uggs for gaza - The Normal School

uggs for gaza
Shortly after Mitch turned thirty-four, he was struck by the pointlessness of his life in New
York. He had been with the same company for six years. He would rise no higher than marketing
director. He was single and profoundly bored. He called a recruiter, and eight weeks later he had
a job in Santa Monica and a furnished cottage on a street of tidy, proximate houses in Culver City
that reminded him, improbably, of his childhood neighborhood in Queens.
There was further cause for disappointment. Despite some ancillary show-biz glamour—his
Gordon Haber
new company made websites for movies—the work was remarkably similar to what he had
done in New York. Also he had no social life. Angelenos were open but impenetrable, given to
effusive pronouncements that came to nothing. In Los Angeles, Mitch was frequently hugged
and frequently alone.
But he was determined to avoid lapsing into the usual single male triumvirate of pot, PlayStation, and porn. So when a work acquaintance, a project manager who seemed to be making
friendship overtures, invited Mitch to a party, he said, “Sure, why not.”
the normal school • spring 2013
| 7
That Saturday night, Mitch’s GPS led
him to a vaguely Spanish-looking house in
the Hollywood Hills. Inside, maybe thirty
people stood around, their posture and
clothing demonstrating the studied casualness
that almost everyone affects in Los Angeles,
including the homeless. Mitch felt a twinge
of self-consciousness when he couldn’t see the
project manager. As he fixed himself a vodka
tonic, he wondered how, in the absence of
said project manager, he might actually start
a conversation with someone, like that slim
brunette with uneven bangs. While he waited
In the coming weeks, Mitch would often
cast his thoughts back to this moment, looking
to understand his motivation for what he did
next. Maybe it was the egregious cluelessness
demonstrated by shipping religious headgear
7,500 miles. Or maybe it was just too many
vodka tonics. Either way, he said something
that he would later regret: when Joey asked
Mitch what he did for a living, he lied.
“I run a non-profit,” he said. His eyes caught
Joey’s big beige boots, the ones with the funny
name. “It’s called UGGs. For Gaza.”
Rafe said, “I’ve heard of you guys.”
“I run a non-profit,” he said. His eyes caught Joey’s big beige boots,
the ones with the funny name. “It’s called UGGs. For Gaza.”
for inspiration, he checked out the books on
the mantle, all of which were about acting,
auditioning, and screenwriting. Mitch had
zero interest in these pursuits; nevertheless,
there he was, wearing an expression of anthropological curiosity as he leafed through Yoga
for Actors.
“I love that book,” said an absurdly healthy
looking guy who immediately starting talking
about nerves and auditions and learning how
to breathe, really breathe, and “fucking nailing
it.” Meanwhile, Mitch nodded and pretended
to be interested, until a girl came up and he
actually became interested, because it was the
girl with the bangs. His name was Rafe, and her
name was Joey.
After a few drinks, Mitch gleaned that Rafe
and Joey were “just friends,” which he found
encouraging. Less encouraging—downright
puzzling, really—was when the conversation
turned to environmental concerns, or their
version of them. Rafe was dating a girl who
studied the effects of secondhand smoke on
cats. Joey’s niece just had a particular kind of
bat mitzvah.
“You’ll never guess the theme,” she said.
Mitch said, mildly, “Judaism?”
“Nope. Sustainability. They got hybrid buses
to take the kids from the synagogue to the
reception and everything was super-organic.
Even the plates and the forks were like this
bamboo that’s really fair trade and environmentally friendly. Get this: the yarmulkes
were made in Israel from recycled materials.
Isn’t that awesome?”
8
| the normal school • spring 2013
“I haven’t,” Joey said. “What is it exactly?”
“It’s like this,” Mitch said, warming to the
line of bullshit. “What do the Palestinian
people need? Medicine, housing, jobs. Serious
stuff. But what do they also need?”
Rafe said, “A homeland?”
“Well, yes, that,” Mitch said, “But think
about all the tension they have to deal with.
