What Does it Mean to Be Margolian? (Nicky)

When I was growing up in Pittsburgh, I used to walk down the street and people would often stop me and say "Are you a Margolis?" It was always someone who went to school with one of my sisters or brother and he would say that I look just like Jen or Abby or Karen or Max. And I always felt so proud and excited that people knew who we were. I was so proud to be a Margolis. I felt famous when people would stop me. I always felt like were such a special family. Full of personalities and funny stories. And I love that we were even given our own adjective, Margolian. It sounds like its own culture. And it was (and is).

We were that crazy Jewish family in the predominately Jewish Squirrel Hill neighborhood with five kids, 2 dogs, 2 cats and a mother who smoked 3 packs a day. Who lived in a duplex across the street from Temple Sinai, whose house was passed by many hasidic Jews as they made their way to the more conservative temples in the neighborhood on Saturdays, the family whose seder plate was graced with a milk bone when there was no shank bone to be found. The family whose only son could be seen just up the street outside the Jewish Community Center making lewd gestures that not-so-politely suggested what the JCC could go do to itself. And then there was the Christmas tree in the basement every year and the Hanukkah candles that were melted by the heat from the pork kielbasas that were cooking on the nearby kitchen grill.

We were that family whose eldest daughter liked to use her younger siblings for her own amusement, like living dolls or slaves. At seven years old, I was made to look like a prostitute; donned in my mother's lingerie and a mole drawn with eye-liner just above my lip and (for some reason) a turban. I was told that my mission was to approach strange men on the sidewalk and say "Hello. How are you?" I was given no further instruction and was thrown for a loop when one man replied "Fine. How are you?" If I'd only had the improv training and skills I have today, I could have answered. But instead, afraid of saying the wrong thing (lest Karen be disappointed)I simply stared at the man for a few seconds, turned around and ran away.

We were the family that used their crossing guard, Mrs. Fesden as some sort of babysitter. My brother and I were often separated at the bus stop in the morning because of our fighting. Many times, if my father had left for work early that morning, we would run down to the corner to Mrs. Fesden to tell on each other and ask her to settle our arguments. Once, when we were freaking out over a loud intermittent chirping sound in the house, Mrs. Fesden calmly informed us that our smoke detector needed new batteries.

The thing I loved (and still love) about being a Margolis is that we never felt the need to apologize for our quirkiness. We never felt ashamed of any of our antics. We've always appreciated the humor in it all and we've felt proud. And sometimes I find it strange living in Chicago, where no one really knows who we are as a family. When my siblings come to visit, I realize that I expect people to be just as excited as I am that they get to meet one of my sisters or my brother. A part of me feels like they should think they are meeting some kind of legend. Another member of the elusive Margolian tribe. But instead, they just treat us all as they should, like normal people. But if only they knew our history. If only they'd been there, then they would know how truly special the Margolians are.