Trauma is Trauma

Is anyone still here? 

I would perfectly understand if you've moved on. Obviously, I haven't been blogging.

It's not that I don't want to. It's that, to me, this annus horribilis has made my usual observations . . . petty. It has made most of the happenings in my life . . . inconsequential. 

How can I get upset about anything? How can I even write about anything, at all, when anything at all is so obviously trivial in the face of the suffering others have to bear? 

So even though I've had thoughts and observations, I couldn't bring myself to blog about them. It felt insensitive, for being too mundane. 

But then, a few months ago, "The Kidnapping I Can't Escape" by Taffy Brodesser-Akner was printed in the magazine section. I like her as a writer, and the article did not go where I thought it would. 

It begins with a retelling of a harrowing ordeal from 1974. Her neighbor, Jack Teich, was kidnapped from his driveway. During his nightmare, the kidnappers claimed they were for the Palestinian cause, but was later discovered to be a disgruntled ex-employee. Unbelievably, Jack was freed after the ransom was paid—which rarely occurs. 

As friends with his children, Akner thought of him as fine. He was fine, right? He went back to work. He went on with his life. He was fine.

Then the article shifts, much to the reader's puzzlement, as Akner describes the birth of her first child. I think every woman out there who has been in the same position of vulnerability and agony felt her experience. After hours of labor, the doctor performed a procedure on her—without her knowledge or consent—to speed up the process. 

When she returned home, she was a wreck. She describes, in excruciating detail, how she unspooled. Most assumed it was post-partum depression, but eventually another therapist informed her it was PTSD: she was traumatized. 

What followed then was shame. Other people go through trauma, she wondered, and they're fine. They're fine. How am I not fine, too? So she made sure that, at least, she appeared to be fine.

Then Akner was working on a novel, inspired in a way by her neighbor's kidnapping, and asked to meet him to discuss his experience. She didn't think anything of it; he was fine, after all, right? 

When she arrives, she sees how he carefully unlocks the door, then relocks it when she comes in. His property is under 24-hour security. Lights are always on. For the year after the kidnapping, he would go to work, but do no work. He couldn't focus. He wonders if he could have made a run for it into the woods next to his house, but then his family within would have been at the kidnappers' mercy.

Then Akner realized: Jack was not fine. Not remotely fine. Of course he wasn't fine. 

Tolstoy tells us that all happy families are alike and that each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. A few years ago, I wrote a different novel, my first novel, about divorce, which was inspired in part by the divorce stories of several people I know, and I came to the conclusion that, actually, all divorces are exactly alike. I tell you this because I’ve now come to understand the same thing about trauma: Happy, well-adjusted people are all different. The traumatized are exactly alike. I’m about to tell you a story that is nothing like a violent kidnapping — almost laughably so — but what I’ve learned over the years is that trauma is trauma. Something terrible happens, beyond what is in our own personal capacity to cope with, and the details don’t matter as much as the state we’re thrown into. Our bodies and brains have not evolved to reliably differentiate a rape at knife point from a job loss that threatens us with financial ruin or from the dismantling of our world by our parents’ divorce. It’s wrong, but explain that to your poor, battered autonomic nervous system.

Luke holds that we were all traumatized by 10/7. I had stupidly watched Instagram reels that motzei Shabbos, and sobbed for days following. I sobbed on the train platform while my brother muttered to me, "We're in public, Lea." 

I'm not claiming my experience was the same as those who went through hell, or live half-lives of terror while their sons are in battle. But pain is pain. One person's agony doesn't cancel out another's. 

This goes for other pain we may experience in life—not just a terrorist attack and subsequent war.

To be continued.

"Peony"

I have been quiet this last few months. Obviously, nothing that I've been thinking of sharing has seemed important. The words that usually chase each other in my head have been rather indolent. 

But I would like to summon the interest to begin again, for writing is my . . . thing. 

In the last few months, I was introduced to the book "Peony" by Pearl S. Buck (author of the more well known "The Good Earth"). Apparently, Madame Buck was a prolific writer, having written many, many books. 

"Peony" is applicable to my audience because it has a rather surprising topic: The Jews of China. Apparently, Jewish traders settled in China has early as the 9th century (or even earlier) and established communities. There, they lived in peace, the Chinese having no quibble with them, to the point they intermarried. 

According to the historical postscript, Buck was not very accurate in terms of timeline, but it takes place somewhere in the 1800s. While the book is called "Peony," it's really about David, the young man of the household. 

The family is a wealthy one, prosperous traders. The patriarch, Ezra, has a Jewish father and a Chinese mother, a fact that his pious wife, Naomi, abhors. Ezra immerses himself in Chinese culture, while Naomi is a fervent Jew, who upholds all the practices and fiercely maintaining a distance from their Chinese neighbors. David, their son, finds himself caught between two worlds. 

Peony is a bondmaiden who was acquired in childhood to be a playmate for David. A bondmaiden was neither a lowly servant, nor quite a member of the family. She helps run the household, and adores David. 

I had always thought that America was the first time that Jews were accepted, which led to assimilation, but apparently that was not so. Because the Chinese held no primitive grudge against these Jewish transplants, they, too, assimilated. 

Buck also explains why the pull was so great: The Chinese sought pleasure. Why not be happy if that was possible? The Jews, however, espoused what they deemed to be unnecessary restriction, along with a lot of sobbing and moaning. No wonder David struggles so. 

