Chutzpah & High Heels Read online

  Starting my senior year back at Indiana University, I decided to live in an off-campus house away from my sorority sisters. I still longed to go back to Israel. I had trouble adjusting back to the US. Walking into stores, I’d open up my purse to show that I was only carrying tampons and not a bomb. I said slicha instead of excuse me. And I got scared at the sound of a car backfiring. Things seemed so trivial now. I felt lost. I kept waiting for a sign to tell me what to do, where to go.

  But today, I didn’t have time for signs. I was late, as usual. As I ran out the door, I grabbed the mail and started scanning through it while walking to class. Bills, more bills, coupons, junk mail. The last envelope had a picture of Israel on it. I quickly turned it over and read:

  If you know what you’re going to do for the next ten years, put this back where you found it!

  About to tear open the envelope, I heard a thick New Jersey accent yell, “OH. MY. GOD! You’re alive! Was Israel fun?”

  I looked up to see one of my former sorority sisters in the AEΦ uniform: dark jeans and a tight black shirt. For all the concern they had feigned before I left, I never once received an email from them after a terror attack.

  I didn’t know how to respond. Should I have told her that the Hebrew University cafeteria that I ate at on a daily basis was blown up by a suicide bomber two months after I left? How should I sum up life and death in a short casual conversation?

  Before I had a chance to answer, she started rambling about the food she had eaten, the clothes she had bought, and the men she had fucked. As she bragged, I looked down at the envelope with the map of Israel in my hand. I thought back to a few months ago when I celebrated Israel’s 53rd Independence Day in the streets of Jerusalem with the rest of the country. Seeing kids, adults, and even senior citizens celebrating in the streets late at night, I had suddenly realized that every generation has to fight for Israel’s right to exist. I had noticed an older couple with Holocaust numbers tattooed on their arms, sitting on a bench and watching the celebrations. For the first time, I had understood that when they were kids, Israel didn’t exist to protect them. It had been like a punch in the stomach realizing how vulnerable Israel still is. With the firecrackers overhead, I had suddenly felt as if I was a part of that vulnerability and should contribute to the country’s protection.

  As she pointed to her new Prada bag, I realized that I had to go back to Israel. And just like Israeli movies that cut to intermission mid-sentence, I walked away in the middle of her spiel.

  I tore open the envelope and found my plans—a year-long volunteer program in Israel.

  No Such Thing as a Coincidence

  From the first time I visited the country at thirteen years old, being Jewish took on a new meaning for me. I felt connected to everyone I met, as if we shared a common bond, a common history, a common ancestor. A conversation on the street with a random stranger felt like a family reunion. I could have a screaming match with a store clerk, but we’d still wish each other shabbat shalom, a peaceful sabbath, at the end and actually mean it. While I loved being in Israel, unfortunately, I didn’t fall in love with my volunteer program. I didn’t feel as if we were making a difference. I felt trapped with Americans and desperately searched for a way to integrate myself more with real Israelis, almost as if I knew that I should be making my home in the country.

  About two months into the volunteer program, called Otzma, we were about to be assigned Israeli adoptive families for the High Holidays.

  Our counselor began listing the names of our host families.

  I couldn’t wait to hear who my family was. I desperately wanted a place to call home in Israel.

  “Jessica, your family is . . .”

  My head popped up.

  The counselor laughed before he said, “Fuks.”

  Two days later and with flowers in hand, I knocked on the door of my adoptive family’s house. An overweight couple opened the door and invited me inside. As I stepped into the house, I was transported to an Israeli version of Roseanne Barr’s house. There were layers of dirt everywhere. Newspapers stacked a foot high. Weird smells in every corner.

  The rest of the family introduced themselves. Her kids were just like the kids on Roseanne. The oldest daughter was like Becky, around my age, and an art student. She lived in her room with her boyfriend, whose name was Dudu—a nickname for David. I had a hard time calling him that because I felt like I was insulting him to his face. The middle child, like DJ, was a scrawny teenage boy and kind of creepy. The youngest girl barely said a word, but rolled her eyes a lot, just like Darlene.

