kaenahora

2009-11-12T23:57:00.003-05:00

Okay, so I saw Jerry Stiller at the restaurant today. That was cool. But what I encountered a block from my apartment was much, much more effective in shaking me from my usual reverie.

A man just released from the hospital with all of his papers, and medical cards. He was pushing a broken walker and said he had both cancer and Aids. He was drooling a bit as he spoke. I am not sure why, but I believed his story.

I remember how I felt the first time I was asked for spare change by a man sitting on the sidewalk. I remember feeling absolutely humiliated for him—a grown up asking me, a child, for money. The equation wasn't one with which I was familiar and I remember feeling upset, and, angry that he made me feel that way.

I still feel awful when confronted by these hapless? conniving? sinister? pitiful? human beings.. It is such a profoundly saddening experience, to be asked for a series of band aids for wounds that are eternal…it seems as if there is no fix, and the pennies that are thrown at beggers can never suffice. Does. My. Money. Make. A. Difference. To. You. I. Say. With. My. Eyes. As. Yours. Say. Please. Please. Please.

This man, tonight, I gave him 13 dollars. I also asked a wealthy looking guy in his forties to help me. He was happily making his way down Broadway with his pregnant wife. They looked peeved at the intrusion.

Maybe it was my gorgeous new coat, or my no nonsense attitude that convinced them, or, maybe the well dressed Asian girl who was first approached by our ailing character. I saw the dread they felt (I was feeling it too). None of us wanted to be there.

So we asked him too many questions about his circumstance, we were distrustful. We did not want to be scammed. What did you say about the hospital? Where were you sent? Where do you want to go? What specifically, do you need help with?

If this poor man was an impostor—he was doing a remarkable job.

His story was that he was released from the hospital after another dreadful round of chemotherapy. He also said he had Aids. He was heading to a shelter for gay men—but the shelter was full and so they directed him to an alternate establishment on the other side of the Manhattan. His story is plausible; I’ve seen this before: Sick people near hospitals, release, nowhere to go, unwell, left to flounder, teetering, cold, helpless, pathetic.

Wayne State University, my Alma mater, was located 3 blocks from the Detroit VA. It was not uncommon to see men, with tubes attached to arms, or coming out of nostrils, sitting on the side of the road.

So tonight, Lewis, pulled out all the money he had, a ten. He said he needed 10 more…than looked at the address on his papers below and requested 20. We flagged down a cab, put him in and asked the driver how much it would cost. He said it would be about 20 dollars. Maybe more. Well, that was the second cabbie. The first refused to take him.

Maybe Lewis ripped us off. Maybe the aging, ailing, gay man thing was a hoax. Perhaps he practices daily, this spiel, in the mirror, in his rent controlled village apartment from the 1980s with his long haired angora cat peering down from an antique dresser. Maybe he made multiple trips to Goodwill to find the most pathetic looking walker. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But I gave. And I would do it again. Because what gets me to give, and give again, is the thought that a human person has to stoop to the level of begging in the street, to leave his fate to the kindness of others, and for that, I could never forgive myself for failing to do so. I will not let Kitty Genovese die.

There are days when I am spent. I have no money in my pockets; I find the homeless irritating, undeserving, or worse, invisible. But some days, like today, I am shaken to my core.

Watching the cab drive off, I turn to the other Samaritan, his pregnant wife, and we say, Oh, he is off to target the next fool who fancies themselves a savior.

Well, in that case, for 13 bucks, he put on a good piece of theatre, and invited me to be in his play (which is more than what they offer at Les Miserables).

Kaparos

2009-09-27T11:08:00.014-04:00

The heavy duty black garbage bag was filled about a third, and steam was gently rising from the top. Sitting on the end of a folding table in the shul garage, its sides were taut with the dull weight of its contents.

I had just come from the shul's Succah, where my father was paying me 10 dollars for the evening, to help people who were too squeamish to touch a chicken. At ten years old, I was tall, shy, awkward, and skinnier than a pencil, tomboy; and at that point in my life, my friends still found it hilarious to call me daddy long legs. I hated that! But today I reigned. All my school friends came with their parents to 'shlug kapores" and I was assisting my father, and he was running the show.

I had talked to the farmers and learned how to hold a chicken so that it would be comfortable, I was going to help people shlug. ...I even held a chicken for Shalom, the cutest, tallest bochur in the yeshiva! Double, triple, dare, I did it, while he wouldn't!

On the Eve of Yom Kippur in is customary to participate in an ancient, but somewhat controversial custom known as Kaparos, which is a bit like a sin offering: Say a prayer, take a chicken (or a fish), swing it around your head and say something to the effect of "I am about to kill this chicken because I've been a bit of a jerk this year, and instead of me dying, this chicken is gonna end up as some yeshiva student's dinner.

Disclaimer: No one Jewish really believes he/she can get off as easy as a mental sin transfer. Personally, God still makes me suffer for evils I committed as a tiny-tyke in preschool, and the karma/guilt will keep coming my way whether I remember to call my mother on a weekly basis, or not. If you are Jewish, sins do not ever really disappear, I don't care what they told you in Sunday school about forgiveness. I don't care how much you drown your sorrows in Crown Royal, you, like an elephant, will never forget, and nor will the original elephant, God.

Many Rabbis say that chicken replacement therapy is a pagan custom that somehow crept into the Jewish tradition (and is reminiscent of sin offerings in the temple http://www.bknw.org/pafiledb/uploads/The%20Minhag%20of%20Kaparos%20-%20new.pdf); but no one I know really believes there is any sort of atonement here, it's purpose is really to provide a graphic wake up call: Being confronted with a creature's mortality will give you some perspective before you start wagering with Big Bro in the sky the next day in synagogue).

When I was tiny, the Lubavitch community would gather in the Greenberg's house, and a white hen would be lifted from a cardboard box. Then, Rabbi Greenberg would make his way around the house passing the chicken over everyone's heads (watch your shaitel, mom!). The chicken would then be returned to the box; we wished each other a happy, healthy, sweet new year and went home for kreplach in chicken soup and homemade round challahs with honey. The 25 hour fast day would commence at dusk.

To this day, I do not know why my father thought our community needed something grander than this tame neighborhood gathering. My father was, is, and always will be a stickler for performing a Mitzvah to its ultimate potential, but the chicken thing really became something else. I think he, having experienced Kaparos in NYC, felt that one chicken for the entire community was a real cop out. If you were gonna do this thing right, for every man, woman and child, born or unborn, a chicken should be had (with his visions of equality, Ta should have gone into politics).

The following year, sometime in early July, my father called a local egg farmer. He ordered 200 chicks to be raised and cared for at the farm and brought to our shul on the specified morning. Waking up early that day, with the damp gray fall air, we were bundled into our jackets and escorted to our shteibel's parking lot where we were confronted with not one docile hen, but a flock of indignant birds. This year, the birds had presence.

I remember touching a chicken, staring at it in the eye, and ogling its leathery feet. Kids absolutely loved this experience, even the screamers, who were terrified, enjoyed being terrified. Young mothers halfheartedly chased their kids around the parking lot. One expectant mother had three chickens, a hen for herself, and a hen and rooster for her unborn child, as identifying gender pre-birth is bad luck and she wanted to have her bases covered. Her husband waved the chickens over her bulging tummy.

After this fun experience, moms and kids went home. Pre yom tov naps, Seuda Hamafsekes, the pre yom kippur meal, lacing man made sneakers, fussing over hair and bows, etc.

Back at shul in an alley, the chickens were ritually slaughtered by a shochet. My father had a brood of yeshiva bochurim who, keen to see some of their halacha classes come to life, volunteered for the experimental Koshering experience. That year, it was the blind leading the blind, and although they managed to kosher 20 chickens, by the time the day was done, due to error and inexperience, they did not produce a single, kosher, ready-to-eat chicken. Chicken carnage.

It's a good thing we do not remember everything from childhood: I have no memory of the following year when my mother decided to take matters into her own hands; hiring a team of Russian immigrants to deal with the heavy processing, she koshered the chickens herself. My mother frequently found herself in Minhag catch 22: Don't do it, failure as Jew, disappoint husband or, take it upon yourself, and.. ...rant #345: "Is there ANYONE else in this community who has to PUT UP with what I have to PUT UP WITH?!"

Unfortunately, this memory is as vivid for her as ever, like labor. She remembers being so tired that night, she was unable to serve our highly distinguished houseguests our pre yom kippur meal. She also remembers the entire process as a haze of obscenities: Imagine an instillation at a formidable art museum: A young woman in housecoat stands under a spotlight; she is repeating the word "shit" as an under-the-breath mantra as she guts hundreds of dead birds, and picks off endless pin feathers, her hands slick with blood, up to the wrists...).

The next year, dear old dad got it right. At this point, we were up to 400 chickens. He ordered bright yellow T-shirts and baseball caps that said "I shlugged Kapores" with the silhouette of a chicken printed on the side. He partnered with a large shul in town which had a high capacity succah, an outdoor gazebo space for the ritual slaughter, and a massive garage for processing the chickens, to be overseen by a butcher. The local Jewish press was called and Jews from all walks of life showed up and were thrilled with their pictures that appeared in the paper the next week. The chickens became the Shabbos meals of various youngsters in various yeshivas, and my mother was able to show up with her kids and parents and leave the mess to others.

It was the following year that I found myself standing in the garage facing the steaming black garbage bag. Earlier that evening, I had held Shalom's chicken, assisted an elderly woman with the prayers, sold a T-shirt, and had even walked down with a group to the slaughter's gazebo, so that they could watch and get the extra Mitzvah of covering up the spilled blood with dirt.

Only a few hours earlier, I had never see anything larger than a spider killed, and while I was somewhat nauseated by the experience of ritual slaughter, I also was fascinated and proud. The slaughterer, an extremely serious and methodical Rabbi, had a quiet grace and a soft almost inaudible voice, though he commanded authority. He would take the chicken and hold it in his arm, like a baby, where the bird would quiet. He would then pull its neck back, hold the feathers back with his finger and quickly draw the knife over the bird's neck. He then would turn the bird over, opening and draining the slit throat and drop the dead bird into an industrial sized garbage can, where the chicken would flap around a bit, the noise and feathers ricocheting around the sides of the bin.

I was pleased to witness Shchitah. Even then, experiencing the death of dinner was profoundly impactful. I felt, even with the gore, that the process was humane; and if I could bear to watch it, I deserved to eat it. I felt connected to my forbearers, who undoubtedly knew the animals they ate, and were intimately connected to their births, lives and deaths. I also felt proud of my father who provided this opportunity for the community to witness the gaps in the loop of life, to become acquainted with their part in the food chain and to experience nature, if at all for a few minutes as part of religious experience. I felt this then, even if I couldn't articulate it.

But back to the garbage bag. It was after accompanying this particular group to watch the slaughter that I decided to check on the processing of the slaughtered birds out back in the garage.

Climbing up a small hill behind the synagogue an efficient system was in place, complete with buckets of birds, an industrious assembly line of pizza store guys (every orthodox community has a slew of "pizza store guys" ready for odd jobs), good knives, rubber gloves, hoses, plastic bags, kosher salt, soaking pails, boards, and racks. The young men, directed by a professional, were diligently butchering these birds. On one end, bloody dead birds, at the other, recognizable dinner. I was fascinated and terribly revolted, and watched for a while, the workers too busy to notice.

To this day, I'm not really sure how I found myself volunteering to dispose of a particular black garbage bag, but it somehow happened. Maybe the monotony of the labor had desensitized the guy who made the request, or maybe he and a few friends thought it would be funny to dare a scrawny ten year old to take the bag to the dumpster, but in any event, I volunteered, thrilled to be included and in my view, taken seriously. The next thing I knew I had my hands wrapped around the bag, twisted it closed, never peeking at its intimidating contents (which were warm, almost hot, to the touch). I proceeded to carry the bag down the hill to the dumpster.

My next memory is of feeling the bag in my hands, but it feeling terribly... weightless. I look down and gasp. In the orange glow of the outdoor driveway light, under a full harvest moon, are the contents of the bag, slick and slung on the sparse gravely grass, the bag, giving way under the wieght and heat of its contents. Chicken entrails.

The run-away mass was a gelatinous mess of glistening yarns of chicken intestines, replete with the greenish bulbs of chicken gall bladders, yellow and orange lumps, red and purple strands, wet, stinking and hot. Steam rose from the mass, like a lumpy cholent, gone terribly wrong. My mind jumped to images of demons, imps, dybbuks and the angel of death whose vividness had been amplified by my voracious reading of Isaac B. Singer addictive children's stories--the netherworld and its beings quite possibly inhabited the shtetles of Eastern Europe--but never until now, could they ever possibly exist in the vapid and outright pareve sprawl of suburban Michigan. The sight at my feet washes over my five senses. I am staring at a demon's lair, I am smelling the fowlest, foulest, scent that is so rich I can taste it, my eyes watering; I am holding a slick and gently waving plastic trash bag; and I hear the pulsing of my own blood in my ears. I have been carrying a compact travel size variety of hell.

Quickly Rabbi Someone (details fail me), grabs a crate, grabs a bag, lines the crate with the bag, grabs the ropey entrails and puts them in the reinforced bag with, as I remember correctly, bare hands. His expression is one of utter and complete disgust. I watch, sort of numb. When the entrails have all been safely placed back into the crate, I carry it to the dumpster. I dump it in. I go to the shul's bathroom and wash my hands, and then return to my father and continue helping him as if nothing has happened.

There is something about childhood that shielded me from that experience that night. Kids often fall on the pavement, skin their knees and get back up again, resume their play. And that day, I did the same thing, I shook off the nasties; forgetting about it.

The next year I did the chicken thing with my father, as well as the year after. But each year I grew a bit more squeamish. By the time I was in high school I could barely manage to shlug for myself, leaving the job of assisting my father (and the pocket money) to my younger siblings. I had had enough. Apparently, so did my sister, who became vegetarian shortly after one yom kippur and didn't touch meat, chicken or eggs for almost a decade.

A few years ago my father located a Muslim halal butchering facility that could be used to kosher chickens for our one night chicken extravaganza. This separated the chicken swinging experience from the chicken slaughtering experience. It also made really great press: Orthodox Jews and observant Muslims in a win-win arrangement, and not for secular, but for religious purposes.

I have since left home, moved out of state and needless to say am happily avoiding this custom. The chicken thing continues to grow in Detroit, thanks to my father's continued commitment. This past year, my father ordered 1,200 chickens. Over 2,000 Jews from all walks of life came to the succah this year to shlug kapores. The birds, which are organic and free range are sold at a low rate to local institutions, and are also sought after by many local families (and if I remember correctly, taste pretty amazing). My father also imports evergreen boughs and people can purchase fresh schach for their succahs.

This year, my father ordered a lamb along with the chickens, which was purchased by five families as an experiment in local, free range organic Kosher meat. It was not a cost effective venture but made for some pretty interesting discussion at this year's event.

This year, I am spending this holiday with my grandmother in Philadelphia. In lieu of chickens, I wrote a check to a local charity that helps children with special needs and swung some quarters over my head, wrapped in a handkerchief. I helped my grandmother with the prayers. We said it first in Hebrew, than in English and we giggled at the pristine substitute of a few coins replacing a squawking bird.

Rosh Hashana in Crown Heights

2009-09-22T12:30:00.007-04:00

This past Rosh Hashana, I had the pleasure of visiting old friends in Crown Heights; the quintissential American shtetle where I was conceived and borne; the physical space that represents the anxiety causing, albeit loving and vibrant world of my childhood.

I have no recollections of holidays in Brooklyn. Even though my father is a chabad rabbi, and there was significance tied to spending the holidays in what was often described as a holy place, holidays were spent at home with my parents, sisters, and often my grandparents (I went to Crown Heights annually, between the ages of six and 18, for Chof Bais Shvat, the annual chabad women's convention, which was held on the anniversary of the Rebbe's wife's death. One day I will describe these conventions at length).

Crown Heights is beautiful. It is Brooklyn, streets are lined with mature trees, people are bustling about, doing last minute shopping or dashing to Mikvah; the facades of townhouses flaunt many old details, gargoyles, window seats, elaborate ironwork. And I was visiting old friends, newly married, whom I haven't seen in months.

My friend insisted we go to 770 for the first night of the holiday and I was intrigued. Her husband went off to a different congregation (men and women do not sit together for services, so it's not unusual for young wives to head elsewhere...that is, if they go to shul at all). It was beautiful to walk to 770 after candle lighting. There were so many people in the streets! and the weather was perfect; purple dusk, ripening summer evening.

I have this memory, I must have been about seven or eight years old, of going to NY with my classmates accompanied by our nineteen year old cheder teacher. Our school chartered a big noxious bus, the kind with those awful and oddly smelling toilet stalls in the back, so that we could spend a weekend with the Rebbe. This was at the very end of the Rebbe's life when he was extremely ill and our school's Hanhalah (administration) felt it extremely important that we go "be by the Rebbe." I remember the seriousness of the trip (and that we could not watch Miami Boys Choir videos on the overhead TV/VHS because it was deemed "not tzniusdik" for a bus full of pre-adolescent girls to be watching unmistakably cute frum boys belt their little lungs out, even though they were singing words of Torah and T'fillah).

During the last years of his life, the Rebbe did not make his way to his usual chair which was situated on a Bimah/platform in the Southeast corner of the sanctuary; instead, a balcony was constructed, borrowed from a shtickel of the women's section. The Balcony had red velvet curtains and the men would sing and Davven downstairs until the Rebbe's secretary opened the curtains, and the Rebbe would look down at his congregants, at his singing chassidim, and occasionally smile or wave his arm.

Our teachers wanted us to be as close as possible to the Rebbe, so we all made our way, single file to the Third Shul, the women's section closest to the Rebbe's balcony. Here, it was extremely crowded and hot. Because we were little, I remember being hoisted into the upper shelves of the bookcases, and lying sideways in the fetal position with my head on a stack of Chumashim; I could see the Rebbe perfectly, and I could see the tops of the women's shaitels and beyond them and below, the teeming throngs of the jubilant men.

The place has not changed much since then. For a shul, it is remarkably ugly, scuffed manila tiled linoleum flooring, warped walnut pews, tinted glass on the balcony so the woman can follow services without being seen by the men below. Yet for me it is familiar, and comforting, and I always run into someone I know.

This year is no exception. I see one of my little sister's friends. I am looking for my Israeli cousins, who come with thousands of their peers, to spend their high holidays here. They too have come because of this place's stated holiness. I cannot located them in the hundreds of faces I can see from my vantage point.

This year I am sitting in my friend's family's seats in the Second Shul. In 770, those who pay for seats have the privilege of doing so because these seats have been passed down from generations. There will never be enough seats as demand far exceeds supply. Israelis who come back every year know return to the same 12 inch square they stood in last year. People are wedged shoulder to shoulder and the back of every pew has an extra girl precariously perched, apologetically smiling at the woman whose space she has invaded. The woman who sits at the end of our isle has commissioned a carpenter to build up a partition so that she wont get jostled by the crowd. I listen to her tell her neighbor how it was worth the expense.

There is lots of bickering. Some of the Israeli girls are extremely rude; some of the women are extremely territorial. Mostly people try not to move around too much, and keep their elbows tucked in. It's a bit like being stuck in the largest elevator in the world. The signage the fire department posts on every public building is partially obscured; I cannot see the recommended maximum capacity and try not to think about fire. There is a new LED flatscreen on one of the walls downstairs, listing times for morning services and Torah readings. I imagine someone leaning on the controls and a baseball game being turned on accidentally in the middle of the Haftorah...

Since the Rebbe's passing the shul has been in the domain of the Meshichists, the group of Lubavitchers who believe that even though we cannot see the Rebbe anymore, he is the Messiah. There was some sort of court case, in which the official organization of Chabad, Agudas Chassidey Chabad had sued their tenants, the Mishichist congregation for eviction. They didn't want the flagship synagogue of the movement controlled by quacks who still believe the Rebbe is alive (but we can't see him because he moved to a different spiritual plane). As far as I am aware, Agudas Chabad lost the case; but in any event, the Mishichists are definitely a presence. At one point (considerably past candle lighting time when it is halachicallly forbidden to affix posters to a wall), a well dressed woman entered our section and posted up a large poster with the Rebbe and Rebbetzin's photos, advertising a website called geulanovelties.com. She was yelled at by a few grandmother types, but she insisted that she couldn't remove the poster as she would be breaking shabbos, which would be, in fact, true). It was a blatant act and I was secretly cheering her on because it was so highly entertaining.

Services were irrelevant. Eventually the Shliach Tzibur started and we could sort of hear him and sort of follow. The noise was deafening, a dull roar. Most of the time, I people watched: Young mothers hoisting up their children so that they could see the Rebbe's chair, "Look! The Rebbe!" The congregants speak as if he is present.

It is now time for the Amidah. There is no room for the men to take three steps back. I see a phenomenon I've heard about called the "washing machine." It is a mosh pit, and when it's time for the three steps back, three steps forward, it's as if someone has put the crowd on spin cycle. At one point, I see a guy punch another guy in the face.

Services end. It takes about 10 minutes for the crowd to clear enough for us to exit (we were standing about 20 feet from the door).

***

Here, I feel it is appropriate to say something about what young women and men in Crown Heights look like. The contrast could not be more severe. Young men are culturally trained to appear as if they do not care about asthetics. This is a reflection of their learning of Chassidus, which places the spiritual over the materialistic. When I was in high school, my classmates and I took this to heart with our uniforms, which we purposely wore as slouchily as possible (and remember, in the 90s, grunge was still in): oversized oxford blouses (I borrowed my father's shirts), ankle length pleated skirts, pull-over sweatshirts and messy buns. The guys, whose beards are untouched, walk around with their jackets off, their shirts untucked and their shoes scuffed. On holidays, such as this past one, they clean up a bit, I think their mothers would have heart attacks if they didn't.

