Note: This article was originally published in LINKS Magazine, published by LINKS, an organization that offers support, retreats, teleconferences, Shabbatons/get-together and other services for teens who have lost a parent(s).
I am totally not interested in your kvetching about your Yom Tov horror stories being guests in other people's homes, because right now I am going to tell you MY horror stories being a guest every single, bingle Shabbos and Yom Tov when I was a seminary student in Eretz Yisroel.
Yes, darlings, I realize that our circumstances are not exactly the same, as you didn't exactly choose to have your parent die on you and I did choose to go to Eretz Yisroel for seminary. But why do you get to have all the fun of sharing all your miserable experiences when I am sure, positively sure, that some of MY stories beat yours any day?
I will make a deal with you. This year, if you have any story worse than mine, you can send in your complaint about this article to LINKS and I will send you a gift card from Sprinkles Ice Cream store to soothe your pain.
(You know, you absolutely know that I am writing here tongue-in-cheek, that I absolutely feel with you in your pain, and that we know each other so well from LINKS that when I write this it is so I can try to make you laugh so that I can help you make your Pesach more bearable. Right? Right.)
Here goes.
I had a fabulous counselor in camp who I adored to pieces and she got married and moved to Israel. So you can imagine how excited I was when I called her to say hello and she immediately invited me for a meal for Shabbos. I walked over an hour and fifteen minutes from my dorm and arrived sweaty and tired, but geared up to a beautiful Shabbos meal I had no doubt I would be sharing with her. Well, that did not happen. My counselor had totally set me up. Or that's what it felt like. Because I had no idea that when she had guests, the women ate separately in the kitchen. Which I would totally have not minded, IF I would have known, IF I could have shmoozed with her in the kitchen, and IF she would have ASKED my permission be her mother's babysitter. Because it seemed obvious to me that she realized it would be perfect to invite me when her mother was there so that I could entertain her mother who otherwise would be sitting by herself in the kitchen.
Not so terrible? Here's another:
I invited myself to a seminary teacher's home for a Friday night meal. Other girls had ra-a-a-ved about how spiritual and beautiful the Shabbos meal was when they went. So, innocent me, was pretty aflutter to go. Especially that about four of us went together.
It was one disaster after another. Our first mistake was that we didn't eat before Shabbos. And we came there starving. Which would NOT have been a problem if Rabbi X would make kiddush asap. And then we could wash and then we could eat the fish and dips. Even if he needed to sing his stuff beforehand. Ha.
Rabbi X gave an hour long drashah right after we washed for challah. “So what?” you are thinking. “Just eat challah with dips until he finishes talking.” Impossible. There were no dips. Even if they were Israeli. And once you ate the measly slice of challah, there was absolutely NO TALKING or MOVING until he finished. I know for a fact, because I tried to motion to my friend to pass me some challah, and Rabbi X glared at me. And when we finally got some food, before I knew it, he was talking again. And we needed to be silent again. And the food was not that good either. So I was silent and starving all meal long. About four hours of it.
And listen to this: When the meal was finally over, we helped Rebetzin X clean up spotlessly and began to shmooze with as we did it. That was finally fun. But as soon as the place was clean and we still hung around talking, Rabbi X came by and said, “I think it's time for you to leave already,” embarrassing us terribly. Not fun at all.
One more, okay?
I moved in for Shabbos to Mrs. L. She graciously gave me my own room downstairs. Which would have been nice if during the night I would not have been awakened by a sound of flying. Flying? Yes, flying. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I noticed black things flying back and forth over my head. I will not even tell you what those flying things were. Okay. I will. Anything not to lose this deal and have to give you an ice cream in Sprinkles. JUKIM! Israeli big, black, crunchy looking, flying cockroaches!
I ran out of the room, and escaped up the stairs. But I had no where to go so I slept on the top of the stairs until Mr. L found me there in the morning on his way to Shacharis.
There are other stories that involve dirty linen, dirty children, inedible food, nosy hosts, unpleasant odors, lack of plumbing and overflowing toilets, and even an address that didn't exist in the first place so that we ended up by some sweet old lady who felt sorry for us stuck an hour before Shabbos with nowhere to go. But I don't want to bore you with those.
