Red, white, and the blues

I surprised myself the other day by asking my dad if we could have a "real" 4th of July this year.

I'm not sure what I meant by that.

What I'm confused about is that the comment came out sounding like an impatient American child with immigrant parents. Could we save the hummus/chopsticks/beans and rice for another day? Can't we act like an American family just this once?

I suppose that I have been a stranger to July 4ths in a conventional sense. Up until last year, I spent most Independence Days at Jew Camp-- a dreamy bastion of foreignness in the middle of Confederate Flag-waving Maryland. Not that Jew Camp didn't celebrate the holiday. Far from it. That particular days was swarming with campers wearing redwhiteandblue, patriotic sing-alongs after a barbeque lunch (kosher, of course), and the invariable Americana kids show in the evenings. But beneath of all this star spangled fervor ran a faint sense of desperation, the sweaty scent of someone trying too hard. The lengths we went to celebrate the 4th the "correct" way made the celebration awkward in itself.*

After I left Jew Camp, I spent the next 4th in summer school in an effort to graduate college on time (you see how that worked out). Aside from a mountain of American-themed cupcakes in the dining hall, it was like the national holiday didn't exist.

All of this brings me up to this year and that squeezing feeling in my chest that I wasn't doing this "American" thing right. No fireworks, no party, and no thought of a barbeque until I practically begged my father to grill some hot dogs for me. Circumstances didn't help, either. My parents are self-employed, so even though it was a Friday, there was no sense of a long weekend. The sky remained stubbornly overcast and weather steamy, punctuated by occasional rain. My father insisted I make Israeli salad for our barbeque, which ruined the American theme I had been going for, and then promptly forgot to grill the hot dogs I had asked for.

It's stupid and ridiculous for me to complain about this. There are people in this country who legitimately have a right to feel left out of America and carry the air of "foreigner" around with them, no matter how hard they try to assimilate. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, unaccented me-- I can do pretty much anything in this country without being hassled or questioned. I have no right to feel like the 4th passed me by without me feeling that surge of warmth and belonging. Do I?

K.

*There was this one time (before I spent 4ths there as a camper) that things got a little weird. The director at the time, a gentile, was a Confederate Civil War re-enactor along with her husband. For some reason, they decided that July 4th would be a great time to have a "Confederate Day." A lot of weird things happened at Jew Camp, but that was one that only happened once.

Scattered Thought: Ugh!

• I think that I have to accept that my parakeet is a girl bird. She doesn't talk and her cere is brown-- hallmarks of a female budgie. I know that doesn't change her personality at all, but I've already begun being more conscious of the trouble she gets herself into. Pure gender role bullshit on my part. I'm no bra-burner, but I don't want to start treating this bird differently because she now has ovaries. What a dumb thing to worry about when...

• ... I have started the job search, which already has become soul-crushing. I have a list of about 45 publishing companies, but any thought of sending out resumes and cover letters makes me want to break into hysterics. This is complicated by...

• ... the fact that my brother seems to have found a girlfriend. I'm feeling a fair amount of jealousy, which is ridiculous for an older sister, much less a 22 year old. I'm not sure whether I'm irritated that I come home so rarely and never get a chance to see the kid or that he has a relationship and I don't. Again, that's a stupid reason. I've had plenty of chances, but I suppose that it's mainly fear that has kept me single forever. I can venture to the other side of the world by myself, but I can't commit to giving up all of my time and energies to a guy. Speaking of traveling...

• ... it's pretty much certain that I'm going to China in May. My university is offering a class about global health, environmental, and education issues and, well, I need one more class to graduate. And if I can get that done in two weeks and in China, then so much the better. The whole thing, including tuition, will probably cost me up to $6,000, all of which I'll be paying by myself with savings from my birth and bat mitzvah. It's exciting, but a tad scary. Still, I'll probably never get to China on my own and I need something to look forward to. It also helps that my family is going to Israel mere weeks after I return from the Orient (probably the last family vacation we'll ever have), but...

• ... unfortunately, our Israeli friends are dealing with a seriously sick child. The poor kid is five years old and has recently had to undergo a spinal tap and hospitalization. They are thinking meningitis, but it's hard to be certain. I'm not a real believer, but these people are observant Jews and would probably appreciate a few well-placed prayers. If you feel so inclined, maybe ask the Big Guy (or Girl... or Non-Gender-Specific-Being) to consider being kind of merciful on this kid? He's sweet.

Yeah, that's it.

K.