  At the Rosh Hashanah dinner, there was more food. It looked like they had ordered the entire super-sized menu. Too busy eating, no one talked. I wondered if all Israelis were like this. I was not surprised to learn that Israelis gain weight during the September and October High Holidays, like Americans do during Thanksgiving and Christmas.

  As soon as dinner ended, feeling completely alone, I climbed into bed. The sheets hadn’t been changed. Instead of a nice little chocolate mint on the pillow, I found a small, curly black hair.

  I felt completely fuksed!

  After four long days at the Fuks’ house, I gave up on finding a home and a family in Israel—something that I longed for, without ever really knowing I was searching for it.

  * * *

  UNKNOWN NUMBER. UNKNOWN NUMBER. UNKNOWN NUMBER. UNKNOWN NUMBER.

  My phone ringing was the only thing that broke up the day of volunteering. I stared at the blinking screen on the cell phone. I couldn’t imagine who would be calling me. I didn’t know anybody in this country.

  “Jeeeesssiiiikah? You know who theees is?” a female with an Israeli accent asked.

  I could almost see her smile on the other end of the phone.

  “Orli!” I shrieked.

  My family had hosted Orli two summers ago when she had worked at a Jewish summer camp in Minnesota. When I had picked up Orli for the first time, I had found a cute, compact, spunky, blond-haired, twenty-year old female Israeli. At barely 5’2” and less than a hundred pounds, she had more punch in her than a heavyweight boxer. She had jumped into my car and quickly started jabbering away in her broken English. I had been surprised that such a petite person had such a big mouth.

  She screamed back, “Yeeas! Eeet ees mee. How arrr yoooo? How ees Yisrrrael? When deed yoo arrrrrive? Why yooo neverrr wrrrrit mee back?”

  “How’d you get my number? How’d you find out that I’m here?” I asked in disbelief. The only possible answer I could think of was that it was written in the stars for us to meet again, or else Oprah was doing a special Middle East version surprise reunion show.

  Orli and I had been close friends the summer she spent at my family’s house. Every night, we would trade stories about our very different lives. I told her about what it was like growing up and going to college in the US. She wanted to know if college was like in the movies. She told me about her life in the army as a sharp shooter instructor. She told me about the funny pranks they would play on each other as soldiers and what it was like serving with all of the cute Israeli guys. Her stories made me wish that I had joined the army instead of a sorority.

  In the evenings, I would take Orli out to dance clubs, the Minnesota State Fair, movies, and house parties. She had promised me that the next time I was in Israel, she would take me out and show me how Israelis party. On the weekends, she would jabber away on the phone to her friends in Israel, telling them about her time in the US, but usually giving them advice. Just like her name, Orli, which means ‘my light,’ brought warmth and happiness to everyone around her.

  “Last weekend, I work at my grocery store and Rachel walk in. She says to me that you look for me and give me your number and now I call you,” Orli proclaimed.

  A few weeks ago I had called Rachel, an Israeli who had also been a counselor at the Minnesota summer camp, hoping she could put me in touch with Orli. Rachel had coldly told me that she wasn’t in contact with Orli and
didn’t even really like her. When she had dismissed my request so quickly, my dreams of ever finding Orli, escaping from my group, and becoming immersed into Israeli society had been broken. I had given up and conceded the fact that I would always be viewing Israel from the outside, as a tourist.

  With the sound of Orli’s voice, my hopes and dreams roared back alive. I couldn’t believe how small Israel really is—and yet the UN still wants to give away half of the land.

  “Why yooo neverrr wrrrrite mee back?” Orli repeated.

  She had written me and my family a heartfelt letter after she left. I was too embarrassed to say that I had been busy with school and forgot to respond.

  I heard music, yelling, and laughing in the background. Orli explained that she was on her way back from a week of partying in Eilat with all her friends.

  “So, when you come to visit my house and family?”

