A month (or two?) ago I met with the
Cantor of Touro to discuss my nervousness about joining the choir. It
started with the fact that I chickened out on what was supposed to be
my first performance with the choir on Erev Rosh Hashanah. I'd
sheepishly admitted to my Rabbi that my stage fright was induced by
the hundreds of people that show up for High Holy Days. Seriously. A
lot of people. More people than I've seen at temple since Jazz Fest
Shabbat. And I was supposed to sing in front of everyone? In Hebrew?
Yeah. No. Even if I was just one little
voice in the crowd. I was too emotionally overwhelmed.
In hind sight I don't know that I was
any better off not singing with the choir I'd been rehearsing with
for weeks. Mainly because the congregation plays the old switch-a-roo
with the prayer book. On Erev Rosh Hashanah we read from another
book. Not the one I read at home, the one that I'd been holding most
Friday nights for the past few months. An older prayer book. One
without any transliteration.
Fun. The rabbi suggested I speak to the
cantor about the incident. Good idea, speak to the person that
actually directs me in choir about the momentary freak out.
I let the cantor know that I felt silly
at having stage fright. I mean, seriously Naomi? The same girl that
has performed in The Vagina Monlogues for the last half decade caught
a case of stage fright? Utterly lame. He assures me that these things
happen, and that he doesn't doubt I will be doing just fine in choir
soon enough.
We end up talking more about everything
else that is going on in my life than the actual event. Where am I from. Why I am Jewish. Why I moved
here. What I do. What I really want to do. Timeline for when I'd like
to learn Hebrew. How I am adjusting to New Orleans.
How am I adjusting to New Orleans?
I am facing my one year anniversary
here. And I can say this. This city has the potential to make someone
feel loved and welcome. New Orleans can revitalize your sense of
adventure. It can make you feel brave. However, New Orleans has it's
own sense of time, and you can easily get sucked into it. And while I
love (LOVE) the local mentality, the New Orleanian attitude that you
aren't “local enough” can be a tough pill to swallow. I might
have moved anywhere on the planet and could have created a pro/con
list of things I've learned from my adopted city in the first year.
Every place has it's own personality. It's own charms.
New Orleans
will charm the fucking shit out of you. It's like a cavalier date
that shows up twenty minutes late, but with a bouquet of locally
purchased flora to present with a sugary whispered smile around the
word, “Lagniappe.”
Yes I miss home. And in
the face of some of life's most recent defeats, it is sometimes
tempting to want to retreat back to a familiar space.
But the cantor had very
good advice for me. “Give it two years.”
