Archive for September, 2008

Norman Weinstein was born Nathan Weinstein on December 5, 1917 in Brooklyn, New York to a Russian Jewish father and mother, Sam Weinstein and Mary Shub. He lost his father just two years later in the influenza pandemic that killed 20-40 million people worldwide. Norman grew up in a time when Ashkenazi culture thrived, and his first language was Yiddish. He was raised by his mother and his step-father, who were both garment workers.

When Normans younger sister Betty showed great potential as an opera singer, everyone in the family, including his sister Lee, worked hard to pay for her singing lessons. The family’s hard work paid off! Betty went on to become a well-known singer and settled in Italy, where she lives now with her husband, daughter and grandson. Lee went on to make a life of her own, which was tragically cut short on September 24, 1975. Her memory lives on, however, as her daughter Sandy continues to thrive and raise her own family.

In the meantime, Norman saw the birth of his only child, Sam Weinstein in 1948 in Los Angeles, California where Norman found work as a factory worker. His marriage to Selma Deitch did not work out, and she eventually took Sam to the West Indies and England where they lived with her husband CLR James and had their own set of rather extraordinary adventures that continue to this day.

Norman stayed in Los Angeles and saw his son occasionally. He bought a beautiful house in Lincoln Heights in east Los Angeles, an area that would be home to the centre of LA’s Chicano Civil Rights movement in the 60s and 70s. From his little hill, he could see Dodger Stadium, where he would spend a lot of time over the years. In his enormous garden, he would tend to plum, lemon, and fig trees as well as a grape vine.

Norman was a factory worker, a machinist, and he loved working with wood and working with electronics. Early on he thought computers were going to be the wave of the future, and he bought everything he could get his hands on. This is a habit he seems to have passed on to both his son and at least one of his granddaughters. He also had a little wood shop in his back yard and built furniture for family.

Norman was very social, and he often visited with his neighbour Freddie, who I think was really a kindred spirit in many ways.

Norman died on September 25, 1988 after a painful battle with prostate cancer that was found too late. I believe the illness that was incredibly difficult for my family, particularly my mother and father, but I know little of it because Norman did an amazing job of hiding his pain from me. A month and two days after my sixth birthday, I lost the first man I was ever really close with, my grandfather, my Norman.

The loss was the end of an extraordinary friendship that began when I was born. Norman clearly loved the idea of a grandchild and showered me with all of the love a kid could ask for. It was with Norman that I fell in love with Dodger stadium and with baseball. It was Norman who taught me to believe that one day girls would be allowed to play (still hasn’t happened, but I’m still waiting). It was Norman who introduced me to electronics, to computers and to little robots (we were building one when he died). He was the one who first dreamed I could be a scientist. And he was the one who taught me to love Venice Beach in all of its Bohemian glory.

Our two favourite TV shows were Knight Rider and MacGyver. We used to make a bowl of popcorn and then watch as the adventures unfolded. I would sit in his lap in his big, comfy recliner, and we would watch MacGyver get out of a crazy situation with a set of matches and some dental floss. Or Kit saving Mike yet again from random bad guy.

All of this was after dinner, where Norman often served experiments in red meat. I was a picky eater from early on, so we made a deal. I would try a bite, and if I didn’t like it, I didn’t have to eat anymore. I almost always ended up eating everything, although I think now I am still only willing to eat brussel sprouts because they remind me of him.

Some days we went to see the Dodgers or to Venice Beach, where I often got a hat or a pair of sunglasses. One of the coolest parts was getting to go in his green Volkswagen Karmann Gia.

In fact, one of the most awesome stories I have ever heard about Norman involves this car. When my dad was a teenager living in England, Norman figured out that it was cheaper to buy the Karmann Gia in Germany, pick it up himself, drive it around Europe and then have it shipped home to Los Angeles, than to use other forms of transportation for a trip around Europe. So Norman went to England, picked my father up, went to the factory in Germany, got his car, and drove it to see his sister Betty in Italy. Eventually he drove my father back to England and then shipped his car to Los Angeles on a boat, while he flew home. My step-mother Maria tells me that Norman was proud that he used to save all of his money so that he could fly to wherever my father was — a glamorous means of travel in those days.

From Italy they went to Israel on what I believe is both my father’s and grandfather’s only trip to Palestine. Norman’s relationship with Israel was complex, I believe. Like many Jews, he wanted Jews to have a safe place to go. But he wasn’t a zionist in the sense that we think of zionists today. He was part of the zionist movement that lost during the battle for the soul of Israel during the 30s and 40s. He believed in sharing the land.

It is because of Norman that I take my Jewish heritage seriously. As the Jewish New Year approaches, I reflect my identity and realize that I have clung to Judaism in part because I want to cling to Norman. He was a Yiddish man. He spoke the language and spoke a bit of it with me. He grew up in the culture, and he took his responsibility as a member of the world diaspora seriously. Like him, I believe the story of Israel is my responsibility. And I can only hope that he would support the anti-zionist, anti-racist work that I do now.

Having said all of that, I should say that Norman, with me, was all about having fun. I don’t remember getting in trouble with him often, or at all really. I remember love and laughter. It was with Norman that I learned how wonderful life could feel.

It has been twenty years since I lost the man I loved so much, and it has taken me almost as long to dream about him and begin to find a way to have him in my life. I realized a few months ago that I often felt angry because he wasn’t here to help me through the tough times. And then I realized he was. Norman would tell me to have fun, if he were here. He would tell me how proud he was that I achieved his dream of studying science. And he would tell me to enjoy it, to have good times and not let anxieties get the better of me. He would tell me to try. So I try to keep that in my mind.

Norman died 20 years ago today, just one day before his son’s 40th birthday. He was cremated, and the ashes were buried under an apricot tree in his back yard. But there was no real funeral, no real eulogy, no celebration of his life. I think that these kinds of rituals are important for closure, and I’m sorry that we did not do it. So today, Norman, I am offering a telling of your life and of my love. I hope that you would be proud of me. I hope that you are with me. I hope that you are watching Maya, my sister that you never met and seeing your joie de vivre in her. I certainly do.

I’m sorry that the last time I saw you, I was angry because you were having me removed from your hospital room. But I understand why now, and I know that you were not mad at me for wanting to stay with you. What an amazing love you offered me. Thanks for everything, and perhaps I’ll see you soon enough, but hopefully not too soon.

Oh yeah, and if the Red Sox or the Dodgers can win the World Series this year, that would be great. Let the baseball go
ds know that it’s important

In the meantime, I ask readers of my blog to honour my grandfather by having fun. Take five minutes out of your day and do something you really like to do!