The Aloha is Long Gone

Even in the so-called liberal, rebellious 1960s, in the privileged, insular world where I grew up, there were certain barriers of social convention you did not cross. One of them was marrying outside our socio-economic/Christian faith, a taboo the family of Darby held close to sacred. My parents named me Penelope. I was a sixth generation Darby, people that settled here in the early 1800s and made their fortune in silver. My family had money, old money, not like the nouveau Ginsbergs. Zach Ginsberg's dad grew up lower middle-class. Then, after serving in World War Two, he started an appliance business that by the late 1950s did well enough for him to buy a home in upscale Ridgedale, the county's wealthiest, predominately Jewish development. Like us, the Ginsbergs belonged to a country club. Not just any country club but Springdale, the most exclusive Jewish country club in the area. We belonged to Birch Valley, so snobby that in the club's early years only WASPs need apply for membership. Later on, Catholics could also join, but not Jews and certainly not blacks who worked there in a service capacity.

I met Zach at a college mixer. We were both in late freshman year, me at the then all-female Goucher, he at Johns Hopkins. Goucher sponsored the mixer in that May of 1967. A bit later, when Zach and I started dating, my mom said, "All those nice Christian boys at Hopkins and you had to pick a Jew." In fact, Zach had picked ME, asked me to dance when the band struck up "Twist and Shout." Things could have ended after that had I not stuck around long enough for the band's next number, a rendition of "Love Me with All Your Heart." But Zach was so engaging, not to mention super good looking, so I couldn't resist. I didn't know he was Jewish, not then. Anyway, it wouldn't have mattered, for I didn't share my parents' prejudice. As we slow danced across the floor, his beautiful blue eyes (a Jew with blue eyes, so much for stereotypes) alone would have been enough to win me over. There was more, of course—the firm but tender way he held me and the confident, self-assured way he spoke.

We danced a few more times and then left the gym to take a stroll into the balmy spring night. I was a little surprised that Zach chose to stay with me, that he didn't ask other girls to dance. Guys that looked like Zach could hook up with people like Kelly Hansen, arguably the prettiest girl at the dance that night. Where I was merely "cute," or so I was told, Kelly's looks were exceptional, a classic beauty in the mold of Grace Kelly and Elizabeth Taylor. Zach said I reminded him of Patty Duke and also of Patricia Morrow who played Rita Jacks in "Peyton Place." He had the hots for both of them. "They should only have your legs," is one thing he told me that night. He said he liked my hazel eyes, too, and the fact that I cared what was happening in the world. Before we went back inside, he kissed me. Right then, I knew that if he didn't ask for my phone number, I'd have asked for his. He did ask when we went back inside, and it was then that he told me his last name.

"You're Jewish, I gather," I said.

He nodded. "Yes, is that a problem?" he said somewhat defensively.

"Of course not," I responded, mildly insulted. "Why should it be?"

He then told me his experiences with mild forms of anti-Semitism at his former prep school where only a few Jews attended. Certain classmates would sometimes toss out cutting remarks, "Jew jokes" they called them. Then there was the time a girl's parents forbid their daughter to date him because of his faith. I didn't tell him that I thought my own parents wouldn't be too crazy about the idea either.

My parents didn't hate Jews. Well, not in the sense that the Nazis did or the Klu Klux Klan. In fact, they admired their success, albeit grudgingly. "The Jews have done quite well for themselves," my dad was wont to say. We were church going Episcopalians, not bible-thumping Evangelicals. Still, he couldn't understand how "they can reject their own Jewish messiah," is the way he put it, a phrase he learned from his own dad. I always thought that this was just an excuse for an irrational prejudice handed down through generations of Darbys. I mean, would his life be any different if Jews started believing in Jesus? He also didn't like the way "they" flaunted their success, what he considered ostentatious displays of wealth: big diamonds, mink coats, Cadillacs in the driveway. Never mind that he drove a Lincoln, that my mom loved her own bling and that plenty of Gentiles drove Cadillacs too, including a few of our neighbors. Irrational prejudice, like I said.

I guess I should have told them he was Jewish before he picked me up for our first date. But I didn't, and things got a bit tense when my parents invited him in. They were all smiles until they asked him his last name. Zach picked up the bad vibe right away. "Your parents have a problem with me, don't they?" he said as he drove me to the movie in his dad's Buick. "I thought so," he said when I began to stammer Then he again told me the story about the girl whose parents banned her from seeing Jewish guys like Zach.

