Look At Me Now: An inspiring story of surviving childhood negligence against all odds

By Miriam Weiser

Born to uncaring parents who subsequently divorce, Rifka is left fighting for love and attention. At the age of seven, she and her little sister learn to fend for themselves. Rivka discovers much too early that she cannot confide in anyone, that she cannot rely on anyone, and that her own family was a lost cause. Left to her own devices, shunned and shoved from place to place and from school to school, she manages to grow nevertheless into a smart, capable woman who lives her life with gusto and a positive attitude.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781643348018

Book preview

Chapter One

That’s Rifka. A friendly arm draped around my shoulder.

Hey, how’ve you been?

And to others, Have you met my friend Rifka? Quiet whispers and pointed fingers.

Who’s that? they asked.

That’s Rifka.

Oh, Rifka. Hi. Nice to meet you. Laughter echoed throughout the school halls as groups of friends sashayed across the corridors toward their next class, clasping onto each other’s hands or around each other’s sweaty necks.

Come on, Rifka. Don’t be late for class.

Come on, Rifka, you’re the smartest. Help me study for the test.

Come on, Rifka, let’s go have lunch.

That’s not really how it was. That’s just how I imagined it.

I am the unnoticed one. For me, there was only the struggle, the blunder and bumble as I trudged through life, striving to survive.

The impediments were all there, placed in my way like an obstacle course of humongous proportions. A tiny child left to fend for herself as her supposed caregivers rooted around their own lives with better things to do, more important needs and desires, than caring for and nurturing their own offspring, a little child.

It was all I knew. It was all around me. There was no world for me. No parental love or nurture. None of the fundamentals a child needs to grow and develop into a healthy adult. There was only the struggle and the places I struggled in, year after year.

Tell me about yourself, one might say. Which school did you attend?

I look at the inquirer, and then, seriously, in fact, with genuine earnestness, I say, Pick a year.

The skeptical expression that follows always amuses me. The questioner pulls back and looks at me funny, like I’ve made a joke. But I did no such thing. I spent my school years in nine different schools—and many, many different homes.

I went where I was told to go, and where I was told to go was away.

I was a fighter. I was knocked down more times than I care to remember. But I always got back up and kept moving. I have persevered with a fiery will and an indomitable conviction, knowing deep down that nothing is stronger than me. Mine is a story of strength, of a fiery will to survive.

Mine is a story of determination.

No. That wasn’t it either. There was not much going on in my mind. My mind was so undeveloped and messed up at the same time; I didn’t have the ability to comprehend my circumstances, much less think up anything pertinent to survival.

The only explanation I could give for my survival, the only rationalization for having turned out the way I did, is that a Higher Power was looking out for me. I was blessed with the innocent and doubtless wisdom to respect my elders. I was blessed with an innate need to please and to do the right thing—always, no matter the circumstance. I was not taught these things like most children who are taught right from wrong.

Who am I, you ask? Which story of me is true and relevant right now? I guess I am whoever I allow myself to be.

I struggled and I fought. I suffered and I wept. I lost and I conquered. And I grew up. And now I am grown.

Too bad that my childhood—the only one I will ever have to look back on for memories and stories for my children and grandchildren, the part of me who made me who I am (yes, who I am)—was bad.

Too bad.

But the important thing is that it is the past. And look at me now.

Today, as I look back with melancholy and dejection at my upbringing and lack of nurture, today I know and understand why it was I who had to experience this dreadful, abysmal sequence of events.

On page 231 of the book My Father, My Mother, and Me by Yehudis Samet (Artscroll), it states the way one should deal with difficult filial situations:

When we feel we have lost out and are obsessed with an if only scenario, we can move forward by reversing the order of those two destructive words, the if only becoming only if. Only if we include the Almighty in the picture will we accept our parents as a match made for us in Heaven.

This can be explained with a parable:

The Almighty sends us on a journey. There will be stops along the way. We are given a suitcase packed with whatever we will need at each junction. Included is our parents, maybe stepparents, and on occasion absentee parents.

Did we need a lighter suitcase? Did we need all those things we’re carrying?

That suitcase was packed especially for each of us, individually. Every item it contains is placed there to ensure us a successful journey.

He has a special purpose in creating us. Each of us is a unique individual with a unique mission, put into this world to accomplish something that no one else can. We are given our own unique circumstances, tailor made for us, the props of our life, to bring out our potential and help us fulfill this mission.

But he has a suitcase with wheels. Look how easy it is for him!

If we lack what others have, it’s because we don’t need it for what we must accomplish.

