When: September 1997
Where: Southbound on Pacific Avenue in my mom’s car
Who: My mother
When I was in the second grade, the older girls liked to play witches and imprison me. That later became a thing of mine, but that’s for another website.
During this trouble, my mother took me on a friday night, without warning, to a synagogue. I had no idea what was going on, but despite the 2-hour runtime of a typical Erev Shabbat service, I was pleased enough. I was not so pleased when she began sending me to Sunday school at said synagogue, as once again I had no idea what was going on. My entire knowledge of judaism up to this point was derived from the 1989 season of IETV’s רחוב סומסום, an Israeli adaptation of Sesame Street.
Temple Sinai was not accessible to me as a religious institution. The Sunday school teachers assumed we already knew everything, but as my family seems to be the least religious Jews in all of America, I did not. Also, I was quiet around strangers, and everyone here was a stranger. It was enjoyable enough, but it never felt personal until I was a full-grown adult, and not because of anyone there. And if you’re reading this, it wasn’t you, it was me. Now where was I?
Following a perfectly normal experience in 1st grade, I became an unbearably smug 2nd grader. This may have had to do something with my awful teacher who hated boys, oblivious to this as I may have been. I only listened to classical music, and after some forgotten misbehaviour my mother refused to play the classical station, instead listening to KROQ, halfway through this song. I didn’t like it. I do now.
Next: Blondie searches for Fermat’s last theorem