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Jewish World Review
June 7, 2005
/ 29 Iyar, 5765
Ruth's gift
By Andrea Simantov
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http://www.JewishWorldReview.com |
In 1973 I left home for the first time to attend an extremely W.A.S.P.ish liberal arts college in New England. Both of my roommates were Episcopalian and had bouncy prep-school monikers like Muffin and Pooh. From them I learned to chain-smoke, skip classes and paste a supercilious look of world-weariness upon my face. The freedom from parental restrictions made me almost giddy and, consequently, I anxiously embraced any radical idea that would cause my mother to accuse me of deliberately trying to shorten her life.
En masse, my classmates and I picketed the dean's office for free birth control counseling, performed socialist street theatre and distributed flyers promoting rallies, riots and Neo-Compost-Awareness. I attended lectures touting the benefits of wheat grass enemas and celebrated the Winter Solstice at a Bahai Temple.
My parents expressed little concern for my youthful experimentation and were, in fact, proud that they had raised such an inquisitive and adventurous daughter.
Curiosity was the motivation behind my attendance at a Hillel-sponsored Bagel & Lox brunch in the student union one Sunday morning. Three of the other four participants appeared to feel as uncomfortable as I did, frightened of identifying too closely with the Greater Tribe and being found out for what we truly were: Jews. Almost paralyzed by the possibility that one of my roommates might accidentally venture into the building, I looked at my watch and planned an escape.
At the rabbi's urging, the fifth participant stood and, with cream cheese still stuck to his upper lip, he informed us that he'd just returned from a year of learning in Israel. He described what it felt like to be there as the country was attacked without warning on Yom Kippur eve. He talked of common destiny and shared fate, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with other Jews. How their time of need would be prove to be, historically, a Divine opportunity for those of us living in the Diaspora to show that the lessons of the Holocaust hadn't been wasted on us.
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Despite having lived an observant Jewish lifestyle for almost thirty years, beneath the modest clothing and misunderstood "restrictions" associated with Orthodoxy still beats the heart of a radical. Year after year, it is my inner-feminist — never dormant — who finds incomparable inspiration from reading the Book of Ruth.
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He was a real zealot, this guy, sporting a patchy beard, jaunty baseball cap and a bunch of white strings hanging out of his oversized Boston Bruins T-shirt. He was chubby and spoke with an unmistakable New York accent: nasal, flat, and so, well, Brooklyn. His intensity was embarrassing, decidedly un-cool in this post-Woodstock era, and I tried to distract myself by thinking of creative tofu recipes.
One Saturday morning I saw him race out of our co-ed dorm carrying a mysterious fabric-bag and sporting a suspicious look on his face. Switching into my best Nancy Drew mode, I didn't call out but, rather, slipped into a pair of Earth Shoes and, stealthily, tailed him.
Boston was/is a college-town and the streets had an abandoned, ghostlike quality to them as the denizens slept off whatever they'd consumed the night before. Moving toward the direction of Massachusetts General hospital, it took only ten aerobic minutes to find myself, sheepishly, standing at the entrance of an almost-empty Orthodox synagogue. Three young women stood behind the glass partition, all of them conservatively dressed, chanting to themselves from small, leather-covered prayer books. Clearly not my scene, I turned on my inverted heels and sauntered home.
A week later I was back, dressed in a sidewalk-sweeping Indian skirt, Frye boots and a surplus sweater courtesy of the U.S. Navy. Sitting a few rows behind the same three women, I tried to follow the service by reading the stilted, archaic translation. When that got too difficult, I tried humming along to the dirge-like tunes. Standing at the ensuing wine-and-cake kiddush, I experienced much of the same awkwardness that I had during the Hillel brunch. Only this time I didn't think of escaping. Oddly, just the independent action of being there felt empowering.
This became my Saturday morning secret, and I guarded it with a cloak-and-dagger intensity. I soon became a "regular," silent but dependable, nodding a return greeting to all who offered a whispery "Good Shabbes." After only a month, one of the Plain-Women asked me to join them for lunch and, inventing a fictitious prior commitment, I demurred. After all, I wasn't like them. Certainly, I wasn't religious. My interest in the Sabbath was purely cultural. (It would be another few months before I'd learn the term, Humanistic Judaism, but I was already girding myself in the armor.) My flirtation with Shabbes was merely an experiment; a humorous diversion.
