The Southerners

Joe and Marcia are old friends of the family. They’re both from Atlanta, Georgia – and as Jews who moved to Miami from New York, they were our first exposure to Southern Jews. We say, “Miami;” they say, “Miam-uh.” We like rye bread; they like white. I don’t know how we saw past the differences to remain friends.

Marcia and my mom were both teachers in my elementary school. Joe is an attorney who, ever since I remember, has led a yearly March of the Living trip which takes Jewish teenagers and brings them to Poland to see some of the concentration camps. The only reason I didn’t go on the trip was because my father was dying of cancer at the time and my mom thought at 16 I had enough on my plate and didn’t need images of the Holocaust piled on top of it. Ironically, it’s been just those encounters with Holocaust survivors which have helped me put my own experiences with death into a different perspective. I love my dad and miss him terribly. His death has had a lasting impact on my life. But when sitting with a guy like Frank, who had to escape to Russia as a boy and then ended up in a Siberian prison, coming out many years later only to find most of his friends and family had been killed by Nazis, you realize just how horrible the world can be and maybe I got off lucky. Concentration Camp trumps Dead Dad any day of the week.

The cool thing about Joe and Marcia is that even if they may still have some regrets – neither want to continue working in their mid-70’s but need to financially – both have found jobs they enjoy, both have found time to take the yearly trips that are important to them, and both have managed (after all these years of marriage) to sit on my mom’s couch before the interview started and flirt. Joe tried to grab Marcia’s boob; Marcia smacked his hand away. They giggled; Then Joe threw his arm around Marcia, and Marcia leaned into Joe, and neither of them moved an inch long after the interview was over.

Joe and Marcia, married for 54 years.