Anyway, forgetting the guys, its the girls and women that really deserve some focus. This is what was in this year:

Patent leather pumps in bright colors, pencil skirts, sexy ruffled blouses, big rock star hair, designer strollers, pendant necklaces, diamond tennis bracelets, platform sandals in muted leathers or animal print, printed silk dresses ala Pucci, jewel tones, 80s bubble skirts, purple leather Machzors, oversized graduated sunglasses, 40s inspired necklines and shoulders, metalic sandals with archetectural heels, pointy flats, tie shirts that V in the front with bell sleeves, red lipstick, bright and short manicure/pedicures.

I am not sure how I really feel about this. For someone who is interested but not obsessed with fashion, I was proud of their foxiness; on the other hand, the only time I had ever seen so many beautiful, beautifully dressed woman was a chance walk through Bryant Park during Fall fashion week, and it was a bit much.

Part of what bothers me is not their flamboyant sexiness, but how it fits into the Crown Heights mentality. For an outsider looking in, the combination of baby strollers and domesticity with all of this fashion smacks of desperate housewives. Add some gossip and demanding husband and a a baby or two, and all I can do is worry for these girls. The obsession with fashion wouldn't bother me as much if I didn't feel it was at the expense of their potential for self acctualization. The lipstick replaces the degrees, the pointy boots, the career, the designer name, is traded for the worldview.

Don't misunderstand--there are many accomplished, motivated young women who are investing in themselves in meaningful ways, but what I hope isn't happening is that the culture promotes outward appearances more than meaningful internal action--that even as it provides some opportunity for women to be empowered, it places a higher value on let's just say it, a woman's ability to appear sexy.

For all I could see, my friends are happily shopping, getting jewelary from their husbands, and decorating cake. They are truly happy. I just don't really relate...it just comes accross as a bit lowbrow: Consumerist, materialistic American. It's as if they have never read a newspaper and seen their lifestyle in a global context (and if they have, they dont see how their lives translate into the picture). It's a very bright and glitzy bubble.

I could go on with this thought, but I think I've made my point. In any event, I spotted these turquoise pumps on this Australian gal that are must haves, and I am definitely getting a pencil skirt for the fall.

Bus poetry

2008-08-15T19:49:00.002-04:00

Here is a selection of poems I wrote commuting to work this month on the 460 heading downtown. The actual work was written in a wonderful little black book that is full of to-do lists and wishful thinking. The pen I used has a heavy metal casing that makes my thoughts heavy (or maybe it is the other way around). I am blogging my poems so that their content will be preserved more permanently (and in a format that doesn't look like it was created by a psychotic drunk...the bus has terribly detrimental effects on handwriting).

Without further Ado:

After Refolding the Front Page

The marketplace of ideas is closed for winter
The vendors have run out of inspiration;
have locked their stalls.
I went walking through the cold deserted pavilions,
passed the pillars of ancient wisdom, long forgotten.
The warehouses of manufactured notions--
They used to churn out concepts by the trainload.
Now, the train of thought is lost.
In the alley, I saw a Dusty Blue Bin (municipal in shape and texture)--a few recycled ideas at the bottom.
But the windows of opportunity have been shattered,
the soapboxes dismantled,
and the memories are dead.
~

At Glory Market
In Model T Square
the bus driver refused to open the back door
Hallelujah
~
Haiku:

Wildflowers growing
In an empty city lot
The only new growth
~

Haiku #2:

I love this city
but without direction, Is
the map not useless?
~

On Self Awareness

2007-11-09T12:30:00.000-05:00

Back at my finest. My lithargic, crappy mood has compelled me to write. It is true, after all, that I create my best work out of melancholy.

Have I resigned myself to my usual tendancy to fall towards depression? I don't know and I don't care (an answer which is itself alarming). But I have temporarily misplaced my knack for self-inspiration.

I wear my heart on my sleeve. With saluations, no more do I respond "I am fine." I say, "I am glad you asked" and then proceed to say "my life has reverted to the singular (school), I am looking for direction, and overall, I am a bit down right now."

Mostly, people are glad I shared (because they are feeling the same way).

I used to write thought-tangents in a diary. Diaries are usually gifts from people one doesn't know very well (In high school, I would beging each entry with "Dear Susan." because "Dear Diary" was too cheesy, and the woman who gave me the journal was named Susan.) I was embarrassed to be writing down my vulnerabilities, but I would write. I would write out all of my sadness and then try to write myself some advice, that I would then ernestly try to follow.

In college I stopped writing. I lost my creativity in college. Some people find themselves, I sort of turned off. I did not do this intentionally, I just decided to devote myself to other people's writings, music and art.

And then, I came accross some introspective blogs and decided to give it a go. Its nice getting occassional feedback, but its not the same as the written form. For one, my handwriting is affected by mood. For another, I find nothing romantic or nostalgic about staring at a screen. And with the speed of the keyboard, I find my thoughts come too quickly, and they are less deliberate and thoughtful.

I don't think we can control the degree of introspection. I can't turn of my anxiety-laden stream of blather. I know they make drugs to lesson self-absorption, self-awareness, self-centerdness. But I have my pride and own every black thought. Every one of them. Of course I have cultivated each pessimistic reverie to perfection; and it was I, who fashioned the spears aimed at my heart. They are mine and I am possessive.

Still, it would be refreshing to be relieved of them every once in a while. Because once I start down that path of darkness, turning around is extremely difficult. Sometimes I wonder that I am continuing down an increasingly shadowy road, and that the lamps at the sidelines are only drawing me in deeper.

Freeganism

2007-10-21T19:33:00.001-04:00

For people who are sick of consumerism, mass produced culture, there is freeganism. Its a movement to live off the waste of a wasteful society. Its members go behind upscale supermarkets and groceries late at night with robber-gloved hands and carefully sift through stretchy black garbage bags. They are not bums or vagrants, no, some earn six figures. And they are savvy. They find the stuff that is not expired or over the due date, it is not rancid or moldy. It is just the extras they cannot sell or donate.

I would argue that foraging for food is an extreme example, but it can be enlightening to spend less. After spend-binging all summer, I want nothing more than to save my pennies, do more with less, and appreciate that which I have but have overlooked.

I go through boxes in the basement instead of shopping. I read old notebooks from high school, and the knowlege seems fresh. I found pottery I threw and forgot about, I found beauty and it cost me nothing.

I walked in the park. I went home and ate canned beans and hot dogs instead of going to starbucks. I played a board game with friends, instead of a jaunt to the movies.

I called my grandparents. I acctually had a nice few hours with my mom.

I am going back to basics and it feels wonderful.

Back again

2007-08-25T23:21:00.000-04:00

I haven't been blogging since March. Not because I didn't want to...there were times when it would have been the best option for channeling fustration or other miscellaneous feelings that creep up when one is least expecting it. But no. When blogger switched to Google, I couldn't figure out what I did with my username and password. I tried again tonight and EUREKA...bam...The right combination.

I took my writing into the real world this summer, writing news copy for a local radio station. I interviewed the governor, some state reps., a senator and a whole bunch of other news makers. I got yelled at by the mayor's press secretary for being too inquisitive and I joined a knitting circle on the local transit unit for a feature I worked on. I wrote about my city's riots in the 60s for a comemorative special, I talked to people who lost everything they had, even loved ones in the fray. I produced a few segments of the local morning public affairs show. I was able to showcase some of the issues I care about. I became hardened. Acctually not, the emotional days always took their toll, but I loved being there. I loved learning how to conduct a good interview, how to record voices with different ambient sound, to edit my tape, dump sound into a computer, run it through the equalizer, adjust my levels....

This summer I only took one graduate class. We learned how to conduct program evaluations. Mostly, it was B.S. but I think that may have been my fault, because I could have given it my all, but I only did what I had to do to get an A. My heart was elsewhere...

The research grant that I started last year was another worry. I poked at it this summer...but after a full day of news reporting, this project I admit, was conducted half-assed.

As my grandmother once told me:
If you do everything, you do it all badly.

One thing I did not do was date. There were a few close calls...but, well, maybe I live in an Ivory Tower and am unaware of my surroundings. Who knows. I have nothing more to say on the matter.

And now for some fiction:

The rain spattered metalically against the scallopped awnings outside of the coffee shop. The sound forced people inside to shout personal details about themselves a bit too loudly, as I sipped the least expensive beverage on the menu.

There would be no fall this year. The rains would rip the leaves from the trees while they were still green, and the rains would freeze on a premature night in early September. The leaves would paste the ground with a thick brown layer of organic rot which would be Mother Nature's sorry excuse of an autumn. The small crowd of humanity gathered in the coffee shop together but alone. They came to have private conversations in public because home feels too along. So they sit...some connected to WiFi with tap tap tap of fingers, some with strands of wire extending from the ears. A couple sits near the door. The are aguing and don't notice the rain that sweeps accross their table when someone enters.

Two tables sit near the side windows facing the parking lot where this group has left their cars...Big hunks of metal twarted out into the rain so that the beverages could be drunken in the company of others. Strangers.

"...and then the contractor ripped us off...because he installed these hideous gray tiling...and then never came back..."

"...and mom said, how could you?! Your father's dying..."

"...and I don't know why I am still with him anyway...all he wants is to do it...and we never go out..."

"...um, I want a tall-hot-chocolate-no-whipped-cream-extra-hot..."

"...hate that you have to pay for every stupid song, it's such a ripoff..."

pitterpatterpitterpatterpitterpatterpitterpatter

ta ta tap tap tap tappa tap

I sit in an easy chair. I am thinking about trying not to think about things I don't realy want to think about. I try distracting myself. I am anxious that the other people think I am wierd because I slurp at my steaming cup...and because I have already spilled some of the pale yellow tea down my jacket. Distraction. Distraction. Fatique. I try to picture myself casually picking up the huge squre chair I am sitting on, lifting it over my head and fitting it through the door. Would anyone notice? would anyone say anything? I smile to myself.

Hi.

What?

Hi

I look up and there is a guy standing in front of me. He's wearing jeans that are baggy in a non-fashionable way and his hair is wet and in his eyes.

Is anyone sitting here?, he inquires.

I want to say yes, but I am too lethargic to lie.

You are welcome to it.

Thanks.

He smiles. He has good teeth. He puts his wet bag down on the seat. He pivots. His shoes emit a squeeky salutation. He walks to the counter. I feel apprehensive, I consider leaving. My solitude is broken. I hear him order a concoction I do not prefer. For some reason this annoys me. Well, whatever, I don't have to talk to him.

Thanks for watching my seat...You know, it would suck to get here, and not be able to
sit in a squishy chair.

I nod. I felt the same way acctually, but whatever. He takes his bag off the chair. The water runs off as rivulets onto the scotchguard surface, he grimaces. I watch his designer coffee tilt...as...he...wipes off the chair...

(Ok goodnight all, going to bed, too tired:)

Sprung from the ashes...

2007-03-30T17:13:00.000-04:00

The windows have been thrown open, even though the air outside is still a bit chilly. The sun is casting bright light through the lace curtains onto a sparklingly, dazzling, white Formica counter top strewn with the various tools of the industrious housewife: spray cleaner, gloves, scrubbies, wipes, old rags, new ones with tags, and brackets and screws dislocated forever from some unidentified shelving unit. The air smells like lemon.

A box of condiments sits beneath the sink. That mustard on sale 4 months ago? Still with us today. Those gourmet pickled peppers in that cute little jar? Much more fun to look at then to eat. A box of cornstarch. Who keeps buying cornstarch? We never use it, and if we do, only a pinch is needed.

A single puff of dust, swept up, up into the air amid the frenzy slowly makes its way back to the tiled floor. A breezy gust sends it soaring again, winding upward in spirals. Music sounds faintly from the basement, the tinny sound coaxing microscopic particles to awaken; be swept up and away. Spring is birth and life for living! Where I live, spring is when the inanimate come to life: The stereo sings, the chairs sidestep tables, as brooms reach for the inevitable sprinkling of crumbs, crumbs, crumbs.

Today the first daffodil bloomed beneath my window.

And even though stress is still crushing us all: the papers are still due...the bills sit impatiently next to a quickly cooling cup of coffee...someone trips on a dustpan...
...this season brings forth new attitudes and hope. It feels, amid all of the chaos, like a blessed second chance.

Who are these people?

2007-03-20T20:37:00.000-04:00

That woman is not my mother. I am staring at her and she is talking to me, and I see her lips moving, but I do not hear a word she is saying. Something is off. We are standing in my parents bedroom. I am folding a pile of my father's undershirts. I hear my little sister in the background, but I know she is not my sister. She is repeating something unintelligible over and over again in a very loud dull voice. She is 11 years old and bored out of her mind. The woman who is not my mother is yelling at my sister who is talking very loudly. She is telling her to please come put her laundry away. My sister, who is not my sister, is ignoring my mother.

right now I am scrutinizing the tag inside of the undershirt I am holding. It looks like my father's except that it is a bit small. Maybe it shrunk in the wash. Maybe it belongs to my brother who is nearly as tall as my father, but much skinnier. The tag has been washed out, and I cannot tell whose it is. I spread it out over the bed so that it is lying flat, but now it looks too wide for both of them. I fold it, and toss it into my father's open underwear drawer.

My sister who is not my sister is now banging something against the wall in her bedroom. It sounds like a hard shiny plastic object, and it sounds like it is chipping paint off the wall with her continued smacking of it against the drywall which has been painted purple, pale purple. That room used to be my room, but now its not. I sleep in a room next door. At night when everyone is sleeping, I hear my father snoring. I hear my sister's breathing. Once, I woke up thinking my phone was vibrate. It really was everyone sleeping and breathing, sleeping and breathing, and the whole house was vibrating. I am a quiet sleeper.

I walk into the hallway with a pile of towels and sheets. An excuse to leave my parent's bedroom and my mother's increasingly shrill admonition of my little sister. Her voice sounds like she knows the effort is futile, like we all know that it is. I put away the dishes today, I put dirty laundry into the machine, I put clean dishes into the cabinets, I hung delicates on the line to dry. I do everything this woman tells me to do. She looks like my mother, but lately I am starting to wonder.

I am starting to wonder about a lot of things. What is reality? And how, under any circumstances, did I really construct this to be mine? How did I reach this particularly nasty stretch of dismalness? And did I ever have the control to make my life anything differently? If I worked harder, perhaps I would be elsewhere living a life? but aren't I working just about as hard as I can? and how could I be so mislead as to end up like this?! In my parents house, folding laundry because my mother told me to, doing homework about things that dint really matter to anyone in the long run, except possibly me.

I can only wonder how I allowed myself to get to such a state. I am truly baffled. I used to play this game a lot. I would imagine myself doing something amazing, then I would figure out how to do it. I wanted to invest in a mutual fund, I invested. I wanted to travel, I traveled. I wanted to learn how to play an instrument, I took lessons. I wanted an internship, I got it. Now I am working on the long haul plans: finish school, finish school, finish school finish school. I think, somewhere within my own house, I lost myself somewhere along the way.

Addiction Affliction

2007-02-12T21:59:00.001-05:00

I walked into a nightmare this past friday night. It was after the shabbat meal, around 9.40 to be precise, and I decided to drop in on some friends. We chatted, hi, how are your two beautiful munchkin children, yes, I'd like a cup of tea, and Rummikube sounds fine with me. As the evening progressed, I watched my friend's husband polish off a 40 oz bottle of bud light.

hey, I said, that's a lot of booze.

Nah, the wife assures me, he's fine. He usually finishes off a bottle and a half. At least.

Each shabbos? I inquire?

No, they laugh, thinking my comment was hilarious, every night, every night

Oh, I say. I am a bit baffled. I am not good at math and I am trying to figure out how many normal sized beers he's drinking. 6? 7? more?

so would you say you have an addiction? OH, yeah, of Course I do. Of course he does.

Do you realise that alcoholism is a disease? Well, I wouldn't quite put in that way. Yeah, he's really not that bad.

His boss at work told him he has to pick a date to quit. His boss knows about it? yeah. So you mean to tell me this is somthing that is affecting his job? That's a bit dangerous, I venture, you know, you work with heavy machinary. Oh, says wife, he's okay. He would never let it get that bad. Plus when we were dating he was drinking during the day, as well as other stuff. he gave it all up for me. now he only drinks at night-- sentimentally spoken--how sweet I say.

You know its rough quitting. I say. yes, he says, I have already warned her, I am gonna get mean. I am gonna get nasty. Ouch I say. Sounds to me like you need some support with this.

Do you not think I am man enough to quit? He says this as a challenge. He has me trapped. He is waiting for me to insult him so he can disreguard everything I have to say. Yes, I think you can handle quitting yourself, I say, but it would be so much easier if you had a support network and a professional helping you out...I mean, don't you want your quit process to be as painless for your wife as possible?

No he says. She has two choices. Either I quit on my terms, or I don't quit. That's all I am offering.

Who are you quitting for? I ask this

My words must be bullets for suddenly he is flinching.

I repeat. who are you quitting for??

He cant answer. he wont answer. he is angry at me. He starts shouting at her. I am afraid. I don't think he will hurt her, but he will make her miserable.

I say, hey, if you are quitting for her, it won't work. you have to quit for YOU, this is something you have to own.

I feel like your judging me he says. I feel as if you think you are better than me.

I say, I know this is uncomfortable, but this is a problem, and everyone is vulnerable in some way. I am telling you to get help because I care. Everyone needs help and suport once in a while, its really not as scary as you think. We talk untill 3 in the morning . I feel very sad.

Fastforward to sunday night. I have called my friend's older sister, you know, the gal who had a drug addiction and overcame it and is now an MSW who sees addicts for free through this wonderful organization. I tell her I am concerned. I tell her he is phobic of councelors and therapists. Thats normal she tells me, so its not a big deal. Have the wife call me, your friend, I am sure that she has stuff she may want to talk about . quitting is a stressful time, she will need support. I know I say. I hang up the phone. I feel empowered. I have made a constructive move. I will call my firnds and giver her the information I have learned over the internet. I will let her know about supportive services. If he won't stop, or even if he does, she can seek help without him.

I just got off the phone with my friend. I told her everything. I told her I was calling becuase i loved her and wanted to give her resources before a crisis resulted from his addictive and distructive behavior. She thanks me and brushes me off. She tells me her husband is usually not the way he waws friday night. Silly him, he had 2 glasses of wine with that beer. Bad mix, you know? I beg, please just take the number, just in case. You can be ananomous, you can get information. I can't do that. she says. I am sad. And angry. I have done all a friend can do, but this is it. I start telling her facts I hear online. that an addict has to quit and not compromise for a second, did she think he could really really cut all the booze out?? She tells me to be real. You cant be Jewish and truly quit! what about kiddush! what about purim? what about the four cups of wine at the seder?

Are you kidding? i shot back? what abourt rabbi so and so and whats his name and etc. who uses grapejuice! in public! in front of the entire congregation!!!

Deaf ears. Well, it sure has been nice talking to you, she says. call me if you want to come over for a shabbos lunch. how cheerful. how kind. Yeah, I say. I would love to. And I really wish I could.

Bye now. Bye. Click. Dial tone.

What would you do? I left a mesage on the MSW"S machine. I don't know if I should be involved, or how. Do I go back? do I go back with conditions? do I not go back until... do I tell all their other friends? do I call the boss at work? I know he has to change. My friend has to see how serious it really is. I do not think people can be coerced. I am smarted than I appear. But what is my role?

January

2007-01-27T23:45:00.000-05:00

I hear that familiar buzzing sound. It's coming from the edge of my bed, near the wall. zhsssssss zhsssssss. Without turning around, I reach back and feel around my bedspread and grab my cellphone by its antenae. I flip it open and notice its you who's called.

"Hi, " I say.

"What's goin' on?" you ask. You sound distracted. Maybe you're chewing.

"Nothing..., " I say. "just...reading, you know, the usual school stuff. Not much going on here, just the same old, same old." I stare numbly around my room. Look at the same walls, same desk, same chair. I lean back.

"hm..." you say, "that's nice."

"Yeah, I'm just trying to do some schoolwork but hey, I'm glad you called cuz I wasn't getting anywhere with it. Its just so tedius, you know? Sometimes I wonder what the hell I'm doing. I can't stand it."

"I hear you." You say. "We should get, you know, one of those cheap tickets on Spiritair. Skip town for a while...they have these great tickets to the Bahamas or Dominican Republic or something."

"Sounds like a plan," I say. "Except what would I do about this damn reading?"

"Take it with you," you suggest, "you could, like, read it on the plane or something."

"Ha." I say. I am sick of talking about these Spiritair tickets. We always talk about going somewhere exotic for a hundred bucks. Tickets offered at the wrong times, when its so busy with school you feel sick...and I mean sick, sick: physiologically, emotionally, spiritually. Not your fault. Couldn't sleep...listening to aweful political hacks on the radio. Sick so you can't emagine getting out of bed in the morning, and I mean for hours, and then when you do, you drink a coffee, than another. You used to load up on the suger, but that made you nuts, so now its just the coffee. You do some reading, write a paper on some PC crap that's all the same, another damn Powerpoint presentation. Those things suck. As soon as a professor loads of of those suckers against the whiteboard, you can just about forget having any sort of excitement about the class--its all been reduced to bullets, bullets and cheesy pictures downloaded off the internet--and you start counting slides on the handouts...only 42 more to go, hang in there...

"...you still there?," you query.

"Sorry, I was just thinking...dunno...I've been a bit spacy lately. Probably the weather."

"Ya, me too," you say, "It's disgusting outside...anyway, I called cuz I am going to Walgreens, at maybe 2 o'clock. Did you wanna come?"

