Ruth Oppenheimer Stern was born on 11/29/27 in Fulda, Germany, two years before Anne Frank and Martin Luther King, Jr.
Ninety-six years later, yesterday, on April 28th, she entered an eternal slumber in Rochester, New York.
Ruth was a proud Jewish deaf woman. She was an even prouder friend, sister, wife, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. She was a loyal fan of the Yankees and Knicks, admiring the sweet smiles of hard-nosed winners like Derek Jeter and Isaiah Hartenstein. She loved the Wheel of Fortune, Scrabble, and Jumble puzzles.
Everybody in our family and I were blessed to call her Oma.
In a desperate attempt to remember her special essence – I have the fuzzy memory of a 2024 U.S. presidential candidate – I thought I would compile some cherished memories and the lessons she taught about living a life worth living.
Oma was tough as nails. She was five years old in 1933 when her parents sent her to live at a Jewish school for the deaf in Berlin. She didn’t have access to sign language at home. By 1936, her hearing parents and brothers had immigrated to the United States.
But Oma stayed behind because the U.S. had restricted the immigration of deaf people. She was finally able to join her family in 1938, right before the German borders were closed, where she lived with 14 extended hearing family members in a 1-bathroom apartment in New York City, washed clothes for all of them, used the newspaper as toilet paper, and employed the oral method to communicate at home.
She lost her best childhood friend, classmates, and neighbors in Germany to the Holocaust.
Almost ninety years later, during her last several weeks in the hospice, she hadn’t eaten for over 18 days at one point, was losing vision and weight, and was dying of old age.
Yet, nobody could have guessed what Oma had gone through, from the Holocaust to the 1-bathroom apartment to the hospice. She breezed by adversity as if it were a pothole on the side of the road on her way to work. She may not have read Viktor Frankl, but she had an innate understanding that, as he wrote, “everything can be taken from us except our ability to choose our attitude and our own way.”
Oma had a relentless curiosity. She never went to college, not because she didn’t want to, but because she was a deaf Jewish female immigrant who grew up before we knew any better. Nonetheless, she knew higher education isn’t a prerequisite for knowledge and that curiosity is a remedy to unequal opportunity.
Some of Oma’s all-time favorite memories included attending the National Academic Bowl championships about six times to watch her grandchildren compete. I suspect she enjoyed learning new information she was deprived of growing up as much as rooting her progeny on.
Oma knew right from wrong even if she had never received formal training in social justice. It was not until I talked with friends and family that I learned that she was ahead of her time, befriending and welcoming Black, gay, and lesbian people to her place in the 1950s, telling them to be proud of who they were, long before it became commonplace.
Oma was honest in a sea of sycophancy. She was an oasis of realness in a world brimming with people striving for authenticity. From ‘synergy’ in the workplace to ‘the growth mindset’ in the classroom, we use fashionable terms and phrases to attract and impress. We brownnose our superiors, followers, friends, and even adversaries, showering them with feigned praise while chasing that like, retweet, promotion, or social status like our Australian Shepherd does squirrels.
But not Oma. She avoided hackneyed phrases as if they were carrying the Coronavirus and called out flattery. She said what she thought clearly and honestly. Nearing the end, Oma mentioned she only weighed 95 pounds. I said she was the prettiest 95-pound grandmother I’d seen. She smiled, then scoffed, pointing out she was the only 95-pound grandmother I’d met.
Here’s another true story. Many years ago, Oma ate out with family in Los Angeles to catch a Cowboys and Giants game. After discovering our allegiance to the Big Blue, an Emmitt Smith jersey-wearing Cowboys fan at the adjoining table would root extra hard while staring at us every time Dallas made a play.
(I would have said he was annoying, but I already said he was a Cowboys fan.)
My cousin said he wanted to kill that motherfucker. I did, too. But we never did anything but bitch and moan about that fan.
Except for Oma.
When the Giants won the game on a last-second play, Oma got up and walked to him, clapping in glee while giving him a death stare that Hulk Hogan can only dream of having.
The funny thing is, because of her straightforwardness, everybody loved her.
Oma had a sharp wit and a wonderful sense of humor. At the hospice, when her brother visited, Oma told Dad – her son – that she couldn’t believe he had less hair than his uncle while giggling.
While FaceTiming with friends, Oma remarked that she was still waiting for the Lord to take her. Then, she added, or the Devil, remarking that they may be fighting over her, and that’s why she hadn’t departed yet.
If a sense of humor is the oil of life’s machine, those lucky enough to know her were well-lubricated engines.
Oma was not only funny and honest but loving and thoughtful. When she was dying and in pain, she asked how her friends were doing, sent video messages to her deaf club, joined her literary club’s Zoom meetings, expressed concern about whether her loved ones were getting enough rest, and informed people how wonderful they were.
Oma was a generous host. Anytime we were in her house, we had one rule, and it was to eat plenty. If we did not, Oma would give us a nudge, exhorting us to “Eat!” in such an endearing manner that she did not coerce so much as we wanted to oblige, no matter our appetite. It also helped that she stocked her freezer with the most delicious mint chocolate chip ice cream that would have tasted ordinary anywhere else.
Philosopher Daniel Dennett said the secret to happiness is to “find something more important than you are and dedicate your life to it.”
It is no secret how Oma died happy.
Oma, thank you for blessing us with the privilege of experiencing the power of resilience, honor, care, humor, curiosity, and love on the soul.
Rest in peace, Oma.
History / Germany / Jews / Berlin / Nazi era (1933–45). Israelitic Institute for the Deaf in Berlin-Weissensee, Parkstrasse 20: Dr. Felix Reich, principal, with Ruth Stern, pupil. (2nd girl from left, Lotte Wertheimer, died: Auschwitz, Heinrich Fröhlich, missing, Leo Grosz, deported and murdered, boy in front survived.– / Photo 1935 (Abraham Pisarek). 
Brendan Stern 
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