We've come to that point. Well, actually, I'VE come to that point. The point where yeshiva is over, my life as a student is on hiatus, and it's time for me to have a job here in Israel. I suppose if I were looking for more permanent work--not just work until I start my MA in the fall--then I would have a better chance of finding something decent. I suppose if I wanted to work in the hi-tech industry or perhaps guard a mall, bus, government office, restaurant, holy site, park, coffee shop, museum, school, supermarket, or dog on the side of the road then I would also have more job opportunties. But neither of these is the case, and so, I'm cleaning houses to earn money. We've all heard the old adage, "Cleanliness is next to godliness," and I am hoping by cleaning in a city that seems so focused on G-d already, I will be able to raise the spiritual level (or at least the dust) of someone's home to a point that is holy. So, that's the job, and to be honest it pays well, but I want to kick some crazy Zionist who back in the euphoric 1950's said, "Even the garbage collectors are Jewish in Israel," because let's be honest, they were as excited to collect garbage as I am to clean someone's ass-lah (yes, this is REALLY the word for toilet in Hebrew).
Believe me, though. It's not all as painful as I am making it sound. I interviewed for a job a few weeks ago, and after a few days of thinking that the interview went horribly, they called back to hire me (because, let's face it, I live a 12-minute walk away and they made it clear that was a big advantage). So now, I'm working for a Scottish electrical engineer doing . . . well . . . a lot of things. During the interview they asked me if I minded doing office work as well as "on-site" work. "Well, I helped my Dad a lot when he built our house," I answered, "So 'on-site' work sounds fine," I replied. Had I know what was to come, I may have reconsidered (ie, notice the " " in the previous sentence and anticipate what crazy story is coming up).
Among other tasks, "on-site" includes:
1) Installing hi-tech telecommunication systems--ie, taking really expensive phones out of their boxes and plugging them into walls
2) Nutritional education--ie, my boss acting like a Polish mother and telling me I don't eat enough because I'm not jumping on every chance there is to drink tea with milk (man, Brits are weird)
3) Language enhancement--speaking in 3 languages at once (one of which I don't speak) while I work with a Scot, a Russian, and myself (can you work with yourself?)
4) Changing light bulbs for people who have way too much money to do it themselves
And #4 is the task on which I would like to elaborate and which is the reason for the second part of the title of this exposition, "Cheerleading for Millionaires." Tell me, if you had five million extra dollars what would you do? Well, this guy decided to buy the nicest house I've ever seen. Not that my experience among millionaires is extensive, but I cannot imagine something nicer than this house. Along with housing one of the largest Jewish libraries in the world, he has chosen pieces of art so exquisite that I was afraid to breathe inside. After we parked the car, we entered the building, and I commented to Jonny, "It's really weird that people pay you to change light bulbs. I mean, what could be simpler?" I thought to myself. "These must be only people outside of my 90-year-old great Aunt Sally who asks me to change light bulbs for them." (Pause Pause, Wait Wait) Ask me now. Ask me, "Becky, where was the light bulb you were supposed to change?" Answer: Imagine the top of the Eiffel tower. Now imagine a trapeze artist who is accustomed to hanging on with her toenails while swinging hundreds of feet in the air. Now imagine this trapeze artist in her sparkly leotard on top of the Eiffel tower looking UP at the aforementioned light bulb, crinkling her brow, and saying, "You want me to do WHAT?!?"
Yes, that's where it was. I mean, why WOULDN'T you put a light there when you have all the money to in the world to pay people with expendable lives to change it? Top of a 25-foot marble staircase. Ladder? No chance. 12-foot-tall midget pyramid? A possibility . . . but we didn't have any midgets working "on-site" with us. So, we did what any 50-year-old religious male engineer and his 23-year-old female assistant could do--we did a shoulder-sit. A what? A shoulder-sit. Looks like my four years of cheerleading actually came in handy (I mean, besides making me despise teenage prima donnas with attitudes and ironing bows with hairspray). I prayed, climbed on his shoulders, and tried not to wee myself (Scottish-ism) as I shakily held the delicate light fixture and attempted to change the bulb. It wasn't easy. And by that, I mean, "It took us 5 mounts and dismounts, one broken halogen bulb, a few curse words, a lot of laughs from the Romanian and Philipina house servants as we swayed like a drunken totem pole at the top of the stairs, a couple more chocolate cookies stolen from the cupboard, a few more curse words, one almost failed attempt (ie, me almost falling head-first over the banister) . . . BUT we did it."
It was a job well done. And for 25 shekels an hour, really, what more could I ask for? Answer: That the light . . . will last longer than I do at this job.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Senses of Memory
Asaf kissed me yesterday evening. It must have been 7:58 pm. Because as he pulled away from me, the 8 o’clock siren—to signal that it was the beginning of Yom Ha-Zikaron—sounded. When it ended, he hugged me tightly, and I asked him, “Is there someone specific you think about when you hear it?” And after he told me, I thought to myself, “There is someone I think about, too.” He was never in the Israeli Defense Forces, and thank G-d, he wasn’t a victim of terror. He was a victim of cancer, and he died a year ago today.
The Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror. It’s doubly heavy for me because last year my grandfather, Henry, died on this day. In fact, I found out . . . right . . . about . . . now. After a heart-wrenching memorial service, a discussion full of tears—however far-removed their owners had been before this trip to Israel—I came back to my room. That’s when my mom called. “Henry passed away,” she said quietly, and yet, matter-of-factly, somehow maintaining composure during a time which would indelibly change our family dynamic forever. I lost my breath. I felt the blood in my body drain into the floor beneath me. I had to sit down. I didn’t cry, not right at first. I remember thinking how . . . appropriate? timely? his passing was, on Yom HaZikaron, a day when we mourn loved ones—loved ones of our own, loved ones of others. In Hebrew,Yom HaZikaron means the Day of Memory. That’s what it will be for the rest of my life. I’ve given a yarhzeit date to someone who wasn’t Jewish. It was April 29, I think, on the Western calendar, but in the Jewish one, it falls somewhere during the counting of the Omer, the time between Pesach and Shavuot, a time during which we mark the days in anticipation of the revelation of the Torah on Mount Sinai. That’s the feeling I remember—the feeling of my connection to G-d—not the end of April one. I have this weird thought that maybe he did it on purpose. I know it sounds crazy, but maybe it would be difficult for me to relate to Yom HaZikaron since I don’t have anybody who’s fallen in war or was murdered in a terror attack.
From a religious perspective, Yom Kippur is the defining day of the year, the day on which Jews—secular Jews, religious Jews, BuJews, HinJews, hippie Jews, rich stockbroker Jews, everyone—know that they are Jews. From an Israeli perspective, a cultural, social point of view, Yom HaZikaron is the day on which you know you are an Israeli. The day on which when you hear the one-minute siren sound, you stop on the sidewalk, you get out of your car in the middle of the highway, you stand silent and still, saying to yourself, to everyone around you, to the world itself, I am part of Am Yisrael, the People Israel. And the tears that form in my eyes are for Henry, my grandfather, but also for all the people who’ve lost their lives here, for the sake of . . . I don’t know. At one point, I would have been able to finish that sentence, clearly, eloquently. “At one point” equals “before I moved to Israel.” I came here originally as a result of my Zionist ideology. At that point, I would have been able to say that they died for “the dream of Israel” or “the hope of the Jewish people.” Now, it’s harder to say because I’m confronted with the reality of a bad situation that everyday has aspects that become worse.
So, why am I here now? Because, shockingly, I love living here. As we approach the summer, the increasing heat of the day hints at what is to come with the disengagement from Gaza, a spark that is beginning to erupt into flames. Everyday more arrests are made. More protests are staged. More roads blocked and more signs put up. More “suspicious packages” found. And yet, it was with a “suspicious package” that I began to find my answer, my completion to the sentence above.
I walked by the bus stop. I heard one of the bus security guards (the men and women who get on and off buses all day in order to keep us safe, or at least, make us feel that we are safe) say to a girl, “Is that your cell phone?” as he pointed to an abandoned Nokia sitting on the fence. “No,” she answered, after which he called into his walkie-talkie, “Ok, we’ve got a suspicious package here. Everyone, please move away.” A confused old man, in what now seems like a parody, asked me, “Is there a bomb on the bus that’s coming?” “Um, no,” I answered. “There’s a suspicious package over there,” I explained to him. “Oh? I didn’t see it.” “Well, it’s a cell phone,” I said. “Oh, are they going to blow up the bus with the cell phone?” “Well, I hope not,” I said, now a little confused myself. “Is that even possible?” I thought to myself as I walked down the road to the next bus stop. And then I realized, after the whole incident, I wasn’t even phased. I wasn’t even phased to think, that on my way to the mall, I walked past something that could have blown up. And what jarred me even more about my lack of reaction was that it was the second time this week. So, what is the answer, the conclusion to the sentence above, “People who’ve lost their lives for . . .”? I’m not sure. I’m still working on it, but the following advertisement may shed some light on the topic.
There is an ad now in Jerusalem bus stops. Who knew a bus stop could profess wisdom? It’s a sign that simply says, “Students, July is not only the Disengagement, it’s also the Psychometry (SATs).” “Students,” it seems to remind in motherly and yet simultaneously satirical voice, “July is not only the month during which the country will be ripped into pieces by the government and those who oppose it, it is also your SATs.” It says to me, regular life goes on. Even though 5,000 teachers are going to be fired because of budget cuts. Even though a synagogue was burned down in Moscow yesterday and today a Jewish cemetery was vandalized in France. Even though. . . and the list goes on. And at the end of the list . . . there’s the kiss before the siren and the hug afterwards.
The Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror. It’s doubly heavy for me because last year my grandfather, Henry, died on this day. In fact, I found out . . . right . . . about . . . now. After a heart-wrenching memorial service, a discussion full of tears—however far-removed their owners had been before this trip to Israel—I came back to my room. That’s when my mom called. “Henry passed away,” she said quietly, and yet, matter-of-factly, somehow maintaining composure during a time which would indelibly change our family dynamic forever. I lost my breath. I felt the blood in my body drain into the floor beneath me. I had to sit down. I didn’t cry, not right at first. I remember thinking how . . . appropriate? timely? his passing was, on Yom HaZikaron, a day when we mourn loved ones—loved ones of our own, loved ones of others. In Hebrew,Yom HaZikaron means the Day of Memory. That’s what it will be for the rest of my life. I’ve given a yarhzeit date to someone who wasn’t Jewish. It was April 29, I think, on the Western calendar, but in the Jewish one, it falls somewhere during the counting of the Omer, the time between Pesach and Shavuot, a time during which we mark the days in anticipation of the revelation of the Torah on Mount Sinai. That’s the feeling I remember—the feeling of my connection to G-d—not the end of April one. I have this weird thought that maybe he did it on purpose. I know it sounds crazy, but maybe it would be difficult for me to relate to Yom HaZikaron since I don’t have anybody who’s fallen in war or was murdered in a terror attack.
From a religious perspective, Yom Kippur is the defining day of the year, the day on which Jews—secular Jews, religious Jews, BuJews, HinJews, hippie Jews, rich stockbroker Jews, everyone—know that they are Jews. From an Israeli perspective, a cultural, social point of view, Yom HaZikaron is the day on which you know you are an Israeli. The day on which when you hear the one-minute siren sound, you stop on the sidewalk, you get out of your car in the middle of the highway, you stand silent and still, saying to yourself, to everyone around you, to the world itself, I am part of Am Yisrael, the People Israel. And the tears that form in my eyes are for Henry, my grandfather, but also for all the people who’ve lost their lives here, for the sake of . . . I don’t know. At one point, I would have been able to finish that sentence, clearly, eloquently. “At one point” equals “before I moved to Israel.” I came here originally as a result of my Zionist ideology. At that point, I would have been able to say that they died for “the dream of Israel” or “the hope of the Jewish people.” Now, it’s harder to say because I’m confronted with the reality of a bad situation that everyday has aspects that become worse.
So, why am I here now? Because, shockingly, I love living here. As we approach the summer, the increasing heat of the day hints at what is to come with the disengagement from Gaza, a spark that is beginning to erupt into flames. Everyday more arrests are made. More protests are staged. More roads blocked and more signs put up. More “suspicious packages” found. And yet, it was with a “suspicious package” that I began to find my answer, my completion to the sentence above.
I walked by the bus stop. I heard one of the bus security guards (the men and women who get on and off buses all day in order to keep us safe, or at least, make us feel that we are safe) say to a girl, “Is that your cell phone?” as he pointed to an abandoned Nokia sitting on the fence. “No,” she answered, after which he called into his walkie-talkie, “Ok, we’ve got a suspicious package here. Everyone, please move away.” A confused old man, in what now seems like a parody, asked me, “Is there a bomb on the bus that’s coming?” “Um, no,” I answered. “There’s a suspicious package over there,” I explained to him. “Oh? I didn’t see it.” “Well, it’s a cell phone,” I said. “Oh, are they going to blow up the bus with the cell phone?” “Well, I hope not,” I said, now a little confused myself. “Is that even possible?” I thought to myself as I walked down the road to the next bus stop. And then I realized, after the whole incident, I wasn’t even phased. I wasn’t even phased to think, that on my way to the mall, I walked past something that could have blown up. And what jarred me even more about my lack of reaction was that it was the second time this week. So, what is the answer, the conclusion to the sentence above, “People who’ve lost their lives for . . .”? I’m not sure. I’m still working on it, but the following advertisement may shed some light on the topic.
There is an ad now in Jerusalem bus stops. Who knew a bus stop could profess wisdom? It’s a sign that simply says, “Students, July is not only the Disengagement, it’s also the Psychometry (SATs).” “Students,” it seems to remind in motherly and yet simultaneously satirical voice, “July is not only the month during which the country will be ripped into pieces by the government and those who oppose it, it is also your SATs.” It says to me, regular life goes on. Even though 5,000 teachers are going to be fired because of budget cuts. Even though a synagogue was burned down in Moscow yesterday and today a Jewish cemetery was vandalized in France. Even though. . . and the list goes on. And at the end of the list . . . there’s the kiss before the siren and the hug afterwards.
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