There’s like crazy unemployment and . . . sanctions and shit. And a place like that—you know
the women have very tough lives. But what’s
the one thing that makes a woman smile?”
“Oh my God,” Joey said, resting her hand on
his arm. “Cute boots.”
Mitch had visited Israel, years ago, on a teen
tour. He remembered not liking it much. The
heat had been outrageous, ridiculous, insulting,
and the girls hadn’t given him the time of
day—they were too busy flirting with Israeli
soldiers. Also he recalled that the Israeli guides
had talked a lot about how bad “the Arabs”
were, how shifty and dangerous, but at the cafés
and hotels and kibbutzim, the people with the
shittiest jobs were invariably Arabs.
That had been almost twenty years ago, and
he had barely thought about Israel since.
Now Mitch started to worry. What if Joey
somehow looked into his claim? He was not
above a little exaggeration if it helped him get laid,
but this was a joke that had turned into a lie, and
it would be very embarrassing if he got caught.
He got out of bed and poured himself a glass
of water. Then he sat down at the kitchen table
with his laptop. He sighed, and he shook his
head, and he registered uggsforgaza.org. Then
he threw up a web page with a few pictures
(a bombed-out building, a pair of UGGs)
and wrote a paragraph of largely meaningless
copy and a tag line: Soles for souls in need. At
the bottom of the page, he added, not affiliated
with the UGGs Corporation.
It was now four in the morning. He tried to
shuffle back to the bedroom but made it only
as far as the couch. His second to last thought
before sleep was to wonder what he had gotten
himself into. His last thought was to wonder
Also he recalled that the Israeli guides had talked a lot about
how bad “the Arabs” were, how shifty and dangerous, but at the
cafés and hotels and kibbutzim, the people with the shittiest
jobs were invariably Arabs.
“Exactly. So what we do is take boots donated by Americans, and we send them to Gaza.”
“That’s really beautiful,” Joey said, and she
gave him her number.
L
ater, too drunk to sleep, Mitch lay in bed,
thinking: UGGs? For Gaza? What did he
know about Gaza? Occasionally he’d encounter the assumption that since he was Jewish he
automatically had a deep interest in the Middle
East. But in college, Mitch had realized that
(a) politics bored him, and (b) most people are
more interested in their own opinions about
politics than in politics.
where he had left his car.
O
n Monday, when Mitch was heading out
for lunch, he ran into the project manager in the parking lot.
“Dude,” he said. “I flaked on you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool,” Mitch said. “I had a good time.”
“Excellent.”
Mitch considered walking the twenty or so
blocks to the ocean. Instead he took his brown
bag to a picnic bench behind the building.
He ate his sandwich with his sunglasses on,
blankly staring at a line of succulents implanted
between the patio and the parking lot. He
couldn’t get over how everyone in Los Angeles
reserved the right to flake at any moment, as if
it were some version of Live Free or Die. At least
he was learning not to take it personally.
He dug Joey’s number from his wallet.
“Hello?”
“Hi. This is Mitch? From the party the other
night?”
“Right,” she said. “I saw your website. The
UGGs one.”
“Yes,” Mitch said, with blooming fear and
remorse. “What did you think?”
“I think it’s great. But there’s no address on
it. I don’t know where to send my old UGGs.”
“You want to send me your old UGGs.”
“Uh huh.”
“Why don’t we meet for coffee and you can
just give them to me?”
“Oh. Um. I don’t know. I’m not really dating
right now? But if you could just give me your
address . . .”
Three days later, he received a pair of
UGGs. A second pair arrived soon after,
with a note: Joey told me about this. I think it’s
awesome. Would you please send me a receipt
for my taxes.
O
f course, all this was incredibly strange,
and yet he kept forgetting about it. At
least during the day, when his mental energy
was focused on marketing a movie about a
detective agency run by teen vampires. Then
he’d get home at eight or nine at night and see
the two largish boxes on the floor of his living
room and wonder what to do with them. Then
a third pair arrived with a note: Great idea! You
are bringing light to Gaia and helping to heal the
soul-wounds. I will sprinkle words of your doings
like sparkles. Please send me a receipt for my taxes.
