PERSONAL ESSAY

Mikveh

 

 

Shim Dicker

It is the fourteenth day of my men-
strual cycle, and I am frantically re-
moving red nail polish from my
toenails, scrubbing at the corners of my
cuticles with uncharacteristic zeal.
Countless cotton balls later, saturated
with lemon-scented polish remover, my
toes are now stained a smeary, illicit
red. The scarlet outline is an unholy
aura, an intimation of the temptress.

Giving up on my toenails, I hastily
remove my earrings, two from the left
lobe, one from the right, force my en-
gagement ring over the knobby knuckle
of my right ring finger [there is no sim?
ple gold band to remove from my left
hand, since a few months before my
wedding ring was devoured by a wood
chipper), and unelasp the fine gold
necklace my husband surprised me
with the night he proposed marriage. I
wriggle out of denim cutoffs and throw
on a gauzy white sundress. It settles
around me loosely, billowing as I walk.

I rush to the bathroom mirror. Free
of makeup, my face looks startlingly
young and androgynous. Wincing at
the sight of my freshly washed hair dry-
ing into cowlicks around my head, I
grab a pastel madras scarf from my
closet and wind it three times around
my head, fastening it with a knot.
There. I am transformed from a bare-
legged gamine into a true daughter of
Zion, save for the red-rimmed toenails.

It is in a white convertible
that I careen down the Henry Hudson
Parkway en route to my first miltveh
visit since my wedding eight years ago.
While it was my mother who drove me
the night before my wedding to the
nondescript facility in Kew Gardens,
my chauffeur tonight is my brother-in-
law, who looks like he stepped out of
the pages of GQ and listens to loud
rock music as he drives. With Eric
Clapton wailing ?Layla, I draw
inward and contemplate the ritual I am
about to perform.

 

Shire Dicker is afree-lance writer who
lives in New York.

62

To the great surprise of my husband
and the bemused skepticism of my
friends, I decided to ?try out? the Jew-
ish precept of tat/para: ba-mr'rbpacba, or
family purity. It is something I learned
about only in adulthood, despite my
day school education and r/aomreisbab-
[par upbringing. Nevertheless, after
more than a decade of sexual activity
unencumbered by any temporal re-
strictions, I resolved to restrict my sex-
ual relations to approximately two
weeks out of every month?the days
following the period of menstruation,
plus seven ?clean? days. No great reli-
gious awakening inspired this decision.
Rather, it Was a multiplicity of intangi-
bles?curiosity, the longing to become
a link in the Vertical chain ofJewish fe-
male history, the hazy recollection of an
oddly sensual experience the night be-
fore my wedding, a taste for adventure.
That, and the recent revelation that two
highly intelligent and independent-
minded female friends of mine ob-
served ta/parat despite
the fact that they were unmarried.

If my single friends had come to im-
pose this religiously sanctioned re-
striction on their sexual activity of their
own volition?and rather daringly, I
thought, out of wedlock?did that not
provide ample evidence of the potency
of the act? I needed to see if the ritual
held any power for me.

So here I am on a Saturday night,
celibate for fourteen days (two over the
prescribed twelve, but that was due to
the unavailability of child care), on the
way to immerse myself in waters that
will render me fit to resume sleeping
with my husband.

Of course, I know that I have al-
ready violated several ancillary re-
quirements of mikvoh attendance?
modesty, for one. Before deciding to
take the mil-tveh step, I consulted nu-
merous friends, both male and female.
I weighed their reactions as I revealed
my intentions. But from what I under-
stand, Jewish women are supposed to
go about their mikveh-dunking quietly,

almost secretively?that?s why women
are permitted to attend miltveh only af-
ter nightfall. And although I am un-
comfortable with this particular
prerequisite (for going about some-
thing under cover of darkness implies
shamefulness), I have a feeling that
talking about impending mil-tveh at-
tendance the way that I have done is
tantamount to not only going during
the day, but inviting a television cam-
era crew along.

And then there is the matter of my
driver. Let?s face it: If tall-ting about go-
ing to the mikveh is immodest, being
driven there by your brother-in-law is
downright brazen. I had planned to go
by myself, but with Shabbat being over
so late, and my brother?in-law drop-
ping over and my husband freaking out
about my going alone to Riverdale on
a Saturday night  Well, that?s how it
happened. 80, here we are, me feeling
somewhat guilty and he no doubt
thinking of all the other ways he might
have passed the evening. But we joke
about it; he tells me mikveh stories
from his own experience and nearly
guffaws at the prospect that I, the sis-
ter-in-law he has known for more than
eight years, could ever come to regard
tabarat seriously. 

