Preamble Amble Postamble


Preamble Amble Postamble

The Biggest Scam Of All Time

The Jews have been saying forever that they don’t care if the whole world doesn’t like them.

So why when a non-Jew claims not to like Jews do they get crucified for it and called anti- Semitic? They get their lives ruined over it.

Why.

The biggest scam of all time was the Jews convincing the whole world that the whole world hated them.

Nobody knows why; everybody just knows it’s true. Except me. I didn’t know until way late in life when someone told me.

That someone was my mother after she read one of my essays where I mentioned Jews, something no one back in those days dared do for fear of retribution disproportionate to the criticism. Somehow I got planted in the middle of an Hasidic Jewish neighborhood when BP (British Petroleum) transferred my husband Steve from Oregon to Cleveland, Ohio. We had three dogs, and one of the reasons I said yes to a half Black, halve Orthodox Jew sprinkled with White neighborhood was that I thought good of Black people and Jew people. Three dogs made a big family, and their well-being and safety was my primary concern in moving to parts unknown. We bought the house without me seeing it beyond a video Steve took, and he’s not that good at making movies that he doesn’t star in.

It didn’t matter; they wouldn’t hurt my kids, I knew that. Or so I thought.

In Oregon, people respect their dogs, and look after each other’s should the need ever arise. That state of confidence I erroneously transferred to black people and Jew people. It gave me comfort in a strange place. It’s what brought me to respect Oregonians, the way they treated their companion animals and those of others. I remember talking to my neighbor across the fence in Portland and telling her where I put the dogs when I leave (we lived in a rental house and I didn’t give them free rein when I left to shop or join others for an evening out – they were secluded). She understood, and said if there’s ever a fire, ‘I have a big ol’ axe. I’ll bust that door down and get them out/.  

I was judging Jew people by my mother’s experience and Black people by my limited experience in Massachusetts where I was born and raised – both were good. I got along with everybody. Doesn’t mean everybody always got a long with me. People decide not to like someone based on nothing of significance really. I wasn’t in that group. I was one of those free and gentle spirits who had a quick brain and quick movements. ‘Reserved, one college professor called me when writing me a recommendation for Smith College. I was mildly insulted. My way didn’t always result in conformity. My mother often called me scatter-brained, tousling my hair as a child as she said it, ’cause I guess my brain thoughts were all over the place. Test results didn’t always reflect what I knew or what I could figure out, but I was up there. 

I remember when taking in class the first IQ tests in fifth grade, the teacher instructed that only the questions we answered would be graded, in other words when time is up don’t rush to fill in all the circles. By the way, I was one of those children who when coloring in a coloring book stayed inside the lines, even sometimes drew a thicker line around the line already established, just in case I veered a little over the line while focusing on something else. 

Evidently I was the only one who didn’t trust the teacher, since teachers back then tricked kids a lot in the teaching process and I factored that into anything they instructed us to do. Probably not a good idea. So when the five minute bell to finish rang (why would they have a five minute bell to finish if we weren’t supposed to hurry up to finish?), I quickly filled in all the blanks, thinking I’d get some right by just guessing. I don’t know how it turned out, but later at Smith while taking a statistics course I realized that that action brought the number down.

I did something similar when taking part of a vocal test. I was answering quickly, then something the experimenter did made me lose my focus. At the end, he chuckled and said I don’t know what happened here, but you kept answering the same letter to every question. B. B,b,b,b,b. I shrugged. He said, ‘it doesn’t matter; it didn’t change the results. It wasn’t a significant part of the test.

I was taking toxic mold-related tests for cognitive deficits. In Beachwood or maybe it was Richmond, Ohio. I lived in Cleveland at the time. Toxic mold was found in the wall voids where we lived. Long bad story.

The same guy, a Jew psychologist who wanted me to know he was counseling people in New City after the September 11, 2001 attack, was testing me for I don’t know what, and my neurologist didn’t either – I had toxic mold syndrome and he was doing an IQ test and a personality test, neither which the neurologist ordered.

