Miami Boys Choir: the Original Boy Band

Years before Justin Timberlake was even a thought, the first ever Jewish boy band was launching its first album (yes, it was the 70s). And when I say boy band, I mean it in the literal sense– a group of pre-pubescent boys who had just the right vocal squeak to make them simultaneously endearing and effeminate.

Yours truly was a particularly obsessive fan of said band, dragging my mother from one concert to the next. In fact, at age eight I succeeded in attending five Miami Boys Choir concerts in three major cities. Now I know what you’re thinking, girlfriend needs to get her mind of the [Orthodox] ghetto and recognize that choirs do not count as boy bands. But a quick look at a Miami Boys Choir video and it soon becomes clear that we are not dealing with your run of the mill religious chorus:

These boys, in matching suits, sing, dance, and flash their pearly whites at every adoring tweenage girl. And as any pop culture expert knows, the key to boy band success is the adoring tweenage girl.  At a typical Miami Boys Choir concert, one could expect to encounter hundreds of girls, in ankle length skirts, crying their respective eyes out as their favorite Choir boys came forward to sing their solos. I, myself, distinctly remember informing my mother that she either marry me off to a Miami Choir boy or else I would resort to a lifetime of spinsterhood.

Now flash forward fifteen years, and I still get as giddy with school girl excitement as I did in third grade when a Miami Boys Choir song randomly plays on my iPod. But even better than the sudden choral surprise is the discovery that a Miami Boys Choir member has gone solo. In typical boy band fashion, he has ventured beyond the group in an effort to achieve independent stardom.

Yaakov Shwekey is one such alum who has achieved unbelievable success within the confines of the Orthodox Jewish community since embarking on his solo career. And I’m not going to lie, I own every single one of his albums. However, it is his most recent release that has me going googoo gaga. “Cry No More,” a critical reflection on modern day terrorism in Israel, is blowing up both religious and secular charts in Israel.

With a beautifully cliched title track, the record draws on every emotional heartstring. And I cannot stop listening to it. But rather than feign music critic credentials, I will leave the remaining meaning to those willing to venture into the world of Jewish music. Or those who perhaps get a rush from seeing a guy in glasses sing.

The six year old reprimand.

“Yaffa, you can’t have a play date with that Yale boy.” Aldie, my favorite six year old, informed me that I– a young woman– could not have a casual foodie date with my best guy friend in the city. “It’s simply not natural,” he exclaimed.

“I can play with Isaac [a fellow kindergardener] because he and I are both boys. But you and that boy are not the same gender. And you can’t be platonic and play.” While I paused to contemplate if Aldie actually had used the word “platonic” in casual conversation, Aldie went on to explain that men and women are biologically engineered to procreate… not casually coffee.

And in that moment I was reminded of every high school rabbi I had, every one who informed me that there was no such thing as being “just friends” with a boy/man/not a boy, not yet a man. It went against every hormone in our bodies.

But unlike my high school rabbis who I simply disregarded, Aldie actually made me think perhaps there was some truth to his madness. Before I studied abroad, I can safely say I had no [straight] male friends. And even today I can count on one hand the number of gay and straight male friends I have.

Blame it on the years of women’s only education, but I am beginning to believe that subconsciously Aldie, my rabbis, and I are all aligned. Somewhere deep in my psyche is the belief that men and woman are lean, mean baby making machines.  They are meant to propagate, not be playmates.

And yet since returning to New York, I have made every effort to dissuade myself of such adolescent notions–to diversify my social circle, and to watch a basketball game or two with a guy and beer or two.  Does it feel natural? Certainly not. I must make a conscious effort to move beyond my sisterhood ways, but if the last eight months of my life are any indication, it is possible to be friends.

I say possible, not probable. Age, estrogen, the inevitable urban loneliness all pose challenges to this possibility, but over time I believe I will achieve a happy equilibrium. Or perhaps just arrive at a point where I can have a proper comeback on hand when Aldie challenges my fraternizing ways.

