Word: savta
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Dates: during 2004-2004
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...went with my mom and her mom, my Polish Jewish “elegantzka” grandmother. Savta, as we call her, insisted on locating the perfect “something” for me, her younger granddaughter. So we loaded into the purple minivan and zipped a few exits down the interstate. At the exit we waited in lines of traffic, mostly other minivans and SUVs, and by the time we found a parking space in the sea of waxed cars, I was nearly ready to go home. But we trudged on and pushed open the glass doors...
...dressed it up and hung it from metal set in satin and wood. As soon as we entered I lost my appetite for anything. I think there’s something about the abundance of material goods that drives us either way: desire or repulsion. As mom and Savta floated in the former category, I was bouncing around in the latter. We headed towards the open part of the mall and I made eye contact with a hardheaded four-year-old whose mascara’d mother was stuffing his arms into a corduroy jacket. All it took...
...tween” girls snapping their gum and flopping their wrists while shimmying their pink-skirted boyish hips from side to side; the thirty-something couple holding up five shades of blue “onesies” for the infant drooling in the stroller; and my Savta, still mesmerized after all these years by the marble floors and bright lights of this American shopping mall...
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