A small world, poorly explored

Corie Adjmi’s novel is set in the Syrian Jewish community of America. Many readers (including myself) will not be familiar with this community, or perhaps even be aware that they exist, but there are close to a million Syrian Jews in America. They do not naturally fit in with the larger Jewish community in America, who are largely Ashkenazi with central and East European origins. They do not also fall easily into the Syrian-American community because of their religion, and thus, they are a niche group. Subgroups of immigrants are always interesting to me, and so I looked forward to learning more about this community via this novel.

Casey Cohen, the central character, is a teenager from this small community. Her own parents lived in Louisiana, largely irreligious and surrounded by non-Syrians and non-Jews, so that Casey had no friends from within the community. Until high school, when, stunned by the discovery that their daughter is sexually active and partying, Casey’s parents decide to move back to New Jersey where their daughter will now go to a yeshiva for Jewish girls.

At the beginning of the novel, Casey is getting married.

[Tracey] couldn’t understand why I was adhering to my family’s expectations — marrying a Syrian Jew, shopping at Tiffany’s for wine and water glasses, contentedly testing chicken and eggplant recipes dashed with allspice.

And in fact, this is the central conundrum of the novel, one which the reader too cannot understand even after making it through the entire novel. Surely there is much to explore in the story of a rebellious teenager who converts so completely to community expectations, but this is not the novel that does it.

Oh well. Despite the motivations of the main character remaining impenetrable, perhaps the novel would give me some insights into this unusual community, I thought. Alas, no. The community is described in broad strokes:

every woman in the room, regardless of age or religiosity, wore a skintight dress (size two) and Christian Dior stilettos — dolled up like Barbie with long black hair.

The Syrian Jewish women with whom Casey spends her time in Brooklyn are never developed any more than this. They throw big, expensive parties. The food is described. The wineglasses are described. Their clothing is described in agonizing detail. They are contented with their own lives of luxury and never want anything more. They all tell Casey that she is smart (despite their being no evidence for this statement).

The men of the community are equally vapid, and beyond that, they are wildly sexist. They make sexual comments about other women while out to dinner with their wives. They fully expect to be the head of the household, even at twenty-two or three. They are openly rude about their mother’s cooking, but still, want their wives to be just like their mothers.

Yet it is hard to develop any empathy for Casey, who is just as mean when she gets the chance, and is very superior about the other Syrian-Jewish women.

Casey’s father wanted to break out of the community box. Casey’s mother enjoyed having a job. Still, when they move to Brooklyn, they both fall right into the community patterns — the father flirts with other women, the mother runs a household.

It is not unusual for Syrian women to cook an abundance of food, but it is unusual for my mother. Overnight, it seems, she realizes she’s been playing by the wrong rules and is doing things the Syrian way now.

But why? Your guess is as good as mine. The (presumably conflicted) parents are actually more interesting than Casey, but the author never delves into their dramatic changes: yet another missed opportunity in this novel.

Casey’s own transformation from a girl who didn’t want to

end up like a typical Syrian girl — uneducated and married at eighteen — I’ve already decided to get straight As and apply to some out-of-town schools

to, at the age of eighteen:

laughing and crying at the same time, jumping up and down, I scream “Yes, I’ll marry you!”

seems at first glance to have a ridiculously obvious explanation. Her fiance Michael is rich. Very very rich. It’s all champagne, fine restaurants, driving in Michael’s Porsche, flowers every week, perfume from Italy, and Casey admits “It’s suddenly a little exciting to be experiencing this whole new world”. (Where does Michael get all this money from? Unclear, he is simply described as a ‘twenty-three year old businessman”. Likewise, Casey’s parents are simply described as ‘very rich’.) Is her fiance’s wealth all there is to Casey’s abrupt change of face?

There is a dark side to Michael: he fits right into the Syrian-Jewish male stereotype described earlier. On an early date, he demands that she unbutton her coat so that he can “scan her body”. He is obnoxious to waiters. He is conservative and fully invested in the patriarchal community traditions. He assumes charge of every situation. He flirts with other women, even at his own wedding. He ‘allows’ Casey to go to college, but says ‘I don’t want to hear you say you can’t make dinner because you have homework.’ Really, it is difficult for a reader to see anything appealing about him except his wealth.

There is one interesting character: Casey’s Grandma Rose, whose comments are unexpected (“Those Syrians live in the dark ages”), and who buys Casey purple boots and expensive clothing, but this is ascribed to her Ashkenazi heritage. I would have liked to have read more about her.

The writing is pedestrian and cliched.

My heart clenched

My mind floods with thoughts

Memories keep coming in waves.

The Marriage Box of the title is a fenced area on a Brooklyn beach where Syrian Jewish teenage girls lounge in their bikinis, advertising themselves to potential (Syrian Jewish, of course) mates. It appears briefly in one chapter, but is, I suppose, a metaphor for the constricted lives of the girls of this community.