Bit of a Kibitzer with a Dash of Fool

By Meggy Grosfeld

Collage by me

Losing a parent is the hardest thing I'll ever go through.

My dad was a typical old white, Jewish man living in New York City. He was boisterous, charismatic, and hilarious. He was also very embarrassing in my youth, singing in public, creating a commotion at the slightest inconvenience, and doing everything that would make me wince with discomfort. I even hid under a restaurant table because I was so embarrassed. He always wanted to be the center of attention. He was strong, not in a toxic way, but in a way that made people admire him, his work ethic, and his business. What I admire most about him is his ability to love, to love me, my mom, and my brother, unconditionally. I know it’s so cliché and of course, your parents are supposed to love you, but he did it with no question and in turn, I try to emulate this quality as much as I can in the way I love others.

When you lose a parent, memories become blurry and their being slowly deteriorates from your mind. You forget their laugh, smile, the sound of their voice, and even the way they walked becomes a foreign sight to you. I always worry that the older I get, the less I’ll remember. He died when I was thirteen, and I really didn’t get to spend much of my life with him if you think about it, nor did I get to experience his Jewish traditions or celebrations as much as I would’ve liked. His absence left me with only half of my identity, and I’m more than grateful for my Filipino culture, but a part of me wishes I could’ve gotten to further explore what my identity would’ve looked like if he were here to help me along the way.

"I always worry that the older I get, the less I’ll remember."

Photo of my dad reading me the newspaper.

Jewish Filipina Woman?

I’ve always identified as Filipino, it’s a no-brainer. My mom educated me about our culture ever since I could walk. My dad, on the other hand, didn’t raise me practicing the Jewish faith, but I was exposed to some holidays here and there. I remember having to go to Passover once or twice and he took my family to Israel to see the monumental sights on vacation, but I was never fully immersed in the culture the way I wished I would’ve been. I was also very young and if I’d gotten more time, would’ve loved to experience these things with him now. I've never identified as Jewish, but my curiosity for this side of me grows in an attempt to keep memories alive.

He did manage to get me to try a lot of Jewish food and being from New York City, this was the perfect place to find it. From gefilte fish with horseradish, and matzo ball soup, to a juicy hot deli sandwich at Katz Delicatessen, I was and am a big fan of it all. I remember he bought me Yiddish children’s books like Joseph Had a Little Overcoat and Kibitzers and Fools by Simms Taback. They followed Jewish protagonists around on their silly adventures with sprinklings of Yiddish words scattered throughout the children’s book. When I miss my dad I often revisit these books when I’m home. He was a bit of a Kibitzer with a dash of fool, but mostly a fool. I don’t remember much about my dad, but the little memories I have that get me thinking about the Jewish, Ashkenazi side of my identity are ones I try to hold on to the most and place at the foreground of my identity journey.

"Does identity die with the person? I don’t know how to cook the food or speak the language, but I am still Filipino. It’s hard because I always feel like I have something to prove when it comes to my identity and without my mother, my living proof will be missing."

Polaroid of me and my dad

Does identity die with the person?

What happens to my identity when my mom dies? I know it’s a morbid and bleak thought, but what really happens? Being that I’m not that close with extended family, I feel as if she is the only link left to my Filipino heritage. My mother is the physical embodiment of all the things I’ve learned about Filipino culture, values, and traditions. Does identity die with the person? I don’t know how to cook the food or speak the language, but I am Filipino. It’s hard because I always feel like I have something to prove when it comes to my identity and without my mother, my living proof will be missing. I often think about the future and how with both parents gone, I will have to become that living proof for my own children. It will be my responsibility to educate them on their Filipino/Jewish heritage and ancestors. I can only do this with such conviction by building a solid foundation and understanding of my own identity as I grow older.

I think that my parents’ cultures will always be a part of my identity no matter how big or small of a role they play in my life. I will not disregard my whiteness because of the privilege it carries in my life, nor do I want it to drown out my Filipina side in society. As twisted as it sounds, the loss of my dad pushes me to think about these complicated relationships with identity and how to navigate my journey with it. I think that if I hadn't gone through this really tough experience at such a young age, I wouldn’t have given my identity much thought.