PS. Posts left until 200: 8

Scattered Thoughts: New York and AWP Conference

• I honestly can't get comfortable in this city. I feel like everyone knows the moves to an intricate ballet and I happened to miss the particular dance class that taught balance and self-awareness. New Yorkers seem to have an extra sense-- a sense of movement, speed, and intuition. I try not to do the typical "stare-blindly-up" neck crane that is the international sign of the tourist (though I had to do it at the Rockefeller Center-- sorry), but I still stick out.

• One thing that I will say about New York is that it's Jewapalooza here. My father and I were cramming down cold fried plantains at the 53rd Street Deli when this older couple sat beside us, excusing themselves in perfect New York accents. They then launched into a conversation to themselves-- in Hebrew. We stumbled into the Diamond District, running into Israelis and black-frocked men in a stunning array of wide-brimmed hats. Ah, my people!

• I attended two seminars today. One was on blogging and its affects on writing and the teaching of writing. I found it interesting that many older people wished to set up their own blogs as a self-marketing scheme, but had little to no idea on how to go about it. It's a strange feeling knowing more than some of these venerable gray hairs, especially those who can afford AWP memberships. Exciting, actually. The second seminar was about historical fiction, which I love to read. I now have four more books that I have to buy.

• My parents decided that I should have business cards for this event, but promptly forgot to make them. So while I was being lectured at, my father was searching for a printing service to make up some simple ones. I don't know when I'm going to use them, but it feels professional in a way.

• The Hilton has really odd-looking chairs. I suppose that it's meant to be classy, but it would be a lot classier if the gold roping was actually attached to the chair, not suspended in a plastic sheath. It rather looks like those cheap strings of light bulbs you can find in college dorm rooms. Very distracting.

• Unfortunately, the Hilton has a really awkward elevator system. I'm sure it works for them, but it's awful for me. So many people are waiting and the elevators are never there when you want them. When I was trying to get to the lobby, I pressed the 'down' button and waited. And waited. And waited... until finally, an elevator arrived. An older woman got out, but then proceeded to stand in the doorway, talking to someone still in the elevator. Politely, I waited for her to get by, but as soon as she moved, the doors began to close. With an undignified yelp, I tried to launch my arm between the closing doors, but they didn't bounce back like I expected. So the elevator I had waited so patiently for slid through my grasp. The lady must have heard my irritated sigh, because she apologized and beat a hasty retreat. She's lucky that I was in a bit of a stunned stupor; I might have popped her one otherwise.

• Going to see John Irving speak tonight. E.L. Doctorow tomorrow afternoon. Will be missing Frank McCourt on Saturday, which is sad.

• Time to pass out now.

K.

Things That Make This Blogger Speechless

I don't check all of the major blogs everyday, but I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention when this entry was written.

Bestweekever.tv, one of the many sites I go to in order to indulge in my secret pop culture and celebrity gossip obsession, presented me with this little gem. Click it; I'll wait.

For those of you who clicked, you hopefully read the article. For those who decided to stay in the soothing presence of my blog instead of the flashiness that is BTW.tv, allow me to show you something:



Excuse me while I express my own feelings towards this movie trailor: WHAT?! WHAT?! WHAT?!

Aside from absolute shock, I'm not sure how I feel about this. I'm all for spoofing serious issues, but I have to wonder whether this is absolutely necessary.

Jewish comedians/writers, you know I often let you get away with this sort of thing. I hold that hypocritical view that Jewish/Israeli stereotypes are typically our domain and anyone else stepping into it earns my righteous wrath. But seriously guys, you're making the Ghetto Jew crawl out of her hole-- the Jew that wishes that other Jews wouldn't make such a big scene because it's sure to affect everyone else in some horrible way. Ghetto Jew has been out way too often; she would much rather stay curled deep in my gut than make another appearance.

On the other hand... that Hezbullah Hotline thing was kind of funny.

So I echo the BTW.tv people-- I don't know how I feel about this.

Any other opinions?

K.

PS. They mention "Sabra Price Is Right" in that post. For those of you (like me) who aren't aware of this video, I have provided a link. I think I met a couple of these people in Jerusalem.

Snail Mail Sunday #1

(The United States Postal Service may be off on Sundays, but that doesn't mean that I can't still write a letter.)

Dear Christmas shoppers (specifically those on Rt. 30 within Lancaster proper),

First, let me wish you a felicitous holiday season. Normally, I'm incredibly annoyed by this point in the year. The Christmas muzak all over the radio and in drugstore has a tendency to wear on my nerves. I honestly don't know how you all can stand it. Is there a gene that makes a constant repetition of "Little Drummer Boy" bearable? Or is it sheer strength of mind? Whatever it is, I envy you. Oddly enough, by staying inside for most of December, I've managed to avoid any sort of Christmas input. So, for once, I am-- dare I say it?-- jolly. Ho. ho. ho.

