In Israel, I did a series of tests to determine my personality and which careers were best suited for me. One of the questions required to continue the line pattern depending if the pattern was squiggly, zig-zaggy or whatever. Later the counselor explained that my lines were the exact angle, width, line and shape.
"You need to fit in..." she had said.
That was more than seven years ago.
I'm wondering what those lines would look like now.... of course, I could do this at home, but it's different when you complete it under test conditions and in a different country....
This morning, I woke up with the voice and soul of a 15th year old LaGuardia high school student of Music and Arts.
It was...
"The...
scared but unbeknowst to others
"I know what I want voice but, I am
afraid to admit it
because I might truly be
that... kind of voice."
In Geometry, the right angles had to perfectly right.
In Voice, the notes had to be technically on key.
In Theory, the beats had to be carefully measured.
Well, all those things ARE important, but in retrospect, that gave me comfort, defines me at the time and we all know what adolescence means. There was only ONE problem - NO SOUL in those angles. NO UNCONDITIONAL LOVE in those songs.
Today, I am happy when I check off my "to-do list" - the mere sensation of seeing check marks gratifies me. Ah, the life of a mother-teacher-writer....
In just a few moments, you'll be walking up that familiar hill to your son's school. You have waited so long for this moment to spend time with him, and you know he's looking forward to it too.
All the way up the hill, you'll be people observing as if you've lived in Pittsburgh all your life. You call it, "quiet meditating." I call it, "craziness." But .. why not? The weather's in your favor, and you got a little time....just a little...
And then, there's a stranger of a man approaching you, who chats on his cell-phone oblivious of anybody - just like you have become. He thinks probably nobody understands his Hebrew. Nobody!
But you do... only it takes a few seconds to figure it out. He has to listen first and then talk. After all, this IS America. Not everybody is an Israeli - but of course you knew that, didn't you. But that doesn't mean anything for this Israeli - so what if he listens? He talks loudly, but the thing that is most important for you is... well, you UNDERSTAND every single word!
Well, you understand that this flicker of a common language between you and this stranger of a man, is a homey moment. In your hometown of NYC, people just don't have time and don't care if you speak Hebrew because everybody speaks Hebrew, but here's the thing... Pittsburgh, as you are finding out still, is not like NYC. People have time and patience. They also speak as if they found their tribe - that the other person understands even BEFORE they say something back.
You spend a few moments waiting for your son's class to show up from gym. And as you wait, you notice the children from the other first grade class. One skips, one runs to class. The teacher reprimands those that do not conform, and tells them to go back and they walk again... this time quietly. But because they know you are watching them, they walk with a "twinkle" in their step. Maybe two. But you didn't see that - did you?
And in your son's first grade class, you find the-child-in-me-tribe. Children just need to know you are part of their tribe; you can never fake having fun playing a board game. My son proudly joined me and our moment was ours to enjoy. In your game sharing tribe, we learn to share, take turns, "pick an apple," and have a few laughs. The child next to me says, "I like your son. He has red hair." You smile.
And back outside, the sun beats on the dirty sidewalks. You reach the corner of Murray and Forward and wait on the corner for the bus to take you up yet another hill. You've decided to make it easier for yourself by not making yet another trek up ANOTHER hill. A bus is a perfect place for "people watching."
There was this man on the bus who said to me, "bless you," when I sneezed. I had just pulled my nose away from my sleeve. And there was another man catching his breath with a walker. The older man had just a few hairs left on his shiny bald head and it looked as if they were soaked in sweat. It had to be because it wasn't raining. The young man with the walker said something that made the older man go into deeper in thought; the older man chatted with the bus driver as if they had lived in the same town all their lives.
"Now I remember when you could smoke on those T's going up that hill," the bus driver said.
"Yeah - that was another era," the older man said with a nonchalant expression. "So ...these are coach seats?" (referring to the seats, you know, the serpentine bus with an accordion stretcher in the middle that gracefully opens and closes when the bus makes a turn) I had never thought of the seats on a 61D city bus in Pittsburgh as "coach seats." Wait... did he said, "Coach seats?"
I keep a glittery artificial smile to calm the stressed lady across from me. As long as I'm wearing shades - it won't be hard to pull this smile off.
So speak as if you know and found your tribe.
Your tribe is waiting for you. I'm sure you know that by now. If you don't, well, I can tell you that everybody has a tribe. Only it took me words and years of those words to find out my voice through that tribe....
**********
When I hear Hebrew on a Pittsburgh street in Squirrel Hill, I know there isn't this foreign language acting as a barrier between me and the speaker as it was before I left for Israel. I can play the role of the "silent one." Or I can respond in Hebrew. Whatever. I. Choose.
And now, that I've joined a tribe, I can be part of several - for instance, a "bus tribe," or, at "the-corner-waiting-for-the-bus tribe," a "bagel factory" tribe - everything that is language and everything else that isn't - food included. Because a tribe that is universal is also understood.
You know you are not in Israel, when you don't have to start thinking of Sunday as a workday. As Saturday evening creeped along yesterday, I began thinking, "I got to get my lessons organized to prepare myself for the energy of Sunday..." Then I stopped myself silly...
"Wait, this is one of the great perks of living in the States." You get an EXTRA day to sink into the energy of the weekend. While I was teaching in Israel and a Jewish holiday would happen to fall on a Sunday, I would immediately think, "This is the "holy" weekend that I miss.
Shabbat in Israel, which begins on sundown on Friday and ends on sundown on Saturday, goes in and out with the flash of light.
Having an extra day really does the soul an extra ounce of good. Sundays in the States are...
the "anything-you-want-to-do-day,"
so you can
catch-up
You can be:
lazy,
sleepy,
perky-ready-to-go
anything
you
want....
But truthfully, it's been a journey to find myself with "Sunday energy" ever since returning to live in the States in 2007.
Daddy usually works on a Sunday and it's time for me to catch-up on a lot of writing projects and time to spend with my son. But it's a different kind of energy. I prefer this energy truthfully.
