One of the most remarkable discoveries of my dive into family history is the connection between my mother and a close friend with a secret (from me) history.
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Silence
A tale of wash day danger
Trying to take his jeans out of dryer dubbed "the green monster," a young athlete's life is changed forever.
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Cross Country by Mustang
Cross Country by Mustang
The summer of 1966 we were newly married when my husband Alan accepted a medical school externship in Denver. The plan was to drive from New York to Colorado in our new red Ford Mustang convertible.
The problem was the car had a stick shift, and used to driving automatics I hadn’t exactly mastered the stick.
So Alan had been doing all the driving when the monotony of all those cows and wheat fields, and the fatigue got to him. I insisted on taking the wheel and needless to say I did a fine job of stripping the gears.
After we had the gear set replaced we soldiered on with Alan back at the wheel, when a badly tied mattress flew off the roof of the car ahead and landed smack on top of us. But we survived and made it to Denver, and that summer Alan completed his externship, we camped in the Rockies, I finally mastered the stick shift, and memorably I read Ulysses for the first time. (See My Love Affair with James Joyce)
Sadly Alan and I divorced a year later, but I’ll always remember the good times we had together. (See My Snowy Year in Buffalo, Shuffling Off to Buffalo, Flowers on the Windshield, Les Halles, Both Sides Now, and Obit)
And I’ll never forget that cross country trip by Mustang!
– Dana Susan Lehrman
Laundry Tales
With three kids, four beds to make, and seemingly endless piles of towels to wash and dry, laundry “day” happened several times a week. Wash, dry, fold, put away was my mantra.
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Laundry: A Gothic Exploration of the Mundane
In the tapestry of human existence, there are filaments that bind us together, threads that weave through the fabric of our days, shaping our experiences and defining our routines. Among these filaments, there is one that is often overlooked, yet undeniably present: the thread of laundry.
Laundry, the humble chore of cleaning clothes, may seem mundane, a prosaic task relegated to the realm of domesticity. Yet, beneath its ordinary façade lies a rich fabric of human emotions, experiences, and cultural significance. To truly understand laundry is to delve into the depths of the human condition, to unravel one of the tangled mysteries of our lives.
Laundry is a universal dance, a rhythmic ritual performed around the globe, regardless of age, social status, or cultural background. It is a dance of sorting, of cleansing, of renewal. We gather our soiled garments, the remnants of our daily lives, and subject them to the purifying waters, transforming them once again into refined vessels of our existence.
There are varying perceptions of laundry; for some laundry is a chore, a burden to be borne, a never-ending cycle of sorting, washing, drying, and folding. For the fortunate there is the rhythmic hum of the washing machine for others the pungent aroma of detergent, the endless stacks of wrinkled clothes and yes these can also evoke feelings of tedium and frustration.
Still for others, laundry is a sanctuary, a space for quiet contemplation and introspection. The repetitive motions, the gentle sounds, the tactile sensation of freshly washed clothes – these can provide a sense of calm and serenity amidst the chaos of modern day life.
Then we have the social construct call a laundromat, that communal haven of washing machines and dryers which is a microcosm of society itself. A stage where human dramas unfold among the whirring of machines. Here, strangers converge, united by the common task of cleaning their clothes, their lives intersecting for brief moments. Conversations arise, anecdotes are shared, laughter and commiseration mingle in the air. The laundromat becomes a temporary sanctuary, a space where social barriers dissolve and the shared experience of doing our laundry creates a sense of connection.
The phrase “airing dirty laundry” became synonymous with the act of revealing private or embarrassing information, often in a public forum. It is a metaphor that speaks to the delicate balance between transparency and discretion, between the desire for catharsis and the fear of judgment. When dirty laundry is aired, it can be a liberating experience, a release of pent-up emotions and unresolved conflicts.
Laundry itself, in its seemingly mundane nature, can be seen as a microcosm of life itself. It is a cycle of cleansing, of renewal, of starting afresh. Just as we wash our clothes, we must also cleanse our hearts and minds, let go of the past, and embrace the possibilities of the future.
