Korê in New York

What happens when a kid refuses to leave the past behind? What happens when the past won't go away? Read on and don't worry about the emotional damage.

1. Learning

   Saturday would be my last chance to convince the kids in teen minyan at Lincoln Square to take the pledge and join Young Achievers. Fortunately the weather was cold enough for  my red turtleneck which has not become too tight due to the fact that I am going to have small tits. None of the women in either of my families is big on top. In a way that is good.

   The turtle neck was a bit short in the sleeves. Everything I have is getting that way, but that is good since my arms are not long and I did not have to roll the sleeves, just scrunch them up a bit. Over the turtle neck, I put my Young Achievers’ t-shirt.

   On the bottom, I wore my grey parachute skirt. I have a whole wardrobe of parachute and military long skirts for dress up and schul. They are kind of like dress code clothes. I don’t have a problem with dress codes. They make my life easier.

   Nervy Worm wore her hot pink sweater and navy blue skirt to schul. We don’t have to match even though we are sisters, especially since we are nine years apart. Sisters do not mean clones.

   Nervy  never complains about walking to synagogue. She loves to sing the songs she has learned in junior congregation for five and six year olds. She also hates the kids who run around and do nothing. She thinks they have lazy parents who don’t yell at them. Parents are supposed to yell at kids who misbehave. Nervy lives in dread of authority which should make me sad, but I’m a realist so I’m glad my little sister knows the score.

   My t-shirt set off a firestorm as soon as we kids could legally talk without disrupting the service. That meant when we went from teen minyan to teen kiddush. “I hope you’re not going to proselytize us today,” said a tall boy who needed some zit cream and a shave. I felt like telling him, well you know what I wanted to tell him and sometimes RoAnn is riht about certain words indicating a poverty of imagination, but it’s hard to have much imagination when you are angry.

   “Yes, I am,” I told the asshole.

   “Why?” asked zit face’ companion who had a red beard that was half way there. “None of us are interested.”

   “You should be,” I took the high road.

   “Why?” asked a girl in a cream colored sweater and equally tasteful brown skirt. Those were expensive clothes and way too conservative for my taste.

   “Because it gives smart kids from all over a way to be together,” I made my pitch. I had thought about this one for a long tme.

   “But the kids in my school are smart,” said a boy who was still in middle school. The age for Bar Mitzvah is thirteen for boys and twelve for girls, so some of the kids in teen minyan aren’t in high school yet.

   “All except the learning disabled ones, and even they’re smart. They just learn differently.”

   “Yes, but we Jews are only two point five percent of the population,” I shot back. “Get ‘em with statistics,” I thought.

   “Don’t you want to know the smart kids in the other 97.5 percent?” I asked.

   “You mean the goyim?” asked red beard.

   “That’s an epithet take it back!” I snarled.

   “It just means nations,” fashionably dressed mouthed the party line.

   “It means gentiles, but there are politer words for it when you are speaking English. The five letter G word dehumanizes nonJews and puts them in the category of other.”

   Damn, I sounded like a teacher but this was the real explanation. I did not feel like lying. “Who taught you that?” asked red beard.

   “My stepmother. She’s a linguist.” This was one I don’t think they expected.

   “And is your stepmother Jewish?” asked fashionable.

   I hadn’t expected that and it was ridiculous. “What does that have to do with whether something is true or not? My stepmother is Italian American.”

   “Then your stepmother is a….” the middle schooler voiced the conclusion that was probably in half the kids heads.

   “Come on,” the youth rabbi called out. “We’re going to be making kiddush.”

   That meant food. We were all hungry. I wanted to eat junk food and drink soda and make sure my younger sister was all right. As we helped ourselves to fishlets, pretzels, bar-b-que flavored potato chips, and Cheez-its, fashionable sidled up to me and apologized. “I’m sorry,” she told me. “But our identity is really important to us. You have to consider your own first…”

   My own is a tiny minority, I thought. That had been true even in Scranton. It was true at Tech. It was true everywhere but Lincoln Square and a few other places.

   “Come on, want to see some pictures of my cousin whose on her year in Israel?”

   I liked the  idea of pictures from a foreign country, but in most of the pictures Israel looked either like California or New York. Fashionable whose real name was Elasheva’s cousin wore skirts and three quarter length sleeves, dress code clothes. She seemed happy enough. Pictures of kids on vacation usually either show them happy or bored, unless it’s some place like Realitee. I was glad I had no Realitee pictures. What I did have in my purse were pictures that a kid from the Eagle had taken of our dress rehearsals last week.

   The kid from The Eagle wore a mustard colored shirt and had ringlets down to his shoulders. He wore pressed blue jeans and took care of his face. I think he was Puerto Rican, but I don’t remember his last name. He was very proud of the way the pictures came out in the low light of back stage. They were beautiful pictures.