But that's not what this letter is about. No, I'm really taking time out of my busy schedule to ask you what the hell you all were about on Rt. 30 tonight. I understand that, in the old days, you needed to drive out to shops to snag the perfect Christmas gift, even if you screwed yourself over by procrastinating. But, Christmas shoppers, we have the internet now, with store open 24/7. You can any sort of anything on this wonderful web of ours. With this in mind, I must ask you to show some sense from now on and not venture out on stormy nights for those last minutes gifts, especially if I'm trying to get home. You see, I normally wouldn't have been out at all, but my fridge at school needed to be cleaned, lest I come back from break to find a puddle of veggie mush seeping on to my kitchen floor. My drive back was not pleasant, people. With all of your lane-changing foolishness and general rudeness on the road, I arrived home and had to pry my fingers from the ten-and-two position with my feet. I don't believe that I have blinked at all in the last hour.

My friends, I am not asking for anything outrageous-- just that you vacate an entire highway for just an hour while I try to get back home. I'm sure that's not too much trouble. Oh, and while you're at it, a small gift would be nice-- perhaps an Amazon gift certificate? You wouldn't even have to leave the house for that one.

Thanks and much holiday joy to you all,

K.

PS. And for those of you with a more Hebraic persuasion, could I tempt you with this little morsel?

What a Sad People We Are

I won't be telling my family that I did this, but I will admit it to my blog.

As a Chanukah present to myself, I signed up for JDate. While I was doing it, I was muttering, "I can't believe I'm doing this. Dear G-d." But then I puttered about and noticed that there were quite a few cute guys my age and my type. Where are these people in real life?

Then one profile made it all so clear. One of the guys said that his mom wanted a "nice Jewish girl," so there he was. Ah, the same reason we were all sent to Jew camp. Good thing to know that mom's influence never fades.

K.

The Jewiest Christmas Ever

I'm going to have the Jewiest Christmas ever.

Some will cock their heads and ask, "Wait, wasn't the Jewiest Christmas ever the time when you had Chinese food and saw Munich in the theater?" No, that was the most depressing Christmas ever. This will be the Jewiest Christmas ever.

Because this Christmas, my friends, will be the Christmas my family and I drive down to Florida. Yes, we will snowbirds for a few days, just like my old-school aunt and uncle. Granted, we will be there for my brother's soccer tournament, but it's better than being incredibly lonely at home like most Christmases.

Huzzah!

K.

Madonna del Libro

I get tons of questioning looks when I mention to people that I'm extremely interested in Catholicism. The confusion comes from one of three things: (1) Catholics can't find interesting in their own religion, so they can't see why I can; (2) Protestants don't have interest in Catholicism, so don't see why I do; and (3) I'm a Jew, so I should (apparently) keep to my own sphere. It doesn't help that I shun the two Jewish congregations in my college community, choosing instead to attend Sunday morning mass at St. Agnes when the spirit takes me.

Deep down, I think my family is concerned about all of this. My Dad, the life-long Jew, can't understand when I do my best to explain the concept of the Trinity; my Mom, formerly a Protestant, holds a teeny-weeny grudge against Catholics for telling her that she was going to Hell when she was younger. My brother... well, my brother is oblivious when it comes to anything that doesn't involve a soccer ball.

I've done my best to assure them that I have interest in converting (indeed, I really don't), but I find the similarities between Judaism and Catholicism fun to analyze. Eternal lights, bread and wine, ark-like structures-- we share quite a bit. The stuff we don't have in common is just as cool. I grew up in a religion that frowns on depicting the human form in art, so I just love to stare at the marble Madonnas so sheer that I can see a candle's glow behind them. The hierarchy of the Catholic Church is so foreign to me that it takes me forever to understand how a deacon relates to a cardinal relates to a pope and so on.

Going to Rome during my semester abroad, obviously, was like dying and going to Heaven. Nuns, monks, and priest everywhere! Even priest pin-up posters-- imagine that! Almost as cool as the rabbi trading cards I found in Sfat.

Anyway, in poetry class, we were told to pick a piece of art and write a poem about it. Of course, I chose "Madonna del Libro" (above), a beautiful painting by Botticelli.

So, after all of the exposition, here is the poem, in a supremely rough draft.

The woman and the babe debate religion,
their whispered thoughts hushed in the fading sunlight.

The child, his mind clear
from nine months of solitary contemplation,

cranes his neck, curious to catch the glint
of understanding in his mother’s eyes.

