Monday, April 29, 2013

Next

     I was a spectacular failure as a 50-year-old sign language student.  (See previous posts here and here to read about my sign language classes, and click here if you want to see a video of me signing.  This was a class assignment, and is called, quite appropriately, Sheryl's Embarrassing Moment.)
     In order to become an interpreter, you need to understand every single word and nuance, and be able to translate it immediately.  The key to this is an excellent memory.  If you are a certain age, and every once in awhile you can't remember the word you are looking for, interpreting is not the gig for you.
     This was a painful realization for me.  I had always been a good student, and somehow, with sign language, I was not.  I worked at it for hours every single day for three long semesters.  It finally occurred to me that if I was interpreting in a courtroom setting, or worse, a hospital,  there would be no room for error.  I probably could have interpreted for a child, preferably a small one who signed slowly and had a limited vocabulary.  And it would have helped if he could hear.
     So what was I going to do?
     In the short term I hoped to make some quick cash with minimal effort.
     My first money making scheme brought me to the Horseshoe Casino in Hammond, Indiana.  I spent three and a half hours at the video poker machine (the crack cocaine of gambling) not even getting up to go to the bathroom.  I was, at one point, up nearly $100.  My problem (and oh, it is a problem) is that I love video poker so, so much that I can't bear to get up from the machine.  I would much rather play video poker than have $100.
     I never win money in Las Vegas or on a cruise, because there is no deadline, and I can sit at the machine until I get carpal tunnel and all my money has vanished. But after three and a half hours in Hammond, Indiana, my husband was about to drive away without me, and I was forced to choose between cashing out or being abandoned in Hammond.
     I left the Horseshoe Casino with $60.
     My next cash-for-no-work scheme was my pick in the NCAA March Madness bracket.  My family loves basketball and my sons and husband are very conversant about all the college teams and players. You would think that a 50ish suburban mother would just pick the team "in the red jerseys" but in my case you would be so wrong.
     When my boys were young, I realized that they LOVED sports, and if I wanted to talk to them about something that they wanted to talk about, I would have to learn about sports too.  I started reading the sports section of the newspaper, and then a few years ago I discovered the show PTI (Pardon the Interruption) on ESPN.  I don't know who watches this show at 4:30 every week day afternoon, but I doubt I am their target audience.  Anyway, the PTI hosts Tony and Mike were very helpful in suggesting possible upsets, and while my sons' brackets were busted after the Sweet Sixteen, I walked away with second place in my husband's office pool and the $200 prize.
     The third and final free money scheme did not involve gambling (even I was seeing a disturbing pattern).
     I decided to sell my jewelry.
     Not my good jewelry, but the gold jewelry that I didn't wear.  I rooted through my jewelry box for the orphan earrings and tangled chains, and I found a shocking number of items with Jewish stars.  I brought them to a jeweler, and he weighed them on a scale like they were a Weight Watcher's portion.  I was hoping for enough money to buy a new purse, but with gold at $1000 an ounce I walked away with a check to put a new roof on the house.
     I was flabbergasted, and I started to think about what else we had that I might be able to sell. I started going online just to see what my sterling silverware might be worth.  And if I sold the silver, then did I really need my china?  And if I wasn't going to be entertaining, I could certainly get a nice price for my dining room table!
    I could see this was a slippery slope, and potentially more addictive than video poker.
     Alas, I had run out of quick cash schemes.  I had done everything to avoid it, but finally there were no other options.
     It was time to get a job.

Monday, April 22, 2013

Small World

     Although my street was so flooded on Thursday morning that a taxi couldn't get to my house, American Airlines insisted that my 9:30 a.m. flight would depart on time.  Of course as soon as I arrived at the airport, they changed their minds.
     It turned into one of those Chinese water torture delays.  First they told us we were leaving at 11:00, and then 1:00, and then 2:30, and then 4:30. Those of us waiting at gate H6 had the chance to get quite friendly.  I struck up a conversation with a lovely couple in their 70's who lived in the north suburbs and were Jewish.
     Between Jews who live in the same city, there is never more than one degree of separation.  We discovered that the husband went to high school with my mother, their synagogue director had been my Hebrew school teacher, and their granddaughter danced in the same troupe that I had back in high school.
     This, I always tell my children, is why you must be nice to everyone.  The person whose parking space you steal will turn out to be your grandmother's next door neighbor.  When she tells your grandmother that you stole her space, your quick trip to the Jewel for lunchmeat will turn out to be the most shameful thing you have done in your life, and the reason you are not in the will.
     While these connections occur often in my hometown, Jewish Geography is also an international game.  Several years ago, my husband and I decided to take a cruise during the two weeks of the summer when both our boys were away at overnight camp.  Our destination was not that important--our primary criteria was to leave on July 1 and return on July 15.
     We found a discounted cabin on a Celebrity cruise with stops in Helsinki, Coppenhagen, Oslo, and several other northern European cities. My mother-in-law, who lived in a Boynton Beach condominium development called Platina, mentioned that she'd heard in the card room while playing mahjong that two acquaintances were going on a cruise to some of those same cities.  She did not know the name of their cruise line, or where they were departing from, or even when they were departing.  At the time, this did not qualify as "information."
     When we arrived on the ship, we realized that there were very few Americans on board, and even fewer people under 70.  Every time we saw a younger couple, we walked over and eavesdropped to hear what language they were speaking.
     One day while sailing in the Baltic Sea we saw two tiny elderly women who were wearing the same type of colorful jogging suits my mother-in-law wore.  They were carrying purses that were quite popular at the Festival Flea Market.  We had not met anyone even remotely familiar in two weeks, and my husband decided to find out if these were the ladies from Florida.
     "Hello," he said.
     Neither woman responded.
     "My name is Joel Solomon.  By any chance do you ladies live at Platina?"
     The ladies remained silent.  I thought that these women were probably with the German choir group that was on board and spoke no English.
     Joel was not deterred.  "I'm Helen Solomon's son."
     The two women looked at each other, and then looked at my husband.
     Finally, the shorter of the two women spoke.
     "Are you the doctor?"
     My husband smiled.  "No," he said, "that's my brother."
     The women nodded.
     Joel said, "I'm the lawyer.  Has she ever mentioned me?"

