A friend sent me this link to a NYT article on the state of the American “neighborhood.” She suggested I use it as a starting point for my next blog, and indeed, I will do just that. The article can be found here: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/23/opinion/23lovenheim.html?pagewanted=1&ei=5070&en=12d212b312060fc1&ex=1214884800&emc=eta1
Instead of making me long for some warm neighbors (mine don’t say “hello”), from whom I’d be able to borrow a cup of sugar and to whom I’d gladly give a few eggs should they need some for baking cookies, some of which to be shared with me over pleasantries, this essay made me remember some of the neighbors I’ve had in the past.
I grew up in a standard building in Russia, where hundreds of small apartments are still inhabited by people grateful not to share living quarters with strangers (for further explanation and illustration of communal living, visit this great website: http://kommunalka.colgate.edu/ Each floor of each section of the building has four apartments. #9 is ours.
#10: Occupied by Luda – 2 degrees: chemistry and foreign language, intellectual, reads books; her husband (don’t remember his name, let’s say Sasha), also educated, probably in foreign language; and Sasha Jr, a supposedly beautiful delinquent and drug addict who is drafted for service in the army as he is not pursuing higher education. Luda drinks heavily and tries to hang herself periodically. When Luda hangs herself, the neighbor from #12 rings our doorbell in panic so that she and my mom or dad can try to break in and take measures.
#11: Nina, an old maid in her 50s. Nina is from a village; she is street-smart and nosy. Sometimes she babysits my brother; once brought her niece’s son over. While she was watching my brother, her nine-year-old relative was trying to convince me to “show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
#12: A blue collar family; work at the watch factory.
#13 (4th floor, directly above our apt): My best friend in the neighborhood. Her mom, who eats sunflower seeds around the clock and reads mystery novels. Many years after we move, my friend confesses to putting a glass against the floor and listening in on my mother yelling at me. She was rooting for me. Many years after we move, my parents tell me about the late night drunken fights between my friend’s parents. No glass necessary.
#17 (5th floor): A couple with two boys, one a year older than me, the other a year older than my brother. She is a doctor, he is not (don’t recall his occupation, something in a puppet theater, not a puppeteer). She frequently visits our apartment for smoke breaks; at home, she has a baby and doesn’t want to subject him to second hand smoke. In our apartment, there is also a baby, but who can resist lighting up while defrosting her meat in our microwave oven? Her elder son, an accomplished hooligan at a tender age of 11, draws a big heart on the snow and tells me he loves me. The next day, he says he changed his mind, he loves Tanya from his class. He is the one to tell me there is no Santa; the medical kit I dreamt of and found under the tree was procured by his mother. I pretend to know that. He is also the one to break the news to me that my mom is pregnant. I pretend to know that too. Through a grapevine, I heard that he recently got out of prison in Chicago. His mom, the doctor, looked up my parents in the White Pages and called to say "hello" and share what a gifted flutist her younger son had become; no mention of the other gifted son.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Thou Shalt Not... Be a Hypocrite
I thought it was only logical to follow my taboo discussion of politics with a discussion on organized religion. The subject is entirely unoriginal as are my thoughts on it. Yet, I hope you will read on and maybe, if I am lucky enough, you will even respond.
While having dinner last night, my non-Jewish (see Pass Over Me entry) husband and I were perusing through our favorite reading material, the Pennysaver. The weekly issue is full of useful and useless ads, which I enjoy equally. Looks like Temple Sons of Israel in the neighboring village hired an eager summer intern for their PR department! In three separate announcements, the Sons invite native Hebrew speaking kids to attend their Hebrew classes, non-Jewish parents who are raising Jewish children (in most cases, mail order brides) to learn about how to do so successfully, and folks who are not yet ready to join a synagogue to attend their school for a year without membership. After laughing about the mail order bride support group, we focused on the last ad, which should really read: “If you don’t have the money for a full membership yet, we’ll take some of your money for a year.” This made me remember my days in Central Florida , where Rabbi Aaron Rubinger reigned over a “chamber of commerce” (astutely labeled by my dad at the time).
