A Brief Note on Passover

I have no idea about Passover. It seems like every other high holiday: somehow or other the Jews escape some unearthly pestilence or an unjust, violent persecution. Regardless, a few years back, it was a good excuse to be dismissed early from a faculty meeting so I could call my mother before sundown.

On Passover, there is something about Seder and pig's blood; something about famine and disease; maybe something about gefilte fish and calling home before dark. I cannot even say whether I have actually ever celebrated a Seder. In fact, I ate pork and drank gluten-free beer two Passovers ago. As it is, I am writing this well after dark.

It is what it is: Passover and me are like Karl Rove and Ru Paul sharing a basket for an Easter egg hunt. Involvement in Passover may be forever ambiguous but, no matter what, I damn well better play along and call my mom.

New Short Story

Please check out my new short story, entitled THE TRANSPLANT, live now with Hobo Pancakes (http://www.hobopancakes.com/).

Warning: It's political fiction...or is it?

James Earl Jones as a Short Old Jewish Woman

Picture courtesy of Mattinee

Rarely have I encountered other Jews and not felt the need to prove my Jewishness. There have been those times when I've thought, "Well, I'm more Jewish than him but at least I'm not that Jewish." After visiting my wife's high school pals, though, I was reminded of a night when I felt the perfect amount of Jewishness. Katie and Jason's New York wedding gratuitously nestled itself into Autumn: breezy, brisk, early signs of the turning foliage. Winona Ryder and Richard Gere were not present but I would not have been surprised had they walked in and positioned themselves next to the bride and groom.

I left my car with the Battery Gardens' valet, a man possibly in uniform, possibly not, and appearing as though he might drive off with the car and my tip. Meditatively distracting, the sunset-silhouetted Statue of Liberty backdropped the chuppah, which was made from white birch limbs grown, though memory may be fabricating this, in Katie's home state of Vermont, a locale not commonly known for its abundance of synagogues. An elderly female rabbi, donning gold flowing garments hosted the ceremony, speaking as if she were reenacting James Earl Jones' "People Will Come" speech in Field of Dreams.

For the first time since my grandfather's funeral almost ten years earlier, I wore a yarmulke -I fully intended to keep it because...well...you just never know. Prior to the funeral, I hadn't worn a yarmulke since middle school when I attended Aaron Hochberg's bar mitzvah, a rite of passage I, myself, avoided for fear that such a display would prevent the New England female coterie from allowing me to second base. In the interest of full disclosure, I also kept Jason and Katie's wedding program for self-educational purposes, as it contained information, albeit humorously presented, about the Jewish tradition, intended as self-tutorial for the bride's Gentile family.

There were lots of Jews.

There were lots of Jews from Long Island.

There were also lots of Gentiles from Long Island.

There were lots of Gentiles from Long Island who were likely better Jews than me. Although, if it came down to it, I'd bet on Bruce Willis acting a better Jew than my actual Jewish self.

Still, I felt at home at this wedding. Not because of the yarmulke or the chuppah or the Jews or the Long Island Gentiles -clearly not because of these things since these did nothing but make me feel less Jewish- but rather because I felt like I was so much nearer to the average height of the room. Although the DJ, a hipster Obi Wan, was the tallest man in the room by at least a foot, the average height couldn't have been more than five-foot-six. Yes, I was short the average by three inches, but I fit right in and I realized why I identify with my Jewish side: nobody's big.

At the wedding, I didn't have to muscle past anyone's armpit to get to the bar or punch somebody in the thigh for a turn at the urinal. No cricks in my neck, no meathead jocks snickering at the impossibility of my manliness, and, no dancing my head into somebody's elbow.

I hadn't had so much fun at a wedding, perhaps, ever. It was communal fun, right down to the horah -Wikipedia told me this was the circular, hand-holding dance as the bride and groom are lifted onto chairs (I needed Wikipedia because this definition wasn't in the wedding program). This was a tax bracket who came of age in the eighties so there was no shortage of Bananarama and Boy George. I once liked to dance when I dated a Latina girl fifteen years prior but it was a competitive, angry dance. Since then, the interest fizzled. Now, I was among my people. I danced.