She inclines her head in an effort to grasp his words,
but really she is inspecting her child’s unstained brow,

searching for the future. She considers
wrestling the golden thorns from his forearm

but to do so would be like pulling the dead from Fate’s iron fingertips
or turning water into wine.

So she wraps her cloak like the folds of Heaven
around her son, silently urging him

to keep his stubby legs in firm contact with the dirt
and his sticky fingers entwined in her hair.

But his eyes already point towards the
stars and his future amongst them.

The professor says that I should send it to one of the Christian poetry journals. That makes me pee myself a little.

As if my last name wouldn't give it all away.

K.

Haveil Havalim #138

It's been a while since I've linked to this, but here is that world famous Haveil Havalim back on this blog again.

Huzzah!

K.

My Demonic Quarterly Review

[It's been a couple of weeks since I was on the receiving end of two anti-Jewish slurs, targeted at my aversion to spend from my dwindling coffers. From friends, I'll take it; from nearly-complete strangers, expect a quite rage. And thus I began to formulate a satire based on what some people must think my life is like. Here it is. Enjoy.]

I arrived home from class the other day just in time for my quarterly progress review. This was made clear by the whiff of sulfur that charged out of my apartment when I opened the door, the eerie music dominated by minor chords thundering out of my stereo, and the small demon perched on my kitchen counter, fussing with my toaster.

"Oh, is it that time already?" I asked, dropping my bookbag and flipping off the radio (66.6 YHELL FM, if you're inclined to listen). The demon looked up.

"It will be if this toast ever makes an appearance." He determinedly jammed a knife into the slits, absorbing the corresponding electric shock with a frisson of pleasure.

I peered over his thin shoulders. "You people made the thing."

"Doesn't mean that we can figure it out, though, does it?" The demon threw the knife down with a sigh and sprang from the countertop. "Look, I have very little time and quite a bit of paperwork, so I think we should get started." With that, he clamored on to my futon, poofing a pair of reading glasses on to his crooked nose and a legal pad into his claws.

"Sure."

"And take off that ridiculous disguise." He glanced down over his glasses with distaste. "It gives me the creeps."

"Alright." Shrugging, I slid my thumbs beneath my blonde wig, letting my springy locks jut forth, giving me that surprised, wind-tunnel look. The demon watched as I carefully pulled my blue contacts from my eyes, the cute nose prosthetic from my own hooked proboscis, and set them both in their corresponding cases.

"Is all that absolutely necessary?"

"To blend in, sure." I fluffed up my mousy hair then went to stand in front of him. "Well."

"Well," he repeated. "Well, I suppose we should start this off officially." He stood up on the couch, bring him up about to my clavicle. We performed the traditional salute: a few hip-swivels, some lyrics from a death metal song, that sort of thing. Then we both sat and got down to work.

"Look, I must be frank, here," the demon began. "My lord Satan (blessed be He) has been very displeased by the work you people have been doing up here."

"Has He?"

"Indeed. He figures that with so many of you infiltrating high levels of government and economics and entertainment, something must be happening." He consulted his notes. "And, to a certain extent, it has. Those of you in the White House have been doing a marvelous job. And He does have an entire Middle Eastern nation doing His bidding as we speak. But there are some of you who just aren't pulling your weight." The demon gave me a pointed look.

"I've been doing some things."

"'Some things.' 'Some things' is not enough to keep you on the payroll."

"I've always defended Israel."

"Not good enough," the demon said.

"Just the other week, two people accused me of being cheap. I'm keeping up the stereotype."

"Are you?" He lifted an eyebrow. "I know you've been passing pennies on the street, yet you haven't picked them up. Do you call that 'keeping up the stereotype?'"

"I suppose not."

"And," his reedy voice rose an octave, "are you aware that there are currently two dimes just sitting on your bathroom floor?"

"Yes." I frowned. "But I thought that if it were in my bathroom, it would--"

"No! Invest them in high interest accounts! Did you learn nothing during orientation?" I cast my gaze downward. He continued. "Look, I have a list here of what your ancestors used to do in His great name. Have you poisoned a well recently?"

"No."

"Kidnapped any Christian babies?"

"No."

"But you've had chances, haven't you"

"Yeah."

"Hmm." His skin tone darkened to a deep scarlet. "Used the blood of the righteous to make Passover matzahs?"

"No. I went to Israel for Passover, though? Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Fine, I'll put a check there. Have you desecrated any holy water?"

"No."

"Spat on communion wafers?"

"No."

"Given the middle finger to any sort of Christian establishment?"

