Going to see Broadway shows was always our thing. It was usually during intermission when she would turn to me, grin, and ask whether I wanted to go backstage. Since I was a theater kid, we both knew the answer was, of course, yes. She would wave down an usher she had befriended, hold their hand, bring them down closer to her four-foot-seven frame, and ask them to make it happen in exchange for good sex for the “r-r-r-rest” of their life. It worked every single time.
And while I was excited to meet my Broadway idols, my excitement paled in comparison to how eager they always were to meet my grandma — my Omi — Dr. Ruth.
Kristen Chenoweth, Lin-Manuel Miranda, Ben Platt, Larry David, Seth Meyers, Bruce Springsteen all followed the same choreography as the usher: hold her hand, bend down, talk to her, laugh and inevitably turn bright red.
But this time was different. She waved to no usher. She left no Broadway lead blushing. This time, sitting in the intermission of “Suffs,” a musical about the American women’s suffrage movement, weeks before I took the bar exam, I got a call that at 96 years old, my seemingly invincible grandmother, my Omi, was dying.
It really was an ironic show to be seeing when I got this news. In so many ways she exemplified the Suffs. A pioneer of her time, she had an unwavering commitment to advancing justice, dignity and equality for all people. It was also a deeply feminist show. We had a longstanding joke about people labeling her as a feminist. She never identified as one which always floored me. “I’m all for women’s liberation, Leora, just don’t go burning your bra,” she’d say. I chalked up our differences to her childhood in 1920s Germany and mine in 1990s New York. She changed American society and was a feminist icon, whether she viewed herself as one or not.
From an early age, I realized that my grandma was unique. She told me which cheek Paul McCartney kissed her on (the right) and called me on her way to the Oscars wearing my hand-me-down Merrill shoes from fourth grade (really). But, most importantly, no matter where we were — on the playground, in the airport or even in a bathroom — people would stop her to share stories of how her candor, empathy and humor changed their lives.
I knew this wasn’t typical. Neither was our relationship. We were incredibly close. She was my grandma, my mentor and really one of my best friends. From early on I knew I wanted to continue doing her work, albeit in my own way. I got involved in reproductive justice issues in high school and worked as a peer educator and community organizer in college. She always said how proud she was of me. “Abortion still happens when it is illegal, Leora,” she’d remind me. “The only difference is when it’s illegal it becomes much more dangerous for women who don’t have money.”
After college, I decided that the way I wanted to advance reproductive justice was through a law degree. Law would be my toolset with which to continue her work. “My granddaughter, an attorney!” she’d say, beaming with pride when I told her I was going to law school. She took endless pleasure knowing that of her two granddaughters, one was studying to become a doctor and the other to become a lawyer. Another sign of her feminist tendencies, but also her profound satisfaction that her granddaughters could pursue advanced degrees while her own high school education was cut short by the Holocaust.
In her last few weeks, my husband would drive me from Brooklyn to Washington Heights to see her while I studied contracts or secured transactions in the car. For a moment, I thought about delaying taking the exam. But she would never have accepted that. “Go home and study,” she’d say right when I got to her apartment. I was living in one reality, but to survive those weeks, I turned it into two. Review flashcards and practice essay questions. Switch. Remember my Omi, my special Omi, was dying and cry. Switch. Back to studying torts.
She died two weeks before I took the exam.
During those two weeks, I didn’t allow myself to be alone with my thoughts. It was either study or be distracted. In the shower, I’d listen to “Suffs” to keep my mind busy. I used the lyrics to remind myself of what she would have advised me to do.
Yes, the world can be changed, we’ve done it before
So keep marching, keep marching
We’re always behind you, so bang down the door
And keep marching, keep marching
When I found out I passed the exam, I instinctively grabbed my phone to call her as I did with any milestone. It took a second for reality to hit. I so badly wanted to call and say, “your granddaughter, an attorney!”
On the first anniversary of her yahrzeit, I’m an attorney. But even better, I’m an attorney on a team representing abortion clinics and providers. We’re challenging laws that limit access to reproductive freedom. I am working to ensure all people have access to accurate medical information, dignity and respect when they seek abortion care. Doing this work is a dream of mine and something I thought wouldn’t come until many years into my legal career.
I hadn’t listened to “Suffs” since studying for the bar a year ago. Last week the album randomly came on my Spotify. As I reviewed documents and motions in preparation for my first trial, I heard the Suffs singing in my ear: “Your ancestors are all the truth you need, that progress is possible not guaranteed.” I felt my Omi all around me.
And keep marching, keep marching.
