No Meat Naomi
"Naomi is so ungrateful; she never eats a thing I make her. No chicken, no steak – not even pastrami!" my Bubbie complains. I shrug my shoulders and tell her that people are more than what they do or don't eat. I tell her that maybe Naomi isn't so bad; maybe she just needs some time to get comfortable. After all, Naomi was the third aid this month, being that my Bubbie reported all the other ones. I too, believed at first that she was too quiet, too reserved - too cold. Compared to the other younger, vivacious women that have worked for my grandma, Naomi was cold as steel. But a rare moment of purity, at a time in the morning where nothing can be done without the best of intentions, my eyes were widened to her truth.
I was sleeping at my Bubbie’s because of super-storm Sandy. Tucked in my sleeping bag like a pig in a blanket, I slept on the floor of her living room, across from the pull-out couch that Naomi slept on. My body was at war between hot and cold; I tossed and turned throughout the entire night. I gave up on sleep at around six o'clock in the morning. I looked across the room and saw that Naomi was not on the couch. Where is she? I quickly scanned the room, finding her right in front of the window. I noticed a small brown book in her hands and after adjusting my eyes; I realized it was a prayer book. Her head bowed up and down and her palms pressed together as her lips lingered on every syllable that she whispered softly towards the sun. I must have rustled my sleeping bag because she suddenly stopped praying and turned my way. I plunged into my pillow, pretending to sleep. She turned back towards the window and continued with her prayers.
I felt intrusive, like I had impeded on her privacy, like I had seen something secret. But I cherished every second of it. When I mustered the courage to peek out again, fifteen minutes must have gone by. By then the gentle sun rays of the morning traced her face, bringing a new light to her being. Her cold and quiet exterior melted along with all my previous thoughts of her. She was a Hindu, not an ungrateful woman. She didn't eat meat because of her beliefs, not because of her pride. Naomi's early morning prayers forever changed the lens I view her through.
I was sleeping at my Bubbie’s because of super-storm Sandy. Tucked in my sleeping bag like a pig in a blanket, I slept on the floor of her living room, across from the pull-out couch that Naomi slept on. My body was at war between hot and cold; I tossed and turned throughout the entire night. I gave up on sleep at around six o'clock in the morning. I looked across the room and saw that Naomi was not on the couch. Where is she? I quickly scanned the room, finding her right in front of the window. I noticed a small brown book in her hands and after adjusting my eyes; I realized it was a prayer book. Her head bowed up and down and her palms pressed together as her lips lingered on every syllable that she whispered softly towards the sun. I must have rustled my sleeping bag because she suddenly stopped praying and turned my way. I plunged into my pillow, pretending to sleep. She turned back towards the window and continued with her prayers.
I felt intrusive, like I had impeded on her privacy, like I had seen something secret. But I cherished every second of it. When I mustered the courage to peek out again, fifteen minutes must have gone by. By then the gentle sun rays of the morning traced her face, bringing a new light to her being. Her cold and quiet exterior melted along with all my previous thoughts of her. She was a Hindu, not an ungrateful woman. She didn't eat meat because of her beliefs, not because of her pride. Naomi's early morning prayers forever changed the lens I view her through.
Our Little Secret
It was a typical gray January day and I was in the third grade. Mom didn’t bother waking me up that morning for I had been sick the entire night. I missed the hustle and bustle of the morning: the beep of the coffee machine and the creeks of the wooden stairs as they adjusted to the weight of my brother, father, mother, and sister.
At ten o’clock that morning I heard footsteps at the end of the hall – slow and steady as if it was a blind man navigating across a street. The steps grew louder and louder until they stopped at my door. I heard the whistle of my grandmother’s breath as she panted after her journey from the basement to the second floor of the house. She softly opened my bedroom door, allowing the sunlight from the hallway window to sweep my sleepy eyes. I let out a groan, peeling the blankets off my cold-sweating body.
“Hello Alikki, mama told me you stay home today,” my Yia-yia said.
“Yes, I’m sick please let me sleep,” I begged her.
“I’m sorry, but – uh – I need to go for the shopping,” she hesitantly replied.
From that point on, I knew it was over. My Greek grandmother was stubborn in nature, and what she says, goes. I thought to myself “We’ll just go to Waldbaum’s, it will be no more than an hour. She only cooks like four things anyways, so how many ingredients does she need?” Boy, was I wrong.
