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    Yesterday I found myself in Brooklyn visiting the cemetery which is now home to my parents and grand mothers (my grandfathers have no graves to call their own. They are resting somewhere between Berlin and Kiev along with millions of others)…. Many of the graves in the oldest part of the cemetery are all in Hebrew with the exception of the year (1924, 1929, 1934.) This part is also sprinkled with newer graves where Hebrew and English meet( Hanna Rozengarten beloved mother and wife, בת דוד שמואל, 1919-1968. ) Then finally graves from the Russian immigrants, adorned with laser etched images of the departed, presumably at their zenith of health and vitality but in many cases one should hope not. The dead don’t get the right of editorial approval. The newer Russian emigre head stones are covered with with a mixture of English, Russian and Hebrew ( Zoya Greenvald 1945-2001 Возлюбленная жена и мать, לנצח בלב)… Compared to the older graves they seem more fluid, shaped in myriad ways but few resembling rectangles. The stones are more often than not  black, polished to a high shine, seemingly  alive but gaudy and overly artistic in the most banal way, with all the subtlety of Eastern European conspicuous consumption.  They are build as  if someone wanted the gravity of death and the permanence of the grave to be polished clean and smooth.; to freeze the person in a state in which they aught to be remembered.  Maybe a reflection of their personality….but more likely a reflection of the bereaved desire to commemorate the dead with enough bling to show the neighbors you care.

My paternal grandmother(Feyge Ortenberg ) has the all english stone… My maternal grandmother and mother, (Genya and Sima) resting side by side have the Russian, Hebrew, English Variety. My father…has non. The last part is a story in and of itself.

If Feyge was brought back to life she would not be able to read her headstone. She spoke virtually no English and rarely read in Russian, Yiddish or any other language, a skill she passed on to her son.  She would not know that the words on her grave marker were ” Beloved Wife, Mother, Grandmother, Great Grandmother.” And had a stranger walked by and told her what the words say, I cant imagine that she would not wonder if “beloved” was there by accident.  She was tolerated at best by her husband, son, grandchildren and great grandsons. But mostly she was avoided. Yet another story. 

Roughly a hundred years of living testimony of the changing world on the edge of Bensonhurt, Brooklyn is etched into those stones. The movement of various Jewish communities from the early part of the 20th century and the influx of Russian Jews  throughout the 80’s is printed in on every gravestone.   Thousands of graves reflecting the tastes and mores of those who settled in and around Brooklyn.. The appearance of flowers on graves replacing the traditional practice of leaving a small stones on the marker, the growing number of laser etched faces staring at you from beyond the grave, the Sterns, Horowitzes and Rabinowitzes now sharing their corner of the earth with Sakolovs, Tsitskins, Tekashvilis  tells the story of immigration, success and migration of the Sterns to better cemeteries in the suburbs. 

I got lost on the way to my grandmothers grave… The last time I saw the grave was in 1986 at the unveiling of her monument.. and judging from the number of rocks placed by visitors, 1986 may have been the last time anyone has visited her grave. The price for being merely tolerated, i suppose.

In my search for her grave I began to pay attention to her neighbors.  Born on X date, dead on Y date, marital status and any major contribution to the propagation of the species duly noted.  Some had monuments, some plaques and some mausoleums.  Most were beloved or at least thats what the marker would have you believe. Not one of them told you a thing about them; what they found funny or tragic, what excited or frightened them, how much they loved, hated, suffered, punished others. Their greatest personal achievements or struggled were no more apparent on their graves then what their favorite flavor ice cream happened to have been. I knew nothing about them but what their grave stones wanted me to know…. non of which is a measure of a person…

Here lies so and so
Beloved (neglectful) mother
Beloved (tyrant) father
Beloved (ungrateful daughter)
Beloved ( disappointment of a ) son 
Beloved (shining example of a ) mother
Beloved (compassionate) father
Beloved (grateful daughter)
Beloved ( genius of a  ) son 

I walked around and looked at names trying to decide what adjective or descriptor would apply. Feyge looked beloved by all signs….she was not. 

It was then that it occurred to me that the yawning grave, who’s toe hold on each of our lives is a certainty (and a terminal one at that) does not care about the adjectives you place before your name. While life is deeply unfair in its gifts and equality of opportunity, the grave is a true believer in the equality of outcome. The cost of the headstone nor its grandeur is of no consequence to the occupant of the grave.  

It was then that I realized that I know scant more about the people I encounter daily then their  headstone would teach me. There’s a police officer, an office worker, a grave digger, a business woman. Their uniform is their grave stone… you read it without modifiers… they are strangers, no different than my grandmother’s cemetery neighbors. 

“Hi. Who are you? “
I’m John. Im in sales, I’m married with kids…
I am John… ” beloved husband, father, friend…ect” 

But you dont have to know me to know that.. you’ll find that on my headstone when you get lost in cemetery one day.  But while I’m out of the yawning grave ask about me. Because I will ask you about yourself. Its the only time I have. If I wait, i’ll just get a synopsis….and not necessarily a true one.  So make your story interesting…..or at least kind and honest.