Short story I wrote about taking my jewish parents to BM. The rest is self explanatory:

[guyshalem]

SHALOM! If you're reading this, then most likely you're at Burning Man, dusty, standing in a 'soup-line' behind a sign that says :

TOBY’S HUMMUS FACTORY

3:15 & A

Hours of operation:

whenever the chickpeas get soft promise, it’ll be worth it!

So now you’re waiting on a plate of freshly ground, garlicky, lemony, slow cooked Hummus from our makeshift-black-rock-kitchen.
Hummus is an ancient vegan diet that is healthy, rich in protein and pretty much the perfect food for the desert. This year’s ‘give back’ is dedicated to my late father, Toby “Tuvia” Shalem, who passed away in September of 2015, shortly after last year’s burn. I wanted to share a little about my life, my history and the people who made me want to cook.

My name is Guy Shalem, and I'm an Israeli born 43 year old, descended of Egyptian Jews who love to cook, travel and feed people. At the age of 18, I left Israel, moved to California and made a living working in "show biz" as a writer, producer and director.

My first Burn was in 1998, but something about this year feels different, like I’ve finally figured something out. I'm seeing myself for who I am and the love I have in my life, immune to judgment, shame and fear. I'm almost ready to take my clothes off, guys, almost!... It could be because 12 months ago, I lost my father, moved out of my house, lost my company and separated from my husband, all within 60 days.

During many ups-and-downs, it has always been the individuals I met along the way who made all the difference. I once heard Burning man described as the biggest party you'll have with your 70,000 closest friends that you haven't met yet. Everyone here has a story and here is mine... it’s about the time my mom and dad came to the playa.

A story I like to call:

THE MOM, THE PLAYA CAT AND THE BURNING WOMAN

And so it was, that about a decade ago, in 2006, my 6th burn, I flew my seventy- plus-year-old parents from Israel to LA. Then, without too much planning, I brought them to Burning Man. So what if they're an older conservative Jewish couple?! These are the people who as a baby, taught me how to stop picking my nose (they failed), to stop sucking my thumb (apparently I liked sticking parts of my body in places they maybe didn’t belong)... and the parents who, unfortunately, taught me how to be judgmental. Above all, to judge myself. (After all, I still like sticking parts of my body in places a conservative Jewish parent wouldn’t approve...)

At the gate, mom didn't appreciate being asked to roll in the dirt and refused to do so. A few hours later, I put together the two-seat rickshaw that hooked to my electric scooter, making me their personal playa-uber-service (I was way ahead of my time). Unfortunately, our collective weight caused the engine to fail and for the whole contraption to break down within an hour. Stranded in deep playa, we continued on foot, as the tension between us as a family continued to grow. We all had a really bad feeling about this, but did our best to fake it.

In order to break the tension, I remember trying to lighten the mood with cute observations about the playa, things like, "Burning man is just like 'Alice in Wonderland', only you, yourself, must find the Cheshire Cat" or, "Think of all the fun stories you're going to be able to tell your friends." Sadly, to them, the playa appeared less like a Lewis Carroll fantasy and more like a refugee camp in the Gaza Strip.

They started complaining about the heat and the dust, the "crazy people" and "chaos". In particular I remember my mom pointing out: “the naked people everywhere and how weird everyone is acting... what's wrong with them?!"

It was then that the most intense dust storm appeared, of biblical proportions, two mile high pillars of dense dust rolling towards us. I turned around while holding the hands of my white-faced parents, covered in dust, leading them forward, as they once did after picking me up from kindergarten, both trusting me completely to find our way back home. It was by sheer miracle (which I'm still unable to explain), that I found the way back; something deep inside of me led me there.

Everything was covered in dirt. We went in and had a brief moment of laughter. A relief, which sounded more like crazy people in hysterics and less like genuine fun. My poor mother, wiping her face, cherishing each of her few baby towels as if they were the last ones on earth. She felt guilty for being mad at me – at herself for saying yes – but there was something else... something burning inside of her. I could smell it.

My parents cooked and washed, baked and cleaned, making it very clear to me that for the next few days they had no intention to leave the safety of our RV. Mom and dad had defaulted to the familiar, to feel safe again. Eventually, I decided to do the only thing one can do in this situation, and that's go explore the playa on my own, or with my boyfriend. Occasionally I'd return to them, with stories about being washed by a bunch of naked strangers or chased by a giant sea creature shooting fire. (I was convinced it was trying to eat me).

I must admit, it was pretty nice to come back to my family and pull the RV door open to the scent of a home cooked meal. They questioned me about my adventures, so they could... you know, give me their opinions, the ones I never asked for. One day I told them about the “the human carcass wash” where people volunteered to wash strangers naked and then at the end of a conveyor-belt-like line, you yourself were washed!

