Do you need a man?

Walking home from work today, some guy said to me, "Hello, how are you? Do you need a man?". There are unsavory characters in the area near my office. Stare straight ahead and keep walking. Repeat silently over and over, 'please don't follow me, please don't follow me'.

Um, no. I don't need a man. Particularly, I don't need you.

I'm not trying to fool myself. Yes, eventually I will meet a great guy and get married. Someday. But I don't need a man. I am learning more about myself each day, and what it takes to be the strong confident woman I know I am meant to be.

My mother is on a trip in Florida with my sister. My mother doesn't have Facebook but my sister is a serial poster. She keeps posting pictures of them on their trip. Here they are at the beach, visiting my grandparents, eating food, in the warm Florida sun. Yay. good for you. It's freakin cold here.

My mom looks so relaxed. She looks happy. I spoke to her last night, and she told me she is learning who she is away from her kids. My youngest brother is 16. We are all growing up. While I will always need my mother in my life, she has more free time now, and she is connecting with herself. My mom became a Baal Teshuva years ago, before she got married. I think the whole 'yidishkeit' thing was kind of thrust upon her, and by the time she was married and having kids, she just ran with it. Jump on the moving train, and all that.

In Chabad most married women wear sheitels outside the house. We consider it to be the most mehudar- the highest form of tznius for a women in covering her hair. There are many different kinds of acceptable head coverings, and while I respect everyone's decision, I was brought up being taught that a women wears a sheitel outside of the house.

Lately, I noticed that more and more my mother is wearing tichels (scarves) outside of the house. It is weird for me, because I always saw her putting on a sheitel to go out. But in this picture of her in Florida, she looks so beautiful. She's wearing a purple tichel that gives color to her cheeks, she looks relaxed and happy, and younger. She looks different. She says she is remembering what she was like before she became frum. My mom was talented. She acted in plays, she made up songs, she played musical instruments. She gave all that up when she became frum. Now she is trying to find a way to combine both parts of her.

I don't suppose people live their whole lives as one stagnant entity. No one wants to be stagnant. I'm young. I never thought beyond marriage, I can barely imagine myself having kids, let alone a life 'after kids'. I think it's nice that my mother is rediscovering herself now that she has an 'empty nest'.

I don't need a man to be me. I am learning how to be me on my own. How to be the best me that I can be. And when I do G-d willing find the person I will spend my life with, we will be two complete wholes joining together as one.

About a Boy

With Valentine's day coming up, I've been thinking about boys. I think about them a lot lately. Mostly in the 'will he make a good husband' way, but sometimes 'he's cute' kind of way.

I hate any word related to 'shidduch, shadchan, profile, shidduch resume', etc. It annoys me. I hate putting myself on paper, fitting myself into a little box. I want to be free.

A family friend sent me a profile of a guy. I glanced at it. I hate having to determine 'is he what I'm looking for? Can I see myself with him?' like I have some sort of vision. Sometimes I don't see myself with anyone.

Long story short: the guy was interested. I was not. I have my reasons. But I am also proud of myself. When I first started dating and my self-esteem was kind of low, I felt like I had to go out with every guy who was interested in me because I probably had no shot with the guys that I was interested in.

But now I am able to determine if it is worth the trouble and stress of dating, or if maybe it is really 'not for me'.

I can say no. That's okay. I don't need to or want to go out with every guy that comes up. I have no interest in serial dating.

Ahhh, but Valentine's day. I hear in the secular world little boys and little girls are encouraged to give heart shaped cards to each other with a sweet Valentine's poem on it. No one wants to feel left out.

Too bad I can't stick a heart-shaped card in the locker of a secret crush and say 'I think ur cute'.

I did make my own fudge though, so I am way ahead of the game.

Happy shtusy love day.

Fudge

I want fudge.

I want to make fudge.

I want to create this beautiful thing called fudge.

All I can think about is getting that delicious chocolaty peanut butter sweet bite in my mouth, and every second that I am away from it, it feels like I am dying.

