This last one is (perhaps) the toughest to write, and it happened over ten years ago. I think because I trusted her in some ways (though not that much in others) but also because I somehow expected her to be . . . well, more decent for lack of a better word. She was very much into projecting a sense of openness and acceptance of others, not only in words but also in deeds, a fact she very much impressed on her children from a very young age. This was her duty as a public figure but also because she owed it to her family, whose genes had made them just a little different the first time around and slightly darker (though in a strictly Northern European sense that assigns darkness to a skin tone that tans easily in the summer while staying very pale in the winter). 

Showing Acceptance was very important to her, so much so that when I told her I was thinking of going to the Yom Kippur service because I’d been invited she told me to come afterwards “for a very Finnish brunch.” The brunch was good, I’ll give her that, prepared with meticulous care, but also without animosity. I say this because a former acquaintance of mine was held up as a prime chef who had only worked with the best after receiving the best training at the best school and you get the message. These words were said by her non-Finnish partner. She herself – in keeping with that Finnish cliche of not bragging about anything good you may have – never said a word. The places she worked at and had been trained in were meant to speak for themselves. And yet, whenever I tasted her food, on the rare occasions she deigned to make something, I could never decide if she was serving shit on purpose or if Finnish cuisine really didn’t have much of a standard. Until I learned that there really is plenty of truth to that adage of the secret ingredient being love. Intent matters, and now that I think of it really accounts for the times people praised the oven baked pasta dish I learned from a frenemy in Paris while other times clearly eating it with all the politeness of a child told to eat up what had been cooked just for them without anything other than a rousing rendition of “yum yum” after each and every bite. 

I will name this former acquaintance to whom Acceptance was everything Gudrun. It’s the first name that comes to my mind, and I don’t know anyone with that name, so no one is getting insulted. And since this is so far removed as a name from the person in question, I can rest easy knowing that I have covered her tracks, even including some changes made to key clues here and there. Suffice it to say that her name really is recognizable, and the reason I’m mentioning that is because her status in society is precisely what makes this particularly problematic. Especially in Finland, which is a small country with a village mindset in that everyone is separated by two degrees of separation instead of six and those whose voices are deemed to carry authority are listened to and held up as guides to social, moral and spiritual situations.

When I arrived only her youngest was there. The others, being teenagers, had either  very adamantly declared that they would not participate in this farce, or they really did have things going on. I had met them before, they had interacted with me as teens, we had spoken and were friendly when I was in their house. Her youngest did not speak English, but we had managed to communicate somehow. She’s all grown up now so I doubt she doesn’t remember any of this, because I sincerely hope not.  

Her mother made a point of asking me if I had come from the synagogue in a tone that should have raised a red flag, since it sounded like she had rehearsed this quite a few times in her head. In case you’re wondering what the hell I was doing near any kind of food straight after a Yom Kippur service, while I will go out of my way to accomodate people when they fast – if that’s what they wish to do – I’m really not observant or religious (to cover the Catholic part as well while we’re at it). I will mention my belief system later, but my interest in religions (which is very much alive and well) is closer to social anthropology than anything even remotely resembling religion.

When I affirmed that I had indeed been at the service, Gudrun asked her youngest (who by then was sitting on her lap, as though she intuited what was about to come) if she knew what a Jew was. Her youngest by the way was in elementary school then, and at that age where you already know as their guardian that time is up because they’re getting into all the adult stuff. As an elementary school relative recently told me, “we want to dress like teenagers” and act like them in that opinions are very clearly stated and you know what you like (and what you consider beneath you). Still she was sitting on her mother’s lap, looking at the table while her mother segued into the Holocaust and how atrocious it all was in a tone reserved to talk of the less fortunate without talking about the less fortunate and thereby making it only too clear that you are indeed talking about the less fortunate. It reminded me of something another acquaintance had pulled me into (because sadly this type of behavior really knows no borders), which was an “Interfaith dialogue” sponsored by the German church in Paris “to foster dialogue and understanding of the Holocaust” and left me with the same feeling. Needless to say this acquaintance (who was neither French nor Geman) never spoke to me again when I bowed out and explained why. Both moments taught me that it’s true we might not remember words, but we will most certainly remember the emotions we felt at a certain point in time, especially how somebody made us feel. I was told this when I was seventeen, and I always remembered for a brief period of time before I’d forget. 

