BROKEN ENGLISH PART 1 – So, my family is from Poland originally, then Israel. In Israel, burials follow the law of the bible – literally. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. And so corpses are wrapped in shrouds and laid to rest in the ground – sans coffin. It’s almost primitive. One summer, my grandparents were visiting us in the New York suburbs, where I grew up and my mother and I took them strolling along the meticulously manicured homes of New Rochelle, New York where I grew up. My grandma saw a lovely pristine Victorian house set high on a grassy hill. My mother noticed it was a funeral home and decided to show her parents how it’s done here in the United States. I was tagging along, and though my age was young, my knowledge of the English language was advanced enough to pick up embarrassing mistakes. So, up the stairs we went into the dark wooden and somber lobby. There we were greeted by an usher who asked if he could help us. My mother, thinking department store etiquette was called for here, responded, “No thank you, we’re just browsing.” The usher was probably too confused to stop us as we “strolled and browsed”, peeking into each room. My grandparents, not speaking a word of English, didn’t know any better. My mother was very proud of herself, having given her parents a glimpse of another culture’s death ceremony. I think the entire time I held my breadth until we left that place. Something just seemed “off” about the whole experience.
BROKEN ENGLISH PART 2 – That same mom (see above) owned and ran a children’s wear store called JUST KIDS in Eastchester, New York. It was a cute little single aisle boutique catering to infants, toddlers, and teens, with a focus on the “basics” – OshKosh Begosh, RobRoy, Carter’s – anyone of a certain age range would know of these once upon a time classic brands. Anyway, my mother would often get new first time fathers who had to buy baby’s nursery outfits and bedding. The men would desperately try to explain to my mom what they needed. Finally, after much hand gesturing and voice raising, the lightbulb went off atop ma’s head, and she blurted out, “Oooohhhh, I know what you’re looking for! Shits! We do have the shits you’re looking for. We have shits in different colors too! Pink shits? Blue?” Luckily, my mom was smart enough to hire a shop assistant who knew exactly when she had to step in and intervene, and this was one of those times. Ruthie came running over and said to the confused and distraught father, “Sheets, crib sheets… she has a strong accent. She meant sheets for the crib”. This explanation was followed by her shooing my mother to the back office to “look over some paperwork” as she promptly took over the sale. Immigrant parents. You can’t live with them. You can’t live without them. But they’re good for providing lots of laughter.
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