Sometimes it takes an outsider to enable another outsider to see why he is the way he is. This Rosh Hashonah (the second day, which is the one my friend Chaim churlishly asserts is a testament to rabbinic ignorance of calendar technology) I was walking home from temple with my new friend Tom who, like me, is a convert and foreign born. (Tom is from Finland.) I was discussing my brief sojourn amongst the Abo of the outback, a time for which I have retained curiously few memories. Tom found this suspicious, and began to challenge me on my recollection of those days. Before long, the memories began flooding back, and soon I could recall the central horror of my life then: I was reduced to being some primitive abo's catamite, much like Golan Cipel was reduced to being New Jersey Governor McGreevey's catamite.
More than this I shall not say for now, as the memories trigger feelings so extreme that they are not conducive to this period of the Jewish calendar. But they are a part of me, so if you meet me later on today or at some time in the future, please do not ask me anything about my years amongst the dark skinned aboriginal people of Australia. The memories simply are too painful. Instead, I ask that you give me a hug (but only if you are female and fertile), and maybe say something nice about me.