After meditating earlier this morning, I had to make a wonderfully bureaucratic call to Israel for a pending issue and the skype call I have scheduled with my folks in Israel and our upcoming visit to NYC for Rosh Hashana put me in a Israeli "Sunday" state of mind.
That's when I dipped into the energies of Sundays past...
walking through Bryant park after eating Sunday Israeli brunches at my father's apartment right across
doing the NYT crossword puzzle,
bagels, lox and cream cheese.
Well,this Jewish/Israeli can have it all... right?
I prefer the laziness of the American Sunday, but just for now, I'll settle with the energy of writing about all this past energy vicariously.
My son however, has a Sunday energy that's all his own...but, that's another story....
In the teacher's room, someone flicks on the television.
Noises of sirens, ambulances and the newscaster Yigal Alon. Pigua - A terrorist attack.
Deep groan. Deep sigh. Why?
I can say goodbye to my lesson plan, "normal" lessons.
Students saunter in and out of the teacher's room, looking for teachers.
And then they lift their heads to the direction of the television.
They don't need to ask, "what's going on? They have already figured it out. Only they don't have the decisions of what and how to teach.
Like the other piguim, (plural for terrorist attacks) is this one also worth mentioning for the sake of discussion?
Will I still be a 'good" teacher if I decide to go on with the lesson?
The principal comes into the teacher's room with her cup of whatever.
Teachers crowd around her and I stare and watch and wonder.
It was sometime during the first three years of arriving in Israel. idon't know exactly when that Savtah, my grandmother, introduced me to Geula, who would later introduce me to her 20 year old daughter, Liat - my cousin.
I walk into Savtah's apartment and immediately see a woman, sitting on a chair, with wavy locks, with hospital and a scrubbed forehead that shone of moisturizer
"Ah, Dorit" Unlike Savtah's Iraqi accent, Geulah really enunciated the "r" sound of my name. My name sounded just like everybody's else's - Israeli and plain.
She sounded suspiciously chirpy but friendly and stood up to greet me and have a closer look.
I hesitantly got up - the tone and accent of her voice was outside the "Iraqi" tribe. For one, her skin was much blushier and lighter than Savtah and not half as wrinkled and pretty.
Ah, Geula.
Your blue eye - how I curiously watched it move up, down and all around as if it had a life of its own. Your other eye looked straight at me. Symbolically, I could be half-funny, witty and not tell you everything I was thinking because I thought you couldn't see well.
"Yesh li bat b'gil shelach - sh'ma Li'at, I also have a daughter whose name is Liat."
What other treasures and secrets was Savtah hiding from me? I knew Savtah had a lot of brothers and sisters, but I never really met any of them.
"Now, let me get a look at you - ze bat shel Ahron. You're Ahron's daughter.
"Ah, bat shel Ahron."
"At m'artzot habrit - you're from the United States."
"ken, yes," I say.
"V'ma at osah kan? - and what are you doing here?"
"I'm just passing through Givatayim. It's been a while since I've been here."
V'efo at gara?"
"Bakibbutz."
"Ah, kibbutz. Yoffi. V'yesh lach haverim shama? And you have friends there?"
"Ken, yesh li haverim."
"V'ma at osa ba tzavah? And what do you do in the army?"
Geula tilts her head even more at a slight in order to full digest this new American cousin who has miraculously appeared at her sister's apartment.
All the while, Savtah is eyeing me as if we are an anticipated match made in heaven.
I'm waiting for Geula to initiate a meeting with Liat, but instead, she fires more questions.
I look at Savtah's face as if to say, "Mercy! Mercy!"
I look again at Geula' face. But it's now Savtah's I only see. Maybe it's better this way.
****
Geula wasn't there in 2007 when I visited Savtah for the last time before we left for the States. I went down Katznelson street to the corner where I would walk all the way down pass the Tel-Aviv highway to Arlozorov street and catch the 842 or the 845 bus back up north.
There was a time when I tingling with excitement to meet Liat. The fact that I had such good chemistry with Liat made me feel like I didn't feel like an outsider anymore. I had a best friend!
That was at a time when I had cut off communication with Geula - she was too gossipy; the excitement of being together with Liat had worn off.
After four years of not seeing our families, we have finally bought plane tickets for our trip in June. Ever since our purchase, my brain has been overflowing with just thinking about the trip. I take visual breaks from work which makes the day worthwhile. "OH, I'm going to Israel - Yippee!" The thought of seeing all our family members pulls me out of my isolated shell. For four years, we've tried to create a sense of family with the limited family resources we had. No complaints here - it's just been an incredibly challenging time.
It may sound strange, but I feel a very deep need to see our kibbutz house, just like a child needs his/her mother.
We've unwillingly separated from our kibbutz house - once during the second Israeli-Lebanese war and now.
It has not been easy to get used to the obnoxious sqwaking of buses down Wightman street heading downtown; the sight of concrete all around instead of the Jordan river and the Hermon Mountain - and since we willingly decided to leave lush and picturesque for the uncertain, we've had to compromise.
I know the four weeks will pass by in the blink of an eye. I'll begin to feel more comfortable in my surroundings again; I won't need to try so hard to make it because I'll be in familiar social surroundings.
It will be interesting to see my perspective will be after not being in Israel for so long - I intend to bring a journal and record.
So I went to hear the Megilla reading yesterday at the Chabad Lubavitch center right across the street from my apartment, which fell on a "motzei Shabbat," - shabbat ends and a new "belief' is born along with a "supermoon." It was a carnivalesque atmosphere - hippies, kings, queens, crayons all part of a community tale to recast the story of faith and freedom that binds us as Jews - spiritually, but for me, it's takes an even global appeal.
Funny that for the 19 years I've lived in Israel, I never once went the "Megilla" reading. For me, being "Israeli" was Jewish encapsulated; Besides I never felt I was cut out to join the "religious tribe" as it wasn't part of a social expectation.
Here you're Jewish, so you pray. In Israel, you're Jewish, so what? You're Israeli - no need to worry (or pray)!
