Feeling expansive, Imani said, “My point isn’t the historical record.” The vodka and Cokes had loosened her up considerably. “Although, frankly, who knows if any of this is true, right?”
“Oh, it’s true,” Franklin assured her, earning several marital points in the process. He enjoyed displaying his commitment to the faith in front of his religiously observant wife.
“Lots of people don’t think Jesus was real,” Imani pointed out. “It’s just that in the American narrative, my people, black people, own slavery, you know? We were brought here in chains, the middle passage, the plantation, right? Slavery is our thing. You all have the Holocaust and, yeah, it’s horrible, maybe the worst tragedy ever, you probably win that one—not that it’s a contest—but what I’m asking, I guess, is why do the Jews need slavery?”
“You’re quite the little provocateur, aren’t you?” Jay said.
“I’m just saying,” Imani replied.
“Well, Jay,” Nicole drawled, “You wanted a discussion.” Her pointed words hung in the air. It felt as if some baleful force had sucked all of the oxygen out of the house. Silence lay like a giant upon the table, awaiting the slightest stimulation to awaken and wreak havoc. The only sound was Chloe’s exhalation of breath caused by her despair that this marathon of devotion would never end.
Bebe looked sympathetically at Jay, a general whose elegant strategy had suddenly gone awry. Franklin gripped Marcy’s perspiring hand. Boris watched Ari and Ezra and hoped one of them would say something appalling. He was not going to engage with Imani in this situation but would be happy to see her pummel either one of the twins.
Marcy was the first to break the polar hush. “First of all, Imani, bringing the Holocaust, the greatest tragedy to ever befall humankind, into this conversation is not appropriate or acceptable. And second, no offense, but the Jews were slaves before the blacks.”
Imani asked, “So the Jews own slavery, too?”
“Too?” Franklin said. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You need slavery and the Holocaust?” Imani said. “I mean, pick one.”
This request appeared too daunting for Marcy, who rolled her head back and focused on the chandelier while she marshaled her disorderly thoughts. The friendly confines of the discussion group she attended at Temple Rodef Shalom in a leafy section of Great Neck did not prepare her for live fire. Franklin placed a steadying hand on his wife’s arm.
“Imani,” Jay said, attempting to smooth the turbulent waters, “it isn’t that the Jews need slavery, per se, but it’s a vital part of the story of the birth of Israel as a nation.”
Franklin removed his hand from his wife’s shoulder and now held both of his palms out as if trying to stop the flow of traffic. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said, seizing the role of interlocutor. “I’d like this young lady to clarify her last remark.”
“She means Jews own a lot of stuff,” Aviva said, feeling more oppressed by her bourgeois origins than usual.
“Oprah owns tons of stuff,” Ari pointed out.
“Last we heard, she was still black,” Ezra alerted the table. “Not Jewish.”
“Check your privilege, Casper,” Imani said to Ezra, or perhaps it was Ari. To her, they were interchangeable.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ari asked, echoing his father.
“You’ve had all kinds of advantages,” Aviva said, “so maybe you shouldn’t have an opinion on this?”
“I can’t have an opinion,” Ari said as if he didn’t particularly care either way.
“Why isn’t he entitled to an opinion, Aviva?” Marcy asked.
“She called you Casper,” Ezra said to Ari, stifling a laugh.
“All right, all right,” Jay interrupted. “Everyone’s entitled to an opinion because we’re in America. And this kind of exchange is good because if you think about the Jews spending forty years in the desert, there was probably a lot of arguing, right?”
This attempt at levity elicited some nervous titters. Even Marcy forced a nod of acknowledgment that led Jay to believe the evening could now be retrieved from the ditch into which it had lurched.
“Jews love to argue,” Franklin said. Then, to his wife, “Right, babe?” She covered her surgically enhanced eyes with her hand and did not answer.
Jay resumed, “Perhaps we can all think about slavery as a horror that both Jews and blacks endured, and that shared affliction is something that can bring the two peoples together because when you think about it, there’s a lot of common ground.”
