A little over a year ago my last living grandparent died. Grandma Nettie was ninety-four years old. The youngest in a family of Jewish immigrants from central or eastern Europe, Nettie was born in Philadelphia in 1925. Soon after Nettie’s birth her mother died and her father, not being able to afford to keep his family together, sent his younger children to live in an orphanage in Brooklyn - “The home”, as Nettie and her siblings called it. 

Although they were poor and didn’t always live together, Nettie’s family remained intact and she felt a deep bond of love, especially with her closest siblings. Growing up poor and Jewish in Brooklyn during the depression, Nettie developed a strong sense of politics. As a teenager she joined the Young Communist League and other leftist political groups. In her early adulthood, on a retreat out of the city with one such group, she met Jerry, fell in love, and eventually started a family.

Nettie and Jerry were of a generation of American Jews who materially benefited from the acceptance of Jews into American Whiteness. Their lives followed a quite common Jewish migration pattern within the United States in the twentieth century - from a poor childhood in urban New York City, to a middle class adult life on suburban Long Island, to retirement in southern Florida. 

Less common was the fact that through their upward economic movement, and despite some of the cultural norms they adapted into, they maintained the leftist politics and values of their youth. In 2008, they hosted a dinner party for people in their retirement community where I went with a couple of friends to talk with their community about the election and urge their friends to vote for Obama. 

Nearly ten years later, during what would be the last time the whole family celebrated her birthday together, Nettie was holding court in the way she often did - her children and grandchildren, now all grown, were sitting around her in her living room as she went on an hour or so long, semi-interrupted, monologue in which she offered commentary on each of us that covered everything from how we looked, what we were up to in our lives, what we were and weren’t eating, what we should or shouldn’t be doing, how we should or shouldn’t be living… like the matriarch that she was. 

At one point in this rambling monologue, she got very serious about the political legacy that she wanted to make sure we, her grandchildren, were carrying out. Political action, values of decency, humanity, fighting for the marginalized and oppressed… standing up for those whose voices are being silenced, whose rights are being trampled, this above all else was what Nettie wanted for and from her grandchildren. 

Then, in what may or may not have been an intentional injection of humor, she looked at me and said, “I’m not worried about Jonah”, referencing a recent time I was arrested at a protest, “but some of you, I’m not sure”, and she slapped my cousin Nathan who was sitting right next to her. The room broke into a deep familial laughter as Nathan, a confused, “what did I do?” look on his face, began trying to defend his own record of political activism. 

The next time the family all gathered together was a year and a half later, a month after Nettie died, and just over a year ago. We sat around my uncle’s living room in upstate New York, Nettie’s children, grandchildren, and a few member of our extended family, some who I hadn’t seen in years. As we sat there remembering her, as though waiting for her to hold court in the way she would, my sister brought into the space an impression of Nettie that was so spot on that the distant family members who had never heard it before looked around, half expecting to see Nettie walking into the room. And though her body was not there, her presence could absolutely be felt as my sister channeled not only her voice but her full spirit, going around the room commenting on each of the children and grandchildren, how I looked, what my uncle was and wasn’t eating, what my cousin’s were and weren’t doing with their lives. Deep familial laughter filled the room.

And then the stories started flowing. We were remembering her, we were fulfilling her dream that her family would stay a family after she was gone. At one point my brother came in with what would become the story of the afternoon:

In the late fall of 2004 Nettie came to New York City and was staying with my mother and brother in their apartment on the Upper West Side. One night, in the middle of the night, she got up to get a glass of water from the kitchen and she fell. She tried calling out for help but her voice, uncharacteristically soft, did not carry through the apartment, so she called 911. 

A little while later, my mother was woken up by paramedics banging on the door. Half asleep, as she walked towards the front door, she looked towards the kitchen and saw her mother on the floor. Confused by the scene in front of her, she let the paramedics in and led them over to Nettie. They helped her get up and regain her balance. After some initial examination, Nettie had regained her composure and was feeling more embarrassed than anything else. The paramedics were insisting on taking her to the hospital but she refused. She wanted the incident to be over and never spoken of. 

In order to allow her to remain at the apartment and not be taken to the hospital, they began asking a series of questions to ensure that she was in a sound mental state. She was doing fine with the questions. She could say where she was, who she was visiting, what the year and date was. Then they asked her who the president of the United States was. She, gathered herself together, looked at them with the fortitude of a dignified elder and said emphatically, “I hate him and I won’t say his name”

The room burst in to deep, loving, and unmitigated laughter. A laughter full of pride, full of awe, full of grief. That was our Grandma Nettie… the ferocity, the integrity, the “I don’t care who you are or what the situation is, I will not back down from standing by my values and beliefs”. The power of a grandmother saying “No!” In the way only a grandmother can.