But if you're religious - then that's a different story. You don't play "matchot" (Israel beach version of table tennis but without the tables) and you live in a predominantly religous community with little secular influences.
If a person is religious observant, s/he is part of the "haredi community," and if not, s/he stays secular. So I stayed on the secular 'side of the fence" so to speak. And because this was the expectation, I never once felt the need to do something different or felt that something was missing. I enjoyed the "social" part of the Shabbat that I "sanctified" as my holy Shabbat of a social sense - visiting friends.
I visit this "pluralistic" version of Jewishness daily - in my writing, when I go to Chabad, decisions I make for my son...
So I sat at the Chabad listening to the megillah, and saw an Israeli guy (undoubtably Israeli) who stood in the middle, looking around and observing. Like me, he wasn't wearing a costume or mask. I gathered he felt somewhat new although I wouldn't know for sure. It's not uncommon for Israelis either "passing through" to join the "Chabad" community to feel connected to their faith. In fact, I've seen this often. Yet, these Israeli are a marching band to their own drums. I patiently wait to see if they intermingle with the others, but, like me, they are "small fish" in this large pond called Jewish USA diversity.
Now symbolically, this was an interesting sight - he was standing very close to the "mehitza" - the divider between men and women. he could very well be me as I stand between American Jewish and Israeli culture - trying to connect with the fun, faith and freedom of my own spirituality and the holiday of Purim.
I'm not so good with following the Hebrew of a Lubavitch accent so I listen and connect with the spiritual voice of within and try to distinquish/anticipate the oncoming "hamman" so I'll be ready to stamp my feet; I don't have an inclination to wear a mask, a wig or baubling chains to escape my identity for a day; I am who I am; just a Jew stamping my feet at the sounds of "Hammman's name."
Here I embark on yet another writing and teaching day.
I haven't been on track with my own creative writing
and educational projects for some time.
To distract myself,
I go on Facebook and watch footage from the tsunami/earthquake in Japan.
I am in shock.
I argue with my son whether he should wear a sweater under his jacket.
I become tired. So very tired from not always setting the
intention
After five hours of sleep for a few nights straight,
I see the answer in the blackness--
The blackness of a youth that once called me to work in a field in the Negev Desert
in Israel
touching the earth, tending the field
That gravity of push or pull, nor devotion nor fulfillment.
It was fun to work in another land, pull holy weeds weeds of adventure
Now the weeds are different.
I think, "what's my calling? What passion will serve me now?
Where does my work lie most untouched?
If I could do one thing know that would fulfill me, what would it be?
If I couldn't give the best of myself before, can I give the best of myself now?
Is it possible?
Mentors and coaches calling it "setting one's intention."
I am tempted to use it to set the gears in motion, because I know of no other apt term.
Anything to put me on a clearer, more precise and fulfilling path.
I'm in the midst of preparing my presentation for the International Reading Association and for the ESL in-service of the Pittsburgh Public School next month, and coincidentally came across this article, "Use Passion and Stories to Persuade!" eloquently written by Maureen Murray for the Pittsburgh chapter of the National Speaker's Association.
My topic? Teacher Collaboration between ESL and General Education Teachers.
Method of Delivery? A powerpoint presentation and handouts.
The story?
Ah, the story.
I believe my writing for this blogsite is all part of my life story. And it is the power of this particular story that I am going to share with you, dear readers, that will have the power to serve me on both professional and personal levels.
I took Ms. Murray's advice and decided to go ahead and describe the story in detail, that will be the avenue for touching peoples' hearts during these two presentations, which is what every good presentation should do.
****
Beginning my first day teaching a third grade class of twenty one learners of English as a foreign language, (EFL) I follow the homeroom teacher to the last classroom down the hall.
I had just been employed to teach at a small school in a small development town of mainly Morrocan Jews known as "Beit-Shean" in the North of Israel.
I tightly hold my papers organized in a zip compressed file highlighting the important things I would need to do in that first lesson. The students watch me as I unclip the names board.
The homeroom teacher exits the room leaving me with twenty one students reported to be now in their second year of learning English. Parents have already expressed a great deal of worry and concern afraid that their children will have to close a two year learning gap of sounds and letters as they only acquired basic sound decoding basis in Israel.
I planned lessons that focus specifically on introducing and reviewing not only phonetic sound families but vocabulary development.
The children look at me like I come from Planet "Tutti-Fruiti," and I hope that I won't come across as an American who usually speaks Hebrew like a cow chewing her cud.
But then I think, "Hey, I'm supposed to teach English, not Hebrew. What am I thinking?"
Osher, a student in front, asks in Hebrew, "Are you our new teacher?"
I nod.
"Perhaps you'll stay. The other teacher left because we are the idiots. The stupid ones."
I look at the door and for a few seconds, I hope the homeroom teacher will come back and ask, "Is everything OK?"
But she doesn't come back and I'm now on my own after a few years of teacher college. I will very quickly learn that nothing had prepared me to take control of this cultural classroom.
For the rest of the year, I spend every lesson alone with the children. Nobody opens the door. Nobody knows what goes on beyond the walls. Nobody knows how much English the students had retained and acquired. The parents are relieved because FINALLY, their students have an EFL teacher. (English as a foreign language)
Even though we have been in the States for almost three and a half years now, it is still quite challenging for me to get used to the vastness of this country.
I look at the elephant size trunk of the SUV's in the library parking lot and try to ascertain whether they are really big inside as they appear outside. Probably.
In fact, I am still in culture shock.
The whole concept of driving up in a big SUV to drop off a DVD at the library "mailbox" seems foreign.
Or how about asking someone what is an SUV's. What's an SUV? Doesn't Israel have them? Really, Dorit. I imagine it sounds like a airplane carrier? I want to shrink to half my size when I find out it's a type of car. For heaven's sake, how could I be so innately stupid? Really, Dorit.
****
On one of the Pittsburgh buses on the way to the children's museum, there was an Indian man who told the bus driver where he wanted to go. The gentleman had a thick accent and kept repeating himself over and over again. I must admit - even I was challenged.