Okay, snap out of it, I tell myself. It's just a little craving. It will pass.

But in my mind I am already planning to buy the ingredients tomorrow and make the fudge. Even though I know it is a really bad idea. I tell myself, it's cool, I'll just eat one piece and bring the rest to work. They'll love me.

One piece. Ha.

My brain is screaming, stop! Don't do it! Don't go any further. Drop the fudge, and no one will get hurt.

I wish it were that simple. I wish I could turn cravings off as quickly as they start.

On the cover of one of my textbooks stands a tiny little man at a crossroads. There are many arrows in front of him, each pointing in different directions. The subject is ethics, and the arrows must represent the many decisions one can make in life. To be moral, or to be immoral. The choice is up to you.

But it is not a choice, really. We, who got the Torah. We, who were told not to lie, told to be honest and just and good. Do we need a textbook to teach us to be ethical? It is laughable. And yet I sit in a classroom once a week, listening to these people discuss right and wrong like it is really a choice. It is torture.

We always have a choice. We can choose to be honest, or greedy. Ethical, or immoral.

I can choose to have the fudge, or resist temptation and let it go.

What will it be?

Leap of faith

The world is one big puddle. People slip and slide down the street, trying to find dry places to walk, only there are none. Their feet struggle for purchase, as they pray that they don't fall.

My boots are waterproof and my feet are dry, and for that I thank G-d and my good sense to spend money on well made winter boots. Two days ago when it snowed I thanked every person who shoveled the sidewalk, so I could walk by on snow-free ground.

Some people took the lazy way out and didn't bother to shovel, or even to put salt down. Maybe they figured that they could get away with it, after all the snow will melt eventually. But alas, it rained today. And not the pleasant rain that washes away all the snow, but the kind of rain that pelts at you in icy prickles, thudding on the roof of your umbrella (if you're lucky) and turned the hard packed snow into a dangerous ice rink. It makes those people who have no jobs grateful to be able to stay home, and for the unfortunate souls who must work for a living pray that they get there in one piece.

I learned quick enough that it is better to embrace the ice than to try and fight it, so I slid my feet along the sidewalk in a way that must be similar to skiing, except I've never been skiing. The sidewalk was not so bad, and it was a pleasant surprise every time I got to a relatively dry patch. I even saw a few guilty souls out there shoveling, scratching their heads like, 'oh ya, did I forget to do that 2 days ago when it actually snowed?'

You have to learn the etiquette of a narrow strip of shoveled sidewalk, when you see someone walking towards you. You both dart left, then right, then one  sucker (usually me) reluctantly steps aside to allow the other to pass.

Behold, the corner. A flood. It is comical. You see many a people make it to the corner, thanking G-d that they did not slip on the ice, only to find out that there is no where for  them to go. Straight? Maybe try to cross the street? It doesn't matter. You are on an island surrounded by water and there is no where to go but forward. Or backward. You must make a choice. Give up and go home, after you've come this far? Or keep going to reach your destination?

In life we are faced with so many challenges, big and small. Just when we think we have figured it out, we are gliding along tentatively thinking, 'I got this', I can do it, then life throws you a puddle and says, just wanted to test you to see how committed you really are.

Well, life, this time you will not see me fail. I remember the game of belts we used to play as kids. The aim of the game is to see how few leaps you can take to jump from one point to another. The one with the fewest strides is the winner.

I eye the puddle, and although my boots are water proof, I don't want to test them that badly.

So I back up a few steps...

I start running forward...

I leap, and hope I'll make it to the other side.

Dry and in one piece, I'm still going strong.

When life hands you a puddle, you take out a paddle and say, 'I got this'.

We Can

There is no I in team.

I never really thought about it nor did I care.

I don't consider myself a team player.

But give me a responsibility and I will thrive.

I trained a new person in this week. I barely recognized myself, the amount of patience I showed was unlike me. Today my coworker said jokingly, "Work is changing you". To which I retorted "You mean because I'm a nicer person now". She laughed. They all laughed. But it was the truth.

