Different Kinds of Kosher
Old man in a black hat, fat man in a black hat, old fat man in a black hat, guy with a long beard, old fat guy
with an extra-long beard and a huge black hat. This was all downstairs. Upstairs were the women. Downstairs,
where I was with my family…and the men, I sat next to my dad. On the other side of me was my uncle, who is in a
black hat, but he isn’t fat or old and doesn’t have a long beard. Next to him was my cousin, focusing on the sermon
preparing to be an old fat man in a black hat with an extra-long beard.
Four hours later we were downstairs; the service had finally ended so we got to eat a kosher, post-service,
still gender-segregated lunch. As with most of these lunches, it focused around tuna salad, lox, and bagels. I found a
seat with a plateful of bagels, lox (no tuna salad because it’s gross), and black and white cookies, because they’re
delicious.
Then the barrage of cousins arrived. Six of them came marching toward me, ranging in age from 20 to 5.
The other two, who are girls, were on the other side of the partition with the women eating their tuna salad, bagels,
and lox. Later came my dad, my uncle (his brother in-law) and another immense, Jewish family they happened to
have befriended in the past ten minutes waiting on the kosher lunch line. All of the adults were reflecting upon the
“wonderful” service while all of their kids were being kids, with an added hint of orthodox Jew. Gossiping in their
semi-Yiddish accents about the juicy rumors of the Yeshiva Academy. “When are we leaving?” I whispered to my
dad. “When everybody’s done eating”, he replied after having to break away from his enthralling conversation.
“Which is…” “I don’t know”, he quickly remarked “Here, have my cookie. Now go make nice with your cousins
and their new friends”.
But I’m not one of them. They barely have English names—Moishe, Chaim, Itzhak. Those people I was
supposed to make nice with are completely different than me. Upstate New York in the orthodox area might as well
be another country that just happens to speak English. So I waited, nibbled on a cookie, wait, nudged my dad, wait,
got another cookie, and waited some more. For them, this waiting is common. For them it isn’t even waiting, it’s
fun. But for me it is waiting, and I kept waiting until it was 3:00, and by then lunch was officially over, no matter
where you are from.
Once we were settled we walked home, of course we didn’t drive because that would be a sin to drive on
the Sabbath. “Dad how much longer ‘till we get there?” “Be patient, we’ll be there soon. Now go make nice with
your cousins”. Ugh! “Then are we gonna go home?” I pleaded. “No, we’re staying for Shabbat dinner”. More
waiting.
I sat at the head of the table. On either side of me were my aunts, one Unitarian and one indifferent. Then
my mother and grandmother, who both never really bothered with being religious. Last was my sister, who only at
the age of 20 has sworn off all religion and has clearly stated that there is no God. Naturally, this was at the Passover
dinner table.
We attempted to read from the Haggadah and say a few prayers, but with this eclectic group supposed Jews
we failed. But we were successful in cooking some classic food, mainly a delicious, slow-cooked Brisket and the
obligatory Matzo Ball soup. It smelled like success, with kosher aromas filling the air, but it didn’t exactly meet the
rest of the criteria.
We didn’t talk of how our forefathers suffered in slavery or how they wandered through the desert. We
talked about ourselves. We mentioned how incompetent the cashier at Shoprite was and how traffic sucked. We did
not question why that night was different from all other nights, but we questioned why, as my aunt put it, “the damn
Asians drive so slow. I mean it took forever to get here because of them”.
“Jesus!” her mother replied. My aunt came back with, belching at the same time, “Yes?” “Oh my God!”
“What? It’s nothing. I have a medical condition”.
If it weren’t a holiday we’d be doing the same thing, minus the Matzo Ball soup.
“Baruch blah BLAH BLAH BLAAAH”, I chanted not even knowing what it meant even though I was the
one saying it. I continued with some more blahs and a few unintelligible noises that sounded like a bronchial throat
be cleared. I was being Jewish. Not only was I being Jewish, but I was officially becoming a Jewish man. It was my
bar mitzvah and I was presenting myself in front of the congregation.
On my father’s side of the isle was him, my uncle (with his non-Jewish wife and adopted child from
Texas), his Holocaust-surviving parents, but not his orthodox sister and her family because she wasn’t convinced the
service would be Jewish enough. Apparently there are different kinds of kosher.
On my mother’s side was her, her mother, her sister with her partner, and her daughter who, even though it
was her brother’s coming of age ceremony, she wanted no part in being there.
That was the story; somehow at that moment I was the only connection between both sides of the family as
I was somehow shifting from boy to man in a matter of minutes. I was only 13, yet if I made one wrong move I
would’ve pushed away an entire side of the family.
******
It was Monday morning and Ms. Carey was ringing the loud, irritating attention bell
that sat in the middle of our classroom. The class started to quiet down, and I hastily
began to pick up all of my belongings – my favorite royal blue pen and a carefully
organized stack of worksheets that I had rapidly finished. I already knew what she was
going to say, even before she said it. “Okay kids,” she began, speaking in her stern yet
comforting, tranquil voice, “please clean up your stations and get ready for song circle.”
