I am sitting in a crowded kupat cholim waiting room. Two women — a mother of about 70 and her 50-ish daughter — are sitting next to me. The mother hands a magazine to her daughter and says “You gotta read this. Hysterical.”
A few moments of silence as the daughter dutifully reads through it. Then: “I don’t think it’s funny at all Mom. I don’t agree with those ladies but this is over the top.”
I look again at what they are reading. It is an old Mishpacha magazine (do any waiting rooms anywhere have current periodicals?) and the article deals with the so-called Women of the Wall. I don’t usually listen to other people’s conversations but they are speaking rather loudly. Primarily however my interest is piqued because the writer of the article is none other than… myself. Here is a unique opportunity to get an unfiltered reaction to the satirical piece on the Wall ladies I had written some months ago.
Mother: I don’t think so. It’s very funny. He’s ridiculing them and these gals deserve to be ridiculed. Posing like they’re so religious claiming that they only want to daven to G-d. Please!
Daughter: Mom he has a right to disagree with them but it’s a bit too sarcastic. This is not good satire. He’s using a sledgehammer instead of a scalpel.
Even though this daughter is being critical of me I concur with her in theory. The writer of satire should keep his distance remain cool not allow his anger to get in the way. If he overdoes it the sharpness of the satire is dulled. To write good satire is tricky. I’m not sure if I succeeded but for her I clearly did not succeed.
Mother: Well maybe. But he did make me laugh at them which was the point wasn’t it? He makes them look cynical — not the innocent G-d-fearing ladies being prevented by the nasty Orthodox from davening to G-d. He makes his point very well.
Daughter: He does ridicule them — though I think too heavily. And they
probably deserve it. But still I’m bothered. How can he presume to know what’s in their hearts? Maybe they are sincere. He has a right to disagree with their tactics but is he so clairvoyant that he knows their real motives? And that part about them hiring chair-throwers that’s a bit mean isn’t it?
Mother: I thought that was the funniest part actually. Satire has to exaggerate to make its point. Everyone knows it’s an exaggeration. So what? It achieves its purpose. To tear the mask off these ladies.
G-d bless you Mother. You hit the nail on the head. You are obviously brilliant perceptive and insightful. I wish I could talk with both of you together. Your daughter’s very bright too but you captured the precise point.
Daughter: Well I still think it would have been more effective if he had toned things down just a little bit. This piece hits the women so hard that it turns them into martyrs and victims. You know even though I disagree with what they are doing after reading this I kind of felt sorry for them.
Mother: Nothing to feel sorry about. They have the courts on their side and the police and the media. And they’re getting financial support from abroad.
Daughter: Even if all that is true does that mean they should be cursed at or have things thrown at them?
Mother: ’Course not! Those who do such things are hurting their own cause. If they had any brains they would simply ignore these women. Otherwise they play right into their hands. But some young hotheads just can’t be controlled. Of course they’re doing this “for the sake of Heaven.”
Daughter: Why doesn’t this writer write a satire about the people who throw chairs and engage in spitting?
Mother: Ha! Not a bad idea. Why don’t you write them a letter and make that suggestion?
I had the overpowering urge to introduce myself to the good ladies but the conversation was too fascinating for me to intrude.
Daughter: You know if these ladies only want publicity maybe the best thing would be to ignore them. When you write about them even when you write satire you are doing them a favor. Look — it got us talking about them didn’t it?
Just then the doctor appears. He calls their names. They enter his room ignoring me completely not even bothering to say goodbye to the subject of their conversation. Such is the fate of an unacknowledged writer.
Somehow I think of poet Robert Burns who wrote in his native Scottish dialect: “Would some Power the giftie gie us/ to see ourselves as others see us….” —