Memoirs of a False Messiah by Pamela Becker - Book Tour + Giveaway
Memoirs of a False Messiah
by Pamela Becker
Genre:
Women's Fiction
Women's Fiction
MiMi knows she is meant for something greater. She has a God-given
mission. This belief, together with tragedy, moves her from the
mixed-religion home of her early childhood to Orthodox Judaism in her
teens, to the establishment and development of her cult in the
Israeli desert. MiMi draws from the women in her life, in the Bible,
and in other ancient texts, weaving modern and biblical dilemmas, as
she shapes a truly unique place for her followers and herself. When
her life and utopian community grow more turbulent and even violent,
she questions her mission.
mission. This belief, together with tragedy, moves her from the
mixed-religion home of her early childhood to Orthodox Judaism in her
teens, to the establishment and development of her cult in the
Israeli desert. MiMi draws from the women in her life, in the Bible,
and in other ancient texts, weaving modern and biblical dilemmas, as
she shapes a truly unique place for her followers and herself. When
her life and utopian community grow more turbulent and even violent,
she questions her mission.
Deeply affecting and thought-provoking, Memoirs of a False Messiah is the
richly told story of a woman's struggle to find her place in a world
reluctant to accept her.
richly told story of a woman's struggle to find her place in a world
reluctant to accept her.
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I had my first vision at three.
One night, as I slept, I saw myself as a grown woman, surrounded
by lions standing on hind legs growling at me, a wall of fire glowering behind
me. The only way out was a rope that descended from above but was attached to
nothing. I climbed it; my thighs rubbed raw from its roughness, my feet bloody
where the lions nicked them with their teeth, my robes flaming, making me
unbearably hot until I dropped the garments below and continued climbing
higher.
“MiMi, it’s okay,” my father’s voice broke through the dream, and
I opened my eyes. He sat on the edge of my bed and patted the damp bangs away
from my forehead. His thick black hair was messy, and he wore only an
undershirt and boxer shorts. His eyes, blue with specks of gold, momentarily disappeared in the shadows of his face
and I could feel him shivering in my small room.
To
my father - I told him what happened, watching his eyebrows join with concern -
this was a bad dream brought on by an overactive imagination and normal
childhood fears. But to me, the dream signified much more. The next day, after
I found scratch marks on the bottoms of my feet, I asked my father to write
down the details of my dream as I explained them to him. I put that piece of
paper in a special paper-mâché jewelry box I was given on my birthday.
I
had recently learned to read from a record of songs based on Bible stories. I can’t imagine who might
have given me such an album. My father was a fallen Orthodox Jew, disowned by
his family when he married my non-Jewish mother. I’m surprised that not only
was the record ever brought into my parents’ home but that it remained.
With
a babysitter's help, I mastered the kiddie record player. I played the Bible
song record, and sitting on my knees in my bedroom, followed the lyrics printed
in large letters on the back of the album cover.
The
first song was about Daniel and the Lions’ Den. I don’t recall how the words go
anymore but the drawing on the album cover of a small boy standing alone,
surrounded by angry, vicious lions, frightened me. I would close my eyes as I
listened to the song and imagined myself in the den.
After
the night I had my vision, my parents paid more careful attention to my
education. The Bible record disappeared and was replaced with one of fairy
tales, of helpless beautiful girls saved at the last minute by their handsome
princes. I commented that the
princesses’ parents didn’t take good care of them, and soon that record
disappeared too. My father took to setting me on his lap, and we read the
newspaper together. In the family room, the television off and all my toys put
away for the evening, I would sound out the headlines, and he would read me the
articles.
That’s
one of the happiest memories of my childhood, reading the paper with my father,
stumbling over words like "inflation," sitting on his lap, my bright
orange cotton-covered legs over his heavy blue jeans. I remember staring at his
toenails, which were always a little too long and thick and thinking how
powerful my father was. And how safe I was sitting on his lap. That’s one of
the nasty tricks of childhood: the illusion of security.
I
don’t have those kinds of memories about my mother. She worried about my eating
the right foods and growing at the correct rate. Born small and underweight,
like a raisin under a gray blanket in my black and white baby photos, I looked
sunken until I hit puberty, no matter what she fed me or in what quantity. My
mother, though, never looked sunken, even in her worst moods. Her skin always
looked tan, her features sharp and her gray eyes clear. Her thin frame managed
enough curves to keep her from appearing
too skinny.
She
decorated my bedroom with yellow wood furniture and carpeting that turned brown
by the doorway. The wallpaper was striped yellow and green. No flowers. No
pink. A gender-neutral haven for me in my formative years. Her own room was
decorated with hefty wood, dark wool afghans, and a shaggy brown rug. Nothing
too feminine.
That's
how she dressed, too. Her clothes in muted colors looked serious. Her high,
defined cheekbones and sturdy chin seemed to cooperate in denying any
femininity. She had no time for makeup or time-consuming hairstyles, but I
could tell by the way strangers looked at her that she was an attractive woman.
My
mother had movement. People stared at the way she walked or lifted an object or
how the wind blew her blond hair across her face. When she carried her coffee mug to her thin lips,
you couldn’t help but watch the mug’s path, the curl of her fingers around the
handle, the purse of her lips as she blew inside to cool the hot brown stuff.