"That's not going to be an issue with us," I assured him. "My parents have never interfered when it comes to my dating. I see whom I wish to see." Which was the truth, only I had never dated a Jewish guy before and wasn't certain my parents' usual laissez-faire policy would apply when it came to Zach.

Our first date was typical for the times. We saw a movie ("Endless Summer"), stopped for a bite to eat, and then smooched a little in the car parked in front of my house. Zach declined my invite to come in. Not that I blamed him after my parents' chilly reception. I was sure he'd never call me again. Yet he did, the day school let out for the summer. He invited me to Springdale. He said we'd play a few sets of tennis, swim and then have dinner with his parents.

"And don't worry," he said. "They know you're a shiksa and don't care."

Shiksa. It's the first time I had heard that word, Yiddish for a Gentile female, he informed me. Mom knew what it meant, and she wasn't too pleased when I told her. "He called you that? It's an insulting term, Penelope, a pejorative. See, the Jews don't much care for US either." Not an insult at all, Zach assured me, at least in the context he and his Jewish friends used it.

"Okay, but just refer to me as simply Penelope, not Penelope, the shiksa," I insisted.

"Sure thing," he said.

****

Springdale had all the amenities of Birch Valley—tennis courts, golf course, a large outdoor pool and a clubhouse, a sprawling, brown-shingled building built in the late 1890s for German Jews who had realized the American Dream. Zach neglected to tell me that he had played competitive tennis at his prep school until he proceeded to wipe my butt for the first few games. After that we just volleyed. Then we changed into our suits and hit the pool, a welcome relief from the heat of this Sunday in late June. I loved the way Zach applied Coppertone as I lay face down on the chaise in my yellow bikini.

"Guess you didn't expect to be felt up on the second date," he joked.

"No, and neither did I expect to enjoy it so much," I said, wearing a lazy smile as his hands worked the lotion over my back and legs. Had we been alone, I'd have turned over and let him slip his fingers under my top. I was getting wet just thinking about it, a condition I kept to myself as I returned the favor, rubbing lotion over Zach's body, well-proportioned and athletic but not overly muscled and smooth—he didn't have much body hair.

We were still lounging by the pool when his parents came by to say hello. They were in their mid-forties, looked fit and healthy. Irv Ginsberg stood just under six-feet and, like Zach, had a full head of light brown hair, which he wore slicked back, a radical departure from Zach's Beatle-type doo. Golf and handball kept him in good shape, Zach had told me. Fran Ginsberg's appearance epitomized the charmed wife of a successful husband. Her youthful, tanned skin glowed and she wore her hair, a frosted blond, like the young Barbara Streisand, barely shoulder-length and tucked close to her head and neck, bangs in front. And her eyes: So that's where Zach got his baby-blues, I thought. The tennis outfit she wore wasn't just for show; she played the game competitively, had even collected a few trophies over the years.

"You must be Penelope," she said, holding her racket and equipment bag. "Welcome to our club." I stood up and shook their hands. "Zach," Irv chimed in, still wearing his own tennis whites, "your mom just gave me another tennis lesson." He let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, well, one of these days I might beat her."

Zach laughed. "Hey, I can hardly beat her myself, dad." He was being generous and we all knew it.

After they changed into their swimsuits, they sat with us by the pool until it was time to head for the dining hall. I caught Irv checking me out, almost laughed at his awkward attempts to be discreet. Zach noticed it too and we smiled at one another knowingly. He looked so much like his dad, a couple inches shorter; but the strong features, fair coloring and the fine hair texture were very similar. Irv Ginsberg, I thought, was the template for Zach's future, middle age self.

By 5:30 we were all dressed for dinner. Zach wasn't much help in suggesting a wardrobe, so I packed what I thought appropriate for the occasion—a lightweight, summer skirt, plaid and pleated and hemmed at mid-thigh, white blouse and low heels. "Sexy preppy," Zach called it. Fran wore green slacks and matching blouse, while Zach and his dad came dressed in their Bermudas and loafers sans socks.

The dining hall exuded class—brass ornaments affixed to wood paneled walls, chandeliers, shiny, hardwood flooring and round tables covered in fine white linens. Negro waiters in white shirts and black pants served a meal of steak with sides of squash, zucchini, and baked potato, following a shrimp cocktail appetizer, something that surprised me. I said, "Isn't shell fish considered non-kosher?"

"Only to some Jews," Fran said. "The orthodox won't touch the stuff."

