Why Write?

Not too long ago, filmmaker Joel Coen said,“One of the pleasures of movies is creating a world . . . it gives you a license to do certain things.” While the most common explanation offered as to why people feel the need to write is to communicate, I think the reasons may often be closer to Coen's description of the pleasures of filmmaking. The creation of a world. The license to do certain things.

There are those who claim they wouldn't know where to start if they were to write and others who can not stop themselves. There were years when I wrote consistently, followed by years of responsibilities that left little time to create worlds in my mind, let alone write about them. And then, something remarkable happened. Just as some of the demands on my time lifted, a story was dropped before me. As touched on in other posts here, the details about my mother's birth family contain enough material for at least three novels or screenplays. Yet, every time I begin writing a semi-fictionalized version about it in one form or another, new information is discovered that changes things. The revelations usually make things more intriguing and often less plausible, yet true. It feels like trying to grab hold of water.

In the meantime, I started writing about other things, other people and places. I began my blog and worked on short screenplays. I completed the NaNoWriMo challenge of writing a 50,000 word, 175 page novel in one month. It felt comfortable to be back in that place where you can move between your reality and an alternate reality that's being built line by line, page by page. And sometimes deleted and rebuilt as something entirely different.

When I was looking for a graphic for this post, I inadvertently found myself looking at photos, sketches, and paintings of women writing in a variety of places, from a number of centuries. Studying the images is fascinating. Who were these women? What were they writing? Letters, stories, prayers, poetry,...confessions? One thing that seemed consistent was that each one was engrossed in her writing. It was as if the passion to express or create something on paper was the common thread that tied women writers together from ancient Greece to the present. In the painting I finally settled on, there's a duality. While one woman writes fervently at a table, her servant looks out the window. One is looking out at the world as it is, the other perhaps writing about an entirely different world. Whatever she wrote may have never been read and was most probably lost in time. Yet her image remains, pen to paper, writing without end.

Dark Eyes: The Search for My Grandmother

After twenty-four years of trying to find information about my mother's birth mother, I suddenly received an email from her other granddaughter three years ago and I thought my search had reached a definitive conclusion. I was wrong. It turned out that my grandmother had lived a life very much apart from that of her known four children. And my newly-found cousin and I decided to roll up our sleeves and work together to figure out what our grandmother's life had really been like. In the back of my mind, I still needed to know the identity of my grandfather. I was and remain motivated in that pursuit.

In the 1920's, Ada B**** gave birth to my mother and her twin brother in a Chicago maternity home two doors down from where the St. Valentine's Day Massacre would occur. It was the same hospital where John Dillinger's girlfriend gave birth. In the 1930's, the family told me, my grandmother could walk into any nightclub in Miami Beach and, upon seeing her arrival, the bandleader would immediately start playing the Russian gypsy song Dark Eyes. I had to wonder: Who was this woman? Where did she come from? Where to start?

90 percent of my research success has come from the internet. After finding an early census in which her name was listed as "Ida B****" instead of Ada, I began searching with the new spelling. And, in a Cedar Rapids, Iowa online newspaper archive, I found her. Ida B****, the "pretty fifteen year old" girl from Minneapolis had been tracked down with her twenty-one year old boyfriend. From the multiple stories printed as the 1920 story unfolded, it went something like this: A young medic fresh from WWI was stationed at Fort Snelling in Minneapolis. There, he met and fell in love with Ida, who was "attending business school at the West Hotel". The solider had questioned her age, but had been assured by Ida and her friends that she was "almost eighteen". They met in secret for months, then ran away together to get married.

There was a problem. Ida's father discovered their correspondence in her bedroom and set off in pursuit of his fifteen year old daughter. Successful owner of a Minneapolis scrap metal and auto supplies business, Sam B**** arrived late at night in Cedar Rapids, offering $500 to anyone who would tell him where his daughter was. At the time, the average annual income was $1236.00. The two were discovered and brought to police station for questioning.

