Judaism for an Atheist

Eli Albert

1.

When I was in fifth grade I didn’t know anything, but I knew I liked candy. In school there were always excuses to have candy. This story starts, for instance, when one day in the middle of a lesson, the assistant teacher’s boyfriend walked right into the classroom, flowers in hand, and proposed to the teacher on one knee. I remember she was young and beautiful before that, but afterwards she positively glowed.

They went outside the classroom to talk, she accepted the offer, and news spread through the entire elementary school hall in just a few minutes. In the end, it was determined: that there would be a wedding. More importantly, it was determined that us kids would have a small party as well.

In my rich private Jewish school, there were surprisingly few ways that the students, as mere children, could flout their respective states of wealth. The party was the perfect vehicle for this longed-for type of exhibition, and as the teachers suggested that a few kids bring candy, faces lit up all over the room. I personally wasn’t interested in bringing the candy, but I was interested in having it.

In all honesty, I can’t say that I was so interested in eating it. I’ve always been something of a collector, and I think the thought of many different types of candy available in one place for the taking was what really interested me. Of course, I liked sweets – but they were always available in some form or another. It was the variety and magnitude promised that interested me.

They held the party outside the school on four picnic tables covered with a plastic tablecloth. The tables were situated on a small patch of grass under two tiny trees. This mini-park was between the asphalt basketball court on one side and a fenced-in playground for the younger students on the other. Immediately I saw that the party would live up to expectations.

I personally had brought – I remember to this day – two packages of party-size Twix bars. Back then they weren’t kosher, which was a major no-no, but no one seemed to object. In fact, the entire underlying attitude of the party was one of carefree acceptance. For the most part, the teachers were just as happy to be getting an hour off as we were. The year was almost over and the days were hot, so everyone was relaxed. This all made what happened next particularly perplexing.

Everyone actually received a brown paper bag for candy collecting; evidently the teachers had the same idea about the party’s bounty that I did. My paper bag was full ten minutes in – I had a small sample of everything. The crown jewel of my collection was a full-size Hershey's milk chocolate bar – of which only a few had been available to start with. After the bag was filled, I started to stuff my pockets. Twix, Snickers, Crackle, Reeses, Milk Duds, an assortment of gum and lollypops, even some dried fruit ended up in my bag and my pockets. I didn’t know what to eat first. I finally settled on a few Hershey Kisses. Because of their size and abundance, I decided they would be the perfect appetizer. Honestly – I really did agonize over which type of candy would serve as the appetizer for my sugary meal.

It was at this time that I noticed a group of younger kids on the other side of the fence, in the playground, one of whom was the younger brother of a friend of mine. They all had their hands on the fence, pleading for some candy. I would have done the same in their position. Some kids nearby had thrown them a few morsels, but the teachers had yelled at them to stop.

I threw a couple Hershey Kisses to the little kids. Maybe I hadn’t noticed the teachers scolding my peers, or maybe I didn’t care. The kids across the fence were grateful, and I threw more. Two seconds later, before I even knew what was happening, my wonderful bag of candy was out of my hands – ripped out by a teacher of Hebrew studies. She had confiscated my bag because I’d donated the candy. I was being punished for my foolishly altruistic actions.

Though at first dumbfounded, I soon found my voice and protested loudly. She resolutely shook her head, despite my begging. Evidently, I was the example for the other students. By that point the allotted time for the party was winding down, and the teacher began to walk around to the front of the building and inside to her classroom. I followed her, or rather, I followed the paper bag. The unjustness of her actions, and my anger at it, had already brought tears to my eyes. How could she simply take my entire bag, my entire collection, for such a tiny infraction? The punishment did not fit the crime.

When we got to the stairs to the second floor, I had caught up to her. I grabbed for the bag, but her grip was too strong. I distinctly remember her claw-like grip. It was at this point that I started sobbing, yelling and cursing at her. I couldn't have said anything too mean, me being in fifth grade, but I know I was out of line. I didn’t care. Obviously, the unfairness of the situation, the principle of the matter, trumped all other considerations. However, eventually I realized the bag was gone and I gave up. What more could I do?

I sat down on the bottom step of the stairwell, on the side of the building, and was consoled a bit when I remembered the candy that I had stashed in my pockets. Not all was lost. I looked up and realized that there was no one in sight. I was all alone. Actually, it was the first time in that school that I’d been all alone. We always used to walk in lines with the teacher at the head and one unlucky student bringing up the rear. Where was the line? Where was the instruction? I didn’t even know what time it was, nor where I was supposed to be.

I stood up and walked out into the hallway. A few teachers were walking back and forth, but no one that I knew. None of them paid me the slightest attention. It was at this moment that I first understood an important state of being. It was at this moment that I first tasted independence. As I munched on a Twizzler, I realized that I could go to lunch, or to recess, or to the playground, or to nowhere at all. Until someone from the elementary wing found me, I was free. Of course, I walked to where I guessed I was supposed to be. I didn’t spend any more time ruminating on my freedom then, but looking back I see that moment for what it really was. My Hebrew studies teacher may not have meant to, but she led me to a valuable experience.

2.

