My tagline reads: Jill Slaughter Always candid. Always truthful. Sometimes funny. Anita is the woman who imbued me with the courage it takes to live by that tenet.

Mother Love

She is my mother, herself candid, truthful and genuinely funny. She has been my caregiver, my teacher, my disciplinarian, my advisor, my protector, my trusted confidant, and now my friend. She has wept alongside me at my catastrophic losses, but tethered her strength and conviction to me insisting that “this too shall pass”, as I dissolved into my grief. My mother would not let me go.

Peace Has Finally Come

During a serious illness that resulted in a prolonged hospital stay in Los Angeles my mom (who lives in Florida) came out to LA, and slept on a cot in my room for countless days, and then brought me home and slept on the couch in my small apartment. At the time she was probably 76 or 77. She put on my socks when I was cold, and took them off two minutes later when I was hot. She begged me to eat, and when I refused, she held a straw to my mouth so that I would at least drink something. She demanded that I get pain medication when the only sounds I could make were winching cries of agony. And her humor has caused my eyes to puddle with tears.

Sisters

As a child I jockeyed for position among my siblings to hold my mother’s hand, and she did.

And now sometimes I take my mother’s hand to steady her gait.

A Bare Season

The Leader

My father is Carl. Judiciously candid, unfailingly truthful, good-humored, but not as funny. As a kid I was blissfully unaware of how hard my dad worked to support all of us. He suited up, and showed up everyday to make sure we were well cared for and loved.

Throughout my life my father has funded my adventures and my failures, both emotionally and financially.

Twenty Something

My college year abroad was exciting, and thrilling, but ultimately exhausting. Back when people were allowed to come to the gate to meet a plane my dad was the first person I saw when I landed at La Guardia. My broad-shouldered very handsome dad was not given to public displays of affection, but after not seeing me for more than a year he lifted me into the air, hugged me tightly, and twirled me around. I was skin and bones. Anorexia was unheard of in the early 80’s, but it had grabbed hold of me and I had not eaten regularly for many months.

Work by unknown artist at Basel 2011

My dad didn’t know what happened, and maybe i didn’t really know why this happened either, but i was able to come home to Brooklyn. I stayed in a bedroom long since converted into a den and I kept the shades drawn, slept most of the time, didn’t eat or talk much.

Love Always

My dad would bring me a chocolate chip cookie everyday when he came home from work. He would sit on the edge of the bed. I didn’t have to talk, and neither did he. I didn’t eat the cookie most of the time, but he brought me one every day. That fall I was able to leave for school in San Francisco. Still today my father is my fierce protector, my advisor, my Raw Candor proof reader, and my dearest friend. His voice is softer, his hair is peppered with gray, but still my dad is our beloved leader.

Star of David

Cross section

My childhood neighborhood was home to middle class Jewish and Italian families. We knew who we were. We shopped at the kosher butcher, they bought meat at the A&P. The atmosphere was naive and carefree.

Sparkly Christmas

Eight Nights of Light

Sweet money

Believe, Belief

The aromas that filled our houses were different. Some front yards had pastel plaster hallowed statues of Mary, faded by the elements, while others had nondescript evergreen shrubs. Neighbors drove each others kids to school, and borrowed eggs and milk from one another, but when the holidays came our differences were pronounced. Wreaths on doors and blinking colored lights, in my neighborhood meant you were Catholic. Electric menorahs in windows, signified eight days of Hanukkah.

Why Not

Joy to the world, and good will toward men, but I was envious. I loved how Christmas lights looked, and wanted twinkling bouncing lights to adorn my house. I wanted to look like the families on TV that wore bathrobes with their initials monogrammed over the breast pocket. I wanted my family to be like the families that drank hot cocoa from cups with saucers while they gingerly opened elaborately wrapped gifts with ribbons to save for next year. I wanted that. I wanted to smell a tree and be able to unpack commemorative ornaments every year which would chronicle my childhood. But instead my sisters and/or brother and I , parted the heavy off-white drapes covering the picture window in the living room as we leaned over the radiator to turn another bulb on the menorah to indicate another night of the festival of lights.

Food, and more food

Family Hanukkah Dinner

We ate latkes and brisket. No hot chocolate, we were kosher, didn’t mix meat and milk, and we were a ribbon-less, bow-less clan.

Can I Have That

Seemed like the Christian kids got fashionable clothes, and records. Stereos and shiny things.

Not Sparkly

God bless my parents, four kids, eight nights, that’s a lot of presents to give. We each got something we wanted. I knew by age seven that I was an artist.

My Gift

My parents would give my own crayons, drawing pads, and the like. I treated art supplies as if they were my tools, while my sisters,because they had no interest in art treated “supplies” like toys. My parents understood, and maybe just to avoid the bloodshed that came from sharing “toys”, gave me my own stuff. Finally I was able to put the colors back in their designated slots after each use. I didn’t like using crayons if the wrapper had come off, and I didn’t like using broken crayons. I liked order and specificity, even then. I loved being given something special. After that, it was all down hill, seven nights of socks and underwear, scarves and gloves.

Light it Up

So we were Jews. Unadorned, not decorated, simple, basic. The celebration was equally joyous I suppose in treeless homes, just not as pretty. I wanted to be like them, but I was one of us. I have usually wanted to be them, not knowing how to be a member of the “us.”

Love, Love and Love

But now I am just me. Simple, understated, chic, maybe. No desire to be like them, whoever “them” is.

Hanging Outside

Shiny Star

Affixed to the lamp-post on a busy east – west street I noticed sparkly Christmas decorations hanging from a lamppost. Not unusual. But hanging from the next pole was a sparkly Star of David. My holiday memories only include Jews sparkling if they’re wearing diamonds. In my world Jews don’t have decorations that hang in town squares. We don’t have Hanukkah bushes and we don’t get shiny gifts. We are practical. We are devoted. We don’t sparkle. But things are changing.

1+1 = 6

At fifty-five I continue to entrust the celebration of holidays to my parents. We aren’t religious, mostly sentimental. None the less, my parents are the keeper of the flame. My mom does the cooking, and sets out all of her exquisite china and serving pieces. My dad conducts all the ceremonies and blesses us all. But at Passover this year my mom declared that it was too much for her and that “this would be the last Passover.”

My Father’s Father’s Birth Cup

With two of my three daughters in town this year, along with other family members and friends, we gathered at my parent’s for our celebration, wherein my mom said it was too much for her and that “this would be the last Hanukkah.”

My Cup Runneth Over

J.Lucy – October 1989

Dixie – March 1992

Zazu – March 1994

When a child is born in my family they are given a silver cup with their name and birthday engraved on it. Our version of sparkly. My father has his fathers cup. As my children live in different parts of the country I am the keeper of the cups for my kids (to respect Zazu’s privacy her given name is not being shown on her cup). If this in fact was the last Passover and the last Hanukkah, next year we will all meet somewhere where my parents can be the guests, and my dad the leader, always.

Hero in My Mom’s Car

1+1 = 6

Laughing with the leader

I will be speaking about Parental Alienation at the HEARTCAMP conference on February 4th in Fort Lauderdale. My parents will be in the audience.

Heartcamp Conference – http://heartcamp2011.sched.org/event/

Zach Balber photography – http://www.soflanights.com/?p=19911

Todd Norsten – http://www.highpointprintmaking.org/editions/norsten_todd/bio.html

Julie Friel – http://www.ihlet.com/artist/julie-friel

Photograph of me and my daughters – Don Parchment  http://www.photoreflect.com/store/store.aspx?p=31682

Photographs – Jill Slaughter

Photo of me and my Dad – Hannah Shechter Daugherty