BIG and Small

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.

My Husband's Dream - Washington D.C.

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.

So what is my vision?

Kool Aid Memories

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.

Kool Aid Memories

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.

Why I Started This New Blog: Moving Towards My Passion

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.

Just Off the Plane

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.

The Voice from Down Under

1984

#1

"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.