Buck writes simply, and the book is an pleasant read until it takes a horror movie turn. Additionally, it shouldn't be expected that Buck should have an accurate understanding of Jewish law. For instance, it is written more than once that "Jewish men do not have multiple wives," when that rule was established by an Ashkenazi rabbi, and considering how Ezra is most definitely not a descendant of an Ashkenazi lineage, that wouldn't be an issue. 

Also, the matter of matrilineal descent; many who identify as Jews in the book would not be considered halachically Jewish, but according to the postscript the Jews of China went by patrilineal descent. These descendants still exist today in China, and they are proud of their Jewish heritage, even lobbying with the newly founded Chinese government to be considered a minority people. 

I don't want to provide any more spoilers, but I do recommend it as a fascinating read about a topic that is not common knowledge.    

We Shall Live

So, how's everyone holding up? 

Not too good? 

Yeah. I can relate. 

I've been thinking out loud with Han—who mostly listens politely then returns to his perpetual doomscrolling—about what is the takeaway here? We've been slammed between the eyes with horror, sadness, fear for our trapped families . . . 

I managed to listen to two shiurim last week. The first was redemption of captives via the strict lens of halacha. What is allowed, what is not. I liked it. It kept to clear guidelines, made by the elders of the past, in times when captivity was definitely more common than today. 

The second . . . to preface, I usually enjoy this rabbi's thoughts. I'm often very taken with what he has to say. But this time, I was left unsettled. 

He made sure to open that we do not judge. No one can say why some were killed and others were spared. But he brought a myriad of anecdotes about how keeping Shabbos seemingly saved a number of individuals. Either they would have been at the rave, or within the kibbutzim themselves, they were ignored by the terrorists. 

We should learn, the rabbi said, that we should be upholding Shabbat better. We aren't judging those who were killed! Not at all! But we should still learn from this. 

This bothered me. I figured out why. 

The rabbi is from a Sephardi community that has a different background than those of Ashkenazim. This community, as a whole, has been slowly progressing in better observance over the years. Nor did they experience the war the way European Jewry did. 

That is what I kept thinking. What of the Holocaust? My great-grandparents were all observant. They lived in towns, not vast, cosmopolitan cities, full of impious distractions (the way I practically do). They kept Shabbos. They kept kosher. They kept everything. 

Straight to the gas. Along with children and grandchildren.  

This Sephardi rabbi doesn't have this history. He doesn't have this narrative. Maybe some Sephardim shrug to themselves that the Ashkenazi Jews had it coming with their Reform movements, with their attending theater on Friday nights. But six million people weren't all the same. Chassidic movements were completely wiped out. Reb Elchonon Wasserman, murdered. Along with my great-grandmother, who would say Tehillim every chance she had. Along with my great-aunt and her six children. Along with my Zeidy's wife and little girl. 

Additionally, it's not like the terrorists were from an alien planet. They knew it was Shabbos. They knew it was Yom Tov. They chose that day, specifically, for its sleepiness and relaxation. They knew people's guards would be down. 

Third point: Lasting change does not come from fear. Embracing mitzvos must come from a place of free choice. Otherwise it will not last. 

So what is, the takeaway, then? 

I guess I realized that there isn't one. This is the Jewish experience. We can sit and parse our logic and facts, but I just remember that scene after the pogrom in Anatevka, when the wedding party begins to sadly clean up the damage, and Tevye looks to the sky, asking God "Why?" 

Then he continues on, the same Jew, enduring. Like Dara Horn said.

Or maybe it's just b'damayich chaii—by your blood, you shall live. These words I invoked at my sons' brissim. This phrase can have more than one meaning, I realize. For the more they persecute, the more we proliferate. 

As Obi-Wan Kenobi said, "If you strike me down, I'll become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

But . . . I'm still so sad.   

The Old Heroes

 Another takeaway from Picard 3: 

For those who actually have an interest in watching it, I'll try to keep it vague enough not to cause spoilers. 

The whole intent of this Season was nostalgia. They brought back the original TNG cast, threw in some DS9 villains, and featured a couple of Voyager characters. 

*Sniff* It was perfect. 

Enough time has passed that our TNG peeps are parents, like LaForge and Riker. This brought a new dimension, seeing them as family folk, no longer willing to risk their lives every Tuesday for the heck of it. 

Yet they are also, quite clearly . . . old. The youngest actor is Levar, at 66—everyone else is close to or above 70.

Yet it is because of their age and experience that they end up saving the galaxy. 

There was this tweet a few years back by Kathryn Ivey: 

Why is "the chosen one" always a teenager? We're really gonna put the fate of the universe on someone with an undeveloped prefrontal cortex? Give me a story with a chosen one who is a 42 year old mom that has already seen some s**t and is totally out of f**ks to give

She has a point. The "chosen one" is usually a clueless child that has this insane burden thrust upon him. He doesn't need life experience, because he was selected to be an unwitting tool for forces beyond his ken. With regard to general fictional teenage heroes—adults are the clueless ones who need saving. 

It sort of reinforces the trope that adults "don't get it," and yes, while that may be true for some people who were stupid their whole lives, most adults, due to their age alone, are "it-getters" (credit to Jon Stewart). 