Working with people, especially training in new people can be extremely grueling, and sometimes I want to snap at someone, or ignore them, or brush them off, or tell them to figure it out themselves. But every time someone says "Altie I have a question, do you have a minute?" I say Yes, how can I help you. Because when you start saying no they will stop asking.And it feels nice having people come to you for advice.

I reached that point where I stopped wondering when I would move on to the next stage in life and leave this 'temporary' job. I stopped counting the months I've been here. I used to dread the thought of committing to one job for a long period of time. But now it is a great feeling to be able to say that I've been working here for over a year.

I may have a bit of team spirit in me after all.

Oh Joy

We hired a new guy in the office. I got to train him in. Oh joy.

It can be used in a sarcastic way. I have 25 pages to read for tomorrow. Oh joy.

Today I slipped on the ice on my way to work. Oh joy.

Or literally: I am loving my new class this semester! Oh joy.

I left my familiar building behind to broach into new territory. I'm taking a psych class. I'm not majoring in psych. The professor had us each say our name, what we are majoring in and what our job is. Everyone said psych, psych, psych, psych. I said, English major. He said, interesting, how did you end up here? I told him there were no English classes available. The honest answer. I got some laughs from that.

Psychology fascinates me. This particular class is industrial psych. The prof poses a question: Someone calls you up to ask about an employee who is not that great a worker. They ask you, how is he as an employee? What would you answer. Some people said, say the truth, don't hire him. I said, say good things to get him off your hands. Professors response: You will all be sued. The employee will come after you and sue you for slander. Never say a word, you send them to HR and say you can neither confirm nor deny that the peson ever worked for you.

Lesson one in the corporate world.

I am taking another class called business ethics. The book has a picture on the cover of a little guy standing at a crossroads with many arrows. I feel like that right now. I am majoring in one thing but interested in another, and not sure what I really want to do. I can't think past graduation and even then who knows which degree would help me more in life.

In work-related news, I trained in two new people in the last few weeks. Which means I am officially no longer the newbie (after working there almost a year and a half).

Good things are happening. Spring is right around the corner. (I always wondered why they call it Spring semester when it starts in the heart of winter.)

Hey man, stay warm.

Where we go to get away

The snow obscures the ground. I cannot tell where the sidewalk ends and the street begins. I am not in control tonight. You are. And so I follow you.

These low lights and high stools and soft chatter. I've been here before. Well, not here, but places just like it. The haze that confuses you, you squint at your surroundings, but still you cannot see clearly. You wonder if that is the effects of the dimness, or too much alcohol. Then you don't care.

Tonight we are here not to drink, but to have fun. And we do. I laugh at the dirty jokes that are in poor taste, and the sorry people who make fun of themselves for a living. They get up there awkward and try to make a crowd laugh. Some people laugh. Some people titter. And some are just too drunk to care.

It's late and I'm too old for this. That's what I'm thinking at the beginning of the night. Too cold, too much snow, too tired, too sober for this.

But I didn't come just for the laughs. I came to say I did. And to see you.

I come home with a smile and a lighter step. I had a nice time. The snow will soon melt but tonight will stay with me.

Museum Muse

People come here to get inspired. To experience culture firsthand. They come here for hours. They come many times as once is simply not enough to take in all this beauty and splendor.

What of me? Why do I come? Rather, why did I come. Because I won't be back. Been there, done that, got the sticker. I'm a one time kind of girl. Culture just isn't my thing.

I gaze at the paintings and try to care. Sculptures and statues and photographs. Drawings and masterpieces. Furniture. Quaint dining room sets. Gorgeous old jewelry. Musical instruments. Asian culture and Greek culture and Arabic culture and plain ole American culture. So many things in one place. One maze that takes you from room to room with guards that are always watching. Look but don't touch. No flash photography. No eating. Getting lost until it feels like one will never find their way out.

I want to lay down on the ground and soak it up like a sponge and see if it will seep into me. If being around all this culture will make me cultured as well.

