Shvayg Shosh

Recently, a synagogue newsletter wished a Merry Christmas to interfaith families. As a member of an intermarried family, I was upset. As a member of a synagogue, I was upset. By definition, a synagogue is a Jewish institution and as a Jewish institution it does not wish congregants Merry Christmas. It is not what a synagogue is about. We are Jewish: period. Clearly, in our personal lives, we wish people Merry Christmas and that's great; however, the synagogue does not celebrate Christmas. The greeting also presumes that because one of the spouses or partners isn't Jewish than the family will be celebrating Christmas. Not all interfaith families celebrate Christmas. I said, earlier, we are an intermarried family and we do not celebrate Christmas. Most importantly, I work very hard at making my child feel comfortable in a world where everyone else celebrates Christmas. I don't want to have to feel like I'm fighting against my synagogue as well. Of course, I wrote this

On Tuesday night, it was my turn to write the d'var Torah for my synagogue board meeting. Since I haven't written in a long time, I thought I'd share it: In Judaism, our belief in God is not enough for us to be good Jews. A recitation of the sh'ma does not grant eternal salvation. Our actions underscore our faith. Our actions hold us accountable, bring us together, guide us, and even pull us apart. As the High Holidays draw near, we are reminded over and over again on the importance of action. Today, in fact, marks the beginning of our preparations—Rosh Chodesh Elul—the start of the month of Elul is when we take stock of our deeds, both good and bad, and decide how we are going to move forward in the coming year. Tradition tells us that during the month of Elul, Moses went back up Mt. Sinai to receive a new set of tablets after destroying them in anger over the Israelites building of the Golden Calf, which we find in (Ex. 32; 34:27-28). Some sources think Moses went

How many hours have I been here? I've written nothing! Nothing! I'm finding it impossible to pick a Jewish American writer. I'm surrounded by Allen Ginsberg Journals, Howl, Kaddish, and some dude who wrote a narrative beat poem about Allen Ginsberg. Of course this dude was a Guggenheim Fellow and received a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. Whatever. It makes my stomach take a nose dive. I keep reading bits and pieces---unable to synthesize the information in a meaningful manner. In the Introduction to Howl, William Carlos Williams compares Ginsberg to Christ. Damn. This is thesis material—maybe? One line does not make thesis material. One line. One line. Ginsberg's use of words like copulate and snatch, and granite cocks make me squirm and cringe like a prude. Words I might use under other circumstances to make other people cringe. And then, and then I turn the pages to a Supermarket in California. " I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, l

I cried in class last night: tears streaming down, ugly face crying. At least I didn't make any noise. It was awful. My only consolation is that I didn't cry because of some self-righteous orthodox argument. I didn't cry because of their stupidity or meanness. In fact, the boys were on their best behavior. Black Hat spoke to me for the first time and Crazy Chaim followed me around like an overly excited puppy. I was half-surprised he didn't try to follow me into the bathroom. And Curious George—who knows. All I remember of him last night was his confused comment to the Cultural Historian that he'd read for the wrong week. His lack of sachel is almost starting to concern me. Frustration 1- Work: I walked into class already filled with frustration. Earlier in the day, I had conferences with my writing students. For the first time in many semesters, almost all of my students are great. They come to class, they ask questions, and best of all, they write well. Of cours

As I walked my giant oaf of a dog in a neighborhood much fancier than my own, I heard a giant swarm of bees. I looked all around me--buzzing around filling the air. The buzz buzz got closer and closer, until finally I saw them: a swarm of fifteen or so women running and talking  and talking and talking. Skinny legs and all flew past my ass and falling apart black boots. The oaf stood in one place gnawing on the long wet grass oblivious. "How do they do that?" I wondered aloud in both awe and utter annoyance. How does one run and talk and run and talk with such ease? After a few minutes, I pulled the oaf back to the car, dropped him off at home, and went back to my normal morning of writing and researching. I forgot about them... However, at some point I decided to check facebook and my page was filled with running updates: 5ks, 3.5 mile markers, running music enthusiasm-- all from people who never used to run. College friends, law school friends, work friends, my husband'

I may have failed to mention that there is a boy in my class who is not Orthodox. He's Reform and, quite frankly, wasn't worth mentioning because he barely ever said anything. Before this week, he simply struck me as young. Mostly, I forgot he was in the room. This week, however, he must have sensed my lack of attention; He made Crazy Chaim look sane and open-minded. A Jewish landscape artist who lives in Philly but works in New York came to discuss Jewish-American Artists of the 20 th century: artists like Mark Rothko , Larry Rivers , and Philip Guston . More than anything, he spoke of men in distress. They were either immigrants themselves or children of immigrants who moved to this country to make new lives for themselves. Many of them lead destructive lives: women, alcohol, and depression defined their lives and many times inhibited and haunted their art. Like many 20 th century artists, they sought to make a statement through their art about the importance of the inner s

I thought there would be big adventures in Ortholand yesterday. With the exception of Crazy Chaim getting yelled at for singing to himself while we were supposed to be talking about Sholem Aleichem's Tevye the Dairyman (yet, again, he didn't even pretend to have the book), nothing exciting happened. We all got along…blah blah blah. Is it wrong that I'm disappointed by such boring developments? I'm hoping that next week when I give a presentation on Shalom Auslander (an former ultra-orthodox Jew, who lives in constant fear of a non-existent all-mighty God and feels his parents theologically abused him) that the discussion will perk up. I've sent the boys a short story about Seth, an Israelite in Egypt who feels uncomfortable with God's plague policy and Moses' need for more desirable real estate. I also sent them an episode of the greatest radio program ever— This American Life . Shalom Auslander reads " The Blessing Bee " from his book Foreskin&

As As you can tell by my earlier post, the orthodox boy's comments stayed with me all week. It made me feel a bit like a crazy person. However, I simply could not drop it. I was determined to bring it up in class on Wednesday. My Professor thought it was a good idea. Before class started, I ran into him in the hallway....(He needs a name. Whatever shall I call him? Crazy Chaim?). The week before, He'd told me that he hasn't read for class since his sophomore year of college. He said it with pride; I wanted to spit on him. I asked him if he'd read the two plays for this week's class. He looks at me, smirks with self-importance, and says. "Of course not, I haven't even bought the book." I wasn't ready to throw the dirty woman lecture at him, but I spit back, "I teach, I go to school, I have a kid, a husband, and a house. I read! You can't take time out of your life to read?" He smiles, starts walking away turns his head towards me an

In my class filled with orthodox boys, where I am the lone female, we spoke about the role of women in Jewish ritual. One of my classmates spoke up. (A young guy, raised in a conservative shul now  modern orthodox with a kippah on his head and long Tzittzit hanging  from under his t-shirt, almost long enough to brush the floor or, at the  very least, his knees) "You know what bothers me most? When women read from the Torah on the bima." "What?" I screamed in my head. Did he really just say that? You don't think women should read Torah on the bima?" I finally said out loud. I felt shocked and sick to my stomach even though I knew better. This boy is orthodox; to him, women and men have separate jobs in life. However, at that moment, I didn't know better. I felt like I'd been slapped in the face and spit on. "I'm a woman." I want to yell. "I'm a graduate student in Jewish studies, but I can't touch the Torah?" I want