"Sure," I say, "I needed some nail polish remover."

"Great, I'll beep outside in around ten," you say.

"call my cell if I don't come outside right away," I say.

"see ya."

"bye."

I snap my phone shut, throw it back on my bed. I pull away from my books and go over to my mirror. Start putting some lipstick on.

2007-01-14T14:01:00.000-05:00

The cavernous auditorium was lit only by a single row of spotlights hanging over the stage, at the other end of this imposing room. One by one, the two eighth grade classes filed in through the heavy double oak doors, our excited chatter halted by the darkness, and the stern looks from our teachers. We silently walked down the isles in chronological order, with Bracha Abrams at the helm and Rivka Weinstein, resigned, for the entirety of her childhood, to being last; last to receive her marked exams back from the teacher, last to stand in line for recess, and if the teacher was the sort who color coded our school supplies, Rivka Wienstein would find herself in the far left hand corner of the classroom where the alphabetized madness would extend to the class seating arrangement.

And so we walked down the isle. Peering up at the huge darkened ceiling, its angles reflecting our teacher's hushed voices, and the footsteps of our principals, who walked across the wooden stage up front. As our class made its way to the first two rows in the front of the auditorium, I ran my hands over the backs of the Burgundy upholstered seats, enjoying the phwap, phwap, phwap sound it made, and trying not to trip over my own two feet in a room with too little light, a sloping isle, and my ever present inability to understand new surroundings due to my inability to see properly due to the positioning of the lenses in my eyes due to a genetic disorder inherited from my dad called Marfan's Syndrome.

We reach the front of the room, and sit alphabetically, horizontal to the front of the stage (Rivka Wienstien is, for a moment, as close to the action as the rest of the students, although as this graduation rehearsal progresses, she will find to her chagrin, that she is once again at the mercy of her fate, and will receive her diploma last). The auditorium we are now seated in has been rented from the local public school because the one at our school is too small for the commencement ceremonies. It is Sunday. We will rent it again for the actual graduation, two Sundays from now.

To our left sat the truly intimidating twelfth-graders, who would be graduating during the same afternoon in June as we were, except they would be wearing navy blue caps and gowns (which caused no headaches for the mothers except to shell out a forty buck rental fee), while we would be wearing fancier than normal shabbos dresses (which caused huge whopping migrains to our mothers, because dresses were either dorky or not modest enough, or too mature for an eighth grader, or too childish. We were, after all, at the cusp of that ultra awkward stage where childhood and adulthood come crashing together in a hormonal quagmire we call adolescence). The seniors, for the most part, would be attending different seminaries in Israel the following year, while we as 9th graders, would be attending the school we were now graduating from.

Our girls school, housed the boys and girls nursery and kindergarten and all the girls classes from first through twelfth grade. In total, there were about 300 students in four wings: The preschool, elementary, middle and high schools. As a fourth grader, when I first started attending this school, the sixth graders were the intimidating ones. Especially during recess, when they wore their orange safety belts and were responsible for herding us back to our respective classrooms. If we fell out of line, they had the authority to tell on us, and so, they were as deathly frightening as the principal.

As a sixth grader, I enjoyed my satus as a "safety" and wore my orange belt with pride, but I was intimidated by the eight graders, who used deodorant and lipgloss and had each class taught by a different teacher, some of them rabbis! Now as an eighth grader, February granted me a large part in the junior high play with an entire comic scene to myself. In May I had ridden a number of frightening roller coasters on our junior high graduation trip and most of the time, I had enjoyed my classes, including math, as I was now in Mrs. B.'s remedial algebra.

But the seniors! They were old enough to get married! In fact, this year there was one girl who had an engagement ring and showed it to anyone who asked to see it. They, unfathomably, were only 4 years older, and yet, they had already passed that invisible line that made them grown ups. As eighth graders, or at least, myself in my innocence, could not comprehend their world. They were the only grade that could wear makeup to school (but only on Rosh Chodesh--the first day of the Jewish month, acknowleged by Beth Jacob's everywhere with PTA sponsored cookies, and a day where you didn't have to wear your scratchy uniform shirt). They took accounting! Studied for SATs! Could drive all the way to NY if they felt like it! And didn't have to go to class! In fact, they told the teachers when they wanted to learn, at least, this is what they told us was in store for us. Except for two seniors, Aliza and Dahlia, I was terrified of the lot of them.

But enough of my reminiscing. "FO-cus, Giiiiiirls!," Mrs. Goldstein was shouting through the microphone onstage, as she simultaneously tapped it, "LIS-ten CARE-fully! In two weeks your parents and friends will be sitting where YOU are sitting NOW! We want to do this RIGHT! and YOU, GIRLS (pause), do not want to be EMBARRASSED for not following my EASY to FOLLOW directions!! (sarcasm is now overly apparent).

"You will now LISTEN CAREFULLY. Mrs. Bell has GRACIOUSLY given up her time to PLAY the PIANO for YOUR graduation. (Mrs. Bell gives a friendly wave from the piano bench). She is NOT HERE to WASTE HER TIME! Mrs. Bell has been doing this every year for 14 YEARS!! WE WOULD appreciate it if she would come back EVERY YEAR, SO DO NOT MAKE this DIFFICULT!!"

" Everyone, we will now be PRACTICING walking down the ISLE. Will the twelfth GRADE PLEASE follow Mrs. Zacks to the BACK of the auditorium. Will the Eighth grade girls PLEASE follow Mrs. Baumberg down the other ISLE? and then, MRS. BELL? (Mrs. Bell waves again). THANK you MRS. BELL! Mrs BELL will begin playing the Alma mater. Start with your Right foot and MARCH on the BEAT! MARCH GIRLS!!"

The twelfth grade follows the directions. The Eighth grade follows the directions. We march, we line up beside the stage. We listen to the speakers names get announced: The president of the school. The Rabbi of the school. The honored parent, the valedictorian, the girls who does the most chessed (charity work), the girl who is the biggest chessed case (meaning apparent). We applaud politely at the speaches that aren't said. Rehersals are so weird, I think. I smile at my friends. We have not screwed anything up. I am terrified that I will mess something up. I am terrified that I will make a mistake. I am terrified for graduation day, but I am also terrified for today, graduation day rehearsal, where every move is scrutinized by the 8 assorted faculty.

Time for a quick break. We are allowed 15 minutes to eat a snack, go find the bathrooms in this unfamiliar building, and chat with our friends. The teachers are tired from ordering us around. Everyone is relieved that this day is almost over, all that is left is the pretend handing out of the diplomas. Then everyone can go home.

We file back to our seats for the last set of instructions. Mrs. Goldstein claps her hands together, and we fall silent, our baggies of nosh, corn chips and pretzels are stowed.

"GIRLS!! We are ALMOST DONE! Please line up beside the stage in ALPHABETICAL ORDER! Eighth grade FIRST! twelfth grade BEHIND THEM! One by one when I CALL YOUR NAME, you will walk across the stage, starting with your LEFT FOOT. You will walk across the stage until you are at the CENTER beside Mrs. ELSTEIN. You will GIVE MRS ELSTEIN a HUG (90 year old lady who gave 2 million dollars to the school) You will shake my HAND with your RIGHT HAND! You will take your DIPLOMA with your LEFT HAND, you will nod to the Rabbis and school board seated ONSTAGE! You will TAKE A FLOWER from Mrs. Baum who will be standing at the OTHER END OF THE STAGE!! you will walk down the stairs and RETURN to your SEAT!!"

Mrs. Goldstein takes a deep breath. She paces back and forth a few feet and collects herself. She then starts in a lower voice:

"If there is anything you don't understand, I will repeat myself. We need everyone to understand how to do it. Okay? If anyone has a question, please raise your hand at this point, and ask it. I am sure, that if you ask this question, you will be helping someone who is too embarrassed to raise their hand. Are their any Questions?"

I feel my heart beating. There is something that has been bothering me, no, terrifying me this entire day. I feel worried sick. My hands are cold and clammy and I feel my face flush in the dark, but I am terrified and brave. I raise my hand.

"WELL..." says Mrs. Goldstein expectantly, and all sixty pairs of eyes in the room turn towards me.

"...I, um, um have a question? I, uh... am worried that... well, this happens to me a lot?" I swallow. I start again, "Sometimes? I mix up my...left hand with my right hand? I mean, it sort of runs in my family?" (my voice is getting stronger now). "My mom has it too, but see, I am mostly a lefty? Like, to write with, or use a scissors and stuff, but I also use my right hand a lot? and so I am always getting them confused? ...and I am worried that I might mess something up? by forgetting which hand is which?"

I stare up at the stage. I am relieved to have voiced my concern.

The room is silent. Then it is too silent. I hear the faraway sound of a small radio playing a non-discernable song up in the light/sound control room. Suddenly Mrs. Goldstein is marching to the edge of the stage, her sturdy heels click click clicking across, and thump thump thump down the stage stairs, and march march march to the silent row of girls. She makes her way over to me so that we are standing face to face. She stares into my eyes and then says in a voice, which to my mind, was louder than the voice of god at Mt. Sinai:

"THIS IS YOUR RIGHT HAND!" She grabs my right hand and waves it around.

"THIS IS YOUR LEFT HAND!" She grabs my left hand and waves it around.

"...and THIS..." she pushes her bony fingers into my face, hard enough for me to fall back into my chair, "THIS, is your NOSE!" She ends triumphantly, as I make out a nervous laughter from the assembled group.

...

...

...

As I sit in my chair I have the strange sensation of floating. I am floating up, into the wide chasm that is the auditorium ceiling. I hover over the assembled groups of girls, I see the piano and the chairs and the microphone. I hear the concerned whispers of my classmates. I can hear the comments of lastnames C through G. They are terrified and sympathetic. They are my friends and they are saying things to make me feel better, and I feel myself floating down from the ceiling, and my eyelids get hotter and hotter and as I reach the bottom and begin to feel the seat's armrests, the seat's back, its springy chair, hot tears well in my eyes and fog up my glasses.

Mrs. Goldstein has now made her way back to the center of the stage. Mrs. Bell has started playing Pomp and Circumstance, and the girls start up on the stage. The music notes hit me like tomatoes: ping ping ping. I am mortified. The girl in front of me is now gone and now it is my turn.

My name is called. i walk across the stage, left foot first. i hug Mrs. Elstein. i shake Mrs. Goldstein's hand with my right hand, i pretend to take my diploma in my left hand. i nod to the empty chairs of the president of the school, the board. i pretend to take a flower from Mrs. Baum. i march down the stairs and...

... fly up the isle, past all of the empty rows in the auditorium, down the empty hallways and into the bathroom. The nervous laughter of the girls still ringing shrilly in my head. I am sobbing uncontrollably.

Everyone saw! In front of all of those imposing twelfth graders! Especially the girls who I had admired and looked up to! Aliza had been my camp counselor when I was eight, and I liked her then, mainly for her long blond pretty hair and her propensity for handing out candy, and Dahlia, who shared with me a passion for the arts (which included meetings in the bathroom during davening (praying) where we would pour over our notebooks and compare elaborate doodles).

I turned on the cold water. Took of my glasses and washed my face. Without my glasses, I saw my blotchy face and red eyes fourfold in the mirror. I tried breathing slower. A few minutes later my friends found me shaken but better. As soon as they saw me they ran over and hugged me.

"My mom's waiting outside," Devorah said looking at me, "everyone is already in the minivan. Are you okay?" My friends are all there in a huddle around me.

I nod slowly and head out into the chilly dusk.

Too PC for a Liberal like me

2007-01-10T21:35:00.000-05:00

For someone who is fairly progressive, I am fighting the urge to stick my index finger down my throat so that my toilet can become aquainted with the ingredients of today's lunch and dinner.

I have a wack-job Berkeley educated nut, highly educated, of course, highly intellectual, of course, Bonkers, and Jewish (what else?) For all of her good intentions to appear INCLUSIVE, OPENMINDED and LIBERAL, she does so with the grace of a stampeding herd of barnyard animals:

Here are a few morsels of her lack of judgement:

Prof: ...and what is your name? (kindly asked to Korean girl siting sweetly behind me).

Korean Girl: ...oh, yes! its....Kelly

Blond-headed Shiksa: OH!!! MY NAME IS ALSO KELLY! HEEHEE (snickers to herself...then directs to Korean Kelly...) ...you don't LOOK like a Kelly!!

Prof: ...Well, then... we can't have two people in this class named Kelly. (to shiksa--Whats your middle name?

Shiksa Kelly: Its CHRISTINA!! (giggle)

Prof: (directed at Korean Kelly) So do you have a second name??

Korean Kelly: um...yes (sheepishly) ....but no one uses it except my parents... its , well, you wont be able to pronounce it. Its Eun-Jong

Prof: OOOOOH, Thats WONDERFUL!!! what a LOVELY name!!! I have NO IDEA why you don't use it! If I had a name like that, I would DEFINATELY use it!

Chorus of Lemmings ie, other studnets in the class: Oh yes! What a terrific name! how beautiful! Its...sooo....unique! WOW! Fantastic!! HOW UNUSUAL!

Prof: I will call you U-jong!!!

Korean Kelly: ...um, its... Eun-jong

Prof: OOOOOOH! I see!!!! U-JOng

Korean Kelly: (face red like a tomato) Its Okay if you call me Kelly, Really. I would prefer it.

Prof: NO!! I am going to practice until I get it right!!! U-jong, RIGHT??? (moving closer to Eun-Jong/Kelly's desk) am I saying it right?? is it ooon-jong? you-Jong? u-jong?? Maybe...hm. (big smile appears on prof face. If she were a cartoon, a lightabulb icon would appear over her head) can I just call you JONG?? (big tooty grin--coffee stained teeth, bad breath, you name it-- a lot of gums there, in that smile)

Korean Kelly: um...sure! (under breath) ...thats my mom's name but its fine. (she shakes her head and repeats) its fine, its fine

prof: Well, JONG!!!! (she settles her ample rear back on the desk) we are so very glad, so very FORTUNATE! ...to have you in this class!

(at which point, she turns her wild-eyed mug towards another student, and class resumes at its agonizing pace)
---------

Don't Read!!!!

2007-01-02T19:29:00.000-05:00

Just kidding. I really want you to read this:

I have been tagged, so now I am IT. I will proceed to run breathlessly untill I catch you, but hey, no wait!...I've been e-tagged. oops, I have been requested to list 6 wierd things about myself. That's easy! but I prefer to call it my lovely ecentricities:

1) Sometimes I go with my mom to Value Villiage, this massive thrift store where the clothing is organized by color. We always beeline straight for the old records because we know we invariably will find something so hysterical that we will be clutching each other, doubled over and laughing so hard we cannot breath. Whether its an album of H. Goldbeims 16 peice orchestra doing polka style Christmas music, or some crooners who's music is played exclusively in nursing homes? And the pitures of the homo sapians with bad bad BAD hair!! Man, we've come out of the dark age!!

2) I like pickled herring, and I could eat it any time of the day or night. Sometimes when I am up studying for finals and I need some protein, I head straight for Ma Cohen's herring in wine sause. MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!

3) I have social anxiety disorder. My friends and family scoff. but they do not see physiologicallly whats going on. The cold sweat, increased heartbeat, and slightly unfocused vision. Then I chill out and get over it...alright, so its not a disorder. but its just uncomfortable.

4) When I am super nervous about something, like speaking in public, or a massive exam, I will often have a nigthmare the night before. Usually they are terrifying: I am being chased down and killed by Nazis or terrorists. Then I wake up, figure it out, and go back to sleep. My last exam before completing my Bachelors 2 weeks ago, I dreamed that Sasha Cohen got punched in the head in a bar, and died. My friend called me up to tell me to run, because the cops were after me. someone had told them I had killed him. The funny thing is, I was terrified in the dream, and when I woke up, the alarm clock had gone off and the news was playing and they were talking about the war in Iraq. I couldnt figure out if they had mentioned that Sasha Cohen had acctually been killed, so I listen to the news for 10 minutes hoping the story wouldnt repeat itself. It didn't.

5) I get smashed after 2 lechaims.

6) When walking past a chain link fence, I have to run my hand or umbrella or whatever accross it, to get that satisfying sound. ..........chingchingchingchingchingchingchingching....

If anyone can tell me how to list all my favorite blogs along th e side of my blog, that would be awesome. equally amazing, woudl be to figure out how to insert photos and links. Then I could send along the wackiness elaborated on above.

drama

2006-12-30T23:38:00.000-05:00

Two little girls.

Do I have the stamina to write of a tragedy as it occurs? of heartbreak as the figurative organ is cut, falters, and pumps onward? I am the war photographer who takes her pictures as her subjects die: I am present, yet I cannot stop the carnage.

I am speaking of a bittersweet vacation. I have just returned from a visit to my sister's house on the west coast. I just returned from the drugstore with my photographs of the two of us, smiling into the sun, into the freeze-framed moment, captured on film. I miss her so much it hurts.

Here I stop and rub my eyes. I am so fatigued. I am tired by the tragedy we call life and the lives of the people we love.

when I was in seminary, my sister left home. She was 16 years old and brave. She was 16 years old and stupid. She was 16 years old and miserable. She was 16 years old and, she was my sister, and she left home.

She left home because it stopped feeling like home. She left to find home.

At seminary, abroad, I would lie awake at night, my roommate and I with our duel insomnia--our shared homesickness and giddyness of being up at 2am--and so we talked about our childhood--not so distant past (and now that I think of it, an extention of the present). A few timezones away, and you tend to remember the funny sentimental things, school projects, pranks, our parents mannerisms, the odd kid in the class who smashed bees and got a kick out of it, the sleepwalking sibling, the time we collected lightning bugs and let them out indoors. Our stories were amusing, and enlightening because we now understood our parents from a distence. We had objectivity, we could see our past from a vantage point of "being-0ut-on-our-own-and-quasi-independant."

Sharing those stories, I appreciated my upringing more than ever. My folks had given me the best of every world, exposed us to beauty, culture, joy and quirkyness. Life was interesting. Freedom was granted, they trusted us to do the right thing, and we respected what they did for us and everyone was happy, at least, most of the time.

----------
There were two puppies in a yard. Both had collars, both had retractible leads. One puppy frolicked in the yard, ate grass, chased its tail, and occassionally ran until the lead was stretched to the limitations of its tauntness. The other puppy pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled, until the lead snapped one day. The puppy ran accross the street, dodging cars. Then it sat on the neighbors lawn and chased its tail, chewed grass and then turned around to stare at the old yard with big sad eyes. It then went further down along the street.
_______

The hope is that all children grow up and become adults. Parents are happy when their children choose a lifestyle that is based on values taught: but even then, the severing of the umbilical chord is always traumatic. Visiting my sister, I saw that the chord wasn't severed all the way: there were a few strands of tissue: the break wasn't clean, but torn and shredded, like a flower with a fibrous stem. You twist and pull the hearty stem from its firm root system, and the effort coats your hands in pale green sticky juice. The stem of the beautiful flower is a mucky mess of strands.

As we were saying goodbye at the airport I had one blessing for her. That the spats she has with my parents when she is 25, 30 and 45 are not the same reoccuring themes of the fights we have as 16 year olds. We need to move on, so that our disagreements can mature. It's a bleak way of looking at reconciliation: forgive and forget so that we may fight over other things? Ah, yes. see, that would be utopian--it would allow true freedom for my sister, it would allow our family to more on from what is now a four year struggle.

This trip was bittersweet. I saw my sister's fierce need to live her life as she so chooses. I see my parents expectations from her (and expectations never go away, especially when your child is your reason for living, your demigod). And like two bullets in the sky, it will be a far cry for these two views to meet somewhere in the middle.

Coming home, I asked my mother to make the trip to see my sister. She wont go. My mother's need for self preservation, is, well, she claims she is too weak for this trip, it would only make things worse. I understand.

In my sister's home, I begged her to understand my parents. Their expectations were too high, they tried to do what they thought was best, they didn't hate her by raising her in the lifestyle they did, they were concerned for her safety, her health, her welbeing. There are some things she can't forgive them for. this too, I understand.

Life is so short, you know? At the end of the day, can we become strong enough people to face the one's we love who have hurt us? I fear this wound can never be healed...

...I also feel arrogant and aloof by believing that this all can be easily solved, that this "situation" can go away. I want to stamp my foot and shout, "STOP it, already, you are all just being so SILLY!"

But I am me, and they are they, and this is between them. I can only be the cheerleader, the rah rah girl with the high kicking legs and Crest-white smile, the varsity lettered jacket, the supporter of the brave, ...and believe me, my pom poms are in my back pocket, I can take them out at any moment

2006-12-10T23:31:00.000-05:00

The summer I was eight. There is only one photograph taken of me that summer, and it was not by my mother. 15 years ago our family had nine minus two equals seven. One dad, one mom and 5 sisters. All of those little girls; lined up along the wall, a sure hand marking our height with a chewed on pencil, and connecting those dashes--a perfect staircase family, one, two, three, four, five little girls, one exhausted mother.

In that photograph I stand squinting at the camera through large plastic eyeglasses. Pink, because I was a girl, and because the red made me look terrible. The pink weren't much of a step up. Plastic, so they would last a few falls. That summer, like every summer, I had splinters in my fingers, gravel in my knees from a breathless game of tag, or a climb up the old crabapple tree. I squint at the camera and my stance is rigid. Do I stand with arms stiffly at my sides out of fear of falling off my perch? or was it because I hated to have my picture taken?