   I pulled out my pile of pictures. “What’s that?” asked Elasheva. “Photos. They were taken with an electronic camera and printed out. I opened the envelope and took out the eight by five and a half prints. “This is dress rehearsal for the one acts. I’m on lighting crew for drama club. This is my one act. It’s all dance. That’s Kwaata and the crew getting ready. They all have matching costumes.”

   “Kwaa who?” asked a girl with hair parted on the side and a white blouse and black shirt.

   “Kwaata,” I answered. “She’s a junior and she lives up in Harlem. Her name is Arabic, but they Anglicized the spelling to make it sound African.”

   “Why?” asked side part.

   “Because she’s a…..” I will not reprint the epithet that starts wtih an S. “They give their kids all kinds of weird names.”

   “Careful,” said a tall girl in a brown skirt and white blouse (What was with all the dull colors anyway?) “Koray’s pol-ti-ick-ally correkt?”

   “And why are those girls half naked?” asked side part who had gone from prejudice to genuine ignorance.

   “They’re wearing leotards. They put wrap skirts around their feet and Capezios, dance shoes, on their feet.”

   “Do they dance in front of…men.”

   “Tech is three quarters male,” I replied. “Drama club is closer to fifty fifty.” Then I realized what side part had asked.

   “Yes,” I said. “We perform for the public.”

   “Do you dance like that?” a middle school girl asked. I waited for one of the older girls to stop the conversation. Too many questions could be dangerous. These kids weren’t just snots. They had a lot to learn.

   “No,” I replied. “I’m on lighting crew.” I showed the girls another picture. I wish the boys had been there to see it. “That’s me about to crawl up on the battens because we blew a spot light. I have the new bulb hanging from my waste and the tool kit for fixing the light. I needed to splice wires on that light. It shouldn’t have blown a bulb at two weeks.”

   I showed the girls another picture. That was of me climving the ladder to the battens and then the picture of me squatting on the battens at work. “How high is that?” asked the middle school girl.

   “Thirty five and a half feet,” I answered. Javonvitch was proud of telling this to all new members of the lighting crew.

   “What if you fell?”

   “I have a safety harness.”

   “Does it really work?”

   “Yes,” I answered. “I’ve fallen three times. You hang in midair when you fall. It feels a bit weird. Then you pull yourself back up on the battens and climb down.”

   “You’re mother lets you do that!” Elasheva all but shrieked.

   “I’m wearing safety equipment,” I all but laughed. “Look you either are afraid of falling and never go up, that’s not me. You fall once and never want to go up again, or you fall and then you are not afraid. That is me.”

   “You’re crazy!” said side part. “She’s insane.”

   “No, she has different values,” the rabbi interrupted. “You don’t go to a Jewish school do you?” he asked. This was obvious because he knew where I went to school.

   “I go to Brooklyn Tech,” I answered. “It’s a public entrance examination high school.”

   “Well kids here don’t do things like that,” the rabbi told me. “We live sheltered lives. We value Torah and learning.”

   “You don’t think lighting crew is learning?” I was aware of the difference in meaning that the rabbi gave an ordinary word. Saying that only religious studies were learning was like saying to the rest of the educated world to get a life. Whatever they were doing was not education.

   “No, It’s…. something you do for fun maybe.”

   “You’re wrong,” I answered and showed the rabbi the lighting booth. “See it’s all com puterized. There’s a lighting programming language. You also have to know about how to fix broken wires and splce cables and about circuit boards and safety. That’s all learning. You also have to know how to work with your group when you do one acts. My dancers needed a projection. See that extra lap top in the back of the booth. It’s hooked into the dataprojector.”

   I found the image to show the rabbi. “Here is how it all looks on stage.”

   The rabbi winced and blushed at the sight of six dancers moving as one sinuous, sensual body in skin tight leotards, tights, and thin skirt wraps that hugged their hips and accentuated their slim figures. Behind them was a silhouette of the Manhattan Skyline.

   “Getting that data projector to work was a bear,” I proclaimed.

   “That’s not Jewish,” answered the rabbi. I resisted the urge to slap him. I resisted the urge to run into the ladies room and cry my eyes out. I did not resist the urge to dump most of my kiddush snack in the garbage and go look for my sister who was giving several glass eyed kids and one or two fascinated parents a lesson in how to add and subtract with raisins and fragments of cookies.

   Someone had taught her “new math.” Actually, Dad had made her counting toys and she could do math with pictures rather than numbers. This was not shabby for a six year old, but I always thought such games were common. I watched feeling exahusted and wrung out. I was glad to get out on the sidewalk. I was glad I did not have an invite to turn down for a free lunch. I needed to get home, get changed, and take Ivanna for her walk to go get her brand of Power Bars and for me to stop at  Zabar’s and pick up cheese, olives, and coldcuts. The last were for Nervy and me. The first were for Dad who was due home. What would Dad have made of the synagogue?

   Couldn’t those kids see that really working at something was so important that it blocked out anything else. Didn’t any of those girls really want to be stars? Being a star was more important than using  the religion to play games? Being one of the best was the most important thing in the world, that had having a bit of recognition for it. Nervyworm was a star. She was a star at math and drawing. She was a good reader too. Some day Nervy Worm would join Young Achievers as a matter of course.

