Earlier this week, Israel began slowly crawling out of its most recent lockdown. A week or two from now, my next post will either celebrate this recent emancipation or it will be ghost-written in memoriam of my brief, but historically significant, life.
We made it through the spring lockdown in Chicago, had a decent summer, did two weeks of quarantine when we got to Israel, and then had a few weeks of normalcy to get our feet under us. The last month, however, has been a steady slide into boredom, misery, and existential malaise. I'm not sure if “the end” means joy and freedom or if we’re going to have another Heaven’s Gate on our hands.
Israel is experiencing its own existential crisis. At the beginning of the lockdown, Prime Minister Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu allowed protests. Upset with Bibi’s corruption and the government’s handling of the Corona crisis, the protests grew into the tens of thousands. Bibi tried to put some restrictions on the protests, but they continued on sidewalks, on streets, and in squares across the country. There are pink flags, black flags, Israeli flags, and all types of signs, most of which I can’t read. The protestors range from babies in strollers to millennials in tight pants to elderly with masks and wheelchairs. My favorite sign is one used frequently by the youth: “You messed with the wrong generation!” Bibi may come out of this alive, but he may ultimately end up in jail.
I can’t help but notice some similarities between Israel and the United States of Donald. In just over a week, Trump may lose the election, there may be a peaceful transition of power, and we can all try to forget about the past four years. Or he may win the election, the election may be contested, and all hell will break loose. Personally I’m hoping for the latter, if only for entertainment’s sake.
The kids have done school on Zoom for the last month, their “chugim” (activities) have been cancelled, and the Boss is going grey managing four children who are generally illiterate in Hebrew. Pre-schoolers went back to school last week and, if all goes well, 1st through 4th grade will go back in a week or two, followed by middle schoolers a month or two later. Daily Corona cases have gone from a peak of 9,000 to an average of around 1,000, but this country is corrupt, confused, and incredibly inefficient.
For example, as previously mentioned, stoplights here go from red to yellow to green, which is dumb. They also go from green (go) to flashing green (stop) to yellow (Stop!) to red (STOP!!!). If the flashing green were truly designed to make drivers stop, it would just be red. And if the government really wanted to flatten the Corona curve, it would prohibit these ignorant-ass Orthodox Jews (who are every bit as bad as the religious right in Alabama) from having large religious gatherings and weddings. But Bibi needs them in his coalition, so he generally looks the other way. If the government had any sense, it would immediately grant me an Israeli teaching license by recognizing my Master’s degree, 20 years of experience, and certification in History and English rather than making me sit through weekly 2-hour Zooms with some old Russian lady who barely speaks English and wants to show me “how to create a lesson plan.”
All that said, it turns out that my little immigrant clan may be the ignorant ones. On October 11th, we got out of bed thinking that the Jewish holiday, Sukkot, had ended. The Boss woke me up with a gentle kiss, scrubbed my back in the shower, made me breakfast, and packed my lunch in my leather briefcase. Just as I was leaving, however, we realized that Sukkot had not, in fact, ended, and that there was no school or work. Later that day, we were deciding who should take the kids to the park. OG, clearly unaware of the things I do for this family, suggested I take them because “mommy’s work is a little more serious.”
Despite the awesomeness of the nearby Park HaYarkon, my unappreciative children started to get bored with it. Though the beaches were closed during the lockdown, I took all the kids there anyway because I’m an awesome role model. The Boss initially felt “uncomfortable” with me breaking the law with (for) my children, but she eventually came around. In the past couple weeks, we’ve biked to the beach (which is now officially open) five or six times. Despite the warm water, soft sand, and cool breeze, my children have figured out how to ruin even this experience, incessantly complaining about who gets to go second in the family bike line.
The Boss, whose professional speciality is childhood trauma, is coming out of this lockdown with trauma galore. She hasn’t made any new friends because thousands of Israelis spent the last month in Greece doing Zooms from the beach. She can’t get any work done because she’s with the kids all day and on work Zooms all afternoon and evening. Around 19:00, I make her a gourmet dinner and the kids stuff it through her cell bars. She goes to bed around 00:30, bleary-eyed, wakes up before her alarm clock, lathers, rinses, and repeats. You would think the Boss’ parents could offer some support, but they flew business class to Chicago right when the lockdown started and, having now returned, are in another two-week quarantine. Sick timing.
