Ever since I was a toddler, my parents always made sure I had a piece of red thread tied around my ankle or wrist. My mother and father fled Ukraine and Moldova respectively to escape religious persecution. They vowed that they would freely celebrate their Jewish heritage, for the first time, when they came to Brooklyn. The red thread is a talisman in Kabbalah that is said to protect someone from the “evil eye”. It’s an old Jewish mystic concept but it’s been central to my identity and growth as a child of immigrants.
When I was younger, I always hated having the string tied around my wrist. Whenever I felt stressed or angry, I would displace my frustrations toward the string. I remember trying to rip it apart, piece-by-piece. Other times, if I started to notice that it was wearing down, I would try to purposefully get it caught on something sharp so that it would be ripped apart. It was weird having this tight piece of string clinging relentlessly to my skin and leaving indentations. I felt that it was holding me back.
No matter how many times the string would break, though, my mother would always notice within a few days of its disappearance. She would lead me into the kitchen and sit me down. Then she would walk over to the kitchen drawers and pull out a Copenhagen Butter Cookies tin. I always hated the metal clink of the tin banging onto the kitchen table. When the lid was removed, a sewing set was revealed. She ran her fingers along the vibrant greens, blues, purples, and stopped at the reds. She pulled out a cylinder of crimson red string and started working her magic. Her delicate fingers quickly wrapped multiple layers of string around my wrist. When I got a bit older and started complaining about how tight the string was, she would have me keep my index and middle finger underneath to leave extra room for my wrist to breathe. She knotted the ends, each time tighter and stronger than the last. Then she would lick her fingers, and wet the ends so that they stayed together. Eventually she would pull out a big pair of scissors and cut the remaining thread off. As much I hated the thread when I was younger, having a brand new bracelet was always interesting. It was bright, free of lint, and a change of pace. When things at school seemed stagnant (as they often do in elementary school), it was something that symbolized progression.
As I grew and became more cynical, I started to refuse wearing the thread. I think I went two years having a free wrist. My life didn’t change all that much. I wasn’t any more susceptible to the “evil eye” than when I wore the thread.
A few weeks ago I came home to visit my parents. I’m not really sure why, but I asked my mom to tie the string around me. I just knew that I kind of missed it. Even if I don’t believe in its mystical protective powers, it does give me a sense of safety. When I look down or fumble around with it, I think of my parents and my heritage. I think of what they had to go through so that I can walk around carelessly with a red string tied around my wrist. I think about all the complicated superstitions and rituals I had to perform daily to avoid all sorts of imagined perils, and I can’t help but chuckle to myself.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop wearing red strings again.
Left hand decked out in Kabbalah bracelet if you look closely, also trendy Judo-Slav patterned pillowcase/ trendy Judo-Slav dad