The right age to introduce your children to coffee.

As an employee of city government, I am theoretically forbidden from kvetching about the incompetencies overt within the system. But every so often I find myself standing in line in some local government office for three hours at a time, watching as precious minutes of my life pass me by, and think, “Seriously, G-d, is this regarding the time I lied in second grade about having a house made out of knishes? Because I thought we worked that out 15 years ago.”

Today was DMV Day. And true to Murphy’s Law, everything that can go wrong, did go wrong, including yours truly forgetting to bring critical paperwork with her and having to board a train to Mama B’s home to reclaim said paperwork.

And, of course, when I finally had gathered together all  my documents– proving I was neither an illegal alien nor a convicted felon– I was forced to wait in three separate lines. The first– to have my photo taken. The second– to have someone review the validity of my identifying documents. And the third– to inform me I would not receive an actual copy of my brand spanking new license for 7-10 day business days. Or as the DMV lady phrased it, “Good luck trying to get into a bar this weekend!”

Now I ask you, were three separate and distinct lines really necessary to carrying out the simple task at hand, which was renewing my license? If not for the assortment of colorful characters who both work and frequent the DMV, I might have gone entirely mad. But between the Chinese man who seemed uncertain of his permanent address (red flag!) and the old Jewish grandma, who had forgotten her glasses, and had therefore filled out her forms incorrectly, there was lots of noise and distraction.

My personal favorite, a.k.a. saving grace, was a seven year old boy who must have sensed I work in childcare, because he ran up to me as soon as I entered the DMV and announced, “You are my new best friend.” We talked about legos and Star Wars and the right age to introduce your children to coffee (I said 7, he argued 5). And at the end of our schmooze, I was already through line one.

His mother, sadly, had just completed line three. Hayden, my saving grace, was forced to depart, but not before bidding me farewell and asking his mother if I could “come over and play Risk sometime.” She winked and whispered, “I think someone has a crush on you,” oh so conspicuously pointing in the direction of her hyperactive son. Now if only I could attract men my own age…

A funny thing happened on the way home from Brooklyn.

Brooklyn and I are beginning to bond, and I don’t mean in the superficial sense. The borough that once seemed so (geographically) far away has been an accessible best friend, providing constant intellectual stimulation and hipster-inspired entertainment. Last night, for example, it shared a Grease sing-along with me.

And this morning– perhaps the more comical part of my stay in the outer borough– it provided me with a remarkable cab ride. In a desperate attempt to make my tutoring appointment, I bolted from my friend’s studio, only to miss the 2 train by a hot minute. The next train would not be arriving for 17 minutes, and I, a German-blooded Jew, could not stand the notion of being late to anything, let alone a well-paid gig.

Nor, apparently, could the young gentlemen caller who happened to find himself in a similar situation on my subway platform. Upset, enraged, and just generally frustrated with the rather pathetic subway service the outer boroughs offer, he asked if I would take a cab with him into Manhattan.

Instantly images of serial kidnappers flashed through my mind. I’d seen videos about this in middle school– a seemingly harmless man offers a young and impressionable girl a ride, and a few months later her face appears on a milk carton. I was not ready to be a bad statistic, but then again, I had my DA badge on me. I could always flash it like I was some undercover cop if he tried anything not too kosher. Simply stated, I acquiesced.

And then I hailed a cab, as only a girl with Kate Spade yellow taxi mittens can do. I informed the driver of the two stops he’d be required to make, and Brandon– the aspiring actor and aforementioned gentlemen caller looked stunned. “Wow, you really took charge there.” Well, I explained, when I know what I want, I go for it. I am a Wendy Wellesley, after all.

He seemed to respect that, but still claimed he knew very few girls who barked orders as quickly– and yet as innocuously– as I did. “I spend a lot of time with children,” I told him. “Oh?” he responded. At which point I told him about my crime-fighting day job, in which I care for adults who behave like small children with little understanding for the consequences of their actions. I could yell and scream and all together terrorize them, but honestly, firm straight talk is significantly more effective.