   “Why are you shaking?” Nervy Worm asked me as we walked home.

   “I think the weather is a bit cold,” I replied. Fleming was on duty. He asked me if I was all right. I was fine. I had to be fine. I changed quickly and found Ivanna practicing dance moves in soilded white tights and a royal blue lyotard. She asked me to take off the Young Achiever’s T-shirt. “You’re going to embarass me in public,” she said. I realized I should keep the piece and put the t-shirt away. Ivanna I could handle, I told myself as we re-emerged onto the streets and began the walk to the subway and then the walk downtown to a special nutritional health food store that sold mainly pills, powders, and bars.

   Ivanna spent sixteen dollars on the things and the lovely black haired woman with a long neck like something in the Song of Songs asked Ivanna where she was dancing. Halston was a great place like a great Yeshiva or Seminary in Israel would have been for the kids at Lincoln Square, but while the lady behind the counter might have understood that there were great Yeshivas and Seminaries, the kids in Lincoln Square Teen Minyan would not believe there were great public high schools or great dance stuidos. One reason that Young Achievers was full of smart kids was that there were multiple ways to be smart. I couldn’t dance, but I could do lighting crew. Some people, like Dad, wanted nothing to do with the stage. Some learned Hebrew. Some excelled at French. Some wailed at global stuides, and someone had to get a one hundred on the Math A Regents.  Part of becoming an adult instead of a snotty kid was accepting all of this. Was I an adult all ready? I wondered.

   The sun was out as I suggested we walk up to Zabar’s. “Oh pul-eeeze,” Ivanna complained. “Not a prom-en-odd.”

   “Let’s take a vote!” Nervy called out.

   Majority ruled, and Ivanna did not complain. “How was shool?” Ivanna asked.

   “Vile,” I answered.

   “Are those  kids real snobs?” she asked.

   “They’re ignorant,” I replied. “They don’t want to learn.”

   “That makes them stupid,” Ivanna passed her critique.

   “Am I stupid?” I asked.

   “No,” Ivanna replied. “You’re an asshole sometimes, but not stupid. You’re just a tool who likes being a tool. My mom is that way too, but you understand there are other things you can do.”

   We didn’t say much after that. The sun was out though the weather was cold for early May. I was glad we did not have a  Young Achiever’s meeting this weekend. I wanted to flee again. I planned to kidnap Nervy Worm and take her to Staten Island. The fantasy felt unbearably delicious.

   In Zabar’s Ivanna talked about additives, sodium, and carbs as I purchased a varietyof treats. “Stop saying bad things about the food!” complained Nervy in a too loud voice. I wanted to kiss my little sister.

   “It doesn’t bother you that this stuff is not kosher.”

   “No,” I said. “I’m not ready to keep Kosher yet?”

   “Then why do you go to an orthodox synagogue?”

   “To pray,” I said. I did not want to think that keeping kosher would sentence me to a life of eating with ignoramuses. I wanted to put this morning far behind me. I was sad to descend into the  subway though it was great to see the car full of all sorts of people heading to either second shift work or a good time on a Saturday afternoon. I was glad to emerge up in Harlem and begin the walk down to the river where we would meet RoAnn at Fairway.

   RoAnn was parked in the cafe reading a student  paper. She had tons of work to do tonight which meant we’d be studying up at Mann Hall and then maybe go out to dinner at some diner where we could all get what we want. Maybe we’d even eat at The Arena. I laughed at that thought. I tried to imagine ECBAS confronting the Orthodox kids at Teen Minyan.

   “What’s so funny?” RoAnn asked me.

   “You don’t want to know.”

   “The kids at shool are disrespecting Kore,”  Ivanna told her mother.

   “Churches can be funny places,” RoAnn mused. She did not want me to lose her faith. Fortunately, I don’t believe in my peers. I headed for produce. Dad had asked me to buy three pounds of fresh asparagus. He was going to help me make it for Nervyworm. Mom in another email said to buy Jane’s Crazy Mixed Up Salt to put on the asparagus after it was served, since it did not look like either Nervy or I would be up for making or eating Hollandaise and Italian dressing or “ranch sauce” was only for cold, cooked asparagus spears. 

   RoAnn stared with shock at the three bundles of asparagus spears. “What are you doing with that?” she asked. “Dad wants us to cook them,” I answered. “Oh yeah…Sammy,” sighed RoAnn.

   “I’m glad Dad is coming back,” I said, and I meant it even if there were fights. I would not tell Dad about my misadventures at synagogue this morning. I would not tell any one. I’d done all I could do. Next week was Saturday rehearsals and on the twenty-second of May the show would go on. That was what was important. My biology regents and my other finals were what was important. The kids at Lincoln Square had learned Young Achievers was out there. It was up to them to make the next move.

Archive