Okay, before I saw anything, I have to say that there is a guy in my class that wears a yarmulke. Okay, whatever, this is Israel, a lot of people wear yarmulkes. But this is seriously the smallest yarmulke I’ve ever seen. Like it’d even be too small for a baby. Seriously, I don’t even know why bother if you’re just going to wear such a tiny yarmulke, and I’ve developed this bizarre and completely irrational hatred of it. Every single time I look at this guy during class, I want to be like, “Look, if money is the issue, I will BUY you a larger yarmulke.” Or, “Do you realize you are wearing a Ritz Cracker on your head???”
We had a Tu Bshvat seder last night, and I couldn’t stop thinking about religious school. The seder was actually ridiculously fun, with singing and clapping and whatnot, and I tasted a pomegranate and a fig for the first time in my life. A friend from Belgium managed to get a particularly fantastic photo of me reacting to the taste of something nasty, and I hope to eventually upload it to this blog.
Anyway, about religious school. Maybe it was because of the fact that (being a liberal, LA group) we talked about Tu Bshvat a lot, probably a lot more than its importance would warrant. Or maybe it was because the guy on the guitar reminded me of the part in Hebrew School where we’d have to sing songs in Hebrew, and especially maybe because last night I sang “David Melech Yisrael” *WITH APPROPRIATE HAND MOTIONS* for the first time in my adult life…. But celebrating Tu Bshvat here in Israel keeps making me think of religious school. I just can’t help but think how weird it is that of all the people that I grew up with in religious school, I am the one that ended up in Israel.
Why is this weird? Because there’s very few things I actually remember liking about religious school, which was pretty much the only place I ever did anything remotely Jewish. What did I like about religious school? I liked snack time. I liked when we finally get to take a bite of challah after waiting for what seemed like hours as pieces were handed out, and everyone got settled, and then the Hamotzi was said. I liked when we would sing “Miriam’s Song” and we got to the part that said, “We’ve just lived through a miracle, we’re gonna dance tonight!” I liked learning how to read Hebrew. I liked learning about Haifa. I liked giving tzedaka for Magen David Adom, and I liked watching movies with about Israel’s wars and military operations.
But for the most part….I hated religious school. It was boring, we didn’t actually learn Hebrew, and we had to do these Gad-awful art projects led by this bizarre woman who (as it would turn out) looks exactly like one of the Women of the Wash. I hated Israeli dance lessons, and I hated learning Torah trope. I used to get called “The Mouse” because I was so quiet that I would even lip-sync the prayers. And starting in 4th grade things became even more miserable, because we started Hebrew School, which meant that we would have class immediately after secular school instead of on Sundays. And I was the only kid in my class to go to a private school, so I would be the only one who would have to show up to Hebrew School in my school uniform, and everyone would make fun of me in my stupid skirt.
It’s just weird to me that there were probably hundreds of kids that have gone through my religious school over the years who were infinitely happier than me in religious school, and who were infinitely “more Jewish” than me, and who were infinitely more connected to the Jewish community than me, and who ate far less ham and cheese sandwiches than me, and who made far fewer references to Jesus than me. And yet, I’m the one who fulfilled the mitzvah of aliyah. I’m the one who lives just a couple minutes from the Western Wall. I’m the one speaking Hebrew every day.
A couple weeks ago some close family friends from LA were in Israel, so they took me out to dinner. And these were the people that, growing up, I considered JEWISH. Their daughter, who was in the year below me at school, was the one who taught me what kosher is—at an age when I definitely should have known. My family maybe waltzed into synagogue once a year (ridiculously late, no less), whereas these people would be sitting front row center every Friday/Saturday. Their whole family would be outfitted with personalized or monogrammed or whatever yarmulkes or tallises or sidurim, and sit together looking more coordinated and serious than the LA Philharmonic, whereas each of my brothers would usually just grab one of those douchebag-yarmulkes (you know, the ones that don’t lie flat at all) that are by the sanctuary entrances as he was hastily adjusting his crooked tie on his way to find a seat, and while I fidgeted awkwardly with my skirt that was riding up, picked a tights-wedgie, and tripped over my fancy shoes. Then during the course of the service one of my brothers would realize that his douchebag-yarmulke had fallen off, and they’d end up on the floor looking for it, causing a total disturbance, most likely during the mourners kaddish.