Someone else's mother took that photo. H's mother who had a backyard daycamp, or maybe one of H's sisters watched us play in the kiddie pool for a few hours, or taught us how to make shimmering bubbles out of drinking straws and twisties fixed to the end, bent into an O. The perch was another homemade invention. In my neighborhood, being a cool kid meant having a parent with brainy ideas. Ideas that wuold hold our interest for a few hours. Like the invention I was stiffly standing on in that single photograph--a jumble of tires, a snake of cables holding them together--and oh, how wonderful, to clambor up to the top and tower above your playmates. One could chant repetitively, "I'm the king of the castle! (we couldn't finish the phrase "...and you're the dirty rascal!" because it was a meanie comment and someone would inevitably tell on you, at which point you would have to give up your lofty throne of glory)

If not for that picture, I would not remember that summer at all. Summers at home, those agonizingly long months dragged on endlessly. My parents did not believe they were there to entertain us. Boredom, they felt, forced children to be inventive and creative. But, oh, the boredom. When I shut my eyes and think of summer, I feel the dead heat, hear the fly's agonizing tsssszz against the back screen door, and the feeling of time stopped still.

We were inventive. We made musical instruments out of boards sanded, with nails pounded in, and rubber bands stretched accross those nails... One day, I made a birdfeeder out of a diper wipe container, wood, and bent wires. Dangerous? of course! but a smashed thumb is nothing when the results are so satisfying! We had a trampoline in the backyard, and and endless supply of sidewalk chalk...we would draw a gigantic gameboard accross the driveway, create a die out of an old box, and we ourselves were the gamepieces. We made air popped popcorn, and sour lemonade--the sugar always would sink to the bottom.

We walked to the library across the street; we had a thirty book limit (thirty books!) The library was always intimidating. Sure, I loved sweet Mrs. B. and the hard, green shag carpet covered couches. You could get styrofoam popcorn and feed it to the paper mache pig that was seated in a rocket ship above the bookcases (he's still there!). Or get a drink from the icy-cold drinking fountain; the water was so cold! freezing! I liked books that came in series: The boxcar children, little house on the praries, all of a kind family, the babysitters' club, barenstein bears, dr. suess, james stevenson, isaac b singer's short stories, shel silverstien's poems, make way for ducklings? blueberries for sal? paul bunion? where's waldo? so many to read! so little time! The summer I was 10 I correctly guessed all the items by feeling them through a slot in a shoebox, a twig, a chicken bone (ew, gross) a peice of lego. I won a $10 gift certificate to toys r us.

Lugging a stack of books to the counter was terrifying. What if you had a lost book, or even worse, a damaged book on your record? We had a secret name for the women at the desk: The eggplant lady. In the old days, we had no computers. Every book had a pocket, and in every pocket went a blue slip with the due date, and a white card that read, "please return this item with this card in the pocket. failure to do so will result in a $1 fine". Later, My mother would collect those white cards as we walked in the door and save them in her purse until the books went back.

My sisters liked reading outside, under the crabapple, lying on a blanket. I liked reading in bed. One could always enter another world; when I read I heard nothing, saw nothing but the words in front of me, was a million miles away.

Remember that feeling of being put to bed when it was still light outside? The nights were long, and hot, but the days were neverending. Twilight in the summer lasted for eternity, especially when you were thirsty. My dad used to tell us these long boring parsha stories (why did bedtime stories invoke such a distinctive monotone?). My mother, when she tucked us in the evenings, would created wonderfully strange tales of talking trees and gorrillas and clowns. Sometimes they were scary--I remember one character, the meatball man--a collossal strand of spaggetti with meatballs for eyes and wide gaping mouth--that terrified me for a month, so much so, that I had to leave the closet light on.

I don't know if you have ever heard Bill Cosby's bedtime ruitine of his childhood in Philly. Growing up, we always shared a room with a sibling, and a menagerie of stuffed animals (all Kosher animals...Toasty, the first traif animal to enter our residence, was a gift to a child post-surgery. I guess when it came to life and death matters, my folks caved in a bit on that one!). My favorite was a graying sheep with matted fur that had not sustained the 40 million washings she/he endured all that well. If you smashed his little snout in, he/she looked like a boy in my class (or so I thought at the time!).

2006-12-06T17:13:00.000-05:00

One of my good, no great, friends recently read my blog, and emailed me this as a response.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

duct tape my soul down.
and then I shall be free.
as an animal in the jungle.
pick my own and eat it too.
life and liberty .

Duct tape her shut.
and I will philosophize and expound.
on a freedom, which knew no bounds.
Duct tape that soulful voice
and then I 'll sit with pride
I wont be always looking back
at my granparents potato sack.

duct tape it close,
let her suffer in silence
and I can order my cup of tea
and then drink it real heartily.

and even if her voice cannot be heard
she trembles so soft
duct tape her still.
with her my life is hancuffed
my dreams are stifled and chilled.

quiet that consience
her who makes me think
her who causes me shame and guilt
about one drop of ink.

Who fathered such a child?
born of stubborn ways.
finds me and then want to tame,
a man that grew so wild..

fated from the start-
am I meant to be that one,
the porter
with his baggage .
from the mind and back again
deep into the heart.

I want the duct tape - the boy cries
I cannot live without,
I cannot play a life long tug of war
with this devil called DOUBT.

but the aged men with beard a greying,
stroking it ever so,
have seen men come and seen them go,
speaking of ...
and have seen wars come and seen wars go
but the art is here.
talking of michelangelo.
The art is here,
it needs contrast, shades of sort, a pain of some type
a soul that witnessed depth and breadth,
that heard the songs that played
a soul that tasted tears of love and laughter of the pain.
a soul, split and ever torn,
cryptic and rosy with one too many thorns.

More of utter sameness

2006-12-04T22:59:00.000-05:00

Too often I look at myself and utter: Bah HUMBUG! Sometimes its more like, "Giiiirl, whatchoo upto?" Occassionally I mumble, "not bad," but usually its more of a '"Yikes, watchit"

Today was bad. Another friend got engaged. woohoo. ...friend two went on sour date, friend three, friend four...everyone is busy busy busy.

and me? my lovelife is too odd to elaborate. Odd it is, and that always makes for a good story, but hey, 90% of my readers are my best friends, and you know enough about me, right?

Why not grab the backspace button with right pinky, and hold??? damn, I wish I could do that in the real world.

I read the paper every morning, and some days the front page makes sense-the politics, people, press...pressure...punditry...pandemic...phew.
some days I wish the world would stop spinning so I can catch my breath.

I developed some pictures from thanksgiving weekend. I look beautiful, and so do everyone else in the pics. Its amazing how good we look when we feel good. So don't look right now. I'm feeling a bit shitty.

Man of my dreams, can you come by tonight on your white stallion and take me out for coffee? we can leave the horse outside and tumble into starbucks, order gingerbread lattes and philosophise existentially.

Or, we can look into each others' eyes, and (cough)....ooops. didn't mean to scare you, dear reader

I think I really need to end this post. Can't believe this is all I have to write after a month...maybe I just should have waited.

Who is Sasha Cohen?

2006-11-10T11:51:00.000-05:00

Last week I went to see the new movie "Borat" with some friends at one of our local cinemas. We had to wait 3 shows in: it was sold out, and sold out, and sold out. When we sat down at 10:30pm, every seat was filled(and by a suprising number of orthodox Jews). How was it? It was outrageous and yes, I laughed my head off. It was gross; I put my hands over my face--but continued watching through my fingers. No one near me vomited during that scene. you know which one I'm talking about, but I sort of wished someone had, because it would have validated some things for me, but whatever.

The thing is with Sasha B. Cohen, some of the tears of laughter are really tears of pain. You laugh at the anti semitic jokes because you see the irony. Yet you are aware of the people sitting a few rows behind you who haven't a clue--their bigotry is as apparant as your diet coke in the cupholder in your armrest.

I know Jews who act like Sasha Cohen, and I think a lot of Jews identify with what he does. Call it chutzpah or madness--they show the world for what it really is--they bring out humanity in its best and worse forms, and Sasha can do it better than anyone. When he enters a bar in the deep American South and performs an open mike song titled, "Throw the Jews Down the Well." you are not outraged by him, but of his audience, who gleefully sings along.

What propels his masochistic behavior? One wonders how he stays in character as his target/victim blandly utters a brutal remark against some minority group. Here is where you wonder about his sanity.

I have a relative who passed away a few years ago from colon cancer. When he received his dire prognosis from the doctor, he flew to Israel for inspiration? closure? Before he left for his trip, he made a bet with a friend that he would go to Ramalah and try to get someone to give him a cuban cigar. The intifada was just starting then. I remember him telling the story with a mixed sense of awe and revulsion. His audacity was propelled by grief and dispare--and by a sense of rage and fustration against what he believed to be a people who condone suicide bombers and terrorism agains Israel. He went to Ramalah to find out why, what and how. He wanted to see the faces of those who wish he were dead.

Sasha Cohen gives us the same sense of catharism. He is the Jew who laughes at non-Jews laughing at Jews. It's painfully funny. It hurts, but it's a release.

Musings on Anti Semitism

2006-11-06T01:12:00.000-05:00

Recently, a number of unrelated snarky events have linked themselves into a chain of thought relating to Aunti Semitism. I didn't know we were related, but I guess we are.

Thing One:
Attending the Holocaust Memorial Annual dinner. I went with a few friends because someone sponsored at table for Hillel studnets. It was unfortunatly, stuffy, and boring. Hardly meaningful. If there hadn't been an open bar, we never would have made it to the keynote address. The problem with having a big stuffy dinner commemorating the holocausts, is that you are having a big, stuffy dinner rememboring the holocaust. If that doesn't make your skin crawl, I'm not sure what will. Maybe incident 2:

Incident Two:
I joined students for Israel because on campus there has been an unfortunate string of anti-israel demonstrations, chalkings, and pamphleting calling for the distruction of Israel, that my university should stop supporting Israeli interests, that Jews are anti-semetic and White Supremecists, just aweful, hateful lies. Its been very uncomfortable--unsettling to walk to your classes every day and have to step over some cheerful sidewalk chalking calling for the destruction of the state of Israel. I am not an ardent Zionist, but I know when I am experiencing hate: It;s a sick horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach. The student group that I am a part of hands out fact sheets, designs showcases and attends counterrallies, and we are also bringing out a speaker. Its all a lot of work, but it is paying off. We have had positive press. We are PC and positive and don't do counterattacks because we see our position as that of educators, and promotion of tolerance (at least on campus). The hate ebbs and flows: two weeks ago: nothing. Last week two guys dressed as Israeli soldiers and carrying cardboard machine guns staged a 'checkpoint at the security fence.' Studnets going into the Undergraduate Library were roughed up and harrassed to show how terrible it is to be a Palistinian trying to get into Israel. I don't think they faced any suicide bombers trying to blow them up, although, there may have been, it just didn't seem that way.

Incident 3:
Went to see Borak last night with friends. Even after a few beers, somethings remained unfunny. Anyway, dumb offensive movie that made me laugh. Also made me feel like vomiting becuase its a bit, well, aweful. But at least its supposed to be all in good fun. And then, becuase it's Ali G. It just isn't. Today I watched every Ali G I hadnt seen yet, on youtube.com--He acts anti semetic (he is of course a Jew) but the response he gets from true anti semites who truly believe he is a kindred spirit, are acctually very unsettling. After watching afew episondes of southerners laughing about Jews being drowned in the well, you start to think that its all hopeless. What they tought you in Hebrew school is true. They do hate you.

Wierd ending:
I was in Steve and Barry's today and saw a tee shirt on the rack that had fake Hebrew Lettering that read "Everybody Loves a Jewish Girl." I don't know why they were selling them. I asked the Muslim clerk at the counter if they were a popular item, and she said no. I said, "small market, ay?" I decided to buy it for 7 bucks. As I was paying she quieries, "Your Jewish, Right?"

"No ma'am. I'm Japanese."

Predictions

2006-11-03T00:50:00.000-05:00

November 7th is around the corner, and that is the day I anticipate because I will be able to watch TV without having to vomit during those wretched political attack ads. Joy of free-speech-laws-we-write-'em-we-abuse-em congressional-hot air balloon muckheads. And they are ALL guilty Elephants and Asses alike--at the end of the day, they all leave behind a trail of steaming, foul smelling waste throughout the national media.

phew. what a stench.

My biggest fear is this: If the Democrats take control of the House (and maybe the Senate, but I cant wager on that one), than they will have two years before the next presidential election to attempt to put the various shambled pieces of our country back together again. This can only be partially accomplished because they still have to contend with a Republican White House, and so, the damage will occur more slowly, and compromises will leave everyone with a bad taste in their mouths, and overall, the Democrats will only be able to bring about half assed attempts, and then, come November 2008, the Republicans can blame Democrats for lack of progress. Worst case scenario--we elect another Republican into the Oval Office.

If we win enough seats we will be held accountable for fixing the mess created over the last 6 years. The American people will let the Dems in as a Courtesy: not because they like them, but because they are a bit miffed with Republicans. They are sick of Foley, Abramoff, War on Terror and lack of job security. They might even feel that Bush is not the guy you'd imagine fishing with on a Sunday afternoon. Likability? Ha. So the Dems will get elected, but they will be scrutinized. We will have to recreate Iraq into a Utopia, Reconstruct social security, the health care system, education, medicare, the environment? ...Its a never ending mess and there is only room for widespread disappointment. And we will only have two years to fix it--under a Republican White House.

----
Happy Voting---and I hope you do

Baseball is Ballet

2006-10-20T00:38:00.000-04:00

I love baseball because my hometeam is going to the World Series. But I love baseball because its a beautiful thing to watch. Like ballet. Just watch a pitcher throw a perfect curveball, the batter swiiiiing, and WHACK! The sound resonates around the stadium, and the crowd responds. The batter sliiiides into first, steals sec0nd. The outfielder leaps--higher than a basketball champion. His glove reaching upwards....the camera shows: he touches the sky.

Watching baseball means holding your breath, inward, inward, and exhaling in relief. Yes, he made it. Peanuts, crackerjacks, forgotton, misplaced, dropped. Watching baseball means screwing up your face, his face, the pitcher's before he winds up over his shoulder, twist, release. Teeth grinding. You wait.

You pray and bargain with god. The stands are filled with saints and angels. Does god listen? Does he care who wins this game tonight? or is He watching the football game? Oh but the prayers. If only they prayed like this always, He says.

Nothing comes easy. Joy is earned.

Takes a while, this game, doesn't it? Oh, but the payoff. When you win... oh, joy! to win! Pure unadulturated glee, backslapping, secret handshaking champaign colored madness. Diamond spins dizzyingly as teammates embrace, circling a hero. Ahhh. Nothing like it.

Losing is numbing--fans sit as rain falls into the stadium, slides down the stands--as fans sit their tears slide down their faces. Long game if your team lost. Especially when it rains. When we all have ADD, baseball will be obsolete. But for now, there are still the fortunate few who associate stress, tension, and prolonged focus with entertainment. Long live this American pastime.

2006-10-09T00:36:00.000-04:00

Kainahorah--I should change this all to "The Blathering Idiot" I admit, while this blog often appears directionless (you know you are desperate when you start posting undergrad papers), well, anyway, I am just making excuses for not having a 'themed blog." one in which all postings follow a coherant stream of thought. Its not that I am a bad writer, its just that my focus is split in a million different directions, and it is nearly impossible for me to focus on anything. For example, right now I am looking at airline tickets, not brushing my teeth and going to bed, not completed my physics homework and writing a to-do list for tomorrow. You think not doing things make me busier? well, ah , yes, they do because my focus is diverted by thoughts that I am not accomplishing those very things. I am in a happy and sometimes not so happy state of freakout becuase I am getting my BA/BPA at the end of thissememster. and then the inevitable, "now what?" Too tired to go over options again. Know what I will do anyway.

2006-10-06T01:07:00.000-04:00

Yay! I knew it would happen eventually, but I never could have predicted the WONDERFUL timing! The RIGHT wing of the political seesaw is now gouging itselfinto the ground with the PERFECT sex scandal. I always always knew that that would be t he way to do these high and mighty do gooders in. Take that, suckas!! Because no one is that perfect, dude, I dont care how evangelical-bible thumping=rightious-gun toting you are, heck, I don't care that you are a flag waving patriotic lean mean political machine. At the end of the day, ya still have the slobs, criminals, perverse nutjobs like the rest of humanity. And while the Grand Ol' Party is known for its old boy, back slapping, pork barrelling, mudslinging scheming, we now have a step down the old step ladder, ego deflating SCANDAL which does a very nice job of shedding light on reality. Cuz face it, my dear Repubs, life aint no utopia-and if it seems to good to be true, than it probably is. And that goes for Iraq as well.

Marriage Policy and its Suprising Support from the Left

2006-10-04T18:50:00.000-04:00

I take responsibility for what I have written below:

“Is marriage a public good that government can simply choose to ignore, or is it something that is a public good that we should cease to be neutral on and try to, in fact, encourage support and enhance as something that is beneficial to children?”
-Senator R. Santorum
I. Overview:
The development of public policy is in many instances, the initial source of governmental impacts on our lives. Governmental policy decisions change the course of action for society as an aggregate of individual choices in response to a given policy. Yet, policy is never created in a vacuum; it is profoundly influenced by changing societal norms and environmental effects. Consequently, the formation of public policy is a dynamic process because people whose perceptions change over time shape it. (Marshall and Sawhill, 2004 p.109) This phenomenon is especially obvious when looking at changes in American society over the later part of the last century. The feminist and civil rights movements affected the nature of individual identity within the home, and the way society began to reshape its definition of personal relationships. Family, which acts as the primary domain of socialization, was redefined as women rejoined the workforce and the use of contraceptives became more widespread. Women began getting married and having children later in life, and more women were having children outside the framework of marriage. (Casper and Bianchi, 2002 pp. 4-6)
Today, single motherhood is widely accepted; its prevalence in communities and the media have reduced its social stigma. Yet, it is widely recognized that children born into two-parent homes are better off than are their counterparts in single-parent households. (Fein, et al, 2003 see intro; Moynahan, et all 2004 p.12) Recently, the federal government has sought to aid children and strengthen families by focusing on improving relationships amongst disadvantaged parents. Support for programs to help disadvantaged individuals through relationship building and marriage promotion initiatives has come surprisingly from both politically conservative and liberal groups who have taken note of the benefits associated with being married.

Benefits of Marriage:
Children—Between the years 1960 and 1998, the number of children residing with married parents declined from 91 to 73 percent. (Casper and Bianchi, 2002 p.11) Studies show that children and adolescents who grow up in single female-headed households are at an increased risk of developing at a slower rate both socially and emotionally. They are more likely to drop out of school, have limited career opportunities, and be unmarried parents themselves. (Amato, 2001, McLanahan 1994, 1997 see in Fein et al, 2002 intro) These findings do not show that children who grow up in single parent households will necessarily be worst off, only that a majority of children who experience the above problems come from single parent families. For example, children who live in single female headed households ‘score lower on measures of academic achievement than their peers in two-parent families,’ and ‘one-third of a standard deviation lower than their counterparts in two-parent families on mathematics and science tests.’ Children under the age of 15 from single-parent households are 70 percent more likely to have a conviction and 28 percent more likely to have smoked marijuana than children from two-parent households. (Sigle-Rushton and McLanahan, 2004 pp. 120-121, 123) Statistics like these, signal to policy makers that the public sphere to which government has huge influence is profoundly affected by the private sphere, and that benefits seen within the family unit affect society as a whole.
Why are children reared in two-parent homes better off? The reasons are complex but often attributed to involvement of the father. The impact fathers have on their children is more than just the input of another adult. Since the 1960s, married fathers have spent increasingly longer time interacting with their children. As women rejoined the workforce, married fathers increased time with children. In 1960, they spent 2.8 hours per day with their children. By 1998, the number of hours increased to 3.8 hours a day. While working mothers spend less than half of the time with their children as they did previously, overall quality time has remained stable. Another study conducted by Sandberg and Hoffert show that between 1981-1997, time spent with one parent remained relatively stable but with two parent families, the time children spent with either parent increased, even with mothers’ increased opportunities for employment (Casper and Bianchi, 2002 p.141-143)
Children living with one parent often have fewer resources devoted to them. This affects children with divorced parents, but more so with children born to unmarried mothers where a father’s social and economic commitment to the family is reduced. Furthermore, the mother often has to spend more time in the workforce, reducing the experience of positive interaction with her child(ren). (Jacobsen, 2002 pp.170-171) In 1964, 30 percent of children living in poverty were born to unwed mothers. Since the 1970s, the number has remained relatively stable at 60 percent. Public assistance for unwed mothers in the United States has remained below levels in other countries because the public believe that increased support will act as an incentive for more women to have their children out of wedlock. Because of this, more children are raised in poverty, further reducing their chances of escaping poverty as adu(Elwood and Jenks, 2004 pp.26-27)
Adults—Lower rates of marriage have been occurring since the 1960s as cohabitation, divorce and other non-traditional households have become more widespread. (Casper and Bianchi, 2002, pp.2-13) These trends are often viewed in terms of economic theory. Prior to this time, marriage was viewed as a necessary and unavoidable part of life; it provided the only economically viable context for most people. (Jacobsen 1998 p.67) As women returned to work and social movements changed widely held beliefs regarding gender roles, short-term economic costs and benefits have increasingly been the focus of individuals considering marriage. (Becker, 1991 p.26)
Yet, census data indicates that the economic benefits of marriage are today just as great, giving further emphasis to the argument for marriage. The income bracket of individuals making between $40,000 and $50,000 a year includes the highest number of husbands. The bracket between $30,000 and $40,000 includes the highest numbers of unmarried partners. Couples who are married comprise the majority of those who earn >$75,000. For “other family groups” the income bracket with the highest number of people is $10,000. (Salt Lake Tribune, Ed)
Startlingly, married fathers are better off than are their counterparts. Never married single fathers are more likely than married, divorced or separated fathers to have dropped out of high school. Census data show that the economic situation of unwed fathers parallels that of unwed mothers: Less than 60 percent of unwed fathers work full time and fewer than one in ten works in a professional or managerial occupation. Men who have been married are better educated, have higher median incomes, and are more likely to be employed full time. The gap between household income between married and unmarried fathers is increasing as wives are gradually earning better and more comparable wages. Additionally, single fathers contribute eighty-four percent of family income, while married fathers contribute sixty-six percent. (Casper and Bianchi, 2002 pp.133-137) Policy makers and social scientists have understood that life in our society is more manageable when responsibilities are shared between two adults. Individuals who are married are more likely to have longer lives, better health, less violence, less alcohol abuse and less poverty. (Salt Lake Tribune, Ed.)

