The Jewish Straightening Method

The Japanese-

The Brazilian-
(no not that kind of Brazilian...)

The Jewish-

?

Since the beginning of January, I have been straightening my hair. Many people have asked me how I straighten it, attempting to prompt me to respond that it has been chemically straightened. No, I have not used some nationality's commercial straightening method. I have heard good things about the Japanese straightening method and the newer Brazilian. Since seeing how silky smooth my hair is just from a flat iron (secret's out, ladies!), I looked into the Brazilian. It is much less expensive than the Japanese and tends to have a better track record. However, a lot of websites warn the chemical used to straighten the hair may also contain carcinogens. As much as I love my hair, no product is worth that risk.

That being said, I've decided that I live in a world of many opportunities and possibilities. Why should I (semi-) permanently straighten my hair when I can just have The Jewish Straightening Method?

A girl needs options. And frankly, I like having them.

I am often asked how my curls work (when I wear them) and now that I am getting the question daily about whether my hair is permanently straightened, I have decided to let my secrets to The Jewish Straightening Method out of the bag. Well, most of them.

Before I fess up, let me first put this disclaimer: There is nothing inherently Jewish about the way in which I style my hair. Jews have curly, straight, wavy, frizzy hair and some Jews have thin hair, some have thick. Some even have no hair (God forbid). While there is a stereotype that Jews have thick, curly hair (hence the term, "Jew-fro" and many others I don't use), not all fall into this category. I have simply reached a place in my life where I finally know how to appease this mangled mess of hair my genetic code has passed along to me. Whether "Jewish" or not, I finally love my hair.

Please allow me to share this love.

The Jewish Straightening Method:

1) Find an amazing hair stylist.

If you have curly hair, you do not need to go to a fancy curly hair salon like Devachan (http://www.devachansalon.com/) or Ouidad (http://www.ouidad.com/) in NYC. I was once nearly brainwashed and told that I needed to embrace my hair. I made an appointment at Devachan and upon confirmation I was told that even though my stylist was new, that it would cost $145 and I was expected to pay this upon receipt of service. I knew that would make me buy all their products, possibly swear to worship them forever, which would cost more money. I quickly informed them I would be cancelling my appointment.

I did, however, listen to what my co-worker said about how she styled her hair, the one who had referred me to Devachan.

Many months and many bad haircuts later, I took a chance on a new hair salon in my neighborhood. I made an appointment at Saloon (http://www.saloonhaircolor.com/) with Joe. Within five seconds of taking a look at my hair, Joe knew exactly how to cut my hair. Layered and texturized, I left a happy girl.

A good hair cut isn't the be-all, end-all, though. You have to do your part.

2) Know the curly process

My co-worker, who went to Devachan, told me that following her shower (where she does not rinse out her conditioner), she takes strands of her hair and twirls them into curls. Banking on this whole "not rinsing out conditioner" thing, I was baffled at how a girl could not rinse the conditioner out. Just sounds gross. So I continued to shampoo and condition, but I added leave-in conditioner once I was out of the shower.

Zing!

Nexxus Headress Weightless Leave-in Conditioner. It is $20 a bottle, but you only need a small quarter-sized amount each time. I have a lot of hair and the bottle lasts more than six months.

Pantene Pro-V Products

I have, for years, used Pantene products. Since I am adding mousse (I'll get to that) and thus drying out the hair with product in addition to the natural elements, I started using Pantene's Pro-V Restoratives Time Renewal shampoo, in addition to the same type of conditioner. While it's meant to restore damaged hair in a month, I use it year-round. When I go cheap and don't use it for a while, my hair isn't as perky.

After the shampoo, the conditioner and finally the leave-in conditioner, I scrunch my hair and apply mousse: Pantene Pro-V Classic Styling Mousse. I have used the mousse for curly hair, but find the curling mousse makes my hair more frizzy than the others (I have also found that the pantene shampoos and conditioners for "smooth and silky" hair tend to give me a fuller curl than the ones for "curly" hair).

Once the mousse is in, I take strands of hair and made Shirley-temple style curls. I let it dry naturally and never expose the curls to a hair dryer. Frizzy curls are not happy curls!

3) The Straightening Method

I owe it all to Maxi-glide. The other nuances and techniques simply would flop if it were not for this amazing flat-iron.

http://www.maxiusbeauty.com/

Another co-worker, who happens to be African-American, told me about this one. When she told me about all the chemicals and products she's used through the years and saw how absolutely gorgeous her hair was, I simply had to have the maxi glide. I wash my hair with Pantene Pro-V restorative shampoo and conditioner. After the shower, I put on Nexxus leave-in conditioner. I either allow it to dry naturally (but who has the time?) or blow dry it.

