Most intelligent Modern Orthodox teenagers today, I think, have some issue that served as their first break with the "system", whether it led to their leaving Orthodoxy, re-evaluating their Orthodoxy, or just having problems with the more right-wing people who were teaching them. For some it is feminism, or mesorah issues, or Bible criticism, or Zionism. For me, this was Amalek.
It began principally in eighth grade, which I suppose is a little late for having this first disillusionment. I suppose I had problems before then, but this is the one that stands out in my mind as The Issue. Maybe it was because of the way my teacher reacted to it- an intelligent, vibrant Rebbetzein, quite right-wing, she took to having me daven at home so that she could have heart-to-hearts with me in another classroom while the rest of the class davened. I wish I could remember more about the whole thing. I don't recall any feelings of resentment; the one clear image of the whole thing is me, sitting on a desk, legs swinging, listening to her earnestly try to explain something. I think she was worried about me- I was the stereotypical "intelligent, having issues with the system" kid, questioning everything in class, making her explain. I know, because she has since told me, that she was worried about my going off the derech.
Amalek, was, of course, not the issue that I had; we also had some interesting discussions about eilu v'eilu- I remember very earnestly arguing that Rashi and Ramban could not possibly both be right about a certain subject because their opinions were mutually exclusive. I do not recall what she answered. But Amalek was the big one, the one that got me right in the gut, and one that she had no hope of answering. We must have spent several hours, over the course of weeks, sitting in the empty classroom, going over the same question, "How can it be moral to kill innocent people?" I don't remember specifically, but I'm sure she gave me all of the typical answers- if Hashem says it, it must be moral; they are inherently evil ("what about the babies?" "Even the babies." "Then what happens to bechira?" "Amalek is an exception" or something along the lines of "G-d will sort out His own"); it doesn't apply nowadays, so there's nothing to worry about. She never convinced me, and I think that I wanted to be convinced. But her answers frightened me and bothered me. A friend compared it to a Nazi "poisonous mushrooms" parable and I had no answer. (Ack! I have Godwined again. But this time it is so justified.)
I graduated, left that school, went to one that was even more right-wing. My questions did not really bother my faith. Perhaps I was too young to doubt that there were answers out there, even if my teacher didn't know them. Perhaps I am too inertial to make such a shift, perhaps I had too much faith. Whatever it was, I just thought of Amalek as being a question out there, a sort of temporary teiku (not that I had ever had a chance to learn Gemara), something that would be answered in time. I let it go.
I don't remember if it was the summer after eighth grade or the next year, but on one long family car trip to the east coast, I brought along a book by R' Aharon Soloveichik, z"tl (I'm so proud of being able to spell that. I actually have a great Soloveichik spelling story, but here is neither the time nor the place) entitled "Logic of the Heart, Logic of the Mind", which includes an essay about Amalek. I remember, very clearly, reading it on Shabbat, when there was nowhere to go and nothing to do but hang about the hotel room, since I was too lazy to go on a walk with my family. I remember also the sudden euphoria, feeling that here, finally, were answers, good answers, moral answers. I remember getting up and pacing excitedly around the room, wanting to tell somebody, and then rushing back to re-read it.
In cold blood, of course, this many years later, the argument does not seem all that radical. R' Aharon asked a series of questions on the p'shat of the Sha'ul incident, and answered them by saying that Amalekites could, in fact, escape destruction by accepting the Sheva Mitzvot, or by converting to Judaism, if they so chose. There were several proofs for this, the most convincing that I remember being the fact that there are Amaleki geirim in the gemara, and even in tanach (the man who killed Sha'ul e.g.), so obviously one doesn't have to simply kill them on sight. Again, it's a good argument and a convincing one (there being a lot more proof than I have written here), but what got me was simply the fact that here was somebody who thought my moral question was right, who was going to answer it, who had a moral answer, and, best of all, whose answer was not twisting the p'shat but also dealing with basic, logical questions. Embarrassing as it is to admit now that I have had long exposure to a more open set of beliefs, this really was an epiphany. I know that I sound sheltered, and I suppose I was, in some ways. My parents are both ba'alei teshuva, and their personal views are closer to Modern Orthodox, but my shul, school, and most of my friends were further right, and I had really not been exposed to a large degree to more critically thinking hashkafic analysis. That is to say, I was familiar with the views, but the process impressed me. And what influenced me the most was the sudden clear thought, "I was right. I didn't believe that my teacher's could be the only answer, the right answer, and I was right. I knew this had to moral somehow. I doubted and I fought, and I was right."
During my senior year of high school, I met up with my eighth grade teacher again, which is not surprising, as she lived across the street from one best friend and down the block from another. But this time, we were walking somewhere, and somehow it happened that she got to walk beside me by myself. She brought up the issues I'd had in eighth grade, and asked me if I had found answers. "You know", she said, "looking back at it, I shouldn't have tried to push answers on you. I should have acknowledged that those were good questions without trying to make you accept anything." I wonder if she is wondering whether I am still frum. She has already heard that I am planning to attend secular college, and no doubt it worries her. I tell her, that yes, I have found answers, answers that satisfy me. I don't elaborate, try to explain them to her. I say, somewhat dryly, that I am still frum, and then wonder if it sounds like "the lady doth protest too much", considering as she hasn't brought up the subject yet. I think that I thanked her for going to the effort of dealing with my questions, instead of brushing them off. Maybe that's what gave me the courage to keep looking. Who knows? She seemed satisfied, I suppose. I haven't spoken to her since, although some friends of mine still semi-idolize her and I think that they have kept her apprised of my life.
This story doesn't really have a point. Today, I'm still not sure what I believe about the Amalek issue. Although R' Aharon's answer continues to satisfy me, I am no longer uncomfortable with the idea of there being mitzvot that seem to me immoral. I can't say I'm happy with the issue today, but it no longer irks at me. Perhaps it has gone back vaguely towards a teiku. But for me, parshat Zachor is about that first thrill of having a question, a real, sticky question and slogging through it, not accepting bad answers, but not giving up on there being an answer. About the traces of that sudden euphoria in that hotel room, the sudden epiphany that neither my questions nor my beliefs are wrong, and the sudden realization that I am not alone in questioning.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Much Eerier Quiz
Okay, I know it looks repetative to be doing another one of these...but I found this test eerily accurate. My first result:
And the other thing that I was debating picking:
Now, this I find eerily accurate. In one question...
| Your Personality Profile |
 You are dignified, spiritual, and wise. Always unsatisfied, you constantly try to better yourself. You are also a seeker of knowledge and often buried in books. You tend to be philosophical, looking for the big picture in life. You dream of inner peace for yourself, your friends, and the world. A good friend, you always give of yourself first. |
And the other thing that I was debating picking:
| Your Personality Profile |
 You are elegant, withdrawn, and brilliant. Your mind is a weapon, able to solve any puzzle. You are also great at poking holes in arguments and common beliefs. For you, comfort and calm are very important. You tend to thrive on your own and shrug off most affection. You prefer to protect your emotions and stay strong. |
Now, this I find eerily accurate. In one question...
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
One of These Test Things
Argh...I never do these, but I saw this over at Irina's blog, so I figured what the heck.I'm not sure if it's eerily accurate or just annoying...leaning, I'm afraid, towards the latter.
| King I'm not telling your actual score. Hmph! |
| King (or Queen) types are generally friendly and like to take care of people. Kings are organized and like everything to be in its place, in all aspects of life. Kings have a hard time tolerating deviance, but have big hearts and are usually understanding. They make good leaders due to their unselfishness. However, Kings have no problem living in luxury and accepting the good rewards they deserve. They are generally straightforward and honest and surrounded by lots of friends, even though they are not extremely outgoing. The King's complement is the flashy, energetic Magician. |
 |
| Link: The Medieval Archetype Test written by isayso on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test |
Hygiene and Tolerance
Well, absolutely nothing interesting has happened to me recently, which is not so very surprising considering as I have been staying in my room doing homework and studying for finals next week. So this is going to be a totally random post, and it's going to be about hygiene. (Don't ask why...please, don't ask why...there is no why.)