II. General Trends
There is strong evidence that people within the United States want, and support marriage. eighty-five percent marry at least once, and 75 percent marry again within four years of divorce. (Elwood and Jencks, 2001) 53 percent of all households within the United States consist of a married couple.[1] Over the last decade, traditional family rates—those containing a married couple and their children—have remained stable at approximately 25 percent of all households. (Salt Lake Tribune, Ed) What has changed most dramatically since the 1950s, is who gets married and when.
Elwood and Jencks evaluate socio-economic status of women in terms of education: While marriage rates have decreased for the nation as a whole, the disparity between women in the highest and lowest thirds of educational attainment show that out-of-marriage birth is a phenomenon drastically skewed to the lowest third. These rates can be viewed in the context of when women marry. In the 1940s for women in the highest third of educational levels, 79 percent were married by the age of 25, but only 54 percent of women born between 1960-64. For women in the lowest third of educational attainment, 88 percent of the 1940-44 cohort were married by the age of 25, while 69 percent of the 1960-64 cohort were married. By the age of 35, marriage rates for both cohorts converge for both lower and higher educational levels. (2001, chapter 1)
In terms of childbirth for the lowest third of educational attainment, one in three women has had a pre-marital birth compared with one in ten for women at the highest third of educational attainment. This combination of statistics indicate that women of low and high educational attainment are equally likely to be married by the age of 35, but women with lower levels of education are more likely to have children before they marry. (Ibid; Fein, et all 2003, intro; Moynahan, et al, 2004 pp.38-40) The ramifications of these trends are great. Those who are the most unequipped financially and socially to have children are doing so earlier. It seems that young urban women, often lacking adequate education, skills and stability are further perpetuating these trends by having children in unstable circumstances. Amongst black women, unmarried births are higher than whites with the same levels of education. (Moynahan, et al, 2004 p.41)
The demographics show that out of wedlock teen birth has declined 26 percent since 1991. This has been attributed to a number of factors, including but not limited to: higher use of and better contraceptives, increased knowledge about sexually transmitted diseases, welfare reforms affecting child benefits and work requirements, abstinence, and a better economy. (Marshall and Sawhill, 2004 pp. 206-207) Still there are more unwed teen mothers in the United States than in any other country. (Sigle-Rushton and McLanahan, 2004 p.116)
More typical within the United States; however, are out of wedlock children being born to women in their mid-twenties. Most of these women do not reside with their child(ren)’s father but are cohabiting with another man. Most are poor and are receiving welfare support. Additionally, Edin and Kefalas note that lifetime fertility rates for women with less than a high school diploma and those with a college degree is similar, averaging close to two children. (2005, p. 206) The preconceived notion that the typical welfare mom has five or six children by multiple men is false. The similarities for numbers of children born across levels of educational attainment by the mother, show that poor women do not have farfetched desires with regards to motherhood. Yet the context of their childbearing is perceived as irrational, considering their poor economic context. Why are significant numbers of disadvantaged women having children in such circumstances?

What Marriage Means
Perceptions of marriage have changed for many Americans, not only the disadvantaged.
Economics and Gender states various reasons for low marriage rates: women now have higher productivity in the market than ever before, with lower relative income for men. In the past, specialization of both parties allowed for maximum efficiency through allocation of households responsibilities to tradition roles. Current trends in marriage reflect that men, women or both, find marriage a less efficient model than remaining single. Women’s economic independence theory suggests that women can afford to be single, where they might have been previously required to remain in terrible marriages. (Jacobsen, 1998 pp.154-173) No fault divorce has made the process more accessible. (Casper and Bianchi, 2002 p. 24-25) Additionally, while marriage has always been viewed by economists as a choice individuals make based on costs and benefits, current trends show that people are marrying for reasons of benefits and costs in terms of the short term. (Becker, 1991, Fein, et al 2003)
The above explanations are only part of the reason for low marriage trends amongst the disadvantaged. The Fragile Families and Child Wellbeing survey indicates that most unmarried parents actually have marriage plans, even if never attained. Contrary to common perceptions of the poor, the study indicates that eighty-three percent of unwed mothers are living with, or are romantically involved with, the baby’s father. Seventy-three percent of unwed mothers believe that they have a 50 percent chance of marrying their baby’s father. Eighty-eight percent of unwed fathers believe likewise. Low income unwedded mothers and fathers believe that marriage is the best context for raising children: 64 percent of mothers and 73 percent of fathers feel this way. (McLanahan, Mathmatica.com) These numbers not only indicate that marriage is valued by the disadvantaged, but that there may be a need for government to focus its efforts on strengthening relationships in low income areas where there are little resources for couples wishing to attain marriage. With marriage so highly valued by the poor, it is necessary to focus on why the disadvantaged are not getting married.

Reasons for Low Marriage Rates amongst the Disadvantaged
Since the late 1980s, social scientists began looking at the effects of cohabitation on marriage. While much is still unknown, emerging trends show that cohabitation has different meanings for high and low economic groups. In higher socio-economic circles cohabitation is often only a phase before marriage. Additionally, childbearing is delayed until marriage takes place, and statistically within the United States, married parents still most often rear children. However, cohabitation amongst the disadvantaged or in minority groups is viewed as a substitute for marriage, when marriage seems impossible. This trend has been most troubling because cohabitation amongst the disadvantaged is a weaker form of commitment than marriage. Among other factors, it weakens the links children have with their fathers. (Casper and Bianchi, 2002 p. 60)
Ethnographic studies show that disadvantaged individuals have unrealistic expectations of marriage, and therefore delay marriage until they have attained what they believe are the appropriate criteria. Often, marriage is seen as completely unattainable. Indeed, Edin and Kefalas note that in low-income neighborhoods, it is widely perceived that one gets married after attaining some level of financial stability. These beliefs stem from perceptions of what the “American Dream” is comprised of, as well as their own observations of what is needed in a stable relationship. Low-income individuals look toward white, middle class relationships as the ideal and delay marriage until they have achieved what they believe are prerequisites for marriage. (2002 pp.202-203) In this regard, both the disadvantaged and middle class associate financial stability with marriage.
Conversely, attitudes towards childbearing amongst the disadvantaged and middle class are noticeably different. Poor women place higher value on having children than those in the middle class. According to one study, 57 percent of high school dropouts, compared 30 percent of college graduates, believe it is better to have a child than go through life childless. Female high school dropouts are more than five times more likely than college graduates to say that people who are childless lead empty lives, while male high school dropouts were four times as likely to agree with that statement. (Edin and Kefalas, 2002, p.202-204)
In disadvantaged areas, the mother oftentimes views her unplanned pregnancy as a positive occurrence. Many unwed mothers, including teenage mothers, see having a child as a stabilizing force in their otherwise turbulent lives, and the baby as a source of unconditional love. (Ibid. p.174) Social scientists have pointed out that everyone tries to lead a meaningful life, and in disadvantaged areas, the goal of having and raising a child is viewed as a reachable goal. It has been noted that relationships develop much more rapidly in low-income areas, and while mothers often feel they had a baby before they were ready to do so, there is little or no use of contraceptives to prevent a pregnancy.
The opportunity costs of having children for middle class women is great. Economically speaking, some argue that the opportunity costs of disadvantaged women having children early, is nonexistent compared to their middle class counterparts. Quantifiable data disturbingly show that in many instances, an unwed mother who has dropped out of high school has the same long-term earning trajectories as similarly disadvantaged girls who delay having children until their mid-twenties. Opportunities for gaining work skills, going to college, or achieving financial success are so dismal that having a child barely diminishes a young woman’s chances of improving her life. (Edin and Kefalas, 2002 p. 204-205)
Many young people raised in inner cities lack sufficient role models of healthy, stable relationships. Violence - domestic and otherwise, crime and imprisonment, drug and alcohol addiction, and other factors pervade their relationships. Low-income women put off marriage because they see it as further entrapment into a negative situation. (Ibid, see also Jones, 2006) Lacking the financial incentives middle class women are offered for delaying marriage, low-income woman see no reason to delay having children, even if they believe it is not the ideal circumstance to do so.
The Factor of Race:
Marriage rates among African Americans are lower than any other racial group within the United States. According to the US Census, in 2001, 27.4 percent of white men and 20.7 percent of white women were never married. For blacks, the numbers were significantly higher: 43.3 percent of the men and 41.9 percent of women had never been married. Marriage rates within the United States declined by 17 percent from 1970 to 2001. Amongst African Americans, the number declined 34 percent, the highest in the country. Sociologists have disturbingly discovered that a black child born into slavery was more likely to grow up with both parents than a black child who is born today. (Jones, 2006 washingtonpost.com) Blacks are also more likely to get divorced than whites or Hispanics. (Edin and Kefalas, 2002 p.211) A partial explanation for this is the pool of available black men. A skewed sex ratio exists amongst African Americans, with a surplus of women to men compared with other racial groups. Scholars attribute this to drug policy in the 1980s, increased homicides in urban neighborhoods, increased levels of black men in jails, and difficulties black men experience in the workforce. (Casper and Bianchi, 2002, p.60-62)
Social scientists have noted that ethnic groups view marriage differently, and that beliefs and attitudes affect whether one will marry, and when. Studies show that more than other groups, African Americans tend to place more emphasis on attaining a level of financial success before marriage take place. (Fein, et, al 2003 see intro) Alternatively, those with more egalitarian views toward gender roles, tend to support cohabitation, while those with views that are more traditional tend to believe marriage is the correct context for a relationship. Blacks and Latinos tend to have a more traditional outlook on gender roles than whites do. (Fein, et all, 2003, see Paternostro, 1998 for Latino trends) Blacks are also more willing than whites to express that cohabiting is morally objectionable. (Casper and Bianchi, 2002 p.61) Low-income women take marriage vows very seriously and the stigma from a failed marriage or divorce is a great deal higher than having a child out of wedlock. (Jones, 2006, washingtonpost.com, also, Edin and Kefalas, 2002 p.207) The above sentiments of the disadvantaged conflict with mainstream perceptions of low-income single parents.

Policy Implications
The public costs of family fragmentation provide sufficient justification for government involvement. Higher rates of violence, poverty, drug abuse, education failure, chronic illness, child abuse, domestic violence, and poverty associated with children and adults from fragmented families puts increased pressure on social programs. (see Senate Hearing, also Sigle-Rushton and McLanahan pp.120-126) However, direct costs passed to American taxpayers provide only the simplest reasons for addressing policy problems. Ultimately, promoting marriage through government programs should remedy societal ills and create the best possible environment for children.
Some scholars note that the high expectations the disadvantaged have toward marriage are not unrealistic rather, they consist of the necessary factors needed to maintain a healthy and stable marriage. Poor people have the same expectations of financial stability (such as the necessity of two incomes) as do their white middle class counterparts. (Edin and Kefalas, 2002, pp.211-212) Poor couples’ relationships undergo numerous challenges, and the combination of difficult problems and less resources to combat these problems lead to dissolution of their relationships. Recent policy aimed at improving relationships amongst the poor seeks to provide additional resources that middle class couples often utilize to maintain their relationships, such as marriage and couple counseling. The findings in the Fragile Families Survey, showing that poor couples often experience an improvement in their relationships following the birth of a baby, and that most disadvantaged individuals express the desire to marry, have prompted government to design policy to give couples skills to lengthen this period of positivity following a birth and handle conflict.
A primary focus of social policy has been to curtail poverty within the United States. The welfare reform bill of 1996 sought ways for single mothers to decrease their dependence on governmental handouts by linking benefits to work. Work is considered to be the primary variable that decreases poverty, however the needs of children prevent women from being fully invested in the workforce. Therefore, marriage according to many as been considered the second most important factor, and the factor that was missing from previous welfare reforms to decrease poverty.
To supplement traditional welfare handouts, the federal government for the first time is experimenting with marriage initiatives as preventative measures to poverty. In the welfare reauthorization bill passed this year in Congress, an earmark of $750 million over the next five years has been allocated for programs aimed at creating “healthy marriages,” and “responsible fatherhood.” By September of this year, 150 million dollars in grants will be awarded to community groups, churches and localities across the United States to teach low-income couples skills for improving their relationships, and marriage promotion. This is the first time the federal government has funded such programs, and three studies have been designed to monitor results. (Eckholm, 2006) Pilot studies in Oklahoma and elsewhere have shown that such programs are beneficial to young couples in providing means for sustaining healthy relationships. (see Senate hearing) Often, meeting facilitators of these programs is the first opportunity low-income couples have in interacting with a stable married couple. Additionally, many couples in the programs have never forged friendships with other young couples who would normally provide a support network. The programs provide opportunities for individuals to express concerns to their partners in a constructive way, and provide support after a child enters a relationship, one of the most difficult times a young couple faces. (Eckholm, 2006)
Some critics are concerned that money to fund these programs is being detracted from other programs such as back to work; education, training and substance abuse treatment, which many believe address the root causes of instability. (see Ooms testimony, Senate Hearing) Others are concerned that non-traditional two-parent homes, such as those provided by gay and lesbian couples are no less beneficial to children. (McClain, 2006 p.130) Yet, many low-income couples express the desire to be married and have benefited from programs that teach couples how to have better, more healthy relationships and marriage. (see Senate Hearing) The current programs are offered to couples who voluntarily commit to attend; they are not mandatory or tied to welfare aid. (Eckholm, 2006)
McClain precautions advocates of marriage promotion programs to take note of perceptions of gender roles in disadvantaged relationships. As noted above, the disadvantaged have more traditional views towards the roles males and females play within a relationship. She cautions that the federal government cannot promote an institution that does not promote sexual equality. (2006, 130-138) Indeed, this is why many women, most notably African American women are less inclined to marry, as they and their partners perceive that that the husband will assume the role of ‘head of the family’ and ‘main provider.’ (Jones, 2006 washingtonpost.com)
While the benefits of marriage are clear, I believe there may be causality problems for policy makers who believe supporting marriage initiatives in low-income neighborhoods will bring about a reduction in poverty and remedy other social ills. Elwood and Jencks, and Ooms note that low-income households tend to have higher levels of stress. (2001; see Fein, et al) Additionally, concerns of domestic violence are reason enough why women should not get married (see Senate Hearings, 2004) Policy designed to ‘get people married’ will not necessarily improve the incomes of those involved unless the factors that cause marriages to dissolve are also addressed. (McLanahan in Eckholm, 2006) For example, a woman who marries a chronically unemployed man or one with a substance abuse problem will not reduce her chances of escaping poverty.
As in many instances in the social sciences, causal relationships between variables are often difficult to identify. We do not know for certain what the preexisting factors that lead to better and healthier marriages are, and if they are factors to which government can positively contribute. While those who are married are financially better off, it is possible that preexisting financial status has lead to marriage. Social, economic, emotional, interpersonal, racial and societal factors all contribute to how individuals act in relationships. McLanahan and others have reiterated to Congress that marriage promotion must be accompanied with other programs designed to reduce poverty such as daycare, education and job training. (Eckholm, 2006)
To conclude, public policy has unquestionable consequences in the private sphere. Welfare and social aid programs affect family formation as do wide-sweeping economic and cultural changes. Government has the responsibility to provide public goods and we have seen from many of the above studies that marriage provides numerous benefits to individuals and society at large. The question that remains is whether government should invest in programs that would essentially provide marriage as a public good to the disadvantaged.

References:
Becker, G., (1991) A Treatise on the Family, University of Chicago Press: Chicago, IL

Benefits of a Healthy Marriage: Hearing before the Subcommittee on Social Security and Family Policy of the Committee on Finance, U.S. Senate, 108th Congress, Second Session, May 5, 2004, US GPO: Washington DC

Casper, L. M., Bianchi, S. M., (2002) Continuity and Change in the American Family, Sage Publications: Thousand Oaks

Dickerson, B. J. (1995) African American Single Mothers: Understanding Their Lives and Families, Sage Publications: Thousand Oaks

Eckholm, E., Program seeks to fight poverty by building family ties, The New York Times, see The National Report, p.A13, Thursday, July 20, 2006

Elwood and Jencks (2004) ‘The spread of single parent families in the United States since the 1960s,’ The Future of the Family, Editors: Moynahan, Smeeding, et al, Russel Sage Foundation: NY

Edin, K., Kefalas, M. (2005) Promises I Can Keep: Why Poor Women Put Motherhood Before Marriage. University of California Press: Berkeley, CA

Fein, D., et al (2003) ‘The Determinants of Marriage and Cohabitation among Disadvantaged Americans: Research Findings and Needs,’ Final Report, Prepared for the Department of Health and Human Services, Administration for Children and Families, Office of Planning, Research and Evaluation Abt. Associates Inc., Cambridge, MA

Jacobsen, J. P., (1998) ‘The household as economic unit,’ ‘Labor force participation: Consequences for family structure,’ and ‘Race, ethnicity, and class considerations in interpreting gender differences’ The Economics of Gender, Blackwell Publishers Inc.: Malden, MA,

Jones, J., (2006) ‘Marriage is for White People,’ Washington Post, http://washington post.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/03/26

Lindgren, J. R., Et al, (2005) The Law of Sex Discrimination, Third Ed, Thompson Wadsworth, Belmont, CA

Marshall, W., and Sawhill, I. V. (2004) ‘Progressive family policy in the twenty-first century,’ The Future of the Family, Editors: Moynahan, Smeeding, et al, Russsel Sage Publications: NY

McClain, L.C., (2006) The Place of Families: Fostering Capacity, Equality, and Responsibility, Harvard University Press: Cambridge, MA

McLanahan, S. et al (2006) Building Strong Families: In Brief http://www.mathematica-mpr.com/publications/PDFs/bsfisbr3.pdf Mathmatica Research, July 23, 2006

Moller-Okin, S., (1989) ‘Vulnerability by Marriage,’ Justice, Gender and the Family, Basic publishers: NY

Moynahan, D. P. et al (2004) ‘The challenge of family system changes for research and policy,’ The Future of the Family, Russel Sage Foundation: NY

Patersonostro, S., (1998) In the Land of God and Men: A Latin Woman’s Journey, Penguin Books, Ltd.

Sigle-Rushton and McLanahan, S., (2004) Father Absence and Child Wellbeing: A critical review, The Future of the Family, Editors: Moynahan, Smeeding, et al, Russel Sage Foundation: NY

‘Statistical Census Findings: Traditional Married Couples are Better Off By Any Available Standards,’ Salt Lake Tribune, http//www.adherents.com/misc/marriage.html, 6/6/2006

[1] Consider that if all people in the United States married and had children, the rate of 100 percent would not be reached. Fifty-three percent represents a snapshot of those currently married, although over the course of a person’s life, they may be too young to married, widowed, etc.

sense of self

2006-09-28T23:27:00.000-04:00

Sense of self is profound compared to what one experiences of others. While we each experience 'life,' each of us exist within our own lonely and singular universe. I think our experience as humans is a constant drive to enter another's universe--to break barriers that take away that sense of isolation.

Sometimes I feel very connected to other people, but often times, there is this barrier that makes that connection impossible. Some people never share their true selves. I have very dear friends I have known for years and yet, when I choose to reflect on it, I realize I hardly know them at all.

Conversly, I know some people very well--by what they have chosen to express to me directly. A sharing of self is as close as two distinct individuals can get, and its downright healthy. When there are those whose words are unneccessary because we have shared and expressed all there is to say, its pretty satisfying.

I frequently think about my own sense of self. The "Who am I and what does that mean to me?" typical serving of friendly mind-banter. The resulf of this never-ending thought process of personal awareness, is that I feel like I know myself farely well. I also feel like the people around me have a pretty good idea of who I am because I choose to share it. Self expression comes very easily.

Sometimes I wonder about my friends who are less candid... do they share less about themselves because they know themselves less? (that they don't think existentially?) or does everyone have a strong sense of self, but chooses not to share for fear of ridicule, alienation or plain old mistrust?

Does conmmunicating one's fears, anxiety and rage increase or reduce conflict? I can only surmise that both are possible. Some things no one shares with anyone else. Some things are socially inappropriate even amongst our closest most trusted. There are those qualities that are pretty human, that everyone feels, does and thinks that no one is interested in. I suppose this is non-constructive sharing of self. The impluses that thankfully we can hide behind a veil of concious restraint; to be thought but never shared are ours alone. However, empathy can widen the sense of self to others, if you will. This is, a very rewarding and constructive sharing of self.

Ahhhhh, I feel like I know you better already:)

Happiness

2006-09-13T00:24:00.000-04:00

En route to fulfill the materialistic need of bargain hunting, I remembered that Rabbi Twersky was in town for the evening to lecture on the topic of obtaining the ever evasive feeling of happiness. And while his points were values and lessons that one hears repeatedly--that one repeats to oneself, from time to time, it was wonderful to hear them again, especially from such a positive, upbeat and how shall I say this ? twinkling personality.

Some things he said:
Happiness is misinterpreted by our Western society. Pleasure is not happiness and the pursuit of pleasure does not lead to long term happiness, but only a temporary feeling as we are doing that thing.

