Road Rage

The last year we were there, the city turned against us like a rabid dog. For the first time in my sheltered, suburban life I experienced real American anti-Semitism — silent and passive-aggressive. Someone scratched the whole side of our car with a key. Our tires were slashed twice. My husband was walking back to our house once after an interview, when a passerby in a car threw eggs at him. As luck would have it, he had another interview scheduled for the next day. I spent that whole night cleaning the broken eggshells and splattered yolks from his only suit, angrily muttering and spitting poison.

The worst incident occurred one clear October morning as I was yanking my kids to the car, already late for some appointment. I had lifted up my two-year-old, Yosef, to put him in his car seat when I noticed something glittering. There were tiny bits of glass all over the seat! Someone had smashed the window. What I felt was even worse was that they had completely cleared the window frame of any debris to make the missing window less noticeable. I could have put him down on the seat and his legs would have been completely torn up. Thank G-d I noticed!

I was filled with primordial rage. Who wanted to hurt my son? Why? I wanted to rip the head and limbs off whoever did this. I felt like the Incredible Hulk, ready to flip over the little car in frustration and anger. I cleared out the glass and dropped the car off at the garage to have the window replaced.

Two weeks later, the car was ready. Since my husband was very busy then — studying for his boards and working at his medical school’s hospital — my father-in-law offered to drive me to the garage to pick up the car. He came a little early, and his mouth was tight as he walked in.