Even in the so-called liberal, rebellious 1960s, in the privileged, insular world where I grew up, there were certain barriers of social convention you did not cross. One of them was marrying outside our socio-economic/Christian faith, a taboo the family of Darby held close to sacred. My parents named me Penelope. I was a sixth generation Darby, people that settled here in the early 1800s and made their fortune in silver. My family had money, old money, not like the nouveau Ginsbergs. Zach Ginsberg's dad grew up lower middle-class. Then, after serving in World War Two, he started an appliance business that by the late 1950s did well enough for him to buy a home in upscale Ridgedale, the county's wealthiest, predominately Jewish development. Like us, the Ginsbergs belonged to a country club. Not just any country club but Springdale, the most exclusive Jewish country club in the area. We belonged to Birch Valley, so snobby that in the club's early years only WASPs need apply for membership. Later on, Catholics could also join, but not Jews and certainly not blacks who worked there in a service capacity.
I met Zach at a college mixer. We were both in late freshman year, me at the then all-female Goucher, he at Johns Hopkins. Goucher sponsored the mixer in that May of 1967. A bit later, when Zach and I started dating, my mom said, "All those nice Christian boys at Hopkins and you had to pick a Jew." In fact, Zach had picked ME, asked me to dance when the band struck up "Twist and Shout." Things could have ended after that had I not stuck around long enough for the band's next number, a rendition of "Love Me with All Your Heart." But Zach was so engaging, not to mention super good looking, so I couldn't resist. I didn't know he was Jewish, not then. Anyway, it wouldn't have mattered, for I didn't share my parents' prejudice. As we slow danced across the floor, his beautiful blue eyes (a Jew with blue eyes, so much for stereotypes) alone would have been enough to win me over. There was more, of course—the firm but tender way he held me and the confident, self-assured way he spoke.
We danced a few more times and then left the gym to take a stroll into the balmy spring night. I was a little surprised that Zach chose to stay with me, that he didn't ask other girls to dance. Guys that looked like Zach could hook up with people like Kelly Hansen, arguably the prettiest girl at the dance that night. Where I was merely "cute," or so I was told, Kelly's looks were exceptional, a classic beauty in the mold of Grace Kelly and Elizabeth Taylor. Zach said I reminded him of Patty Duke and also of Patricia Morrow who played Rita Jacks in "Peyton Place." He had the hots for both of them. "They should only have your legs," is one thing he told me that night. He said he liked my hazel eyes, too, and the fact that I cared what was happening in the world. Before we went back inside, he kissed me. Right then, I knew that if he didn't ask for my phone number, I'd have asked for his. He did ask when we went back inside, and it was then that he told me his last name.
"You're Jewish, I gather," I said.
He nodded. "Yes, is that a problem?" he said somewhat defensively.
"Of course not," I responded, mildly insulted. "Why should it be?"
He then told me his experiences with mild forms of anti-Semitism at his former prep school where only a few Jews attended. Certain classmates would sometimes toss out cutting remarks, "Jew jokes" they called them. Then there was the time a girl's parents forbid their daughter to date him because of his faith. I didn't tell him that I thought my own parents wouldn't be too crazy about the idea either.
My parents didn't hate Jews. Well, not in the sense that the Nazis did or the Klu Klux Klan. In fact, they admired their success, albeit grudgingly. "The Jews have done quite well for themselves," my dad was wont to say. We were church going Episcopalians, not bible-thumping Evangelicals. Still, he couldn't understand how "they can reject their own Jewish messiah," is the way he put it, a phrase he learned from his own dad. I always thought that this was just an excuse for an irrational prejudice handed down through generations of Darbys. I mean, would his life be any different if Jews started believing in Jesus? He also didn't like the way "they" flaunted their success, what he considered ostentatious displays of wealth: big diamonds, mink coats, Cadillacs in the driveway. Never mind that he drove a Lincoln, that my mom loved her own bling and that plenty of Gentiles drove Cadillacs too, including a few of our neighbors. Irrational prejudice, like I said.
I guess I should have told them he was Jewish before he picked me up for our first date. But I didn't, and things got a bit tense when my parents invited him in. They were all smiles until they asked him his last name. Zach picked up the bad vibe right away. "Your parents have a problem with me, don't they?" he said as he drove me to the movie in his dad's Buick. "I thought so," he said when I began to stammer Then he again told me the story about the girl whose parents banned her from seeing Jewish guys like Zach.
"That's not going to be an issue with us," I assured him. "My parents have never interfered when it comes to my dating. I see whom I wish to see." Which was the truth, only I had never dated a Jewish guy before and wasn't certain my parents' usual laissez-faire policy would apply when it came to Zach.
Our first date was typical for the times. We saw a movie ("Endless Summer"), stopped for a bite to eat, and then smooched a little in the car parked in front of my house. Zach declined my invite to come in. Not that I blamed him after my parents' chilly reception. I was sure he'd never call me again. Yet he did, the day school let out for the summer. He invited me to Springdale. He said we'd play a few sets of tennis, swim and then have dinner with his parents.
"And don't worry," he said. "They know you're a shiksa and don't care."
Shiksa. It's the first time I had heard that word, Yiddish for a Gentile female, he informed me. Mom knew what it meant, and she wasn't too pleased when I told her. "He called you that? It's an insulting term, Penelope, a pejorative. See, the Jews don't much care for US either." Not an insult at all, Zach assured me, at least in the context he and his Jewish friends used it.
"Okay, but just refer to me as simply Penelope, not Penelope, the shiksa," I insisted.
"Sure thing," he said.
****
Springdale had all the amenities of Birch Valley—tennis courts, golf course, a large outdoor pool and a clubhouse, a sprawling, brown-shingled building built in the late 1890s for German Jews who had realized the American Dream. Zach neglected to tell me that he had played competitive tennis at his prep school until he proceeded to wipe my butt for the first few games. After that we just volleyed. Then we changed into our suits and hit the pool, a welcome relief from the heat of this Sunday in late June. I loved the way Zach applied Coppertone as I lay face down on the chaise in my yellow bikini.
"Guess you didn't expect to be felt up on the second date," he joked.
"No, and neither did I expect to enjoy it so much," I said, wearing a lazy smile as his hands worked the lotion over my back and legs. Had we been alone, I'd have turned over and let him slip his fingers under my top. I was getting wet just thinking about it, a condition I kept to myself as I returned the favor, rubbing lotion over Zach's body, well-proportioned and athletic but not overly muscled and smooth—he didn't have much body hair.
We were still lounging by the pool when his parents came by to say hello. They were in their mid-forties, looked fit and healthy. Irv Ginsberg stood just under six-feet and, like Zach, had a full head of light brown hair, which he wore slicked back, a radical departure from Zach's Beatle-type doo. Golf and handball kept him in good shape, Zach had told me. Fran Ginsberg's appearance epitomized the charmed wife of a successful husband. Her youthful, tanned skin glowed and she wore her hair, a frosted blond, like the young Barbara Streisand, barely shoulder-length and tucked close to her head and neck, bangs in front. And her eyes: So that's where Zach got his baby-blues, I thought. The tennis outfit she wore wasn't just for show; she played the game competitively, had even collected a few trophies over the years.
"You must be Penelope," she said, holding her racket and equipment bag. "Welcome to our club." I stood up and shook their hands. "Zach," Irv chimed in, still wearing his own tennis whites, "your mom just gave me another tennis lesson." He let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, well, one of these days I might beat her."
Zach laughed. "Hey, I can hardly beat her myself, dad." He was being generous and we all knew it.
