Evolution-- my parents' and mine

Mrs. Yid and I visited my parents last weekend at their new house. It's in a retirement community, a mock-Italian village in the middle of rural California a few hours from the city. The combination of the hills, tile roofs, massive construction projects going on and imported vineyards and olive groves give it a quasi-surreal feeling, like a cross between the Truman Show and a West Bank settlement. I've taken to calling it Kiryat Geffen.

Anyway, the weekend was nice. It was easy to chat and read Saturday afternoon and avoid TV (still working on the no-screens on Shabbat thing), and after dark Mama Yid's new Jew-Bu friend Shoshana came by and we all did Havdalah. This also coincided with my mother saying she wanted to look into possibly going to services at some point and asking whether I would recommend she check out the Reform place or "this Chuh-BAD thing." Oh, Mom.

It's been a rather intense summer for them. For all of us, really. My parents moved from their house of 25 years to Kiryat Geffen. The move has been in the works for 2 years and we've all been working hard to get them out on time. The last few weeks of June I was over there every day, helping to pack them up. In the process I went through a lot of old family trinkets, too. The very last day, I went by and gathered up a few odds and ends. I also had one last thing to take: the family mezuzah. I pried it off the door and took it home, to keep for future generations. I'm the chronicler; it's my job.

This past Sunday, Mrs. Yid and I put up a new mezuzah on my parents' door. Baby steps, always baby steps.

The other night Abbot Yid was in town and took me out for sushi. When my order came (mackerel plus an assortment of sushi), I noticed that one of them was a shrimp. I asked him if he wanted it. While he was chewing, I could tell he was mulling something over.

"I have a question," he said.

"Shoot."

"I'm still trying to figure out what's going on with you and Mrs. Yid. You know, with the clothes and keeping kosher and all that. Because, not to be judgmental or anything, but in my mind, someone keeps those rules because they believe they come from God, and you guys don't strike me as believers."

I had known this was coming, and I was actually happy to have a chance to explain in a low-pressure setting.

"Well, lots of people describe Judaism as a mixture of belief and practice. We've been in the process of learning a lot ABOUT belief and practice and we decided we wanted to start trying some of it on. We're in the process of digesting theology but it seemed like if we were going to give it a real try, we would need to take on some practice, too. Because if we're going to try to live Jewishly and raise Jewish children, we need to have some idea of what that means.

"If you look at it on a continuum, with 10 being totally religious and educated and 0 being totally secular and ignorant, if you're starting at a 10 and you decide to only practice on a 7 or a 5 or whatever, you have the knowledge and the background to make those decisions and adjustments-- you know HOW to scale down. But if you're starting at the other end, it's a lot harder to find a right medium for yourself if you don't try different elements of practice.

"And for me, it's also a mindfulness piece. Actually doing something, putting an action to the concept, is powerful. Keeping kosher, even if only in baby steps, not only has us think about the whole process of Jewish eating, but also about how we want to eat ethically (for instance, our recent decision to stop buying Empire products due to their environmental abuses).

He seemed intrigued. I continued:

"Similarly, I think it's really valuable for liberal Jews to be visible, as Jews. At first I was worried about doing something wrong or reflecting badly on Jewish people. But I think it's also an opportunity. If my students or neighbors or friends have good experiences with a visible Jew, a Jew identifying as a Jew, then so much the better. I don't want the only people with yarmulkes on being the Orthodox."

"Now you're sounding like a missionary." He grinned.

I shrugged. "If I can be a good example, so much the better." I didn't use the phrase Kiddush Hashem (Abbot doesn't know it), but that was the basic idea.

I still don't think he quite gets it, but I think he's getting closer. And there's something very nice about that.

My father and I go to shul

Abbot Yid and I were at a Jewish Renewal synagogue for a wedding last weekend. Much hilarity insued:

Abbot Yid: So what's this place all about?

Me: Well, it's Renewal, which means it's neo-Hasidic.

AY: Uh huh... And what the heck does that mean?

Me: It takes the escatic joy of Hasidism but has a more modern viewpoint on it. It's more counter-cultural and more spiritual than religious.

AY: Wait a minute, wait a minute... Hasidism? Joy? Since when?

Me: Well... ok, this guy (pointing to a picture) this is the B'aal Shem Tov, and his whole shtick was that he was focused more on the joy that could be found in everyday religion as opposed to Torah study.

AY: If you say so. I certainly never got that vibe.

(Long pause)

...For that matter, you know what never came up in any of the Conservative synagogues we went to?

...Joy.

Me: Well, lots of folks in these congregations tend to be refugees from places like that.

AY: That explains a lot.

Me: Like what? 

AY: Like why no one's wearing a yarmulke. Or why the rabbi is wearing a rainbow poncho.

Me: I think that's actually a tallis.

AY: Wow, things have changed since I was a kid.

War of the hats

For many years I have had a hat fetish. It started around age twelve, when my father gave me one of his old newsie caps. I wore that one into the ground and was rewarded with one of my very own. There is a great picture somewhere of me wearing matching sweatshirt and pants, a reversible corduroy vest made by my grandmother decades ago for my father, newsie hat and, wait for it... velcro sneakers. I truly was my own fashion icon.