The results were given to me verbally. He started counting from the base 120, 125, he’s flipping pages back and forth, mumbling, he let me know at the outset, first visit, that he was a mumbler, 130, 140, 145, on and on followed by hand rolling forward, pauses, scratches, adjusts himself in the seat, let’s see now…bachelor’s degree, masters, multiple masters, doctorate, doctorate, flipping pages, hand rolling, reaching onward, doctorate multiple fields. He did a big sigh, sat back in his chair and said ‘with these numbers you’ll have a difficult time at trial…but it’s not unsurmountable. You know, trying to prove deficits. People function without their frontal lobe/. He lost me with all his frontal lobe talk. He was acting more like a lawyer, that made me attend to his cause rather than what he was saying about the frontal lobe.

When I subsequently saw my neurologist in the office after the tests, the first thing he said was ‘did Dr. SoAndSo tell you what your IQ was? He looked like he was blown away, puffing his cheeks, shaking his head. I replied ‘yes, and there seemed to be something happening there. He, maybe thinking how he should proceed.

On the next visit he acted odd, like he was talking more with his face and eyes darting toward the wall.

As I walked in when called by the receptionist, I glanced toward a room with open door I assumed was the doctors’ private office with large desk. A woman with blond short hair, red lipstick, middle age, maybe Russian, maybe Jew, maybe both sat in front of a piece of dark equipment with knobs on it like an old-fashioned radio – I didn’t actually see knobs, I saw her turning things, like making adjustments. It was on his desk right in front of her – looked like something out of an old movie. It was at least a foot high. She had a lit cigarette hanging from her lips and headphones on – the bulky kind like she was piloting something. I’m pretty sure there was a fur coat wrapped around the back of the chair.

The wall his eyes darted toward was the wall of his office where that woman sat with that machine. He had an accent that sounded familiar, like Ehud Barak talks.

The neurologist asked, ‘what brought you into the office originally?/ and then he’d look at the wall and nudged his head toward it a little. I became alarmed that he didn’t remember. I couldn’t remember either. I always thought that building had a carbon monoxide leak. It seemed to fog me up whenever I was there. And always the same patients in the waiting room, doing different things though. Maybe he scheduled the same people on the same day. I had been seeing him for nearly a year. ‘Was it dystonia? I said, I don’t know, I don’t remember/, then I started talking about my dystonia.

When he got up to to leave, he turned and with emphasis, almost pleading said to me, ‘I really like my job here and he did some more face-talking toward the wall, while looking back and forth toward wall, toward me. I never saw him again. I cancelled the next appointment, and then when I tried to reschedule a while later, the receptionist said he no longer worked there, but that he left my file for me and I could come and pick it up, which I did. It was the original file which I thought odd.

When I arrived it was a bit disheveled. The receptionist said he left without word to anybody. He was moving somewhere. We came in and he wasn’t here. I didn’t ask any questions, just took my file and left. Nobody knew where he was.

So now I didn’t have a neurologist.

When I talked to the Jew doctor on the phone a while after and told him my neurologist wrote ‘mild cognitive impairment in the file/, he asked ‘was that before or after you took the tests?/ I didn’t know. He also wrote that I had PTSD, which he never told me.

I just want you to know, she said, that the whole world hates the Jews. I said, why? She said she didn’t know. ‘They just do. Subsequently and perhaps consequently I spent a good deal of my writing life trying to figure that out. I’ll get to that in a future work when the answer is so startling I can’t ignore it, if I live that long.

It didn’t take the Jew people however, to guide me in my own quest for answers regarding why people do what they do. That seemed to be present from the beginning of my time. I didn’t spend all of my childhood pondering; I looked for grasshoppers in the tall grass, climbed trees, watched the polywogs turn into tiny frogs in a brook that ran through discarded cement sewer pipes, watched my mother cook, played house with dolls, looked for fossils and shiny or odd-colored rocks, slept out in tents made of blankets, held circuses in our backyard with games and puppet shows and Mom’s cupcakes, played croquet, went swimming in the local ponds, ice-skating in winter, built igloos that were functional, rode my second hand bike everywhere, visited the cemetery where my grandfather laid to rest to talk to him, sewed my own clothes, loved fabric, read a lot of books, loved window shopping downtown. I always wanted to live downtown. Although I like country, I’m a city girl, loved magazines and music and water. Cleaned the house, did the dishes, rearranged my tiny bedroom (converted front porch) that had the front door in it and an accordion side door that was just big enough for my brother to scoot under to get in when I locked him out. Got a microscope in lieu of a chemistry set for Christmas that quickly bored me. Had a rock collection that my father dumped without me knowing – took up too much room in his workshop – he thought I didn’t want it any more. I didn’t. Couldn’t throw a ball, catch a ball or hit a ball, so what was I doing on a softball team for girls? 

