Some of my best ideas and inspirations happened in college, except that I didn't know how to develop them into something real and long-term. For example, I started taking black and white photographs of the homeless people who lived on the sidewalk near Barnard/Columbia. In exchange for them telling me their life story and allowing me to take their picture, I would give them a hearty lunch (sandwich, fruits, drink etc) and my full attention during the interview.
"Someday," I thought, "this could become a fascinating best-selling book." Well, HONY [Humans of New York] has pretty much taken care of that niche in the market. I follow the site and own the books, and in between loving the content and the impact this project has had, I wonder how I could have done it first.
In college I also took a creative writing course, and one of my favorite (award-winning) stories was the story of The Three Little Pigs, as told from the perspective of the wolf. In my short story, the wolf was a rapper on MTV, with asthma; no apologies from me vis a vis the back story, it was the 80's.
This past Friday, at the library with Raphaela to get our weekend reading, we took out a children's book called The True Story of the Three Little Pigs, as told from the perspective of the wolf. In it, the wolf explains how he was framed because all he had was a powerful sneeze, and that he was visiting his neighbors the pigs to borrow a cup of sugar, to bake a cake for his grandmother; a reference presumably to the wolf who eats Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother in another gruesome fairy tale. The premise of the book, which is less for children than for their cynical and hip parents, is that the media had to hype the story and make him look like the Big Bad, because the birthday cake angle doesn't sell papers.
We have a similar children's book, a gift from a cousin, called Click Clack Moo, Cows that Type, which I feel is written as much for the parents as well as the kids. The book describes, using animals as a substitute for humans (how very George Orwell), how effective blackmail works if used intelligently. My mother hates this story and will not read it to my daughter, because she feels it teaches children how to be manipulative and be rewarded for it.
I can see her point, children these days are more savvy, and their books are written accordingly. On the other hand, it is a funny book and the illustrations work well, and while my daughter may be bright, I don't know how much she reads into the subtext beyond the slapstick.
On Sesame Street, Cookie Monster is enrolled in a 12-step program for his impulse control issues, Elmo may as well be taking Ritalin, and Telly is probably on anti-depressants. Snuffy was revealed to the rest of the street over fear that children may not tell their parents that they are being abused, because no one would believe them. Katy Perry appeared on the children's educational program half-naked, and I don't remember there being any outcry from parents. We're not in Kansas anymore...
Raphaela and I recently finished reading The Little Prince together, and as I was bawling and feeling my entire understanding of the Universe deepen, she did not venture beyond the basic story IE plane gets fixed, Little Prince goes home to his flower, man is sad.
As a person who was quite naïve until I left for college, I wonder if we are raising this 21rst Century of children better, or if we are denying them some aspect of that idyllic youth, by exposing them to reality too early.
Showing posts with label New York Times. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York Times. Show all posts
Sunday, January 3, 2016
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Ezra Schwartz Z"L
Yesterday, after school and ballet and bath time. After I had watched a live stream video of the funeral of Ezra Schwartz Z"L, the 18 year old boy from Sharon, MA who was murdered last Thursday by a Palestinian terrorist spewing bullets from an automatic weapon. Ezra had been volunteering with Israeli soldiers, and was killed in an instant along with one other Jew and an Arab just standing on the side of the road.
I listened as the Rabbi, Ezra's father and mother and siblings, his grandparents and baseball coach and friends, all talked about this boy who will not get the chance to become a man. This potential adult who has become a symbol for the growing cost of terror here in Israel and around the world.
I did not know him or his family, despite having attended the same high school as Ezra Schwartz in Boston (some odd 30 years ago). But as an Israeli and a mother I feel the pain of the loss, and I cannot imagine (nor do I EVER want to imagine) how it feels for a parent to bury their child.
Ezra was apparently a mega sports fan and tonight, the New England Patriots will hold a moment of silence; to remember a boy, a Jew, a brother and a son and a cousin, an innocent lost.
Good for them and shame on the ineffectual President Barack Hussein Obama. A man who has insisted that he is "practically Jewish" and Israel's good friend; a leader who decried the act of terror in Paris as a global call to arms. He has yet to personally acknowledge, in the international forum, that an American died on his watch. Obama has yet to admit that terror is terror, and that the life of a Jew has the same value as the life of a Parisian, an African, a Syrian or a victim of the Beirut bombings, or the recent tragedy in Mali. The silence in the face of daily senseless death in the Middle East is deafening.
And just one day later, a 21 year old Israeli named Hadar Buchris was stabbed to death in the exact same location. The New York Times reported "One Israel and three Palestinians killed in Attacks," thus equating the victim with her murderers.
Last night Raphaela wanted to sleep in bed with me and I did not refuse. I wanted to hold her close to me, to feel the warmth of her body, to watch her breathe and to play with her wisps of curly hair.
I needed to hold her tight.
I listened as the Rabbi, Ezra's father and mother and siblings, his grandparents and baseball coach and friends, all talked about this boy who will not get the chance to become a man. This potential adult who has become a symbol for the growing cost of terror here in Israel and around the world.
I did not know him or his family, despite having attended the same high school as Ezra Schwartz in Boston (some odd 30 years ago). But as an Israeli and a mother I feel the pain of the loss, and I cannot imagine (nor do I EVER want to imagine) how it feels for a parent to bury their child.
Ezra was apparently a mega sports fan and tonight, the New England Patriots will hold a moment of silence; to remember a boy, a Jew, a brother and a son and a cousin, an innocent lost.
Good for them and shame on the ineffectual President Barack Hussein Obama. A man who has insisted that he is "practically Jewish" and Israel's good friend; a leader who decried the act of terror in Paris as a global call to arms. He has yet to personally acknowledge, in the international forum, that an American died on his watch. Obama has yet to admit that terror is terror, and that the life of a Jew has the same value as the life of a Parisian, an African, a Syrian or a victim of the Beirut bombings, or the recent tragedy in Mali. The silence in the face of daily senseless death in the Middle East is deafening.
And just one day later, a 21 year old Israeli named Hadar Buchris was stabbed to death in the exact same location. The New York Times reported "One Israel and three Palestinians killed in Attacks," thus equating the victim with her murderers.
Last night Raphaela wanted to sleep in bed with me and I did not refuse. I wanted to hold her close to me, to feel the warmth of her body, to watch her breathe and to play with her wisps of curly hair.
I needed to hold her tight.
Friday, October 16, 2015
The Reality from Jerusalem, Israel
I am not going to delve into the political, historical and religious underpinnings of the current Blood Libel/Pogrom/Intifada that is currently taking place all over Israel, compounded by the irresponsible and frankly, ridiculously biased treatment of Israel by the American administration, the United Nations and the international media.
I am not going to describe how I feel as a parent, dropping my daughter off at school every day, terrified and wondering if the one armed security guard is actually capable of protecting anyone, as he cannot be in all places at the same time.
Today I spoke to Raphaela's First Grade teacher and asked her if the girls seem to be affected in terms of focus or fears by the events of the past two weeks. She explained that they had a brief discussion in class, in which they clarified that there are good people and bad people in the world; they talked about how parents might be asking them to be more aware and more careful, and how maybe it is not the best time to ride on your bike alone and far away from the house these days.
Her teacher explained that she purposely held this forum right before the morning prayers, to emphasize that there is only so much that we can control, only so much that their parents can do to be extra-careful, and that through prayer we put our faith in a higher power, one that is meant to protect us and bring us comfort in the bigger picture. Thankfully, Raphaela's teacher reported that most of the girls seem to be clueless and as happy-go-lucky as ever.
For my own part, I have not shared the gory and scary details with Raphaela. She knows that there are people out there today who do not want what is best for Jews, just as there has been throughout our history: Nimrod (who tried to kill Abraham), Pharaoh (who enslaved and tried to kill the Jewish people), Haman (who tried to wipe out all the Jews under the rule of Persia), Babylon (who destroyed the Temple and exiled most of the Jews from Israel), Hitler (The Shoah, six million Jews and several other million non-Jews), Idi Amin (Raphaela learned the story of Operation Entebbe), Arabs etc.
As far as Raphaela is concerned, this current state of undeclared war is just a continuation of history, "so let's go to the zoo." Except that the zoo is a wide open space and full of potential targets, so I as a parent do not feel comfortable taking her there. Instead, we have scheduled lots of indoor play dates. These days we don't dally before and after errands, we do what we must and get home as quickly as possible.
These days, the streets of Jerusalem are pretty empty, and there is a small canister of pepper spray hiding inside my pocket book.
On the way back from the supermarket this week, five police vans zoomed past us in the other direction of traffic toward one of the multiple attacks of the day, sirens blazing, and my heart sank. I sighed visibly, and Raphaela asked me what was wrong. I replied that there was lots of traffic, and that I just wanted to get home safely.
