Pleas of a Literature Major

I've fallen into a literary rut.

For the last several days, I've been skipping from book to book-- from Dan Brown to Margaret Atwood to Salman Rushdie. I read the first couple pages, then my mind floats away from the words on the page. One minute Gibreel and Chamcha are plummeting to earth; the next minute I'm thinking really hard about how nice a turkey sandwich would taste.

I'm currently deep into The Last Jew by Noah Gordon, a novel about the Spanish Inquisition. The dialogue is entertaining, the characters are well-rounded, and the topic is interesting. However, though these are the required criteria to make it on my reading list, I don't know how long this book is going to last. I've been too unpredictable to judge.

Personally, I believe the problem is that I no longer have an assigned reading list compiled by a herd of professors. During the long haul of the school year, I scour the great works of literature required in class, all the while dreaming of the other books that really wanted to read. But now I have the free time and, well, I've read all the books that I had dreamed about during the year. What now?

Dear readers and lurkers, please give me some reading recommendations. Classics, summer reading, bestsellers-- it doesn't matter. Is there a book that stuck in your mind? Made you think? Made you laugh? Made you cry? Tell me about it.

Seriously. Tell me about it.

Because I may soon end up bringing cheesy romance novels to my brother's soccer games, which would be awwwwkward.

K.

Say What?

Taylor Hicks is the new American Idol.

Whoa.

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...

The Kimono Collection Get an Airing-Out

It might be my stomach virus's doing, but I feel compelled to post about something near and dear to my heart: my kimono collection.

I'm not Japanese by any stretch of the imagination, but something about these graceful garments has captivated me. Therefore, as I'm too weak to do much else, I'll put up some of the pictures of my little collection. It requires, unfortunately, that reader uses his/her imagination since my house is in no way a photographer's paradise.

So, we begin!



Though technically not a kimono, this haori is by far the most "useful" to me of the bunch. It's traditionally used as a kimono overcoat, but I wear it to synagogue to cover my shoulders.



A detail from the haori. It's the design that really made me fall in love with this piece. The colors, the trailing ribbons, the way the fans are situated-- very appealing.



Next, my tomesode. Tomesode are worn by married women to formal occasions, such as weddings. I believe that I got this particular kimono because I really wanted a tomesode and this one was cheap on Ebay. Being a student of very little means, I can't be incredibly choosy. No matter, it's simple and I like it.



Detail of the tomesode's embroidery. I believe that it's a lion, but it could be a Korean dog. Whatever the animal, the green color is beautiful.



Here's a rather fetching furisode that has been, unfortunately, been hung rather haphazardly on the wall. It's also unfortunate that the picture had to feature my ancient paper weight of a computer; the hanger is too high for me to reach. Furisode, by the way, is Japanese for "swinging sleeves" and is worn only by young, unmarried women. It is said that in order to attract a husband, women would wear sleeves long enough to flutter when they walked in order to catch a man's eye.



The final kimono in my collection is an uchikake, a wedding kimono. This picture doesn't really get across just how massive this thing really is; it's the width and length of a single twin bed. The hem of the garment is stuffed with cotton, lending to the kimono's surprising weight. My mother is convinced that I will get married in this kimono, but I doubt I would even be able to lug the thing down the aisle.



This is the only obi I own, but I guess that's a good thing as it costs about as much as a really nice kimono on eBay. The length of silk is doubled over on itself, so it's actually about as long as I am tall. It's kind of an obnoxious orange color that doesn't match any of the kimonos I own, but the crane is nice.

So that's the extent of my collection currently, but I am expecting a large box of random kimonos in the near future. If I'm satisfied with them, I'll take pictures.

If you have an interest in kimono and would like to learn more, there are several books I would recommend.

The Book of Kimono by Nario Yamanaka-- My first book on kimono. Some very nice pictures with short explanations dealing with the history of the clothing and how to wear it.

Kimono: Fashioning Culture by Liza Dalby-- I highly recommend this book. Dalby was the first Western woman to become a geisha and, as an anthropologist, has written a brilliant and entertaining history of the kimono.

Kimono by Paul Van Riel-- Not big on information, but has tons of full-color pictures.

I would also say that eBay is a fantastic source for very nice vintage kimonos.

Anyway, thanks for hanging in there with me!

K.

PS. Update: The Llara Brook count is now up to 958 on Google and has (somehow) made it on to WilliamShatner.com.

Car Ad Betrayal

Car advertisements seem to think that they have me pegged. They know that I'm desperately searching for a car to boister my flagging ego. They know that I am intensely attracted to bright, flashy colors. They know that I will only purchase a car if it has appeared in an action film starring Harrison Ford. They can read my poor, poor shallow mind.

So what I don't understand is how they would get it so very wrong this time around.

Yes, I'm talking to you, Honda Civic. What happened? We were so simpatico for a while. You were the only one who understood my penchant for spouting pretty little fish and tree frogs from my mouth while driving through tree-lined roads, much like a fairy princess cursed at birth by an evil sorceress to have toads leap from her lips at inconvenient moments. It was like... you got me.

Suddenly, you come out with a commercial populated by butterflies, snakes, and spiders. Ah the miracle of rebirth: a young butterfly wriggling out of its cocoon, a snake gleefully shedding its skin, baby spiders pouring in a veritable deluge from an egg sack. Nature at its finest, is it?

What's going on, Civic? You know I hate two out of three of those creatures!

For example: spiders. Civic, you know that I have called for jihad bis saif on those eight-legged bastards for the last twenty years! I don't heed the call of arachno-apologists who claim that spiders are actually our friends. "Ooooh," they say, "spiders kill insects that irritate us! They keep the population down!" Well, so does a bug zapper and you don't see me taking one of those into a passionate embrace!

And now you want me to associate your car with an animal-- nay, a creature-- that I despise?

I could have dealt with the spider thing. We have been through too much together to fall out over that. I would have questioned our relationship for a moment or two, but I would have fallen back on the idea that one can make a mistake every once and a while. That is... until you included that... other... thing.

That's right.

Butterflies.

What the hell, Civic? How could you not know that I hate butterflies with more fiery passion than can be promised by twenty Latin men simultaneously?! Don't you realize that when I swerve while driving on a deserted country road, I am actually trying to lodge one of those stupid things in the grill of my car? How could you not understand the basic butterfly conspiracy: butterflies sending out their lowly moth cousins to flutter in your face while you're trying to light a camp fire and you swat at them with the lighter fluid which splatters all over you and the fire decides to finally ignite and--poof!-- you have no eyebrows? How could you have missed something so simple? Honda Civic, you claim to be all "in" with the tree-huggers and the left-leaning Blame-America-Firsters, but how could you ignore the plight of the proletariat moth, who sacrifices itself while the bourgeois butterflies lean back in their pimped-out cocoons, sipping spiced nectar from the skulls of their enemies?

Shame on you, Civic, shame on you.

We're through. You'll find your stuff sitting in a pile outside of my door. Don't bother knocking.

K.

Thank you, The Colbert Report, for the "voice" of this piece.

G-d Bless the Blogosphere

It's interesting how fast news spreads. Llara Brook, the girl who was wrongfully arrested in Baltimore, MD, now has 631 mentions in Google.

