Israelis don’t like rootbeer

Do you ever notice how easy and acceptable it is to stereotype your own?

And how easy and acceptable is it to find yourself up in arms when “outsiders” stereotype us?

Of course, this is human nature and true of most ethnic, religious and gender groups.

It’s the classic rule: I can talk smack about my momma, but don’t you even think about it.

I stereotype Israelis. Especially since I moved here 2 1/2 years ago.

But what’s funny is the type of stereotyping I find myself responsible for is not your classic Israel bashing.

They’re so rude/impatient/loud/demanding. They’re always up-your-butt in lines. They all carry uzis.

Those aren’t stereotypes. They’re truths! Israelis will be the first to admit (loudly, and rudely) that lines are for friarim. Pushing your way to the front is why God gave us two hands. The third one is for our uzi.

I stereotype Israelis from a place of love, like one does when making fun of one’s brother…or oneself. But I also stereotype Israelis as a study, from a place of still feeling like an “inside outter.” Like someone who thinks she is supposed to fit in, but doesn’t quite yet. And perhaps never will.

This was very obvious to me while traveling last week in the U.S. with 8 Israeli born colleagues. Though working insanely hard, we had a great time. My colleagues, experienced travelers, still counted on me to lead them, inform them, and give them a bit of a navigation in a foreign country. So for me, the trip was an opportunity to finally feel like a grown up again — like someone who knows her way around. Someone who can order for herself in a restaurant; find her way around airport security.

An insider.

Traveling in America with a group of Israelis, however, also made me feel very American. So much so, I began to question my own identity. Who am I when I am in America? Am I American or Israeli? Or some strange hybrid better suited for a third independent country? (Uganda? Atlantis?)

I loved the cafes we lunched in; while they frowned at menus filled with burgers and sandwiches.

I sipped rootbeer satisfied, while they longed for tea with nana.

I spoke quietly and respectfully to our waiters. They demanded extra salad dressing in Hebrew.

They laughed at me. At my American-ness. And I at them. At their complete and utter Israeli-ness.

And then we laughed at ourselves

Since I moved to Israel 2 1/2 years ago, I constantly wonder where I fit in.

But then I remind myself that this is a question I’ve been asking for as long as I’ve been asking questions.

And for as long as I’ve been asking questions, I’ve been carefully observing myself and others.

Comparing myself to them. Comparing their behavior to mine.

Searching for the differences and the similarities.

Seeking harmonies. Identifying irritations.

This is what we do.

We humans.

With ease, we assign the harmonies to people who look and act like us, and the irritations to people who look and act different from us.

Until something happens to shatter the reliability of our stereotypes.

For me, this happened when I made Aliyah.

As I live among Israelis; and more so, as I become an Israeli, I’m busting my own stereotypes, and creating new ones.

But always defending Israel like she was my momma.

I can talk smack about her, but don’t you even think about it.

There’s a 90% chance I will never rush anywhere again

I’m fast.

Not short mini skirt and red lipstick kinda fast.

The kind of fast that shows up 15 minutes early no matter how hard she tries to be late. The kind of fast that needs you to get to the point…now. The kind that grits her teeth when people here in Israel say to her, “L’at l’at.” (slowly, slowly)

It’s kind of ironic — when Israelis tell me “slowly slowly.”

Most of them are trying to be kind; encouraging.

But is this really authentic?

Israelis, stereotypically, are the last people with patience for doing anything slowly.

Especially driving.

Israeli drivers, notoriously, are maniacs.

“Yes, we know,” you say. Maybe you follow it up with the “Ain Ma La’sot?” shrug.

What can we do about it other than drive defensively? you ask.

It’s a good question.

The other day a man was killed during the afternoon rush hour in a car accident on the road I take to and from work.

It was raining. There was oil on the road.

It could have been me.

I don’t know if recklessness was involved or not. But I wouldn’t be surprised.

Every day I drive like my life depends on it. Not because it does. But because all of my fellow drivers seem to be so focused on getting somewhere fast, they are unaware of the fact that I want to live.

Every time I am on the road, driving the speed limit or a reasonable level over — drivers pass me at lightning speed. They take over the opposite lane so they can pass the tractor trailer. They drive up my rear as if there is a free gift in my trunk.

What are they rushing to?

Death, obviously.

In my humble opinion, there are only three non-life-or-death reasons to rush anywhere in your car — and they all involve an orifice.

You need to pee. You need to poop. Or you need to push a baby out.

Not in that order.

Yes, Israeli drivers as a rule drive dangerously, but there IS something we can do.

Be one less dangerous Israeli driver on the road.

Be mindful of how you perceive your deadline.

Do you really need to get to work exactly on time?

Will the world end if you are late to that meeting?

No, it won’t. So keep your rage at bay, your phone in your purse, and your eyes on the prize — living.

And — slowly slowly: be the change you want to see on Israeli roads.

Finding your inner patriot

When do you decidedly fit into a nation?

Is it when you feel confident in a voting booth?

Is it when you feel the urge to buy cotton harem pants that drop just below the knee?

Is it when you recognize the country’s top celebs?

Mentors on Israel’s The Voice

If so, I’m not there yet.

Yesterday, on my drive into Tel Aviv for a meeting, I noticed a billboard for The Voice staring down at me from high above the freeway. Four faces: And none were remotely recognizable to me.

I couldn’t relate to the dress or hairstyle on any of the four. None looked like my friend, my father, or even someone I’d choose to be on of my top 5 list “freebies.”

Where am I? I thought.

Tel Aviv, my self answered.

And I live here? I thought.

No, not in Tel Aviv. And that’s part of the problem.

I live in the outskirts. I live a sheltered life.

On purpose.

But what happens when you live a quiet, sheltered life on purpose is this feeling of complete and utter disconnect. It takes a lot longer, presumably, to feel like an “Israeli” among Israelis.

Of course, part of the problem is I have a nice big fat crutch called “English.”

I work mostly in English. Many of my friends speak in English.

I stick to my English books on my Kindle and the little TV I watch is in English.

At some point in the last six months or so, I stopped trying so hard to fit in.

Which on the one hand makes my life a lot easier, but on the other hand keeps me stuck feeling like a tourist in this country. A foreigner. An outsider.

I’m a lot less lost than I was two years ago, but I’m not quite found yet either.

Which is okay.

Think about it, I told myself as I parked the car in Ramat Gan.

You spent 30-something years  in New Jersey, and you never quite found yourself there either.

Nor could I relate to the celebrities plastered on billboards. Nor were any of those celebs on my “top 5 freebie list.”

The cast of Jersey Shore