Hopefully I am finally on the BLOG. I have a submission for the June assignment, but haven't been able to post it. This is a test to see if I am FINALLY on board. Helene Wright

When did I know? Well, something inside always knew. But it was too much for a child to understand… let alone be able to express and explain, even to herself. So I’d always – well almost always – just felt I was different. My first five years started what would take 50 years to articulate.

I have 2 year old recollections of Kimi (Japanese-American) who took care of me before she was interned or as they said, ‘relocated’. She was replaced by Tina and Tura (Mexican American sisters) and Alene, the Anglo teen age neighbor who lived across the street. Soon I was spending Saturday mornings in Spanish with the Elizondo family - my mother’s idea of exposing me to another language. Home movies show me fitting right in with my ruffled red satin dress at the annual Old Spanish Days’ Fiesta parade. Up to then everything seemed quite normal. After all, Santa Barbara had always been a place of many cultures. Little did I know… that was just the beginning.

What was set into motion in California was nurtured throughout the rest of my childhood. By the time I returned to California and college, I had spent first grade on the border in El Paso and Juarez learning to read and write in Spanish. I had gone to a different elementary school every year after that. I lived in fifteen locations over five years in Mexico City and Guadalajara. I spent four years in rural northern Michigan going to two different high schools while living in three towns and 5 different houses.

It was no surprise, that my young adult life was spent looking for an identity that fit me. Looking like a WASP and learning American culture mostly in Michigan, I knew how to pass as a general American. Speaking Spanish I passed as a Mexican. To latinos I would say “I look like a gringa but I have a Mexican soul”. Knowing the streets of cosmopolitan Mexico City and feeling at home in provincial Catholic Guadalajara, driving a tractor harvesting cherries in our orchard, I could fit in most anywhere but when was I most me?

By the time I was fifty I had hitchhiked from London to Beirut and back, emigrated to Australia and returned to live in Southern California, worked as a Probation Officer in Los Angeles, had 2 children and created my own business working with large corporations to solve people problems. Yet the question of who I was, kept reappearing. It became even more present when I married a man raised as an Orthodox Jew, sent our children to Hebrew School, celebrated their Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, and was an active, accepted member of the Jewish community, even though I did not convert.

Being so totally accepted in a community gave me a warm sense of belongingness until they started talking about ‘others’. Should I say any thing when Mexicans talked negatively about gringos or Blacks? When Anglos made prejudiced remarks about Jews? When people talk disparagingly about those that are different it is hard to keep quiet and hide feelings. If I said something I would betray their confidence in me. I feared losing a place where I was cared for and nurtured as one of them. If I said nothing, I lost self-respect.

‘Passing’ felt like I was a fraud. Yes, they thought I belonged, but I knew that I wasn’t really one of them. I felt inauthentic. I wasn’t Mexican, I wasn’t a rural Michigander, I wasn’t a Jew and I wasn’t just a general American either. So what was I?

The place where I felt most comfortable was in borderlands. In places that are somehow in-between - where people don’t think you’re strange when you don’t look like what you say. Where languages mix and there are fewer assumptions about how you should act, where there is wider acceptance of difference. Places where rejection doesn’t come at the drop of a word. Places where assumptions are held off or checked out.

Sitting in a Journal writing workshop I began to explore. I wrote down how I harbored each of these identities – as if they were illegal aliens. How I didn’t let them out unless I was in their community – where they would be safe.

I tied up energy hiding first one identity then another. I lived in fear of one of them sneaking out when I least expected it – and sometimes they did – to my shock and embarrassment. Like the time I was conversing with black neighbors, and my Mexican identity came out showing prejudices that my general American self didn’t know I had. And the time when talking to a Mexican vendor in Spanish about my teen-age son buying huaraches –typical shoes of indigenous people and I made a crack that was demeaning that came from my upper-class upbringing in Mexico City. I hadn’t realized the disdain I heard as a child had rubbed off.

As I wandered through these identity experiences it suddenly came to me that I am all of them and none of them. I’m an in-between person. That I am a border person. Whatever identity I’m wearing, I’m conscious of the possible views from the others. My life experience has layered bits and pieces from myriad cultural interactions. It led me to a life place of mentally standing in the middle, sensing several sides at the same time.

Naming myself as a border person painted me into the picture and gave me a way out. It was such a relief! Not having to pretend. Not having to hide. Deciding to face the fear of being alone. It was then that I gave all my identities amnesty. They now had the freedom to come out of the shadows – and make me whole.
Kathleen Rubin

SECOND THOUGHTS
Lucy Weisman

My friend, Nancy, said: “I’m taking a Bible class; it’s fun, Lucy, you would like it.
“Me in a Bible class,” I consider, “I don’t think so.”

Well, I never thought I’d be taking a Bible class, but here I am taking this class, “The Bible as Literature.” And, I have to tell you, I love it. The first day of class, our instructor introduced himself, saying: “I’m Rabbi Jeff Marx.” You can call me “Rabbi,” or you can call me “Jeff.” Just please don’t call me “Rabbi Jeff.”