Over the years I made my way through several more pairs of caps, but it wasn't until college and SG that I found my newest hat niche: the brimmed hat. The Pacific Northwest has a lot of weather, both nice and not-so-nice, and it necessitates a head covering. SG saw a need and filled it with a tan $15 number from Bi-Mart. I wore that until this past spring, when, sadly, it was accidently knocked off my head while rushing to get into the car as my mother, SG and I were leaving an outlet mall. It wasn't until we were almost home that I realized I had left my precious, precious image sitting on the parking lot!

SG let me mope for a while and then presented me with a nifty black poly-cotton trilby from Berkeley. I have become quite fond of this hat (the first time one of my students saw me wearing it, she commented, "You're so handsome!").

Unfortunately, or at least entertainingly, Mother Superior Yid is not a fan. She has repeatedly told me this, in a variety of ways. Here are a few of the most amusing exchanges:

Mama Yid: I have to tell you, I really hate your hat.
Me: I know. You've mentioned it.
Mama Yid: It's just... it's so... ethnic.
Me: I don't even know what that's supposed to mean!
Mama Yid: And it's not even the right ethnicity.

This was news to me. I thought she didn't like it because it looked too Jewish. But, never one to let her get away without explaining a ridiculous comment, I insisted on dragging it out of her.

Me: Really? And exactly what ethnicity is it?
Mama Yid: Well, if you must know... it makes you look Hispanic.

At this point Abbot Yid made an unkind comment about my pale skin and her bad eyes.

Another good one-

Mama Yid: I've decided something.
Me: Yes?
Mama Yid: I will buy you a new hat. If you agree to not wear this one around me.
Me: If I agree to not wear ANY around you, can I have two?
Mama Yid (excited): Really? You'd do that?
Me: No.

And most recently-

Mama Yid (looking through a magazine): I've found it! I've found the hat for you!
Me: I have a hat.
Mama Yid: No, a good one.
Me: Fine, where is it?
Mama Yid (pointing) this one.
Me: Dear God.
Mama Yid: What? It's authentic and everything.
Me: First, it's a Halloween costume, and second, it's too tall for my head. I don't understand why you object so much to a fedora with a small brim when you apparently want me to wear a ten-gallon cowboy hat.
Mama Yid: Don't make fun.

I can only wonder where this ongoing fixation with what I wear on my own damn head will lead.

Transcript from a day off

I decided to treat Shiksa Girlfriend to Northern California institution (though I'm never entirely clear why) called In-N-Out Burger. We schlepped to the nearest one and arrived towards the end of the lunch hour. The place was a zoo but we weathered the storm (having only 3 meal options does greatly simplify the ordering process) and got our food. While we were eating we somehow got onto the topic of kosher slaughter.

Me: Hey, I just got a great idea!
Her: (Dubiously) Uh-huh.
Me: Ok, so you know how Solomon Schechter was one of the big-wigs in Conservative Judaism, right?
Her: No, but fine.
Me: Right, and so just about every CJ school or institution is either named after Schechter or Heschel.
Her: Godamn Heschel.
Me: And "Schechter" means a kosher ritual slaughterer.
Her: Ok.
Me: So, what about opening a school for CJ kosher butchers called "The Solomon Schechter School for Schechters?"
Her: (Blank Stare.) Mmm.

Me: (Slightly dejected, but still committed, for the moment, to making weird schechita jokes/trivia.) So, you know Reb Zalman?
Her: Yeah.
Me: Well he was born Zalman Schachter.
Her: Zalman Slaughterer? That's weird.
Me: Yeah, and when he went all hippy he decided Schachter was too violent a name, so he changed it.
Her: To what?
Me: Zalman Schachter-Shalomi. Peace-Slaughterer. Or Slaughterer of Peace.
Her:... Doesn't he realize that's SO MUCH WORSE?

The people sitting next to us must have thought us quite odd. How right they were.

Fun with the Yids

Interesting times while visiting with my family yesterday. My parents, Abbot (Abba) Yid and Mother Superior (Mama) Yid, had an altercation while I was out. They were speaking with their contractor, who's redoing their kitchen. Apparently on one of the last days of the construction, while the contractor was looking things over, Mama Yid decided to try and haggle. Abbot was so embarrassed he had to leave the room, and made the major mistake of calling her a "schnorer". (Gasp)

Abba has been in the doghouse for a day and a half now. The best moment of this, though, was last night when Mama came into the living room while my brother Deacon and I were hanging out.

"Do you have your Yiddish-English dictionary lying around?"

Blank state. "Um, ok. I don't know if I have it. What do you need it for?"

"None of your business."

Hmm. Go look among my books in my old room. (I have several copies of these things.) Come back out. "Actually, it's not here. If you tell me the word I could probably tell you what it means, though."

Angry stare. "I don't want to talk to you about it."

*I realize I'm an idiot* Ohhhh.

*Scurry aside to let the warpath continue*

Poor Abba. He'd run away if he could, but he's just had foot surgery, so she's got a captive audience.

But it is kind of funny that Mama Yid doesn't know enough Yiddish to be sure this word is as pejorative as she thinks it is.