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A Marriage of Differences Enriches the Holidays “Me ken licken di finger!” my
father said. “That means?” my husband Bob
asked, as he looked warily at the food. “Delicious,” Dad translated.
We downed some kishka (stuffed intestines). I did not explain that to
Bob. We spend Christmas with his
folks, but Chanukah’s with mine. I placed our gift in front of
the beautiful antique menorah, where lights had been kindled by many
families past. Bob, wearing a yarmulke, recited the blessing in Hebrew.
Nobody made fun when he over-pronounced the “ch” in boruch, though it
sounded like a wad of caramel and sharp walnuts was stuck in his
windpipe. Twenty-seven years ago,
before our wedding, Bob took a crash course in Judaism. My father (a
self-elected expert in all thing Jewish) instructed, “When you stomp on
the glass in the velvet bag, everyone will yell ‘mazel tov!’, so you must
make it a big deal.” Bob, so eager to please back
then, asked, “What does it symbolize?” Dad, in his usual manner when
he didn’t know something, raised one finger and melodramatically closed
his eyes. “This,” he said solemnly, “is an unwritten ancient mystery no
one can explain.” At the altar, Bob stomped
with gusto (and then some), exactly as my father had instructed. Elated,
we walked back down the aisle. Then, I heard the scraping and scuffing. In
horror, I looked to see Bob frantically trying to get the imbedded velvet
bag off the bottom of his shoe. He was shaking his leg, like he had
stepped in something bad. As I was remembering that
day, my brother Michael, who obsesses (out loud) about food additives
(making him a real bring-down to eat with), joined us at the Chanukah
dinner table. Mom brought out her signature dish. A big three pound beef
tongue. She had sliced it paper-thin and put it back together so it looked
intact, with a little curl at the end. Bob’s face was the same color as
the things in the jars they made us look at in high school biology.
Actually, so was the tongue.
Mom stood proudly, as we
served ourselves candied sweet potatoes. One fell off Bob’s spoon,
bounced, and landed on Mike’s pants. “A shlemiel, your husband,”
my father teased, and we all, including Bob,
laughed. Bob cleared his throat. “No,
Dad. I’m a shlimazel.” “Shlemiel,” we said in
unison. “And the difference is . . . ” “A shlemiel is clumsy. A
shlimazel is unlucky,” Dad said. “You’re the shlemiel. Michael’s the
shlimazel.” My weird brother picked up a
slice of tongue, touched it underneath and stared at his finger for a long
time. Nobody asked why. We didn’t want to know. “Oy,” said
Bob. The following day, we went to
my in-law’s home.
“I don’t have to impress your
parents, Bob, the way you go overboard with mine.” “Right,” he said, rolling his
eyes. They greeted us at the door.
I was carrying a surprise dessert. “MER-RY CHRISTMAS!” I took a
handful of fake snow from my coat pocket and tossed it in the air above
Bob’s folks. They watched it spatter their furniture. One piece landed in
his father’s eye. Their shih-tsu licked the carpet and began choking. By
dinner, my father-in-law’s eye was swollen. He said
grace. “ . . . and for this
food.
Amen.” “GOD BLESS US EVERYONE!” I
beamed. Bob tapped my foot with his. I looked at him. “That’s Tiny . . .
” “Tim,” the three said,
quietly, in unison. I nodded emphatically. His mother reached over and
took my hand. “We know all about him, dear.” For dessert, I unwrapped my
homemade gingerbread replica of their house, that included a reindeer herd
made of tootsie rolls. Later, we placed our gift
under their tree. It held beautiful handed-down ornaments, some
embroidered and some made of lace, from many families past. I fell asleep
in Bob’s arms, thinking of the wonder of the everlasting rituals both
families carry on, providing a thread of continuity stretching from those
behind us to those who have yet to be born, while Bob picked snow from my
hair.
Every time you read
about dysfunctional families, don’t you feel that you could write the book
on it?
During the holidays,
our “issues” which is the therapy term for things we hate about people we
love, come out in full force. We also have
obligations we think we can’t get out of. There’s too little time. Not
enough money. Too many marshmallow chocolate chip Santa cookies with
broken caps that we couldn’t give as gifts and ate instead. Just too much
pressure all around! It’s time to be more
ourselves. Let’s fantasize. Can
you imagine if, this holiday season, everyone in your family said what
they were really thinking? I thought of this
when we visited my husband Bob’s folks last
Christmas. “I can’t believe we
haven’t seen you for months!” I said to his mom. (It feels more like ten
minutes.) “Christmas is more
special now that you’re in our family,” she said. (You’re Jewish. This is so
weird.) “Well, it’s special
for me to be with you.” (Tell me
you didn’t make chopped liver. It makes me want to
puke.) After serving the
liver, she said, “Bob went to school with a Jewish person. He’s a dentist
in Virginia. Maybe you know him.” I took a bite of
liver. “This is delicious.” (You’re
supposed to cook it.) When we’d visit my
folks in Baltimore, Bob always developed a stress-induced flaming rash on
the top of his feet. All through dinner, he’d scratch under the table.