Well, at least one of us from the synagogue has made it on Google! :)

K.

The Story Continues

Llara's encounter with the cop made it on to The Drudge Report and on the Rush Limbaugh show.

I can't believe I put those links on my blog. :)

K.

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.

Just an Update...

More on my friend and the cop.

There's a video too. Fun!

K.

Make My Season Finale with a Dash of Science

Students of literature are notorious for being picky about the kind of mental stimulation they open themselves to. Some only touch the great European classics; others won't be in the presence of a book that wasn't written by an African-American lesbian writer. Still others-- those of discriminating taste-- refuse to bask in the glow of the Devil's spawn.

That's right. Television.

Not that I follow that line of thinking. Like everything, television is a medium best used in moderation. And, depending how you use it, TV can impart some knowledge through such channels as The Learning Channel (when it's not showing fashion tips), The History Channel, The Travel Channel, The Discovery Channel, etc. etc. Seriously, who can bash television when you can watch Alton Brown explain the chemistry of cooking on Good Eats? I certainly can't.

Alas, I wish I could say that I was going to rave on about TV's educating aspects, but no. Instead, I'll be concentrating on... gasp... prime-time dramas.

More specifically, CSI:Las Vegas (none of this spin-off crap, I'm a purist).

I'll admit it: CSI can't be considered educational material. Those who are CSIs in real life rarely leave the lab. Tests that take minutes on the show can last for hours, even days, in real life and CSIs don't arrest people. But come now, admit it. This show stands way above the dross of the TV world: soap operas and after-school specials.

So, anyway, tonight was the season finale and the resolution of a pressing cliffhanger. One character, a particular favorite of mine due to his biting sense of humor, had been shot twice and was on the brink of death. On top of that, we had the reappearance of his crack whore daughter, a decapitated son of the South with a penchant for man-corsets, and a pre-diabetic determined to end it all with all the drugs, alcohol, prostitutes, and cake he could find. Finally, the show's avowed bachelor shows that he may be dappling with the fairer sex.

Ooooh, the drama! I love it!

See, CSI is the only show (besides those with, you know, real people) in which any character biting the dust makes me unhappy. The writers and actors on that show manage to make a lab full of science nerds exceptionally interesting. Luckily for me, it turns out that no one dies this season. No fake-mourning for fake-people! So now I'm looking forward to next season.

Here's where the problem comes in. This fall, the powers that be will move Grey's Anatomy up to Thursday at 9 PM, which will put it in direct competition with CSI. My future roommate is a Grey's devotee.

Oh uh, trouble in paradise.

So I now need to learn how to program my VCR. Or my roommate and I can institute a weekly brawl with the winner turning to the show of her choice.

I had better get working on that VCR.

K.

One Hundred Things About Me

I'll admit it: I'm a talker. I'll chatter on about world events, school, and the superiority of a regular spoon over a soup spoon. Knowledge-- or lack thereof-- of a particular subject doesn't stop me either. Rattling on and on about nothing is a quite a talent of mine.

However, one subject with shut my mouth tighter than a sprung bear trap: Me. Ask me about myself and I will immediately clam up, hemming and hawing until the asker simply gives up. It's not that I don't have things to say or that I'm ashamed of myself. My mind simply goes blank.

This became quite a problem when I was being interviewed by Phi Sigma Pi initiates.

"Tell me about yourself," they would say.

"Err," I would reply cheerfully. And that would be the end of that.

After about seventeen such encounters, I decided that something must be done. So I sat down and made a list of 100 things about myself. Not secrets or anything, just things that people might be interested to know. I did this just to prove to myself that I can find something to say about myself.

I include this list in my blog because, if there are any regular readers out there, they might find that some of the items that I put in the list explain the way I think. Or not. Whatever. :)

Anyway, feel free to reply. They always make me smile. With further ado, I present...

100 Things About Me

1. My father's nickname for me is "Pumpkin."
2. If asked what my favorite movie is, I will always say The Blues Brothers.
3. I've been going to/working at the same Jew camp for ten years.
4. I honestly couldn't tell you what my favorite book is.
5. Secretly, I admire my little brother.
6. I have no idea what I'm going to do when I "grow up."
7. I still consider myself a kid.
8. I write better at night.
9. When I buy a house, I want it to be near a large body of water.
10. I'm teaching myself how to play the harmonica.
11. I absolutely cannot stand math.
12. I have trouble making up my mind about things.
13. I am convinced that Uncle John's Bathroom Reader is never wrong.
14. My favorite playlist on my Ipod is 136 songs long. I have only reached the end twice.
15. I played the marimba--badly-- for three years in high school.
16. I played the flute--even worse-- for six years before that.
17. I love to imitate Tim Curry's voice while singing "Sweet Transvestite" from Rocky Horror Picture Show.
18. The Billy Joel concert I went to with my mother is the best thing that has happened to me this year.
19. I'm a natural blonde.
20. I can't bend all of my toes, but I can pick up things with them.
21. I took Tae Kwon Do for five years.
22. I collect vintage kimonos.
23. People think I'm a goody-two-shoes.
24. People are surprised when they find out that "Pour Some Sugar on Me" is my ringtone.
25. The blue that Israelis paint their doors with in Sfat is my favorite color.
26. I had a parakeet (budgie) named Schmaltz for eight years. I still miss him.
27. I blush very easily.
28. I went to Israel on a Birthright Oranim trip.
29. I've become a less picky eater these last few years.
30. I adore sketch comedy (Monty Python, Kids in the Hall, SNL, etc.).
31. I inherited my dorky dancing style from my father.
32. Creating things with my hands makes me incredibly happy.
33. After college, I would like to join the IDF.
34. I have no cousins.
35. I always giggle when I'm trying to lie.
36. Countries I've visited: Israel, Canada, Iceland, Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland, England, Scotland, and Wales.
37. I'm one-fourth Scottish, one-fourth German, and half Lithuanian.
38. I think that any time before 11 AM is un-G-dly early.
39. I will watch crappy movies just to see actors that I like.
40. There are about three songs written in the last five years on my 136-song playlist.
41. I listen to the blues, oldies, folk, and classic rock.
42. My dream job would be one that lets me travel.
43. When life gets too tough for me, I watch "The Daily Show" and "The Colbert Report" to assure me that the world is just as crazy as I think it is.
44. I look forward to blogging each day.
45. I go to art museums just to see Italian religious paintings. The ones with the Virgin Mary are my favorites.
46. I've never been very interested in dating.
47. I accidentally walked on to the set of Rocky VI when coming out of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
48. I've got pictures of Sly Stallone from that encounter.
49. I'm a very tactile- and scent-oriented person.
50. I love the smell salt marsh grass.
51. I used to be afraid that Nazis would get me.
52. My goal is to get to Australia to see the wild parakeets.
53. I'd like to swim with the dolphins someday.
54. I am pro-Israel, pro-choice, and pro-stem cell research.
55. I put myself down as an Independent so I wouldn't get Democrats and Republicans calling me at all hours of the day.
56. Sometimes I zone out and miss whole lectures in class.
57. According to LivingWaters.com, I have broke every single one of the Ten Commandments.
58. I had a private celebration the day Yasser Arafat died.
59. I used to hate Ariel Sharon, but now I'm just confused.
60. However, I did cry when Sharon went into his coma.
61. I can't stand religious people who are self-righteous.
62. My real name is Kathryn.
63. Nobody can spell my last name.
64. I believe that there is a special place in hell for people who try to convert me.
65. I love to sing, but I don't do it very well.
66. I like to go to Catholic mass when I can't get to synagogue.
67. My parents are convinced that I will become a rabbi one day. Uhh.
68. I envy Philip Roth's writing style.
69. I enjoy going to events in Washington, D.C.
70. When I get extremely frustrated with something, I refuse to have anything to do with it for several weeks.
71. As much as I dislike President Bush, I think that he would fun to sit with it at a dinner party...
72. ...plus, I think his dogs are adorable.
73. Politicians make me feel all icky.
74. I was voted third most likely to become a politician in my senior class. Oh G-d!
75. I have a secret fantasy of being in a Broadway show.
76. I love strawberry cheesecake-flavored Hawaiian ices topped with marshmallow.
77. I find that dancing with drunk people is exhilarating.
78. Being a daughter of a cop has endowed me with a strong guilt complex.
79. I have never done illegal drugs.
80. I get chest pains from Vicodine and codeine.
81. I'm an agnostic.
82. For many of my friends, I am the first Jew they have ever met.
83. I plan to be Jewish for the rest of my life.
84. I bristle every time someone condemns mixed marriages.
85. I find accents sexy.
86. Sometimes I wish I had curly hair.
87. I once tried to teach myself Scottish Gaelic.
88. Whenever and wherever I hear the song "Cotton-Eye Joe," I will drop what I am doing and perform the corresponding line dance.
89. I swear that all of my favorite songs describe me in some way.
90. I was the only Jew in my elementary school.
91. I swam in the US Maccabi Games for four years.
92. I was invited to swim at the Maccabiah Games in Israel.
93. I quit swimming because I was no longer having any fun.
94. Sometimes I don't feel worthy of anything I have.
95. I mentally correct people's grammar...
96. ... Then I feel like a total moron when I get something wrong.
97. I am a Red Cross certified swimming instructor and lifeguard.
98. I still sleep with the same stuffed bunny that I've had since I was a baby.
99. Certain songs and movies make me cry uncontrollably.
100. I have realized that there are too many things about me to fit within 100 points.