This is where the story gets even more interesting. The police interview with the soldier paints a portrait of a terrified and confused young man. He explains that he truly believed Ida when she'd said she was almost eighteen, that he wanted to marry her, and that more than anything, "I just love the girl". Then, the paper printed an interview with Ida. She's very sketchy on details, but apparently, while it turned out the soldier was broke, a well-off dentist had just treated her to breakfast in a good restaurant. As for the soldier? "I don't care if he goes to prison now," was her non-chalant response. And he did. Two years of hard labor at Leavenworth. And Ida? Months later, she was married to the first of her three husbands.

Sometimes, in light of a discovery, I overlook a detail. Re-reading the articles, I thought it strange that Ida would have attended "business school" at the West Hotel. So, last week, I did research on the West Hotel, which had been demolished in 1940. The prominent fact about it in that era seems to be that Isadore Blumenfeld aka the notorious crime lord, Kid Cann, had run all of his operations out the the West Hotel in the 1920's. I spoke with a librarian at the Minnesota Historical Society and, after consulting an old city directory, it was clear there was no "school" operated in the West Hotel, just Kid Cann's businesses that were usually used as fronts. To those of you who watch Boardwalk Empire, he ran his operations from the West Hotel just as Nucky Thompson ran his in Atlantic City. And, for those of you who don't watch Boardwalk Empire, think of Kid Cann's position in Minneapolis being parallel to that of Al Capone in Chicago or Charlie "Lucky" Luciano in New York. "Business school" indeed.

I know my grandmother was smart. As an adult, she left almost nothing of a paper trail. She frequently changed the spelling of her surname and would randomly use the surnames of former husbands. You won't find her on a census or a voting register. But, she could have never imagined the information available on the internet. She could have never known that she'd have granddaughters in hot pursuit of the truth and that they'd question older relatives who still have clear memories. We know the geographic path of her life now: Minneapolis to Chicago to Miami Beach to Key West to Jamaica to Los Angeles and back to Miami. And, little by little, the puzzle pieces are fitting together to form a very unexpected picture.

The Rise and Notorious Downfall of Aunt Kay

It's true. My reaction to many of my discoveries of my recently-found-mother's-side-of-the- family has been something like, "What? What?!? WHAT?!?!" I've shared a few stories with a handful of people. Other revelations have remained in the family until we have time to process the information. My cousin and I have become a detective team, opening cold case files others never knew about. Or never spoke about. Understandably, I have to be careful about what I write when it could affect other members of the family. But, it's been agreed that I could safely write about Aunt Kay Brunell. After all, that was never her real name in the first place.

Technically, Aunt Kay is my great aunt, only sibling of my grandmother. The younger of the two by a couple years, Aunt Kay was born Kate B**** to Lithuanian-Jewish immigrants. In her teens, Kate moved from Minneapolis to Chicago, writing obituaries for The Chicago Herald.

Suddenly, Kate B**** disappeared. In the 1930 U.S. Census, she reappeared under the identity she would claim for the rest of her life: Kay Brunell, "author of books", daughter of an Anglo-sounding couple from Pennsylvania. In the next paper trail we've found, she was living alone in New York City in a Park Avenue apartment. A fashion editor for film and fashion magazines, there are newspaper articles about her attending rooftop parties at the Pierre Hotel and suing another hotel for refusing to allow her Beddlington terrier to stay there with her.

When she was very young, my cousin visited Aunt Kay in her spectacular apartment. She remembers Kay smoking a cigarette in a long holder while my cousin felt the soft fur coats that filled a whole closet. Aunt Kay, in her deep, raspy voice, commented, "Maybe someday you'll have a closet full of fur coats, too."

But, soon after that, things began getting shaky. The tide of good fortune that had carried Kay along for decades was shifting. Instead of working for fashion and film magazines, she became a fashion editor for True Romance, a pulp fiction publication. She soon left that position to become a stockbroker. The house of cards she'd built was about to collapse.