True happiness is reaching our human potential. Translated as those characteristics that separate us from other species, i.e. the ability to make judgement callls, learn from history, do things that benefit us in the long term, but that in the short term cause discomfort.

Reaching one's potential includes making the people around you happy, and they will respond likewise (I know this one doesnt always work, but whenever I try it, it helps me).

Not rocket science here, but I felt pretty upbeat when I walked out the door.

I know what happiness feels like. I still am uncertain though, if one has the ability to change who they are so that they may be happier. I don't claim to know what makes people feel happy but I would guess its a combination of feeling fulfilled and not bored, while at the same time, minimizing stress. for some reason, its the self acctualization factor that makes us truly happy, but if its done stressfully, we are done for: We will be miserable if we are stressed. What do you think?

Ani Lo Yochel LeDaberet Ivrit

2006-09-07T22:16:00.000-04:00

I am taking a course in Hebrew this semester and its proving to be just as snarky as I anticipated.

I don't know if you are one of those people who sees a picture of everything as they think them. I most definitely am. I am a visual learner and when I think of languages or numbers, I acctually see little question marks floating around in my consciousness. Like acctual chicken scratches and patters like this: @#$$% $#$%&^ $ ^&* &*(^( #$^ its not symbolizing expletives, its just random figures that I cannot decifer. I also see colors, but not colors specific to symbols or letters, but when confronted with new characters in math or language, my brain associates random symbols with the new gumboldeegook so there is a vertual toy chest of random objects flashing in my noggin.

It gets kookier. I know I am not the only one who does this: my grandmother does it. When I was in France, I had the unexplainable urge to speak Hebrew. Standing under the Eiffel Tower, I had to stop from asking Mr. Pierre Shmoex "BeVakasha, Aifo HaSheirutim?"

Which is why, to the unmerciful glee of my ever patient instructor, I blurted out something in Yiddish in my Ivrit class yesterday. Go figure.
(My grandmother, by the way, was speaking Russian in Turkey)

For all of my math/language friends, I cannot even begin to comprehend what they '' see " in their minds as they focus on numbers or letters. Maybe they don't see them at all. But I know with my brain, I don't learn unless I experience, and I don't experience, unless I feel it. Unless there is an emotional association, you can repeat it and repeat it but it will never enter long term memory. Not on your life. I have to connect the new information to things I already know and create elaborate context to associate the new information to the old. Its almost like I have to take new friends and introduce them to the Ganse Mishpocha. My math/language buddies say they like that stuff because it all just makes "so much sense; it's so concrete."

Now what was I saying?

The Scandal Behind the Scandal

2006-09-06T00:04:00.000-04:00

So, there was this aweful incident in Monsey, NY where a butcher within a Kosher food mart was selling truly non kosher meat to the general community. People found out, and the chick really hit the fan because the whole darn community was eating traif for the past few weeks (or more, because maybe this wasn't a one time deal).
The owner of the general Kosher food mart had a simcha of some sort, and was talking to his brother who works for satmar chicken shchita. The brother inquired as to where the chickens at the event came from, and the kosher mart brother told him that they were satmar chickens from his very own store. And that's when the brother said, "hey, Moishe, dude, we stopped shipping chickens to the other dude whos is the butcher in your Kosher mart...So somethin's fishy." They confronted the butcher dude who admited buying the birds from a truck driver on the blackmarket (um...ew? illigal animal carcass market? thereis like, a market for that?...Like, "hey dude, I have 10,000 dead animals in the back of this truck, honest, their good...wanna make a few bucks and risk it?"..and if that isn't shady enough to make you wanna hurl your bubbe's chicken soup accross the succah, that's your business).

So the Rabbis of every segment of the community are meating (haha) to discuss what to do now that an entire city has traifed up their kitchens at once.

I feel terrible about this whole deal, what a terrible mess. Aside from the criminalality of the whole deal-the lies, deceit, and greediness, the guy just ruined his family's lives for 19 cents a pound birds and a quick profit.

the Meta analysis of this case is a question I have been wondering about for years. In this mass produced agri business food delivery shrinked wrapped nation, we have turned a straightforward deal like Kashrus into a truly gray area of observance. We are so far removed from food production that we have come to accept all kinds of Kashrus related compromises without even blinking. This Monsey incident is enough to make you tear up and gag, or at least put down the drum-stick and stare dumbstruck at the Mizrach sign for a minute, but as as the status quo goes, no one is wasting brainpower on what probably happens pretty frequently: People eating animals that aren't truly healthy, are freaked out before shchita, fed all sorts of crap, live in crap conditions but as longs as its NIMBY and hasn't been for the past century, no one blinks twice. The ethics should make anyone who truly wants to keep kashrus become a vegitarian. The only alternative is raise cows in your backyand.

Biennial Dating Report

2006-08-29T14:25:00.000-04:00

..."In other news, yours truly attended a wedding last night. As usual it was a lovely affair. I saw a number of people I like but fail to keep in touch with. I danced. I told the bride she looked pretty, because she did. I did not tell the bridesmades (her sisters) that they looked pretty, because they didn't. I chatted with some of my old teachers who always look suprised to see me. I am never suprised to see them because they and I attend these weddings and we see each other at these weddings. I had a great time because I love weddings and people and food and getting dressed up and dancing.

Approximately 15 hours later I logged online and counted all the emails I have received on frumster since I signed up 6 months ago: 228.

Thats 228 people I don't want to marry. On frumster. In general, though, this number is artificially low. There are acctually a lot more than 228 people I do not want to marry. Some people I don't want to marry more than others. There is a ranking, see, or a spectrum (depending on whether you view degrees of intensity in visual or kinetic terms).
Anyway I don't even want to get married. I just want to meet someone and then worry about it. Frumster, of course, is marriage oriented, so therefore I have adopted their language. But I am starting to realise that I haven't adopted the frumster genre and I have to move on.

... moveon.org has no dating feature. I just checked. So am I stuck with frumster?

In 6 days I will go back into my cave and in 6 months I will emerge with a diploma in each fist.I will then have to ask myself what I want out of life again. I will have to answer that question. I will have to make a choice between finishing my masters in a program I tolerate, or diving of the deep end and starting over.

I will probably choose to finish grad school. In which case, I will reenter my cave for another year and a half to two years, and emerge then, to worry about it. At which point, most of my friends will in fact, be married.

So its starting to irk me. the M word. ( I know you know I am lying on this point: its not starting to irk me, its been irking me for a while, but thanks for being understanding).

I am going to find some paint brushes and start that canvas. Be Well

I hear poetry is back in vogue

2006-08-27T14:03:00.000-04:00

I want to take borrowed money
and buy a...
large canvas
the size of a garage door, or the side of an eighteen wheeler truck!
emagine that!
but any size will do, as long as its big,
so that I might have difficulty dragging it back,
for impact.

White, perfectly white (well, some imperfection would be inconsiquential), stretched
taunt
over a frame So that I might
dip my roller
Into a glistening pan of paint
Reds and Beige and Black and Yellows

and Create.
a landscape of an abstraction
of an impression of
condensed dew
collected on a glass pane
of a window, looking out.

I want to
place this painting above my bed,
still wet
so that the droplets of paint fall
oneby
one
so that at night,
like the purple crayon that Harold held,
I might
enter a space of my own
creation.

People who play guitar a lot better than I do

2006-08-23T16:07:00.000-04:00

I want to learn how to play the Maple Leaf Rag on the guitar, or the piano. This guy YouTube - Maple Leaf Rag (on provided utube link) is amazing. I could watch this a million times. His technique is perfect, He is poised; plays effortlessly. He appears to be Oriental, of which nationality, I have no idea, but I hope that doesn't work against him. Being a foreigner makes it hard to become anything in this country, but he is so very talented. It appears that he is playing this in a coffee shop. That is also discouraging because, they dont pay much for performances at coffee shops. Sill I see he has what it takes to make it big. Hey, if Yo Yo Ma could do it, anyone can. Goodluck ragtime playing floppy haired Oriental guy. Good luck with the gigs.

I have a relative who taught himself Joplin through college. I covet, envy, his dedication, talent, know-how.

I am pleased that I figured out how to link the link to the blog so you could see it for yourself, and while I am at it, I just might add a few more of my favorite little treasures from the internet for your listening/viewing enjoyment. Like, for example, this fine peice of Broznan: (Which by the way, I am also, insanely jealous of: Bob Brozman - The Slide Guitar Show - Google Video - Full Screen - Google Video }

Or, what about my favorite boredom site? SoYouWanna decorate your apartment (cheaply)? (other topics included!!!) This site gives me the hope that I can do ANYTHING as long as I set my mind to it.

The Monty Python Spam Skit! Must keep coming back for more

RateMyProfessors.com Most useful school website ever!!!! Rarely ever lies!

Shlock Rockin'

2006-08-14T18:54:00.000-04:00

Lenny Solomon has done it again. If you loved the first bajillion albums the man made, you will love this new one. I do not know why there is a place in my heart for these Jewish Parodies, this schlock rock nonsense--they are cornier than cracker jack, and more nutty too, but boy oh boy do they make me laugh. my favorite on the new album is a take off of "if you like Pina Coladas" and is about this guy who is e-dating and his profile starts off like this:

If you like techina on challah
and you know how to lain
I like to learn in chavrusa
and eat gefilta fish with chrain

Priceless. you just gotta hear it.

On another note, I think I need a vacation from my vacation, but I couldnt manage to fit it into my vacation schedule :)

I thought I would be less busy now that school is in recess, but that was a mirage. Aside from the 2 weddings, my sister coming into town, my grandparents driving in, my bro coming in from camp, my other sister going to Israel for school, registering for next semester, studying for prereq exams, registering my sis for classes, selling some old school books on ebay and getting to the postoffice and trying to file away the last three semesters so I have room in my bedroom to write more papers, a grant project through school, making dinner and helping with laundry and dishes and helping my sister with summer homework and catching that clearance sale and swimming and ohhh, I was just called for supper. so I better go, but you see when I tried to plan to go away for a few days....well, there just isn't time.

I must run. Oh, and I am sorry I didn't return your phone call, but you should just know that I have been thinking of you and plan on sending you a rosh hashana new year card full of cheer if I ever get around to it.

Shooting at Seattle Federation, July 28, 2006

2006-07-30T15:19:00.000-04:00

What I can't seem to understand is why this story did not make national headlines. This past Friday at 4:30pm, a lone gunman forced a 13 year old girl at gunpoint to let him into the building where the Jewish Federation in Seattle is located.

The gunman is a Pakistani American, who grew up in the tri-city area in Washington. He comes from an affluent family, did well in high school and aspired to be a dentist. Lately, he had alerted local safety patrol officers when he exposed himself to some women at a shopping mall. The week prior to the shooting he was in court facing charges of indecent exposure .

So, after receiving an ordinary parking ticket this past Friday, he proceeds to force his way not the Jewish Federation offices, where he shot 6 people. One woman died, the rest have gunshot related injuries. amogst those injured is a pregnant woman. The woman at the front desk called 911 and in a taped conversation, we hear Mr. gunman make references to the situation in the middle east, in addition to his general angst with normal society.

apparently, he chose his target by going online and looking for Jewish organizations in the area. Even if this is a one time deal committed by a lone gunman, it is obvious to me that this is a hate crime.

