Yiddishe Mamas (21 page)

Many Jewish mothers can’t wait for the time their son chooses a bride (I’m one of them—send names and addresses, please—to me), as in Judaism, this
shiddach
(match) is considered crucial, and the
chasseneh
(wedding) is a blessing— with the promise of Jewish grandchildren. Yet other mothers are ambivalent or less enthusiastic—even some who had no clue they might feel a bit outsourced when faced with an actual prospect.

Those who do share their
mishegoss
with other (primarily) ethnic mothers. Marie Barone in
Everybody Loves Raymond
is one example of this “mother-wife” mama, who wants her sons married (God forbid they should be gay. But if so … they’ll support), yet the poor daughter-in-law becomes the rival, whether it’s about attention—or cooking. This stereotype is creeping into the WASP mom, as we saw in
Monsters-in-Law.

Author Tim Boxer tells the story of Broadway producer Arthur Cantor
(On Golden Pond, Private Lives, Gideon, Vivat! Vivat Regina!)
whose mama constantly
nudzhed
(bugged) him
about getting married. Finally, he brought home a prospective bride. Mama remained unmoved.

“What’s the matter, Ma?” Arthur asked. “She’s nice, she’s Jewish, and she doesn’t smoke. You always wanted me to get married. What’s wrong?”

“What’s the hurry?” was his mama’s reply.

Sheldon excitedly told his mother he’d fallen in love and was getting married.

“Mama, just for fun, I’ll bring over three women and you guess which one she is.” Mama shrugged—and agreed.

The next day Sheldon brought over three beauties who sat on the sofa and chatted with “Ma” over a little cake.

After they left, he said, “OK, Mama. Guess which one I’m going to marry?”

Without flinching, she replied: “The one in the middle with the red hair.”

“You’re right. But Mama … how did you know?” asked Sheldon, amazed.

“Because
her,
I don’t like.”

Jew or non-Jew, there are fewer images that have been as disparaged as “the mother-in-law.” Much as the stepmother endures a legacy of horrific fairy tales where visions of evil apples and she-witches dance around the poor step-child, the mother-in-law—of any ethnicity—is assumed to be intrusive and demanding—a sandbagger who simply can’t cut loose from her progeny. And, in fact, there are a number of winding roads down the in-law journey: competition from two different families, along with “how
we
do things,” plus the intense connection between parent and child.

Then, of course, as in-laws, we’re automatically supposed to love the arbor from which our mate has grown. Our partner’s beneficence is attributed to ourselves, while shortcomings come from “his (or her) side of the family.”

On the other hand, in-laws can embrace each other with adoration, wisdom, dignity, respect for new roles, and the promise of a lifetime of “family.” Much depends upon the personalities, fears, and needs of all parties—and requires exquisite patience and acceptance of difference.

Judaism, however, prepares for this. When the families of the future bride and groom meet, some sign a contract, the
tenaim,
which are the conditions that define the obligations of each side regarding the wedding. After the witnessed signing and reading of the
tenaim,
a plate is smashed, traditionally by the future mothers-in-law, symbolizing the impending “breaks” in their relationships with their children, who will soon take responsibility for caring for each other.

As the female is often “the emotional voice” of the family, if a problem arises, she’s usually—through clenched jaw— assigned the task of “fixing” it either aggressively, or passive-aggressively.

Like the little girl with the curl, when things are good between in-laws, they can be very, very good. A loving relationship between in-laws may even surpass the ones we have with our own parents. In-laws can be fountains of support, wisdom, and that extra set of hands we can depend on. They can also be an inspiration. But when they’re bad … well, you fill in the rest.

“My mother-in-law, Ida Mintz, was the world’s oldest female marathoner!” says Rabbi Yocheved Mintz. “She started running at age seventy. She exercised, literally, in the closet by doing her sit-ups. This habit no doubt started because as a child, hidden in the attic in Poland … she wasn’t allowed to run. She ran her last race at age eighty-five in Chicago, and holds the record for the oldest female marathoner.

“But more, she was a nurturer, a kind soul, who took care of people. She would sacrifice her own ambitions for the sake of helping the family. She always looked fastidious. And, as her record proves, she was very bright and focused.”

When you hear the name Woodie Guthrie most of us think of “This Land is Our Land” and the dustbowl. What you
don’t
think of is klezmer (an Hasidic and Ashkenazic secular musical tradition, developed around the fifteenth century, that drew on devotional traditions extending back into Biblical times. Klezmer continues to evolve today).

How can this be? Woody Guthrie wasn’t Jewish. Ah ha! But he had a Jewish mother-in-law, extraordinaire—Yiddish poet Aliza Greenblatt. When Guthrie married Greenblatt’s daughter, Marjorie Mazia, a dancer, he became a
landsman
(a fellow countryman). In 1942, Woody and Marjorie lived in Brooklyn, and through his mother-in-law, Guthrie and the Coney Island Jews found each other. During this period he wrote “Jewish” songs, with themes ranging from history, to holidays, to the Holocaust.

After his death in 1967 from Huntington’s chorea, Guthrie’s Jewish lyrics were lost in archives for nearly thirty years. In 1998, his daughter, Nora, found them and asked the Klezmatics, a seven-member band, to write new music for the lyrics, so they could be heard for the first time.