I started. "My ancestors used to do that?"

"No, but I thought I would throw you a bone." The demon raised his eyebrow again. "Well, have you?"

"Not strictly Christian institutions, no."

"Lent any money and charged a outrageous interest on it?"

"No." The demon threw down his pad in disgust.

"Do you see what I'm talking about? People like you are mooching off the Demonic Funds Department and sending Hell into a recessionary spiral! You should be out there, doing what you all were bred for, instead of spending our hard-earned money on trinkets like fake noses." He waved a claw in the direction of my discarded disguise. "Plenty of your people use their actual noses and still manage to do their jobs!"

I could feel the tears welling up and knew that my nose was being to run. I sniffed hard.

"Oh, by Lucifer's leathery wings, don't cry! Crying never helps!" The demon glared impotently as I began to sob in great, mucousy bursts. "Look, just stop-- I'll give you a satisfactory mark for this quarter if you'll just quit it." He scribbled something down on his pad, then poofed it out of existence. "Just try to do better. Kick a kid wearing a cross, trip a nun, steal money from a church's tithing basket. Anything! I don't want to have to fire you. You'll not find a better gig than this and the health benefits are just awful when you start playing for the other team."

I gave him a watery smile, nodded, and wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. The demon sighed with relief.

"There, that's better." He stood up, struggling for balance as his hooves sunk into my futon. "I'll see you next quarter. And I'll probably not be so lenient. I'm going to have Him on my tail as it is." He gave me an abbreviated salute, then, in a puff of sulfur, disappeared.

I sat for a moment, then got up, grabbing my industrial-strength Febreeze. A great grin broke out over my face, banishing my tears back into their ducts to be used for labor. Good ol' demons and their weakness for crying women.

Who said I wasn't evil?

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.

Haveil Havalim #84 is Up!

You should probably go look at it.

K.

Confirmation Agitation

This morning, my family and I sat down for the most superfluous ceremony in a young Jew's life: confirmation. More specifically, my brother's.

I've never been a fan of confirmation, even four years after my own ceremony. The synagogue itself doomed the rite for me. Back in the day, a rather jaded seventh grade Sunday School teacher informed my class the concept of a "confirmation" was nicked from America's Christian community during the fad of Jewish assimilation. Before that, he said, the concept of confirmation wasn't practiced at all in the European Jewish populace. Whether this is true or not, I quickly added this to my arsenal of reasons why confirmation wasn't necessary to become a mature Jew.

Who can blame me? I had been attending Sunday School for eleven years. Every week, I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, dragged in for one hour of Hebrew lessons, then subjected to two hours worth of exceptionally dry history. (Granted, many other Jews have to suffer Hebrew School multiple times a week, to which I doff my cap. I don't think I would have survived.) To be told that I need to complete yet another year of instruction in order to take part in a ceremony not vital to Judaism was just too much.

To make matters worse, the confirmation class was taught by the Rabbi later in the evening. Make no mistake, I have a great affection for my Rabbi. His wisdom and welcoming presence has helped me during the most trying periods of my life. Even my brother, the sullen teenager, holds a tremendous respect for the guy. However, no matter how many talents my Rabbi has, none of them include the ability to speak to a group of teenagers. He just doesn't understand that no one in the confirmation class really wants to be there, no matter how engaging the conversation is. The problem is only exacerbated as kids nod off during class, causing the Rabbi's mood to move from "frustration" to "un-holy rage." Fun times.

As most dreaded events do, my confirmation passed uneventfully. Thirteen teenagers slouched on the bima in front of a sanctuary full of parents and relatives who, though unsure of what a confirmation officially entailed, firmly believed that anything that kept sixteen year olds out of trouble all those Sunday evenings couldn't be that bad. All of us, clad in white robes that seemed to be cast-offs from some church's Christmas pageant, leaned against the podium to deliver two speeches, one entitled "Why I Want to Be Jewish," the other on a subject of the Rabbi's choosing. The "Why I Want to Be Jewish" speeches were short and cliched (sixteen year olds, though they are loathe to admit, actually don't know anything and therefore cannot give ground-breaking explanations on why they picked one religion over another). The other speeches, however, were Proustian tomes. By the time the service reached my one-paragraph explanation of G-d and nature (I've always know my audience), the congregation had reached a operation-quality stupor for which anesthesiologists are usually paid the big bucks. Two hours later, the entire assembly collapsed into a chocolate-covered strawberry bacchanalia, relieved that the whole ordeal was over.

