Sechel, Tsuris and Chutzpah

I think I am, therefore I am

2012-02-12T08:14:00.001-08:00

There is a thread going around Facebook today commenting that, in a drop-down menu showing a list of countries, Facebook excludes Israel but includes Palestine. I've certainly encountered the conspicuous absence of Israel on lists such as this one, but I've never actually seen this combination. While the deletion of Israel, my current country of residence is indeed disturbing for many obvious reasons, I am no less disturbed by the commentary this post generated.

The theme? "Palestine does not exist!"

Says who?

If I'm not mistaken, Palestine in fact existed only a half a century ago. It was then, in the UN vote to partition, divided into Israel and Transjordan. Obviously the proponants of the "Palestine does not exist" campaign do not mean exactly that. In fact I believe they mean something far more disturbing; that a people does not have the right to self-determination.

Now, hold your horses. Let me say this clearly: no one has the right to ask ME to self-destruct on their way to selfhood. I am not going to give away my homeland, not going to compromise the security of my borders, not going to knowingly arm my enemies against me. I do not believe this is an "us" or "them" situation. You may say that's exactly what "they" believe. Well, maybe so. But that can not affect my core belief system.

At the very center of my existence as an Israeli Jew is this very act of self-determination. One may present a series of proofs for Israel's right to exist, including Biblical ownership, the age-old right of conquer, political consensus, blah blah blah. Ultimately what makes me Israeli is my decision to be one. As a Jew, it's apparently my birthright. Says who? Says me. My people carry with us a narrative describing our arrival to and settlement of this Land. We've been banished, we've returned, a few times over. We have not always had a sovereign government. We have not always had a population majority. We have not always had a foothold. And yet, the longing to return has never budged from our liturgy, the soundtrack of our historical and cultural narrative.

So, when another people, albeit living not-so-peacefully beside me have a similar narrative, who are we to deny it? They can call themselves whatever they like. They can call their land whatever they want to. They can write their own narrative on their way to self-determination. The only issue that concerns me at all is that NONE OF THIS CAN BE AT MY EXPENSE. And this is where Facebook and I have a problem. "Israel" and "Palestine" should BOTH be on the list. The Palestinian narrative can not include my destruction, just as my narrative can not be predicated on denying another's right to self-determination. I know how I feel when I see "Israel" deleted from the map or excluded from a list of countries. Anyone who advocates for that exact behavior toward another people can only have one name: hypocrite.

What is the IMPACT?

2011-11-15T02:38:00.000-08:00

This post may be a little overdue, but in the year and a half since I completed an "IMPACT" self-defense course for women, there have been some interesting developments. IMPACT is a phenomenon in itself; developed in the US in the 1970s, this short and intensive rape-prevention course is designed to teach women the basic skills they need to fend off sexual assault. There are many things that make the method unique, the most obvious of which is the presence of real live attackers in the classroom. Of course, they aren't real rapists, they are burly young men dressed up in protective gear, men who believe in teaching women to help prevent rape. Women learn to yell "NO!" kick the groin, gouge the eyes, disable the attacker and call for help. The attackers let the women know if they have hit hard enough. If not, try again. The attacker won't fall until the impact is forceful enough.
And there we have it, folks, the metaphor I've been reaching for.
This week, El Halev martial arts' center, IMPACT's only provider in Israel opened a new course in Wadi Joz, one of Jerusalem's Arab neighborhoods. This is not the first course El Halev has provided to Wadi Joz, but it is the first IMPACT course in Wadi Joz in which my daughter, writer and blogger Liora Sophie is assisting.
After I completed IMPACT, both of my daughters signed up for courses. One has gone on to become an assistant and is on her way to becoming an instructor. The other daughter has sent many of her friends to take the course. I can see how it has affected them; they have a clearer sense of boundaries, more body awareness, are more sensitive to language or situations in which they feel uncomfortable or threatened. And of course, they feel they have more tools to deal with these situations.
At the mall buying rain boots, we saw a man, woman and child having a public scene. It was not immediately obvious what the relationship was among them, but all the onlookers, store employees and customers alike were uncomfortable. My daughter was all over it, ready to intervene. She had the words "Is this man bothering you?" on her lips when the situation was diffused.
This is an example of the extended reach of IMPACT; not only is she, a young, single woman empowered with tools to defend herself, she is also a vigilant, aware and powerful tool for the defense of others. The more women we empower, the safer the larger society becomes until rape and sexual harrassment become impossible.
According to Jill Baker Shames, director of IMPACT in Israel, this is what we are doing in Wadi Joz and other Arab communities:
"Granted, the statistics are vague due to lack of reporting, but, what we have heard from service providers inside these communities, sexual harrassment and rape are serious issues affecting a large percentage of women in the Arab world."
So I am proud of my daughter and the rest of the IMPACT staff who go to Wadi Joz and other Arab neighborhoods for the sole purpose of strengthening a society. I have no doubt that when the impact is forceful enough, the attacker will fall.
Oh, and one more thing. When a van full of Israeli men and women arrived in Wadi Joz to teach Arab women self-defense, WHERE WAS CNN?