Now, the thing that has always interested me about hygenic standards is how totally random they are (not unlike this post, in fact. And if I use random one more time, I think I may have to shoot myself). Mostly, of course, they are determined by upbringing, but they can vary so much within people of roughly the same cultural and socio-economic background. Take, for example, eating something that has fallen on the ground. Some people think nothing of it, some people are repulsed at the very idea. Or the number of times that a person showers (per week, that is, not per lifetime). Or the amount of dirt they are willing to ingest with their produce. Or how well they wash their dishes. Or sharing straws. Or how often they brush their teeth. Or taking food with their hands. Or eating things little children have touched. Or whether they use deodorant. (okay, that is more cultural.)
The thing is, everybody has a whole bunch of opinions on every one of those issues and these opinions have some pretty fascinating traits. 1)They do not necessarily correspond. At all. There are people who will do things you find disgusting and find things that you do disgusting. There are, sometimes, vague trends of finickiness, but what seminary life taught me is that others simply do not have the same set of disgust reflexes. 2) They are beyond the pall of tolerance. Which is to say, they are so deeply engrained that they create automatic aversion in ways that even moral decisions don't. I think that there are a lot more people who can contemplate the cultural difference that lead to different moral structures, but they're still going to have an automatic "ew!" if they hear about eating bugs. Or people who are really into individuality and you being unique and special, but are going to give you mighty funny looks if you tell them that you only shower once a month. (Okay, even I am going "ew" there). And the funniest thing is that your hygienic decisions are quite unlikely to affect them in any way, unless you are noticeably smelly or paw their food or something.
And this is about where I should wind up in some deep sounding point, but it's kind of late, and I have class tomorrow, and I have to go shower (ironic, isn't it?) and so I guess I am just going to leave it with the observation that hygiene standards are very arbitrary, very firmly held, and really rather funny, if you think about it.
Now, the thing that has always interested me about hygenic standards is how totally random they are (not unlike this post, in fact. And if I use random one more time, I think I may have to shoot myself). Mostly, of course, they are determined by upbringing, but they can vary so much within people of roughly the same cultural and socio-economic background. Take, for example, eating something that has fallen on the ground. Some people think nothing of it, some people are repulsed at the very idea. Or the number of times that a person showers (per week, that is, not per lifetime). Or the amount of dirt they are willing to ingest with their produce. Or how well they wash their dishes. Or sharing straws. Or how often they brush their teeth. Or taking food with their hands. Or eating things little children have touched. Or whether they use deodorant. (okay, that is more cultural.)
The thing is, everybody has a whole bunch of opinions on every one of those issues and these opinions have some pretty fascinating traits. 1)They do not necessarily correspond. At all. There are people who will do things you find disgusting and find things that you do disgusting. There are, sometimes, vague trends of finickiness, but what seminary life taught me is that others simply do not have the same set of disgust reflexes. 2) They are beyond the pall of tolerance. Which is to say, they are so deeply engrained that they create automatic aversion in ways that even moral decisions don't. I think that there are a lot more people who can contemplate the cultural difference that lead to different moral structures, but they're still going to have an automatic "ew!" if they hear about eating bugs. Or people who are really into individuality and you being unique and special, but are going to give you mighty funny looks if you tell them that you only shower once a month. (Okay, even I am going "ew" there). And the funniest thing is that your hygienic decisions are quite unlikely to affect them in any way, unless you are noticeably smelly or paw their food or something.
And this is about where I should wind up in some deep sounding point, but it's kind of late, and I have class tomorrow, and I have to go shower (ironic, isn't it?) and so I guess I am just going to leave it with the observation that hygiene standards are very arbitrary, very firmly held, and really rather funny, if you think about it.
Monday, March 06, 2006
People or Principles?
In Civ, we read a speech by Hannah Arendt, upon her reception of the Lessing Prize, in which she basically says that the hope of humanity lies in friendship, which consists of free and open dialogue between opposing points of view. Fine, nothing particularly radical there.
Then we learned to what degree Arendt lived this. Arendt, a Jew who had to flee Germany because of the Holocaust, maintained a close friendship with her mentor (and one-time lover) Heidegger, despite the fact that he went quite cheerfully over to the Nazis. When I heard this, I was appalled, but it does, I suppose, follow logically upon the question she rhetorically asks her audience: "Would any such doctrine, however convincingly proved, be worth the sacrifice of so much as a single friendship between two men?"
Well. Maybe if I were Chana, I would have a more literary reference here, but the connection that this idea made in my head was to Brothers In Arms, a sci-fi thriller with rather deep undertones written by Lois McMaster Bujold. In one scene, two characters discuss priorities:
I think that our debate goes back to this same question of friendship versus principles. I believe quite strongly in principles, myself. I would, if I had the guts, turn my friend in. I am disgusted by Arendt's continuing friendship with a man who supported policies that included the extermination of her race. Now, fortunately for me, my principles include a great emphasis on respect for other human beings and so forth, or else I might be a very bad person.
This isn't a question of "love-the-sinner-hate-the-sin". I do that. I would probably not hate my friend if I turned her in for murder, but I would do it anyway. This is a question, quite simply, of whether one would sacrifice a friendship for a higher principle or vice versa.
And, like all big questions, both answers sound at the same time appalling and noble, depending on how you spin them. The question can be phrased, "Would you turn on a friend to fulfill your own ideology?" Or it can be phrased, "Would you continue to be friends with someone who you felt was evil?"
I know what my answer to that question is, but I have no idea whether it is right.
Then we learned to what degree Arendt lived this. Arendt, a Jew who had to flee Germany because of the Holocaust, maintained a close friendship with her mentor (and one-time lover) Heidegger, despite the fact that he went quite cheerfully over to the Nazis. When I heard this, I was appalled, but it does, I suppose, follow logically upon the question she rhetorically asks her audience: "Would any such doctrine, however convincingly proved, be worth the sacrifice of so much as a single friendship between two men?"
Well. Maybe if I were Chana, I would have a more literary reference here, but the connection that this idea made in my head was to Brothers In Arms, a sci-fi thriller with rather deep undertones written by Lois McMaster Bujold. In one scene, two characters discuss priorities:
"Surely it is more important to be loyal to a person than a principle."I had a conversation once with a friend about whether we would turn each other into the police for some crime. I said, "Yes. Absolutely. Without a doubt. I would feel sad, maybe, but I would do it," and she said, "No way." I'm not sure which of us was more shocked at the other. She kept turning to me and saying, "You would snitch on me? I can't believe you, you stool pigeon," and I kept turning to her and saying, "You would let me get away with murder? You would let a murderer walk away." (Yes, it was all in fun and we are still just as good friends. Nor have either of us been called upon to actually make this decision, thank G-d)
"I suppose that should suprise me, coming from a Barrayaran. From a society that traditionally organizes itself by internal oaths of fealty instead of an external framework of abstract law-is that your father's politics showing?"
..."My mother's theology, actually... Her theory is that principles come and go, but that human souls are immortal and you should therefore throw your lot with the greater part. My mother tends to be extremely logical."
I think that our debate goes back to this same question of friendship versus principles. I believe quite strongly in principles, myself. I would, if I had the guts, turn my friend in. I am disgusted by Arendt's continuing friendship with a man who supported policies that included the extermination of her race. Now, fortunately for me, my principles include a great emphasis on respect for other human beings and so forth, or else I might be a very bad person.
