Crossing the equator, sun searing directly overhead,
we are jostled
invading every tender membrane, fogs of dust rising,
fomented by the Jeep
Balancing on their heads, just outside our windows,
sugarcane, bananas, water jugs
Children running and waving to us, the strangers,
shouting “Mzungu, Mzungu”.
Far from everything familiar,
How can we drive away from the comfort of our kin, the Abayudaya,
and their Shabbat of joy?
Feeling homesick, we distract ourselves by
playing a game
of Jewish Geography
“You’re from Skokie? Do you know my college roommate, Jamie?
You’re from Teaneck? Do you know my cousin, Jocelyn?
You’re from Detroit, a Reform temple? maybe you know my uncle Jim?
He was the principal of a Sunday School…”
That question is directed to me, and suddenly, it’s 1970
I’m jolted
Back to being sixteen when that principal, Uncle Jim,
Was the first adult who treated me as grown,
(My name back then was Jill)
A teacher had resigned and he needed a tutor for B’nai Mitzvah,
“I know I can count on you, Jill.”
How bashert that his niece sitting across the aisle
reconnects us on this journey
When I’m now in my seventies and still
sometimes feel like that kid, yearning to be seen, yearning to matter,
yearning to connect.
Art by Rabbi Gila Colman Ruskin
