ABSTRACT
If home provides an anchor for the soul, I have been searching for one since I was a small child. I was lonely in my house in Scarsdale, New York, the daughter of assimilated Jews who moved to a wealthy suburb to provide a good education for their children. We were somewhat out of place because we didn’t have much money, nor were there Jews in the immediate neighborhood. My mother wanted us to have the best opportunities. Like many Jewish parents, she was very ambitious for us, often with a judgmental and critical edge. In response, I became a performing pianist at age nine, played basketball and baseball on school teams, and worked hard academically. In the midst of my quite public successes, my mother did not seem to notice that I was often isolated and restless, and I didn’t know how to speak to her about my internal struggles. I also didn’t share this part of myself with my two brothers, who were themselves grappling to relate to our mother’s expectations. My father was only a shadowy presence, unassuming, in spite of his warmth and sense of humor. He went to work every day selling motor oil to garages around the state.
