2043 Wightman Street

That's our new address in Pittsburgh for this coming year. It's an apartment complex on the corner; first apartment I've ever rented. Yesterday we had the thrill of receiving post for the first time - Haim's social security number came in through!

Apartments, lifting Ivry's stroller up and down stairs, trying to figure out what in God's name is wrong with my and Haim's resumes is part of the new immigrant syndrome. Today at Haim's intake at the Career and Development Center in Squirrel Hill with an immigrant counselor, he was told that he needed to think in terms of America - culturally. Well, that makes perfect sense since I'm just right up there with Haim. I may have the American accent and all, but I feel utterly and completely displaced.

Funny, this feeling subsides when I walk down the perfectly manicured lawns of beautiful brick and stone houses. I feel I'm walking alongside a dream; one that I gently carved out one year ago. I'm not really in it - we are not really in it since there's so much to do until we can start bringing home a paycheck with no income coming in - lots going out. Now that Haim's social security came in through, I can literally write our address everywhere. A sign of the living.

We applied for social services today from one page click to another until the e-form was sent. I used to be ashamed of signing up my mom for social services but now my address is just one of many. But when Ivry cried today because we stayed for the first orientation dinner meeting for parents at the JCC instead of heading home, a bit of me cried too.

A Red Line of Happiness

Imagine my happiness when I finally made my way to the Carnegie Library in Squirrel Hill yesterday afternoon. It's been years since I claimed my own public spaces; the public library used to be one of them until I began thinking I was good enough for a library. (Yes, I know it sounds weird.) But growing up alongside New York City's overwhelming array of books, made me feel much smaller than I really was.

Turns out that the glass contained edifice was actually one of the most user-friendly public places I've ever been in. First, there were changing stations and bathrooms, making a mother's life infinitely easier. Also, there were many computer work stations for sending work to print. And when I registered for my family library card, I was greeted in the most sincerest of ways. To be expected, I retained my New York City, standoffish mentality only to find that it was simply unnecessary. When the clerk looked at my maiden and married names, together with the New York City driver's license, he looked as if he couldn't make something out.

"What's your married name?" he asked.

"Sasson." I said.

"But I'll have to use the name on the NYC license." he said.

I was not happy about that.

Once, twice, three times I had to remind myself that even in nice friendly places, this was the way it's done and even if he had to use my former name, there were parts of my identity I didn't want on paper, lesser to be using a New York City driver's license.

But he was a nice man and he elected to changed my name to Sasson. At that point, I wanted to cross out all the red lines out of my life, beginning with the teachers who harbored using red pencils leaving me to figure out what mark meant what. For the remainder of the afternoon, I was able to work uninterrupted surrounded by History books excited by what I was writing knowing I was creating my own piece of history.

When I finally let myself take a bathroom break, I was so happy that the red in me wanted to burst out through. And when I finally let myself pass the early childhood and juvenile sections, I saw how inviting, friendly everything was. You don't such clean starts in life so often. I made a point to finish my line of business, get the chapter synopsis in order and get my hands on some of those books.

Each day is about carving a writing life and reaching my goals, which I feel was meant to be and I know that for the time being, I'm in a better place.

Our First Shabbat Weekend

We're still sitting in a relatively bare apartment waiting for our overseas shipment to arrive.Started the crisp Sunday morning explaining to Ivry that today is Sunday and tomorrow is Labor Day and he doesn't go to the gan these two days. He ran to hug me once I had already settled comfortably with the laptop.

The apartment these days looks like we're going to fly again - probably back to Israel, at least that's what I was thinking when we left New York City. And of course September 2nd is here and I am nowhere near a teacher's bag and a classroom full of thirty eight students and exasperated looking teachers and probably students.

I'm on the other side of the world far far away with a cup of coffee, a small notebook for sketching ideas and writing goals and folders full of what I want to write for my book that maybe McGraw Hill will be interested in publishing - that is, if I can ever finish the chapter synopsis.

