My not being a big fan of organized religion has less to do with being the daughter of a Holocaust survivor than it does my aversion to organized anything, except perhaps, chaos.  It also has to do with my being a seeker.  I spent the first two decades of my life hearing and believing one version of the truth as it was told/explained/offered and served to me and the next three unraveling, dissecting and uncovering another one.  I am spinning my yarn in reverse.

When you grow up in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood and your father is the local poster boy for Holocaust survival, you wear a certain badge of honor and earn the guilt by association that comes along with it. As if by extension, family members are defined by this label, without most people having any understanding of the fibers or material from which the cloth is woven.  How much of it is organic or manufactured?  Is it raw or processed?  Does the suit feel as well as it looks or is it over worn?  Whether you like it or not, it’s assigned to you and every day you wake up, take attendance, become that person and dress your part, even if the bigger part of who you really are is often notably absent.

At the corner of my street lived a family, the matriarch of which was also a Holocaust survivor.  Her daughter Susie was my age and we attended the same school.  We attempted friendship in an awkward way but never actually managed it.  The knowingness we shared about our lives behind closed doors was not enough and we could tell the difference.  We just couldn’t talk about it.

I can remember going over to her house to play on a few occasions and being struck by the fact that as maniacally clean as our home was at all times, hers was downright sterile.  The kitchen on the main floor was, for lack of a better description, simply for “show”.  Absolutely no cooking or food preparation took place in that showroom.  Meals were prepared in a secondary kitchen in the basement.  It too, was spotless.  In fact, the entire house was haunted by disinfectant, cleanliness and ghosts of horrible memories that could not be washed or chased away.  The sheets were changed daily. Even when someone else makes your bed and you lie in it, fresh, clean sheets can’t cover up the truth.

Susie and I shared an unspoken understanding that the single commonality between our parents was the source of our own and included everything from shame, pride, fear and mystery to tension, unanswered questions, confusion and uneasiness.  To walk on eggshells around someone for a few hours is an exercise in restraint.  Being raised walking around and avoiding silent landmines was one of our normal, everyday “rewards”.  In the end, it seemed easier to do it in our own respective houses than inside each other’s.  The choreography in the home of Holocaust survivors is determined by the lead dancer.  Everybody else just follows.  No costume changes are allowed.

I have turned my wardrobe inside out, restitched sections and seen how its invisible pattern discovered clever ways to repeat itself without any sign of a seamstress’ hand.  For so many years, I watched myself be altered by it until I decided to undress myself completely so my skin could finally breathe.  The uniform of being a Holocaust survivor’s daughter is not one I choose to wear to identify myself, even though it is a part of who I am.  It hangs in the closet of reminders.

I have many others keeping it company.

Note: Originally published on Open Salon and kindly shared by Patricia Smith.

Photo by Faithful Chant