Before I go on with my grievances about Rabbi Rubinger and his helpers, I want to acknowledge that the Jewish community as a whole was extremely helpful and generous in the first few months of our transition.
As a fresh immigrant teen, I wanted nothing more than to fit in with that group of well-to-do insincere hacks. The temple graciously waived the annual membership fee for the “new Americans,” but my parents quit going even before the year was up. As I was describing the hypocrisy of this institution to my husband and getting worked up about it, he reminded me about the atrocities committed by Catholic Church; well, I hope he can share his experiences, but I will speak of what I know best - Congregation Ohev Shalom. Ohev Shalom promoted a relatively relaxed form of Judaism, one where members drove to the temple on Shabbat and repeated Hebrew texts like parrots, without understanding a single word. I, too, learned to read in that mysterious tongue, but never quite mastered the random bowing movements (bend bow left bow center bend bow release?).
On one blazing hot Yom Kippur, an observant family of recent Bukharian immigrants put on their “Yom Kippur” best and marched for miles to the synagogue. Upon arriving, they were turned away for they did not have tickets to attend the exclusive services. At about the same time, my cousin was having his Bar Mitzvah and Rubinger gave a touching speech about his family being the only Russian family to truly embrace the Jewish way of life and remain with the temple. Others, he said, got too busy with their lives to continue with their commitment. He never bothered to ask any of the other Russian families why they didn’t stay, and my family did
n’t bother to come back.
Rubinger, I hear, went on to divorce his ailing wife and marry a congregant, but continued preaching about family values. He managed to raise a few daughters, who look and act more like Madonna circa 1988 than say… Rachel. I am sure he is convinced he is holier-than-thou, but he better rejoice he’s not a Catholic or he’d be going straight to hell – as a Jew, he just won’t be raised from the dead when the moshiah finally shows up.
P.S. Thoughts on God: As I finished this blog, I just saw some breaking news - a registered sex offender won $57M in lottery.
While having dinner last night, my non-Jewish (see Pass Over Me entry) husband and I were perusing through our favorite reading material, the Pennysaver. The weekly issue is full of useful and useless ads, which I enjoy equally. Looks like Temple Sons of Israel in the neighboring village hired an eager summer intern for their PR department! In three separate announcements, the Sons invite native Hebrew speaking kids to attend their Hebrew classes, non-Jewish parents who are raising Jewish children (in most cases, mail order brides) to learn about how to do so successfully, and folks who are not yet ready to join a synagogue to attend their school for a year without membership. After laughing about the mail order bride support group, we focused on the last ad, which should really read: “If you don’t have the money for a full membership yet, we’ll take some of your money for a year.” This made me remember my days in Central Florida , where Rabbi Aaron Rubinger reigned over a “chamber of commerce” (astutely labeled by my dad at the time).
Before I go on with my grievances about Rabbi Rubinger and his helpers, I want to acknowledge that the Jewish community as a whole was extremely helpful and generous in the first few months of our transition.
As a fresh immigrant teen, I wanted nothing more than to fit in with that group of well-to-do insincere hacks. The temple graciously waived the annual membership fee for the “new Americans,” but my parents quit going even before the year was up. As I was describing the hypocrisy of this institution to my husband and getting worked up about it, he reminded me about the atrocities committed by Catholic Church; well, I hope he can share his experiences, but I will speak of what I know best - Congregation Ohev Shalom. Ohev Shalom promoted a relatively relaxed form of Judaism, one where members drove to the temple on Shabbat and repeated Hebrew texts like parrots, without understanding a single word. I, too, learned to read in that mysterious tongue, but never quite mastered the random bowing movements (bend bow left bow center bend bow release?).
On one blazing hot Yom Kippur, an observant family of recent Bukharian immigrants put on their “Yom Kippur” best and marched for miles to the synagogue. Upon arriving, they were turned away for they did not have tickets to attend the exclusive services. At about the same time, my cousin was having his Bar Mitzvah and Rubinger gave a touching speech about his family being the only Russian family to truly embrace the Jewish way of life and remain with the temple. Others, he said, got too busy with their lives to continue with their commitment. He never bothered to ask any of the other Russian families why they didn’t stay, and my family did
n’t bother to come back.
