A Stranger in my hometown

One of the wonders of being newly married is being able to move into your parents or in laws when the need arises, be it for Yom tov, holiday or practical need. The stay is often a break in itself as there is no more cooking, cleaning or other general housekeeping duties.
On one of these occasions I was lounging around my parents’ house and honestly getting rather bored. My mother was off to do an errand and I tagged along for lack of anything better to do. She was off to a ‘local woman’s house-shop’ to pick up something she had ordered. The family were a well known true Stamford Hill mishpocha. As we walked into the house I marvelled at how little had changed since I had been there perhaps 10 years or so ago. Mrs X looked slightly older and limped a little but her smile and housecoat endured. Two young girls trailed her into the hallway each wearing plaits, bullet proof tights and mid-length flowered dresses. I imagined they were her grandchildren though these days who knew; there were so many grandmothers sharing Beis Brocha rooms with their children. The girls stared at me without reservation, something I have discovered to be unique to the youth of Stamford Hill. They conversed among themselves and the blond elder girl who was about five or six years old piped up;
“Bist di a yid?” (are you a jew?)
I blinked, nonplussed. Glancing at a hallway mirror I reviewed my reflection. No, I had not forgotten my sheitel. Yes, my skirt was long as were my sleeves. No, my neckline was not too low nor my colours too bright. I collected my thoughts and smiled.
“Yo zicher.” I replied. (yes sure)
They looked confused and eyed each other. The older girl regained her composure and asked,
“Vus iz dan numan?” (What is your name?)
The irony of the situation suddenly hit me. Their naiveté was profound; their minds could not even grasp the fact that we were talking in Yiddish and that alone was enough to prove my status. To them there was only Yiddish; English was but a side language like learning French or German.
“XSG,” I said, knowing that my name was Jewish enough to give them the confirmation they needed.
They whispered amongst themselves. “Ober dus is a yiddisha numan,” (but that is a jewish name) I heard the younger child argue. The blond girl was obviously not satisfied.
“Vi feel breeder in shvester host di?” (how many brothers and sisters do you have?)
“Acht.” I answered. (8)
“In vus is de numan fin dan elster breeder?” (And what is your eldest brother's name?)
“Shmiel.”
Silence. Another consultation with one another. “Yo dus is takke owchert a yiddishe numan.” (This is also evidently a jewish name) The elder agreed. They both nodded to one another eying me up and down for a final check.
Suddenly the older girl had a bout of indecision,
“Di veist vus shabbos iz yo?” She asked. (You know what shabbos is right?)
I nodded.

Satisfied they were content to gawk at this strange evidently Jewish person in their yiddishe heim.

Holy shmoly

“So what are you plans for after the wedding?”
“Where you going to live?”
“What does he do?”

Coming from Stamford Hill and not being afraid to express my true views, just a little, gave me a rather unbecoming name on the shidduch market. The guys who were suggested ranged from bums on the street to exbums or those from overseas. The odd decent suggestion that actually went through was usually turned down eventually, citing the fact that perhaps I was too clever or too powerful. When my husband – yes I am married - was finally suggested I was losing faith in the shidduch world. I went out with him a little reluctantly but within a few days we were engaged. For the first time someone had seen the truth inside me and knew I was right for him.
When people came to join our simcha they were not surprised to hear that we would be moving to Israel soon after the wedding. Yes, XSG didn’t seem the type to stay in learning, but the general trend was at least a year in Israel, supposedly learning, so people accepted it. Most decided, rather openly, that we were off on an extended honeymoon to be paid for by our parents.
Bit by bit people heard through the grapevine that we were buying a place in Israel and planned on staying there long term. In truth it wasn’t what I had planned but when certain obstacles were taken out of my path I decided this was what I wanted for the indefinite future. Letting my friends know was my first step and the shock in their voices was evident. Perhaps they just didn’t think I was the type or wasn’t holy enough but they evidently didn’t believe I was up to it. The general community’s reaction was far worse. Their open scepticism was downright rude.
Is it so strange for someone who dresses more modern and happens to be more chilled out and open-minded to remain in learning long term??
Do all the ‘klei kodesh’ have to be rebetzens and roshei yeshivos?

Yes, my husband is in kollel.
No, I do not have a job.
No, I am not looking for one.
No, I am not bored.
No, I do not stand in the kitchen cooking all day.
Yes, I do love this life and yes I do plan on staying here…for a good long time.

Don’t believe it?
Too bad.

Now what?

First of all an infinite thanks to thegirlsh for suggesting and practically making my shidduch. I hope someday soon I can return the favour.

The shidduch market is a weird and wonderful place. Now with the boy found, the date set and the details being arranged, everyone can finally breathe a sigh of relief; Exsemgirl is not going to sit on the shelf for the rest of her life.

