Passion, Fire, and Self-Respect.

First it happened in the House with Joe Wilson. Then Kanye west spewed his guts without thinking on the VMAs. Whatever happened to self-respect? Restraint? The human filter of decency? Here we go ...

"So you're completely out of Selichot books?" he asked the clerk.

"Yup. But, you know, my shul is right down the road. I've got more than enough Selichot seforim there, and, you know, our's is a little bit, well, shorter. Because, you know, we're closer to G-d," the clerk said with a snicker, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

I think he was joking, but maybe only half joking. And this was how our weekend in New Jersey for Shabbat and Selichot ended. Sans selichot seforim and with a clerk making jokes left and right about being "closer" and nearer to G-d.

I don’t want to say I didn’t have a good time in West Orange, but I feel like there were a lot of things playing against me. We arrived at Tuvia’s mom’s place about 10 minutes before the absolute latest candle lighting time (that was using the 18 minute leeway). I’d wanted to shower, but there was no time. Tuvia ran off to shul, and I, being frustrated, exhausted, and all-around grumpy, stayed home, lamenting my hair (sad, I know). Add to this that the weather was miserable, and, well, this kvetcher is set.

In the morning, I arose to the most hideous display of Chavi-hair ever. Tuvia suggested I throw on a hat “Want to be married today?” he asked. I thought about it for about a half-second and decided that no, that would not be a good idea. I didn’t want to confuse all the little old ladies and family friends. I did my hair the best I could, got dressed in a new skirt, and plodded off to shul. Tuvia’s grandmother set me down in a back-ish seat of the shul to daven, because I actually wanted to focus on my davening, and didn’t want to intermix with the chatty folks. And I was good to go until right before the Torah service when these women came and sat all around me. I suddenly realized that there are some things that I will never – I repeat never – be able to adjust to in the Orthodox shul.

I understand that there’s this unspoken thing that says that it’s okay to schmooze in shul during davening. That the older women are permitted because they’ve seen it all, and I get that. But most of the time they whisper. They have the respect – the self-respect – to whisper. But the women who go to shul, sit in the sanctuary, and do nothing but talk? I don’t get it. If you’re going to shul to socialize, not to daven a SINGLE WORD, then why are you sitting in the sanctuary? There’s a whole shul of space where you can air your dirty laundry without disturbing the beauty of the Torah or the importance of Kaddish or the Shemonei Esrei. And even when the guy in front of the bimah would stop the reader, in order to garner the attention of the crowd, to get everyone to shut up and listen, these women just kept talking. At full strength, full volume, as if they were in the crowd at a Yankees game. I was baffled. Truly baffled. I could have moved, but would it have solved the problem? No, it wouldn’t have. The men were talking. The women were talking.

Whatever happened to sacred space? Respect for the book? Self-respect? Shame?

Things only got worse. I mean, women at my shul jabber away, and I found a different location and sort of made it clear that no one can sit next to me when I’m davening. And it works. After the service, I go to the social hall, and we all do our thing. We talk. We schmooze. But the Kiddush was, well, something out of a horror film. It was What Not to Do at Kiddush 101. Now, it was a big Kiddush. They were honoring a pillar of the community, an amazing man who just hit 85 and is still going strong like a young buck. The man deserved the festivities, but the people – the congregation – didn’t show this man any respect. There was nothing but gluttony, selfishness, rudeness, and an utter lack of self-respect. It reminded me of that scene in “Mean Girls” where the main character imagines the cafeteria and everyone’s slinging food and acting like jungle creatures. Or maybe like a soup kitchen from the Depression Era. Kiddush can be outlandish at my shul (people pushing and shoving and acting like they’ve never seen kugle before), but at this Kiddush? Because of the pure magnitude of people and food, it was like a massacre – of food, of respect, of everything that I cannot adjust to Jewishly.

I’m a Midwestern girl. I may have a backwoods Ozarkian family, but my parents taught me patience, they taught me manners, and they taught me not to eat out of things with my hands, not to double-dip, to use a napkin, to pick up after myself, to not cut in line, to have respect for your elders, and just generally how to act like a decent human being – not an animal.
But there, in this shul, I had people shoving me out of the way for a meatball, I watched a 10-year-old girl double-dipping chicken in a sauce dish about a half-dozen times, a kid trying to reach five people ahead of him for a plate even though he was, well, five people deep. I watched adults dropping food on the floor, and leaving it there, probably assuming the help would pick it up. I watched people setting their dirty and disgusting plates down on tables with fresh food when there was a trashcan about a foot away. I had to step back from the crowd. And watch. I was disgusted. Is the Jewish way to be self-fulling? The idea that Jews – especially the Orthodox type – are messy, impatient, cheap, and pushy?