The other day, picking up Raphaela from school, a little girl from her class and her older sister seemed to be scared and confused, because the building was closing for the day and their parents were not there yet. "Don't worry," said her older sister, "we will just walk home by ourselves." I would not allow it, I called their mother and told her that they were coming with me, and that they could stay with us as long as they needed to.
Last night, as Raphaela sat in the bath tub, we could hear the endless stream of helicopters and police and ambulances outside. Raphaela said, "Oh, so many sirens! Maybe someone is really really sick. Or maybe a woman is about to give birth and she has to get to the hospital really quickly."
I am OK with that level of denial for now, she's only six years old. One of us has to sleep at night.
I am not going to describe how I feel as a parent, dropping my daughter off at school every day, terrified and wondering if the one armed security guard is actually capable of protecting anyone, as he cannot be in all places at the same time.
Today I spoke to Raphaela's First Grade teacher and asked her if the girls seem to be affected in terms of focus or fears by the events of the past two weeks. She explained that they had a brief discussion in class, in which they clarified that there are good people and bad people in the world; they talked about how parents might be asking them to be more aware and more careful, and how maybe it is not the best time to ride on your bike alone and far away from the house these days.
Her teacher explained that she purposely held this forum right before the morning prayers, to emphasize that there is only so much that we can control, only so much that their parents can do to be extra-careful, and that through prayer we put our faith in a higher power, one that is meant to protect us and bring us comfort in the bigger picture. Thankfully, Raphaela's teacher reported that most of the girls seem to be clueless and as happy-go-lucky as ever.
For my own part, I have not shared the gory and scary details with Raphaela. She knows that there are people out there today who do not want what is best for Jews, just as there has been throughout our history: Nimrod (who tried to kill Abraham), Pharaoh (who enslaved and tried to kill the Jewish people), Haman (who tried to wipe out all the Jews under the rule of Persia), Babylon (who destroyed the Temple and exiled most of the Jews from Israel), Hitler (The Shoah, six million Jews and several other million non-Jews), Idi Amin (Raphaela learned the story of Operation Entebbe), Arabs etc.
As far as Raphaela is concerned, this current state of undeclared war is just a continuation of history, "so let's go to the zoo." Except that the zoo is a wide open space and full of potential targets, so I as a parent do not feel comfortable taking her there. Instead, we have scheduled lots of indoor play dates. These days we don't dally before and after errands, we do what we must and get home as quickly as possible.
These days, the streets of Jerusalem are pretty empty, and there is a small canister of pepper spray hiding inside my pocket book.
On the way back from the supermarket this week, five police vans zoomed past us in the other direction of traffic toward one of the multiple attacks of the day, sirens blazing, and my heart sank. I sighed visibly, and Raphaela asked me what was wrong. I replied that there was lots of traffic, and that I just wanted to get home safely.
The other day, picking up Raphaela from school, a little girl from her class and her older sister seemed to be scared and confused, because the building was closing for the day and their parents were not there yet. "Don't worry," said her older sister, "we will just walk home by ourselves." I would not allow it, I called their mother and told her that they were coming with me, and that they could stay with us as long as they needed to.
Last night, as Raphaela sat in the bath tub, we could hear the endless stream of helicopters and police and ambulances outside. Raphaela said, "Oh, so many sirens! Maybe someone is really really sick. Or maybe a woman is about to give birth and she has to get to the hospital really quickly."
I am OK with that level of denial for now, she's only six years old. One of us has to sleep at night.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
The American-Israel Divide
In less than one week, I will celebrate my 18th year anniversary of moving to Israel. There are days where I feel fully integrated into Israeli culture and society, and days where I question my sanity of staying in this country another day.
For example, on Shabbat Raphaela took our weekly walk to the Valley of Gazelle's near our house, for our weekly Shabbat picnic lunch. Sitting quite close to our picnic spot were two families, and one mother was discussing - actually shouting loudly, a crime we Americans are often accused of - her son's upcoming birthday party. She proudly declared that her son would "hit the jackpot with stupid presents," and that he would never get the chance to use any of them. This mother had planned on exchanging all the gifts toward the purchase of school back packs for next Fall.
When the boy heard this (obviously for the first time), he complained loudly that they were his gifts for his birthday, and that she didn't have a right to confiscate them for something as practical as school supplies.
The mother replied that he has no choice in the matter, that she planned on earning back her investment in the party, and he had better suck it up for the good of the family.
At that moment I felt more Israeli than American, in the sense that it is a practical approach, and realistically, this boy would not play with most of the presents he would receive for more than five minutes. On the other hand, the birthday-hater in me sympathized with him.
And now for the American experience.
A decision had to be made in Raphaela's Gan by all the parents, except that no one - including the teachers or the Parents Committee - would take responsibility for the project. Naturally I, being a political science major, enthusiastic facilitator (I should get therapy for that trait) and the token blunt American, took on the job of polling all 34 families toward coming to a decision.
The parents had from Friday through the end of Sunday to text a simple "yes" or "no" to my phone, so that only I would know their opinion, without retribution from the Kindergarten staff. By the end of the voting period, less than half the Gan population had voted, and even getting that result was like pulling teeth. I suppose this echoes the nature of real national elections, so I shouldn't be disappointed or surprised.
The American in me, that proactive person who believes that you get involved and defend the cause in which you believe, just doesn't understand why no one seems to care, why humans are content to allow others to make decisions for them. You could argue that Israelis live life-and-death decisions almost daily, and are therefore willing to take a back seat on the smaller things, like their children's education.
Whatever.
For example, on Shabbat Raphaela took our weekly walk to the Valley of Gazelle's near our house, for our weekly Shabbat picnic lunch. Sitting quite close to our picnic spot were two families, and one mother was discussing - actually shouting loudly, a crime we Americans are often accused of - her son's upcoming birthday party. She proudly declared that her son would "hit the jackpot with stupid presents," and that he would never get the chance to use any of them. This mother had planned on exchanging all the gifts toward the purchase of school back packs for next Fall.
When the boy heard this (obviously for the first time), he complained loudly that they were his gifts for his birthday, and that she didn't have a right to confiscate them for something as practical as school supplies.
The mother replied that he has no choice in the matter, that she planned on earning back her investment in the party, and he had better suck it up for the good of the family.
At that moment I felt more Israeli than American, in the sense that it is a practical approach, and realistically, this boy would not play with most of the presents he would receive for more than five minutes. On the other hand, the birthday-hater in me sympathized with him.
And now for the American experience.
A decision had to be made in Raphaela's Gan by all the parents, except that no one - including the teachers or the Parents Committee - would take responsibility for the project. Naturally I, being a political science major, enthusiastic facilitator (I should get therapy for that trait) and the token blunt American, took on the job of polling all 34 families toward coming to a decision.
The parents had from Friday through the end of Sunday to text a simple "yes" or "no" to my phone, so that only I would know their opinion, without retribution from the Kindergarten staff. By the end of the voting period, less than half the Gan population had voted, and even getting that result was like pulling teeth. I suppose this echoes the nature of real national elections, so I shouldn't be disappointed or surprised.
The American in me, that proactive person who believes that you get involved and defend the cause in which you believe, just doesn't understand why no one seems to care, why humans are content to allow others to make decisions for them. You could argue that Israelis live life-and-death decisions almost daily, and are therefore willing to take a back seat on the smaller things, like their children's education.
Whatever.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Happy Holidays
This morning, with terrific excitement, I reminded Raphaela that today we celebrate Thanksgiving, a holiday left over from my American experience and yet shall be cherished every year, no matter where I live. Raphaela asked if she was allowed to join in the Turkey Day festivities, as she was born in Israel and not the United States. I told her that as she has an American passport and a mother born in the US, she is also a dual citizen and should enjoy all rights as such.
Later in the day, an Israeli patient asked me if I had commemorated Christmas in my house, as a child growing up in America. After all, it has even become accepted among some observant American Jews to take their child Trick-or-Treating; forgetting all historical background to the holiday IE pogroms and the slaughtering of Jews, kids get to wear costumes and collect free candy. Harmless, right?
I laughed and pointed out that since my father is an ordained Orthodox Rabbi, it was never an option to visit Santa at the mall or have a "Chanukah Bush" in our house. Christmas is all about Saint Nick and Jesus and trampling a stranger to get a cheap X-Box, clearly religious in nature, as opposed to Thanksgiving. My parents actually did a good job of giving the Jewish holidays throughout the year beauty and significance, without envy or wistfulness for the more Christian and pagan holidays.
That being said, I do have a secret indulgence: Christmas carols. They bring me some joy as it reminds me of the warm atmosphere of New York City that month before the holiday, where New Yorkers seemed less cut-throat and more friendly, "Happy Holidays!" wherever you went, skating at Rockefeller Center, the MET tree and the window decorations.
Ahh, nostalgia!