My father always said to me, “There is nothing like a wedding to cause arguments and a death to draw everyone back together.” Well I have both. I have lost a close family member and have my wedding to prepare for. The cycle of life goes on.

Details, details. I have discovered that weddings are not made for the Chosson and Kallah. So few decisions are allowed to have my opinion involved that I have decided to just step back and allow the mothers who never got a choice for their own wedding to finally be able to make the wedding of their dreams. I guess I should at least be thankful that I have a chance to choose my own attire!
However, there is one thing I have made sure to have the right to decide; my kallah teacher. I refuse to sit there with an old rebetzen who is too modest to actually teach me all and makes me too uncomfortable to ask vital questions. Yet when looking around and making enquiries I found that there is no acceptable, easygoing, under-fifty, open-minded kallah teacher in all of our wonderful Stamford Hill. To travel far for each lesson seems ridiculous yet to compromise and get someone I am not so comfortable with also seems wrong. My mother is too ‘modest’ to discuss these untzniesdik details so I am left on my own.

Well, only one problem and I am already halfway towards my wedding; I can hardly complain can I?

In a mazaldige shu.

I found him!!

And about time too! :D

Two Words

I stood behind my desk at the back of my year 7 classroom, awaiting the teacher‘s arrival. I was bored. Science may have been my favourite subject but the current monthly turnover of teachers had happened to bring in a particularly bad fruit. She was short, dark skinned and seemed to be of Indian origin. Her thick accent, monotonous voice and faint moustache made her a prime target for the current class disrupters. This lesson would be just like any other. Or so I thought.

Her small dark hand raised the chalk to the board at the centre of our classroom. Her hand wrote as she spoke.
I sat up straight.
I blinked, nonplussed.
Two words.
Across the front of my Stamford Hill school classroom.

Sexual Reproduction.

I glanced around. Was I the only one who had noticed and appreciated the significance of what had been written?? I murmured a call to the occupant of the parallel desk. She happened to be a more open-minded kid; well more open-minded than most of my classmates. She glanced up at me and I gestured towards the Two Words. She looked. Looked again. And again. She then turned to me and giggled as we agreed that this month's teacher-turnover would come far sooner than the end of the month.

That night at the supper table I piped up with my news of the day; “Ma our science teacher taught us something she wasn’t meant to today.”
My mother barely registered as she asked, “Oh what was that?”
“Sexual reproduction.”
The older kids went silent and look furtively at my mother. One blushed while the others chuckled. I looked on innocently unabashed, not aware of the faux-pas I had just done. I was only 11 years old and as yet unaware of the deep sensitivity of the subject, especially since it had been taught as plant sexual reproduction.
My mother looked up with badly disguised surprise in her eyes and quickly changed the subject. I have since learnt that her call to the school the following day was but one of a barrage of parental complaints.

My faux-pas was augmented a few weeks later, at a family gathering in our house. I boldly announced that our science teacher had been fired for teaching us about sexual reproduction. The visible embarrassment on my parents’ faces finally taught me the seriousness of my mistake. My father’s uncomfortable little talk with me afterwards about Odom, Chava and tznius baffled me to say the least. What had that to do with the reproduction of plants??

I cringe when I recollect my naivety even to this day.
Gradually I hope to purely see the funny side of it all but I wonder, how many more faux-pas are out there?
Did you do one too?

Ahem Ahem...

Happy anniversary to me,
Happy anniversary to me,
Happy anniversary dear exsemgirl,
Happy anniversary to me.

Thank you so much for all your wonderful blog anniversary wishes :P

I am back and in full swing!!

A whole year of blogging...seems like a lot longer than that!

Shelf Life

The diamonds sparkle at the necks of elaborate gowns.
Music blasts.
Feet dance.
Voices chatter
Mouths smile - if sardonically.
She looks beautiful.
I guess it is her day and so she should.

The weeks up to this day have been madly hectic. For her. I remember the l’chaim; her fresh vulnerable face spread with an insecure smile. She knew little of what was to come, yet was relieved to have reached this stage, finally. Our relationship changed day by day. She was different. She had a new life to plan. She was slowly crossing the bridge. Leaving us all behind.

I dance. I smile. I laugh. I share her happiness and forget all else. We bring out the ’shtick’ and have a laugh together. I watch her sitting up there, radiantly beautiful, unable to keep the smile off her face. My heart fills with pleasure knowing that she is finally on her road, and happy.

I dance, smile and laugh some more.
And then it is time for goodbyes.
I hate this time; when real life finally hits and emotions fly.
We hug, we smile emotionally at each other.
And then she is gone.

I go home and curl up in bed. Alone. Again.