I’ll never be like that. And you can sure as hell bet my children won’t be that way. No sir. Not this girl.

I can’t explain the disgust I felt during that experience. After a while, I just wanted to go home. I didn’t even go back for mincha or maariv or the special talks they had with their scholar in residence. I wanted to not be there at that place, with those people, who lacked a sense of self-respect and common decency. I wanted to run away, find an Orthodox synagogue where the people are calm, patient, kind, respectful, and want to be there more than anything to daven, to share a sacred space with G-d, and then get their social fill afterward in a calm and respectful manner.

Does such a place not exist? Is this going to be my Jewish pipe dream?

We ended up going back for Selichot around 11:45 on Saturday night. There was a speaker and then davening at 12:54 in the morning. There weren’t nearly as many people there, but the crowd was calmer, more relaxed, more attuned to what was going on. Or maybe everyone was just exhausted. The chazzan’s voice was mournful, soul-piercing. My eyes welled up when he cried out the words, speaking to G-d with the most beautifully sad voice. And then it was a rush of quiet davening, and then it was over. Where was this during Shabbat? This passion, this fervency, this communication with G-d?

Sometimes I feel at a loss. Like I’m walking a lonely and quiet path, where my way doesn’t meet up with the majority way. I want to daven in organized chaos – the sound of voices mumbling together, but mumbling with a purpose, devotion and a passion. Not voices discussing other people or random things irrelevant to the prayers at hand. I get that davening isn’t for everyone, and I get that not everyone wants to go to shul to daven, and that shouldn’t deter people from just going, I guess. But how is someone like me supposed to reconcile all of this?

Overall, this weekend left me confused and frustrated. I feel very much like no one understands how I function as a Jew – religious, passionate, thoughtful, serious, hopeful. Sometimes the cheese does stand alone. To be Orthodox, must I alter my personality into something that it isn’t? Something loud and pushy and unconcerned with prayers and people?

Where is the fire? What happened to the fire in our souls?

Just an FYI ...

My good Twitter pal @KatyComeTrue passed this along and I thought I'd share it with the e-world in case anyone is looking for some good works. I'll be in Israel, but spread the word!

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From Dec. 20-25th, [the Religious Action Center is] running a Young Adult Mitzvah Corps trip in New Orleans geared toward Jewish 25-35 year olds. Participants will spend the week volunteering, studying and, of course, having fun in the Big Easy. The trip is heavily subsidized ($250 + transportation to and from NOLA), and even though it's being run by the Reform Movement, it's open to anyone who's interested. The application, FAQs and itinerary are all online at http://urj.org/csa/mitzvahcorps. ... It's the first trip of it's kind that we've run, and it's going to be a great opportunity for young Jewish adults to participate in tikkun olam while meeting other Jews and, obviously, having a lot of fun in New Orleans. 

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Work, Stress, Exhaustion, and Shul.

Note: This is a long post, but it's meaningful. To me, anyway. I hope you read the whole thing. And if you don't? Well, you've saved yourself a slice from my life.

Yesterday -- that's Friday for those of you keeping score but not a calendar -- will go down in history as the Worst Day Ever in my Career as a Minion to Some Guy Who Thinks He's More Important Than Everyone Else. I've complained about my job in the past, but at this point I'll say I've hit my threshold. I've never in my life been thrown under the bus (I'd never used that expression before this job) or walked all over like a ratty Thrift Store rug this many times. I've never been treated so poorly, nay, treated like a complete waste of space, before in my life. I have also never met a human being in my life as ungrateful as the person that I work for. Every detail of my job basically comes down to kissing ass, bowing down, and doing it all without breaking into tears and/or telling said boss how I REALLY feel or what I REALLY think he should do with that thing HE misplaced, not me.

So I left work early yesterday, around 3 p.m. I went straight home, and when I got there, I checked my e-mail, paced around the room, and at 5:15, took an Ambien CR and called it a day. My doctor prescribed them for me months ago, but after taking them two or three times, I realized that the CR (controlled release) was a myth and that I was left feeling like complete crap for a full 24 hours AFTER waking up. But for days like yesterday, when you want to go into a coma and sleep at least 12-15 hours, it's perfect. It'll zonk you out enough so that when you do wake up every hour or so, you feel so horrible you have to close your eyes and force yourself back to sleep.