With nervous anticipation settling
in my fingertips, making me take small,
shallow breaths, we pull off the high-
way and wend our way through a maze
of streets to the Riverdale mikveh.

I have been told that the mikveh is
located next to the Hebrew Institute of
Riverdale and that it is open almost un-
til midnight on summer nights because
Shabbat ends so late. Still, I have ne-
glected to ask for the address of the
building, so I spend ten minutes wan-
dering around a deserted street corner
at 10:30 pm. looking for the right
place. I hear the music from my
brother-in-law?s car radio recede as I
walk north along the Henry Hudson
service road toward a nondescript
squarish building that must be It.

I have the right spot, but the wrong

 

 

entrance. ?Come around the back, a
Brooklyn-accented voice instructs me
over the fuzzy intercom. I go around
the building and discover a commodi-
ous parking lot, nearly empty. I won-
der about the parking lot, a rare
commodity in Riverdale. Is it here so
that women should have no impedi-
ments to performing the mitzvah of
mikveh? Is it placed in the back to en-
sure total modesty? Or was the
amenity just a happy coincidence?

I bound up the back stairs, filled
with a feeling of impending adventure.
I am a five-year?old running up to her
room to see her birthday presents. I am
a ten-year?old sneaking into the neigh-
borhood ?haunted house.? I am a
journalist on the verge of a scoop, a sci?
entist on the cusp of a medical break-
through. I am a cynic about to
relinquish her skepticism.

When I reach the facility proper, I
am surprised to see that the receiving
area looks not unlike a beauty parlor,
the type frequented by women who
come once a week for a ?wash and set. 
There are hair dryers that you sit un-
der, cushioned chairs, and women?s
magazines. The room is empty and ut-
terly quiet, save for the humming of an
electric generator. I am immediately
greeted by two women. The one ap-
parently in charge, who says her name
is Esther, smiles easily. She is wearing a
housecoat and slippers, and her hair is
covered with a simple cloth scarf. She
is the vision of maternal comfort, all
softness and amorphous folds. Her skin
is very fair and her eyes are 
magnified behind thick lenses. As she
speaks, directing me to my private
bathroom, I feel my shoulders relax, my
facial muscles loosen, my adrenaline-
driven eagerness transformed into al-
pha wave calm. I feel very safe.

Inside the bathroom, I unwind my
scarf, take off my clothes, and stare at
my body in the mirror. Although I have
been at the mikveh only a matter of
minutes, I feel myself inexplicably re?
lieved of the burden of my sexuality.
Or is it my sexiness? Yes, I am here for
reasons having to do with sex, but the
sex in question is married and ex-
tremely kosher, charged with repro-
ductive potential, sanctioned byJewish
tradition, and Esther hersolf.

In the frank frame of the mirror, my
body looks naked, not nude. My eyes are
not sly with innuendo; I stare at myself
with a direct, somewhat startled gaze.
My lips, which have always seemed to

me embarrassingly voluptuous, now

look modestly full and a little pale. The
sexual heat I absorb and radiate in the
outside world is nowhere in evidence in
this room. Here I am a wife, not a lover,
here I feel protected, more daughter
than mother. In this room, in this place,
my sexuality is irrelevant, and that
recognition soothes me.

I move my gaze from my lips along
the length of my neck to my torso. I
note the intersecting tan lines, the jut-

 

 

 

ting hip bones, the flat stomach, the sil-
very stretch marks on the back of my
hips. I contemplate my breasts and
take note of the ravages nursing has
in?icted. Pinching a bit of skin atop
each breast, I lift my bosom and con-
sider plastic surgery one day?nothing
too costly or dangerous, just a little
lift on each side, half an inch at most,
to restore my body to its pre-child-
bearing shape.

I take several steps back from the
mirror and consider my legs, thin until
the very top, where they puff out on ei-
ther side, creating what women?s mag-
azines call ?saddle bags.? The word
flits through my brain and I feel in-
stantly horsey. I jump once and watch
my saddle bags bounce. I vow to begin
a program of spot-reduction as soon as
possible, maybe even tomorrow.

With great reluctance, I drag myself
away from the mirror and begin to cx~
amine the neat array of grooming para-
phernalia on a shelf over the toilet.
There are Q-tips, cotton balls, gauze
pads, alcohol, peroxide, nail polish re-

mover, lotion, baby oil, soap, shampoo,
toothpaste, tooth picks, and other items.

