My day so far
Feb. 26th, 2005 04:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabotabbyMy friend Avi lives about an hour's walk from the Stage nightclub in Tel Aviv. His grandfather heard the explosion from his bedroom window, then promptly went back to sleep. Avi stayed up all night watching the news, listening to the sirens. I'm glad to have seen an e-mail from him this morning. He wrote:
"I feel great sadness, yet cannot help realize that all is "normal" around me. A few metres from the site, the boardwalk is host to thousands of strollers and sun worshippers, a street performer plays with a boa constrictor and exotic parrot, and local cafes are streaming with locals. Suddenly, a sense of deja vous occurs. This is exactly the sort of thing I witnessed in The West Bank only a few years ago, where Palestinian life would return to "normal" after a heavy Israeli incursion, bombing, or collective punishment. Strange to my Canadian mind, but a test of courage and strength to the people here."
So it goes.
Very tired today. It was my grandmother's birthday, so I went up to see her. She is truly spectacular in her ability to be monumentally offensive within a short period of time. I admit that I goad her a little, giving her details that I know will disturb her when she asks about my life.
"Your mother said that you cooked her an incredible dinner recently."
"Oh, she's talking about the curry. It's my friend's family recipe." Pause, then, "He's from Pakistan...he knows his curry."
Cue the scowl. Maybe I should stick to matzoh ball soup? (Not that I don't like matzoh ball soup...but you get the gist.)
Or relaying the (I thought) rather amusing story of meeting D.'s parents for the first time last night; Indian parents being essentially exactly like Jewish parents in their parent-ness and OMG-feed-the-complete-stranger urges. Which in this case was messy and probably resulted in the first impression that their son's friend is an extremely klutzy white girl. Fairly accurate first impression, actually.
The granny: "You don't need to make good impressions on those sorts of people."
Me: "What sorts of people?"
"You've all broken my heart. First your uncle with the shiksa, then your mother, and now you, too?"
"It's okay, I don't intend to marry my friend's parents. Or anyone else, for that matter."
Oy. Thank you, Grandma, for not even making the slightest attempt to restrain your rampant racism in my company. At least she didn't say anything suicidal-ish. I wouldn't be able to take it. 80-something years is more than enough, more than is given to people who are far more deserving and far less hateful. It sounds cold, I know, but I have no patience for her crap.
But hey, enough of my ranting. Happy birthday, Grandma. If nothing else, you've given me yet another anecdote to use when I try to explain to people where I come from and what my family's like.
Check out what I found all over the subway station:
You know, insane, paranoid anti-Papists really shouldn't litter. Actually, no one should litter. The subways are for everyone's use, so you should keep them clean.
"I feel great sadness, yet cannot help realize that all is "normal" around me. A few metres from the site, the boardwalk is host to thousands of strollers and sun worshippers, a street performer plays with a boa constrictor and exotic parrot, and local cafes are streaming with locals. Suddenly, a sense of deja vous occurs. This is exactly the sort of thing I witnessed in The West Bank only a few years ago, where Palestinian life would return to "normal" after a heavy Israeli incursion, bombing, or collective punishment. Strange to my Canadian mind, but a test of courage and strength to the people here."
So it goes.
Very tired today. It was my grandmother's birthday, so I went up to see her. She is truly spectacular in her ability to be monumentally offensive within a short period of time. I admit that I goad her a little, giving her details that I know will disturb her when she asks about my life.
"Your mother said that you cooked her an incredible dinner recently."
"Oh, she's talking about the curry. It's my friend's family recipe." Pause, then, "He's from Pakistan...he knows his curry."
Cue the scowl. Maybe I should stick to matzoh ball soup? (Not that I don't like matzoh ball soup...but you get the gist.)
Or relaying the (I thought) rather amusing story of meeting D.'s parents for the first time last night; Indian parents being essentially exactly like Jewish parents in their parent-ness and OMG-feed-the-complete-stranger urges. Which in this case was messy and probably resulted in the first impression that their son's friend is an extremely klutzy white girl. Fairly accurate first impression, actually.
The granny: "You don't need to make good impressions on those sorts of people."
Me: "What sorts of people?"
"You've all broken my heart. First your uncle with the shiksa, then your mother, and now you, too?"
"It's okay, I don't intend to marry my friend's parents. Or anyone else, for that matter."
Oy. Thank you, Grandma, for not even making the slightest attempt to restrain your rampant racism in my company. At least she didn't say anything suicidal-ish. I wouldn't be able to take it. 80-something years is more than enough, more than is given to people who are far more deserving and far less hateful. It sounds cold, I know, but I have no patience for her crap.
But hey, enough of my ranting. Happy birthday, Grandma. If nothing else, you've given me yet another anecdote to use when I try to explain to people where I come from and what my family's like.
Check out what I found all over the subway station:
You know, insane, paranoid anti-Papists really shouldn't litter. Actually, no one should litter. The subways are for everyone's use, so you should keep them clean.
