The Transitional Bridge

Graciela Spector, my last doctoral student at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, wrote a splendid dissertation about the acquisition of Hebrew and the maintenance of Spanish among Argentinian immigrants to Israel who had arrived as adults. She found that they aim not at perfection in acquiring Hebrew but imperfection. Their Hebrew announces, “I am one of you, but not quite.” They arrest their development in Hebrew at whatever point it seems to them that it is becoming “too good,” a betrayal of their identity as Argentinians. This was an argument with which I could sympathize, since my own Hebrew was in no danger of becoming too good.

Twelve life-stories formed the core of her dissertation, narratives as skillfully rendered as the best fiction. From these she built a theory that included such interesting notions as the Language Casanova (a person who falls in love with language after language, faithless to each in turn), the transitional bridge (along which immigrants station themselves, moving now towards the Israeli side and now towards the Argentinian as their self-perceptions change), and imagined language proficiency (the proficiency which immigrants think is consistent with their place on the transitional bridge).

She wrote about the crises that ensue when immigrants return to Argentina for an extended stay – a sabbatical, for example – which forces them to ask themselves “who am I?” When we were living in Jerusalem, I experienced that crisis every time I returned to America, even for a brief visit. I would fantasize about living there full-time, but when I returned to Jerusalem, I was happy to be back. My transitional bridge saw a lot of traffic.

Now that we live year round in America, I’ve crossed the transitional bridge all the way back to where I began. I continue to take a keen interest in all matters Israeli, checking Ha’aretz on line every day, reading newspaper items about Israel before I turn to other articles, and keeping in touch with Israeli friends. Even so, I’m now planted firmly in America. With my health issues becoming ever more serious and both our children living here, it would make no sense to return to Jerusalem, even if we had the strength to do it. We’ve burned the bridge.

Yet there’s no denying that our lives in Jerusalem were exceptionally rich - involved with others and engaged in the political scene - more so than here. But we're older now and have less stamina. Even if we never left Jerusalem, it’s doubtful that we could continue to entertain on the same scale as we once did, when it was not uncommon for eight guests to join us for Shabbat dinner. I won’t speak for my wife but I know that I could not throw myself into projects with the same vigor that I once displayed.

We gaze at Jerusalem now through a nostalgic haze, forgetful of the frustrations and anxieties that life there often entailed. Yes, our lives there were genuinely rewarding, engaging, and enriching. We were immensely fortunate to have lived there so long. But we remember Jerusalem during a time when we were younger. Our nostalgia is not only for Jerusalem. It is also for our youth.