Rubinger, I hear, went on to divorce his ailing wife and marry a congregant, but continued preaching about family values. He managed to raise a few daughters, who look and act more like Madonna circa 1988 than say… Rachel. I am sure he is convinced he is holier-than-thou, but he better rejoice he’s not a Catholic or he’d be going straight to hell – as a Jew, he just won’t be raised from the dead when the moshiah finally shows up.
P.S. Thoughts on God: As I finished this blog, I just saw some breaking news - a registered sex offender won $57M in lottery.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Babies on Politics
I had full intentions of staying away from politics on this blog. In fact, I will get back on track right after I am done with this entry. The episode I witnessed yesterday was just too good not to share. Also… I’ll try to remain apolitical in this description:
Sunday, 5PM in sunny and prosperous Greenwich, CT. The sun is reflecting off the pavement and the diamonds the size of boulders on the fingers of Stepford wives, who, having finished their leisurely brunching and shopping, proudly carry their perfectly identical, coiffed heads to their respective luxury vehicles.
Sunday, 5PM in sunny and prosperous Greenwich, CT. The sun is reflecting off the pavement and the diamonds the size of boulders on the fingers of Stepford wives, who, having finished their leisurely brunching and shopping, proudly carry their perfectly identical, coiffed heads to their respective luxury vehicles.
My husband and I are heading to some unremarkable café with outdoor seating after dropping off his son at his mother’s house. Our dubious gastronomical delight is accompanied by a chance to listen in on a full-blown political discussion led by a seven-year-old and his chaperones.
The table next to us is occupied by a father and his son, who are joined by someone who must be the father’s girlfriend mid-meal. The kid acts unsurprised and friendly enough, as though he’d seen at least a dozen of the similar kind join them for lunch before (after all, they don’t bother waiting to order and start eating without her). The woman, whose hair is way too long for her fourth decade, arrives with a gift to win the kid over and no intention to shut her mouth if only for a minute. Having been in a similar situation before, I am almost rooting for the woman until she launches into the following discourse.
Girlfriend: I am Felicia. But you can call me Flea. Like the insect. All my friends call me Flea. Do you know any other Felicias?
Kid: No.
Girlfriend: So, who are you voting for, Michael? (I guess no one told her seven-year-olds don’t vote)
Father: Tell her, Michael!
Kid: John McCain. (I guess no one told him seven-year-olds don’t vote either)
Girlfriend: That’s great!
Father: Tell her why, Michael.
Kid: Because he won’t raise our taxes.
Girlfriend: So are you a Republican or a Democrat, Michael?
Kid: I am a Republican!
Girlfriend: You and I are going to get along just great, bud!
I am instantly reminded of coming home from school at about the same age and asking by parents who was better: Stalin or Lenin. It seemed that some other kids, who probably had the likes of Flea and Father for parents, had formed their opinions, and I was lagging behind.
Perhaps I am not keeping up with the times, but it seems to me that there is something wrong with training kids to spew their parents' political views, which they are not able to comprehend or counter. My stepson is neither a Republican nor a Democrat; his affiliation to date is with the Pooh Bears (the name of his class in school). And because I generally tend to agree with the Pooh Bears’ ideology (say “please” and “thank you,” share toys, wait your turn, be a good boy, etc.), he and I get along just great.
The table next to us is occupied by a father and his son, who are joined by someone who must be the father’s girlfriend mid-meal. The kid acts unsurprised and friendly enough, as though he’d seen at least a dozen of the similar kind join them for lunch before (after all, they don’t bother waiting to order and start eating without her). The woman, whose hair is way too long for her fourth decade, arrives with a gift to win the kid over and no intention to shut her mouth if only for a minute. Having been in a similar situation before, I am almost rooting for the woman until she launches into the following discourse.