In the 1961, Kay registered with the SEC to become the sole proprietor of Kay Brunell Securities Company, 277 Park Avenue, New York. And, her registration was denied by the SEC due to the small fact that she'd been using fraudulent claims to sell shares in a shady Florida racetrack. As my cousin and I frantically did more research, we discovered that soon after the SEC rejection, Aunt Kay's long-term boyfriend was involved in a headline-making stock market scandal. The trial lasted 11 months, the longest federal case on record at the time. There were indictments and plea bargains. And it was just about then that Kay contacted Christie's auction house to sell an original Sir Joshua Reynolds oil painting that had hung in her lavish apartment.

It's difficult to track the next seven years of Aunt Kay's life. Without children and having lived an invented life, there are no photos of her since childhood--aside from a few, grainy, unflattering newspaper pictures. We know she died in 1971, alone, penniless, and in pain, in a shoddy nursing home in Miami. She'd been put there, then ignored, by her sister. My grandmother.

To be honest, my grandmother's story is more exciting and dangerous than Aunt Kay's. But, it's so complex and there are so many privacy factors to consider that I always feel thwarted when I try to write about it. It may be easiest to fictionalize parts of it. In fact, it may be best if I used a pen name for it. The alias K. Brunell comes to mind as being perfectly appropriate.

Private Literature

Earlier today, I came across an Aldous Huxley quote I particularly liked: "Every man's memory is his private literature." I'm not sure which I initially liked best, the idea of literature being mined from memory or the concept of "private literature". The more I thought about the statement, I realized Huxley had, of course, meant both things are one.

Even among the most outwardly unexceptional people, all lives trace a story. Some contain more characters than one can easily track, others follow plot lines that can only be described as convoluted. Some are full of description where nothing seems to happen, unless you're patient enough to read between the lines. I'm not sure writers can create anything meaningful without the work being influenced and shaped by some person, place, or thing in their past. Memory is so often synonymous with inspiration, even if it's the recollection of something heard, seen or read.

"...private literature." Never entirely private, is it? Almost everything we've experienced has been a shared event, even the once-forgotten moments that play back clearly and unexpectedly in our minds. I know that in my "private literature" collection of memory, there are some amazingly poignant stories waiting to be told. And, in some cases, the stories will never materialize. They come from shared libraries and cannot be borrowed without special permission. Like an ancient manuscript, some moments are too fragile to touch. Best to leave them on a high shelf, both acknowledged and undisturbed.

Fortunately, there still remains much to be revisited and reworked and rewritten until it becomes something new on its own terms. I think of some of my migratory paths: From an idyllic childhood in Buffalo, New York to being greeted daily by the doorman at our apartment building in Washington, D.C. to trudging through deep snow in a remote town in the north woods of Wisconsin to Philadelphia to a small city in the South.

I consider the people I've known from so many walks of life, on such different career tracks, holding varied beliefs and motivations. There are the moments that felt frozen in time as they happened, from the across-the-room realization that my then-boyfriend would be the man I'd eventually marry to the phone call telling me my mother had died an hour earlier in a car accident. There are the highs and lows that make up cherished friendships and the expansive reach of family. Memory can be like an endless web that starts with one experience, then continues to include all who had been a part of it and their individual pasts. And everyone's private literature contains stories worth telling.

Skepticism, Trust, and Donald Trump

Sometimes, I think I worry too much about my son. Yes, that's an understatement among mothers. I suppose I have the standard-issue concerns, but one of my biggest ones is that he's so trusting. Too trusting. He believes in the best in everyone and it would never occur to him that anyone, other than a costumed arch villain, could wish anyone harm or have ulterior motives.

When he was nine, for some long lost reason, we'd watched the first season of Donald Trump's The Apprentice. It was the first time that Thomas had ever seen anyone show so much arrogance, so much posturing, so much Trumpness. Yet, he was excited that Donald Trump was giving up his "valuable time" to help the career of a hard-working, smart individual. Of course, there could be no other motive. At this time, we had a trip scheduled for New York City. Looking at pictures of our hotel online, Thomas noticed we were not too far from Trump Tower and happily detected a McDonald's in the hotel's background. My son is a notoriously picky eater and, at that age, he needed the reassurance of a McDonald's as back-up. So, it was all perfect in his mind. He'd invite Donald Trump to lunch at McDonald's. He'd saved his allowance, he'd be able to treat. So he asked me to help him find Donald Trump's address.