Later in the day, an Israeli patient asked me if I had commemorated Christmas in my house, as a child growing up in America. After all, it has even become accepted among some observant American Jews to take their child Trick-or-Treating; forgetting all historical background to the holiday IE pogroms and the slaughtering of Jews, kids get to wear costumes and collect free candy. Harmless, right?
I laughed and pointed out that since my father is an ordained Orthodox Rabbi, it was never an option to visit Santa at the mall or have a "Chanukah Bush" in our house. Christmas is all about Saint Nick and Jesus and trampling a stranger to get a cheap X-Box, clearly religious in nature, as opposed to Thanksgiving. My parents actually did a good job of giving the Jewish holidays throughout the year beauty and significance, without envy or wistfulness for the more Christian and pagan holidays.
That being said, I do have a secret indulgence: Christmas carols. They bring me some joy as it reminds me of the warm atmosphere of New York City that month before the holiday, where New Yorkers seemed less cut-throat and more friendly, "Happy Holidays!" wherever you went, skating at Rockefeller Center, the MET tree and the window decorations.
Ahh, nostalgia!
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Carnival!
This week, we have already gone to the Biblical Zoo and flown a kite at the International Kite Festival at the Israel Museum.
Today I took a walk down memory lane, in more ways than one. Every year during the interim period of Succot IE the 11 day vacation that Raphaela has from school, Jerusalem hosts an international 15K march and parade, featuring groups from all over Israel and Righteous pro-Israel Christians from all over the world, including China, Germany and United States.
The walkathon terminates in Gan Saccher, right near our house, and features a free Carnival, with rides and clowns and bouncy castles and games; as well as the tastes of adventure and fun that brought me back to my childhood, mainly cotton candy and candied apples. I forced my daughter to inhale the joy that is cotton candy, so that she too may become hyper on sugar and fond memories.
There were also two staging areas with a ten hour flow of entertainment of groups from Israel, including dancers and martial arts and singing. Many of the dancing groups excited Raphaela, my Prima Ballerina. However, I can say with certainty that I now have a new favorite Boy Band, KINDERLACH*, a religious choir group made of six boys with great voices and all the moves of Justin Timberlake. They reek of charisma and sang a full range, moving between hip hop and Israeli rock, rap and classic religious Jewish ritual music. They captured my heart and I am even going to buy their newest album, the audience (religious and secular) demanded several encores.
There are people out there who know me well and they are laughing their asses off: I grew up resenting the limitations and misogyny of my Ultra-Orthodox community in New York. The presentation and tone of this group represents in a certain way everything that I rejected about my upbringing. And yet, hearing and watching them perform today, it made me warm inside, grinning from ear to ear.
Ironically, the Jerusalem March is based upon the Biblical concept of "Aliyah LaRegel," the trek that ancient Jews made during this set of holidays in the time of the Temple. Today it translates to Israelis from all parts of Israel walking through their capital, camping out in a park together and embracing all that makes us one nation, accepting of others despite our differences. Much like the four species that we combine for a blessing on Succot.
Plus the free activities for children who are going stir crazy without the structure of the regular school day.
Now THAT deserves a celebration.
* KINDERLACH, translates into "children" in Yiddish.
Today I took a walk down memory lane, in more ways than one. Every year during the interim period of Succot IE the 11 day vacation that Raphaela has from school, Jerusalem hosts an international 15K march and parade, featuring groups from all over Israel and Righteous pro-Israel Christians from all over the world, including China, Germany and United States.
The walkathon terminates in Gan Saccher, right near our house, and features a free Carnival, with rides and clowns and bouncy castles and games; as well as the tastes of adventure and fun that brought me back to my childhood, mainly cotton candy and candied apples. I forced my daughter to inhale the joy that is cotton candy, so that she too may become hyper on sugar and fond memories.
There were also two staging areas with a ten hour flow of entertainment of groups from Israel, including dancers and martial arts and singing. Many of the dancing groups excited Raphaela, my Prima Ballerina. However, I can say with certainty that I now have a new favorite Boy Band, KINDERLACH*, a religious choir group made of six boys with great voices and all the moves of Justin Timberlake. They reek of charisma and sang a full range, moving between hip hop and Israeli rock, rap and classic religious Jewish ritual music. They captured my heart and I am even going to buy their newest album, the audience (religious and secular) demanded several encores.
There are people out there who know me well and they are laughing their asses off: I grew up resenting the limitations and misogyny of my Ultra-Orthodox community in New York. The presentation and tone of this group represents in a certain way everything that I rejected about my upbringing. And yet, hearing and watching them perform today, it made me warm inside, grinning from ear to ear.
Ironically, the Jerusalem March is based upon the Biblical concept of "Aliyah LaRegel," the trek that ancient Jews made during this set of holidays in the time of the Temple. Today it translates to Israelis from all parts of Israel walking through their capital, camping out in a park together and embracing all that makes us one nation, accepting of others despite our differences. Much like the four species that we combine for a blessing on Succot.
Plus the free activities for children who are going stir crazy without the structure of the regular school day.
Now THAT deserves a celebration.
* KINDERLACH, translates into "children" in Yiddish.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Daniel Tragerman Z"L
This past Friday, a four year old boy named Daniel Tragerman was killed by a Hamas bomb, fired from the premises of an UNWRA school. He died because there was only 15 seconds between the launch and the impact, and his parents did not have enough time to bring all three of their children to safety.
A few things need to be said here:
1. Shame on the United Nations for keeping uncharacteristically silent when a child was killed in the Middle East by the other side. Oh, that's right, sorry, they only accuse Israel of murder when Hamas uses their own children as human shields.
2. Israel is fighting a war with a group of people, a made-up nation, that does not believe in the sanctity of life; they eagerly sacrifice those they love, their husbands and brothers and their innocent children. It pains me no end for the Palestinian civilians, the ones who just want to get out of Aza now, alive. As a reminder for the international lobotomized community, Hamas started this, and they will not be satisfied until all Jews, all over the globe, are dead, and if it means trampling over the corpses of their own people, so be it.
3. I cannot wrap my head around a religion and/or culture that somehow manages to delete that basic maternal instinct that puts the LIFE and safety of a child over all else.
A video going around Facebook features a happy smiley Palestinian mother who told the following story: her young daughter expressed an interest in becoming a suicide bomber, a desire to kill as many Israelis along the way. The mother responded that she would support her daughter, and that she would only be pleased if her daughter came home in a "body bag," because otherwise it would indicate that she failed in her "holy mission."
3. To paraphrase a bumper sticker I saw on a car last week, I will always choose and defend my child over my enemies, the enemies of my child's future. F**k the moral high ground.
Years ago, the New York Times Magazine featured an editorial piece by a woman (who remained anonymous) who wrote about her dilemma, she was pregnant with triplets and had been told by doctors that if she carried all three fetuses to term, at least one of the babies would be born dead or would have to live with debilitating and limiting health issues. This potential mother went on to describe her internal deliberations, and surprisingly, revealed her decision to the readership of the newspaper. She and her husband chose to "terminate" the two fetuses who were identical twins, because she couldn't bear the idea that some day one of the twins would ask why he/she was spared over her identical sibling.
This mother had to make an awful choice, and subsequently came under fire by most who read the article. Daniel Tragerman's parents didn't willfully choose two of their children over the other, Hamas murdered their son, and they will never get to see him grow up.
A few things need to be said here:
1. Shame on the United Nations for keeping uncharacteristically silent when a child was killed in the Middle East by the other side. Oh, that's right, sorry, they only accuse Israel of murder when Hamas uses their own children as human shields.
2. Israel is fighting a war with a group of people, a made-up nation, that does not believe in the sanctity of life; they eagerly sacrifice those they love, their husbands and brothers and their innocent children. It pains me no end for the Palestinian civilians, the ones who just want to get out of Aza now, alive. As a reminder for the international lobotomized community, Hamas started this, and they will not be satisfied until all Jews, all over the globe, are dead, and if it means trampling over the corpses of their own people, so be it.
3. I cannot wrap my head around a religion and/or culture that somehow manages to delete that basic maternal instinct that puts the LIFE and safety of a child over all else.
A video going around Facebook features a happy smiley Palestinian mother who told the following story: her young daughter expressed an interest in becoming a suicide bomber, a desire to kill as many Israelis along the way. The mother responded that she would support her daughter, and that she would only be pleased if her daughter came home in a "body bag," because otherwise it would indicate that she failed in her "holy mission."
3. To paraphrase a bumper sticker I saw on a car last week, I will always choose and defend my child over my enemies, the enemies of my child's future. F**k the moral high ground.
Years ago, the New York Times Magazine featured an editorial piece by a woman (who remained anonymous) who wrote about her dilemma, she was pregnant with triplets and had been told by doctors that if she carried all three fetuses to term, at least one of the babies would be born dead or would have to live with debilitating and limiting health issues. This potential mother went on to describe her internal deliberations, and surprisingly, revealed her decision to the readership of the newspaper. She and her husband chose to "terminate" the two fetuses who were identical twins, because she couldn't bear the idea that some day one of the twins would ask why he/she was spared over her identical sibling.