NWCN.com News for NW Cable News This is the only news source that carries this story on the internet. I am not sure why this wasn't picked up by the national syndicates. Especially considering the current state of affairs across the world right now.

~~~~~
While I am uneasy with the amount of destruction that is currently overwhelming Lebanon, I support Israel's military campaign against Hezbollah, Hamas and Jihadists. For the first time in my conscious memory, Israel is committing herself to defending her citizens and her borders. She is taking initiative instead of quietly taking the abuse by Hezbollah and Hamas. Its like a child who is terrorized by a bully who finally learns karate. After years of hinding over lunch money, trinkets and getting punched in the jaw, the kid can now stand up for herself.

What worries me is that the general conflict reduces moderates. In conflict everyone must show their true colors, everyone must pick a side. Being moderate only signifies a passive support of one's beliefs. And for those who are alienated, discontent, impatient or hurt may now have the inclination to align themselves with those who are active, and those who are more active, are probably more dangerous.

The Seattle case is an isolated tragedy. Or is it? Although we can make inroads in influencing ideology, dogman and general perceptions amongst the world's population, Western society cannot eliminate all of the reasons why people align themselves with terrorists. But I think it would be prudent of this country and its media to publicize these random acts of hatred in order to declare that these acts are not tolerated. We must declare these crimes for what they really are: anti-Semitic, racist, despicable tragedies that we will not tolerate in our midst. As Israel is doing right now in the middle east, we have to stand up for ourselves and tell the world that these acts are wrong and will not be tolerated. Otherwise, how often will these incidents have to occur? Shame on the national media.

19 Letters

2006-07-18T23:28:00.000-04:00

I haven't gone to a Torah Shiur in almost 2 years because I am a closet bitter, angry Jew and Shiurim exasserbate the fact. I don't mean to be harsh on myself, in fact I should probably take back the last statement, but maybe I am a bit self hating, or at least hating the Jew in me because I connect it to Torah learning which has always left me feeling empty and confused.

Last week a few of my good buddies invited me to learn with them, and I thought what the heck, because they know me well enough to bypass the angst I exude. We have been reading Samson Rafael Hirsch. The book '19 Letters' written in the 1830s is supposed to be Orthodoxy's response to the Reformed and Enlightened Jew. I liked the book initially because I truly identified with this enlightened figure that is portrayed in the book.

And yet, by the fourth letter, I am still tragically unconvinced. I have a difficult time using Torah sources to defend Orthodox premises, which, I am told, is the only way to do so. I understand that there is no other way to accept a universal, traditional truth without using that source to defend itself, but if the case cannot be made, then what?

And yes, my dichotomized soul is still wretchedly fighting out this ill-fated ideological struggle. Funny enough, at the end of the day, I suppose it has little influence on how I carry out my life, but yet...it still matters to me. My sense of unease is only dormant for a while, and then, while straddling two complete ideologies, I am lead only to a sense of weightedness by sudden pangs from one of my two worlds.

I find my heritage beautiful, it just hurts.

I remember...
... walking through the airport with my mom at one point as a young teenager and mentioning to her that I felt I had changed. I was 14 years old and had switched yeshiva programs the year before when I had begun high school. I remember saying to her that at my old school I had taken no responsibility for committing to yiddishkeit, but that recently I had felt a connection to the learning and was inspired to do something about it. I told her, as I shifted my backpack to my other shoulder, that I would never consider leaving the house without my siddur. I had it with me at the time, and I remember the comfortable feeling of its cover in my hand and the smell of its pages as I carried it through the terminal.

I remember her reaction. She stopped walking and turned to look at me. I saw her pride, relief, and joy that I was maturing into her child-- that as her kids grew older, they were beginning to appreciate her and my father's commitment to their faith.

My memory from that time is generally disjointed and fragmented, like a montage of film being shown to fast. but this incident is a super strong memory. I can shut my eyes and remember the entire conversation. It might be the event that keeps me with one foot in the revolving door of my heritage.

Another Day of Wretchedness

2006-07-16T16:31:00.000-04:00

Another day of feeling like crap. I hate this, hate this, hate this. It is 100 degrees outside. I have a paper to write and I am spending hours on it and getting nowhere. School is culminating in 3 exams scheduled for Tisha B'av and I haven't even looked at the material.

I went on a date with a very nice guy and had a great time, but I only felt worse after he graciously dropped me off back home because it reminded me of the inevitable onset of true adulthood with all its crushing responsibilities. I feel so hopelessly unequipted to manage, and be successful at life.

I feel stuck, listless, depressed, bored, overwhelmed, insignificant, and very very tired. What a sick feeling.

And then there is the true disaster occurring in the Middle East. What a terrible backdrop. I can't stop thinking about it; how the violence and terror and bombings are escalating, how there is no fathomable end in sight, how much I hate the idea of war. And I feel lousy for feeling lousy. When my cousin looked up on Friday and saw a scud over her head (as she makes her way across the street in her northern Israeli town), I sit here and feel sorry for myself.

Dating Mr. Wonderful made me very uncomfortable. I am having the wierdest reaction and its troubing me that I don't feel an easy sense of normalcy dating a truly nice, goodhearted, attractive person. Dating him made me feel like I wasn't good enough, which rationally speaking, is totally not true.

So why do I feel like he deserves someone better? Why is my brain wired to betray me? And why do I feel so inadequate all of the time?

Yuck.

I wish I could just TURN OFF the never ending stream of GARBAGE htat is currently OCCUPYING MY CONSCIOUS THOUGHTS!!!!

and instead PROGRAM the thoughts that will make me GO DO THE RIGHT THING with OOMPH!

Instead of making me feel exhausted, depressed, and fustrated.

(and no, its not that time of the month again, but thanks for the unsolicited explanation)

Happily Ever After

2006-07-12T12:38:00.000-04:00

I dislike political punditry. The loud mouth, fast talking, know it all yokel who bombastically spews vituperous half-baked opinions.

Last week I purchased a clock radio that was mistakenly set to our local conservative talk station.

At 7am, while still half asleep, the radio switches on and I am duly informed that we are winning the war in Iraq, that the nation is exceeding all economic forcasts, that our education system is doing just fine. How wonderful, I thought, in my state of semi-conciousness, they finally figured out the world's problems.

That's the appeal of the Conservative party. How easy it is to align yourself with the self discribed savior of this country, the protector of the status quo. Authoritarianism has two sides. Those that strive to be authoritarian leaders, and those that are the authoritarian followers. You need both. Lo! How much easier it is to be politically active as an authoritarian follower! You can claim you are fully fullfilling your duty of participation in a democratic society! All one has to do is say you have faith in your leaders.

Trust.

Respect.

Tradition.

You are now in safe hands. You are now lying in bed, listening to the radio, listening to how the world's problems are being solved. I wish it were acctually that simple.

Polka Fest

2006-07-10T23:46:00.000-04:00

I had a friend come in from out of town and took her to the polka festival because it looked like something to do that would be memorable.

It was.

I still cannot get over how much it sounded like a lot of tunes people sing on shabbos betweeen the gefilta fish and chicken soup. I felt that being there made some sort of sense--I am, after all, half polish Jewish, but I understand that this Polka thing is unmistakably goyish. Still, a fun time was had by all. I learned how to dance a bit of polka: OOm Pah Pah, OOm Pah Pah. Its totally easy but I am so out of shape that I did feel a bit like a galoopmphing rhinocerous.

We had no idea what to expect. We had only one rule: If you hear that four letter knickname for jew (the one that begins with the letter 'K' it was time to hightail out of there). We needn't have worried. Mostly a lot of old folks, probably bussed in from some nursing home, and then there were the diehard folk dancing fiends--U of M hippy types.

Acctually, the more I think about the whole experience, the more lame it gets; but in a way, thats the definition of good clean fun, which it was.

gnight.

Why do people hate gays?

2006-07-05T22:52:00.000-04:00

I just do not get it.

I don't get what all the hooplah is surrounding the gay debate. Why are people so terriblly homophobic? Take your average citizen who raises their kids, recycles, is farely pleasant to all sorts of people, but then when asked directly, turns out to be farely intolerant?

It comes down to a few factors. The conversation will inevitably turn to the idea that gay sex just 'grosses them out' They know so and so, who is gay, and he/she is lovely, just wonderful, such a terribly interesting and smart person, but every time they see them, they just can't stop from thinking--eew. that is just so gross.

Why is it so much grosser than straight sex?

...and then the conversation continues: Straight sex is supposed to happen. That's how we have kids, its supposed to be that way and being gay is so not natural.

but the homosexual animal is a pretty natural occurance, too. Plenty of gay animals and animals with homosexual tendancies. And when you get down to business, men and women are pretty similar physicaly...you wouldn't have Joan of Ark or Yentel if that weren't so.

I was speaking with some pretty honest homophobes yesterday who explained to me that it is okay to be in love with someone of the same gender as yourself. The important thing is not to act out on it. This was something both of them agreed on. I appreciated their honesty, I really did, but at the same time, cannot understand why they cannot make the mental leap to accept it all the way--that if you believe people naturally are somewhat homosexual or bi--why it would be so 'gross' to accept it entirely?

If your personally-held religious beliefs maintain that you, yourself not be gay, well fine. But why deny someone else their happiness? Some part of me believes that homophobes just want to ruin someone else's day just because they can. It's sort of hypocritical to be all about America protecting you when you can't extend those liberties/rights to other non-threatening, law abiding consenting adults.

For those that believe granting rights to gays reduces morality in society, I laugh. I laugh with the same gusto with regards to the immigration debate in which people approach the problem as if it is something that doesn't already exist, and existing with the same sense of presence within mainstream American society. Gays exist. Gays are protected under the constitution. Gays are our friends and family members (but watch them around the kids, you never know, they may give them AIDS). The thing is, we still have to have our reservations, we still can't let them be.

Back to my honest homophobic friends. They argued that while most people are somewhat bi, they see no reason why gays can't just find a partner of the opposite sex and settle down. If men and women are so similar after all, why can't mr x find a mrs y and forget about being queer?

I asked...would you want to be married to this person?

They replied...Marriage is not neccessarily about passion, there are all sorts of marriages (whereby I am given a mental list of people they know who have peculiar marriages).

Okay. So we can agree to disagree on this. I see I am getting nowhere here...but I just want to say that while homosexuality is a biological phenomenon (ignoring the idea of acting out on one's urges or whatever), homophobia is something learned.

I think it is facinating to look at other cultures where homosexuality is less of a stigma...

So why am I getting all Liberal on you? No perticular reason. Just happened to have a family member who had a civil partnership in London to his partner of nearly 30 years. Now, they can leave money to each other after they die. They can be next of kin, and visit each other if one is hospitalized. Big freaken deal. Like the kids are so much worse off...

Brickhead

2006-06-28T20:00:00.000-04:00

THING ONE:
Our city puts on the big poobah fireworks display for the Fourth of July. While it is wonderful to sit in your very own backyard in the summer on your trampoline and watch the display with friends, every year without fail, the show attracts every hooligan in the tri-county area.

To combat this, the city scheduled our dinky fireworks display on the same day as the metro-fire works display downtown, in hopes that seedy elements stay down there and leave us the heck alone.

A few years ago I stood on my porch and watched police on horseback break up a near-rioting group of kids after someone, somewhere fired a shot. My parents insisted we were moving that night, but then rationalized it as an unlikely reoccuring event, so hence we stay...

Last year they canceled the display, but citizens were so disappointed, so disgruntled, so very upset...
...we anyway, they flexed their collective patriotic arm and called the council, the mayor, the fourth of july commission, and we are back with a bang.

THING TWO:
This week we are replacing the walkway in front of our house because our lovely oak tree had been displacing the blocks of pavement with its huge, gnarly roots for the past few years. Considering ourselves extremely fortunate every time an elderly person makes it to our front door without needing a hip replacement, my parents finally decided to do something about fixing the walkway. A crew comprised of a few super strong Mexican men chopped up the old slabs, removed a four foot high bonfire-perfect pile of roots, lay down a bed of gravel and installed the most beautiful brick pathway.

They nearly completed everything today. They only need to insert the larger, decorative bricks along the sides, into the trench they dug on either side.

THING ONE AND THING TWO COLLIDE

Sitting on the counch a few minutes ago, my mom noticed a young woman walk by with her baby in a stroller. The woman leans over, picks up a brick and places it into the stroller. She walks away.

My mom springs up, goes to the front door and bellows, "HEY, PUT THAT BACK!!! I SAW YOU TAKE THAT!" but the woman kept walking...

The end.

DISCUSSION:

We did not call the police. She stole a brick. It was odd. Why steal a brick? Why steal a brick with the owner of those bricks watching? Why give owner a dirty look-- like its none of their business--I mean, come on, owner is interferring with your brick-taking activity.

Kleptomaniac getting a thrill?

Gangmember looking for weapons of the hurlling variety?

Desperate mom looking for a toy for her kid?

Why do I find this so disturbing? The slippery slope theory tells me that she will be back tommorow taking a yogurt out of the fridge, a shower in my shower, and my wet socks and undies out of the washing machine.

Or maybe I only have to worry about this annually.

Parsley Guy

2006-06-27T00:23:00.000-04:00

I am up on one of those dating sites. I haven't had much luck, and its sort of a farce, but I certainly get a lot of responses, and every once in a while I contact someone back and we email back and forth and have a phone conversation or two, and then I quickly realise its not for me--and find a polite way to exit.

Well...

Friday I gave this guy my number, I think we had 7 emails between us, and plus, he has an adorable screen name, and a terribly adorable stripey shirt, among other intruiging things...

so I give him my number and we have an awkward but charming conversation, untill he mentions that he was hungry and was therefor going to eat a cracker, which reminded me that I was hungry, so I informed him that I was going to go to the kitchen and find something... and I step into the kitchen and it smells like parsley because my sister is chopping parsely...

...and it smells nice, so I mention it to mr. cute stripey shirt.

"parsely?" he queries,"It smells like parsley? like you can acctually smell it?"

me: um...yeah, I guess....I mean its fresh.

him: fresh? where did you get fresh parsley?"

me: we grow it in our backyard in the garden

him; oh that's wonderful. I don't remember the last time I had parsely

me: (you have got to be kidding) um, yeah! its nice...but its pretty ordinary to get fresh parsely, I mean, when was the last time you entered a grocery, ahem. I mean, if you dont mind me asking?

him: why don't you send me some

me: what?! send you some parsely? but it will go limp, it will be terrible

him: so dry it.

me (thinking how do these conversations get so beyond my control?): wait. just a second. you want me to go all hippy and sundry some PARSLEY for you and MAIL it to YOU? WHY DON'T I JUST SEND SOME HAND DRIED RAISONS, for that matter??

him: no, just parsley, you can leave out the raisins.

me: I am thinking, that that's a bit picky, dude. I mean, I don't KNOW you, and like, that's a lot of commitment for a complete stranger

him (offended): strangers?! I sent you 7 emails

I guess I said it out loud

me: (he's got to be kidding, like, is that his idea of commitment? but this part of the convesation being a total repeat of other conversations when i "broke up with people without ever even meeting them' phenomenon of internet dating) Listen, I cant send you parsely

him: this is my Address. its blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda

me: I jot it down. i tell him, nah, but nice try.

we hang up. I, full of guilt, send him a link to a parsely website. Shabbos starts a few hours later and I daydream during the meal: me going outside, picking parsely, spreading it out on my picnic table, and mailing it in a jar with a gingham lid cover.

Shabbos day I bring this story up to my friends. They think its adorable. "oh, just send him some, its so wacky and cute."

Sunday I tell my mom: "is he cute? because if he is cute, I would definately send him the parsley" she tells me

"but I haven't even met him! doesnt he at least owe me coffee first?"

cuz thats what I'm thinking.
well does he? What do you think?

Confession

2006-06-19T23:36:00.000-04:00

I must confess that I never date. I have been on one date in my entire life. When I turned twenty-one I vowed I would, at least, start the process. I truly believed that I was the oldest person who had never been on a date. So a friend set me up with one of her husband's friends. We had a great chat, he was a wonderful guy, I just wasn't attracted to him, and when I broke up with him over the phone (if you can call it that) I told him I could never date him because his life experience, and his angst reminded me so much of myself that being with him made me depressed (huh?).

When I was in high school, talking to a boy would get you kicked out. I have no brothers, and therefore, no brother's friends. I am visually impaired and can't figure out who is standing accross the room, and combined with the strange fact that no guys were in my proximity growing up, I had very, very little interaction.

When I was in seminary talking to a boy would get you kicked out. I was always a pretty good student and kept my rule breaking to a minimum, but then again, boys never really interested me... at least, it was so not worth getting into trouble, and I mean the big kind of trouble where you are targeted as 1. having emotional problems 2. "frying out" or "bumming out," depending on who you ask 3. being the subject of mass-pity, and the unfortunate problem of your friend's moms telling them not to call you anymore. As I said, it just wasn't worth it. In my town, as in any mid or large size Jewish community, hanging out with guys meant oggling each other at the local pizza joint, or 7-11, or at some creepy guy's house (the one with the irresponsible parents), and it just felt so LAME.

But, see, now I am in trouble. :)

When I came back from sem I moved back in with my folks and started college. Not many guys in town, in fact, between 5 of my friends, they have gone out with every single one. and I have never traveled out of town to meet a guy because I don't want to get married, and that sort of thing is just too much freakin pressure. "you better be serious, if I am forking over 200 bucks for the first date," he says.

And then there is the annoying problem of not being sure if I want to be frum. I don't want to be, but then again, I have no intention of relinquishing all of it. I am an in-between, and very much procrastinating on this dating thing. Am I missing it? Yeah, just a bit. but I want it on my terms, and I have never been one to compromise.

Weddings

2006-06-18T21:07:00.000-04:00

Just got back from another beautiful wedding! The bride looked great, the guests were happy, and the wait-staff were HOT. (...just kiddng, but I bet you weren't expecting that).

I love weddings. I love happy people and I love well dressed people and I love not having to cook dinner :) I love looking at all of the grandparents who are looking at all of the kids who are crawling under the table, where the women have kicked off their heels...

Weddings have the uncanny ability to make you feel very very single. On one hand, its like, "phew, glad thats not me," but the other part of you is like "whats taking so freak'n long??" My sentiment is dichotomized, I cant help it, I feel both...

Now, for my usual bitchy self to shine through...
Question:
Why are all orthodox Jewish weddings exactly the same? In this city, everyone gets married at the same hall, hires the same caterer, and follows the same routine.

The music is ALWAYS too loud, so when you are eating your apitizer you have to shout your "how's by you" to the person sitting next to you (you can't hear their response, but you could care less anyway). The pictures always take too long, and happen smack in the middle of the wedding, right after the ceremony but before the main party, with guests loitering (or drving home to check on the kids), but nonetheless, a serious timewaster...
and the girls!! They all wear these rediculous satiny dresses that without failure make them look truly overheated and somewhat pinched. The appropriate comment is always, and uttered in a nasal monitone, "wow, you look stunning." or "who did your hair?" --which is, by the way, always up in the same predictable bobbypin-ed, hairspray updo thingie.
I wonder who the first person was, to decide that a patched up/tznius-ized prom dress would be the thing to wear. Turn you into Miss It. Make you look like a million bucks. I wonder if they knew or thought of the aftermath-the oodles of youngsters who would blithely follow this unfortunate trend...

And while I'm on it...why do frum women covet 1980s power suits? and how did that ever become formal attire? I mean, if you wanted to sign me up for Blue Cross Blue Sheild or sell my house, I could understand the solid-color-squareness of it all. Weddings? are you kidding me?

I want to hear it from a guy... do you find the get up attractive, or just a bit puzzling? isn't it perplexing? is it, is it????

Possible answers to the prictability issue (?!)
1. Its just plain easier to do what has been d0ne before. After all, when you are getting married approximately 3 months after he proposes, you have very little time to be creative. In New York, they can acctually put together a grand shebang wedding in 3 weeks- if the hall is free that night, grab it quick.

2. You want to be conventional. Some people like cottage cheese. Others like the color beige. and some people get heart palpatations deciding if the bride's sisters are going to wear navy blue or burgundy. I mean, Puleez Louise, man, how much excitement cant you take?

3. The same argument proponents of school uniforms use to argue their case. "conformity allows one's individuality to shine forth" The oxford shirt and penny loafers don't make the kid, its what he thinks and does. If my wedding is exactly like your wedding, no one is distracted by the trimmings, we can just focus on the wondeful people, the spirituality of the day, blah blah blah.

A bit farfetched, that one...

4. They don't care. No one cares. The parents, grandparents and everyone else just want them to get married already...JUST DO IT...before you get yourselves into trouble. Heck, maybe the bride and groom want to get on with it themselves....so they book the same hall, hire the same caterer...you get the picture.

I do love weddings, I really do, but their predictability is just so astounding. I want to get married on a boat, or in my parents living room, or the zoo, or donate the money to charity. I dont care. I really dont (which is why I will probably do what everyone else does, becuase who the heck really cares anyway?)

Have a good one,
Your very favorite tznius wedding crasher

Hullo 22, Happy Birthday

2006-06-09T18:01:00.000-04:00

And so, I am another day older, and everyone makes a big deal out of it. Which is very nice. I know I am truly an adult because I, for the very first time, forgot it was my birthday, and if you cannot remember your birthday, you have truly lost your youth.

Some wonderful things have happened so far, though. My dad bought me a guitar book. My mom got me a birthday hat from the dollar store that is sparkly and says happy birthday, and my sibs drew pictures, which are the best. My friends are getting me a colonoscopy and a lie detector test, and are going out for drinks without me, which is also very nice. At least this is what they are telling me is happening. Still, I admire their creativity, and am moved by their efforts to make my day special. My sister sent me a beautiful package, and my grandparents sung me happy birthday on my voicemail, which is the cutest thing ever(and I discovered my grandpa has a range of two notes).

People renew their vows after years of marriage. They want to reaffirm their commitment to each other. My mom suggested that in honor of my birthday, we reenact my birth.
I think that's a terrible idea, but there's gotta be a market for it.
I am sure the second time around, its a lot less traumatic, you could, for example choose your own obsetrician, and say, opt for a waterbirth. You could choose the people in attendance and select the degree of drama. After all, its your special day.

Last week I saw the most offensive birthday card ever. It was so bad I had to buy it, even though it sreally not funny. On the front is an old couple and a family waving goodbye to them. It reads "Happy birthday, bye bye" and when you open the card it says "You're old, and we wont be seeing you anymore." I mean, like, is that supposed to be funny? Anyway, I am sending it to a friend, but was too disturbed to write in it, so I guess she can always send it on to someone else.... Anyway, this year my resolution is to learn how to dance a bit better, practice my harmonica, and eat really good food. I also promise to be less critical of my mom. Have a lovely day.

ARTIFICIALLY ENHANCED INSOMNIA

2006-05-22T03:18:00.000-04:00

I had a cup of coffee and so its 3:16am and I am up. This happens about twice a year: I forget what time it is and have coffee too late in the day.

so while life is too exciting to be posting...There is always time at 3am for something else.

How about something trite?

Someone triggered this memory earlier today:

When I was a kid, there was this guy who used to fix our appliances, mostly our washer and drier. These bulky items were left by the previous owner (an elderly Jewish crank who moved into a retirement community and generously left her goodies for my folks). The washer and drier had multiple symptoms until their eventual, but yet unfortunate, demise: the drier would frequently eat socks, catch fire, lose pieces of siding. The washer was another more frightening hazard. Having the unlucky predicament of losing one if its short disk-like legs, it would unhappily teeter during the spin cycle--inching its way across our basement floor--using up its foot or two of cord, and eventually pulling itself out of the socket.

There was a legitimate reason why we kids were exempt from doing laundry. (as a note: I think my parents figured that we could finally wash our clothes ourselves after reaching 5 feet tall, or so. ...And now that I contemplate this theory further, it makes sense why they measured our hight on a closet wall, marked in pencil. The day we reached the desired height, we could partake in the rollercoaster-superfun-ness of the badass home appliances around the house)

Anyway, getting back to the guy who prolonged the lives of our stuff. Tony is this amazing guy. He stands a towering 6"6 and weighs about 250 pounds and never bathes. He has long big dreads and drives a vehicle whose make or model would be hard to recollect if a cop wanted info, but unmistakable, covered in boards, and anarchist slogans and drawings that Tony did himself. The other mysterious thing about him is his popularity with the female types--he always had the flavor of the month following behind--laughing at his jokes, handing him tools.

As a kid you think every neighborhood has such a fella. You don't realize until you are a lot older that having eccentric personalities around of this sort is not the norm. Everyone I knew employed Tony because his rates were amazing--usually not much more than parts. As a child I thought all fix-it men were Caucasian/anti-establishment/giants who came to save the day.

And for all my friends whom for this entry has been posted at a legitimate hour, it is due to you that I remain with integrity!
gnight folks

Faith Issues Continued...

2006-05-17T23:09:00.000-04:00

I am frequently asked how I will live my life having come to conclusions that differ from my upbringing. The simple answer is, nothing. nothing. Nothing.

At least for the time being. I live at home with my parents, I am in school--my goal is to get through uni with zero student debt, and that's the short story of my life. I have thrown myself into my schoolwork, and rarely think about all of these ideological issues when not provoked. For me, it is distracting from the truths that I do prescribe to, namely, something my grandfather mentioned to me when I asked him as a kid what the meaning of life was. "live comfortably and contribute to society."
I can see the gears in your head spinning:
'Now, wait just a minute, K., you do believe in universal, objective truths!'
sure I do! And I believe in love and happiness and life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, too!
How hypocritical and rationally unfulfilling! Yeah, I know...It is, but these are the things that allow you to get on with life, and not only that, but exceed your own wildest expectations. Unless you are a total wackjob you believe 'do not do unto others what you would not want them to do to you...'
And so, I diplomatically live according to my parent's desires--when in Rome, Right? And then, when I hit the road, I do what I have to do. I have no desire to create upset within my family or community, and yet, I do not feel fulfilled in their world. Onwards and Upwards! I have my outlets and am not afraid to go where your typical ortho might wince (especially in dabbling in dangerous ideas!)
And I am proud of my accomplishments. If I die tomorrow, I will not have regretted my life and my choices. My accomplishments reflect my desire to make the world a better place-if very feeble-at least they are an attempt.
I think people have a difficulty acknowledging that life is full of simultaneous contradictions. Personally, I love them...It allows one to be mysterious and ambiguous. Definition is so static and boring, and hardly suited to the everchanging nature of life. I have come to accept that my life is comprised of conflicting ideas and I am willing to live with that.

Endurance

2006-05-16T23:36:00.000-04:00

If my goldfish can live for 8 years in a bowl in our den, never complain, and even fit in time to philosophize (obviously, duuuuuh, his name is Aristotle)...Then I can prevail.

I am, like, the kid with the inhaler in one hand and the harmonica in the other.

The Harmonica is not going as planned. I do not have enough air in my lungs, I have trouble bending notes, its just not happening. Mind you, I still have potential to make incredible amounts of noise. This just means I have to pick up the accordion again, and my family will have to eat it.