It’s hard to describe what exactly went down when you start feeling objectified, as though you were just there for a cause. A cause that will serve others far more than it will ever do you any good in any way, shape or form. You are there for a purpose and it’s not to tell your story, but for them to feel good about themselves. That little girl sitting on her mother’s lap knew it, she intuited it. And that’s precisely what her mother should have done, considering her standing in society, which allowed her to exert influence over many impressionable minds and also those who wanted some guidelines on “how to talk to a Jew,” which in itself is problematic. She should have informed herself on how to have this conversation without objectifying the people she wanted her family to know about, even if the purpose wasn’t clear. To learn about the “unfortunate?” To make her children appreciate what they have? It’s hard to tell when you’re the object serving a purpose you’re unaware of other than it serves the objectifier more than it will ever help you. It can’t be repeated often enough. People should know that, or at the very least be aware of it. And this becomes especially poignant when you are in a position from which you can influence others, and more so if you are seeking to be elected on a platform that bills itself as fighting for inclusion.

Now that I’ve written it down, I remembered another important point. Gudrun was telling my story to her daughter because I refused to tell it when I saw where it was heading. And seeing that her daughter was clearly uncomfortable. Nevertheless she plowed on, and that to me is extremely Finnish, that mindset of come hell or high water. Which is great when you are actually in high water, but hurtful and condescending when it is applied to people who need an emotional break or do not feel safe. And it is particularly out of line when you impose yourself on someone else’s story, even worse when you force this story on the listener, who feels extremely ill at ease and will forever associate you with that feeling when it’s the unauthorized story teller who should be taking the blame.

For as long as I can remember I was obsessed with the 1920s and early ’30s and especially Berlin during that time. But it only really crystalized in my brain when I was seventeen and the local theater was putting on Cabaret. The theater had an open house for teens every first Wednesday of the month with different themes, and I attended this one because I had just started a series on the local theater for the school paper. So far I had interviewed the dramaturge, who had told me that if I wanted to interview the theater’s resident heart throb I could ask him on that particular day, with a tone that clearly implied she wouldn’t be all that surprised if his answer was no. That particular Wednesday featured a reading from Christopher Isherwood’s Goodbye to Berlin, read by another actor who just happened to be my neighbor and whom I hated because he never said hello back when I greeted him (ok, that had happened only once, but I was still miffed). The heart throb was in attendance because he had been cast in the lead (and my neighbor just happened to be his boyfriend). I think I was the only teenage girl in that town (and, let’s be fair, among the theater goers) who did not have a crush on him, which was mainly down to my character trait of automatically rejecting what everyone was into, because trying to force me to do something will achieve the exact opposite. Sales pitches never work on me unless I was already interested in the product. If I didn’t hit follow before I was told to, it will never happen.

So that Wednesday I walked up to the heart throb and asked him for an interview for the paper, spurned by the dramaturge watching me in a surreptitious manner, which today clearly would have been rendered as a variation of the this is gonna be good meme. I knew she was curious to see if he’d grant me the interview, which told me that she was approaching this from a stance of if anyone can do it it’s this girl. The interview was granted, we even became friends and I also – unrelated to their relationship – made my peace with the neighbor and interviewed him as well.

The person featured in this post is not an actor, nor is anyone in her family. But my interest in Weimar Berlin was instrumental in my coming to Finland and it wasn’t just because I moved from Berlin. There is a connection to her, very finely embedded in this video, detectable only if, like me, you realize that the only way to get to Manhattan from New Jersey is via California.

And with all that being said, beware of an ideal that has been held up as the perfection to beat all perfections is a pretty good guideline if we substitute influential people in the community for blonde angels and other assorted promise makers.