So anyway, having dinner with this family now that I’m in Israel….was beyond weird. Here I am, secular, product of a religiously dysfunctional family, half-Jew Sam, now a citizen of Israel, with an Israeli ID card, Israeli health insurance, and a draft notice from the Israeli army. And these “good Jews” are going to go back to the U.S. in a week, with only souvenirs from Israel. The “good Jews” chose to cast their lots with a Christian nation, whereas the bad Jew is jumping off a cliff with the Jewish State.
And I ain’t gonna lie…I feel pretty damn smug about it!
Monday, February 9, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
BEST. YOM. RISHON. EVER!
A quote from the class:
Teacher: “Use ‘military police’ in a sentence.”
Student: “Everyone hates the military police.”
Most importantly: If the front cover of Yedioth Ahronoth is any way of judging, Tzipi Livni needs to learn how to hold babies. She looks like she is smothering some poor little thing with her arms/death traps of steel and, amazingly, she also looks like she is about to drop the baby at the same time.
Oh my goodness. I just finished class for the day, and wow…..the first half of class I felt normal and whatever, but when I got back from break. Holy Fuck. I felt like a genius. I was speaking Hebrew without thinking and just…..oh man. I actually had a hopeful moment where I felt like sometime in the NEAR future I’ll actually be able to spend entire days in Hebrew-mode. Like, I was responding to something the teacher said and explaining my opinion on something, and normally this is REALLY difficult for me in Hebrew…..but this time, the words just came, and even the teacher looked surprised when I had finished. And I was like, HOLY SHIT, I can actually speak Hebrew in a fluid way, although not fluently. And it was seriously one of the greatest moments of my life. If my life had a soundtrack, this moment would be “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” as loud as possible. In fact, I’ve just now put on that song as loud as possible on my computer, and I’ve opened the windows to let all of Jerusalem know.
Yeah, I know full well that tomorrow I might sound completely retarded again, but the fact that I just had this brief moment of success, just this one, means that it can happen again. Yes, dear readers, I believe in miracles.
Can I also just say that I love elections here? Not only is there a political rabbi blessing me from posters on like EVERY single bus here in Jerusalem, but then in the news that same rabbi says that to vote for a certain other political party is to vote for Satan.
And now a question of protocol: this girl in my building added me as a friend on Facebook before we even got to Israel. I recognize her when I see her around the building, but we have never once exchanged words and we have not actually met in the real world. I have seen her a million times in my building, and not once has my existence or the existence of our Facebook friendship been acknowledged.
See, this is why I hate people who add people on Facebook before they’ve actually met. I already learned from experience in college that you don’t do that (Facebook was very new to me and to the people in my year at the time), because then when you actually meet your neighbor who you added as a friend on Facebook like 2 months before your freshman year started, you already know a bunch of random trivia about them. Yeah, this might be the first conversation we’ve ever had, but we both know which movies the other likes and whatnot.
So anyway, today I got into the elevator to grab a newspaper from the lobby, and this girl that added me on Facebook back in December walked into the same elevator. And she is sobbing. A complete and total wreck. And here we are, in this tiny elevator together. I keep panicking silently, thinking, “Well, should I say something comforting?” I mean, I know her name. I know where she’s from. I know quite a few things about her. But I’ve never actually met her. See, Facebook just creates these situations where social protocol is ambiguous.
In the end, I figured that since she added me, it should have been her obligation to introduce herself in person, so it’s her own damn fault that technically speaking I don’t actually know her, and so it’s also her own damn fault that it is not socially appropriate for me to say anything to her when she’s sobbing in the same tiny elevator that I’m in. I figured my best bet was to just hope that the ride would be a short one.
So instead we just rode down together in the elevator, less than a foot apart, her sobbing the entire way down and me intensely praying to G-d that the elevator wouldn’t break.
Teacher: “Use ‘military police’ in a sentence.”
Student: “Everyone hates the military police.”
Most importantly: If the front cover of Yedioth Ahronoth is any way of judging, Tzipi Livni needs to learn how to hold babies. She looks like she is smothering some poor little thing with her arms/death traps of steel and, amazingly, she also looks like she is about to drop the baby at the same time.