I admit it. I balked. I explained that not only was there no way this idea would ever become a reality, but his letter would probably get trashed. At Thomas' insistence, we found the address and he carefully wrote out his invitation, including the tempting offer of a free Happy Meal PLUS an apple pie. Thomas enclosed the most recent photo of himself so Donald Trump would recognize him at the restaurant. The photo had been from Disney World. A picture with Chip, of Chip and Dale fame. Thomas added a p.s. that he was the one in the photo who wasn't a chipmunk.

No, the lunch never happened. But, much to my surprise and Thomas' satisfaction, he received a letter from Donald Trump. Initially, I thought it was a form letter. Reading it, I wondered how many times he wrote: "Your invitation to treat me to lunch at McDonald's is appreciated..." Okay, so maybe it wasn't a form letter after all.

A couple of years later, we were in Minneapolis. While my husband was at a conference, we spent the day on our own. There was a restaurant I was interested in for dinner, and again with his caution of all unknown foods, Thomas and I were going to stop by during the day and look at their menu. Taking an unknown shortcut in a large, unfamiliar city isn't always the best idea. Suddenly, the street we were walking down looked a little...menacing. I realized we were the only two people on the block, aside from a couple of men several yards away who looked a little threatening. One glanced up and saw us. He whispered something to the other man, who glanced our way. Their stances changed.

I took Thomas' arm and whispered, "We're crossing the street here."

"But, we're not at the corner!"

"I know. I'll explain later, let's go."

I gave a quick look both ways and we started quickly crossing the street. Until the heel of my shoe got caught in a pothole and I fell down, my ankle so twisted I struggled to get up.

"Mom, the light just changed!"

As soon as Thomas said that, the two men I'd been avoiding hurried over. One held back cars while the other helped me to my feet.

"Are you okay? Are you able to walk?"

"Yes, thank you, I'll be fine."

So, I hobbled across the rest of the street and towards the restaurant, which was nearby now.

"Mom, were those guys who just helped you the ones you didn't want us to walk past?"

I looked at him. I felt ashamed. In his eyes, I could see mild reproach and concern. He understood why I'd reacted the way I did, but wished I could be more trusting, see the best in people.

Sometimes, I think my son worries too much about me.

Be Who You Were Born To Be

We've all heard or read the words, "Be who you were born to be," at one time or another. It's a kind of shared wisdom that just keeps getting passed on--sometimes skipped over, other times thought deeply about.

Be who you were born to be. On the surface, it seems like it should be the easiest of goals. What happens fairly soon after you're born, however, is that other people begin deciding who you should be. Initially, it's the do this and don't do thats which build the track on which you're permitted to operate. Almost as soon as they can speak, after being asked about age and general health, children are usually asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" It's there that it starts, the mental handcuffs uniting who you are, your personhood, with your career. The real question being asked is what do you want your job to be?

There was a period when I was very young when I would alternately answer the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" with either "A doctor." or "A go-go dancer." The latter would invariably trigger my mother's immediate, "Karla, that's inappropriate," response. And I'd argue, "But, Mom, they're so happy--and they dance in cages!" My father was less than pleased when he discovered I'd handed out my business cards at school, stating "M.D." after my name. In crayon. I was seven and just trying on the various roles. Though, late at night, I'd write down small poems and stories I'd thought of that day, trying to distract myself from the task of choosing a career.

I'm not sure how old I was when it dawned on me that "writer" could be included on the career options list. When it did, it was an epiphany. Wasn't that what I was always doing anyway? Imagining fanciful worlds during the day and writing about them at night? Somehow, close on the heels of the revelation, came a shadow. No, it seemed "writer" was not really a solid choice. It was a little too ethereal, like wanting to be a muse or a philosopher. One could give it a little more weight by stating "journalist" as the goal. But, simply reporting who, what, why, when, where, and how held little appeal. I was fortunate to have parents who encouraged me in my creative pursuits, but other influences dampened my enthusiastic rush to be a writer. It got put on hold.