My mother and her mother were raised by the same aunt in a large, victorian style house with no heat or running water. Bricks were heated in the wood stove and placed at the foot of the bed at night to keep them warm. She and her brother, separate rooms, my mother’s furthest away from everybody else. I don’t think my mother liked big houses. Not liking the cold myself, I often wondered how a hot brick under the blankets could keep a body warm in those cold Vermont winters.

During high school she and her mother worked as servants (lodgers they called them back then), cooking and cleaning for a wealthier than they were family. My mother only had happy stories to tell about it all. She once remarked to me – long distance over the phone – that I remembered the happy times and she liked me recounting the stories of our own family past, that she had forgotten. 

I never saw my mother snarl. Ever. I see a lot of it on Netflix movies, black people doing it. And around town in Cleveland wherever I went, snarling seemed to me to be black people’s facial expression of choice. Most often, overly done, I’d say. When they start talking they start snarling. I wasn’t all that expressive myself, especially younger, so to see it exaggerated in a whole race of people shook me up a little. What did it mean? That’s how it makes them look, mean. Disgust. They’re disgusted a lot. The smallest annoyances disgust them disproportionate to the annoyance.

In her married life she worked at hardware stores owned by a Jewish family. She ultimately managed one of them with much coaxing from the owners – she was already doing the management of the store, she might as well get the title too – and pay raise that went with it. My mother was honest as the day was long. Stealing would never occur to her. What you got you paid for and if you couldn’t afford it, you did without, or you worked harder, longer to get it, or a version of it. 

She had lists for everything. Organized to the hilt. But she never appeared frenetic. We all knew not to take anything from the refrigerator, unless we asked first. She had to plan her meals two weeks in advance, and needed her every-two-week grocery shopping trip to last the distance. She bought snacks every payday and told everyone the same thing every time she opened them up. When they’re gone they’re gone. That meant there were no limits. She knew well enough that too much organization was as bad as too little. She was the exception that proved the rule – I never really knew what that meant. ‘A Jack of all trades, she’d say, master of none. Some would disagree. She also once said, she didn’t do anything unless she did it well. That’s why when I look back on all she did, I don’t see Jack anywhere around.

She never displayed or expressed hatred or even dislike for anyone or any group – not to me – ever. Young people. ‘Young people think this and young people think that/. She worked with them, she ought to know. She didn’t know her own kids that much, she just managed them really well. When she went to work full time, she still did it all, but her teenager exposure came from teenagers she worked with at Grants (her job before the hardware job), not us. She once said she knew us as teenagers through knowing them. She didn’t indicate good or bad or indifferent, just that she knew teenagers. In the late sixties when teenagers were wearing hippie clothes my mother sewed and crocheted me a few items, when I was away at nursing school. Some of my classmates often borrowed them.

She went to work when we got home from school and we were in bed when she got home. 

Well, not me. By ten o’clock I was in the kitchen, everybody else in bed, including Dad, warming in a fry pan leftovers from supper. Coffee kettle on, waiting for the water to boil, so that when she walked through the door at exactly 10:20 PM, her plate and coffee were on the lamp table next to the stuffed chair, her newspaper on the hassock next to that. I met her at the door, kissed her goodnight and went to bed, while she sat up, ate, drank her coffee and read the newspaper.

Happy dreams and sweet dreams.

sldt

  • LAYING DOWN THE LAW
  • The Cleveland Hustle
  • You Don’t Question
  • Settlements? Somebody Owe Me Money?


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Published by Sharon Lee Davies-Tight, artist, writer, chef

Chef Davies-Tight™. The Animal-Free Chef™. ANIMAL-FREE SOUS-CHEF™. FAT-FREE CHEF™. Word Warrior Davies-Tight™. HAPPY WHITE HORSE™. SHARON ON THE NEWS™. BIRTH OF A SEED™. Till now and forever © Sharon Lee Davies-Tight, Artist, Author, Animal-Free Chef, Activist. ARCHITECT of 5 PRINCIPLES TO A BETTER LIFE™ & MAINSTREAM ANIMAL-FREE CUISINE™.

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