  A few days later, I sat on the edge of the bus seat. I wasn’t even supposed to be on a bus. The volunteer program forbade it because of all of the terrorist attacks. My eyes nervously darted back and forth as the bus slowly pulled to a stop. Out the window I saw her with a big smile on her face. I jumped out of the bus and practically fell into her arms.

  We chattered back and forth about the past year of our lives. Most Israelis didn’t have the patience to listen to me trying to formulate a sentence in my beginner-level Hebrew, and the ones who did answer back spoke Hebrew too quickly for me to understand. But Orli listened carefully trying to understand me while I strung together random words to create a thought.

  While leading me to her house, she spoke slowly and explained new words to me with the calmness of a kindergarten teacher. And then she suddenly turned into a drill sergeant and dictated the plans for the night. “We take a nap for two hours. We have dinner with my family. We take two hours to shower, get dressed, put makeup on, and do our hair. By midnight, my two guy friends pick us up and we go out. We stay out until at least four. We sleep all Saturday. We have fun!”

  I couldn’t wait! I was used to Friday night dinners with my family and then services on Saturday morning. While I had been missing the traditions of my family, this sounded like fun. It was nice to realize that I no longer needed a synagogue to find Jewish community.

  She opened the front door to her apartment and I was greeted by the aroma of Friday night dinner. Staring back at me was her family. Before I had a chance to put my bags down or say shalom, they were giving me hugs and offering me something hot to drink, even though it felt like a sauna. Cheerfully and with lots of commotion, we sat down in the small living room and introductions began.

  After dinner, Orli and I got ready. I quickly threw on a pair of jeans and a tank top. Orli meticulously put on makeup, curled her already curly hair, and picked out the most revealing tank top and shortest skirt in her closest.

  Standing in front of me, looking like an Israeli Playboy bunny, Orli asked, “How I look?”

  “I think you forgot your shirt!”

  Orli acts and dresses like a typical Israeli. She is tough, yet feminine. She has commanded gun-training classes of hundreds of horny and boisterous eighteen-year-old boys. She does her nails on a weekly basis. Just like most Israeli females, she can be very intimidating, and at the same time very friendly.

  RING! RING!

  In her high heels, Orli ran to the door and two dark, tall, and handsome Israeli guys entered. They looked like models. They are the friends Orli had mentioned.

  “Shalom, shmi Jessica,” I introduced myself in my best Hebrew.

  Insistent on learning the language, I forced myself to speak only Hebrew. If I didn’t know how to say something, then I found a way to explain it. It was like a really bad magic trick in which I turned one sentence into three.

  “I’m Liel and this is Asaf,” said one of Orli’s friends. My eyes lingered on Liel’s big brown eyes, long eyelashes, and bright smile.

  They jabbered among themselves, but afraid that I would embarrass myself, I kept my mouth shut. I watched them laughing together and felt a pang of jealousy seeing how they all seemed to fit in together. It was as if they knew exactly where they belonged. After a few drinks, we headed to a night club. The club was so packed that we barely had room to move. The music was so loud that the walls vibrated. We took shot after shot. The four of us danced until our feet throbbed. Every time Liel touched me, I felt electricity. I never wanted the night to end.

  When we got home, just like so many Israelis are willing to give somebody their shirt off their back, Orli insisted that I sleep in her bed while she slept on the trundle. She exemplified the true meaning of sabra, a prickly pear—thorny on the outside, sweet on the inside.

  I spent the entire Saturday with Orli and her family. I spoke Hebrew. I ate Israeli food. I heard stories about growing up in Israel. It felt like my first real Israeli experience. But more than that, I so quickly and easily fit in. Orli, her family, and her friends welcomed me into their lives. For the first time, things felt natural to me.

  It’s not like things were perfect in Israel; I was just realizing that I was better suited for the country. As the program continued and I spent more time in the country, Israel became a bigger part of my future. The country’s Jewish identity became synonymous with mine. As my future became intertwined with Israel’s, I could forget my past, which I was trying to hide from myself and the world. It was finally easy to feel and be Jewish here. I almost couldn’t believe that there would be something in this country that would make me feel not Jewish.