I know this isn't a healthy philosophy on life or sleep or a job. And I get that. I really do. I never expected to be working as someone's administrative assistant for as long as I have been, not me, not the girl with a bachelor's in journalism who spent some time at two of the nation's biggest newspapers. Life doesn't always fit the magical plan though and I blew it by not heading to Michigan and declining acceptance last year. But I'm in the process of righting that wrong. It's all the bullshit I have to put with to right that wrong that is slowly killing me.

People ooo'd and ahh'd at Heath Ledger when he died. Sleeping pills, they said. He couldn't sleep. He was strung out. He was tired, he was exhausted. He had too much on his plate. He once took two Ambiens and woke up an hour later. And I get it. I get how that feels. Where every little thing you do just feels like this gigantic weight placed on your head, like you're balancing it all and at any minute it's going to all crash to the ground and you'll have nothing but a pile of broken stuff at your feet. And you cry. And then you hit the wall, take some pills, and hope for the best. You hope to sleep. For once, to really sleep. To really feel like you've slept. Not the nights where you wake up constantly or are semi-conscious the entire time.

I now GET why my dad is so worn out. I get why that glitzy star was worn out.

I'm too young to really allow myself the pain of sleep deprivation. I'm too young to allow myself to be so stressed out about a job I don't even care about. But all of these things just hit me yesterday, and as I sat in my supervisor's (technically my "boss" isn't really my "boss") office with the light glaring through the mini-blinds at me, I realized I was done. I started bawling. "I can't do this anymore," I said. The thought of having to search for another job just to pass the time until I get those acceptance or denial letters haunts me. I don't want to job search. I don't want to sit in stale offices and interview for something I don't care about. Something "just to pay the bills." I want to save some money and finally pay off that last bit on my credit cards, I really do.

I'm just tired of being treated like shit and feeling like a zombie (sans brain consumption), day after day.

So there's that. The past two days have been absolutely miserable and I forced myself out of bed this morning, despite the urge to just stay there, all day, staring at the ceiling. I was awake, wide-eyed at 7 a.m. So I hauled my heavy body out of bed and got a peach from the crisper. I sat in the dark, in my bed, in my pajamas, and ate the peach. Ian would have killed me for that. He never let me eat in bed; but Ian's a part of that past of those things. So I ate my peach, threw away the peach pit, and got on the computer. My far-away friend Thom was there, thank heavens, and as we exchanged e-mails about whether I should or shouldn't go to shabbat services this morning, his final "just gos" were enough to put me in the shower, into some fairly decent clothes, and out the door to 9:30 service at the nearby Conservative shul.

Before I left home, I was examining the possibilities. There were a dozen different services at the synagogue today, and I didn't know what half of them were. I saw that the 9:30 service included a bar mitzvah, so I figured it was the most "normal" of the Saturday sabbath services. I didn't want to encroach on a minyan, because, damnit, I just don't get the Conservative service yet. I love it, because it feels more full, it's more filling than the Reform service, but I don't get the rhythm of it.

To me, Conservative service is like organized chaos. And it's beautiful.

I was at shul for THREE hours this morning. It wouldn't have felt like three hours, but the entire row of pre-teens behind me yapping for the entire three hours kept me aware of the time; they were keeping tabs, that is. It was the first bar mitzvah service I've ever been to where the bar mitzvah doesn't feel like a sideshow. I try to avoid such services because -- in the Reform movement anyway -- the kid typically sputters through a few things in Hebrew and gets blessed and all we have to talk about at the end of the day is how squeaky his voice was. At the service today, the kid LED the service. The integration was impeccable. Now, this kid was particularly well-spoken. His d'var Torah was about Jethro, not the decalogue. He talked about how leaders cannot do everything themselves, about how it is our responsibility as a community to assist and it is the responsibility of the leader to ask for help. Nothing can be done alone.

This kid's a fucking genius, I thought.

