OutSiders contd.

continued from outsiders
At 12, he was growing up. He wore a leather jacket, lifted weights and tried to pick up some karate. He didn’t seem interested in sharing stories and opinions as we had in the past, preferring to spend his time tinkering with machinery. Under the newly gruff exterior, he seemed pleased to see me, but he was no longer my honorary sister.... Though no entourage of neighborhood boys followed him to our yard, as they had with top gun, he made do with some of his younger siblings as followers, bribing them with promises of sweets.

It looked like his life was taking an upturn, but there were subtle signs otherwise. The former verbally precocious child now practiced a studied silence. He rarely smiled; rarely made eye contact for that matter. He maintained a stone like facial expression- and a rock feels no pain and an island never cries. “It’s just his age,” said my mom, but I didn't know.

And yes, there had been pain. Despite the tough guy attitude, or perhaps because of it, the victim role followed him. Only, this time it was at school, and not even from the kids. This time it was from the adults. It should have been his time to shine, but the Yeshiva apparently didn’t have much use for creativity and spontaneity. Early on in the year, he had been picked on, and eventually struck by a teacher. My parents chose to transfer him to another school. But that didn’t turn out as expected. If anything, the new school was even worse when it came to corporeal punishment. I do remember my brother reporting one incident: A teacher disciplining a kid (a different kid, I hoped) for fighting in the hallway. “Whack, Whack. Keep your hands to yourself!” Whack.”

He reported that story nonchalantly, even flippantly, though I could barely contain my outrage. However, a couple of nights later when I found Yitzie teasing his little siblings in my folks absence, I forgot about my moral outrage as I bodily removed Yitzie from the house and slammed the door behind him. After all, I was the adult of the home now. It wasn’t easy; he was stronger than I remembered. Panting, I locked the door, waiting for the inevitable protests, but they didn’t come.

But not all adults were invincible; there were other outlets for retaliation, such as the “English” (secular studies) teacher Stauber. Michael Stauber was a newcomer to the community, a BT- an Americanized Jew. “Hi Stubby! Hi Stubby!” my brother would stage whisper up the aisle. He would taunt him, mimicking his non-Yiddishized, Midwestern American accent. But to his credit, Stauber did not retaliate. In fact, he spent many long phone calls with my dad brainstorming on how to make lessons more stimulating, how to keep Yitzie better occupied in class. But it was to no avail; Stubby Stauber remained a safer target for the former "Yitzie Pitzie", since only religious teachers were allowed to hit.

I finished the seminary year and took a camp summer job. But when that was done, with no forseeable educational, job, or romantic prospects save blind dates in boring hotel lobbies with black hatted bochurim, I got on a plane for another year of seminary, just in time for the September holiday season… and Yitzie’s thirteenth birthday. As a girl, I never had a bar mitzvah myself, so I reasoned that it wasn’t such a big deal. Surely not enough to miss the festival season in Jerusalem. I thought I was being independent. I didn’t realize I was weaving myself into a cocoon.

Back at the seminary I quickly slipped back into the hyper-religious mode, renouncing television, movies and downtown Jerusalem with its nightclubs and shopping malls. But phone calls kept disturbing the sanctity. “I just wanted to inform you,” said my mom as if telling me about a funeral, “Yitzie was suspended from his Yeshiva.” What had he done? Something about inappropriate magazines. Hanging around local gas stations after curfew. I didn’t want to know more but she was clearly distraught, seeking my support and advice. “He stays for hours in his room, not talking to a soul, listening to all kind of lewd music on his walkman,” she confided. “What should I do? Should I confiscate it?” How did I get involved in this conflict, I wondered. “You used to listen to that sort of music, back when you were having some trouble,” she explained, as if she had heard. “Is it really very destructive? Perhaps I should sneak it away and he’ll think he lost it.”

Oh. So that’s what had happened to my slit skirt that I had proudly bought with my babysitting money when I was in ninth grade. I would have been furious if I had known at the time. But that was in the long distant past and I had since crossed the fence: I only had to look down at my ankle length skirt and baggy high collared shirt to agree that yes, mom ought to be very concerned about the music, and underhanded action was surely her parental prerogative.

But things did not get better. He had temperamental rants towards his parents and harassed his little sisters. He was arrested by the police for. And he smoked on the Sabbath. It didn't take long until he was ejected from the Yeshiva for good, and placed into a new Yeshiva, for “kids at risk.”

“If you speak to Yitzie, tell him….” My mom would say. She was afraid to provoke an outburst, but she was concerned that the Yeshiva was housing the students, many of whom had drug records and criminal connections way more extensive than Yitzie’s, in city apartments with minimal supervision. In truth, I had no contact with him myself, but I’d nod my head and agree. I’d go back to my dorm room and try to ignore my splitting headache. The conversation replayed rhythmically in my head: City apartments, minimal supervision. An unbidden thought popped up. And where are you, goody two shoes? it said. I squashed the thought with an extra strength Tylenol. After all, I was a mature adult now, and my mom’s ally, wasn’t I?

It was Passover Eve.
Family Time again.

OutSiders III