My family: DW? Or TT?

The anthro circus was in town last week from Wednesday to Sunday, with endless paper attending, shmoozing, and running-into-people-in-the-hallway conversations that lasted for hours. All this for five days of non-stop action, including leaving the house by 7 to make 8 am panels, trying to be a decent hostess for my friend Dr. A., who was somewhat traumatized by the very non-SoCal cold, and also doing organizational work for our own panel. (It kind of kicked ass, btw -- I'll be glad to share (via e-mail) details of the panel topic and papers, or a copy of my paper, which is in fact pretty entertaining and covers Pangeaic-type topics, including being described in newspaper profiles from my field site as having "jet-black curly hair" and "swarthy" skin.) By the conference end I was feeling kind of hyper-stimulated, but in a much better mood than previously, although that only lasted a few days. My base state here is one of general isolation, socially and intellectually, at least for now while I work on finding my people, and so it was good to be reminded that I am in fact part of a real community of like-minded people -- smart, interesting people who seem (for the most part) to be glad to see me. I remember the first time I went to this conference back in '98, when I knew maybe two people, and it was heartening to see how much had changed -- now I knew people at every panel in my subfield, and couldn't go two steps at the SLA cash bar without running into someone else. It's funny -- now that I have the Phancy-shmancy letters after my name, I am one step up the well-demarcated hierarchy, and there are people who kind of suck up to me, or worry that I won't remember them. (These people clearly still grad students.) Ooh, the power.

Anyway, the conference came hard on the heels of Thanksgiving, which was another bolstering experience. I drove home for T-day for the first time in ten years, and decided en-route that I will never again drive on Wednesday -- I could handle traffic for the entirety of Staten Island, or the entirety of Delaware, for that matter, but Trenton? Seriously, it was like insult to injury. In any case, the weekend up in NY and then Philly filled an important gap in my daily life here -- I was surrounded by people who have known me for years (some of them even pre-natally), understand me, and love me. By contrast, here I can count on one hand the people here who get me and possibly like me, and one thing that can't be faked is temporal depth -- of my friends here, only Queen Esther and her husband, The Israelite, know me from back in the day and are odd in similar ways (not just academically). Being clutched to the bosom of the family reminded me that, as I am fond of saying, the nut does not fall far from the nut tree. My family is great! And a bunch of weirdos. Leading me to muse throughout the weekend: are we delightfully wacky? Or total tardos? From the outside, people might lean towards the latter assessment, but I have decided that I am firmly on the side of the former.

Thursday is traditionally the day that we go to my Dad's side for kosher takeout food: Thanksgiving has historically meant to me farfel, glatt kosher bbq chicken, and half-sour pickles (his sister didn't like to cook or host people, so gatherings take place at his niece's/my cousin's house). This year, though, my cousin cooked up a storm, with all kinds of vegetable goodness -- it was, by far, the best T-day food I'd ever had, and vegetarian Stovie gorged like there was no tomorrow. Dad looks forward to this day for months, I think, and it's particularly meaningful ever since his sister died a few years ago. So even though he knew many people would be coming in jeans, he made an effort to look nice -- nice, and kind of gangsta style, no?
As I uploaded this picture it reminded me of nothing so much as this picture of my Dad's dad, Grandpa Izzy, which I brought with me when I did my fieldwork so people could see what my family was like. (I had felt that if I was going to be nosy and get all kinds of information, I was morally obligated to give some back.) One good friend of mine, a "future revolutionary" who carried around pictures of Che and Fidel in his wallet (mostly to impress the ladies, I believe), took one look and said, "Ooh, nastoiashchii gangster!" (Oh, a real gangster!). He was pretty cute, my grandpa, if more concerned with reciting blessings over the seder plate than any gangster-type activities, and obviously contributed something to my Dad's sense of style.
The hat, if a bit old-school, was quite popular -- Stovie wore it for his little Piano Man moment (NB that we grew up not far from where Billy Joel was born and bred).My little cousin (my cousin's daughter, making her officially first cousin once-removed, I guess) also took a crack at stylishness. She and her brother had control of my camera for almost the whole day, making most of the pictures you see here happy surprises.
I include this picture of me and her mom not because I look drunk or dazed or whatever (I only had a little Manischewitz, I swear!), but to show the vagaries of genetics -- how did I end up with a blonde, fair-skinned, grey-eyed first cousin? Or, perhaps more appropriately, how did she end up with me? My cousin, like her mom, is kind of a hoarder, and the T-day feast took place amid a bit of chaos. This may explain some of the antics that ensued.
For example, although there were delicious vegetables galore, Mom decided to try, or really only pretend to try, the p'tcha, possibly the Jews' worst contribution to world cuisine. Ever. This take-out version is slightly less bilious-green in color and wobbly than my grandmother's homemade version. Whenever I think that garlic can fix anything, I remember that it cannot fix jellied calves feet. Feh.
I avoided looking at the jellied ickiness by concentrating on the cutest of Coke cans, airplane half-size, which were sprinkled around the table. So wee! So adorable! My cousin took a picture for me of the can itself,
and then of her petting the can, which, until the new baby arrived, was the cutest thing in the house. Is that a good cousin or what?
Fights broke out, although I'm not really sure about what.














Also, naps were taken, despite the portrait series going on in the living room.
In the end, it was a great day, especially the part where I went through my Polish travelogue (with photo album) with my cousins -- it's their grandparents too, but I don't think they'll ever make it over there, and they were glad that I had.

Traditionally, we go to Mom's side for T-day Part II on Saturday, but this year it was moved up to Friday because there was some auction or something on Saturday (priorities, people?). So we headed over a day early to Aunt Feedy's, site of the traditional Turkey Feast, although this year she was also promoting anthropomorphized oranges for some reason.
Aunt Feedy is my Mom's twin (fraternal) and like her in many ways, particularly in being short, talkative, and wearing a lot of black (um.. where am I going with this?). Feedy just had a largish extension put on her small northern New Jersey house, doubling the sqaure footage and providing space for all kinds of reclining furniture, although photos of this furniture in use are unlikely to make it into, say, Town and Country magazine.
Feedy has got a pretty good winter hat collection going, and Stovie found himself, once again, unable to resist questionable hat choices.
Other family members were more clearly pleased at being photographed, particularly my cousin-in-law (of sorts) Rachel (it's his drag name, though we decided he was more a "Raquel" when wearing my Spanish shawl), who leapt into several pictures with glee,
and always seemed ready for the camera even when others were not.
After a second day of hard-core Thanksgiving eating, I found myself unable to face the fancy cheesecake Dad had brought in from the Island, but he was so horrified that I had chosen pound cake over bakery goodness that he hassled me to the point where I barricaded myself behind a row of soft drinks so I could eat in peace, delicately hiding each mouthful behind my palm.
A security breach by J. David, Feedy's eldest, meant that my shame was documented for all time.
More interesting to J. David than the pound cake, though, was the new toilet his parents had installed in the new addition's bathroom, which apparently had some kind of exciting flushing mechanism. (I have a 20-second video of the tank in action, for those who are interested. ) My Dad, though an engineer, evinced no interest whatsoever, and steadfastly refused to take part in toilet tank explorations. So J. David, forcing the issue, removed the tank cover and brought it into the living room. That's a self-satisfied grin if I've ever seen one.
But it's Dad who had the last laugh, since he apparently snuck in when we weren't looking and put the lid back in its rightful place. It must be hard to be so very stubborn.

So there you have it, glimpses of my delightfully wacky family. It's good to know where you come from, I guess, if only so you can look at yourself and say, "Huh. Nature and nurture both -- so not really my fault."