MEMORIAL FOR ELINORA G. ROSENBERG
THE BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE
BY HER SON, ROGER E. ROSENBERG
FEB. 16, 1998
Memorial for Mom: the Beauty of Language
I feel as though words will not do justice to my thoughts and feelings at such a time–that words cannot express what I am feeling. Great sadness, approaching emotional trauma, tends to block the usual flow of thoughts and I feel tempted to beg off with “I’m sorry but I’m so distraught I cannot say anything.”
But then I realize my mom would not be content with such a view. Words can say a-plenty, even when we are under stress. We so badly want a tribute on such a momentous occasion to be perfect! We fear to write much for fear we cannot write anything–that we cannot possibly do justice to mom’s life and her many wonderful qualities. I think, though, that once I start, the love felt for Mom by her family and friends gathered here today will help make sense of these remarks.
Whether or not our words capture perfectly all that we want to say, we can still use them to make a start to get our meaning across. Our words will not fall on deaf but sympathetic ears. In reaching out to others during our moments of grief, we create a bridge of sympathy and support. Or so we continue to trust, hope, and believe.
II
Is there any humor in death? No, not much; perhaps, not any. At least not at the time of the departure of a loved one. There is only grief and pain at the separation.
There is a great reluctance to let go, a stubborn clinging to hope even after official medical word has arrived that life has been extinguished, a frantic reviewing and reordering of the events of the final ten days, a desperate search to find some fact or thought or memory missed, as though that will tip the balance of time back towards life for a few more seconds–
there is even a panicky effort made to try and remember events more accurately while dealing with the emotional highs and lows of that last roller-coaster ride of grief and hope; there are tremulous thoughts and emotions which threaten to overwhelm our best efforts to maintain our reason, our our sanity, intact.
There is the Sorrow itself, at times so intense as to be positively frightening, when one has doubts if he has the ability to handle the tidal wave of grief that engulfs on all sides. Vaguely, as through a misty haze at some great distance, one perceives there are stages of grief to court and endure.
Acceptance of the finality of Mom’s death remains the first and hardest step. One wishes to cry out “No! I can’t and won’t accept it!” but in the end, accept it we must. Then, an equally difficult step comes next: notifying others who do not yet know and who must be told, to let them know mom passed. We must open up and prepare ourselves for the genuine outpouring of love and affection for Mom from others, to us.
Turning to others for support and comfort becomes the last great step in response to the death of a loved one–a step that brings some relief, thankfully, for it allows the bereaved to focus scattered energies once again on reality: the so-called “practical side” of life. It is a healthy stage of grieving, yet one still full of emotional scars and internal turmoil.
At first I am taken by surprise by the depth of emotion, the passion and love, expressed by Mom’s friends–but then I quickly realize “Of course!” In my mind she is the most wonderful mom in the world but I don’t fully believe that other people could have seen and understood these qualities of hers as clearly as Dad, Robin, and myself have seen them.
It takes only a short time to realize that many other people besides her immediate family have sen them and discovered for themselves what a truly great person Mom was, and they treasured her friendship and love in the same way we did, and do.
Another stage of grief: Time. Yes, time therapy, for lack of a better term: a hard stage, perhaps the hardest, as one waits for time to pass to help heal and speed recovery . . . but it passes so damn slowly. I went through this intense grieving once before with Jill Holden’s untimely death, the woman with whom I was madly in love.
Every minute was like an hour, every hour like a day, every day like a year. Time passed god awful slowly, as it does again now, as we reflect upon and miss the one we loved most of all.
They say the passing of time will help but one doesn’t know for sure if this is true. Now, as then, the verse of an old Ray Charles song breaks into my consciousness:
“They say that time heals a broken heart/but time has stood still since we’ve been apart.”
Is time moving or standing still in the aftermath of Mom’s death? Sometimes I cannot tell.
However, these remarks are not meant to be about the stages of grief but about Mom. I think those of you gathered together here want to hear from my father and sister, if they are able to talk at all. I imagine you would like to hear some of the family stories which we can provide, since others no doubt will describe her humor, intelligence, and compassion.
Her political life would take a book in itself. I think we all understand what her politics were and what a fighter she was on behalf of social justice generally, and the working-class most especially.
What I propose to do is divide the remainder of my remarks into two parts: first, my own words, and then, read to you directly from her own writings.
I will not go so far as to say my Mom had a secret life, a la James Bond or Walter Middy or some kind of secret agent. (By the way, if there are any FBI agents among you this is meant as humor, please don’t feel a need to write it down).
Yet Mom did have a wider range of interests and talents than most people realize. Seeing her as a grandmother, as an Elder, we don’t think of her as particularly athletic but many years ago, in school, she played basketball and she was an excellent swimmer who could swim laps effortlessly.