This mother had to make an awful choice, and subsequently came under fire by most who read the article. Daniel Tragerman's parents didn't willfully choose two of their children over the other, Hamas murdered their son, and they will never get to see him grow up.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Burn Bread Crumbs Burn
I am ashamed to admit that the skills I honed in Jewish Girl Scout sleepover camp have become rusty.
With great anticipation I explained to Raphaela this morning that we would not require assistance in the burning of the chametz, since I was considered somewhat of a fire expert; in the days that setting up camp, bathing au natural in a nearby lake, building a tent and igniting a campfire that could burn down the forest was second nature.
We took our loot from the previous night's search and found a suitable spot in the parking lot downstairs, and I included some newspaper with the bread crumbs to provide kindling. The fire burned the newspaper only and completely ignored the chametz.
I added in more kindling and watched with satisfaction as the newspaper dissolved in the flames. But when I pushed away some of the ash, there sat the bread, fresh as ever, mocking me..
A neighbor, a chronic smoker whose coughing acts as my alarm in the early morning, came by with his cigarette and lighter and offered a few of his tried and true Chametz Burning tips.
Then I ran out of matches. The pyromaniac in me was feeling quite frustrated.
To paraphrase the Torah, "And Lo, there was fire and the Chametz was not consumed."
Harry cruised by and casually sniffed the charred area, and Raphaela screamed out, "Harry, be careful! Where there's smoke, there's fire!"
After building a more than respectable bonfire, completely surrounding the crumbs, Raphaela and I were able to do the Dora The Explorer victory dance ["We did it, hooray!" with the appropriate hand flailing and gluteal shaking] and continue on our day.
For the next ten hours or so we will exist in that terrible transition zone, in which our house is Pessach ready and yet, "Mommy, I'm hungry. There is nothing to eat!"
With great anticipation I explained to Raphaela this morning that we would not require assistance in the burning of the chametz, since I was considered somewhat of a fire expert; in the days that setting up camp, bathing au natural in a nearby lake, building a tent and igniting a campfire that could burn down the forest was second nature.
We took our loot from the previous night's search and found a suitable spot in the parking lot downstairs, and I included some newspaper with the bread crumbs to provide kindling. The fire burned the newspaper only and completely ignored the chametz.
I added in more kindling and watched with satisfaction as the newspaper dissolved in the flames. But when I pushed away some of the ash, there sat the bread, fresh as ever, mocking me..
A neighbor, a chronic smoker whose coughing acts as my alarm in the early morning, came by with his cigarette and lighter and offered a few of his tried and true Chametz Burning tips.
Then I ran out of matches. The pyromaniac in me was feeling quite frustrated.
To paraphrase the Torah, "And Lo, there was fire and the Chametz was not consumed."
Harry cruised by and casually sniffed the charred area, and Raphaela screamed out, "Harry, be careful! Where there's smoke, there's fire!"
After building a more than respectable bonfire, completely surrounding the crumbs, Raphaela and I were able to do the Dora The Explorer victory dance ["We did it, hooray!" with the appropriate hand flailing and gluteal shaking] and continue on our day.
For the next ten hours or so we will exist in that terrible transition zone, in which our house is Pessach ready and yet, "Mommy, I'm hungry. There is nothing to eat!"
Now we are Free
Israeli Pessach by the Numbers:
62,000 plus Israelis will pass through Ben Gurion Airport, on their way out of the country
400 or so flights will operate in and out of Ben Gurion in the next 24 hours
90% of Jewish Israeli citizens plan on celebrating Seder with their families
55% of Jewish Israelis plan on keeping a kosher house during the holiday
And fair warning to Israelis from a paranoid New Yorker: Don't post your vacation plans on the social media, it simply provides easy pickings for thieves.
62,000 plus Israelis will pass through Ben Gurion Airport, on their way out of the country
400 or so flights will operate in and out of Ben Gurion in the next 24 hours
90% of Jewish Israeli citizens plan on celebrating Seder with their families
55% of Jewish Israelis plan on keeping a kosher house during the holiday
And fair warning to Israelis from a paranoid New Yorker: Don't post your vacation plans on the social media, it simply provides easy pickings for thieves.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Spring Forward
This morning Raphaela started poking me when the clock read five am. Fine, I mumbled, give me another half hour. At 5:30 I pulled myself out from under the covers, so pleased that I was getting an early start to the day.
I fed the fish, did some dishes and opened the front door, to find the International New York Times waiting for me. "Good," I thought to myself, "they are finally providing a decent service, now I don't have to call them and remind them to deliver the paper some time before the end of the day."
Raphaela and I put on our shoes to take Harry outside and to feed his street cat friends. There were more cats than I had expected and there was more traffic on the road than usual for that time in the early morning.
When we came home again, I looked at the clock and thought, "So much time to kill this morning." And so, puttering around in my pajamas, I took out my iPad to check my email and play an online game with my friend from the United States. The clock on the iPad read seven am and I grumbled, "Damn technology, doesn't the apple programming know that what time it is? This is why I don't trust this modern stuff."
I stood in the kitchen and packed Raphaela's lunch, humming and giving my brain time to put together the pieces of the most obvious puzzle.
Give it a minute....then the penny dropped.
"SHIT! They changed the clocks last night!! At this rate Raphaela will get to Gan at nine in the morning, just about the time that patients start arriving!!!"
Raphaela asked why I had a panic-stricken look on my face, and I told her that I hate running late and arriving late. I took the quickest shower on record, dressed Raphaela in whatever she wanted and we ran like demons to Gan.
Where we were only the third child to arrive, because apparently this scenario played itself out in almost every home in Jerusalem this morning.
Then I got myself the most amazing and most necessary cup of coffee from the bakery.
I fed the fish, did some dishes and opened the front door, to find the International New York Times waiting for me. "Good," I thought to myself, "they are finally providing a decent service, now I don't have to call them and remind them to deliver the paper some time before the end of the day."
Raphaela and I put on our shoes to take Harry outside and to feed his street cat friends. There were more cats than I had expected and there was more traffic on the road than usual for that time in the early morning.
When we came home again, I looked at the clock and thought, "So much time to kill this morning." And so, puttering around in my pajamas, I took out my iPad to check my email and play an online game with my friend from the United States. The clock on the iPad read seven am and I grumbled, "Damn technology, doesn't the apple programming know that what time it is? This is why I don't trust this modern stuff."
I stood in the kitchen and packed Raphaela's lunch, humming and giving my brain time to put together the pieces of the most obvious puzzle.
Give it a minute....then the penny dropped.
"SHIT! They changed the clocks last night!! At this rate Raphaela will get to Gan at nine in the morning, just about the time that patients start arriving!!!"
Raphaela asked why I had a panic-stricken look on my face, and I told her that I hate running late and arriving late. I took the quickest shower on record, dressed Raphaela in whatever she wanted and we ran like demons to Gan.
Where we were only the third child to arrive, because apparently this scenario played itself out in almost every home in Jerusalem this morning.
Then I got myself the most amazing and most necessary cup of coffee from the bakery.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Connecting to my Past
Yesterday at work, during an initial visit for a client, we both got very excited when we realized that we had started life on a similar route; same high school and same college. Then I asked her for her birthday (for my records) and guess when she was born? In 1991, the same year that I actually graduated from college. I felt mighty ancient and was hit with the scary realization that I am, in fact, a grown-up. When the hell did that happen?!
Until Raphaela was born, if you had asked me what part of my life I would gladly repeat, I would have answered my college years, without hesitation. 18 years old, living on my own in a dormitory in the middle of Manhattan rather than under the supervision of my parents in boring Boston, choosing my class schedule and making new friends. Essentially, figuring out for the first time who I wanted to be, and loving myself inside and out for the first time in my life.
Now that I am a mother to a beautiful, intelligent and stubborn four year old, I would answer that question differently; I would not miss a moment of the time I have with my daughter, though the joy and the happiness represent a completely different animal than my loveliest memories from my Barnard College years.
Spurred on by these thoughts, I posted a shout-out to my Columbia/Barnard Facebook friends, and was rewarded beyond expectation: one of my contacts answered by posting a photo from our Freshperson* year, all of us bright eyed and oh so young, eating in Kosher Kitchen.
(Photo credit: Cindy Kosowsky Mann, Columbia Class of 1991)
I kept returning to that photo all day in between patients, it was phenomenally distracting and brought so many smiles to my face, I could hardly contain myself.
Later that day at a play date, speaking to the mother of Raphaela's friend while the girls played; Turns out we went to Eagle Day Camp together, THE Jewish Summer Day Camp for anyone who was anyone living in the Tri-State Megalopolis. We sang the song of the head of the pool, Chief Takazees, and yes, he did walk around camp with a full complement of Native American feathers in his head; I can still see myself in that blue and white Eagle Day Camp shirt and blue shorts, and I remember enjoying it from start to finish.
