A Not So Happy Jewish New Year

The day was Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, the holiest day of the year. That year, Rosh Hashana began on a Wednesday night and continued to Thursday. Traditionally, my family hosts dinner on the second night, while my relatives host dinner on the first. During the week of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, Jews repent their transgressions and promise to become better people so that God allows us to live. This Rosh Hashana showed me that God is watching us, though sometimes he or she responds in ways we may think are ironic or unfair.
    My cousin Courtney and Aunt Hilary always come to my house a few hours early on Rosh Hashana. Courtney and I talk while my mom and aunt cook and get ready. At around 4:00 p.m., Courtney and I wandered around the house talking. At the same time my dad hurriedly, yet casually, walked in the front door. He was on his way to pick up my cousin Tracy from the Metro station. I thought he left something in the house or needed to tell us something. Instead he said, “The postman just hit Marni’s car.”
   Time stopped as I attempted to decipher the simple sentence I just heard. “Postman? Car? Hit? MINE!?” Though my dad was in a hurry, he had spoken in such a normal tone, that I did not think the damage was that bad. Apparently, the postman had been sitting in his truck across from our driveway for the past hour. I couldn’t figure out why he had waited until someone came outside before he did anything. Maybe he was unsure of whose car it was, even though I parked on our house’s side of the street right next to our driveway. How could he not have figured that out?
   My mother stopped cooking to look at my car. She was on my dad’s tail, but he left so abruptly that she didn’t have time to respond. Because we have a massive bush next to the stairs and path from our driveway, I could only see the silhouette of my burgundy Honda Accord. Even if I could have seen my car, I wouldn’t be able to see the damage, which was on the driver’s side.  As I searched for shoes, I heard my mom shout, “Oh my God!” Uh-oh! It had to be bad, really bad. I forgot that my mom tends to be overdramatic, so I misinterpreted her reaction as an indication of serious damage. After I finally managed to get my shoes on, I hurried to my car to find a huge dent in the door. From my mother’s reaction, I expected to see the door caved in or even falling off. As I stood there with my cousin, I tried to understand exactly what had happened. Because the mirror was pushed in, I thought that he was coming towards the front of my car and was too close to it. However, the evidence only somewhat supported my proposed scenario. When I found out that he had backed into my car, my brain almost. Why did he turn into Mr. Tonet’s driveway? Why didn’t he walk up like the other postmen? Why did he have to be lazy? Did he not see my car when he pulled into the driveway? Can he not use a mirror? Does he realize he’s supporting the stereotype that Asians are bad drivers? What about my insurance? How many accident claims do they get with drivers not anywhere near their cars? What the hell?
   Courtney and I waited by my car for the man’s supervisor to come. The supervisor called the police as well. As we stood beside my poor battered car, people started showing up. I was quick to explain, driven by some sort of unexpected excitement. During this time, my cousin told me the story of a driver of an SUV with a tow hook on the back that had hit her car. She drove her mom’s car the next day. On that day, it was raining, and a speeding car, that hadn’t slowed down early enough, had hit the back of the car. Two cars, two days. Her dad had been pissed and hadn’t let her drive. When my friend Hanna arrived, she told me how a police car was behind her with its lights and siren on. She couldn’t figure what she had done. It turns out the police car was the one dispatched when the post office supervisor called. Hanna was freaked out when she literally followed the cruiser to my house because she thought something bad had happened. These two stories were just a piece of other juicy tales told that night.
   I drove my mom’s car for the next week while mine was in the shop. It took longer than initially estimated because the shell for the door arrived broken. The day I expected to get my car back, I came home to an find nothing. The mechanics did a poor job, so I was stuck with the van for another day. I got my car back on Thursday night and drove it that weekend. On my way to my see my college counselor, I noticed that the mirror was shaking. Afraid that it was going to fall off on River Road and that I would get pulled over by the cops, I showed my mom later that night. I pushed the passenger side mirror to see if it was okay. My mom fiddled with the other mirror. As I headed towards the house, she popped it right off. My dad used duct tape to keep it on. Once inside, my mom called the dealership, very angry. The man said it was the warranty and it was old. “B.S.” said my mom angrily. She took it in to get fixed. They said on the phone it would take twenty minutes and they would do it front of her. When she arrived at Ourisman in Bethesda, they said it would take an hour. She called me to tell me to pick up my brother. Because she thought it would take a while, my mom went to Barnes and Noble, only to be chased down by the mechanic who repeated his claimed time frame. Now she was furious at him for making her call me and was sorry for me because I didn’t do anything. She wanted me to have my car back. Having my car back would mean having our lives back. I was stuck with the van again.
   I now park my car on the other side of the street, not only in case of a lazy postman, but in case a lost traveler doesn’t realize our street is a horseshoe and turns around in Mr. Tonet’s driveway. To this day, I am trying to understand why I could park in the same place for a year and have my car hit on the Jewish New Year. I kept asking God whether it was a sign or punishment for a sin I had committed. Makes sense right? I haven’t gotten any response yet, but I’m still waiting.