You would think that my parents, who had to sit through the whole debacle four years before, would have wisely allowed my brother to skip the whole thing. Consider said lesson unlearned. All year, my brother sat in confirmation class, gamely trying to keep his snores from interrupting the Rabbi's frenzied attempts to spark an intelligent discussion. Then, many months later, there we were, watching as my brother stubbornly refused to smile in the face of a professional photographer's antics while waiting for the service to begin.

As I look back on it, I realize that I did learn quite a bit from my stint in Confirmation Prison. The exact particulars escape me now, but I'm sure that some bit of information managed to wedge itself into my gray matter during that time period. One thing's for certain: if I have my own children, I will immediately enroll them in a confirmation class. Why? Because one thing that I'm not going to let my kids get away with is experiencing less misery than I did.

And that's promise.

K.

New Haveil Havalim Up!

Love it. Want it. Need it.

K.

When Is a Convert Not a Convert?

No doubt this subject has already been covered by people more educated and up-to-date on the subject than me, but once I saw the article, I had to say something.

While browsing the Jerusalem Post, I came across an opinion piece about the Orthodox Rabbinate not recognizing the divorces and conversions carried out by many Diaspora Orthodox rabbis. In order to be legitimate, such ceremonies must be conducted by rabbis on the Rabbinate's approval list.

Far be it from me to question the decisions of this exalted body, but I can't help thinking that the Rabbinate is trying to create a monopoly within its own sect. Get converted by an A-list Orthodox rabbi or the whole thing is null and void.

It's almost like the Rabbinate is forming a Jewish Vatican-- the be-all to end-all of the Jewish faith. What next? Will the Israel's Chief Rabbi suddenly announce that G-d regularly visits for bagels and shmear in order to talk business? Will he join the Pope as the Lord's own mouthpiece?

Maybe it's just me, but I don't like the idea of a bunch of alter kakers thousands of miles away making declarations about just who can be a true Orthodox convert. If a person who follows the teachings of the sect and follows the traditional process of conversion, they are a convert!

But, you know, the Rabbinate has the right to think what they want. If they want to believe that anyone who doesn't follow their edicts isn't a Jew, then I can't do anything about that. However, I have a right to my own beliefs, as well. And if I believe that the Rabbinate spends much of its time acting like a pompous windbag of an organization, then that's my right.

The right to question authority: that is why I am a Jew.

K.

PS. Spell check keeps wanting to replace "rabbis" with "rabies." Sometimes I wonder...

History's Yellow Bands

I'm not even sure how to start this entry.

Each time I begin, I shake my head and savagely assault the "backspace" button. The blank space mocks any word I type in, but I gotta say it some how.

"New Iranian law to require Jews to wear yellow band."

What do you say when you see history begin to repeat itself before your very eyes? What do you think when actions thought to have seen their ends two generations before reappear in modern society?

The only upside of this situation is that Christians and Zoroastrians will be forced to follow the dress code as well. I'm not saying this because misery loves company, but because, let's face it, the world still cares more about Christians than Jews. The Christian European nations will swoop down on Ahmadinejad, not to mention our own most Christian President Bush. By including Christians in his Holocaust-like law, Ahmadinejad will find himself royally screwed.

But enact a law limiting the freedom of Jews and Israel will sound the only outcry. Oh sure, there will be a little hand-wringing from other nations, but would we see people banging down the doors of their national embassies? I doubt it.

Forgive me, I'm being angry and cynical. :( The world is better than that, isn't it?

Isn't it?

K.

An Orthodox Encounter

Coming back yesterday from a prolonged stay in that cesspit called New Jersey (kidding-- we Pennsyltuckians need to make ourselves feel good about something; if New Jersey has to suffer, then so be it!), I dragged myself to my laptop to make a cursory attempt to look at the blogs I had missed that day. I ended up on Treppenwitz's site, which in turn led me to a particular post on DovBear. Knowing that I had no time or energy to expend on a post (Jersey Turnpike smog takes it out of you), I resolved to come back today and write something of consequence. Or not. Regardless, both posts reminded me of a story...

Back in my more spry days, I was invited to attend an event that an Orthodox synagogue in Harrisburg was throwing on my paternal great-aunt's 92nd birthday. I hadn't been to an Orthodox shul in recent memory, so I followed my mother to the service.

Before I continue, there are some things that the reader must know. Let me list the passengers in the car to Harrisburg:

• Me- Twelve years old, member of a Conservative-leaning Reform synagogue
• Mom- Newly converted Jew
• Aunt- Former Orthodox Jew, current non-practicing Jew
• Uncle- Catholic, convinced that the horizontal designs on a tallit are "racing stripes"

The traffic to the state capitol was horrendous that Saturday, making our group a tad late to the proceedings. We tumbled into the synagogue's vestibule, composed ourselves to look sufficiently spiritual, and, when we judged that it would not be impolite to enter the sanctuary, tip-toed in.