  * * *

  1 . A skullcap worn by Orthodox male Jews at all times and by men and women in other Jewish streams during prayer. The purpose of the skullcap is to remind the wearer of God’s presence.

  2 . $1 (USD) is approximately 4 shekels

  3 . Actually pronounced in Hebrew, with a guttural “ch” for an extra crude affect. Very much an onomatopoeia, chutzpah means both bravery and rudeness.

  4 . Jewish Geography is a game to figure out if Jews have common friends. This was much more challenging and rewarding before Facebook.

  2

  Little Blue and White Lies

  When my volunteer program ends, I make aliyah to Israel. Not to be confused with the female R&B star, the term aliyah comes from religion and means to ascend, both literally and spiritually. In synagogue, a Jew has an aliyah when reading from the Torah. But when a Jew makes aliyah, this means moving to Israel. The first person to ever make aliyah was Abraham, the father of the Jewish people, when God sent him from his birth land to the land that is now known as Israel. Ever since, Jews have considered Israel our homeland, the land of our founding fathers and mothers. It is the land that the Jewish people have returned to throughout history, no matter how many times we were exiled. It is the land where Moses brought the Israelites, where the Maccabees fought the Romans, and where King David ruled. It is the land where our Jewish fate will unfold, and now mine as well.

  After spending the past month in the safety of my parents’ house preparing for the big move, the day arrives for me to go play in a neighborhood surrounded by Jihadists. I spend my last hour at home sitting, jumping, and pounding on my suitcases, trying to zip the two bags that hold the past twenty-two years of my life. I’m so relieved to get the suitcases closed, that it never occurs to me that they might be overweight. With my family waiting in the car, I walk through my childhood home one last time. I stop to look at the paintings of Jerusalem’s Old City that my parents bought during our first family trip to Israel. The ability of the painting’s vibrant colors to catch the beauty of the sunset over the city amazes me every time I look at them. I can’t believe that tomorrow, I’ll call that city my home.

  I had been thirteen during our first trip to the Old City. On the way from our hotel, we had rounded a corner and the Old City’s huge stone walls towered before us. We all stopped in unison. It was like a fortress right out of the Bible . . . or a fairytale. Afraid that the walls might disappear into history, we quic
kly approached. Admiring each stone in the road, I wondered what history they would tell if they could talk. My shoes had slipped on the stones, which were slick and smooth as if water had been flowing over them for centuries, but really they were worn by people who had flocked there from all over the world on their path to find God.

  Now driving as a family to the airport, we pass our synagogue, where my parents got married, where my family prayed every Saturday morning while I was growing up, where I had my bat mitzvah, and where my rabbi wrote the letter testifying to my Jewishness so I could make aliyah. Growing up in a Conservative Jewish family, we went to synagogue every Shabbat. We said prayers before every meal. Just this past weekend our rabbi announced me making aliyah during Saturday morning services and the entire congregation wished me mazal tov, good luck. I looked around and smiled at everyone, knowing that, even though Israel is full of Jews, I’ll miss going to synagogue, hearing my rabbi’s insightful sermons, and having this tight-knit community.

  I won’t go to synagogue. Instead, I’ll be going out with Orli. We will get dressed in our high heels, tank tops, and tight jeans for the High Holy Days. I think about how different Judaism can be. In Israel, the entire country is my Jewish community. I can watch The Simpsons and after, see the daily Torah portion if I want. With Judaism part of my daily life, I will have a better connection to the culture, but less to religion. There isn’t a middle ground in Israel for religion. It’s black or white. It’s either ultra-Orthodox or secular. And I know which side I’m choosing.

  Sitting in the backseat of the car, I look into my carry-on bag to make sure that I’ve packed all of my documents: passport, immigration visa, birth certificate, the letter from my rabbi attesting to my Jewish identity, and my parents’ ketuba—Jewish marriage certificate. I smile, relieved that my parents had agreed to my request to modify their ketuba so that the rabbinate wouldn’t be able to tell that my mom converted to Judaism. I tense up, thinking back to the day that I discovered that I wouldn’t be considered a full Jew in Israel.