HaYom Yom Huledet
מאלבום משפחת בן עמרם, via Wikimedia Commons
It’s been nine long years since last I’ve seen you. The greatest amount of time that has passed since I was Home. This is the season of my envy. Status updates and tweets from the #twitpacha relating to their upcoming summer trips to Israel leave me yearning. I’ve had falafel twice in the past three days (thanks to a shul event on Saturday night and BubbeGiraffe for Mother’s Day). Listened to Israeli radio. Substitutes for the real thing.
L’hitra’ot — until we see one another again
Happy 63rd!
A Moment in Time
Portrait by Lia Photography
My favourite picture of the four generations of Frummie women.
Happy Mother’s Day.
The Red Dress Club: Green-Eyed
Photo courtesy of Fotolia
With all of her attendants looking on, the bride is handing her bouquet to a winsome, four-year-old flower girl. She is the focal point of the picture.
I’m there too. I am the scowling one on the left.
I despised you that day. Once again, you managed to monopolize our aunt’s attention. This time, it was because you were so very sad. Your tears, streaming down your snow-white cheeks, were impossible to ignore. And the cause of such compelling sadness? You were cold. You had to go to the bathroom. You had unceremoniously dumped all of your rose petals at the head of the runner and was, therefore, unable to toss them as we had been instructed. And because you were an emotional, sniveling twit. In all of my six years, I had never met anyone whose command of the tear was as expertly wielded as yours. And for your pouting, you were rewarded with Tante B’s bouquet. And a picture to prove your exalted place in her heart.
Tante B liked you best. She always did. An impromptu photoshoot, taken by PapaBear (circa. 1975), definitively captured the unabashed favouritism. As if the two of you were completely unaware of the presence of an interloper. I struggled to understand. Was it because of some point of commonality? The Middle-Child Syndrome, perhaps?
When our youngest brother was born, do you remember how MamaBear, z”l, took us aside and explained how difficult it would be for JockBro to go from being the baby of the family to #3 out of 4? Well, Tante B also had some thoughts for me; that it would be difficult for you to surrender your role as the middle child. What about me? Why didn’t anyone see how difficult it was for me? I kept asking for an older brother, but did MomGiraffe ever come through? At the very least, I should have gotten the pony I’d wanted.
You had beautiful brown locks; I had unruly, dirty-blonde hair.
Your round, shiny eyes were forest green; my squinty, deep-set eyes were some undefinable hybrid of shades.
You were the smart, interesting one; Me? I could sing.
So I retaliated in the way that only an older sister could; I said you were adopted. You believed me. That wasn’t all. I stole pocket money from your tin bank. The one that was identical to mine, remember? I overfed your fish so that it would suicide. I stole your friends. And cast you as the characters I didn’t want to play in our girlhood games.
When I think back to how awful I was, I am ashamed. Especially since you were always generous with your love. You bailed me out of countless situations, guarded my deepest secrets, supported my wildest dreams. I grew to understand how you could be the favourite.
And now, I marvel at God’s sense of humour. He has given me a daughter. With dark, burnished hair. And your green eyes.
Red Writing Hood is a writing meme. This essay was written to a prompt about jealousy. In all of ugliness and in 600 words or fewer. I consider myself a person who isn’t jealous. This week, I learned I was wrong. As always, constructive criticism is appreciated.
Whose Day?
Photo courtesy of Microsoft Office
Not to be left out, places such as Chuck E. Cheese, Sky High Sports, and Boomers are getting in on the action.
Look, I love my kids. And I am willing to engage in activities that hold their interest any every other day of the year. Shouldn’t I be gifted one day out of the year that is characterless, jumpless, and bumper-carless?
At least this Pump-it-Up has the right idea; send the kids with Dad and let me stay home.
Who’s Prejudiced Now?
Photo courtesy of Microsoft Office
It turns out that the awful noise I heard was a dead transmission. The AAA guy towed it to our mechanic, who very wisely advised us to have it towed to the dealer for a few diagnostic tests. Needless to say, the Frumettes and I spent quite a lot of time at Mr. Nguyen’s garage yesterday afternoon.
As we drove away, I put down my window and yelled a valediction in Mr. Nguyen’s direction.
