Singing My Way Analysis

Singing my way
Noga Sklar

I have to confess I was searching for some inspiration when I came across a delightful text by David Brooks about the deepest meaning of Passover, deeper than the feeling and desire for freedom, which includes the willingness to overcome fear. According to Brooks, through “kissing, storytelling and singing” (free interpretation).
I’m a fan of David Brooks, the NY Times Op-Ed columnist; another confession, I even have a sort of crush on him. The other day on TV he said he was divorced, lonely, and looking for a partner… Temptation! Alan had better watch out! He’s safe, of course, until I get my Green Card. After all, as you already know, it’s the only reason for putting up with my American husband for over ten years

Ok, I admit it, I’m totally shameless today. Maybe it’s due to Passover’s bravery, or wine, although I haven’t started drinking yet, I’m just stumbling through writing for now; back to New Yorkers, they’ve even got some Yiddish words incorporated into the local, even national parlance, such as schmuck (stupid) and kvetch (complain).
On the other hand, I mean, on my neck of the woods, it’s been the first time in many years I’ve passed Passover — no pun intended, not even mentioning the word “Pesach” in Hebrew means “passage”, from a hard life to one even harder, however, with some hope of improving — in full bloom. And I can finally associate the traditional cleansing of chametz to the cheered “Spring cleansing,” prone to promotions on Amazon.
Chametz, for those who are not aware, is all the food forbidden for the Jews during Passover; during the whole week, we’re only allowed to eat matzo, a kind of unleavened, unsalted and almost tasteless cracker-like bread with little holes, that is milled to produce the matzo flour used in all other recipes. Got

The truth is, the adventure of immigration (for me), firstly motivated by Alan’s desire for comfort and family back in his homeland, after ten years (wasted?) in a foreign country, ended up being a life-saver (for us), no plan intended. Although we’re not that safe, I mean, from all the threats contemporary life kindly offers, nothing new under the sky.
This week, for example, I had to explain a joke in English about the nuclear agreement, figure that. And despite all my fear of never again being able to improvise, or to be witty, without translating each thought, I started, just like that, to improve my English skills. Alan even paid me a compliment the other day: “Look, they’re saying exactly what you wrote in your cronica last week!”
Ok. I’m not so comfortable to confess that, besides all my efforts, I’m still unable to find a better translation than “essay” for my beloved craft during these past few years: to write “cronicas,” a Rio tradition best performed by mineiros, writers from Minas Gerais — oh, my, how to translate that? Something like a Californian treat best performed by Iowans, so to speak. And It gets much worse in my case, as I consider a frustrating and almost impossible task: I used to dream being published in O Globo — which I was once, by the way, on the front page —, but now I dream of the much fancier NY