A faith of my own
The pages of the frayed old
children’s book peek out of my
nightstand, begging to be read once
again. Prepared for the overflow
of emotions and tears that I know
are on their way, I wipe my eyes,
put on my glasses and open the
little white drawer. Inscribed on
the inside of the book — written
in my grandpa’s curly, comforting
cursive — is a short poem:
Dearest Emily,
May the wind be at your back,
Let no grass grow under your feet,
Spread your wings and learn to fly,
Let your boundary be the sky.
Thoughts with love from Aunt Liz
My copy of the 1980 children’s
book “The Paper Bag Princess” is
only one of many my grandparents
sent out. In an effort to send Liz’s
love to a generation she will never
meet, my grandparents mailed out
copies of this feminist-in-training
story to all of her friends as they
had children. The story itself
takes the classic fairytale and
flips it on its head: when Princess
Elizabeth’s husband-to-be Ronald
is captured by a dragon, Elizabeth
outsmarts the dragon, rescues her
fiance and then proceeds to dump
him because he’s honestly a real
asshole (my words, not the book’s).
She runs off into the sunset in her
paper bag gown and scraggly tiara,
joyful as can be. Elizabeth learns
to fend for herself and realizes that
she does not need a judgemental,
snobby prince to keep her in line,
for she is stronger than he will ever
be. What makes her a princess is
not the beautiful gown she wears
and the massive castle she lives in,
but her ability and drive to forge
her own path.
I tuck the book back into its
crevice in my crowded drawer and
finally get out of bed. We have to
be at the temple in less than an
hour, and I am nowhere near ready.
My mom struggles to zip up the
dress I swore still fit me, and to my
own embarrassment, my 12-year-
old brother comes in to help her.
Once it finally zips shut, I can
feel my chest being pushed back
into itself. It is unclear whether or
not I will have the oxygen supply
to make it through a two-hour
service in this dress. One thing
Liz and I do not happen to share
is our cup size. But it once fit her,
so I insist it will fit me. I slip into
high heels that I cannot walk in
and hobble out the door alongside
my family.
I have never had the privilege
of meeting my Aunt Liz myself.
What little I know about her
comes from teary anecdotes told
by my grandparents and old photo
albums I can barely stomach
looking through. I know much
more about the pain my family
endures having lost a loved one at
the tragically young age of 28.
She was kind, and sensitive,
and thoughtful, and much more.
She went to Cornell and then
Harvard to study public health
in hopes of setting up children
for healthier futures. She loved
the outdoors and grew up skiing
with her family. She saw right
through all of the bullshit thrown
at her growing up and instead
focused on finding true friends.
She cried to my grandparents
about problems with her friends
and feeling overwhelmed by the
world in the same way that I do.
She understood the importance of
being authentic and in tune with
her heart. She was a beautiful,
inquisitive soul who had a simple
love for exploring the world and all
its wonders. And the world loved
her back for as long as it could.
The temple lobby is as antiqued
and musty as ever. The dusty brown
carpeting, the abstract art donated
by half-hearted temple dues – all
of it is the same as whenever I had
been here last. As we take our seats
in the giant, stained glass-adorned
synagogue, we grab prayer books
filled with Hebrew that not even
the Bar Mitzvah boy himself
understands.
Before they have the chance
to take their socially distanced
seats, my maternal grandparents
come running towards me with
love radiating from their teary
eyes. They know I was planning
on wearing her dress, but that
doesn’t
stop
their
emotions
from overflowing all over their
disposable masks.
This
dress
had
not
even
originally been owned by Liz; she
found it at a thrift store (another
hobby we share). A few years
back, we were sorting through
my grandparents’ closet when we
stumbled upon this simple little
flapper-esque dress. My grandma
raved about how proud Liz was
of this absolute steal of a Nicole
Miller original dress. I had been
waiting for the right occasion to
wear it ever since.
The service began with the
booming voice of our rabbi as he
welcomed my brother Ethan to the
bema (stage) to begin the service.
After
months
of
memorizing
Hebrew, he would finally be
symbolically indoctrinated into
manhood! He worked hard, he
sang everything flawlessly and,
best of all, he got sent a lot of
checks from old family friends he
wouldn’t recognize. The beauty of
the reform Jewish Bar Mitzvah.
After he finished his Torah
portion, Ethan returned to his seat
and the rabbi took the lead once
again.
“As per the family’s request, we
will now recite the Mourner’s
Kaddish, in honor of Ethan’s Aunt
Liz.”
It was the uncontrollable kind
of
crying.
The
tears-silently-
streaming-down-your-face-
without-having-to-push-them-out
kind of crying. The remembering-
the-baby-pictures-of-her,
sitting-
next-to-my-mom-and-wondering-
what-could-have-been
kind
of crying. And it was hitting
everyone. This was a wonderful
day celebrating familial love and
the ascendance into adulthood, yet
it was clear that someone was still
missing from the equation. And I
was wearing that someone’s old
dress.
Thursday, June 3, 2021
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com STATEMENT
BY EMILY BLUMBERG
Design by Katherine Lee
Read more at michigandaily.com
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