My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
About two months ago, I decided to go to Confession after an absence of, oh I don’t know, so many years. I did not have anything particular to say or confess. I had not committed any mortal sin that would have warranted my presence in the Confessional. It’s true that my mind wasn’t exactly fallow for all that time, preoccupied as it was with all sorts of adulterous, murderous, gluttonous thoughts but they don’t count.
I wish I could explain the impulse that possessed me to go but I can’t. Just did.
I chose to go in the afternoon when I assumed there were would be fewer people. I like walking into an empty church and having this big, voluminous space all to one’s self. Including me, there were nine others waiting their turn.
I felt awkward, nervous even. Like that nine-year old all over again kneeling before the sliding panel, waiting for it to open with a sharp noise, and seeing the silhouette of a man who could see me, all of me, but not the other way around. A man who usually came with a double chin and a voice that seemed to have risen from Hades. I remembered feeling trapped and claustrophobic, of not being able to escape, of being swallowed alive by my sins and this man.
What was I doing here?
I was up next. In the time it took me to walk over to the Confessional, I could have turned around just as quickly and left. But I’d gotten this far. I took a deep breath, pulled the door open...
...and stepped into a brightly lit cubicle the size of an airplane stall. Inside were two chairs next to each other, and on one of them, sat my parish priest whose eyes popped out as soon as he saw me. He looked like he really wanted to fall off his seat but there was no room. So instead, we giggled and chuckled as he invited me to take my place next to him as if we were old friends enjoying a quick cup of tea, knee to knee.
I know I was there for no more than ten minutes yet I could have stayed there forever. I wanted to keep on talking, saying every thing I had kept to myself all these years, no matter whether I made sense or not. Father M. sat there with his eyes closed, listening, nodding, smiling and not saying anything particular or meaningful in return.
By the time I left, the line had gotten longer. And I still couldn’t remember what brought me there in the first place.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
HELP: The Shiksa Dispenses Advice
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
I received a call from a family friend asking for my help on an impending engagement between a couple who, as you might have guessed, stand on either side of the Cross. I was flattered but wasn’t sure I had anything to offer.
“Please, maybe the bride-to-be can talk to you. You and Glenn have made your marriage work.” People assume that because Glenn and I have been together for years our marriage is without potholes which is a fallacy because in fact we have our fair share. Our marriage works because despite their presence, we have become adept at adapting to them or simply learned to ignore them.
“Marla and Jake* have been living together for several years and have recently decided to make it official and get married. The problem is Jake’s grandfather. Oh, I forgot to mention that Jake is Jewish but he doesn’t come from an observant background and Marla is Catholic and still goes to Mass. The grandfather, an Orthodox Jew has threatened to disinherit Jake if he proceeds with the marriage. I told Marla that she should probably talk to you because you and Glenn have made your marriage work.”
I never heard from Marla or from the family friend again after that call. Either the problem worked itself out, the grandfather dropped dead, Marla and Jake broke off the engagement, or Marla and Jake eloped and moved to Canada. I don’t know.
Here’s what I DO know. Holding a relationship hostage, especially a relationship of this nature, is problematic for me. Had Marla called, I would have told her to simply lose the boyfriend. End of story. Who cares about the money or whatever 24-carat carrot grandpa chose to dangle over Jake’s head? The relationship between two people, especially two people contemplating marriage and a lifetime commitment, should not be confused for a business transaction.
The fact that Jake even raised the subject with Marla was an indication that perhaps the marriage was already on precarious footing to begin with. He had apparently also suggested that she might consider converting which apparently she was open to since her mother was less likely to disinherit or renounce her. Which raises another problem because any conversion that is not sincere, i.e., based on a belief system, is not genuine.
OMG! If Glenn had asked me to sign a Prenup or asked me to convert, I would have been out of there so quickly he wouldn’t have known what hit him. But not without knocking him out cold first.
Frankly, if Jake had any gumption (okay, cojones!), he should have stood up to grandpa and while he was at it, flipped him the bird. Seriously. Which may have induced cardiac arrest in the old man but at least he got to stand up for Marla. If Jake couldn’t stand up for her now, what makes her think that he will stand up for her later on when they’re married and all the exits have been boarded up?
I am relieved that I never got their call because clearly I wouldn’t have been of much help to them at all.