A printed instruction sheet is posted
above the shelf, reminding women of all
the steps they must take to ready them-
selves for immersion in the mikveh.
One must not only clean every crevice
and fold of one?s body, but also remove
all extraneous accessories, including
false teeth and prosthetics. A good rule
of thumb is, if you weren?t born with it,
take it off. I fantasize for a moment
about hanging up my saddle bags on the
hook inside the door and stepping into
the mikveh with legs like Linda Evan-
gelista, impossibly long and thin.
Maybe the mikveh of the future will
have an adjoining liposuction room.

Although I cleaned and groomed
myself at home, I go through the pro-
cess again, a little girl playing with
Mommy?s cosmetics. \Why not? It?s
here, I've paid for it, and there is some-
thing enjoyable about grooming oneself
without children breaking down the
bathroom door. I gaze up at the chart,
looking for an area I have forgotten to
clean. My nose. Taking a Q-tip, I swirl
it around inside each nostril and am sur-
prised by how pleasant it feels. I look
down at my feet to check between my
toes for dirt and see the red polish.

Sighing, I take some of the mikveh
polish remover and scrub at my toes,
but to no avail. The polish is indelible.
I consider calling up the Maybelline
customer service line and complaining
bitterly. I will say that their nail polish
ruined my sex life because the mikveh
lady would not permit me to go into
the mikVCh with that stuff on my toes.
I will threaten to start a boycott within
the Orthodox community, to take out
ads on the front page of Friday?s New
York Ii'mes reminding Jewish women
and girls to avoid using Maybelline. I
will grudgingly accept an out-of?court
settlement and use my hush money to
finance a trip to Europe.

Snapping out of my reverie, I throw
the cotton balls in the garbage and run
the water in the bathtub, hoping that
soap and water will do the trick. The
tub is large and very clean. My great
relief makes me realize that I have been
worried about the hygiene of the place.
With the water still running, I step in-
side and slide my body all the way
down so that only my head, shoulders,
and knees poke out. I close my eyes
and let the water cover me.

The roaring sound of pouring water
bounces off the tiled Walls of the bath-

room and the heat rises in misty clouds.

PERSONAL ESSAY 63

 

My eyelids open and then
droop; thoughts roll through my mind
easily, leaving behind no residue. I am
blank, happy, relaxed. Just before I to-
tally drift off into Nirvana, I am re-
minded of my mission. I sit up, give a
few futile scrubs at my toenails with a
nail brush and soap, and then emerge
dripping out of the tub, hoping that my
cosmetic transgression will be forgiven

by the beatific Esther.

 caring a thick terry cloth robe
and ridiculous paper slippers, I

sit on the toilet top, waiting to be sum?
moned. Without moisturizer my skin
feels dry and tight, and I make a men-
tal note to slather myself with lotion af-
ter I?m through in the mikveh.

There is a small buzzer inside the
bathroom that one presses when one
has completed preparations. The
buzzer impresses me. It is so much
more dignified than sticking one?s head
outside the door and announcing ten?
tatively, ?I?m ready.?

After a short while, Esther opens
the door and steps inside. ?Do you
want to be checked?? she asks, smil-
ing. ?Yes, I murmur, filled with a de-
licious happiness. \Vhen was the last
time someone had checked me, mak-
ing sure I was properly outfitted, cool
for summer, warm for winter? Yes, oh
yes, I would so like to be checked.

Esther goes down the list, asking me
if I have clipped this, scrubbed that,
removed those. An obedient girl, I an-
swer each query affirmatively. Esther
asks me to hold out my hands, and she
checks my fingernails. Okay. Now my
feet. I kick off my flimsy paper slippers
and begin to apologize?I tried three
times, I'm sorry, I usually never even
polish my toenails, what Es-
ther listens patiently and smiles, wav-
ing away my explanations. It?s alright,
she assures me. She?ll get the polish off.

Really?

Esther reaches for a cotton ball and
the polish remover. ?Let?s see those feet-
rains/3, she instructs. Feerralac/J! I
could melt away I?m so happy. Here I
am, a thirty-year-old mother of two, be-
ing mothered. Being cared for. Having
herfeerraiucb cleaned by a nice, soft, pa-
tient Mama, one that does not scold
(?What were you doing playing with that
nail polish, young but who for-
gives, understands, and helps. I am will-
ing to hand over my life to this woman;
I want her to dress me in the mornings,
feed me lunch, and tuck me in at night.