This isn't a question of "love-the-sinner-hate-the-sin". I do that. I would probably not hate my friend if I turned her in for murder, but I would do it anyway. This is a question, quite simply, of whether one would sacrifice a friendship for a higher principle or vice versa.
And, like all big questions, both answers sound at the same time appalling and noble, depending on how you spin them. The question can be phrased, "Would you turn on a friend to fulfill your own ideology?" Or it can be phrased, "Would you continue to be friends with someone who you felt was evil?"
I know what my answer to that question is, but I have no idea whether it is right.
Beauty in Math
Every day I leave physics with a new amazement at the coolness of this universe. Actually, with a lot of frustration, but also with the amazement thing. The whole idea that you should be able to put together a set of artificial mathematical rules to describe the world, and that it should really work and be consistent and predict new things and all fit together- pretty crazy, really.
Like take electromagnetism- here we have all of these different forms of energy, and everyone is just having a lovely time analyzing them, and then boom! All of a sudden it turns out that they're really the same thing, sort of, and can convert back and forth in nice mathematical ways. And then Maxwell wanders along and Boom! We discover that this whole craziness will simply yield the speed of light. I mean, who saw that one coming? And why should it have been coming? What reason on earth is there that the world should all fit together with such simple beauty?
And then I went to math. Today we learned about the coolness of relating e^x to sin and cos. Everybody was just fiddling around with these things, which just happened to have all these crazy properties, which are pretty cool in and of themselves, and then along comes De Moivre and discovers that e^(i*pi)+1=0. How crazy is that? We have e, this mysterious number that for some reason has crazy properties and does stuff like always being its own derivative, and also happens to be irrational and transcendental and nobody knows how it got there, it just is. Then we have pi, which likewise is just one of these numbers that just hangs about, inexplicably being the number that circles always come in. Then we have i, which is totally and entirely made-up. In that mathematicians were like, "wouldn't it be cool if there was a square root of -1? Let's pretend that there is." And they did, and it turned out to work! And so all of these totally crazy numbers, end up yielding the basic normal numbers of 0 and 1, off of which everything is built. Why? Who knows? (I mean, I vaguely get the math behind it...It has to do with Taylor Series and stuff, but that's how, not why)
Our math prof said that De Moivre's formula was so overwhelmingly cool that mathematicians used it to prove that there is some kind of Platonic ideal of math, so that math isn't really constructing these truths but discovering them. I find myself agreeing entirely- the sheer compact, logical beauty of the maths seem to be an irrefutable proof of some higher logical order- in fact, one of the most convincing proofs of G-d's existance that I have yet encountered.
Like take electromagnetism- here we have all of these different forms of energy, and everyone is just having a lovely time analyzing them, and then boom! All of a sudden it turns out that they're really the same thing, sort of, and can convert back and forth in nice mathematical ways. And then Maxwell wanders along and Boom! We discover that this whole craziness will simply yield the speed of light. I mean, who saw that one coming? And why should it have been coming? What reason on earth is there that the world should all fit together with such simple beauty?
And then I went to math. Today we learned about the coolness of relating e^x to sin and cos. Everybody was just fiddling around with these things, which just happened to have all these crazy properties, which are pretty cool in and of themselves, and then along comes De Moivre and discovers that e^(i*pi)+1=0. How crazy is that? We have e, this mysterious number that for some reason has crazy properties and does stuff like always being its own derivative, and also happens to be irrational and transcendental and nobody knows how it got there, it just is. Then we have pi, which likewise is just one of these numbers that just hangs about, inexplicably being the number that circles always come in. Then we have i, which is totally and entirely made-up. In that mathematicians were like, "wouldn't it be cool if there was a square root of -1? Let's pretend that there is." And they did, and it turned out to work! And so all of these totally crazy numbers, end up yielding the basic normal numbers of 0 and 1, off of which everything is built. Why? Who knows? (I mean, I vaguely get the math behind it...It has to do with Taylor Series and stuff, but that's how, not why)
Our math prof said that De Moivre's formula was so overwhelmingly cool that mathematicians used it to prove that there is some kind of Platonic ideal of math, so that math isn't really constructing these truths but discovering them. I find myself agreeing entirely- the sheer compact, logical beauty of the maths seem to be an irrefutable proof of some higher logical order- in fact, one of the most convincing proofs of G-d's existance that I have yet encountered.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Fifteen Seconds of Fame
Wow...I think success is going to my head. The story: Once, a long, long time ago, I got into a discussion with my sister, a grad student in economics about how stupid Dr. Suess's Lorax is and what an economist would make of it, thus inspiring this parody. Encouraged by the fact that it was the only post that I have ever written that was actually quoted in other blogs, I submitted it to an undergradutate poetry publication on campus. Surprise of surprises, it was accepted. The publication came out this week (quite funny, really. 75% is "Tears/I want to run/ but there are only shadows"- yes, I know, I can't write poetry- and then this random Suess parody) and apparently was seen by someone with a real big blog and stuff, so now I am getting traffic from danieldrezner.com. Very cool stuff, considering my general small audience (not that I don't love you all or anything)
The silliest thing about all this is that I personally am not all that crazy about the poem. The idea is cute, but it wasn't particularly cleverly written and took around one afternoon. It seems to me, actually, just a little bit cheap. But who am I to argue with popularity?
The only question is how to capitalize on this new-found niche. Another parody, perhaps? But do I stick to Suess, or branch out? Or do I just ignore the whole thing and continue to write my own thing? Oh, the dilemmas of fame.
(Btw, if you're not reading this all in a sardonic tone, then I sound quite stuck-up. I apologize. Please rest assured that in my head, it is all fully sardonic.)
The silliest thing about all this is that I personally am not all that crazy about the poem. The idea is cute, but it wasn't particularly cleverly written and took around one afternoon. It seems to me, actually, just a little bit cheap. But who am I to argue with popularity?
The only question is how to capitalize on this new-found niche. Another parody, perhaps? But do I stick to Suess, or branch out? Or do I just ignore the whole thing and continue to write my own thing? Oh, the dilemmas of fame.
(Btw, if you're not reading this all in a sardonic tone, then I sound quite stuck-up. I apologize. Please rest assured that in my head, it is all fully sardonic.)
Thursday, March 02, 2006
My New Motto
As you may or may not have noticed, but probably didn't because who keeps close track of these things, I have now acquired for myself my own personal motto! In Latin! It's almost ridiculous how euphoric I am. I got a friend who knows Latin to translate it for me (thank you so much!), and we spent some time fiddling with it to make it sound all proper and Latiny.
To me, Latin seems like one of the most quintessentially Geeky talents. So intellectual, so archaic, so useless, so much fun! Nothing says stodgy old professor or 18th century gentleman like Latin.
Which is why it makes me terribly sad that I don't know it. It was never even remotely an option at my high school (hah!), and I haven't gotten a chance to take any college classes on it either, nor is it likely that I will. The advantage of not knowing Latin, of course, is that reading becomes an adventure- like a giant brain teaser. Once, for example, at a boring Oneg Shabbat, a friend and I took a book in Greek off the shelf and tried to figure out what it said, neither of us knowing Greek other than being able to identify and sound out the letters. (It turned out to be the New Testament, and a book that began all with Biblical names, so we got off easy.)
Or, to a lesser extent, why it was so much fun to read the Harry Potter books in Hebrew, a process to which I attribute 90% of my current Hebrew knowledge. Between context, having read the books in English, and my scanty Hebrew, I was just able to make it through, but it was like leaping through breakers of water rather than the normal smooth slog that reading is. (Not that I don't like to read. But usually, little of the fun is derived from basic comprehension.)