*not their real names
I received a call from a family friend asking for my help on an impending engagement between a couple who, as you might have guessed, stand on either side of the Cross. I was flattered but wasn’t sure I had anything to offer.
“Please, maybe the bride-to-be can talk to you. You and Glenn have made your marriage work.” People assume that because Glenn and I have been together for years our marriage is without potholes which is a fallacy because in fact we have our fair share. Our marriage works because despite their presence, we have become adept at adapting to them or simply learned to ignore them.
“Marla and Jake* have been living together for several years and have recently decided to make it official and get married. The problem is Jake’s grandfather. Oh, I forgot to mention that Jake is Jewish but he doesn’t come from an observant background and Marla is Catholic and still goes to Mass. The grandfather, an Orthodox Jew has threatened to disinherit Jake if he proceeds with the marriage. I told Marla that she should probably talk to you because you and Glenn have made your marriage work.”
I never heard from Marla or from the family friend again after that call. Either the problem worked itself out, the grandfather dropped dead, Marla and Jake broke off the engagement, or Marla and Jake eloped and moved to Canada. I don’t know.
Here’s what I DO know. Holding a relationship hostage, especially a relationship of this nature, is problematic for me. Had Marla called, I would have told her to simply lose the boyfriend. End of story. Who cares about the money or whatever 24-carat carrot grandpa chose to dangle over Jake’s head? The relationship between two people, especially two people contemplating marriage and a lifetime commitment, should not be confused for a business transaction.
The fact that Jake even raised the subject with Marla was an indication that perhaps the marriage was already on precarious footing to begin with. He had apparently also suggested that she might consider converting which apparently she was open to since her mother was less likely to disinherit or renounce her. Which raises another problem because any conversion that is not sincere, i.e., based on a belief system, is not genuine.
OMG! If Glenn had asked me to sign a Prenup or asked me to convert, I would have been out of there so quickly he wouldn’t have known what hit him. But not without knocking him out cold first.
Frankly, if Jake had any gumption (okay, cojones!), he should have stood up to grandpa and while he was at it, flipped him the bird. Seriously. Which may have induced cardiac arrest in the old man but at least he got to stand up for Marla. If Jake couldn’t stand up for her now, what makes her think that he will stand up for her later on when they’re married and all the exits have been boarded up?
I am relieved that I never got their call because clearly I wouldn’t have been of much help to them at all.
*not their real names
Friday, December 7, 2007
Double Life
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
As I write this it is the fourth night of Hanukkah. Thus far I have made latkes out of 5 pounds of russet potatoes. Go ahead, tell me I used the wrong potato. Or I should add onions (frankly, I prefer shallots). And if you tell me to use Mott’s apple sauce one more time (of course I make them from scratch), I will throw the entire jar your way.
I have to confess: if I touch or see another potato in the next 24 hours, I am going to start singing, “Silent Night”. You should see my hands and fingers, they are so dry from frying all those patties I look like I have eczema or worse, psoriasis. Quick, hand me the Eucerin or the Oscar for Outstanding Performance by a Shiksa in a....comedy.
People make so much of the December Dilemma. That’s the term (must have been made-up by an atheist, agnostic, or Buddhist) conjured for the emotional and mental conflict interfaith families endure during this time of year. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a spike in therapy visits.
All I can say is: been there, done that. I’ve moved on and made my peace. It hasn’t been easy, occasionally I slip and plummet into emotional depths I might as well be a spelunker, but eventually, you come up for fresh air.
My dilemma has less to do with the spiritual than with the temporal: what is the best sauce for dipping latkes? Apple sauce is great but that’s if you don’t know any better. You should try vinegar mixed with minced garlic, sea salt, red pepper flakes and sliced onions. Or Thai sweet and sour sauce. Soy sauce works. And my all time favorite, fish sauce, freshly squeeze lime juice and fresh cilantro. As they say on tv, “Priceless!”
Go ahead, have apple sauce. December dilemma? I’m dipping my latkes elsewhere.
As I write this it is the fourth night of Hanukkah. Thus far I have made latkes out of 5 pounds of russet potatoes. Go ahead, tell me I used the wrong potato. Or I should add onions (frankly, I prefer shallots). And if you tell me to use Mott’s apple sauce one more time (of course I make them from scratch), I will throw the entire jar your way.