Irv laughed. "We less observant Jews like our steamed crabs, bacon and sausage too much. Just like the goyim."

It didn't take Zach's and Fran's wincing and admonishing looks for me to know that what Irv said wasn't kosher either, at least in the presence of a Gentile. Tension rolled in like a bad odor. Irv slapped the table and shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Penelope, my faux pas." I smiled wanly and nodded, at a loss for words.

"My dad sometimes suffers from foot in mouth disease," Zach said, obviously embarrassed and making no effort to hide it.

Irv continued to apologize profusely until I said, "Please, you don't need to apologize further. I know you meant no offense by it." In truth, it did offend me but I didn't want him to feel any worse than he did. When we finally changed the subject to politics, I sensed he felt vindicated by taking my hawkish side on Vietnam over his son's insistence that we should pull out, leaving the Vietnamese to "fight what is obviously a civil war."

Irv's "faux pas" still rankled when we got into the car to leave. Zach felt much worse about it than I did. "Things were going great until he came up with that goyim remark," he said.

"Look, as you guessed, my folks aren't exactly paragons of tolerance when it comes to accepting other faiths, Jews especially."

"So, where does that leave us?" Zach said after shoving the key in the ignition. "I was hoping to see you through the summer."

I took his hand. "Where does that leave us? Drive to Meadow Wood Road and I'll show you."

Per its descriptive name, Meadow Wood was a country road that couples had adopted as a lover's lane since almost the invention of cars. McMansion type development would envelope it in twenty years. But, lucky for my generation, it was still quiet and rural when Zach eagerly did what I asked. I was still on fire from Zach's sunscreen message. Plus, he looked so handsome that night.

The Buick's front bench seats, as opposed to bucket seats, made it easier to maneuver. No surprise, Zach's soft but passionate kisses and wonderfully erotic scent stoked my desire even more. "Are you an Aqua Velva man?" I asked.

"I'm wearing Brut. But don't worry, I'm a gentle brute. Pardon the pun."

"You're pardoned," I said, before getting back into it.

I wasn't that experienced when it came to sexual intimacy. I'd been to "third base" just once, and that was in my senior year in high school, making out on some guy's couch late at night while his parents were upstairs asleep (the guy's lack of experience showed when all he did was slip a finger under my panties, ran it over my pussy and then pulled away). "Good" prep school girls didn't go all the way. Well, a few did, like Margaux St. George, who then paid for it with a "reputation." The way I now felt making out with Zach gave me some insight into why Margaux let her boyfriend deflower her.

Zach was a gentle brute is right, with the accent on gentle. Rather than rip my blouse apart, the clichéd cover of every romance novel ever written, he opened it, one button at a time, kissing my neck and chest as he went. "You smell really good yourself," he whispered. "What are you wearing?"

This was especially flattering because I hadn't bothered to bring my bottle of Chanel to Springdale. "The essence of Penelope," I said, "naked and true."

"Well, you ought to bottle the stuff," he quipped, and then proceeded to work his way down from my chest to the tops of my boobs. Then, in an impressive display of legerdemain, he reached around and unsnapped my bra. This elegant move alone amplified my desire even more, so you can imagine how I felt (most females reading this should know) when he pressed his tongue to my nipples. Thus far, his hands had remained above my waist, yet my panties were soaked. Even through my moaning, I couldn't help but wonder how far he planned to go. Or, more to the point, how far I'd LET him go. Losing my virginity in his dad's big '65 blue Buick wasn't on my agenda. Emotionally I wasn't ready for that; physically, you bet, and I didn't hesitate when he suggested we climb in back for more room.

To gain some semblance of control, I straddled his lap, hiking my "sexy preppy" plaid skirt around my waist. I felt "safe" as long as my panties stayed on. Zach alternated between kissing me and sucking on my B-cup sized boobs. It wasn't long before I found myself pile-driving my wet crotch against his erection. "You have the smoothest thighs," he said, rubbing his hands over my bare legs. "I'd love to have them wrapped around me."

"Zach, I'm a virgin," I said, halting my dry hump. "Plus, I'm not on the pill, this is only our second date, we're in this car, and—"

"Hey, calm down," he said. "I'm a virgin too, you know."