Monday, April 15, 2013

To Be or Not To Be (Jewish)

     Not only was I the sole grownup in my sign language class, (see last week's post) but it turned out that I was also the only Jew.
     I hadn't been in that position since Mr. Stevens' 7th grade social studies class when we were studying the Holocaust.  It's painful to be the spokesperson for your people when you are in the seventh grade.  And the Holocaust!  Oy!  This was not a subject that increased a girl's popularity.
     This time around I was a 50-year-old woman in a classroom of adolescents, and I didn't have any immediate plans to reveal who I may or may not worship. There was no reason to point out that I was different--or rather, more different.
     But during my coursework learning to be a sign language interpreter, each semester I was required to attend a number of "deaf events," where I was often the only hearing person.  The purpose of these events were to help me understand the isolation that a deaf person feels at a "hearing" event, and to learn some of the cultural norms of the deaf community.
     The first deaf event was at the Bethel Baptist Church which had a deaf ministry holding services every Sunday morning.  Trying to act like I did this all the time, I arrived at 9:45 for Bible study with the Pastor's wife.  Worship services followed.
     The Baptists were incredibly warm and welcoming to me, and at least they didn't make me feel old.  I was asked to come up and introduce myself.  I was fairly self conscious about being hearing and being Jewish so while signing, I spontaneously changed my name from Solomon to Sullivan.
     The service began with a testimony from a woman whose mother had recently passed away, and it appeared that she was signing how happy she was about it.  Clearly, I was not understanding her.  I later learned that she was happy because her mother had accepted Christ as her Savior before her death, but since I did not know the signs for Christ or Savior, I had missed that part.
     I wasn't sure if I was in the dark because I was a beginner at sign language, or if I was in the dark because I was Jewish.  There were a few uncomfortable moments when I was pretty sure that I was going straight to hell.  If I was a better signer, I might have asked for clarification, but with my limited vocabulary I couldn't have made much of a case for myself.
     My secret remained safe until the following week when I learned that my teacher had scheduled our midterm exam on the first night of Passover when I was expecting twenty people at my home for a seder.
     I raised my hand.
     "I am Jew," I confessed, signing the letters J-E-W since I did not know the sign.
     The teacher showed me the sign.  You pull on your long beard.  I swear.
     Then I pointed to the calendar which showed the Passover holiday.  I tried to explain that because of the holiday on Tuesday I would not be in class on Monday night. Jewish holidays begin at sundown the night before--this is difficult enough to explain in English, let alone sign language.
     But the teacher drew his own conclusion.  "You are very religious?" he signed.
     I only hesitated a second.
     "YES!"  I signed enthusiastically.  "Very religious Jew!"
      I stroked my long beard for emphasis and got my midterm delayed until the following week.
     It was hard to imagine being less cool than I had been in seventh grade, but there I was.

