my heart stopped too when I found her about 1 pm.  I wasn't ready to good-bye.  

Too short a stay with us.  Too long in discomfort.  I miss you, Mom - may you be now at peace in a comfy chair, like the one I remember you sitting in when I left you in Florida on June 4th - in the pink and smiling.

Sandwiched - written July 6, 2016

Written July 6, 2016:
I am a sandwich.  My mother is 94 and my daughter is 24.  When I call my mother, she recites her physical problems, going into detail.  When I call my daughter, she recites her existential problems, going into detail.  I am a sandwich, servicing both with a patient ear and sympathetic sighs.   "Yes, it's horrible for you.  I agree - this is very sad/terribad/the pits."  

I am also a sandwich between by my sibs.  The middle child between a domineering big sister and self-center younger brother.   To my extreme horror, the two decided to move our mother from her glorious condominium in Florida to a hotel-room size apartment in an assisted living residence in New Rochelle.  I am heartsick.   My mother needs twenty-four hour care.  My sibs did not sign up for this. She loved her caregivers.  Now she is lonely and very depressed.

Isn't this elder-care abuse?   My sister has power of attorney and her son is a lawyer.  My brother is an MD, who drugged my mother into submitting to their plan.   (It was called "anti-anxiety" measures.)

My mother just called me to say that she can't find her blue blanket.  She is alone.  No one is answering her buzzer.  She hasn't been alone in her Florida apartment since September.

The four adults (my brother, his wife, my sister's son and his wife) -  who put her into this predicament - live 15 minutes from her new abode.    I live 35 minutes by car on the other side of Westchester.  But she called me at 9:30 pm this evening, because she is afraid to "bother" them.

Oh yes, it is horrible for her.  It is very sad/terribad/the pits.
I wish I were able to take my mother back to FL and make her feel better again.

Confessions of a Contented Stepmother - A Special Holiday Meditation

The holidays are almost here and my husband will depart for his annual pre-Christmas visit to his son and daughter-in-law's home to see the two grandsons (with another child on the way).   Our relationship started this way: splitting for a short period so that my boyfriend would spend time with his child. Then we got married and were together for the holidays at some point. That lasted about twenty years.  Aside from a few sympathy notes for the losses of his grandmother and grandfather, we are now back to square one for the last six years, "compartmentalizing."   And it's okay.  Perhaps, postmodern stepmothering should begin by acknowledging that "stepping" away from the nuclear family created by the previous marriage offers just the right breathing space for this relationship to find itself again - a bit altered, but still in tact.

Andy Warhol, Liz, 1965 (Kate Burton' stepmother)

Why write about this amiable compromise?  Because postmodern parenting should be open to renegotiations as children become grownups.  For, if a stepmother feels like an outsider, it's only fair to set boundaries, create a safe distance and encourage her husband to spend quality time with his kids and the grandkids on his own. Of course, it's up to the stepmother to feel sincerely content with this arrangement.

Adrien Broom, Snow White's Apple, 2015

Recently, the Hudson River Museum exhibited Envy: One Sin, Seven Stories, an installation of staged fairytales in photographs by Adrien Broom, featuring the best known evil stepmothers: Cinderella's and Snow White's.  Chilling, given the fact that a lot of children have stepparents.  An updated version would have been more imaginative - and engaging.

Today's fairytales are The Parent Trap and What a Girl Wants, i.e.,  the natural parent leaves the fiance/ee at the altar and reunites with the other natural parent so that everyone lives happily ever after.

So much for fiction.

In the real world, stepmothers may find the holidays sticky and icky. My solution may not be right for every blended family, but it's here as a suggestion for stepmothers already agonizing over how to keep things merry and bright.