K.

Something to Look Into

Can't hurt to look, can it?

K.

And Another Thing...

Was it just yesterday that I was talking about people getting bad impressions about a group of people due to the actions of a single member? The thread of conversation continues...

First, read this link: Chantilly couple to file complaint against police after arrest, robbery.

Now, I must add information to this. What the article did not convey is how badly this officer treated these two kids. She would not allow other cops to help the stranded couple and hurled f-bombs (sorry, kids, family-friendly site) whenever the two asked for help.

How do I know this? The poor young lady in the article has been a family friend even before she was born (our mothers met in birthing class). With two cops for parents, she is as eager as anyone in any police department around the country to portray the men and women in blue in a favorable light. I highly doubt that she was lying about the matter.

As a daughter of a retired officer, I am appalled at the manner my friend was treated. The police are not just there to bust crime rings and direct traffic; they are there to help the civilian. To treat someone, anyone, who needs assistance in that manner is disgusting.

Blech.

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.

Decisions Alabama Needs to Make

Oh dear.

Alabama Candidate's Views Startle Democrats

Let me quote the first line of this article:

"BIRMINGHAM, Ala. - Democratic Party leaders are wondering what to do about a candidate for attorney general who denies the Holocaust occurred and wants to "reawaken white racial awareness." "

Say what?

The article goes on to say that, currently, this man has managed to receive 12% support in the coming into the June 6th primary. His opponent has 21% support, but two-thirds of the respondents to the pole were undecided.

Undecided?! Undecided?!

Undecided about a man who denies the Holocaust? Undecided about a man who advocates white supremacy?

Oh, Alabama voters. You had better get real "decided" real quick.

K.

PS. Update: My preggers pepper, it turns out, actually had triplets. Mazel tov!

Art Imitating Life

Thank you, Arcamax Publishing. "Zits" by Jerry Scott & Jim Borgman

I'm sure everybody feels like this at some point.

K.

Success!

I've finally managed to spice up my blog a little. For many people, this is a simple matter of tweaking some HTML and CSS and then BAM!-- finished. But I am an idiot, so it has taken me several days to actually do something that should actually take minutes.

Oh, well. However long it's taken me, there are some resources that were integral to my great success. For those who are computer-illiterate, use these:

Publishing a Blog with Blogger, by Elizabeth Castro.

BlogU-- a huge help.

There is still much to do on this blog, but this is a start! :)

K.

Preggers Pepper: An Interesting Find

Sometimes you can't think of anything to say on a blog, but then something cool turns up.



An ordinary pepper my father was cutting up Israeli salad turned out to be a mommy pepper, shielding two little baby peppers in her womb. Clearly, these little peppers take after the daddy pepper.

Which makes me wonder: do I feel at all bad for eating a pregnant pepper? And is the phrase "pregnant pepper" really as funny as it sounds?

Answers: no. And yes.

By the way, in case you were wondering, these were fraternal twin peppers. They were sprouting from two different seeds.

K.

PS. Pregnant pepper. Hee hee.

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.)

The Finals Week Review

It would be exceptionally irresponsible of me to write a full-blown entry this early in finals week. I was subjected to three of the suckers today and am scheduled for two more tomorrow. Thankfully, that will be the end of my sophomore year at good ol' West Chester U. Until then, only small tidbits about life in general.

**

Spent last night writing a six-page paper detailing the way Philip Roth skillfully manipulates his audience via writing style, little-known facts, point-of-view, etc. I focused mainly on The Ghost Writer and The Plot Against America. I respect Roth's insane imagination (Transforming America into a dystopia by electing Charles Lindbergh president? Resurrecting Anne Frank? Whew.) But Mr. Roth, sir, why can't you end your novels? You randomly peter off at the end, leaving me wondering if you simply got bored of writing. C'mon, sir, do you really expect me to believe that after the anti-Semitic explosion in The Plot Against America, everything goes back to text book American history? No repercussions? Nothing?

Although, I should criticize my betters when I'm guilty of the same sin. Makes me feel better about myself, though.

**

At the beginning of the semester, I spent about $100 on two of my textbooks. I sold them back today for $57. It seems that books depreciate in value as soon they touch dirty, dirty college student hands.

Let's not even talk about not being able to sell my novels back.

**

The professors seem even more eager than the students to get out of here. Instead of forcing us to take real finals, they are throwing out quizzes that clearly took them fifteen minutes to create.

That's okay; it only took me 10 minutes to complete.

Not that I'm complaining.

**

Someone got yelled at today for studying in the library coffee shop. What is the world coming to when you get chastised for-- G-d forbid-- studying in a part of the library? On finals week! Geez.

**

Hopefully, there will be a well-written tribute to the most important woman in my life tomorrow.

(Think about it: who is the most important woman in any Jew's life? You got it!)

K.

