Short Essays

The other day we had a writing workshop and the theme was recalling our Jewish experiences while growing up. I wrote two short essays that I’d like to share.

Going to Shul with Grandma

“I’ll meet you there, you know where our seats are” said my grandma as she walked past our driveway (she’s my next door neighbor) en route to Hillcrest. The shul down the block is where she was off to. Member of the sisterhood, tzaddaka giver, and most notable voice in the congregation, Shirley Gilman Domber was on her way. Her hand tailored (by her own hands) skirt swinging back and forth as she strut down the street in Queens; although her Brooklyn swagger loudly proclaims where her loyalties lie. My grandma, head of the family, brisket maker extraordinaire, definition of resourceful, witty, too outspoken, outrageous, blue eye shadow wearing, salsa dancing, yamaka knitting, picture taking, chupa making, secret keeping, advice giving grandma holds her arms open and we all fit in them…although she isn’t really the touchy type. “Don’t give me kisses, you know I don’t like that stuff” she says. I arrive at the synagogue and find her sitting in her aisle, sucking on a hard candy because it soothes her throat and doesn’t count as food during the fasts. She has her siddur open but doesn’t need to look down until the Chazzan starts singing her song. “Oh I love this one” she’d proclaim as she shmears a finger on her pink lipstick and marks the page for future reference. Then she sings, louder than everyone else and about two beats slower then the rest. Her eyes are closed, her body is swaying. I stare, completely transfixed by her magnificent being.

The Yichud Room

When I was young my family attended a synagogue called Gamilas Chesed in Pittsburgh, Pa. It was the most beautiful House of Prayer I have ever seen, even to this day. It had blue stained-glass windows and an ark-shaped ceiling, casting a sapphirey glow on all faces of the inhabitants. When you entered the room it was as if entering another realm, you’d think the laws of gravity weren’t applicable there. Perhaps now that I am older, can actually read Hebrew, and have developed an appreciation for the words of prayer, I would be able to sit in that room, basking in the majestic royal blue while pouring out my soul. But as a young child, being there was absolutely unbearable. There I sat, swinging my legs that didn’t quite reach the floor, my ruffled socks covering my mary-jane rocking feet, wearing a fluffy itchy dress and my haired brushed back so tightly, my eyes changed shape….uch. My younger sister and I would stealthy sneak out of the room---to use the potty for the 15^th time--- and run across the reception hall where many a Kiddush was eaten. The pitter patter of our shoes smacked the linoleum, echoing throughout the room, until we reached the secret door. We’d exchange knowing looks and race in because whoever got there first would get to sit in the chair and be the honored cala (bride). The bridal chamber was a small room replete with ribbons, feathery couches, baskets of pearls and ribbon, cloth flowers, and best of all, a glass desk with a huge mirror, undoubtedly the place the bride sat as her friends and family fawned over her. The winner was whoever made it to the chair first, while the other sister would immediately fall into step pinning ribbon to the cala’s dress, tying flowers into her hair, applying lipstick to her mouth saying “oh darling, are you sure you’re ready to go through with this”.