The Cantor’s Song: Are You Listening?
There is something else every cantor needs to do, the old blind cantor told us. But I can’t tell you, because you either know it—or you don’t.
Contributing writer Jenna Zark is a local Jewish playwright whose plays have been produced at Circle Repertory Company, Illusion Theater, History Theatre, Minnesota Jewish Theatre and elsewhere. She also provides communication services to businesses and nonprofits. More information is at www.jennazark.org.
There is something else every cantor needs to do, the old blind cantor told us. But I can’t tell you, because you either know it—or you don’t.
There is something about a circle of close friends that makes you taller, more beautiful and stronger.You can be who you are, and all you have to do is walk in the door and fit like a puzzle piece into a world you own.
I can’t remember when she started telling me the truth about what was happening at home. I just remember picking up the phone one day and going still, hearing words like “bruises” and “black and “blue.”
She stares at me, wondering why I don’t wear a scarf like her mom. Am I married? Of course I imagine this; we haven’t said a word.
I’m seeing a 1930s movie star, someone snarly like Bette Davis, saying “God has nothing to with it,” in the middle of a party on Park Avenue. How would she have written the book of Lamentations? I see her laughing when I ask.
“Look at your hands,” John says to me one night, when I am sobbing that “I think we may really be alone down here.”
“Look how cool they are,” he says. “Who else could do that but God?”
He is holding his mother’s hand as they get out of the car, but his head swivels to catch sight of the protesters in front of him. As he approaches the door, they scream “Zionist pigs!” with little thought as to how this might be affecting him.
My sister’s experience with antisemitism lead her to conclude it was easier not to be a Jew. I am still wrestling with her decision.
Watching Josh that evening, I finally understood the saying about all of us escaping from Egypt every time the story is told. Because very likely we are all trying to escape.
I know you’re out there—a single parent, newly minted and not expecting to be.
I don’t want to meet you; but for ten minutes, the ten minutes you were in my garage at least, I want to be you.
There was no time to think, scream, blink, anything. Just trees, coming toward my windshield.
I circle around the room, thinking of The Gift of the Magi story by O. Henry and trying not to cast myself in an overly romanticized version of it (substituting holidays instead of gifts for the self-sacrificing lovers).