So while it may be that I am watching the last vestiges of my youth trickle through my fingers, it is also with the dawning horror that the kids today will find me irrelevant for my inability to take a decent selfie. 

But there is more to life than technological savvy. 

There was a scene in Picard where Jean-Luc is dining in a bar near the Academy, and he is besieged by starry-eyed cadets begging him for background details of his exploits. Jean-Luc has become an icon, a once hero. But he's not a relic of the past. He's not done yet. It's his experience that keeps him from becoming obsolete.

Ma would get so frustrated when she told us to do something a certain way and we wouldn't listen. She wanted to save us the trouble, that she had learned the right way to go about it, so couldn't we just listen?! She was usually right.

Moshe Rabbeinu is the closest we have to a "chosen one," and he didn't start leading until he was 80. He had life experience first as a prince, shepherd, husband, father. Because we don't believe that being chosen means you magically get there with no effort. The chosen people were chosen to bring our excellence, and we failed to such an extent that we were persecuted and murdered for 3,000 years. 

Moshiach is gonna be old.

Inherent Value

NYTimes featured a rather long article about Greta Gerwig and her Barbie movie. In the very end of the piece, there's this bit from out of nowhere: 

She told me that when she was growing up, her Christian family's closet friends were observant Jews; they vacationed together and constantly tore around each other's homes. She would also eat with them on Friday nights for Shabbat dinner, where blessings were sung in Hebrew, including over the children at the table. May God bless you and protect you. May God show you favor and be gracious to you. May God show you kindness and grant you peace. Every Friday the family's father would rest his hand on Gerwig's head, just as he did on his own children's, and bless her too. 

"I remember this feeling the sense of, 'Whatever your wins and losses were for the week, whatever you did or didn't do, when you come to this table, your value has nothing to do with that,'" Gerwig told me. "'You are a child of God at this table. And that's your value.' I remember feeling so safe in that and feeling so, like, enough." 

Sometimes we need the perspective of an outsider to make us see the values of our own world. 

This bracha I would usually associate with pomp and circumstance, when the kohanim would seriously remove their shoes and hide themselves beneath their talleisim. 

Yet that same bracha is accessible to the common man, for any father, outside of the priestly class, to bless his children. For me, the Sabbath Blessing in Fiddler on the Roof always sends me bawling; I would sing it to Ben as a baby (he finally realized I can't sing and he doesn't let me anymore). 

 

There is this pressure on us to do, to achieve, to accomplish. Yet we can't always sustain that. Sometimes our victories don't look like much of a victory. 

But it doesn't matter. Because the world was created for each and every one of us, as we are. For as a parent loves their child unconditionally, so to God loves us.

In and Proud

While I was born in the US, I was raised with European, old-world values, which would often have American contemporaries not quite getting where I'm coming from. 

In high school, the morahs couldn't really make up their mind: one minute it was all, "Eisav soneh es Yaakov," how the world hates us, etc., and the next it would be, "If you are an outwardly proud Jew, everyone respects you." 

Exasperated, I tried to counter their rather flawed logic, and said that we are not in our own country, and we shouldn't be flaunting our Jewishness, that my grandfather, who survived the war, said this. The teacher sneered, "Oh, so you believe in 'when in Rome.'" 

Another classmate, from the same background as myself, chimed in, but the morah could not or would not understand what we meant. I was in near tears as she insinuated that my grandfather, who fasted on Yom Kippur while starving in the labor camps, was not a proud Jew.

If we went out to the city on a rare Chol HaMoed outing, my father told my brothers to tuck in their tzitzis and wear a baseball cap. As for attending the Israeli Day Parade? Nuh-uh, not happening.

Some take this to mean that we are not proud Jews. Then I realized that "proud" nowadays means "out and proud." Meaning, if I am proud of who I am, that means I have to announce it to the world, and expect that world in turn to celebrate me. 

But what does my own personal pride have to do with the world at large? Isn't that my own, internal, business? 

Han works primarily with non-Jews. And you know what? They aren't always so nice about him being observant. I myself endured years of verbal smack about Judaism from my secular Jewish employer (to be fair, he was also sexist and racist).

Oh, there always a story here and there, about so-and-so who went to work somewhere and their boss had a wonderful experience with a Jew and because of that makes him head partner or something, but for every story like that, there are plenty of examples when an observant Jew was discriminated against by a non-Jew or even Jewish (secular) boss. 

In high school, they regaled us with stories about frum women who refused to shake hands with men, and how they were accommodated, and even admired. While in the NY Times The Ethicist, a woman wrote in, irate, that after a business deal her frum counterpart wouldn't shake her hand and Roger Cohen (cough cough), the ethicist at the time, affirmed her belief that this was sexist behavior and she was within her rights to no longer work with him. 

We can't have it both ways. Our people survived through thousands of years of violence and murder—now we're going to claim that to be a proud Jew means announcing it? Not so long ago, outward pride got you dead. 

My great-grandfather, it was said, was a Belzer chassid. He kept his streimel "in the credenza." Meaning, it never left the house. He wore it at his own table, never outdoors.

My Zeidy would say that if you want to be an "out and proud" Jew, make aliyah. That's our land, our place. But chutz la'aretz? Keep your elbows tucked in. This isn't our land. Yes, it did a wonderful job melding in all sorts of different races and cultures, but everyone experienced racism (even the Italian and Irish immigrants a century ago).  

