When you’ve belonged to a smaller community for generations, it takes just about that long to feel truly connected somewhere else
Our recent move from Cleveland to Baltimore has provided more than a few surprising perks.
No one here has seen my wardrobe; I get to wear my “vintage” clothing, and they’re new again. When we have company I serve my same-old recipes and no one realizes that these are the only dishes I know how to make well. I don’t have to prove I can cook anymore; the city has wonderful takeout, and, as part of the new me, I sometimes use (gasp!) paper plates during the week. Did I mention the hot cups?
Moving from one community to another, however, makes me feel like I’m part of neither. My everyday ritual, and the comfort it brings, has to be established anew. I spend a lot of time trying on fresh identities; some fit better than others. When you’ve belonged to a smaller community for generations, it takes just about that long to feel truly connected somewhere else.
There was a time in Cleveland not so long ago when if you walked into Unger’s or (the now-closed) Lax and Mandel Bakery, both on South Taylor Road, and saw a strange face, that person was either passing through or had come to visit — and you usually knew who or why. You knew all the people at the counter or waiting in line at the register by name — and they knew you. And so did the people helping you from behind the display case. We still had three shuls for two Jews though because… why not?
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