Thursday, August 17, 2006

Defending the Faith

Religious education wasn’t really a matter of choice for me.  Religion was woven through much of my life and I soaked it up like I soaked up all the rest of it.  Dad’s status as uber-rebbe gave me instant shul cred, and I could kibbitz mishna pretty good for a 15-year-old.  I was, basically, a clever little weiner, and I milked it. 

However, to be honest, the religious schooling was not really such a problem for me.  I rather enjoyed it, actually.  People there were supportive, answers always raised new questions that I was encouraged to pursue, and the idiom of the liturgy was sweetly benign.  I liked the music and, most importantly, I liked the people.  There were some good kids in those classes with me.  I even hung out with some of them on my own time sometimes.  They were funny and smart and local, and they never messed with me except to the extent that I deserved it. 

A bunch of us had all taken Sunday School classes together till 6th grade, and then we switched to nights - Mondays for general education and Wednesdays for Hebrew.  I liked Monday Night School.  I liked my teacher and whatever the hell he was teaching.  It was really no big deal for me to go.  To this day I don’t know why I decided not to.

I never cut class.  Not high school or hebrew or any of it. It’s not that I was particularly virtuous; I just couldn’t figure out how to make it work without getting into trouble.  I was sure it’d come back to bite my ass off somehow or other.  I didn’t want to risk it.  Yet, for some reason, I just knew I was up to no good when I got to the synagogue that particular Monday night.  The dusk was purple and magenta and the air was sweet and crisp.  I remember regretting that I was going inside for two hours.  And then, suddenly, there was Alan. 

Alan was probably my closest friend from kindergogue.  He was funny as hell and a rock-n-roll guitar player.  It was fun to hang out with him.  As I approached him on the sidewalk leading to the doors of the classroom building, he looked devilish - more even than usual.  I don’t remember what he said; I didn’t need much convincing anyway.  He didn’t want to go inside and neither did I.  He wanted to take a walk down to Hazeltine Street and visit a little liquor store where they had a cool game he wanted to play.  I fell in beside him and we headed out toward the shabby little shop. 

I knew that I was making a momentous, potentially calamitous, decision.  I was cutting class.  I was disobeying authority, maybe throwing away my future. And dammit, it felt good.

We laughed a lot on our short walk.  The shop was waiting for us, an independent liquor retailer with a few groceries, lots of beer, and a nice cabinet version of Defender.  Alan dropped a quarter and showed me how to play.  I didn’t care for it much - I gave the controls back over to him after a few minutes.  He played that quarter for over half an hour. 

A little after 8, the liquor store door swung open and our rabbi walked in.  He took two steps, saw us at the video console, and all three of us froze.  Alan’s space ship smashed itself to bits on a mountain but we didn’t even look.  This was a bad situation. 

“Hell-ooooo....,” Rabbi Jim ventured curiously.  “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” I turned to Alan.  Did he have a story to get us out of this?

“Um, yep.  We came here instead,” he admitted.  I was disappointed that he didn’t have a better line to offer, but I accepted that once we’d been busted, fighting fate would only make things worse.  “Did you walk here?” “Yep,” we both answered.  “I’ll give you a ride back,” he told us, humorlessly.  Alan had another few spaceships left on his game but we walked away from them, followed the Rabbi as he got a couple large bottles of soda, and then got into his modest little sedan for the short ride back to temple. 

Once there, he pulled into his reserved space, walked us to his office, and asked us to call our parents to pick us up.  He listened as we spoke.  My mom answered; it wasn’t a comfortable conversation.  I told her she needed to get me - I was in the Rabbi’s office because I’d been found off the school grounds.  Alan called home next and his conversation was very similar to mine.  The Rabbi then walked us out to the parking lot and waited with us silently till our rides arrived.  Within a few minutes, my dad was there, alone in his clunky car, scowling darkly.  I really didn’t want to ride with him, but I had no choice. 

He said nothing to me during the five-minute drive, said nothing to me till we got back into the house - at which point he directed me with a hand on my shoulder into the dining room, where serious conversations took place.

“I’m going to ask you something and I want you to think hard about how you answer me,” he started, his voice steely and a little strained.  “How many times have you skipped school?”

“I’ll tell you the truth, Dad,” I replied, “but if I were in your shoes I’m not sure I’d believe it.  The truth is that I’ve never cut class before in my life.  I just knew it wouldn’t turn out well.  I’m so uncomfortable and sorry about doing it tonight that I’m just grateful that I’ve never tried it before.  And you can be sure that I will never try it again.”

He stared me down for a few minutes, biting his tongue thoughtfully. “Fair enough, my man,” he concluded, getting up from his chair.  “Stand up and give me a hug.” I did, and it was a very good hug indeed, warm and lingering.  There were no further repercussions, but I never, ever, cut class again.  I mean, until I was in college. 

What a sweet kid you were.  Thus you have grown into a very sweet man.  I cut a little more school than that but all things considered not as much as you’d think.  I too was very careful about getting into trouble with my folks.  My Mom was not someone to test when it came school. She actually DID go to high school with my older brother for a solid week to “cure” him of cutting class.  Walked him to every class, sat by him in every class, ate lunch with him every day...that will totally cramp your teenage style.  I did not want any of that thank you very much.

once. I cut class once in my life (college doesn’t count!). Like you, I figured I’d never be able to get away with it and the repercussions weren’t worth it. The fact that my father taught in my school district and personally knew most of my teachers probably put weight behind that conviction.

But the time I did skip—February of my senior year—I made a good one. My friends and I drove 1.5 hours south to Baltimore and spent the day hanging out around Inner Harbor. We did a bunch of silly stuff, but the thrill was in actually pulling it off and not getting caught. I finally ‘fessed up to my mom a year later when I was in college. What could she do then?

I was always afraid to cut class too. We lived in a small town so getting caught wasn’t just a possibility, it was inevitable.

I was too fearful of skipping as well (we were all just so damn conscientious, weren’t we??!!), although I did forge my dad’s signature once on a ‘has a dental appointment’ note. My boyfriend and friends and I spent the afternoon at the beach. I can tell ya, my dad had a pretty dark look on his face when I got home. (The school secretary called my dad at work to confirm if the note was legit. Those school secretaries know a lie when they see one.)

Ya, that whole situation made me feel really crappy. I don’t think I skipped again after that.

I say this one is a big fat fib. If for no other reason than it would be the most deliciously ironical.

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