The Wake

My mother hates Jesus in the way some people hate George ‘dub-ya’ Bush. The world’s problems, even the most minute, are that person’s fault. While most ostentatious liberals of this generation would ignore all self responsibility and blame their two hour wait at the DMV on George W., my mother is the crazy (and don’t forget loud) lady cursing Jesus. In fact, if you like, and especially if you love Jesus, and just so happen to consider him your lord and savior, my mother probably hates you too. My mother is about as Jewish as they come (if you are not familiar with Jewish mother stereotypes, think Barbara Streisand’s character in Meet the Fockers…Exactly. Save your sympathy, and let’s move past this awkward silence shall we? I’ve already figured my mothers’ outrageous antics will cost me millions in therapy, or on the hopeful side, make me millions off my still unpublished memoir: I Was the Victim of a Jewish Mother) Because of my mother’s closed-minded nature, there are just certain things I would rather her not know about my life. There is one thing that would set her over the edge. This is going with me to my grave, which will of course be in the family plot in the local Jewish cemetery. Once upon a time, I dated Jesus.

This ‘Jesus’ character was not Jesus-esque when we dated. We shall call him Doug, more for my protection than his. He differed very much in behavior and looks from the real Jesus at that time, but nonetheless the relationship needed to end. It had been a few months since I had last seen him, and I assumed he was the same Doug since we split. Oh, how I was wrong.

The following semester I was walking down Washington Ave one night, and lo and behold, I found Jesus. Ok, so maybe it wasn’t the actual Jesus. However, this impersonator did a nice job. His beard was long and thick, his hair went down his back, gleaming with morality. Walking with a friend towards her car, we silenced ourselves out of respect for Jesus as we approached him, or maybe it was out of fear that this Jesus was a crazy; he stared at us as if he were silently scheming a plan to enter our Valley of Kings. His thin body sat parked on his bike, complete with helmet and safety gear (Jesus wasn’t about to let any Romans take him down this time). He sat slowly dragging his cigarette towards his mouth, exhaling in a dignified, serious manner that only Jesus could.

My friend and I were almost at her car when we heard a ‘hey.’ She replied as I shot her a glance that said, ‘don’t talk to strangers that are not attractive. It’s only worth the risk when they are at least good looking.’ Then we both stopped. Oh god. We knew who Jesus was. Jesus knew who we were; he wasn’t just spreading the holy word out of kindness. I had dated Jesus. Jesus was Doug.

My friend and I escaped into the safety of her four-door sedan (which happened to have a Jesus fish sticker) and pulled away from the curb, away from Jesus. I didn’t know what to feel: relieved, embarrassed, ashamed, amusement? Then I felt a pang of guilt. I dated a Jesus look-a-like. My mother. My mother would kill me. Since I exited her womb, (which she will proudly inform you was the only womb in Los Angeles County to be decorated in the same manner as a synagogue) she has played the role of matchmaker more than that of a mother. “Ilana, the Bergstein’s are in town. You remember the Bergstein’s don’t you? Eli is one of the top plastic surgeons in Marin County, he’s married to a boozer named Aviva, but that’s okay because they have a lovely son who is visiting with them. You remember Yoel don’t you? You splashed around naked in the kiddie pool together. You’ve already seen each other naked, there’d be no need for premarital sex. It’d be perfect!” She would coo this or similar soliloquies far too often. My mother’s ideal for me is Yoel Bergstein, super Jew, the dream of Jewish mother’s everywhere and archenemies of all the Jewish girls who went black and didn’t go back, just out of spite for their mothers. My mother associates all “goyims” (non-jews) with Evangelical crazies, despite any factors that may suggest otherwise (“But Mom, that’s an anarchist sticker!”). Just dating someone who looked like Jesus would send her into a raging fit of ‘oy gevalts’ and an urgent need for some Xanax. (Which Jesus would undoubtedly disapprove of.)

My mother is old fashioned, constantly needing reminders we are not in the old country; the old country being Los Angeles fifty years ago. Her ungodly wrath is not worth making the confession to my mother about dating a Jesus look-a-like, even if I swore all we did was play seven minutes in heaven.

There could be worse things I could do to set my mother off. I could have an affair with Santa Claus, then run off to the North Pole, only to replace Mrs. Claus after a mysterious snowmobile accident caused her unexpected and tragic death.

So the next time my mother calls and pries into my love life, this will be my answer: I’m dating true to my roots. I’m going the Moses route. I can hear her sigh of relief into the phone now. Just to add a little piss and vinegar, right before she asks if I foresee a marriage and what type of chupah I would want at the wedding (“Uncle Moshe will build one for free, you know”) I will tell her this, my personal rebellion against my mother: Anyone who is capable of parting the Red Sea would be worth parting my legs for. I can hear the phone drop to the sound of ‘oy veshmear’ now. Victory is mine.

Apparently my love life is similar to the basis of most Jewish holidays: they tried to kill us, and we won. Despite trying to be brought down to her demands, I win every time.