Parallel.
Webster's Dictionary defines parallel as follows:
Pronunciation: 'par-&-"lel, -l&l
Function: adjective
Etymology: Latin parallelus, from Greek parallElos, from para beside + allElOn of one another, from allos... allos one...
similar, analogous, or interdependent in tendency or development b : readily compared.
Parallel universes, parallel experiences, parallel lives.
My father was born in Berlin, Germany, April 3,1931. This was not a very good year. It was an especially poor time to be born in Berlin as the son of a prominent Rabbi, and further to that, from 14 generations of Rabbis prior. In my humble opinion, you're pretty much SOL if you wanted to deny your heritage and decide to convert to say, Catholicism, especially when you've been raised by a Rabbi. More of a bummer when you're an 8 year old boy at ground zero of the greatest facist regime of the 20th century, and you wanted to be part of the cool group. Unfortunately, the bigger bummer was that the coolest kids in the class were wearing super snappy uniforms, and got to attend rallies to shout "Heil Hitler" at the leader of your country.
For in my father's mind, he was German first. His entire family backgroud could be traced through German history. A great uncle was honored by Kaiser Wilhem for bravery during the Franco-Prussion war. His German roots were traced back to the 16th century to a Rabbi Mordechai Jaffe. So in my father's mind, he was more German than those Aryans who thought they were the true Germans.
So daddy was a Nazi-wannabe. He wanted to wear the sporty uniform, he wanted to be a part of the cool kids, and he wanted to raise his arm to honor Herr Fuhrer.
That's what got him into trouble.
We're not talking trouble like, "nee-ner, nee-ner, nee-ner, you're - in - trou-ble", we're talking, um, "oops, wrong group". My grandmother happened to be out and about, heading back from the market, one sunny day, when Herr Fuhrer was passing through Berlin in his motorcade. The crowd was gathered along the street and people were cheering. At this time, he was exalted. He was going to lead Germany out of their depression--get the people working again. So Grandma and Dad are heading home, minding their own business, and sure enough, there are those darned cool kids. They're in their uniforms, hair slicked back, and there they were saluting in that Nazi-way. Dad, wanting to be part of the group, raises his arm up and shouts, "Heil Hitler!" My grandmother reacted by slapping his arm down, and then very quickly, knelt down and grabbed her stocking.. "Why won't you let the little boy salute the Fuhrer?" a man asked. My grandmother having already realized she was in a bit of trouble, replied, "Oh, my stocking fell and I need to get it." She grabbed at her stocking, grabbed my father's hand, and high-tailed it out of there.
How do you explain to a little boy of just 5 or 6 that the group that you so badly want to associate with is trying to destroy the very fabric of your family, of your heritage. How do you explain to a small child that someone wants your entire race annihilated?
Parallel.
similar, analogous, or interdependent in tendency or development b : readily compared.
I was born in San Francisco, California, June 2, 1961. Although San Francisco could hardly be compared to the Berlin of 1931, my birth was not without its own complexities. I was born small, and with bi-lateral club feet.
Main Entry: club·foot
Pronunciation: 'kl&b-"fut
Function: noun
: a misshapen foot twisted out of position from birth; also : this deformity
My parents expected a boy. There hadn't been a girl born on my father's side of the family in more than 80 years! My father wanted a boy.
Imagine their surprise when a small (5 pound) girl came out of my mother's womb.
"It's a...girl!"
"Huh?"
I imagine a boing-y cartoon sound came out of my father's mouth.
After that, well, the news wasn't so good.
Apparently after coming out, I took a quick pee and lost an ouce or so, putting me just under 5 pounds, compelling the doctor to place me in an incubator. Here she is...ooops...there she goes.
The other thing, not quite right, were my feet. Normal feet point straight out. My feet, all two of them, twisted in towards my ankles. My achilles tendons were short--too short, and they pulled and twisted my feet in and up, in a rather grotesque manner.
So, there I was, just under 5 pounds, crippled, with twisted little feet, and the ultimate, unfixable offense, a girl. Like my father, I would not be part of the cool club. And like my father, I would have to work hard to be accepted--the difference being that I would have to work at being accepted by my father.
