281: My Big Break

Ira Glass

It took not one, not two, but three, three big breaks to get Marisela and Yadira to college. Every time they got a break, they thought it was a done deal, nothing more to say, and then they just had to start over from scratch and wait for the next bolt of lightning. They were honors students, in the top 10% of their class, AP courses, all that stuff. They were ambitious. They wanted to go to college. But they didn't have the money for it.

Then one day, in their junior year, a man comes to their high school talking about a scholarship program called the Daniels Fund, which sends students to special college prep classes for months. And then if they do well in those classes, they get their entire tuition paid at the college of their choice. Great, right? It's a first big break.

They get in the program. They start the special classes. They're happy. They're doing great. And then they hear a rumor that despite what they had been told by that man who came to visit their class, the scholarships only go to US citizens. Marisela and Yadira-- they live in the US, but they are not citizens. Their parents brought them to the US from Mexico when they were little kids. So they went to their adviser. And they were told, yeah, there was a misunderstanding. They weren't going to be able to get any scholarship money when these special classes were finished.

Ira Glass

Here's how harsh this was. Marisela and Yadira had two friends in advanced placement classes whose families also came over from Mexico. Except the friends were born in the United States. They could get the scholarships. They had social security numbers, which you need before you can get most financial aid. And suddenly, it felt kind of hard to be friends with them.

Ira Glass

And then, Marisela and Yadira got their second big break. They found a scholarship program that helps undocumented students. But again, there was a catch. Yadira got a full scholarship. Marisela, she didn't. They both cried when they got the news.

Ira Glass

This is Marisela.

Ira Glass

Later that day, Marisela told her mom.

Ira Glass

This happens more often than you'd think. Public schools in America have to accept undocumented kids up through high school. But once they graduate-- this is over 50,000 kids a year-- they have no more rights. They can't work because they're not citizens. And though, theoretically, they can go to college as international students from another country, in practice, most undocumented kids are like other kids. They need financial aid, which is a problem because most scholarships follow what the federal government does. And federal student aid, Pell Grants, can't go to undocumented students.

Given all that, it was especially amazing that Marisela got her third big break. A private donor heard of her situation and ponied up most of the money that she would need for college. The school put up the rest. At first, Marisela thought, OK, three big breaks-- three huge big breaks-- now they're set. They are set. But actually, as time has passed, other problems have become clearer to them. For instance, it's a long shot that they're ever going to become citizens. Even if they marry Americans, it would take years to make that happen legally. And in the meantime, they're scared of getting caught by the INS. They worry about the future as much as they ever did.

Ira Glass

From WBEZ Chicago, it's This American Life distributed by Public Radio International. I'm Ira Glass. Today on our program, My Big Break, stories of people who get their shot, their chance, their once in a lifetime opportunity that they think can solve all their problems, and then, of course, after the big break they discover all sorts of other problems that they never imagined before. Act One of our program today, Take My Break, Please. In that act, two entertainers get the biggest possible chance anybody ever could to make the big time, and they blow it. Act Two, What Happens in Baghdad Stays in Baghdad. Two young men decide that it would be interesting to be part of the rebuilding of Iraq, and so they take a bus to Baghdad during the war and the bombings and the kidnappings and the danger, and they try to make their mark. Act Three, Oedipus Hex, the true story of a third grader who stumbles upon a rare opportunity at making his mother happy, and driving his abusive father out of the picture forever. Stay with us.

Ira Glass

Act One, Take My Break, Please. Well, we begin our program with a classic big break which results in an equally classic result. David Segal tells the story.

David Segal

Mitzi McCall and Charlie Brill were a sketch comedy act back in the early 1960s, playing small clubs around the country, mostly in Los Angeles where they lived. They were married. They still are actually. And they were struggling. Then one day they got a phone call that changed their lives.

David Segal

This wasn't just a shot at greatness. This was a chance to meet a few of their idols who'd be on the show that night too, people like Tessie O'Shea, Georgia Brown, who were both big musical theater stars. But to Charlie and Mitzi, the biggest deal of all was a guy they'd already met.

David Segal

They were given the worst dressing room in the building, on the top floor, a space they shared with the soda machine. But they didn't care. They were both 26 years old, and they were about to go national. But first, it was time for a dress rehearsal.

David Segal

They went back upstairs in something close to a panic. Basically, they had just been told to write a new act, right then and there, instead of the routine they had been fine-tuning for weeks. They might have freaked out, but they didn't have time. The curtain was going up in an hour.