In Jewish summer camp, only a few months later, the candy was a distant memory. Actually, candy was constantly on my mind because it wasn’t allowed at camp, but that isn’t the story. About sixty kids were in a large barn-shaped multipurpose room/basketball court playing Gaga, a simple game with a rubber ball. The game was such that only one person could win a round, at which point everyone who'd lost the round was back in and the next round began. The game was also fiercely competitive.

I played for about an hour before I finally won a round. It was mid afternoon on a hot and humid summer day; the kind of day that you know won’t see any rain, despite the humidity. About twenty or thirty more kids were lounging around near the playing area, too tired to take part. Some would play one round on, one round off to save energy.

The building was built to serve a number of purposes. Besides being a basketball court and house of worship, it was a theater. The stage on one end had quite a few little rooms secluded from the rest of the building with an assortment of old, squishy furniture. After I won my round of Gaga, feeling exultant and almost mighty, I sauntered backstage in search of a place to rest; I intended to sit out a round. After all, nobody expected the victorious warrior to jump right in and immediately play again.

I didn’t actually know many people in the camp. I had a few buddies but I didn’t know the names of most of the kids that I saw on a regular basis. I had no real understanding of popularity, in fact. I was socially undeveloped. As I walked down some steps, near the side of the stage, I saw a small room with some discarded mattresses in a big pile. Eight or nine kids were lounging around on the mattresses, sliding down the pile, and just talking. I walked over and sat down nearby.

It’s strange how memories form themselves when you don’t give them any specific thought until a year or two later. When you try to remember an event that you’ve let grow to seed, you see it through a haze of uncertainty. I remember sitting on the foot of a mattress near the bottom of the pile in this secluded room. One boy with curly blond hair told me to leave. Probably, if I hadn’t just won the most recent round of Gaga, I would have left. In my exultant state, though, I turned around with incredulity. I was being thrown out.

This one young guy got off the top of the mattress pile and pushed me away. I told him off, although I don't remember what exactly I said, and he punched me in the face. It’s this two minute span that I remember the least. He hit me in a place in which I’ve been hit a few times since then – and I don’t get punched often – right between my nose and my right eye, getting my cheekbone, the bridge of my nose, and my some of my eyebrow. I think at first I was too stunned to acknowledge the blow. I simply stumbled away, outside the building. The last image I remembered then and now of that room was of a pretty girl on top of the mattresses consoling the kid.

This was a rude awakening into the realm of popularity and social politics. I had no idea that not knowing people was a bad thing. I was a loner, but at that moment, I was more alone then I’d ever been. I realized that in that place, at that time, I had no allies. It wasn’t even that I was so horribly unsocial or unpopular – I’d simply never placed any importance on networking.

On the other hand, it’s unlikely that any amount of networking would have gotten me in with the crowd in that room. It was this realization that I gained from the encounter and from being hit. I was not very popular then, and I had just won a round of Gaga. That simple recognition dramatically changed the rest of the summer. I actually made a good friend the next day, someone who I could count on. It’s important to have people.

3.

Between third and sixth grade I took piano lessons from a woman who I disliked. Every Tuesday afternoon my sister and I would walk to her house, about 4 blocks away. I disliked her and her lessons because she was patronizing – utterly, completely devoid of any understanding of a little boy. To patronize someone is the worst thing you could possibly do to a person. I don’t know how I lasted there for as long as I did.

So sometimes I had my half-hour lesson first and then waited for my sister, and sometimes she would have hers first and then wait for me. Either way, we were both there for an hour a week. One week, at one of my last lessons, we decided I would go first. Afterwards I sat in the living room near the piano where my teacher and sister were. I had no homework with me and the teacher had recommended that I read a book. She had quite a few on the coffee table.

I looked through the books, and one caught my eye. It was a huge, oblong, hardcover book about Monet – the French painter. For some reason, my small knowledge of French impressionism led me then to believe that the subjects of the paintings were overwhelmingly female and nude. I admit it; this was my sole motivation to open the book. The piano was plunking in the background, but I was curious about the female body. I turned a few pages looking for nudes, but I was met with landscapes. I had no appreciation for the interplay of sunlight and shadow.

The pages of the book were the thick plastic kind. They were glossy, heavy, and hard to turn. They also made an awful noise when you touched them, like rubbing a balloon. That noise has always bothered me, but I ignored it, because I really wanted to see some nudity. Suddenly, I cut my finger.

Paper cuts hurt more to think about than to actually receive, but I cried out nonetheless. I was surprised at the blood gushing from my thumb. Diana, the piano teacher, rushed from her bench to my aid. In fact, she only cared that I not get blood on her sofa. She took me past the piano to a small powder room in the hallway beyond. It was a forbidden, almost sacred part of the house which students were never allowed to enter. I washed off my finger and she gave me a band-aid, at which point I was ushered back into the living room. I barely even had time to examine the tacky wallpaper.

Looking back, it was a very religious experience, and I never have very religious experiences. The somber feelings in the house, which was always dark and dreary, gave it the feel of a synagogue or church. I sinned, I was not-so-subtly punished, I was taken into a holy place, and I was cleansed. The surrealism of the moment only catches up with me now, years later.