Skating rink Philadelphia

“Jews don’t skate.”

I was living in New Hampshire. It was winter. I invited my friend to go ice skating. My friend was fond of telling me all the things Jews don’t do. “Jews don’t put up their own window blinds.” “Jews don’t own pick-up trucks.” “Jews don’t grin.” “Jews don’t sing Irish songs of rebellion.” “Jews don’t box or play basketball — we used to, but not any more.” “Jews don’t say ‘lawdy’.”

“Why don’t Jews ice skate?” I asked her. She said, “We don’t have enough problems already? You want us to strap razor blades on our feet and go out on ice?”

But it was New Hampshire in the winter and we’d already seen every depressing European subtitled movie in the tri-state area. So, ice skating. It was not pretty. She fell, and fell again a bit later, and wouldn’t let me help her up. But soon she’d made a complete circuit of the rink, and then another, and I skated up to her and was about to say something about ‘a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent frozen seas,’ which was the sort of thing she’d find funny. She was cold, red-faced, hat askew — grinning. This is what she said:


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