Time to Rise (Coke)

*First published in Mothers, Fathers, Sons, & Daughters | An Anthology Volume II by the Blah Blah Blah Writer's Group, 2024*

I’ve always referred to them as the Jewish Parties, but they were never particularly festive. The holy quartet consisted of Rosh Hashanah, a time to bring in the new year, which led into Yom Kippur, where only the serious Jews actually fast until sundown, then Hanukkah, housing the fabled eight days of presents, and finally, Passover, when God freed the Jewish slaves from Egyptian bondage. 

I attended these Parties at my Aunt Eti and Uncle Arie’s house with my mom and brother. I don’t view them as my actual aunt and uncle since a Jewish family tree can be as jumbled as the infamous reading of right-to-left Hebrew to a native English speaker. For most of the family members on my mom’s side, our blood relation begins and ends at our genes.  

They lived in Skokie, Illinois about a half-an-hour’s drive from my mom’s house in Buffalo Grove. Skokie is a heavily Jewish populated city in the broader Chicago area which houses the American origins of both my mom and dad’s immigrated Jewish family. If you drove through Skokie, only the part of you that thinks a little harder and looks a little closer would appreciate this town. Skokie lives through Poochey’s Hot Dogs where my mom waitressed at during her late adolescence; ancestral houses with their flat fronts, horrid designs, and a charm that doesn’t quite catch the eye of character-seeking home-buyers; and Niles North High School which beams as the Emerald City in a sea of yellow brick road highway exits. My grandma, Rita, lived in Skokie for most of her life. I would watch Mary Poppins on VHS each time I visited while failing to speak with my great-grandma who only knew Yiddish but still adored Wheel of Fortune and those orange-slice gelatin candies. 

Being Jewish is difficult when you’re born with a sensitive nervous system that doesn’t respond well to Parties. When I was younger, I would immediately go upstairs to the guest room, which also served as the coat closet, instead of mingling like everyone else was or having fun with the other kids around my age. Being socially anxious can present its own internal challenges, but it’s not my fault my blood didn’t fully match my family’s. Even my mom expressed to me how the temple in her youth would make the girls sit in the back while the men ruled in the front. Tradition always leaves someone out. I don’t think she would label herself a feminist—she follows politics as much as I follow scripture—but I think that treatment melded a small spark in her. I would then come down for the rituals and dinner. 

Matzo ball soup was the best part of Hanukkah. My grandma would make it with Eti in her off-white tile floor kitchen that hadn’t been updated since the 80s. The aroma of soup broth and simmering balls of box-mix matzah would waft through the whole house and welcome you as you entered through the front door. Us kids, all sitting at the same table, would raise our hands when asked by Rita if anyone wanted soup. We would then respond with how many balls we wanted in our small appetizer bowl and if we also wanted noodles in it. One time, my brother slammed my hand down after I’d raised it which knocked over my red Solo cup of Coke onto my pants. I had to borrow a pair of shorts from my cousin and was eternally embarrassed about having to wear women’s (unisex) gym shorts. I sulkily walked downstairs, back to the dinner table, my face hot with tears. 

The actual dinner was the same for each holiday: silver takeout trays filled with Greek chicken, potatoes, brisket, salmon, amongst other foods. I remember my male adult family members would be particularly happy about dinner when it was the fasting holiday. They would slouch in their chairs waiting for the sun to set, wondering why they chose to do it. It’s what good Jews do, they probably told themselves. When it came time for the Hanukkah presents, we would all sit on the staircase and entrance landing while someone, usually Rita or Eti, would call out the names for the gifts: childhood, useless toys I would forget about within a week; early adolescence, iTunes gift cards; mid-teenagehood, no longer on the staircase. 

Rosh Hashanah, the precursor to the fasting holiday, didn’t offer any soup. In its place we dipped apple slices in honey and blessed glasses of wine. While the adults later enjoyed their burgundy beverage, us kids took shots of grape juice like it was alcohol. I remember it exhilarating to pretend to be an adult, even though my gag reflex would never let me swallow anything in one go. Really, the joke was on the adults—grape juice is much sweeter and tastier than wine as my later adult self would come to find out. 

Passover is when the matzoh was upgraded from background appetizer to guest star. It’s a legendary holiday when it comes to the Abrahamic religions—freedom is always an event to celebrate. Pamphlets were passed out containing the famous story for us to read out loud with a happily smiling Jewish family on the front. For the adults, it was a moment of reverence and respect for our ancestors who had such little time to flee that their bread dough couldn’t fully rise; but for childhood me, it was a time to show off my reading skills. I would proudly recite my parts of the tale after waiting impatiently for my turn as other kids usually went first. I understood it as much as I knew how to socialize. Ten plagues: frogs, flies, fire, darkness… and death of the first born child. The Abrahamic God was not one of frilly divine magic who could snap His fingers and instantly transport the Jews out of slavery. He had rough, rigid, rugged power. My only concern was getting my words right. 

