Chutzpah & High Heels

by Jessica Fishman

  I love the fact that Israeli men make dinner, fix a car, and serve in the army.

  “I hope you don’t have plans this weekend, because we are going up north with some friends of mine.”

  Israeli men are so spontaneous.

  * * *

  “Shalom. Shalom,” I’m greeted by the smiling and inquiring faces of Meydan’s mom and grandmother who are checking to see if I’m good enough for their favorite son/grandson. We have only been dating three weeks and I’m already meeting his entire family. While in the US, meeting friends and family is a stepping stone, in Israel meeting parents is somewhere between the second and fourth date. This way, the mother can give her approval or disapproval before the man invests too much time and money into a relationship. “I’m Meydan’s mother, Mira. This is Mor, Meydan’s grandmother. Moti, Meydan’s dad isn’t here right now. But he will be soon. You can meet him then.”

  His last name, Macabbi, starts with an M too. Did they do that all on purpose? Is having a name that starts with an M a pre-requisite to being a part of this family? I wonder if there are any other requirements.

  “How are you? Come on in. Sit down. Meydan is in his room on a phone meeting. Here, I made dinner. Are you hungry? What do you want? I have soup. I have potatoes. I have fish. I have chicken. I have kugel. What can I get you? What do you need?”

  I’m offered more dishes than are listed on the Cheesecake Factory menu.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “No, no. Sit down. Here, have some soup to keep you warm. It will be cold up north.” She sits me down at the table and puts some soup in front of me. “Do you have a coat? Let me go and find a coat for you.”

  “Oh, thank you. I have a coat.” It is nice having someone take care of me. I haven’t had this since I lived at home.

  She doesn’t listen. She is digging through some clothes stacked up in the living room. I look around the apartment. It looks like it should be featured on A&E’s Hoarders.

  Against my will, I start eating the soup. It is delicious. Nobody has made me soup in years. Mira comes back with enough fleece coats and blankets to outfit an entire army. “Here, take them all, just in case,” she says as she shoves them at me. She sits down at the table. What am I going to talk to her about? I’m so bad at this. I’m even worse at making conversation in Hebrew. What should I say? I want to make a good impression.

  “Ignore the mess. I’ve been so busy. I took my father to the doctor. And my mother too. I’m so busy. And then I had to make dinner. And I work at night. I’m so tired. And lately I’ve been having these bowel problems. I don’t know what to do about them. My stomach keeps flipping.”

  I barely even know this woman’s first name and now I know more about her gastrointestinal system than her doctor.

  “Where are you from in the United States? I love traveling. I would go and visit Meydan when he lived in New York and Florida. But we also went all over Europe. Have you been anywhere in Europe? We go to Europe all the time. I used to take care of this woman’s parents and now we go and visit her in Switzerland every year.”

  I guess I shouldn’t have been worried about finding something to talk about. Having a conversation with her is like listening to the radio.

  “You should come with us. Mikah, Meydan’s younger sister, and I are going to England. Why don’t you come with us?” she asks, completely serious, even though she has just met me. I have never met anyone who has welcomed me into her family so quickly and who is so giving.

  Meydan walks into the room and smiles at me. We look at each other and both light up. He claps his hands. “I’m done with work. Are you ready to go?”

  We gather up all of our stuff, say goodbye, and head out the door together.

  “So, how was meeting my mom and grandmother? They didn’t overwhelm you, did they?” he asks me as he takes me in his arms. He always wants to make sure that I feel comfortable.

  “No, they were great.” I love feeling his arms around me. I try to breathe him in as he gives me a kiss on the forehead.

  “Oh, and I brought a bunch of vegetarian food for you,” he says, always attentive to my needs.

  Bedside Manner

  After that weekend in the north, things with Meydan quickly become serious. We spend every weekend together. We spend all of our free time together—going out to dinner, on long walks, bicycle rides, sitting on the beach, hanging out with our friends. He sleeps over at my place and I sleep over at his. When spending the nights at his house, we sleep right next to his parents’ bedroom and I can hear his dad snoring as loud as a tractor, which is probably the only time that he makes more noise than his wife. I meet his entire family, his grandfather, his siblings, his nieces and nephew, his aunts, uncles, and cousins at different family events.