But I'm not a sponge and I'm lost in a maze and claustrophobia sets in and I have to get out. Where's the exit, sir? How do I get out of here, ma'am? Air. I need fresh air. I need to be gone from all these paintings staring at me haughtily saying you naughty girl, you barely saw anything. Stay awhile, don't go now.

But I must go. Like a caged bird I yearn to be free. So I run and get outside in the fresh air and the sunlight and I walk until I see a sight worth stopping for. The sun shines on the reservoir as swans swim peacefully; the sun shines on the water in a cloudless sky. The air here is clear and fresh and I breath it in in large lungfuls. I would trade this for all the museums in the world.

I may not appreciate fine art on canvases in famous museums. But pure nature is G-d's greatest creation.

It feels good to be free.

I thought you didn't care

Some people say, 'hey I'm coming home, bake me some cookies'.

I asked you to hide the cookies.

I didn't know that you listened.

Instead I heard what I wanted to hear. Disinterest in your voice. Distance. Like you didn't care.

So I didn't show. And you didn't call. And I thought you didn't care.

But cell phone reception was bad. So I didn't know that you called. Twice. And left  two messages. And texted. To say that you thought I was coming and you missed me.

I thought you didn't care if I came, but maybe that was my own insecurities talking.

And thanks for hiding all the junk food.

My opinion

You think you know what I will say before it leaves my mouth. Funny. Sometimes I don't even know what I will say when I open my mouth.

I say I don't discuss politics or religion, but what I'm really saying is that I want to be able to have an opinion without you disputing it on the basis that you disagree. We can disagree. That is what an opinion is. But don't try to change what I believe.

I surprise you sometimes. I know I do. You look at me shocked by the things I say, claiming that I used to leave the room when you would discuss those topics. Not true really. You would gossip, which I hate. I was merely reading an article that someone else wrote, which I don't even agree with.

There is a buzz going around Facebook. When is there not. You think I'm the type to jump on board, to add my voice to the melee, to call for blood. You don't know me. I would rather stand in the corner and watch everyone running around like headless chickens and smirk because I know better.

I may not know better. But why are you making an outcry? Why are you pointing fingers? First you accuse people of paying no attention to a story and then when they do, you complain that they are giving the story negative coverage. Well what do you expect? Negativity sells. And all they want to do is sell a story.

I am not heartless. Maybe we simply have a different understanding of the same subject.

It's funny how you think you know how I will react. I say I will not get involved, I would rather keep my opinion to myself.

Sometimes that is simply because I have no opinion on the matter. And sometimes it is because I know you will crucify me for what I believe, and I don't need that.

We can discuss Kim Kardashian's latest pictures if you want. I have an opinion on that.

Last Chance

2013 was a pretty good year. I have no regrets.

Let's talk about goals. I made a goal and I didn't reach it. Tomorrow is New Years. But that doesn't mean that the goal is over. It's one of those goals that can extend beyond the time set out.

So I am filing for an extension. I will keep at it, and G-d willing reach my goal soon, and set new goals and reach those as well.

2014 feels weird in my mouth, but I never really liked 2013 anyway. I don't like odd numbers.

G-d willing this year will be a good one.

Glass ball, is there a tall handsome man in my near future?

Best wishes for all of you in the secular new year.

Dear Notebook

I've missed this. I used to write in you all the time back in sem, when I didn't have a laptop and my thoughts would run and I had to write them down or lose them forever.

Lately I've stopped thinking so much. Or I got so busy I had no time to think. Or I didn't let myself think. Which is good because sometimes when I think too much bad thoughts pop into my head, sad depressing thoughts, and lately my thoughts have been normal and happy and stable.

But I'm not sure what day of the week it is. I'm gonna say Monday, but it doesn't feel like Monday. It feels like this week has been going on forever and so tomorrow must be Wednesday which means pizza day in the office, only it's not Wednesday and I don't eat pizza.