I hope you are not laughing as you read this. I sincerely hope you are not laughing at me. Because then I get to laugh at you. And your stories. (Which might be a good thing. It's better to laugh than cry, right?)
Whew. I am so glad to have gotten those stories off my head. And onto yours.
But joking aside, many of you are going to be guests somewhere for Pesach. Without a mother. Without a father. Or maybe even feeling like guests in your own home when your step-mother's married daughters move in. Or your mother is busy with your step-father's married children who overrun the place with little babies and diapers enough to create its own garbage dump.
What to do?
Go to Sprinkles Ice Cream Store.
I forgot. It's Pesach. Got to do stuff like sedarim and yom tov meals.
Okay, what to do? Some real advice coming up. Which you are absolutely not going to like. But I'm dishing it up anyway.
You need to make it work. And to do that, a little planning goes a long way.
Unless you have a wicked step-mother or your step-father is an evil wizard in disguise; unless your mother is a witch or your father is an ogre, you need to talk to them. And tell them what you need to survive yom tov either at home or as guests by others.
Many of you have read my article in Binah about a girl mourning her father, about being a guest at others and what often goes wrong. Being seated at the end of the table. Being ignored by your hosts —not even intentionally—so that all your divrei Torahs go untouched, watching the pain of your younger siblings who don't receive afikomen presents or even have the pleasure of stealing one.
So you need to speak up. To your parent who needs to intercede on behalf of the children, to your hosts who would be so happy to know how to make your seder meaningful.
Tell your mother or father how the marrieds are impacting you and work out strategies to make yom tov more bearable and manageable. Do the marrieds need to help more? Sleep less? Watch their own children? Bring gifts for the kids who are being turned out of their rooms to make room for them? Sometimes, little things can bring big dividends.
And when you are a guest by others, even in your own home, you are at an advantage. At least you are not the one being insensitive to others.
You can make choices.
You can make a choice not to make your parent's life miserable as she or he is managing to create yom tov that will never fit your expectations anyway now that your other parent is gone.
It's one week, Darling. One week.
For one week, you will sleep—or not sleep—on some mattress somewhere. And step on legos your step-mother's grandchildren left on the floor, so that you have little lego marks on your heel for the rest of Pesach. For one week, you will eat food that is not your mother's (nobody is stopping you from using her recipe book and helping your step-mother to cook), sit by yom tov meals that are not your father's (nobody is stopping you from teaching your brother his songs, repeating his divrei Torah, telling his jokes), and wish things were different.
But this is it. So you can choose to do things differently.
You can stop blewzing. You can help.You can cook, you can clean, you can talk and you can participate. You can smile at your host, at your step sister-in-law's bratty four year old. You can even smile at your parent who is alive.
And if things are not right and nobody is listening to you, you can reach out to a teacher, a mentor, a grandmother, an aunt, an uncle, an older sibling who has no idea what you are going through but you may have good ideas to help.
You can think of my jukim and thank Hashem that at least your house—or your host's house—doesn't have big, black, crunchy-looking, flying cockroaches that wake you up in the middle of the night.
And you know what?
Today, I have learned how to be a hostess. From my horrible experiences and from the wonderful ones that happened so much more often than the bad ones. I am grateful for those Shabbosim and Yom Tov meals away from home that taught me how to make sure there is a lot of food available and how not to get insulted if someone brings along their own food from home. Linen is clean and company is good. I shmooze and I listen. I allow my guests to help, to bring gifts, to steal as many afikomens as there are children, even the teenagers (hey, one driving lesson max for each!). My husband makes jokes and I whisper to him not to drag out the meal or seder in deference to our guests.
When you grow up and marry, you will do the same. If not better. Because you really know.
And I will tell you one more thing. Remember the home of the jukim? That home became my most favorite place to go all seminary year. Because sometimes, if you can look past the cockroaches, you will see a perfectly lovely home and welcoming hosts who only know as much as you tell them. If I could tell my hosts to get rid of the jukim, then you can definitely tell your hosts what you need.
Sprinkles ice cream anyone?
(Send me an email, and I promise, I truly promise, that if your story this Pesach 2016 is a doozy, I am sending you a gift card from Sprinkles. Word of honor...)
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