The class is absolutely fascinating. Our instructor, himself, is worth the time, if only for the laughs he brings us. Jeff, as I choose to call him, is a comedian; he tells us funny stories, with rapid speech, animated hands, rolling of his eyes, and working of his eyebrows for emphasis at various intervals. He laughs heartily and often, sticking his tongue out from time to time at juicy points in his story. He also has to keep yanking his pants up; as he wears no belt and his trousers are forever slipping down over his belly.

Our instructor, the Rabbi, doesn’t stay still a minute, and I sometime wonder if he was one of those children who drove his parents mad with his hyper-activity. I also wonder if he’s related to The Marx Brothers. His name is spelled the same way, and his sense of humor is hilarious.

Despite his light-hearted approach, Jeff is an extremely learned man. His knowledge relative to the stories in the Bible, Biblical personalities, religion, geography and historical facts is inexhaustible. Using today’s “hip” vernacular, Jeff makes the Bible stories come alive.

First off, we learned that the stories in the Bible were written over a period of many years, perhaps even thousands of years and there were at least two authors. That right there was a revelation to me. In the beginning, the stories were told by nomads around campfires and in the marketplace. We have learned that there are many interpretations of the stories in the Bible.

We’re currently in The Book of Genesis, and Jeff suggested that each of us write an analysis of one of our favorite Bible stories.
Now, that brings me to the story that I want to tell you.
I found the story of The Garden of Eden, so tantalizing, that I wanted to write a story about it. Somehow, my mind took off on a fanciful journey of its own, and I decided I wanted to write one more interpretation of that story...my own mind-spinning interpretation.

My story of that episode was entitled: “BOOK OF GENESIS: THE GARDEN SCENE.”
I had my own view of what went on in that particular garden between that man and that woman. It was all about being naked, sex, discovery, and salacious lusting. In general, “man” and “woman,” as they were referred to at that time in history, had a very good party going on between themselves. I had “the tree” be a fig tree with luscious ripe figs being eaten...the sweet fig juice running down the naked bodies of man and woman; but... WHOA!...GOD GOT ALL VEXED, BIG TIME! Then came all the finger pointing with the “he said,” “she said” thing. Of course we all know that man and woman got tossed out of the garden...the first known incident of an eviction without benefit of a 30 day notice.
To sum up, my story was sexy, saucy, sassy and irreverent.

Well, a strange thing happened.
Right in the middle of my story writing, I developed a boil. I never have boils. No, that’s not altogether accurate. I did have a boil once ...in childhood... on my leg.

This new boil was in a different area of my anatomy. It was ... A BOIL... ON MY BUTT, to be exact. Not only that, but it was in a very delicate area. It was also very painful. As it happened, I was due to have a colonoscopy within ten days. A trip to the dermatologist was hastily arranged and medical intervention was begun; but the situation was precarious.

I had waited months for the colonoscopy appointment and, if it had to be cancelled, several more months would elapse before another surgery appointment could be scheduled. When it comes to colonoscopies, the sooner that business is gotten done with, the better for one’s emotional state. In the meanwhile, everything was all touch and go...or no go.
Luckily, the boil treatment was successful, and things worked out well in the end.

Somehow my story, “Book of Genesis; The Garden Scene,” got shelved. I kept thinking of that word... “smite”... “smitten”... “smote,” and I was left with the lingering feeling that maybe it was best not to mess with The Bible.
I didn’t wear sackcloth, but ... I decided that the next time the Rabbi suggests writing an analysis of a Bible scene ... that’s what I’ll do... I'm just going to stick to the bare facts.

July 07 Assignment Diane Marcus
A DEFINNING MOMENT

ME? DEFINED?

How does one define their selves? After living for 71 years and wearing so many masks, and playing so many roles I’m not sure who I really am. Sometimes I’m the leading lady, others the support role. Sometimes I’m strong but then again too often I feel like I’m going to fall apart. I’ve been the villain and now I’m the saint. I’ve been so strong I was admired and so weak I nearly gave into drugs.
Psychiatrists and sociologists say that our position in the lineup of our siblings determines how we react to the rest of the people we come in contact with. Is the oldest passive or aggressive, the youngest spoiled or determined? And what about the middle children? Anyway that theory doesn’t work at all for me. From the time I was born to the age of seven I played all three rolls, going from the baby of two children, then an only child for two years and then the older sister.
When I was a kid my nickname was Dicey. Is that an insult or a compliment? I was definitely unpredictable and spontaneous and I would like to think that’s why I was given that name. Honestly I have no recall as to who gave it to me. But to this day I love spontaneity, and the ability to drop everything and change direction on the spur of the moment excites me.
As a teenager I felt that I was living on the black notes. I was always a part of the group yet I often felt out of sync and self-conscious. But I know for certain that nobody understood or was even aware that underneath my fun loving person was an often lost girl, an emotion I hid from myself as well.
So the past is the past but what about today? I am basically happy……well maybe not happy for as Beverly Sills said “happy can mean you have no cares, but I’m certainly a very cheerful person.” Well bravo again to Bubbles Silverman for knowing how to answer the question, which I will plagiarize.
Yesterday I was in line at a market in a neighborhood that I had never been before. The man in line behind me tapped me on the shoulder and asked what kind of a dog do I have. Wait a second I thought. Is this a new ‘pick up line’ or is he psychic? I had nothing in the basket that would even hint that I have a dog at home. “How do you know I have a dog” I asked with apprehension.
“Oh easy” he said. Just look at the plastic bags hanging out of your pockets.”
Perhaps that stands as the best defining moment for this week.
A dog walker for a very spoiled and lovable little nine pound creature to whom I am very subservient.