And this is also the reason that I'm not going to translate my motto. Give you all the joy of figuring it out for yourselves. Or maybe it's just because I'm evil.
To me, Latin seems like one of the most quintessentially Geeky talents. So intellectual, so archaic, so useless, so much fun! Nothing says stodgy old professor or 18th century gentleman like Latin.
Which is why it makes me terribly sad that I don't know it. It was never even remotely an option at my high school (hah!), and I haven't gotten a chance to take any college classes on it either, nor is it likely that I will. The advantage of not knowing Latin, of course, is that reading becomes an adventure- like a giant brain teaser. Once, for example, at a boring Oneg Shabbat, a friend and I took a book in Greek off the shelf and tried to figure out what it said, neither of us knowing Greek other than being able to identify and sound out the letters. (It turned out to be the New Testament, and a book that began all with Biblical names, so we got off easy.)
Or, to a lesser extent, why it was so much fun to read the Harry Potter books in Hebrew, a process to which I attribute 90% of my current Hebrew knowledge. Between context, having read the books in English, and my scanty Hebrew, I was just able to make it through, but it was like leaping through breakers of water rather than the normal smooth slog that reading is. (Not that I don't like to read. But usually, little of the fun is derived from basic comprehension.)
And this is also the reason that I'm not going to translate my motto. Give you all the joy of figuring it out for yourselves. Or maybe it's just because I'm evil.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Women's Rosh Chodesh Events
So the other night, I went to one of these women's rosh chodesh events at the Friendly Neighborhood Chabad House. The theme was "The Beauty of the Woman" and the events featured a) fondue b) a dvar torah about how Esther teaches the value of tzniut since she saved the Jewish people in a quiet, behind-the-scenes way, 3) A talk about make-up tips and 4) a talk about parenting tips.
Sigh. Just sigh.
I mean, not that it wasn't fun. It was very fun. And it was entertaining, and in some odd ways informative. And there was chocolate. Much chocolate. And it was nice to hang out with other Jewish women and it was also nice to...fade back into a Jewish, heimish environment for a bit.
But still. I mean, look, I have nothing against females. Some of my best friends are female, including myself. (Have I ever mentioned that sometimes I have a wicked desire to get a t-shirt that reads "Yes, I'm female. So is your mother" and wear it around Me'ah She'arim? Not that I would...but the image is so much fun. But I digress.) But...just because one is female doesn't mean they have to be quite so stereotypically girly.
That was an unfair statement. Why shouldn't they be girly? They are, after all, girls, and trying to pretend that they're too cool and modern to be girly is pretty pathetic. It sounds, in fact, like feminism, and I am vehemently opposed to feminism. (Not the whole "let women have jobs!" feminism. The "we're just like men, only better!" feminism. It smacks of inferiority, denial, ingratitude, and stupidity.)
And, deep down, I also have vague traces of girliness and this is not something of which I am ashamed. G-d chose to create me female, a fact for which I am profoundly grateful, and there's no reason for me to go about dissing it.
But...make-up tips? I just don't see guys having Rosh Chodesh events and discussing sports tips or something. I mean, they do talk sports, almost incessantly if my little brother is any indication, but to have a Rosh Chodesh event organized around it? For some reason, the whole thing feels to me like the speeches that we used to have in high school about how, really, women are just as good as men. And it drove me crazy, not because I thought that they didn't believe it, but because I knew that they would never go to Yeshivot and give them speeches about how, really, they were just as good as women. Only different.
But then again...some girls really enjoyed the speeches. Perhaps it was something they needed to hear. It's just that it gave me a feeling of...considering male to be the default setting. Like, everyone is human, and some people are human and female, as well. And so they get to have special speeches about the special things about them!
And I know that is not necessarily a fair analysis of the attitude they had, and I know that this is not a particularly coherent post, but, then again, my feelings on the subject are not particularly coherent, so there you go. Something about this continues to rub me the wrong way, mentally.
On the other hand....there was chocolate. Lots of chocolate.
Sigh. Just sigh.
I mean, not that it wasn't fun. It was very fun. And it was entertaining, and in some odd ways informative. And there was chocolate. Much chocolate. And it was nice to hang out with other Jewish women and it was also nice to...fade back into a Jewish, heimish environment for a bit.
But still. I mean, look, I have nothing against females. Some of my best friends are female, including myself. (Have I ever mentioned that sometimes I have a wicked desire to get a t-shirt that reads "Yes, I'm female. So is your mother" and wear it around Me'ah She'arim? Not that I would...but the image is so much fun. But I digress.) But...just because one is female doesn't mean they have to be quite so stereotypically girly.
That was an unfair statement. Why shouldn't they be girly? They are, after all, girls, and trying to pretend that they're too cool and modern to be girly is pretty pathetic. It sounds, in fact, like feminism, and I am vehemently opposed to feminism. (Not the whole "let women have jobs!" feminism. The "we're just like men, only better!" feminism. It smacks of inferiority, denial, ingratitude, and stupidity.)
And, deep down, I also have vague traces of girliness and this is not something of which I am ashamed. G-d chose to create me female, a fact for which I am profoundly grateful, and there's no reason for me to go about dissing it.
But...make-up tips? I just don't see guys having Rosh Chodesh events and discussing sports tips or something. I mean, they do talk sports, almost incessantly if my little brother is any indication, but to have a Rosh Chodesh event organized around it? For some reason, the whole thing feels to me like the speeches that we used to have in high school about how, really, women are just as good as men. And it drove me crazy, not because I thought that they didn't believe it, but because I knew that they would never go to Yeshivot and give them speeches about how, really, they were just as good as women. Only different.
But then again...some girls really enjoyed the speeches. Perhaps it was something they needed to hear. It's just that it gave me a feeling of...considering male to be the default setting. Like, everyone is human, and some people are human and female, as well. And so they get to have special speeches about the special things about them!
And I know that is not necessarily a fair analysis of the attitude they had, and I know that this is not a particularly coherent post, but, then again, my feelings on the subject are not particularly coherent, so there you go. Something about this continues to rub me the wrong way, mentally.
On the other hand....there was chocolate. Lots of chocolate.
Random Useless Thought of the Day
(Wouldn't it be cool if that really were a daily feature?)
Novels only get written by novelists, and histories only by historians. We never read personal accounts of those who did not survive, or of those who did not care to write. We never hear the personal feelings of those whose personal feelings do not include the need to share their personal feelings. We can't read the personal diaries of illiterate peasants, or the philosophy of those who thought that writing philosophy books was nonsense. We are limited to the poetry of poets and the speeches of those who had an audience. And who is there to tell us what it is like to wish to be silent?
Novels only get written by novelists, and histories only by historians. We never read personal accounts of those who did not survive, or of those who did not care to write. We never hear the personal feelings of those whose personal feelings do not include the need to share their personal feelings. We can't read the personal diaries of illiterate peasants, or the philosophy of those who thought that writing philosophy books was nonsense. We are limited to the poetry of poets and the speeches of those who had an audience. And who is there to tell us what it is like to wish to be silent?
Dystopias
First of all, sorry for the long hiatus. I had an eight page paper due Monday, a six page paper due Tuesday, and a two page paper for today. Plus exams are in two weeks, so stress abounds.
Anyway, the last reading for our Humanities class was The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. Discussion was...quite an experience, since the book is a dystopian novel about the evils of a radical, anti-feminist theocracy, which of course transitioned into all the chances anyone would want to rant about the radical, anti-feminist theocraticness of today's America under the evil religious right, etc etc.
