“That’s impossible,” I told my mother smugly, after she mentioned one evening that I might consider hanging around more with other Members of the Tribe. How could she be so blind? Couldn’t she see that this kind of narrow-minded insularity, this rancorous focus on the superficial divisions between peoples was ripping the rich tapestry of the world asunder, all but assuring the total destruction of the divine human experiment? I went to high school now, public high school, where adolescents of all colors and creed gathered together in mutual admiration and wonder for the glorious melting pot we called America. “There are only five Jewish kids at my school and none of them even listen to the same music as me!”
My mother, several steps ahead as usual, was prepared for this response. In an hour’s time, I would be collected by a girl who had snubbed me cruelly at the Jewish Community Center day camp in 1987, and driven by her in her motorcar to an undisclosed location where we would rendezvous with several other teenage Jewesses to participate in undisclosed activities for an indeterminate period of time. For a certain mysterious group that for legal reasons I shall refer to only as ____ ____ Youth Organization (or _ _YO), this was a phenomenon called “rush.”
“Rush?” I said. “Like a sorority?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m not going.”
“Oh, you’re going,” she said.
“It’s a school night!” I protested. “I have homework!”
She snorted. “Good thing you brought your books home with you then. Do you even carry a backpack anymore, or have we dropped all pretense of academic life?”
“I DON’T WANT TO GO TO SOME STUPID SORORITY MEETING WITH A BUNCH OF LAME FUCKING J.A.P’S!” I shouted.
“FINE! THEN I’LL GO!” she shouted back. “AND YOU CAN COOK DINNER, DO THE DISHES, TAKE OUT THE TRASH AND WATCH YOUR FATHER FALL ASLEEP WATCHING FUCKING STAR TREK!”
“What?” my father briefly paused the verbal assault he was delivering to his computer to call down the steps. “What was that?”
“Nothing!” my mother and I snapped in unison.
Satisfied, he returned to his Microsoft-induced fury. A series of faint, profanity-laced yelps drifted down the staircase, as though one of our closets contained a torture chamber for miniature schnauzers.
I glared at my mother. “Go to hell,” I hissed. “You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.”
Three-quarters of an hour later, a cream-colored BMW pulled into the driveway, one manicured hand stretched out the open window to lazily ash Marlboro Light as the other laid on the horn. Squinting, I could make out two dark shapes huddled together in the back seat
“Have fun!” yelled my mother.
“Don’t you want them to come to the door or—
Like the shofar blast at the End of Days, the beckoning horn of the BMW ripped through the house. Even the crystal panda bears frolicking on the wall unit trembled in awe.
“Jesus Christ!” My father shrieked from the top of the stairs. “COULD YOU FUCKING LEAVE ALREADY??”
“No, really, Jeeves, don’t bother,” I shouted back. “I’ll show myself out.”
YOU ARE READING
Have You No Shame? And Other Regrettable Stories
Non-FictionGrowing up in white-bread Omaha, Nebraska, Rachel Shukert was one of thirty-seven students (circa 1990) in Nebraska’s only Jewish elementary school. She spent her days dreaming of a fantasy Aryan boyfriend named Chris McPresbyterian, a tall blond go...
