Jolene Ben Ari: The best of both worlds

Last week, I was invited to a city council meeting to take part in a panel about immigrant services. I was excited for the opportunity to exchange ideas in order to benefit future immigrants, and I’m a big fan of being asked my opinion, so I happily attended. 

After a few shared anecdotes and questions regarding how best to help new immigrants adapt to life in Israel, one of the Israeli women leading the panel asked, “Are you motivated to become Israeli?” 

I spend a lot of time thinking about my experience as an immigrant, but this question gave me pause. I collected my thoughts and answered her in Hebrew. “It brings me tremendous joy that my children are Israeli, but I grew up somewhere else, with a completely different language and culture. It doesn’t matter how good my Hebrew is or how motivated I am to change, I don’t think I will ever be Israeli, and I’m not sure that’s my goal.”

She nodded politely and moved on.

But the question kept nagging at me. Am I Israeli? Am I an American who’s motivated to become Israeli? I’m motivated to learn the language and to interact with Israelis. I’m motivated to function well in Israeli society. And while I try to avoid embarrassing my children with the sheer American-ness of my being, I am not ashamed of who I am, nor am I trying to become someone else (except for Amy Poehler. I am actively trying to become Amy Poehler). 

I was pondering this very thought while standing in line at the supermarket on a Thursday afternoon. Suddenly I heard the siren – the Houthis were at it again, and I had 90 seconds to run to a bomb shelter. But here’s the thing — I was next in line, and I did not want to spend 10 minutes in a safe room only to lose my spot. The cashier didn’t look like she wanted to leave either. I raised my eyebrows at her, as if to say, “Am I doing this? Am I ignoring this siren because I simply can’t be bothered? I am so freakin’ Israeli!!”  She shrugged in response, as if to reply, “My shift lasts until 5, and I’m not paid enough to care about whatever existential epiphany you’re having.”

A flow of customers began heading toward the shelter, interrupting this heartfelt and highly imaginary exchange. It seemed irresponsible not to go along, and so I abandoned my coveted position and hustled off.

I was back in the supermarket the following week, when the butcher admonished me that I hadn’t yet ordered meat for Pesach. “I’m still getting organized, I’ve got plenty of time!” I told him. Because I am a very good Israeli — I cannot plan more than two weeks ahead. 

And when my son tells me that on his vacation he and his friends are going to hike 75 kilometers (46.6 miles) from the Mediterranean Sea to the Kinneret, an American parent might worry about such an ambitious, unsupervised adventure. But not me! Slap some socks and sandals on my feet and call me Tzvika, because I am the Israeli-est Israeli that ever was. 

But just when I start to get cocky about my butterfly-like transition, my son texts me a picture. He is smiling broadly and standing next to someone I don’t recognize. 

“Lookin good!” I text back.

“You don’t know who that is, do you?”

Turns out, it’s a major Israeli celebrity. But I have no idea. Because just like that, I am very, very American. 

I am American when I mistake the word פיצוחים (snack foods) for פיצויים (compensation), thoroughly confusing everyone in the conversation about work benefits. For the record, both are important points to focus on when negotiating a contract.  

And I am American when I resolve only to patronize businesses that communicate by WhatsApp, because somehow the act of dialing a phone makes me forget every Hebrew word I have ever learned. 

I felt particularly Israeli this past Friday when I visited a pre-Pesach fair not far from our house. Israeli fashion, jewelry, and artwork were on full display. Women were trying on sparkly headscarves, matching them with flowery dresses, and telling each other how great they looked. Popular Israeli songs blasted over the loudspeaker, and we all sang along to Hanan Ben Ari. 

But then the soundtrack changed. And the unmistakable twangy chords of Jolene were heard across the venue. I laughed out loud, certain that Mr. Ben Ari and her majesty Dolly Parton have never before coexisted in the same playlist. And while the Israelis around me scratched their heads at this unfamiliar tune, the Americans in the crowd did not miss a beat. We kept right on singing, imploring Jolene not to steal our man.   

And then I understood that if being Israeli means not knowing the words to Jolene, I don’t want to be right.

So this one goes out to the hybrids, the ones who sing over-confidently to both Dolly and Hanan (because you only think you know all the words to Hanan’s songs, but you are mortifying your children as we speak). Immigrants are not a problem to be solved or an issue that needs fixing. We are a special fusion of old country wisdom and new world customs that gives us a bumbling charm, not unlike that of Amy Poehler.

The State of Israel is currently tearing itself apart over its own identity. Those of us who have come from afar, whose identities are also in flux, and who never forget how lucky we are to be here, we can be part of the path forward. We have different ideas of how things could be and should be. We have talents and ideas that are sure to get lost in translation, but we keep trying because we are full of pluck and grit! 

We love the people we used to be, because they sacrificed to get us where we are. We are in no rush to say goodbye to them. We are Dolly and we are Hanan. We are Jolene Ben Ari, the best of both worlds. Please compensate us with snacks.