I'm a proud Jew, even if you don't believe me.  

Your Mitzvah

Ta told me a concept recently, which he ascribed to the Rambam (disclaimer: I didn't fact check). Why is there 613 mitzvos? We could just have one, and do it over and over. 

Because amongst that 613, there will be one that will speak to each of us, as individuals. That mitzvah, the one that we cling to and cherish, is our unique way of practicing our faith. 

Perhaps due to the Baader-Meinhof effect, I then saw a reel on IG (can't find it again to give credit) and the gal was speaking about the same thing. She said her thing is saying Tehillim, while her friend loves to bake challah. 

I, too, have discovered my own mitzvah. I'm not comfortable with sharing it, but it's in the chessed realm. It suits me. It doesn't involve much human interaction (which tends to make me anxious) yet still does good, I hope. 

I was thinking about my sister-in-law, who visits elderly people. I don't have that ability. When I was in pre-1A and first grade, my class was constantly visiting the nursing home next door. I found it torturous then, and 30 years later, I still find it impossible. I don't know how to do small talk. 

This has nothing to do with being uncomfortable with old people. In general, I suck when it comes to interactions with strangers. Once, by a simcha, I saw someone standing alone, and I felt a swell of goodwill. I sailed over, intent on making this poor soul feel welcomed, and it was a wreck. She ended up taking pity on me and brought our lame conversation to a thankful end.  

Now, some may say I should try, practice, comfort zone, blah blah blah, but it's a full-time job keeping Anakin alive, ok? Seriously, that kid is turning all of my hair white. 

In the meantime, I still want to find something that's my own, that speaks to my strengths. And I found it. 

So, if you haven't found yours yet, I highly recommend you do. It does wonders for the self-esteem.   

Identity, Practice, and Belief

My brain can't handle most literature nowadays unless it's of the "fluffy" variety. Enter chick-lit! Even though I tend to be aggravated by formulaic premises, I don't have to concentrate so much when shrieking offspring launches themselves at my head. 

I was reading Mr. Perfect on Paper and I was sucked in by the overload of Jewish references. I can't figure out which denomination the heroine, Dara, belongs to—she drinks non-kosher wine at a restaurant, but she has impressive knowledge of obscure halacha (turns out the author was a rabbinical student). 

But despite the heavy Jewish details, there was something missing. 

Simultaneously, Han and I started watching Rough Diamonds. I was put off by the first episode, so didn't watch further, while Han got in too deep and was forced to hate-watch it. 

The chassidim depicted make it seem that they were simply born into this lifestyle, and that's the only reason why they live it. Their behavior becomes horribly despicable in their attempts to salvage the family business—despite the fact that chassidim don't usually keep their identity in their livelihoods (all they had to do was dabble elsewhere). They fashmear people, they steal, all without qualm. Um . . . 

Then I realized what's going on here. Judaism is presented as an identity. Nothing more. There's no spirituality. There's no mention of God. Bupkis.

Dara follows the rules, or rather which rules she wants to follow. But there's no feeling behind this practice except for "well, this is what my grandparents did." Not one mention of the Lord. It's just "We've survived for thousands of years so I guess this is what I gotta do." 

It made me think, in contrast, of Shtisel. There was a scene when Akiva, after falling out with his father, is offered to stay in the guest-house of a fellow artist, a rather nice frum girl. He's painting and painting, and then realizes what time it is. He's horrified to find out it's the afternoon—and he hadn't put on tefillin that day. He's so upset he gathers up his things and bolts. 

Akiva isn't home. No one is telling him what to do. He can do whatever he wants. But his religion is his priority. He hurries back to the milieu that will encourage him to observe it properly. 

It's not just an identity or practice. It's a belief. 

Endure

I've FINALLY started reading Dara Horn's People Love Dead Jews (which should be on every curriculum everywhere) and she mentions Sholom Aleichem's Tevye the Milkman (also a "fun" read).

Her point is that Jewish-themed novels don't contain the typical "ephiphany" that other novels expect. For instance, Tevye experiences horrific hardship, but stays the same. "He endures," she says. 

After Ma died, my sister and I started talking. A lot. We were in this unfamiliar milieu, and we were stumbling through it together. We did have a number of epiphanies between us . . . and a number of conversational threads that go nowhere. 

One topic is the mistaken belief that hardship = betterment. Meaning, that if a person has gone through pain, then they "must" also be kinder, more empathetic, more generous. 

Or . . . that struggle merely strengthens their selfishness. 

Or . . . they simply stay the same. 

When Ma got sick, the one word on my mind was "endure." To get through it. To not fall apart, because I can't fall apart right now. There was no thought of "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" (not true, btw) It was survival. I don't need to be stronger or better on the other side. I just need to be strong enough right now. 

I have known many Holocaust survivors in my time, and I think it is a mistake that they are always viewed in context of "the war." That they were the people they were because of "the war." That was certainly my childish perspective.

But they were people like any other. Maybe the war changed them. Maybe it didn't.

And, as Dara Horn says, there is something to be said for enduring. Jews endure. We stay the same, for the most part, over the centuries and persecutions. 

Enduring is enough.   

Human Error

Recently, I made a pretty bad mistake. 