The main thing that occurred to me while reading and arguing about the book is this: dystopian novels are not fair. They are powerful, meaningful, moving, and often great, but they are not fair, precisely because of this power. By which I mean to say: Illustrating the evils of an idea taken to an extreme does not necessarily invalidate the idea. It may. It may be a sign that the idea contains grains of evil that explode when the idea is fully realized. It may also simply mean that almost every idea is dangerous when taken too far.
So why did the 'unfairness' of this novel bother me more than, say, the unfairness in 1984? Well, to be fair, partially because I agree more with the religious right than I do with communism. But there are a host of other reasons. 1) Communism practically demands that it be taken to the extreme- it is bent on world domination and so forth. 2) I like 1984 more for what it says about universal human ideas than the specifics of the evils of Communism- the book is also about the human spirit, and propoganda, and who knows what else. So, actually, is The Handmaid's Tale. Just not the way that we were discussing it. Which is probably actually a reason 3) We were reading the book as opposing all religious activists, rather than actually more narrowly focused on the evils that would lead to that society, which were very specific religious beliefs, totalitarianism, etc.
But still, at the heart of any dystopian novel is going to an attack on certain ideas, and an attack that necessarily overstates itself, uses what my english teacher in ninth grade called "loaded language." (Heh heh. Great story there. Basically, I argued against her reading of the text and said that the hero of the short story was morally guilty of murder. In hindsight, I may not have been right in this opinion, but I still hold the 'loaded language' thing against her. I mean, just say I'm wrong, it won't kill me and it won't attempt to control my rhetoric. Anyway, back to the point I was making before that long and useless tirade...) And to be fair, one must read every dystopian novel with this realization, rather than convincing oneself that the evils of the philosophy are being correctly represented.
Anyway, the last reading for our Humanities class was The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. Discussion was...quite an experience, since the book is a dystopian novel about the evils of a radical, anti-feminist theocracy, which of course transitioned into all the chances anyone would want to rant about the radical, anti-feminist theocraticness of today's America under the evil religious right, etc etc.
The main thing that occurred to me while reading and arguing about the book is this: dystopian novels are not fair. They are powerful, meaningful, moving, and often great, but they are not fair, precisely because of this power. By which I mean to say: Illustrating the evils of an idea taken to an extreme does not necessarily invalidate the idea. It may. It may be a sign that the idea contains grains of evil that explode when the idea is fully realized. It may also simply mean that almost every idea is dangerous when taken too far.
So why did the 'unfairness' of this novel bother me more than, say, the unfairness in 1984? Well, to be fair, partially because I agree more with the religious right than I do with communism. But there are a host of other reasons. 1) Communism practically demands that it be taken to the extreme- it is bent on world domination and so forth. 2) I like 1984 more for what it says about universal human ideas than the specifics of the evils of Communism- the book is also about the human spirit, and propoganda, and who knows what else. So, actually, is The Handmaid's Tale. Just not the way that we were discussing it. Which is probably actually a reason 3) We were reading the book as opposing all religious activists, rather than actually more narrowly focused on the evils that would lead to that society, which were very specific religious beliefs, totalitarianism, etc.
But still, at the heart of any dystopian novel is going to an attack on certain ideas, and an attack that necessarily overstates itself, uses what my english teacher in ninth grade called "loaded language." (Heh heh. Great story there. Basically, I argued against her reading of the text and said that the hero of the short story was morally guilty of murder. In hindsight, I may not have been right in this opinion, but I still hold the 'loaded language' thing against her. I mean, just say I'm wrong, it won't kill me and it won't attempt to control my rhetoric. Anyway, back to the point I was making before that long and useless tirade...) And to be fair, one must read every dystopian novel with this realization, rather than convincing oneself that the evils of the philosophy are being correctly represented.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Newsies
I was just listening to the Newsies soundtrack. Boy, do I love that movie. And the funniest thing about it is that I am a frothing-at-the-mouth capitalist. Not that forming a union isn't a perfectly legitimate capitalistic undertaking, but still.
The thing that really got me, listening to the songs, was the feeling of unity. (See here for examples.) Here we are, we have a cause, and we are united behind it. It made me...this sounds silly, but jealous. I don't think that I've ever been part of a cause to that degree, that I can shout its slogans in one voice with one hundred others, that I feel that I am selflessly working towards the greater cause, hand in hand with those who share my dreams. I felt a strange longing for a chance to make great sacrifices for a great cause, to fight with a wave of fellows for a greater something.
I remember, quite clearly actually, the last time that I still had this wistfulness. A friend was describing what it was like at the massive disengagement rallies- the ones where families would camp out, waiting to get into Gush Katif. She talked about the announcements over the loudspeakers, the shiurim here and there, but more than anything else, the feeling of fighting together, of strangers bursting into song together, and as I listened, I suddenly thought, "That must be what it felt like to protest Vietnam" and then I wondered "Will I ever have the chance to be part of a cause?" And in that moment, I wished that I agreed with their cause, just so that I would have the chance to join it.
And this is a wonderous and terrifying thing. This desire- this strange mixture of the drives towards conformity, nobility, aggression, heroism- has feuled, I think, just about every cause and ism in the world. Every ism. Not just the ones that we know are evil and dangerous, but also ones like patriotism and liberalism and probably even humanism. The spirit that feuled revolutions and civil rights protests, that motivated terrorists and soldiers, Resistance fighters and union workers.
I tend to distrust this impulse. When my seminary pushed going to disengagement rallies, I remember saying to a friend that I couldn't go because it would make me feel like a Nazi Youth. (Oh, dear, I think I just Godwin-ed. Sorry) Not that I think that the cause is evil or that it was supported only by those swept by its tides, but because I knew that I did not know if I believed in the cause, and could not risk ceding my conscience to the masses. It's even possible that I was not against disengagement precisely because it was popular. I wouldn't put it past me.
It is for this reason that I don't think that I shall ever be part of a cause, in the sweeping,
anthem-singing sense of the word. Even when I back a cause, I have a natual impulse to question it, to stand outside of myself and watch me, to devil's advocate and to wonder.
And in some ways, this makes me sad. It's all well and good to stand against the tide, and I think that it is my moral duty. But there is still something that feels very basic in my emotions that makes me wish that I could, just once, sing in properly choreographed, joyously unanimous, endlessly defiant Newsies fashion.
The thing that really got me, listening to the songs, was the feeling of unity. (See here for examples.) Here we are, we have a cause, and we are united behind it. It made me...this sounds silly, but jealous. I don't think that I've ever been part of a cause to that degree, that I can shout its slogans in one voice with one hundred others, that I feel that I am selflessly working towards the greater cause, hand in hand with those who share my dreams. I felt a strange longing for a chance to make great sacrifices for a great cause, to fight with a wave of fellows for a greater something.
I remember, quite clearly actually, the last time that I still had this wistfulness. A friend was describing what it was like at the massive disengagement rallies- the ones where families would camp out, waiting to get into Gush Katif. She talked about the announcements over the loudspeakers, the shiurim here and there, but more than anything else, the feeling of fighting together, of strangers bursting into song together, and as I listened, I suddenly thought, "That must be what it felt like to protest Vietnam" and then I wondered "Will I ever have the chance to be part of a cause?" And in that moment, I wished that I agreed with their cause, just so that I would have the chance to join it.
And this is a wonderous and terrifying thing. This desire- this strange mixture of the drives towards conformity, nobility, aggression, heroism- has feuled, I think, just about every cause and ism in the world. Every ism. Not just the ones that we know are evil and dangerous, but also ones like patriotism and liberalism and probably even humanism. The spirit that feuled revolutions and civil rights protests, that motivated terrorists and soldiers, Resistance fighters and union workers.