Today I speak to you. You, who are perhaps living in a nightmare you think is probably your own. You, who feel neglected. You, who fear the coming night or the day ahead. You, who feel unloved and that no one cares.

I speak to all of you who think that there is no way you can survive your current status quo, no matter what it may be. Please, listen to my story.

And then tell me you will prevail. Tell yourself that you will succeed.

And you will.

Chapter Two

I cannot describe the weather or the time of year it was. Under the circumstances, it made no difference whether it was the icy cold and snowy winter or the blazing hot and hazy summer. It doesn’t matter whether it was day or night or if the season warranted gaiety or sorrow. Except for the haziness regarding the timing, the scene replays itself on my mind very clearly, though I was only four years old, because it brought icy chills to my little spine and caused my teeth to chatter and, at the same time, my tiny head and parts of my body felt dreadfully warm. I guess I could say that it was a kaleidoscope of seasons aggressively battling inside my four-year-old body, causing it to convulse in plain fear. I sat at the small wooden kitchen table, close to my two-year-old sister, holding on to her for dear life, as though I could shield her from the strife and fighting, and stared at the scene before me.

This is my first memory.

My parents were in the room, standing near the kitchen sink, arguing, once again, about money. They stood a couple of feet away from my sister and me, and their actions brought forth the emotions I so vividly remember today. I could smell the scent of my mother’s housedress, as she whooshed this way and that with anger. I could sense my father’s fear as he leaned on the counter, trying to get farther away from her flailing arms.

The brown paneling across the small kitchen walls made the room look even smaller and more claustrophobic than it was. The ugly yellow wallpaper stays seared in my brain. My mother was waving a telephone bill from Bell Telephone Company. Her face was red with anger. Her kerchief was askew on her head, and her dark eyes flashed with the fury I was already getting used to at my young age. My father stood there, taking the abuse like a cat cowering in a corner.

They always fought about money. Mainly it was my mother who screamed at my father for not being able to hold down a job. He never could get it together when it came to work and financial support. Being able to provide for his family was not his strong point.

My mother worked two jobs from the time I was a baby. One full-time job was in the diamond district on Forty Seventh Street in Manhattan, to which she took the train every day besides the weekend.

On Sundays, she worked at Meal Mart, a kosher catering company, on the East Side.

In hindsight, one might feel sorry for the burdened mother of two who was also forced to be the family’s provider. And one would, if not for the antipathy and irritation with which she dealt with her situation.

People fight. People scream at each other all the time. But then there are times when there is peace and tranquility. And those are the times a kid could focus on during the more difficult ones. But I had none. There was nothing but the fights. There was no tranquility and peace and family time and laughter and play. There was nothing.

That fight with the telephone bill in the kitchen just two feet away from my little sister and me, that was just the very first one that is seared in my memory like letters carved on a tombstone.

On the table in front of us were two mostly empty, frozen meal containers. My mother would often bring home these ready meals from her work. Whether she received them gratis or paid with her employee discount or even paid full price, I do not know.

We had eaten macaroni and meat just a few minutes before. It was my favorite thing for dinner.

At that time, we lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, a city that is a community, where people lived and still do today, with and for each other. There are many organizations that help families in need for reasons spanning from financial to medical to family harmony and beyond. My horrific and lonely experiences, therefore, give me reason to believe that despite the many opportunities there are available for help, there may be so many people who either fall under the radar or just fake it to get through the day.

My parents married young, and from the very beginning, the marriage was not a blessing in any way at all, except for the fact that they had two children together. But that wasn’t a blessing for us children unless you want to get philosophical or ethical about it. From very early on, it was an accepted fact that my father could not sustain a job and, therefore, could not provide for his family. It was my mother who went to work. It was she who provided for us girls. And she let him know it, loudly and clearly at any and every opportunity she had, which was daily. Today, she may reiterate the point that she provided for her family in the way he never could.

But little children deserve more than that. Little children need a mother’s hugs and kisses. Little children require attention and care and love to grow and prosper. Imagine a flower in an expensive planter. Will it grow if it is never watered or put out in the sun?

The resentment my mother had toward my father filtered down to her children, and she had no time or patience for us. These are my earliest memories. Before she had a whole family of more children, and I stayed the black sheep, the Cinderella, the outcast.