Happy Holidays, Postmodern Mothers and Stepmothers - and take care,

Beth New York

Settling for Less While Trying to "Have It All": The Adjunct is Also a Mom

All right - I am stupid!  I admit it.  It was stupid to accept becoming an adjunct professor (now referred to as "contingent faculty") way back before my daughter was born.  We were about to move to Providence, Rhode Island so that my husband could begin his gig in the Physics Department at Brown University.  With incredible, wonderful luck, I phoned the Music and Art Department at Simmons College to ask about possible openings.  Miraculously the chairperson,  the amazing and inspiring feminist art historian Alicia Faxon, was available to chat.  She suggested that I call one of her part-time faculty members for advice.  This Canadian had just learned her visa would not come through in time for fall semester, and - voilà: I had an interview to teach the "History of Women Artists."  (Teaching "Women as Art and Artist" at NYU came in handy for this opportunity - thank you, General Studies Program.)   In September 1989,  I become a full-time "part-timer":  a freelance adjunct professor and art historian/critic for hire.

Two years after I started teaching at Simmons (and again teaching the "History of Women Artists"), I was pregnant with my daughter. Who could have prepared me for the enormous transformation from careerist to mother? No one.  I hadn't a clue.  Good fortune brought sage women artists into my life, like the highly accomplished Tayo Heuser.  I was teaching, reviewing exhibitions for Art New England and co-directing the Bannister Gallery at Rhode Island College with the multi-talented Alexandra Broches (best known as the founder and former director of Hera Gallery, one of the first women artists coops).  These exceptional women discussed the influence of motherhood on their work, the sense of "a death of the self" as they had been before children came along.  I listened. I tried to imagine myself in their place. However, the authenticity of such feelings cannot be truly claimed before that precious wonder arrives: beautiful, helpless and fascinating. The greatest show on earth - from dawn to dusk and then some. I absolutely fell in love with my child and being her mother. 

Fortunately, the mothering experience has served me well as my students became more and more needy and demanding.  Mea culpa - I was part of the Millennials' parenting that delayed their maturation process. We just wanted to mother too long. 

Being my daughter's mother became the center of my life - my compass and my priority.  Teaching, research, writing and curating had to fit around this center.  It wasn't an "either/or": I did "want it all" and tried to "have it all": a satisfying motherhood, spousehood and career.  Unfortunately, "all" does not come in equal measure - some less, some more.

Do I regret my stupid choice?  Naw, even though it is depressing to review the residual effects - 

Yes, I earn very little money.

Yes, I write books that earn even less.

Yes, I have very little savings for my retirement.

Yes, I feel like "low-person" on the academic totem pole.

Yes, I commute hither and yon in wind, rain or snow (but I do like those "snow days" - amen to that).

On the other hand, when it comes to motherhood, there are rarely any "do-overs."  With that in mind, I feel extremely fortunate to have . . .

• Attended Halloween Parades, Mother's Day breakfasts, Open Houses on Election Day and holiday card-making at my daughter's schools.
• Arranged my hours to get my child from school or home to after-school activities so that she was able to pursue ballet, horseback riding, reading clubs at the library and her bat mitzvah classes.
• Planned and hosted birthday parties, Halloween parties, and the like, with all the joy of creating invitations, cakes, and crafts with our guests.

Sure, the so-called "smart" person does not always make "smart" choices.  For this mother, adjuncting was smart enough. Not brilliant, but practical.

On this occasion, I would like to thank my husband for his unwavering faith in my research projects and goals.

I would like to thank my parents for being proud of my work - even if they never read my books (they are boring, I know).

And I would like to thank my beautiful daughter, the light of her parents' life - and apologize for passing on the writer bug.  Ack!   It's a gift and a curse.  May you find joy beyond the struggle to get the words right. May you find solace in knowing it's worth the pain and the aggravation.

And to all the adjunct professors who juggle courses, commuting, family and research projects: rise up to defend your dignity. We are not abject worms placed in feeder-fish positions to serve the tenured faculty.  We are the clever ones, who prioritize in favor of the people we love, the students we serve, and the projects we believe in.

Hold your heads up high - and say: It is worth it!

We are all Millennials

I gave birth to a Millennial.  I know that because The New York Times, The Washington Post and Fortune Magazine told me so.  My child is between the ages of 21 and 30, 24 and 34, and 18-36.  My nephews are Gen Xers - 10 and 16 years her senior.  Their children are Gen Zers (which means they learned how to use smartphones before they were potty trained).