I tend to distrust this impulse. When my seminary pushed going to disengagement rallies, I remember saying to a friend that I couldn't go because it would make me feel like a Nazi Youth. (Oh, dear, I think I just Godwin-ed. Sorry) Not that I think that the cause is evil or that it was supported only by those swept by its tides, but because I knew that I did not know if I believed in the cause, and could not risk ceding my conscience to the masses. It's even possible that I was not against disengagement precisely because it was popular. I wouldn't put it past me.
It is for this reason that I don't think that I shall ever be part of a cause, in the sweeping,
anthem-singing sense of the word. Even when I back a cause, I have a natual impulse to question it, to stand outside of myself and watch me, to devil's advocate and to wonder.
And in some ways, this makes me sad. It's all well and good to stand against the tide, and I think that it is my moral duty. But there is still something that feels very basic in my emotions that makes me wish that I could, just once, sing in properly choreographed, joyously unanimous, endlessly defiant Newsies fashion.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Authors and Suicide
In English, we are currently reading a book called No Longer Human (I can never remember these literary conventions- ought I to underline that instead? Whatever.) that protaganist of which is a severely messed-up, depressed, guilt-ridden young man. Nor does he snap out of it at any point. The book ends with his being committed to a mental institution and then let out, to mope some more about his miserableness. Fine.
Our prof informed us that the book was largely autobiographical and that the author himself had attempted suicide three times, and then finally succeeded in hanging himself from a bridge with his lover. He spoke about the reverence that the Japanese still have for the author, going to visit the river over which he hung himself on the aniversary of his death and having all sorts of tributes.
I discovered that upon hearing all this, my respect for the author and for the book plummeted abruptly. At first I felt rather guilty, like I ought to be judging the book solely on its merits irrelevant of the author's personal junk.
But on further reflection, I think that this attitude is entirely valid. Here's why. A book is not simply a story, it is also a trip into the author's mind, values, and way of viewing the world. By reading a book, I am trying to learn about new and hopefully better ways to see adn think about certain things.
In my view, a suicide is a defeat. Not that every person who commits suicide is a rotten person or a failure, but that suicide itself means that you have failed the greatest challenge out there, the challenge of coping with the world. If this suicide was a result of your particular philosophy, I would label the philosophy a failure as well, because it did not pass the ultimate test of being able to arbitrate between the world and the philosopher.
So why shouldn't I have less respect for a book when the ideas behind it just plain didn't work? When the author looked at reality in a certain way and his way wasn't good enough for him to be able to deal with the world. Reading a book of a mindset that leads to a suicide is like learning the tactics that lost the battle- useful only to learn another way that does not do the job.
Our prof informed us that the book was largely autobiographical and that the author himself had attempted suicide three times, and then finally succeeded in hanging himself from a bridge with his lover. He spoke about the reverence that the Japanese still have for the author, going to visit the river over which he hung himself on the aniversary of his death and having all sorts of tributes.
I discovered that upon hearing all this, my respect for the author and for the book plummeted abruptly. At first I felt rather guilty, like I ought to be judging the book solely on its merits irrelevant of the author's personal junk.
But on further reflection, I think that this attitude is entirely valid. Here's why. A book is not simply a story, it is also a trip into the author's mind, values, and way of viewing the world. By reading a book, I am trying to learn about new and hopefully better ways to see adn think about certain things.
In my view, a suicide is a defeat. Not that every person who commits suicide is a rotten person or a failure, but that suicide itself means that you have failed the greatest challenge out there, the challenge of coping with the world. If this suicide was a result of your particular philosophy, I would label the philosophy a failure as well, because it did not pass the ultimate test of being able to arbitrate between the world and the philosopher.
So why shouldn't I have less respect for a book when the ideas behind it just plain didn't work? When the author looked at reality in a certain way and his way wasn't good enough for him to be able to deal with the world. Reading a book of a mindset that leads to a suicide is like learning the tactics that lost the battle- useful only to learn another way that does not do the job.
And sometimes there is simply nothing to say...
I came upon this story from a flyer on campus and checked out the website during lunch. Since that time, I have been trying to formulate a rant, but find myself oddly at a loss. To say that I am disgusted, appalled, unsurprised, horrified, frustrated, and seething with anger is to resort to easy and insufficient cliches.
But....I eagerly await the day that someone, anyone out there will learn that "Nazi" is not a synonym for "anything I don't like." Using it as such is an insult to six million murdered Jews, a shameless commandeering of emotionally loaded terms, and a perversion and ignorance of the basic concepts of good and evil.
But....I eagerly await the day that someone, anyone out there will learn that "Nazi" is not a synonym for "anything I don't like." Using it as such is an insult to six million murdered Jews, a shameless commandeering of emotionally loaded terms, and a perversion and ignorance of the basic concepts of good and evil.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Meta-musings
Today, I came across the blog of somebody I know. It was the most odd experience of my life, especially since it contained things that I know she would never say to me. It felt like spying or reading her diary, but it was something that she had chosen to post for the entire world to read.
My blog is rather like that as well. Not half as searingly personal, perhaps, but... in person, I don't talk about many of these things. I don't show anyone my writing, I don't talk about my feelings, I don't rant about how sad I am feeling today. Mostly because I consider it pretty pathetic. Partially because it's not my persona. (These very sentences I wouldn't tell to people in person) But I post them on my blog, even though I know for a fact that this blog is read by people I know.
I think it's the impersonal touch. How can you be embarrassed of just typing your thoughts into a screen? It's like a diary, and nobody is so pathetic as to lie to their diary.
And there's also a confessional aspect going. Type your fears, your hopes, your worries, and some anonymous strangers may come along and validate them. It's like a universal bartender- a place to pour out all your troubles, and get a sympathetic ear. Not much judging, maybe not even much caring. But when you're done, there are all your thoughts, out there on the internet. It makes them real, concrete. It's like catharasis.
Not that I use the blog for this much. My current biggest life dilemma has not made it onto my blog and is not going to make it probably until I've gotten it figured out. (If you know what I'm talking about, you're right. If you don't, don't guess. You're not going to be able to.) I rarely succumb to venting my real thoughts- does that make this blog less honest or simply less personal? And who cares? Is there some duty out there to tell your blog everything, as if it matters?
Perhaps I would be more honest with the blog if I knew for a fact that nobody reading it could know who I am. This is not currently the case, and perhaps it is better this way. If I wanted to keep a diary, I am perfectly capable of doing so. I don't and so I don't. A blog is not a diary, I think, but I am still not entirely certain what it is. I am probably over-analyzing the whole thing.
My blog is rather like that as well. Not half as searingly personal, perhaps, but... in person, I don't talk about many of these things. I don't show anyone my writing, I don't talk about my feelings, I don't rant about how sad I am feeling today. Mostly because I consider it pretty pathetic. Partially because it's not my persona. (These very sentences I wouldn't tell to people in person) But I post them on my blog, even though I know for a fact that this blog is read by people I know.
I think it's the impersonal touch. How can you be embarrassed of just typing your thoughts into a screen? It's like a diary, and nobody is so pathetic as to lie to their diary.
And there's also a confessional aspect going. Type your fears, your hopes, your worries, and some anonymous strangers may come along and validate them. It's like a universal bartender- a place to pour out all your troubles, and get a sympathetic ear. Not much judging, maybe not even much caring. But when you're done, there are all your thoughts, out there on the internet. It makes them real, concrete. It's like catharasis.
Not that I use the blog for this much. My current biggest life dilemma has not made it onto my blog and is not going to make it probably until I've gotten it figured out. (If you know what I'm talking about, you're right. If you don't, don't guess. You're not going to be able to.) I rarely succumb to venting my real thoughts- does that make this blog less honest or simply less personal? And who cares? Is there some duty out there to tell your blog everything, as if it matters?