Esther is making progress on my

64 Taurus: VOL. 7, No. 6

toenails and we talk as she scrubs. I
confide that this is my first visit in eight
years and her face opens up; she has a
of sustenance to share with
me and I am so thirsty. We make a per?
fect symbiotic pair?her pleasure is in
providing and mine is in receiving.

Bending her head closer to mine,
Esther speaks eagerly about the bene-
fits of observing :abarar 
Her sales pitch is familiar to me, but
coming from her, I am ready to believe
every word. Improved sex life. Lower
incidence of cervical cancer. An oppor-
tunity to perform breast self-examina-
tion. And in fact, I do believe that, if
nothing else, the ritual gives women one
night a month to take a bath in peace.
And to be ministered to by Esther.

After nearly half an hour, my nails
are reasonably natural-looking and I
spill over with apologies and thanks.
Esther smiles them away, good-na-
turedly, and opens the second bath?
room door. To my surprise, it leads
directly into the mikveh.

The room is small and boxy and
very surreal. I am filled with a sudden
and powerde emotion. I endeavor to
name it  it must be awe. Or maybe
just fear. In any case, I am seized with
a sense of magnitude, ofa serious busi-
ness about to happen.

I open my robe with my back to Es-
ther. She holds it open as I walk down
the stairs into the water. It feels thick
and warm, a bit unpleasant. I descend
the steps until I am standing neck-deep
in the water. Ilook up at Esther, stand-
ing at the top behind the railing.

don?t know what to say,? I con-
fess. Esther nods, and she leads me in
reciting the bras/ya, slowly, never tak-
ing our gaZe off one another. I am so
naked, so open to whatever force is in
this room?Esther's benevolence, the
thickness of the water, the chain of
Jewish tradition, the presence of God.
I stand in the tepid water, letting the
force wash over and through me.
Cleanse me, I think. Make me believe.

Esther instructs me to dunk myself
and I do so; it is more difficult than it
seems because the water is highly
buoyant. I feel fragile and too thin, in
danger of being crushed by the water?s
pressure. But I lean forward and dunk
down, cutting the surface of this resis-
tant liquid with my head. Dunking is a
relief, so I do it again, swishing my
arms and legs underwater, trying to
keep from rising to the top. My breath
runs out and I surface, gasping for air.
I wipe my bangs out of my eyes and

nod my head. I am coming up, I com-
municate silently to Esther, who waits
at the top of the stairs, still holding my
robe open, eyes modestly averted.

I climb the steps slowly, hair slicked
against my scalp, an amazing walking
seal. I feel a gummy residue on my skin
that the terry cloth robe does not ab-
sorb. Although the possibility of show-
ering it off occurs to me, I put on my
street clothes unshowered, skin still
damp with mikveh water.

Back in the car my brother-in-law is
affectionately peeved.What took you so
long? Sorry, I say. I?m really sorry you
had to spend your Saturday night like
this. Oh, it?s okay, he says, starting up
the car. So, what was it like, anyway?

He is waiting for the roll of the eyes,
a wink, a nudge. He is waiting for me
to cast an irreverent look atJewish tra-
dition, as I have done many times in
our shared past. He is familiar with the
punch line, the caricature, the parody.
He knows about some not-so-holy ad-
ventures I have had, knows that I?ve
gloried in being the bad girl, the rebel,
the heretic. He is waiting for me to do
the predictable, reveal my true colors.

He waits and there is no reply, so he
starts up the car and instantly, Mick Jag-
ger yells his dissatisfaction. I cast a
glance up at the mikveh building and
wonder if Esther sees me taking off in
the white convertible with the glam-
orous guy behind the wheel. I wonder
what she thinks alien or as kindred spirit. I remember
her maternal warmth and long for the
homey peacefulness she embodied, her
soft ease, her very rootedness. What is
it like to sink into your religiously or-
dained role like that, to be utterly un-
ambivalent? I yearn for respite from 
inner turmoil?the wild urges and fears,
the need to ?y free and the desire to fuse
with one?s lover, the quest for solitude
and the joy of one?s children cuddling
close. Could observing mikveh give me
that peace, or is turmoil iust an un-
avoidable function of being me?

We headed north up the parkway, to-
ward Westchester County. Janetjackson
is rapping, and I feel the encroachment
of the music. It is unbearably banal, ob-
scene, loud. I want to turn the radio off,
but to do so would be to invite conver~
sation abour my experience. Come on,
my brother-in-law would say, tell me
about it. \Was it weird?

It was weird and it was wonderful,
but right now I opt for the cover of si-
lence, keeping my modesty intact.