I haven't written anything "bloggy" for a long while, so I figured what better way to return to the wonderful world of writing than to tell a true (read: LONG) tale about ruining a 4000 year old religion for its young, impressionable followers.
But before we get to the dessert, lets all dine on the delicious back-story.
Thanksgiving, 2006.
The year 2006 was a year of firsts for your humble narrator Will Zone. This year brought me my first pleasant NYC job, my first brushes with TV development types and my first sprouting of hair around my genitals. More importantly for this story, 2006 was the first year I didn't celebrate Thanksgiving with my immediate family. Instead I traveled on an aeroplane with my lovely girlfriend to celebrate Turkey day with her family.
Deanna and I have been dating for the pre-requisite amount of time where doing this is understood by my parents as "something that happens." My folks wished me luck and me and m'lady were off to her hometown of Rochester, NY to celebrate the holiday.
While Deanna and I are total opposites in a lot of ways, I'm big and she's small, I eat meat and she's a vegetarian, I smoke and she hates it, well, we're just opposite enough to keep the conversations interesting, and alike enough to be able to enjoy things together, so, according to our friends, we "make a great couple." Now, a major difference about us that I never gave much thought is the fact that I am an atheist who was raised Catholic and she is an atheist who was raised Jewish. To us it's no big deal, but to someone like say...um, I don't know...oh, her parents, it could be a big deal. Could be, but hopefully not.
After a near conundrum at the airport with our tickets (apparently its tough to buy tickets day of, like Thanksgiving is a busy travel time or something ) we board, fly and land and her parents pick us up at the Crotch-fester (snicker, snicker) Airport and the holidays officially begin. Thankfully this wasn't the first time I met her parents, because if it was this would be a totally different story that involved more lying, crying and bed wetting. I met them once, like one and half years ago for a pleasant NYC dinner that lasted two hours so I got that whole "Hey, nice to meet ya, I'm the guy who spends my nights inside your daughter" first impression out of the way.
This time around I'm sleeping in their house, in my girlfriends old room for several days, so while it's not brain-jarringly nerve wrecking, it is still pretty fucking nerve wrecking. The fact that I'm like a foot taller than her parents puts me at ease.
Deanna was sooooo glad I was there. Sometimes spending time back home is hard for her emotionally, so she was grateful she had a big lug like me to do most of the rambling and making an ass of myself. She just smiled and said things like "That's my Will!" and "Oh, that kooky man-o-mine." The more I talked and, well, performed, the less she had to. Ain't that what boyfriends are for?
Day One goes without a hitch....well, almost. That night we were going to the movies to see Borat, we being me, Deanna, her sister, and her folks, and then right back home to go to bed. Before we were to leave, we're all in the kitchen and her Mom says something to me which takes me for a surprise.
"So, Will," she says matriarchally Jewish to me. "You're going to be wearing those jeans to the movies, hmm?"
I look to my blue jeans expecting to find rips and stains and a broken fly only to find nothing of the sort.
"Yea. I guess so." I mutter.
"You didn't bring any other pants or anything?"
"Um. Well I have a pair of black pants upstairs?" I respond as a question.
"You were going to wear those instead, right?"
Time stops. This is the moment. I have a decision to make. Since the age of 16 no one has ever told me to change my clothes for anything. We're not going to a funeral or a 5-Star Restaurant; we're seeing Borat for crite-pete! The President isn't attending! Do I stand my dungaree'd ground and deny this mother power over my pants? Or do I let her have the satisfaction of controlling my manhood. I decide this isn't the battle to fight. Time ticks forward.
"Yea, I'll go change my pants."
After that, me and momma are cool-de-la. The night, to quote Borat, was "a great success!"
Day Two: Thanksgiving Day. The day Will gets closer to the point of this diatribe.
Thanksgiving with the girlfriend's folks is nothing like Thanksgiving with my folks. In my family there are several generations of kin all gathered around a table-train that treks from the living room, thru the dining room, thru the kitchen and ends in a room no one knew existed. A room that perhaps was only built to enclose the ass end of the table. Food, glorious food, piles high everywhere there is viewable table cloth. There is too much food. We're Italian. Dinner conversation starts with a rushed prayer and the conversation for the next hour consists of "Dana, pass the potatoes" and "Aunt Liz, can you pass me some dark meat?" and "Jesus, there was Ham!? I didn't even see the ham! Honey, did you see the ham? Pass me the ham." All the while peppered between snippets of food-requesting is the sound of digestion and belts being loosened. At the end, the men all fall asleep on the couches while watching football.
Stupidly, I expected today's Jewish celebration to be the same. Well, without the ham of course...and without my drunken cousin Ricky falling asleep in his gravy.