What was particularly frustrating was that this was the second time I've made this mistake. I had thought at the first incident that, at least, I would never make this mistake again. Well, there goes that theory. 

There are, BH, no epic, lasting consequences. But I have still been berating myself while Han insists that it's ok, to err is human. It could have been worse. Okely-dokely.

His logic was not sufficient for me. I was furious at myself for my carelessness, finding myself unworthy. 

This led me to ponder the nature of mistakes altogether, and whilst in bed, my thoughts unspooling, I had a vague image in my mind of Ben, one day, making a mistake, and what my response would be. 

My imaginary, future self said, "Even the avos made mistakes." 

That jolted me. Wait. Even the avos made mistakes. 

The avos and the imahos. Then Moshe, Aharon, Miriam, Dovid, etc. But they were still beloved by Hashem, and our icons.

While some believe that every action of our foreparents was perfection, I follow the school of many a rabbi that our ancestors were actually quite human, and prone to human error. 

There is a difference between aveiros and mistakes. But they did make boo-boos, which did have long-term consequences. 

They did the best they could at the time. It's easy to look back 2,500 years and nitpick, but I think that's not the point.

We are given the gift of teshuva and mechila in order to rectify our mistakes. Judaism doesn't demand perfection. It knows that's beyond each of us. But what about our gedolim? Some counter. They were perfection! 

Really? How do you know that? Biographers cannot be that honest, because any sort of attribution of humanity on our modern-day sages is considered slanderous (see the banning of "The Making of a Gadol," which Luke gleefully acquired before the price shot through the roof). 

Think a minute. If the ancients messed up, is it so improbable that the contemporaries have, too? 

I recall an interaction I had, close to 20 years ago, when I first started college. A classmate had discovered I was an observant Jew, and breathlessly asked "what happens" if I, say, mistakenly eat non-kosher. 

I shrugged. "Well, what can you do?"

She was puzzled. What did she expect? I would get struck by lightning? Dragged before a tribunal and flogged? 

We are expected to do our best. Even if our best can seem mediocre to others. But our best is our best.  

Who Knows Best?

"The Women's Balcony" has been on my to-watch list for quite a while, and then I saw that it was now free on Prime. Chap arein! 

It was a charming movie, but it also made me think. 

The premise (SPOILERS AHEAD, ABANDON SHIP) is about a small, Sephardi (I think) shul in Israel. The film opens with a Shabbos bar mitzvah, and the close community are all trooping to shul, carrying various dishes of food to contribute to the festivities. 

That scene was so lovely. A beautiful, idyllic family of shul members, all uniting in a simcha.

But then the ezras nashim collapses, and the shul has to be closed. As their beloved, elderly rabbi falls into a funk, a young, more chareidi model wiggles in, and the men are initially taken with him. He preaches that the women should be covering their hair. That the women should repent, because after all, it was their section that was destroyed. 

Soon the members are divided. The wives are furious at their husbands. Friends are turning on friends—all in the name of halacha. 

Eventually, the new rabbi oversteps, and he is ousted, and the shul returns to its former tranquility. 

We learned in school, that if you see someone doing wrong you should tell them so—but only if you know they will hear you. Then again, "an imperfect peace is better than a perfect controversy." 

What is supposed to be our focus? To ensure that everyone else is following the law somewhat correctly, or should we hold hands and sing kumbaya?

Ma would oft say, "Your guf, and my neshama," meaning it is not our business where other people stand spiritually. We should only be concerned, at most, for others' physical safety. I'm of the same opinion, that it is not my place to be judge and jury, to decide that others are transgressing and must repent to specifically my ways. 

My vote is with kumbaya.

OK, I Take It Back

 Al tiftach peh l'Satan. 

I've found he has impeccable timing. 

Keeping in mind my prior post, announcing that I am not working on myself right now, thank you very much, I was, just yesterday, thrust into a situation in which I would have to work on myself. 

A week before Rosh HaShana, I was tested. It was definitely a test. 

But I'm not sure on what subject. 

Nor do I know what the right answer was. 

Did I pass? I have no idea. Could I have done more? Should have done less? Who knows? 

There are times in life when it is clear what the "right" thing to do is. But more often, it's murky. On the one hand . . . on the second hand . . . on the fifteenth hand . . .  

It's a miracle I sleep at all. 

I suppose I have to be reminded from time to time (or often) not to get smug about anything. Because it's always when I've decided to relax in some way, whether it be mentally, spiritually, emotionally, physically, something comes flying at me like a bat outta hell to get me to wake up. 

Maybe that's what my test was? A friendly reminder? Hm.

In any case, a goodly year to all. 

Oh, and while I have you, please give this shiur by Rabbi Joey Haber a try. I managed to squeeze him in while driving to an appointment, and he's da bomb. This one is excellent, too. 

No "Growth" For Me

I've been wondering if I should feel like a "bad Jew." 

I don't mean pork, obviously. I mean in that once I had kids I've been in, as my friend describes, "survival mode." All day, all night, it's about keeping my offspring alive and somewhat content. It's a full time job.  

The shiurim I used to listen to have fallen to the wayside. When can I listen to them? How could I even hear them, with two loud babies? 

Even my reading material—when I finally get a chance to read, I need something light and escapist. I spend all day tending to the needs of two self-centered creatures; when I get the chance, I want my mind to unspool, not get worked up about my failings. 