-Speak English, the bus driver says. Where do you want to go?
More talk.
-I don't understand what you are saying. Speak English.
It turned out that this gentleman got off a few stops before his intended one because he didn't know how to say the "right words." I know this because after he got off the bus, I saw his face contour into a series of grimaces. It was painful to see because I could empathize with the feeling of being an immigrant.
***
When you're an immigrant to the States, no matter what language you speak and what country you are from, Everything is BIG, BIGGER than you. You try not to think you are still an immigrant. Try to acculturate. You speak English, but, obviously, it is not enough.
In the States, you feel big when you see things like SUV's from a distance, not when they are up close.
This is the opposite of living on a kibbutz where you have everything within a 360 degree radius - doctor, supermarket, mail, baby and children's houses, neighbors, dining room, old aged home, car mechanics, bike shop, orchards, gas station, horses, Thai restaurant, secretaries offices, dentist, massage and hair cutting parlor and plenty of other services.
The only time I needed to actually "leave" the kibbutz was to my teaching job at the nearby High School school; I biked every day alongside the Jordan River. If I wanted to do some mega shopping, I'd go to the neighboring city of Kiriyat Shmona.
Against the Hudson River, the Jordan appears to be a small stream. It was the stream of a river that would carry me when I went kayaking or even dipping. It was the only long, and I guess you can say, "big" thing around.
This superbly convenient lifestyle facilitated living so much so that I found any other kind of living incomparable. Perhaps that is why I am still overwhelmed when I see a green SUV.
Perhaps, I wish it could take me to the Jordan River. Now that, would be BIG.
It's my first time in eight years we've visited Washington D.C. It's my husband's dream to serve the U.S. government and we haven't been in D.C. since Ivry was born. A trip is in order.
We board the Greyhound bus from Pittsburgh. One scruffy looking bearded man talks to himself, and another young man walks around pulling up his pants with one hand while eating a sandwich with another. My husband stares. Out of the three of us, Ivry is the only one who doesn't seem to care so much. I can tell what my husband is thinking.
The bus leaves a half an hour behind schedule. If only we would have taken Megabus...I think to myself. The true "If Only" - we didn't have to ride buses all the time...I'm so sick of them...
The students don't seem to care.
Ivry's white socked legs protrude in the aisles and I lift them up for student passengers who want to go to the bathroom. And I... I listen to the conversation in front of me between two students. I am unable to sleep. Unable to think any productive thoughts, I just stare at the foamy blackness of the sleepy looking houses. I'm in reverie - thinking of what our life would be like once Haim gets a good paying job working for the federal government, and I can live out my writer's dream. If only we didn't have to ride buses all the time...
Students have a tendency to speak so loudly as if they don't have a care in the world. I drown out the noise by nuzzling my nose next to my husband's neck who sits in the seat in front of me. I whisper to him of my day in Hebrew and we catch up on sentiments and plans. Washington D.C.
But then I think, maybe there is some sense in paying attention to the conversation. I listen to the conversation in front of me:
-I've never been to any place outside the United States.
-Me neither. I want to go to Japan.
***
-So where are you from?
-Do you like the U.S.?
-I know a little Spanish.
***
I pretend it is me that is talking. My voice. Colored in a rainbow of cultures, languages and mentalities from years.
Their voices are green. New. Fresh.
I think back to my years as a freshman at SUNY Albany but there is nothing in those memories to sustain me.
I am tempted to just stick my head in-between their chairs and say, "Israel? What about Israel?"
And my husband and I become the "dream weavers" - he works at the government and I serve people in the area of cultural diversity and life story. I was meant to bring change in a very creative way that goes beyond cultural boundaries.
All night long, the winds battered against the window. Maya tried to think what it was before the hot pre-summer winds of Israel started. Ah, yes. This summer she’ll hit the creeks of Northeast USA and maybe even the sandy beaches of California. She’ll feel cool again. Just like when she first ate Kool-Aid for the very first time.
She first dusts the suitcase off, then slowly opens the zipper, missing the one that actually opens the suitcase. Its wheels have been eaten from many airports. Its frame is a bit bent out of shape, torn in some places, stronger in the handle, however always reliable. She is tempted to buy a new one, but it has been with her since she immigrated to Israel in 1990.
Even after the winds have already quieted, Momma’s voice comes through the zipper.
“Don’t forget to label the clothes.”
“He’s only two years old. No summer camp,” she says.
In goes the baby’s swimsuits along with old maroon jellies. And the cotton swabs. And the book on Penquins. She is a bit unsure when it comes to packing, so she hopes to listen to good advice. But it’s just a squeaky voice with no real words --just a blotted sound. The voice swoops in and out and she quickens the pace, unfolding each article of clothing and flinging them to get rid of dust. Presents of clothes from her mother’s friends she never used. She flattens each corner and crease against the vinyl lining just to make sure each inch of the suitcase is filled. After much debate, she limits to herself one journal and a book. Mom’s advice, of course.
Taking down the suitcase from the top of the closet is like letting the memories fall again. She is not sure which memory to put in and which should stay out. But her two year old makes the final decision, a choice that overwhelms all. He sticks in the “I love New York City” T-shirt she bought for him two summers ago when they visited her Alzheimer’s stricken mom in New York City. She’ll have to explain to her son her mom is now a grandma. It will be ten years this August since her diagnosis of Alzheimer's.
Just when she wanted to take her little redhead and suck on popsicles near a creek in Earlton, New York where she went to a Jewish sleepaway camp for so many years, she is reminded that their first stop is in fact, New York City.
Summer in New York City. Maya, the Mom, pictures her son fidgeting over an ice cream popsicle while she watches the even streaks of strawberry and orange blur after a long dirty haze and hears the factory workers across the street. Dad’s paintings stayed in the same position while mom's dusty cassettes of her concert days remain hidden behind a bag of books in her closet. Did her mom really know how fast her fingers could fly?