The first thing I noticed was there was a obvious lack of women in the seats in front of me. In my head, I could hear various religious school teachers in my head, quietly instructing me to find the women's section. This is an Orthodox synagogue, they said, men and women sit separately. As I turned to whisper this bit of information to my mother, my gazed passed over the bima and was draw to a man in black furious gesticulating to a previously unnoticed area full of women. The rest of the congregation seemed oblivious to the activity around them as they prayed privately to themselves.

Keeping an eye on the red-faced man, I pulled on my mother's jacket.

"Mom," I hissed, "Mom!"

She didn't respond, apparently concentrating on something more important. I looked away from the bima to see what could possibly take precedence over our immediate seating. Mom and my aunt were busy trying to spot someone for my poor gentile uncle to sit with. I tugged furiously on Mom's jacket again, but to no avail. Desperately, I glanced back to the bima and my heart dropped.

The angry man in black was no longer there. Instead, he was charging down the aisle towards us, his nostrils flared in righteous rage. "Uh-uh-uh-uh," I spluttered, nearly yanking the jacket from my mother's back.

"Get over to the women's section now!" The man's voice was just short of shouting and, to my horror, he seemed to be directing most of his wrath in my direction. As it often happens when I am the subject of a harangue, my face burst into a brilliant crimson color, the nerves in my teeth tingled, and my knees began to give way. "Get over there, or we'll have to start all over again! Now!"

If the congregation hadn't noticed us before, they certainly did now. Curious heads turned to see the disturbance behind them.

A Pre-bat mitzvah, a new convert, a lapsed Jew, and a Catholic-- we didn't stand a chance.

Sending a pleading glance back over his shoulder, my uncle shot into an empty bench and hunched over a prayer book full of foreign phrases and words. Mom, my aunt, and I shuffled up the stairs to the female section, avoiding the eyes of the women therein. As I sat on the hard bench, I could feel my mother's stiff body next to mine, shaking with anger and embarrassment. I surreptitiously wiped the tears from my eyes and stared holes into the man in black for the rest of the service.

After the service, many of the congregants came up to us to apologize for the man's behavior. He could have handled it better, they said with chagrin.

Really?

My purpose in this story is not to rail against the beliefs of the Orthodox, including the male-female dichotomy of a congregation. I respect the man's feelings about the matter. What I absolutely do not respect is the way we, the ignorant, were shamed in front of strangers. I don't care if that guy was a rabbi, cantor, president of the congregation, or the synagogue caretaker-- nobody has a right to treat a person in such a way. It would have been a mitzvah to direct three obviously disoriented adults and one panicked child to their proper seats quickly and quietly. Instead of remembering the man as a raging asshole, I would look fondly back on the encounter and on the guy who taught me a valuable lesson in Orthodox thought.

Luckily, I know enough Orthodox to assure me that he was a fluke, a blight on the face of the modern Orthodoxy. But what about other people who might encounter the same sort of situation? Will they chalk it up as another mark damning those of a more conservative belief system? Lord knows that the Orthodox can't afford more of that.

Sometimes we must watch what we say or do, as it might bounce back to reflect an entire people. Sad, but true.

K.

PS. My family has several interesting stories about The-Synagogue-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named, but I'll save those for another time.

Letter to a Jewish Mother on the Occasion of Her Birthday

(Her birthday is actually tomorrow, but I will probably be too out of it to write anything of substance. As it is, this entry barely conveys what I want to say. -K.)

Dear Mom,

Another year, another birthday.

When I look at you, I can't believe that you're 58. Maybe it's your smile, the way your eyes crinkle when you're pleased, or the dye job-- whatever it is, you look younger everyday.

I don't think I've ever told you how proud of you I am. You would probably blush and wave your hands at me in a dismissive manner if I said it to your face. To be honest, it would embarrass us both, so this letter will have to do.

I'm proud of your calm demeanor through Gramma's battle with Alzheimers. You didn't cry when she called me by your name, though you must have had some primal feelings of betrayal. When I refused to visit my only remaining grandparent during her slow descent, you didn't guilt me into repeating the tortuous experience again. You simply understood.

I'm proud of your resilience during those several months of hell three years ago. You put aside your own anguish over the loss of a dear sister-in-law and your ailing mother to comfort two children and a husband. I know the experience eventually drove you on to anti-depressants, but you recovered marvelously. Tragedies like yours have been known to scar lesser people.