Little did I know that my professional revelation would spark an Occupy Wall Street conversation. Yes, Brandon, the struggling Brooklynite, was a protestor himself. And while he had managed to steer clear of the law, he had several friends who had been arrested and charged in the course of the protests.

I must say, it was fascinating to learn of the entire movement from someone operating within it. While he still maintained a day job at one of the most delicious restaurants in town, he spent his remaining hours working towards furthering the main objective of the movement– to change the way society sees itself. To force society to reexamine its taught behaviors and to move towards a less consumer, more communal driven condition.

While I wasn’t about to join him in the park, I respected his honesty, his sacrifices, and his willingness to speak to a complete stranger about his nights in Zuccotti Park– nights in which many of his belongings were robbed from him.  He provided a counter perspective, as only a true believer could. He didn’t sugar coat the reality of the situation, but at the same time, he still encouraged me to believe in its ability to move moutains.

And as a metaphorical mountain climber myself, his words really did resonate with me. As I searched around in my wallet for some money to pay the driver, Brandon stopped me and asked if this ride was just a “one time thing.” I asked if he wanted it to be, at which point he asked for my contact information, and I– convinced he was not a serial kidnapper– provided it to him.

I suppose that’s what my coworker Maya means when she says, “Don’t actively search for a guy. It won’t happen that way. But be open to one coming along. And Carpe Diem whenever the hell he does.”  While Brandon might never call, or he might but just in a friends-only context, it is wonderful to feel like I am finally doing something about my single status, aside for routinely kvetching about it.

Never judge a banana by its peel.

As someone whose strengths have never been in the looks department, I have always subscribed to the age-old adage, “Never judge a book by its cover.” Applying this proverbial wisdom to myself is perhaps the clearest illustration of this idea: While I may have the hips of a woman who has borne eight children, my ovaries have been in a perpetual state of hibernation since I reached puberty. To see me, you would never know, but to inquire into my marital status, and you quickly surmise that things are not always quite the way they seem.

Well, sometimes somewhat unconsciously, my love of proverbs seeps into my day to day interaction with my favorite six year old, Aldie, who has an inexplicable disdain towards banana peels that bear a brown spot or two. Even when I beseech him to peel the fruit before condemning it to hells of some G-d forsaken subway trash can, Aldie usually refuses. Remarking, “But it’s gross,” he disposes of the perfectly edible banana nine times out of ten.

This morning, however, I determined to no longer participate in the bananacide occurring in my midst. It was time for action, and so without a second thought, I barked, “Never judge a banana by its peel!” Aldie, startled by my rather loud proclamation, paused and then said, “Is this another one of your crazy life metaphors?”

Though my intentions were entirely literal (and perhaps noble, if you’re into saving awkwardly shaped yellow fruit), my rather brash remark did, indeed, contain a deeper message: Stop being so darn superficial. Give things a chance. Experience them. Acquaint yourself with the ins and outs of them. Walk a mile in their shoes (if by things we mean people). And then and only then pass judgment.

Aldie stared at me, realizing my mind had embarked on an impromptu philosophical journey, and commented, “Ok, this one time. For you.” And would you believe it? The banana itself had not a single spot. It was any monkey’s dream, and for my little blonde headed monkey it was reinforcement of this morning’s subway lesson.

Aldie even took it one step further, when he remarked, “A banana’s kind of like a Starbucks latte. You’ve got to drink past the foam and milk to get to the really good stuff- the espresso.” Love. Of. My. Life.

There are no decaffeinated folks in New York City.

Just like there are no atheists in fox holes, there are no (functional) New Yorkers who are not high on caffeine, be it in coffee, tea, or pill form. It’s nearly impossible to make it through a day in this city without consuming a latte or two (or three). And the reason if self-evident: it’s a city of over-achieving, insanely ambitious go getters, who will stop at nothing to make their childhood suburban dreams an urbanite’s reality.