On Disappointment and Miracles

2011-02-26T08:59:00.000-08:00

Five days from now my Jerusalem theater company is opening one of the best plays of all time, "The Miracle Worker" by William Gibson. I admit I have been brooding all day about the fact that we have sold NO tickets for opening night. There are several groups of high school students booked for later performances, and one night is even sold out, but still, the cast has worked too hard to open to an empty theater. I imagine most people don't think about how important it is to the actors to have a friendly opening night audience, they are likely just waiting for the play to improve later in the run.

As I sit here brooding, I can't help but think I'm to blame. After all, things could have gone differently. The theater could have been full of my friends. But it won't be. Now, the truth is, all modesty aside, I'm a friendly person. I've always had a lot of friends, and I try to be a good and attentive one. I have lived in a small suburban community for the last 12 years. Yes, I'm a bit fringy for such a conservative place, but I like it here well enough, at least I did until I separated from my husband. When my parents were divorced in 1971 my mother told me she lost all of her friends. I find that horrifying and shameful. Today, I find it something else as well; familiar.

Now, before I start my rant, I want to gratefully acknowledge those friends who have stuck by me, you know who you are. In fact one just called to say she's excited to see the play, one of her favorites. But still, as I count on one hand the friends who have even called, written, Facebooked, etc in the last six months, it's pathetically few.

I know a marriage on the rocks can be threatening. I know the specific circumstances are painful and confusing. I know people are people and most can't help judging. But really, folks. This is the year 2011. Have we not evolved in 40 years? In a time when the majority, yes, the majority of marriages will end in divorce, I'm still confused as to why we call it tragic. Shouldn't we just be calling it "normal," as it is clearly the NORM??? There are certainly issues to deal with, children to protect, logistics to work out, overwhelming feelings of sadness, grief, anger, disappointment, hopelessness, the list could go on. But these can also exist in the context of an intact marriage. There are many things to consider, yes, but one thing a separation is not, and that is contagious.

Hence my disappointment in my community. I have heard the gossip, and some kids have been forbidden to play at my house. It makes me sick. What would they prefer? That I stay in unbearable conditions so they will feel less threatened? Sorry, no can do.

The fact is, I doubt most of my real friends feel that way. I am willing to bet most of them simply have not thought about it. I'm fairly certain most people are just busy with their own lives and don't have time or energy to spare, let alone reach out to a friend who is suffering. I'm sure they don't even know I'm suffering. If they did, being decent people, they would not behave this way.

And herein lies the problem. I'm an eternal optimist. I am hard-wired to see the best in everyone. I never give up hope. I never stop believing that people are capable of so much more than they know, more compassion, more insight, more love, more openness, more acceptance, more humanness. I just never stop believing this.

Like someone else I know, and her name was Annie Sullivan. Annie Sullivan (1866-1936) came to live with the Keller family when she was 20 years old. Orphaned as a child, she was raised in a state Almshouse, not a pretty picture. She was blinded by untreated trachoma, but her sight was restored after a number of surgeries. When she arrived at the Keller plantation, Helen, then 7 years old had been blind and deaf for five years. Sullivan dedicated her life to teaching Helen to navigate the world. In the two weeks depicted in the play, when everyone else has all but given up reaching Helen, Annie never gives up hope. She asks Helen and her family to "see" her in a different light, and in the end, she succeeds in unlocking the brilliant mind trapped within the child. It is an astounding story of courage and hope. And in my own way, I feel a great deal like Annie. I also ask people around me to "see" with different eyes, to look beyond the world they know, to see through the darkness of judgement and into the light of acceptance and unconditional love.

