by Simone Kertesz

 

            Shiksa is a Yiddish word that has been thrown around for centuries. For those of you that don’t know Yiddish, it means a non-Jewish girl. This word was originally used pejoratively but in recent years Jewish American Princesses all around the country have aspired to be Shiksas. Popular American stereotypes that our culture craves to emulate are all of the characteristics that a Shiksa posses; blond hair, small nose, fair skin and lighter eyes.

            My whole life I have been called a shiksa. Most people assume that I am flattered by this name, but in reality it has caused me incredible pain and turmoil when it comes to identifying with my culture and religion.

            I lead a very regular life.. In this little mini memoir I will confront the issue of being a shiksa in  my world and the repercussions that my title entails.   

My Regular Life

            I go to a public high school in the city which is known for its laughable ex hippies who have put down their picket signs to indulge in gourmet foods, otherwise known as Berkeley. Berkeley is a great place, disillusioned liberals flock from all over the world to establish residence in the place where free speech got its start. Its a secular place accepting of all religions, especially mine.

            My father is the rabbi of a small congregation in Richmond, California. He specializes in mediation between the not so well known Jewish gangs and drug lords that have intense credibility on the streets of Richmond, due to  their, violence, cruelty and ruthlessness. On the streets my dad is known as Rabbi X.  

            My mother grew up on the mean streets of Greenwich Connecticut. She later clawed her way out of wealth and affluence into the poverty stricken lifestyle of a bohemian in New York City. She converted to Judaism but unwilling to turn to plastic surgery she would be forever haunted by her waspy good looks.

            My mother and father met in the roaring 80’s. There wedding was full of bad hair, long side burns and leftover polyester from the late 70’s. Five years later little old me was born. I was bald and looked like a 50 year old man, but I grew up into an adorable shiksa toddler. When I was two years old my family moved to Israel.

            We settled on a kibbutz (for those of you who don’t know what that is; it’s basically a bunch socialists living together and not owning shit). Since my family is American, we resided in a cozy little trailer with a bunch Russian immigrants who were all ex-mafia. Those were the good old days. Running around with the my friends, playing around in the “play ground” composed of rusty old cars, forklifts and un-exploded bombs left over from previous wars. In the time spent on the kibbutz I became a nudist. The Russian and Israeli women were appalled at my mom’s hippy approach to parenting. They thought it barbaric to have a young child running around reaping havoc amongst the chickens and sheep. Worst of all they never believed my mother when she said I was Jewish. They assumed that my mother and I were Germen immigrants who had moved to Israel out of guilt and that my mother had just met my dashing “Israeli” father out of sheer luck. We could only stand so much so we hoped a plane and went back to the beautiful U.S of A.

            I grew up and went to Jewish day school for nine years, but we’ll go back to that later.

            At the ripe age of 14 I entered High School. I was excited for this new experience, it felt good to have a clean slate. I figured that almost no one would know what a Shiksa was so I would be in the clear. Was I wrong? Yes, very.

            High School was rough at first, it felt as though I was standing still and everyone else around me was moving at the speed of light. I had come from a middle school of 150 students, so it was weird to not know everyone’s name. After a while I got used to the massive size and began to make new friends.

            When I was a freshman I was not allowed out on Friday nights because my family would celebrate the Sabbath. I did not mind this very much because it is the only thing I knew. Besides, the Jewish gangsters and drug lords always brought us gifts when they came over for shabbis dinner. After a while my friends would ask me to go out and party and when I told them I could not because I had to observe the Sabbath they were all astounded.

“What the hell! If you’rr Jewish, where’s your nose?”

“Um, my nose is here,” I would say, pointing to the middle of my face.

            Anyways this reaction occurred many times and it always astounded me how utterly ignorant the world was. How could all these privileged educated children be so utterly uninformed? This may sound bad but the worse was yet to come.

            I was coming to the age where a first boyfriend was appropriate. Being the good Jewish girl that I am I decided to date the WASPiest boy I could find. That boy’s name was Todd Craig, or maybe it was Craig Todd.  Todd Craig Todd had red hair, blue eyes and freckles along with Bermuda shorts and Lacoste topsiders. This was the ultimate rebellion.

            In a weird way Todd Craig Todd got a kick dating a rabbi’s daughter. I remember the first time I had dinner at his house. His mother and father’s smiles were permanently plastered on their faces.   There house was spotless and the conversation that occurred at the dinner table sounded like an episode of “Leave it to Beaver,” interrupted by awkward pauses. When I told them that my mother was from Connecticut they thought they had found the daughter they had never had, blond, waspy features. What more could they possibly want. When Todd Craig Todd announced that I was the daughter of a rabbi a long pause fell upon the table which was then immediately interrupted by the question of all question; “But where’s your nose.”

            My family is and will always be the polar opposite of the Todd Craig family. My mother has become the typical Jewish mother. She decided when she married my father to pick a Brooklyn accent to affirm her authenticity as a Jewish woman.

            I will now retell the story of prom night and how all my friends came to know my waspy looking mother as the most Jewish women alive.

            So we come home at four in the morning and on the table in front of us is a feast. There is pizza, chips and salsa, sodas, veggies with pesto dip and to top it off there is a note on the table that says.

“Hey lovie, its mom! I hope you guys had just a fabulous time, enjoy the food and the cold cuts are in the fridge.” (This note is best if you read it in a Yiddish accent.)

When my friends read this note they were on the floor pissing there pants. When ever my mother is mentioned the catch phrase “The cold cuts are in the fridge,” is always associated.

Although I have always been presented with the conflict of the way I should look and the way I do look. It’s complicated and sometimes it’s frustrating dealing with unnecessary stereotypes. I look like a shiksa, authentic or not. I am proud of both my backgrounds waspy and Jewish alike, and will carry the term shiksa with my head up, blond hair and all.