I have to confess: if I touch or see another potato in the next 24 hours, I am going to start singing, “Silent Night”. You should see my hands and fingers, they are so dry from frying all those patties I look like I have eczema or worse, psoriasis. Quick, hand me the Eucerin or the Oscar for Outstanding Performance by a Shiksa in a....comedy.
People make so much of the December Dilemma. That’s the term (must have been made-up by an atheist, agnostic, or Buddhist) conjured for the emotional and mental conflict interfaith families endure during this time of year. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a spike in therapy visits.
All I can say is: been there, done that. I’ve moved on and made my peace. It hasn’t been easy, occasionally I slip and plummet into emotional depths I might as well be a spelunker, but eventually, you come up for fresh air.
My dilemma has less to do with the spiritual than with the temporal: what is the best sauce for dipping latkes? Apple sauce is great but that’s if you don’t know any better. You should try vinegar mixed with minced garlic, sea salt, red pepper flakes and sliced onions. Or Thai sweet and sour sauce. Soy sauce works. And my all time favorite, fish sauce, freshly squeeze lime juice and fresh cilantro. As they say on tv, “Priceless!”
Go ahead, have apple sauce. December dilemma? I’m dipping my latkes elsewhere.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
How Do You Do It?
How Do You Do It?
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila....
I am often asked, How do you do it?
You mean, how do I make chicken adobo? Easy...In a pot, throw in soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, black pepper, bay leaf, sea salt, chicken (or pork for the really hard core), stew until chicken is tender, serve.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I keep my girlish figure? Easy...taebo two, three times a week, power walk around the park, pilates, eliminate all processed starch (not eating rice is a real bummer!), no soda, no chocolates unless it’s from Payard.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I get my cut orchids to last so long? Easy...change the water every day and snip the bottoms of the stems. Not too much. Just so.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I throw a party for fifty without using paper plates or plastic knives? Easy...you either buy enough china and flatware. Or there are rental places that will deliver and pick-up. You don’t even have to rinse them. It’s on the Internet.
No, no, how do you, a Catholic, raise a Jewish family?
Easy...you do it the Nike way: Just do it!
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila....
I am often asked, How do you do it?
You mean, how do I make chicken adobo? Easy...In a pot, throw in soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, black pepper, bay leaf, sea salt, chicken (or pork for the really hard core), stew until chicken is tender, serve.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I keep my girlish figure? Easy...taebo two, three times a week, power walk around the park, pilates, eliminate all processed starch (not eating rice is a real bummer!), no soda, no chocolates unless it’s from Payard.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I get my cut orchids to last so long? Easy...change the water every day and snip the bottoms of the stems. Not too much. Just so.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I throw a party for fifty without using paper plates or plastic knives? Easy...you either buy enough china and flatware. Or there are rental places that will deliver and pick-up. You don’t even have to rinse them. It’s on the Internet.
No, no, how do you, a Catholic, raise a Jewish family?
Easy...you do it the Nike way: Just do it!
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
I Don't Sound Like That
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila....
When Glen and I got married and began having children, I wondered in what order (and how quickly) my kids would come to realize that one, the color of their parents’ skin was different from each other (I am brown, Glen is white): two, we came from different cultures; three, observed different religions; and four, spoke different languages though we spoke English at home.
I was therefore unprepared (and surprised) to discover that of all the differences they could possibly find in our family structure, it was my accent that got a major share of their attention. Yes, my accent. Not my skin color, my belief system or that unlike their father who did not eat animal flesh, I ate every thing except road kill. Out went my prepared speeches on race, diversity and tolerance. In its place came explanations for why I spoke and sounded the way I did.
You see I don’t sound like my children or any of their friends’ parents. Actually, I don’t sound like anyone in Brooklyn. I have lived in this country for more than twenty years yet I still sound like the person who lived in the Philippines. My Rs tumble around my tongue like tennis balls inside a dryer. Vowels stay as long as they want and every syllable is accounted for. My sentences are spoken in cadence, in tones that go up and down depending on how excited I get. I don’t speak through my nose or my ears. I yell at jaywalkers in my native tongue.
And to my children and their ever-widening circle of friends, I sound funny. A curiosity if you will in my own home, to be mimicked and aped at will. Of course, I find none of this amusing.
Back in Manila, one’s accent was a barometer of one’s station in life. The more American you sounded, the more educated, classier, and therefore, superior you were. A fine example of colonial mentality at work. The British accent did not count. That accent only made you sound pretentious--a try hard--as one unfortunate friend discovered after spending two months in the British Isles and came back sounding more British than the Queen. Why would anyone want a British accent? Didn’t they lose the empire? The poor woman never opened her mouth again.
