Sunday, August 30, 2009

I'm not slow, I'm just American Part 2




Where do a fish and a bird get married? In Israel of course! Or at least that's a great place for a Texan and a Brit to wed. Both sets of parents flew in, but no siblings or extended family. I met his parents for the first time four days before the wedding. We had a nice meal, a chat, and all went well. Or so I thought until I sat giving the recap to a British girlfriend of mine.

"What did you eat?" She demanded, knowing full well what I ordered every time I visited this particular restaurant.

"The spaghetti." I said haughtily.

"You didn't?!?!?" She exclaimed.

"It's too late, we're getting married. If they don't like the fact that I eat spaghetti with only a fork they have to just lump it." I reasoned, hoping to convince myself as well. I knew perfectly well from the English girls at seminary that eating spaghetti involved the use of a spoon & a lot less slurping than I can manage, even when I am on my best, most polite behavior.

Of course my friend swooned like a proper English girl does, at least as far as reading Jane Austen has lead me to believe.

The wedding did go on, despite my slurping and my husband decided that the next best step was to unleash his loud, uncouth American bride on the community at home. So a mere three weeks after our wedding we were headed to Old Blighty. The local shul had hired him to lead the holiday davening and even marrying out of their culture wouldn't have gotten him out of it. I was duly introduced at shul so I could be inspected by all after services.

"HOW DO YOU LIKE ENGLAND?" A sweet, old-fashioned British gentlemen yelled slowly at me.

"It seems very nice." I lied. The weather had been dismal. "This is my first visit."

A look of shock crossed his face as he realized I could not only understand English, I spoke fairly fluently. He'd apparently made assumptions about what a Hispanic last named, Texan living in Israel could manage.

Of course it had helped that he'd spoken loudly and slowly. Often there was a five-ten second lag in the conversation as I processed, translated, then responded to something that was being said. In America I'm known for my quick responses. In England, for talking too quickly and thinking too slowly.

I was truly confused by the occasional word that I thought I knew until I learned it had a completely different meaning in England.

Chips are now fries. A vest is an undershirt and what I knew as a vest is a waistcoat.

"But if a jumper was a sweater, what is a jumper?" I asked puzzled.

For a man with a mother and a sister, I expected more than a blank look from the hubsters. I repeated my question to my mother-in-law and described the article I meant.

"You know, a sleeveless dress that is worn over a shirt" I explained hopefully. As a lover of words, having a hole in my vocabulary was disconcerting.

"Oh, you could call that a pinafore I suppose" was the best she could offer. Unfortunately they also call aprons pinafores or pinny's so it's not quite as satisfying as I'd hoped.

Later, as the birth of our first approached my in-laws offered to buy us a cot. As touched as I was by their generosity and gesture of love, I asked my husband if they wouldn't want to put that money towards a crib instead since a cot is used for such a short period of time; generally from birth to six months. He told me to bring it up next time I spoke with my MIL (never a good idea). One slightly strained, uncomfortable and confusing conversation later, I realized that in England a cot was a crib and a crib was a cot. I'm pretty sure that the Queen has it out for me!

I should have been given a full translating dictionary with my kesubah (religious marriage certificate).

(to be continued, without end it seems!)




Where do a fish and a bird get married? In Israel of course! Or at least that's a great place for a Texan and a Brit to wed. Both sets of parents flew in, but no siblings or extended family. I met his parents for the first time four days before the wedding. We had a nice meal, a chat, and all went well. Or so I thought until I sat giving the recap to a British girlfriend of mine.


"What did you eat?" She demanded, knowing full well what I ordered every time I visited this particular restaurant.

"The spaghetti." I said haughtily.

"You didn't?!?!?" She exclaimed.

"It's too late, we're getting married. If they don't like the fact that I eat spaghetti with only a fork they have to just lump it." I reasoned, hoping to convince myself as well. I knew perfectly well from the English girls at seminary that eating spaghetti involved the use of a spoon & a lot less slurping than I can manage, even when I am on my best, most polite behavior.

