Sedar Manners from New York to Israel and Back Again
by Dorit Sasson
As I watch my three year son slurp chicken soup after Friday night’s service, I am almost home. Well, almost. I want to get on that LIRR train to Far Rockaway so much. But for the sake of Sedar manners, I push that memory just a bit back in my subconscious.
I truly feel like an outsider now that we’ve moved back to the States. I’ve lived in both Israel and American in equal numbers of years, but when it comes time to slurping soup, time stands still. Momma tried to teach me what she thought were Sedar manners for eight years, and she didn’t compromise - even on a Sedar night. She thought the excitement of singing the four questions (what has changed, Ma Nishtana?) would perhaps distract me from slurping soup and watching others slurp. The thought of watching her almost eighteen year old daughter become excited by little cousin Zackary’s version of “Ma Nishtana?” (what has changed) made her finally realized that I was busy to be bothered with keeping up with sedar manners.
“Don’t you have something you would like to share with the family?” she asked me on my last Passover sedar.
“What, what are you talking about?” I asked as uncle Eddie put down his soup spoon and lifting his head.
“You know, about you volunteering on a kibbutz and moving to Israel.” My mom said.
Sharing my decision of emigrating to Israel, I felt like I was Moses leading the people across through the Dead Sea with his stick. All eyes were upon me. But I slurped my matzah ball soup quietly in order to distract myself from the silence. The truth was I was scared. I knew that Far Rockaway and Greenwich Village were really the only two homes I knew.
Uncle Eddie smiled. “Well, at least we know who’s going to be in Jerusalem next year, as they say in the Torah.”
Since then I have spent the next 18 Passover sedars in and around Jerusalem. Only last year, I’ve discovered a need to come back home, perhaps to understand that slurping Matzoh ball soup is just as universal as I thought it is.
After a long hiatus from submitting posts to Scribbit's Write Away Contest, I'm happy to say that I've found myself a bit inspired and submitted again.
Showing posts with label Write-Away Contest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Write-Away Contest. Show all posts
Monday, April 7, 2008
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
A Cloudy Day
Here I am, again at the library drafting out yet another clean sheet of paper for my book on early literacy education.
I left my suitcase of ideologies on a kibbutz just a few months ago – farmland territory under some nebulous looking cloud that frightened even a scarecrow but with lots of pansies to keep you dreaming. I love planting, weed work, watching the clouds move, eating fresh mint, but when those clouds on the other side of the Atlantic got too dark and a bit boring, I knew something was obviously wrong.
It all made of course even better sense when I boarded the plane, taking my redheaded son and husband with me to start afresh writing on the other side of the Atlantic, figuring out our next steps one day at a time.
It’s been raining on the Eastern coast, one straight pour after another and I had one of those flashbacks again…
“left, right, left, right… listening to the marching when I was in the Israeli army twenty years earlier. Hearing the soldiers march while in the bunk always makes you think about all sorts of strange things… and ideas… and ideals…
“left, right, left, right,” … like aunt roses’ clock twenty five years earlier in Far-Rockaway – quick flashback to the one thing I liked to do most – observing the big hand of the twelve and then my own small hand wondering which word I would write, if and where, and when??
When I was young, momma pulled me away from the waves afraid I would get sucked under by the current, I knew she meant years later when she said ‘ don’t go into the arts – ‘it’ll suck you dry.’
It’s always easier to stay close or be the closest one to the shore. Watch the dirty looking clouds. The rainy kinds ones I like the best. But even if you don’t cross your ‘I’ and dot your ‘t’s, at least you know you have to write whatever comes out and that perhaps has also made a difference.
The last page I left my t and I uncrossed, it looked unfinished but that made me feel perhaps a bit better. Oh and I keep on forgetting to bring my umbrella. But I guess that doesn’t count, does it?
“left, right, left, right,” … like aunt roses’ clock twenty five years earlier in Far-Rockaway – quick flashback to the one thing I liked to do most – observing the big hand of the twelve and then my own small hand wondering which word I would write, if and where, and when??
When I was young, momma pulled me away from the waves afraid I would get sucked under by the current, I knew she meant years later when she said ‘ don’t go into the arts – ‘it’ll suck you dry.’
It’s always easier to stay close or be the closest one to the shore. Watch the dirty looking clouds. The rainy kinds ones I like the best. But even if you don’t cross your ‘I’ and dot your ‘t’s, at least you know you have to write whatever comes out and that perhaps has also made a difference.
The last page I left my t and I uncrossed, it looked unfinished but that made me feel perhaps a bit better. Oh and I keep on forgetting to bring my umbrella. But I guess that doesn’t count, does it?