Then I allow the Maxi Glide to do its magic. The Maxi Glide has one side of the flat-iron where steams come out of in order to straighten the hair. The other side has small "teeth" like a small comb that smooths the hair. There is also a button on the straightener where you can make steam come out (for ends and unruly frizzy sections). There is a specific technique to using a flat-iron that you can't explain in a blog, but check out the user manual before you buy it and use good mirrors. The maxi glide gets hot and if you're not careful, you can burn yourself easily.

It takes me at least an hour. Keep in mind I have a lot of hair!

I would not say it's easy by any stroke of the imagination, but gives a beautiful straightening job, without the salon expense. I never washed my hair every day (she needs a break every once and a while) and when I straighten it, I usually wait 3, 4 and sometimes 5 days before straightening it again. It's important to be kind to your hair, regardless of how thick it is (and mine is thick).

In reading about the Brazilian straightening method, I learned that it straightens by way of Keratin proteins and a lot of steam straightening. Nexxus leave-in conditioner contains Keratin proteins. And the Maxi Glide lets off steam!

The Jewish Straightening Method gives you options.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5y9A4DKmjM

Reality Check: Is it better to look older, younger or your actual age?

On this 22 of February, my half birthday, I am left to ponder: is it better to look older, younger or my actual age? In six months, I will be 25, which is an age I am not looking forward to being.

I remember being six and for the first time in my life possessing the awareness that in ten years I would be sixteen. "Wow," I thought. "Sixteen" And at seven, I was amazed at the prospects of seventeen, and at eight, eighteen. As the years passed, I revelled in my years, but still yearned to be older. To reach that point. 25 could possibly be the first year I'd like to go backward. I am aware that I am shorter than your average 24 and a half year old. I also have a very fair skintone and don't wear much more make-up than is necessary. I go for the natural appearance. And in a city like New York, that is not of the norm. That being said, let me share a few tales all occuring since my twenty fourth birthday:

September: It's a typical fall Saturday night out at the movies with friends. I get to the ticket counter. We're seeing a Rated-R movie. "One for Towelhead, please."

There is a pause in this exchange.

"How old are you?" the clerk asks.

I open my mouth and no words come out. I swollow those non-existant words.

I chuckle, "I'm 24. I just turned 24! Would you like to see my ID?"

The clerk declines and reassures that I look young because I'm not wearing a button-down shirt. Weird. I guess that makes me look 16? A new low, so to speak.

Sometime in the Fall:
I'm sitting at my cubicle at work. The clock has passed 5:00 PM and most people have left for the day. Another co-worker hears that I am still in the office and comes over to chat. I tell the above story, at which point, he asks, "How old are you?"

Like I'm going to tell!

I retort, "How old do you think I am?"

"25."

Yes!!! I seem older! Although, in the working world, 25 is still young.

December:

I'm riding in a cab in Jerusalem after a long day as a tourist. My friendly cab driver has just uncovered that I'm only in town for a short period of time and is disappointed at me.

“Why are you only here for two weeks? You are young. You should be learning here for a year.”

“No, no. I have a job I have to get back to unfortunately.”

“But you are young. How old are you?”

"How old do you think I am?”

I chuckled, knowing he would be off-base.“Eh… 17, 18.”

“Hahahahahahaha. No, older.”

He guessed 20.

And then I informed him that I am 24.

“But you have a baby face! This is a good thing for when you get older.”

Is it?

February:

I have time to kill after work one evening before meeting my brother for pizza. I wander over to Lord & Taylor on Fifth Avenue in the hopes of finding a new purse (on sale). I find nothing in my confines. Next to the purses are the make-up counters.

One of the Clinique ladies catches my attention. She tries to sell me on superdefense, which is an age-defying moisturizer. I tell her I used to use it, until Clinique changed the formula and the new product literally burned my face.

Even though the cab driver in Jerusalem told me I had a baby face and the clerk at the movie theater thought I was 16, a salesman still managed to sell me superdefense probably over a year ago. At 23 and a half. I was at Macy's that day to fulfill a Clinique bonus, and even though I told him I did not need to regenerate any cells since I look like a child already, he told me it would help when I'm older. So, I spent $39 on a container of cream because it would help when I'm older. And I proceeded to rebuy that container of cream every 6 weeks thereafter until Clinique reformulated it and my skin felt aflame (don't worry, I returned it and got my $39 back).

