okay — he’s a good worker,” Moshe said. “But he’s the exception. Most Moroccans aren’t like him. And even he sometimes says very primitive things.”
Not like you, she thought, but didn’t say it. She stared straight ahead at the road as they drove through the town, and her nausea steadily increased. She couldn’t believe she’d been intimate with this man — she’d let him inside her body — and he was a racist. She was disgusted by his comment, and by him and his body, calmly arrogant in the driver’s seat next to her. Yet she also half-admired, or anyway envied, him. She wished she had his male self-confidence, his unquestioned assumption that it’s his God-given right to say whatever he feels like. She was always worrying about sounding nice or not-nice, saying the right or the wrong thing. But Moshe just talked. He didn’t know about political correctness, and even if he had he wouldn’t have cared. He’d have felt it was his right to express, to expel, whatever words had collected in his mouth. Not just the “nice” ones, but all of them. She can see his mouth now: his sensual mouth, full of words. Full of words like the mouths in the Shabbat morning prayer:
Even if our mouths were as full of poetry as the sea is full of water, and our tongues sang your praises like the roaring waves … we could never thank you, God, for even one thousandth of your countless gifts and miracles.
Moshe’s mouth was like a sea. And his red lips like the banks of the Red Sea. She remembers the first time he kissed her. His kiss was careful, exploratory, tentative, like dipping a toe into the sea. She’d just gotten off the train from Jerusalem, he was at the station picking up a small shipment of building materials that had been delivered there, and even though they didn’t know each other, he offered her a lift up the hill to the centre of town. It was a long, hot, dusty walk, and that day there was a hamsin, a burning, dry desert wind. She looked up the hill doubtfully, and nodded yes. In the car, they drove in silence. But at the top of the hill, Moshe leaned over and his mouth softly covered hers. Then his lips parted like the parting of the sea, and his tongue, just the tip of it, reached down hopefully into her mouth. She waited a moment, wondering what would happen next, but it just stayed there — hanging there like a bat hanging upside down on its perch — waiting. Slowly she reached up the tip of her tongue to meet his. Carefully, though. She’d been told by previous men she was too intense, too passionate. She didn’t want to frighten Moshe. But then she couldn’t help it: she trembled — a huge tremor ran through her body, and made Moshe tremble, too. His face flushed and filled with desire.
“On Thursday I’ll pick you up again,” he said hoarsely, somewhere between a statement and a question. She hesitated, then nodded before getting out of the van. She was sitting high up and she had to be careful stepping down. As she did so, she felt swollen in between her legs, and reaching the pavement, it was hard for her to walk.
Remembering this now, she keeps her eyes lowered to the arm of her chair. She’s not sure how much of her feelings show on her face, and she doesn’t want everyone here at the Dunhill School of Social Work to see written across it all her naked longing and desire. Once on a Jerusalem bus, she was daydreaming and forgot to watch herself — and not only did she miss her stop, she actually moaned out loud at one point, recalling the night before with her lover, and a man sitting two seats away shot her a sharp glance. Now too, she senses someone watching her. She looks up: it’s Weick. Peering at her intently. She blushes and looks down. Oh God. He knows. He can tell. She keeps looking at the orange armrest. When she glances up again, he’s still gazing at her, frowning slightly, as if trying to puzzle her out. Then he looks away and stands. Now alone at the front of the room, he instructs everyone to look at the rose-coloured page, which lists all the teachers and their areas of specialization. Judith studies the list. It looks like they have one of everything here, like a smorgasbord. One lesbian, one gay guy (the interest in HIV/AIDS is always a dead giveaway), one black prof, one Native one, etc. Given these identity politics, she can’t help speculating whether the prof who will be teaching poverty grew up poor, if the guy teaching about housing was ever homeless, and whether Tom Reggel, specializing in child abuse and neglect, was, as a child, neglected and abused.
Someone’s handing out canary-coloured sheets. It’s the schedule for first term: every Monday she will have Weick in the morning, Greg Smolan over the lunch hour, and then in the afternoon someone named Malone for “Social Work Practice with Individuals, Families, and Groups.” Weick loudly clears his throat, looks around the room to get silence, and explains there are four profs on the list who couldn’t be here today: Hetty Caplar, Marie Green, Bruce McIvor, and Suzy Malone. Suzy Malone — that name, spoken aloud, sounds familiar to Judith. But she can’t place it. “Malone, Malone,” she whispers under her breath, as if speaking the name aloud will help. It doesn’t. But hearing it repeated like that makes the name seem different, like an abbreviation for “I’m alone”: ’mAlone. And she does feel alone. Terribly alone. There’s no one here — in this school, town, or even country — who really understands her. Who she could talk to about Israel, who shares her feelings about that place. Bobby loves her, but he doesn’t understand her. She achingly misses her friends in Jerusalem. I’m alone here, she thinks. ’mAlone. Gantz aleyn. In galut. In exile.
“We, the faculty,” Weick is saying — rather grandly, like an American saying “We, the People” — “have just told you something about ourselves. So now we would like to hear from you: who you are, what you’ve been doing, and what you’re interested in.” He stops abruptly and turns sideways to listen to Phoebe, who is hissing something at him. He turns back to the group with a short laugh. “Unfortunately, however, Phoebe reminds me that in only twenty minutes Labour Studies gets this room. So please tell us something about yourself, but try to keep your comments brief. Just a few sentences, starting with your name, of course.”
Judith’s stomach starts convulsing. This type of public speaking always makes her very nervous. But at least, she sees, she won’t have to go first or even anywhere near the beginning: she’s sitting smack in the middle of the room, and Weick has started the go-around on his immediate left, with a startled older woman. As this woman speaks, and is followed by other students, Judith listens for clues about what to say when her turn comes. Anxiously she plans a presentation of herself that will make her look interesting and will also fit in with the “mission” of this school and what others are saying. Among the first seven to speak, there are those who proudly declare themselves gay, poor, “of colour,” physically challenged, learning disabled, and “culturally diverse” (Native, Caribbean, Pakistani, Portuguese). Some are just one of these things; others are two or even three, like Macario, the gay, dyslexic, Portuguese guy. Judith struggles over what to say about herself. There’s nothing particularly oppressed about her — nothing she can think of, anyway. She’s white, middle-class, heterosexual, not disabled intellectually or physically, and neither old nor young. She knows that being female and Jewish, she has been in various ways oppressed by both sexism and antisemitism. But the truth is, she doesn’t feel particularly oppressed, and doesn’t see any reason to put herself across that way. The go-around continues, and as it moves closer and closer to her, she gradually figures out what to say. The person talking is three seats away from her. Then two. Now it’s Cindy’s turn.
“I’m Cindy Hanson. Since getting my B.S.W. five years ago, I’ve been working at Mindy’s Place, a group home for teenage girls with physical and developmental disabilities. Quite a few of them have been sexually abused. So I guess what interests me is why that is, and if it happens to these kinds of girls more often than others because of being disabled. I’d also like to know how they think about these abusive experiences, and also about their bodies in general.” There are nods and murmurs of support. “So this is what I’d like to do my thesis on. Maybe approaching it from a feminist perspective, even though I don’t know very much about that. But I hope to learn.” Cindy looks at Terry Montana, and Terry nods back.
Now everyone looks expectantly at Judith.
“I’m Judith Gallanter,” she begins.
“Louder,”
