I grew up with a Jewish last name. Goldstein to be exact. I hated having a Jewish last name, not because I am anti-Semitic but because it so closely identified me with something personal like being named Lisa Liberal Democrat or Sally Sleeps Naked. When I was a Goldstein, people made presumptions about me. Jewish teachers favored me, non-Jewish teachers wished me a Happy Chanukah. I never corrected them or told them I was raised Catholic. Religion just never seemed like something people should know about me.
My first job after college was as a movement teacher at the 92nd Street Y, arguably the largest Jewish Cultural Center in New York City. I knew my name had something to do with my getting hired. I taught a class called Wee Wizards that met twice a week. Toward the end of class, toddlers would sit on their caregiver’s laps sucking on Sippy cups while I read them a book. Once while reading a book about Passover, a mother corrected me on my pronunciation of the Afikomen, the matzo that is hid for a child to find after the Seder is over.
“It’s Ah-FEE-KO-MEN,” one of the mom’s corrected, furrowing her brow. “Haven’t you been to a Seder?”
“Of course I have,” I said but my Jewish Grandmother Goldstein’s Seder was not a typical Jewish affair. Yes we had gefilte fish and Matzo Ball soup but they were store bought and served out of obligation. In fact, my grandmother Goldstein hated all things Jewish. Every question about Judaism I had was met with an eye roll, a shrug and the same dismissive answer: “You’re just supposed to.” My father was even less helpful, sharing very few stories of his childhood on the Grand Concourse where everyone sat in front of their buildings on folding chairs, speaking Yiddish. The only story he told was that he shared a room with his sister and grandmother who was Orthodox. He said she snored so loudly that he kept a slipper on a string. He would hit her with it throughout the night, reeling the slipper back in like it was a fishing pole.
My own Irish/Italian/Catholic mother knew more about Judaism than my father did having studied theology at her Catholic college. My mother is devout and my father regularly attended mass with her on Sundays. I remember how strange it was to hear the Irish priest say in his thick Brogue “I want to thank Ira Goldstein for his generous donation to the church.”
While we spent Jewish holidays at my grandmothers, she seemed to enjoy coming to our house for the Catholic ones even more. “You have better holidays than the Jews,” she would say. Her attitude confused me and made me even more resolute to finding out why my Jewish family was so un-Jewish.
One Easter, my grandmother, sister and I were sitting on the porch waiting for the ham to finish. My dad was making us all different kinds of margaritas and kept refilling them until we were tipsy. It was a beautiful, spring day and the star magnolia was in full bloom, its sweet scent wafting up to the porch.
“Grandma” I said emboldened by liquor. “Why won’t you tell me anything about your life?” I asked. Normally, she would stare vacantly at me and say, “You have beautiful eyebrows.” Instead, she closed her eyes, sighed pressing her small hands to her white curls.
“I remember my father chasing me around the dining room table with a belt for chewing gum on the Sabbath,” she said turning to me and giggling. “We were Orthodox. You couldn’t do so many things. We had separate plates we ate off of, kosher food only, too many rules.”
“What was your dad like?”
“He died young. Worked in a hat factory until the dust from the felt got in his lungs.” she waved her hand away as if swatting a fly and I knew the conversation was over.
My Aunt Sheila, my father’s sister was the only one of the Goldstein’s that knew our Jewish history. A few years ago, my sister and I went to visit her in Santa Monica. My Aunt was dying of ALS and could barely speak, her tongue weak, her head hanging low. I wrote down everything she said, knowing it was my last chance to know something about the Jewish side of my family. She showed me photos of my grandmother in flapper dresses her hair bobbed and white even when she was only eighteen. Sheila told me about my great grandmother, how she had triplets that lived three weeks before dying one by one, how she escaped the Russian Pogroms hiding my grandmother under leaves in the backyard while the Cossacks burned down her house.
My Aunt Sheila was the one who told me that Goldstein wasn’t even our real family name. “Your grandpa Joe had been adopted in Portland, Maine,” she told me. “He was born to the daughter of a dentist. Katz I think the name was. They were a prominent Jewish family. They sent their daughter away to have the baby and then put him up for adoption” While my Aunt struggled to speak, I stared at her beautiful, high, cheekbones that made her look more like an Egyptian princess than a Russian Jew. “Nobody knows who the father was, probably a sailor in town. Anyway, the Goldstein’s owned a candy shop and they adopted your grandfather so that he could work in the store. Do you know they didn’t allow him to go to school and then they made him make milkshakes and egg creams for the kids that did? Can you imagine?”
When I got married in 1993, I quickly got rid of Goldstein. At first I tried hyphenating the name becoming Goldstein-Fontana, but I struggled to fit my signature on the checks and soon became just Fontana.
Amazingly, when my grandmother was on her deathbed, she spoke Yiddish again. She was ninety-four dying in her living room on a hospital bed, the sweet hospice nurse fluttering around her like a bird.
