Seeing The World As It Is

The Death of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram“My religious commitment: to stay in conversation with Jewish stories.” That’s Nancy Fuchs Kreimer in “The Face under the Huppah: Relating to My Closest Stranger.” The essay is a meditation inspired by a drive with her husband from Philadelphia to Boston. Near the beginning of the drive, Fuchs Kreimer and her husband get stuck in a familiar conflict: a disagreement over whose proposed route is best: hers that is shortest, his that sometimes involves less traffic. They’ve been here before: on this highway, on this trip, caught in this disagreement whose stakes to them seem high.

Given the “circumstances”—their late start, the threat of snow and ice in Connecticut, and the building Friday afternoon traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike—her husband declares that “he will be determining” their route. “Alone.”

How does he get away with simply claiming the authority to choose their route? Fuchs Kreimer doesn’t openly protest her husband’s autonomous action. Rather, she devotes the rest of her illuminating essay to considering her response to him in relation to relevant rabbinic texts and others, including Freud, Levinas, and the Israeli novelist David Grossman. [Read more...]

Writing My Mother’s Icon

Blessed Santa Barbara, / Your story is written in the sky, / With paper and holy water.

December 4 marked the feast day of St. Barbara. An early martyr, St. Barbara announced her faith to her pagan father by having three windows—a sign of the Trinity—cut into a wall of her private bath. It is said that the torches St. Barbara’s father used to torture her would extinguish themselves before they could be pressed against her skin.

My mother, also named Barbara, spent her summers cleaning the rooms of my grandfather’s motel; memories of the task still make her shudder. My grandfather refused to wash sheets or towels, and was either too drunk or angry for my mother to ask for a clean washrag.

“I cannot stand dirt,” she says, filling her sink with soapy water, reaching for the spoon I used to spoon sugar into her coffee. Her cigarette rests on the sink’s aluminum edge, its ash hovering over the sudsy water, which she will use to wash the spoon and the rest of the day’s dishes. It is a better spot for the cigarette than the counter by the stove, which, she has mentioned, is now miraculously free of grease stains.

“Baby oil! A little bit just rubs the grease away,” she exclaims, somehow forgetting how flammable baby oil is, how easily it could set her small kitchen ablaze, the file cabinet holding her life’s paperwork sidled next to the stove, the first thing to go should the oil spark.

[Read more...]

Vengeance Isn’t Mine

Bring me a fountain pen dipped in blood! And the skin from his back for parchment on which to pen this post!

At least that’s how I felt two months ago when S.L. saw fit to call my wife one morning and lay into her for how she had handled a matter pertaining to the upcoming school auction.

The details are insignificant, only that S.L. had not been properly informed of a decision that involved a friend he had suggested for the auctioneer. But rather than express his displeasure as any rational adult and fellow school parent would, he felt justified in aggressively demanding an apology from my wife, only to bully onward after she said she was sorry and tried to explain what had happened.

Did it not occur to him that I might be home to witness the call? To see her brought to tears in the aftermath? Did it not occur to him that I might be the kind of husband who would land him in the hospital by day’s end?

My wife, who is no wilting flower (as our own disputes often attest), now had another hotheaded male on her hands when she hung up the phone. [Read more...]


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