Aristotle doesn't care. He actually likes polka music, as well as country, rap and Uncle Moishy. He like Gregorian chants and mordechai ben david. I think he likes the music I hate just to piss me off. He is a truly ugly fish. Most goldfish die in their prime when they are young and beautiful. Aristotle is a catankerous, cancerous, gray, mottled, unkempt, ick, wandery-googly eye specimen. He is the size of your average cigar and home to ninety-eight million bacteria.

We obviously have a love/hate relationship.

I have attempted to give him away (even though he belongs to my family, we each try to place ownership on someone else, I think we have been lying to my mom that she brought it home for so long, she now believes us). Tis a reverse custody battle: No one wants him.

Anyway, I think I am coming down with strep. I cannot remember why I decided to tell you about our pet, or harmonicas for that matter. I think I shall exit, ahem, gracefully...okay? Good night.

Cold Wet and Having to Pee

2006-05-15T18:29:00.000-04:00

The things we do for friends.

Every year I and three of my friends celebrate each other's birthdays by hanging out and doing something we wouldn't otherwise do. Its a chance to catch up because no one has time these days to get together. Today we went to the zoo in honor of E's 22nd. We bought her a membership so she can take dates there and packed lunchboxes so we wouldn't starve. Yes, Yes, the birthday had a theme. Zoo theme, man. animal crackers in lunchboxes. juiceboxes and sandwiches cut into triangles, party hats and champaign. Awesome. Nostalgic. We even forged a permission slip from her mom, so she could go on the field trip.

Today was hugely ugly. It was pouring rain and there were no kids at the zoo. We owned the place. No strollers. No parents. The place was deserted. Only a bunch of wet, cold and miserable animals. I think we cheered them up, I mean, we were definately more entertaining than they were.

I was relieved. Every birthday party has a small element of humiliation. We always go out, and we always do something slightly embarrasing. One year they took me to a hair salon blindfolded and told me to pick a new hue for my tresses. For chanukka, they presented me with a 'sunshine experience.' We went to our neighborhood coffee-joint, E. lugging a giant trash bag filled with 1. highly tacky flowered centerpeice 2. heart sunglasses 3. party hats (everyone got two-we looked like vikings) 4. trivia pursuit for dummies.... I think you get the idea. It was very funny, yes, but somewhat mortifying. So, I was secretly pleased that the zoo was empty.

Still what are friends for? I get accused of being too serious. And every serious person needs a friend to shout PLACENTA at the top of their lungs at you, as you are hurrying accross campus to your organizational theory and behavior class. Keeps things in perspective.

Faith Issues

2006-05-11T21:30:00.000-04:00

I could talk about my fascinating day, but I won't. Instead I will do some catching up with some old topics and issues that keep resurfacing in my life. I hinted at the faith issue in the harmonica entry. Here comes the real Meat and Potatoes!!!! (and I will not insult you with boring background information on my life and how I got to this point, yadda, yadda and more yadda. I feel confident that my readers will pick things up as I go along).

Since my year of seminary abroad, I have been pretty confident that I have found my personal truths. I set out to resolve my faith issues before I left, and worked all year to find meaning within the ideology in which I was raised. When I really took the time to face Orthodox/Chabad Judaism head-on, I found that nearly all of the fundamental beliefs presented to me were things with which I wholeheartedly disagree. This process was extremely agonizing and terrifying even though I had been feeling alienated for years ( I have have kept a running diary since I have been 14 and have faith related issues in many of the entries). The year in seminary, I asked all my questions, I was sincere, I looked for rabbis I could relate to, I tried to bridge the gap between Ideology and Self. And I just never could make the connection.
After I came back to the States, I decided to enroll in university and have been happily distracted for years... I do not have to think about making these chcices...I am still incubated in my parents' house and have retained their values for the sake of peace. When I eventually move out, I know I will give up a lot of it. Hold on to some things for the sake of culture and identity but I do not think I can commit to anything else.
Only every once in a while, this all blows up in my face, For example, I keep getting set up with guys who, if not fully practicing, are full believers, and honestly, I cannot relate. Or one of my friends will call, and will bring up their faith issues. My friends feel really crappy ditching their faith--so much so that they never decide to leave the community, their neighborhood etc... They then lead the rest of their lives agonizing their lack of commitment, their difficulty in living up to community standards etc. I do not judge them. I have my own fears of rejection. And my own fears of leaving it all behind; of being alienated, because after all, that is what you become.

I am not apologetic for my hypocrisy and I definitely don't think I have done anything wrong in rejecting my faith. Maybe it because I do not believe in any universal truth, maybe it is because I was exposed to successful and happily secular individuals. Maybe my upbringing at home contributed to my never ending curiosity and general cynicism. Maybe my personal tragedies caused me to lose faith.
Below I have posted an online correspondence from my year of questioning: The year I set aside to resolve these issues. Maybe they will help someone else, maybe not. It retrospect, they are a bit embarrassing, I can almost hear the whiney note in my voice. In any event, I started corresponding with Rabbi Moss from Sydney, Australia--I am posting his name because he was sincere and empathetic, even if I couldn't not accept every thing he said. Still, every once in a while I look at it:

Dear rabbi Moss: I read your responses through a forward from Rabbi Y. Y. Jacobson, and would like to know what you think about a problem I've been pretty miserable about. I grew up frum. I grew up Lubavitch, daughter of a shlucha. I went to what was considered to be the best schools through high school. I always enjoyed learning, but nothing ever seemed to make complete sense. I had teachers write comments on report cards, "she always participates, and she asks the most intelligent questions." The problem was I never felt a connection. There always seemed to be something missing. The answers always seemed defensive and irrelevant. Maybe thatÂs a bit harsh and exaggerated, but as time went on, I just felt more and more frustrated with their inability to answer my questions in a manner that would resolve the issues in my mind. Seminary was traumatic. I went with the only goal to once and for all fill in the gaps that would make me believe in Yiddishkeit. No such luck. At this point I feel like I'm in a spiritual burnout. No rabbi, Mashpia, or Rebetzin has told me precisely HOW one can believe in it all, because I donÂt, and it makes everything I do feel hypocritical because my heart is not in it. I am in university this year, and for once I feel fulfilled. I can learn anything I want to and it feels right. I feel challenged and free to think as I please, but it feels like im living a double life. If nothing changes, itÂs only going to get harder. My friends started dating, but I feel like that would be a disaster since Im living a frum lifestyle but my personal ideology is completely opposite. I have felt this way since I've been 12; long as I can remember. Is it possible that some people are not meant to do this for life?

RABBI MOSS:
It seems to me that no one has touched your neshoma.

I don't think the problem is that no one has answered your questions. It's deeper than that. I'm sure I could offer some answers, but that won't change things. Answers don't make faith - faith brings answers (and faith can coexist with unanswered questions).

You have a deep mind and a searching soul. The "system" is not made for people like you. The set answers to the predictable questions are enough for most - but not for you. You have the ability to blaze a path of your own. And there are two ways you can do this.

You could drop Yiddishkeit and find your own way. This is the easier and most logical path for you. Yiddishkeit hasn't worked for you until now, and you gave it a good shot; you are feeling challenged and free in the world of secular learning so why not move on?

This is a compelling argument. But I don't think that it is being true to who you really are. You wouldn't have emailed me otherwise.

I have another path to suggest.

Why not come up with answers of your own? Use your powerful mind to get to the core of what Torah and Chassidus are saying to you personally. The set answers didn't work for you because they weren't yours - so discover what your answers are. Every neshoma has its own Torah, and it's about time you started studying your own rather than that of others.
What am I talking about? Am I telling you to invent a new strand of Judaism? Kazooeyism?
No. I mean you should start asking the questions to yourself, believing that you have the answers. And I believe that you do.
Sit down and think about a question. Ask it to yourself. Push yourself. And be confident that you can come up with an answer.
I think the answers to all your questions are in you. I may be totally off the mark, but I feel there is a depth to you that even you haven't discovered. And I want to see it.
Tell me what you think,
Regards,
Rabbi Moss

Rabbi M.thanks for your response and thank you for dealing with the issue head-on instead of become distracted by side points. I think thatÂs really a first for me, actually. Here is a feeble attempt at answering the biggies. I do not think I have gotten anywhere, but would honestly appreciate a response.Is there a G-d? LetÂs just say yes, to make this go easier. Saying that G-d exists answers a lot of tough questions such as, "who created the world?' and "does life have a purpose?"And if there is a G-d, does he care that I exist, and moreover, does he care what I chose to do with my life?LetÂs say yes. LetÂs say that there is a greater being out there who cares exactly what I doesn'te doesnÂt intervene, He just watches and waits for me to do the right thing. What is the right thing? The gift of Torah, which was graciously provided by my parents and community.When I was younger I believed Yiddishkeit had value because my parents are Baalai Teshuva and chose it. I respected my parents search for ideological truth, and I trusted that they had found it. Later, I began to feel as if their choice was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time, for them specifically, and possibly not for me. My mom's brother was doing it, so she joined because she was sick of her catholic doped out friends. My father was on his way to India to follow his older brother's version of the TRUTH, and stopped off in 770. It worked for them, because it was the seventies and 770 was the place to be. Included community, purpose, selflessness and moral groundedness. Since then, the place has changed, and I doubt they would have come this far if they decided to become frum today, for example. They got the BT treatment. I look at my experiences growing up within the fold and notice that there are those within the system, and yes, there are countless levels in the system, and then there are the poor nebachs who never seem to make it in the system. There are a few who remain above the system and these people I obviously admire and respect and hope to be, one day: Smart and confident enough in their place to stay out of the squabbling and conformity. But something really does bother me. If Torah = truth and everything in Torah is truth, why are there so many versions of the truth? Because it was made for humans who are imperfect and have flaws, Torah is the channel by which imperfect beings can reach the infinite godliness that is so powerful, we would be consumed getting anywhere near it. This is why Hashem has to step away from this world (to such an extent as to create oodles of agnostics and atheists).Alright. So in order for Torah to be utilized by human beings, it must become subjective. Ie, it must become flawed and brought down, if you will, by countless approaches to torah, to such an extent that there are rampant contradictions in the way ppl do things, and yet, they are all right, except if they break halacha (which is not so concrete, either).What would happen if I were born a Tibetan child or Indonesian? Who never head the word Jew, torah, or even godb4? I canÂt answer that yet.Why keep Halacha? Because god said so. How do we know this is what he wants me to do?? Well we really donÂt know, except if you believe in hashgacha protis, it would be a bit clearer...one idea is that many mitzvos are just there to force one to think about torah no matter what a person is doing. It keeps you focused and all the stuff you hate doing is just the ugly part of the puzzle that looks very nice as a whole and would be lacking without that ugly piece in the corner. Because if you look at a Jewish person objectively, every thing matters to create a LIFESTYLE of torah, and the end result is pretty impressive.Is this worth doing? If torah is so subjective, why canÂt you take the ideals you like and lump the rest? Because then you would be a catholic. Or part of some fake religion that talks about charity and kindness, but everything else doesnÂt really matter, your sins are forgiven if you're generally a nice guy.And torah demands commitment and is worth fighting for because anything good is worth fighting for. (This I have been told is true, but its not always the case....BUT HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT HASHEM TOLD MOSHE ON A MOUNTAIN every last thing, how do you know it's for real?Well, I have trouble believing thatÂs what happened on vov Sivan 2448 or sometime like that. Well, if he didnÂt, the whole thing is a farce.But it's a nice farce.But itÂs not always such a nice farce. Sometimes things go terribly wrong. Right. But donÂt judge a religion by a few idiots who were not doing what they were supposed to do. Maybe it doesnÂt really matter if there were miracles 2000 years ago for me to live a frum lifestyle, here, today. Then again, it's something I would have to face every day. Remember the part about it permeating every part of your life?? Right, so I would daven 3 times a day to a god who took us out of mitzrayim with all of these MIRACLES just because he felt like it, and now I must in turn be eternally grateful and committed to torah and mitzvos because of it. I guess I really do not know how to answer the question about how to make it palatable for me yet.I think I can answer the Whys pretty well as far as "why should one do this?" and "why is torah important?," in the general sense of why they would work for some pplI still cant bring the whole thing down to why should kazooey invest her life into something that may not be true. The only guarantee is that if I work hard enough to make it true for me, one day it will do me a lot of good, but only after the investment, no instant gratification here. Why not try to make YOGA or FONDUE PARTIES or SHREK 2 or GLADIOLAS fit me? CanÂt answer that question either. At this point yoga and yiddishkeit seem to have the same relevance to my life, except that Yiddishkeit is something I have a background in.I think I'm stuck. A friend recently suggested the fact that I donÂt want to believe. She may very well summarize the entire thing, but itÂs hard to tell . I think itÂs a bit deeper than distrust for authoritarian anything, although maybe that is a slice in the problem pie.I donÂt think I know how to answer these questions. Any suggestions about how? I dont think I made any real progress. The only thing I'm telling myself right now is to stop being such a sissy and drop it all for once, to quit the hypocrisy because the only thing my brain is telling me is to make LIFE my own subjective mission and to leave the religion for people who want a prefab manual. I dont think there is a manual for the manual in this case.

I really enjoyed reading your letter. You have an honesty and clear way of thinking that is rare. And you are a critical thinker, which will take you a long way.

I don't think you are being fair to your parents in your analysis of their becoming frum. Most baale teshuva have similar stories of being in the right place at the right time and some vague thing happening to them that changes their entire perspective. And it's still happening. You would be surprised how many people are inspired by 770 and Crown Heights. I'm with you, I am baffled and I have no idea what it is, but there is something there that you don't find elsewhere. It depends how you approach it. Everyone wears their own glasses in Crown Heights. You see what you want to see - and it's all there! That's why I love the place (and can't wait to be back there for a visit in August), and that's why I hate it too...

Anyway, I think you need to become a Baal Teshuva on your own. What I mean is, you have to start owning your own Yiddishkeit, just like your parents did. Perhaps you respect them for what they did - they had the strength to pick themselves up and move into a whole new world. Maybe that's what you want to do. But what you don't realize is that it is Yiddishkeit that has given you the tools to do that. It is specifically Chabad that has pushed you to be real and true to yourself. I don't think giving it up is the answer.

And being on the edge of Chabad is infinitely different to being on the outside.

Can I ask you a question - and I hope you don't mind -
Are you angry at the Rebbe?
Rabbi Moss

No. I am not angry at the Rebbe and here is why: I will always respect the Rebbe for his humanity. If I -respected him solely for his intelligence, leadership or his revolutionary approach to the revitalization of Judaism, I might feel extreme anger towards him due to the many crippling problems Lubavitch faces on an ongoing basis. Since he represented the organization, the problems naturally are his responsibility; some would say. Many people have a sense of being 'let down' by the Rebbe. I see it from many adults who feel that either they did not receive as much individual attention as they would have liked; others feel frustration that the Rebbe did not give clear enough direction and therefore caused confusion after his death, (leading to the schism we now see). I always found the Rebbe to be a great person. A person of great sensitivity to other human beings, strength in his convictions and, humor. Maybe I never granted him that power in my life to be angry with him. I tend to feel most anger towards those who come in the name of the Rebbe and act in callous, stupid, or corrupted ways. I give the Rebbe a lot of credit for what he did do, not what he did not do. Going back to the issue of humanity: that is just it. I never saw the Rebbe as being more than human. I never felt any desire to put him on a pedestal, and I suppose I resent the attention given to the Rebbe that encompasses a lot of Lubavitch life. Mainly, because I find it boring and under stimulating. I donÂt like celebrating Lubavitch yommim tovim, putting pictures on the wall etc... (I call it propaganda) I also privately celebrated the Rebbe's secular involvement. Understanding that he always was coming from a vantage point of total devotion towards yiddishkeit, I nevertheless felt that he was a lot more "with it" than was exposed to myself and friends growing up. Occasionally this was brought up, but what was okay for the Rebbe, was not necessarily okay for the rest of us. THAT made me angry. I understand most followers of the Rebbe understand that to follow the Rebbe means to do what the Rebbe wanted. To me, I always looked to the Rebbe as a trailblazer, and I looked to emulate him by trailblazing, myself. I suppose this is a pompous attitude, but I am not fooling myself: I know that the Rebbe was way more equipped to do this than I am. My mother was lucky enough to visit the Rebetzin twice. Most people do not talk about the Rebbetzin. When I was small, I grew up hearing the typical stories, but also stories from my mother that humanized the Rebbetzin as well: She loved classical music, she went to university studied Russian lit, that she wore bright red nail polish and veered away from the public eye. That she was very close to her sister and the books being stolen took a toll on her physically, that she kept Dobermans or some other form of guard dog. And, that the Rebbe was married to her. The Rebbe was married to a worldly, cultured woman, who happened to be the daughter of a Rebbe herself. Not too shabby coming from that angle either. That impressed me. That the Rebbe was married to her. And I am not writing her off as being some secular Jew. Maybe itÂs just that she seemed to be able to have her cake and eat it too, if you will. Sometimes it seems like the way they lived was not the way they wanted the Chassidim to live. At least, that is the way it was interpreted in my Daled Amos. So, the answer is no. I am not angry at the Rebbe at all. His accomplishments are mind-boggling. I am a bit frustrated though, and perhaps jealous of their ability to own both worlds, and I wish that maybe I was raised in a world that was presented not in black and white but in a rainbow of grays.

Around Gimmel Tammuz, and also around Yud alef Nissan, I always think about just what you wrote: the Rebbe was human. I think that the greatest thing about the Rebbe was that he was a human being, of flesh and blood, who was born of a mother and father, went through childhood and adolescence, had a married life, struggled and worked hard on himself, got old, and even passed away.
This to me is what makes the Rebbe who he is - that he did what he did as a human being. I would not be impressed if a superhuman achieved so much. It is that a human like you and me did it - that is amazing.
That's why I have a picture of the Rebbe on my wall.

And the thing that impresses me about the Rebbe's originality was that he was a trailblazer and a wild thinker, but he was always operating within halocha and chassidishkeit. To be a rebel and anarchist is easy, but to be a rebel and a Rebbe - that is totally unique!
What comes first, emuna (faith) or building?

The typical answer is building. This is why you start the education of a child while the fetus is still in the womb: Even though it cannot comprehend anything. Naaseh Venishma (fig: doing a mitzva before understanding why you do it); that it is vital to create the environment that will make emuna (faith) come on its own.Some naturally have the emuna. even many unaffiliated people feel a pull to the spiritual and believe in G-d even though they do not practice anything.But I had the best building materials. I do believe that my parents and mechanchim (teachers) did everything they could to facilitate my emuna and yet I am lacking this faith. I also believe that I have done nearly everything I could to facillitate this. I did everything right, so why do I deserve to suffer with doubt? If you do everything right you should at least reap the benefits of knowing that it is true.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I finished writing that bit, but it did not look complete. So I spoke to some people who basically said, "emuna is a gift" what is THAT supposed to mean and how was that supposed to help? That if you dont have that gift, you just go on building your whole life? i think thats too much to ask.

Maybe you have to start believing that you believe...
I think that is the whole problem.

I have to start believing that I believe?!Do you really think that I am in denial? With the internship that i currently hold for the summer at jewish federation, I heard a talk given by a reform rabbi on intermarriage that I felt was entirely insulting. It took me a while to figure out exactly why I hated everything she had to say. Because either you except torah, or you dont, but how could you bend it into something else ? Reform and conservative judaism is ludicrous. I felt like shouting, dont call it religion. Call it a cultural movement, but dont call it truth.Anyway, I felt very very bothered by the ordeal. Obviously, they for some reason, find it necessary to connect to their jewishness, and they legitimize any approach... but anyone could tell that it didnÂt posses much real meaning and judaism is much like a show and something to be amused by. I suppose that is why the intermarriage rates are so high, its because judaism really plays a very small part of their lives.Anyway, all of that is a side discussion. I really still do not think I believe. And there is nothing to be gained by that. I am not finding it liberating to disconnect myself in this way as far as commitment. I am really ready to do anything as long as its valid, but no matter what i say to myself to legitimize religion, i cannot find it godly but something creating by people. and the truths that exist in torah are the truths that exist everywhere, universal truths that are molded to fit the situation of the people grappling with them. have a great shabbos

Your mind is a very dangerous place

2006-05-08T22:48:00.000-04:00

....Never enter it alone.
One of my best friends (who has known me since I have been four), noticed that I get depressed every summer. But I know it is not depression, or SAD (seasonal affective disorder), it is just boredom. I know this for a fact, because as soon as I have something to do, I am just dandy. DIGRESS: I will not go on a tirade about drug companies inventing disorders and deseases because I do not deny that the symptoms they describe are very real. Insomnia, mild depression, dry eyes and charley horse are all unpleasant. I will say though, that I believe drug companies have been so remarkably successful in reaching new patients is becuase everyone is so unbelievablly isolated in McSuburbia *or the American cultural characteristics of suburbia) that we all become pretty gullible--and worse, full of self doubt because we cannot compare our experiences to others. I am sure in the old days when people lived in neighborhoods and were forced into each other's business that these problems were addressed by a good heart to heart discussion. Like the wise old friend who tells you to just take a deep breath or go out, for once. What is missing today is a loss of validation. I often do not feel like I am doing everythng the right way, and at the right time and then am amazed how everyone else is struggling with the same crap I have to deal with and are managing in a comparatively mediocre way. Luckily, I live with other people who tell me to shut up, stop thinking and do something wonderful. I suppose for some people its easier to take a pill.

Invite your friend Monica....

2006-05-07T14:21:00.000-04:00

I bought a set of starter harmonicas and I will learn to play them if it kills me. Last night I learned how to do blues trills and how to play "shanandoa" and "America the Beautiful." I keep trying to learn how to bend notes but I can only manage a faint attempt at the lowest hole--not enough.
...but I have faith.

My set comes with 7 Harmonicas in A, Bflat, C, D, E, F, and G. If you use a harmonica when you play the guitar, you play cross harp for harmony (for example, a song in D uses a harmonica in A). Its pretty straightforward. My harmonicas are German. They seemed to be the standard, most sturdy and economical choice. I did some comparative shopping and Hohner harmonicas are the most popular. They start out at a buck fifty and go into the hundreds for a full orchestral one.

There are a ton of great sites for the harmonica enthusist:
Jack's Harmonica Page
Harmonica-Lessons.co.uk - free Harmonica Lessons Online
HohnerUSA.com - making quality instruments since 1857

My parents always stay away from German made cars. They call them Nazi Boxes. But if Hitler had painted pictures, and the townsfolk and village people of Hoffinpuff and Glackenbroom had perfected their harmonica and other wind instruments, maybe the holocaust could have been avoided.

Faith.
Getting back to the issue of faith, I always claim that I don't have any, and it's true, I would rather believe in what I know.
Lately, though, I have found that I do believe in some things. (Like my eventual mastery of the harmonica). I think that I have faith (with a lower case 'f") and generally believe in a lower case god. He's there, he's just away from his desk. I can leave him post-it notes and messages on his machine. I have figured out that he cares very little that I believe in him, but its important to me that I believe a bit, so I do, and I think that's the way he wants it. I think he gets grossed out when people get all into him.

Adventures in the kitchen

2006-05-05T12:32:00.000-04:00

Question: What to do with about 15 pears and 12 tomatoes?

Answer: Look for a recipe on the internet and pray.

I acctually made a tomato/pear jam.
Horrible.
do not trust the internet for all recipes. Acctually, my mom has a thing she likes to say about cooking and thats USE GOOD INGREDIENTS.I didnt have that luxury--and hence, I went with the jam. I was desperate. I had two dozen fruit that were in danger of become compost faster than you can say 'photosynthesis'.aside from stirring a bubbling, thick and highly dangerous concoction for 1 and 1/2 hours (are we there yet? I'm bored)--All that trouble yeilded about a pint. The modern woman is liberated not because of universal sufferage or access to education, noooooooo, its because anyone can readily buy smuckers strawbery jam from a neighborhood grocery. In case you were wondering...It tastes like apple butter, and I like apple butter. The trouble is, knowing that its NOT apple butter, but tomatoes (you come accross the seeds) and pears (which dissolved into ???).makes you want to hurl something somewhere.
So far, people have tried it. No one said wow.
I am thinking of putting it on chicken, after all, chicken is just chicken and everything tastes good on chicken, right???

Update:
Tastes wonderful on chicken.
I put chicken on a bed of chopped parsnips amd stuck the tomato pear stuff on top. It is truly wonderful.

Moral of the story: Sometimes you have to take risks.

2006-05-05T00:12:00.000-04:00

Keanahora is a great word. It is derived from the Jewish expression Kein Ain Horah, which loosely translates as "Without the Evil Eye" People often say it when they say something nice, like, "I have great kids,, the doctor in Miami, the rabbi in NY and my married daughter the babymachine, kaynehorah." I do not use the expression, except when I would offend someone by omitting it. I am not superstitious, and plus I think it has Islamic or other roots. When I was in Turkey, everyone had these ceramic eyeballs to protect them from the evil eye. They are called Nazar Bonjuk and they come in all sorts of sizes. In any event, I must return to why I chose this expression for my site. 'Kaenahora" looks cool, okay? It looks like an Indian Goddess Princess Name, or a designer-urban-chic clothing line. Plus, its origin is Yiddish. What could be more fun?? I was dying to use it for something, and since I do not plan on opening a business anytime soon, what could be better than Christianing my blog kaenahora?? (sorry for the sacrilegious element there) which is a nice segway for my aunt and uncle's sacreligious lamb they had at their Seder this year, but I think that is for another time. Adios.

Ta Da! Welcome Welcome

2006-05-04T00:42:00.000-04:00

It happens to the best of us, eventually, we succumb to the infinite (but yet, oh so finite) world of blogging: I never thought it would happen, just as I thought I would never have a cellphone, or become an adult, or whatever... Its just that blogging, is just so well...Indulgent? Excuse me, but as I initiate this I must protest the whole shebang. . I mean, I like the idea of writing a sort of diary, and receive feedback, sort of. But its just so SELF ABSORBED. I mean, I admit to staring at myself in the mirror, and thinking about my life constantly and all the other trimmings of being totally Wrapped Up with My Own Shenanigans, but this??? Its shocking. The funny thing too, is that I cannot remain truly anonymous because I want to share my indulgence with my friends, and yet, if everyone I know reads my stuff, I cannot say anything at all. So with this I jump into the wide wide web of blogland, and hope and pray it will bring me closer to self acctualization, joy and all of the other things which I am currently forgetting. There are obviously groundrules, unspoken things about blogging that people take for granted: You have to have a bit of spare time on your hands or, that you are a night owl. But for me, this is just an interlude...i have a break between semesters...and so I embark(as you can tell, i havent figured out how to make short, easy to read paragraphs....but I will learn) Have a wonderful night