This set of ads is about home appliances and electronics from the time when TV’s had legs but no colors, cameras used film and keyboards connected to paper.
Most religions start with some kind of revelation. Some guy while walking in the woods finds golden plates, next thing you know, two scmucks are knocking on your door asking strange questions. An old man walks to the top of the mountain, comes down with a couple of stone tablets, next thing you know I have to feel bad about eating bacon. A guy gets crucified, next thing you know….
I may be on to something too. Lately, I started noticing that Dove Chocolate Promises contain unlimited supply of chocolate wisdom and life directives. After eating several bags of chocolates I now have enough wrappers to cover most of life’s questions and daily matters.
The Promises can be divided into two categories: wisdom and directives.
Directives:
Go to your special place
Go against the grain
Send a love letter this week
Don’t think about it so much
Follow your instincts
Whisper in the dark
Live your dreams
Wink at someone driving past today
Smile. People will wonder what you’ve been up to
Love without rules
Discover yourself
Watch reruns, they replay your memories
Wisdom:
It’s definitely a bubble-bath day
There is a time for compromise…it’s called “later”
Sometimes one smile means more than a dozen roses
Age is nothing but a number
If they can do it, you know you can
When two hearts race both win
Temptation is fun…giving in is even better
These pearls can be combined in an infinite number of ways. Try it:
Don’t think about it so much+Go to your special place+Discover yourself
See, it’s like a higher power telling you what to do.
OK, I am back from my “special place” where I just “discovered myself” and I am “smiling” so “people will wonder what I’ve been up to”. Get it?
I am on my quest to eat more Dove Promises to finally discover the secret of life. I found out that I can actually order my own Promises with old stand-by’s like “don’t pee against the wind” or “don’t eat yellow snow”.
The mid-1970’s, when 7-year-old me was roaming the mean streets of Odessa, was a great time to live there. Odessa’s Jewish population somewhat recovered from the devastation of the World War II and the pogroms and devastations before that and, while the Soviet Government had a firm grip on the emigration spigot, prospered as much as was allowed. Jewish actors, teachers, musicians, artists, restaurant singers, underground business owners, doctors, tailors, professors – Odessa’s Jewish population was having another one of its golden ages. Maybe I should say “Odessa’s adult Jewish population” because many kids like me didn’t know we were Jewish.
Recently I ran across a website where Jews of my generation were describing how they discovered that they belonged to the Tribe. Not one of them found out from their parents. It was always a neighbor or neighbor’s kids, some lady at the store, an angry classmate, an opponent in a fistfight, someone throwing an insult or a backhanded compliment; Jewish kids were last to know about the most important thing in their lives. And then I understood why we don’t always see eye-to-eye with the American Jews, the ones carried to a Rabbi on the 7th day to have parts of them snipped, and taught how to participate in the great world Jewish conspiracy from their early days. Unlike them, we made it to adulthood intact, without ever seeing a Rabbi or even knowing the word Rabbi, or anything about being Jewish or the conspiracy we were born to participate in. While they were able to proudly announce their Jewishness in more languages than one, our nationality was conveyed in a series of winks and tongue-clicks with an understanding look and a sad face.
Around that time every resident of Odessa worth his eggplant caviar recipe had to have an underground recording of so-called Odessa songs. These were the songs usually performed in restaurants or weddings, sometimes funny, sometimes stupid, but always entertaining and good for dancing. Some of those included faux Yiddish lyrics and even when the original Yiddish had some meaning they were copied from musician to musician so many times that they lost all or most of it in the process. My household of course had a tape like this and I played it enough times to remember all the words in Russian and Yiddish. Except I didn’t know it was Yiddish, just like I had no idea I was a Jew and many other things a 7-year old not supposed to know. I also didn’t know I couldn’t sing.
I am at the center with my usual facial expression. Girl whose father was a part of the panel of celebrity judges is on the left wearing glasses. Odessa, 1976
That didn’t prevent me from volunteering to perform in a school concert. The casting committee consisted of my first grade teacher with the last name Rosenberg* and the father of my classmate with the last name Schneider*. I went on to perform a hit “Rahilya, May You Croak, I Like You”.
It went something like this:
Rahilya, may you croak, I like you.
I can’t live without you, Rahilya! Rahilya, we’ll get married, you’ll plump up
And we will live on the beach together.
And then the Yiddish part started. I dutifully repeated every word with an exceptionally joyful intonation, perfect projection and a smile on my face. At that moment I was Pesachke Burtstein reincarnated if I only knew who he was.
Afn boydem bakt zikh knishes,
They are making knishes in the attic
Funem tukhes shit zikh mel.
And flour is pouring out of the ass
Az der tote trent di mome,
When Papa is banging Mama
Kinder makhn zikh aleyn.
Kids are playing alone.
Rahilya, you are beautiful like Venus,
But you will grow a large belly
And if not, let the cholera take me
But let it take you first!
Rahilya, we will go to Yessen-tukhes**,
Where sun comes up between the blue mountains,
And if not, kish mir in tukhes***
But my patience has run out.
Tears filled my teacher’s eyes and streamed down her face. My classmate’s father, a gentlemen in what then seemed like his 70’s but probably in his 40’s, was shaking and crying like a baby. We didn’t have Kleenex then so they wiped their faces with newspapers and rags. I finished with an especially well-done kinder makhn zikh aleyn and triumphantly looked over my teary-eyed audience of two.
This is the original song I was performing that day from the infamous tape.
httpvh://youtu.be/n8j1_ksW61M
My parents were friends with my teacher, so she just called them that night and asked them to try and contain my singing talents at home.
My Mom still reminds me about this every once in a while.
I never found out why I wasn’t featured in the school concert.
I still remember the words to this and other songs from that tape but nowadays my only audience is the shower curtain.
I don’t remember how I found out I was Jewish but I don’t think it was from my parents.
And that’s how I was a Yiddish singer.
*Unmistakably Jewish names
**Play on word combination Yessentuki, a famous Soviet resort, and a Yiddish word tukhes (ass).
***Kiss my ass (yeah, I know lots of ass-words in this song)
Big thanks to my friend Yelena S. for her Yiddish expertise in preparation of this post.