Oh my goodness. I just finished class for the day, and wow…..the first half of class I felt normal and whatever, but when I got back from break. Holy Fuck. I felt like a genius. I was speaking Hebrew without thinking and just…..oh man. I actually had a hopeful moment where I felt like sometime in the NEAR future I’ll actually be able to spend entire days in Hebrew-mode. Like, I was responding to something the teacher said and explaining my opinion on something, and normally this is REALLY difficult for me in Hebrew…..but this time, the words just came, and even the teacher looked surprised when I had finished. And I was like, HOLY SHIT, I can actually speak Hebrew in a fluid way, although not fluently. And it was seriously one of the greatest moments of my life. If my life had a soundtrack, this moment would be “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” as loud as possible. In fact, I’ve just now put on that song as loud as possible on my computer, and I’ve opened the windows to let all of Jerusalem know.
Yeah, I know full well that tomorrow I might sound completely retarded again, but the fact that I just had this brief moment of success, just this one, means that it can happen again. Yes, dear readers, I believe in miracles.
Can I also just say that I love elections here? Not only is there a political rabbi blessing me from posters on like EVERY single bus here in Jerusalem, but then in the news that same rabbi says that to vote for a certain other political party is to vote for Satan.
And now a question of protocol: this girl in my building added me as a friend on Facebook before we even got to Israel. I recognize her when I see her around the building, but we have never once exchanged words and we have not actually met in the real world. I have seen her a million times in my building, and not once has my existence or the existence of our Facebook friendship been acknowledged.
See, this is why I hate people who add people on Facebook before they’ve actually met. I already learned from experience in college that you don’t do that (Facebook was very new to me and to the people in my year at the time), because then when you actually meet your neighbor who you added as a friend on Facebook like 2 months before your freshman year started, you already know a bunch of random trivia about them. Yeah, this might be the first conversation we’ve ever had, but we both know which movies the other likes and whatnot.
So anyway, today I got into the elevator to grab a newspaper from the lobby, and this girl that added me on Facebook back in December walked into the same elevator. And she is sobbing. A complete and total wreck. And here we are, in this tiny elevator together. I keep panicking silently, thinking, “Well, should I say something comforting?” I mean, I know her name. I know where she’s from. I know quite a few things about her. But I’ve never actually met her. See, Facebook just creates these situations where social protocol is ambiguous.
In the end, I figured that since she added me, it should have been her obligation to introduce herself in person, so it’s her own damn fault that technically speaking I don’t actually know her, and so it’s also her own damn fault that it is not socially appropriate for me to say anything to her when she’s sobbing in the same tiny elevator that I’m in. I figured my best bet was to just hope that the ride would be a short one.
So instead we just rode down together in the elevator, less than a foot apart, her sobbing the entire way down and me intensely praying to G-d that the elevator wouldn’t break.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
vending machines of the Lord
Before I say anything else, I have to say I love this country. Today in the central bus station I saw a vending machine that vends religious texts. I seriously don’t even know what to say to that, except for I’M SO GLAD I MADE ALIYAH.
Also, today at the bank I had THE most encouraging experience ever. The teller saw on my ID card that I was an immigrant, and he asked me about my aliyah, and what ulpan I was studying in. I told him, and he said, “Oh, I know that one!” And I just assumed that he had simply heard of my ulpan….but then it turned out that he himself was an immigrant, and that he himself had studied in the exact same ulpan! I couldn’t tell he was an immigrant (from France, he said), because he sounded so good in Hebrew, and was chatting with another teller in really quick Hebrew. And not only did he do my same ulpan, but he was in the same level as me and he had the exact same teachers. This was all really encouraging because here’s a guy who did exactly what I’m doing, and a year and a half later his Hebrew is good enough that he’s working in a bank, not a t-shirt store or whatever. This is really, really encouraging. I thought I was going to have to wait decades before I stop sounding like an idiot, but unless this guy happens to be a friggin genius then maybe I’ll stop sounding like an idiot in less than a year and a half. Oh man, I really needed this boost in encouragement and confidence.
Okay, now it’s time for a complaint: I really need a new pair of pants, but I can’t figure out the sizes here. I walked into a store at the mall today, and picked up a pair of pants I liked to see what size it was….and saw like 38 or something. And I was like, “Well what the fuck is that?”