Beware the Ichthyoid Revolution

My family has a small, tub-sized pond in the backyard, created out of a sunken bucket and some flat rocks commandeered from the local quarry. Ostensibly, the pond was established to produce the pleasant tinkling noise that falling water makes bouncing off of stones. But, as usual with my family, we got bored with a toy that had only one purpose. It was not difficult, therefore, for me to convince them that fish would be a cool addition.

After many, many failed attempts as fish caretakers, we finally managed to find a trio (we always buy them in threes-- it's a well-known fact that fish intend to take over the world, so having three fish instead of two will decrease the chance of an ichthyoidal collusion) that could survive in our homicidal hands. As I couldn't tell them apart, I dubbed them "Wanda" (if you don't get that cinematic reference, I'm disappointed) and watched happily as they seemed to thrive in their outdoor environment. Three more pleasant fish never did live. Every morning, they rose to the surface of the pond and waited for my mother to sprinkle some fish flakes for breakfast. They basked in the sun everyday and retreated to the warm depths of the pond during the winter.

My Wandas were the strangest fish to ever be spawned. One of them, a fish that could only be described as an under-achiever, was constantly getting stuck on algae. The other Wandas, oddly enough, teamed up to push the big, dumb lump off of the surface and into the water. They did this each and every time dumb Wanda beached himself. None of us could understand this drive to help their fellow ichthyoid, but it was heart-warming all the same.

Early this spring, however, tragedy struck. Dumb Wanda had beached himself for the final time.

There must have been something about that idiot fish, because the other two Wandas later swam down to the bottom of the pond, never to be seen again. It is my personal belief that the two of them pined away without their dim-witted companion. Without him, there was no reason left to live. And so, I lost all of my fish.

Today, my mother and I decided that the pond needed new fish. We walked to the local pet store and bought three fish, strong specimens all. As we made our way back to the house, I noticed one fish chomping on the fan tales of the other two.

"Hey," I shouted, pinching the bag to separate the ornery fellow from the others. "Stop it, you little bastard!" The fish stared up at me balefully. "Play nice, " I instructed it, placing the bag in the pond to acclimate the little guys to the water temperature. With that, my mother and I took off to Borders.

We arrived home an hour later, weighed down with spoils (can't beat a "3 for 2" sale). Before even going inside, I bounded over to the pond and broke the seal to the condensation-laden bag, dumping the fish into the cool water. I crumbled the bag in my hands, satisfied that the pond was blossoming with life once more.

My mother glanced over my shoulder. "They seem happy."

"Yeah, but-- uh oh." I leaned in closer. "I think we lost one." Curiously, I poked the unmoving fish with the bag, hoping that the rough stimulus would cause it to wriggle back to life. No dice.

"That was quick," sighed Mom.

"We're murderers," I pouted, poking the lifeless corpse again. I was about to berate myself some more when I glanced down at the two remaining fish. Call me crazy, but I swear I heard little bubbly cackles from the deep.

My hypothesis: the dead fish was tail-biting tormenter, the little cannibal that I had given a talking-to. In my absence, the other two had exacted a swift and calculated revenge.

See why two fish together can't be trusted? Guard your homes and families, folks, 'cause nothing is same when fish get a'schemin'.

K.

Dish Network is Not for the Weak

Being home has really messed up my schedule. Not that there was much of one to begin with. However, there was a certain amount of downtime I could expect at school, only because there was nothing else to do at that point.

Now my family has introduced a new time waster: satellite TV. Movies, new channels, shows-- too much for my weak, weak mind. Right now, Hidalgo is on Starz, and I can't take my eyes off of it.

Damn you, Dish Network, and all of your ilk! Better, longer entries when I can find internet access away from the television.

K.

Getting There is Half the Battle

Classes have ended, reading days have begun, G-d is in His (Her? Its?) heaven, and I am at home.

After many stressful weeks studying and fulfilling duties at school, I can finally relax in my own room-- my own bed!-- for a few days. I've already begun the process of reverting to my more base nature-- stealing forbidden internet service from my brother's computer, scrabbling around in the pantry for chips, and wearing neon green fisherman's pants with an apple red shirt. My mother, I assure you, has never been more proud.

Though I love being at home where I can guilt people into pampering me, getting here is a bit of a hassle. First, I must find some generous (and gullible) soul to drive me to the train station. This step is the hardest. It's normally very difficult to rouse a prone college student into action (see Newton's first law), but convincing a student to drive anywhere when gas costs half of his yearly tuition is a near impossibility. Such a conundrum begs for more creativity.

We have all seen the movies where a beautiful young woman, in an effort to hitchhike, hikes up her skirt slightly, displaying one shapely leg to passersby. Invariably, she gets a ride. I am not nearly good looking enough to try such a stunt, nor would a driver be likely to stop these days unless said woman was Angelina Jolie (sans Brad Pitt). So I use my other feminine wiles to score transportation.

The scene goes a little like this: I saunter into a well-endowed (with a car, you sick-minded freaks) friend's room and place my hand on his shoulder. With a "come-hither" look in my eyes, I lick my lips in a sultry manner. Finally, in a low, breathy voice, I whisper into his ear: "I'll pay for gas..."

Transportation: check.

So now that I've shelled out the car's weight in gold, my generous friend drives me to the train station at Exton. To call this place a "station" may be a little too complimentary. Rather, it is a cement platform that Amtrak and SEPTA just happen to stop at. I wait... and wait... and wait... Sweat making my palms slick and unpleasant. Have I missed my train no I couldn't have missed my train its late its late keep thinking its late stop thinking that you will have to spend the rest of this night sleeping on freezing cement if the train doesn't come Lord knows my friends won't pick me up without another cash infusion dear G-D don't let me have missed this train!!!

Oh, the train in just late. Haaaaa...

I shove my way on to my Amtrak chariot, unceremoniously dropping my four bags on to an open seat, then flop down next to a window. While waiting for the conductor take another hearty helping of money from my dead-fish hands, I watch the farm country of Lancaster County zoom by. Spring has brought the Amish out of hibernation, which explains the swarm of black buggies that roll down the road next to the tracks. The idyllic green fields and rolling hills lulls me into a stupor that can only be broken by the panic that comes with being told that we have arrived in Lancaster-- yes, NOW!-- and I must grab my approximately fifty pounds of luggage and scramble out of the train before I am whisked away to some cesspit (actually, Harrisburg) where I will never be heard from again.

Screw resting up for finals; I need another few days to recover from the trip home!

K.

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

Our Jewish Responsibility: The Darfur Genocide

Never have I been more proud to be a Jew.

At the Save Darfur Now rally in Washington, DC, yesterday, I was shocked and almost moved to tears at the great Jewish response to the genocide in Darfur. I couldn't stretch out my arms without touching someone in a kippah, tzitzit, or carrying a Hebrew-language sign calling for justice for the oppressed.

In reality, I know that I shouldn't be surprised by the outpouring of Jewish support. We are, after all, a people that promised that an atrocity like the Holocaust would never happen again. If we do not protest the genocide of a people, be they Jew or gentile, what right do we have to defend the State of Israel? To expect help from other human beings when the world invariably turns its face away from us? To honor the Torah, which bids us to not stand idle while the blood of our fellow brothers and sisters is shed?