She’ll only be staying in New York City for a week or two, before she finds the right home. It’s enough to remind her how she longed to get out of the city as a teenager and now that she’s coming back to the States for good, she keeps her mom away from a visible distance – far away so she can close the squeaky voice shut.
But it doesn’t stay shut.
Many summers ago, Maya looks for her Mom in a sweltering hot Grand Central Station after she returned from nine weeks of summer camp. Mom waved frantically. Maya kept the her Kool-Aid pink mouth tongue curled tightly under her mouth. (Momma never knew how much Kool Aid she ate.) Bloody red stained from the night before, she bundled under a blanket in the dark with an almost dead flashlight battery with friends who loved Kool Aid just as much as she did. Those confessions go into the suitcase too.
Rounding up the final things, she takes down the file folder with all of mom’s precious documents and important papers of her Alzheimer’s. With the suitcase finally padlocked and closed, she know there’s one thing she’ll do right after recuperating from jet lag. She’ll walk down the Hudson River Walkway with her little son’s hand in hers as she dreams of Kool-Aid.
All night long, the winds battered against the window. Maya tried to think what it was before the hot pre-summer winds of Israel started. Ah, yes. This summer she’ll hit the creeks of Northeast USA and maybe even the sandy beaches of California. She’ll feel cool again. Just like when she first ate Kool-Aid for the very first time.
She first dusts the suitcase off, then slowly opens the zipper, missing the one that actually opens the suitcase. Its wheels have been eaten from many airports. Its frame is a bit bent out of shape, torn in some places, stronger in the handle, however always reliable. She is tempted to buy a new one, but it has been with her since she immigrated to Israel in 1990.
Even after the winds have already quieted, Momma’s voice comes through the zipper.
“Don’t forget to label the clothes.”
“He’s only two years old. No summer camp,” she says.
In goes the baby’s swimsuits along with old maroon jellies. And the cotton swabs. And the book on Penquins. She is a bit unsure when it comes to packing, so she hopes to listen to good advice. But it’s just a squeaky voice with no real words --just a blotted sound. The voice swoops in and out and she quickens the pace, unfolding each article of clothing and flinging them to get rid of dust. Presents of clothes from her mother’s friends she never used. She flattens each corner and crease against the vinyl lining just to make sure each inch of the suitcase is filled. After much debate, she limits to herself one journal and a book. Mom’s advice, of course.
Taking down the suitcase from the top of the closet is like letting the memories fall again. She is not sure which memory to put in and which should stay out. But her two year old makes the final decision, a choice that overwhelms all. He sticks in the “I love New York City” T-shirt she bought for him two summers ago when they visited her Alzheimer’s stricken mom in New York City. She’ll have to explain to her son her mom is now a grandma. It will be ten years this August since her diagnosis of Alzheimer's.
Just when she wanted to take her little redhead and suck on popsicles near a creek in Earlton, New York where she went to a Jewish sleepaway camp for so many years, she is reminded that their first stop is in fact, New York City.
Summer in New York City. Maya, the Mom, pictures her son fidgeting over an ice cream popsicle while she watches the even streaks of strawberry and orange blur after a long dirty haze and hears the factory workers across the street. Dad’s paintings stayed in the same position while mom's dusty cassettes of her concert days remain hidden behind a bag of books in her closet. Did her mom really know how fast her fingers could fly?
She’ll only be staying in New York City for a week or two, before she finds the right home. It’s enough to remind her how she longed to get out of the city as a teenager and now that she’s coming back to the States for good, she keeps her mom away from a visible distance – far away so she can close the squeaky voice shut.
But it doesn’t stay shut.
Many summers ago, Maya looks for her Mom in a sweltering hot Grand Central Station after she returned from nine weeks of summer camp. Mom waved frantically. Maya kept the her Kool-Aid pink mouth tongue curled tightly under her mouth. (Momma never knew how much Kool Aid she ate.) Bloody red stained from the night before, she bundled under a blanket in the dark with an almost dead flashlight battery with friends who loved Kool Aid just as much as she did. Those confessions go into the suitcase too.
Rounding up the final things, she takes down the file folder with all of mom’s precious documents and important papers of her Alzheimer’s. With the suitcase finally padlocked and closed, she know there’s one thing she’ll do right after recuperating from jet lag. She’ll walk down the Hudson River Walkway with her little son’s hand in hers as she dreams of Kool-Aid.
Some of you dedicated followers may already know this, but I wanted to share with the others why I started a new blog, when I already have two well-established ones which you might already know by now - The New Teacher Resource Coaching Center and my speaking website, www.DoritSasson.com
While wearing the "teacher's hat," I constantly felt pulled into two directions. I wanted to cater to teachers on my professional websites, but, I also wanted to explore the power of my life story having lived in Israel for 17 years and now, what this experience means personally, now that I am living in the States.
For many years, I choose the path of a "silent voice" - that is typical of immigrants like myself, who live in another country for an extended period of time. During teacher meetings for example, I was afraid to share good ideas with other members of the staff. I often thought to myself, "I'm silent, nobody will listen to me anyhow, so why bother?"
While teaching English to Israeli schoolchildren was my biggest cultural shocker. Not only I had to worry about managing a classroom, I also acted as an Israeli, which fell at the expense of my authentic voice.
Now I'm in the process of healing myself after several traumatic years.
It was exciting to see this blog finally coming to life. Immediately, I felt a sense of purpose, passion, and personal voice.
It was time for me to not be an outsider looking in, and not just to lead just teachers, but a worldwide story writing movement where I could give "a voice to the voiceless" for those students, teachers, writers and other professionals who are experiencing isolation on any level.
Since I am a writer, I decided I needed a place that is visible so that people could see what I am creating – while it’s being created. My new blogsite made my vision real.
At the rental agency in Pittsburgh yesterday I saw a woman trying to explain to a student (in English) where he needed to go in order to get settled into his new apartment. The woman kept explaining the directions over and over again in simple Engish so the young gentleman could understand. She used hand movements and gestures and you could see the effort she was making so that the gentleman would understand. He kept repeating words but it was obvious that there was some communication error. It was inevitable that she would feel frustrated.