Mitch was suddenly very curious about
something. He let the note drop to the floor
and sat down with his laptop. When he got
his answer he nearly spit his coffee all over the
keyboard: the UGGs for Gaza website had
received three hundred and twelve unique
hits. Three hundred and twelve people had
looked at his website, and he had only told
two people about it. As a marketing man,
Mitch was impressed: you couldn’t buy that
kind of word of mouth.
He still had to figure out what to do with
the UGGs. Probably it would be best if he
just chucked them in a dumpster or left them
Frequency
Mike White
That they frequent
the mall is a fact.
But that’s just one
place they turn up.
Humming in the cereal
aisle or knotting
a tie in the elevator.
They are often halfseen squinting hard
at the No
Re-entry signs
at the ballpark.
Go lie down
under the grass
we tell the dead.
But the dead
don’t listen.
Dead don’t care.
They give no
more thought
to our fundamental
separateness
than music
minds walls.
And there’s no radio
you understand.
No radio
and the dead
own all the stations.
They are people
we love still
and man
do they know it.
the normal school • spring 2013
| 9
with Goodwill, but he didn’t think he could
do that with a clear conscience. He could
return the stupid boots to their owners, but
that would be a hassle, as well as requiring
him to explain himself.
“Sorry. I know. I’m new to this.”
“All right. Can you stop by this Thursday? At
8 p.m.? We’ll talk. Ask for me, Dr. Hassan. I’m
the imam here.”
“Got it. Dr. Hassan.”
Three hundred and twelve people had looked at his website, and
he had only told two people about it. As a marketing man, Mitch
was impressed: you couldn’t buy that kind of word of mouth.
Or he could, you know, send the UGGs to Gaza.
Mitch googled “gaza charity los angeles.”
He combed through the links and learned that
there were a number of reputable organizations
dedicated to helping the people of Gaza and the
West Bank. And he knew that if he called them
they’d think he was insane or a moron.
Mitch then googled “mosque Los Angeles.”
Before he had time to talk himself out of it, he
grabbed his phone and dialed the number of
the first one that had come up.
A woman answered the phone. “Quran
Center,” she said.
“Hi. Okay, this is going to sound strange.
But I have some . . . shoes. For Gaza. I have
shoes to donate to the people of Gaza.”
“I see,” the woman said, as if three or four
times a day she fielded questions about footwear for the Palestinian people. “I’d like to help
you, but we’re more of a school than a charity.
You know, classes for kids, adult education,
that kind of thing. And we have a mosque, of
course. Have you tried Islamic Relief?”
“I did,” he said, lying. “They suggested I try
someone local.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to
tell you.”
A male voice could be heard. “Excuse me,”
said the woman, and she put him on hold.
Mitch waited in silence. It was disconcerting—
these days you were never on hold without
hearing talk radio or music. Maybe Muzak was
against Islam.
“Hello,” a man said. “You have shoes for
Gaza? You’re from where?”
His face burning, Mitch said, “UGGs for
Gaza. Dot org.”
“Hold on,” the man said, and Mitch heard
him tapping at a keyboard. “Huh. I see. You
know, you really should have your snail mail
address on there.”
10
| the normal school • spring 2013
After Mitch put the phone down he looked
up the word imam. Then he put his address on
the “UGGs for Gaza” website.
D
r. Hassan’s office was rather spare, with
a wall of books, a desk, and a dying ficus in one corner, put there seemingly less for
adornment than to emphasize the lack thereof.
The imam himself was a man in late middle age
wearing a white knitted skullcap and a long tunic. His beard was quite long, and he was kind
of fat. His demeanor was businesslike as he directed Mitch to a chair.
“So you have shoes,” said Dr. Hassan.