The answer: None. We have no right at all.

And you know what? We haven't done enough.

Where were we in 1994, during the ethnic cleansing in Rwanda when 800,000 people were murdered in only 100 days?

Where were we during the years between 1992 and 1995, when madman Slobodan Milosevic led the Serbs in the slaughter of 200,000 Bosnians?

We Jews need to stop talking about how evil genocide is and do something about it. Send letters to your representatives, your elected leaders, your local news stations, your friends. Spread awareness in any way you can. Lead a fundraiser. Start an organization. Donate money. Protest.

However, for all the ranting in this post, I am genuinely pleased that so many Jews showed up for this rally. Such attendance renews my faith and makes me want to be more active in the fight for justice in Darfur. Thank you to all who showed up and took a stand. Thank you to all those Jews who spoke when others could not, whether it be in Rwanda, Bosnia, or Darfur. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

K.

Appendix I: An apology.

Sorry for the rant. It kind of got out of hand.

Appendix II: Photos

These are some of the pictures that I took from Sunday's rally. Click on the thumbnails for to see them in more detail. (Please excuse the unprofessional layout. I'm not very good at this.)

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

1) An Israeli flag waving in crowd.
2) Crowd shot.
3) Another crowd shot.
4) Yet another crowd shot.
5) The Reform Jewish movement showed up.
6) An African man who I believe was from the afflicted areas. Throughout the rally, he whispered "Thank you" and "G-d bless you" under his breath to the crowd. Made me cry.
7) A kid in a tree... a personification of the youth movement.
8) "Vegan Jews Against Genocide." I wasn't aware that there was any other kind.
9) "I Saw It. I Escaped It. Stop It Now!!"
10) California Representative Tom Lantos, a Holocaust survivor.
11) California Representative Nancy Pelosi.
12) New Jersey Governor John Corzine.
13) Actor George Clooney (his father, who was a much better speaker, showed up too).
14) Illinois Senator Barak Obama.
15) Rev. Al Sharpton.
16) Activist and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel.

Appendix III: Links

PBS: The Triumph of Evil-- Rwanda
United Human Rights Council: Bosnia Genocide-- Bosnia
Save Darfur-- Non-profit

You Can't Make This Stuff Up!

On a sign next to Ruby Jones Hall: "Students-- three fires in one day. This is not an ashtray!"

The reason: Due to the beautification project that has taken the campus by storm, there is new mulch next to the Political Science building. There were three fires that needed to be put out this afternoon because of students throwing their spent cigarettes into the flammable plantings.

Yet again, truth is stranger than fiction.

More interesting by-products of WCU's desire to look pretty to come.

K.

Violent Rally for Peace

After my plans for this weekend fell through in a rather tragic manner, a friend of mine from camp politely asked me if I wanted to accompany her to a rally in Washington, DC.

Do I?

Of course I do!

I haven't done anything activist-y since high school. At my very first rally, a anti-war protest in DC, I dragged my father along. He was reluctant to go, but plodded along like a trooper. And thank goodness he came.

What I hadn't realized about this rally was that it was run by International ANSWER, which very liberal, very pacifist, very anti-Israel. We quickly figured this out when, instead of cries for peace and love from the podium, we heard a violent diatribe against Israel's policies and existence.

And the banners! The banners! Around us, people carried signs that advocated anti-Zionism, anti-Israel, and even straight-up anti-Semitic actions and ideas. This rally came soon after a comment made by Virginia Representative James P. Moran in March of 2003, effectively blaming the American Jewish community for the war in Iraq.

If it were not for the strong support of the Jewish community for this war in
Iraq, we would not be doing this... The leaders of the Jewish community are
influential enough that could change the direction of where this is going, and I
think they should." Rep. James P. Moran (D-VA), March 2003

Throughout the day, I saw signs with the words "Moran was right!" emblazoned in thick letters. With the cantankerous attitude that has come to describe all of my actions, I pulled the Star of David necklace out from beneath my shirt and threw a Hebrew T-shirt on over my clothing. I was lucky that I wasn't beaten up.

Speaking of being beaten up, the anarchists, common little vermin that infest any protest, were out in full force that day. Dad and I watched in horrified fascination as a masked mob surrounded on beleaguered Washington police officer, abusing him verbally. My father, the consummate cop, shoved me to the ground and pulled out his cell phone to call 911. He later said he was rather surprised that shots hadn't been fired that day. (Interesting enough, these anarchists attacked the World Bank later that day. Busy little people, no?)

My friend says that Sunday's rally should be an interfaith event, not run by ANSWER. Thank goodness. A rally for peace in Darfur should not be perverted by hateful people who confuse conflict for peace.

K.

A Bachelor's Degree in Campus Observation

Observation #1: A certain WCU department isn't doing its job.

Even though we here at WCU have a Holocaust Studies department, I don't think that anything was done for Yom HaShoah. If they did, they certainly didn't advertise. Shakespeare's birthday got more press (read: one flier).

Observation #2: The RAs are getting lazy.

Every Resident Assistant is expected to have several socials throughout the semester with the commendable intention to get this residence hall to act like a loving community. However, as the semester draws to a close, the RAs who haven't fulfilled their requirements are getting panicked. Instead of coming up this a creative and exciting way to get the residents together, these RAs are falling back on college student ambrosia: free food.

Let me set the scene...

Nine o'clock at night, Tuesday night. A loud click and the sound of someone manhandling the loud speaker's microphone.

"Attention Killinger Hall residents. Join RA So-And-So in the basement for FREE ice cream/pizza/cookies/hot dogs/Italian ices/cupcakes/fried chicken/soda/Mac n' Cheese/cake/baba ganoush right now!"

The announcement ends, leaving a palpable silence throughout the hall. In each room, the occupants raise their heads and sniff the air. The call to feed has been issued.

Like the undead rising from their dank crypts in some zombie movie, the college students stumble down the halls of Killinger, mouths slack and eyes vacant. Some will not survive the journey and will be left behind to be trod over by their fellow residents. The lucky few, most likely imbued with the inhuman powers of caffeine, crowd around RA So-And-So, who is blocking access to the reason for the trek, the ultimate goal.

"Before you eat," she smiles sweetly, holding out a sheet of paper, "could you sign this, please?"

The horde barely glances at the paper. Those in front quickly snatch the sheet from the RA's hand, scribbling their names with a blunt pencil. This task complete, the swarm descends upon the free food. The process takes only a few minutes.

Once the food supply is exhausted, the residents drag themselves back to their rooms, remnants of the ice cream/pizza/cookies/hot dogs/Italian ices/cupcakes/fried chicken/soda/Mac n' Cheese/cake/baba ganoush smeared on their faces. More enterprising individuals smuggle some illicit vittles back to their rooms and store them away for leaner times.

Meanwhile, RA So-And-So clears up the remains of her social, a smug expression on her face. A social that should have cost her time and effort (things more valuable than the pitiful amount of money spent on the food) has been completed in five minutes. Excellent.

Bad RAs for praying on the weaknesses on college students for their own gain.

Observation #3: Sometimes, integration fails miserably here.