David Segal

The worst part was that this guy seemed to want to just hang out. So he helped himself to a seat on the sofa.

David Segal

The show was about to begin. All the performers gathered in the wings, waiting for their turn. Finally, Ed Sullivan came out and announced the first act.

David Segal

The guy with the pen? The one who drew the pictures? That, of course, was John Lennon. And this was February 9, 1964, the first time a US audience had laid eyes on The Beatles. Years later, Lennon said he thought the kids that night had lost their minds. Charlie, watching from 20 feet away, thought so too.

David Segal

73 million Americans watched The Ed Sullivan Show that night, about 40% of the entire country. Ordinarily, when that many people come together, it's for the last episode of a long-running TV series or for playoff games, teams they already know. Not for a show that turns the stage over to an act that nobody's heard of. Arguably, Mitzi and Charlie had the single greatest break in the history of show business.

People forget this was an hour long program, with The Beatles playing a few songs at the beginning and then a few songs toward the end. In between, there were six different acts from Vaudeville, from Broadway, from the circus, from everything rock was about to bulldoze aside. It was basically the future sharing a bill with the doomed. Which is why, after The Beatles finished singing "She Loves You," the next thing on The Ed Sullivan Show that night was a guy in a tux doing a card trick.

David Segal

There is an acrobatic novelty act. There's Tessie O'Shea, a very large woman in a sequined gown, playing a banjo, doing her signature tune, "Two Ton Tessie from Tennessee."

David Segal

Frank Gorshin comes on with 10 minutes of impersonations-- Dean Martin, Burt Lancaster, Anthony Quinn. The far-fetched conceit of his act doesn't seem quite so far-fetched 40 years later.

David Segal

He imagines a meeting of the US Senate where character actor, Broderick Crawford is Vice President and people like Marlon Brando are senators.

David Segal

Just two years after this, Ronald Reagan was elected Governor of California.

[MUSIC- "THE ARTFUL DODGER" BY DAVY JONES]

This is the Artful Dodger from the musical, Oliver, played here by an 18-year-old Davy Jones. When he heard the screams that evening, he thought-- and this is a quote-- "I'd like a little bit of this action." Two years later, he was cast as a member of The Monkeys, the made-for-TV knockoff of The Beatles.

Mitzi and Charlie were slated for what was probably the worst slot on the show. They were the last act before The Beatles returned for the final songs.

David Segal

The premise here is that Charlie's a director casting a movie, and Mitzi is his secretary and then a bunch of different women auditioning for the role. She plays an aspiring starlet.

David Segal

A stage mom.

David Segal

And a method actor.

David Segal

Did you notice the dead silence after she says, dig? In a room that only 30 minutes earlier had been filled with a noise that scared the cops. That's a lot of silence.

David Segal

It was, in fact, the worst three minutes of their lives. They bombed so bad that when they came off stage, people wouldn't look at them. Mitzi's mom dodged their call.

David Segal

It was such a fiasco that in 40 years, neither of them have actually seen their performance. Until now. Watching a tape of it, the first thing Charlie noticed was that they actually did get a couple laughs.

David Segal

The problem, they both say, is that they had to rearrange their act for 14-year-olds in a hurry the day of the broadcast. They're still convinced that if they'd been invited on the show any other night, things would have been different. As it happened, they retreated back home, where their agent didn't call for six long months. From then on, they'd wince every time they heard The Beatles. Imagine that. They had the rest of the '60s ahead of them. They were in for a lot of wincing.

But Mitzi and Charlie regrouped and recovered, and they had long and fine careers. Through the '60s and '70s, they played nightclubs and Vegas. And they were on television a lot, goofy stuff like The Gong Show, but great programs too like The Tonight Show, which they were on four times. Mitzi later wrote for sitcoms like Alf. Charlie eventually landed a leading role on a detective show called Silk Stalkings, which ran on the USA Network for nine years. They have a daughter whom they adore. No knock on Alf, but it gradually dawned on Mitzi and Charlie that on February 9, 1964, they were part of something seismic.

David Segal

Mitzi and Charlie are retired now. Though last month they performed on stage for the first time in a couple decades, opening for their old friend, Ann-Margret. Meanwhile, The Beatles have split up. Hell, Wings have split up. But four decades after they flamed out in front of nearly half the country, Mitzi and Charlie are still together, still standing, and still refining the act.