“They all look alike to me. How can you tell them apart, Mama?”
Um…what did she just say?
“No, really, Mama. They all look the same.”
“POPPYSEED PRINCESS FRUMMIE!” I exclaimed, “how could you say such a terrible thing? Would it be OK if someone looked at a bunch of Jews and said, ‘hey, I can’t tell them apart; all those Jews just look the same to me.’ Or what about if a black person looked at a bunch of white people and said, ‘you know, I can’t tell one from the other.’ Would that be OK?”
“Ma-MA, I mean because they are all wearing the same uniform.”
Oops.
“Hey Poppyseed, any other reason that you think that they all look alike?”
“Of course.”
A-ha. Here it comes…
“They’re all guys.”
The Red Dress Club: Pride
(CC) Brian Solis, http://www.briansolis.com and bub.blicio.us.
Looking up, I saw him. At the end of a very long path. Waiting for me…
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Chalk it up to a premature mid-life crisis. What other explanation could there be? After all, I am not from the athletes. I had never run a mile in my entire life. Not even in high school! I was the kid who was hiding the bushes, waiting for the rest of gym class to head back into the locker room. Yet there I was, sitting in an information session for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society’s Team-in-Training program. And signing on the dotted line, committing to train for and complete the Nike Women’s Marathon in San Francisco.
They made it seem so simple. Their experienced team of coaches and devoted alumni would expertly guide me through marathon training as well as assist me with the fundraising. “Fundraising?” you ask. To participate in the program, I had to commit to raising just over $3,000. I like round numbers. And by round numbers, I mean round Jewish numbers. Meaning multiples of eighteen. So I set my goal at $3,600. That kind of fundraising was daunting to most of the folks in the same way that running was to me.
The first day of training arrived. I awakened at an un-Godly hour, very nervous. Everything I wore that first day was new — my shoes, shorts, support bra, training “singlet” (fancy name for a running shirt), etc. I had a filling, but not too filling, breakfast and stashed some post-run snacks in the car.
In the movie version, I kept up with the pack, displaying a perfect stride.
In reality, I was the slowest one, resembling a sloth gasping for air.
My shins hurt…my back hurt…even my fat hurt.
I could not even manage to run the entire 2 miles.
As an aside, when I say that I was the slowest runner…I am not being hyperbolic. I ran with the slowest group. We named ourselves “The Tortoises,” and it is safe to say that I was the slowest tortoise. However, my mentor Ellen often reminded me that as long as I wasn’t planning on winning the damn race, it didn’t matter how long it would take me to finish.
The amazing thing is that within three weeks, this non-runner went from being able to run less than a mile without stopping to running 5 miles. You read that right. I ran 5 miles. Take THAT — all you naysayers. Yes, there were naysayers. The folks who said they were impressed while harbouring the strong feeling that I’d never make it. I saw it in their eyes. I heard it in their voices.
Which was when MamaBear, z”l, said, “anyone who knows you would believe that you can accomplish anything you set your mind to.”
Pretty soon, I was adding two miles onto the run each week. Challenging, to be sure. And I wanted to give up. Every time. I hated running. But I’d sent out schnorr letters to over one hundred fifty people, raised over $5,000, and committed to finishing the race. So back out there I went.
Race Weekend arrived. I flew up to SFO with the team. PC, MomGiraffe, JockBro, SIL, and Ace arrived the following day, complete with Tshirts and signs. They popped up at various points along the route, which was very encouraging. Especially after Mile 14. That was when I pulled my IT band. Apparently, a common injury among runners who suddenly increase their activity. Or, as in my case, an predictable injury for this non-runner who suddenly attempted 26.2 miles.
And so I limped. For 12 miles. At which point, I saw him, waiting for me at the finish line. My Team Tortoise teammates returned to the course to run bring me in. 0.2 miles. The longest distance of the entire race. His eyes met mine; I limped towards him.
A very handsome man in a tuxedo, holding a silver tray, piled high with Tiffany Blue boxes.
8 hours, 25 minutes, 16 seconds.
The finisher’s medal was mine.
Remembe(RED) is a memoir meme. This week, we were asked to tell the story (without any trivialization or modesty) of something in my life of which I am proud. In 700 words or fewer. As always, constructive criticism is welcomed!