This morning I received a special delivery from my Great Aunt, the youngest and only sister of my Bubby Z"L: my aunt Ida sent me a copy of her short stories, a memoir she had written several years ago which includes accounts of my grandmother's difficult childhood spent in British Palestine and later in an orphanage. At 86 years old, this woman so closely resembles my grandmother, she corresponds with me regularly via email, and seems to be living a fulfilling and active life, pthoo pthoo. I nearly cried reading about my grandmother and her three siblings, finding it almost impossible to imagine her as a despondent serious child, because that is not the grandmother I knew and loved as a second mother.
Once an acupuncturist friend of mine told me that I could not fly until I had solid roots in the ground of Gaea, and now I understand her more than ever. After spending two days rediscovering the child in me and learning about my family, I find myself bouncing around the house, smiling with wild abandon, and dreaming of a beautiful future.
===================================================================
* "FreshMAN" is apparently misogynist, and so we called ourselves (in cynicism and mockery of Fascist Feminism) Freshpeople. Someone on our floor crossed out the word "Women" from the bathroom door, and rewrote it as "Womyn," because G-d Forbid we want to imply that Woman is derived from Man, and therefore secondary in the evolutionary chain. Seriously. True Story.
Until Raphaela was born, if you had asked me what part of my life I would gladly repeat, I would have answered my college years, without hesitation. 18 years old, living on my own in a dormitory in the middle of Manhattan rather than under the supervision of my parents in boring Boston, choosing my class schedule and making new friends. Essentially, figuring out for the first time who I wanted to be, and loving myself inside and out for the first time in my life.
Now that I am a mother to a beautiful, intelligent and stubborn four year old, I would answer that question differently; I would not miss a moment of the time I have with my daughter, though the joy and the happiness represent a completely different animal than my loveliest memories from my Barnard College years.
Spurred on by these thoughts, I posted a shout-out to my Columbia/Barnard Facebook friends, and was rewarded beyond expectation: one of my contacts answered by posting a photo from our Freshperson* year, all of us bright eyed and oh so young, eating in Kosher Kitchen.
I kept returning to that photo all day in between patients, it was phenomenally distracting and brought so many smiles to my face, I could hardly contain myself.
Later that day at a play date, speaking to the mother of Raphaela's friend while the girls played; Turns out we went to Eagle Day Camp together, THE Jewish Summer Day Camp for anyone who was anyone living in the Tri-State Megalopolis. We sang the song of the head of the pool, Chief Takazees, and yes, he did walk around camp with a full complement of Native American feathers in his head; I can still see myself in that blue and white Eagle Day Camp shirt and blue shorts, and I remember enjoying it from start to finish.
This morning I received a special delivery from my Great Aunt, the youngest and only sister of my Bubby Z"L: my aunt Ida sent me a copy of her short stories, a memoir she had written several years ago which includes accounts of my grandmother's difficult childhood spent in British Palestine and later in an orphanage. At 86 years old, this woman so closely resembles my grandmother, she corresponds with me regularly via email, and seems to be living a fulfilling and active life, pthoo pthoo. I nearly cried reading about my grandmother and her three siblings, finding it almost impossible to imagine her as a despondent serious child, because that is not the grandmother I knew and loved as a second mother.
Once an acupuncturist friend of mine told me that I could not fly until I had solid roots in the ground of Gaea, and now I understand her more than ever. After spending two days rediscovering the child in me and learning about my family, I find myself bouncing around the house, smiling with wild abandon, and dreaming of a beautiful future.
===================================================================
* "FreshMAN" is apparently misogynist, and so we called ourselves (in cynicism and mockery of Fascist Feminism) Freshpeople. Someone on our floor crossed out the word "Women" from the bathroom door, and rewrote it as "Womyn," because G-d Forbid we want to imply that Woman is derived from Man, and therefore secondary in the evolutionary chain. Seriously. True Story.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
52Frames
As a high school student, if you had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have answered without hesitation: a photojournalist. I saw myself traveling the world, taking fantastic photos that would appear on the cover of magazines like National Geographic and newspapers like the Boston Globe and the New York Times. I was going to make a difference in the world by exposing the truth of our existence through the lens of my Minolta camera.
In college I took photography courses to counter-balance the difficulty and the intensity of the pre-med studies, in art I found my joy. I enjoyed the challenge of each week's assignment, and welcomed the critique that helped me grow as an artist. Once a week, usually on a Monday, I would take two rolls of black and white film and walk through Central Park and other parts of The City, and was not allowed to go home until I had 72 photos; if two or three were decent out of the lot, I had had a good afternoon.
Since moving to Israel, the extent to which I have indulged my creative side and the dedication to photography has waned, put on the back burner for starting my career and getting pregnant, raising that child and sleeping every once in a while.
Recently, a friend told me about an online international project called 52Frames, a collaborative effort with both professional and amateur photographers; each week a new mission is posted on the site, to be fulfilled and exhibited and critiqued by the group.
I should have jumped for joy when I heard about this, immediately turned on my computer and applied to be a part of this beautiful initiative. Surprisingly, the only thing I felt was ambivalence, and a pervasive hesitation about even thinking about joining. I felt sad, and it confused me actually.
Am I afraid of the competition, that I am not good enough to show my work? Have I been so focused for so long on other endeavors that I have lost that spark of the Inner Artist and that competitive edge? Is this a fear of commitment masking itself as, "I don't have the time..."
Whatever it is, it concerns me and I must figure it out before it has greater repercussions in my life.
In college I took photography courses to counter-balance the difficulty and the intensity of the pre-med studies, in art I found my joy. I enjoyed the challenge of each week's assignment, and welcomed the critique that helped me grow as an artist. Once a week, usually on a Monday, I would take two rolls of black and white film and walk through Central Park and other parts of The City, and was not allowed to go home until I had 72 photos; if two or three were decent out of the lot, I had had a good afternoon.
Since moving to Israel, the extent to which I have indulged my creative side and the dedication to photography has waned, put on the back burner for starting my career and getting pregnant, raising that child and sleeping every once in a while.
Recently, a friend told me about an online international project called 52Frames, a collaborative effort with both professional and amateur photographers; each week a new mission is posted on the site, to be fulfilled and exhibited and critiqued by the group.
I should have jumped for joy when I heard about this, immediately turned on my computer and applied to be a part of this beautiful initiative. Surprisingly, the only thing I felt was ambivalence, and a pervasive hesitation about even thinking about joining. I felt sad, and it confused me actually.
Am I afraid of the competition, that I am not good enough to show my work? Have I been so focused for so long on other endeavors that I have lost that spark of the Inner Artist and that competitive edge? Is this a fear of commitment masking itself as, "I don't have the time..."
Whatever it is, it concerns me and I must figure it out before it has greater repercussions in my life.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Evolving Friendships
From the age of one to thirteen, I had a BFF named Beth. We did everything together, and confided everything in each other. When my parents were going through a divorce I practically lived in her house, and when her parents were having issues with Beth's older brother, issues that completely disrupted their family life, she practically lived in mine.
We swore that we would never lose touch and that we would be, literally, best friends FOREVER.
Then we moved from New York to Boston, and Beth became Ultra-Orthodox. Our lives and our belief systems diverged, and after attempts to stay in contact via snail mail - remember that this was the pre-internet and social media generation - we drifted and she became a pleasant memory for me.
It took me until post college to understand that if a friendship changes or fades, it does not reflect badly on me as a person. We as human beings evolve individually and as a peer group over time, and some connections that once made sense lose their focus and their purpose. And that's OK, perfectly normal for most of the population of Gaea.
It's the reason couples get divorced, they become different people and if they don't work at it, they fall out of love.
I met one of my current closest friends at the pregnancy and birth preparation class at Hadassah Hospital. Our daughters were conceived on the same day through fertility treatments, and they were born a week apart. For the first several years of their lives, we four girls hung out together, and I imagined that these friendships would last FOREVER.
In the last year or so, because the girls attend different school program and because we see each other less, that aspect of our connection has fallen apart, and for a while it made me sad. I resolved however that it should not affect my adult friendship, and last night the two Mommies got sitters and met for dinner; the first time in a long time.
The food was yummy, the restaurant warm and cozy, and the conversations wonderful. It is the kind of relationship that is quite simply familiar and comfortable, where you immediately slip into patterns of trust; my own little Field of Dreams.
We even joked at one point that we will still be friends at the age of 90...
We swore that we would never lose touch and that we would be, literally, best friends FOREVER.
Then we moved from New York to Boston, and Beth became Ultra-Orthodox. Our lives and our belief systems diverged, and after attempts to stay in contact via snail mail - remember that this was the pre-internet and social media generation - we drifted and she became a pleasant memory for me.
