Write To Life     by Elana Horwitz

Choosing Acceptance

Elana Horwitz


Supermarkets abound in my city in central Eretz Yisroel, but when I need only a few items, I shop at the makolet, my corner grocery store.

The young woman walking in my direction caught my eye. She startled a little at every person she noticed. Her movements were just slightly awkward. She was dressed neatly if not fashionably.

We arrived together at the store. "I want a sweet roll,' she announced to the salesperson. Rachel looked a little harried. "The bread is in the back," she pointed out.

"Where are the sweet rolls?" the young woman asked her.

I said, "Come, I'll show you." I led her to the bread bins.

"Where are the sweet rolls? I want a sweet one," the young woman told me politely.

"Hmm, it's hard to tell which kind is sweet. I think it's these," I told her, gesturing to a bin.

She picked up a roll, inspected it, and retuned it to its bin. She chose another, looked at it, and put it back. Her hands looked clean. She selected a third and brought it to the checkout counter.

"I want a sweet roll," she told the salesperson. "That one is sweet," Rachel assured her kindly.

The young woman paid and prepared to exit the grocery store. Then, as an afterthought, she turned to me. "Todah rabbah!" she called in Hebrew. "Thanks a lot."

"She's autistic," Rachel told me quietly. "Poor thing."

"I think she is managing very well," I said.

"She lives in a new group home for autistic adults," Rachel went on. "They come from all over the country. It's nearby."

Interested, I stopped by the group home. The front door was partly open. I entered the hallway but didn't see anyone inside.  Then I reconsidered going in. After all, this was where people lived, and they were entitled to privacy. I observed a slim, dark haired girl reading on the balcony. She glanced at me briefly, and seemed to want to be alone. I left, thoughtful.

Maybe I will visit again. If I see that the residents are welcoming, I will talk to them.

The next week, I took my children to the grocery store. Suddenly I heard a voice behind me.

"Why do you speak to them in English?" a young woman demanded in Hebrew. It was the same person I had met before. She looked sincerely interested.

I turned to her. "Because I want my children to learn it," I said matter of factly. "These are my children."

She looked at me for a moment, considering my answer. Then she nodded, choosing acceptance. My new friend walked out into the sunshine.