Girlfriend: I am Felicia. But you can call me Flea. Like the insect. All my friends call me Flea. Do you know any other Felicias?
Kid: No.
Girlfriend: So, who are you voting for, Michael? (I guess no one told her seven-year-olds don’t vote)
Father: Tell her, Michael!
Kid: John McCain. (I guess no one told him seven-year-olds don’t vote either)
Girlfriend: That’s great!
Father: Tell her why, Michael.
Kid: Because he won’t raise our taxes.
Girlfriend: So are you a Republican or a Democrat, Michael?
Kid: I am a Republican!
Girlfriend: You and I are going to get along just great, bud!
I am instantly reminded of coming home from school at about the same age and asking by parents who was better: Stalin or Lenin. It seemed that some other kids, who probably had the likes of Flea and Father for parents, had formed their opinions, and I was lagging behind.
Perhaps I am not keeping up with the times, but it seems to me that there is something wrong with training kids to spew their parents' political views, which they are not able to comprehend or counter. My stepson is neither a Republican nor a Democrat; his affiliation to date is with the Pooh Bears (the name of his class in school). And because I generally tend to agree with the Pooh Bears’ ideology (say “please” and “thank you,” share toys, wait your turn, be a good boy, etc.), he and I get along just great.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Volunteering my time, selling my soul
Please note that the following content is 100% true, not exaggerated, stylized, or otherwise altered to make for more entertaining reading.
Last Friday, my noble employer organized a collective effort to give back to the communities across the U.S. by volunteering its employees’ time to various causes. Activities in which one could partake ranged from planting flowers and painting schools to spending time with "geries" (as my colleague lovingly refers to the mature/geriatric population) and youths at risk. I selfishly selected a low-impact weeding/planting activity close to Central Park .
Weeding was actually very enjoyable, particularly because I don’t get to see the light of day much during the week, so I gratefully absorbed every ray of sunshine and took special pride in wearing my casual pants. This exercise required no skills; I was, however, reminded of how limited my vocabulary is, as I didn’t recognize at least half of the names for the tools I was supposed to use. Rather than stressing over my illiteracy, I consoled myself with the thought that I don’t know the names of the tools in Russian either (unless they happen to have the same names as the tools I played with in the sandbox as a kid). This is completely illogical, of course, but nothing was going to ruin my day of “giving back”… that is, until Frank showed up.
Now, picture this: A bunch of relatively young adults outfitted in the same light blue t-shirts with the company’s logo prominently displayed across the chest and company’s mission across the back, engaging in quiet small talk as they focus on pulling some dainty green plants. Out comes… dun dun dun duuuun (my impression of dramatic music effects; ok, so I guess I am embellishing a bit after all): Frank! Frank is wearing khaki shorts, tube socks, a hat, and most importantly, a white t-shirt with the company logo to stand out from the troops as a true commander-in-chief. Frank’s smile is so phony, I can sense it with my back to him. He exudes “leadership.” Frank is followed by a photographer/videographer and a diligent note-taking girl. To my horror, Frank and his crew make a beeline for my little plot.
Frank: Hi, I am Frank! – he extends his hand to shake mine, which is covered in two sets of gloves, gardening and latex. Frank doesn’t care to give his last name or explain who he is. This fictitious familiarity is but a thin veil of disguise for his uncontainable cockiness. He expects us to recognize and acknowledge his greatness, and I, no doubt, disappoint Frank with my ignorance.
Me: Hi… Excuse me a moment, I need to take off my gloves.
Frank: Oh, you don’t have to…
Me: Oh, OK - my gardening glove is already off, I now have the latex one on only, I extend my hand.
Frank: That’s disgusting! Ahahaha!
Co-Worker: Wow, you have an entire camera crew following you around!
Frank: Oh yes, when you get to be as important as I am, you get your personal biographer documenting your every step – he pretends to joke, but means every word.