Break time means free time which means boredom or an all-consuming need to fill up the silence with noise, preferably the kind that quiets your thoughts and makes you stop thinking. Only, TV drama is way worse than real life. It sucks you in, and suddenly you find yourself loving/hating/involving/investing yourself in fake relationships you see through your computer screen, and when you turn off the show you can't stop thinking about it, and when you go to sleep you can't stop thinking about it, and when you work you can't stop thinking about it, and it consumes you and you know it's time to stop but you just can't turn it off.

You want someone to shut it off for you and tell you to stop watching shows that suck you in so much and make you sick when the characters fall in love or out of love, and you know it's all fake but you can't help it.

But no one comes to shut it off.

12:00 AM comes and you find yourself standing in the kitchen thinking it's time to make a lunch and go to sleep and you can't move.

So you call home and listen to your father's voice on the phone, which is weird because you hardly ever speak to him for so long at a time, and then he says hold on and so you hold on for 3, 5, 7 minutes but he doesn't come back and you know he's forgotten about you.

So you do the mature thing and drag yourself to bed and vow that tomorrow you won't watch that show anymore. But you know you can't stop.

You can't wait for break to be over and life to go back to normal, while wondering what it is about the TV drama that makes your life seem so boring. But that's what TV does to you.

And you wonder if somewhere out there is someone who will know when to pull you back from the edge.

Six Word Challenge

Hemingway was asked to enter a contest: write a meaningful book that contains only six words.

He wrote: "For sale. baby shoes, never worn." - an entire world in those six words.

What would yours be?



(Credits go to a Facebook friend for posting this.)

Oh Boy(s)

Long ago when I was young and innocent, I was uncomfortable around boys. They made me feel self-conscious. I would move differently, talk differently, think differently around them, always wondering how they perceived me. I would make a big deal out of every small glance, every spoken word, wondering if he was thinking about me, what he thought about me. For instance, when I was fourteen and I called my neighbor to speak to her, the sixteen year old boy answered the phone, and he asked how I was doing, how's school, etc. Forever after I kept thinking how nice it felt that he took an interest in me. (I may have had a crush on him).

Fast-forward like four years. At eighteen my sister got engaged, and I wanted to jump on the bandwagon. I was in seminary and I told my mother I was absolutely ready to get married, and I wanted to start dating. After some determination it was decided that I was not ready. (Married at 18? Haha, says my present self to past self.)

A few years after that I started dating. It was exciting and nerve wracking at first, but it quickly turned to draining and annoying, each date a roller coaster on its own. No matter how many times I tell myself that I won't care if it doesn't work out, it is hard nevertheless feeling like it will never happen for me.

But, life happens, things settle, and I began to feel calm and that it will happen at the right time. Better to get married at the right time to the right person, than too soon to the wrong one.

Enter: my young roommate. In her late-teen-early-twenty stage, all she can talk about is boys. To my knowledge, she has not dated once. But all the time it's "My mom says this dress looks so great on me, all the boys will be after me". or "So this cousin who is seven years old wants to set me up with her other cousin who is like nineteen, and I'm like, no way! That's so embarrassing!". Or "I was at a shabbos table full of guys and the host asked me who I'm married to, so I flipped my hair and said, 'no one'." Or, "My chaseedish cousin who is like six wants me to date her uncle, he's like eighteen and that's normal by them. And every time I'm there they mention him and I'm like, guys stop, it's embarrassing." Or "I was by my friend's house and her brother asked me to leave the room because he was going to work out, so I said, right like I've never seen guys work out before, but he insisted that he doesn't like working out in front of people. So I left the room but I had to go back in to get something, and he was shirtless."

My first reaction whenever she does this (which is all the time) is to say, shut. up. Get over it. There are tons of guys in the world and you are bound to bump into a lot of them, or be teased about dating them. So seriously, grow up and get over it.

But then I remember how I was at her age. Young and innocent and convinced that you could go out with any guy and iy would work out, cuz guys are like, guys, and aren't they all the same?

But no. They are not. And maybe while I have realized that I need just one, no matter how hard it is to fine, she is still in that stage of 'oh wow look how many are out there, so many possibilities'.