But what the natives back home don’t realize however is that there is no single accent in America, even if everyone speaks English. In the state of New York alone, a Staten Island accent should not be confused with a Long Island or Brooklyn one under pain of losing a limb.
From the start, I made a conscious decision not to change my accent and sound like someone from...Brooklyn. For what? Just so I can have bragging rights to being Stateside? No thanks. But my children (and occasionally Glen) won’t leave my accent alone. It has made me more determined to sound Filipino; I find that my accent has even gotten thicker over time. Quite frankly, I’m rather proud of it. Of course, whenever my sense of humor and patience fails me, I fight back.
“I don’t sound like that,” I yell at them in my language. They have no idea what I’m saying and that’s too bad.
They stop.
When Glen and I got married and began having children, I wondered in what order (and how quickly) my kids would come to realize that one, the color of their parents’ skin was different from each other (I am brown, Glen is white): two, we came from different cultures; three, observed different religions; and four, spoke different languages though we spoke English at home.
I was therefore unprepared (and surprised) to discover that of all the differences they could possibly find in our family structure, it was my accent that got a major share of their attention. Yes, my accent. Not my skin color, my belief system or that unlike their father who did not eat animal flesh, I ate every thing except road kill. Out went my prepared speeches on race, diversity and tolerance. In its place came explanations for why I spoke and sounded the way I did.
You see I don’t sound like my children or any of their friends’ parents. Actually, I don’t sound like anyone in Brooklyn. I have lived in this country for more than twenty years yet I still sound like the person who lived in the Philippines. My Rs tumble around my tongue like tennis balls inside a dryer. Vowels stay as long as they want and every syllable is accounted for. My sentences are spoken in cadence, in tones that go up and down depending on how excited I get. I don’t speak through my nose or my ears. I yell at jaywalkers in my native tongue.
And to my children and their ever-widening circle of friends, I sound funny. A curiosity if you will in my own home, to be mimicked and aped at will. Of course, I find none of this amusing.
Back in Manila, one’s accent was a barometer of one’s station in life. The more American you sounded, the more educated, classier, and therefore, superior you were. A fine example of colonial mentality at work. The British accent did not count. That accent only made you sound pretentious--a try hard--as one unfortunate friend discovered after spending two months in the British Isles and came back sounding more British than the Queen. Why would anyone want a British accent? Didn’t they lose the empire? The poor woman never opened her mouth again.
But what the natives back home don’t realize however is that there is no single accent in America, even if everyone speaks English. In the state of New York alone, a Staten Island accent should not be confused with a Long Island or Brooklyn one under pain of losing a limb.
From the start, I made a conscious decision not to change my accent and sound like someone from...Brooklyn. For what? Just so I can have bragging rights to being Stateside? No thanks. But my children (and occasionally Glen) won’t leave my accent alone. It has made me more determined to sound Filipino; I find that my accent has even gotten thicker over time. Quite frankly, I’m rather proud of it. Of course, whenever my sense of humor and patience fails me, I fight back.
“I don’t sound like that,” I yell at them in my language. They have no idea what I’m saying and that’s too bad.
They stop.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
I Just Can't Win
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
Just when I thought I had a place in this society, I was resoundingly put in my place to make sure I didn’t forget where I came from. It doesn’t matter by whose pronouncement it happened; it did.
I was under the impression that by virtue of my marriage to Glen (my good Jewish egg of a husband), I--a gentile, a Catholic and every possible non-Jew name you can call me--was a shiksa. I knew, understood even, what the word meant. What its implications were. By embracing its usage, I thought I was removing its ability to hurt me. It is a slur after all in certain circles. Among Catholics, it would be called self-flagellation but that's okay. At least I'm using my own whip on myself, no one else's.
Except that I don’t look the part. What did people expect? I am the girl from Manila, not Ipanema. Just when I thought I could have a say on how people viewed me by openly declaring myself a shiksa, it turns out that I cannot claim the name for my own. The name simply doesn’t fit. And if it doesn’t fit, presumably, you’ve got to quit.
Ethnic. That’s what I am I was told. This I already know. I can see my reflection through the grimy windows of my home. Back where I came from, that's what we were called. It was also interchangeable with native, as in aboriginal, as in tribal. Pygmy was another one but deemed too harsh and inappropriate in polite society. Eventually, it was dropped from the lexicon of everyday vocabulary.