It took me until post college to understand that if a friendship changes or fades, it does not reflect badly on me as a person. We as human beings evolve individually and as a peer group over time, and some connections that once made sense lose their focus and their purpose. And that's OK, perfectly normal for most of the population of Gaea.
It's the reason couples get divorced, they become different people and if they don't work at it, they fall out of love.
I met one of my current closest friends at the pregnancy and birth preparation class at Hadassah Hospital. Our daughters were conceived on the same day through fertility treatments, and they were born a week apart. For the first several years of their lives, we four girls hung out together, and I imagined that these friendships would last FOREVER.
In the last year or so, because the girls attend different school program and because we see each other less, that aspect of our connection has fallen apart, and for a while it made me sad. I resolved however that it should not affect my adult friendship, and last night the two Mommies got sitters and met for dinner; the first time in a long time.
The food was yummy, the restaurant warm and cozy, and the conversations wonderful. It is the kind of relationship that is quite simply familiar and comfortable, where you immediately slip into patterns of trust; my own little Field of Dreams.
We even joked at one point that we will still be friends at the age of 90...
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
The Conclusion to the Car Story
The painter, whose lack of expertise caused the initial damage to the car, did not allow me to take the car to my garage for repairs, since he was footing the bill. Instead, he recommended his people IE he wanted a place in Jerusalem that was owned by and only employed religious Jews, rather than our Arab cousins.
Last week I dropped off the car, and two days later they called me to report that they had worked "very hard" and that it was clean and ready to come home. When I went to pick it up, I inspected their work, and it quickly became obvious that not only had they not done any work at all, but also that areas of the paint that had been previously undamaged were now worse than before.
When I confronted them, I got the run around, "Well, you would have to talk to the owner of the garage, who is my father, but he is not here now and I have no idea when he would be available to speak to you." "We are very busy now anyway and it would have to wait a few weeks, no harm, no foul." And it went on like that, so I called the painter and made my position clear: I would be taking the car to my people whom I trust and have used for the last 13 years, and that he would be paying for it.
The painter agreed, and this morning we all met at my garage, where we came to a settlement regarding the damage done and the cost of the repair. This afternoon I received a call from my guys, saying that they didn't know what products the other garage had used, and beyond the obvious damage of the paint splatter, the acidic material had eaten through the paint job on the entire car, and that if I truly wanted to get the job done well, I would have pay another 5000 NIS for a complete reconstruction.
I considered the hassle and the cost, and asked the most real question, "Is the car terribly ugly?" They replied that unless you really looked at the paint in bright sunlight, it could pass without serious notice.
As a single mother with far more important life concerns than the aesthetics of my car, I passed on their offer, instructing them to do what they could with the monies already paid. I have neither the inclination nor the strength to consider a law suit.
As my mother would say, "It's a kaparah!"*
I still intend to call the painter and his "trusty garage," and let them know that just because someone is wearing a skullcap and has a larger than life picture of the Lubavitcher Rebbe hanging in their space, does not mean that they do better work than the Arabs, who actually have shown me more professionalism in this field in the last 16 years that I have lived in Israel.
That's enormous coming from me, a woman who was almost killed by a Palestinian sniper during the Second Intifada, as an artist who appreciates beauty, and a Jew who has great respect for the person who was the Lubavitcher Rebbe; I met him in person in New York while studying at Barnard College, and regardless of the misdirection his movement has taken, he was truly a man connected to himself and to the Higher Power.
My Inner Voice and that Higher Power are telling me to move on.
====================================================================
* kaparah = a Hebrew term for a situation where you are suffering a little in order to avoid a Divine decree to suffer a hell of a lot more than you could ever imagine; Some superstitious version of the Jewish guilt/martyrdom complex.
Last week I dropped off the car, and two days later they called me to report that they had worked "very hard" and that it was clean and ready to come home. When I went to pick it up, I inspected their work, and it quickly became obvious that not only had they not done any work at all, but also that areas of the paint that had been previously undamaged were now worse than before.
When I confronted them, I got the run around, "Well, you would have to talk to the owner of the garage, who is my father, but he is not here now and I have no idea when he would be available to speak to you." "We are very busy now anyway and it would have to wait a few weeks, no harm, no foul." And it went on like that, so I called the painter and made my position clear: I would be taking the car to my people whom I trust and have used for the last 13 years, and that he would be paying for it.
The painter agreed, and this morning we all met at my garage, where we came to a settlement regarding the damage done and the cost of the repair. This afternoon I received a call from my guys, saying that they didn't know what products the other garage had used, and beyond the obvious damage of the paint splatter, the acidic material had eaten through the paint job on the entire car, and that if I truly wanted to get the job done well, I would have pay another 5000 NIS for a complete reconstruction.
I considered the hassle and the cost, and asked the most real question, "Is the car terribly ugly?" They replied that unless you really looked at the paint in bright sunlight, it could pass without serious notice.
As a single mother with far more important life concerns than the aesthetics of my car, I passed on their offer, instructing them to do what they could with the monies already paid. I have neither the inclination nor the strength to consider a law suit.
As my mother would say, "It's a kaparah!"*
I still intend to call the painter and his "trusty garage," and let them know that just because someone is wearing a skullcap and has a larger than life picture of the Lubavitcher Rebbe hanging in their space, does not mean that they do better work than the Arabs, who actually have shown me more professionalism in this field in the last 16 years that I have lived in Israel.
That's enormous coming from me, a woman who was almost killed by a Palestinian sniper during the Second Intifada, as an artist who appreciates beauty, and a Jew who has great respect for the person who was the Lubavitcher Rebbe; I met him in person in New York while studying at Barnard College, and regardless of the misdirection his movement has taken, he was truly a man connected to himself and to the Higher Power.
My Inner Voice and that Higher Power are telling me to move on.
====================================================================
* kaparah = a Hebrew term for a situation where you are suffering a little in order to avoid a Divine decree to suffer a hell of a lot more than you could ever imagine; Some superstitious version of the Jewish guilt/martyrdom complex.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Free Gital
Doubtless you have read or heard the story making the rounds in the New York Press and throughout the Jewish world: Gital, law student and suffering wife of the great-grandson of Rav Moshe Feinstein*, this man refuses to give his wife a Get, employing the logic of "If she doesn't want me, then no one can have her." If even half of what Gital reports about their brief marriage is true, then indeed, this Ultra-Orthodox couple got married too young and this man is a controlling bastard; unfortunately, their three year old has become collateral damage as well.
She only went to the press to plead her case with the public after it became clear that her community would not extricate her and her baby from a terrible situation.
Gital's feeling of helpless-ness saddens me the most, she states that already after their second "date" she already expressed that she did not want to marry him, and was pushed into the relationship. When she felt miserable and trapped and abused almost immediately after the wedding ceremony, she claims that she could not reach out for help, not even to her own parents, for fear of shaming her family. That this woman was not even given the option of holding off on pregnancy until the marriage had solidified (or not) speaks volumes about the unrealistic and antiquated matchmaking and family practices of the Ultra Orthodox.
I pause, allowing myself to remember the cardinal rule on Star Trek, that of non-interference. Perhaps it is not my place, or that of the press or the public to impose our own sense of morality upon another community. Then I remember that each Captain of the Enterprise eventually violated that line in the sand, stepping in when it seemed not only necessary but vital to the survival of the future.
And so I say, the time has come to officially expose the Ultra Orthodox community in their mistreatment and generalized debasement of the rights of women, and good for Gital for seeking outside help.
I close with two stories from my personal experience in my Chiropractic Clinic:
Many years ago, when I started working in Israel, an "older" IE over thirty woman became my patient. Well educated and gainfully employed, combined with her age, she was categorized as a lost cause within her community, and told that she should marry the first man who looks her way, because she "cannot be too picky." She married a man who has been since banned from my office for bad behavior: boorish, perpetually unemployed, obese and apparently covered in burn scars on half his body, this woman married so far below what she deserved for herself and her life. Several years later, three children later, she works full time as the Principal of an Ultra Orthodox school, and suffers daily. But she is not allowed to complain because she must be grateful than any man was willing to have sex with her.
Yesterday, another patient, an older Arab woman came in for her maintenance care Chiropractic adjustment. In the past year, her daughter, a young woman with two children, died suddenly and mysteriously; because of questions about her death, her burial was delayed and the whole family lived a nightmare. When this woman came in yesterday, I asked about her grandchildren, how they were coping these days with the loss of their mother. "They have a new Mama," she answered. It seems that the husband was forced to remarry rather quickly to a woman he didn't really know and doesn't love, because "someone has to be a mother to those children."
When I suggested that it might have been easier to hire a baby sitter or nanny, my patient responded, "That's how we do things."
* Ironically, Rav Moshe was one of the first Orthodox Rabbis in the 20th century to actively fight for the rights of Jewish women in cases of divorce and Agunah [Hebrew for a woman trapped in a marriage by her husband]
She only went to the press to plead her case with the public after it became clear that her community would not extricate her and her baby from a terrible situation.