So, back to Lord & Taylor's. Somehow the saleswoman convinced me to sit in the chair and try out a few products. While removing my current make-up, applying all sorts of fun products, I lamented that maybe I needed something to make me look a shade older. I shared the movie-theater story.

"Well, you do look young."

"How old do you think I am?" I asked.

"Now that you've told me that story, I know you're a little older than I originally thought." She shared.

Oh, no. She probably thought I was 16...

"I would say you're about 20."

Sarcastic laughing follows.



I spent a good chunk of my childhood longing to be older. I get to the beginning of that "being older" stuff and I spend money on some cream that is supposed to prevent the appearance of aging. But on a professional level, to appear older is the goal. My face is stuck in its teens, unfortunately.

So, is it better to look older, younger or your actual age?

Ba'moneh, B'vakashah - 4 Cab Rides in Jerusalem

December 25, 2008 - A cold and overcast Thursday morning in Tel Aviv, I gathered my things and prepared for a day trip to Jerusalem. I was in Israel for two weeks, mostly visiting coastal towns I never had the opportunity to experience before – Tel Aviv, Akko, Ashdod, Ashkelon, Eilat. But where should a Jew living in the Diaspora be on Christmas day?

Jerusalem, of course.

I ignored my host’s advice and wore my black rain jacket and not my purple wool winter jacket. After all, I’m from New York, it’s not that cold. I doddled off to Dizengoff, waited for the #5 bus, paid my NIS 5.30 and spaced out until we reached the techana mercazit – central bus station. Just my luck, once I made it through security and up to the Egged floor, a bus to Yerushalayim was loading. I paid, and sat in an empty seat. The kid next to me stared at me for a good 45 seconds until an older kid came and told me I was in his seat. At least I think that’s what he said – my Hebrew is below par. He then proceeded to yell at the younger kid and chastise him for not telling me I was in a taken seat. This part was not so hard to understand.

I made my way to the back of the bus, where my true seat was found.

We arrived at the techana mercazit in Jerusalem and again waded through security. My first planned stop was Emek Refaim. And I had no idea how to get there. I’d just ask someone. It was about 50 degrees and raining in Jerusalem.

After grabbing coffee at Aroma, a bad habit I picked up early in my trip, I spotted a group of American yeshiva kids, most likely on their year before college. I figured this was a safe bet for directions. When I asked which bus to “Emek,” I got several different suggestions. In my impatience, I nodded, thanked them, and headed for the cabs outside the bus station.

Cab #1 – Techana Mercazit to Emek Refaim, Red-headed Israeli Cab Driver

“Ani nosa’at l’emek refaim. Cama zeh?”

I asked him how much it would be to Emek Refaim. He muttered something, shrugged his shoulders and hit the meter in the cab.

Whoa. Ba’moneh, it is.

I was shocked that one of my first attempts to negotiate a cab fare in Israel was a non-dramatic monologue by the driver himself that I didn’t even understand. The week before this, I visited in Jerusalem and was told by some friends that I should always ask for the meter after asking the “flat” fare. It was a fun game to be played. First pretend that you are not willing to take their first offer, counter it with the option that will earn them less money. If they’re honest and do not take the route that is slow and will drive up the meter, they will negotiate.

Uneventfully, we arrived at Emek Refaim and I got off and paid the meter amount.

Cab #2 – Emek Refaim to the Israel Museum, Israeli Cab Driver from Iraq

Standing under an umbrella shielding myself from rain drops and a few rays of sun (go figure the two at the same time), I hailed a cab.“Cama zeh l’muzeon yisrael?”

“esrim”

I took it.

Man I suck at negotiating. I had no idea how far I was going and 20 sounded ok as I quickly calculated it was only $5. Once the typical cab conversation ensued and I butchered the Hebrew language, I got a piece of his life story. In English. “Ah, you’re from New York. Two of my children live in America. I tried to visit them but the Americans wouldn’t let me in because I am Iraqi.

Even though I am Jewish, they would not let me have a tourist visa because it says on my passport that I was born in Iraq.”

Wow. I couldn’t believe this. The man went on to tell me how he has been in Israel for 58 years, and of course is an Israeli citizen. He’s been to Spain – no problem there. But America, nope.

We arrived at our destination, I paid my 20 shek and off I went.