  When I forget my keys in the door one day because I was thinking of Meydan, I realize that I have been walking around with a smile on my face ever since I met him. Every day I feel myself letting go of my fears and feeling more secure.

  This is the first time in more than six years in the country that I actually begin to feel like I have a home here. Whenever I need help or advice, I know I can call Meydan and he will be there to help me. In fact, I know his entire family will be there to help me. I’ll always have a place to go for the holidays. I won’t have to ask my parents to fly to Israel at the last minute for a surgery. I no longer have to take a taxi to and from the airport. I’ll always have someone to greet me when I land.

  When I’m with him, I feel like I’m floating. I’m no longer afraid of falling in love. Everything feels like it’s falling into place.

  Even though we have spent almost every minute together, we still haven’t slept together. So after a few months, I decided that it was time to take things to the next level and sent Meydan to get tested. At the same time I went for a checkup.

  “Orli? Can you recommend a good women’s doctor (as they are called in Hebrew)?” The last time I visited the OB/GYN was in the army. He told me to drop trow without even giving me a gown, and left me waiting for him with my legs up in the air. Since then, I’ve obviously been putting off another checkup.

  “Yeah, I just went to one. He was so nice. He even complimented my appearance down there during my checkup,” she said with a completely straight face.

  “Your doctor commented on your—? That is sexual harassment! You weren’t offended?” I ask, bewildered.

  “No, why would I be offended? He gave me a compliment. So, do you want his number?”

  “Fine.”

  * * *

  “How can I help you today?”

  “I want to get an annual check and be tested for all STDs.”

  “All? Even AIDS?” the doctor asks me.

  “Yes, of course. Just to be sure,” I reply.

  “Why? Have you slept with someone outside Israel? Someone who isn’t Jewish?”

  “What? Why? What does that have to do with anything?”

  This doctor has been to medical school. Does he actually believe that being “the chosen people” means that we’re exempt from getting AIDS? This is as bad as when I realized that half of this country believes in Genesis but not evolution.

  “Okay, you’re fine. We are done here,” the doctor says to me as he snaps his gloves off.

  I can’t decide if I should be relieved or insulted that he didn’t give me the same compliment that he gave Orli.

  The morning after we both got our negative results back, Meydan wakes up early and makes me breakfast as I get ready for work. As I walk to the kitchen to give him a kiss, I see something out of the corner of my eye in the living room. I look over.

  It is Meydan. He is standing there, wearing a kippah, a tallis, and tefillin1 . . . praying.

  I freeze. I tiptoe back into his bedroom. I lock myself in there, but all I want to do is run and never look back.

  We have been dating a few months and this is the first time I’ve seen him wear tefillin. What does this mean? Is he relig
ious? Is he secular? He drives on Shabbat. He spends money on Shabbat. Based on what we did last night, he obviously is not shomer negiah, a religious person who doesn’t touch the opposite sex. I know that he keeps kosher to some degree. What type of Jew does this make him? Is he Orthodox? His ex-girlfriend is a cantor2, so he must be liberal, right?

  Pacing back and forth, I wonder if he wants to be married under the Orthodox rabbinate.

  My dad used to go to synagogue every morning and wrap tefillin, but that was in a Conservative synagogue in America. That was different. Israeli Jews aren’t the same as Jews in America. When American Jews are religious they are also liberal. When Israeli Jews are religious they are Orthodox. Many Israeli Jews believe that Orthodoxy is the only real form of Judaism and give the Orthodox power over the entire country’s Jewish identity.

  Meydan tries to open the door, but I locked it. “Jess? Is everything okay?”

  I grab my purse and open the door, “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m late for work. I have to go.”

  He looks at me, confused.

  I run out without my breakfast, jump into my car, and drive as fast as I can away from there.