My father hails from the Bronx. He wore, in the 1970s and 80s, a small hat with a narrow brim. He has a small face, which makes his nose look bigger than it actually is. His family belongs to the Lubavitch sect, a large Hasidic group, though we did not live with or follow Lubavitch customs. I do not recall a single practice or tradition we observed in all our years growing up. He shaved his beard and dressed plainly. He was on the heavy side. His large eyes were no match for my mother’s when she was angry. His dark hair and a medium-to-large build were the only things he contributed to my life.

I never really knew his parents; we didn’t have a real relationship with them. When my grandmother passed away, my grandfather remarried a stern woman, but again, even though they lived in Brooklyn, not all that far from us, we never really had any connection with them. So, while we had grandparents on both sides, neither pair were of any help or comfort to us two girls, my sister and me. We lived together under the same roof of darkness and fear, each day hovering over us with intense and deafening fighting, which mainly involved screaming from her and cowering from him.

Owning a TV was as normal for us as it was not for Hasidim. Because my mother worked two jobs, I ended up spending more time in front of the TV, with my father almost always a presence. And since I only started school at the age of about four, I stayed with a neighbor, who eventually helped me with schoolwork. I don’t remember anything negative about the time I spent with my father. We didn’t do anything special. He was just around quite often.

My mother was also a dark brunette, but light-skinned. She really always looked beautifully put together. Her fashion sense wasn’t up there on par with the fashionistas of the world, and she didn’t spend a lot of money dressing up, but I remember her always being immaculately outfitted, with a face of makeup and jewelry, albeit from a cheaper source. My mother was also of medium height, but when she was in one of her moods, she managed to tower over my father. She had eyes that scared the sense out of me when she opened them in anger and distaste. The sight was frightening, triggering ripples of fear to ascend my little spine and then spread outward to my extremities. She had thin lips and long fingers. Her features, as well as her mannerisms, brought forth images of Cruella de Vil, the infamous villain from the popular One Hundred and One Dalmatians, or Mrs. Hannigan of the famous orphan Annie. There was a power of speech about her that lent an understanding that whatever happened in the house stayed in the house, whether it involved words or not.

Okay, yaw gonna regret that, she’d say when one of us did something she didn’t like. And that was all I needed. The sheer fright that those few words triggered was enough to keep me quiet and cooperative. But I was a good girl. I was always quiet and cooperative. But I was also a child.

My mother taught me one thing. She taught me that I did not want to be like her.

My parents do not take a single bit of responsibility for the kind of upbringing I suffered through. They are not ashamed. Of anything. And shame, really, is the seed of decency. But it’s not their fault. How could they be ashamed? They don’t realize they did anything wrong. It must be a mental disorder of sorts that they have not been diagnosed with, that the shame and regrets are nonexistent. And what would I have done with their regrets today, anyway? It wouldn’t take back anything that happened. It wouldn’t change me as a person. Their regretting anything would not transform or modify my closetsful of memories I can’t seem to get away from. Nor do I want to at this point. Regrets don’t demonstrate anything but recognition of wrongdoing. But it won’t change anything tangible.

Admission is helpful, they say. Admit you did harm, or admit you made a faux pas. It’s good for your soul. But it doesn’t much help the victim. Holding on to any hope of relief that may come from confession or regrets will not change my circumstance.

It may validate me. But validation is not key to living a full and admirable existence. Living a good life, once you are an adult and in control of your own well-being, depends on your own positive attitude. It comes with letting go of the past and making it on your own. Or, as I have been doing with the most positive and uplifting results, share your experiences so that others can benefit from it.

As a child, and growing up, I had not a single soul in the entire world who looked out for me. I couldn’t tell you this at the time, but I was the loneliest little girl. There was so much that I missed, which I only later realized was extremely cruel. In my mind, there was a lot of thinking going on. But what I was thinking, I couldn’t say either, because I did not make heads or tails of my situation for years and years.

It came to me, however, when I turned eighteen. But wait, there’s still lots to talk about.

I found out much later that my mother had been receiving help from her brother, Samuel, even way before she was married. Behavioral issues that turned into certain troubles caused her to need his help more often than she would ever admit. The truth, that she was full of anger and resentment at her failure of a husband, was all she would admit to. But her psychological issues, which have never been officially diagnosed, were apparently present and accounted for in her life before my father entered it.

My mother’s parents were originally from Russia and Germany. They lived in Washington Heights for the remainder of their lives. They had four children: two girls and two boys. They were religious, fine, upstanding people. They couldn’t have been aware of the nonexistent approach to religion and basic Jewish customs in our house. I would expect they would have had a bit of a problem with that. To me, it didn’t seem like they knew anything. And if they did, nothing was discussed. We did not spend a lot of time with them anyway. And the little bit that