M'lady hasn't much family around Rochester so Thanksgiving is celebrated with family friends. With like 12 well mannered adults and 4 or 5 kids running around. Wandering kids get eaten in my family. This was my first Jewish Thanksgiving. Being a clever boyfriend in the weeks leading up to this event I asked all the Jewish people I knew if there was something different about a Jewish Thanksgiving. Any rituals I need to know about? Would I need to get re-circumcised at the table? They assured me, there was nothing out of the ordinary to be expected.
Everyone gathers around the table. The kids all quiet down and sit up straight. They are adorable. The cutest of the pack were these 4 year old twin boys. They were eyed. We all give focus to the head of the table.
(pssst, this is the part coming up about me ruining Judaism for children. Remember that, you know, the point of this story?)
Mr. and Mrs. Kessler, our hosts, and the twins' grandparents, give a beautiful speech about Thanksgivings past and they personally welcome me to the table, and they even have this silly little cute tradition where Mrs. Kessler sings a cute little kids song about this Thanksgiving and she incorporates all the guests into the song. Even me! Everyone is beaming. The kids smile brightly when their names come up in sing-song, they look around the table to make sure everyone knows that that verse was about them. To sum up the mood; happy. Mr. Kessler then takes focus.
"Alright everyone, please join me in the motzi."
Whoa, Motzi? Time stops again. Motzi sounds like a Jewish thing. Oh shit. I don't know the Motzi! Is it a dance? A Prayer? Is this when they all try to cut my already foreskin-less penis? What's about to happen? Why wasn't I warned? Why wasn't there a briefing or a rule book handy? All the Jews I questioned back in NYC are probably laughing at me. Is this the Jewish conspiracy awful anti-semites barf about? I'm lost. What the fuck is a Motzi? I look to Deanna next to me, and her eyes are closed awaiting the Motzi. No help there. They know. They all know. Again, time ticks forward.
The entire group starts speaking as one in a language that is not English. Wait a second...they are praying. The Motzi is a prayer. Whew. All eyes are closed and heads pitched downward. All I gotta do is sit silently and try not to fart or laugh and I'm home free. The group is mid-motzi and I scan the table. That's when I find the eyes.
The cute twin boys are staring at me. Their expressionless identical faces with their huge glassy eyes are locked in on mine eyes. My eyes show fear and their 4 identical cold blue eyes begin to burn my soul.
Why are they staring at me? That's when it hits me. I'm not motzi-ing. These poor children, surrounded by their fellow Jews their whole life have never seen a person not Motzi. Before this point those 4-eyes figured everyone motzi'd. It made them feel safe, they understood community. And now, I, this goy-friend, am not saying the motzi and the twins' world is crumbling around them. I see their thoughts. If the fat man isn't saying the motzi, then why do we have to? What else is out there in the world that we don't know about? Does God even exist? What other lies have we been force-fed since birth? Maybe Jesus is the only path to God? Was the UN's creation of Israel a good idea? Did the Holocaust even happen?
Not wanting to be the catalyst that makes these children realize that there is in fact no higher power and their parents have lied to them, I think quickly and begin pretending to mouth the motzi. I move my lips in what feels like the right way, but there are so many guttural "ch" sounds in Hebrew that my formerly Jesus-is-Lord- tongue does not know how to form. The twins see through my ruse and slowly shake their heads in disapproval.
"We're onto you." The one on the left mouths to me.
"God is dead, isn't he?" The other 4 year old follows.
A tear rolls down my cheek as the family finishes the motzi and the family gets up to collect food from the kitchen, Thanksgiving buffet style. The twins stare deeper into me as I rise with my plate and my shame.
"I'm sorry." I whisper as I pass them. "So, sorry."
The rest of dinner is fine, and there was exciting conversations of politics being traded over the table. This was a way more intellectual gathering. There wasn't even a TV nearby, and if there was, it sure as hell wouldn't be tuned to a football game. After dessert the group heads into the living room for more conversation. I take a seat on the end of the couch and I can see the kids in the next room playing and talking. Deanna's hand rubs my thigh and her mouth goes to my ear and whispers "You were great!" and we both join the adult conversation again. We all laugh while cradling fancy cups of liquor.
As a silver haired Aunt of some sort starts talking about the good old days, my eyes wander back to the kids. They are now in a circle talking very seriously. The twins lead the conversation and occasionally they nod their heads over towards me and the other kids look at me funny. It was like seeing a gathering of revolutionary types at the docks on the outskirts of town talking about changing the world. One twin held a paper star of David and he tore it in half, the other set it on fire. The future of Judaism in Rochester, NY was crumbling. One can only hope it doesn't spread like the zombie virus. God certainly wasn't in the play room that evening.
I turn focus back to the adults and catch Deanna's mom eyeing my pants disapprovingly.
Oh WE Blog, Baruch ata adonay eloheinu melech ha'olam ha'motzi lechem min ha'aretz.
Will