The huge kaleidoscopic carpet in the corner of the room waited for me, and I sprinted to
it before she could even finish her sentence. I sat down in my favorite spot, the one right
next to Ms. Carey’s, and I could feel the soft, congenial carpet on my little crossed legs.
I’ve been waiting all day for this. I tapped my fingers against the sides of my smooth
cheeks, fidgeted in my seat, and twiddled my thumbs as I waited.
We sat in an unshapely circle, and Ms. Carey broke our rare moment of silence with
a soft strum. “The sailor went to sea, sea, sea; to see what he could see, see, see,” she
began to sing, and we quickly chimed in. I watched as Ms. Carey’s fingers curled over
the neck of her guitar, the tips of them dancing across the frets like tiny ballerinas on a
big black stage. The shiny steel strings pressed into her skin and left imprints of tinylittle valleys running across each of her fingers. That looks like it hurts. All of a sudden I
realized that I had stopped singing; I had been too busy watching her. Soon the song
ended, “Give yourselves a round of applause, your singing is great!” Ms. Carey said, her
eyes twinkled.
In what seemed to be a few short minutes, we had gone through all six of our songs,
and Ms. Carey gently put her guitar down in front of her, “Let’s review what we…” In my
mind, her voice slowly faded. It’s so beautiful. The large window behind Ms. Carey’s
spot was blocked off by brown, heavy curtains; but a small gap between them let
through a narrow, golden stream of light that reflected off of each glistening silver peg. It
created a constellation of six stars, right in the middle of our preschool’s carpet! My
head jolted as I snapped out of my dreamy gaze, most of the class had left. “Ms.
Carey?” I asked. “Yes, my dear?” “Can I learn to play the guitar one day?” I asked
hesitantly. I hope she doesn’t say no. “Of course you can!” Ms. Carey beamed.
It was my eighth birthday. “Daddy, where are we going?” I asked, looking up as
I fastened my seatbelt. I was allowed to sit in the front seat, but only because it was my
birthday. He didn’t respond. He smiled his smug, mysterious smile and put on his turn
signal; I knew because I could hear the rhythmic clicking. We merged on to the highway
and I gazed out of the window. Blurs of green and brown sped by with the occasional
material blue or chrome silver, intruding on the beauty and nakedness of the endless
forest outside. I reached over and pressed the little white triangle that unleashed music
through the mesh black circles on the dashboard. Usually I had to ask someone in the
front to do it for me, but today I didn’t have to. The tires of my dad’s old Honda Civic
turned violently into a nearly empty parking lot. My dad hopped out of the car and ran
around to open my door, “After you, birthday girl.”
The parking lot was behind an old building made of amber bricks covered in
chipping, off-white paint. A small wind hit me with the passing of each car as we walked
up to the main road. A music store. I looked in with wide eyes, admiring the wood and
steel that looked so royal and beautiful in the golden brown light. Wow. I heard the
ringing of a bell as a man with a long beard and large, veiny arms pushed open the
door, “They look much better from in here,” he said grinning. I stepped inside and
looked up, trying to count how many there were. A tiny store packed with every kind of
guitar that I could ever dream of; a musician’s Utopia.
I sat down on a squishy black stool, like the ones the drummers on television had, and
the man with the beard handed me a mahogany guitar. “A Baby Taylor,” he said, “is not
for babies! It’s half the size of a normal guitar but it produces the sound of a 3/4 sized
guitar; for traveling musicians.” The groove of the guitar rested perfectly above my little
crossed legs. I slung my arm over the sound hole and rested my fingers over the string;
they felt cold and rough, yet relaxing and consoling. I clenched my fist around the neck
and pressed my fingers down onto the cold. Ouch! I felt a sting of pain run through my
finger and up my arm; I loved it. “Daddy I want this one!” I declared. The little bell rang
as I walked out of the store beaming.
Stop shaking, stop shaking , stop shaking. I looked out but all I could see was hundreds
of pairs of glowing eyes, staring at me through the darkness. They could see me crystal
clear, but I couldn’t see them. I fidgeted in my seat, rattled the microphone and plucked
a few notes. The sound guy gave me a thumbs up. I cringed. “This is a song I wrote for
a friend, I’m so glad he could be here, along with the rest of you.” God, you sound so
stupid. I pressed into the steal and took a deep breath. My shaking fingers crawled
around the sound hole, plucking soft, single notes. Words were pouring out of my mouth
and my fingers, once tense, were now relaxed, coiling into formations of graceful,
forgiving chords. For once, there were no thoughts running through my mind. I felt
warmth, and then I felt my voice rise and fall as the end of the song came near. “Thank
you.” A split-second of silence was followed by an eruption of clapping and cheering; an
overwhelming feeling of euphoria ran through me. Tears were streaming down
my friend’s face, little rivers of joy flowing down red, smiling cheeks.
