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View this post on Instagram Mameve Medwed memoir Part I: “I was named for two grandmothers: Mamie, my father's mother. Eva, my mother's grandmother. Pronounced May-meeve. I could write a book about the ongoing struggles with this name: how as a teenager I pretended to be Parisian. How when I begged for plain Jane-dom, my mother swore all my babysitters were going to name their first-born daughters after me. Believe me, I've done the search; there's not a single human or hamster named Mameve anywhere in Bangor, Maine. I grew up in Bangor in an anthill Jewish community dominated by Catholics and Protestants. My best friend was Pollyanne Mead whose father was a policeman. From the walls of every room in her house hung technicolor photographs of Jesus, his halo casting a mournful otherworldly light over features more beautiful than any movie star at the Bijou Theater's Saturday matinee. Pollyanne's brother Frankie used to torment us as we played with our dolls under a Jesus portrait and next to one or another of the statues of the Virgin Mary that dotted the tables, even the dinette set. "Sissies," he'd taunt. Then turn to me. "Christ killer," he'd add. "Don't mind him," Pollyanne would say, "he's got no manners." Did manners mask the truth? I wondered. Did Pollyanne agree with such slander but choose to remain tactful? I wanted to ask. But I kept my mouth shut. If I'd killed Christ, it was something we never discussed at home. Though politics got analyzed and argued over at every meal, religion seemed to be as off base as sex.” #mamevemedwed #jewishmaine #mainewriters #jewishwomen #memoir A post shared by Documenting Maine Jewry (@mainejewishhistory) on Mar 25, 2019 at 7:42am PDT
Mameve Medwed memoir Part I: “I was named for two grandmothers: Mamie, my father's mother. Eva, my mother's grandmother. Pronounced May-meeve. I could write a book about the ongoing struggles with this name: how as a teenager I pretended to be Parisian. How when I begged for plain Jane-dom, my mother swore all my babysitters were going to name their first-born daughters after me. Believe me, I've done the search; there's not a single human or hamster named Mameve anywhere in Bangor, Maine. I grew up in Bangor in an anthill Jewish community dominated by Catholics and Protestants. My best friend was Pollyanne Mead whose father was a policeman. From the walls of every room in her house hung technicolor photographs of Jesus, his halo casting a mournful otherworldly light over features more beautiful than any movie star at the Bijou Theater's Saturday matinee. Pollyanne's brother Frankie used to torment us as we played with our dolls under a Jesus portrait and next to one or another of the statues of the Virgin Mary that dotted the tables, even the dinette set. "Sissies," he'd taunt. Then turn to me. "Christ killer," he'd add. "Don't mind him," Pollyanne would say, "he's got no manners." Did manners mask the truth? I wondered. Did Pollyanne agree with such slander but choose to remain tactful? I wanted to ask. But I kept my mouth shut. If I'd killed Christ, it was something we never discussed at home. Though politics got analyzed and argued over at every meal, religion seemed to be as off base as sex.” #mamevemedwed #jewishmaine #mainewriters #jewishwomen #memoir
A post shared by Documenting Maine Jewry (@mainejewishhistory) on Mar 25, 2019 at 7:42am PDT