Can Your Momma Dance

11th grade. A new school in Toronto. At least, new for me. Ner Israel has been in Toronto for decades, although it has recently begun a move to the far right, a move, it turns out, that means had I applied there in 2005, I, along with the majority of my classmates, would not have been accepted. But that seismic shift is years away. Today, the Yeshiva is at the beginning of its right wing revolution. Over the 12 months, suede kippas have been banned, as have polo shirts and t-shirts with words on them.

My Rebbi’s name is Rabbi Feivishevitz. It takes almost two weeks before I discover his name is not Rabbi Feivel Shevitz. He is balding, with a reddish beard. He speaks with an accent, as if English is not his first language, as if he is from the shtetl and every R is rolled and every W turns into a V and there are lots of gutteral sounds emerging in words that should not a CH sound, as if he was not born in North America.

The dining room at his house has been decorated by his wife. In one corner stands summer-type objects, including a tree with leaves. The opposite corner contains a bare tree, and other wintry items. When one student in the class mentions this dichotomy, it is his wife who shouts from the next from, “that’s the point.”

There are still a few months before Rabbi Feivishevitz and I will have our falling out. That day when he walked over to me out of the blue and told me I am no longer in his shiur will come in February, but today, he is focusing his attention on a classmate. On this day, his attention is on Dudi. Sitting in shiur, not bothering anyone, Dudi is engrossed in a drawing that he is creating. Rabbi Feivishevitz stands up, and grabs the paper away from Dudi. He sits down, and looks at it for a moment.

Then he reads the caption running across the page. “Your momma can’t dance, and your daddy don’t rock and roll.” The rabbi pauses for a second, before adding “Vat a deprived child.”