Baba and the Oy the heard around the world.

Setting: 1997, almost 1998, mid way through my junior year in college, and I am home for the weekend. This visit is happening shortly after I pierced my tongue. To a Jewish family of the former Soviet Union (we weren't sure if we were supposed to call ourselves Russian or Ukrainian yet), this was a big deal. Especially when according to your family (Babushka in particular), you are perpetually single and never speak of boys, or bring them around. It doesn't help when your auntie relishes in fueling the fire... keep reading, you'll get it in a moment.

My beloved grandfather had passed away only a few short months before, and I am trying to make an effort to come home more often to spend time with Baba in Queens, as she was alone. I arrive at her doorstep, Apt #3A, and she greets me with an expression that I can't quite place. It is a mix of curiosity and concern, and she looks at me as if I am slightly foreign to her. Brushing it aside, I give her a hug. She makes me some chai, and we sit down at the small table in the kitchen, my seat always at the head by the wall, and Baba's closest to the stove. We chit chat, she caters to me, I like it. Baba tries to take quick peaks into my mouth at the shiny silver ball that's protruding from my tongue, and gently slurring my words.
"Some cookies? Jam? Caviar?" she offers. Then, "Siiigggghhh...."
"Ba, are you OK?"
"Da, da, I am fine...", I hear it again... a long ... dramatic... sigggh.
As we sit at the table, I periodically hear that sigh. Sometimes, as an added bonus, she begins to add an "Oyyy". But, she assures me, everything is fine.

We lay down to go to sleep, and I am resting next to Baba for the evening. I hear it again.... this time it's quick sigh, followed by an exaggerated."Oyyyyyyy". Oy's are never good, especially when there elongated by more than 2 seconds of air.
"Ba???" I know that she has something she has to say, but she can't seem to get the words out.
"Spi, spi, Marishinka"*
So I sleep. At first unable to shake off Baba's discomfort, evident now through sighs combined with occasional tossing and turning. However, I am quickly overtaken by the light scent of Fendi on the pillows, a scent that follows my Baba everywhere, and makes me feel at peace and at home.

The following day, I take the 27 minute Long Island Rail Road trip from Baba's place in Flushing, up to Mama's in Long Island. I arrive at the house, and my sister is there. Right away, I ask her, "Yo, what's wrong with Bob?" and explain the odd behavior from the evening before. With deadpan tone and slightly raised brow, sister says "You know she thinks you're a lesbian, right?" Sister pauses, allowing me to take in these words, and of course to torture me briefly as she doesn't offer an explanation (although she is aware that I want one, now). Finally after enjoying my thoroughly perplexed expression, she continues to tell me that my aunt, with her love of shock value (a love of reaction that runs through all female members of my family, right down to my nieces), thought it would be fun to tell my grandmother that only lesbians pierce their tongues. Who knows what other details were sprinkled in that conversation, but a tongue piercing and never bringing boys around clearly now only meant one thing to my Russian/Ukrainian/Jewish Babushka, and it was a thought that she'd never been confronted with. Apparently, this had been a regular topic of conversation amongst the clan while I was in school (and it was decided that they would accept and love me regardless of sexual orientation. Thanks, I guess.)

After a few hours with the Long Island family, I take the trip back to Baba's in Queens. It begins to rain. As I step off the train, I am welcomed by Baba (who lovingly timed my arrival) with umbrella in hand. I take the umbrella from her with my right, and place my left arm around her smaller frame, and we descend the metal platform steps. On busy Main Street, I look at Baba, give her a kiss on the forehead, then a side smirk mischievously appears on my face. I then declare, "Baba, I like boys. I like boys, A LOT."

"Ooooyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy... Marisha. Deez tings! Deez tings you do, I do not understand." She shakes her head, relaxes, and I continue grinning.

Yes Baba, I like them a lot. But if I tell you how much, then that's a whole new set of Oy's that you're just not ready for.