Becoming Responsible

2010-03-21T12:40:00.000-07:00

My son, Avishai celebrated his bar mitzvah this past week. He is a pretty serious kid and approached this whole process with characteristic seriousness. I couldn't help feeling incredibly proud of him as he performed a series of "firsts," tefillin, leading prayer services, reading from the Torah, etc. In the scheme of things, though these rituals require a great deal of discipline and skill, they are only building blocks in the real essence of bar mitzvah, becoming a responsible adult member of society. This act of becoming responsible is somewhat abstract. While our sages have handed down extensive and detailed discussion on the care of slaves, beasts of burden, lost and found items and even dead bodies, there isn't much guidance for a boy in the seventh grade to go on.

This is where things get mysterious. Parenting is a bit like planting grass. You scatter the seeds, and you hope for the best. The seedlings are exposed to many influences, most of which are beyond our control. How do we know what our kids take in? We don't. Particularly during the ever-annoying dance called "adolescence," we are showered with a great deal of attitude and, if we are lucky, blessed with an occasional glimpse of greatness.

Enter: Avishai. A few weeks ago he came home from school and asked if we could talk a little. I poured a cup of coffee and prepared to sit with him in the kitchen. "I mean, in your office."

Avishai: "There is a boy in my class who is, well, kind of awkward, and other kids pick on him. I was hoping you could give me some ideas, ways I could, you know, reach out to him."

Me: "Hunh?"

Ok, so I didn't exactly say "hunh," but that is pretty much what I was thinking for a solid 30 seconds. Then I regained my composure and came up with a few strategies he might try. The next day he came home and reported that he had done what we talked about and it all went very well. This boy has been to our home since and seems to be responding to Avishai's outreach.

Now, you could say my kids come by this kind of thing naturally. I'm something of a collector of people who need extra love, as is my mother. When we were teenagers it was not unusual for us to come home from school to find some stray sleeping in one of our beds. Following in this great tradition, I have tried to establish a home which is open and welcoming to everyone, and some of them look pretty weird. I have been taken to task for exposing my young children to weirdos, like the pierced and tattooed teens, some of whom are followed by a cloud of marijuana smoke like the "Pigpen" guy from Peanuts. But people are people and love is love and there's no way around the responsibility to also love those who may seem less lovable at first glance.

Back to the bar mitzvah boy. We had a great party in his honor last night. My husband spoke about Avishai's effort to reach out to this kid who had been picked on. The kid was present, as were a number of the perpetrators. It was a little tense there for a few moments, then it passed and we had music and margaritas well into the morning hours.

Tonight, Avishai finally told us what happened. After the speech, the picked-on kid took Avishai aside and said, "you changed my life." If that wasn't enough, one of the bullies also took him aside and said, "you were right. I was wrong to pick on this kid."

I was speechless. And for me, that's saying something. Sometimes we get lucky in the guessing-game of parenting, sometimes we get to enjoy the fruit of our labor. For me, this was a quintessential parenting moment. So, as much as my heart swells when I see my son, now taller than me, performing an ancient ritual with passion and joy, I am moved beyond words when he takes responsibility for another human soul.

Mazal tov, Avishai. I am so proud to be your mother.

The Shoes Pull the Whole Thing Together

2010-02-06T12:26:00.000-08:00

My world has recently been divided into three parts: Those who like the shoes, those who hate the shoes, and those who hate the shoes but are polite enough not to tell me. I respect all three categories, but I'm telling you now, the shoes are here to stay.

Now, a word about the shoes; they are a bit, well, wild. They are hand-made Italian clogs covered in a pastel flowery design. They are a great deal like me, colorful, complex, a little outrageous, comfortable, constantly evoking a strong reaction. As much as I am not materialistic by nature, not interested in fashion at all and rarely moved by a pair of shoes, I fell instantly in love with these. My sister, Amy, however, was not in love. She is a very sharp dresser with excellent, albeit conservative taste. She took in my unbridled enthusiasm for the shoes and gave me a deadpan, "really."