This dumb exchange is followed by some further mind-numbing exclamations from Frank, who asks my co-worker and me to pose for a few happy pictures. We are then instructed to go up to the note-taking girl to give her our names. If we are lucky, our pictures will be featured in the company newsletter, acknowledging our significant contributions to the well-being of our community. As we get stand on line to give our names, Frank marches onto my plot to pose for solo pictures as he pretends to pull some weeds.
In my one too many years in corporate America , I’ve seen more dishonesty and hypocrisy than I can recall on a page. And though Frank’s shameless insincerity does not surprise me, it still makes me sick to my stomach. Frank, ironically, is anything but frank (you knew that was coming, right?), but in a way, his name couldn’t fit him better. He did, by the way, make it to the company newsletter with a group of other volunteers, who, unlike me, have photogenic faces and company spirit.
Last Friday, my noble employer organized a collective effort to give back to the communities across the U.S. by volunteering its employees’ time to various causes. Activities in which one could partake ranged from planting flowers and painting schools to spending time with "geries" (as my colleague lovingly refers to the mature/geriatric population) and youths at risk. I selfishly selected a low-impact weeding/planting activity close to Central Park .
Weeding was actually very enjoyable, particularly because I don’t get to see the light of day much during the week, so I gratefully absorbed every ray of sunshine and took special pride in wearing my casual pants. This exercise required no skills; I was, however, reminded of how limited my vocabulary is, as I didn’t recognize at least half of the names for the tools I was supposed to use. Rather than stressing over my illiteracy, I consoled myself with the thought that I don’t know the names of the tools in Russian either (unless they happen to have the same names as the tools I played with in the sandbox as a kid). This is completely illogical, of course, but nothing was going to ruin my day of “giving back”… that is, until Frank showed up.
Now, picture this: A bunch of relatively young adults outfitted in the same light blue t-shirts with the company’s logo prominently displayed across the chest and company’s mission across the back, engaging in quiet small talk as they focus on pulling some dainty green plants. Out comes… dun dun dun duuuun (my impression of dramatic music effects; ok, so I guess I am embellishing a bit after all): Frank! Frank is wearing khaki shorts, tube socks, a hat, and most importantly, a white t-shirt with the company logo to stand out from the troops as a true commander-in-chief. Frank’s smile is so phony, I can sense it with my back to him. He exudes “leadership.” Frank is followed by a photographer/videographer and a diligent note-taking girl. To my horror, Frank and his crew make a beeline for my little plot.
Frank: Hi, I am Frank! – he extends his hand to shake mine, which is covered in two sets of gloves, gardening and latex. Frank doesn’t care to give his last name or explain who he is. This fictitious familiarity is but a thin veil of disguise for his uncontainable cockiness. He expects us to recognize and acknowledge his greatness, and I, no doubt, disappoint Frank with my ignorance.
Me: Hi… Excuse me a moment, I need to take off my gloves.
Frank: Oh, you don’t have to…
Me: Oh, OK - my gardening glove is already off, I now have the latex one on only, I extend my hand.
Frank: That’s disgusting! Ahahaha!
Co-Worker: Wow, you have an entire camera crew following you around!
Frank: Oh yes, when you get to be as important as I am, you get your personal biographer documenting your every step – he pretends to joke, but means every word.
This dumb exchange is followed by some further mind-numbing exclamations from Frank, who asks my co-worker and me to pose for a few happy pictures. We are then instructed to go up to the note-taking girl to give her our names. If we are lucky, our pictures will be featured in the company newsletter, acknowledging our significant contributions to the well-being of our community. As we get stand on line to give our names, Frank marches onto my plot to pose for solo pictures as he pretends to pull some weeds.
In my one too many years in corporate America , I’ve seen more dishonesty and hypocrisy than I can recall on a page. And though Frank’s shameless insincerity does not surprise me, it still makes me sick to my stomach. Frank, ironically, is anything but frank (you knew that was coming, right?), but in a way, his name couldn’t fit him better. He did, by the way, make it to the company newsletter with a group of other volunteers, who, unlike me, have photogenic faces and company spirit.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Thank you!
