Shalom to All That Gravity

(2 of 2)

Because my name could be Jewish, the security staff at the Tel Aviv airport had a set of questions meant to clarify the matter. "Do you have family in Israel? What are your children's names? Where did you learn your [poor] Hebrew?" And once: "Did you ever volunteer on a kibbutz?" The last time I flew out of Israel, I made a game of it and offered answers that gave nothing away. Finally, I wore down and confessed that I wasn't Jewish. (To which the security agent replied, laughing, "Nobody's perfect.") Our contest took so long that I missed my flight.

In fact, I left Jerusalem feeling more Christian than I ever had. I came to understand why members of minorities need to embrace their commonality. Once, in a grocery store queue, I encountered a group of European nuns and felt — as a co-religionist, sort of — I had to connect with them. I tried scraps of every romance language I could muster and got baffled looks in return. Finally, I resorted to the only tongue we had in common. "Shabbat shalom," I uttered. Have a good weekend, in Hebrew.

The Middle East rubbed off on me in other ways. Eventually, I began to feel some of that gravity I'd long ago observed pressing down on me. But, lucky to have experienced calamitous misfortune only as an observer, I suspect the heaviness won't settle on me. Entering the airport terminal upon arrival in New York, I suddenly performed a feat I'd never managed before. I had kicked my heels in the air before I even knew what I was doing.