**************************
After a bit of a hiatus, I decided to send this post to the Write-Away contest at Michele's blog which I read fervently.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
My Left Foot
On the day I sprained my left foot I thought I was still in control as my feet had stationed me with a sense of purpose all this time. I had never sprained a foot in my life. After all, I was a newcomer on my way to finding a job, renting an apartment, finding a new life in Pittsburgh, and trying to explain to my husband some of the cultural nuances I even found foreign after an eighteen year absence while living overseas.
And down I came together with my mother's adage: 'Don't be a worry bug, be a happy bug' as I tried to balance my son's stroller yet missed the step and banging my knee in the process.
I am not used to taking ginger steps. I am used to doing things my way, somewhat of an impulsive nature, knowing that my feet will always station me with stability. Well, my left foot was wavering in those first five minutes then the swelling and black and blue marks starting to appear, then emergency room visits, crutches. Yep, I was no longer in control.
First it was my left eye and the erosion and now my left foot. Why is it that when physical mishaps occur, I suddenly start realizing the importance of life?
Well, this is what I am learning:
1. We are a family and we are in this together.
2. Never underestimate the power of a child's love.
3. Watch out where you walk - and in my case, where you step.
Obviously, I am still learning, so that is a good sign as all good learning should be. My toddler son is starting way earlier than me. After dinner tonight, he placed the ice-pack around a towel and guess where? On my left foot.
This post has been submitted to the Write-Away contest at Michele's blog. The subject of this month's theme is about 'learning.'
And down I came together with my mother's adage: 'Don't be a worry bug, be a happy bug' as I tried to balance my son's stroller yet missed the step and banging my knee in the process.
I am not used to taking ginger steps. I am used to doing things my way, somewhat of an impulsive nature, knowing that my feet will always station me with stability. Well, my left foot was wavering in those first five minutes then the swelling and black and blue marks starting to appear, then emergency room visits, crutches. Yep, I was no longer in control.
First it was my left eye and the erosion and now my left foot. Why is it that when physical mishaps occur, I suddenly start realizing the importance of life?
Well, this is what I am learning:
1. We are a family and we are in this together.
2. Never underestimate the power of a child's love.
3. Watch out where you walk - and in my case, where you step.
Obviously, I am still learning, so that is a good sign as all good learning should be. My toddler son is starting way earlier than me. After dinner tonight, he placed the ice-pack around a towel and guess where? On my left foot.
This post has been submitted to the Write-Away contest at Michele's blog. The subject of this month's theme is about 'learning.'
Sunday, August 19, 2007
A Collection of Memories
Ever since we’ve arrived in the States (almost a month now) I still haven’t had a proper chance to feel like I’m my mother’s daughter again.Going in and out through parks, seeing oceans, walking past pastures and vineyards are all so much a part of the Southern California experience, but coming home is always so much more meaningful. Trying to build a connection with a lost friend can be memorable. Trying however to relive a maternal connection especially when it’s been affected by Alzheimer’s type dementia is painful and difficult.
In case you didn’t yet make the connection, my mother has Alzheimer’s type dementia. She’s had it since 1997. But I wouldn’t stop ever calling her mom.
I take after my mother; I’m a worrier. As a kid I would prowl the halls waiting for her. If she said “I’ll be home at 10:00 pm" and she wasn’t, I’d go out waiting for her. Tonight, I pushed the panic button when I looked at the dark sky and wondered where are my two boys. I hunted them down alongside the piers right outside my mother's home alongside the Hudson River. I immediately thought of that little girl and I wanted to find a connection. With Alzheimer’s however, there’s always an issue of hit or miss.
I knew my mom would identify with ‘worry scenes’ such as these. It actually made perfect sense to use it as a starting board for conversation.
I’m almost sure it was my voice that did it. Instantly, her face turned towards me. Her jaw dropped slightly, she tried to make eye contact. Her expression softened. She was my mom again just for a few bitter-sweet moments.
I went on to recount to her the story of the last forty minutes of hunting my boys down.There was nothing more comforting than hearing, “yes, that’s too much” or, “ yes, I know what you mean.” Perfect.
Anybody who has an Alzheimer’s type dementia parent, knows the feeling of closeness this scenario can bring to a grieving daughter or son’s heart.
These few years are the collective years of her and my life together. They make the last scrapbook of what stands out as a maternal connection. From one mom to another, this is the best collection that survives all scratch-and-sniff sticker albums I’ve ever had.
After a bit of thought, I decided to send this post to Michele's blog for the Write-Away content. This month's theme is about collections.
In case you didn’t yet make the connection, my mother has Alzheimer’s type dementia. She’s had it since 1997. But I wouldn’t stop ever calling her mom.