After three weeks of refusing the apparently sincere invites, I couldn't think fast enough before I was pigeonholed into agreeing to dine with them. The elastic friendship circle of Karen, Joy, and Debbie easily held plenty of space for me. These Saturday lunches signaled a starting point in my real education, introducing me first and foremost to the world of acceptance and freedom — from judgment. Whoa!
The following year I joined a famous Jewish choir — NOT so much for my love of oratorio but, rather, to meet cute guys wearing ripped jeans, ponytails and knitted yarmulkes. Young women dressed exactly like me in torn, baggy jeans and cotton peasant blouses paused for a moment before sipping their yogurt-shakes in order to utter a blessing. These new friends were free to accompany me to jazz concerts on Thursday or Sunday evenings but were obstinately unavailable on my favorite club-hopping night, Friday.
Despite having lived an observant Jewish lifestyle for almost thirty years, beneath the modest clothing and misunderstood "restrictions" associated with Orthodoxy still beats the heart of a radical. Outsiders might be surprised to learn that there are, indeed, no conflicts in these mistakenly disparate views. As the inventors of political dissention, checks-and-balances, trial by jury, and other rules for public conduct upon which civil society relies for collective harmony, debate is encouraged. A code of living designed precisely for radical-me.
Year after year, it is my inner-feminist — never dormant — who finds incomparable inspiration from reading the Book of Ruth. As with the "good girls" of every generation, she dutifully follows a path of acquiescence until destitution, community ostracism and early widowhood force her to select which fork-in-the-road she'll ultimately travel. Her equally devoted and equally non-Jewish sister-in-law, Orpah, kisses their shared mother-in-law's cheek and returns to her people. There is a linguistic foreboding this emotional scene as the Hebrew word for kiss is neshikah. The root of the word is Neshek: Weapon. Anyone who's seen a Cosa Nostra film or two knows that a kiss can mean many things. Thus, the Megillah (Lit."scroll") is telling us, "Beware of empty or — worse — duplicitous gestures."
Ruth, on the other hand, commits herself to Naomi's path, sealing the choice with a breast-to-breast hug. The Hebrew word for "hug" is chibuk, sharing the same three-letter root for the words "cleave" or "glue." Even a non-Mensa gal like me can glean the tome's intention in juxtaposing the two similar gestures. Pretty neat, huh?
Walking a less-traveled and undeniably brutal path in order to join our irascible tribe, she soon becomes an oddity among the Jewish people. Nevertheless, her spiritual clarity combined with alluring femininity allows her to stand out and, ultimately, earns her a coveted place as the Mother-of-Royalty. This convert — a quintessential outsider — has become a paradigm of selflessness. The story only grows spicier when the reader understands that, using today's parlance, Ruth is a real "babe." Her book is replete with sex, scandal, and intrigue.
For the past ten years I've had the honor of standing in front of the Western Wall on Shavuos morning, weary from having stayed up all night in earnest Torah study. The 5 a.m. walk, which winds through the fragrant Arab market, is an experience never to be forgotten. The crescendo of thousands upon thousands of Jews, joined in song and prayer, is the closest I'll come in this lifetime to experiencing what Bnai Yisroel (the newly minted Jewish People) did as they stood at the foot of Mount Sinai. Without a doubt, they were awash in feelings of awe and trepidation, awaiting the promised Torah.
Six thousand years later, I feel no less humble standing among my brothers and sisters — Jews through birth and conversion — breathing the same air and reveling in His glorious benevolence.
The Book of Ruth always reminds me to be humble as I plod through this thing called "life."
The Gift of Ruth.
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JewishWorldReview.com contributor Andrea Simantov is a Jerusalem-based columnist and single
mother of six. Comments by clicking here.
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© 2005, Andrea Simantov. This column first appeared in Orange County Jewish Life
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