Then I saw a reel on IG from a frum woman who feels exhausted from the constant emphasis on "growth" (I personally hate that word; I've always associated them with tumors). Are we ever permitted to just . . . be?

It's not like I'm twiddling my thumbs. I spend my days telling myself not to lose it with Ben, not to lose it with Ben, not to lose it with Ben, only to lose it with Ben. He's testing boundaries right and left, and it's testing my temper. 

It's not like I feel guilty. I come from European stock, which means they find the highest value in mothers killing themselves for the next generation, without demanding more.

Elul is a conversation of dun-dun-DUN!!!, but I don't care. I don't have the energy to care. I'm tapped out. 

Because it's technically 24/7 chessed, people. I've already resigned myself that Ben will marry a girl who can't stand me and they'll rarely visit. 

I know, I know, seek professional help.

I think that many of us have a lot on our plates. Some of us are caregivers, part of the sandwich generation to boot. They are asking God for assistance just to get through the day, and can't spare a thought to spiritual improvement. 

In a funny twist, I find that I'm in a better frame of mind on the Yomim Noraim than I used to. Pre-motherhood: Invariably, at davening, someone would bring their kids, make a racket, disturb my prayer, and make me so angry I knew I failed the divine test. For the last few years I've been home, in pajamas, davening sporadically, taking care of my offspring, but calm and mellow and exuding peace and love to all humankind (sort of). 

Last year my sister-in-law told me, "I've turned into you!" Now that her youngest is old enough she's started going to back to shul on Rosh HaShana/Yom Kippur, only to be driven mad by the antics of children. 

"The munching of the chips—the popping of those sensory toys—I just can't—" 

Maybe it's best that I'm home, doing mundane things on a sacred day. But the work is sacred to, in its own way.

A Temporary Victim

In 2017, Indian comedian Hari Kondabolu released a documentary called "The Problem with Apu," detailing the racist depiction of the character. Eventually, due to negative publicity, "The Simpsons" removed the character from the show. 

But not all Indians felt the same. Akaash Singh, also a comedian, has a special called "Bring Back Apu." In a NY Times article, he explains why he is pro-Apu. The article opens with a quote from his special:  

Here is a brown man married to a beautiful brown woman, owns his own business, selling overpriced products to unwitting white people. Apu is not racist. He’s the American dream.

But he explains his perspective further: 

Singh is quick to compliment Kondabolu, who he said reached out to him after hearing him on a podcast. “He said I implied he didn’t work hard and I said I don’t think that at all,” Singh said, praising Kondabolu’s joke writing and work ethic. “My issue is with your mentality,” Singh said he told his fellow comic. “The victimhood mentality. The mentality weakens us as a people.”

There was an organization that's purpose used to be enlightening frei Jews as to what being frum meant. It did so cheerfully, educating readers without being insulted by the oddball assumptions they had to clarify. 

But as the various minorities began to clamber up their soapboxes, they also shifted. Now, with furrow-browed intent, they focus on misrepresentations in media, demanding for change. 

When Singh talked about victimhood, it occurred to me why I found the change in attitude disconcerting. 

As you know, I'm a descendant of survivors. Not only did they survive the war (dayenu!) they then had to flee their rebuilt lives 10 years later when the die-hard communists came to power. They had to move to a new country and start again, again. 

It was not right, on any level, what they had to go through. But if they had stopped to focus only on their injustice, they would not have achieved anything. 

If you kvetch too much, no one will want to be around you. Including your own family. And you don't get anywhere. 

My grandparents were well within their rights to collapse into helpless mush. But they didn't. They were victims once. They didn't stay victims forever. 

Constantly focusing on those who have sinned against you isn't healthy. Nor does it accomplish anything. 

This organization could still do the work they do . . . with a little more humor. Less "this has to stop!!!" Rabid racists won't change their mind anyway, and most people are simply misinformed, not malicious. 

I'm not saying they aren't right. But being right isn't always enough.

“There’s merit to both sides,” Singh said. “I’m not completely right, as much as I would love to be.”

Shtisel Observations

 I've been rewatching Shtisel. The first time I saw it was after Han and I married, before it was on Netflix. Han bought the DVDs, and we slowly enjoyed it, the one show we watched together. We enjoyed it at such a sluggish pace that halfway through it hit Netflix. 

Now, I'm binging. My memory sucks in general and I have very little recall as to the plot. 

But the whole time that I savor, I still have some complaints. *SPOILERS ahead*

One of the basic positives of observant life is family. Emphasis is placed on young marriage and parenthood. Shulem says in the show that he has six children, and five are married. There's a lot of people there to have your back. 

The show opens with the matriarch, Devorah, as having recently passed. I can personally attest that such a death leaves a mark in the family. But one thing is for sure, Shulem and Akive would be having dinner or Shabbos by one of the other children's houses at some point. Instead, Shulem is dining alone, or hopefully visiting the homes of various widows or divorcees for a hot supper.  

Even later, when Giti has her own restaurant, Shulem is still sadly on the search for a decent dinner. C'mon, people.

Additionally, when Lippe vanishes, Giti does not ask for her family's help at all. Even though Kive is unmarried and currently unoccupied (broodily chain smoking on the balcony is not a valid activity), she never calls upon him for help with her five kids. Instead, Ruchami is appointed the sole caregiver while Giti works. 