I take after my mother; I’m a worrier. As a kid I would prowl the halls waiting for her. If she said “I’ll be home at 10:00 pm" and she wasn’t, I’d go out waiting for her. Tonight, I pushed the panic button when I looked at the dark sky and wondered where are my two boys. I hunted them down alongside the piers right outside my mother's home alongside the Hudson River. I immediately thought of that little girl and I wanted to find a connection. With Alzheimer’s however, there’s always an issue of hit or miss.
I knew my mom would identify with ‘worry scenes’ such as these. It actually made perfect sense to use it as a starting board for conversation.
I’m almost sure it was my voice that did it. Instantly, her face turned towards me. Her jaw dropped slightly, she tried to make eye contact. Her expression softened. She was my mom again just for a few bitter-sweet moments.
I went on to recount to her the story of the last forty minutes of hunting my boys down.There was nothing more comforting than hearing, “yes, that’s too much” or, “ yes, I know what you mean.” Perfect.
Anybody who has an Alzheimer’s type dementia parent, knows the feeling of closeness this scenario can bring to a grieving daughter or son’s heart.
These few years are the collective years of her and my life together. They make the last scrapbook of what stands out as a maternal connection. From one mom to another, this is the best collection that survives all scratch-and-sniff sticker albums I’ve ever had.
After a bit of thought, I decided to send this post to Michele's blog for the Write-Away content. This month's theme is about collections.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
The Two Week Adventure
This post has been submitted to the Write-Away Contest at Michele Mitchell's blog. This month's theme is Adventures.
For somebody who was brought up to wear a sweater in fifty degree heat and was handed an article on lung cancer at the age of thirteen , I never thought that I would find myself in the middle of the Arava desert in Israel at the age of eighteen full clad in a soldier's uniform trying to shoot the bull's eye.
My mom would never know up until this day, that the Greenwich Village spoiled city girl was on the adventure of a lifetime while learning Hebrew, running around picking smelly tomatoes from an abandoned airfield, raising and carrying Russian girls who knew no English on a stretcher while running with two M-16's on her back on a nineteen kilometer race so as to qualify for an officer's course. Every picture I sent back home seemed to reverberate the last smile: "yes, I'm having a good time and yes, don't worry."
She thought I was on one of those, you know, experience tours for young teens who want to experience Israel in two weeks. Well at least, that's what I told her. In 1990.
Truthfully, I thought I would do like most Americans my age. I would do my little 'charity work' serving in the Israeli army and come back home. After all mom had said, an education is your future. Well, it would take me many hikes through the Golan heights and alongside the Dea Sea to find my Israeli identity. And yes, I'm still looking for it.
I have said "pay attention" in Hebrew to many soldiers more times than I choose to remember. I have been in Gaza Strip more times than I care to tell about it. I have witnessed quite a few deaths and injuries than I care to write. But my two year old redhead thinks it is fun to answer me in English when I say 'pay attention' as he throws pebbles in the Jordan River.
Many runs and hikes later, my hands have written a good many letters about that my experiences as a soldier both from both left (English) and right (Hebrew). The words of what became a 'two week adventure' bypass what language and side you are from from.
But of course, it depends on which way you choose to live your life.
This post has been submitted to the Write-Away Contest at Michele Mitchell's blog. This month's theme is Adventures.
For somebody who was brought up to wear a sweater in fifty degree heat and was handed an article on lung cancer at the age of thirteen , I never thought that I would find myself in the middle of the Arava desert in Israel at the age of eighteen full clad in a soldier's uniform trying to shoot the bull's eye.
My mom would never know up until this day, that the Greenwich Village spoiled city girl was on the adventure of a lifetime while learning Hebrew, running around picking smelly tomatoes from an abandoned airfield, raising and carrying Russian girls who knew no English on a stretcher while running with two M-16's on her back on a nineteen kilometer race so as to qualify for an officer's course. Every picture I sent back home seemed to reverberate the last smile: "yes, I'm having a good time and yes, don't worry."
She thought I was on one of those, you know, experience tours for young teens who want to experience Israel in two weeks. Well at least, that's what I told her. In 1990.
Truthfully, I thought I would do like most Americans my age. I would do my little 'charity work' serving in the Israeli army and come back home. After all mom had said, an education is your future. Well, it would take me many hikes through the Golan heights and alongside the Dea Sea to find my Israeli identity. And yes, I'm still looking for it.
I have said "pay attention" in Hebrew to many soldiers more times than I choose to remember. I have been in Gaza Strip more times than I care to tell about it. I have witnessed quite a few deaths and injuries than I care to write. But my two year old redhead thinks it is fun to answer me in English when I say 'pay attention' as he throws pebbles in the Jordan River.
Many runs and hikes later, my hands have written a good many letters about that my experiences as a soldier both from both left (English) and right (Hebrew). The words of what became a 'two week adventure' bypass what language and side you are from from.
But of course, it depends on which way you choose to live your life.
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