She was beautiful when she was in motion.
But
when she was still, her hair settled on her neck, her gray eyes darkened, and
her hands looked bony and long. She described herself as very Shiksa-looking,
which I thought was my religion until years later I asked the librarian for a
book on Shiksa-ism and she set me straight.
My
dad, on the other hand, was all dark - hair, eyebrows and the stubble on his face that emerged by
lunchtime. In a picture of a trip to the beach that sat in a wooden frame on the
bookshelf, the black curls on his legs, arms, and even hands contrasted sharply
against the light down on my mother and me.
I
had a friend Tracey who lived across the street. My mother and I would go over
there together. While the grown-ups drank coffee and ate cake, Tracey and I
played with girlie toys that I usually had no access to at home: Barbies with
all the accessories; dolls that wet their pants or regrew their hair after
haircuts; and jewelry making kits that produced clunky pink bracelets and
rings. I knew I was supposed to look down on such gender-specific toys, which
made playing with them that much more fun. Besides, Tracey did anything I told
her to. I controlled our games.
Tracey’s
mom, Chrissy, would get down on her knees and show us how to mix and match
Barbie’s clothes, and then she’d grab Tracey and rub her tummy until she
laughed. When she tickled me too, I would giggle while my mom remained in her
chair, her hot coffee still in her hand, looking down at us smiling. Then she
would ask Tracey to show me her books.
By
the time I started nursery school, I could read the Golden Book series to the
other kids. I remember having confidence way back then of my power over my
peers. They sat around me in a semi-circle and listened quietly as I read,
their eyes on me, not the pictures.
The teachers told my parents that I showed promise and moved me to
pre-kindergarten.
My
father taught me numbers, and soon I was adding. My mother would put me in the
cart when she went grocery shopping, and by the time I was five, I would add
the prices for her. Of course, I made mistakes, and remember crying because the
decimal point that came between the dollar and the cents sides baffled me.
When
I went to kindergarten, my mother went back to work full-time. She started to
complain to my father that he had to help around the house more. They spent
Sundays doing laundry, cleaning the house and having grown-up time, while I played at
Tracey’s. At her Catholic school, she could only wear blue, gray or white clothes,
and so we played dress up in the most outlandish outfits. Chrissy would find
us, trapped on the high bathtub rim from where we had tried to see ourselves in
the mirror. She would peel off the layers of the odd clothes, leaving us in
Tracey’s ballet uniforms that we wore during these games, and sit us down at
the kitchen table with milk, cookies, paper and a box of 144 crayons that
astounded me by its opportunities.
Tracey
drew pictures of us in our outfits, the heads, hands, and feet always too big.
I sketched tall women with blond hair falling from the sky into the mouths of
flames. With over twenty shades of orange and red to work with, I tried to
perfect the fire each time. My mother refused to tape the pictures on the refrigerator, so I kept them in a pile
in my desk drawer.
Sometimes,
I stood in the kitchen doorway watching my mother and my dad make dinner. My
mother would cry as my father held her against his chest for what seemed like a
long time, or until something on the stove started smoking. They were about the same height, about 5’9”,
and she stooped a little when he cradled her head in his neck, her arms around
his shoulders, his hands gripping each other at the small of her back. I could
see my father’s face through strands of my mom’s blond hair, the shadow of a
beard showing, his teeth biting his lower lip and his eyes focused on me. I
hated that look of helplessness on my father’s face and my mother’s weakness
for causing it.
No
one knew for sure what made her so sad as if it was some outside,
uncontrollable, indiscernible force. The years passed, and as I grew bigger, my
mother cried more and more frequently. She started missing dinner once and then
twice a week for mysterious appointments. She would come home after I was
already in my room for the night, and I heard the pouring of coffee and my
parents’ low voices in the kitchen until I fell asleep. On those nights my
father and I ate simple dinners of spaghetti and salad. He’d ask me questions
about school and draw diagrams and word problems to show why subtraction was
important, and what ancient history has to do with today. I loved those
evenings so much; I
secretly hoped my mother would have her appointments every night.
Memoirs of a False Messiah is Pamela Becker's debut novel. Originally from
New York, she has enjoyed a long career as a marketing executive and
consultant for some of Israel's leading technology companies. After
she was widowed with three small children, Pamela co-founded and
remains the active chairperson of the Israeli charity Jeremy's
Circle, which supports children coping with cancer treatment or
cancer loss in their immediate families. A graduate of the Writing
Seminars program at the Johns Hopkins University and the Arad Arts
Project artist residency program in Israel, she earned an MBA from
Tel Aviv University. Pamela lives with her husband and their five
children in Tel Aviv.
New York, she has enjoyed a long career as a marketing executive and
consultant for some of Israel's leading technology companies. After
she was widowed with three small children, Pamela co-founded and
remains the active chairperson of the Israeli charity Jeremy's
Circle, which supports children coping with cancer treatment or
cancer loss in their immediate families. A graduate of the Writing
Seminars program at the Johns Hopkins University and the Arad Arts
Project artist residency program in Israel, she earned an MBA from
Tel Aviv University. Pamela lives with her husband and their five
children in Tel Aviv.
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