Alef: The NEXT Conversation
The Poetry of a Chalk Memorial
by Rachel Cahn
In 1911, the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory exemplified the terrible working experience of the average European immigrant in New York. The company employed hundreds of young women and subjected them to sweatshop labor conditions: long work days, no breaks, locked doors, and meager wages. While the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union was leading the charge for labor reform, the Triangle Shirtwaist Company vehemently opposed the union, firing any employee who spoke out in its favor. They ignored the need for better fire escapes, ventilation, and unlocked doors. On March 25, 1911, a fire broke out on the 8th floor and ripped through the building. In less than twenty-five minutes, employees, almost all women, either burned or jumped to their deaths to escape the flames.
The tragedy at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory spurred major change in the labor movement of the twentieth century. Literally burned into our civic memory, the unnecessary death of 146 young Jewish and Italian immigrant workers remains one of the most tragic accidents in American labor history.
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My day started much earlier than usual. At 8:30am I met “Chalk Man” in front of the Eldridge Synagogue on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. I was to follow Chalk Man as he participated in a memorial project dedicated to the victims of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire. The project, “Chalk,” was started in 2004 by Ruth Sergel, a local artist. The name of each person who lost their life in the fire is written in chalk outside the apartment (tenement) in which they lived. The project is “very decentralized and mysterious,” says Chalk Man, who has been participating for a few years. People who wish to participate contact Ruth via email, she sends names, ages, and addresses of victims, and what to do from there is up to the individual.
Chalk Man has his own ritual. He leaves his apartment before people start heading to work and begins chalking the names assigned to him. He tells me he wants people to see the names, not him writing them. For Chalk Man, it is not about the act of writing, but the reaction of the people viewing: people walking out their front doors in the morning, coming out of subway stations, crossing the street to get a cup of coffee, and looking down to see the names of real people who lived there before them – people who shared their neighborhood one hundred years ago. If the building where the person lived no longer stands, participants chalk anyway. It is a reminder that while New York City is forever changing, its history is what propels it into the future.
Later, I visited the site of the fire and watched the memorial parade. People wore the names of victims on sashes, held banners representing which union party they were from, and some even danced. Many sang and give speeches on a stage set up at the intersection of Washington Place and Greene Street. Though moving, the scene felt rehearsed after so many years. I appreciated the dedication of the event, but something about seeing “Joseph Wilson, age 22, lived here where 84 Chrystie stood, and died March 25, 1911 in the Triangle Factory Fire,” written in stark white chalk on the cold pavement, the author nowhere to be found, resonated much louder in my head and heart.
I found the whole experience quite poetic. It was so cold outside and the task of chalking the names is laborious, hard work. It took 30 minutes to complete each chalking; longer than it took to subdue the fire itself. I have seen many memorials dedicated to people whose lives have been lost, but none with such perfect irony.
Learn more about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire.
Photos by Beth Stebner.
Remembering the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire
The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire became one of the deadliest industrial disasters in the history of New York City on March 25, 1911 – the worst U.S. workplace disaster until 9/11 with 146 deaths, most young, Jewish women – but it is known nationally as a turning point for the organization of labor unions. The Triangle workers were involved in a prolonged strike the winter before the fire, demanding, among other things, a safer working environment. The issues brought up by this tragic event are suddenly getting stirred up again as public workers unions in Wisconsin now rally to retain the right of collective bargaining.
Today is the 100th yahrzeit of the fire, the Hebrew calendar anniversary of a death, and it is being commemorated in Jewish press this week. As the secular 100th anniversary approaches on March 25, 2011 Alef will bring you more about the Jewish influence on the labor movement.
Learn more about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire.- Another kind of memorial – Gravesite Restoration.
- Find an event to commemorate the fire.
- Learn more about Jewish traditions for remembering lost loved ones.
Photo by dpstyles, licensed under Creative Commons.
Response to Crisis in Haiti
Today is the last day of the Death and Tragedy issue. So far, the stories we’ve posted about the personal loss of mothers, uncles, grandparents, and friends have been deep and sincere. This week, however, the whole world bore witness to devastation in Haiti; the scope of which is hard to imagine.
While Alef will be moving forward with a happier theme next week, we want to acknowledge the tragedy of what has happened. If you’d like to help, please consider making a donation to AJWS, JDC, or a charity of your choice.
- Alef
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Photo by DVIDSHUB, licensed under Creative Commons.
January 14
By Emily Marx Perl
January 14th, 2010 is exactly 15 years since my 13th birthday, 15 years since my bat mitzvah, and 15 years since my grandfather’s death.