Perhaps I would be more honest with the blog if I knew for a fact that nobody reading it could know who I am. This is not currently the case, and perhaps it is better this way. If I wanted to keep a diary, I am perfectly capable of doing so. I don't and so I don't. A blog is not a diary, I think, but I am still not entirely certain what it is. I am probably over-analyzing the whole thing.
Colonialistic Guilt
One of the most puzzling aspects of the whole Danish cartoon scandal is the degree to which liberal Western papers and thinkers have always judged and continue to judge radical Moslems by a different standard than everyone else. To be blunt, a large number of crimes, atrocities, and statements made by Moslems are simply given a pass- excused or ignored, where the same action would earn a Westerner contempt and outrage.
I blame this cultural sensitivity gone mad. Since the Moslems have a different culture, the West has almost a pathological fear of imposing our cultural standards upon them. It's like they're constantly doing penance for colonialism by treating any other culture with kid gloves. Example- if Israel would dare to pass a law restricting, say, the rights of women, every liberal, free-thinking paper would be tearing them to bits in twenty minutes. Why? Because Israel is regarded as a Western-style country, and therefore can be help up to whatever you choose to think are Western-style ideals. But dare to suggest that certain Moslem countries are being hard on women, and all of a sudden you're forcing Judeo-Christian standards on people of another culture.
Me, this paradox isn't my problem. I have no problem with saying that there are absolute standards of morality that people have to meet, no matter whether their cultural acknowledges these or not. But it's a fascinating thing to watch broad-minded humanists tap-dance around their liberal ideals on one hand and their horror of Colonialistic behavior on the other.
(Obligatory disclaimer- this is being written in a rush, between bouts of attacking a major paper due in less than a week. So if it's disjointed, incoherent, or stupid, blame it on the sleep deprivation. It made sense in my head, at least.)
I blame this cultural sensitivity gone mad. Since the Moslems have a different culture, the West has almost a pathological fear of imposing our cultural standards upon them. It's like they're constantly doing penance for colonialism by treating any other culture with kid gloves. Example- if Israel would dare to pass a law restricting, say, the rights of women, every liberal, free-thinking paper would be tearing them to bits in twenty minutes. Why? Because Israel is regarded as a Western-style country, and therefore can be help up to whatever you choose to think are Western-style ideals. But dare to suggest that certain Moslem countries are being hard on women, and all of a sudden you're forcing Judeo-Christian standards on people of another culture.
Me, this paradox isn't my problem. I have no problem with saying that there are absolute standards of morality that people have to meet, no matter whether their cultural acknowledges these or not. But it's a fascinating thing to watch broad-minded humanists tap-dance around their liberal ideals on one hand and their horror of Colonialistic behavior on the other.
(Obligatory disclaimer- this is being written in a rush, between bouts of attacking a major paper due in less than a week. So if it's disjointed, incoherent, or stupid, blame it on the sleep deprivation. It made sense in my head, at least.)
Be All Our Sins Remembered
I'm not entirely sure how I feel about the David Irving story. On one hand, I can't say I'm crazy about the idea of Holocaust denial being a crime. A sin, yes, absolutely, but making it illegal seems to me to be iffy free-speechwise, and also given to a lot of slipperiness. If the US did it, I am certain that I would be outraged.
But, on another level, I like the idea of Austria making it a crime. I like the idea that they refuse to let anyone mitigate their guilt, that they demand to stand forever, self-accused and self-confessed. There is a Talmudic quote, somewhere or other, that says that one who remembers his sins constantly has his sins forgotten by heaven. For a Jew to say Never Again is a defiance, a promise, a prayer. For Austria to say the same is a confession, a supremely moral act of repentance.
And so, free speech notwithstanding, I must salute the strength that it takes for Austria to say, "No. We have sinned. We shall not let it be hidden or denied. We shall not let it be forgotten."
But, on another level, I like the idea of Austria making it a crime. I like the idea that they refuse to let anyone mitigate their guilt, that they demand to stand forever, self-accused and self-confessed. There is a Talmudic quote, somewhere or other, that says that one who remembers his sins constantly has his sins forgotten by heaven. For a Jew to say Never Again is a defiance, a promise, a prayer. For Austria to say the same is a confession, a supremely moral act of repentance.
And so, free speech notwithstanding, I must salute the strength that it takes for Austria to say, "No. We have sinned. We shall not let it be hidden or denied. We shall not let it be forgotten."
Sunday, February 19, 2006
My Zionism
While wandering the internet today, I came across this picture of the Israeli cabinet. I was suddenly overcome by a wave of nostalgia and longing- not for the cabinet, which looks like any other executive meeting ever, but because of the little water blue water bottles with red caps at every seat. Probably, I will admit, the silliest wave of nostalgia with which I have ever been hit, but there you go. And then I wondered- when did this happen?
My first trip to Israel was in 11th grade, but I was Zionistic long before that. My Zionism, however, fell into two main categories: 1) A theological and intellectual conclusion that living in Israel was the halachically best practice; a decision, in other words, that I ought to be a Zionist, based on my philosophy and 2) to be perfectly honest, probably some rebellion since my high school was vehemently anti-Zionistic (to be fair, they would probably describe it as 'non-Zionistic')
So, in any case, I had high hopes for my first trip to Israel. On some not entirely subconscious level, I was planning to make myself love it, so that my theology and feelings would match. Nothing really came of it. The trip was nice and I enjoyed it, but there was no visceral feeling there.
High school progressed. I decided to go to seminary for a year, although I had originally planned not to, and on the seminary applications, I wrote that one of my goals was to move to Israel. Meanwhile, my older sister transferred from Stern College to a college in Israel and made aliya. I admired her, but could not bring myself to the same commitment.
But...over the course of that year, I came to love Israel. To love it senselessly and instinctively. I can't say that this was entirely natural- to the extent that one can decide to have feelings, I decided that I would love it. And Israel helped me- stunned me with its beauty, charmed me with its Jewishness, awed me with its holiness. And my seminary helped me- not with its clumsy "Make Aliya" shabbatonim (yes, they had those. I do not exaggerate) and its classes on the commandment of living in Israel (of which I was already convinced), but with the excitement of the other girls and with the trips across the country.
And then I went home, worrying that the feelings had been only a fluke, that I would soon lapse into happiness in my settings. And to a large degree, I did. One of my besetting faults is that I find myself happy in any context, given enough time to adjust to it, which makes me prone to inertia. But...there was still a closeness that I had not had before, a bit of the instinctive love.
And then I went back to Israel for winter break. I was not on any structured program, and I spent the days wandering the streets of Israel or sitting in the Beit Medrash of my seminary, learning Gemara. I toured little, went to few of 'the sites', had no Zionism preached at me. It was probably the most wonderful two weeks of my life and it left me with a profound longing, so that the sight of red bottle caps makes me wistful, and the wistfulness gives me hope- hope that I will make it back home someday.
My first trip to Israel was in 11th grade, but I was Zionistic long before that. My Zionism, however, fell into two main categories: 1) A theological and intellectual conclusion that living in Israel was the halachically best practice; a decision, in other words, that I ought to be a Zionist, based on my philosophy and 2) to be perfectly honest, probably some rebellion since my high school was vehemently anti-Zionistic (to be fair, they would probably describe it as 'non-Zionistic')
So, in any case, I had high hopes for my first trip to Israel. On some not entirely subconscious level, I was planning to make myself love it, so that my theology and feelings would match. Nothing really came of it. The trip was nice and I enjoyed it, but there was no visceral feeling there.
High school progressed. I decided to go to seminary for a year, although I had originally planned not to, and on the seminary applications, I wrote that one of my goals was to move to Israel. Meanwhile, my older sister transferred from Stern College to a college in Israel and made aliya. I admired her, but could not bring myself to the same commitment.