Cab #3 – Israel Museum to Machaneh Yehudah, Arab Cab Driver #1

It was about 3:40 PM or 15:40, if you wish, by the time I finished up at the museum. It was definitely below 40 degrees and still raining. It was a biting cold and stark difference from the Eilat temperatures I had left the day before. I walked a bit under the umbrella and spotted the row of cabs.

Within 20 feet, a cabbie hopped out of another cab filled with cabbies and greeted me warmly.

He asked me where I was going, in English, as the word tourist was naively “stamped” in red on my forehead. I knew I was in for it.

“L’machaneh yehudah.”

I really wanted to prove I could negotiate and wanted them to take me seriously. “Cama zeh?” I asked.

He told me 60 shekels, of course answering my Hebrew with English. OK, absurd. Here we go! Let’s negotiate!

“Ba’moneh, b’vakashah.”

“This is the price! It is raining!”

Oh, f-bomb, I thought. I wasn’t yet in the cab and thought about grabbing another, but it was flipping cold and honestly his other cabbie friends wouldn’t give me a better fare. I shut my mouth and off we went. I knew once we were at my destination, I could try to bring it down. The typical conversation ensued – I am from New York, visiting friends. I was super ticked off and was giving him nasty responses to his questions:

“Bad weather today. Is it like this in New York?”

“This is nothing! It’s snowing in New York.”

He shut up. He asked me where in the market I wanted. I told him as close to the entrance as he could get. I played dumb and asked again how much the fare was.

60.

“That’s ridiculous! I’m not paying you 60 shekels.”

“That is the price I gave you.”

“I just went almost the same distance from Emek Refaim before and it was 20.”

Knowing now that he wasn’t negotiating, I unclasped my wallet and began to pull out a 100 shekel bill to cover the amount.

“I hope you feel better about yourself knowing you are cheating tourists. I asked for the meter.” I asserted.

“If I went on the meter as you asked, I would have gone through traffic and it still would have cost you 60 shekels. The life is hard for me. This is the price.”

I was taken aback. The life is hard? What? This has nothing to do with me. “Yes,” I answered.

“The life may be hard, but that doesn’t justify you cheating a tourist. I hope this stays on your conscience!”

I gave him the 100 shekels and he nobly said,

“Here. I give you 50 back.”

I slammed the door.

Cab #4 – Unknown torn-up J’lem Street to Techana Mercazit, Arab Cab Driver #2

No more rain, but it was damn cold. And damn windy. The sun had set hours ago and my purse was full of persimmons, dates, rugelach and other random purchases from Machaneh Yehudah. Buses were passing me, but I lacked the energy to try to find out which one would take me to the bus station where I would wait for Talya to take the bus together back to Tel Aviv.

I hailed a cab. I asked the price and he gave me a number. I didn’t like it and lacking the desire to argue, I asked for the meter. Miraculously, it was granted to me.

All of this transpired in Hebrew somehow. The same cab conversation I had had the entire day – from New York, on vacation, visiting friends, staying in Tel Aviv. I was having de ja vu and just wanted to be done with the cabs already. He started naming the buildings we passed – the Knesset and other governmental buildings. I asked why the Knesset was lit up in blue. What is for Hanukkah? He said no and gave another reason and blabbered on in Hebrew. I have no idea what he said.

By this point, he realized I spoke English and the conversation continued in English.

“Why are you only here for two weeks? You are young. You should be learning here for a year.”

“No, no. I have a job I have to get back to unfortunately.”

“But you are young. How old are you?”My favorite question! A game I like to play, this time.

“How old do you think I am?” I chuckled, knowing he would be off-base.

“Eh… 17, 18.”

“Hahahahahahaha. No, older.”

He guessed 20. And then I informed him that I am 24.

“But you have a baby face! This is a good thing for when you get older.”

We arrived at the bus station and I paid what was on the meter and thanked him for ending my day of cabs on a high note.

Later on I met Talya and we got on the bus back to Tel Aviv, followed by the #5 sheirut to Dizengoff. I was never more happy to be on public transportation.

Ma Ha'meespahr telefone?

Monday, December 22, 2008 – Straddling my luggage on the left side of an airport shuttle bus that would take me from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1 at Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport, my cell phone rings obnoxiously.“Who is calling me at this ungodly hour?” I exclaim.

“It’s 9-something. It’s not so early.” Talya reassures.

It was about 9:30. Early for me to be receiving a call on vacation.

I picked up the phone and didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

A female voice said something in Hebrew.“What?” I said.