Of course my friend swooned like a proper English girl does, at least as far as reading Jane Austen has lead me to believe.

The wedding did go on, despite my slurping and my husband decided that the next best step was to unleash his loud, uncouth American bride on the community at home. So a mere three weeks after our wedding we were headed to Old Blighty. The local shul had hired him to lead the holiday davening and even marrying out of their culture wouldn't have gotten him out of it. I was duly introduced at shul so I could be inspected by all after services.

"HOW DO YOU LIKE ENGLAND?" A sweet, old-fashioned British gentlemen yelled slowly at me.

"It seems very nice." I lied. The weather had been dismal. "This is my first visit."

A look of shock crossed his face as he realized I could not only understand English, I spoke fairly fluently. He'd apparently made assumptions about what a Hispanic last named, Texan living in Israel could manage.

Of course it had helped that he'd spoken loudly and slowly. Often there was a five-ten second lag in the conversation as I processed, translated, then responded to something that was being said. In America I'm known for my quick responses. In England, for talking too quickly and thinking too slowly.

I was truly confused by the occasional word that I thought I knew until I learned it had a completely different meaning in England.

Chips are now fries. A vest is an undershirt and what I knew as a vest is a waistcoat.

"But if a jumper was a sweater, what is a jumper?" I asked puzzled.

For a man with a mother and a sister, I expected more than a blank look from the hubsters. I repeated my question to my mother-in-law and described the article I meant.

"You know, a sleeveless dress that is worn over a shirt" I explained hopefully. As a lover of words, having a hole in my vocabulary was disconcerting.

"Oh, you could call that a pinafore I suppose" was the best she could offer. Unfortunately they also call aprons pinafores or pinny's so it's not quite as satisfying as I'd hoped.

Later, as the birth of our first approached my in-laws offered to buy us a cot. As touched as I was by their generosity and gesture of love, I asked my husband if they wouldn't want to put that money towards a crib instead since a cot is used for such a short period of time; generally from birth to six months. He told me to bring it up next time I spoke with my MIL (never a good idea). One slightly strained, uncomfortable and confusing conversation later, I realized that in England a cot was a crib and a crib was a cot. I'm pretty sure that the Queen has it out for me!

I should have been given a full translating dictionary with my kesubah (religious marriage certificate).

(to be continued, without end it seems!)

I'm not slow, I'm just American Part 1

What happens when a Puerto Rican Jew from the American south marries into a family who have a century of British history, the perfect cup of tea, lots of silverware, and impeccably ironed everything? Hilarity!

It all started when we were dating. My only exposure to the British culture came from my father's love of BBC America sitcoms and a few close friends in seminary. My husband knew enough from his family vacations and time at an American summer camp to decide he didn't want to date American girls. Somehow the matchmaker convinced him to give me a shot. On our second date I casually mentioned the word pants only to sputter, blush and gasp "You know I meant trousers!" Pants in the UK are underwear, not my usual conversation topic with a stranger, a stranger I was hoping to impress! Of course knowing to use the word trousers wasn't enough.

"So I need to go to Geula to buy some pantyhose, we could meet after that" I said innocently.

Silence as my date prayed the earth would open and swallow him as he blushed, horrified at my breach of panty etiquette.

I didn't even know of this faux pas until we were engaged. So what if I wanted to buy socks? Not a big deal, right? Oh so wrong!

Later that same date after some playful teasing on my part, future-hubsters had his own cross-cultural foot & mouth disease moment.

"Oh you're such a so-and-so!" He exclaimed.

"Did he just curse at me?" I thought, shocked. My heart stopped and all my conservative, southern indignation & ladylike sense of propriety flared into an inferno of oh-no-he-didn't anger, "So-and-so is a placeholder for a not nice word, right? It must means something different in England. No way would he call me a name, right?" He is very lucky my judging favorably flip switched at the last minute. Ok, I'm also pretty lucky that worked out!