My dad cut me off and quipped, “Well if I let a man or even a woman, touch my body, I may never want to have sex again.” My mom chuckled. I have to give him that, he always did have a sense of humor about the things he was ashamed of, or uncomfortable with. I understand now that shame, fear, anxiety and xenophobia, are all things that are taught to us at a young age.

On the night of the burn, I saw my mom (outside the RV, shocker!) engaged in a serious conversation with young man she met from a neighboring camp. They were talking about MUSHROOMS. We were introduced and mom, without even asking, filled a plate of food to the brim and started force-feeding us, while engaging in discussion about Burning Man. Eventually I had my fill and went to take my first shower in two days. At that point, I remember overhearing her defensively saying "I'm not afraid of drugs. Why would I be? I just don't need them in order to connect with others. You and I are connecting just fine now!"

And so the clever man replied "If afraid of drugs you're not, then why not put a little stem in your mouth?" It was to my utter disbelief that my Jewish mother, who cursed the day she got on the plane to come here, TOOK THE STEM OF MUSHROOM from the young stranger, put it in her mouth and... SWALLOWED! To be perfectly honest, it was about one-tenth of a customary dose. I knew there would be very little effect. Still, it was the thought that counted. It showed my mom had balls. And to give my dad some credit, he did smoke some pot earlier that day.

As the sun came down, I explained to them that the man burn is not to be missed, not only because of the spectacle but also because of its many symbolic implications. (“It’s the burning of the ego!”)...

We started making our journey towards what would become the most climactic part of my trip, and perhaps the most climactic single moment of my relationship with my parents and, in particular, my mom. My father and I, as did my boyfriend and our other friends, trailed after Mama, giving her water and making sure she was okay. She didn't seem fazed much, although she was exceptionally quiet, other than occasionally complaining about feeling "a bit nauseous". Mom has always been too proud to admit she is vulnerable. Needy, yes, but vulnerable no.

We finally made it to the BIG EVENT. My parents set down their beach chairs. I sat on a blanket, leaning against my mom. A young girl in her late 20s leaned against my dad’s chair, her beautiful long hair dripping on his legs, no doubt making this the highlight of his trip.

As the hundreds of fire dancers performed in front of us, I struck up a conversation with the girl, and it turned out she was from Lake Tahoe, a teacher and third time burner. Both my parents paid close attention to our conversation, taking in every word we were saying.

Turns out, this girl's husband left her a couple of months earlier. Just like a good Jewish mother, I put on my therapist hat and gave the poor girl some love and honest advice. I remember proposing to her: "Is it hurt that he moved on? Or is that his eyes changed right in front of you and there was nothing you could do to stop it? And why would you want to be with a guy like that anyhow, when there is so much love in this world?"

Suddenly she burst into tears. So I gave her a big hug. I was getting emotional myself, holding her tight, and I remember thinking to myself: “Don't do it... don't you dare! Your mom is watching! Hold back like a man!” But I how could I? And so I burst into tears along with the girl while we were holding each other right in front of my parents. It was a magical, serendipitous scene.

I remember seeing my mom's face out of the corner of my eye, glowing in the light emitted by the fire dancers. To her utter surprise, she was seeing this pure and vulnerable connection, between two complete strangers who met no more than an hour earlier. She was also seeing her grown up boy cry with another woman, touching each other's souls in a way she hadn't experienced with him since he was a little boy. I can only imagine how that must have felt.

It was then that she turned to my dad ever so slowly, tears in her eyes, and said in a very calm voice, like I had never heard from her before... "Do you know what Toby? Maybe... maybe, there is nothing wrong with them... But...but maybe there is something wrong with us." As for me, I couldn't believe what I was hearing and no matter how short-lived this profound moment was, I always remember it as the moment my mom went down the rabbit hole and broke through the looking glass. The moment she understood that her judgments were not doing her any good. The moment her inner ego started to burn down.

I can't remember if my dad said much at that very moment. Maybe it was close to home, maybe he never had that kind of moment with my mother, maybe that moment was too vulnerable. But I don’t judge you anymore, dad, I just love you, you had a heart of gold and you did your best, hope you found peace up there.

Over the past decade, I must have told this story to hundreds of people on and off the playa. This is the first time I've put it in writing. I always felt that good stories are just like tender chickpeas, they need to have their time to slow cook and mature. Of course, when I try to remind my mom of what happened, she usually denies it, or says something along the lines of: "You couldn't pay me enough to go back to that crazy place again!"

I hope that by now you've made it to the end of the line and that you've met the Cheshire Cat next to you, who taught you something new about yourself (or made you cry), because it’s never too late to become aware that "there is nothing wrong with anyone" or as Lewis Carroll puts it: "... You see a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad.”

HAVE a wonderful Burn and Bon Appetit!

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[Elderberry]

Hey there, welcome to ePlaya!