And who am I to wipe the stars from her eyes? She will find out soon enough, dating isn't all that it's made out to be.

For my mom

Who goes wherever her kids need her.

And for my dad, who follows her wherever she goes.

I love you.

Who will bring the food?

She asks me to go over there, make sure he's alright. She doesn't tell me, but I know if she were here that's what she would do. Maybe he wants to talk, she says. Probably not. Maybe he doesn't want me there at all.

She's worried about him. But don't tell him I told you to go. Right, like he thinks I would just show up on my own, out of concern.

So I go. I bring food, because how could I show up empty handed? I say, I brought cream cheese sandwiches, I'm not really sure what you like. I don't know what he likes. I don't know if he wants to talk. I don't know how he feels. But I came with food.

I ask him how he's doing. He responds as expected. What are you really supposed to say in this situation?

I don't know. So I bring food. And I tell them I'm here if they need anything. I know they probably won't take me up on the offer. But that's what my mother would do.

What are you afraid of?

He sits down next to me and I freeze in place. I barely breath, my eyes focused forward, unblinking.

"Hows your evening going?" he says.

"Great," I say, hoping like hell that he will get up and move on.

He is sitting so close to me, not touching me but just barely. "Are you happy?" he asks. I don't respond.

'Please leave me alone. Please leave me alone. Please leave me alone' I repeat in my head, over and over.

But he doesn't. He just keeps talking. He says he thinks it's nice that I don't have a phone in front of my phone. That the world needs more people like us. I am not willing to put him and I in the same category.

When I relax enough to move my head, I notice his fingernails are cracked and dirty. He has a rolled joint between his fingers. Some of his teeth are missing. For all intents and purposes, he looks homeless.

But he doesn't smell bad. I notice that.

He keeps talking, I try to tune him out but he won't stop.

He says he just wants to talk, he's a good guy, he just wants to connect with other people.

He says his name is William, by the way, and he hopes one day I will remember him as a good guy.

He seems to think that we are alike, and I hope that is not true.

 But I decide he seems harmless enough, so I start responding. "Are you happy?" I fire back at him.

He says not really, he is lonely sometimes and he just wants company.

He mentions Jewish people. I ask him if he believes in G-d. He says he doesn't believe in one G-d who runs the world, he thinks we are each our own G-ds and goddesses.

I tell him that I believe in G-d. And by the way, I'm Jewish. He says that's nice.

Thank G-d it is now my stop. I stand to get off. He stands too. I groan.

He says, oh I actually have to get off here too. I need to go to C___ station.

I say, you missed it, it's two stops back that way. He says he will walk.

I say it's a long walk, just take the subway.

Please don't follow me, Please don't follow me, Please don't follow me, I think over and over again. He doesn't follow me.

I leave the station. My heart is pounding. 

William, you are right. It is sad that there are so many bad guys out there in the world that we are taught to be afraid of them all. I live in New york and I know that the subway is ripe with weirdos. My first instinct is to run in the other direction.

If I wasn't afraid, I would tell you that I am happy, for the most part. That I'm a writer, and isn't that cool? That I'm different than a lot of people, that you and I have something in common, we both want to connect to people, but the difference is that you try while I block everyone out. I don't need people, I say. They are burdensome and annoying. They speak a different language. We have nothing in common.

William, why me? Out of all the anonymous faces on the train, why did you choose to sit down next to me? And why when you ask such a simple question, are you happy, does my heart pound and my mind is saying yes but thinking hmmm I never thought about it cuz no one ever asked.

I'm afraid of you, because I fear the unknown. Had I known you were no threat we may have had a pleasant conversation.

But I am also afraid of myself, and what I would discover if I let my guard down.

I'm afraid of what will come out when I open my mouth. I have so much to say, but no one really asked.

Why me?

Stay warm tonight, William. I will remember you.

The World and I

"There's no I in team". That's what they like to say, anyway.

If I help you, will you help me? Will we do this together?

But it was I who was up until 6 am writing my paper. It is I who will give it in. It is I who will be graded on it.