The Black Student Union was having a BBQ on the residential quad today, which was open to students of all races. Does that prevent a color divide? Well, the volleyball game was made of exclusively of whites while the basketball game featured only blacks. You decide.

Those are all the observations for today.

K.

Ax Murderers and the SWAT Team: Isn't Childhood Fun?

You know when I said nothing interesting happens around here? I forgot to mention the attempted murder.

Yep, attempted murder. A student woke up Saturday morning to find a man standing over her with a butcher knife.* Her roommates, the observant people that they are, assumed that the screams heard coming from the girl's room were a result of a horror movie. The man, an employee with the university food service, was arrested and later confessed to the murder of man in West Chester a few days earlier.

This, coupled with the strange stories of random people ending up in random rooms on campus, does little to make me feel safe. In fact, it brings back some disturbing memories.

My father was a police officer for a good portion of my life. Early on, I was aware that his job put him at great physical risk. I also knew that, because of his job, our family was listed under my mother's maiden name in the phone booth. With the implacable logic of childhood, I figured the reason for this subterfuge was that I, personally, was in danger.

I don't know when it first started, but at some point, I began taking precautions against the ax murderers that had it in for me. I always slept on my side, figuring that such a position presented a smaller target. My stuffed animals were carefully arranged on my bed in hopes that their lumpiness would distract an inept psychopath in the dark. Finally, I never, ever slept with my back to the door. If I was going to be chopped into little bits, by G-d, I was going to see it coming.

Sometimes, however, all the precautions in the world couldn't allay my fears. At that point, I would gather up my blankets and shuffle into my parents' room. Did I feel safer in the presence of my mother and father? Sure, but the instinct to prevent my own death by hacking was still quite strong. I would set up camp on my father's side of the bed, secure in the knowledge that I was close to the family protector and as far from the door as possible. If a serial killer were to tramp up the stairs, I would be the last person in his path. He would have to contend with the rest of my family first. And while the carnage was taking place, I could simply roll under my parents' bed (Yes, I fit-- one of the first things I checked).

Based on my memories, I can conclude that most of my fears didn't focus on malevolent, but imaginary, monsters (although there was that vampire skeleton on the other side of my bed, but that's another story entirely). My monsters were quite real. I'm happy to say that I have grown out of this fear, but the vestiges still remain. I only recently began sleeping on my stomach and facing away from the door. Also, the first thing I'm going to do upon moving into my own place is get a very large dog, preferably a drop-out from the K-9 program. Better safe than sorry.

I recently wondered aloud to my brother about whether other people had such strong and realistic fears in their childhoods. To my surprise, he shrugged.

"I used to think that the SWAT team was hiding in my closet."

"SWAT team? In your closet?"

"Why do you think I put all my weights in front of my closet door?"

Well, then.

Ewww, even writing this little entry is giving me the willies. Looks like before I sleep, I'll be locking the door several times and peering out of my window to the two-story drop below to make sure no one is out there. Just in case.

Better safe than sorry.

K.

*She received only minor stab wounds, in case you were wondering.

Yom HaShoah

I don't think I'll even try to write something reflective about Yom HaShoah. None of my words could ever do it justice. I will, however, include two links that I feel appropriately set the moods for this day of observance: sorrow and, most importantly, hope.

The first is the true story of Rose Silberburg Skier, a Holocaust survivor who managed to escape death time and again. This is told in her own words in the form of an interview.

Second, I offer to you another story of faith and survival as told by David Bogner of Treppenwitz.

Much like the tale of Passover, the stories of the Holocaust need to be told over and over so that we never, ever forget.

K.

Sometimes Life Feels Like "Groundhog Day"

I really need out of this place.

I've been in a rut for several weeks now. Everyday, I walk the same paths, go to the same classes, talk to the same people. I even wash my face in the same sink in the dorm bathroom every morning and shower in the same stall every night. The only time things seem to spice up is dinner, when I can never depend on edible food being served in the school cafeteria.

The classes and the organizational meetings I attend don't get me excited anymore. I can't work up any interest for the monetary woes of the English Club, the graduating seniors in Phi Sigma Pi, or the books in Jewish American Novel class.

Luckily for me, I only have one more full week of school left, leaving me with a four day weekend before finals. After finals, who knows? Maybe I'll take up my former position as lifeguard at my home JCC or do research for my father. Whatever I do, it will be much more rewarding than what I'm doing now.

At the end of this summer, I will re-remember the goals that this university will help me reach and I will go back to work willingly. But, until then...

K.

Questionable Mitzvah

I had a very nice post planned out, but my friend needed to be taken to hospital, so it went on the back burner.

While waiting for Liz to fill out her insurance papers, I was approached by an elderly man and his wheelchair-bound wife. The woman's eyes were downcast, but the man stared directly at me.

"Excuse me," he said, a little apologetic, "my wife hurt her hip earlier and she needs to use the restroom. I was wondering if you could go in with her. To make sure she doesn't fall down."

I glanced down at the woman, then up at the man. Dead serious. Quietly, I handed over my coffee and newspaper to one of my companions.

"Sure," I whispered. I couldn't seem to get my voice to a normal conversational level. This, after all, was not something most people have an in-depth discussion about. He nodded and turned his wife's chair around, beginning to walk towards the bathrooms. I followed, trying to look more confident than I was feeling.

The restrooms turned out to be a single-person room, small and sterile. I looked up at the man.

"In in?"

"Yes, please. If you don't mind."

"No... no." My gaze fell on the woman. "You don't mind, do you?"

For the first time, she raised her face. Her eyes were alert, clear.

She shook her head. "No." Gingerly, she began to pull herself up from the wheelchair, her husband rushing to put a hand beneath her frail elbow. As soon as she was fully erect, he removed his hand and I filled the touch vacuum with my own fingers. We entered the cramped bathroom together.

As she began to disrobe, I shut the door, locked it. She sat, leaving me to stare at an uninteresting poster on the back of the door. Silence.

"I'm sorry about this." Her voice sounded strangled and embarrassed.

"No, it's fine," I glanced over enough to smile at her, then looked away. The awkwardness continued.

She paused. "Sometimes, I think I need to go, but then I really don't. A false alarm."

"It's better to be safe than sorry."

"Yes," she paused, then struggled to stand up. "A false alarm."

"Okay."

"I think I hurt my hip in bed today. I'm not sure what I did to it."

"Yeah, I hate when that happens." She washed her hands daintily. As her back was turned, I noticed her mode of dress. Stylish, modern, yet modest. A lady like this wasn't used to having strangers watch her while she performed her basic bodily functions. I felt like I was denying her one of the essential privileges of being human: privacy. Vaguely, I could feel shame rising from my belly to coil firmly in my chest cavity.

I opened the door for her, helped her sit back into her wheelchair.

"Thank you," her husband said.

"It's okay. No problem."

"If I had known that it was a single bathroom, I would have gone in with her."

"It's okay." I smiled at the woman in what I hoped was a carefree way. She smiled back, faintly.

I walked back to my companion, who had been holding my things.

"I give you a lot of credit for that," she told me, handing me my newspaper.

"Mitzvah," I muttered, pulling the collar of my peacoat up around my ears.