I’ve been having some difficultly coming up with thought provoking blog entries, but I want to make sure that I stay on track and keep up the momentum I’ve developed. Just look at those endless comment strings on the bottom of my posts - I am really engaging my readers, they just can’t get enough! So I decided to leverage a popular structure for organizing random facts and opinions: a “top 6” list, which I’ll split into two “top 3” lists.
Here it is:
On my shit list:
1. People who use the word “leverage.” To be more precise, people who use that word and don’t have a sour taste in their mouths afterwards, but instead mentally high-five themselves for being so articulate. These are the same people who dream of climbing the corporate ladder all the way up to Super Duper Senior Project Manager, like to think of themselves as mentors to the younger generation of equally exciting individuals, and take pride in increasing efficiencies by cutting costs. Overall, these are real winners, at home and on the job.
2. Doctors who wear their coats (and sometimes stethoscopes) to walk their dogs. These can generally be seen on the Upper East Side , where the busy life savers just can’t spare a moment to take off their capes before attending to their four-legged friend’s excrements. The stethoscope can be key, you see, to differentiating the all-mighty MD from a lowly lab technician. A true status symbol and a guaranteed chick magnet for the 18-23 and the 30+ crowds.
3. “Friends” who don’t respond to my embarrassing attempts to start a virtual conversation.
On my nice list:
1. Train conductors on the Metro North lines. After riding the train for three years, I still can’t believe that ALL of them say “thank you” to each and every passenger for showing them the ticket. I am not sure what it is that makes these men and women so polite (as an avid googler, I’ve tried to find out), but I certainly appreciate it. What a contrast to their subway colleagues (granted, those professionals work underground in rat infested subways); I guess at the end of the day, the price of the “thank you” is just about $7 – the difference between the subway and Metro North fare.
2. John, a sixteen-year-old cashier at my favorite Mexican joint, who gave me free guacamole after unintentionally mixing up my “no dairy” and “yes dairy” burritos. Aaaah – America , the land of the discriminating (and frequently equally uncouth) consumer. Thank you, John…and by the way, the “no dairy” burrito was not for me; I, myself, prefer it loaded with sour cream and cheese.
3. You guessed it - friends, who respond to my blog… and don’t let their friends drive drunk, of course.
Here it is:
On my shit list:
1. People who use the word “leverage.” To be more precise, people who use that word and don’t have a sour taste in their mouths afterwards, but instead mentally high-five themselves for being so articulate. These are the same people who dream of climbing the corporate ladder all the way up to Super Duper Senior Project Manager, like to think of themselves as mentors to the younger generation of equally exciting individuals, and take pride in increasing efficiencies by cutting costs. Overall, these are real winners, at home and on the job.
2. Doctors who wear their coats (and sometimes stethoscopes) to walk their dogs. These can generally be seen on the Upper East Side , where the busy life savers just can’t spare a moment to take off their capes before attending to their four-legged friend’s excrements. The stethoscope can be key, you see, to differentiating the all-mighty MD from a lowly lab technician. A true status symbol and a guaranteed chick magnet for the 18-23 and the 30+ crowds.
3. “Friends” who don’t respond to my embarrassing attempts to start a virtual conversation.
On my nice list:
1. Train conductors on the Metro North lines. After riding the train for three years, I still can’t believe that ALL of them say “thank you” to each and every passenger for showing them the ticket. I am not sure what it is that makes these men and women so polite (as an avid googler, I’ve tried to find out), but I certainly appreciate it. What a contrast to their subway colleagues (granted, those professionals work underground in rat infested subways); I guess at the end of the day, the price of the “thank you” is just about $7 – the difference between the subway and Metro North fare.
2. John, a sixteen-year-old cashier at my favorite Mexican joint, who gave me free guacamole after unintentionally mixing up my “no dairy” and “yes dairy” burritos. Aaaah – America , the land of the discriminating (and frequently equally uncouth) consumer. Thank you, John…and by the way, the “no dairy” burrito was not for me; I, myself, prefer it loaded with sour cream and cheese.
3. You guessed it - friends, who respond to my blog… and don’t let their friends drive drunk, of course.
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