“Biz hundert azoi ve tsvantsik,” my grandmother said to my father. To my shock, my father replied.
“Az a yor ahf mir.”
“What did she say?” I asked my dad.
“She says I should live like a twenty year old until I’m 107.
“And what did you say back?”
“I should have such good luck.”
Today was so cold and snowy I made matzo ball soup from the box. Just like grandma used to make. The smell filled the house and made me miss my grandmother and the holiday meals we shared.
I even miss my old name.
Its amazing to me how little we all know of our pasts. Seems as if only snippets of information gets passed down and we are left to wonder at the rest (and only when our elders grow old or are pressed for information do they release for us). My grandfather came from Norway. I never met him as he died before I was born. I heard that his name Birkenas was not his real name — it was Carlson or Karlson — not sure of the spelling but the name Birkenas was assigned to him as he came from the town of Birkens, I believe. Very little Norwegian culture was passed down to us yet when asked what we were/are we always said “Norwegian” (still to this day) although we have equal parts, Finnish, Irish and German!
As always Marian a great read!
Thanks Denise. That is a shame. I plan on telling Aidan everything whether he wants to hear it or not. My moms good about sharing the ITalian and IRish side. That’s for sure! xoxox
Very Beautiful and thank you for sharing
If I can share one more insight ” I should live like a twenty year old until I’m 107″ 100 like a 20 year old.
This is a very beautiful blessing, your grandmother was also well versed with the scriptures
An oft used Yiddish term, wished, is, one should live until “Hundred und Tvanzik” Merit living until 120 (based on a Biblical verse in Genesis 6:#)
The concept of 7, 20, and 100, is based on the Verse describing the death of the Matriarch Sarah , Genesis 23:1 where the Hebrew text, rather than saying Sarah lived 127 years, say, Sarah lived ,100 years, and 20 years and 7 years (broken down)
Upon this, the exegesis expounded upon by the Jewish sages,
at 100 years she should be like a 20 year old = Free of Sin (separate discussion)
At 20 years, like a 7 year old, for natural beauty. (Also a separate discussion (but basically a 7 year old is less narcissistic and more modest about herself )
Fascinating! Thanks for the information. I appreciate it.
Love it! Love you! Sylvia
Love you too Sylvia! THANKS For reading!
I love these writings. And I so understand why one would want to disassociate from any orthodoxy. My mother’s family was orthodox. She married the lest Jewish Jew she could find. I don’t know what happened to me, I love the Yiddish. But that’s not the same as the religion. Like speaking pig latin doesn’t make you a pig or a good salsa dancer.
I don’t like the religion, none of them…to bossy.
I feel a sequel coming on….a rampant, apocalyptically funny and painful one. It may be a while…but I do think it is coming.
That WOULD be nice!
You are perfect the way you are. LOVE YOU GIRL!
My last name was only presumed to be Jewish when I moved to NYC — there were so few Jews in MN where I grew up that no one was presumed to be Jewish. Once in NY, ironically married to a Jew whose last name sounded Scottish, I started getting junk mail from Jewish organizations. He got mail from Scottish heritage organizations. Both wrong! In the fire department, to harass me, the men cooked pork all the time. They assumed I was Jewish. So why did I love to eat bacon?! Another mystery.
I feel a sequel coming on…a rampant, apocalyptic and undoubtedly sharp and funny one. It may be a while…but it’s coming.
I always look forward to your posts, Marian, and love this one. As your friend Denise pointed out, it’s amazing how little we know of our own histories, and I’ll never understand why my parents parsed out their stories so sparingly. And now, three years after my mother’s death, I constantly come up with questions I want to ask her and can’t believe I let her die without having asked them. Your grandma sounds like a kick!
She was Jenny. Thank you SO MUCH for reading and sharing your thoughts.
Great read for an Italian catholic man married to a Jewish princess to understand its not til you lose it that you want it!
When we have Passover the kids have to ask me what it means, I studied theology a bit in college and went to 12 years of catholic school. I guess I should thank Holy Cross for being progressive enough to show us about other religons!
Vinny A
That’s funny Vinny. Thanks for sharing and really there is so much crossover with the guilt and food and humor!
Brilliant
Thanks for reading Laura! You made my day AGAIN!
Oh what a beautiful essay. As a former Rubenstein, i remember hat my father too wanted to forget his Jewish roots, become a mid-century American. But in the end its a culture that informs you, provides insight, gives you egg cream memories. Makes you accepting of diversity. Religion aside, i love my Jewish heritage.
And i love your writing.Marian Fontana.
I just read this Marian– a really beautiful essay. And so interesting how those Biblical phrases stay in one’s mind for so many years in one’s mother tongue. I’m going back to Genesis to read about Sarah, my namesake, now.
What a beautiful essay Marian
Makes me yearn for connection with my elders too
Thanks for exploring and sharing this xo Caren