But I really didn't feel that way. Sure, on the outside, I was helping a little old lady get around safely, a noble pursuit. In reality, though, I was taking away something valuable from her: her independence. I was a thief, not a hero.

Maybe it was also a glimpse of the future, a future in which I will need to be escorted around a bathroom by some young pup who has her whole life ahead of her. Depressing.

I don't know if this story was really worth posting, but it's been on my mind for several hours now. I guess that's what happens when you write after your bedtime.

K.

Sunny Days

This is going to be a shorter post, as I hope to get to bed earlier today.

The last few days have been absolutely fabulous-- bright sun, toasty weather, light breeze. I rarely ever get outside due to my work schedule, but I've been making a special effort recently. Like most people, I find that I'm more content with life when I've gotten my fair share of sunlight.

I decided to take a walk into town with my camera today in order to get some supplies. There were too many people for me to get any spectacular photos, but just seeing my favorite architecture and trees shining in the sun made me happy.

It's good to be happy sometimes.

K.

Sometimes Blondes Don't Have All the Fun

A common occurrence for me:

I was lounging about before a meeting, shmoozing with several of the members. People around me were eating crackers, a no-no on Passover. Unfortunately, I hadn't eaten that evening and was feeling peckish. This, of course, led to my favorite pastime: complaining about Passover.

One wag asks, "Are you Jewish?"

"Ah-yep," I reply.

"Oh. Definitely wouldn't be able to tell by the blonde hair."

Typical.

Oh, I'll admit it, I don't fit the stereotypical image Americans have of a Jew. My hair is straight and blonde, my eyes are some odd shade of blue-gray, my nose is petite, and my skin is preternaturally white. It's a curse, I know.

It's not that I mind not looking "Jewish" (whatever that is). What I detest is being subjected to the ignorance I hear when people think there are no Jews around. Conspiracy theories about 9/11, the threat of Zionism, the Jewish business acumen-- you name it, I hear it. There's only so much that one Jew can do to educate every moron she comes across.

There are amusing aspects to this, however. People with preconceived ideas about physical Jew-iness tend to suffer from the dreaded Foot-in-Mouth Disease. Take, for example, this little encounter:

During my senior year of high school, I was badgering a Chinese friend of mine to stop referring to herself as a "chink" because it made me feel uncomfortable (which is exactly why she did it... I have great friends). We stood arguing for several minutes when this freshman came up to us. With a bright smile, she shouted to me, "So, what do you have to complain about? You're a Nazi!"

My friend and I just stared at her, aghast. Slowly, I pulled out my Star of David/Chai necklace from underneath my shirt and held it out to her. The freshman's face flushed several delightful shades of red and her lips flapped soundlessly, much like those of a beached fish. Oh, dear.

I wasn't incredibly offended by this, just stunned. I realized that she was just trying to fit in with us and she must have thought the comment pretty clever before she uttered it. It also didn't help that I look like I've taken a flying leap out of the Aryan handbook. Her apologies didn't make me feel any better about the statement, just more embarrassed.

"Just watch what you say next time, alright? Most people wouldn't like to be called a Nazi, even non-Jews."

Poor kid. But I bet she'll never say something like that again!

Another interesting reaction that I get is when I tell people that my mother is a convert to Judaism. "Oh," they say, laughing, "so that's why you don't look Jewish." Hmm, yes. What people fail to take into account is that both blonde hair and blue eyes have recessive alleles. This means that both parents need to have the genetic disposition towards blondeness/blue eyed-ness. So let's stop blaming my mother for my supposed physical anomaly, alright?

Despite the trouble I get for them, I have no intention of changing my looks. When I look in the mirror, I see a mix of my mother and my long-dead paternal grandfather, which is never bad. There are so many other things to worry about.

So, to all those other Jews who don't fit the "mold," I salute you! Keep fighting the good fight.

K.

Elections and Passover: The Kvetch Begins

Trying to figure out how to pimp my banner is giving me a headache and keeping me from studying for my biology test tomorrow.

However, as I am who I am, I cannot resist a chance to complain. There are just so many things to kvetch about, but I'll limit myself to two.

1. WCU SGA Elections

For several weeks, the Student Government Association has been gearing up for its executive board elections. While it's exciting to see democracy in action on one's own campus, having to deal with self-righteous student politicians (which I would argue are almost more evil than professional politicians, but that's another post for another time) shoving their platforms in one's face every day.

Things have been picking up more steam now that the actual election week is upon us, so the sucking-up to the student body has been increasing steadily. Both tickets have taken to stopping people on the way to classes in order to sell their spiel on how they are so different from the other ticket and blah blah blah.

Candidate: HI THERE! HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT WHO YOU'RE GOING TO VOTE FOR IN THE SGA ELECTIONS?!

Student: Uhmmm, no. Can this wait? I have class.

Candidate: WAIT? WAIT?! THIS IS YOUR FUTURE WE'RE TALKING ABOUT! DON'T YOU WANT TO DECIDE WHO WILL BE REPRESENTING YOU NEXT YEAR?!

Student: But... I'm graduating at the end of the semester...

Candidate: I'M THE BEST CHOICE FOR THIS STUDENT BODY! I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!

Student: What I want is to get to class so the professor doesn't lock me out.

Candidate: BUT YOU'RE GOING TO VOTE TODAY, RIGHT?! AND FOR ME, RIGHT?! I'M THE ONLY ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS YOOOOOOOOOOU!

Student: Please stop touching me.

I'm only exaggerating a tad.

2. Passover

Some people dislike Yom Kippur, some despise Purim, others shudder at the thought of Simchat Torah.

I hate Passover.

I hate the length of the seder. I hate the endless chicken dinners. I hate "Kosher for Passover" cookies.

And the matzah! THE MATZAH! I can scramble it in eggs, drench it in olive oil, smother it in cream cheese and jelly, assemble mini-matzah pizzas, and fry little toasted cheese sandwiches, but it still tastes like a dry wad of disgusting.

I'm sure if the Israelites had realized that they were going to be subjected to a week of matzah for years on end, they would have stayed in Egypt.

Conclusion

Writing teachers always say that you need to tie everything together at the end of an essay in order to finish a work. It seems real life has already done it for me. Ready for this?

SGA candidates were serving cupcakes today.

Hatred for elections and Passover solidified. Can't make this stuff up, folks.

K.

Education, For Better or Worse

When I sat down this morning, I had meant to write a quirky, yet sincere apology for the recent lack of entries. A wise man once said:

"The best laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang aft agley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain

For promised joy."

Robert Burns, "To A Mouse"

My daily glance at the Jerusalem Post's webpage proved that quote to be quite correct. An event that caused the deaths of nine innocents and the injuries of nearly 70 others shouldn't be ignored.

It's amazing what a year will do to a person's outlook on life. At this time in 2005, I was a college freshman, eager to finish my first year at university. I was also undergoing the final preparations for my Taglit/Birthright trip.

I believe that it's fair to say that I was well-informed about the goings-on in Israel. I read the Jerusalem Post, studied the various conflicts in school and religious classes, and listened to the political analysis that would occasionally spout from my father, who was given to such things. When acts of violence occurred, I would become frustrated, irritated with both sides of the Israeli-Palestinian divide.

