HalfSours

I have a fierce hatred for American watering holes on account of my own Noam Chomsky strength self-hatred. Naturally, as is the trend amongst many others like me in Israel, I like to avoid them at almost all costs. On Friday I needed to complete some work via email for my employers in Vermont. I needed really fast internet connection, so I took my laptop for a walk. I know of this one cafe that only Americans ever set foot in because of the outrageous prices. But I really needed that fast internet.

I considered sitting by the curb, thinking that if I stayed on the periphery of the place my immune system might keep its integrity, and I wouldn’t lose my decent “Reish” and hardening sensibilities. Then I was reminded of my part Persian, part Hunk lineage by the guard outside shouting “mah, atah Parsi?” to somebody else doing something cheap outside. Helping myself to their internet would only be an affirmation of my inability to perform outside of my genetic disposition. So, with ducked head and hunched posture, I entered the place.

I was looking for a place to unravel. I scanned the room, but there were no free tables. I thought first of sitting down next to a good looking religious guy, but it was a fleeting instinct. That trick is transparent, and I’ve retired it. I saw a girl about my age. She was a bit round and wearing a jean skirt. This is my mate, I thought to myself. I asked her in leisurely Friday morning Hebrew if I could sit. She rendered a flat “no”.

It was too absurd to even be taken aback. My mind took its precious time to process this response. The worst my wildest imaginings had anticipated was the remote possibility of a frame’s-time of sour face. This, of course, would be followed by a warmed yield. I was not expecting a cold, unexplained, and unapologetic “no”. It was like she was sending me and my small boat back to Cyprus. My expectations were too fundamental to be dashed. I still don’t know from where the cognizance came for me to expel this basic question;
“why?”
She said with an ambiguously Israeli tongue “I’m using the table”, then put her earphones back in and continued listening to whatever me-generation music that nurtures this kind of crap.

Though I’m not sure she heard, I muttered at mid volume; “Shabbat Shalom to you too.”

Well this incident was the maraschino cherry on the liverwurst of my week.

My Father, a brilliant and excellent man, wanted me to appreciate this thing from his experiences in life: “[Daughter], people will never fail to disappoint you.” In my earlier period of infatuation with this country, I thought that it might offer millions of people to the exception.

Lately I have been experiencing more jagged interactions here, and have revisited that theory. On this Friday morning, overwhelmed by this woman’s cold rejection of communal sensibility, I wondered if I initially hypothesized incorrectly. At that point I’m really low. Perhaps the people of this country are special in other ways, but still fit Dad’s model.

This Sunday I woke up, stepped out of my hovel, discovered a short new way to a superior bus route, and caught the bus immediately. Sitting across the aisle from me was the woman I saw in the coffee shop. I say woman, but her roundness, her words, and her earphone dependence don’t follow suit. She was writing in an ulpan book. Eureka! NOT ISRAELI!

Well things started to look sunny again. She was not a home-grown blight on Israeli society, but a foreign element. Perhaps she was still maladjusted to Israeli sensibilities. She did not speak for the whole of the county with her stony “no”.

I could tell this woman off in my mother tongue. Excellent.

I thought to myself: this is an opportunity that could only have been granted by G-d to administer some Seinfeldian justice to this woman. I would fill the hole where my self-respect had been staked.

This must be done with tact, I thought. I could not simply bitch her out drive-by fashion, and leave her spurting red without so much as a napkin. I would do this to be constructive, with the poise of a teacher of etiquette. A gentle reminder of maintaining our manners. All good intentions. Sure. Good old intentions.

“Excuse Me”
(unplugging earphones)
“You were in Cafe [X] this weekend, right?”
(blank stare, slight head shake to the negative)

At this point I’m wondering if it is maybe the wrong girl, but instinct tells me to keep at it.

“Or Cafe [Y]. Yes it was Cafe [Y]. I asked if I could sit down and share a table with you. You flat out said no. I would hope that next time, in this country, in a crowded restaurant, you would be more welcoming.”

I was becoming a bit ruffled. My English was crumbling. I was not being as articulate as I can be (i.e. “welcoming”). She said something to the muffled effect of;
“Why?”

All good intentions then left me. My temper flared, and my words turned into living organisms who spurn a leash.

“Because it’s rude and selfish.”

“I don’t think it’s rude.”

This is the point in time that this woman, had she been aware of my inner urgings, would thank G-d all her life for saving her from being shanked in the side. Instead I re-furled myself and said this;

“Then you have no derech eretz.”

At this, stunned and wounded I’m sure, she plugged her ears with the earphones, and rightly ignored me. Now for several minutes I am content as a fed cat. I didn’t even care that she was still sitting within 5 feet of me, and we had 15 minutes left of the bus ride.

We both got off at the University, which I anticipated would happen even before I opened my mouth. We walked within a dozen feet of each other over the Jerusalem stone. This is after all the world capital of self-righteousness. I felt that, if she felt awkward after this confrontation, she could give me a heartfelt kiss on the ass.