Doing laundry, despite its potential for tedium, can also be a source of joy and satisfaction. The simple act of folding a neatly laundered shirt, running our fingers over the soft fabric, can and often does evoke a sense of accomplishment and well-being.
The aroma of freshly washed linens can remind us of the comforting scents of home and they can transport us back to our childhood, to moments of innocence and security. In these moments, we can often rediscover the beauty in the humdrum and joy in the ordinary.
Laundry, in its prevalence and its simplicity, is a powerful symbol of the human experience. It is a reminder of our shared humanity, of the commonalities that bind us together. It is an invitation to pause, to reflect, to find beauty in the everyday, to embrace the mundane as a part of the tapestry of our lives.
I myself thank the Divine for this simple task multiple times each week
Walking on Eggshells
Cousin Brucie never seemed angry at anyone.
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A Sub-Saharan Spirit Rave
We met at the bottom of the crater and began to hug each other and dance.
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A Dream Within A Dream
Dreams are ephemeral tapestries woven in the deepest recesses of our minds, where reality bends and dissolves, logic surrenders to the fantastical, and the impossible becomes commonplace.
Before the first fluttering of consciousness at dawn from the final descent into slumber, we traverse this enigmatic realm nightly, embarking on journeys that defy definition and leave us questioning the very nature of existence.
But what are dreams? Are they mere phantoms conjured by an overtaxed mind, or fleeting glimpses into a parallel reality? Are they messages from beyond the veil, or figments of our deepest desires and anxieties? Throughout history, philosophers, theologians, and artists have grappled with these questions, each offering their own interpretation of this enigmatic phenomenon.
In the opulent halls of ancient Egypt, dreams were seen as divine messages from the gods, offering guidance, prophecy, and warnings. The Egyptians meticulously documented their dreams, interpreting symbols and omens to navigate the complexities of everyday life.
In the vibrant tapestries of medieval Europe, dreams were often populated by demons, angels, and mythical beasts, reflecting the deeply religious worldviews of the time.
As the Age of Reason dawned, dreams were relegated to the realm of superstition and dismissed as the mere “firing of the neurons.” However, the 20th century witnessed a resurgence of interest in the dream world, thanks in part to the groundbreaking work of Sigmund Freud. In his seminal work, “The Interpretation of Dreams”
Freud proposed that dreams are the “royal road to the unconscious,” offering a window into our deepest desires, fears, and conflicts.
Today, the scientific community continues to unravel the mysteries of the dream state. Neuroimaging studies have identified specific brain regions associated with dreaming, while researchers explore the potential therapeutic benefits of dream analysis. However, the essence of dreams – their subjective, symbolic, and often nonsensical nature – remains largely elusive.
Yet, despite the lack of definitive answers, the allure of dreams persists. They continue to spark our imaginations, ignite our creativity, and offer solace in times of darkness. Whether they are fleeting glimpses into the unknown, mere figments of our minds or bits of undigested potato, dreams hold a unique power to transport us beyond the boundaries of our everyday lives.
Many twentieth century authors wrote that dreams extend beyond their narrative function and act as a gateway to the unconscious, a place where our deepest desires and fears reside and that “dreams are the whispers of our soul, the language of our unconscious mind” and by understanding our dreams we can come to a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the universe.
We can dismiss our dreams as mere phantoms but I view them with with reverence and awe. I see my dreams as a sacred space, a holy veil that separates me from the unknown. I see my dreams as a metaphorical bridge between the conscious and the unconscious, the real and the unreal, the sacred and the profane and the whispers of the divine and echoes of eternity.”
By exploring the enigmatic realm of my dreams I embark on a journey of self-discovery. I confront my deepest fears and desires, grapple with my mortality, and glimpse the vastness of the universe.
Whether my dreams are fleeting fantasies or portals to another reality, dreams remind me of the many mysteries that lie still hidden within myself and the world around me.
In the final analysis, the meaning of dreams will remain a mystery. They are a tapestry woven from the threads of our experiences, desires, and anxieties, a reflection of our inner world that can be both beautiful and terrifying. Yet, it is this very ambiguity that makes them so fascinating. For in the realm of dreams, anything is possible, and we are free to explore the furthest reaches of our imagination.