I didn't know, and found that hard to believe, what with his great looks and savoir-faire. Assuming he wasn't just feeding me a line, I admired his honesty. Lots of guys wouldn't be secure enough to admit that. Still, a part of me actually felt disappointed. Passion pulled me in one direction, my intellect in another. My erogenous zones begged me to throw my panties off, zip down his fly and insert his dick inside me. My rational side said I better not, so I compromised. Seated with my legs spread wide, I let him tongue my pussy until he worked me up to such a frenzy, I almost passed out. He then requested a blow job but settled for me jerking him off when I told him I hadn't done that either and wasn't ready to try.

All in all, it was a fun second date. That is, until I got home. I hadn't bothered to fix my hair, mussed from my romp with Zach, or put on fresh lipstick, because I didn't expect mom to greet me when I walked through the door. But there she was, standing in the kitchen, anxious and questioning, asking me how things went. "From the way you look," she said, "I'd say you and Mr. Ginsberg got on very well."

Sparing her the sticky details of our backseat frolic, I wasn't shy about expressing my feelings for "Mr. Ginsberg," as she referred to him. "He seems like a really good guy, mom. Hopefully, you'll get to know him better. You might even forget that he's Jewish."

That's when she made her "all those nice Christian boys at Hopkins and you had to pick a Jew" remark. I didn't need to guess what her reaction would be if I told her about Irv Ginsberg's goyim comment. No doubt, it would have sent her through the roof. Instead, I said, "You're grossly over reacting. We're not engaged, just dating. Lighten up."

She shook her finger at me. "Fine. Just don't get serious with him, okay?"

Don't fall in love with him is what she meant. That could lead to, God forbid, marriage to a you-know-what. We were hardly ready for marriage, not college students going into sophomore year. We did want to keep seeing each other though the summer, that so-called Summer of Love, when hippies flocked to San Francisco and the doors' "Light My Fire" and The Beatles' "Sergeant Pepper" lit up the airwaves.

Less than a week after the release of "Sergeant Pepper," the Arab-Israeli Six Day War broke out. Most Americans, including my parents, backed Israel. Zach, of course, was ecstatic over Israel's quick victory. TV news coverage of religious Jews praying at the Wailing Wall, the last remnant of the Second Temple, instilled pride in his Jewish heritage. "Those people believe that it's a sure sign the messiah is on his way," he told me.

Almost on impulse, I said, "Your messiah has come and gone and will one day return. His name is Jesus Christ." We were talking over dinner in a restaurant, and it was the first time I had ever mentioned my religious beliefs in a personal way.

He looked at me, incredulous. "You really believe all that mumbo-jumbo, Penelope? The virgin birth, the so-called miracles and rising from the dead?"

"Yes, I do," I said, somewhat insulted. "That's what Christians believe. And I resent you calling it mumbo-jumbo."

He leaned over and rubbed my shoulder. "Sorry, I didn't mean to demean your faith. It's just that it defies rational thinking, all we know about biology and physics. Jews believe that Jesus existed as a prophet kind of character, not some divine being."

"Well, that's where faith comes in," I said. "You believe in God, don't you?

"I'm not sure."

"You're not sure? Zach, who do you think was ultimately responsible for Israel, a tiny country with a few million people, defeating those Arab countries in the tens of millions and taking back the holy city of Jerusalem to boot?"

He slowly shook his head. "Penelope, Israel won because their air force struck first, destroying the Egyptian planes before they even got airborne, not to mention the superior tactics of the Israeli army. Devine intervention had nothing to do with it."

"I bet that's not what those men wearing the long ear locks and black, wide brimmed hats praying at the Wailing Wall believe."

"You're probably right. But notice how they're at a loss—and I know because I've met a few of them—to explain the Holocaust. Where was their so-called merciful God then? Not in Auschwitz, you can be sure of that."

"God works in—ˮ

"In mysterious ways, I know." He rolled his eyes.

"In ways we don't understand."

"Same thing."

I sighed. "Okay, Zach, I'm sorry I brought it up. Let's just drop it, agree to disagree, okay?"

And so we did. I figured it didn't matter much because, as I told mom, we were dating, not planning to marry. If I ever did marry, I'd want my husband to share my religious beliefs and my children raised in the Christian faith. But, as the summer wore on, calling Zach a guy I dated became an anachronism. By mid-July, we were "going steady," another anachronistic term in the era of so-called free love and hippiedom. We saw each other twice during the week after we got off work from our summer jobs and most of the weekend. Our "dates" ran the gamut from going out for some ice cream to attending rock concerts. We pushed our religious differences to the back burner as our romance blossomed. By August, we were exchanging words of love. Mom's warning echoed: "Just don't get serious with him."