But...over the course of that year, I came to love Israel. To love it senselessly and instinctively. I can't say that this was entirely natural- to the extent that one can decide to have feelings, I decided that I would love it. And Israel helped me- stunned me with its beauty, charmed me with its Jewishness, awed me with its holiness. And my seminary helped me- not with its clumsy "Make Aliya" shabbatonim (yes, they had those. I do not exaggerate) and its classes on the commandment of living in Israel (of which I was already convinced), but with the excitement of the other girls and with the trips across the country.
And then I went home, worrying that the feelings had been only a fluke, that I would soon lapse into happiness in my settings. And to a large degree, I did. One of my besetting faults is that I find myself happy in any context, given enough time to adjust to it, which makes me prone to inertia. But...there was still a closeness that I had not had before, a bit of the instinctive love.
And then I went back to Israel for winter break. I was not on any structured program, and I spent the days wandering the streets of Israel or sitting in the Beit Medrash of my seminary, learning Gemara. I toured little, went to few of 'the sites', had no Zionism preached at me. It was probably the most wonderful two weeks of my life and it left me with a profound longing, so that the sight of red bottle caps makes me wistful, and the wistfulness gives me hope- hope that I will make it back home someday.
Poetry
A friend told me on Shabbat that one philosopher- I think it was Wittgenstein shattered the category theory of language by pointing to the word game. There is no trait, he argued, that all things defined by that word share; instead, they form a general family of meanings, with certain traits running through some of them, which in turn share traits with others, etc.
I think that an equally good example of this is poetry. What is poetry, exactly? Can you come up with a definition that includes both limericks and free-verse, Shel Silverstein and e.e. cummings, Shakespeare and Mother Goose? One definition that I have heard of poetry is that it contains layers of meaning beneath the literal. Bah. How, exactly, does the parsha poem that my high school passed around every Friday ("In this parsha, we have the flood/ Where Hashem turned all the land to mud"- not an actual quote, if only because it has a meter) contain more layers of deepness than Dosteovsky?
The inspiration for this musing is a certain...piece of my own. In the beginning, I called it a poem- it had a very strong meter, no rhymes, and was written in stanzas. Somehow, during the editing and re-writing process, it metamorphized into a story with a lot of cadence, written in paragraphs. In neither form does it rely solely on full sentences, and in neither form is the cadence perfect. (This was intentional- the mood of the...whatever-it-is was a bit too confused and unhappy for it to be perfect iambic.) It hasn't really got much in terms of metaphors or symbolism, I suppose, but it certainly is meant to create a mood through its use of images. So...which is it, really? Poem or prose?
I think that an equally good example of this is poetry. What is poetry, exactly? Can you come up with a definition that includes both limericks and free-verse, Shel Silverstein and e.e. cummings, Shakespeare and Mother Goose? One definition that I have heard of poetry is that it contains layers of meaning beneath the literal. Bah. How, exactly, does the parsha poem that my high school passed around every Friday ("In this parsha, we have the flood/ Where Hashem turned all the land to mud"- not an actual quote, if only because it has a meter) contain more layers of deepness than Dosteovsky?
The inspiration for this musing is a certain...piece of my own. In the beginning, I called it a poem- it had a very strong meter, no rhymes, and was written in stanzas. Somehow, during the editing and re-writing process, it metamorphized into a story with a lot of cadence, written in paragraphs. In neither form does it rely solely on full sentences, and in neither form is the cadence perfect. (This was intentional- the mood of the...whatever-it-is was a bit too confused and unhappy for it to be perfect iambic.) It hasn't really got much in terms of metaphors or symbolism, I suppose, but it certainly is meant to create a mood through its use of images. So...which is it, really? Poem or prose?
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Being a Good Sport.
I have a bad voice. Between having a tiny vocal range and being rather tone deaf, I cannot carry a tune, as they say, in a bucket. I will be the first to admit this. In fact, I am the first to admit it, and I frequently make jokes about it.
This Friday night, I was singing some song to myself. A friend turned to me and said, "Wow, that is totally off-key. You know, you make me off-key sometimes, have you noticed?"
I smiled a little sheepishly and shrugged and we kept walking. I stopped singing.
This friend is a kind, sweet person, and I do not think that she would turn to anyone and tell them that they are fat, or ugly. I do not think she would turn to people in general and tell them that they are off-key. But I have it a habit- no, I have made a constant effort- to be a good sport. To joke about my flaws. To laugh when other people joke about them. To pretend that I don't actually care that my voice is bad.
But...here's a newsflash, world. I do care. I love singing and I wish that my voice was not painful to my ears and to others. I wish that I could lose myself in beautiful music. I wish, because I am not a saint, that other people would like my voice and compliment me on it. I wish that I was perfect. I wish that I could sing as loudly as I want, and not have to keep my voice down so it won't ruin the music for everyone else.
And when I joke about my voice, that doesn't mean that I don't care about it. It means that I am being honest with myself, that I am telling myself that it's not the most important thing in the world, that I am working on my modesty, that I am indicating thatI don't take myself overly seriously, that I'm demonstratng that I am aware of my flaws, that I'm telling the world that I am someone who can laugh at myself, that I'm being funny, that I'm hoping, a little subconsciously, to have someone say, 'No, your voice is fine'....In other words, doing a whole bunch of things, of which not caring is not one. (Sorry 'bout the double negatives...)
And so if you make a joke about my voice, I will probably grin with you. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. Not that I am offended- I made a committment several years ago not to be insulted, and I am keeping it middlingly well. But...it hurts.
And I know it may not be fair to expect my friends to realize this. If I am intent on hiding this from them, and from myself, how should they be expected to guess it?
But...just a word of wisdom, people. No one likes casual comments about their flaws. No one. No matter how much they may joke about, or pretend they don't care. No matter how much of a good sport they try to be.
This Friday night, I was singing some song to myself. A friend turned to me and said, "Wow, that is totally off-key. You know, you make me off-key sometimes, have you noticed?"
I smiled a little sheepishly and shrugged and we kept walking. I stopped singing.
This friend is a kind, sweet person, and I do not think that she would turn to anyone and tell them that they are fat, or ugly. I do not think she would turn to people in general and tell them that they are off-key. But I have it a habit- no, I have made a constant effort- to be a good sport. To joke about my flaws. To laugh when other people joke about them. To pretend that I don't actually care that my voice is bad.
But...here's a newsflash, world. I do care. I love singing and I wish that my voice was not painful to my ears and to others. I wish that I could lose myself in beautiful music. I wish, because I am not a saint, that other people would like my voice and compliment me on it. I wish that I was perfect. I wish that I could sing as loudly as I want, and not have to keep my voice down so it won't ruin the music for everyone else.
And when I joke about my voice, that doesn't mean that I don't care about it. It means that I am being honest with myself, that I am telling myself that it's not the most important thing in the world, that I am working on my modesty, that I am indicating thatI don't take myself overly seriously, that I'm demonstratng that I am aware of my flaws, that I'm telling the world that I am someone who can laugh at myself, that I'm being funny, that I'm hoping, a little subconsciously, to have someone say, 'No, your voice is fine'....In other words, doing a whole bunch of things, of which not caring is not one. (Sorry 'bout the double negatives...)
And so if you make a joke about my voice, I will probably grin with you. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. Not that I am offended- I made a committment several years ago not to be insulted, and I am keeping it middlingly well. But...it hurts.
And I know it may not be fair to expect my friends to realize this. If I am intent on hiding this from them, and from myself, how should they be expected to guess it?
But...just a word of wisdom, people. No one likes casual comments about their flaws. No one. No matter how much they may joke about, or pretend they don't care. No matter how much of a good sport they try to be.
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