Ira Glass

David Segal is a reporter with the New York Times. This weekend, Charlie and Mitzi celebrate their 49th wedding anniversary.

Ira Glass

Act Two. What Happens in Baghdad Stays in Baghdad. This next story is sort of the international version of starting in the mailroom and getting a big break. It begins when Jeff and Ray decide to spend a few months on vacation in a war zone. Jen Banbury met them when they showed up for dinner one night at the house she was sharing with a few other journalists in Baghdad. She lived there for 10 months writing about the war for Salon.com. Here's Jen.

Jen Banbury

Jeff and Ray couldn't imagine not wanting to go to Baghdad. It was all they thought about for a while. They'd see it on the news and want to be there. They wanted to see it firsthand. They wanted to see a war zone, and they wanted to help. They had just spent a few weeks in the West Bank, volunteering with an ambulance crew. In Baghdad, they wanted to work.

Jen Banbury

Back in the States, they had been working at Fenway Park in Boston selling Cokes. They made enough money to travel, thanks to a simple idea. After years of hearing Boston fans yell, "Yankees suck," they decided to put the slogan on T-shirts and sell them at the games. So many drunk, diehard Red Sox fans bought them that Jeff and Ray could travel for months during the off-season using the profits.

Getting into Iraq turned out to be surprisingly easy. From Israel, they made their way to Amman, Jordan. And from there, they found the cheapest way to get to Baghdad, public bus. It's a nine hour drive, but it ended up taking Jeff and Ray over 20, because the bus kept breaking down.

Jen Banbury

It was that easy. They were in. No credentials, no papers. When they finally got to Baghdad, Jeff and Ray were half asleep, half drunk, and had no idea where they were going. They remembered the name of a hotel that they had read about in the news where journalists supposedly stayed, and they got a taxi to take them there. Right away, they started looking for jobs with private companies and with the CPA, the Coalition Provisional Authority that was running Iraq at the time.

Jen Banbury

But the CPA desperately needed people to help run parts of the government that had never existed under Saddam. And desperation breeds opportunity. Jeff and Ray actually ended up getting pretty important jobs, coordinating about 400 Iraqi organizations that had sprung up to distribute clothes and school supplies, and tons of other donations coming in from the States.

Jen Banbury

They were immediately working 16-hour days. And because they didn't care about following all the rules, they were actually able to get more done than lots of people at the CPA. For instance, they'd go to Sadr City, a huge slum on the outskirts of Baghdad, and a place most Americans never went because, under the rules, they were only supposed to travel there in an armed convoy.

In fact, most westerners never left the Green Zone, the fortified compound in the middle of Baghdad. Jeff and Ray wanted to be out working with Iraqis. They started going to Sadr City a lot, without weapons or a military escort.

Jen Banbury

Almost every day, Jeff and Ray left the Green Zone and went to a tobacco shop where they played backgammon and hung out with the old men who adored them, even if they weren't exactly sure what to make of them. I visited the shop with Jeff and Ray once and it was like Cheers. Everyone knew them and greeted them loudly when they came in. The shop was just a block away from the Green Zone, but they were pretty much the only Americans who ever went there. They'd drink tea and smoke narghile pipes with the Iraqi guys.

There are liquor stores in Iraq and drugstores where pharmaceutical laws are pretty lax. You can walk into a drugstore and buy liquid Valium and a host of other potential recreational drugs without a prescription. Lots of westerners do a certain amount of self-medicating in Baghdad. But Jeff and Ray knew more about how to get that stuff than most of us.

Jen Banbury

They'd crash parties thrown by FOX News and NBC. They hung out with these French guys who always had pot. They drank during bombardments.

Jen Banbury

By the time Jeff and Ray got to Iraq, it was kind of shocking how few Western aid groups were there. Most had pulled out after the UN and Red Cross bombings in the fall, meaning aid work was almost at a standstill. And for all the American officials who are working really hard to rebuild Iraq, I met even more who are there to spend three months beefing up their resumes and get out. Compared to that, Jeff and Ray were saints. They simply wanted to hang out with Iraqis and do good work. If you're rebuilding a country and everything's chaos, you could do a lot worse than them.

And Jeff and Ray did this work in the face of real danger. They and the people who worked with them were getting personally targeted. Every Tuesday, they'd have a big meeting for all the non-governmental organizations they worked with, right near the gate to the Green Zone.

