Spit Three Times

No matter how sophisticated and modern Jews become, we will always have one foot in the shtetl. The evil eye was mentioned so often in my home growing up, I thought it was a family member. Did you know that there is an evil eye roaming the world searching for any signs of goodness and purity to destroy? That’s why certain things must never be said in a Jewish home for fear of attracting the attention and wrath of the evil eye. For example, here’s the cruelest thing you could possibly say to a young Jewish mother:

“Your baby is so healthy!”

That is, in essence, a death sentence. I’ve actually made this mistake a few times only to have the hands of the terrified mothers clamp down on my mouth as they shriek and shower me with spit.

What other religion prohibits people from saying good things for fear that uttering them out loud will cause an evil force to take them away? You can’t really say anything bad either since that, too, may tempt the finicky evil eye. There are also strict edits against “loshan hora” or speaking slander or gossip about someone. Isn’t it odd that the people with the biggest mouths on the planet (relax, I’m allowed to be anti-Semitic—I’m Jewish!) have the most restrictions on what they can talk about? Is that why we can’t shut the hell up? Maybe what we’re really doing is rebelling against our medieval fears and telling the evil eye to go fuck himself!

There are two antidotes to the evil eye. If someone calls attention to something positive, thus cursing you to a fate worse than death, you immediately say the magic reverse word, “kinnehora” (the Yiddish equivalent of “Be gone, evil eye!”) and you spit three times. Sometimes a well-placed “kinnehora” is sufficient to ward off doom. “How’s your daughter, Shlomo?” “She’s doing well, kinnehora.” But if someone says, “Shlomo, you’re the picture of health!” you should let out with a “kinnehora” AND a round of spitting. If you don’t feel like laying a hocker on your grandmother’s good rug, you can simply make the sound of spitting three times, something like “tui, tui, tui!” But it’s better if some actual saliva leaves your mouth.

I was thinking about Jewish superstitions today because we attended the second baby shower for my sister- and brother-in-law, Brooke and Scott. Brooke is due next month and the happy, excited couple is delightfully devoid of the special brand of neuroses that descend on Jewish expectant couples. In traditional Jewish circles, you wouldn’t see baby showers at all—that is like putting a target pattern on your uterus. You might think of a name for your unborn baby but you’d never utter the name out loud. You’re not even allowed to prepare for the baby’s arrival by bringing a crib, clothes, or other necessary items for the nursery into the house. Very impractical, I know, but you can’t be too careful—the evil eye seems to have a particular fascination with newborns.

Apparently baby showers as we know them today are a relatively recent phenomenon. In the late 1800s, Victorian women began having teas for new mothers but only after the baby was born since it was not acceptable for pregnant women to appear in public. In the early 1900s these teas turned into “showers” (based on the “showering” of the bride before marriage). The gifts were usually handmade except for the silver that was traditionally given to the baby by the grandmothers.

I don’t know when men started to be included, and I was a little scared at first, but I had a blast at both of the showers for Brooke and Scott. Last Sunday’s was held at the fabulous home of Barbara Rush. Her house is such a classic movie star residence that it screams for its own spread in Life magazine. Well, it actually had one a while back when it was Hedda Hopper’s house. There’s a great picture of Cary Grant helping Hedda Hopper move in. Oy, Hedda—talk about the Queen of Loshan Hora!

Today’s shower was at a yummy restaurant in Westwood. I heard about the girly-girl games played at baby showers and I expected the rooms to be swathed in so much pink that it looked like someone had puked Pepto Bismol all over the walls, but instead we had two very fun, classy parties at which Brooke and Scott received a boatload of fabulous loot. They got so many baby clothes for those first few weeks that they better hope their daughter is a Loretta Young Mini-Me who wants to change into a new outfit every 30 minutes!

Brooke and Scott seem amazingly calm and I can see what great parents they are going to be to little Hallie (named after Kendall and Brooke’s beloved grandmother Hallie Mae). Check out Scott’s beautifully written blog called “Hallieography” that provides a week-by-week account of the pregnancy from the papa’s perspective. I was glad to learn today that he has every intention of keeping that blog going after Hallie’s birth—let’s see how his writing is affected by massive sleep deprivation! I’m already feeling sorry for their second child, if they have one, because I bet that poor kid won’t have a blog dedicated to him or her. Okay, maybe I should wait until the first child is born before I start advocating for the rights of the second!

As I watched Brooke and Scott’s serene demeanors during the baby showers, I kept wondering what it would be like if Brooke’s dad Oliver were still alive. Though the Texas-born playwright probably never met a Jew until he was in his 20s, his neuroses and fears about the safety of his family made him more Jewish than the Lubavitcher Rebbe. I wish Oliver could’ve sat with me at the showers. The two of us would have been “kinnehoraing” left and right and we would have needed oversized spittoons to catch the results of our never-ending quest to keep the evil eye away from precious Hallie!

Tui, tui, tui.

Comments

[Scott]

Danny,

We woke up this morning and were stunned to see that the baby was gone. Gone! My wife has never looked better, but at what price?

Danny! What have you done?!!

[Danny]

Oy, so unfair to scare a shtetl Jew! Don't worry—you two are completely immune to the evil eye (but you should be worried about your cats sucking the breath out of your baby's mouth...)

[your sister]

Oh Danny-you know damn well that kinnehora means your thighs are fat.

[Danny]

I almost included that anecdote! Once my mother grabbed my sister's leg and exclaimed "kinnehora!" I'm sure she meant that as "Look at my daughter's beautiful figure—stay away from her, evil eye!" but my sister heard it as "wow, have you ever seen a fatter thigh in your life?" As if the base-level superstitions aren't bad enough, we Jews are skilled at weaving them into additional layers of torture and shame!

[david]

I think what your grandmother meant was, "Now **this** is a healthy body! No evil eye would waste its time!" My wife indulges in such Yiddishisms from time to time: "Oy, look at that Gabie punum. Poo poo poo."

Turns out many of these "superstitions" have mystical origins. It was transitions -- birth, bris, wedding and the smaller ones of everyday life -- that were thought to provide the "cracks" through which the Evil Eye could see and penetrate. Hence the directive (from the Big Guy Himself) to put mezzuzot on doorways. And that's why brides were carried over thresholds -- their feet shouldn't touch the ground of that first, most sacred transition. And smashing the glass underfoot at the wedding reminds us of the Temple's destruction, but I've read its original purpose was to scare off the Evil Eye.

Our grandparents' generation grew up with these practices already becoming divorced from their roots, sources, or explanations. You just did it because you did what your elders told you to do, never mind why unless I should give you a smack on the side of your head. Poo poo poo.

I can bore you with more of this anytime you like.

[Elaine Soloway]

Does anyone remember having to chew string when your mother shortened clothes as you were wearing it? I believe it prevented the evil spirits from using the straight pins to stab your youthful skin. Because I was (still am) a shortie, this ritual accompanied all of the clothing Mother bought for me in Carsons' or Fields' basements in the 1940s.

[A wanderer to your shtetl]

Danny... Danny... Danny...

Today, I Googled "Kennehora" (looking for the definition) and up comes your blog entry AT THE TOP OF THE LIST. Oy veys mir, what's this world coming to ?