General nodding.
“You know, Imani,” Marcy said, “matzo is called the bread of affliction.”
“That’s what black folks should call cornbread,” Imani replied.
Aviva’s eyes blazed as she looked at Imani. Her girl was winning this Seder.
Jay hesitated, waiting to see if anyone was going to pursue that thread. To his relief, no one did. Control restored, he said, “Ezra, I think you were reading.”
But before Ezra could resume, the newcomer, trying to avert further misunderstanding, attempted to clarify her position. “I didn’t mean to imply anything about what Jews physically own,” Imani said, as the older adults (not including Helen, absently chewing on a piece of matzo) inwardly moaned, eager to navigate out of this conversational cul-de-sac. “I was trying to establish a connection between the narrative of the Jews as it relates to the story of black people.”
“What is she talking about?” Marcy asked Franklin, who shrugged.
“This is what I’m talking about,” Imani said. “For you all, America is the Promised Land, but black people, we’re still in Egypt, you dig?” Ever since taking African-American Feminism as a Tate freshman, she spiced her conversation with bebop lingo. Satisfied that her last remark had hit its target, and gaining strength from the unwavering attention trained on her, Imani forged ahead. “Look at America. You see all kinds of institutions that are structured to keep black people down, whether it’s access to housing, or jobs, or quality public education.”
“There are interlocking systems of oppression,” Aviva chimed in.
“The establishment fixed the game,” Imani continued. “It’s the same situation with the Palestinians. They’re still in Egypt, too.”
“Here we go,” Franklin said.
“They’re in Palestine,” Ezra said.
“You mean the Territories,” Franklin corrected. “There is no Palestine.”
“Anyone knows that who reads the newspaper,” Marcy dripped. Whether her condescension was directed at her son, who only looked at the sports section, or Imani was unclear.
“The reason there’s no official Palestinian state,” Imani said, “is because the Jews—”
“Are you an anti-Semite?” Marcy inquired.
“No!”
“You mean the Israelis,” Aviva offered, sotto voce.
“Sorry, you’re right, baby,” Imani said. “Because the Israelis refuse to give back the land they stole.”
“The land they stole?” Franklin roared. “You mean the land God gave to the Jewish people in the story we’re trying to tell here tonight if you would quit interrupting.” Imani appeared startled at the anger she had unleashed, but Franklin took no notice. Everyone stared at him. His voice grew louder as he declaimed, “Since Biblical times Israel has been Jewish land and anyone else who thinks they can claim it, I’m telling you, it’s a false claim! A false claim! They’re outta their cottonpickin’ minds! That land is ours!”
At the head of the table, Jay’s mother leaned toward her son and wondered, “Why is Uncle Jerry yelling at the cleaning woman?”
“She’s a guest,” Jay whispered. “She’s not the cleaning woman. And that’s Jerry’s son, Franklin.”
Satisfied with this explanation, Helen sank back into her seat oblivious that the last exchange between her
nephew and Imani had once again decimated the atmosphere. Even Chloe had stopped texting and was swiveling her raccoon eyes between her father and Aviva’s defiant friend.
“Cottonpickin’?” Imani said, more amused than outraged.
Aviva and Imani shared a glance familiar to anyone who has inflicted their family upon a romantic partner for the first time. See? The glance said. I told you. They’re bananas. But our coupledom will be forged in these flames and made stronger.
“A figure of speech,” Franklin clarified. His fulmination had aggravated his digestion, and he massaged his upper intestine.
“Kind of racist,” Aviva pronounced. Then, to the group: “Everyone needs to take a cleansing breath.”
“I think we’ve had enough discussion,” Jay said. “We’re not going to solve the problems of the Middle East tonight, so let’s move along.”
“Thou shalt not steal,” Imani said, unable to contain herself. “That’s in the Bible.”
