Acute onset aliyah-induced shyness and me

I used to think I was an extrovert. Social situations give me energy. I like meeting new people, learning what makes them tick, and swapping stories about where we’ve had brunch. A slightly dramatized version of me at the grocery store used to sound like this: “I’m Kally, I like gardening and second-hand clothes. Who are you? I see you have tilapia in your cart – how do you make it? Mine always comes out bland…”

However, upon making aliyah, I quickly learned that I am actually exclusively Anglo-gregarious. In Hebrew, I am introverted to the point of aloofness. A completely undramatized version of me at the post office might sound like this: “Slicha, todah, I’m not entirely clear on what’s happening, but I’d really prefer it if you stop talking to me right this second.”

Acute onset aliyah-induced shyness is a challenge to navigate. I don’t want to come off as rude or standoffish, so I compensate by reflexively starting every exchange with both slicha (excuse me) and todah (thank you). The slicha-todah combo is remarkably adept at getting me through a wide variety of complicated social interactions. It allows me to appear kind without having to conjugate too many verbs or maneuver through the confounding masculine/feminine rules of grammar – which is really every immigrant’s dream.  

And yet, as more years of Israeli citizenship accumulate under my mitpachat (head scarf), I find myself wondering if Israeli society might indeed be ready for a more extroverted Kally. So when I can muster up the gumption, I push the boundaries of my reticence. I start small, because one should never rush head first into tilapia-related discussions. I might tell the Israeli stranger sitting next to me that I love her necklace. Or ask the waiter at that funky cafe I just discovered what he recommends. Sometimes I overdo it, like when I try to tell necklace lady about the funky cafe, and I realize that I am in over my head. Suddenly, my brain and my words and my femininity are not keeping pace with each other. That’s when I pull out the tried and true slicha-todah and slowly back away.

But lately, I’ve been on a bit of a hot streak. I am making small talk, giving out compliments, and sharing stories with confidence. Old slicha-todah is getting dusty as I rely on it less and less. My Anglo personality is merging with my Hebrew identity, which means that being me should start getting easier any day now.

I even made a Hebrew joke at the gym the other day. It was something akin to: “Mondays, am I right?” which isn’t the gold standard of humor, but my timing was perfect, my delivery was spot on, and I got an actual chuckle from the Israelis in the group. They looked at me with new recognition, as if to say “She is far wittier than she lets on. I bet she makes a mean tilapia!”

Their laughter was like a drug. It emboldened me, and my gumption overflowed-eth. 

At my next gym visit, high on my own success, I didn’t hesitate to introduce myself to an Israeli newcomer. In Hebrew, I asked her name and where she was from. I was gearing up to talk about brunch when the class began. The coach walked us through a long and complicated series of movements. It was hard to keep up with the routine. My knees and elbows were never properly angled; my back was never straight enough.

The coach was generous with praise for everyone else. “Kol Hakavod!” (Good job), “You got it!”, “Well done!” she exclaimed, as she singled me out to critique my stance and adjust my elbows for the fourth time. 

We took a quick break, and my new friend came over to talk.

“This is tough,” she said.

I should have nodded sympathetically and left it at that. I could have said “I feel you, sister” and gone happily on my way. But my burgeoning inner-extrovert could not leave well enough alone. So I said, “Just follow me and do what I do. I get all the movements right on the first try. I am really, really good at this and I’ll help you.”

This was obviously a joke, as my ineptness was clear to everyone in the room. I was being funny and sarcastic and self-deprecating in a magnanimous demonstration of solidarity. But I was met with an awkward silence. My joke had not landed. Something about my tone or my timing or my conjugation was as misaligned as my stance.

The coach looked horrified, “That is not a good idea! She should keep her eyes on me.”  The other members of the class agreed wholeheartedly.

“Slicha, todah,”  I said, as I slunk back to my spot.

As the class progressed I consoled myself with the knowledge that I am uniquely and extraordinarily skilled at brunch, and so my shortcomings at the gym are understandable – one simply cannot shine in all the most prominent areas of life.

And while I mourn the abrupt end of my hot streak, it helps to remember that the post immigration merging of personalities is not a linear process. It is a winding road that includes highs and lows, successes and setbacks, moments of glory, and moments of humiliation. Thankfully, it also includes some cafes.

I have dusted off the old slicha, todah so it is readily available when I feel out of my depth. Which is quite often. Being me is still an uphill battle. But I welcome the re-emergence of the extrovert within. Poor sister just can’t help wanting to strike up a conversation with whoever is in earshot. Sure, life with her makes for some terribly awkward situations, but at least it isn’t bland. Which is more than I can say for my tilapia.