As the end of the wedding approached, DJ Obi Wan played the last song, a tune with an anthemic whistle, resolute, determined. A song of relentless advancement. I thought, "I love this song. I need this song." It was motivational in a non-Anthony Powers kind of way. It felt sincere but it certainly did not feel Jewish. It was a far cry from Klezmer despite the um-pah, um-pah bass. During our visit with Katie and Jason, I seized the opportunity, asking if they recalled the name of the song.

They both answered: "Home."

Walmart and Jews

Walmart, I applaud and thank you. Yet again, you bless us with your worldliness and cultural sensitivity.

Finally, dress-ups to pique my children's awareness of their heritage and identity -as I struggle with these myself- have stocked Walmart's high-quality shelves. A costume with which my daughters may finally embrace their Jewish roots: the "Dress Up America Jewish Mother Rivkah Children's Costume!"

Hallelujah!

Dress Up America's™ line of Judaica costumes is exquisite, covering both gender roles of Jewish lifestyle. Boys' costumes even include payos for hair styling. Thankfully, they have a King Mordechai costume specifically for Purim. Now, I can finally have my kids dress up for that irreverent holiday in order to celebrate that time when Jews were almost annihilated but suddenly saved at the last minute.

Now, young Jewish children can authentically pretend to be their parents. Now, little Jewish boys and girls, who were so desperately yearning for make-believe costumes they could identify with, may participate in that global game of pretend in which all children act out stories of the Old Testament. Even better, adults can dress up as rabbis for Halloween without the least possibility of ridiculing a civilization that so rarely, if ever, becomes the butt of jokes.

And, may I also extend a warm and heartfelt tip-of-the-hat to Dress Up America™ for their exploration in culturally sensitive costuming and dress-up play with their Japanese Girl, Egyptian Girl, Dutch Girl, Mexican Dancer, and Deluxe Indian Girl. Never mind that their Mexican Girl and Sexy Mexican Girl are, in fact, the same costume. I hear they are currently developing a line of both girl and boy Sambo costumes, due out this summer.

The Brooklyn-based company, a locale where there is, of course, no shortage of Jews, in no way, whether purposely or accidentally, further instills opportunities for trick-or-treating Gentiles to ridicule Jewish Orthodoxy and other ethnic stereotypes. And, how clever a business move to distribute through Walmart, a historically socially responsible institution, whose actions have never raised doubts regarding the ethics of its own business practices. Well-played, Walmart, well-played, to acquire such a valuable avenue for promoting ethnic tolerance through culturally educational paraphenalia.

Thank you, Wal-Mart, thank you. Now, I may genuinely educate my daughters on how they should look! No more of these Gentile garments, girls. Let's go eat our matzoh and search the couch for pennies.

Christmassakkah, Part 2: Friends from the Neighborhood

***To hear Parts 1 and 2 of this essay read aloud, visit WordPlaySound and listen to the December issue.



My Christmas memories are an amalgam of simultaneous dread, distortion and melodramatic nostalgia that could have all occurred on the same Christmas that I was seven, nine or twelve.  With the Tree-Returning Incident, for example, I said I was nine but I may have been seven.  Or twelve.  That event may, in fact, have been the same year my father and his brother chose affirmative action as the topic of discussion to best celebrate the birth of Baby Jesus. 

I do not recommend this...ever.

Grandma -a lady who believed that you could outgrow being Chinese and thus had very little perspective to add to a discussion on affirmative action- was there and I had to give my bed up to her  -I always had to give my bed up to her and I felt this was a great injustice since no one else had to give up their beds.  She and my mother only ever greeted each other through clenched teeth.  Like all good Jewesses, my mother decorated the house in all its Christmassy fashion, right down to the red bow on our Westy terrier, who, quite matter-of-factly, chose my other uncle's foot as his fire hydrant.  Andy Williams was singing carols on the record player -yes, indeed, I said "record player," people.  My father even bought a 3D puzzle of Yuletide London, which tormented us into believing that at least three pieces were missing.  Everything was perfect, especially the twelve-foot tree my father erected after three relentless hours of fir needles and curses.  The arena was optimized for the self-destructive forces of sibling rivalry and familial angst.  In other words, the scene was primed for the Bumpuses's dogs to destroy our turkey.

Yes, sir, affirmative action.  Not the least probability that such an intellectual venture could spew forth such vitriolic tidings of Christmas joy.

