Seeing Green

Once upon a time, Microsoft Spell Check told me I spelled my name wrong.

Except it wasn’t once, but many times.

No matter how often I ignored that wavy red line, it came right back, whenever I typed my name in WORD.

Spell Check was firm but insistent. My name was not “Varda” but “Verda.”

I, on the other hand, thought this silent mechanical voice to be brazen in the extreme. How dare a mere computer program tell me how to spell my name? And what the heck is “Verda” anyhow?

After many bouts of bruxism, I at last cajoled my software into recognizing my ultimate authority. This is a good thing and a step in the right direction.

However, Spell Check is still going around telling lies behind my back, announcing to all and sundry that my name is, yes, Verda.

I know this to be true because I regularly receive emails addressed to this Verda person who continues to be me, Varda. In fact, it was after receiving just such a note, another in a long line of them, that I became motivated to blow off some steam at you, Dear Reader. The sender of this note, this miscreant misspeller of names was (get this) writing to ask me a favor.

Random Request

She was just this random woman who sent me a LinkedIn request a day earlier. I checked out her profile and saw that her professional focus dovetailed nicely with my own—she’s the founder of a company that brings together experts on child education and parenting to offer content on a variety of subjects. I, on the other hand, write about child education on behalf of Kars for Kids, a nonprofit car donation program. I noted that we also had a mutual professional acquaintance, one with whom I’ve done some good work. It made sense for me then to accept her contact request and I did so.

The very next day, however, she spammed me by requesting I give her a rating on her professional performance. I could but only respond:

 Hello. I don’t KNOW you. How can I RATE you??

She wrote back,

Hello Verda,

It was sent to all my connection, please just ignore it

Have a good day.

Um, yuh. You spam me. Ask me for a favor. Apologize by MISSPELLING MY NAME and then tell me to have a good day?

You’re lucky I don’t bite your head off your neck, chew it up, and spit it out. (Virtually speaking, of course).

You liked that one? I’ll tell you another.

HR over at Kars for Kids asked me if I could post on some email lists advertising for web designers to join our team. I did so and received an avalanche of responses. Instead of just sending them on, I decided to weed through them to save HR some time. One that didn’t make the cut wrote (yup, you guessed it):

Hello Verda,

My name is xxxx xxx.

I have been designing website and doing internet marketing for over 7 years.

I have extensive experience as a Project Manager - including a Web Project Manager, which basically means that I am very organized.

Hope to hear from you soon.

Basically very organized, eh? Uh huh. That’s how you managed to make sure to refer to my original note to

GET THE SPELLING OF MY NAME RIGHT YOU NINCOMPOOP.

I subdued my homicidal tendencies long enough to respond as follows:

Word of advice? I'm not HR, just helping out, but you spelled my name wrong. If you're applying for a job, you may want to take care on that score in future

Like, DU-UH.

But what’s in a name, anyway? Well, for one thing, there are the actual meanings of names. They’re important. They speak to the soul of a person. When someone calls you by your name, you feel good, perhaps without being fully conscious of that fact.

Verda means “green” in Esperanto.

Varda means “rose” in Hebrew (see: My First Blog).

Varda is the imprint of the memory of my Great Grandmother Raizel on my soul and heritage: the woman who put the red in my hair. It’s my mother’s friend who on seeing me through a hospital nursery window said, “She’s all pink and white!”

My name translates to my love of flowers, especially creamy white roses with a hint of pink.

For a long time I didn’t like my name. The sound of it is odd as it falls on Western ears. But you know it’s kind of grown on me. It’s different. Distinctive.

Meantime, I’m trying to get a grip on this gripe about people spelling my name wrong. I’ve said to myself, “Self: maybe it’s just jealousy. When they think of you, they are seeing green.”

This little self-administered pep talk is supposed to help me lose my anger. But in reality, it feels like a kick in the kidneys every. time. I. see. that. misspelled. name. The person who types that, the one who taps out Verda on her keyboard, doesn’t care enough about the person behind the name to bother to get it right. 

There’s no malice or intent, but all the same, it’s a kind of disrespect.

Because a person’s name is her essence, her honor.

I can make light of it and imagine that when she types out my name, she’s seeing green.