“What’s wrong?” my
dad would ask. (What is he
scratching under there?) “I have a rash.” (I’m terrified of you
two.) “You should see a
doctor.” (Not only did my daughter
marry a Gentile, he’s probably infesting the house with
something.) And why is it that no
matter how old we are, we revert to acting like kids when we’re around our
parents? And approval seeking? It never stops. The worst holiday
visit was when we spent Chanukah at my parents’ house after Bob had just
been fired from his managerial position at the local TV station. We were
scared to tell them. “How’s everything?”
my dad asked me. “Fine.” (Everybody with a job, stand up. Bob?
Sit down.) “You look great,” Mom
said to me. (You’ve put on
weight.) “Thanks.” (Can we borrow a lot of
money?) Bob proudly, though
terribly, said the Hebrew for the lighting of the menorah. “Bo-ruch atah
Adonai . . . .” (I wonder what the hell I’m
saying.) “Good job,” my dad
would say. (What a
yutz.) “Mom, Dad,” I finally
said on that fateful day. “Bob was fired. But it wasn’t his
fault.” “Of course not,” Mom
said. (You’ve put on 10 pounds.
Your hair looks like the slimy vegetable bits I keep trying to push down
the garbage disposal. Your bra isn’t doing any lifting, if in fact you’re
wearing one. It has finally become a blessing that you haven’t had
children yet because if you did, you could only afford Spam and I don’t
think Spam is kosher. And one more thing . . . I love you more than
anything.) Before Bob and I
left, I hugged my mother. “Please don’t worry,” I said. (I hurt so much when you
worry.) “I won’t,” she said.
(I’d rather bad things happen to me
than to you.) “Mom, Dad, I . . . .” (I love you more than
anything.) “Call the minute you
get home.” (I miss you so much
already, but I can’t tell you that or I’ll
cry.) “Bye,
Mom.” “Bye.” And so, as you can
see, certain things should never, ever be left
unsaid. My wish this holiday
season is this: Let us be smart about
keeping quiet when it would prove pointless to do
otherwise. Let us find the
mettle we all possess, to say the things we should.
And let us dig deep
into our souls to figure out which is which. November. Tis the season to
ignore well-meant holiday advice.
Myth: It’s fine to stay home
instead of going to your parents’ house. Fact: Just try. Then tell me
how well it went. Bob’s mother never liked me.
Once I said, “We’re thinking of spending Christmas by
ourselves.” “That’s
fine.” “What does that mean?” I
ranted. “You’ll be dead in January and I’ll feel guilty? It’s the Jewish
thing. You hate me because I’m Jewish!” “No dear.” I could swear she
whispered, “I hate you because you’re a lunatic.”
Myth: You can wait 2 weeks
before a party to lose 20 pounds. Fact: I wish. Most women I
know are on the Atkins high protein diet or the Dean Ornish low-fat plan.
I figured I’d lose twice the weight by doing both. I ate cheeseburgers
with multi-grain rolls. It didn’t work. Recently, I had lunch with an
annoying skinny person. “I eat anything I want,” she said. “I listen to my
body.” I just love people who say this. She downed fried scallops while I
picked at my salad and thought, “My body wants to smash a handful of
mashed potatoes in your scrawny little face.” Myth: Let your guard down at
the office party. Have an alcoholic drink. Fact: Don’t.
Myth: The holiday season is
the best time to bring up “issues” you’ve been upset about for 20 years.
Fact: No. It’s
not. My dad wasn’t thrilled with
Bob’s non-Jewishness. He equated Christian boys with poverty. “Can you pay
your bills?” he’d ask each Hanukah. My inner child often reacted, “No Dad.
We’re so poor we live in a CHURCH where they’ve got CROSSES hanging
everywhere. We sleep under piles of rummage sale clothes that CHRISTIAN
PEOPLE wore!” Bob would kick my inner child’s ankle. I did, however, adore
my dad and eventually realized he just wanted me to be OK financially, and
in every way. Myth: We can shelve sibling
rivalry for the holidays. Fact: This will never happen.