I have to educate myself constantly while going over broken sidewalks, waiting for traffic lights to change, watching people bag our groceries, deciding from the rows of cream cheese which one to buy, unsure what is the difference between diet and lowfat, or adding up the expenses of our purchases to realize there are only deductions.

The pieces of the puzzle somehow all start to make sense as I get used to the brick walls outside, the huge walk-in closet that contains our stuff, the pink walls of the bathroom that reminds me of my grandmother's apartment in Far-Rockaway in the 80's, storytime in Shenley park that is a both a semblance of community and culture. Then there are the Hassidic couples that remind me of the Jewish holdiays we spent in Queens, the three hairstyling shops on Murray Avenue, or the woman on the first floor who quickly opened her door when Ivry cried because the door closed abruptly on his poor little hand.

I have to educate myself emotionally when I see the trans-Atlantic move isn't all that bad despite the fact that I received a 'C' for transitions. The kind Rabbi Wasserman of Sha'aeri Torah congregation received many emails from kind souls offering to give us furniture. We're nowhere near to flying anywhere soon.

And then there's the issue of faith: some days I wake up with it and sometimes I don't. On the days when I do, I admire the Victorian windows and paisley window blinds and on the days I don't, I sweep by the flowers. I keep telling myself: Haim will find a job, I'll finish my book come the end of this year, we'll be settled, we'll be happy.

But the sky's too blue to think too much for a Sunday morning.

I Shouldn't Have Grown Up

Ivry and Haim took off for an evening stroll most likely to the synagogue while I sit next to the yellow flowers, which a kind neighbor passed on after hearing we were just one day in Squirrel Hill, Pittsburgh. It is the only real bright thing in this terribly empty apartment.

Exactly this time last year, I was contemplating new ideas for starting the school year not realizing I would end up taking a sabbatical that would bring me in touch with my roots and my writing. Now, we're taking it one step at a time and however right it is to be a mommy these days, and switch over to writing shoes, I've put the teaching bag aside and quietly, I am delving into the writing world.

With fortitude, a bit of fear, and some longing, I still write my way through. It's one thing to be saying I want to write, it's another thing to come all the way over here to write. (well, that's not the only reason) I take a break - speak to the nice people we're slowly becoming acquainted with, lunch with the local Rabbi and his family. I exit my shell temporarily, enjoy the unspoiled blue sky, hear the road construction across the street, sometimes pretend that I'm back in Israel in our small niche that now has taken the likeness of global territory.

It's an intimate process and yet, it's something the mind doesn't want to speak of.

I shouldn't have grown up too quickly to believe it might come true one day, but I'll slice each day as it comes, minute by minute - slowly believing this was meant to be.

Finding a Home ... and Finding Faith

Today I spent walking around Squirrel Hill where supposedly our new life will be for this upcoming year. Yesterday, I visited the Jewish Community Center, where Ivry will be registered in the early childhood program. Today I visited four apartments -two which were on my unfavorable list. One with a lot of pre-world war two charm (not price), the other - a bit steep but fits the locality like the other.

All this is very good considering for the time being that we are still in Westbeth, NYC. We don't pay rent, or food. We are in a comfort zone. There is no decision yet to be made. But yikes! Here we come. We are slowly getting out of a comfort zone, beginning anew. Again. The thought of it is rather scary.

We like and miss our niches, our quiet, our lifestyles on the kibbutz back home.

Luckily, Squirrel Hill is full of good people, which is one of the reasons why we chose it. A nice rabbi hooked me up with a host family for two nights, who are originally from Mexico and they speak Hebrew!

I spent the first hour crying in front of Ivry's new teacher, in front of the early childhood director, in front of this host family and today again in front of the career development lady. But with her, the tears were smaller.

Today, I spent a good part of the humid day walking around knowing the streets. I know where Barlett street is in relation to Murray street and a few others. That's an accomplishment. I was also able to visit the Jewish Family Services , which helps new immigrants like Haim and me as well, and gives him a push to find a job while helps market him to find a job.