But more probably, she’s not seeing much at all.

As for me? I’ll just have to keep seeing the world through—um—rose-colored glasses.  

  

The Ring Theory of Kvetching

I dread condolence calls. I dread them because I’m just not good at that sort of thing, which begs the question: Who is?

But I think some people just have the knack.

I don’t.

And the thing about not having the knack for that sort of thing is that it makes no sense, since I suffered my first bereavement at the age of 13. I, of all people, should know how to act and what to say in the presence of grief.

 

A Cretin

But no. Invariably, I stick my foot in my mouth and then give an inward cringe when I realize what a cretin I’ve been. Which tends to reinforce in my mind the idea that I should never. Ever. Visit anyone bereaved. I’m just bad at it.

Today, all that changed forever. Not because I suddenly got really good at paying condolence calls but because I read an article that outlined a logical way to stay on track and avoid offending people. The premise of the article was concise and once the concept of dealing with grief was outlined, it was clear that it would also be an easy method to remember.

Now this is good, because we not only need this method for ourselves, but for our children and for instance, the kids that are mentored in the programs run by Kars for Kids, the nonprofit organization in which I serve as communications writer. We don’t learn this stuff in school. We need a quick and dirty method for getting down the niceties of this and more important, for transmitting it to others.

 

Ring Theory

Judy Levy of Ricochet writes up an article from the LA Times, How Not to Say the Wrong Thing, by clinical psychologist Susan Silk and arbitrator/mediator Barry Goldman. The article speaks about addressing emotions related to grief or distress according to the “Ring Theory of kvetching.” Basically, it all boils down to this: “Comfort in, dump out.”

Silk and Goldman illustrate the klutziness of some people in dealing with difficulties to show how the theory works. They offer the example of Susan who is in the hospital after having surgery for breast cancer. Susan lets it be known she doesn’t want visitors, but her colleague insists on visiting her, telling Susan, “This isn’t just about you.”

Oh SMH!* That’s the kind of stupid thing I’m afraid I’ll say to a friend in distress. I mean, not just about you?? Really? 

From the article:
              

 "It's not?" Susan wondered. "My breast cancer is not about me? It's about you?"

The article then goes on to describe Katie, who is recovering from a brain aneurysm. Her friend comes to visit and then quickly leaves the room, telling Katie’s husband Pat, who is waiting in the hall:
      

 "I wasn't prepared for this. I don't know if I can handle it."

Really??? SHE can’t handle this? What about Pat, Katie’s HUSBAND? He has an easier time dealing with the sight of his wife in such a frighteningly dangerous state of ill health?

So back to the theory, comfort in, dump out: Picture a ring. In the center is the person in the most pain, for instance, Susan or Katie. Then draw a slightly larger circle around the center and in there put the name of the person closest to the one suffering the trauma, for instance, Pat, Katie’s husband. In each subsequently larger circle, you can put the names of people in descending importance or relationship to the sufferer.

Here’s how it goes, you can extend comfort from your circle inward, for instance from you to Susan. But you have to dump out, meaning you can’t vent inward to Susan. You have to vent to someone in the circle that’s larger than your own.

 

Can I Help?

So you could say to Susan or Katie, “I’m so sorry you’re suffering. How can I help? Can I bring you a pot of soup?”

That is comfort in, extending comfort toward the center of the circle.

But let’s say what really comes to mind is how awful Susan looks and you’re her close friend, you’re SHOCKED. You would never say that to Susan or to her husband, because they are in rings that are relatively smaller than yours, they are IN and you are OUT.

Instead you can tell someone in a larger ring, such as a colleague, for instance, “Wow, Susan looks really awful. It freaks me out to see her like that.”

 

Dumping Out

That is dumping out, toward the outer ring.

The beauty of this is you can say whatever you need or want to say, as long as you say it to someone in a larger ring than yours!

Now isn’t that simple? You can even map it out before you go. Print out this handy-dandy diagram I made for you, based on the one that appeared in Ricochet and in the LA Times, and stick it to your fridge with a magnet.

(photo credit: Varda Epstein)

The main thing, as Judy Levin of Ricochet says, is not to worry. “You'll get your turn in the center ring. You can count on that.”