Jen Banbury

Eventually the threats and the bombing attempts meant that Jeff and Ray had to leave early, before they felt ready. So they had to choose someone to take over the work they had started. It wasn't hard to decide. There was this guy, Haider, who they worked with in Sadr City. He'd drive them out there all the time. He became their right hand man.

Since they didn't want him to go into the job unprepared, like they had been, Jeff and Ray sent him to a non-governmental organization leadership conference in Beirut. It was bittersweet choosing Haider. They knew he was the best person for the job. But they also knew the danger it might put him in.

Jen Banbury

When they look back on their time in Baghdad, Jeff and Ray mostly see it as a failure. The aid program they ran doesn't exist anymore. They got their best friend killed. It's still hard for them to talk about Haider. They just really admired him. He was doing all the work they were doing, plus finishing his PhD and taking care of 13 siblings. During the months they worked with him in Iraq, he treated them like brothers too. And he made them feel like everything in Iraq might just turn out OK.

Ira Glass

Reporter Jen Banbury with Jeff Neumann and Ray Lemoine. They have a book about their experience called Babylon by Bus. Coming up, a child tries to fix his family by harnessing the most powerful force there is. That's in a minute from Chicago Public Radio and Public Radio International when our program continues.

Ira Glass

It's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Each week on our program, of course, we choose some theme, bring you a variety of different kinds of stories on that theme. Today's program, "My Big Break," stories of what happens to people after they get their big lucky chance. We've arrived at Act Three of our show. Act Three, Oedipus Hex.

Shalom Auslander tells this story which happened to him when he was a boy in one of the ultra-Orthodox Jewish religious schools called Yeshivas. Warning to listeners that although the story is about a little boy, it might be, in some very mild way, not for every child.

Shalom Auslander

Rabbi Brier walked into our third grade classroom, hung up his long black coat, took off his big black hat, and handed each student a small, black booklet entitled The Guide to Blessings. We had one week, he told us, to prepare for the annual Yeshiva of Spring Valley Blessing Bee. My heart leapt. This was just what my mother needed. The Blessing Bee would make her forget all of the troubles of her home. To have a son who's a talmid chacham, a wise student, that was the ultimate. Her brother was a respected rabbi, and if her husband couldn't be one, well, maybe her son could be.

The Guide to Blessings was a 70-page long listing of hundreds of different foods divided into different chapters. Soups, breads, fish, desserts. I flipped through it, slowly realizing the size of the challenge that lay ahead. Falafel, herring, eggplant parmesan. I had my work cut out for me.

Friday afternoons, the yeshiva closed early so that we could all rush home to help our parents prepare for Shabbos, the Sabbath. Rabbi Brier told us that the sages tell us that the Torah tells us that the preparation for Shabbos is equal to the importance of Shabbos itself. Most of my preparations involved searching the house for kosher wine and pouring it down the toilet. It was a thankless job I admitted to nobody. My father's frustrated rage at not having his Manischewitz Concord Grape was fearsome, but it was far better than his drunken rage if he did have it. I'd search the pantry. I'd search the garage. I'd search my father's closet. But I was only eight years old. And there was always a bottle of Kedem hiding somewhere I just hadn't thought to check.

That night my father, drunk on a bottle of blush Chablis that got away, grabbed my older brother by his shirt collar and dragged him away from the Shabbos table. He dragged him all the way down the stairs to our bedroom in the basement and slammed the door shut. Even the silverware jumped.

"Who wants the last matzoh ball?" my mother asked. I made extra. When my brother returned to the table, his nose was bleeding. My mother brought him a can of frozen orange juice to hold against the back of his neck, which was supposed to somehow stop the bleeding. Rabbi Brier taught us that it is prohibited to defrost orange juice on Shabbos because changing food from solid to liquid is considered cooking. And cooking is considered working. And even God refrained from working on Shabbos.

There are 39 different categories of work that are prohibited on Shabbos. That's also why you're not allowed to switch on lights on Shabbos. The electricity causes the filament to glow, which is considered burning, which is considered working-- category number two.

My father came back to the table and drunkenly sang a few Shabbos songs, fudging the words and banging heavily on the table with his fist. I sat hunched over, absent-mindedly drawing circles on the condensation that had formed on the silver water pitcher. My father slapped my hand.