When the nights of the Jewish Parties would near their end, I would usually find my mom out on the front porch with her mom and Eti. They smoked cigarettes together under the single porch light while using a gold can of caffeine-free Diet Coke as an ashtray. The smell of frosty autumn air mixed with cigarette smoke is still regrettably nostalgic. After asking if we could go home, my mom and I would find my brother and drive through the darkness back to Buffalo Grove. 

As I got older, the story of Jewish bondage wasn’t the only dynamic I started to think harder about. When we’re kids, we are intentionally shielded from the family tension. Our family is also lucky that we’re usually too young to read between the lines, actually hear the words being said, notice the subtle changes in behavior. The one major tale my mom did let me in on was how awful her brother, Steve, is. Diagnosed bipolar disorder mixed with a lack of prescribed medications and a dash of born cruelty created the most tortuous plague God could ever unleash upon my optimistic mom. When I was around 8 years old, after she graciously let Steve live with her, he abusively yelled at his oldest daughter in the community pool. My mom kicked his ass to the curb and welcomed a new chapter of her life. I feel grateful that I only remember his liter bottles of Diet Coke and tub of Land-O-Lakes butter that he kept in the fridge instead of that incident. 

While my mother escaped him for good, bringing a couple family members with her, most had forgiven his sins. They chose to remain ignorant children reading about a “merciful” God. He only came to the Jewish Parties a couple of times, but when he did, it was drama. I was in my early teens at that point, so when I was told to be cordial but stay away from him, I happily saluted my general who had miraculously survived her wars. One of those times, his wife, Beth, who completed their perfect maniacal duo, was sitting across from me at one of the tables during the post-dinner mingling hour. My advanced age relinquished much of my social anxiety, but I was still best as an observer—a star-gazer who never wishes to become an astronomist. Beth leaned over to a family member and said, “Can you believe it? She doesn’t know how to play the dreidel game,” and taught one of the children the rules. She spins it. “Oh, so this means you take half,” she says as she takes half of the gelt, chocolate in coin-wrapping. She spins it again. “This means the other person gets it all.” The stars weren’t coming into focus no matter how much I adjusted my telescope. They were never aligned. I wanted to say to her, Why are you here? God only sent down the final plague of youthful death after the Pharaoh’s unyielding resistance to Jewish freedom. The moment at the pool was enough for my mom to break free, but others in the family were still unconvinced. They tried their best to be good Jews who never estrange a member of their tight circle unless it were absolutely necessary. 

I would ask my mom why we kept going, what made her push through the continued abuse which now wielded Eti and Arie. She wanted to feel close to her grandmother whom she could always communicate with even through the language barrier. She was my mom’s fairy godmother, her Glinda throughout the everlasting broken roads of confusion and despair that consistently plagued her life. When she died, my mom was no longer able to get through the Red Sea that was parted for her. I told my mom she could have a private seder utilizing the towels that she kept of her grandma’s. It wasn’t enough. My mom was free from most of the bondage, but still couldn’t wait for her bread to rise. 

16 years old was when I decided I was old enough to stop attending the Parties. They served no purpose for me. I wanted to remain an outside observer instead of becoming consumed by the toxicity. I was no naive Jew, so no family could enslave me. A while later, maybe a year or so, my mom told me she wouldn’t be attending anymore either. She had proudly declined the RSVP while incorporating some minimal excuse which evolved into not giving any reason at all. I would like to think it was me who inspired her to do it, but I think the little spark she had that ignited when she kicked her brother out had once again awoken from its dormant rest. She didn’t need a blood bond to feel that familial connection anymore, she could enjoy the softer grape juice instead. 

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

It’s a while later, maybe my senior year of high school. My dad drove me to the synagogue and is taking his one suit jacket out of its plastic covering that he only wears for special occasions like this: a bat mitzvah. 

This is something my cousin had worked so hard for that I’m eternally grateful my parents, especially my non-religious father, never made me do. The service is always the worst part as I can’t even look at my phone during the boring speeches because that would be too disrespectful. Before it actually starts, I catch up with a few other cousins whom I actually know how I’m related to in the large kitchen. We each snack on a bagel then head into the event hall. 

Some Jewish singing later, my cousin gets to the only independent part of the service, a Torah passage that she got to pick herself. To my complete shock, she picks one from Leviticus, the chapter of punishment. Then, I smile. She talks about how she thinks we all should be better than that passage, how punishment isn’t the answer and kindness is a better virtue. A bat mitzvah girl proudly countered the almighty Abrahamic God on His turf. Her freshly-dyed blonde hair shone as the sun from the sky lights chimed in. Maybe He was giving His blessing to her speech. We are changing.