I don’t know if Panini’s gonna make it through. She finally has some friends to go to the beach with, but I’m pretty sure she’s the reason one of them left the group chat. She says she’s enjoying school via Zoom, but the fast-paced instruction in Hebrew and, in particular, tanach (Hebrew Bible) have led to some tears. There are signs of hope: Panini delivers challot (plural of challah) to older folks in the neighborhood every Friday, she baked a decent cheesecake and some solid sugar cookies, and she does soccer Zooms once or twice a week. There are, however, signs of distress: She recently discovered online retail therapy, she claims she can’t fit in her completely normal-sized bed, and she keeps referring to me as her “best friend.”
OG is going to be famous in a few weeks and dead by 2022. She spontaneously and successfully auditioned for a performance group in her tzofim (Israeli scouts) by singing Katy Perry’s “Firework” in front of more than 30 people. She does Zumba classes with girls in the neighborhood. She cannot, however, internalize the fact that Israelis don’t always pick up their dogs’ poop, so she somersaults through the grass and gets kaki on her hands. She also complains that 30 minutes to get dressed, go pee, and have a snack is “not enough time.” And she continues to say some truly next level shit such as, “Can dogs be transgendered?”
Broosevelt doesn’t know there wasn’t a lockdown and that then there was one and that now there’s not. He is also unaware of the dubious distinctions he earns in soccer, which is currently being organized by a neighborhood mom and coached by two fifth-graders. Broosevelt got medallions for “best listener” and “no fouling,” and while I’m glad he respects his coaches and teammates, as his father, I’d be okay with him putting someone on his ass once in a while and scoring a god damn goal. Finally, Broosevelt does not understand that our love for him is conditional. The other day, despite his limited skills, he somehow managed to kick a soccer ball up on the kitchen table, spilling water all over some computers and shattering the glass. He went to his room, shamefully. A few minutes later, the Boss went in and said to him, “Don’t worry, Broosevelt. We still love you.” He responded, “Of course you still love me. Why would you stop loving me?”
Boni could care less about the crumbling world around her. She makes impressive artwork with toilet paper rolls and popsicle sticks. She has one play-date a week and spends an hour on Zoom a day, but her Hebrew is officially the best in the family. She frequently translates words Panini and I don’t know and, when Broosevelt hesitates for a single second, she speaks for him. She sleeps on the floor because she knows we won’t leave her there all night and, as the Queen of Corona, she insists that we call her by her new nickname, Dumpster.
I’m good. Really good. Coming out of this totally unscathed. Stronger, in fact. Students half-asleep in-class? Throw sharp pencils. No HDMI cables for the projector? Early dismissal. Offensively low salary? Thanks for the free time. No tennis or basketball? Watch Fed on YouTube. Israelis speaking English to me? Duolingo. God damn fitted sheets won’t stay on my god damn mattress?!? Find meaning in the suffering (Viktor Frankl).
Remember Broosevelt’s soccer-playing friend Segev (“Greatness”) and his dad, Rotem? Broosevelt and I are dominating the shit out of them. Rotem is so insecure with my excellence that making coffee for all the parents apparently wasn’t enough. Last weekend at the playground, he made tea with mint from his garden, brought bubbles for the kids, and made his wife bring pancakes and syrup. Nice try, Rotem. A few days later, I brought a bat and a ball and, within seconds, was the Pied Pier of the Land of the Free. While Rotem muttered to the Boss that he “never liked baseball” and “thought it was boring,” the kids swarmed to me to take some cuts and drink from my sweet brew of Americana.
Also of note: 6-year-old Segev is soft as shit. A few weeks ago, Segev won one of the soccer medallions (for ball-hogging and cherry-picking). This past week, he couldn’t go to practice, so the mom in charge asked that his parents bring back the medallion so one of the other kids could get it. Segev’s parents said no because they didn’t want Segev to know that he was missing practice because Segev needs to be coddled and lied to and shielded from the reality that he may be good at soccer but that Broosevelt hits a baseball way better than he does and that his parent’s pancakes taste like shit.
I definitely found the image below on Google and did not take a picture of some random kid at the playground. May it serve as a symbol for Israel’s current national identity, my family’s current state of mind, the Boss around 14:00 every day, and/or Segev when I spit on his blue cleats.
