Reflections on the Evil Eye, Cataract Surgery and My Mother
So, are you familiar with the concept, or the notion, of the “evil eye”? In Yiddish, it goes by the terms “K’eine hora” or “Ayin hara”. These notions were practically a code of ethics for my mother. They were a primary motivating force, certainly, of almost all her actions. They underlay her beliefs and how she interacted with others, particularly me. Thus my childhood and my entire life, (based on the ‘bending of the twig’ theory), has been marinated in these principles. While they may sound similar (k’eine hora and ayin hara), I still hear the distinction my mother used for both terms, both in their pronunciation and their meaning.
A k’eine hora was always added to the end of any sentence implying anything positive, such as praise. It was designed to ward off any jealousy. In reference to the daughter of a friend, my mother might say, “She’s such a lovely person, k’eine hora”. In this regard, k’eine hora can be translated as, “I’ve just said something nice about someone, I hope it doesn’t cause them bad luck.” The implication was that praising someone might raise up the evil eye against them. Thus praise itself was dangerous and possibly destructive. The daughter, hearing of my mother’s praise, might allow it to go ‘to her head’. She might become ‘so full of herself’ that it spoils her and brings about her own downfall. Adding a k’eine hora after praising someone has the effect of delivering the praise, cushioned and protected in bubble wrap.
Whereas, k’eine hora was always added to the end of a sentence, ayin hara was the thing itself, the actual getting of the evil eye, which had to be avoided at all costs. If I said, “Her daughter is really nice”, my mother would angrily chastise me: “Don’t give her an ayin hara.” The message to me was: “Shhh, be quiet. Don’t say it!” Bear in mind that this example is not even a relative. She was referring to the daughter of her friend. Imagine how this principle operated between my mother and me.
This kind of training from an early age instills humility in the growing child, which is a good thing, right? It doesn’t hurt. But maybe there are some unwanted side effects. It promotes a tendency to shyness, and an inclination to avoid the spotlight, to not stand out, to strive for invisibility.
But maybe there are even more pernicious consequences that occur in certain vulnerable individuals. I have always recognized within myself a difficulty in both extending praise or accepting it. I always feel uncomfortable when given any compliment. It makes me typically ‘at a loss’ in how to respond. It feels paralyzing.
On the other hand, if I feel so uncomfortable accepting a compliment, imagine my feelings trying to extend one. It’s not natural. I have to consciously force myself to notice something about a person that might deserve a compliment. It feels like I lack some radar or sensing device. Some filter is set to the wrong orientation or angle.
I never feel comfortable or natural trying to compliment anyone.
As used by my mother, a compliment was only manipulative. It was never truly authentic. She would tell me this with pride. A compliment was purely, as she freely admitted, a technique, part of her sale’s pitch.
I know the consequences that come with too much guarding against the ayin hara, the evil eye. It dampens down optimism and pushes back on joy, lest happiness itself provoke jealousy and retribution. I am always striving to avoid an ayin hara. It makes me stingy with praise, even to those who I love. I guess if I really think about it, I probably resent my Mom for teaching me, only too well, this way of looking at life.
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On Friday morning last, I was musing on this as I looked out of my bedroom window, the day after I had my first cataract surgery on my right eye. For the first time that morning, I removed the gauze and plastic shield that had covered my right eye since the end of the surgery less than 24 hours earlier. It should have been a moment of drama, like those innumerable black and white movies of my childhood. The blind patient, (usually a girl), sat in bed, surrounded by doctors and nurses, who watched expectantly as one of them slowly unwound the gauze wrappings from her head.
I just peeled off the tape that held the shield over my eye socket, much like I might remove a Band Aid. I wasn’t really expecting too much. Only when I found reading tiring was I prompted to have the procedure. Otherwise, I thought my symptoms were pretty mild. Yes, I had been somewhat anxious beforehand about the cataract surgery. (I knew it would be painless, but “They are operating on my eyeball, for G-d’s sake!”) Actually, I found the experience itself less discomforting than a totally familiar dental procedure.
And what advances in technology recently! A two millimeter incision — about the thickness of a coin — was made by laser along the periphery of my cornea. As a laser bonus, any astigmatism was mapped for later correction by the procedure. The incision was so small that it didn’t even need sutures to close. Through that incision my cataract-clouded lens was pulverized by ultra-sound, liquified, sucked out and extracted. Through that incision also, a brand new clear ocular lens had been inserted like a tightly rolled up umbrella and then opened precisely in my eyeball where it needed to be. It had been perfectly centered behind my iris, the color of which (brown) I could also blame on my mother.
So removing the plastic shield and opening my right eye on that morning, I was aware of some blurring (which I was expecting as temporary), but there was no drama. I looked out at the buildings across West End Avenue. It was a bright sunny May morning and my first reaction was that the color is all wrong — there is too much blue. The new lens must have some blue tint to it. I hope I get used to it, I thought. And then I went to brush my teeth.
An hour or so later, I returned to the window and for the first time covered one eye and then the other. I started comparing my new lens on the right with my remaining cataract on my left. I was amazed at the difference. The brick work on the building across the street appeared crisp and well defined. I could make out the words of the parking sign across the street.
But what I really found shocking was the realization that my new lens on the right was not tinted blue. Rather, everything on the left was tinted yellow! I had been looking through my cataracts not realizing that they acted like a yellow filter, like a gauzy straw colored scrim. It wasn’t blue that I was seeing on the right, but the absence of the yellow from the cataract itself!
Later, I realized with an equal sense of shock and even some rising excitement, that the white of my computer screen was actually white and not a very pale lemon yellow that I thought was the background of all computer screens. I was really beginning to fully appreciate the improvement in my visual acuity! I was really starting to feel joyful. How often after the age of 75 does some organ of your body actually function better! My left eye is on the schedule for surgery in the coming week. I thought, boy, do I hope my left eye comes out as good as my right. That would truly be wonderful.
And then, suddenly, I began to feel anxious. Am I setting myself up for an ayin hara? Shhh. Don’t wish too hard. And then, despite rising anxiety, I recognized the irony of facing eye surgery and worrying about the evil eye — and the stupidity. I am a physician, after all. I know my chances are excellent for another wonderful outcome. I have all the reason in the world to be optimistic. Yet despite all my knowledge and experience, the avoidance of an ayin hara is powerfully ingrained.
Yet there is another emotion mixed in with this anxiety and fear. It is a nurturing and tender feeling. I want to protect my right eye, with its clearer view of the world, still early post op and vulnerable. I want to keep it from harm. This feeling makes it easy for me to sleep with the shield for the time being and drop in medications, thrice daily, for another month.
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So what is this, another inspirational sermon that the world doesn’t need? Is there supposed to be a lesson in any of this? Hardly. Maybe a resolution, just for myself. It’s time to put aside the concept of the ayin hara, no question. It’s time to embrace the future without fear. Life offers no guarantee, but if joy comes, embrace it and relish it. Be brave, be optimistic.
And maybe it’s also time to give my Mom a break. After all, she had parents and they were the product of their times. They felt the need to instill in her what life had taught them as necessary for survival.
I have always judged Mom as cold and ungiving. But maybe she was just looking down on me, seeing me as tender and vulnerable, and maybe trying to keep me safe and protected the very best way she knew.