While Aviva suggested to her girlfriend that she had said enough, for now, Marcy rose from her seat like a hot air balloon unleashed from its tether, pointed at Imani and said, “You’re an anti-Semite.” Turning to the head of the table, she continued, “Jay, what kind of cockamamie Seder are you running?”
With a flick of an angry wrist, she threw her white linen napkin on her bone china plate and, torso pitched forward, stalked away.
This display was more than Nicole could take.
“Sit down, you condescending cow,” the aggrieved hostess said, “and stop judging everyone!”
The command arrested Marcy in her tracks. She whirled around and fixed her persecutor with a gaze to level a pyramid. “Excuse me?” she said, her voice pinched by the constriction of her throat into a higher register.
“You’re not going to ruin Passover,” the hostess snarled.
Franklin turned to Jay and muttered, “You better control your wife.”
As much as it pained Jay to do anything Franklin suggested, his cousin and business partner had a valid point, so he called across the white tablecloth to his inebriated spouse, “Nicole, perhaps it would be helpful if we all just dialed it down a notch.”
Everyone’s heads rotated from Jay to Nicole, to Marcy, whose slight forward angle now seemed to suggest that she might leap at her opponent. Even the apathetic Chloe was riveted by the show. The twins stared at their flustered mother, who was agitatedly working one of her palms with the fingertips of the same hand.
Aviva monitored her father, wondering if he could assert himself as the leader of this squabbling band of (mostly) Jews and deliver everyone safely to the coconut macaroons that marked the end of the meal.
Imani eyed Aviva and questioned her attraction to this guilt-ridden member of the ruling class. Bebe reached across the oblivious Helen and gave her brother’s arm a supportive squeeze. Stricken at the turn the evening had taken, Jay’s eyes darted between his livid wife and the reeling Marcy. Right now, he wished the Jews had never thrown off their chains and left Egypt in the first place.
Nicole’s blood felt like fire. The small of her back moistened. Despite the winey haze that enshrouded her, she remembered her intense desire to have Jay’s baby and her level of inebriation was not so acute that she didn’t realize burning the house down with the righteous anger she felt toward Marcy would fail to advance her cause. With this fresh and timely awareness, the internal tumblers that had become so misaligned locked into place and she faced her guests, all of whom were staring at her, stunned at what had occurred, and said with great conviction, “That was unforgivably rude, and I apologize to all of you.” To her target, she implored, “Would you please come back to the table, Marcy? I especially apologize to you.”
While the distressed Marcy thought this over, Nicole turned to Imani. “And would you mind not talking about the Middle East for the rest of the night?”
“Of course,” Imani said, chastened by the hurricane of repressed emotions her rhetoric had unleashed. “My bad.” Aviva rubbed her girlfriend’s back, in hopes of conveying that she did not bear all of the responsibility for the direction the evening had taken. Several anxious seconds passed during which Marcy displayed no more movement than a recently discovered Pleistocene mastodon that had spent the last ten thousand years in a block of ice.
“Mom, come back to the table,” Ari said.
“No more Middle East,” Bebe said. “Let’s talk about Obama.”
“He’s no friend of the Jews,” Franklin said.
“I voted for him,” Marcy informed the room, then returned to her chair and sat down as if nothing had happened. She didn’t look at Nicole. “But I’m disappointed.”
“I believe Ari was reading,” Jay reminded everyone.
“Back to the fairy tale,” Imani said.
“What?” Marcy nearly screamed, her serenity vanishing in an instant.
Jay put his hand up, indicating that he would take care of it. He turned to Imani.
“What did you say?”
“The exodus story is a fairy tale. It’s bull, and the Jews use it to justify their oppression of the—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Jay snapped. His volume louder than anyone present had ever heard at a Seder. “That is quite enough!”
“Jay—” Nicole ventured.
“No!” Jay said to his wife. “I need to say this.” Then, to Imani, “It’s people like you who are delegitimizing the Jewish state. You’re a direct threat to Israel, which is the only democracy in the Middle East.”
Although Imani was startled by her host’s tone, she remained poised. “Me? I don’t think so.”
