Dear N.,
So you’re a big writer now? Thousands of people read your little column on the Internet? Mazal tov. Then maybe one of them can explain why you never call your mother.
At that fancy college your father, alav hashalom, and I paid for, they taught you not to care about your mother? Some education! Decades later and you’re still paid by the word. Nu, so you didn’t have a head for medicine or law, but I thought maybe a rabbi? They make a nice living—and how hard can it be? A bar mitzvah here, a sermon there. According to my friend Goldie, whose husband Mort was a tax accountant—he cheated on her for years, the mamzer (may his memory be for a blessing)—rabbis get free housing, and can even write off their vacations in Israel!
You couldn’t be a rabbi and then a writer? Maimonides was a doctor and a rabbi and a writer! What fancy college did he go to?
On the other hand, to be honest — and I say this with love — you’re not so good with people, so maybe it’s for the best.
Well anyway I’m going to a Sisterhood meeting now but if it’s not too much trouble maybe you could call me later. Or not. I don’t want to be a bother.
Your Mother (Not That You’d Remember)
Dear Mom:
First, I think it’s important to note that I called you yesterday. You do remember what the doctors said, right? One Percocet every four hours, and not the other way around?
And to be fair, mom, you aren’t exactly camped by the phone awaiting its ring. Your social life is far more active than mine. Tonight it’s Sisterhood; tomorrow it’s stuffing envelopes for the Federation fundraiser. Then there’s senior programming at the shul, and the lecture series at the JCC that’s always scheduled for 2:00 on a weekday afternoon—only slightly less subtle than a sign reading “you must be 75 or older to attend this event”.
I’ll say this for American Jewish organizations: we love our seniors! If our communal priorities were Chanuka candles, the mahjong generation would be the shammes, towering above the others, determining which of the lesser tapers merit a share of your light and warmth. And why not? You’ve spent your lives and fortunes building the institutions that form the branches of the menorah — and what’s a menorah without branches? Just candles lying on their sides, burning holes in your expensive tablecloth. What, those organizations should now abandon you in your old age, like an ungrateful son who wastes his God-given potential posting narishkeit on Medium?
God forbid! And why should they? Spending on the next generation is a low return-on-investment proposition. Who among you has not watched in despair as your children attended Brandeis and NYU ($60,000! For a year! What a racket!) only to emerge as teachers, researchers, or—God forbid!— writers? Surely, with your poor offspring scraping out a livelihood in those fields, not a single one of their names will ever grace a Thank You to Our Generous Benefactors plaque in the social hall!
Still, as Hillel said: if we are only for ourselves, how will we ever have Jewish great-grandchildren? If there’s no money for young adult programming, how will Sadie’s handsome boy Josh (after a while you don’t even notice his lazy eye) ever meet Irving’s charming granddaughter Shayna (it’s normal to put on a few extra pounds during grad school, don’t give it a second thought)?
And so, Mom, your wealthy octogenarian landsmen created Birthright; and, just like that, all your grandkids are visiting Israel. And for free yet! Such an opportunity! True, after the trip they still don’t know Ben Gurion from Ben Gazzara (hint: they’re both dead)—but so what? Cram enough Jewish 22-year-olds on a bus for ten days, and within a year (maybe two) you’ll be meeting the mechutonim and squeezing into a dress you are certain will fit perfectly by the wedding.
Mission accomplished! Then again… even a bare bones, no-frills wedding (say, 300 guests, plus band, videographer, rehearsal dinner for 80, and Russian dance troupe) is a huge financial burden. And who’s going to pay for that: a writer!?
Mom, I know that you love me, and that you take great satisfaction in recounting the things I could have achieved, if only I’d gone to medical school. Far be it from me to deny you that pleasure! So I promise: next time, I’ll try to call earlier, before the pain killers kick in.
Love, N.