It was an important moment in my life. I didn't care what she thought, I had to have those shoes! I grew up in a large family. We are five children in as many years. That may not sound like a lot now, but back then we were only one less than the Brady Bunch. We also had a single mother and no live-in maid. We essentially raised each other, and for better or worse, spent a great deal of time and energy in each other's business. As adults, while we have gone in many directions and no longer share one bathroom (!), we still care what our siblings think.

So the shoes, my love for the shoes and my sister's poorly concealed disapproval of the shoes caused a major psychological shift for me. I don't just love these shoes, I AM these shoes! As I walked out of the shoe store I realized that my life was forever changed. This is the beginning of a new era for me. As a woman in my 40s I have nothing to lose by embracing my unique qualities, not only loving and accepting my total self, but "wearing" my essence proudly. I realize that this might offend some people. I understand that being comfortable with zaftig body, embracing my femininity, accepting my shortcomings and wearing these ridiculous shoes might embarrass some of you out there, but to me there is no alternative. I will no sooner let the whimsy of fashion dictate my footwear than the fears of others dictate my choices. The shoes may fit comfortably in a box, but I do not. There is no paradigm forgiving or spacious enough to contain all of what I believe, think or feel.

I wake up every day, put a smile on my face and slide my feet into the shoes. As I look down I feel a great sense of inner peace descend. Brace yourselves, I am an empowered being.

Barbie's Boobs and Other Atrocities

2010-01-19T10:05:00.000-08:00

When my niece, Rachel was four and my daughter, Liora was three, I had the privilege of overhearing one of their conversations:

"Liora, do you have Barbies?"

"No, I"m not allowed Barbies."

"Why not?"

"My mom says Barbies make girls feel bad about their bodies."

It was a glorious moment in my life as a mother. All I could think was, "wow, they really DO listen to what I say!"

Fast forward, a week ago I heard my next daughter, now 15, say to a friend, "there's nothing wrong with being fat!"

I nearly fell off my chair. Not because I haven't said that a million times, but I know the enemy I am fighting has unlimited power and a reach that extends deeply into the hearts of teenage girls. I know this enemy, I spent many years in battle against its ugly, insidious army.

This, readers, will not be the end of this topic, but merely the beginning. I have more to say about size-ism, body image and eating disorders than possibly any other topic I write about. So, hang in there.

Now, before my mom gets her knickers in a twist, I am not advocating an unhealthy lifestyle. Everyone should eat a healthy, balanced, whole food diet and exercise regularly. That goes for everyone, no exceptions. That said, let's get back to business. And that business is FAT!

Statistics show that 95% of all diets fail, meaning that nearly all dieters regain any weight loss over an average of one to five years. In most cases, as both fat and muscle are lost through dieting, only fat is regained, leaving the dieter essentially, well, fatter. And yet, the diet industry is huge. Bigger than huge. Obese, grotesque in its multi-billion dollar profits. I am not embarrassed to say I have done my share of spending on worthless products, starvation diets and my old friend, Weight Watchers. Now, I'm not saying none of these things work. Diets do work. And work, and work and work. Weight Watchers thrives on recidivism. Maybe it would work better if it were free. Nah, never mind. Here is the real truth: there is no scientifically proven method of permanently changing one body type into another. You just have to work with what you have.

I have been deeply affected over the years by a few lone voices of reason in this fight. My favorite so far is a book called, "Fat!So?" by Marilyn Wann. I loved the title. The book challenges many myths about fat and health as laid out in undigestible form by medicine-in-bed-with-pharmaceuticals Inc. A few years ago there was a great article in Scientific American which challenged the knee-jerk link between obesity and heart disease. In fact there are cultures with more obesity and less heart disease than America, and I see that this article is conspicuously absent from the magazine's online archives. Hunh.

