those guys who wears a black hat and coat and has long, curly sideburns running down his face and neck. Jessica (she's Jewish) told me they're ultra, ultra religious and try to follow all of God's six hundred or so rules. I have enough trouble following my mom's rules, let alone six hundred of God's.
It takes me a minute to realize his eyes are closed and he's praying. But he's not praying in his seat, he's praying right over mine. He's bobbing up and down, his eyes are shut, and his face is in total concentration. In fact, as my eyes focus in the dark, I realize all of the Hasidic Jews have congregated at the back of the plane to pray.
But it doesn't sound like prayers at all, more like some chant mixed with mumbling. They might not even be praying. But then one of the guys, I guess he's the leader, says a couple of words loudly and they all respond and keep on doing their mumbling chant. Yeah, they're praying.
Do they all have to do it at the same time?
And what are those straps on the back of their hands and arms or the box strapped to their forehead?
Now that I watch them more intently, I admire the men for being so devoted to their religion they would pray instead of sleep. Don't get me wrong, I admire it, but I wouldn't do it.
I look over at Ron, sound asleep. He's a good-looking man, if you like the dark, brooding kind of guy. Which I don't. My mother is pastey white and has blond hair and green eyes. She was probably in her "opposite" stage when she and my dad got together that fateful night.
15
I wonder if Ron wishes I wasn't born. If he'd chosen to stay at his cousin's dorm room at the University of Illinois, instead of following my mom to her sorority house seventeen years ago, then he wouldn't be stuck with a kid who resented him.
His eyes suddenly open and I sit back in my chair, pretending to watch the television screen in front of me without the headphones on my ears. I have one good thing to say about El Al Israel Airline--it has personal television screens embedded into the backs of every single seat. A miracle in its own right.
"I think you'll like it there," Ron says. "Even though I've lived in America for seventeen years, Israel will always be apart of me."
"And ...?" I say.
He shifts in his seat and looks at me straight on. "And your grandmudder will want it to be a part of you, too. Don't disappoint her."
I blink and give him my famous sneer, the one where my top lip curls up just the right amount. "You've got to be kidding. Don't disappoint her 7 . I didn't know she existed before yesterday. What about her disappointing me? If you haven't forgotten, she hasn't been the doting grandma."
Believe me, I know people who have doting grandmas. Jessica's Grandma Pearl spent four years knitting her a blanket. Four years! And she's got arthritis. I wonder what Grandma Pearl would think if she knew Jessica lost her virginity to Michael Greenberg under the blanket she spent four years knitting with her crooked fingers.
16
Ron sighs and turns his attention to his little personal television screen. I note he's not wearing the headphones, either.
I sit back. There's a long silence, so long I think if I look at him I'll find him sleeping again.
"What do I call her?" I ask, still staring at the screen in front of me.
"She'll like it if you call her Safta. It means grandma in Hebrew."
"Safta," I say quietly to myself, trying out how the word sounds coming out of my mouth. Glancing over at the Sperm Donor, I notice he's nodding. His chin is raised and he's giving me a little smile like he's proud. Ugh!
Looking forward, I turn my personal TV to the channel showing how much longer until we land in Israel. Four hours and fifty-five minutes.
By this time the Hasidic Jews have gone back to their seats. I close my eyes again, thankfully drifting off to sleep.
Before I know it, the flight attendant says something in Hebrew. I wait until the information is repeated in English.
"We're starting our descent
It takes me a minute to realize his eyes are closed and he's praying. But he's not praying in his seat, he's praying right over mine. He's bobbing up and down, his eyes are shut, and his face is in total concentration. In fact, as my eyes focus in the dark, I realize all of the Hasidic Jews have congregated at the back of the plane to pray.
But it doesn't sound like prayers at all, more like some chant mixed with mumbling. They might not even be praying. But then one of the guys, I guess he's the leader, says a couple of words loudly and they all respond and keep on doing their mumbling chant. Yeah, they're praying.
Do they all have to do it at the same time?
And what are those straps on the back of their hands and arms or the box strapped to their forehead?
Now that I watch them more intently, I admire the men for being so devoted to their religion they would pray instead of sleep. Don't get me wrong, I admire it, but I wouldn't do it.
I look over at Ron, sound asleep. He's a good-looking man, if you like the dark, brooding kind of guy. Which I don't. My mother is pastey white and has blond hair and green eyes. She was probably in her "opposite" stage when she and my dad got together that fateful night.
15
I wonder if Ron wishes I wasn't born. If he'd chosen to stay at his cousin's dorm room at the University of Illinois, instead of following my mom to her sorority house seventeen years ago, then he wouldn't be stuck with a kid who resented him.
His eyes suddenly open and I sit back in my chair, pretending to watch the television screen in front of me without the headphones on my ears. I have one good thing to say about El Al Israel Airline--it has personal television screens embedded into the backs of every single seat. A miracle in its own right.
"I think you'll like it there," Ron says. "Even though I've lived in America for seventeen years, Israel will always be apart of me."
"And ...?" I say.
He shifts in his seat and looks at me straight on. "And your grandmudder will want it to be a part of you, too. Don't disappoint her."
I blink and give him my famous sneer, the one where my top lip curls up just the right amount. "You've got to be kidding. Don't disappoint her 7 . I didn't know she existed before yesterday. What about her disappointing me? If you haven't forgotten, she hasn't been the doting grandma."
Believe me, I know people who have doting grandmas. Jessica's Grandma Pearl spent four years knitting her a blanket. Four years! And she's got arthritis. I wonder what Grandma Pearl would think if she knew Jessica lost her virginity to Michael Greenberg under the blanket she spent four years knitting with her crooked fingers.
16
Ron sighs and turns his attention to his little personal television screen. I note he's not wearing the headphones, either.
I sit back. There's a long silence, so long I think if I look at him I'll find him sleeping again.
"What do I call her?" I ask, still staring at the screen in front of me.
"She'll like it if you call her Safta. It means grandma in Hebrew."
"Safta," I say quietly to myself, trying out how the word sounds coming out of my mouth. Glancing over at the Sperm Donor, I notice he's nodding. His chin is raised and he's giving me a little smile like he's proud. Ugh!
Looking forward, I turn my personal TV to the channel showing how much longer until we land in Israel. Four hours and fifty-five minutes.
By this time the Hasidic Jews have gone back to their seats. I close my eyes again, thankfully drifting off to sleep.
Before I know it, the flight attendant says something in Hebrew. I wait until the information is repeated in English.
"We're starting our descent
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