Mazal tov moments in mainstream America
ON a recent trip to the United States, we spent some time in Sedona, a jewel of a place in Arizona, famous for its red rock formations. Many classic westerns were filmed there, and these days many New Age pilgrims descend on its hiking trails in search of the “spiritual vortices” supposedly concentrated in the area.
And, needless to say, the ranks of these pilgrims are disproportionately swollen with, well, Red Sea pedestrians.
It was my encounter with a sweet couple of this general bent that brought home to me, in a single moment, how starkly different my reality as an Australian Jew is from that of my American brethren.
We were staying in a comfortable and quirky little inn at which we enjoyed a gourmet breakfast every morning. One morning, a family comprising a young couple in their 20s and an older couple, being the woman’s parents, sat down at a table next to us.
We exchanged some pleasantries; the young couple had arrived from San Diego, the woman’s parents from New Jersey. The mother, on finding out my daughter’s age, explained how her granddaughter of a similar age would arrive from New York the next day and maybe the two girls could play together.
“So is this a family holiday?” I asked, aware that the Memorial Day long weekend was coming up.
“It’s a wedding,” she said, pointing at her daughter and future son-in-law, “Jodi and David are getting married on Monday.”
I smiled, opened my mouth and hesitated. Cue the drum roll. I scanned the faces before me; the brown eyes unfamiliar and yet somehow familiar. The mother’s slightly nasal New Jersey drawl rang in my ears — her smile had the warmth of a long-lost relative.
It was on the tip of my tongue, of course, how could it be otherwise? There was only one proper thing to say in the circumstances.
“Mazal tov!”
Only, I did not say it. I choked. In that second of flustered indecision, my mind engaged in some ludicrous and cowardly free-association.
New Jersey led to The Sopranos, which led to … Italians. Maybe these people were in fact Italian, and therefore a presumptuous mazal tov would cause unnecessary awkwardness; exposing me, embarrassing them, it wasn’t worth it. So with a tight smile, I instead opted for a refined, perfectly Anglo, “congratulations”.
Later I conceded that even if these folks had been Italian, coming from New Jersey, they were unlikely to have been surprised or offended at a mazal tov.
No queasy confrontation with The Other was at stake here. In America, Jewish culture is mainstream culture; a fact that hardly needs exposition, and yet I had to feel this truth to fully appreciate it.
The next evening, another Jewish couple, also grandparents but this time from Chicago, arrived at the inn. This time, I was in absolutely no doubt about their ethnicity; the wife Elaine immediately fussing over my children like the Jewish mother she was.
As we sat chatting around a table, the mother-of-the-bride approached to offer some cake. She told Elaine about her daughter’s upcoming nuptials, and Elaine without a nanosecond’s hesitation boomed “mazal tov” in reply.
“Thank you,” the mother-of-the-bride beamed. The wedding party -— bloated after the arrival of the groom’s family, Sephardic Israelis from Toronto -— had by now colonised the poolside garden, clinking wine glasses and letting out joyful l’chaims. Italians, huh?
The wedding took place out on the red rocks as the couple -— he a chiropractor, she a yoga teacher -— wished. An image of the Hindu deity Ganesh adorned the chuppah, and the bride performed the mikvah ritual in a tepee. In other words: a typical Jewish wedding.
A few days before the ceremony, the family invited me to join in their drumming circle. Not quite my scene, I admit, but the mother-of-the-bride had extended the invitation twice and my five-year-old was dead keen. They gave her a huge drum, snuggling her between them, as I swayed to the beat (led by a white guy clearly immersed in all things Native American), baby in arms.
And as I looked around, taking in the sweaty, uninhibited glee, the groom’s sparkling eyes welcoming me into the fold, the faces unfamiliar and yet familiar, everyone so assured of their place in this inn, this city, this country, this multicultural mash-up, I felt, amid the pleasure, a small sting. Envy, I guess you could call it.
Julie Szego is a writer for The Age.