  I turn on the radio. A song that was popular a few years ago is playing: “Hamashiach Lo Yavo V’gam Lo Y’talphen, The Messiah Isn’t Going to Come and He Isn’t Going to Call on the Phone Either.” The first time I heard this song was on a bus from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv. An ultra-Orthodox man on the bus made the driver turn off the song.

  I reach for the radio and turn up the volume.

  I’m stuck in traffic in Bnei Brak, the ultra-Orthodox city right next to Tel Aviv. I look around me. I drive through this city every day to get to Meydan’s, but I’m seeing the ridiculousness, the hypocrisy of this neighborhood for the first time. I look at all the men around me. They look like a swarm of penguins. Men wearing faded wool black suits, stained yellowish button-down shirts, and black hats. Why the hell are they wearing these stupid outfits?! It is 100˚F outside! They are no longer in Poland! And the only ghetto they’re in is this self-imposed hellhole called Bnei Brak. Do they actually think that wearing that outfit makes them more religious? I highly doubt that Moses was wandering the Sinai desert in a black hat with fur trim. And if we really are God’s chosen people, there is no way that God would want us to look as ugly as these penguins with their ridiculous side-curls, and fish-tank glasses, and their wives in their potato-sack outfits and mops for wigs.

  And where the hell are all of them going anyhow? It is not like anyone of them actually works or serves in the army! All they do is go to yeshiva and live off the taxes of the rest of the country. Why is it that the same penguins in New York can make a fortune selling diamonds and cameras and still have time to pray, but these ones in Israel only have time to pray? Are the days shorter here? They claim they can’t work because they are too busy doing God’s work, but I don’t understand why, if God is omnipresent and omniscient, He would need people to do His work.

  I want to roll down my window and yell at them to go join the army. To go get a job. To treat their women with equality. But instead, I look in front of me and force myself to breathe slowly.

  A truck cuts in front of me. I hate driving in Israel.

  I stare at the back of the truck, willing it to notice my anger. Then I see the bumper sticker on the back. It says MODEST GIRLS PREVENT RAPE.

  It takes all of my self-control to not get out of the car and physically assault the driver of the truck. I want to tell him that smart non-misogynistic perverts prevent beatings.

  Who the hell actually believes that? Who the hell actually puts a sticker like that on their truck? Who the hell actually mass produces a sticker like that?

  I get to work half an hour late. I’m still fuming. I’m still scared about what Meydan’s praying means for our relationship, for our future. I shut my door and force myself to calm down.

  I sit down and start scanning the newspapers, like I do every morning.

  I flip through The Jerusalem Post, Haaretz, and then The New York Times. An article in The New York Times jumps out at me.

  How Do You Prove You’re a Jew?

  BY GERSHOM GORENBERG

  The article detailed the experience of a young woman who went to the Israeli rabbinate to register to get married and she was shocked when they told her that she would have to prove that she was Jewish. Her difficult path to prove her Jewish identity included having to take a picture of her dead grandparents’ tombstone to prove her Jewishness. I can’t imagine the humiliation that she must have gone through.

  And then I start wondering if my parents’ forged ketuba may not be enough to prove that I’m Jewish. What should I do? How should I handle this? Should I tell Meydan?

  I’ll call Orli, hoping that she will have an answer. She is always so good at these things.

  Orli is a typical Israeli when it comes to religion. She kisses the mezuzah every time she walks out a door, but when we go out she kisses random guys in the club. She refuses to cook on Shabbat, because using fire is forbidden, but she still smokes cigarettes on the same day.

  I turn my radio up on my computer so that no one can hear me.

  I find her name in my phone and push SEND. It feels like she is taking forever to pick up.

  “Orli, I have to talk to you!” I yell, but in a whisper. I tell Orli how I caught Meydan praying this morning wearing tefillin. I finish the story by saying, “You don’t understand, I actually locked myself in the room and then ran out of his house! I would have rather caught him with another woman.”

  Orli and I both laugh at the absurdity of it all.