So, the next time you slip into the spiritual embrace of sleep I recommend that you allow yourself to be carried away on the wings of your dreams; embrace the unknown, explore the frightening, and discover the secrets that lie hidden within the depths of your soul. For in the realm of dreams, you are not yourself – you are a God.
Me, I’ve Lived in Dreams
Dreams may not be real, but sometimes they can help get us through heartache. And sometimes they can even come true.
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George Orwell’s 1984 begins with the clock striking 13
Orwell’s dramatic book of the future is truly a tragic daydream.
My future derives from a similar journey, not a frightful one.
It all began with my birth. My mother, Rose, was disappointed that she birthed a male child—as documented by my birth certificate. My first photograph showed me as a three-year-old child in the driveway dressed in a skirt.
Rose used terms of endearment that had a feminine flavor. Etymologically, the “ie” suffix for boy’s names gave the feeling that the boy was childish, less male, or even nongender. My first picture in the local newspaper identifies me as Dickie Kagan, a helpless child on a tricycle who was kidnapped.
I am now only piecing together the meaning and significance of her most common term of endearment—Dicksala. I am not sure of its origin, but I have long daydreamed about its influence. The suffix “sala” is based on the Hebrew and Yiddish way to emphasize the femineity of a name. “Sala” is also a derivative of the name “Sarah.” From my study of the Holocaust, I learned that “Sarah” was the name Nazis used for all Jewish females. This discovery increased my sense of identifying with my feminine side.
I have spent time daydreaming about my birth name vs. my nickname. It has led me down a path that I have been bequeathed a second nature. I have turned this feeling into searching for my dual identity.
Dancing at my high school reunion
In high school, I learned to dance with a male friend. In my parent’s living room, we listened to music while holding each other—sharing the male and female roles. The New Yorker dance supplied the excitement and pleasures of twirling, balancing, and embracing. Consequently, I became an excellent dancing partner at parties who understood both the male and female roles. Unfortunately, perhaps, I never adapted to the modern individualism of dancing as a form of gymnastics.
Rejection of the binary male-female division fosters identity with women, gays, lesbians, and trans people. My students, both male and female, have often celebrated me as a father figure. Often there was a family-like relationship. Several times I roomed with a former student in her apartment in Taiwan. During those times, I cleaned the house and helped with food preparations. Years later, my daughter stayed with her. My former student told my daughter that I was a great roommate.
In my research, I have had empathy for abused women, especially for prostitutes. For instance, I discovered that Thai prostitutes fled from their oppressive families in rural areas to the city where they formed a bond with other prostitutes in the brothels. Here, they lived with other women, learning skills like sewing or knitting between their pecuniary employments. They often became literate which led to confidence and freedom to engage in other occupations.
While teaching about the Japanese comfort women during WW2 who were kidnapped into prostitution for the military, I organized specific activities to promote understanding and consciousness of their plight. After the war, Comfort Women published poetry and stories about their dehumanization. These memoirs expressed exceptional aesthetic sense and strategies for self-preservation. We read them aloud. I felt that this pedagogy was an excellent substitute for a historical narrative, as well as a means to promote empathy and sensitivity. I tried to teach my students to learn from these heroic achievements to survive with honor and health. The moral: out of the darkness, there can be light.
In Taiwan at an LGBT parade – the sign reads “No matter what you are called, heaven still loves you very much”
In my sparse subbing as a Japanese language instructor, I was required to teach a story about two foreigners—male and female—who learned to live and speak in Japan. The narrative was full of dialogue, as would be expected in a language class. The problem is that the pronunciation of the same word, or composition of the sentence changes according to the male or female speaker. For instance, after WW2, American soldiers and government officials learned Japanese from their female language teachers. Behind their backs, the Japanese would laugh because they sounded like women. So, I invited a female Japanese speaker to teach the students how women would read female dialogues. I read the male and she read the female dialogues with differing tones and added expressions.
In sum, Orwell’s thirteenth hour invites me to spend time daydreaming into the realm of a complementary identity.
