November 15, 2007
My sister Sarah
My husband and I live with our five children on Kibbutz Ketura in the Arava Desert -- where biblical prophets spoke out against the sins and hypocrisies of the time. As I lay in my little house under the expansive black sky dotted with bright stars, Sarah prepared to stand under bright lights in front of thousands of people at Carnegie Hall. As I slept in the desert, my baby sister was on a stage. Such distance. Such contrast. Yet our connection to one another runs deep. For me, these are moments of God. Two seemingly opposing realities -- separation and intimacy -- co-existing, each fully.
There are many times each week that I think about what my three sisters are doing. I count backwards and imagine where they are at the moment. I'm on kitchen duty -- pulling clean plates off the dishwasher belt after dinner in the dining hall, stacking them as quickly as I can. Counting backwards 10 hours to Los Angeles. Maybe all three are having breakfast at Kings Road Cafe? Maybe Laura, an actress, and Sarah are on the set. Maybe Jodyne, a writer and producer, is at Starbucks, writing on her Mac laptop. I'm watching my preschoolers learning Israeli dances, my heart filled to bursting. Count back 10 hours ... 11 p.m. Maybe they're going to sleep. Maybe out with friends.
When our daily lives somehow intersect -- phone, e-mail, Skype -- I am happy. Lately, I've heard my sisters' names spoken in my workplace here, on Ketura. Sarah and Laura are hosting a fundraiser for The Arava Institute for Environmental Studies -- which is on our kibbutz -- and where my office is located. The institute brings together Palestinian, Jordanian, Israeli, North American and other students for a year of study in order to meaningfully address the most pressing issues of our time -- peace and the environment. It is a place, in this desert of prophets, from which voices still speak out against the abuses of our time. My sisters share these concerns, so I asked Sarah to do a fundraiser. Of course she said yes. She might be famous, but I'm still the oldest and, as our parents say, "head sister." We are very hierarchical that way. To this day, when we ride in cars together, none of my sisters would ever sit up front instead of me.
Sarah asked the whole cast to participate -- which includes our sister Laura -- and, in addition, Roseanne Barr. A fundraiser was born! I am proud of their professional success, but most proud of their goodness. They're mensches.
"Bitch, bastard, damn, s--t." Okay, her menschiness has never taken a traditional form. But the crowds roared. The performer was 2-year-old Sarah. The stage was our living room. The set was our father's lap on one of our giant round sponges -- 1970s artsy chairs -- in orange and beige stripes, upon the bright green carpet of our living room. The audience was our house full of volunteers for the 1972 McGovern presidential campaign, home at the end of a long day before the general election.
Sarah's ear-length, jet-black hair and pale skin emphasized her big brown eyes, and she smiled so that every tiny tooth sparkled. Who wouldn't laugh when this beautiful toddler -- all eyes and smiles -- swore like a longshoreman? A recipe for success? Our mother didn't seem to think so. She rolled her eyes in mock disapproval as our father beamed. We, her big sisters, couldn't believe our luck -- this juxtaposition of adorable and crude. It was genius. We couldn't get enough of it.
We had her perform for everyone. At large family gatherings, our Nana would say, "don't let her say that," but stood -- transfixed, smiling -- like the rest of us. Nana didn't always love what came out of Sarah's mouth and knew exactly whom to lay into when she went "too far" -- her son, our father. One Saturday afternoon, Sarah sat in the family room, tush on heels, her elbows leaning on the yellow plastic coffee table. Nana stood in the doorway and said, "Sarah, what are you coloring?"
Sarah (focused on her work): "A house."
Nana: "Guess what? I brought some brownies for you."
Sarah (still focused on her work): "Shove 'em up your a--, Nana."
Throughout the years Laura, Jodyne and I loved to make Sarah perform. Even when she was a preteen she was the size of a 9-year-old, so the juxtaposition of cute and inappropriate still worked. A long-time favorite was "Time Warp" from the "Rocky Horror Picture Show": "...and do the pelvic thru-ust, until it drives you insay-ay-ay-ay-ane. Let's do the time warp again,..." One night, the four of us performed it as a sister act at the local White Horse Tavern. The audience -- rural New Hampshire diners out for an evening -- stared in, well, horror.
We didn't care. Then, like now, our favorite audience is ourselves. When all four sisters are together, we lie on our mother's bed, with our mother, Beth Ann O'Hara, and stepmother, Janice Silverman, and talk and laugh. The fathers (Donald and our step-father, John) wander in and out, impatient for us to come into the living room with them and the grandchildren (my kids), but we want girl time. We want to laugh in the way we only laugh with each other. Now my older daughters, Aliza and Hallel, pile on as well. It makes us all happy that a third generation is growing to laugh with us.
As kids we were more likely to sing at the White Horse Tavern than in synagogue. We did not have a religious upbringing, and my parents and sisters still marvel at my having become a rabbi. We sisters associated being Jewish with being liberal. That's how the lines were drawn in our New Hampshire culture: Christians celebrate Christmas and vote Republican. Jews celebrate Chanukah and vote Democratic.