  “Jessica, don’t worry about it. Praying, to him, is probably like yoga is to you. It is a form of meditation. Everybody has their own connection to religion. Like you, you don’t believe in God, but you are more religious than I am.”

  “Yeah, I guess that is true. What do you think Meydan was praying to God about? Was he thanking him for the sinful pre-marital relations that we had just had the night before?”

  Orli laughs, but she knows my sarcasm is masking my biggest fear. “I wouldn’t worry about it. If he loves you, then marriage won’t be an issue.”

  “I guess that’s true. I’ll tell him about it when the time is right and I’m sure everything will be okay.” I know I’m trying to convince myself. “Thanks for the help. I’ll see you at home.”

  After I hang up with Orli, I make an even bigger decision than my aliyah decision. I decide to stay with Meydan. I hope Orli is right and that love will win. If I want him to accept me for who I am, then I have to accept him for who he is. Besides, this is Israel. If it is a problem, anyone here can be bought off—especially the religious.

  Mazal Tov

  “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither, let my tongue cleave to my palate if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy,” the groom repeats after the ultra-Orthodox rabbi who has a long beard and is wearing the traditional penguin nineteenth-century ghetto garb.

  The groom lifts up his leg and stomps on the wine glass.

  It’s Carmit and Dror ‘s wedding. Carmit is the first one of us getting married from Orli’s group of friends.

  CRUNCH! The glass shatters. Everyone cheers.

  I look over at Meydan. He is smiling and clapping his hands.

  He looks back at me. I wonder if he can see in my face the pain I’m trying to hide.

  He leans over and gives me a kiss. “I love you,” he tells me.

  “Me too,” I say. And I really do. I decide to push all my fears away.

  I look back up at Carmit. She looks so beautiful, so happy. Everyone is at the wedding. All the girls and their boyfriends.

  Meydan squeezes my hand. I look over at him again. He looks so handsome. I wonder when that will be us under the chuppah3.

  The bride and the groom kiss. She is wearing a white version of J-Lo’s green Versace dress, which is a lot prettier and more modest than some of the see-through
dresses, short skirts, and poofy cupcake dresses that I have seen through the store windows on Dizengoff Street, the main shopping street in Tel Aviv. I wonder how is it that in a country where marriages are still controlled by the religious ultra-Orthodox, the wedding dresses are so revealing. The groom is wearing a laid-back suit, without a tie. The bride and the groom almost look like they are attending different functions and they both look like they are in a completely different century than their rabbi.

  “How do they know their rabbi?” I lean over and ask Orli.

  “They don’t. They got a list of rabbinate-approved rabbis and picked one who happened to be available,” she replies.

  I balk. I can’t imagine playing roulette to pick the rabbi who would officiate at my wedding. My rabbi is our good family friend. I wouldn’t want a stranger at the most important day of my life.

  “Why didn’t they ask their rabbi to do it?” I ask.

  “They don’t have a rabbi. It is not like they actually go to synagogue.”

  Then why are they getting married in the rabbinate? I wonder to myself.

  This is the first Israeli wedding that I have attended. It is quite different than American weddings. The first thing I noticed when we walked in was the dress code. Most of the men are wearing jeans and the women are wearing their highest heels and fanciest dresses—not even bothering to hide the fact that they are trying to upstage the bride.

  Everyone starts rushing up to the chuppah to congratulate the bride and the groom and then the ceremony turns into a rave.

  The religious part of the ceremony is over, but that is not the most sacred part of the wedding. The most sacred part is the fireproof, bulletproof, locked, and guarded security safe, in which people deposit their checks.

  I found out that weddings in Israel are less of a ritual to declare your love for a person and more of a business opportunity. In Israel there are no wedding registries. People prefer cold, hard cash. When I asked Orli how much to give the bride and groom, she referred me to a website which allowed me to put in different variables, from how many guests are invited, how close I am to the bride and groom, what my income is, what month the ceremony takes place in, and on what day of the week, to figure out the exact amount I should be giving.