Are pant sizes in Israel in Celsius or something?
I looked around at the crowded store and saw all the Israelis looking like pros, and I didn’t want to stand out as an idiot and ask how sizes work, so I walked out of the store and whipped out the ol’ cell phone and did a google search on pant conversions. Eventually I found an online chart that was like, “Size 8 is Size ___ in European, or Size 10 is Size ____ in European” etc etc, and I found my European size and confidently walked back into the store. I then picked up a different pair of pants, and checked the size. And this time it had TWO numbers, both of them different.
Well, now I’m just confused and frustrated. I think maybe I’ll never be able to buy pants here, and I’ll just have to wander the streets in my slowly disintegrating old pants until I eventually am forced to walk the streets in my underpants.
I should probably figure this out before I start the army (if I ever do start the army…), because if they ask you what size you need for your pants, I’m not gonna know what to tell them, and then for two years I’m either going to have to wear skintight hot-pants or Mr. T parachute pants. Should also probably figure out Euro shoe sizes before then as well, cos I don’t think I want to look like the boots-equivalent of a little girl walking around in her mother’s high heels.
EDIT: Someone told me yesterday that the water heaters in our bathrooms can explode if you leave them on too long. Christ, is there ANYTHING in the Middle East that does not explode?
Also, today at the bank I had THE most encouraging experience ever. The teller saw on my ID card that I was an immigrant, and he asked me about my aliyah, and what ulpan I was studying in. I told him, and he said, “Oh, I know that one!” And I just assumed that he had simply heard of my ulpan….but then it turned out that he himself was an immigrant, and that he himself had studied in the exact same ulpan! I couldn’t tell he was an immigrant (from France, he said), because he sounded so good in Hebrew, and was chatting with another teller in really quick Hebrew. And not only did he do my same ulpan, but he was in the same level as me and he had the exact same teachers. This was all really encouraging because here’s a guy who did exactly what I’m doing, and a year and a half later his Hebrew is good enough that he’s working in a bank, not a t-shirt store or whatever. This is really, really encouraging. I thought I was going to have to wait decades before I stop sounding like an idiot, but unless this guy happens to be a friggin genius then maybe I’ll stop sounding like an idiot in less than a year and a half. Oh man, I really needed this boost in encouragement and confidence.
Okay, now it’s time for a complaint: I really need a new pair of pants, but I can’t figure out the sizes here. I walked into a store at the mall today, and picked up a pair of pants I liked to see what size it was….and saw like 38 or something. And I was like, “Well what the fuck is that?”
Are pant sizes in Israel in Celsius or something?
I looked around at the crowded store and saw all the Israelis looking like pros, and I didn’t want to stand out as an idiot and ask how sizes work, so I walked out of the store and whipped out the ol’ cell phone and did a google search on pant conversions. Eventually I found an online chart that was like, “Size 8 is Size ___ in European, or Size 10 is Size ____ in European” etc etc, and I found my European size and confidently walked back into the store. I then picked up a different pair of pants, and checked the size. And this time it had TWO numbers, both of them different.
Well, now I’m just confused and frustrated. I think maybe I’ll never be able to buy pants here, and I’ll just have to wander the streets in my slowly disintegrating old pants until I eventually am forced to walk the streets in my underpants.
I should probably figure this out before I start the army (if I ever do start the army…), because if they ask you what size you need for your pants, I’m not gonna know what to tell them, and then for two years I’m either going to have to wear skintight hot-pants or Mr. T parachute pants. Should also probably figure out Euro shoe sizes before then as well, cos I don’t think I want to look like the boots-equivalent of a little girl walking around in her mother’s high heels.
EDIT: Someone told me yesterday that the water heaters in our bathrooms can explode if you leave them on too long. Christ, is there ANYTHING in the Middle East that does not explode?
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Spotless
My roommate is in one of those cleaning moods. You know, where suddenly you’re furious at the sight of mess, and you have to clean your room top to bottom and blahblah. I rarely get in these moods, being the disgusting bitch that I am, but I definitely know the feeling. The problem is when your roommate (or you) are in one of those moods, but you (or your roommate) are not. That’s basically my life right now. I tried to cooperate and shift a couple things around and whatnot to appease her, but she seemed to be in such a cleaning trance that she wanted to do everything by herself. So now I’m hiding in the laundry room of this building….