But I have news for you - we are all Millennials in today's world.  Oh, yes -  we want what we want when we want it.  A Burger King, Starbucks and Build-a-Bear lifestyle. Nest Security "curated" from a smartphone. We are all impatient to get it right - to make it work for ourselves, our way.

Have you noticed that all the brotherly and sisterly love we embraced during Pope Francis' trip evaporated in the next traffic jam or "detained" subway service?  We are all Millennials: in a hurry, overbooked and underpaid for the nearly unlimited access we give to each other (time-wise) every day (texting, FB and networking obsessively).

One of my students expressed the mood of our culture in one word: expediency.  Right on, Kassandra (her real name).  We are all time-hacking, in one way or another, to fit into 24 hours more activities than can realistically be accomplished - well.   (Oh, you say, you can do it?  Hmmm . . . check in with your children, boss or clients about that? How many times were you late? Cancelled? Or unprepared? Not fast enough, my dear?  Not efficient enough to transition from one task to another? Did you not get the memo that multitasking is a myth promulgated by MBAs in Management Training?)

The younger Millennials, 20-somethings, are not that different. Not really. They are overextended and anxious about what to prioritize: work, love or play.  They too are  fighting to just keep going, one step at a time. To feel authentic, strong and ready to take on the world.  They yearn for a better future, like the migrants/refugees from Syria, Afghanistan, Libya and so forth, who are waiting to dig their heels deeply into a stable existence - a place to call home.  We feel for them as they suffer through their arduous journeys.  And we can identify with them to some extent, as we all are struggling to improve a global culture fraught with dislocation and disconnection.  Almost all of us benefit from the wonders of the internet and mass communication, but most of us are deeply dissatisfied with the status quo.  We want to move on from this point in human history.  (I think the Pope's visit brought that into clear focus.)

We are all Millennials - seeking a better life than we have now.

What is a Postmodern Mom?

JT Morrow, Whistler's Mother Tweeting for WSJ, 

According to academics, "modernism" is about the new and improved: optimism facing the future. (South Pacific's Nellie Forbush singing "Cockeye Optimist.")

"Postmodernism" is self-critical, cynical and anxiety-ridden.  (The Good Wife with a dash Portlandia's political correctness.)

The Postmodern Mother worries about her performance.  Is she a good enough mother?  Does she sufficiently encourage her children to feel confident, empowered and gifted.

To that end, she navigates numerous high-stakes decisions. Car-talk with her children is her favorite pastime.

Her conscience dictates that she recycle, reuse and donate. She shops mainly at Trader Joe's, Whole Foods and the local Farmers' Market for nutritional value.  But, in truth, she adores fancy cakes and cookies from the local bakery.  (She is a hedonist when no one is looking.)

She can build self-esteem and complicated Lego kits.  She believes in the virtues of breast-feeding and clean, fresh air.   She extols "inclusiveness" from play-dates to proms - all from a comfortable co-op in the city or private home in the suburbs.

And when her perfect little Millennials grow up, she lovingly listens to their gender identity crises, their pansexual preferences, and their start-up fantasies propelled by social networking and personal branding. Her children are her passion (and hopefully her husband and career too).

The Postmodern Mom jogs, blogs and logs in to FB to see what her grandchildren ate for dinner. (If she doesn't have grandchildren, her children haven't friended her yet.)  She tweets occasionally, rarely bothering to see if anyone retweeted her post.

Yoga is her outlet.  Wine is her sedative.  Caffeine is her drug of choice.

And she is probably a stepmother too, because Baby-Boomers who had Gen-Xers changed partners pretty early on, producing Millennials the second time around.   

Of course, most of these attributes do not apply to me.  (I hate Whole Foods and rarely jog these days.) 

This blog is about the Good, the Bad and the Ugly sides of mothering in this Postmodern, relativist culture.  It is about the pressures of trying to be proactive (but not a Helicopter harridan), present but not pushy, a Tiger Mom with a playful disregard, and a judicious sage in the face of her children's preferred Authority Figure - the Internet,

Please join me, if you have been there and done that.
Fellow Postmodern Moms, Welcome!

Sincerely,
Beth New York