So what can we do about all of this? I, for one, say we stop accepting the lies, half-truths and destructive thinking which cause so many of us to dislike what we see in the mirror. Throw out your bathroom scale, it's just a barrier to self-acceptance. Give away the clothes you wore before you had kids, Kate Moss needs them. Embrace and love the body you have. Take care of it, fuel it, tone it, keep it strong and active. Now I invite you to join the army of "why on earth do you think I want to be something I'm not?"

Once we empower ourselves to reject Barbie as our cultural icon we can start teaching our daughters to love themselves and our sons to love real women, not dolls.

(Next time: my cousin Amy who cut off Barbie's hair and glued it to various body parts...)

The Real Abomination

2010-01-11T02:52:00.000-08:00

When I was in fourth grade, I had a friend with two mothers. I never once thought there was anything amiss about this. My parents were divorced, which was equally peculiar. I saw "two mothers" as another variation on "possible parenting scenarios." This folks, was 1971. When I went to Brandeis ten years later I recall hearing about the gay/lesbian/bisexual alliance. I remember thinking, "why do they need an alliance?" I was not even aware there was a stigma attached to these lifestyles. Oh, how things have changed in my world.

Yeshiva University recently held a panel on the subject of homosexuality and treatment of homosexuals at YU. Without treading on any Halachic toes, speakers encouraged students and faculty to approach gay students with more openness and acceptance. Wow, I'm thinking, groundbreaking. Unfortunately, for many this is news.

When my daughter was in sixth grade and learning Judo, her friend told her she wasn't allowed to go to Judo because the teacher "might marry a woman and everyone knows." Liora came home to talk to me about this. "But I don't get it, why can't she go to Judo?" asks naturally curious 11-year-old. "Well, some people think homosexuality is contagious, " answers hoping-she's-saying-the-right-thing mother. "Well, I would think being with someone who's violating shabbas is much more contagious," she says. She starts to walk away, then adds, "and since when is it ok to talk about what someone does in their bedroom? It's really not tzanua (modest)." Right on.

It so happens that said Judo teacher is a close family friend, and my children have never expressed discomfort with her or her choice of partner. I think partly, as demonstrated above, it is simply not in a child's nature to think too much about these things. They accept and love whoever loves and accepts them, and that's about it.

How, then, does a 16-year-old boy from a religious home end up in the emergency room, barely escaping death at his own hand, because he is gay? Over the twenty years I have been in practice I have seen dozens of religious gay and lesbian teenagers cross my office threshold. They are not all suicidal, but they are all in terrible pain. By witnessing this pain I have become convinced that homosexuality is not a choice. I do not believe any person would make a choice this painful.

I know I will catch hell for this, but I place blame squarely on the shoulders of those religious leaders who preach rejection, intolerance and hatred of gay and lesbian Jews. As far as I understand, we are commanded to love each other. There are no exceptions.

I had the opportunity to learn just how much my opinion is in the minority while serving as musical director for the Israeli premier of RENT. (The play features gay, lesbian, bisexual and straight characters.) A friend and neighbor, a rav whom I greatly respect told me he did not feel his student's participation in this play was in service of Hashem. I disagree. I told him I know we can't change the world by putting on one play, but perhaps we can stimulate respectful dialogue. And if through a gentle raising of awareness we can be a voice for change, if we can open one heart, if we can ease the pain of one suffering Jew, then we have done something incredibly holy.

On Not Raising Racists

2010-01-07T03:11:00.000-08:00

My son, Elisha, age eight, was called a "racist" a few days ago. He was so upset by this he stayed home from school the following day. I asked him if he knows what a racist is, and he in fact came up with with a pretty accurate definition. It turns out that he passed on a comment made in our home by a close family friend, who also happens to be African-American-Israeli. Elisha didn't realize that when a white person suggests that the mistake in the picture on the Cheerios box is the black person next to the swimming pool, well, that's racist. He's right, Marvin said it first. That was confusing, but a lesson in the importance of avoiding all stereotyping, even of the self.

The following day my eldest daughter, Liora, age 18, had a shouting match with an employee at the hospital where she volunteers about the random hatred of Arabs. This is routinely practiced, albeit quietly, by some of the hospital staff. One woman even asked her, "don't you hate Arabs, too?" She tried at first to explain the difference between hating terrorism, hating war, hating oppression, hating an attitude, hating an untenable situation, and hating people. She gave that up after seeing the lack of sophistication in her opponent and simply answered that she was not raised to hate. Thank God.