I gotta say, I like my roommate. In order for me to really like person they have to 1) eat breakfast, 2) like Brigadoon, and 3) respect Little House on the Prairie. I don’t know if she’s heard the Gospel of Brigadoon, but I can say that she eats breakfast regularly and, like me, would probably eat breakfast for all three meals of the day if it were socially acceptable. And also when she saw that I had one of the Little House books with me, she picked it up and exclaimed in French with pure happiness and excitement, “Ah! THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE!” So even if she’s in a psychotic cleaning trance, I’m still glad I’m living with her.
Also, it’s probably good for me to be living with a person who makes me kind of ashamed of my mess, because whenever I live with like-minded people (i.e. geniuses!) it usually gets pretty narsty. I remember one summer I shared a tiny room with an equally messy girl, and we managed to lose a pizza in our room. Yes, a full pizza, in a box. Freshman year of college I lived another equally gross girl and our room had legendary mess. Towards the end of the year (almost 9 months later) we decided we should probably vacuum, so we borrowed a vacuum from a neighbor. Then we realized that there was nothing to vacuum, since the floor was covered in our shit. We couldn’t be bothered to move our stuff, so we just sort of let the vacuum sit in our corner for weeks, and eventually it became like our version of a coat rack until eventually our neighbor asked for her vacuum back. Sophomore year of college I lived with another messy girl, and while the mess wasn’t as epic as the year before, I do remember having to literally climb a pile of laundry to get to my bed on the top bunk. This girl’s laundry was my ladder.
So, by my standards, I am living in a spotless palace nowadays.
I gotta say, I like my roommate. In order for me to really like person they have to 1) eat breakfast, 2) like Brigadoon, and 3) respect Little House on the Prairie. I don’t know if she’s heard the Gospel of Brigadoon, but I can say that she eats breakfast regularly and, like me, would probably eat breakfast for all three meals of the day if it were socially acceptable. And also when she saw that I had one of the Little House books with me, she picked it up and exclaimed in French with pure happiness and excitement, “Ah! THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE!” So even if she’s in a psychotic cleaning trance, I’m still glad I’m living with her.
Also, it’s probably good for me to be living with a person who makes me kind of ashamed of my mess, because whenever I live with like-minded people (i.e. geniuses!) it usually gets pretty narsty. I remember one summer I shared a tiny room with an equally messy girl, and we managed to lose a pizza in our room. Yes, a full pizza, in a box. Freshman year of college I lived another equally gross girl and our room had legendary mess. Towards the end of the year (almost 9 months later) we decided we should probably vacuum, so we borrowed a vacuum from a neighbor. Then we realized that there was nothing to vacuum, since the floor was covered in our shit. We couldn’t be bothered to move our stuff, so we just sort of let the vacuum sit in our corner for weeks, and eventually it became like our version of a coat rack until eventually our neighbor asked for her vacuum back. Sophomore year of college I lived with another messy girl, and while the mess wasn’t as epic as the year before, I do remember having to literally climb a pile of laundry to get to my bed on the top bunk. This girl’s laundry was my ladder.
So, by my standards, I am living in a spotless palace nowadays.
Monday, February 2, 2009
and now everyone in my family is up to speed....minus my oldest brother....but he's always on a different planet anyway
So my parents now know that I have to do the army. Last night was pretty horrible, talking to my mom on the phone:
I said that I have to get my eyes checked for the army. I lied wildly that I don’t actually have to enlist, but for some strange reason the State of Israel needs to have EVERYONE register with the army and do all the tests even if they aren’t eligible for army service. I told her that I was considering volunteering, hoping that when I eventually broke the news that I had no choice, she’d at least be prepared. She was surprisingly calm….
Oh fuck. After we hung up she called back a few minutes later and was like, “You know, I changed my mind. There’s about to be a war, you shouldn’t volunteer for the army.”
“Um…Mom? Actually…I….I….don’t really have a choice. It turns out I HAVE to do the army, unless they find that I’m like unhealthy or completely unnecessary or something.”