BURMA SHAVE BANISHES BRUSHES
Georgialee Granger

Why the name Burma Shave? According to Leonard Odell, President of Burma Vita company, a division of Philip Morris in Minneapolis, the name was borrowed from a liniment his grandfather made and sold from his law offices. Law practice wasn’t as lucrative then as it is now. Grandfather claimed he procured the recipe from an old sea captain, and perhaps he did.

The liniment proved to be very effective. His aunt once burned her hand with hot fat. Since the family all had the liniment in their homes, she stuck her hand into it. The pain stopped immediately, and she had no blisters or scars.

When Leonard’s father had to cut down on his work load because of ill health, he made a royalty agreement with the old gentleman, who by then was handicapped with a stroke, and the family set out to market it. They called it Burma Vita. Burma because the essential oils in the liniment came from the Maya Peninsula and Burma, and Vita from the Latin for life and vigor.

Recognizing that a shaving cream met the need of even more people than a healing liniment, Leonard’s father asked his friend Carl Noren, who used to be the chief cosmetic chemist for the Minneapolis Drug Company, if he would try to make a better product than the sticky, gummy British Euxesis shaving cream The first one was terrible. They had it off and on the market three times. Finally Formula One forty-three, aged for two or three months, gave a fine shave.

All the family set out to sell it. First they offered it as Jars on Approval. The salesman gave a jar to the customer, told him how to use it and said he would come back in a week. Then if the customer liked it he would pay the salesman fifty cents. A very time consuming and not very profitable way to do business. Allen Odell happened to be selling the product in Joliet, Illinois when he saw a set of serial signs advertizing a gas station: GAS, OIL, RESTROOMS - maybe a dozen or so - then at the end, a sign pointing to the gas station.

Eureka! What better place to begin advertizing than in rural America with its wide open spaces and ruler straight two lane roads, peopled by bristly-bearded farmers and traveling salesmen. An advanced man picked the locations, approached the farmer with an offer to pay him five to twenty-five dollars a year for the privilege of putting up signs on his property. Up to fifty dollars for a choice spot if the farmer was reluctant. Then husky, well muscled Minnesota farm boys followed up by digging thirty-six post holes a day, no less than three feet deep on the property. They planted six small messages one hundred paces apart. At thirty-five miles an hour it would take three seconds to proceed from sign to sign, and eighteen seconds to drive past the whole series.

In 1927 America was in love with the automobile and the open road. Sunday afternoon drives were a must for the whole family. Burma Shave signs provided extra entertainment. The controlled reading added an element of suspense: HE PLAYED/ A SAX/ HAD NO B.O./ BUT HIS WHISKERS SCRATCHED/ SO SHE LET HIM GO!

They earned loyalty for their product with: GIVE THE GUY/ THE TOE OF YOUR BOOT/ WHO TRIES/ TO HAND YOU/ A SUBSTITUTE.

To compete with electric shavers: A SILKY CHEEK/ SHAVED SMOOTH/ AND CLEAN/ IS NOT OBTAINED/ WITH A MOWING MACHINE!

For those still using shaving brushes: SHAVING BRUSH/ ALL WET/ AND HAIRY/ I’VE PASSED YOU UP/ FOR SANITARY.

Allan and Clinton Odell composed all the copy for the first few years. Then the whole family got together for “Summer School Sessions”to create jingles. The demand was still too great, so they began having annual contests with a $100 for each verse accepted. Certified clean boy/girl jingles. No smut: HIS FACE/ WAS LOVED/ BY JUST HIS MOTHER/ HE BURMA SHAVED/ AND NOW - / OH BROTHER!

There were public service jingles too: REMEMBER THIS/ IF YOU’D BE SPARED/ TRAINS DON’T WHISTLE/ BECAUSE THEY’RE SCARED!

The signs strangest natural enemies were horses. They were the perfect height to scratch the horse’s back. Horses sidled up to the overhanging sign, humped slightly and enjoyed a sensuous scratch. The poles snapped. Ten foot poles eliminated the problem, but the problem ceased when horses disappeared from farms and tractors took over. Tractors don’t itch.

College kids managed to steal signs to decorate their dorm rooms too.

With wider roads and faster cars, signs grew from twelve to eighteen inches high and forty inches wide. Posts were set back farther from the highway. The distance between signs lengthened, some as much as fifty yards apart.

High taxes on signs and scarcity of good locations near large cities resulted in “bob-tailed” signs: PAYS DIVIDENDS/ IN LADY FRIENDS.

The popularity of radio and television advertizing spelled the end of Burma Shave signs, but fond memories still linger in the minds of many.