*Smacking my head.

There has to be Balance

It could be me getting older or the fact that I live in a holy place. It may even be about the time of year. But lately things seem wonderfully concentrated, distilled to an essence that makes them easy to take in.

(photo credit: Zzvet for Shutterstock)

Take the elderly woman in shul yesterday. It was the afternoon Yom Kippur service. She struggled with all  her might to stand for Kedusha, an important part of the service where those who are physically able, must stand. As we finished Kedusha, I saw her slowly ease herself back into her seat. Her face was aglow with gratitude for finding the strength to stand for Kedusha at mincha on Yom Kippur, for yet another year.

Wow.

Meant To See

Would I have noticed that a year ago, or one year on? I was glad I got to see that. I believe I was meant to see that.

But of course, there must be balance, which means that the distillation of events is not always a happy occurrence. For instance my son’s hanachat tefillin on Thursday last, the first time he put on phylacteries at the Western Wall. Looking for a free chair on which to place my handbag and other paraphernalia, I came to a stack of plastic chairs topped with a bag. I asked the woman sitting next to them if I might take one. She snapped out a harsh, “NO,” to my polite request.

(photo credit: gh19 for Shutterstock)

Ouch.

I tried to reason with her, “I have a bar mitzvah,” I explained.

Weddings Trump Bar Mitzvahs

“I have a wedding!” said she, as if to say weddings trump bar mitzvahs.

“And clearly you’re using all of those chairs right now,” I said with as much composure as I could gather, chastising her, though I should have said nothing at all.

(photo credit: Shutterstock)

I moved on. I came to a second stack of chairs with a woman next to them. “May I take a chair?”

“No!” she snapped.

Whoa. What was it with this place?

She Found Them

 

At last I spotted an unclaimed chair and put my stuff down. At that moment, my daughter showed up. I told her I couldn’t really see where our men were on the other side of the mechitza and I’d pretty much given up. She went to scout things out and found them.

“Over here,” she said, beckoning.

Oy. Right next to that first woman who wouldn’t let me have a chair—the one with the wedding.  By now there were a few other women with her, and I asked one of them if she could just inch forward a bit. The first woman began screeching at me.

I Was Trembling

 

By now I was trembling. I showed her that my family was directly on the other side of the mechitza, the barrier that separates men from women. I said, “This is my eighth of eight sons and it’s his bar mitzvah and it’s happening right here.”

I said this with as much fortitude as I could. I’m not really one to argue with strangers, especially not in

Through the mechitza.
(photo credit: Varda Meyers Epstein)

public. But this was my baby having his bar mitzvah. I was compelled to plead my case.

She started again telling me about so and so getting called to the Torah for his wedding. I pointed to the opening in the barrier. “Look,” I showed her. “My son and my family are RIGHT HERE.”

She stopped arguing then. How could she continue to argue with me? Clearly I had a right to be in that spot at that moment. But she stared at me disapprovingly the entire time. I could imagine what she was thinking, “Those orthodox people think they own the place,” or something like that. Perhaps she was thinking disdainful things about my appearance. That’s what I was imagining, anyway.

Don’t Do Well

 

I don’t do well with stuff like that. I was shaking. I really had to struggle to stay composed.
It’s not like this group of women was even praying. They sat around gossiping loudly. They were foreigners and cared little for the decorum of this holy place.

(photo credit: Natan Epstein)

In a way, this whole hurtful business kind of added something to my moment by making me fragile and emotional, softening my heart so that it was more able to take in the import of this special occasion: my baby, the last of my 12 children, having his bar mitzvah. I shook but I also smiled. My heart was full.

When it came time to throw candies at Asher, my daughter Liba offered the bag of candy to the group of women next to us, the ones with the wedding and overprotective keeper of chairs and they happily accepted. I was proud of Liba. I never would have done that in her stead. She was right to do that.

Baseless Hatred

 

It was two days before Yom Kippur, a time when God-fearing people are on their best behavior. The 

View from between the mechitza slats
(photo credit: Varda Meyers Epstein)

Temple was said to be destroyed because of “baseless hatred” and here I had been exposed to exactly that at the final remnant of the Temple, the western retaining wall of that edifice.