Okay so I’m not white. Not blonde either. I get that too. But just this once I wanted to hear something I didn’t already know. How hard could that be? Apparently, too hard.
Just when I thought I had a place in this society, I was resoundingly put in my place to make sure I didn’t forget where I came from. It doesn’t matter by whose pronouncement it happened; it did.
I was under the impression that by virtue of my marriage to Glen (my good Jewish egg of a husband), I--a gentile, a Catholic and every possible non-Jew name you can call me--was a shiksa. I knew, understood even, what the word meant. What its implications were. By embracing its usage, I thought I was removing its ability to hurt me. It is a slur after all in certain circles. Among Catholics, it would be called self-flagellation but that's okay. At least I'm using my own whip on myself, no one else's.
Except that I don’t look the part. What did people expect? I am the girl from Manila, not Ipanema. Just when I thought I could have a say on how people viewed me by openly declaring myself a shiksa, it turns out that I cannot claim the name for my own. The name simply doesn’t fit. And if it doesn’t fit, presumably, you’ve got to quit.
Ethnic. That’s what I am I was told. This I already know. I can see my reflection through the grimy windows of my home. Back where I came from, that's what we were called. It was also interchangeable with native, as in aboriginal, as in tribal. Pygmy was another one but deemed too harsh and inappropriate in polite society. Eventually, it was dropped from the lexicon of everyday vocabulary.
Okay so I’m not white. Not blonde either. I get that too. But just this once I wanted to hear something I didn’t already know. How hard could that be? Apparently, too hard.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
The Hyphenated Life
My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…
A hyphen is a small bar that looks like a minus sign. The dictionary further describes the hyphen as a punctuation mark used to divide or connect two words; to describe a person who performs more than one function; to describe a unit of mixed or diverse backgrounds.
To me the hyphen is all that. For something no bigger than a period, it means so much more. It describes the life I lead: a life that straddles two worlds, the tight rope that connects me to both, maintaining the delicate balancing act between the life I had before and the life I have now.
At times the shiksa life can be confusing. It gets so confusing at times that I swear I can’t keep my life straight. It’s that neither here nor there feeling. Like that. Then it really gets more complicated when other people try and do it for me. With the best of intentions of course. People always have the best of intentions even when the outcome is bad.
The other day I went into a Judaica store in search of a spice box. No, not for oregano, silly. For Havdallah at the end of Shabbat. Right now, all we use is an oval stainless steel tea strainer that looks like an egg with holes. You probably own one just like it. It’s the kind you’d buy at Broadway Panhandler or Crate and Barrel. The one we have preceded me so I wouldn’t be surprised if Glenn bought it at some JobLot before it went out of business. He can’t be bothered with details like that.
I’m the exact opposite; I’m all about details. If you’re going to do something, do it right, or don’t bother. Glenn just rolls his eyes whenever I say things like that. It’s a quality of life issue for me; he starts tabulating how this will dent our household budget. A spice box? Yeah, right.
Like I said, I walked into a Judaica store on Coney Island avenue. It’s not like I’ve never been to one before but this is the first one I went to by myself. It was a recent recommendation and I just happened to be in the neighborhood so I figure, why not?
I go in and look around. No one looks up. No one comes near. This is good. I am left alone. I don’t like it when sales associates come too close and trail me around as if I didn’t know what I was doing. Honey, I may look like this but I know what I’m doing so leave me alone. But that’s not a nice thing to say and I don’t.
I take my time going around. I’m not one of those grabbers who pounce on the first thing that catches their eyes. It needs to knock me off my feet for me to do that. I see some really nice Seder plates except that I already own one. There are several good-looking menorahs. We own three, in addition to the ones the kids made at their pre-school. I am happy just checking things out. It’s what I love to do whenever I go into a store. I get into my Zen, meditative mode and have a good time. There’s no rush. Something will pop at me and then I’ll know when it’s time to buy. Until then, I will just go from one display to another, floating in and out of space.
Suddenly I feel like I am being followed. I turn and there just behind me is an elderly man. He says politely, “Excuse me, can I help you?”
“Just looking,” I respond brightly. Then, “Actually, I’m looking for spice boxes. Where would they be?”
