It was a Tuesday night and my husband and I decided stop for brick oven pizza after work. We met at home, headed out and fell into the regular routine of our after work rituals. Feed the dogs, walk the dogs, argue about where to go for dinner and then go there, returning home for some screen time and then bed.
Sitting at the small wooden table with an antipasto between us, the conversation drifted from the evolving Christmas plans with my kids – what day to celebrate, where to celebrate, eat at home or eat out – to discussions about work dramas and the typical topics married couples talk to each other about over dinner. I wondered aloud what night of Chanukah it was. Jonathan is Jewish and isn’t very religious but we had a small menorah in our home now and even lit the candles on the first night for the first time in our ten years of marriage. We didn’t light them for Jonathan but out of a strange sort of tribute to my own new discovery of my Jewish roots, thanks to some DNA testing and investigative work.
As the antipasto was cleared away and the hot pie placed on a high riser in the center of the table, my phone lit up with a text message. I picked it up and expected to see an ad from Macy’s texted to me or an Amazon delivery alert or maybe even a picture or video of my almost year old grandson Sam from my daughter. Instead, it was a Facebook message that let me know someone named Pat McL was sending me a message. I knew three Pat McL’s. My father who had died 20 years ago, my brother who hadn’t spoken to me for 10 years and my nephew who I hadn’t seen since he was 11.
“Hey. 20 years later”. I knew this was my brother. A cross between Archie Bunker and Fred Flintstone, math had never been his strong suit. Suspicious but intrigued and somewhat amused, I responded, “Dad? Is that you?” The likelihood that it was my long dead father seemed as great as my brother reaching out to me. My mother stopped all contact with me when I married my husband and quickly the rest of my siblings fell in step behind her. For a reasons involving my father and his long-time Jewish girlfriend, my mother had decided that our family was no place for anyone who was Jewish. It had been ten years with no contact.
My brother took my inquiry literally and responded, “No, its his son. And your brother. How you doin?” I decided to play the humor card and typed, “Are you texting because it’s Hanukkah since we are all Jewish now?” Through the grapevine, I knew that my sister had her DNA tested and also knew that our long lost grandfather, my father’s father, was not an Irishman also named Patrick McL, but a very Jewish man whom through research and help from some new found cousins, I discovered to be Sam Leibowitz!
My phone buzzed again. “LOL. You are a Catholic that use to convert (sic). LOL. Its all good. Everybody’s different” There was a momentary glimmer of hope that my brother had matured and grown. That maybe we’d be able to slowly move forward. Then another messaged popped up. “Im not going to get into it but you’re really disrespecting mom and her conservative ways. That’s in the past. Remember everybody’s different.” It seemed to me, reading this, that someone – His therapist? His wife? – had given him a rudimentary “Everybody’s different” mantra that he was going to use to remind him of just that. He continued, “You know Mom. She’s very conservative and will never change and that’s okay because everybody’s different. But remember she’s your mom she brought you into this world.”
I wanted to get off the mom topic and typed, “No, you really ARE Jewish. 25%. DNA test! I’m not kidding. Dad’s father was Sam Liebowitz!”
“I really don’t give a f#ck about my DNA. I am what I am. Popeye the Sailer Man..” LOL. OK. “You only are what you choose to be. Okay you’re a Jew so that’s what you want to do. So Bam. You’re a Jew.”
I sat there with now cold pizza in front of me, reading the messages to Jonathan and wondering where all of this was coming from. Had he changed? The messages continued.
“Jesus hated being a Jew, that’s why he turned Catholic. I didn’t condone you for your beliefs at your wedding. I was really pissed off on how you didn’t invite mom but that in the past. Let’s not talk about it.” He then typed his address and told me that life is good where he is. I didn’t bother to respond because the outrageousness of the last few lines and just let him type away a few more platitudes until he realized I was no longer responding. I had indeed invited my mother to my wedding, but that’s another tale for another time.
The exchange had left me shaken. When you carry heavy family baggage for 10 years – more actually – you get used to the weight and the burden is sometimes forgotten about. Your arms and heart adjust to carrying those suitcases filled with trauma and sadness. And when someone resurfaces to remind you of the weight and the burden, those bags sometimes seem heavier than ever. And right then and there, while Jonathan was paying the check, I started to cry.
The next evening at almost the exact time, I was alone in my living room and my phone buzzed. Another message from Pat McL. This time I knew it was my brother. “I see you hold grudges. Not very healthy,” was all it said. It took me moments to decide what my next action would be. “Involving myself with toxic people is not very healthy, but nice try there.” I sat for a moment and looked at my screen and hit send. Then I pulled up the option screen and clicked Block and turned on the TV.
Geneiveve Kaufman Writes 