Webster's Dictionary defines parallel as follows:
Pronunciation: 'par-&-"lel, -l&l
Function: adjective
Etymology: Latin parallelus, from Greek parallElos, from para beside + allElOn of one another, from allos... allos one...
similar, analogous, or interdependent in tendency or development b : readily compared.
Parallel universes, parallel experiences, parallel lives.
My father was born in Berlin, Germany, April 3,1931. This was not a very good year. It was an especially poor time to be born in Berlin as the son of a prominent Rabbi, and further to that, from 14 generations of Rabbis prior. In my humble opinion, you're pretty much SOL if you wanted to deny your heritage and decide to convert to say, Catholicism, especially when you've been raised by a Rabbi. More of a bummer when you're an 8 year old boy at ground zero of the greatest facist regime of the 20th century, and you wanted to be part of the cool group. Unfortunately, the bigger bummer was that the coolest kids in the class were wearing super snappy uniforms, and got to attend rallies to shout "Heil Hitler" at the leader of your country.
For in my father's mind, he was German first. His entire family backgroud could be traced through German history. A great uncle was honored by Kaiser Wilhem for bravery during the Franco-Prussion war. His German roots were traced back to the 16th century to a Rabbi Mordechai Jaffe. So in my father's mind, he was more German than those Aryans who thought they were the true Germans.
So daddy was a Nazi-wannabe. He wanted to wear the sporty uniform, he wanted to be a part of the cool kids, and he wanted to raise his arm to honor Herr Fuhrer.
That's what got him into trouble.
We're not talking trouble like, "nee-ner, nee-ner, nee-ner, you're - in - trou-ble", we're talking, um, "oops, wrong group". My grandmother happened to be out and about, heading back from the market, one sunny day, when Herr Fuhrer was passing through Berlin in his motorcade. The crowd was gathered along the street and people were cheering. At this time, he was exalted. He was going to lead Germany out of their depression--get the people working again. So Grandma and Dad are heading home, minding their own business, and sure enough, there are those darned cool kids. They're in their uniforms, hair slicked back, and there they were saluting in that Nazi-way. Dad, wanting to be part of the group, raises his arm up and shouts, "Heil Hitler!" My grandmother reacted by slapping his arm down, and then very quickly, knelt down and grabbed her stocking.. "Why won't you let the little boy salute the Fuhrer?" a man asked. My grandmother having already realized she was in a bit of trouble, replied, "Oh, my stocking fell and I need to get it." She grabbed at her stocking, grabbed my father's hand, and high-tailed it out of there.
How do you explain to a little boy of just 5 or 6 that the group that you so badly want to associate with is trying to destroy the very fabric of your family, of your heritage. How do you explain to a small child that someone wants your entire race annihilated?
Parallel.
similar, analogous, or interdependent in tendency or development b : readily compared.
I was born in San Francisco, California, June 2, 1961. Although San Francisco could hardly be compared to the Berlin of 1931, my birth was not without its own complexities. I was born small, and with bi-lateral club feet.
Main Entry: club·foot
Pronunciation: 'kl&b-"fut
Function: noun
: a misshapen foot twisted out of position from birth; also : this deformity
My parents expected a boy. There hadn't been a girl born on my father's side of the family in more than 80 years! My father wanted a boy.
Imagine their surprise when a small (5 pound) girl came out of my mother's womb.
"It's a...girl!"
"Huh?"
I imagine a boing-y cartoon sound came out of my father's mouth.
After that, well, the news wasn't so good.
Apparently after coming out, I took a quick pee and lost an ouce or so, putting me just under 5 pounds, compelling the doctor to place me in an incubator. Here she is...ooops...there she goes.
The other thing, not quite right, were my feet. Normal feet point straight out. My feet, all two of them, twisted in towards my ankles. My achilles tendons were short--too short, and they pulled and twisted my feet in and up, in a rather grotesque manner.
So, there I was, just under 5 pounds, crippled, with twisted little feet, and the ultimate, unfixable offense, a girl. Like my father, I would not be part of the cool club. And like my father, I would have to work hard to be accepted--the difference being that I would have to work at being accepted by my father.
posted by Wintermade at 10:54 PM
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