Then came my Birthright trip. I don't know why, but this relatively small event in history sparked off a revolution in my mind. A revolution that every Israeli that I met seemed actively involved in perpetuating.

And now... And now I see every event in Israeli in relation to individuals. I stared at the pictures of today's violence, seeing "I,"* a young make-up artist who finds nothing funnier than the knowledge that her country engineered a breed of featherless chicken.

I see a Moroccan mother of three, "N," who communicates her feelings through tight, expressive hugs.

I see "O," a friend of my father's from Kibbutz Ga'aton, fix-it man, and avid lover of the American squirrel.

I see nineteen year old "H," who gave me a broken IDF pin in exchange for a worn Livestrong bracelet.

I see "D," a bomb technician for the National Police with a dry sense of humor and a baby daughter.

I see "T," my tour guide in Israel, who survived a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv only because she had her leather jacket completely zippered.

I see "A" and "E," parents to three adorable children, who may soon be moving back to Ashdod.

Israelis aren't just people anymore; they are individuals. Now, instead of frustration at the violence, I feel anger, fear, and sadness. In short, I am more educated now than I ever was a year ago. Not in facts, but in emotions.

G-d help me.

K.

*Initials to protect privacy.

The Brokeback Blues

This year, I committed the sin of watching the Oscars without having a clue about the movies involved. Out of all the movies nominated for "Best Picture," I had seen one (Munich, which contributed to possibly the most depressing Christmas of my life). Therefore, I was unable to participate in the shock and awe that was created when Crash beat out Brokeback Mountain for the prestigious award.

So when WCU presented a free showing of Brokeback Mountain (coupled with a panel discussion, which I avoided), I jumped at the chance. Perhaps I would experience the magic that all the critics were raving over.

Hmmm.

There might have been magic, sure, but I was too distracted by Heath Ledger's inability to enunciate, I must have missed it. Seriously, I couldn't understand him. Between the strong Western accent and what sounded like a mouthful of crackers, any important information that the Ennis character might have imparted upon the audience was completely lost.

Here's what I did understand: Ennis, a wandering cowboy, teams up with Jack, a dreamer, to herd some sheep through the mountains of Wyoming. While out there in the wilderness, Ennis and Jack fall hopelessly in love with each other, which is demonstrated by either manly fighting or manly sex. But, alas, they cannot reveal their true feelings to the bigoted outside world. Le sigh. So they continue on with their lives, get married, have children, and meet each other every so often out on Brokeback Mountain.

Aside from Ennis's "oral surgery patient" dialect, I found the story entertaining. I enjoyed marking the passing of cinematic time by mentally measuring the length of Jake Gyllenhaal's sideburns and mustache. I also found the dilemma of the film's female characters interesting, but dreadfully underdeveloped (storytelling device, I know). So overall, while I don't think this film was "Best Picture"-caliber, it was a thoughtful and meaningful story.

You know, perhaps Heath Ledger is more talented than I give him credit for. After all, the talented Marlon Brando had to stuff his cheeks with cotton balls to produce the sort of voice Ledger seems deliver naturally.

Good on ya, mate!

K.

Over-Worked and Under-Paid

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by." -Douglas Adams

Wednesday- Stayed up late trying to finish a presentation.

Thursday- Stayed up late trying to finish the same presentation.

Friday- Gave said presentation.

Saturday- Began research on a ten-page literature paper.

Sunday- Began writing ten-page literature paper (on top of work and a meeting)

Monday- Got sick.

Good job, Kate.

K.

PS. On the upside, I did get 100% on the presentation. Too bad grades don't kill viruses.

An Observation a Little Late in Coming

Does the US government ever kick themselves for going after Iraq when the country next door is/was conducting the "Holy Prophet War Games?"

Just wondering.

K.

Questionable Decisions

Sometimes I think that my university would be better off without an administration. The choices they're making these days blow my mind.

For example, the brass intends to raise our tuitions in order to erect a giant statue of a ram, our school's mascot, in front of a building called Old Library. Here's a picture:



One of the things that drew me to this campus was the quantity of old, antique buildings. There is nothing that suggests "academia" more to me than structures that housed the scholars of old. Besides the campus's gorgeous castle/auditorium, Old Library is possibly the most beautiful building on campus. Complete with pillars and greenish stone, the Old Library proclaims what college should be in the words emblazoned on its facade: "The True University is a Collection of Books."

So what is this tacky statue doing in front of this bastion of education? Your guess is as good as mine. If the administration simple had to spend our money, could this not go in front of, say, our football stadium? The ram as a mascot represents strength, not intellectual aptitude, making it a perfect athletics mascot. It has no place standing in front of an educational building.

This also makes me wonder if the administration realizes that a college is full of students. Such a statue is practically inviting drunk kids to vandalize it. I just hope that the president of the university isn't surprised to wake up in the morning and see condoms stretched over the ram's horns.

Speaking of making "improvements" without considering the ram(haha)ifications, consider the current desecration of the academic quad. Recently, the university ripped out all of the bushes in the area, leaving dirt piles in places where students usually sprawled during sunny days. Walking by the dirt piles today, I noticed that the grounds people were planting little purple flowers where the bushes used to stand. Don't get me wrong, they are very pretty and do beautify the area. However, I think the university failed to realize that the flowers are directly in the path of the same inebriated students mentioned above as they return from the off-campus bars. What makes the administration think that these dainty little plants can survive after several hundred drunks, uh, relieve themselves on them? Anyone who thinks that students won't do such a thing has never been to college.

I think the state really needs to include a sanity test on the applications for administrative positions.

K.

I'm Like a Little Kid with a New Toy

Anyone else agree that this is pretty cool? Will have to do this again when, I don't know, I have more words in my blog?

K.

Where Does the Time Go?

Times seems to pass so quickly these days. Sometimes I glance out the window, then jerk to attention when I realize that I've been staring at something meaningless for hours. I don't know whether I can attribute this to my innate ability to get distracted for incredibly long periods, or if it's because time actually is going faster.

I've read of the phenomenon where those of advanced age comment that the years have become lightening fast. For them, decades seem to pass in a matter of days! However, is it possible that I truly have become "youth deficient" (the new PC term for "old as hell")?

Well, here's a list of things that make me feel old:

• Teenagers having babies.
• Mahal2000- because apparently joining the IDF at 22 makes one ancient.
• "New" songs being played on the oldies station.
• Finding out that kids I used to baby-sit for are graduating high school.
• Thinking, "Wow, I am two decades old!"
• Finding out that there are, like, 37 generations of Power Rangers.
• Remembering the '90s.
• Seeing shows that I used to watch as a kid on "classic" TV stations.
• My little brother getting his driver's license.
• The constant fatigue.
• Realizing that I'm already excited for retirement.
• Finding more gray hairs on my parents' heads.
• Feeling nostalgic about everything.
• Seeing the wedding announcements for friends that I knew in high school.
• Getting together and grousing with my friends about the "disrespectful" freshmen.

Oh, and I know there are more. However, would I want to waste more of my precious time on it?

K.

Here's a Challenge for You

During my daily surfing of blogs, I came across this on David Bogner's treppenwitz. Read through it. You're bound to learn something about yourself.

K.