My family moved to Tampa, Florida, in August 1993, three days before I started 6th grade. It was a relatively easy transition. I left our Worcester, Massachusetts home in June to go to the camp I had attended for four years, I spent the next seven weeks in Middle-of-Nowhere, New Hampshire, and then after one of the best summers of my life (well, up until that point), I took a bus to Boston’s Logan Airport, boarded a plane to Tampa, and walked into my new life. I didn’t question, I didn’t complain, I just jumped right in… and then walked myself to school on my first day of middle school.
My family immediately immersed itself into the Jewish community in Tampa, and before we knew it, we were already talking about choosing a date for my bat mitzvah. My bat mitzvah seemed so far away at the time, as I was only 11 and was still getting used to my new Hebrew school (and having to get up so early on Sunday mornings!). Our temple’s educator told us that they typically assigned bar/bat mitzvah dates more than two years in advance and, at that time, we were already less than 18 months until my 13th birthday.
“We only have two dates left… May 20th or January 14th,” she told us.
“January 14th?” my mother exclaimed, “That’s Emily’s birthday! What better date could we ask for!?”
So, it was settled (and we considered ourselves very lucky), my bat mitzvah was to be a Havdallah service on January 14, 1995.
January 14, 1995, was one of the best days of my life (way better than all the days combined in that “best summer of my life” in 1993). I was surrounded by my family and closest friends, I got to wear a beautiful new dress, and the entire day was all about me. After the beautiful service, where I nailed my torah and haftarah portions, gave a great speech about women excelling in their chosen careers (which was related to my haftarah portion), and made my parents immensely proud, we boarded a bus to downtown Tampa and celebrated in the kind of party a 13-year-old couldn’t have even imagined. I’d had a lot of “bests” in my life, but it really was the best night of my life, or so I thought.
I woke up the next morning to a knock at my door.
“Hey, Em,” my mother said. “Can you please come out of your room?”
“But I haven’t even done my hair yet!,” I replied knowing that many family members were downstairs. I couldn’t possibly leave my room as the new “woman” that I was without being perfectly coiffed!
“That’s okay, Em, it can wait,” my mom responded.
I walked out of my room to meet my mother and to news that was the farthest possible from what I was expecting.
“Em, Grandpa passed away last night,” she said.
“What?!” I replied. As a child who had never been confronted with death, I just couldn’t understand. “But, he was just there last night. He looked so good… and happy.”
I didn’t want to believe it. She explained to me that my grandmother found him unresponsive that morning in their hotel room. She called 911 and my father, but Grandpa was gone. Apparently he had a heart attack in his sleep that night. It was really hard to understand that one minute we were smiling and celebrating (and I could, and still can to this day, remember the exact moment when we said goodbye that night), and the next he was gone.
I never thought much about the ‘luck’ that my family had with my bat mitzvah date until that morning, January 15, 1995. As a 13-year-old, it would have “totally stunk” if I had to have my bat mitzvah five months after my birthday, as it was very common for one’s bat mitzvah to be around his/her birthday date, but I never really thought about it… until that morning. What if that date in May was the only one available? Would my grandfather have missed my bat mitzvah? Would he not have been present to share in the simcha of me becoming a woman in the eyes of the Jewish religion?
My rabbi, who had stood by me at my bat mitzvah hours earlier, sat with my family and consoled us through the difficult time, told me that it wasn’t luck we had experienced. He explained that since I was the youngest grandchild in my family, I was the last one to become an adult and it was that important Jewish milestone that my grandfather waited for before he was able to peacefully pass on. He explained to me that, for the rest of my life, my birthday was not going to be filled with sadness and tears for my grandfather’s death (as I feared), but rather peace and joy because my grandfather waited for me, that we had that special bond.
I don’t believe in destiny and I’ve never bought much into the concept of fate, but it was this explanation that my rabbi gave me that helped me through an extremely difficult day. It’s something that has stayed with me for the 15 years since and something I will undoubtedly think about every January 14th for the rest of my life.
Photo by Terry’s Photography, Tampa, FL
My Jewish Jeanne
By Ally Iseman
My grandmother, Jeanne Iseman, was one of the most special people I’ve known. When she died on September 29th, I lost one of my best friends. I’m still grieving viscerally, so writing this piece is a powerful challenge, one that I know she would be proud of me for meeting.
Grandma was one of the strongest people I’ve ever met and one of the most honest, especially when it came to giving you her opinion. She taught me the value of honesty, both through its intense presence in her life and in the specific moments she chose to leave it out. From my clothing to career choices, Grandma would never cut any corners or smooth anything over whenever I came to her for advice. However, the few things she wasn’t so honest and upfront about stuck with me in a very different way.