Gital's feeling of helpless-ness saddens me the most, she states that already after their second "date" she already expressed that she did not want to marry him, and was pushed into the relationship. When she felt miserable and trapped and abused almost immediately after the wedding ceremony, she claims that she could not reach out for help, not even to her own parents, for fear of shaming her family. That this woman was not even given the option of holding off on pregnancy until the marriage had solidified (or not) speaks volumes about the unrealistic and antiquated matchmaking and family practices of the Ultra Orthodox.
I pause, allowing myself to remember the cardinal rule on Star Trek, that of non-interference. Perhaps it is not my place, or that of the press or the public to impose our own sense of morality upon another community. Then I remember that each Captain of the Enterprise eventually violated that line in the sand, stepping in when it seemed not only necessary but vital to the survival of the future.
And so I say, the time has come to officially expose the Ultra Orthodox community in their mistreatment and generalized debasement of the rights of women, and good for Gital for seeking outside help.
I close with two stories from my personal experience in my Chiropractic Clinic:
Many years ago, when I started working in Israel, an "older" IE over thirty woman became my patient. Well educated and gainfully employed, combined with her age, she was categorized as a lost cause within her community, and told that she should marry the first man who looks her way, because she "cannot be too picky." She married a man who has been since banned from my office for bad behavior: boorish, perpetually unemployed, obese and apparently covered in burn scars on half his body, this woman married so far below what she deserved for herself and her life. Several years later, three children later, she works full time as the Principal of an Ultra Orthodox school, and suffers daily. But she is not allowed to complain because she must be grateful than any man was willing to have sex with her.
Yesterday, another patient, an older Arab woman came in for her maintenance care Chiropractic adjustment. In the past year, her daughter, a young woman with two children, died suddenly and mysteriously; because of questions about her death, her burial was delayed and the whole family lived a nightmare. When this woman came in yesterday, I asked about her grandchildren, how they were coping these days with the loss of their mother. "They have a new Mama," she answered. It seems that the husband was forced to remarry rather quickly to a woman he didn't really know and doesn't love, because "someone has to be a mother to those children."
When I suggested that it might have been easier to hire a baby sitter or nanny, my patient responded, "That's how we do things."
* Ironically, Rav Moshe was one of the first Orthodox Rabbis in the 20th century to actively fight for the rights of Jewish women in cases of divorce and Agunah [Hebrew for a woman trapped in a marriage by her husband]
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Shabbat Shalom
Walking to Gan this morning with Raphaela, we waited patiently at the cross walk for the light to turn green. In front of us, an elderly man on the way to synagogue looked both ways and crossed against the red.
Raphaela got very upset and said to me, "Mommy, it was red! He crossed when it was red!"
Once we crossed, we were able to catch up to this gentleman, and Raphaela pulled on his shirt to speak to him about his traffic violation. Hard of hearing, he leaned down with his good ear to listen.
" Man, be careful! You are not supposed to cross when the little man is red."
" You are absolutely right. I crossed because I am running late, but I should not have done it." He stroked her cheek and continued, " Thank you sweet girl. Shabbat Shalom."
It's a good thing my daughter has never seen me cross the street in The City, red pedestrian light, zig-zagging between the cars, when I was a "real" New Yorker. I would most certainly get an earful.
Raphaela got very upset and said to me, "Mommy, it was red! He crossed when it was red!"
Once we crossed, we were able to catch up to this gentleman, and Raphaela pulled on his shirt to speak to him about his traffic violation. Hard of hearing, he leaned down with his good ear to listen.
" Man, be careful! You are not supposed to cross when the little man is red."
" You are absolutely right. I crossed because I am running late, but I should not have done it." He stroked her cheek and continued, " Thank you sweet girl. Shabbat Shalom."
It's a good thing my daughter has never seen me cross the street in The City, red pedestrian light, zig-zagging between the cars, when I was a "real" New Yorker. I would most certainly get an earful.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Yom Kippur 2013
From "Selling the Fantasy of Fertility" by Miriam Zoll and Pamela Tsigdinos (New York Times 13/9/13)
"When it comes to assisted reproductive technologies, science fails far more often than is generally believed...Behind those failed cycles are millions of women and men who have engaged in a debilitating, Sisyphus-like battle with themselves and their infertility, involving daily injections, drugs, hormones, countless blood tests and other procedures...and leaves more scars than we are led to believe."
On the eve of Yom Kippur 2008, I suffered a serious miscarriage and understood that fertility treatment number six had failed. It sent me into a tailspin of anger and depression. One year later almost to the day, my amazing and loving daughter was born, a true "tikkun" [Kabbalah term for cosmic repair] for the experience of the year before, bringing me a joy I could never have imagined.
And I want to say thank you.
On this day, before Yom Kippur 2013, I wish you all tikkun for the upcoming year, may we be inscribed in the Book of Life.
"When it comes to assisted reproductive technologies, science fails far more often than is generally believed...Behind those failed cycles are millions of women and men who have engaged in a debilitating, Sisyphus-like battle with themselves and their infertility, involving daily injections, drugs, hormones, countless blood tests and other procedures...and leaves more scars than we are led to believe."
On the eve of Yom Kippur 2008, I suffered a serious miscarriage and understood that fertility treatment number six had failed. It sent me into a tailspin of anger and depression. One year later almost to the day, my amazing and loving daughter was born, a true "tikkun" [Kabbalah term for cosmic repair] for the experience of the year before, bringing me a joy I could never have imagined.
And I want to say thank you.
On this day, before Yom Kippur 2013, I wish you all tikkun for the upcoming year, may we be inscribed in the Book of Life.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Empathy
Raphaela has always shown a depth of kindness and concern for others, and in the past, her nursery teachers have mentioned that she is "affectionate and sensitive."
I never liked the word "sensitive," in my head it implies a fragile egg-shell quality, one which makes a person so reactive as to be inapproachable. Some members of my family still believe this to be true about me, and often sugar coat rather than present me with straight forward honesty.
Note: While pregnant, with a double dose of estrogen and other hormones coursing through my body, I did not become that bitchy emotional stereotype. Actually each day brought more happiness and peace of mind; every time I threw up I thought to myself and smiled, "This means that it's working..."
Years of maturation, life experience and with the help of therapy, my inner strength and force of personality has managed to emerge, and I am happier and more balanced for it. And while certain situations still make me feel nervous and attacked, that former me, the pushover introvert that I was throughout high school, has been permanently exorcised.
Today Raphaela and I watched a video on the New York Times site, "A Day in the Life of a Piano." A series of stop-gap images, the trailer for the five minute clip warned that we should have tissues prepared for the conclusion (spoilers!).
Indeed, at that shocking moment, I burst out in tears and Raphaela, so horrified by the scene, ran out of the room sobbing. Both of us "sensitive," and both us in extreme empathy for a lone piano on the sidewalk in New York City.
I would not have shown her that video had I known the ending.
I never liked the word "sensitive," in my head it implies a fragile egg-shell quality, one which makes a person so reactive as to be inapproachable. Some members of my family still believe this to be true about me, and often sugar coat rather than present me with straight forward honesty.
Note: While pregnant, with a double dose of estrogen and other hormones coursing through my body, I did not become that bitchy emotional stereotype. Actually each day brought more happiness and peace of mind; every time I threw up I thought to myself and smiled, "This means that it's working..."
Years of maturation, life experience and with the help of therapy, my inner strength and force of personality has managed to emerge, and I am happier and more balanced for it. And while certain situations still make me feel nervous and attacked, that former me, the pushover introvert that I was throughout high school, has been permanently exorcised.
Today Raphaela and I watched a video on the New York Times site, "A Day in the Life of a Piano." A series of stop-gap images, the trailer for the five minute clip warned that we should have tissues prepared for the conclusion (spoilers!).
Indeed, at that shocking moment, I burst out in tears and Raphaela, so horrified by the scene, ran out of the room sobbing. Both of us "sensitive," and both us in extreme empathy for a lone piano on the sidewalk in New York City.
I would not have shown her that video had I known the ending.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Israel Polio Scare II
After much deliberation, listening to the official Ministry of Health explanations and filtering out the useful information, I have come to understand that only children who have already had the dead (inactive) polio vaccine will be given the weakened live polio vaccine. The live vaccine stays active for up to six weeks.
Before Raphaela's surgery around the age of two, I felt her immune system was too weak to handle the slew of vaccines regularly offered to children, and I did not finish the series. Raphaela is, as someone said to me yesterday, "one of the unwashed masses for whom this hysteria has been initiated," so it appears that my daughter will be receiving the regular (IPV) vaccine instead. I must protect her as best I can before she starts school and may be exposed to the live virus through contact with other children in the new Gan.