As one of the aforementioned New Yorkers, I found myself this week in a state of perpetual action. As my high school principal once said to me when I refused to silence myself during a Bible class in which the issue of homophobia arose (ok, it’s didn’t arise until I raised it, but anyhow), “Speak little. And do a lot.” Though I haven’t fully mastered this ancient proverb– I still talk a great deal– I have managed to internalize the “do a lot” bit.

This week my loyalty skills were put to the test, when a friend indeed became a friend in need. Spending three nights in the hospital with her, and much of my day running errands on her behalf, I began to understand the concept of running on adrenaline, or some sort of caffeine-driven fumes. Rearranging my evenings, maximizing my one hour lunch break, and limiting my sleep time allowed me to attempt to be the best possible friend I could be.

It also reinforced my reliance on my drug of choice: the Almighty Latte. And as stressful situations often do, it drove me back to my original coffee haven, Starbucks. I will admit that since returning to New York I have been playing the coffee field, sampling Gimme Coffee!, Balthazar, Joe’s, Cafe Grumpy, and on the rare occasion Bowery Coffee too.

But this week was all about the ‘Buck. I returned to my roots– my core caffeine values– and chose to run on the original grind. I reasoned that given the chaotic nature of this particular week, in which every single day had several calendared events, I needed to reinstitute some stability in my life. Some people eat comfort food when they are down on their luck; I drink Starbucks skinny vanilla lattes. Same concept. Starkly different price points.

And I must say it was wonderful to reconnect with my past– revisiting pseudonyms (namely: Liz and Jesse) I used to employ when ordering my drink du jour; chatting with baristas who knew me when I was lowly intern; fighting for the corner seat during the morning rush. As I departed each morning, afternoon, and evening from Starbucks, I was energized, emotionally prepared, and ready to embrace my personal adage, “There are no decaffeinated folks in New York City.”

After all, as T.S. Elliot, the only literary superstar to make an appearance on my Wellesley hoop (used in the traditional Wellesley senior hoop roll), phrased it, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” And if my calculations are correct, I’ve had quite a caffeinated 22 years thus far.

 

“If only he were 16 years older.”

My grandfather, an avid reader of my blog, made a comment the other day I have been unable to avoid overanalyzing in great detail. He said, “It’s a shame that six year old you babysit isn’t 22 because if he were, you two would be engaged.” The implication being that since Aldie is brilliant, adorable, and likely to achieve financial success as a savvy investment banker, he is the perfect guy for a single, clearly not mingling 22 year old girl.

And until he made that comment I had been doing pretty well abiding by one of my New Year’s resolutions– to not complain about the things I am unwilling to make an effort to change. For example, I am constantly plagued by dry skin during the winter months, but I am not ready to shell out the requisite $45 for a decent humidifier. Hence, instead of kvetching for all the world to hear, I have taken to using excessive amounts of hand cream in silence.

The same principle can be applied to my continual bout of singledom. With my future so undetermined, I do not feel like I am in the best position to throw on my Spanx and embark on a man hunt– especially when I have two entire seasons of Downton Abbey to catch up on. And so instead of engaging in a nightly tear fest about my lack of love life, I have embraced a new British period piece television show and picked up a few babysitting gigs.

To my grandfather, this is just plain wasteful. And frankly I get it. If I lived at home and saved money on rent, I could afford the cost of a JDate account. But instead I am choosing to put my career before my uterus. For that, I respectfully apologize. But even Aldie came from non-traditional beginnings– think: petri dish.

“Don’t leave it to fate. JDate.co.il”

And as a girl who has always made a habit of challenging the status quo, I plan to give myself just this evening to bemoan my single status (with the help of a little Mariah Carey and some diet coke). But come tomorrow, I’m back on the New Year’s resolution abiding path. I’ve got mountains to climb before I sleep. As Betty Bender, an author of sorts, once said, “Anything I’ve ever done that ultimately was worthwhile…initially scared me to death.” Or, in this case, my grandfather.