The Nash family came to Petrolia every summer from around
1982 to 1992 to spend two weeks of vacation enjoying our time together as a
family, away from work for Peter and Judy, and school and also our other
parent’s house for the rest of us kids.
We
would load up our huge white suburban van from our house on Granite Creek road in Santa Cruz,
5 bikes attached to the back, and full to the brim with clothes, art supplies
and whatever else we needed for our trip.
We spent the night at the White Deer Motel near Willets and finished our
journey the next day, stopping at Murishe’s in Redway to stock up on food for
the lunches and dinners Judy would make, and our sugar cereals for the mornings-
Captain Crunch, Cocoa Puffs, Lucky Charms.
We
spent days on the Mattole river, swimming, making mudball tracks, skipping
rocks. At this cabin here on
Evergreen way, we climbed this great Maple tree in the front yard, played
Tiddly Winks, Monopoly, Poker.
I
particularly remember spending time with Hana, those summers. Her creative energy was abundant with
writing and art work, and organizing Rocky (then known as Elijah) and I in
theater productions, which we performed for Petrolia neighbors, here in our
cabin.
Growing
up with Hana in Santa Cruz, I was probably the brother who was closest to
her. Her spark and curiosity about
people opened up the world of people’s inner lives in such an engaging
way. I studied math and physics,
and though Hana did not engage in the same technical abstraction as I did, her
questions and interest in my work could bring back my own love for the
subjects. Many times, when my
enthusiasm for physics was flagging, Hana’s engaging interest could remind me
of my early and true motivations.
Our
conversations about our family were equally stimulating, ranging from how the
trauma of the Armenian genocide had been passed down through the generations to
how the quest of Herman Bernstein (my great grandfather) to understand the
origins of war and honor the Jewish people weighed on us today. Talking to Hana, life felt big and
important.
Hana
and I grew apart over the years as she tried to find her place in the world as
a sensitive artist and I pursued my own views and work in academics and
science. I worked with complex,
ambiguous views of the world and our family, and Hana maintained a more childlike
purity and certainty in her convictions.
I searched for a balanced picture where all the various parts of my
family could coexist, and she focussed on the purity of those moments of
togetherness and support where her creativity thrived, and she felt direct
connection to the spirit of life.
I was in the process of mending together for myself the disparate pieces
from the two sides of my family.
Hana was sympathetic, but following her own path.
Even
when we hadn’t been in touch for many months, Hana would be on my mind almost every
day for the past ten years or so. I often pictured her here in
this cabin on Evergreen way, even years before she moved to Petrolia. Sometimes, when I was off in New York,
or in France, and my origins seemed so far away, I would picture returning to
this cabin , where Hana would be there to offer me something that would be the
key to reclaiming some lost part of myself.
When
Hana actually moved into this cabin, however, a few years back, it was very
hard for me to accept. I knew she
was struggling, not finding the collaboration and respect she yearned for, and
some slow process of mental illness was taking its course through her in both
hidden and overt ways. She claimed
this cabin as her own, without giving reasons I could understand, and getting
angry if questioned on this. She
needed a home and felt entitled to one.
I decided I would accept her living here, but withdraw my interest. This would be Hana’s home, and not a
home for me: the family concept I was working with: Nash/Hammer/Kamian/Silbert/Bernstein,
I would keep seeking elsewhere for
the tenuous sense of extended family I had started to consolidate in my life.
Spending
time here in this cabin, a few months ago after Hana had disappeared, however,
I felt that I rediscovered Hana’s perspective and her spirit. Hana’s intesity of caring, aesthetic
sense, and conviction was compelling and softened my heart. I discovered the tape in the player
next to her bed with her interview of her grandparents, Pares and Seto, looked
through her books on Armenian culture and history, and other causes of social
justice such as justice for the native Americans and African Americans. I read some of her recent journal
writing on restorative justice.
I
found the sense that the world is big enough for many different stories, and I
finally felt ready to start exploring the meaning of our stories, mine and
Hana’s with their points of commonality and their divergences, that of the Jews
and the Armenians, American stories of immigration, settling in a new world,
and being given the permission and encouragement to dream of a new world. Sadly, though I am now ready to share
again on this adventure with Hana, she is no longer here.
I
am grateful to Hana for the years we spent dreaming together. And now that she is gone, I can only
attempt to respect and love her spirit and her dreams and use that inspiration
to help work for the creation of a more just world.
I
was talking with an old friend of mine, Josh Chang recently about his mom’s
death, and he said that its sometimes appropriate to don rose-colored glasses in
remembering loved ones who have died.
His mom, Jancy, was also an amazing creative soul, who descended into
dementia at the end of her life.
I can understand this sentiment, but I’ve never been one for rose-colored glasses. I’m a firm believer in looking into the depths, with its
beauty together with its ugliness and challenges. This is a slow process that takes energy and patience-
finding a balanced view within a complex, fraught situation.
Finding
this balance in perspective and emotion with respect to Hana, who played such a
large role in my life, will be an ongoing task for the rest of my life. For today, I am grateful to gather
together with family and friends from Petrolia to start this process together,
as sad and confusing as it may be for all of us.