PS – I haven’t run a single step since the day I crossed the finish line.
Growing Up
Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
It was the timing that just gets me…
Though I manage to get us dressed, fed, and out of the house by 7:30am on weekdays, it is always a bit tough on Sunday mornings as Religious School doesn’t start until 9:00am. Maybe it’s because it is a much later start time and we start getting involved in other things? Who knows. In any event, yesterday, Beernut’s class had a fieldtrip and he needed to be at shul no later than 8:30am. Experiencing just a hint of self-congratulation, I had just cautiously began to pull the mini-van out of our tract and onto the main street when it came to full and complete stop.
OK, stay calm.
I turned off the engine, counted to five, and restarted it. Because, having had experience, I knew that the AAA guy would ask me if I completed these steps.
It started. And made a really, really awful sound. Whether I threw it in Drive or Reverse, the outcome was the same; nothing.
“What is that, Mama? Is it Yiddish?”
“No, love. It’s French.”
“Ooo,” squealed Poppyseed, “you know French! How wonderful. Just like Fancy Nancy.”
“Not ex-act-ly,” I smiled.
WhattodoWhattodoWhattodo….
A deep breath. Beernut was starting to get agitated and showered me with questions, concerns, fears, worries, anxieties. Another deep breath.
And then phone calls:
- AAA — to arrange for a tow
- ZaydeGiraffe — to get Beernut to the shul in time for the bus, Peach to Bubbe for the morning, and Poppyseed to her Religious School class
- PC — to apprise him of the situation as well as suss out what he wanted me to do with the car
- Beernut’s Teacher — to let her know that Beernut was running late
- Beernut’s Teacher (again) — to let her know that Beernut was not going to make the bus
“I have to go poop,” announced Peach.
“Of course you do. Of COURSE you do.”
Now what? My car has stalled. The tow truck is en route. I can’t very well just abandon the car.
“You can just leave me and Beernut here and walk home with Peach.”
“I cannot leave children in a disabled car that is peering out into the street.”
“Then you’ll have to let me take Peach home.”
Take Peach home. Could I entrust my nearly-eight-year-old with the task of sheparding the four-year-old the three blocks to our home?
“Do you know how to get home, Poppyseed?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Do you know how to unlock the front door?”
“Ma-ma! Of course.”
Poppyseed slipped the key into the front pocket of her dress and took her little brother’s hand in her own.
And I let them go.
Haveil Havalim 314 — The Post-Pesach Edition
Founded by Soccer Dad, Haveil Havalim is a carnival of Jewish blogs — a weekly collection of Jewish & Israeli blog highlights, tidbits and points of interest collected from blogs all around the world. It’s hosted by different bloggers each week and coordinated by Jack. The term ‘Haveil Havalim,’ which means “Vanity of Vanities,” is from Qoheleth, (Ecclesiastes) which was written by King Solomon. King Solomon built the Holy Temple in Jerusalem and later on got all bogged down in materialism and other ‘excesses’ and realized that it was nothing but ‘hevel,’ or in English, ‘vanity.’”
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Photo courtesy Wikimedia Commons
Without further ado…
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Torah
I really love the message of maintaining mentchlikeit that Ricki’s Mom has for us.
I have long admired Rabbi Mark Hurvitz. Don’t understand him much of the time (he is that smart), but I totally get his passion to tweet Torah to the top this Shavuot. (Rabbi Denise Eger adds her thoughts about this project here.)
Israel
This post about Jerusalem, courtesy of Israelity, during the weekend of Easter reminded me of my own experience during my first year in Reform school.
Thank you, Batya, for reminding (and showing) us that Jews and Arabs exist side-by-side.
Ruti writes, “Sometimes you just have to show off the writing of your kids. What can I say? A heartfelt exploration of what it is to live in Israel during scary times.”
Joel Katz’s weekly review of issues of Religion and State in Israel can be found here and here.
Speaking of Religion and State, a very troubling story over at Tzedek-Tzedek about the “vandals” who destroyed charity fundraising banners just prior to Pesach.
With the apprehension of the murderers of the Fogel family, The Israel Situation hopes that this will bring some closure to the Itamar community.
