TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 157

[Tobie Shapiro]

February 20, 200000007


Dear Folks,

	This morning as part of my ritual, I 
poured a big tall glass of milk for Meyshe, into 
which I was about to dole out a heaping 
tablespoon of Ghirardelli's powdered chocolate. 
But I didn't get that far, because as I 
streamlined my moves to make it a sort of dance, 
my dancing partner (the glass of milk) tipped 
over and every drop of an extra tall glass of 
milk spilled all over the table, the chairs and 
the floor.  Just like the tripe that exploded, I 
hardly broke my gait.  I went to the drawer and 
got out the kitchen towels and started mopping 
up.  There's just no sense in cursing and getting 
all riled up.  It's gotta be done.  So I did it. 
Four kitchen towels and many deep knee bends 
later, the floor is cleaner than I've seen it for 
quite a while and the chairs are milkless.  It 
reminded me of those legends we hear of the 
filthy rich who bathe in tubs of milk.  This was 
the poorer version.





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The Nomads


	My Jewish upbringing was not religious. 
We never went to Synagogue.  I don't think we 
ever belonged to one.  Even my parents when they 
were growing up didn't light the Shabbos candles, 
didn't observe the Sabbath, didn't keep a kosher 
home.  So my parents raised us even looser.  We 
did not go to Temple even at High Holy Holidays, 
and didn't even know very much about the laws of 
kashruth.  What we did get was cultural 
influence.  We did belong to the Jewish Community 
Center, and we did get together with the greater 
family (my mother's) on holidays.  We ate knishes 
and chopped liver, herring and blintzes, 
kreplach, kishke, p'tsah, matzo ball soup, and we 
made our own gefilte fish from scratch, our own 
red beet horseradish, the hottest stuff in town, 
and of course, charoshes for Passover.  We were 
sent to a labour Zionist youth camp, mixed in 
with the Habonim kids and were told about our 
parents' passionate efforts during the war to 
establish a homeland for the Jews.  I've grown up 
with the State of Israel being in existence. 
When my parents were growing up there was no 
place for a Jew to seek safety.  And, in spite of 
Israel, there is still no place a Jew can seek 
safety.

	So it was from my close, very close, very 
very close contact with my family, the aunts and 
uncles, the cousins, the great aunts and uncles, 
the grandparents, the ganze mispocheh, that I 
learned about Jewish ritual and had my Jewish 
identity cultivated deep inside me.  I say I had 
no Jewish education, but that is not entirely 
true.  When we came back from Maryland, we were 
enrolled in the Sunday school at Temple Beth El, 
Berkeley's standard Reform Synagogue.  Of course, 
we didn't want to go.  Why ruin a perfectly good 
Sunday?  Why invite more homework onto yourself? 
My interest in Sunday school was minimal for a 
reason.  The teaching of Jewish history was more 
than boring, it was redundant.  It seemed like 
this:

	In the fall, we would start our studies 
of Jewish history by reading about the nomads. 
Yes, we were a nomadic people at first.  No big 
city Jews.  We knew the ins and outs of camels, 
and we knew sand intimately, and dust.  There was 
dust.  We knew tents and heat and a rare 
treasured oasis.  I don't remember now what it 
was we learned about the nomads, but that is 
where we started in the fall.  Then our lessons 
were interrupted by High Holy Holidays.  Rosh 
Hashannah and Yom Kippur came along and 
monopolized our classes.  We learned about new 
year and the day of atonement.  We were 
encouraged to attend day long services at the 
Temple.  But we didn't go.  My parents had no 
stomach for it, and it didn't occur to us to beg 
them.  The High Holy days take up two weeks, Rosh 
Hashannah being ten days before Yom Kippur.

	Then there was Sukkot, the festival of 
booths, directly following Yom Kippur.  The class 
was busy building a Sukkah, hanging it with fruit 
and dried vegetables, leaves, the full fall 
foliage panoply.  Sukkot lasts eight days.  You 
are supposed to eat and sleep in your Sukkah, but 
at home we never had one, and so there was no 
sleeping or eating in the non existent booth. 
After Sukkoth, we could get back to our regular 
scheduling, so we started out with a review of 
the nomads.  We'd been away from them for long 
enough to warrant a refresher course.

	Then came the secular holidays of 
Halloween and Thanksgiving, not holidays based in 
Christianity, so the Temple knew that we would 
all be involved in them.  We ducked out of nomad 
studies to learn about the Jewish take on things 
spooky and giving thanks.  This took a few weeks. 
After Thanksgiving it was back to a refresher 
course on the nomads.  We'd been away from them 
for too long just to dive right back in where 
we'd left off.

	And then came Channukah, which lasts 
eight days and required our full attention.  The 
education about Channukah took several weeks, so 
when it was time to get back to our regularly 
scheduled curriculum, we had to review the nomads.

	This was interrupted by Purim.  Purim is 
a joyous festival and fun is injected into the 
mix.  On Purim the Rabbi is supposed to get so 
drunk he can't tell the difference between Hamen 
(Boooooo!  Rattle Rattle, Boooooo!) and Mordecai. 
We put on Purim plays, poking fun at ourselves 
and we dressed up in costumes.  The Temple threw 
a Purim party, setting up a carnival in the main 
hall.  Every class in the Sunday school offered 
their own game or attraction.  This took out a 
chunk of time from the calendar year, and so 
after Purim was fresh history, we had to go back 
and refresh ourselves about the nomads.

	Then Passover came and stepped in, 
consuming our studies for a month at least. 
Therefore, after Pesach, we had to go back and 
review the nomads.  The year went on like this. 
We Jews are lousy with holidays.  There is always 
a holiday we are working up to, celebrating, or 
recovering from.  And so the entire year was 
spent on the chapter in the book about the 
nomads.  We never graduated to chapter two.

	The room was along a western wall of 
windows.  We sat at our desks bathed in indirect 
light, the warmth urging us to put down our heads 
and take a nap.  At this point, what I remember 
most from Sunday school is sitting behind Rachel 
Freifeld who was shorter than even I was.  Back 
lit by the bank of windows, the sun lit up her 
silhouette as she drew huge flaky boo boos out of 
her nose, examined them, and ate them.

	It took me until my young forties to come 
back to my roots and try to learn about my 
culture, its history and rituals.  It was a fine 
and welcome return, and not a word was ever said 
about the nomads, God bless 'em.



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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net