While we know Giti was terrified of the community finding out and becoming an object of pity, her father would definitely be the one person she could definitely rely on to keep her secret. 

Instead, she struggles alone, in terror, trying desperately to support her family. While she didn't have to accept her father's money, she could have accepted other forms of help—emotional support, babysitting.  

As a side point: What do the writers of the show have against women? They're either dead or dying or near death. Devorah is dead; Bubbe falls down the stairs, recovers, then dies; Rebbetzin Ehrblich, my favorite character, commits suicide; initially, Nuchem's wife is unseen, but alive, but then is also dead; Libbe mysteriously dies two months after having a baby; Ruchami almost dies in childbirth. At least kill them off in more original ways. 

The show does a great job of showing that observant women are not oppressed, that they are strong, capable, and respected. So why are they all dead?

The Jewish Heart

Unlike Han and my father, I do not "do" Holocaust books or films. There are a few exceptions, as there usually are in life, but I do not actively seek out their company. 

But since I'm the one who reads the Book Review, I introduced Han to Dara Horn's People Love Dead Jews, and Han is smitten (I might actually make PLDJ another exception). He prefers audiobooks, and he played me a segment he found interesting. 

The essay he played I was able to find online, on the Smithsonian website. 

Anne Frank's memoir has been insanely popular, worldwide. While it is about Jews hiding from the Nazis, it doesn't really deal with the genocide currently taking place. Other memoirs, that do recount the acts of horror, are not remotely as popular. 

Horn cites the work of Zalmen Gradowski, a Sonderkommando who was later killed in a failed uprising. Reading a passage Horn inserted into her essay, I was breathless at how a man who was forced to be a part of such indescribable crimes can not only remain religious, but recount the murders of his charges with compassion. 

Any other soul in such a position would have numbed himself, refusing to connect to the acts he is forced to commit. but Gradowski even details an example of a young woman who not only defies a Nazi official but manages to hit him too before she is taken away. She was no sheep led to the slaughter (a metaphor I have always disliked). 

Sonderkommandos were dead men walking, on limited time (they were killed every three months and replaced). And yet, Gradowski managed to hold on to his humanity and faith, to use beautiful language to describe ugly actions. His empathy remained, even while the Nazis tried every way to burn it out of him.

"Deserve"?

"Deserve" is a word that makes me nervous. 

It's a word that is bandied about a lot nowadays. Strangers on social media, for instance, exhort that all of the individuals amongst the faceless masses "deserve" love.

I hear parents say that their kids work so hard in school, they "deserve" a vacation. 

This mentality is one that I find disturbing. As we very well know, life on this earth is not based on merit. Hello, how many children were murdered in the war? How many innocents were slaughtered over the millennia? That's not counting good ol' fashioned disease and famine and whatnot. 

But today's generation likes to say, "You deserve!" 

Judaism is about responsibility, not rights. We have to do our part; there's no guarantee we'll be thusly "rewarded." Kids still have to do their homework even if they won't get rewarded for it. For me, one of the last line of Koheles says it all: "The end of the matter, all having been heard: fear God, and keep His commandments; for this is the whole man." A Jew gotta do what a Jew gotta do. That's it. 

In the Wall Street Journal, Crispin Sartwell expresses similar misgivings in "What Have I Done to Deserve This?" He lists all the things he's been told he deserves, by people who don't even know him, and observes: 

. . . if I believed that I already deserved all good things, I might stop trying to improve. After all, I couldn't become worthier or more deserving than I am right now. Nor could you or anybody else. . . some quibble that praising everyone in exactly the same terms makes saints and monsters morally equal. It's about time, is all I can say to that. Even the worst person in the world deserves the most reliable 5G network. 

Wait—can that be right? 

Constantly being told what I deserve puts me in a state of anxiety. . . I'm not entirely sure I deserve . . . I reflect on all the things I've done wrong . . . 

Sometimes I worry that I actually deserve to be penalized rather than awarded . . .  

He's being sarcastic for most of this piece, obviously. But you get the point. The world doesn't operate on a merit system. 

I was listening to a shiur about Dina, about all the various commentaries and their takes on it. This one says it was her fault, this one says it was Yaakov's fault, this one says it was Leah's fault. But the Abarbanel says: It was no one's fault.  

Following contemporary tragedy, we don't try to find causes or reasons. The good die, or live. The bad die, or live. There's no cause to be found. Dina was abducted and raped the same way many women have been since the dawn of time. To put it crudely, **** happens, and there isn't always a message to be learned. There isn't always a way to prevent tragedy.

And we definitely do not get what we think we deserve.  

"Jewish" Food?

Is there such a thing as "Jewish food"? 

I belong to a number of Jewish food groups. Some are more cultural, shall we say, than religious. During the pre-Chanukah season, the page was obviously going berserk for latke recipes. 

One person asked if she could make latkes in the oven. "The point is that they're fried!" she was sternly admonished. Since this was the more cultural page, I was amused. Is this what people think is important about the holiday—frying? The message of anti-assimilation is more vital, me thinks—and relevant.

Potatoes, to begin with, were not around in the times of the Chashmonaim. Chanukah food used to be cheese fritters, but Eastern European Jews only had shmaltz, not oil, to fry with. They therefore couldn't use cheese, so they relied on the sturdy potato that is readily available from winter storage. 

