When George Floyd was murdered, Midway burned.
I know it’s close to my home because I shop there, but I know it’s NOT close to my home, because the flames never reached me.

I met Iris Logan right after we moved here, walking down her street after shopping at Goodwill.

She was close to the flames, and when I was helping clean up later, she hugged me.

Her garden is her art – full of rocks and stones and beautiful things. She put out a bench, so people could stop and rest, and City Hall wants her to take it away, take it all down.

It took her 30 years to build. 
I don’t want her to have to take the bench away.
That’s her home.

I didn’t want George Floyd murdered.
I never want murder in my name.

I did my Hannukah shopping late. 

I could have gone to the Lund & Byerlys in Highland, they would’ve had the exact type of Manischewitz latke mix I was looking for.  But this morning, they probably would’ve been out of brisket.

They weren’t out of brisket at the Midway Cub. 

There’s a meeting I go to in Midway, on Sherburne, Iris’ street. I started going there when I started thinking I might die again. It’s a good meeting, but I’ve been going long enough that some of the people drive me truly nuts. Some people die there, but most of us don’t, so I go back. I know I drive them nuts too.

I drive one woman to work sometimes, at the 99 Cent Store in the same plaza as the Midway Cub. Her shift starts at 9am and if I don’t drive her, she has to leave the meeting early.

Maybe we’re friends, but it wouldn’t feel safe to invite her to my house.  I’m not saying we’re the same. Still, I can’t say she’s not my family.

It’s a hard year to light the candles. But it’s always a hard year, that’s why we always light the candles.

I say words in a language not my own: “Blessed are you, Our God, Ruler of the Universe, who makes us holy through Your commandments, and commands us to light the Hanukkah lights.”

I don’t worship that God. I don’t follow his commands.

But back, back, back when…my ancestors did, and they lived, and so I lived, and so my son is here. 

They were given a choice: you don’t belong here, so if you want to live, if you want to stay – no lights, no candles, not that God.  Your choice. 

So who am I here in my safe house not to light the candles, say the prayers? I choose it in their name.
But I am not holy. When I am looking for God, I go to Sherburne.

On Jewish holidays I usually make a joke, a Bruce Vilanch joke – “they tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat.” But there is no they, there is no us, everyone is killing, everyone is dying, no one is winning.

I just want to go home.
I need new jokes.

I’m cooking this brisket alone.  My family isn’t here.

My mother didn’t teach me this recipe, my mother wasn’t Jewish.
Friends showed me.  When I get lost, I ask the internet.  I ask Naama.

My husband is vegetarian. 
He’ll eat the latkes, but only my son and I will eat this brisket.

This house won’t be safe forever. It was someone else’s house once.

At least they weren’t out of brisket at the Midway Cub.