This is especially intriguing to me since Mom could swim like a fish and the rest of us–Dad, Robin, myself–are pretty poor swimmers. She tried to teach me the secret of good breathing technique once when I was little but I was a born landlubber and made no real headway with it.
It’s enough of a joy to watch someone else glide gracefully through the water, arms moving in a steady rhythm, feet kicking up a proper splash, head rhythmically dipping and breathing and watch all these various components flowing together naturally to make such a beautiful poetic motion. Mom swam gracefully and this is a pleasant memory of her that I always shall cherish!
Or, others might not know of her writing ability. My mom appreciated the beauty of language; I think it was one of her greatest joys. To use language well, to express thoughts and feelings with purpose, this is the real wealth of humanity. Not just logical precision, as important as that is-but to drink in the poetry and literary art of countless great writers–whether American, Russian, French, or other nationality–this was a source of great pleasure to her.
She was more than a discerning reader; she was also a writer herself. In her senior years, she took book-sharing and writing classes–and from these came priceless stories, some about her early life. I believe they are very well-written by anyone’s standard, as you may judge for yourself shortly.
I might add here, that my Mom was a college graduate from Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio. At a time when she already had a family to take care of, she returned to college to get her diploma. She earned Magna Cum Laude honors, “with great praise”, the Latin phrase used to signify graduation with high honors from a university.
One of the few times she ever expressed a measure of personal disappointment to me was over this very matter–there is a higher ranking, called Summa Cum Laude, which she desired but did not receive. As I believe she had nothing but A’s, she was perplexed as to how someone else–this other fellow–could have had a higher grade point average than her. Yes, Mom was a gentle and kind soul but she remained competitive when she chose!
She received her college degree and teaching credential in this manner; she worked first as a substitute and then as a high school English teacher. She subbed for my 7th grade Social Studies class once; the kids loved her and came a-thumping me on the back when the class was over. I appreciated their kind remarks but I was in a minor state of shock–Mom had to use a sharp tone of voice with me right at the start of the class period, a tone I had never heard before–indeed, did not know she possessed. Another student sitting behind me was pestering me with some questions and I finally made a half-turn to answer when I heard the sharpest “Roger!” I ever heard in my life!
Mind you, even after she started subbing and teaching she still had household chores to perform as well as her family to feed and guide; she was a great cook and everyone who ever had one of mom’s dinners would bubble over with enthusiasm and praise. My dad remarked that she considered the family “her proudest accomplishment”. We were a source of great joy to her but that does not change the fact that she also cooked and cleaned and took care of so many domestic duties in a highly efficient and cheerful manner.
Like her sister Ruth, Mom had a tremendous amount of energy. She was nearly always busy and our house was almost always impeccably clean and neat 99% of the time–and even cleaner right before company! Her unofficial motto: not a speck of dust anywhere!
By the way, in connection with her teaching, I feel I should mention a small incident that took place, the only time I ever heard of my mom using physical force to make a point. She herself was amazed at her own action for years afterwards. I imagine she was a very good teacher, one who could explain English grammar lessons clearly while stimulating young minds to pursue knowledge and appreciate the beauty of the English language. But even way back then, “in the good old days”, there were “naughty” students who did not pay attention and caused problems.
One such high school student was tall, wore a black leather jacket, inattentive, and chewed gum with defiant insolence–who behaved like a young “hoodlum”, to use my Mom’s term for him. Told to discard his gum, he chose to openly defy my Mom’s teaching authority. She often said later she did not know where she got the nerve to do what she did next but she walked down the aisle to his seat to face him down and when he continued to defy her, slapped him across the face.
This brought the young man to his senses and he got rid of the gum. This is the only story I know of in which my Mom hit someone for she was very gentle in all her relationships. Summoning the strength to deal with whatever the situation required, was very typical of her, as we all know.
To return to my main point: Mom taught English and, more than that, loved literature and all the forms of beautiful expression that went with it. An example of this love occurred after we moved to California from Ohio in 1960 and lived in a house with no less than 32 steps to the front door, on Mather Road.
On returning home from school–junior high–I heard my mom and dad reading from Sophocles’ magnificent play “Antigone” to one another, with my mom in the title role and Pop playing “the bad guy”, King Creon. They read it so beautifully, it was astonishing, like regular actors upon a stage!
The dramatic controversy–individual moral obligation versus the laws of the state–was not lost upon me a few years later when I reached draft age and resolved to refuse military service, let the chips fall where they may. (In such a manner can great literature influence modern decisions!)
To recapitulate briefly: two of Antigone’s brothers have fought and killed each other, under warlike conditions, one fighting against his own homeland. King Creon deemed this treason and refused to allow proper burial for the body, forbidding it with the punishment of death. Antigone was aware of the decree but felt a higher moral calling and defied the King in order to bury her brother and it was at this most dramatic part of the play–the showdown between the two–that I walked into the house and stood transfixed as mom and dad “had at it”, as they say!