"Shabbos," he shouted. Writing-- category number five. Eventually he stumbled off to his bedroom and fell asleep snoring loudly. We sat in the dining room and picked glumly at our food.

The following Monday morning, as we all sat studying from our blessing books, there was a knock on Rabbi Brier's classroom door. And Rabbi Greenbaum, the Yeshiva principal, solemnly entered. We all rose. The two rabbis conferred quietly for a moment, before signaling us all to be seated. After a few thoughtful strokes of his long black beard, Rabbi Greenbaum sighed deeply and informed us that the night before, our classmate Avrumi Gruenembaum's father had suffered a heart attack and died. Some kids have all the luck.

"Blessed is the one true judge," said Rabbi Brier nodding his head.

"Blessed is the one true judge," we all answered, nodding our heads. I wondered what Mr. Gruenembaum might have done to deserve death. Did he bow down to idols? Did he walk four steps without his yarmulke on? Whatever it was, it must have been pretty bad. As Rabbi Greenbaum turned to leave, he paused and with a stern shake of his finger reminded us all that the sages tell us that the Torah tells us that until the age of 13, all of a boy's sins are ascribed to his father.

I turned to look at Avrumi's empty chair. Avrumi was a chubby kid with heavy orthodontia and foul breath. But a sudden respect for him grew inside me. I wondered what he might have done to cause his father's death. Whatever it was, it must have been pretty bad. Scowling fiercely, Rabbi Greenbaum advised each and every one of us to pray to Hashem-- the Holy One Blessed Be He-- for forgiveness so that he wouldn't kill our fathers too. My heart leapt.

"Blessed is Hashem," he said.

"Blessed is Hashem," we answered. Blessed is Hashem was right. All of a sudden I had two ways I could save my family. I could win the Blessing Bee for my mother, or I could sin so much, Hashem would have to kill my father. Courageous Avrumi Gruenembaum, maybe one Shabbos night he had switched on a light. Maybe he drank milk after eating meat. Maybe he touched himself. That night, just before bed, I ate a drumstick, washed it down with some milk, touched myself, and flicked the bedroom light on and off.

"Break those lights and I'll break your hands," my father shouted. It was going to be a busy week.

The Blessing Bee worked the same way as a spelling bee. There are six basic blessings on food-- hamotzei, the blessing for bread, mezonos, the blessing for wheat, hagofen, the blessing for wine or grape juice, ha-eitz, the blessing for things that grow from trees, ho-adamah, the blessing for things that grow from the earth, and shehakol, the blessing for everything else.

Bagel? Hamotzei. Oatmeal? Mezonos. Gefilte fish? Shehakol, the blessing for everything else. But that was the easy part. Things became much more complicated when you started combining foods. Some foods are superior to other foods, and in combination with subordinate foods, the superior food gets the blessing. To make matters worse, some blessings are superior to other blessings and you had to know which blessing to recite first. This is where they separated the men from the goys.

Spaghetti and meatballs? Mezonos, the wheat blessing. Then shehakol, the everything else blessing. Cereal with milk? Shehakol for the milk, then mezonos for the wheat in the cereal. Twix, the chocolate candy with the cookie crunch? Trick question. Twix isn't kosher.

I spent the next week sinning and blessing, and blessing and sinning, alternately praising God and then defying him as much as one eight-year-old possibly could. Monday morning, I stuffed myself. I had a bowl of Fruity Pebbles-- mezonos, a slice of toast-- hamotzei, a glass of juice-- shehakol, half an apple-- ha-eitz, and a couple of old french fries I found at the bottom of the fridge-- ho-adamah. One meal, five blessings.

Tuesday I touched myself. I also partook of bread without first ceremoniously washing my hands. And that evening, before going to sleep, I sat on the edge of my bed and carefully recited [BLEEP], [BLEEP], and ass a dozen times each. My father banged angrily on my bedroom door.

"Lights out," he barked.

I smiled, "For you and me both, pal."

Wednesday I stole $5 from my mother and didn't recite any blessings at all on the bag full of candy that I brought with it. A Charleston Chew, which is traif to begin with, and a Chunky, which would have been a shehakol if I weren't trying to kill my father. A Chunky with raisins? Shehakol then ha-eitz.

Thursday I didn't wear tzitzis. Rabbi Brier noticed that the strings weren't dangling from my sides and grabbed me by the ear and pulled me to the front of the class.

