How do you say 'Birthday' in English?
A serious post.
Seriously
Oy.
Birthday season arrives on November 18th and ends on January 23rd.
Eight out of ten (that's 80% if I do any math at all) immediate family members stuff their birthdays into this time period. And I'm not including Thanksgiving, Christmas and/or חֲנֻכָּה (I left in the vowels to help you out).
That's Chanuka, Chanukah, Chanukkah, Channukah, Hanukah, Hannukah, Hanukkah, Hanuka (Hawaiian), Hanukka (Finnish), Hanaka (Japanese), Haneka (Inuit), Hanika (Danish), Khanukkah (Lion King).
Kindly, the two dark-haired beauties of our tribe, removed themselves from the rush of indulgence and stay aloof until April and July. But enough about them.
חֲנֻכָּה in Israel, when I lived there as a tot, was nothing like Chanukah here. We did it the Sephard way. Jelly donuts and sitting on the cold limestone floor playing games with nuts and stones. At least by the time the candles were lit I spoke Hebrew. I was a proper and polite North Londoner plonked down into Jerusalem. Then popped into school. At that time, half the class spoke English. The country was only 15 years old and the population was more European than anything else. My two best friends were from New York. I suppose I could have got away with not learning any Hebrew but a) I had a crush on an Israeli boy in the grade above me and b) the fact that my parents couldn't speak or really understand was just too delicious to pass up.
It was the only pure AHA! (sp?) moment I ever had. The moment I 'got' Hebrew.
At about the three week mark into my private lessons, after struggling over some reading, my teacher pointed to the bowl of fruit that was on top of her 'fridge. 'Name the fruit', she said. 'Quentin Crisp', I said, 'It's an apple'. 'Wrong', she said in that brackish tone some Israelis like to put on.
'Not an apple', I murmured, 'hm'.
And then it happened. The heavens split open, the curtains rose, my spine got all tingly, I was raptured - I named all the fruit. In Hebrew. Then the bowl, 'fridge, contents of 'fridge, Mr. Fork and Curly Spoon - I was blind but now I saw. It was ecstasy. I bounced down the stairs; lo and behold - I could read all the shop and street signs. I could fumble for my bus money like the best of them. I could run pass the house of the witch on Rehov Jabotinsky with real, understandable terror while blurting out childish invective. I felt at home.
And then it all went away. Back at home I didn't need Hebrew. At all. So it was back to Latin. Hebrew was delegated to the storage locker of my brain. I still cocked my head to the side, à la chien, whenever I heard Hebrew being spoken but nothing really got through. I do expect, however, that the second my feet touch Israel's soil (whenever that may be), the door will be unlocked and I'll be completely bi-lingual once more.
Now wasn't I a clever thing - learning a language that didn't use our alphabet. I fumbled through Italian, French, a smattering of German and with what ease would I make the transition to America? No prob. Same language. Same alphabet. They had Saks, we had Selfridges. They had Land O' Lakes, we had the Lake Country. They had Disneyland, we had Butlins. Actually scratch that. Butlins was far creepier than any Disney Haunted Mansion. Trust me. Nick Cave described it as 'Auschwitz with Curtains' but he was born in Australia so take that with a grain of salt.
Of course, language comprehension is a strategic plus when travelling, or in my case, moving to a foreign country. And I had functioned well in the states. A year in Berkeley. But I was 3 years-old, so that doesn't count. Then, Arlington, MA, where I could have been put into third grade but opted for second grade (lazy, unambitious streak matured early). At that time - I did want to fit in as evidenced by my sorrowful refusal to understand why, on Halloween, dressed as Sleeping Beauty, everyone guessed who I was due to red hair and English accent.
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It was THE move that picked up on the otiose side of my character (see - I do still use my rudimentary Latin : otiosus, "idle, at leisure," from otium, "leisure."). THE move that I thought was only supposed to last four years. Did it start badly? No - although I suppose it could have. Two days after arriving into Ur-California house (bungalow), I started high school. Not only did that mean that there were boys (horrors?) but that it was about 85 degrees by 10 am. At least the yanks used Fahrenheit and lbs & oz I didn't think to myself.
I showed up on campus in an all-wool ensemble. And I don't just mean grey pleated skirt, socks and sweater. I really mean that I was also wearing my perfectly usable vest (under-shirt?) and panties. Or knickers, if you prefer. All wool. But never mind that - I was too overwhelmed by the 'rally' and not knowing if I were a frosh/soph/jr/sr. So I clambered into the bleachers and sat down next to a real California girl. Shiny, green hair (from swimming) and perfect white teeth.
I was transfixed by the cheerleaders and pom-pom girls yelling at us to 'kill the cougars' or 'dunk the donuts'. California girl was transfixed with my accent. And a star was born.
I had burst onto the scene and was surrounded by people coming up to me asking me if
a) I knew the Beatles (well I did have some of Paul McCartney's fingernail clippings (that's a different story for a different time) and
b through z (pronounced 'zed') how did I say: water, birthday, Leicester. Did I drink tea? Did I ever go to Buckingham (pronounced incorrectly) Palace? What was it like driving on the other side of the road (I was 13)? Pip Pip Ducky Lorry, what?
The only downside of the day was when I asked for a rubber. Which I prefer to understand as a tool to erase pencil markings. My classmates had never heard of a French letter. Too busy wondering if I spelled Labour the way I did.
I was instantly popular for being who I was. In reality, who they thought I was. Rather than blend in and learn the ways of the Iowa test (I passed the US history with flying colo
America meant having choices. England was a road already selected. And I liked that road. I knew what I was expected to do and how. I didn't have to prove myself in England or America but here, everyone defined me the way they wanted; a cartoon Carnaby Street denizen.
Just call me Lady Biba Brittania
It's taken me 40 years to understand this. And guess who turned the lighbulb on. A transplanted Israeli.
I'm so confused