“For Gaza.”
“UGGs, actually.”
“UGGs.”
“Yes, UGGs.” Mitch swallowed. “They’re
suede boots. A lot of girls wear them.”
“Yes, I know what they are. But I’m confused.
Shoes for Gaza, that strikes me as a nice thing.
UGGs for Gaza—that’s a strange thing.”
Religious people are usually relaxed around
clergy: you learn not to be intimidated when
In sixth grade he had dropped a textbook, and
when he bent down to pick it up, resonantly
farted. In seventh grade he had been beaten
up by a girl. Each of these episodes had been
profoundly humiliating, and, yet, Mitch had
been able to forgive himself, because neither
was his fault. But now he was in a trap of his
own making. Thus he threw himself on the
mercy of Dr. Hassan.
As for the imam, he was at first irritated by the
story, thinking, That’ll teach you to make light
of Palestinian suffering, you little shit. At the
same time he was assessing Mitch, estimating
his capacity for goodness. He saw a youngish
man clearly uncomfortable in the presence of
a cleric and possibly equally uncomfortable in
the presence of a Muslim. He also saw a man
with a troubled conscience.
When the story was over, the imam
drummed his fingers on his desk. Finally, he
said, “What are UGGs made out of?”
“I don’t know. Sheepskin?”
“Find out for certain. You can’t give them to
Muslims if they’re pigskin.”
“Oh. I see. Okay. So . . . can you help me?”
“Can I help you?” Dr. Hassan repeated. “The
better question is, ‘Will I help you?’ Frankly, I’d
rather send medicine to Gaza. Or nationhood.
That would be a nice thing: nationhood for
Palestine. But UGGs, why not? As long as they
aren’t made of pigskin. And, as long as you stop
lying. I won’t be involved if it’s a lie.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I am saying, call this Joey person and tell her
the truth. And set up a 501c3. If you do that,
I’ll help you get your UGGs to Gaza.”
“Shoes for Gaza, that strikes me as a nice thing. UGGs for Gaza—
that’s a strange thing.”
the rabbi has coached your synagogue’s softball
team or the pastor has been by the house for
dinner. Mitch, on the other hand, was usually
intimidated, even if he had long ago decided
that religion was a heap of bullshit. Maybe that
was why he told Dr. Hassan the whole story—because he was afraid of him. Regardless,
as Mitch spoke, he felt like an idiot of Biblical
proportions. The sheer lameness of the tale was
staggering. Even though Dr. Hassan sat poker-faced, listening without evident judgment,
Mitch had never felt so stupid in his entire life.
The imam suddenly let out a bray of laughter.
“UGGs for Gaza,” he said, shaking his head.
“What a schmuck.”
M
itch fully intended to do exactly what
Dr. Hassan had suggested; really, he
did. But work got busy again, this time with
a movie about a precocious six-year-old with a
detective agency. Meanwhile, four new pairs of
UGGs had arrived, and a pair of men’s loafers,
and a pair of women’s heels that Mitch believed
were called “mules.”
Then it was Thanksgiving (the holidays really
crept up on you here, the calendar telling you it
was fall, your senses spring), and he had seven
boxes in his living room and nowhere to go
for days. It was time to stop procrastinating.
Mitch loaded up the fridge with beer and got
down to it. He opened up a dedicated PayPal
account and added the link to the website. He
tackled the application for tax-exempt status
and the articles of incorporation: The purpose
of this corporation is to send UGGs boots to the
Gaza Strip. He researched the shipping options
from Los Angeles to the occupied territories.
or politics or whatever. So I was being, I don’t
know, mischievous. But also I think it was to
impress you.”
“Oh, well, that’s nice.”
“Really? I’m glad. Because I met this imam . . .”
“You met this what?”
“This imam. It’s a Muslim cleric.”
“A Muslim what?”
“An imam is sort of like the Muslim version
of a priest or rabbi,” Mitch said.
“Ohhhhhh.”