Monday, April 8, 2013

Signs

     As my sons got older and I saw my full time mothering gig coming to an end, I spent a lot of time pondering the question: What Do I Want to Be When my Children Grow Up?
     I learned that there was a shortage of sign language interpreters, and since I had studied American Sign Language many years ago, I thought it could be a nice second career for me.  I enrolled in a program at Harper Community College.
     The week before classes began I bought my books and had my photo taken for my student ID.  While at the bookstore I bought a Harper Hawks notebook, a Harper t-shirt, and those gym shorts that all the young girls were wearing that said "Harper" on the butt.
     I was very excited to walk into my first college class in twenty-seven years. There were two girls already seated.  One had hair that was half red/half blond, and the other had a nose ring and braces.  They were discussing which soy milk they preferred while eating Fritos and Diet Coke.
     I took a seat and waited for someone to walk in who was at least old enough to have had her wisdom teeth removed.  I had read all the articles about middle-aged people returning to college.  Heck, I had seen them on the TV show Community.  But as my classmates filed in, talking about their shifts at The Gap and Starbucks, I began to panic.  I was old enough to be EVERYONE's mother.
     Our teacher started the class by signing his name and that he was deaf. He signed or acted out what he wanted us to do, and when we really couldn't understand, he wrote on the board.  After the first hour we took a break, and I made my way to the girl's bathroom where several of my classmates were already deep in conversation.
     "The boy with the hat is cute," a girl named Brittany said as I entered a stall.
     "His name is Kent," another girl said.  "He is in my biology lab."
     "Do you know if he has a girlfriend?" Brittany asked.
     "I think so," said one of the other girls.
     I went to the sink to wash my hands. I smiled at the girls but I could not think of one thing to say.
     After break, the teacher put us into groups of three to practice vocabulary.  I was put with Kent and another boy named Chris. By the time I moved my chair over to my group, the boys were hard at work.
     "How do you say, 'Asshole'? Kent asked. Chris showed him the sign.
     "What about 'Shit'?" Kent asked.  He looked at me.  "Sorry," he said.
     It was worse than I thought.  I was so old that they had to apologize for swearing in front of me.
     I'm not sure if they had any idea how old I actually was.  I did sign that I had two children, but the only sign I knew for "children" was to rock my arms like I was holding a baby.   I didn't mean to give the wrong impression.  Or maybe I did.
     By the third week we were practicing questions.  Brittany was way ahead of the rest of us.  She had deaf parents, and her first language was ASL.  She should have been in the advanced class, but she was taking our class for an easy A.
     The teacher was asking a series of "Where is?" questions, and it was my turn.  He signed the question, but I couldn't understand him.  I asked him to repeat it.  He did, but it didn't help.  I looked around the room to see if anyone else had a hand up.
     Behind her book, head down, I heard Brittany across the room whisper, "Candy machine.  Where is the candy machine?"
     Since our teacher was deaf, he wasn't aware.  I signed the answer, "In the hallway."
     I was fifty years old and I was cheating.
     When the teacher moved on to another student, I nodded my thanks to Brittany.  I thought I'd show her a picture of my son.  Maybe I could introduce them.  She seemed nice.


Monday, April 1, 2013

All (Weight) Is Not Lost

     I was waiting to see my weight loss counselor, R, at my local Jenny Craig Center.  A young woman entered with a baby boy, and I began cooing and clucking at him.  The young woman confessed that she was trying to lose her baby weight.
     "That's when I started the program," I told her.
     She looked surprised.
     "How long ago was that?" she asked.
     "23 years," I said.
     Her face fell.
     "Oh!" I said, not wanting her to despair, "But I'm very close to my goal!"
     Just to be clear: I first tried Jenny Craig over 23 years ago, when I was trying to lose my baby weight after my first child was born.  I lost the weight quickly and kept it off.  I went back after my second child.  After that, whenever I'd creep up ten pounds, I'd visit my counselor, do exactly what she told me, and lose the weight.  In the last 20 years I've returned five or six times. Maybe seven. Eight at the most.
     Each time, I ask to see my counselor R who miraculously still works there.  The young skinny counselors come and go, but R, who is not young, and perhaps more importantly not skinny, remains.
     Some might find this ironic but I do not.  Middle aged, overweight women do not want to be told by a size 0 how full and satisfied we will feel after eating Greek yogurt.  Seriously, shut the fuck up.  When we meet with R, we know she feels our pain.
     On January 1, 2013, I once again made the New Year's resolution to lose ten pounds.  In spite of reduced portions, plenty of fish and veggies, and practically eliminating cake, on February 1 I weighed exactly the same.  I went to see R.
     "If we start now," she said, "you can have the weight off just in time for Pesach."
     We both laughed.  Passover is the most fattening holiday.  Everything we eat sits in our stomachs like lead.
     Sure enough, right on time, I visited R last week to weigh in and I had reached my goal.  After talking briefly about my maintenance program (brief because I could teach a class by now), R and I discussed what we were making for our Passover seders.
     "I've made seven kugels," R told me.  "One to bring to my sister-in-law, and the rest for friends.  Have you ever made a pineapple upside down kugel?  Oh my God, it's to die--first you put a layer of brown sugar, then you lay down the pineapple rings.  Inside each ring you put a maraschino cherry."
     R went on to describe each of the seven kugels including one with chocolate-orange Sabra liqueur and an apple kugel with every kind of dried fruit.  R is a fabulous cook.
     When I finally got home, my husband asked what had taken so long.  I told him.
     "You've spent the last six weeks eating bird food, and she is giving a cooking class on matzo kugel?  Don't you think that's odd?"
     I admitted that perhaps it was not the best weight loss strategy.  My husband questioned whether R was "well-suited" to be a weight loss counselor.
     "I love her!" I told him. "I LOVE HER!  She is the reason I keep going back to Jenny Craig!"
     "Yes," my husband said.  "I think she is."