I'm proud of your conversion to Judaism. Did you ever dream during your Protestant childhood that you would immerse yourself in a mikveh and read from the Torah during your very own bat mizvah? Did you ever think that you would be able to pass a tallit on to your daughter on her own passage into Jewish adulthood? I bet these experiences were totally beyond your ken fifty years ago. Your dedication to a religion and people who have been scarred into cynicism is admirable.

I'm proud of your ability to deal with a daughter so unlike yourself. I know I'm a hassle. I can't be in a living space for more than a week without trashing it, my grades were never valedictorian-level (You know what it's like being raised by a valedictorian mother? Lots of pressure.), and I'm insistent about joining the IDF. I'm your antithesis, but you love me anyway.

Mom, you know how I always tell you, jokingly, that you had better be nice to me because I will be the one choosing your nursing home? When I can no longer take care of you on my own, you will get the best assisted living service money can buy. You deserve it.

But don't worry, 58 is the new 40. You have plenty of time. :)

Your loving daughter,

K.

(PS. Happy birthday, Billy Joel. My mother would like to state that though you are a year younger than she is, she still has more hair.)

My Hebrew Professor-- Philosopher, Genius, Episcopalian

Next week, two other students and I will be going to class to sit at the feet of a learned man for the last time.

It's been nearly two years since I signed up for WCU's Biblical Hebrew course. Unfortunately, I wasn't actually aware that it was Biblical Hebrew class. I was a young freshman, suddenly free from the shackles of my high school's obsession with Romance languages and ready to take something-- anything-- that didn't resemble Spanish. A quick glance at the offered language tracks presented me with the obvious answer: Hebrew.

Fantastic! I thought. I went to Hebrew school. This should be a breeze!

Filled with the vim and vigor that usually accompanies freshman (before they are savagely beaten down by poison-tipped punji sticks wielded by crazed bureaucrats, whose blood-shot eyes reflect the torturous hours spent applying red tape to everything-- not that I would know anything about that), I bounded into my first Hebrew class, only to be presented with "Introduction to Biblical Hebrew" by Thomas O. Lambdin.

I only wish I had been in the wrong class.

The class was taught by a man who embodies the word "professor." An Episcopalian pacifist of an indeterminable age, he dropped his Ph.D program at the University of Pennsylvania when he was blackballed for refusing to fight in Vietnam. He's a renaissance man and educated in eight languages. Instead of begging the university for more money, he took up employment at a local gas station. He doesn't own a television, doesn't e-mail, and has been driving the same car for twenty years.

Genius.

At first, there were nine of us in the first introductory class. Most of the students were graduates or non-traditional students taking Biblical Hebrew before entering (Christian) seminary. Others, like me, thought the class was going to be of a more modern bent. One man was even a member of the United States Army and taking Hebrew in hopes that it would be like Arabic (needless to say, he quickly dropped out and is now a drill sergeant in the South).

Gradually, the class size dwindled. Three semesters later, only three intrepid adventurers remained.

These last four semesters have taught me some very important things. Allow me to list them:

• Biblical Hebrew is only like modern Hebrew in that they share the same name.
• A clever student can use Hebrew's gender specific nouns and verbs to his or her advantage. ("She broke a great wind"-- in reference to "cliff," which is a female noun. Fart jokes are classic.)
• It is possible to be the living, breathing vessel of every pop culture reference in existence.
• Low Episcopalians are lazy; Middle Episcopalians are hazy; High Episcopalians are crazy.
• You can legitimately get a sixty year old scholar to say the words "bitch," "ass," and "whore." Hey, it's in the Bible.
• An Evangelical Christian will try to convert a Jew in the middle of a Biblical Hebrew class.
• A Hebrew class can and will be held on a Jewish High Holy Days, even if the Jews aren't there.
• You know that letter? Vav? It's pronounced with a "w" sound. And that dot in the middle of some letters? That makes the sound fricative. Be prepared to pronounce your "t's" and "d's" like "th."

I may have griped before every single Hebrew class, but I'm glad I took it. There are some days that I walk away from the stuffy classroom feeling like I've garnered knowledge from Plato or Socrates. My professor is a true philosopher, be it about life, the Bible, or linguistics. Next week, when my classmates and I enter the Den of Light and Understanding, we will be presenting our hero with a poster of the evolution of Hebrew letters (see fig. 1) and a fruit basket, full with the apples that he served on a regular basis for two years.

The card reads:

"From Harry, Kate, and Noah. Thanks for feeding us...

and teaching us Hebrew."

Todah, sir. Todah.

K.

Fig. 1