*******
Crumbling Like Sand
I inhaled deeply, gasping for air as my coach, Jess, blew her whistle mercilessly at us.
The florescent lights flickered against the floor, so densely covered in sweat and tears that a
caution sign seemed necessary. My stunt group and I “set” and waited until Jess gave approval
to begin the Arabesque roll out. To a person who knows nothing about cheer they recognize it as
“that cool flippy thing”. I thought of it as the stunt I better hit if I wanted to stay “valuable".
I felt my body gaining momentum and height and sucked in my abs, thrusting my weight
into my back leg. When I opened my eye, I let out a deep breath and a smile as I laid back into
my group’s arms and un-tensed my shoulders. We nailed it! I looked eagerly at Jess who stood in
her favorite “Just Cheer” blue sweatshirt with squinted eyes, as if she had just tasted something
extremely bitter, “It was good but it could have been better. Do it again.” After the first four
times of perfectly hitting the stunt, I had begun to question what motivated Jess to keep pushing
me. I knew I should have stretched more. Maybe I didn’t flip high enough. I could feel my group
crumbling like sand beneath my feet, but I didn’t argue.
The first time I fell from that stunt, not even the mat could soften the impact of the cold
and unforgiving floor. “Again.” Jess muttered in a brisk hushed tone. Many girls would have
stopped at that point, but I couldn’t. To me, more pain came from seeing the clenched fists and
gritted teeth of my coach as she impatiently beat her foot against the ground. The word “again”
echoed in the room, hitting me forcibly. Jess instructed with a booming voice, “I said again!
Now you’re just getting lazy.” I took a deep breath wiping a bead of sweat from my brow. I
forced a smile onto my face like I was advertising for Colgate.
From the start, I could feel the lack of power, the uneven toss, and the panic that
flourished inside of me; I bit my lip to keep from screaming. I didn’t want to give up so I forced
the flip and felt myself fall. The strange sensation of feeling the air beneath me disappear, seeing
the mat getting closer, and having no control over my body, happened slowly almost as if time
had warped itself. The impact of my skull and neck forced against the mat sent an intense and
unpleasant throb shooting through my entire body. Double vision of Jess’ disgusted face and the
teams shock surrounded me. I found out later that week that I had a severe concussion. To most
people’s surprise, the frustration didn’t come from my coach pushing me again and again or from
getting injured; it came from letting her down, and knowing that I could have pushed myself
harder.
One year later, I hurriedly paced across the church lawn that dampened my sneakers with
each step. As I entered under the large archway, the rubber soul of my sneaker acted as a buffer
between the creaking oak door and the door stop. Before I could run to the sanctuary of my CCD
class, the familiar and heavy tread of Father Brian’s loafers approached me, “Shannon can I
speak with you.” Crap! I knew I should have come to class on time. He gingerly rummaged
through his dingy yarn cardigan which scratched against my arm as he placed a set of papers in
my palm. I quickly skimmed the dank staff paper which had begun to bleed down the margin of
the hand-written piece. “I hear you have quite the voice. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind
singing for me.” I glanced at the music and then back up at him with wide eyes. He chuckled,
causing his body to ripple across his rotund torso, as he waited for me to begin. My voice
trembled as I forced out each note that echoed off of the brick patterned walls. His mouth gaped
into an “o” and I could feel my body tighten as I finished the song. I shook as he placed a heavy
hand on my shoulder, “That was beautiful. Will you sing tomorrow for mass?” His emerald eyes
pressed into me. “I don’t know…” he cut me off and added, “God gave you a gift and you can
honor him by using it.” Great so if I say no I’m going to Hell. I slowly shook his hand and
smiled weakly, “Well I suppose just this once.” Little did I know that by agreeing to sing “just
this” once I would sing every Sunday morning for the rest of the year, and I wouldn’t complain
about it.
By the start of my high school career, my “human door mat” mentality had placed a
heavy weight on my shoulders that I could no longer carry. I pulled at the creased leather reigns
that had taken the shape of my thumbs. I had spent two scorching summers training to qualify for
the Essex Equestrian competition and as I competed I let out a worn and tired breath. At each
end of the dusty ring, instructors from all over New Jersey scolded their riders, including mine; a
plump British man whose skin resembled a raisin, Stu. He had decided that my horse didn’t land
gracefully enough. My horse is at least 900 pounds; graceful isn’t an option. He practically
threw me out of my thoughts and off my horse as he spat, “Are you even listening to me?” Two
hours of nonstop corrections and practically sweating through my chaps, I stood proudly to
receive my second place title. My smile glowed along with my medal as the dwindling sunlight
and quiet wind tenderly brushed against my face. Stu pinched my arm as I skipped over to him,
“I don’t see why you’re so happy. You could have done so much better.” At that moment, I felt
something inside of me snap. This wall of tightly wound nerves had finally collapsed as I walked
away from him that day. When my mom drove me home, I could not help but laugh because for
once I knew that I could not have done better; that I had not exceeded someone’s expectations,
and that was just fine with me.