When the gentleman and his companion left, I smiled at her and said, "language barrier?"
"Yes. He literally just got off the plane. From Korea."
Just got off the plane. Just got off the plane. Just got off the plane!
I am an immigrant again.
****
1989.
Ben-Gurion airport in Israel is filled with people holding signs in Hebrew. People shout in Hebrew and I quickly leave the noises of the crowd. The target? To get my immigrant card, teudat oleh.
I pass a small barricade of Ethiopian newcomers and soldiers in green and grey uniforms. I stop by a newsstand to get a Snickers bar. I will buy the last tangible "connection" I have to the States. I notice the back of the wrapper is in Hebrew with just a few words in English.
At the Ministry of Interior, people push and shove and argue in Hebrew. I stand back and watch Russian and Ethiopian immigrants fight their turns out like gladiators.
Don't leave the airport until you get your teudat oleh, my father said emphatically.
I don't want to fight it out, but I realize that I don't have much of a choice.
When my turn finally comes, I've bitten my nails so much to the core that they bleed. Words stay bubbled in my throat. I hold the papers from the Jewish agency and thrust them to the lady behind the counter, while other immigrants crowd around me. I have no space. I need air. I can't breathe. I want to take a broom and sweep them all away.
The buxom white haired woman who is surrounded by papers says, "you need to go to the Tel-Aviv office," and scribles something on a small piece of paper.
I pretend to look dumbfounded.
--What? I say in Hebrew.
--What you need is not here, she says.
--Why not?
--Immigrants who are going to the army, go to another office.
--But nobody told me that.
-Well, I'm telling you.
Dorit, Keep asking the same stupid questions, until you get what you want.
Other immigrants start squeezing their way to the front of the line; they sense that my conversation is over and I am already finished. I hog the space.
I'm now Dorit in Israel, not the American Dorit. Even my five letter name makes me feel little.
Speak fast, grunt, communicate, yell, shout - do what you need to do to be heard is my raging cry.
But my inner protest doesn't last long and I surrender myself to the crowd. I quickly find a taxi and make sure I hold the "coupon" I have from the Jewish Agency that entitles me to my free ride. Something from nothing. I quickly find a taxi and give him the coupon.
"Where do you want to go?" the taxi driver says in English.It's obvious he knows I'm a new immigrant.
"Kibbutz Retamin."
"Where's that?"
"In the Negev Desert."
"That's a long way," he says.
He looks straight in the distance. I only hope he won't decline the trip and cause any problems.
He thinks it over. "Okay," he finally mumbles. "Get in."
Drops of rain start accumulating on the window.
The driver doesn't turn on his windshield wipers until there is a thick layer of dust and rain. it takes eight full cycles to wash it all away.
He starts the engine and I lean back. We pass the American tourists pointing and waving to a man with curly black ringlets. He looks like my father minus the tired looking face and the big orange flip-flops.
The driver slowly turns the wheel and we pass border control, the Israeli flag and the welcome sign in Hebrew and I don't look back.
"Mom, I have a problem. I need to talk to you about friends. I'm not making enough friends."
"Dorit, c'mon."
"No, seriously. I'm not making enough friends."
"I don't have time for this. Go see a psychologist."
****
"Mom, there's this boy I have a crush on at school. But I don't know what to do. Or say."
"Dorit... I don't have time for this. Go see a psychologist."
****
I stare and stare at the wall. Should I see a psychologist? I should have known my mom wasn't available for me.
When I finally go see the psychologist, I lie and lie.
Roslyn's her name. She sits in a small room; her "side" is the size of a walk-in closet; mine's the size of my room at Westbeth. I focus on the creases of he lines when she smiles. I try to decide whether the smile is real or fake.
I lie about the social life I have and the social life I wished I had.
I'm embarrased. Ashamed. Of who I am. Who I want to be.
But I don't know who to turn to. And I waste more money on this psychologist.
****
It is 1989 and I'm home for winter break.
I lie on my mother's loft bed. I wait for my mom to come. The cracks on the wavy high loft ceiling resemble the same rabbit I had seen when I was my son's age, sleeping in-between two parents who hardly knew each other. Now, I have the bed to myself.
Her footsteps are heavy.
With eyes still fixated on the ceiling, I ask: "Mom...I'm scared."
No answer.
"Hey Mom... I'm scared."
"What's wrong honeybun?"
"I don't know what I should do?"
Mom doesn't ask me questions, so it's up to me if I want to make something of this.
"Mom, I don't know what I want to do with my life." I say.
"It's okay, hunny, bunny."
****
It's 1993 and I'm 22 years old. I've made my decision to become a teacher and in a few month's time, I will be studying at the Oranim College of Education, near Tivon in Israel.
It's good for you to have something to fall back on. Teaching is always a good profession to have.
"So, it's a good thing?" I ask.
"Yes. It's a good thing," she replies.
Even if my mom didn't directly confirm or guide me through this decision, I still feel naked because I'm on my own. I've been on my own emotional "island" for years. So I don't want to try to "figure" things out anymore. I'll go with a non-risk guarentee. Be a teacher. Something to fall back on. Secure and safe.
Sounds good to me.
Now twenty some odd years later, I understand. I was never encouraged to believe, explore and have faith. I've never really asked myself the questions, just went with the "right" voice - the one that feels comfortable to me. Instead of asking myself if I have the "right" friends or the "right" career, I'm asking myself...
1.Who do I want to be?
2.What do I want this day to be?
3.What kind of results do I want?
4. How do I want to serve the people that I come into contact with?
I'm consider myself privileged and lucky to be able to ask these questions now.
Ever since I've booked our trip to Israel last week, I was thinking about what it exactly means when my heart is in two worlds. In June 2011, it will almost be 4 years since we've seen our families. Part of the reason why we've stayed away so long had to do with money, but a big part has to with professionally thriving in an environment, which is why we've opted to live in the States.