There was no reason for this woman to snap at me as she had, and that was what upset me so. Both she and the other woman who said, “No!” when asked for a chair could have handled things differently. Both of them could have said, “I’m sorry, but I’m expecting a large group and I’m saving these chairs for them.”

They could have made an effort to point out chairs I might take from a different location, been helpful and kind.

(photo credit: Natan Epstein)

When stuff like this happens, during the Aseret Y’mei Teshuva (ten days of repentance), at the Wall, I have to wonder, “Where are we as a people? Have we grown from when the Temple was last destroyed?”

I don’t much like the obvious answer.

But like I said, there’s always a balance. This time, balance came in the form of an email I received Erev Yom Kippur. I was in between chicken soup-making tasks and found this message in my inbox from my manager at Kars for Kids, “Working together day in day out, it’s almost impossible not to inadvertently say something hurtful, or fail to treat someone with the respect they deserve.

As such I’m proposing, according to the Yeshiva custom that everyone say out loud that they forgive everyone B’lev Shalem (wholeheartedly).”

A Clean Slate

 

I was overcome. What a beautiful suggestion. It made it so easy, so possible, for all to start the year with a clean slate.

I did as my manager had suggested and said the phrase aloud, thinking of all my co-workers.

Then I thought of that woman at the Wall, the keeper of the chairs. Without hesitating I said with as much feeling as I could muster, “I forgive you b’lev shalem.”

(photo credit: Natan Epstein)

Gmar Chatima Tova—May you be inscribed in the Book of Life.

The Dog is in the Courtyard

““Ha’kelev ba’chatzer!” said the small child in his stroller, the night breeze refreshing the couple and their child after the hot August day. The child pointed toward a ceramic figurine in a neighbor’s front yard garden. “The dog is in the courtyard.”

The father, not really paying attention, offered what he thought was the appropriate gentle correction, “HaMelech ba’sadeh—the King is in the field.”

The King is in the field is an expression in heavy use during the month of Elul, a time of Jewish repentance, when the King (Hashem), is said to be accessible to all, even to the farmer in the field. He comes to us, wherever we are; ready to listen to what we have to say for ourselves.

The child in the stroller, desperate now to make his point, since his parents were in the process of wheeling him past the object in question, repeated his words, this time with more force, “Ha’kelev ba’chatzer!”

Once again the father reinforced the child’s impression that nobody was listening, “Ken—yes. HaMelech ba’sadeh—the King is in the field.”

It all happened in a matter of moments. My sedentary job writing for Kars for Kids had begun to affect my weight. I’d just come out for an evening power walk as part of a new resolution to get some exercise, get back in shape. They, the couple with the child, were passing my home.

This was a couple of days ago. And as trivial as it may seem, I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. This brief interaction, this small parenting “fail” seemed to me symbolic of something much larger.

It’s this: if man is created in the image of God and God stands ready to listen to us in Elul, even coming out to meet us on our own terms then what of this father? He was preoccupied with repentance, as he should be at this time of year, but did his behavior reflect that of a receptive and listening King?

He hadn’t met his child on the child’s own terms. He hadn’t allowed his eyes to follow the trajectory of his son’s pointing finger. If he had, he would surely have seen the lawn sculpture that looked to his child like nothing so much as a dog in a courtyard. This father failed to put himself in his son’s place, to see things from his child’s perspective and so failed the listening test.

Since I passed that couple and their child, I’ve been watchful. I’ve noted many cases where people are talking yet not listening to each other. Not really.

Like the woman who tried to tell me lashon hara (a category of prohibited speech). “It’s not lashon hara,” she said. “Three rabbis told me it’s not.”

But it was and I didn’t want to hear it. Still, she remained oblivious to me and my concerns.

Like the woman who left a comment on a facebook posting that sounded to me like dibat haaretz, a prohibited form of tale-bearing against the Holy Land meant to leave a negative impression. I removed her comment and used the standard Facebook message form to tell her what I found objectionable.

“That’s not dibat haaretz,” she said, citing her husband’s opinion on the matter as authoritative.

But it was. I didn’t want to read that or have my friends read it either. Yet she remained defensive, not allowing for my concerns.