“Anyway, so I met this imam, and I asked
him what I was supposed to do with all these
“What are UGGs made out of?”
“I don’t know. Sheepskin?
“Find out for certain. You can’t give them to Muslims
if they’re pigskin.”
He started a Facebook fan page and a Twitter
account. He rewrote the copy and tweaked the
layout of the website.
As he did all this, there were moments when
he felt a glimmer of self-satisfaction—maybe he
was doing something that might, in some small
way, actually help somebody. Mostly, though,
he felt stupid.
He worked until the light waned on Sunday
evening, when there was only one item left on
his list: call Joey.
But why did he have to call Joey? Mitch
wasn’t Muslim. Mitch was barely Jewish. He
didn’t even believe in God. So he was under
no obligation to come clean just because that
imam had told him to. If Mitch really wanted
to get into her pants with a lie, he would have
told her he was a casting agent. Anyway, the
point was that he didn’t want to call Joey,
didn’t have to call Joey, wasn’t going to call
Joey. Which was what he was thinking as he
called Joey.
“Hi UGGs guy,” she said. “I’ve been telling
everyone about you. I mean not about you as
like a person? But about your UGGs thing?”
“Right, thanks. Well, the thing is . . .”
Clutching at his forehead with his free hand,
Mitch blurted out how he had made the whole
thing up.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would
you do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because people in
L.A. are so, like, smug about the environment
UGGs. And he said he’d help me actually get
them to Gaza if I told you the truth.”
“Mick, that is amazing. It’s like karma in
action.”
“Mitch. My name is Mitch. Anyway, I hope
you’re not mad at me.”
“Mad? Oh my God, no. This is the best
conversation I’ve had in weeks.”
“So then maybe you do want to get a cup of
coffee some time?”
“The thing is, Mike? I met somebody.”
“But you told me you weren’t dating.”
“Yeah. Hey, I guess lied to you, too. Isn’t that,
like, ironic?”
M
itch learned about UGGs. He learned
that they lacked arch support. He
learned that the attractiveness or unattractiveness of said boots inspired as much Internet
invective as the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
He learned that men sometimes wore UGGs,
which inspired him to go to a shoe store and try
a pair on, which, after looking in a full-length
mirror, allowed him to conclude that men
should never, ever wear UGGs.
Four months to the day after the idea
had spilled from his mouth, Mitch got his
tax-exempt status in the mail. It was a huge
relief—now, finally, he could send out receipts.
But this would be no easy task. At this point,
in addition to the loafers and mules, he had
forty-six pairs of UGGs and two pairs of Koolaburras. The boxes pretty much owned his living
room, which smelled like a sheepherder’s hut.
There were developments. A number of
small donations had brought the balance of the
PayPal account to a hundred dollars, and he
had received a similar number of emails. Some
were hostile:
We should be bombing those terrorists, not
sending shoes.
Where are the UGGs for Israel,
you self-hating Jew.
UGGs are so 2006, you stupid dick.
Most, however, were supportive—to the
point where people were asking how they
could help. Mitch usually told them to send
a couple of bucks. But when some girl offered
to refurbish the UGGs, he took her up on it.
She came by one weekend, a DIY hipster in
homemade clothes. While Mitch printed out
receipts, she cleaned and patched and sewed.
Melanie was the kind of person he once might
have mocked—she wore a long-sleeved tiedyed shirt and a crocheted Tibetan hat, even
indoors. But he enjoyed her company. She was
quiet and mellow, and there was something
simultaneously cute and impressive about her
work ethic.
“I wish I could pay you for this,” Mitch said.
Melanie held up a boot, its sole flapping like
a tongue. “It’s not about money. How would
you feel if somebody sent you this?”
After a month of such Sundays, the UGGs
were as good as new. (Melanie brought a celebratory meal, vegetarian chili and a bottle of
Two-Buck Chuck.) Now all Mitch had to do
was get all the moon boots out of his apartment.