She said something else in Hebrew. I sort of understood but smirked and realized she had the wrong number.

I lied, “Ani lo m’daberet ivrit.” (I don’t speak Hebrew)

“Ma ha’meespar telefone?” (What is the phone number?) the caller asked.

Was she kidding? She called me! Shouldn’t she know the number?

I responded, “Ani lo yoda’at ha’meespar.” (I don’t know the number)

It wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t memorized the number, but SHE called me and SHE had the wrong number. Why should I scramble to find where I had written the number down. After all, I was standing on a moving bus with luggage at my feet. More blabbering in Hebrew ensued. I told her she had the wrong number, at which point, she yelled at me. Uh, OK. I ended the call.

December 23, 2008 - Making my rounds at the breakfast bar at the Americana Hotel in Eilat, I hear the obnoxious sound of my rental cell. I rush to the table where Talya is holding my ringing cell phone.

Thinking again, who is calling me at this ungodly hour?

I see the number and chuckle. I think it’s the woman who called me yesterday morning at the exact same time.

“Hello?” I sarcastically ask.

“I think there has been a mistake.” This time she is speaking in English.

She continues, “what is the number of this phone?”

“I don’t know the number,” I respond, playing dumb.

The back and forth continues similar to the day before. She asked me a lot of questions until I finally told her I couldn’t help her and hung up.

Why is it her business that I have a rental cell phone? It’s not my fault that the person who had the number before me didn’t tell her not to call this number. The best part is that she made it seem like it was my fault that SHE had the wrong number.

Three Mystical Pieces of Paper

When I was packing my carry-on bag to prepare for my upcoming trip to Israel, I took my siddur (prayer book) off the shelf. When I opened it and flipped through the pages, I found a small piece of hotel stationery from the hotel where I stayed in Weimar, Germany when I was on Germany Close Up earlier this year in July. I laughed a little in disbelief that this paper would still be tucked into the front cover. I vaguely remember consciously not throwing it out in the haste of throwing out all the train and museum tickets, receipts and other papers I had accumulated while on the two-week trip. Consciously or not, perhaps it had stayed in there because I never cleaned out my siddur and, well, never used it since.

On that piece of paper, I had written page numbers and the names of the prayers I had pre-selected to say at the Memorial site at the Buchenwald Concentration camp.

I had always wanted to put a note in the cracks at the Kotel (Western Wall) in Jerusalem the previous times that I’ve been there, but never knew quite what to say. I think prayers should be genuine and not forced, so I never wrote anything on those previous trips. When I saw the small piece of paper, I knew that this belonged in the Kotel and that I should add a prayer on my own. So I set out to do just that.

Fast-forward a week into my trip. I had arrived the previous Sunday and it took me an entire week to make it to Jerusalem, which seemed a little wrong. I knew that my trip to Jerusalem would have to include a visit to Yad Vashem. I had several stops that day and it made more sense to go to Yad Vashem before the Old City logistically. Plus I wanted to be at the Old City to see the Hanukkiah lit for Hanukkah, which would start at sundown that night.

While looking at the first panel in the main exhibition, I was surprised to not see writing in German, just Hebrew and English. After all the exhibits this summer in Germany, the German had become engrained in me. I laughed inside a bit and moved on. Laughing outside would be a bit insensitive.

The visit was powerful. It is such a well-done museum, showing a brief history of anti-Semitism and the rise of the Nazis and then a comprehensive account of the ghettos, deportations, the camps, resistance and more. I must admit that once I got to the section on Auschwitz, I was supersatured and couldn’t do much anymore. So, I quickly finished and moved on to another exhibit. Prior to coming to Yad Vashem on this visit, I thought that I could handle the exhibit and wouldn’t have a problem. I surprised myself and became winded by the material.

Once I finished the rest, scaling through the gardens and making it through the memorial to the 1.5 million children who were murdered, which almost brought me to tears, I made my way back to the entrance to return my audio guide.

I had given my old Rutgers ID as a “deposit” for the audio guide. When my ID was returned to me, I had trouble putting it back into its usual slot in my wallet. I noticed there was some paper or something in the way after several tries.

I reached my pointer finger and thumb in and pulled out a small perforated ticket stub, which was one part of a baggage check ticket from the Swissotel in Berlin.

Baffled and realizing this wasn’t the only thing stuck still in the slot, I reached my fingers in again and pulled out a small ripped piece of paper folded in half with a bunch of numbers written.

“What!?!” I gasped aloud, realizing the identification of both pieces of paper and their origins.