Esser Agaroth questions the morality of those who express solidarity with the perpetrators rather than with the victims in A Leftist Passover.
A geography lesson from The Torah Revolution as to the proper way to refer to locations in Israel.
The town of Modiin prepares to celebrate the Royal nuptials with Seven Blessings for Wills and Kate, according to Israelity.
Take a look at this piece of satire on the politics in the Palestinian state by JewTribe over here.
An intriguing interview of an anthropologist who studies food and culture in the shuk courtesy of Truth, Praise and Help.
And Around the Island show us (once again) a unique slice of life in The Land.
Judaism
New renderings of Hallel by The Velveteen Rabbi. They are stunning.
After the death of the last Lubavitcher Rebbe in 1994, some have asked why no successor has been named. A thorough explanation is offered by A Chassidishe Farbrengen.
A rabbi is attacked by bees while making a pre-Pesach matzah delivery, according to Schvach, who also shares his thoughts about Muslim proselytizing in Europe.
Each day that passes, as Rabbi Paul Kipnes points out, we are that much closer to our destiny. As we make our way towards the Mountain, we know that JewCamp can’t be far behind. Rabbi Marci Bellow shares the joys of summer camp at Eight Days a Week, (Camp) I Lo-o-o-o-ove You!
Punk Torah wrote this thoughtful piece and The Rebbetzin Rocks has this to say about it. (And, BTW, she really does rock.)
Jew Eat Yet? welcomes Charlton Heston to his seder. The seder of 5771 now includes Maggid 2.0, according to Sh’ma Koleinu. And take a look at these sweet snapshots of Pesach over at the Ima’s place.
History
With Yom HaShoah being observed this year on May 2, Jacob Richman has compiled a large number of educational resources about the Shoah.
And Batya brings up an interesting point about the story of Esther as a metaphor for the futile nature of peace agreement ceremonies.
Kashrut/Food
Ever wonder why kosher restaurants fail? The Rebbetzin’s Husband has the answer.
If you are thinking of trying a diet pudding, you’ll want to read this over at Isreview. And on the completely opposite end of the diet spectrum…
Ever on the lookout for enticing KFP edibles, this Pomegranate Popsicle (via HomeShuling) looks delicious! And check out Nosh with Me’s KFP recipes and get a head start on next year’s menu (the Frummies highly recommend the meringues and the chocolate cookies.)
Culture
Chutz MiZeh engaged his kids with a reframing of the Four Sons in The Four Children (of Star Wars).
Over at Good News from Israel, Jacob shares some photos from a Mimouna celebration.
David, of JewSchool fame, offers up this review of Susan Rosenberg’s prison memoir.
And Marjorie points out what is wrong with tween programming in Turned Off.
Now this is a topic right up Frume Sarah’s alley. A grammatical machloket, courtesy of Batya.
Personal
Chavivah shares a warm recounting of her experience going home for the end of Pesach.
Learning to let go. One of the hardest things we parents must do. Hadassah wonders how we learn to do that. And Jack has had to learn not to project his interests onto his son.
A very insightful, and courageous, post about anorexia from Redefining Rebbetzin.
Over at To Kiss A Mezuzah, Susan shares the first few days after the death of her father, z”l. Ruti honours the memories of two women, z”l, from her Baltimore kehilla who both died just prior to the chag. JaneTheWriter pens a beautiful letter to her mother, z”l. And Rabbi Eleanor Steinman recounts her experience of lighting a yahrtzeit candle for the first time.
From death to life…A stunning piece about birth and conversion from Elle at Becoming Devoted. Elle also finds meaning while being stuck between a slow truck on a country road.
And happy first birthday to Nesyah Hallel. Ad meah v’esrim…but not too quickly.
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And that concludes this week’s edition of Haveil Havalim. I hope that you enjoy reading these posts as much as I did!
Next week will be hosted by Esser Agaroth. You can participate in the next edition of HH by using our carnival submission form. Past posts and future hosts can be found on our blog carnival index page.
The Red Dress Club: Misstep
It started the same way every time. Always after he’d been drinking. Always.
Things would be fine. Until something, anything, would set him off. Money. His lack of employment. My disrespect. The child.