He sent an e-mail to Dr. Hassan outlining what
the organization had been up to and asking what
needed to be done next. Dr. Hassan wrote back
almost immediately and told Mitch to come discuss it in person. One evening after work, Mitch
returned to the mosque. The imam was again
poker faced while Mitch caught him up, but this
time the younger man was less intimidated. He
told Dr. Hassan about the receipts and repairs;
he made sure to add that any knockoffs made
of pigskin—which he had learned to recognize
by its tiny pores or holes—had been returned to
their donors.
“And the girl?” asked Dr. Hassan.
For a moment Mitch was perplexed,
wondering why the imam was asking about
the normal school • spring 2013
| 11
I
Mike White
a manufacturing glitch, or someone
just fucking with the system, and out pops
a two-headed nail, pointless,
pointless, dad mused, hammer in hand,
and so given over
to a drawer filled with coins from countries
one visits once, a kind of enduring
anomaly, a thing to grasp from time
to time, an object
of wonder without end
12
| the normal school • spring 2013
Melanie. But then he realized that the question
was about Joey.
“I told her everything,” Mitch said. “Now
you have to help me send these UGGs. I can’t
for the life of me figure out how to get them
to Gaza.”
“I’ll give you a few phone numbers,” Dr.
Hassan said. He gave Mitch a measuring look.
“Doesn’t it feel good, doing the right thing?”
Mitch would not allow for the change of
subject. “I read that there’s a blockade?”
“On the Israeli side, yes. But the Egyptians
have opened their border. We could get them
in that way.”
“Okay. But there’s no, like, danger in asking
someone to transport these things, is there?
Because I don’t like the idea of putting anyone
in danger.”
Dr. Hassan smiled. Maybe this guy had actually learned something. “No, I don’t think there
will be danger. It’s simply a question of money.
Speaking of which . . .” He slid a bulging envelope across his desk. “I made an announcement
about your little plan after prayers last Friday.
See Helen on your way out. She’s got some
more UGGs for you.”
There was almost four hundred dollars in the
envelope. And twenty pairs of UGGs in the
storage closet.
A
reporter from L.A. Weekly came by with
a photographer. They took pictures of
Mitch in his living room, the wall obscured
by boxes, the floor by sheepskin boots. When
they ran the piece, the caption said, Among the
UGGs: Culver City resident Mitch Blum with
donated footwear.
The article was embarrassing (Mitch got a lot
of mocking e-mails from his friends back East),
but it went modestly viral, which brought in
more cash and more UGGs. He sent Melanie
an apologetic text, asking her to work for free
again; he looked forward to seeing her.
Dr. Hassan’s secretary e-mailed the name of
a contact at some kind of quasi-governmental
relief agency. When Mitch called, the guy sounded
young, English, and smoothly professional. “That’s
quite a tale,” he said. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Around this time something really strange
started happening. Suddenly women—attractive women—were noticing Mitch. At
work, a Web designer with a pierced tongue
asked admiring questions about the project;
Steal this magazine.
Where are you anyway? Some friend’s sofa, flipping through the “smart” reading they left on the
coffee table? Better yet, in the bathroom, checking out what your friend reads when he is in the
bathroom? Well, he read this mag already. Or at least, he read the parts he most wanted to read
on the first pass. So take it! He’ll get another one pretty soon, anyway. And you’ll feel daring and
a little crazy because, you’re not a thief or anything. Well, except for today, you thief.
Unless you’re in the bookstore. For crying out loud, don’t steal it from the bookstore. It’s five
lousy bucks and we need bookstores, you know. Scofflaw.
The Normal School. Do the right thing, which may be the wrong thing yet feels so right.
Mitch arranged to stay home from work
the day the shipment was due in Gaza. That
morning he got up early, checked his e-mail,
cleaned his house, checked his e-mail again.
(As he showered, he imagined the crates
arriving, the women searching through the
boxes, trying on UGGs, showing them off
to each other. Some older, some young,
with head scarves and without; all of them
smiling, all of them, temporarily, happy.)
