Having extended family gather for my sister-in-law Amy’s funeral made me think about what being a Hurwitz means.
The first time I met the Hurwitz family was at a Passover seder when I was sixteen. There were a lot of them and it was noisy. The apartment was small and its kitchen miniscule, which belied the complexity and deliciousness and number of plates and bowls involved in the meal Sam’s mom Dorrie single-handedly produced from it. On one side of me at the cramped table was my new boyfriend Sam, and on the other, his Aunt Annie. I introduced myself.
“What kind of name is Krick?” she asked me. “German?”
“Flemish,” I said, beginning to sweat. “Or maybe English.” We were only 30 years past the Holocaust and even if I just stuck around for the rest of the day, I could see this wasn’t going to be easy. But after ensuing decades of getting to know and love Aunt Annie, I can say she wasn’t trying to make me uncomfortable. She was genuinely curious, and, as her sister and my mother-in-law Dorrie often whispered to me, not smart.
It’s been fifty years and I have been folded fully into the Hurwitz sauce. It’s funny; my own WASP-y family are anything but stereotypically reserved. They are quirky themselves, easy-going, sensitive. We say little or speak the truth politely or humorously, in ways that don’t offend. Our social end goal is that people feel good, our most frequently expressed words “please” and “thank you.” The Hurwitzes want that same outcome, but their key words are “sit” and “eat,” which now fall on my ears and emerge from my mouth with the same purity and sweetness.
The day of Amy’s funeral, we sat shiva at our house. I used to feel at an affectionate remove, like I was playing a part, but not now. I welcome people in, tell them to eat. Amid the tears and laughter, I think about Amy. The candle burns above the fireplace. I am a Hurwitz, and this is what my people do.