Luckily our mutual love for Elvis, cheesecake, growth, Torah, sarcasm, and eventually each other lead us to be united in marriage, albeit divided by culture and a common language.

(to be continued)

What happens when a Puerto Rican Jew from the American south marries into a family who have a century of British history, the perfect cup of tea, lots of silverware, and impeccably ironed everything? Hilarity!


It all started when we were dating. My only exposure to the British culture came from my father's love of BBC America sitcoms and a few close friends in seminary. My husband knew enough from his family vacations and time at an American summer camp to decide he didn't want to date American girls. Somehow the matchmaker convinced him to give me a shot. On our second date I casually mentioned the word pants only to sputter, blush and gasp "You know I meant trousers!" Pants in the UK are underwear, not my usual conversation topic with a stranger, a stranger I was hoping to impress! Of course knowing to use the word trousers wasn't enough.

"So I need to go to Geula to buy some pantyhose, we could meet after that" I said innocently.

Silence as my date prayed the earth would open and swallow him as he blushed, horrified at my breach of panty etiquette.

I didn't even know of this faux pas until we were engaged. So what if I wanted to buy socks? Not a big deal, right? Oh so wrong!

Later that same date after some playful teasing on my part, future-hubsters had his own cross-cultural foot & mouth disease moment.

"Oh you're such a so-and-so!" He exclaimed.

"Did he just curse at me?" I thought, shocked. My heart stopped and all my conservative, southern indignation & ladylike sense of propriety flared into an inferno of oh-no-he-didn't anger, "So-and-so is a placeholder for a not nice word, right? It must means something different in England. No way would he call me a name, right?" He is very lucky my judging favorably flip switched at the last minute. Ok, I'm also pretty lucky that worked out!

Luckily our mutual love for Elvis, cheesecake, growth, Torah, sarcasm, and eventually each other lead us to be united in marriage, albeit divided by culture and a common language.

(to be continued)

Monday, August 3, 2009

Driving Miss Hatter

I don't drive. I never have. It's never really been an issue since I've always lived places with great public transportation. Now it's really putting a crimp in my social life, and not for the usual reason.

I have no problem getting most places on my own, even dragging a double stroller and miscellaneous packages. But my friends and neighbors feel an obligation to help me even though I never ask. And no one likes to feel obligated to help a nebach. Even a mistakenly classified nebach.

Now if I run into anyone out, they apologize for not being able to take me home. If I mention in passing a store I visited or something I bought, they apologize for not taking me. I'm contemplating turning down all offers of rides and letting it be known that not only am I happy to continue busing, that it's preferable to being a chauffeured leper. Better to have friends & good leg muscles, than convenience and uncomfortable interactions.

Anyone else find that people are uncomfortable with someone else's lacking something, even if nothing is being solicited? I know that being the receiver is hard, but is there something to the plight of the givers? Or should-be-a-giver guilt?

Is it harder to give or receive?

I don't drive. I never have. It's never really been an issue since I've always lived places with great public transportation. Now it's really putting a crimp in my social life, and not for the usual reason.


I have no problem getting most places on my own, even dragging a double stroller and miscellaneous packages. But my friends and neighbors feel an obligation to help me even though I never ask. And no one likes to feel obligated to help a nebach. Even a mistakenly classified nebach.

Now if I run into anyone out, they apologize for not being able to take me home. If I mention in passing a store I visited or something I bought, they apologize for not taking me. I'm contemplating turning down all offers of rides and letting it be known that not only am I happy to continue busing, that it's preferable to being a chauffeured leper. Better to have friends & good leg muscles, than convenience and uncomfortable interactions.

Anyone else find that people are uncomfortable with someone else's lacking something, even if nothing is being solicited? I know that being the receiver is hard, but is there something to the plight of the givers? Or should-be-a-giver guilt?

Is it harder to give or receive?