A true black sheep story
Despite my pale skin and white hair I’d always been my extended family’s black sheep. I was aware of the way they all spoke about me behind my back; I was a source of pleasurable worry, joyous frowns and extremely fulfilling headshakes. I had never brought home a girl, I had voiced my hatred of our country’s beloved army, I had no tangible profession to speak of and so following my discharge I had become a full fledged bum, a hippy with an unkempt beard and long hair who probably (and actually had) smoked pot. As far as my family was concerned, there was no room for lost years in the chronology of one’s lifetime.
I mostly kept my distance from them all. I lived on my very own vampire schedule and shared my time with friends, who accepted me as a charming failure. My father’s sister lived with her husband, their four children, and, since my grandfather had passed away, our grandmother as well, five houses down from ours on the same narrow street. While my father and brother would make the twenty second walk to visit them at least once a week, I only saw them on a handful of occasions a year, mostly seated around a table on a holiday dinner.
On one of my lost days I was surprised to find myself all dressed up, my awkwardly lengthening hair wet from the shower and pulled back like a gangster’s, forced to shake hands and kiss them all hello under a glaring light that was fixed above a video camera documenting the Brit-Mila, the circumcision ceremony, of my cousin’s first born son. I had known that this day was coming, I’d known his wife had given birth eight days earlier, but for some reason I’d imagined it as a modest event to be held at their house with a Rabbi, wine passed around in tiny disposable cups, some crackers with cheese and no big fuss. I wasn’t ready for the glittery ballroom, the showy five course meal and the dancing. I kissed my cousin and said “Mazal Tov”, he replied “Thank you” in a formal tone that pinched me.
My grandmother from down the street walked up to our table during the main course of the meal and said she had to tell me something. She had woken up that morning after dreaming about me. In her dream she and I had gone on a walk through a lush field of green, and she’d called me by my childhood nickname and said “Pick up some lettuce, you like lettuce, bring some lettuce home!” I bent over to pick up the large orbs of lettuce, which were unusually huge and richly green. She urged me, “Take more! Take more!”
My aunt joined us around the table and told me she owned a book that explained dreams. According to the book, the lettuces symbolized money, a lot of it. “You’re going to bring home a lot of money.” My grandmother promised me solemnly. I could tell she honestly believed that was true. I felt utterly disconnected from any of the people surrounding me, and spent the rest of the afternoon daydreaming in the Sheraton City Towers hotel ballroom while the rest of my family danced. I stared in to space, caught up in sweet thoughts about the mass amounts of money I’d rake in and then shower about recklessly onto all my family members, cutting million dollar checks with ease and grace and taking advantage of that moment of insane generosity to tell them all that I loved them, as they danced around me in celebration.
I mostly kept my distance from them all. I lived on my very own vampire schedule and shared my time with friends, who accepted me as a charming failure. My father’s sister lived with her husband, their four children, and, since my grandfather had passed away, our grandmother as well, five houses down from ours on the same narrow street. While my father and brother would make the twenty second walk to visit them at least once a week, I only saw them on a handful of occasions a year, mostly seated around a table on a holiday dinner.
On one of my lost days I was surprised to find myself all dressed up, my awkwardly lengthening hair wet from the shower and pulled back like a gangster’s, forced to shake hands and kiss them all hello under a glaring light that was fixed above a video camera documenting the Brit-Mila, the circumcision ceremony, of my cousin’s first born son. I had known that this day was coming, I’d known his wife had given birth eight days earlier, but for some reason I’d imagined it as a modest event to be held at their house with a Rabbi, wine passed around in tiny disposable cups, some crackers with cheese and no big fuss. I wasn’t ready for the glittery ballroom, the showy five course meal and the dancing. I kissed my cousin and said “Mazal Tov”, he replied “Thank you” in a formal tone that pinched me.
My grandmother from down the street walked up to our table during the main course of the meal and said she had to tell me something. She had woken up that morning after dreaming about me. In her dream she and I had gone on a walk through a lush field of green, and she’d called me by my childhood nickname and said “Pick up some lettuce, you like lettuce, bring some lettuce home!” I bent over to pick up the large orbs of lettuce, which were unusually huge and richly green. She urged me, “Take more! Take more!”
My aunt joined us around the table and told me she owned a book that explained dreams. According to the book, the lettuces symbolized money, a lot of it. “You’re going to bring home a lot of money.” My grandmother promised me solemnly. I could tell she honestly believed that was true. I felt utterly disconnected from any of the people surrounding me, and spent the rest of the afternoon daydreaming in the Sheraton City Towers hotel ballroom while the rest of my family danced. I stared in to space, caught up in sweet thoughts about the mass amounts of money I’d rake in and then shower about recklessly onto all my family members, cutting million dollar checks with ease and grace and taking advantage of that moment of insane generosity to tell them all that I loved them, as they danced around me in celebration.
posted by True @ 3:31 AM
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