Trying Not to Have a Cow (, Dude)

"Campus Speak"- New York Times

I found this article off of the always amusing Best Week Ever blog. The entry featuring it was so ridiculous that I just had to follow the link, which shows how interested I was, as my computer has been running very slowly lately.

Just like trying to explain humor, analyzing slang is a futile practice. Many people have tried to put both subjects into erudite academic articles and come out sounding like complete idiots. When it comes to slang, describing the college lingo casts university students in a light that is not very flattering. Not to sound arrogant, but take me for example. I'm a fourth-year English major who has studied literature from Chaucer to Roth and everything in between. I'm able to communicate with some scions of academia, perhaps not at the same level, but with some degree of proficiency. Yet, you'll find me using words like "chillax," "fauxhawk," and "sketchy/shady."

This is just a reminder to those that would take this article as another sign of my generation's sad future, remember your own slang, yes? I'm sure that your parents were appalled when you came home with an unorthodox vocabulary, whether you said "the bee's knees" or "far out" or "yuppie."

See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.

K.

You Poor People

There are several things that I wanted to write, but I've found that my brain refuses to concentrate. I can see myself writing something incredibly ridiculous (and perhaps I already have), so I'm just going to post a super rough draft of a poem from my Poetry Workshop 1 class.

We were supposed to create a poem using the specialized language of some animal. That may sound odd, but you're essentially supposed to use the language and point of view of whatever animal you chose to focus on. Also, we were supposed to include anaphora (in this case, a repetitive invocation).

I chose to honor the common mallard. So, here it is.

Pleading for the Mallard

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his undistinguished features.
He blends into the verdant forest of heads, the fertile soil of bodies.
Since his fledgling years, trailing his mother like a strand of weed
caught on a heron’s leg, he’s only concerned himself with the bouquet
of marsh mud and the fluid pressure between his toes.

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his lack of grace.
Compared to the strides of the egret, his waddle is clumsy;
compared to the flight of the eagle, his hold on the sky is precarious.
But his plump body rolls with the waves as he tips,
feet paddling the air, to harvest the bottom-dwelling grasses.

Let the mallard remain ignorant of his place in the universe.
He doesn’t know that his curly-tailed brethren
dabble around city parks, across oceans,
and in golf course water hazards.
Cattailed shores and briny pools form his continents and seas.

Yep, there it is. Still in rough draft form, but feel free to critique.

Hopefully, I'll never have to offend your eyes with my horrendous poetry again. :)

K.

The Penitent Man Kneels Before G-d: A Yom Kippur Review

(Get the quote? You would be surprised how many people don't.)

The Dream

This year, I felt that it might be slightly more meaningful Yom Kippur if I didn't shlep my laptop home. Of course, a great deal of laziness factored into it, but the result was the same. Instead of puttering around on the web while those mighty gates were slowly swinging shut, I decided to take a nap between services. The best way to avoid the pangs of hunger is to sleep through them.

Or so I thought.

I've been looking on-line, but I haven't found anything that tells me about the affect of hunger upon a person's dreams. For my part, my stomach drove me into one of those dreams that seems so real that you actually wake up twice: one in your dream, once in real life. In my dream, I had awoken from my nap and wandered around my dead aunt's house, getting terribly lost in the twisting hallways. As I walked, things would appear to me and then disappear. I can't remember what they were, but I know that I mentally collapsed. Because of my confusion and terror, I hid in a bathroom and avoided going to the (dream) afternoon Yom Kippur service. Then, improbably, I decided to order from Pizza Hut.

I woke up at that point.

It really was a "what-the-hell?!" moment and I tried to ponder it as I quickly dressed for the (real) afternoon Yom Kippur service. I don't really believe in the meaning of dreams; they are just your brain replaying history and adding some of its own commentary in the process. But it still didn't keep me from thinking about it all through services and most of the break fast.

Was it just a yearning for Pizza Hut? Why would my brain keep me from going to services on one of the most important holy days of the year? Why was I in my deceased aunt's house? So many mysteries.

The Tears

My rabbi has held his post at my temple for about 35 years, which is an extremely long time for a notoriously wander-lusty profession. He has been there for all of my early Jewish life events: my naming, my kindergarten consecration, my bat mitzvah, and my confirmation. He has refused to directly answer my philosophical questions (a plus, if you know me), comforted me during the deaths in my family, and offered advice during my many existential meltdowns. He, forever and always, has my respect.

I knew this was coming, but I guess it didn't really hit me until the Kol Nidre service. He's finally retiring.

I think his leaving will be a turning point in my relationship with my congregation. It was his influence that truly kept me anchored to my hometown and my temple. There are two congregations in my college town, but instead of attending them, I sometimes walk down to Saint Agnes, the local Catholic church, and sit through a service. I suppose I would rather spend time in a space radically out of my realm than spend my Saturdays comparing some strange rabbi to mine. I would rather admire the beauty of the church than sit in some other synagogue's austereness.

But I have to get over that now.

There will be a new rabbi. He will be close to my age. He will probably not last more than two or three years. I might as well make a clean break of it.

Change makes me cry. But perhaps the tears will cleanse.

K.

Famous Fish in a Very Small Pond

Last year, I participated in my rabbi's brainchild concocted to get more people to come to the Yom Kippur afternoon service. Basically, five other people and I wrote five minute speeches detailing exactly why we were Jews. It seems to be gaining in popularity, so the rabbi is getting what he wanted. However, my participation seems to have yielded an interesting opportunity.

I believe it was two weeks ago that I got a message from my mother saying that one of our local papers was doing a piece about the people who spoke at the service last year. So I called the reporter and did my thing-- and by my thing, I mean that I babbled for about fifteen minutes to a total stranger about things that I normally keep to myself. Cringe.

So, anyway, the article came out today, complete with a picture of yours truly sitting with a handful of shwarma in the Parisian Jewish quarter. Two of my fellow speakers also responded, so it wasn't a "Kate Show," which keeps my community from thinking that I'm totally egotistical.

Here's a bit of the article. You can find my section of the article and picture by clicking on the link.

Time for reflection: Why they are Jews
Jewish holidays are a time to think about faith.

By
MELISSA NANN BURKE
Daily Record/Sunday News

A month of reflection, Elul, precedes the Jewish High Holy Days. Again this year, Rabbi Irwin N. Goldenberg has asked a diverse group at Temple Beth Israel to reflect on what it means to be Jewish.

The group will speak during a 3 p.m. Yom Kippur service Saturday in York Township.

Among the lay people who spoke last fall were an immigrant, a college student and a secular Jew...

You can find the rest of it on the York Daily Record website or by the link.


K.

Kate is a Big, Fat Liar

So, remember when I promised that I would write from Scotland? And remember when I said that I would post pictures? And remember how I never keep a promise?

It's that time of year again-- the time of year when I feel guilty about abandoning my blog, wonder how the bloggers whose entries I used to haunt like the cyber ghost I am are doing, and just want to take a stab at being a responsible citizen of the blogging community again. My impetus this time is my Writing and Computers class that I'm taking strictly for the credits. Suddenly, I'm forced to look at different blogs, to read books written about blogs, to ponder the significance of blogs and blog-like writings throughout history. Eye-opening, I assure you. It's making me miss what I was once a part of. I'm such a sentimental ass.

And thus the prodigal daughter returns.

K.