Aliza Greenblatt was more than an inspiration to and collaborator with her son-in-law. She also had a kinship with her grandson, musician Arlo Guthrie.

Doris Ruben, a New Yorker, didn’t quite fit in with her middle-class Jewish family. She wanted to see the world and be a journalist. To her family’s shock, she went overseas in 1938 and became a correspondent for UPI, covering China and the Philippines. During World War II, she was, perhaps, the only Jewess captured and imprisoned by the Japanese (for two years). She was released when General MacArthur was about to move in. In 1947, she wrote of her daunting experience in
Bread and Rice,
and married the publisher, Thurston Macauley. The pair spent the next fifty years traveling and writing until Thurston’s death in 1997 at age ninety-seven. No matter where they were, Iceland, Turkey, Spain, or Okinawa, Doris Macauley, along with her non-Jewish husband, always celebrated Yom Kipper. Doris is now ninety-three and is still writing—an inspiration to me, her daughter-in-law.

The greatest mother and daughter-in-law ever told is the story of Ruth and Naomi. In order to escape famine, Naomi and Elimelech of Bethlehem, along with their sons, Mahlon and Chilion, moved to Moab, where both sons married Moabite women, Orpah and Ruth. After the men died, Naomi, having no blood relations, wanted to return to Bethlehem. Her two daughters-in-law, Orpah and Ruth, offered to accompany her to Judah. Naomi tried to dissuade them since she knew how hard life was for the Jewish people.

While Orpah was convinced to stay in Moab and remarry, Ruth refused. She wished to remain with Naomi and become Jewish, saying the immortal words, “Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, your God shall be my God” (1:16). With this statement, Ruth converted to Judaism.

Naomi sent her daughter-in-law to her deceased husband’s family for protection, where Ruth married Boaz. Their son, Obed, begat Jesse, the father of King David, proving that true “Jewishness” is judged not by ancestry, but by acceptance of God and the mitzvoth. Indeed, it was from this convert’s line that the savior of the Jewish people was born. Ruth, for whom an entire book is devoted in the Jewish Bible, considered a righteous convert and flawless heroine, is one of the most respected women in Judaism.

T
he smell of her kitchen, anecdotes, or stories about the old country, and most of all, her preference for you—over your parents—are the hallmarks of the
bubbe.
After all, the Jewish
bubbe
has now seen the fruits of her efforts. The line will continue and flourish—plus, she can go home when the
kinder
starts kvetching.

In her new role, she can relax a bit, loosen up, and spoil her grandchildren. One of the great sadnesses is that today, the extended family has been eroded with frequent moves, isolating the grandchild from his or her roots, and that critical emotional
backup. I’ve always argued that the relationship between grandparents and grandchildren can be magical. To grandma, they can talk. From grandma, they can get comfort, time, history, and unwavering support. And from this,
“bubbe”
legends are made.

“Momma and Poppa … raised us to the point where we could produce grandchildren,” wrote the gentle humorist, Sam Levinson. “We were dopes.
They
are smart. Smart? GENIUSES. If we went to the park they called us loafers. The baby is … dragged because … it’s good for him …. [He] can’t walk yet but there’s a bicycle waiting for him. We missed the best things in life. We should have been grandchildren.”

According to author Tim Boxer, when the late great actress Shelley Winters’s daughter “the doctor” (Vittoria Gassman), gave birth to son Ari Joseph, the seventy-year-old new
bubbe
said, “I never had such
nakhes,
such joy. I looked in his face and I saw me, I saw my mother, I saw my father. You feel safer when you know your grandchildren will know what it means to be a Jew. There is a kind of safety when you understand your covenant with God. That is immortality.”

Many of my generation had
bubbes
who came from “the old country.” They spoke broken English, or Yinglish, and despite assimilation, had a shtetl logic that was a
shtikl
strange, often unshakeable—and hysterical.

Dora, an elderly Yiddishe mama, was sitting at home one day when her phone rang.

She picked it up and said, “Hello.”

A breathy male voice replied. “I can tell from your voice you’d
love me to come to your house, throw you onto your bed, and make mad passionate love to you.”

“Excuse me, mistah … but all this you got from one ‘hello?’”

Esther, an elderly
bubbe,
was on her way to Bloomingdale’s on a snowy winter day, when she heard music coming from close by. On the corner, she saw a busker playing a violin. So she joined the small crowd listening to the music. Suddenly, a flasher walked by, opened his coat, and bared all.

Esther turned to the busker and asked: “Listen, darling…how much do you want for playing, ‘Button Up Your Overcoat’”?

My own grandmother, Bella, didn’t learn to drive until she was seventy-five. (OK, she bribed the inspector.) My father tried to teach her, but gave up, when, during every lesson, she’d take her hands off the steering wheel to “wave” to all her friends. Fortunately, she confined her driving to after dark. At 3:00 a.m., she became Mario Andretti. Eventually, she learned to step on the gas—but parking? Forget it. Once when I was with her, she parked on a corner, over both curbs. Literally. When we returned, there was a cop scratching his head. “Lady,” he said in amazement, “I’ve just been standing here watching your car!” Her response?
“Oy … denks very much! Such a good boy, vatching mine car!” Then she drove off.