In fact both of my daughters have had some blind test cases which have proven to support our efforts in raising without hate. Both Liora, cellist and Adina, violinist have spent many years participating in "Mat'an," the National Youth Orchestra program. One summer Liora served as principal cellist, seated opposite Nadim, concert master. I saw this as a stunning moment in the history of my child; national religious girl from the west bank seated across from Israeli Arab from northern village. Playing Haydn. Sharing the language of music. Perhaps less stunning yet equally impactful, this was the summer six religious boys woke up four secular boys every morning at 7 to make their minyan. And Adina spent the entire session explaining that yes, she is religious and yes, she is wearing pants. Craziness.

It begs the question, why are we a nation of knee-jerk racists? Why are we so quick to judge each other, and is this fact contributing anything positive to the formation of an advanced, sophisticated society? As an issue of security and survival there is no question. I am in favor of racial profiling, and would appreciate a separate line at the road block for Palestinian plates. But I would also like these things to become unnecessary and I will work towards that end, by teaching my children that they do not need to learn hate in order to protect themselves or our country.

A few years ago I gave a paper on psychodrama at Yad VaShem's International Conference on Teaching the Holocaust to Future Generations. The conference was attended by hundreds of educators from around the world. I became very friendly with a German woman who teaches at the University of Berlin. Her grandparents, she tells me, were Nazis. She remembers seeing their paraphernalia around the house. She made a conscious decision to pick herself up out of their mindset and dedicate her life to healing. I was awestruck by her courage and devotion.

At the same conference I met an Israeli, a teacher from the Tel Aviv area. She asked me in English where I was from, and I answered in Hebrew that I live in Efrat. She did not respond, but turned on her heels and walked away from me. I went out for dinner with my German friend whose grandparents were Nazis, a journalist from South Africa and the sign language interpreter. Am I missing something?

Uncovering My Hair

2010-01-03T11:56:00.000-08:00

I ditched my hair covering two weeks ago. Most people have noticed something different about me, but either they are too polite to say, "OMG your hair!" Or they really haven't noticed. I started wearing a head covering for religious reasons when we moved to Israel in 1998. We lived in a religious neighborhood and I had no misgivings about taking on the local custom. It took my husband some time to get used to looking at me with a hat or scarf, but it wasn't a tragedy. I liked the idea of downplaying physical beauty, of reining in my energy a bit (which can be pretty outrageous, I admit), of creating a barrier between my sexuality and men who are not my husband. The idea appealed to me. The look I got used to.

Now, a bit about my background. I'm not your typical religious woman. I didn't go to Stern College, didn't marry a YU guy, never lived in New York, or even the tri-state area. I was raised by a single mother of five children in rural Massachusetts. My mother, a close friend and classmate of Gloria Steinam raised us with a healthy disregard for rules (other than hers) and a huge poster which said "Fuck Housework" in the kitchen. No kidding, my sisters have confirmed this. Our home was traditionally Jewish and very spiritual, if not necessarily religious. My mother created her own religion, based on Jewish holidays, feminism, punctuality, doing the right thing and orthodontics for all.

I was always attracted to religion and to spiritual practices of every sort, from Buddhist meditation to Hindu burial parades. I came to Orthodoxy by being immersed in it, and I still respect and admire the solid ground of many Orthodox communities worldwide. But I no longer call myself Orthodox, though my lifestyle, other than the hair, has not changed.

What did change was how I was treated by some terribly misled men who have the gall to call themselves rabbis. Following a painful yet thankfully short-lived falling out with a close friend, these "rabbis" took it upon themselves to demonize me, threaten me and attempt to ruin me professionally. Well, I look askance at such behavior, as my mother's religion clearly dictates.

So I feel I have no choice. I need to distance myself in every way possible from this type of thinking and behavior. I can not tolerate the thought that someone could look at my manner of dress and assume things about the way I think. It has simply become unbearable. So, now when I walk down the street, an amazing thing happens; people look me in the eye. Ahh that feels good.