He doesn’t answer immediately but just stands there looking at me. Sigh. I recognize this look. I get this all the time whenever I come to places like this. I should have come with Glenn; they’d never give him that look. But he never has time plus I wanted this to be a surprise. I could have invited my friend, Miriam. They wouldn’t dare give her that look. Plus she’d look right back at them.
“You don’t look Jewish,” he says. I am not offended; he is right. Still.
“I’m not,” I reply evenly. In my head I add, I know what I’m doing even if I look like this. It would have been unkind to actually say them. Nothing would change. Plus he wouldn’t get it. So we stand there face to face, the two of us unsteady on our feet. I shouldn’t have worn heels.
He steps aside and with a slight bow, points to a certain direction. As I make my way he adds, “Well, you look like you know what you’re doing. Call me if I can help.”
I may look like this but you bet I know what I’m doing. But I say no such thing because the old man saw me and knew.
A hyphen is a small bar that looks like a minus sign. The dictionary further describes the hyphen as a punctuation mark used to divide or connect two words; to describe a person who performs more than one function; to describe a unit of mixed or diverse backgrounds.
To me the hyphen is all that. For something no bigger than a period, it means so much more. It describes the life I lead: a life that straddles two worlds, the tight rope that connects me to both, maintaining the delicate balancing act between the life I had before and the life I have now.
At times the shiksa life can be confusing. It gets so confusing at times that I swear I can’t keep my life straight. It’s that neither here nor there feeling. Like that. Then it really gets more complicated when other people try and do it for me. With the best of intentions of course. People always have the best of intentions even when the outcome is bad.
The other day I went into a Judaica store in search of a spice box. No, not for oregano, silly. For Havdallah at the end of Shabbat. Right now, all we use is an oval stainless steel tea strainer that looks like an egg with holes. You probably own one just like it. It’s the kind you’d buy at Broadway Panhandler or Crate and Barrel. The one we have preceded me so I wouldn’t be surprised if Glenn bought it at some JobLot before it went out of business. He can’t be bothered with details like that.
I’m the exact opposite; I’m all about details. If you’re going to do something, do it right, or don’t bother. Glenn just rolls his eyes whenever I say things like that. It’s a quality of life issue for me; he starts tabulating how this will dent our household budget. A spice box? Yeah, right.
Like I said, I walked into a Judaica store on Coney Island avenue. It’s not like I’ve never been to one before but this is the first one I went to by myself. It was a recent recommendation and I just happened to be in the neighborhood so I figure, why not?
I go in and look around. No one looks up. No one comes near. This is good. I am left alone. I don’t like it when sales associates come too close and trail me around as if I didn’t know what I was doing. Honey, I may look like this but I know what I’m doing so leave me alone. But that’s not a nice thing to say and I don’t.
I take my time going around. I’m not one of those grabbers who pounce on the first thing that catches their eyes. It needs to knock me off my feet for me to do that. I see some really nice Seder plates except that I already own one. There are several good-looking menorahs. We own three, in addition to the ones the kids made at their pre-school. I am happy just checking things out. It’s what I love to do whenever I go into a store. I get into my Zen, meditative mode and have a good time. There’s no rush. Something will pop at me and then I’ll know when it’s time to buy. Until then, I will just go from one display to another, floating in and out of space.
Suddenly I feel like I am being followed. I turn and there just behind me is an elderly man. He says politely, “Excuse me, can I help you?”
“Just looking,” I respond brightly. Then, “Actually, I’m looking for spice boxes. Where would they be?”
He doesn’t answer immediately but just stands there looking at me. Sigh. I recognize this look. I get this all the time whenever I come to places like this. I should have come with Glenn; they’d never give him that look. But he never has time plus I wanted this to be a surprise. I could have invited my friend, Miriam. They wouldn’t dare give her that look. Plus she’d look right back at them.
“You don’t look Jewish,” he says. I am not offended; he is right. Still.
“I’m not,” I reply evenly. In my head I add, I know what I’m doing even if I look like this. It would have been unkind to actually say them. Nothing would change. Plus he wouldn’t get it. So we stand there face to face, the two of us unsteady on our feet. I shouldn’t have worn heels.
He steps aside and with a slight bow, points to a certain direction. As I make my way he adds, “Well, you look like you know what you’re doing. Call me if I can help.”
I may look like this but you bet I know what I’m doing. But I say no such thing because the old man saw me and knew.
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