Two hours after the table was cleared, my father and uncle were still asserting liberal and liberal-liberal standpoints with their overly assertive Italian eyebrows.  I had long ago immersed myself in the foam-and-picture world of 3D London to avoid any verbal spillover.  The debate was no longer about affirmative action. It was simply about anger.  Although the Tree-Returning Incident and the Great Affirmative Action Debate may or may not have been the same year, something nasty had undoubtedly gone viral in our home at the holidays because this may also have been the same Christmas on which we thought family friends had lost their son to a fatal car crash.

The Houstins* moved with us from Long Island to the same neighborhood in Connecticut.  Brian and my brother played soccer together.  I remember not liking them because when my parents vacationed in Hawai'i for their fifteenth anniversary, leaving my brother and me at the Houstins's home, I held my s*** in for all five days. It was my way of saying, "Mrs. Houstin, I find your peculiar brand of cuisine most displeasing, your disposition most unkind, and your oddly masculine voice somewhat petrifying. I shall, therefore, not defecate this morn."

My father warned my brother that Brian was the kind of a**hole that would one day be driving a car in which the passenger would be killed, that Brian wouldn't die.  My brother paled when the prediction came true.  We actually received a phone call reporting that Brian died in the hospital, to which my mother buried her face in her hands.  I didn't understand why.  The other boy was dead on impact.  I knew his father and had heard that he was a nice boy.  We didn't like Brian.  And, he killed somebody else on Christmas Day.  I remember thinking the wrong boy died when I heard that Brian was still calling the hospital nurses "bitches" after the accident.

Sometimes I don't understand Christmas.  We struggle so much to be with the ones who we love but who we can't bear to be near for longer than it takes to say, "Hello."  We try to please the ones who don't want to be pleased. We try to talk casually with people we can't chat with.  We try to love the people we wish were dead and try to be sad when we think they actually are dead.  You needed to be vigilant to avoid catastrophe.  You could never let down your guard lest you allow a poor discussion topic to enter the room.  And, then we spend the rest of our lives wishing we had back the Christmasses that went bad.  Is this the meaning of Christmas?  Love the friends and family you have now because they might be gone tomorrow?  Love them because you might not have the chance to love them ever again? Is the message of Christmas Spirit so obvious?  Is it this contrived?  This trite?   

Yes.

Yom Kippur: What's the point? (repost)

In Game 1 of the 1965 World Series, Sandy Koufax didn't pitch because it was Yom Kippur. Although I'd like to think he was being a good Jewish boy, he might also have been observing to avoid hearing his mother say, "Sanford, you should be ashamed of yourself."

I honestly don't know why we Jews have a special High Holy Day set aside for atonement. What's the point? Even after we break the fast, the guilt is still going to be there. It never goes away. I feel guilt for things as ridiculous as forgetting to pay equal homage to both the Feast of San Gennaro and Rosh Hashanah. Rosh Hashanah got its own blog post; the Feast got nothing. Every year Yom Kippur comes around and every year I'm still atoning for the same transgressions. Am I supposed to clear all of this up by doubling up on guilt when I fast? Do I fast so that the my empty stomach exacerbates the usual guilt that typically results in loose bowel movements?

I say, "Oy."

My mother used to have -perhaps, still has- a plug-in wall candle...a nightlight with Hebrew inscribed around the candle in the center. I didn't know what it said but knew it was somber. Every Yom Kippur, my mother would turn off the kitchen light and plug this candle into the wall in honor of her father who had passed away shortly after I was born and who my middle name is after. Grandpa Stanley. I didn't really know him. That candle made me think of him, though. I'd look at pictures of him singing -he was supposedly a phenomenal singer and musician. I'd look at his old pipes sitting on our bookshelf. And then, I'd fast in order to induce guilt for never having known him. How dare I?

Jewry of the world, hear me: Yom Kippur is overkill! Cool it down, people. Can we simply come to an agreement that Yom Kippur should be the one guilt-free day of the year since the other 364 are spent feeling guilty? I'm not sure if Yom Kippur is designed to bear the burden of the generations past, but if so, it's working and it's annoying.

The F-Bomb (Revisited)

Great news! The Good Men Project just published The F-Bomb, an article from Matzoh and Meatballs's June 2011 post! Check it out and share it with anyone who can no longer drop the f-bomb at will.