Then, a new revelation occurred during my adult life. I stopped identifying people by their careers. I had no idea what the volunteer at the animal shelter did during her weekday life. The soccer coach who kept encouraging our son when he was frustrated? No idea what job brought him a salary. There's something so freeing about getting to know people based on their compassion, the ideas, their humor...and not even thinking to ask what they do for a living.

Imagine the thoughtful, creative replies one would hear if children weren't asked how they're going to make money as an adult, but what kind of person they hope to be.

Somewhere along the way, I began to identify myself as a writer again. Certainly not because I'm earning enough money writing to support myself on it. But, because it's what I do with meaning, what I feel compelled to do. And, deep down, there's an encouraging voice that being a writer is what I was born to be. That's the voice I listen to now.

What The Rabbi Said To Me

Last April, the rabbi and I sat down, he behind his desk, me facing him.

"So, Karla, what brings you here today? Tell me what has transpired that you're now sitting across from me."

For a moment, I was taken aback. How could I possibly explain everything in one sitting? I glanced over my shoulder at my cousins, the Berkowitzes, who smiled and nodded their heads in encouragement. I looked to my other side, at my husband and son, who waited expectantly for me to begin. I had to collect my thoughts. After all, how was it that I was now sitting in a rabbi's office, the synagogue bright with the Los Angeles sunshine, with relatives I didn't know I had two years ago?

"My mother and her twin brother had been adopted." I began, "My sister and I looked for over twenty years to find our mother's birth family without success. Three years ago, through an extraordinary chain of events, someone from my mother's birth family--my cousin--contacted me and the whole story began to unfold. My grandmother was Jewish and, according to the DNA tests from my male cousin, my grandfather was Jewish as well. As I did more research, I found my relatives, the Berkowitzes."

I paused. "I was raised as a nominal Protestant. In my mid-thirties, I had a conversion to Catholicism. I'm not here because I'm thinking of converting to Judaism, but because I want to know more about the heritage and faith of my ancestors. It's such a rich legacy and it seems tragic that all of it was discarded in one generation. I've been trying to incorporate some Jewish cultural traditions into my life, like baking challah, to somehow, in some small way, honor my ancestors. So, the reason I'm here is to learn more about my maternal heritage."

The rabbi was quiet for a moment as he thoughtfully considered what I'd told him. Then, he slowly leaned forward and we looked at each other.

"You are a Jew," he said simply. "Now, I have no idea if those words will make you want to jump up and rejoice or make you recoil in horror or something in between the two, but the fact is, you are a Jew. I'm not talking about religious conversion. Of course, those with no Jewish relatives who make a sincere religious conversion, we also consider to be fully Jewish. But, being Jewish is not simply following a religion. It is not a race. It is a people. The fact is that your grandmother was Jewish, your mother was Jewish, and you are as well."

The rabbi's words reminded me of a joke a Jewish friend told me: A hijacker took over an El-Al plane, the Israeli airline. Gun in the air, he looked around the cabin and demanded, "Who here is a Jew?" The passengers looked at each other. Then, one man spoke. "That's a very complicated question."

We moved on to the main sanctuary itself. The rabbi spoke of a number of things, but I realized I was starting to feel overwhelmed by all the knowledge I desired, the vastness of my ancestors' religious traditions and teachings. He brought out the Torah, an act which made me feel deeply privileged. He explained how each Torah is written by hand, usually by one person, using vegetable dye on vellum. Nothing man-made. The vellum pages are sewn together with a needle made of quill, as metal could represent an armament of war. And, if the scribe makes a mistake on the last letter of the last page, the Torah copy must be discarded and a new one begun. I stood looking down at the ocean of Hebrew letters, not able to identify one of them. Yet, my grandmother was born to a family who spoke Yiddish as their primary language.

I remember my feelings at the moment: everything was new, yet on some level, familiar. Things seemed distant, and at the same time, I knew I had to bring them close enough that I could learn. For myself, for my son, for my ancestors.