The Riverside Press-Enterprise
Unexpected writing journey leads to an ethical will, sort of
My friend Marc Brenman and my granddaughter
Kai Winters don’t know each other. Yet unknowingly they colluded to set me off on an unexpected writing journey.
Marc kicked it off when he suggested that, as I approached 90 years of age, I should think about writing an ethical will. I had heard the term. Even had a distant friend who told me he was writing one. So I asked Marc to send me some information.
It turns out that the ethical will is a long Jewish tradition that, in modern times, has morphed into non-jewish circles. Rabbi Jack Riemer, who edited a collection of ethical wills, describes them this way: They are parental letters to their children in which parents try to sum up what they have learned throughout their lives and then tell their children what they want “for and from” them. The Hebrew scriptures are full of ethical wills emanating from such luminaries as Jacob, Moses, and David.
Then my granddaughter Kai weighed in. A key member of the family team that is planning my 90th birthday party in April, she enrolled me and my wife, Laurel, in an online service called Storyworth. Each week Storyworth sends me a question selected by my family, to which I respond. Later these mini-essays will be printed as a collection. Nice idea.
At first I wrote relatively straightforward answers to straightforward questions. “What was life like in the ’60s?” “What was your Mom like when you were a child?” “What was your first big trip?” (To Mexico in 1946 when I was 12 to meet my grandmother in Mexico City and my Tia Anita, who had raised Dad in Guadalajara after the rest of his family had fled to the United States during the Mexican Revolution.)
Then came a question that changed the nature of the project: “What advice would you give your 20-year-old self?” Give advice to my younger self? First I had to revisit my 20-year-old self to see where I stood in my life’s journey.
It turns out that 1954 (I turned 20 on April 6) was probably the most traumatic year of my life. I was flitting from one major to another. I had my first truly serious female relationship (we broke up by the end of the year). My parents separated (they got back together before the year was out).
So the 89-year-old Carlos counseled the 20-yearold Carlos about how to deal with life. Nothing particularly profound. In fact, I concluded the essay by referring to what I wrote as “a cluster of trite pieces of advice.” But I was off to the races. From that point forward, in each weekly essay I seasoned narrative with touches of cross-generational counsel.
Simple questions now set me off on contemplative excursions. “What are some of your favorite smells, and why?” Rather than listing odors, I took my grandkids on a Willy Wonka-like journey through my various senses. How the decline of one sense (my hearing) intersected with the regaining of another sense (cataract removal and the insertion of tri-optic lenses so that I now read, write, and drive without glasses). Focus on appreciating what you still have even as you lose some of what you previously had.
“What is the best job you’ve ever had?” prompted a discourse on how you should try to find value in every job that you have, as much as you may dislike it. I illustrated that idea by describing a number of my jobs, complete with what I gained from each one. This culminated with my post-universityretirement adventures as an independent public lecturer, where I learned the true meaning of liberation: “No bosses, no employees.”
Some of the questions challenged my judgment. “If you could travel back in time to any country and any era, knowing you’d be completely safe and could come back, where and when would you go?” Reluctantly I eschewed exotic adventures into distant times and places. Instead I opted for the 1930s so that I could observe my parents as they met, courted, got married, and had their two sons. I would love to accompany them in order to view and reflect on their turbulent journey: Marrying across ethnic and religious boundaries back when this was rare; dealing with family opposition on both sides; and raising me in the midst of the Great Depression.
This doesn’t really add up to a traditional ethical will. But I certainly feel better as I tell my stories, share my insights, and provide unrequested advice across generations. Who knows? Maybe those stories will someday provide guidance for my as-yet-unborn descendants. Whatever. At least they may get to know their greatgreat-great-great granddad they never met.
Carlos Cortés is professor emeritus of history at UC Riverside, author of a memoir, “Rose Hill: An Intermarriage before Its Time,” and a book of poetry, “Fourth Quarter: Reflections of a Cranky Old Man,” and creative consultant for “Dora the Explorer” and “Puss in Boots: The Last Wish.” He can be reached at carlos. cortes@ucr.edu.