Polonius in Israel: Aliyah tales, 11-22-05
Polonius starts with my memory of a Mr. T. key fob I saw in Toy Boat
Ice Cream Parlor and Assorted Toys Shop on Clement in San Francisco.
Some will recall Mr. T. from the TV show which was a comic echo of
Mission Impossible. Mr. T., the black man with a Mohawk, laconic,
strong, of fierce mien. When he moved to Lake Park, Illinois, a tres
chic far north suburb of Chicago, known for its lots measured in
acres, its horse trails and its trees, and when he learned he was
allergic to pollen, T. got out his chain saw and cut down all the
trees on his multi-acred property.
But the key fob is one such that displays his mug and beneath it a
series of multicolored buttons, which when pressed, will growl at you
with Mr. T.-isms like, "Don't mess with me, Man!" or "The end of your
story is the start of my glory," and such.
Nu, what's this got to do with Polonius in Israel? Imagine a Mr.
Polonius key fob, which when pressed, spouted inanities. Inanities
that finally pressed Hamlet to silence Polonius hidden behind the
curtain. I generally picture this with a thrust of Hamlet's sword,
but once saw an updated version in which Hamlet uses a .22 caliber.
Not as moving. Something about the intimacy and immediacy of a fencing
move, a thrust, blade briefly buried in velvet curtain, a slow fall
and silence.
But this Polonius, the one in my ulpan, spouts, generally biblical
exhortations.
Some are to the point, so to speak. He is of the elderly sort, in his
late 70's, of grizzled beard that creeps down his gullet, which sways
and trembles, the gullet that is, with his pronouncements. These seem
to come from deep within, from at least the chest, perhaps lower,
rumble upwards and erupt from the lips. He wears a kippah clipped
thrice to hold firm to what little decorates his lid. He and his wife
just arrived some months ago from Britain. He announces that he is
much younger than most, younger than his children. Yet, he accepts
the double standard: while proud when people compliment him on his
youthful behavior, as he is chronologically older, he deserves the
respect he should get. He thinks of older as wiser, that he is a
survivor. In fact, he has just lasted longer than most. He is a
laster. His wisdom is that of an older toddler, quite proud of his
accomplishments, such as mastering the toilet, or pissing without
missing very much, and expecting applause for each achievement. Each one.
When he arrives late, as is fairly often, he pauses at the door, near
the teacher's desk, bows slightly, giving others just a moment to
greet him, offer obeisance. He looks to the teacher to be certain she
has an opportunity to be delighted at his arrival, then with a wave of
his hand, asks: "Is there an empty seat for me?" as if unsure which of
the half dozen empty chairs will entertain him.
His speaking, hard to convey. It comes in mini-eruptions. What I
mean is, something like an awakening volcano, you hear its rumbling,
some obscuring smoke, before the lava erupts. His erupts in bursts of
Hebrew words, but not many, at least not enough to fill in the time.
The word-spaces are filled in with "Ehhh's" or "Dhdhdhdhe's" or such.
At times his almost stuttering noises are onomopeic with words, as if
they were words. When he speaks, the right arm does waving, the back
of the hand upwards, as if wafting the words from his mouth to ascend,
spread to all ears, even to heaven. The ending is with some more
rumbles that hint he is coming to rest.
I am generally taken in by British accents, add a few extra points to
the speaker's IQ on behalf of a well-turned Anglo accent or phrase.
But, this does not seem to work in Polonius's favor.
At times he says things that are correct or make sense. Or almost
do. He has a biblical quote for each occassion. He has a rabbinical
manner of delivering these, I mean of the High Church/ Anglican/Reform
Judaism oratory, of the orotund kind. Perhaps this is an attempt to
capture some voice of a prophet or some daemon speaking through the
person, as if he had no responsibility for what is being said. Rather
some higher source is piping through his being to reach us.
I was not aware of why I was so bothered by this Polonius, until I
happened that he sat next to me one class. Then, I found that in
addition to his class-y pronouncements, he also carries on a personal
oratory with his seat mate. An ongoing, sideards mumble. That being
me on that day, I was brought to mind of Hamlet's father dying from
poison poured into the porch of his ear. Until that day, I thought
that Hamlet's uncle had used some physical potion upon his brother's
auricular appendage. That day, I realized that such toxins can be
produced by words: Uncle talked his brother to death, so much so, that
even when Hamlet's father returns as a ghost, he is left speechless.
I had the sense that I was sitting next to an Evangelical Christian
bent on converting me for my own good, and he knows what's best for
me. But, I thought to my irritated self, I am Jewish. I have dear
friends who are Orthodox, I enjoy shul; what's my problem? Then I
realized that the distance between Polonius-ski and The Reverend Willy
Nilly, was as narrow as an ass's nose whisker. He pauses, Polonius,
momentarily, looks at me to see if I have changed yet. Into something
or someone else, I am guessing he expects to appear different,
laquered with his words.
Unlike me, I change seats at our break. I think I was out to save a
life. Had I been a fencer and had their been a velvet curtain, I
might have exclaimed, "Dead as a Ducat." Instead, I sit removed.
And I write a story.
Copyright N. Szajnberg 2005.