Melanie expected him for lunch, and Mitch
looked forward to it, even to the vegetarian
chili. They’d celebrate, and then they’d talk
through some serious stuff, publicity and
office space and future projects, like sending
Doc Martens to Darfur or Wallabees to the
West Bank.
Before heading out, Mitch checked his
e-mail one last time. His heart jumped when
he saw the message from Samir; after reading
it, he felt like his heart had contracted. He
didn’t know what to do with himself. For
some reason he ended up outside, sitting in
his driveway.
The crates had never made it out of El Arish. Samir had just found out. Unbeknownst
to anyone, the UGGs had been shipped in
the same container as a delivery of tear gas
for the Egyptian army. Fearing that the gas
would be used against the current round of
protestors, the dockworkers had refused to
unload the container. According to Samir’s
contact, eventually troops arrived and
trucked the entire container to a government
warehouse. Samir was very sorry that he had
no idea how to locate the UGGs. Nor could
any of his contacts, at the relief agency or
elsewhere, “involve themselves in such a way
with the Egyptian Army.”
Mitch watched a few cars go by. It was
winter in California, and the day was warm
and sunny. In a minute he’d get himself
together and call Dr. Hassan. Then he’d drive
to Melanie’s house—after all her hard work,
she deserved to be told in person. Mitch resolved to be upbeat when he broke the news.
He’d insist that this was not the end but the
beginning of UGGs for Gaza. And maybe,
with Melanie, there could be the beginning
of something else. In a minute or two, he
would raise himself from the driveway, drive
to the Eastside, and tell her all that. But first
he had to stop crying. i
Visit us at thenormalschool.com.
he was recognized twice at Vons and once
at a taco stand. It had never been so easy for
him to get a date. And he had never been less
interested. Certainly he enjoyed the attention,
and (let’s face it) he wanted to get laid. But he
felt a superstitious aversion to losing his focus.
When Joey left him a voice mail—Hey, I saw
your article; maybe we should get that coffee—he
didn’t bother calling back.
Instead, Mitch dedicated his free time (and
plenty of work time) to investigating how to get
the UGGs to Gaza. This turned out to be paying
a company to crate the UGGs and load them
into a shipping container at the Port of Los Angeles whose eventual destination was El Arish,
an Egyptian city on the Mediterranean. From
there the crates could be trucked to Gaza City.
The ludicrous bureaucracy was navigated with
the help of Samir, an Israeli-Arab who worked
for a relief agency—with the stipulation that its
name be kept out of it: “No offense meant,” the
English guy had said. “But it wouldn’t do for us
to be associated with something that could be
construed as . . . frivolous.”
Mitch supposed that he understood, even
though to him it was the opposite of frivolous.
For him, this shit was serious. For the first time
in his life, Mitch was obsessed by the news. He
barely noticed as the holidays came and went.
The Arab world was imploding, with millions in
the streets; in some countries, governments were
slaughtering their own citizen protestors. Whenever he got together with Melanie—sometimes
at his place, sometimes at her patchouli-scented
loft in Lincoln Heights—they obsessed over
these events and how they might affect the shipment. Meanwhile, it took seven weeks for the
crate to arrive in El Arish. From there, it would
take another week to reach the border between
Egypt and Gaza, a distance of perhaps ten miles.
This last bit was the most nerve-wracking, because the Egyptians or the Israelis could close the
border at any time. And then the Gazans would
have nothing. Well, even if they got the UGGs
they had nothing. Regardless, Mitch desperately
wanted the scheme to succeed. Although Samir’s
e-mails were pessimistic—the Israeli government
would find some way to ruin it, even if the shipment was arriving via Egypt—Mitch wanted to
prove him wrong. Not for any political reason,
nor out of some nascent sense of Jewish solidarity. It was more that somewhere along with way,
the stupid UGGs had become a sacred trust.
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the normal school • spring 2013
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