Once more it happened, just today. I was tagged on a post I found objectionable. I “untagged” myself. I politely explained that I don’t post articles that slander Jews or Israel.

Necessary Slander??

The tagger tried to convince me that the post was not slander. Then he tried to convince me it was necessary slander to correct a greater ill. The more I tried to demur, the more forcefully he argued his point.

It began to fall into place for me, how being receptive to others is crucial to the act of repentance. When we don’t listen, we’re being stubborn. We’re demanding that things go our way. We’re not letting go and moving forward. We’re stubbornly holding on to our (sinful) status quo.

I am guilty, too—as guilty as anyone else. There are times I could shoot myself for saying something I know I shouldn’t, even as the words come out my mouth. There are times I pretend I don’t see a person’s body language telling me to STOP RIGHT NOW—I DON’T WANT TO HEAR THIS.

In the not listening, in not seeing things as they really are, we are as stuck as stuck can be. We stay where we are, stuck in our own vanity, and in our own human failings. We remain in stasis.

The King is in the field, but it’s up to us to meet Him and to be receptive to the lessons that are all around us: that come at us from our fellow human beings. We’re each of us as fallible as the next. But if we’ll just listen with all we’ve got, we may get somewhere.

We may just meet the King.

A "Small Minority of Extremists?" GUEST POST

This guest post is by my son, Moshe Epstein, 17 years-old, and newly graduated from high school. English is his second language. The views expressed here are his own. This is his first blog.

"Strive hard against the unbelievers and the hypocrites and be
unyielding to them; and their abode is hell, and evil is their destination."
Quran 9:73

A common argument repeated many times by Muslim apologists is that, "It's only a small minority," of Muslims who become violent political extremists. In the wake of so many horrific murders around the world, the most recent one a murder of a British soldier in London, the apologists are on the defensive, once again spouting the idea that we shouldn't blame or condemn ALL Muslims, because those who engage in terror are a minority.

Unfortunately, attributing terror to a small minority of Muslims is like saying that only a small number of white supremacists hurt anyone. Also, this faulty theory of a radical minority in Islam fails to explain why religious violence is largely endemic to Islam, witness the tremendous persecution of religious minorities in Muslim countries.

 

No Major Problem

In other words, Muslim apologists brush aside the increased Islamic terrorism threat, resultant increases in loss of liberties and privacy rights because, "Most Muslims are not terrorists." By implication, the apologists would have us all believe that Islamic terrorism isn't really a major problem for western countries, like Britain or Australia, and that a growing Muslim population isn't really a bad thing. Of course, many Muslim extremists do not actually get to the point where they manage to carry out their plans of terrorism, but we should certainly not ignore their intent.

In truth, even a tiny minority of 1% of Muslims worldwide translates to 15 million believers - hardly an insignificant number. However, the "minority" of Muslims who approve of terrorists, their goals, or their means of achieving them is much greater than this. In fact, it isn't even a true minority in some cases, depending on how goals and targets are defined.

The following polls convey what Muslims say are their attitudes toward terrorism, al-Qaeda, Osama bin Laden, the 9/11 attacks, violence in defense of Islam, Sharia, honor killings, and matters concerning assimilation in Western society. The results are all the more astonishing because most of the polls were conducted by organizations with an obvious interest in "discovering" agreeable statistics that downplay any cause for concern:

Pew Global:
(61%) of Egyptians approve of attacks on Americans
(32%) of Indonesians approve of attacks on Americans
(41%) of Pakistanis approve of attacks on Americans
(38%) of Moroccans approve of attacks on Americans
(83%) of Palestinians approve of some or most groups that attack Americans (only 14% oppose)
62%) of Jordanians approve of some or most groups that attack Americans (21% oppose)
(42%) of Turks approve of some or most groups that attack Americans (45% oppose)
A minority of Muslims disagreed entirely with terror attacks on Americans:
(Egypt 34%; Indonesia 45%; Pakistan 33%)

About half of those opposed to attacking Americans were sympathetic with al-Qaeda’s attitude toward the U.S.

Now, what about the Muslims who believe they are doing such things because they're defending Islam against other extremists?

