When the Levi'im Broke

Inspired by Alex Epstein's Blue Has No South
For Malkhatim v'Haverim:
Parshah Shelakh
Ovadiah 1
Hillcrest Elementary School ZT"L

Kindergarden was Kinder Transport. That's when Corey Soslowitz and a Haitian humped my back seat of the yellow shul bus together, as big as an Arkipeleghost Hive. That's when Jessica Ryback asked me in [F]art class what my favorite jeans were, giggling. I said Jordach, when I really meant, Brokeback Levi'im along the east bank of the Mikhail Jordan Steinberg Rivera. She later became famous for belting Neil Diamond and the Ladino Lullabye of my solo night vizions and dark sayings, "Give me three meals a day/ A bed to lie down in/ A breeze in hot weather/ A fire when it's cold/ Laughter and after/ A kiss if we're frowning/ Someone to hold us and someone to hold" on restless Sabado Shal-om. That's when Mrs. Kaplan pulled my pierced ear for east windtalking coded Taglit-Tagalog to another Creole comedian: troublemaking agents hidden behind Magogian cubbies, instead of mastering Broken Ingrish As An Imperialist Sign Language, firmly rebuking me about my Iowa Test scores, scrawled in red soil left over frum Gan E-den, "Eliyahu may benefit from some additional review and reinforcement." That's when Mrs. Katz unveiled a Mikdash antiquity during Show-und-Tell, her keshet kaleidescope ring the colors of Sambatyen (I invited her as my won't you be my neighbor to our yarhzheit fiesta on Daniyel Road, but heave offering between Bamboo sticks was not her designated allotment, so she politely declined my Filipinim pearls, her playground mood swing a deep onyx hue). That's when I was the only goy boy on line à la carte courageous enough to give Mrs. Macalevy a goodbye kiss on the cheek and a parting knish. She doted on her pet pepé le pupil for donning a vintage suit and graduating with Karma Chamelion expertise. That's when the Jew Crew played makeshift instruments, fashioned out of Balikbayan cardboard and magic markers, their backs facing away from a Kedem firewall. That's when the JAPs and I secretly massaged glue on our palms during Mrs. Halsey's tutorial on extra terrestrial mapping, possessing Sarah Jessica Parker's skyscraper of Esav, to ward off the flood of turmoil-slick dybbukim and wildlife corpses. That's when She'China left us. That's when Lauren Collins and Randi Rader called an emergency sacred assembly at our Golem desks, to mourn the earthquakes of 5770. Corey Mabuhaim wept like Manong Dubak, when our Haitian best friend moved away to another ghetto. That's when I first saw ha'aretz in black and white news reels, and sat in solidarity with Barrio upon Diary of Anne Frank in the dreadful darkness, while Rabbah Diamond's eyes glistened in silenced albatross. What would ha'olam be without Gehenom? What would Yerushalayim be without Sha'ar Ha'ashpot? What would a treehouse of knowledge be without a toilet to shit on? There are three false thrones, plus the Western Wilderness, where combustible crusaders try to white out ad nauseum the 10/40 window, which they covet so creepily behind stained broken glass.

Field Day was far from artificial light, drones, boycotts, and hipster activism, then. Just ribbons and floating mini-amalekites. In Lamentations, upon a lonely rock that served as a memorial to our collective Lot, I incrementally stood up, entranced, and confronted the baseless haters and strangers inappropriately touché foot-balling on the black top, where we'd play hip-hop scotch on opposing Dream Capture Singkill Teams. The aftermath of exilic awareness — hanging ten hair spray waves indiscriminately, amid tearful tantrums of failed boons and shidduchim résumés — was my consolitary protest, for the Daughters of Zion's betrayal: having introduced Bumper to Guy Cain, who was far from Dovidic Fútbol Star in subsequent reincarnations of haunted hallways and bastard bathroom passes.

Jesse Gerstein still hasn't autographed my Shanah Sherwood yearbook.

To Be Continued