As the laughter died down and the tears were being wiped away, one of the distant family members, one who I barely knew, another elder, another grandmother, started to speak. “You know”, she said in an almost embarrassed but also proud voice, “I have to tell you, that happened to me last year, and I said the same exact thing.” 

The room burst again. More laughter, more tears, more awe and pride in the strength and power of our elders, in the fortitude and determination of our grandmothers. 

This past Friday, hours before sunset on the eve of Rosh Hashanah, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg died. I was surprised at how hard it hit me. I was sitting at home, in the ceremonial space I had set up for the holiday - round challah fresh out of the oven, candles not yet lit, wine, apples and honey, pomegranate juice and seltzer all by my side - my laptop open to the services at Lab Shul. I was already in a place of deep emotional reflection and spiritual openness from the beautiful music of the service. Rabbi Amichai was giving his d’var, a call to action, to entering this new year with the determination to build the better world we aspire towards. 

And while he spoke of the crises that we face, of the responsibility we have to take, I glanced over at the chat and saw that someone had posted that RBG had just died. I didn’t quite believe it, and at the same time I knew it was true, knew it had to be true. A few moments later, Rabbi Amichai returned to the screen and shared the news with the community. It was just as we were about to say the Mourners Kadish, the prayer to honor those who have died. Then he lead the community through this blessing, tears streaming down his face, his voice breaking with grief. 

Moments later the service was over. I closed the tab on my computer and sat there for a minute, tears now running down my face, then logged into what has become my regular Friday evening Shabbat zoom gathering. As people started logging in having just heard the news or hearing the news for the first time, we sat together, as together as people alone in their living rooms can be, mostly wordless. Tears continued while we made our way through the initial rituals, my voice breaking as we dedicated candles to this powerful woman, to the values she fought for, and to the space she left that we must all fight to fill. 

When I think about why this death hit me so hard, hit so many so hard, I think it might be that Ruth Bader Ginsberg was a grandmother. She had grandchildren who she loved and who loved her very much. But she was also held the role of grandmother to many, a beloved and respected elder, a voice of reason and conscience in a cacophony of anything but. She held together so much of what so many of us cherish and value. RBG was far from perfect. Even she would tell you that she was not right about everything. But over the last quarter century, she consistently modeled what it looks like to “not desist from doing your part”.

In the end, much of her part was to be that grandmother’s voice, to be that elder who stands up and says, “No”. No, you will not discriminate on the basis of sex. No, you will not have dominion over women’s bodies. No, you will not dismantle the voting rights act. No, you will not continue this march towards fascism. She did not always win. Her, “No” was often a dissent from the ruling opinion. But she made sure that her words would be heard, that they would be recorded, that they would continue on as guidance, as precedent.

As we get closer to November, I find myself experiencing more fear than I am used to. It is a fear that is older than me, a fear I can’t quite get a handle on. It is a fear that makes me want to take everything and everyone I care about and hold them close. It is a fear that wants me to make contingency plans and also knows that there are some things that cannot be planned for. 

I am under no delusion about the world we are living in, about what time it is on the world’s clock. I know that so much of what we face is not unprecedented, that so much of what I fear is already the reality for so many. This government is already experimenting on women bodies, already locking kids in cages, already engaged in the extrajudicial murder of Black and Indigenous bodies by agents of the state. The land is already on fire and under water. This land has already seen apocalyptic genocide of it’s Indigenous stewards. And yet, there is work that can be done. It may not be completed in my lifetime but I cannot stand idly by. I must act and continue to act in whatever ways I can. 

My Grandma Nettie, at ninety-four years old, was so worried about the state of this country that her last wish before she died was that all of us, her children and grandchildren promise to vote for Biden. It was, for her, one last way to say “No” to the current regime, to the direction this country has been headed. 

Ruth Bader Ginsberg’s last request was that her replacement not be named until the next president is installed. It was, for her, one last way of saying “No” to the current regime, to the direction this country has been headed.

These grandmothers and so many other grandmothers are saying “No”, have been saying “No”. For generations, grandmothers have put their bodies on the line, they have held families together, they have offered us their wisdom and guidance. They spent their lives doing their part. The work is not complete. We must not desist from doing ours.

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