(74%) in the Middle East, the strongest supporting of "Sharia Law" coming from countries such as:
(56%) in Tunisia
(83%) in Morocco
(44%) in Turkey
(74%) in the South Asia region
(77%) in Southeast Asia
(84%) in Pakistan

The following countries support the notion that suicide bombing is justified:
(26%) in Bangladesh
(29%) in Egypt
(39%) in Afghanistan
(40%) in the Palestinian territories

Muslims in the following countries say that tensions between more religiously observant and less observant Muslims are a very big problem in their country:
(34%) in Pakistan
(38%) in Lebanon
(74%) in Afghanistan

Asked if they support Iran acquiring nuclear weapons
(61%) in Egypt said they do.

Asked if they have a favorable opinion of Hamas
(34%) in Egypt said they do.

To use a somewhat crude analogy – Islam is like a type of virus. Now, it's true that not all carriers of this virus will necessarily fall ill to a full-blown serious health condition, but as long as the virus has infected some Muslims and is spreading, there will always be serious outbreaks of the manifestations of this virus. That makes the virus dangerous in and of itself.

That virus is Islam and it must be contained before it is too late.

Sources:
http://www.pewforum.org/uploadedFiles/Topics/Religious_Affiliation/Muslim/worlds-muslims-religion-politics-society-full-report.pdf
http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/arabs/egyptpoll.html

It’s Not Your Land Chimp Bitch

Simmering in my head, all day long are these words: “It’s not your land, chimp bitch.”

(photo credit: Craig Lymm)

Five days ago, a well-meaning American friend invited me to an event called “I Stand with Israel.” She meant to show me that American Jews are standing in solidarity with Israeli Jews during this critical time of war. I decided to decline the invitation as irrelevant. When asked to offer a reason for not attending, I could not tamp down the cynic in my breast and wrote, “Um. I stand IN Israel.”

“Um. I stand IN Israel.”

I forgot all about that event and my pithy response until this afternoon. There was a siren and a boom. I stayed in the safe room for as long as I could stand it which wasn’t very long. I was FURIOUS.

I was furious at my government for not going in to Gaza with a ground incursion. I paced with furious speed inside my safe room, pounding the walls with my fist and screaming the f word over and over and over again, until I just couldn’t stay inside those four walls anymore.

I came out of the safe room to send a message to my mother to let her know that all was well. I tried to breathe.

I wrote just one line: We are fine.

I Clicked Send

When I clicked send, I saw that my inbox was overflowing so I went to clear out some of the messages before getting back to my work. Among those messages was a rant on that event page for standing with Israel. The comment was apparently directed toward my response. Something twisted about Zionism and secular Judaism. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

Normally, I would not have answered him. Clearly, the guy’s a nutcase. But I was feeling reckless after the siren and after all these days of waiting, waiting, waiting, for Israel to go in and do what it needs to do to stop these endless rockets, sirens, and misery. Maybe I needed a small battle to contend with the larger one: the one I cannot control.

I was feeling anxious and emotional. So I ventured a few lines just to clarify that I live in Israel because the Torah commands me to live in Israel and not because of this or that political ideology. I told him that I live in Israel because it is my land.

(photo credit: Ministry of Tourism; www.goisrael.com)

And he wrote: “You can disagree all you want. I see fact for what it is. Genocide, starvation, apartheid, murder, =racism…

It isn’t your land chimp bitch. Stolen property does not belong to the thief.

That is common law around the world.

And you are a liar, or too fuckiing [sic] stupid to understand your own Torah.”

Too Stupid

His name is Don Leonard. Feel free to report him for hate speech. I did.

I was just struck dumb by that phrase, “It isn’t your land chimp bitch.”

I repeated it over and over again to myself, sometimes aloud. I found it had a certain ring. It evolved for me until it became, “IT’S NOT YOUR LAND CHIMP BITCH.”

My husband giggled.

But while I was acting all tough and saying, “It’s not your land chimp bitch,” inside I was feeling wounded and hurt, anxious and angry. All of that emotion just churned inside me. I couldn’t wrap my mind around my work project; the work that pays our rent.