About ten minutes later when I got down to the kitchen, Yia-yia revealed my destined doom. We were going to Titan Foods, her favorite Greek grocery store in Astoria. She bundled me up in an itchy sweater and several winter coats so I wouldn’t get sicker from the cold. That was the only time that day she acknowledged I was sick.
We walked down Northern Boulevard to wait for the bus. We must have been a funny sight; a little girl bundled in about four coats with an old woman still dressed like she was in the old country. I was acutely aware of the stares of commuters, nannies, and construction workers. I felt my cheeks flush. We trekked through Bayside and Flushing on two different buses before reaching our destination.
I moped miserably through the store, unable to appreciate the smells of the Mediterranean food. I fixed my eyes on the clock, counting each minute that went by. Suddenly I heard my grandmother’s loud voice: “Oh my goodness, is that you, Despina?” shouted my grandmother. Of course this would happen. How could Yia-yia not see a church friend in a Greek grocery store? This is going to take hours, I thought to myself. Yia-yia and Despina animatedly chatted with one another for almost half an hour before saying goodbye. Yia-yia checked out her purchases of Kalamata olives, spinach, feta, and filo dough. We got back on the busy buses, returning home just before my mom came home from work.
When my mom came home from work, she asked us how our day was and if anything happened. I was just forming the words “she took me to” when I saw my grandmother waving her hands to catch my attention. She held her pointer to her pursed lips, begging me not to say anything. My face broke out in a huge grin, as I said, “never mind” to my mother.
Yia-yia may not have understood the lousy condition I was in, or the English language in itself, but she was no fool. Fully aware of the doom that would surely damn her if my mother found out about our excursion, she avoided that conversation at all costs. Yia-yia wanted that day to be our little secret and my lips were sealed. What my mother doesn’t know
At ten o’clock that morning I heard footsteps at the end of the hall – slow and steady as if it was a blind man navigating across a street. The steps grew louder and louder until they stopped at my door. I heard the whistle of my grandmother’s breath as she panted after her journey from the basement to the second floor of the house. She softly opened my bedroom door, allowing the sunlight from the hallway window to sweep my sleepy eyes. I let out a groan, peeling the blankets off my cold-sweating body.
“Hello Alikki, mama told me you stay home today,” my Yia-yia said.
“Yes, I’m sick please let me sleep,” I begged her.
“I’m sorry, but – uh – I need to go for the shopping,” she hesitantly replied.
From that point on, I knew it was over. My Greek grandmother was stubborn in nature, and what she says, goes. I thought to myself “We’ll just go to Waldbaum’s, it will be no more than an hour. She only cooks like four things anyways, so how many ingredients does she need?” Boy, was I wrong.
About ten minutes later when I got down to the kitchen, Yia-yia revealed my destined doom. We were going to Titan Foods, her favorite Greek grocery store in Astoria. She bundled me up in an itchy sweater and several winter coats so I wouldn’t get sicker from the cold. That was the only time that day she acknowledged I was sick.
We walked down Northern Boulevard to wait for the bus. We must have been a funny sight; a little girl bundled in about four coats with an old woman still dressed like she was in the old country. I was acutely aware of the stares of commuters, nannies, and construction workers. I felt my cheeks flush. We trekked through Bayside and Flushing on two different buses before reaching our destination.
I moped miserably through the store, unable to appreciate the smells of the Mediterranean food. I fixed my eyes on the clock, counting each minute that went by. Suddenly I heard my grandmother’s loud voice: “Oh my goodness, is that you, Despina?” shouted my grandmother. Of course this would happen. How could Yia-yia not see a church friend in a Greek grocery store? This is going to take hours, I thought to myself. Yia-yia and Despina animatedly chatted with one another for almost half an hour before saying goodbye. Yia-yia checked out her purchases of Kalamata olives, spinach, feta, and filo dough. We got back on the busy buses, returning home just before my mom came home from work.
When my mom came home from work, she asked us how our day was and if anything happened. I was just forming the words “she took me to” when I saw my grandmother waving her hands to catch my attention. She held her pointer to her pursed lips, begging me not to say anything. My face broke out in a huge grin, as I said, “never mind” to my mother.
Yia-yia may not have understood the lousy condition I was in, or the English language in itself, but she was no fool. Fully aware of the doom that would surely damn her if my mother found out about our excursion, she avoided that conversation at all costs. Yia-yia wanted that day to be our little secret and my lips were sealed. What my mother doesn’t know