You encourage us to discuss, share, learn from each other. But what happens when I get paired with the one person in class who barely speaks or writes English properly? In an English class. An English major. It is grade school all over again as I search the crowd seeking out a partner, someone, anyone but him. And all I want to say is, why sir are you majoring in English when you can barely write it?

It is torture reading a poorly written paper, and to have to comment and evaluate it is hard. I want to mark it with a big red F and move on with my life. I know better. I am smarter. I am greater. My paper is complete, it meets the guidelines, it is perfect.

Why then must you ask us to reread, to rethink, to question, to restate, to reask, to revise, to rearrange? All words that begin with 're', the prefix that means to do over again. But I don't want to do over again, I want to be done with it. Don't make me question it, I have no answers.

Yes, I'm tired. My brain is lazy. It wants to curl up in warmth and sleep and stop revising a paper that will have no impact on my life.

I don't need you to tell me how to do things, because I already know.

Who said that I am right and you are wrong? Who said that the way we speak and write is right or wrong or must comply with the rules? Who has made these rules?

In an alternate universe, you would read my paper and groan at how bad it is and how hard it is for you to read such junk. You'd think to yourself, if only everyone could write like me the world would be a better place. You would walk outside and think that the sky is shining for you, that the birds are singing for you, that everyone is praising you for you are great.

I easily slip into the mode of right and wrong. Why do you heat up water in the microwave instead of on the stove, that's just dumb. Why do you straighten your hair every day, it looks just fine curly. Why do you take advil when you have a headache, be a man and suffer through it.

The question, really, is why is the world not more like me.

But instead of telling you what a stupid paper you wrote, I smile and say that you have a good start, here is where you can go with it.

I say, oh poor you I'm sorry you have a headache, when all I'm thinking is, (*cough*)drug abuser(*cough*).

The world may be full of idiots, or I may need to learn more tolerance, or both.

The answer lies not in the world, but in me.

The House Across The Way

I see them mostly every day. I can't say I really know who they are. We share a walkway. I say a neighborly 'Hi, how are you' when I see them. She's a mom, with two kids. There's no husband around. I thought he died. I heard they're divorced. I didn't care enough to find out which was true.

The little girls sat outside one day with a table full of toys from their house, yelling "Sale! Sale!". In an effort to help them out I bought a pack of playing cards for two dollars. They told me I was their second sale of the day.

On Purim I did the neighborly thing and accepted shaloch manos for them when people came around, rather than letting it sit outside their door.

I chatted briefly with the mom. I offered to let the girls wait inside my apartment when their mom wasn't home. I've seen them in school uniforms and assumed they attended the local frum girls' school. I hear them coming and going. I'm a New Yorker at heart. I can't say I really know them. I can't say I really care.

One day I saw them outside wearing pants. I looked twice to be sure they were the same little girls who lived next door. They were. I said hi and walked past. It made me sad.

I try not to be a nosy person, but I wondered if anyone knew, if anyone cared what was happening to the family. I only sort of know their names.

One Shabbos I heard the little girls outside. I am slightly ashamed to say I spied on them through the peephole. I heard them call their mother. No one answered the door. The older girl said, in a nervous voice, "I'm gonna ring the doorbell". The little one looked uncomfortable. She rang the doorbell and I ran quietly away from the door, thinking about what I saw. Their mom came to the door. I'm not sure, but I think I heard her voice through the intercom.

I'm thinking, somebody should do something about this. Anybody. But not me. I barely know them. I'm not nosy. What would I say?

And so I stood by and did nothing, and let these Yidishe neshamos slip away.

A simple gesture

He appears at my desk and immediately I wonder what he wants.

"I just wanted to say hi".

I say hi, in a bewildered voice.

"How are you?", he asks, with concern in his voice.

He asks like he cares. Like I am important and my state of being matters to him.

I say I'm fine, thanks, it's nice to see you.

He works in the upper management of the company and I've only spoken with him a few times. It is nice to feel like he knows me.

Say hi like you mean it.