The Shiksa and Her Mother-In-Law's Friends

My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila….

I don’t want to talk about my mother-in-law. I want to talk about her friends. Once a year, usually in the summer, my MIL hosts a barbecue out in Long Island where we jointly own a country house on the North Fork. The BBQ is for MIL’s former colleagues at Queens College where they were all professors at one time or another but have now since retired. It’s usually the same crowd, most of them in their 70s, endowed with varying degrees of physical health but still mentally agile and alert.
Having teachers under one roof is like being in elementary school all over again. They assume that anyone who isn’t in the business is an empty, hollow vessel begging to be filled. Conversation tends to be one-sided (mostly theirs) and they speak in a voice and language more appropriate for a 3-year old. No matter how bright or successful you think you are, you are reduced to nothing around them. Just when you think you’ve managed to be at your smartest best, they come back with a perfectly aimed zinger that hits right between the eyes.
At these events, Glenn and I prefer to remain in the background, calling ourselves “the hired help”. My MIL is a delightful hostess but panics at the sight of a match which makes me wonder why she does this (and she does this every year) considering that the first rule of entertaining is at least knowing where the can opener is kept.
We gamely don our aprons, quietly do our work, including the occasional appearance to serve more tortilla chips, fill up the wine glasses, or in Glenn’s case, oversee the grill. Sometimes he will find himself responding to a polite query, “How much longer before we serve?” We rarely socialize with the guests because, by tacit agreement, our place is behind the counter and not in front of it. Also, our instinct for self-preservation runs deeper than our need for social acceptance.
Occasionally however, escape is not possible and when that happens, it is best to simply accept the inevitable with grace, dignity and most of all, a sense of humor. Barring that, knowing where the nearest exit also helps.
Which is how I find myself seated next to Martha on a particularly blustery afternoon when temperatures have dipped into the 60s, a highly unusual number for this time of year. The entire party is forced to move indoors and huddle by a crackling fire I had made just moments before.
Ever the good sport, Glenn remains outdoors making sure that the chicken doesn’t burn, bundled in a polar fleece vest that his mother had thoughtfully thrown over his shoulders just before she went in. I had offered to take his place at the grill but he knew what I was up to and refused.
Martha, who has been married to Robert for over 50 years, is of Irish extraction and rather proud of it. He, not her, used to be an English professor. Several years ago, he took early retirement to look after Emma who has always been fragile of health. She’s been through one bypass, cataract surgery on both eyes, and two mastectomies. She is also diabetic and at some point in the day will disappear into the bathroom to inject herself with insulin. Despite her frailties however, she and her husband have raised four children, each with families of their own.
In all these years, Martha and I have probably exchanged no more than a total of five sentences--usually when one of us was going to and from the kitchen--about the kids and how quickly they were growing up. These exchanges were just enough for neither of us to consider the other rude.
Despite her infirmities, Martha is a woman with boundless social energy, always ready with amusing anecdotes to share, and a honed sense of timing and delivery while she’s at it. Her manner is always dry, her voice a raspy monotone, her eyes neither laughing nor crying no matter how funny her tales are. She is at her funniest when sharing an embarrassing detail, usually about her husband who doesn’t seem to mind that he is usually the punchline for most of her stories. She once described in great detail her husband’s circumcision at the age of 60 to correct a blocked urethra.
So when Martha suddenly turns to me to strike up a conversation, I think nothing of it. But then she begins to talk about the wedding anniversary preparations that her children are organizing for her and her husband. I am delighted to talk about a subject other than my children or the health travails of senior citizens, a favorite topic in this crowd. I offer my congratulations on her good fortune.
And then she takes over.
“I am so relieved that all my children married their own kind. None of them married outside their faith. I think that would have been too much of a challenge. It may be okay for some but not for me.”
As I sit there, still smiling because I don’t know what else to do with my face, I feel the warmth that usually comes with it turning cold. Their own kind has the burning sting of ice on my skin. Didn’t the cataract procedures correct her vision? Did she become color blind instead? Isn’t my MIL her friend? Glenn and I just happen to represent the kind of union that would be “challenging” for her.
But Martha is just warming up.
“My only daughter has been divorced for a long time. She has single-handedly raised her only son who is now in his 20s. She has a nice, important job at a bank but I wish she’d get married. I want someone to take care of her.”
“It looks like she hasn’t done too badly for herself,” I say politely referring to her daughter’s profession.
This time Martha takes my hand and leans closer as if I was a confidante.
“I want her to go and get herself hitched to a wealthy, Jewish man.”
I am stunned. My MIL is nowhere to be found; Glenn is still manning the grill. Let those chickens burn! My MIL was widowed at 36 when her sons were 7 and 3, and despite her modest professor’s salary, was able to provide for her boys. This she did by herself, without ever the need for a man to take care of her, Jewish or non-Jewish. My MIL simply took care of things, herself.
By the time I turn to Emma, she is gone from my side, talking to the others. I want to warn them to run for cover but they all seem to be having a good laugh. I leave and take my place behind the counter instead.