I'm still scared, but not half so much as yesterday. As Elan my brother would say in Hebrew: "Katan Elayich, it's not such a big deal!" For for me, it IS a big deal. But that does not change anything. I'm still scared.

I especially have to shovel out all my fear and muster up faith to know we can succeed and begin again... this time on the other side of the ocean.

And then there is the moment of here and now that says, "yes, I can do it, no problem."

A Collection of Memories

Ever since we’ve arrived in the States (almost a month now) I still haven’t had a proper chance to feel like I’m my mother’s daughter again.Going in and out through parks, seeing oceans, walking past pastures and vineyards are all so much a part of the Southern California experience, but coming home is always so much more meaningful. Trying to build a connection with a lost friend can be memorable. Trying however to relive a maternal connection especially when it’s been affected by Alzheimer’s type dementia is painful and difficult.

In case you didn’t yet make the connection, my mother has Alzheimer’s type dementia. She’s had it since 1997. But I wouldn’t stop ever calling her mom.

I take after my mother; I’m a worrier. As a kid I would prowl the halls waiting for her. If she said “I’ll be home at 10:00 pm" and she wasn’t, I’d go out waiting for her. Tonight, I pushed the panic button when I looked at the dark sky and wondered where are my two boys. I hunted them down alongside the piers right outside my mother's home alongside the Hudson River. I immediately thought of that little girl and I wanted to find a connection. With Alzheimer’s however, there’s always an issue of hit or miss.

I knew my mom would identify with ‘worry scenes’ such as these. It actually made perfect sense to use it as a starting board for conversation.

I’m almost sure it was my voice that did it. Instantly, her face turned towards me. Her jaw dropped slightly, she tried to make eye contact. Her expression softened. She was my mom again just for a few bitter-sweet moments.

I went on to recount to her the story of the last forty minutes of hunting my boys down.There was nothing more comforting than hearing, “yes, that’s too much” or, “ yes, I know what you mean.” Perfect.

Anybody who has an Alzheimer’s type dementia parent, knows the feeling of closeness this scenario can bring to a grieving daughter or son’s heart.

These few years are the collective years of her and my life together. They make the last scrapbook of what stands out as a maternal connection. From one mom to another, this is the best collection that survives all scratch-and-sniff sticker albums I’ve ever had.


After a bit of thought, I decided to send this post to Michele's blog for the Write-Away content. This month's theme is about collections.

Always A New Yorker

As I walked the hallways of Westbeth today, I felt like a New Yorker again. Westbeth isn't exactly like the rest of New York with its cosmetic surgery type buildings. I've waited a long time to hold my son, past the hallways where I used to roam only this time with Claire Bassett, a long time friend and neighbor. The hallways as usual were desolate and poorly lit. With ivry pointing at the colored doors and saying the colors in both Hebrew and English, I was sure the mind was falling; it was too surreal.

Yep, I felt like a twelve year old New Yorker all over again. Well, maybe fifteen or so.

I know that Claire felt that way again. She said, "Dorit, I can't believe you're a mom. I look at you and I see a fifteen year old."

In a way, she is definitely right. The seventeen years of living in Israel are as rural as they come and it's not my birthplace. My mom and dad of America is New York. And I'm starting all over again. but this time, I left my suitcase of ideologies somewhere else and the fifteen year old NYC girl has her night out instead of cleaning poopy diapers and reading bedtime stories to Ivry.

This year I am not committed to any lifestyle or identity. But I and Claire have grown to appreciate the dimensions of the walls and apartment sizes, windows, directions of apartments, people we both knew growing up and people whom we stayed away from, all in the heart of Greenwich Village. This is where it all began. Pulling each other on skateboards, playing catch and disturbing the neighbors, me a bespectacled teenager, and Claire, a intuitive forever questioning teenager. We mold our likeness as we learn all the nuances that made us 'tick' as kids. I believe that is part of becoming full circle.