What followed was complete hysteria. I got a lecture about how we’re all going to get nuked over here, and how I should flee the country while I still can. After about 10 minutes, she calmed down and kept saying, “Okay, well, it’s no big deal, just don’t sign anything.”
“Mom, what do you mean?”
“Like, just don’t promise the army that you’ll join, don’t sign up or anything.”
“Mom…I’m not really sure I have a choice unless I leave the country…which I really don’t want to do.”
“Sure, but just don’t commit to doing the army until you’ve talked to Dad.”
Then today my dad just called me and very calmly asked if I actually WANTED to do the army or if I would only do it if I absolutely had to. I said I wanted to and would actually have tried to volunteer anyway. He seemed content, only requested that I try to be an officer or something, and now all seems well and calm.
Oh man, I’ve probably said this before, but I totally have to repeat it: I love children olim. That is, small children who have been dragged from their native lands by their parents in order to move with them to Israel. They are so much fun to talk to in Hebrew, because they know quite a bit (kids pick it up so quickly…lucky bastards!), but they don’t speak quite as fast or use as difficult words as regular Israelis do. So while I keep my mouth shut during class or in front of older, native Israelis, with the little immigrant kids in this building I don’t ever want to shut up in Hebrew. One of the little girls decided that we’re friends, so whenever she sees me she gets all excited and says that she hasn’t seen me in so long, and I feel like I’m the coolest person on the planet. And I get to ask her questions about school or crack jokes or whatever—IN HEBREW! And every time I see another little girl, who lives at the bottom of the first flight of stairs I have to walk down every morning, she smiles and then runs to try to block my way on the stairs. We’ve made a little game of me trying to outsmart her or outmaneuver her in a different way every time.
Every time that I see signs that one of the kids in my building has adapted to Israeliness, either by saying something in Hebrew or by making the “wait” gesture or by whatever, I get so proud of them, and a little bit jealous because I think that maybe in the very near future they’ll blend right in with their native Israeli classmates and you’ll never be able to tell that they hadn’t been born here.
It must suck for their parents though. I mean, at some point the native language of their children is going to switch to Hebrew. Yeah, they’ll still understand English or Farsi or Russian or whatever they came to Israel speaking, but the language they think in and feel most comfortable in and all that is going to be Hebrew eventually, since these kids are so young. I don’t know, it must be weird to have your kid be a mini-you who talks just like you for the first five or so years of their life, and then after a couple years in Israel linguistically you’re so different from your kid. Like, when you came to Israel your little girl spoke with English with the, say, Australian accent that you both have, but then over time your little girl starts speaking English with a slight Israeli accent—not a strong one, not like what most Israelis have when they speak English, but an accent nonetheless. And then meanwhile you’re still speaking both English AND Hebrew with an Australian accent. I don’t know, maybe whoever is reading this will think I’m making a bigger deal out of this than it has to be, but I just feel like it’d be very alienating, you know, the idea of your own kid having a foreign accent.
I said that I have to get my eyes checked for the army. I lied wildly that I don’t actually have to enlist, but for some strange reason the State of Israel needs to have EVERYONE register with the army and do all the tests even if they aren’t eligible for army service. I told her that I was considering volunteering, hoping that when I eventually broke the news that I had no choice, she’d at least be prepared. She was surprisingly calm….
Oh fuck. After we hung up she called back a few minutes later and was like, “You know, I changed my mind. There’s about to be a war, you shouldn’t volunteer for the army.”
“Um…Mom? Actually…I….I….don’t really have a choice. It turns out I HAVE to do the army, unless they find that I’m like unhealthy or completely unnecessary or something.”
What followed was complete hysteria. I got a lecture about how we’re all going to get nuked over here, and how I should flee the country while I still can. After about 10 minutes, she calmed down and kept saying, “Okay, well, it’s no big deal, just don’t sign anything.”
“Mom, what do you mean?”
“Like, just don’t promise the army that you’ll join, don’t sign up or anything.”
“Mom…I’m not really sure I have a choice unless I leave the country…which I really don’t want to do.”
“Sure, but just don’t commit to doing the army until you’ve talked to Dad.”
Then today my dad just called me and very calmly asked if I actually WANTED to do the army or if I would only do it if I absolutely had to. I said I wanted to and would actually have tried to volunteer anyway. He seemed content, only requested that I try to be an officer or something, and now all seems well and calm.