"Speak to the children of Israel," he quoted loudly from the Torah as he spanked me hard on my bottom. "And tell them to make tzitzis on the corners of their garments."

That afternoon, after not respecting my elders by taking out the garbage like my mother had told me to, I touched myself and silently begged God to-- just this once-- credit those sins to Rabbi Brier's account. Later I defiled a prayer book by carrying it into the bathroom. The Blessing Bee was the following morning and I could barely sleep. Lentil soup, mezonos. Potato knish, ho-adamah. Root beer. Is it a root? Is it a beer? [BLEEP], [BLEEP], ass, bitch. I tossed and turned. I blessed and cursed. And finally I fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

After a week at home, Avrumi Gruenembaum conveniently returned to school just in time for the Blessing Bee. It was all I could do to not lean over and ask him how he did it. Psst, Avrumi, tell me, was it lobster? Did you eat lobster? Rabbi Brier told us that the sages tell us that the Torah tells us that when Abraham died, Hashem comforted Isaac. We learn from this that it is a tremendous mitzvah, or good deed, to comfort the bereaved.

Rabbi Brier instructed us all to line up at Avrumi's desk, to shake his hand and recite the traditional mourner's consolation-- "May Hashem comfort you among the mourners of Zion." Being just eight years old, I wasn't entirely familiar with Hashem's system. But it occurred to me that, along with all my sins, my father might also be getting all my mitzvahs. I wasn't taking any chances. Soon it was my turn in line.

"How's it going?" I said to Avrumi. Rabbi Brier pinched me. "Ow!" I screamed.

"Shmendrik," he grumbled.

After the last boy had asked Hashem to comfort Avrumi among the mourners of Zion, Rabbi Brier smacked his desk loudly. The Blessing Bee began.

We lined up at the back of the classroom, nervously pulling on our tzitzis and twirling our peyis. The rules were simple. Name the correct blessing and remain standing for the next round. Name the wrong blessing, and you take your seat.

Last year's winner, Yukisiel Zalman Yehuda Schneck, stood beside me. He leaned calmly against the wall, mindlessly picking his nose.

"Auslander, Shalom," called out Rabbi Brier. I stepped forward. "Apple," he shouted.

"Apple," I called out. "Ha-eitz," the blessing for food from trees.

"Correct," Rabbi Brier said. The Blessing Bee usually started off pretty easy. David [? Borgen ?] got tuna-- shehakol, the everything else blessing. Ari Mashinsky got matzoh-- hamotzei, the blessing for bread. And Avi Tuchman got stuck with kugel, which he thought was ho-adamah, food from the earth, but was really mezonos, the blessing on wheat. Three other kids got taken out by oatmeal. Borscht with sour cream claimed two others. And by the end of the first round, almost a third of the students were already back in their seats.

Round two. "Auslander, Shalom," called Rabbi Brier. I stepped forward. "Mushroom barley soup," he shouted.

Mushroom barley soup, mushroom barley soup. Damn. I knew I should have studied the chapter on soups more. I'd wasted half the week on entrees. Was it ho-adamah on the mushrooms which came from the earth? Or was it mezonos on the barley? Maybe it was shehakol, the everything else blessing, on the soup. "Mushroom barley soup," I called out. "Mezonos."

Rabbi Brier tugged on his beard, his eyes narrowing into angry little slits. "And shehakol," I added. Rabbi Brier triumphantly smacked his desk, signaling that I was correct.

Apple strudel took out David [? Borgen ?], Yoel Levine and [? Shlomo ?] Pomerantz. My friend, Motty [? Greenberg ?] got stuck with cheesecake. And I could tell just by the expression on his face that he had absolutely no idea. He wisely offered two answers, one for thin crust and one for thick, and somehow managed to stay alive. It was hard to believe this was only round two.

Avrumi stepped forward. I smiled at Motty. Avrumi may have killed his father, but he wasn't very bright. And he never did well at these things. He was lucky to even be in the second round at all.

"Bagel," shouted Rabbi Brier. Bagel? I looked at Motty in disbelief. Was he kidding? Bagel?

"Bagel," called out Avrumi, "Hamotzei." This was bull [BLEEP].

"Correct," shouted Rabbi Brier. "Very good." Ephraim Greenblat, Avrumi Epstein, and [? Yoel ?] Frankel all got out on cholent with barley and large pieces of meat. While chopped liver and challah with a slice of lettuce and a bit of olive took out four more, including Motty. And then there were three. It was just Yukisiel Zalman Yehuda Schneck, Avrumi Gruenembaum, and me.

