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With my straight blond hair and momfucking son jet-lagged blue eyes, I don't belong here. And yet I do. I am with my mother-in-law. We whisper in each other's ears, lock arms and, days later, momfucking son dance together. We are here in Israel to learn each other, to move irrevocably beyond our past. Behind us is a rocky place filled with misunderstandings. On her part, there was a blind desire for her son to marry a Jew, momfucking son an inability to view me whole. My own movement to forgiveness and understanding has been slowed by an assumption that I know what I need to know about Judaism. Littered between these two stubborn positions lies the residual guilt of the Holocaust, coupled with a murky, groping understanding on both of our parts of what it means to be a good mother, a good daughter. I'm not sure whether the stark and horrifying tragedy of the Holocaust or the centuries-old wounds between mothers and daughters is the larger gap.
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