Oh man, I’ve probably said this before, but I totally have to repeat it: I love children olim. That is, small children who have been dragged from their native lands by their parents in order to move with them to Israel. They are so much fun to talk to in Hebrew, because they know quite a bit (kids pick it up so quickly…lucky bastards!), but they don’t speak quite as fast or use as difficult words as regular Israelis do. So while I keep my mouth shut during class or in front of older, native Israelis, with the little immigrant kids in this building I don’t ever want to shut up in Hebrew. One of the little girls decided that we’re friends, so whenever she sees me she gets all excited and says that she hasn’t seen me in so long, and I feel like I’m the coolest person on the planet. And I get to ask her questions about school or crack jokes or whatever—IN HEBREW! And every time I see another little girl, who lives at the bottom of the first flight of stairs I have to walk down every morning, she smiles and then runs to try to block my way on the stairs. We’ve made a little game of me trying to outsmart her or outmaneuver her in a different way every time.
Every time that I see signs that one of the kids in my building has adapted to Israeliness, either by saying something in Hebrew or by making the “wait” gesture or by whatever, I get so proud of them, and a little bit jealous because I think that maybe in the very near future they’ll blend right in with their native Israeli classmates and you’ll never be able to tell that they hadn’t been born here.
It must suck for their parents though. I mean, at some point the native language of their children is going to switch to Hebrew. Yeah, they’ll still understand English or Farsi or Russian or whatever they came to Israel speaking, but the language they think in and feel most comfortable in and all that is going to be Hebrew eventually, since these kids are so young. I don’t know, it must be weird to have your kid be a mini-you who talks just like you for the first five or so years of their life, and then after a couple years in Israel linguistically you’re so different from your kid. Like, when you came to Israel your little girl spoke with English with the, say, Australian accent that you both have, but then over time your little girl starts speaking English with a slight Israeli accent—not a strong one, not like what most Israelis have when they speak English, but an accent nonetheless. And then meanwhile you’re still speaking both English AND Hebrew with an Australian accent. I don’t know, maybe whoever is reading this will think I’m making a bigger deal out of this than it has to be, but I just feel like it’d be very alienating, you know, the idea of your own kid having a foreign accent.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Some bus tickets and an eye test.
Yayyyyyyy! I got a letter from the army enlistment place! All it says is that I need to come in for an eye test (which, as you might remember, I already knew I had to do), but I feel like a badass all the same.
I can’t wait to use the bus tickets they gave me. I feel like making a huge display of handing the tickets over to the driver when I get on the bus, and then giving a haughty laugh to everyone else on the bus, and saying in a posh British accent, “Oh yes, that’s right, the army (ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-me) is paying for my fare.”
Knowing my luck however, I can already imagine how the scene is going to actually play out: I hand the driver the tickets, he tells me he doesn’t recognize them, then I have to say that I’m going to the lishkat giyus, an argument ensues, and in the end I end up paying full bus fare out of my pocket.
As usual though, I got loads of sympathy from the girls in my class, the majority of whom are orthodox. “You poor dear!” says the English girl who is married, yet only a couple years older than me. “I’d be so upset if I had to do the army for two years!”
No, I try to explain, I’m actually kind of excited. My concerns at the moment are only 1) telling my parents and 2) that the army will be like, “Actually, we decided we don’t want you.” (Well, then I’m also afraid that everyone in my unit or whatever the correct army term is will think I’m retarded because I can’t speak Hebrew well enough. I can just imagine it now: being surrounded by a bunch of Israelis talking to me in loud, deliberate voices, saying things like, “DO. YOU. NEED. TO. GO. TOILET? ARE. YOU. SURE?”)
Another girl in a long skirt from some accented English country (South Africa? Australia? Beats me….) asks me, “Ah, so you are volunteering?”
Well, no….when I did all the army tests when I was here on a tourist visa, I was a volunteer. But now I actually don’t have a choice because I’m a citizen.
Panic then ensued among the orthodox girls.
Girl in skirt: “Are they going to make ME enlist now that I’m a citizen too???”
Me: “No, cause you’re married.”
Different girl in different skirt: “WHAT ABOUT ME?! I’M NOT MARRIED!!!!!!!”