I didn’t know she was sick. Or at least I didn’t know exactly how sick she really was. She’d been fighting one thing or another for 40 years, but never seemed to make a fuss about it no matter what it was, from multiple eye surgeries to double hip replacements. In our weekly phone conversations she always wanted to know what was going on with me, what was happening in my life. No matter how humdrum I felt it may be, she wanted all the details. That started to change over the past year. Our conversations started to be filled with her terrible chemo experiences, the experimental drug treatments that made the skin on the bottoms of her feet fall off, how tired she was…That should have clued me in, but when I asked her about it, her attitude was that “this too shall pass.”
Maybe it was the simple bliss of denial that kept me casual about it. She was the anchor that kept my family together, or at least tried to. She was certainly a staple in my life, a pillar of strength and the woman who introduced me to the concept of true forgiveness through living example. Grandma wasn’t going anywhere! Not in my reality.
Then she asked my Dad, her son, the boy who she adopted as her own when she married my Grandpa Abe, to come down to Florida to be with her. That’s when my Dad knew it was serious. The same woman who wouldn’t even tell anyone she was sick until after the surgeries had already taken place, that woman was asking for his help.
I had already planned a trip home to Maryland that I had postponed twice over the course of summer and autumn, but I refused to postpone it a third time and had committed to flying down right after my birthday. My main focus was to spend as much time with my mom’s mother, “Granny,” as I could before she slipped completely into the dementia she was so hastily approaching. When I landed in D.C. and got home to my mother’s apartment, I received a call from my Dad.
“Ally, I need you to come to Florida,” he said. “I need you to go to the house…and I need you to pick out a suit for me…”
Static filled the air around me and I don’t think I took a breath until I hung up. Then I hyperventilated. Then I screamed. Then I cried and let my mother hold me. I got on a flight to Florida the next day.
When I landed, my Dad told me that he had had to convince Grandma to let me come. She didn’t want me to see her this way. He hadn’t prepared me fully. My rock, my anchor, my best friend, was a jaundiced skeleton who could barely speak. I came just in time; right before her communication skills completely failed her.
Hospice is not a happy place. Over that next week, I helped my Grandma die. Nine days after my 25th birthday, Jeanne Iseman allowed the liver cancer to win. She slipped away in her son’s arms in the middle of the night.
I didn’t have funeral clothes with me. How do you shop for a dress for a funeral? How do you not feel guilty that you still want it to be stylish, flattering, and fit you? Grandma liked shopping with me. She liked my style. She always told me I looked nice in comfortable clothes, so with these thoughts in mind, I chose a dress. I wore flip-flops to Grandma’s funeral.
I picked out her final outfit at my dad’s request. Her favorite color was green, but she hated wearing it, so I went with a pair of neutral pants and a brown blazer over a pretty yellow blouse with floral lace trim. My dad said it was perfect. I picked out her coffin. The simpler the better, she hated extravagance. I picked out the restaurant for the reception after the funeral. It was where she always went with her girlfriends after the theater. I spoke to the rabbi about her impact on my life, who she was, and our special relationship. I said goodbye to her lifeless body at the funeral home. I put dirt on her grave. The sound it made when it hit the top of the coffin will never leave me. I cried. I flew home to Maryland. I spent a day with my other grandmother. I flew back to LA. Life continued.
I wondered, how does everything stay the same? Didn’t the whole world stop when mine did?
Since her passing, I’ve learned more about her past. I’m not sure how I neglected asking these questions when she was alive. I’m unsure how to not feel guilty about that.
Grandma’s journey to Judaism was much like mine. She was raised by an atheist, my Great-Grandma GG, and had no experience with religion as a child. My mother is a self-proclaimed agnostic and my only introduction to Judaism was as an obligation to my father to attend Hebrew school and services on Holy Days and sporadic Shabbats. This starkly nonspiritual image of Judaism devoid of passion was the root of my dissociation with Judaism as a part of my identity and as a whole. Grandma studied to become a librarian long before it was normal for women to go to university. She was granted a position as the librarian at a Jewish Day School. Through this position she not only became active in the surrounding Jewish community, but Grandma became a board member at the affiliated synagogue, had her bat mitzvah, and became an observant Jew. All in her adult life! My connection was ignited through my Birthright trip in August 2008, when I was almost 24 years old. Since then I have immersed myself in countless branches of my surrounding Jewish community and was even given a position as one of the first four fellows with Birthright Israel NEXT in Los Angeles!
To me, she had always been the family member most connected with Judaism, so I had just assumed it was always that way. To find out that our beginnings were so similar, our journeys so intertwined, I now more fully understand our connection. We both grew up completely detached from our Jewish identities, and knowing that she was able to see me find my connection to Judaism – something so beautifully integral to her being – within her lifetime, fills me with happiness.
Our bond was not one of blood relation, but one that goes much deeper. I now know that she truly lives on in me. Not in my DNA nor just in my heart, but in my journey forward. Grandma lives on in my stubborn zest for life and in my passionate exploration of my Jewish roots.
Photo by Brittany G, licensed under Creative Commons.
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