My great aunt is not frum.
My grandmother and her sister both grew up in a frum home, but times were different. My grandmother went to Bais Yaakov and married my grandfather. My great aunt didn’t remain in the fold, but the family keeps in touch with her, and we arrange visits. She likes to come over for Thanksgiving and lecture all her great nieces about feminism, personal fulfillment, and forced marriage, so every year we nod politely while she rants about the whole shidduch/marriage system.
“When you go meet the matchmaker, call me, and I’ll come with you, dear. I don’t trust matchmakers. Have you ever seen ‘Fiddler on the Roof? No? SIGH. Your parents have always been remiss with your education. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t fall for any of their tricks.”
“Nobody’s being tricked or forced into anything,” my father groaned. “They get to choose what kind of guy they are looking for.”
“What?? You have them custom-made nowadays?”
“My girls have plans.”
“Yes, but what are the BOY’s plans? Does he plan to consider your daughter’s plans? Or are his plans to have her look pretty, work in the kitchen with some side trips to Labor and Delivery? Like anyone cares what the girls’ plans are.”
My sister piped up: “I’m gonna work.”
“Oh, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, honey, well, if I die tomorrow, you might not have to do that, since you’re inheriting, but I’m only giving my money to you guys if you sign prenups before marriage. Don’t listen to your father, or those Rabbis. I know, when you are young, marriage seems like a fun adventure and a big party, but keep an eye on the MAN. You need to really focus on who this guy is that you are marrying, because you can’t get divorced.”
“Frum Jews can divorce,” my father said. “SIGH. We’re not Catholics.”
“You think I’m stupid? Your GIRLS can’t get divorced. If they want to leave the marriage, they will need HIM to divorce THEM.”
My father sighed, but said nothing.
“I’m right, aren’t I? See, I know things too. Now, Ruchy, dear, let me show you how to do your mascara. It’s clumping. How do you expect to get married if you can’t even do your mascara right? Didn’t they teach you anything in High School? Bais Yaakov? Pooh.”
This year, I braced myself for a barrage of “I told you so” mixed with “those Rabbis and this system is completely failing you and needs some changing” mixed with “your parents didn’t listen to me, and this is where it got them.” But my great Aunt was strangely subdued.
She didn’t say a word about any of that. She just looked sad and gave me a long, long hug. “I’m so sorry, honey,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I wish I knew how to help you...”
I cried then. It was the first time since I left my (still)husband that I remember letting go and sobbing.
She wiped her eyes and sniffed, then took my hands. “But those nails. How do you not know how to do your nails? I’m taking you to my girl. She’ll make you decent again.”