It took me a while to get into the flow of the service, but I magically always figured out where we were on the page. It's like the words glow and stick out and say "yo! we're here!" The sanctuary -- which, might I add, was beautiful -- was pretty full for what I'm used to and the bouncer at the door was shoving yarmulkes on the heads of everyone coming in late. People came in and out the entire three hours. This is something sort of foreign to me, as I show up early, and leave when it's over. Though, the next time I might have to step out for one of my Weight Watchers-prescribed snacks, lest my stomach start participating in the responsive reading. I also loved how there were many different aliyas for the Torah portion. How different people read and the bima seemed like it was exploding with people wandering about, singing and chanting and talking. When the Torah came around people filled the lower aisles and I just stood there, not wanting to fight the rush for an encounter with the scrolls. The best part, though, was that the chumashim were Etz Chaim, my chumash of choice. I liked having the full-size version; it's better on the eyes.

I guess what I'm trying to say is -- I felt like I was at shul.

One of the things I notice right away about the Conservative service is that everything is read so quickly. You can go through two pages silently in 30 seconds. Even the responsive stuff is hard to keep up with. I'm going to have to master my Hebrew speed reading. Maybe this is why the Reform service feels like it lags and drags and moves at a snail's pace. But then I wonder, are we missing the quality, for the quantity? Maybe there's a middle ground I haven't found yet.

I was glad I went, though. I'm glad I went out in the cold and trudged down to shul and sat there with those obnoxious tweens behind me talking about haircuts and only chiming in with their tone deaf voices when it seemed like parents were glaring back at them. I'm glad I got to experience that kid's bar mitzvah, even if I might never see him again. I attempted to wish him a hearty Mazel Tov afterward, but he was busy. I'm glad that I got to experience the chazzan, who I can't believe I haven't mentioned yet. The man has the voice of thousands of years of Jewish chanting -- it's mesmerizing, and it makes me get how people can sit there for hours on end, even if they're not participating. It's like attending a classical concert, every week, mostly for free. I'm glad I got to experience all three rabbis. At least, I think the three guys who led the services were the rabbis. I'm glad I got to sit in that huge sanctuary, watching and listening the different way the people around me recreated Sinai.

I guess it was the perfect week to go. After the crap of the past few days, it fit. I gathered with the tribe and we stood at the base of Sinai and listened to this bar mitzvah read to us the decalogue, the 10 Commandments. In our hearts we were there, in our minds we were there. It was emotional, and I'm not saying that to be cheesy or to make it more important than it was.

So I think I've found a new home. I need to do some more exploring and figure out what all those people my age were doing up until the last hour or so of the services when they finally joined us. Then I need to do whatever it was they were doing. It's not so important to belong, but to figure out the flow of the 30 different services on any given Saturday and then fit myself in.

Until then, though. I'm going to settle in for a Shabbos Nap and hope that when I wake up, the snow has stopped and my eyes are unheavy.

Shabbat Shalom, friends.

Shabbat Shalom! Pick a menorah for me :)

So I've had a nice little, basic, simple Menorah that I've used for the past three years, but I'm itchin' for another (new) one! But I can't decide which to get ... what do you think?



The first is the "signature" menorah and the latter is the "music note" menorah. I'm leaning toward the bronze because I already have a silver/aluminum one (it was a Walgreens buy right before shul three years ago!! It was my first Chanukah :D)

On a semi-unrelated note: Services tonight were the most mundane, uninspiring they've been in eons. The people were dead. No one was participating. People were huffing and puffing. Kids were screaming (why are there not sitters at the shul for services?). It was frustrating. Why do people go if they don't want to be there? If they do nothing but moan and groan and nod off? I try to stay in my own zone, knowing that what I get out of services is what I get out of services. But sometimes I wonder: Are people waiting for enlightenment? Hoping that by forcing themselves through services for that WHOLE hour to an hour-and-a-half that a spark of something will rekindle their lust for life? Am I just cynical? I want people to love services and Judaism as much as I do. I want people to really WANT to be there; not for people to feel obligated or anything to be there. I felt like crap all day today. I didn't sleep last night and my stomach was upset and I just wanted to go home, but I made myself go to services because I know that -- for me -- I would regret it tomorrow if I didn't go. My week does not end unless I go to Shabbat; it just keeps going and going. But I didn't force myself to go out of guilt or just because that's what Jews do. I went for me, for my mind and spirit and soul. ARGH! So frustrated.