Then I start to be ashamed of myself. I embarrassed this woman, in public, on a bus. People, given the opportunity to exercise their English skills, must have understood. I ravaged this person. I am certainly a shit.

The Talmud rationalizes, quite cogently, that to embarrass a fellow person in public is a very hefty sin. Our sages go so far as to compare it to murder. Everybody would be protected from all kinds of painfully memorable encounters if we all strove not to embarrass our fellows.

I saw this girl later in the day on Sunday. I wanted to apologize to redeem myself from the condemning finger of heaven. I was too embarrassed. Isn’t it amazing how we can be so embarrassed to try and make a cruelty up to somebody, but not embarrassed to commit them in first place? Isn’t it more amazing how we can fear the harsh judgment of others more so than G-d?

Doubtless this woman thinks I’m batshit insane. I’m too ashamed to confront her again. I mostly afraid I’ll start a verbal pounce again. Or she’ll cower again by reflex on my approach. I certainly gave her justification for any sort of reaction. So lame and inadequate as it is, I offer this apology:

Girl, whoever you are, I am sorry for browbeating you in public view. It was very wrong. I should not have turned you into the personified symbol of a few weeks of my life gone awry. Please forgive me, and if you let me, I’ll carry your books home from school sometime, and buy you a coffee. You can have your own table if you want it.

Several months ago, around the time of Mahmoud Achmedinejad’s sensational visit, David Kelsey posed a few questions to him on his blog. David might not have taken into account that Prez Achmedinejad is very busy braiding nooses, and coaching Iran’s olympic flogging team. He is far too busy to answer every question posed by every Jew with a blog. Being somewhat versed in Persian life and cultural milieu, I figured that I should do my part to save the president his valueble time. The question that I have chosen to address is this one:

3) I find Persian women very attractive, but have heard they are often hairy. Is this true, or is it a Moroccan slander?

We Persian women are, if I do say so, very beautiful. And, like those domestic felines that carry our national namesake, we are the hairiest little powder-puffs this side of Tehran. Lest David think that I am just a master of pun, he should ask himself; just why do all these reputedly beautiful women hide behind those ensconcing burkas (chador in Farsi)? They cover themselves so the dark men-folk over there don’t get driven mad with wild desire for those hott, shapely bods. And to conceal some wicked Middle Eastern stubble.

That shouldn’t deter Kelsey from dating an American-Persian. Most of us deal with our hair with ingenuity; we outsource.

We, as a community, have had an implemented a practice since the days of Queen Esther. Backed with all the resources of King Achasveroush’s kingdom, emissaries scoured the Korean countryside. His men traversed perilous mountain peak after mountain peak. Their mission, and that of their successors, has been to find the most aggressive Korean woman of that generation. The Midrash excludes this little piece of our history, but indigenous Asian folkloric record supports my recounting.

Generations of such women have been plucked from their villages. They were never permitted to marry. Like nuns they are completely wed to their spiritual calling; purging us Persian JAPS of the unsightly. Their story has never been shared in any means other than whispers East or West of those Asian mountaintops. They are never seen outside of their meager accommodations in the backrooms of waxing salons in Great Neck and LA. Thus, fear not David Kelsey. Thanks to the painstaking efforts of these fierce, Yellow, women the result is a product of woman that is Korean tested, Ashkenazi approved!

I have a pearl of wisdom for my lady readers. The clam of inspiration spat it toward me in a Jerusalem hotel lobby. When it came, CK and I were in mid-conversation. CK’s face crinkled like he smelled something he wished he wasn’t. I looked to him for support as I fought to keep my bottom lip from dropping agape. It became apparent that the birthrighters were off for a night on the holy city’s club scene.

That’s alright and fine. I’m not pitching a sequel to footloose. Instead I’d like my audience to picture a young woman dressed so appallingly that it made me fear for my G-d- fashioned soul simply for being audience to it. I am absolutely convinced that the article of clothing she was trying to pass off as a dress was, in fact, constructed as a shirt. I DO NOT EXAGGERATE. Directly below the hemline were flaps, folds, and creases which I and everyone else in the hotel would have preferred not to become familiar with. We were literally millimeters away from the line of demarcation between her butt-cheeks and the lower half of her body. As on a full moon it was possible to actually identify the cavernous area devoid of light because of the shadow her butt-cheeks had cast upon it. CK commented that he could see the split hairs of her pubic hair. I trumped him in trauma by disclosing that I could hear the frazzled ends rustling against each other and shrieking out for conditioning. It ruined our appetite for birthright sponsored cocktails. As an open minded liberal heart I would never want to impose my sense of morality or fashion on others. However I feel, as someone who has spent more time b’aretz since birthright, personally responsible to roll this along to my audience:

The same way an Indian sheds a tear every time we leave Styrofoam litter in an American forest, a young haredi boy sheds his peout and writes a long letter to Santa Claus when a Jewess leaves her dignity up in the room of a Jerusalem hotel.