“You need to leave. You’re no longer welcome here. Get out.”
“Jay—” Nicole said, meekly.
“I’ll take care of this!” he shouted.
Aviva indicated to Imani that she should remain calm. Imani’s lips did not move, but her eyes implored What did I do?
Aviva said, “Dad, what are you doing?”
Enraged, Jay glared at his daughter, who raised her Haggadah like a shield. “If you want, you can go with her!”
Aviva opened her mouth, but nothing emerged. Imani rose and left the room.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Aviva said, and followed her girlfriend. The whole table watched them go. Then everyone looked at Jay. Several mortifying seconds elapsed.
Finally, he said, “I think Ari was reading.”
Like the other guests, Ari was surprised by Jay’s outburst, but he nevertheless turned his attention to the heretofore noncontroversial part about the Jews being slaves in Egypt, finished the passage, and to everyone’s relief the Seder limped forward. Jay forged ahead to the part where dinner is served, and platters of food were brought to the table and passed around. The matzo ball soup, kreplach, gefilte fish, brisket, and kugel were all first rate, but Jay could hardly taste any of it. Only the nuclear intensity of the freshly ground horseradish could penetrate the torpor that had descended upon him.
Aviva and Imani ignored each other.
Facing the woods with their backs to the house and separated by twenty feet of dirt road, they waited, slightly drunk. It was a cloudy night, the moon barely visible through the twisting branches. The scent of pine and decomposing leaves filled the air. Aviva had called a cab, and after five minutes of watching the trees, those were the only words either had spoken.
It was a mystery why her girlfriend had chosen the Gladstone family Seder as the place to declare slavery an exclusive cultural inheritance that did not include Jews. Aviva would not have gone to a dinner with Imani’s family and instigated a discussion of anything having to do with black people other than to say she admired them. Her thoughts were more complicated than that. Lately, she wondered if she fetishized blackness and her attraction to Imani was a manifestation of some colonialist orientation—not the lesbian part, althou
gh she did not entirely identify as a lesbian, rather as polyamorous (to her a more palatable category)—and this possibility only compounded her sense of white privilege. Just to think about it was draining. If you had a problem with people of color you were racist, but if you liked them too much you were—what? Was admiring communities of color another manifestation of white privilege? They were not asking for her admiration. Further, many members of those communities would be offended by her use of the word “they” since it conveyed otherness (except when used as a pronoun by the newly voluble trans population). All of it made her head hurt.
Aviva did not believe she was fetishizing anyone. She was drawn to Imani, the person. Not at this particular juncture, admittedly, but for the most part, she loved her. As for tonight? Imani’s performance at the Seder was enormously uncool. How could she let that slide?
“Your father is the problem,” Imani said.
It was a relief to have the impasse broken.
“He can be difficult.”
“He’s a Zionist thug.”
The phrase jabbed. Aviva had hoped for a quick reconciliation and was taken aback by the aggressive words. Jay Gladstone, a thug? Her father was—she did not know how to characterize him at this point, but a thug? The term only revealed a paucity of imagination.
“Maybe if you had said you were sorry, it wouldn’t have gotten out of hand.”
“You think I should have apologized?”
“It wasn’t an academic conference.”
“Oh, word to the ‘nice Jewish girl.’”
“We should stop this conversation because it’s already too fucking offensive.”
“We’re supposed to stop because you’re offended?”
“Don’t apologize if your pride won’t let you.”
“My pride?”
“You don’t think I know what an a-hole my father can be?”
“I bet you know that.”
“But he’s okay.”
“For a plutocrat.”
Money again? Aviva’s college friends had teased her about this since freshman year when Axel had seen an article about Jay on the Internet and asked if she was related to “that Jay Gladstone.” Aviva thought about responding to Imani, but the idea of defending her father’s net worth was enervating. She couldn’t remove the stigma of her family’s wealth. To keep the fight from accelerating Aviva walked across the road.
The Hazards of Good Fortune Page 24