On a more pleasant note, I appreciated the sermon, which was actually not a sermon but a "learning Shabbat" service, where the rabbi explained the V'shamru prayer that we sing. He examined the source of the prayer and the difference in the commandment from Exodus and Deuteronomy, which I actually never noticed before. The original reason for Shabbat observance is because G-d rested on the seventh day, but in Deuteronomy it says we should keep the Sabbath because G-d took us out of Egypt! Oh the tricky intricacies of Torah :)

The complexities of really wanting something.

First, my job quandary. Secondly, some incidents at synagogue from Friday.

I don't dislike my job, but I don't love it. It's something I use to pay the bills, pay off those credit cards, and hopefully can use to pay some tuition for graduate school next fall if I get my butt in gear and do some things and, you know, apply places. But amid this all, there was the chance-of-a-lifetime opportunity to go to Italy on my boss's behalf to speak on early childhood education and the technology of skill formation. I'm more than happy to do this, of course. It's probably the most awesome experience I'll have for a while.

But then there were the job postings at the Jewish United Fund. Office Manager for the Hillel at Northwestern. Operations Manager for the University of Chicago Hillel. Then came the big wammy from my friend Michael: a job at Jewish World Digest, a newspaper housed right here in my very own Chicago. Jewish and journalism? Isn't that what I was looking for when I first moved here? Yes, yes it was. And now, it's there under my nose, among the other stellar opportunities and I can't budge on them.

Last week at synagogue there was this nifty open house for prospective members thing, and I was one of the folks who got to tout the blue name tag that meant "I pay this place dues galore!" I ended up meeting some really stellar people and hopefully some new synagogue friends who happen to be my own age. In the process, I also caught up with the membership coordinator and some others. I happened to mention my predicament to a few people and they all lamented the situation with me, but hands-down agreed that sticking with the job for the Italy adventure is worth the hassle, the commute, and the drama. I agree, but nu? Will such jobs be around when I find that the timer has popped?

On the fun service note, I have to share a bit of the night. I found myself meeting some of the nice temple community, which was good, considering I hate going and feeling like I'm sitting in the back of the classroom in the cardboard box where "loquacious" students end up (this is an allusion to kindergarten at Stapleton Elementary in Joplin, MO where I grew up). I met a nice older couple who happened to ask where I lived. I explained that Ian and I live way the hell away from anything pertinent to either of our lives (work, school, temple, friends), but that we were hoping to move up near Wrigleyville, and I added that we were eying the building next door to the synagogue. The nice couple (whose names escape me) then informed me that my synagogue, my very own shul, owns the apartment complex! They then informed me that chances are sometime in 5 or 10 odd years that building will make way for a temple expansion once the money is there, but they quickly added that by then, "you and your boyfriend will be ready to move to the suburbs anyway!" Right. But either way, talk about STELLAR news for us! Maybe this will grant us an in? Here's to hopin' anyway :)

I also have to share about the fellow there at the special service who said he stopped in because he often walks by but had never been. His name was Lawrence and he was constantly smiling, this almost devilish grin, the kind you see on a little boy before he pushes his sister into the fountain she is so quietly leaning over by to eye the quarters 'neath. Like he had something he wasn't telling, a secret or plan or something. It made me nervous. But I was friendly. The gal who I met that night, Natalie, and I sat near him and struck up conversation. We sort of assumed that perhaps he was interested in Judaism. He was curious, yes, but then said that he thought it was the "second best religion." We didn't continue with that line of conversation. No way, no how. Natalie turned to me and we started talking about my conversion (which happened to come up in the commons hall during the wine and cheese reception). Of course this got Lawrence going and he started questioning how I got to Judaism. I couldn't give him the whole spiel of how at home I grew up being able to believe what I wanted but that in public and with friends I was more or less cornered into Christianity out of a want to belong. So he concluded, "So you went from nothing to Judaism ...?" with that grin. That "oh I know your kind" grin. I wanted to slap him. He left me mumbling and unable to finish my thoughts. Then the service started.

He made me uncomfortable, and it wasn't because I had the walls up. The moment I saw him I felt there was something unsettling about him. His Judaism as the "second best religion" question just pushed me a little over. I knew there was something uncomfortable. I'm really sure why he was really there or what he wanted out of it. He got shmoozy with some people, but that grin. It's the kind you see on pop-up clown boxes. Creepy carnival rides. The kind you have nightmares about. I'll be happy if I don't have to see him again. If I do? I'll tuck away the unease and be welcoming. After all, he hasn't done anything to garner my disrespect or fear. At least, I don't think he has.