With that sacrifice though, comes a lot of loss. Loss of not feeling connected to the people or environment, and even with the simple things like walking along a river. (see below)
As a bilingual speaker and one who has lived in Israel for almost 18 years, I continue to straddle two countries, two languages, two histories, two mentalities and two cultures.
If you had asked me in 2007, 2008 or 2009 about my struggle, I would have told you that I was "homesick" for Israel, particularly for reexperiencing certain things that have brought me closer to home. For all you bilingual speakers out there, who feel like me, realize that the "homesick" part emerges when you are struggling to find home. And as the well-known quote goes: "Home is where they understand you."
Pittsburgh, for us, doesn't mimick the Israeli landscape and lifestyle which is why it was so difficult to find "home" in the very beginning.
In the very beginning, I tried to "hit" home by listening to Israeli songs, reading Israeli newspapers, speaking Hebrew whenever I got a chance. But now, it's become a committment for us to speak Hebrew ALL the time with my son. Then I don't feel so "buffetted" by the wind of "homesickness." I guess that means in socio terms, I'm not so much an "immigrant" anymore.
Natalie Portman, 2011 academy award winner has said in interviews that when she is in Israel, she feels "American" and when she is in the States, she feels "Israeli" - I think that would apply to me now, but if you had asked me in 2007, I would say it the other way around.
It's obvious, there is a world outside my window that is "bathed" in English, affected by US temperature, erratic snow and rainfalls, 5 day workweeks, and lonely and busy professional lifes.
My love for this place started in the year 2000. I had just broken up with a long-term boyfriend and moved from Kibbutz Ein-Gev to Kibbutz Naot Mordechay. (The Naot "Teva" shoes are made at this factory.) To help me deal with my pain of the breakup, I had spent long walks trekking through the fields up to the Ami Promenade alongside the Jordan River.
When I moved to my final kibbutz Sde Nehemiya, I was plesantly surprised to not trek through a field to get to a promenade. I would sometimes bike from the promenade down the 5 kilometer or so hike to the nearby town of Kiriyat Shmona.
Since this is a work in progress, I will continue to add to this post, which as I see it, resembles a collage, a quilt of memories so to speak, feeings and stories.
I had been cleaning the floor under the kitchen table after Friday night's dinner on my knees, which I sometimes did with my son's baby wipes. As I expected, my twenty month old son hugged me from behind, then laid his head on my back. He held a half eaten apple in one hand and a pacifier in the other and said, "Ima" for "Mother" in Hebrew. He smiled. I stopped what I was doing and looked at his tender sweet face.
It was just me and him that night. My husband was working. Mom's presence was everywhere but yet nowhere. I was thousands of miles away from her, living on a kibbutz in Israel for the last sixteen years. She had been living with Alzheimer's for the last ten years. Way before her diagnosis, she was a concert pianist. Every Friday night, I put on her concert tapes. I hear her say, "Dorit! Go to your room! I need to practice!" in her own nervous way. For years, Chopin mazurkas lulled me to sleep. As a child, I twirled in front of the full length mirror, on a parquet floor in an artist loft in Greenwich Village hoping my mom would notice me.
I will never forget the day we separated at the airport. I could see the deep fear and worry. She wanted to accompany me through the checkpoints and when she saw she couldn't, I quickly grabbed my things and pecked her withered cheek. When I felt I was far enough from her, I turned around. She wildly waved her hands. "Don't forget to wear a sweater!"
It would be seven years until I would see her again. I had come back from my settled life in Israel. She was already stumbling over words and sentences, trying to make sense of a tabloid and asking me questions. She squinted in front of the television. She couldn't sign her name. There papers all over the floor, bills were left unpaid and letters remained unopened. Her hair was unkempt, she didn't cut her toenails and had scabs all over her body. In a panic, I took her to our family doctor who knew me since I was a child and whispered in my ear, "She's showing signs of depression. Take her to a neurologist." It was then I realized that she wouldn't be the same mom. Alzheimer's had taken over.
In a matter of weeks, I sold the 1920 Grand Steinway piano to pay for bills and in its place was a twin size futon bed. The downstairs which she used for piano playing, now was her home. Her home health aide played her mazurkas on a tape recorder. I hoped to hear her say, "Honey, bunny, I love you," but I didn't. I thought that maybe my long absence had something to do with her depression.
In the middle of one night during a visit back in 1998 when my mom was still in the early stages of dementia, I saw her wandering in her corner downstairs. It was after midnight. It was now or never.
"Mom, I'm sorry I left you. I know it's been hard for you. Please don't be angry with me," I said.
"Oh," she said in one big laugh. "Honey, don't worry about that," she said. For a moment, I felt as if she was my mom again.
"It was my right and privilege to be your mom," she said emphatically.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Her love, once confirmed through music, was now directed to me.
I didn't know what to say. She had never spoken to me like this. Hugging her felt good. The sound of the mazurkas came back. It felt good to be home.
Those sentences are the last real connection I had with my mom. Sadly, she doesn't know she is a grandmother and she can't say my name anymore. But at least I know that night back in 1998 will go down as the day I found home and my mom.
The sunlight streaming through the bus number 65 to Squirrel Hill is so strong, I want to pull down a shade. Even my thick rimmed UV rays won't block out the tiny shards of light that pretend to scoot behind clouds. I extend my hand as if to pull a blind and I am suprised at what I had just done.
There are no Egged busses here in Pittsburgh. It takes me a few seconds to remind myself that I am riding on bus #65 from Duquesne University to Squirrel Hill. No blinds. No soldiers. The snowy capped roofs of Pittsburgh's south side against the slope of Mount Washington reminds me of an Austrian town, Solvang.
**** I am an Israeli soldier taking the first Friday bus up north to see my parents who just moved from the States to a settlement overlooking the Sea of Galilee known as Korazim. I reach high up for the blinds. My dogtag ID jingles. When I am satisfied with the right visibility length, I settle back again the red and black checkered seats and notice that half the foam is sticking out.
