Roads Taken

There's a famous poem by Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken," about a man who comes to a fork in the road and has to choose a path. Left or right? Which way would bring him to place he sought, whatever that might be?

I have a friend who is town for a few weeks (yay!) thanks to the holidays, and tonight, the few of us who are left here in Chicago are going out with her. As I sit here, anticipating the night to come, the laughs, giggles, gossip, and fun, I cannot help but think of that poem, and how different our lives are now, especially considering where we were just four years ago.

Four years ago, we all stood in the same place, looking toward our future, whatever that might be. We were off to college, or, in most cases, to Israel for a year. After that, college. We each stood on the road, and chose our path. For some, it led to college in New York. For others, that path led to college back home.

Four years later, we were back, standing at the fork again, though this time, we were no longer standing together. We were each standing at our respective forks; the forks where the previous path had led us, each on our own. One of us made the decision to join her family in Israel for a year; the other, to stay in New York and either get a job or go to school; for two of us, well, we stayed in our home city, waiting for everyone to return to us. (Don't worry, we got, or are getting jobs.)

We still sit, waiting for those times during the year when our friends will return, and we'll all hang out like old times. But it will never be like old times. While the friendship is still there, it is different. We are different. We are all different people, at different stages of our lives, yet, at the same time, at the exact same stages. Some of us have to work at the friendship a bit more; for some, it's just there, flowing like it always did. But when we're together, it's almost like nothing has changed. But underneath, we all know things have changed, and will keep changing. We have all chosen very different roads over the years, but the one road we have not chosen is to let this friendship go. The one road we hae chosen together over the years is to keep this bond we have, this closeness, the friendship we have forged through the years, depsite what other roads we have chosen or will choose.

The poem by Robert Frost:

The Road Not Taken (1915)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

"Good Shabbos, Good Yontif"

As most Jews know, when passing one another on a holiday or Shabbos, it is customary, and courteous to say "Good Shabbos" or "Good Yontif" depending on what it is. Occasionally, you may even say both. So why is it that no one says it anymore?

I'll be honest: This is a huge pet peeve of mine. About as big as pet peeve as people pushing an already lit elevator call button. (Seriously, it's already pushed, hence the light. Pushing it again will not make it come any faster.) Common courtesy, right? You pass someone on the street you recognize as a fellow Jew, you say "Good Shabbos" or "Good Yontif." Easy. Simple. Nice.

Apparently, not so easy, not so simple, and not so nice. This has been happening for years--the decline of the courteous greeting from fellow Jews. I've noticed it as the years have passed. Each year, each holiday, each Shabbos, less and less people say it. In fact, even less and less acknowledge you with a smile, or half smile. They just walk past you, as if you do not exist. (Except I'm taking up half of their sidewalk. So much for not existing as they have to move over for me, as I do for them.)

So what, you ask, was my breaking point? Well, I'm glad you asked. It was this past Rosh Hashanah. I was walking home in the afternoon from my aunt's house for a much needed break (seven kids, one house; that's all I need to say). As I'm walking down a fairly popular side street on my way home, luck would have it I pass three teenage girls in deep meaning conversation. (You remember those, when it was all about boys, school, and "Omg, your shoes are so cute!") Not only did they barely move over so I would not have to walk in the grass in order to get around them (I know, three of them, one of me, but there was still room to move over some), but they sent me a snobby, "We're better than you are" look, and ignored me. I, however, was giving them a half smile, and about to say "Good Yontif." Once I saw their looks and caught their attitude, I promptly shut it. I turned my chin up and kept walking. I just hope they caught the chin thing.

Needless to say, I seethed about this all the way home. Granted, it was three minutes more, but then I seethed for about another five minutes once I got home. After that, I was just mad. I kept turning over in my mind what could have led to this decline, this...rudeness. And that's exactly what it is: RUDE. No excuses, no defenses, nothing. Just plain rude.

As I was thinking about this in my seven minutes, I kept remembering all the men, women, and kids who have done the same in the past. Why? Is it because I'm not religious enough (though how they could tell I would not know)? Is it rudeness? Bad upbringing? (Yes, I am throwing that one out there.) Is it Jewish law or tradition? I could not figure it out. OK, so some men won't say anything to a woman at all. Fine. I can deal with that; I can respect it. But you can usually tell which men are those type and which are not (hint: they way they dress most of the time). Granted, not always can you tell, but sometimes you can. So, ok, some will say nothing for shomer reasons. But what about the others? The women, other men, and kids? Let's be honest: The women are just snobs, and they pass it on to their kids. These are the people who think they are better than you for whatever reason. Maybe it's as simple as they have no idea who you are, or they do not even recognize your face (names are secondary), so you are not worthy enough of a greeting. That attitude, intentional or not, is passed on to their children, especially if they do in front of their children. They also encourage this behavior by not encouraging or making their kids say such niceties to others. My mother did it in front of me, therefore, I do. Same with my friends. Is this a sign of what parenting has become? The decline it has taken with each generation? I am not sure. What I am sure of though, is that my mother, and her mother would never have tolerated such behavior from their children.

Be that as it may, my beef is not with the parents who are not encouraging to be courteous, it is with the people and Judaism. One of the most important things that I took away with me after twelve plus years of Jewish Day School is that Judaism is about respect. Respect your elders, respect your parents, respect other faiths. Respect. So, and please correct me if I am wrong, but isn't saying "Good Shabbos" or "Good Yontif" a sign of respect? And isn't not saying it, not only disrespect, but going against one of the fundamentals of Torah teaching? To me, what it boils down to is hypocrisy. People who claim, and do, follow the Torah, it's laws and teachings, and then turn around, and show complete and utter disrespect for fellow (wo)man.

Maybe next time I am walking down the street and see a group of Jewish girls approaching, I'll stick my chin up, not move over so they can get by, give them a look with attitude, and keep walking. Or maybe I'll comment on their cute shoes.