So what we have here is a holiday dish with tenuous ties to the original holiday. Now that we know about smoke point, frying in extra virgin olive oil is not recommended. So, does frying in sunflower oil or butter or shmaltz make something a Chanukah food? Shouldn't we be making more of an effort to consume olive oil, which doesn't necessarily mean frying? (I heartily recommend these cookies instead. Or, even better, good ol' salad vinaigrette.)  

My upbringing revolved around paprikash. The only thing that's Jewish about it is that typical Hungarian paprikash is usually served with sour cream, and the Jewish version is not.  

Jews are a bendy people—that's how we've survived. We learned, as we were shunted from place to place, how to pick up bits and pieces from the current culture around us and make it our own. Like braided challah—it has taken over our lives so much that women think bread HAS to be braided for Shabbos, when, no. That's an echo of a European fad in the 1500s, ladies. If women knew bread for Shabbos doesn't require braiding, maybe they would make it more often. 

I happen to like chremslach better than latkes—and both are fried potato patties. Yet the former is "for" Pesach, and the latter is "for" Chanukah. There's no rhyme or reason to it. It's just that in Eastern Europe, people ate potatoes all the time, and had to make do. 

So no, I'm not going to start deep frying on Chanukah just because "you have to fry" on Chanukah. We don't "have" to, especially if frying makes you nervous (it makes me nervous!) and/or not really worth the work for you.

And lately, my timid tastebuds have been experimenting with more "exotic" options, like tahina and silan (I'm so daring, she said sarcastically). 

It's all Jewish food. There's no right or wrong way of doing it, except if it's treif.

Tradition vs. Observance

I read The Dinner Party by Brenda Janowitz, and I rather enjoyed it. It's about a Passover Seder hosted and attended by traditional Jews and the drama that ensues. 

One passage: 

The house Alan lives in now is far different than the house he grew up in. A home filled with two Holocaust survivors who feared going to the dentist and refused to stand on line. Parents who never slept at night. . . his childhood home was cold. There had been no rugs on the floor; the furniture was sparse. Nothing adorning the walls. It was as if his parents wanted to be ready, if they ever needed to again, to run and hide. 

Alan wasn't allowed to have friends over. "Who are those people?" his mother would ask. Alan's parents didn't trust anyone but other Holocaust survivors. They didn't entirely trust them, either. It was easy to avoid the outside world in their tiny Brooklyn enclave. His father worked as a haberdasher just blocks from their home. His mother rarely left the house. The only socializing they did was on the holidays, and that was with other Holocaust survivors. People Alan barely knew. They had no family. 

Alan was embarrassed by his parents. He was scared of them. He wanted very little to do with them. 

I don't know if Janowitz is depicting a situation that she knows personally, or if it was invented by her as how survivors reacted to their experience. But I found it to be an interesting contrast to my grandparents, and Han's. 

I don't really know of any survivors (and I know many) who lived their lives as described above. They didn't perpetually live in fear. If anything, many were joyful. 

I couldn't help but wonder if religion played any part in the contrast. Does religion provide us with the structure for resilience? To be able to move forward, beyond pain, towards a more optimistic future? 

Hmmm.   

Neat Endings

Before the holiday season, I was forwarded an "inspirational" video about a young couple who had had a wrong done against them. The transgressor had acted with the best of intentions, but he had still grievously erred. Before Yom Kippur, he asked forgiveness from this couple. Initially, they were not sure if they could do it, but they ended up granting it. 

A few days later, the wife was in a terrible car crash, but she and her unborn child emerged unscathed. 

With a swell of violins, the video concludes with the reminder of the power of forgiveness. 

This didn't jive with me. 

Was this couple amazing for forgiving the wrong-doer? In my opinion, yes. If the video's message was that if this couple could forgive this fellow, then open your heart to mechilah, well, I would be behind that.

But it was the connection I was bothered by. Because life rarely has a perfect connection between one action and another. 

Is the video's message that if this couple had not freely given their forgiveness, the wife and unborn child would not have emerged unscathed? That is not a prediction that can be made.

What if there had been no car crash? There would be no story, that's for sure. "This young couple gave their forgiveness, and experienced no incidents on the road!" HaShem could have spared her from the car crash to begin with, right?

Do any of us arrive home safely and marvel at the miracle of our survival? Or try to examine our actions as to why we merited returning home in one piece? 

We don't. Because human nature takes such things for granted, while only according near-misses as miracles. 

What if our everyday, drama-free, crisis-absent (in other words, boring) existences is the very blessing we should be cherishing? 

There are plenty of sin-free souls who die in car crashes, or are taken in equally horrific ways (hello? Holocaust? Illness? Freak accidents? Etc.?) If we apply this premise to everyone, it would follow that they are/were guilty in some manner, or else they would have lived. Which is not Judaism. 

People should be inspired to do amazing good without the reminder of reward—or the belief that if they don't, well, there's a car crash waiting for you. Then that goodness is not freely given, but extracted through threats of cosmic lightning bolts. 

Someone once asked me for forgiveness. I was so bowled over by her request that I freely gave it. Do I know if that "saved" me in any way? I didn't "almost" get hit by an air conditioner, so I have no idea. And I don't need to know. 

The way Divinity operates . . . it's not my business. My job is to do my part, while keeping my puny human mind out of His methods.