Round three began. "Auslander, Shalom," called out Rabbi Brier. I stepped forward. "Ice cream," shouted Rabbi Brier, "in a cone."

Ice cream in a cone. Ice cream in a cone. I knew ice cream, but why would he add the cone? Was there something different if it was in a cone? What was an ice cream cone made of anyway? Was it cake? Was it a wafer?

"Ice cream in a cone," Rabbi Brier shouted. Is the ice cream subordinate to the cone or is it the cone that's subordinate to the ice cream? If it's a sugar cone, maybe you really desire the cone. "Ice cream in a cone," Rabbi Brier shouted again. I had no choice.

"Ice cream in a cone," I called out. "No blessing." Everyone in the classroom turned to face me. Looking back on the whole episode, Rabbi Brier had really left me no choice.

"No blessing," said Rabbi Brier. "Why no blessing?"

"Because," I explained, nervously twirling my tzitzis, "Because the room smells like doody." There was a long silence. Motty giggled and others followed. Rabbi Brier slowly rose to his feet, his thick fists pushing themselves into the desktop. It may have been a loophole, but technically speaking I was correct. Rabbi Brier himself had told us that our sages tell us that the Torah tells us that there are three situations in which one is absolutely prohibited from reciting a blessing. One, while facing a male over the age of nine years old whose genitals are showing. Two, while facing a female over the age of three years old whose genitals are showing. And three, in the presence of feces.

Frankly, given the other two options, I think I chose the least offensive answer. For a big man, Rabbi Brier moved pretty quickly.

"It's true," I said as he barreled toward me, "The Torah says that." He grabbed me roughly by my arm, lifting me clear off the ground and dragged me towards the door, shouting angrily in Yiddish the whole time. "But it smells like doody," I yelled. "The room smells like doody. Wait. There's a naked girl in the room. There's a naked girl." The door slammed shut behind me. I stood in the hallway and rubbed my bruised arm. I began to cry. The Blessing Bee was lost. I was not a great rabbi. And my father was still not dead.

I tip-toed toward the classroom door and listened closely. Two minutes later, Yukisiel Zalman Yehuda Schneck fell victim to matzoh brei with maple syrup, and the last man standing was Avrumi Gruenembaum.

"Apples," called out Rabbi Brier.

"Apples," Avrumi answered. "Ha-eitz."

"Mazel tov," called our Rabbi Brier. "Mazel tov." Total bull [BLEEP].

That night we had the traditional Friday night gefilte fish-- shehakol, with a little slice of carrot-- ho-adamah. My father was drunk again, singing Shabbos songs, fudging the words and banging heavily on the table with his fist. My mother went into the kitchen and brought out the soup. When my brother said he didn't want any, my father slapped him, pushed him over backward onto the floor, and poured the hot chicken soup onto his face.

My mother took my brother into the bathroom and sat with him on the edge of the bathtub, pressing a cold washcloth against his cheeks. And I went back to the dining room to wipe the chicken soup off the floor. Chicken soup is a shehakol, even if it is cooked with vegetables, since chicken is the dominant taste in the soup.

Rabbi Brier told us that the sages tell us that the Torah tells us that the Holy One Blessed Be He sent the Egyptians 10 plagues in order to teach us that he gives people many chances to repent, and only then, if they still continue to sin, does he punish them with death.

I went downstairs to my bedroom, took four steps without my yarmulke on, touched myself, flicked the lights off and on and fell asleep.

Ira Glass

Writer Shalom Auslander. This story appears in his memoir, Foreskin's Lament.

Ira Glass

Well, our program was produced today by Lisa Pollak, Jane Feltes and myself with Alex Blumberg, Diane Cook, Wendy Dorr, and Sarah Koenig. Our senior producer is Julie Snyder. Seth Lind is our production manager. Adrianne Mathiowetz runs our website. Production help from Todd Bachmann, Kevin Clarke, Thea Chaloner, and Andy Dixon.

Special thanks today to reporter Helen Thorpe in Denver who interviewed Marisela and Yadira for the opening of today's program. In the year since we first broadcast this show, they have graduated from college and found jobs, though their legal status in this country has not changed.

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Ira Glass

I'm Ira Glass. Back next week with more stories of This American Life.

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