I tried to stand my ground. Tried to speak in a calm and controlled voice, just as I’d been coached. It was as if the calmer I spoke, the more his anger grew.
He grabbed my arms. The marks? They would go away. In time. He pushed me against the wall. He’d done it before. Didn’t think much of it. Figured it would end the way it always did.
I never saw it coming: his fist. It landed squarely on my jaw. I tasted something salty. Tears, I assumed. Until I saw droplets of blood fall to the floor.
That’s blood. That’s my blood. Oh God, I’m bleeding.
He stormed off, leaving me in a bit of daze. I could feel my lip begin to swell. But I had to get back to work. No time to feel sorry for myself or wonder how or why that just happened.
A bit later, playing it over and over in my mind, I sorted out what had gone wrong. And how to avoid it the next time. There would be a next time.
Seeking me out, he was clearly filled with remorse.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologized.
“I know. It’s OK.” It was a struggle to speak with a split lip. “No biggie.”
“Yes, it is. I don’t know what happened. We’ve done that dozens of times…”
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In the weeks leading up to opening night, “Bill” and I spent many an hour “finding the rage” that we would need to fully inhabit our characters. At seventeen, I had never played anyone who was a victim of what is now called IPV, or Intimate Partner Violence. Working together to find the right balance of emotions was both exhilarating and terrifying. For quite some time, my staccato slumber was darkened by troubling dreams. One particular day-long rehearsal included a character development session in which “Bill” threw me into a chair and screamed at me until I shrunk into the chair, cowering. Intellectually, I knew this was make-believe. But how could I not help but think of the thousands and thousands of girls and women for whom such episodes of violence are not an act?
Though we had blocked the scene, refined it, rehearsed it, something went very wrong on that night. The carefully choreographed fight scene was thrown off by just the slightest misstep.
“‘Bet’. She missed her mark,” I explained, “I had to adjust and…”
“So the blocking was thrown off?”
“Exactly.”
“Guess that’s why you seemed so much closer.”
“Because I really was closer,” I smiled.
“I really am sorry.”
“I know.”
Red Writing Hood is a writing meme. This week’s prompt was to write about a fight, either fiction or non-fiction, in 600 words or fewer. Immediately, I was transported back to my senior year in high school and the Spring musical. My role as “Nancy” in Oliver! required several scenes involving physical violence. It left a lasting imprint. (Please read here for more.) As always, constructive criticism is appreciated.
Call It What It Is
Credit: KTLA.
If you can’t make out the scrawled graffiti just above the drinking fountain, it reads, “whites only.” And yes, it is surrounded by swastikas. Also discovered, a picture of Hitler, racial slurs directed at Blacks and Latinos, and the words “gas chamber.”
Not in Europe in the 1930s or 40s. But at Calabasas High School. This past week.
The perpetrators, three 11th grade students at the high school, have confessed. Motive? They felt that they had been “mistreated” by some teachers and fellow students. The superintendent of the Los Virgenes Unified School District says that these “are just angry kids who made a poor choice.” And these poor choice makers have, according to all accounts, expressed their remorse. In addition to suspension and reimbursement for damages, they are being charged with felony vandalism.
That’s it.
It appears that, at this time, there is no charge of a hate crime being levied against these sixteen year-old “4.0 students.”
I am not certain how an act of vandalism that was comprised of racial epithets and images of institutional hate does not qualify as a hate crime. The answer, according to the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department:
The words and symbols were not focused on one ethnicity or religion. They included words and symbols that are anti-Semitic, as well as racial insults against African-Americans, and profanities directed at specific students and teachers who had upset them.
Based on the statements of the subjects and the content of their graffiti vandalism, their intent was to upset the people they felt had wronged them, rather than a criminal hate crime.
Words have meaning, as do symbols. The reason that these words and these symbols were selected by a trio of “just angry kids” is because, and not in spite, of their potency. By not labeling this incident as a hate crime, there is no reason for anyone to think that it is not OK to choose these particular, hate-filled words and symbols. And. if they follow the logic presented by the Sheriff’s Department, the more groups simultaneously victimized, the less likely it is to be defined by what it is.
Hate.
UPDATE (as of 15:30): The three suspects are now being charged with committing felony vandalism with a hate crime enhancement. More information here.
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