Whatever Is Contained Must Be Released: My Jewish Orthodox Girlhood, My Life as a Feminist Artist

My Marriage Bed and My Clean Days

My Marriage Bed and My Clean Days My Marriage Bed and My Clean Days, 2001. Mixed media. Helene_ebook.indd 23 4/11/12 3:38 PM Growing up, I had a task to complete each Friday as part of our preparations for Shabbos: I tore a roll of toilet paper into individual squares, since we were forbidden to tear on Shabbos. I neatly tore every piece on the perforated line the way my father neatly tore along the perforated line of his telephone bills. Then I stacked the squares in a pile. My other job was polishing my Dad’s big shoes. “Next size is the box,” he’d quip each Friday, when he handed me his size twelve shoes with the heavy shoetrees in them. On Friday afternoons Daddy would leave “The Place” early and head straight to the shvitz (steam room) with “The Boz” (Daddy’s nickname for Uncle Abe), and when he returned to us, he was high on life, eager for Shabbos to begin. At candle lighting time, the dazzling white tablecloth covered the large tish (the dining room table) making it look like a world unblemished. Everything shone brightly. The silver candlesticks on their silver tray, the silver kiddush cup on its silver tray, the silver Shabbos knife, the silver tray under the challahs—all gleaming. My mother lit the Shabbos candles with a lacy handkerchief loosely laid on her head. I watched closely lest it fall into the flames. I loved the movements of my mother’s arms bringing the Shabbos light toward her in broad arcs, her arms sweeping the light in toward her heart—one time, two, three, all in slow motion. When she lifted her palms from her face, her eyes beneath were invariably moist. “Good Shabbos!” she called out and kissed whoever was witness to the great arrival of the Shabbos, accompanied by the moon and the comet and the Shabbos queen and the angels and the Shechina (the divine presence of God) all arriving every week precisely at sundown when the siren was heard throughout the land of Boro Park to announce lecht benching time (time to light the candles). Not that we were ever in danger of being late. My mother was always ready two hours early. After the lighting we’d leave the candles in all their glory to watch from the front porch as the men paraded to shul wearing their tallisim (prayer shawls). It was dusk, bein hashmashim, the hour “between the suns” which seemed strange to me since sunrise was hours away. My younger sisters would scurry about while Mother and I reclined on the couch, our feet sharing a hassock, as we waited for Daddy to return. We’d keep watching as the streams of men returned from their various synagogues, the fathers walking proudly with their young sons. Upon their return to their homes, the men would recite the weekly Friday night poem of praise, “Eishet Chayil Mi Yimtza” (A Woman of Valor, Who Can Find) to their wives. “She is the trading ship bringing food from afar. She gets up while it is still night to provide food for her household . . .” After the kiddush on the wine for which we all stood around the table, we’d sit down to sing Shalom aleichem, malachei hashalom (Peace to you, angels of peace). Then came elaborate washing of hands with the sterling pitcher. We’d wait silently for Daddy to say the blessing over the challah and then—only then—the meal would begin. At the end of the meal we would sing, the tune starting and restarting on a loop, as if we could not get enough of it, “Sheishet Yamim Taaseh Mlachtecha, v’yom hashveeyeey leilohecha,” (Six days shall you do your work; the seventh day is for your G–d.) I can hear it now, pulling me back to the Shabbos tish. In summer, when windows were open, the same niggunim, melodies, from other tables in other houses would float through the warm breeze onto the streets of Boro Park. One could taste the sounds. Uncle Dave and Aunt Lulu, Uncle Ben and Aunt Brucha, and Uncle Sam and Aunt Ray, Uncle Nuchum and Aunt Yetta, and sometimes Uncle Moishe and Aunt Elke would stroll in with their kids without ringing the bell, since ringing the bell is forbidden on Shabbos. Then Daddy would sing “Yom ze mechubad mekal yamim ki vo shavat tsur olamim, (This day is honored above...