Share the Stories. Help the Helpers.

Proem

In 1942, when my mom was 15, she went into hiding lest she be exterminated. She left her life, her identity, her history behind. What did hiding mean? In her words, Never go near a window, never talk above a whisper — if talking at all was safe. Not walk other than on tiptoe — if walking was safe at all. And, of course, never go outside unless I had to change hiding places. And all that for three years. Which must have been unbelievably anguishing for a teenager. I say ‘must have been’ because my survival mechanism was denial, total and absolute — except for one outburst.

My mother was a fantastic piece of work. I get my pathological optimism, apocalyptic thinking honestly. I never heard from her about her experiences in hiding until I was in my twenties. She had stories she told about herself to us, her kids, stories she told about herself to her friends, and different stories about herself to herself. When I was about ten, my dad and grandmother started to tell stories about my mom and the holocaust. Although that’s probably true for most people, you can imagine all these stories were different and changed over time.

Introducing Susan Fantl Spivack

When I think stories, I conjure Susan Fantl Spivack, poet/storyteller/teaching artist, and community activist, taught creative…