Then the fury boiled up and spilled over and I did something I’d been threatening to do for days. I quit a long-held volunteer position with a Jewish organization for the simple reason that not a single one of my co-volunteers had inquired after the well-being of my family since this whole thing escalated. My son is called up three days after he is engaged to be married. I am calming down frightened children in bomb shelters and hearing sirens, but NOPE. Not one word. I’ve been with that org for more than a decade.

Photo by Cpl. Shai Wagner, IDF Spokesperson's Unit

They all voted for Obama, all of them, at least the Americans. They sold me out: me and my people, their OWN PEOPLE.

The President-elect and Vice President-elect meet with the Supreme Court Justices. (Photo by Pete Souza)

They knew their votes would put Israel in a precarious situation, all 70 damned percent of them. And they did it anyway. They were so much more worried about who would sit on the damned Supreme Court. They don’t care about a million of their brethren suffering PTSD in Southern Israel and now dying from Arab
terror.

(Official White House Photo by Pete Souza)

They don’t care. They only cared about Romney going all Big Love on them. They cared about minor domestic issues that didn’t even affect them personally. Women my age often aren’t even menstruating for goodness’ sake. They’re not getting pregnant. Abortion is NOT their issue. But ISRAEL IS.

None of them are GAY. But they ARE Jewish. So why is gay marriage more important to them than Israel? I’m sorry. I just don’t buy their frigging excuses ANY MORE.

Can you tell I’m angry?

President Barack Obama listens to Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu of Israel during a bilateral meeting in the Oval Office, Sept. 1, 2010. (Official White House Photo by Pete Souza)

The Arabs started this latest escalation as a direct response to the election results. And don’t any of you Americans think otherwise. This is ON YOUR HEADS.

Anger talking. Sure. But there it is. It’s what’s inside me. It’s how I feel.

So I wrote the guy above me at that org, “I quit effective immediately. Best of Luck,” and felt relief suffuse me. It felt good. I also called out, “IT’S NOT YOUR LAND CHIMP BITCH,” one more time for good measure. That was amazingly powerful because it just made me laugh. Laughter is better than fury and helplessness.

The phrase makes me laugh because I have a deep-seated belief that Israel belongs to me and my people. That makes the phrase seem utterly ridiculous, even absurd! I said it a few more times:
IT’S NOT YOUR LAND CHIMP BITCH.

Then a friend posted this Oliver North clip:  http://video.foxnews.com/v/1978528038001/


I stopped laughing. North said that President Obama is threatening Netanyahu behind the scenes, telling the Israeli prime minister that should Israel go ahead with a ground incursion, the U.S. will block all airplane part replacements.

Well, I figured all those oh-so-supportive-of-Israel statements Obama was issuing right and left were a bunch of horse-pucky. Like anyone thought he’d support Israel? So I was inclined to believe Ollie North.

The fury just built inside me. If we don’t do this ground incursion, that’s it. Nothing left to talk about. I can’t bear it. I just can’t bear it.

The whole thing is falling apart.

Israel will still be here. The land won’t go anywhere. But it will become more and more dangerous for Jews to live here. We’ll have lost control of the entire venture.

I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid.

(photo credit: Kewima; http://www.flickr.com/photos/kewima//)

My fury knows no bounds. I want to break something, smash something.

And now the rumors start to flow about ceasefire declarations.

My anguish is so enormous I have no more words.

Birthday Blessings and Baseless Hatred

A Blessing On Your Head

hen I joined Facebook, I noticed that many of my Orthodox Jewish friends dispensed blessings to their Jewish friends on their birthdays. Not being orthodox from birth, I like to try out new customs for myself and see how they feel. In this case, I liked the idea that I had a special superpower on my birthday.

It reminded me of being a new bride. According to Jewish custom you see, a bride is granted whatever she prays for on her wedding day. Except that in this case, it seems, I had the power on a single day each year. I’d just never been aware of that power.

I didn’t look into why people were giving out blessings on their birthdays. It may be a Chassidishe custom and I am a Litvak. But it seemed like a nice enough custom to adopt; one that would result in no harm to anyone and might even be beneficial. Who can’t use a brocha—a blessing? Besides, the sudden assumption of power seemed a heady thing that I wasn’t about to forego.