I squiggle a few times to avoid landing on a crease. I hug my legs to my chest and prop my knees high enough so they act as a barrier between myself and the glass divider to the rear end door. Across from me are two male Israeli soldiers bunched in a fetal position, too tired to pay attention clanking of the M-16 against their knees. A blind suddenly zips up disjolted by the fasteners and the windows are wide open. No-one bothers to close them.
I'm taking the 845 Express bus from Tel-Aviv to Kiriyat Shmona. I will get off at "Tzomet Korazim" - the Korazim junction. I will see my parents' house for the first time and wonder, "How is it possible to live in such a beautifully rustic piece of countryside when I have to pull out smelly tomatoes in the middle of the Arava Desert?" I will perform the one act of kindness and prop the male soldier's head that now rests on my shoulder. Here, there are no physical and non-verbal boundaries - with a push of my hand, I gently nudge the soldier as if I am his big sister. How awkward it feels to be pushing a soldier's head in its upright position. He opens his eyes and smiles and curls in the other way. I'm satisfied by this small feat - aching for a little bit of physical space.
By the time we reach the end of the highway to the developmental Afula, the town is in wide range. I will keep an eye out for people who aren't soldiers and are pushing shopping carts to the nearby "shuk," market for their Shabbat food supply. I will look longingly at the civilian clothes and think about the first shower I will take in my parents' new home - happy to finally feel "settled in."
The bus driver shouts, "Eser Dakot Hafsaka - Ten minute break" and everyone shuffles out except the male soldier next to me who is snoring loudly. I'm now too bunched in the nest I've made for myself. Buying a bureka or a chocolate milk is enticing, but not enough to jostle myself or the soldier next to me. Sleep catches on with me and I submit myself to the quiet lull of the almost empty bus.
One hour later and I'm passing through the Yizreal Valley that I mistakenly perceive as the Golan heights. It is speckled with kalniyot. They have enjoyed the last heavy rainfall and now the entire valley sparkles in technocolor rain that pentrates the hills and mountains to a point of honest perfection.
So I was rummaging through some old files and found an article that I submitted to the Pittsburgh Post Gazette entitled, "From Israel to Pittsburgh," that I wrote back in 2007 during our first few months in Pittsburgh.
This part especially speaks to me:
"...When I had to live in other peoples’ houses during the second Israeli-Lebanese war, I learned a different side of acculturation I had not experienced: the life of a refugee. When my students heard me talk in English about where I was during the war, I felt ironically, I had acculturated.
But the war this time is different; it is an inner war of confusion, hope, struggle. Perhaps, it is part of that acculturation experience all over again. I join Israeli-American events. I bake challah on Friday and call my family in Israel early Saturday morning. I speak Hebrew to my husband and English to my three year old son. I hold unto the bus pole smile and sometimes strike up a conversation. I live my life hearing two different voices from two different linguistic settings, always trying to remember where I came from."
Until now, I've never shared this online, partly because I've always felt like an "outsider" looking in. Up until last year. I wrote, and wrote from "Outsider Glasses."
When I went to Indian restaurants, I was still that "outsider." When I shopped at Target and heard Hebrew being spoken in the aisles, I felt it was weird to suddenly be hearing Hebrew in the Diaspora.
Now that I think about it, I didn't think there would be potential tribe members who would be interesting in reading my life story.
In the summer of 2010, I finally decided to take the plunge and sign up for the Madwomen in the Attic non-fiction workshop at Carlow University. This was a huge step. Little did I know it, I was stepping into my story, voice and purpose as a writer.
The first piece I wrote was a character piece about Maya.
******
“Remind me please, when is my flight?” I ask.
“Eight thirty,” my friend Aliza says checking her watch. “You’d better hussle, Maya. Taxi’s waiting downstairs.”
It’s time to leave my mom’s apartment B345 in New York City to volunteer for the Israeli Defense Forces. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. My mom doesn’t know. I don’t want her fear to paralyze me.
I shove a few more T-shirts, and sweatpants while Aliza makes room for my underwear. We’ve been friends since kindergarten, we both have Israeli dads and visited Israel practically every summer.
“I just can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” she says. She stands on the suitcase while I zip it shut leaving just a hole big enough to stick my Nike sneakers. “You’re the last person of army material.”
“And you’re the last person I thought who wouldn’t support me, beside my mom. So thanks a lot,” I say.
The enormous sculptures and canvasses of desert and rivers that once astonished my Dad comfort me briefly as I walk through what he once claimed as “his space” in our loft apartment. The Israel of my Dad’s art will soon be my Israel.
****
I thought the other workshop participants would think I was this completely "foreign" person from Planet "Zonko." Yes, Zonko. I tried to imagine myself writing about something completely different like "motherhood," or my first year experiences teaching - something a little more generic, like "I get it" without isolating anyone.
But the story kept nudging and nudging me. It needed to be "born" and when I tried to "stop" it, the words kept coming.
This is a sign for anybody reading this, that if you want to write a story, you really do need an iota of inspiration, but to pay attention to the nudges, those voices that say, "This is IT."
It took more than 6 months of finally feeling comfortable sharing my life story with the others. As my writing improved, so did their understanding. Not only did I feel I had an audience, which is a MUST if you want to improve as a writer, but I also felt more comfortable writing my story.
The last piece that was critiqued was, "Arriving in Israel - A Mistake," where I describe the first 16 hours of arriving on a kibbutz in the Negev Desert to join a bunch of new olim hadashim, new immigrants in preparation for my army service. The emotions that emerged from that piece were startling surprising. I wrote in description and feeling mode - the most I had ever done with any piece of writing. I felt tonce again, the fear and isolation as an new immigrant and again, as an outsider to Pittsburgh, this felt even more foreign. Those first 16 hours were scary and they still are. when I think about it But somehow, writing about them, years later, was comforting.
What was even more comforting were the affirmations of the group - "You had me hooked!"
Little did I know, I had found the beginning of my "tribe."