Even after our parents are dead. My folks always excused my
flawless brother. One Hanukah, he forgot we were coming. Mom felt sorry he
had so much on his mind, what with eating, sleeping and filling his car
with gas. “When you visit me,” I
screeched, “I’ve cleaned for weeks!” “Your poor brother doesn’t
know how to clean.” “Mo-ther! You coddle him.
When he set his room on fire, you said he played with matches because he
needed better toys!” She always ignored my
schtick. Myth: Your mother wants to
know what you’re REALLY thinking. Fact: Are you kidding? Would
you want to know what your kid really thinks about you?
Keep it light. Your folks
don’t want to deal with your stuff anymore. They’ve had enough at this
point and just want to have fun. Most important fact: The
holidays are a good time to make our parents aware that we are all right,
because that is what they want to leave this earth knowing most of all.
Now that both of mine are gone, I realize many things I wish I had known
before. Primarily, I wish I had spent more holiday gatherings dumping big
bowls of borscht on my brother’s head. And so, find great joy this season. And caramel nut rolls. In the words of my Hebrew ancestors, “If not now. When?” Labor Day Loves and a Few Big
Lies My folks used to come up from
Baltimore and spend Labor Days with us. Once they came for two whole
weeks. That was when Bob made a bet with me that I couldn’t go 24 hours
without lying to my parents. “I’m glad you can stay two
weeks,” I said, as I hugged my mom. Lie. Bob whispered, “You said you
could stand 5 days max! You’re lying already.” “You didn’t say when the 24
hours started.” “Right
now.” Actually, the lying began
before I got married. Back then, when I had guts, (which meant I did
courageous things without obsessing about every conceivable down side) I
was teaching at Cape Cod Community College. One course was called Life
After Divorce. Bob was enrolled. That’s how we met.
Later on, when we were
dating, I lied to my parents about my social life. Bob isn’t Jewish. And
having been raised in an Orthodox home, I wasn’t even allowed to have
non-Jewish girl friends, much less suitors. But lying used to be easy.
When Bob found a carton of spoiled milk in my fridge, I said it was a
Jewish tradition. “To commemorate the sour times the Jews had on their
journey through the desert, we all keep rotten milk in our refrigerators.”
The blue spots on the rye bread? “That’s what makes certain food kosher -
the ability to grow mold. Cheese is kosher. So is zucchini. The Hebrew
prophets said we should always remember - with age comes new
growth.” When Bob occasionally
answered the phone, I lied to my mother saying that he was just some local
guy who helped me around the house a lot, repairing
things. By the time we were engaged,
I made the dreaded phone call home. “Mom,” I said, with much throat
clearing and nervous sighing, “Bob and I have sort of developed a serious
relationship.” When I told her we planned to marry, she laughed and said,
“I knew that. Bring him home.” My mother saw right through my lying.
Imagine that. And so, it is with great
humiliation that I tell you I lost the Labor Day challenge. Here’s what
happened. They had this canine mutant
named BooBoo. I’m not prejudiced against small shih-tzu type yappy
(whoops) dogs. But there was only one way to describe BooBoo: greasy. He
always kept his paws around my calves. When I feigned tenderness as I
removed him, my hands got coated with oily yuck. Plus, you can figure out
how he got his name. So when Mom asked if we’d
take BooBoo when they went on their cruise, what could I say? “He’ll throw
my fung shui out of whack, thus creating dis-harmony in my environment?”
No. “The projectile vomiting I do when I’m around him is a dander
allergy?” No. I said, “Sure. I’d love to.” And that’s when Bob shouted,
“Gotcha!” which made everybody jump. Our wedding was bittersweet.
It was especially painful for my father that because of Bob’s religion we
couldn’t get married in the synagogue. A makeshift alter was put together
in another room and I heard banging noises from the kitchen as we said our
vows. My parents railed against
modern times and aging bodies by tightening the reigns of their heritage.
Grandma Perelovski’s brass candlesticks were retrieved from the basement
and Friday night Sabbath was, like it used to be, brightened with prayers
and a family circle. Flickering candlelight once again illuminated my
parents’ faces. As their life-shaping
traditions enveloped them more, their pleasure in my happy mixed marriage
grew as well. They pulled off a pretty remarkable transformation, if you
ask me. And so, before each one died,
I felt great peace in knowing that my husband was “mishpocheh”, which
meant family . . . not just in my heart, but in
theirs. The Season of Family
Fruitcakes This season, certain
relatives we haven’t seen since last Christmas (because we kept making
excuses) gather together. During festive meals, we sharply elbow loved
ones sitting next to us. This is to discourage them from snapping back at
innuendos that loved ones sitting further away are spewing.
Sibling rivalry is a brief adolescent phase that ends | ||