The weekend newspapers said that we Jerusalemites were terrible terrible people, with a compliance rate of only 2%. They reported that all the nurses specifically hired to deliver the vaccine were sitting around, twiddling their thumbs in boredom. The Ministry of Health threatened than any child not properly protected against the disease would not be allowed in school (which starts this Tuesday) for six weeks. The New York Times featured a page two story about the spread of polio in third world countries, where politicians/dictators deny their population the vaccine.
Sufficiently frightened, I decided that I would take her to Tipat Chalav [the municipal Israeli Well-Baby Clinic system] on Sunday. After a brief work day, Raphaela and I drove to the nearest center, only to be greeted by parents and children overflowing into the street, numbers being assigned and the warning of at least a two hour wait. We received number 484, and they were only in the mid 430's, and so we settled-in on the floor with my iPad and played games.
At a certain point a whole group of children were gathered around our iPad, and one of the mothers offered to exchange a food run for baby sitting, since I had completely neglected to bring any food for the long wait; I happily agreed to the deal.
Two and a half hours later, I explained to the nurse that my daughter (for reasons I did not wish to explain) actually needed to start the regular IPV series, rather than receive the live polio drops. The nurse offered me a three for one bargain, she would consider putting in Hep A and Hep B at the same time, and I very firmly refused. Research has shown that bundled vaccinations cause more damage than a stand-alone version.
All morning long, my amazing and intuitive child had been asking me, "What is the doctor going to do to me?" And I had dodged artfully. Now she understood that she really wasn't going to enjoy this doctor's visit, and she started sobbing and running away, and hid in a corner of the room. It took five minutes for me to immobilize her, and once the nurse injected the vaccine, I then allowed myself to cry with her. Frankly, I am surprised you all didn't hear her screaming.
The nurse assured me that it will be "this craziness in Israel" for the next three months, and then invited me to come back after the Jewish holidays for her second dose. The nurse suggested that maybe I should bring my husband next time, or an extra pair of hands for help. (And presumably, my husband would not cry like I did?) I was barely listening, just trying to get us both out of there so I could comfort Raphaela in private, and not scare the other children.
Then we went to the store and I got Raphaela a fantastic treat; as most parents will agree, bribery works. But when I offered her a Chiropractic adjustment, something I regularly recommend to my clients after their children get vaccinated, she refused.
Before Raphaela's surgery around the age of two, I felt her immune system was too weak to handle the slew of vaccines regularly offered to children, and I did not finish the series. Raphaela is, as someone said to me yesterday, "one of the unwashed masses for whom this hysteria has been initiated," so it appears that my daughter will be receiving the regular (IPV) vaccine instead. I must protect her as best I can before she starts school and may be exposed to the live virus through contact with other children in the new Gan.
The weekend newspapers said that we Jerusalemites were terrible terrible people, with a compliance rate of only 2%. They reported that all the nurses specifically hired to deliver the vaccine were sitting around, twiddling their thumbs in boredom. The Ministry of Health threatened than any child not properly protected against the disease would not be allowed in school (which starts this Tuesday) for six weeks. The New York Times featured a page two story about the spread of polio in third world countries, where politicians/dictators deny their population the vaccine.
Sufficiently frightened, I decided that I would take her to Tipat Chalav [the municipal Israeli Well-Baby Clinic system] on Sunday. After a brief work day, Raphaela and I drove to the nearest center, only to be greeted by parents and children overflowing into the street, numbers being assigned and the warning of at least a two hour wait. We received number 484, and they were only in the mid 430's, and so we settled-in on the floor with my iPad and played games.
At a certain point a whole group of children were gathered around our iPad, and one of the mothers offered to exchange a food run for baby sitting, since I had completely neglected to bring any food for the long wait; I happily agreed to the deal.
Two and a half hours later, I explained to the nurse that my daughter (for reasons I did not wish to explain) actually needed to start the regular IPV series, rather than receive the live polio drops. The nurse offered me a three for one bargain, she would consider putting in Hep A and Hep B at the same time, and I very firmly refused. Research has shown that bundled vaccinations cause more damage than a stand-alone version.
All morning long, my amazing and intuitive child had been asking me, "What is the doctor going to do to me?" And I had dodged artfully. Now she understood that she really wasn't going to enjoy this doctor's visit, and she started sobbing and running away, and hid in a corner of the room. It took five minutes for me to immobilize her, and once the nurse injected the vaccine, I then allowed myself to cry with her. Frankly, I am surprised you all didn't hear her screaming.
The nurse assured me that it will be "this craziness in Israel" for the next three months, and then invited me to come back after the Jewish holidays for her second dose. The nurse suggested that maybe I should bring my husband next time, or an extra pair of hands for help. (And presumably, my husband would not cry like I did?) I was barely listening, just trying to get us both out of there so I could comfort Raphaela in private, and not scare the other children.
Then we went to the store and I got Raphaela a fantastic treat; as most parents will agree, bribery works. But when I offered her a Chiropractic adjustment, something I regularly recommend to my clients after their children get vaccinated, she refused.
Monday, July 22, 2013
New Royal Baby
370,000 infants were born yesterday, July 22, 2013, on the same day as the new royal baby boy, third in line for the throne as the son of Kate and William. Bravo to Kate for choosing a natural birth; and kudos to her husband for being in the room with her the entire time, just like "normal" people with lesser bloodlines, and for taking his two weeks of paternity leave.
I almost hoped for a girl, if only to force the UK to officially acknowledge that a girl/future woman would become Queen, and not simply because her parents didn't give birth to any younger brothers. Plus, little girls are much more fun to dress; the Brits do love their fancy hats!
Boo to the overwhelming press presence, stalking the royal family and standing in front of the hospital for several weeks in anticipation of hearing some small tidbit of news about the birth of the future heir. At the end of the day, Kate is a human being, a woman who had a baby, let her accomplish this surrounded by peace and quiet and privacy.
Several recent studies have proven that fetuses start learning the most important lessons in the womb, from the sound of the mother's voice to the food they will eat, early language acquisition , and regarding the stress levels and emotional atmosphere of the 'other side.' What did this child learn, with his parents and his mother's pregnancy constantly under scrutiny?
I certainly did not have a group of reporters following my pregnancy and the birth of Raphaela. But I went through 12 hours of a natural birth and it was not "royal" or pretty or press worthy; though it was a bona fide miracle, as I am sure every new mother feels when they hold their child for the first time.
According to the reports, an inordinate amount of swearing came out of my mouth during those 12 hours.
When I look at pictures of myself right after the birth, I look happy but tired, I am wearing my glasses and my hair is a mess and I have monitors and IV threads attached all over the place. Not quite the photo opportunity I might have wished, and I would imagine that Kate, after approximately 14 hours of labour, felt the same way. (That being said, my cousin who is now pregnant with her third, manages to look like a super-model right after her births, and the new baby right-out-of-the-womb pictures they send out to the family are enviable.)
Welcome to the world to a little boy who will never experience privacy, who will be born into a home of tradition and wealth, status and culture and responsibility. Mostly the responsibility to prove that a figure-head monarchy can be justified in the 21rst century.
The other 369,999 children born yesterday will not have the resources and the opportunity of this little Prince.
I almost hoped for a girl, if only to force the UK to officially acknowledge that a girl/future woman would become Queen, and not simply because her parents didn't give birth to any younger brothers. Plus, little girls are much more fun to dress; the Brits do love their fancy hats!
Boo to the overwhelming press presence, stalking the royal family and standing in front of the hospital for several weeks in anticipation of hearing some small tidbit of news about the birth of the future heir. At the end of the day, Kate is a human being, a woman who had a baby, let her accomplish this surrounded by peace and quiet and privacy.
Several recent studies have proven that fetuses start learning the most important lessons in the womb, from the sound of the mother's voice to the food they will eat, early language acquisition , and regarding the stress levels and emotional atmosphere of the 'other side.' What did this child learn, with his parents and his mother's pregnancy constantly under scrutiny?
I certainly did not have a group of reporters following my pregnancy and the birth of Raphaela. But I went through 12 hours of a natural birth and it was not "royal" or pretty or press worthy; though it was a bona fide miracle, as I am sure every new mother feels when they hold their child for the first time.
According to the reports, an inordinate amount of swearing came out of my mouth during those 12 hours.
When I look at pictures of myself right after the birth, I look happy but tired, I am wearing my glasses and my hair is a mess and I have monitors and IV threads attached all over the place. Not quite the photo opportunity I might have wished, and I would imagine that Kate, after approximately 14 hours of labour, felt the same way. (That being said, my cousin who is now pregnant with her third, manages to look like a super-model right after her births, and the new baby right-out-of-the-womb pictures they send out to the family are enviable.)
Welcome to the world to a little boy who will never experience privacy, who will be born into a home of tradition and wealth, status and culture and responsibility. Mostly the responsibility to prove that a figure-head monarchy can be justified in the 21rst century.
The other 369,999 children born yesterday will not have the resources and the opportunity of this little Prince.
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