Marc and I take a taxi to Hebrew school every Tuesday
and Thursday at 4:30. We're in different grades, but we both seem to know
the same amount; in fourth grade everyone learns the alphabet and the sounds
the letters make and the vowels--the vowels don't count as letters because
they sit on the bottom of the line like sharks, and even though you never
that low, you can't forget they're there. By fifth grade,
everyone is smart enough to know that grades in Hebrew school don't count
for anything--everyone passes if their parents pay synagogue dues.So fifth
and sixth graders never do homework. And if you do do homework, everyone
makes fun of you.
We used to be in a car pool, but Mom can't drive in the car pool because
she works, and the other moms didn't want to send their kids in a taxi on
Mom's shift. Salvador is the man who drives us.
The best day of Hebrew school was the day I convinced Marc to ditch with
me. Marc didn't want to do it, but I told him if a teacher caught us, I'd
say I forced him.
"What about Salvador?" Marc asked.
"Salvador doesn't care."
"What if he tells Mom?"
"I'll take the blame," I say.
We waited until Salvador pulled away from the synagogue, and we hid in the
bushes so no teachers would see.
When the coast was clear, I told Marc I had a surprise.
"What?" he asked.
"I brought money so we can go get ice cream."
"Oh my god. We're going to get caught. We're not doing that."
We ran a block to the ice cream store. Then we ran all the way back with
our ice creams.
We sat in the dark cozy bushes, against the synagogue wall, eating our ice
cream, reading Hebrew out loud to each other. And the only time I can remember
loving the sound of the language was hearing it that day, in Marc's voice.
Beauty & The Teased | Independence
| Kathy Acker | My New Brand