Remembering Norine Shima-Fojt, editor and real estate agent who loved and fought fiercely

Norine Shima-Fojt passed away peacefully on Dec. 30 at age 71. 

This isn’t a normal obituary. I have a faint grasp of what my mother did in the ’80s (at one point, I think she was in Guatemala?). I know she was born on the Big Island of Hawaii on June 20, 1953. I don’t know exactly what her hopes and dreams were — because as her daughter, we were her hopes and dreams. So, I’ll write what I do know.

She lived in South Berkeley from 1987 until she passed away. She attended the Ethnic Studies program at UC Berkeley, moving to Berkeley for the program. In 1988 she wrote her master’s thesis: Capitalist Values and Assimilation Formulas: Equivalents to Cultural Genocide. She loved walking around Berkeley, specifically the public library. A woman of many hats, she was a real estate agent, an editor, and an administrative assistant at UC Berkeley until she retired in 2018.  

My mom was strong. She had a strength that comes from a lifetime of fighting. She was the last person I ever thought would die, because honestly, the nerve of death to speak over her. In 2018, she had a brain aneurysm, and doctors marveled at how quickly she bounced back. I wasn’t surprised.

She loved just as deeply as she fought. She loved me. She would tell me the story of my adoption like it was a bedtime story. She walked up to me, reached out, and I wrapped my tiny finger around hers. She said, “I want to take this baby home.”

She loved animals, especially dogs. I grew up hearing stories about her dog Wilbur, a shaggy sweetheart I barely remember. She fostered dogs, failed at giving them up, and loved them deeply: Toby. Benji. Hatchi. At one point, she had a canary named after one of her favorite authors — I think it was Hemingway? Fitzgerald? She would know.

She was crafty in that nonchalant way that made everything she touched special — making origami boxes decorated with cranes, sewing our curtains and my childhood clothes, knitting lopsided hats.

She believed in God fiercely, in a way I envied. She didn’t much mind where she found Him. At one point, she converted both of us to Judaism because she found Him in synagogue. Later, she switched to Christianity because she loved the pastor. She was so excited to go to heaven. I hope it’s everything and more.

She loved to learn, and she made sure I did, too. I was a library kid thanks to her. If she’d had all the resources in the world, I think she would have been an academic. She went to UC Davis and lived in a small trailer, surrounded by beehives. She loved history — not just the facts and dates, but the people. Who they were. How they lived.

After she passed, I realized everything I loved, she loved first. Her love for films. Her love for art. We used to go to the movie theater and watch films back-to-back with our plastic baggie of snacks.

She could be incredibly petty, and she taught me that if I had a problem with any company, I should write a strongly worded letter. She was never afraid to speak her mind. Confrontation was her personal playground. She was very often loud and wrong, and I loved her for it.

She raised me to stand up for what I believe in. To protest. To ask questions. To care loudly — and to let everyone know.

The world is so much quieter without her in it, like it took a deep inhale when she left and hasn’t let it out again. I wonder if it ever will.

I miss you and I love you, Mommy. Thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis much.

Norine was a loving wife to Bob Fojt, a dog mom to Toby and Hatchi, a mommy to her daughter Nia, a sister to Alan, and a daughter to Norma.