Me: “No, cause you’re 28.”
Frankly I’m not sure I see what the big deal is, I mean for girls at least. They ain’t sendin us girls to Gaza anytime soon. Unless I’m terribly mistaken, I’ll most likely be working behind a desk somewhere. Granted, the army doesn’t sound like the equivalent of going to Disneyland every single day, but I can’t imagine that it’s as horrible, soul-destroying and panic-worthy as these orthodox girls are making it sound. I’m actually starting to get a little anxious because I keep thinking, “Wait, is there something I’m missing?” But for the most part I think the pros of doing the army far outweigh the cons, especially for immigrants.
If an Israeli were reading this (Abraham, if you were Israeli I’d totally put a “Hey Abraham!” here…..because unfortunately I don’t have an Israeli equivalent of you for this blog), maybe they’d tell me that I’m actually horribly misled, and that the army is actually the most horrible part of your life and it’s like pure torture, like getting your fingernails ripped out on a daily basis or something. Whatevs. I guess I’ll find out for myself sometime in the future anyway, or (if my fears of the army telling me that they no longer want me are realized) maybe I never will find out. No use getting worked up over it anyway, since it’s not like I have much of a choice at this point.
I can’t wait to use the bus tickets they gave me. I feel like making a huge display of handing the tickets over to the driver when I get on the bus, and then giving a haughty laugh to everyone else on the bus, and saying in a posh British accent, “Oh yes, that’s right, the army (ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-me) is paying for my fare.”
Knowing my luck however, I can already imagine how the scene is going to actually play out: I hand the driver the tickets, he tells me he doesn’t recognize them, then I have to say that I’m going to the lishkat giyus, an argument ensues, and in the end I end up paying full bus fare out of my pocket.
As usual though, I got loads of sympathy from the girls in my class, the majority of whom are orthodox. “You poor dear!” says the English girl who is married, yet only a couple years older than me. “I’d be so upset if I had to do the army for two years!”
No, I try to explain, I’m actually kind of excited. My concerns at the moment are only 1) telling my parents and 2) that the army will be like, “Actually, we decided we don’t want you.” (Well, then I’m also afraid that everyone in my unit or whatever the correct army term is will think I’m retarded because I can’t speak Hebrew well enough. I can just imagine it now: being surrounded by a bunch of Israelis talking to me in loud, deliberate voices, saying things like, “DO. YOU. NEED. TO. GO. TOILET? ARE. YOU. SURE?”)
Another girl in a long skirt from some accented English country (South Africa? Australia? Beats me….) asks me, “Ah, so you are volunteering?”
Well, no….when I did all the army tests when I was here on a tourist visa, I was a volunteer. But now I actually don’t have a choice because I’m a citizen.
Panic then ensued among the orthodox girls.
Girl in skirt: “Are they going to make ME enlist now that I’m a citizen too???”
Me: “No, cause you’re married.”
Different girl in different skirt: “WHAT ABOUT ME?! I’M NOT MARRIED!!!!!!!”
Me: “No, cause you’re 28.”
Frankly I’m not sure I see what the big deal is, I mean for girls at least. They ain’t sendin us girls to Gaza anytime soon. Unless I’m terribly mistaken, I’ll most likely be working behind a desk somewhere. Granted, the army doesn’t sound like the equivalent of going to Disneyland every single day, but I can’t imagine that it’s as horrible, soul-destroying and panic-worthy as these orthodox girls are making it sound. I’m actually starting to get a little anxious because I keep thinking, “Wait, is there something I’m missing?” But for the most part I think the pros of doing the army far outweigh the cons, especially for immigrants.
If an Israeli were reading this (Abraham, if you were Israeli I’d totally put a “Hey Abraham!” here…..because unfortunately I don’t have an Israeli equivalent of you for this blog), maybe they’d tell me that I’m actually horribly misled, and that the army is actually the most horrible part of your life and it’s like pure torture, like getting your fingernails ripped out on a daily basis or something. Whatevs. I guess I’ll find out for myself sometime in the future anyway, or (if my fears of the army telling me that they no longer want me are realized) maybe I never will find out. No use getting worked up over it anyway, since it’s not like I have much of a choice at this point.
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