Ultimately, she is condemned, but this artistic treatment of the right of conscience of the individual, in contradistinction to the needs of the state, soon achieved its rightful place as one of the great masterpieces in Greek literature.
In one way or another the theme has been with us ever since, with men such as John Stuart Mill, Henry David Thoreau, Mahatma Gandhi, Cesar Chavez, and Dr. Martin Luther King addressing the issue of civil disobedience and the manner in which it can be considered a justified form of protest and higher form of moral action.
Thus, I don’t make the claim lightly that Mom was a well-educated and widely-read person, for it is absolutely true. At the same time she learned to appreciate good writing in others, she also learned how to express herself creatively while employing many of the subtler aspects of the writer’s craft.
Which stories to read to you, then? This was my main dilemma. I have chosen two selections which I think you will enjoy and will break open a little more of her character and beliefs: one, from her memories as a child, growing up in a coal-mining region of western Pennsylvania; and the other, from her account of her 1985 cross-country trip to attend her 50th high school reunion.
I hope you will enjoy them.
Mom’s Own Words
Mom and her siblings had been orphaned and she was hopeful of finding her parents’ graves while on this trip. The following passage is taken from her story entitled “Roots–A Journey Home”: an account of her 1985 cross-country trip with Pop to attend her 50th high school reunion.
Although I first read the story alone at home, this passage struck me as so beautiful that, on my next visit, I asked her to read it to me, aloud. Then I felt perhaps I had blundered, that she would not be able to handle the tremendous emotion. But she took the story from me, glanced at the page I had chosen and began reading it aloud in a strong, full voice, without slip or fault. Picture Mom reading this to you, in her own voice:
“We arrived in Philipsburg to seek out the burial place of Mother and Father. We stopped at the Harbor Inn, which was not situated on a harbor and which was not an inn. Again, Lee was astonished–the hostess knew well my old relatives and family–friends from the 1920’s I wished to locate. I felt almost as if I were asking about mythological figures, so dusty and hazy were they in my memories. Yet their comings and goings were just routine to her.
“When we reached the cemetery, we began looking at stones and monuments all over, dismayed at the size of the place, despairing of ever finding what we were seeking. After considerable time had passed, we decided to confer with the young attendant. He took us into the office and began to go over records, explaining endlessly their system of filing. Lee, noting a marking on one of the cards, asked “What’s this?– ‘Hebrew’–” The young man, operating at the outer limits of his intelligence, stopped and exclaimed, “Oh, you’re looking for Hebrew persons– genuine, full-blooded Hebrews. Well, that’s a different story– they’re in a separate place– lemme show you.”
“We entered a gate alone to a peaceful sequestered place where the green leaves of the elm and maple trees rustled gently in the cooling breeze. The names were surprisingly familiar to me. There were no flowers, just grey marblestone markers. Since this cemetery was reserved for Orthodox Jewish people, the inscriptions were carved in Hebrew, a language I had forgotten a long time ago. However, we took special care to photograph the stones, confident others would translate for us on our return home.* When we found Mother and Father’s graves next to each other, the first thing I did was read the dates, as I needed this confirmation. I put my hands lovingly on both stones and spoke directly to them.
“Mother and Father, so this is where you’ve been all these years. This is where you were when I graduated from Glenville High, from Western Reserve U., and became the teacher you dreamed I would someday be; when I got married; when Robin and Roger were born; when all my suffering occurred at the hands of the Un-American Activities Committee, and when brother Billy died, so young . . . Now I know– I can go in peace, and you can rest in peace.”
“Winburne still lay ahead. What I wondered most was– was it still there? What would we find?”
__________________
* Mom’s hopes were later fulfilled; a woman professor of Hebrew at San Jose State, whom I contacted on their behalf, delivered a careful translation of the moving inscription.
If I had to sum up what I want to say about her life in one or two sentences, these are the sentences that I would choose:
My Mom was an American.
She lived her whole life proudly, as an American citizen.
With words, with the beauty of language, we both preserve and pass on to the next generation the acts and achievements of those who have gone before, showing us the way.
With words, we keep forever close to our hearts Mom’s many special qualities: intelligence, humor, kindness and compassion, to name a few. In the beauty of language, we find the richest ideas of all great mankind and the most cherished memories of dearly beloved ones.
By chance, she died on the birthday of a great American, Abraham Lincoln. Was it by chance, or was there a force greater than coincidence at work here? I cannot say; perhaps only time will tell.
That’s all; thank you all for coming. Roger
[Author’s note: these were my prepared remarks delivered at my mom’s memorial held at my cousin’s house in Oakland. I talked so much and took up so much time, I ended up skipping the first excerpt from one of Mom’s stories that I intended to read–so I’ve left it out here as well.]