And so it was that I made my decision. This year, when Facebook informed everyone it was the day of my birth, I would answer each and every birthday greeting I received with a blessing. Not only would I give out blessings, but I would do so in the same way my mother taught me to write thank-you notes: each and every blessing would be particular to that person.

No rote blessings would be allowed. There would be thought and intent behind my blessings. My blessings would be caring and specific. I didn’t want my power wasted on emptiness. I wanted that power imbued with and applied with meaning.

My friends seemed genuinely pleased with my largesse and in many cases, commented on how apt my blessings were—how much they desired those very blessings. But toward the end of the day, I received a birthday greeting from a fellow blogger and writer who wrote only half in jest, “Happy birthday. Are we still friends?”

Interesting, considering how many times I’d thought of unfriending this particular woman. My hand had even once hovered over that, “remove from friends button,” on the precipice, so to speak. But each time, I had refrained from completing the action.

The issue in question was this woman’s adamant dislike of Haredim, or black-hat Jews as we called them back in the alte heim (old country), expressed over and over again on her own blogs, in talkbacks, and in other people’s blogs. She had an utter hatred, it seemed, of my co-religionists, and could not be reasoned with on the subject. Though I tried. Repeatedly.

But every time I thought of unfriending her, I thought that if I just continued to be a shining example of the breed, I would ultimately persuade her and make her see another side of the story. It was a long shot. But it seemed to me that it was in both our interests for me to continue to try and cajole her into seeing a different, good side of Haredim.

So when she greeted me on my birthday, I thought of it as an opportunity to drive home the point. My blessing to her was, “May you come to see the good in all your fellow Jews and shun baseless hatred. May you learn to strive for the unity of our people and develop a true love of Israel.”

Yes. I’ll admit. It was a dig. She knew where I was coming from with that. But then again, she’d opened the topic by asking if we were still friends. She knew exactly what was between us and what it was that needed to be resolved.

As far as I am concerned, what needed to be resolved was a willingness to include me and other Haredim as part of her people and not single out specific negative actions perpetrated by a few rank individuals as justifying her mental exclusion of us from “her” nation.

Hatred: like an arrow (or several) to the heart

Consider this: a month ago, my grandchildren, who look quite obviously Haredi, came to visit me in my town, which is overwhelmingly of a National Religious character. My 13 year-old son took them to the park and immediately, the resident children at play, began to shout epithets at my grandchildren, “Stinky dirty Haredim,” they cried. “Go play in your own parks.”

Now, where did they learn that? You know the answer to that as well as I do. They learned this bias and hatred from their parents.

Starfish are People Too

It was a horrible, even traumatic experience for my grandchildren who immediately left the park and returned to my home to spend the rest of their visit indoors and safe from the hatred extended toward them during what should have been a pleasant visit to Grandma.

Going back a few months further, my husband and I attended the wedding of a friend and at our table, the guests vied to best each other’s jokes which focused on denigrating Haredim. They must have thought my husband and I were of them and not Haredim, though I wore my sheitl and was otherwise dressed according to Haredi shita (fashion).

My husband and I sat through it all, not saying a word, waiting it out, not wanting to create any kind of dissension at our friend’s daughter’s wedding. When I returned home, my whole body ached from the tension of holding back a response, of deflecting the hatred in each word and glance and trying to defend from any sort of penetration. Like the meltdown of adrenaline after an incident. Like the aftermath of fending off a rape.

I thought of all this as I typed and sent my blessing to my Facebook friend. Can you guess what happened next?

Of course you can. She unfriended me. She took offense at my blessing. She took offense at the obviousness of the lesson I was trying to impart: at the inference that she was at fault for her hatred rather than I for the sins of a few people who wear similar clothing to my own and adhere to the rulings of some of the same rabbis.

I shook my head in despair when I realized that this woman had finally found me annoying enough to unfriend me, rather than work toward resolving the issues between us.

This is the three-week period during which Jews mourn the destruction of the First and Second Temples due to baseless hatred. I hope that at least, from time to time, during the next 20 days or so, my unfriended friend will think about my blessing and let it sink in, as it was meant to be, as a blessing on both of us, for all of us, for our people.