I was baffled and amused at the same time.

We stayed at Swissotel in Berlin for a week, went to Weimar, some three hours away for three days, and then returned to Swissotel in Berlin for the end of the trip. I, along with others in my groups, left a bag “checked” at Swissotel when we were in Weimar. When I retrieved my bag upon return to Berlin, I think I just took it without giving back the tag. And the other piece of paper was the number I was supposed to dial to use my calling card from the hotel. But I had trouble with it and was never able to get it to work (I later found out once I came back to New York that the card was never activated at the store where I bought it).

My head was racing. How could these papers have stayed in my wallet all this time without my knowledge? I had surely cleaned them out since returning from Germany. Other regularly used cards, including my Starbucks card also occupy this slot in my wallet. Why did I suddenly find these papers when I was standing inside the entrance to Yad Vashem? Why this moment?

Later that afternoon I made it to the Old City just as the first candle for Hanukkah was being lit at the Kotel. I made my way down the steps and took a deep breath.

I wrote different prayers on all three papers, said a few prayers from the evening service from my siddur, and put the papers into the wall.

Oh, Astoria...

Ask me why I live in Astoria.

Go on, ask.

OK, since you've asked.

It's cheap. It's cheap, it's convenient, it's safe, it's easy to get to, and well, it's cheap. Did I mention it's cheap?

When I spent my childhood and most of my teen and college years daydreaming about someday living in THE city, I never imagined I would live in Queens. My career choice, the outrageous cost of this city and my personal desire to put money into my savings account landed me in Astoria. And nearly two years later I'm still here.

I'd be lying if I told you economics is not what has kept me here, but still, there is something magical about this neighborhood. And something even more magical about the diversity of this borough. The most diverse county in America.

Last Saturday I left my apartment with 2 tasks set out to be accomplished: eat lunch and go to Rite Aid. It was a warm afternoon and the sun was shining, so I diverted part of my plan for the park. I grabbed a bagel and sat in the concrete-filled park around the corner from my apartment, "Athens Square."

Half of the park is filled with basketball courts and the other half is an homage to Greece, in the eyes of an ignorant outsider, like myself. The center of this half is built with a mini ampitheater with Parthenon-like pillars outlining the curve. A statue of Socrates stands next to the Parthenon pillars. Astoria is known as a Greek neighborhood, but it's ever-changing.

As I lose myself in a daydream and a fluffy bagel, I hear, "Excuse me, Miss, what time is it?"

"3:05"

A question from a group of Hispanic boys playing soccer in the center of the ampitheater. They call out plays in Spanish and narrowly miss hitting the other children running around the ampitheater.

Another conversation begins on the bench next to me. An outrageously loud conversation. A man speaks in Arabic on his ear piece.

The neighborhood Greek men convene at a chess table behind me. Mid-game there is some argument. Or perhaps a passionate discussion.

I finish my bagel, take a deep breath and wonder.

Where else in the world could I hear Spanish, Arabic and Greek being spoken simultaneously? Would this happen in Manhattan? Regardless it does happen in THE city, just maybe not in the location of my original daydream.

Maybe I am Italian

"Are you Italian?" a random 40-something on the subway blurts in my direction.

"Oh, geez, not again." I think. I'm about as stereotypically Jewish as it gets, but I get the Italian question a lot. What is it about me? My dark features? My pasty white skin? My high cheek bones? Other features...?

Is this an appropriate question to ask?

When is it appropriate to ask a total stranger his or her nationality? You wouldn't ask your random Jose on the subway if he prayed with a rosary or if he fasted during daylight for a month or if he avoided animal products, right? You wouldn't flat-out say, are you a Buddhist? The crazy proselytizers handing out Jesus flyers aside, religion, ethnicity, nationality are all very private and personal matters in this country, no?

I'm not saying I get offended when someone asks me if I am Italian. I take it as a compliment. I love Italian culture, art, jewelry, food, and the people, but, honestly?

To the contrary, I usually engage in conversation and offer where my grandparents and great-grandparents came from: Poland, Austria, Lithuania, Russia, Romania. Pale of Settlement Eastern Europe. Places I am the least bit proud of and feel no connection to whatsoever. "Are you Jewish?" I do get after a little conversation. "Yes." They've found me out. I'm a little uncomfortable but a little relieved a piece of my Jew-iness has found the light.

Where's the line? Can we be Americans and denude ourselves of origins and identity? Do we want no marking features but want them at the same time?