Germany

So now I have come to Germany to spend a week with my Germany relatives here. My Grandfather's cousin lives in Elmshorn with his family, and just about every time I come to Europe, I go to stay with them. And they very often go to America themselves, so we see each other frequently.

And every time I come, they get out their family tree, and loads of old pictures and paraphernalia. They know a lot about family history.

But this time is different. This time, Germany is a challenge.

First, on my second day, my German Aunt, who I am staying with, takes me on a trip to see a new emigration museum that they have in Hamburg at BallinStadt. It was the place where hundreds of thousands of emigrants from all over Germany and Eastern Europe came through before going to America, because it was the location of the HAPAG-Lloyd line, when they were still in the business of shipping people overseas instead of just cargo.

And one of the first things I saw was, under a plexiglass plate in the entryway floor, they had a 3D model and drawn-out plan of the old BallinStadt. It showed the museum buildings, now extant, amidst a plan of forty or so other buildings, containing everything from the bathhouses and disinfection places to churches and synagogues. I noticed how distinctly they separated Jews from Christians in the eating quarters, and living quarters as well. And I wondered if that was for the benefit of the Jews or the Christians. It seemed probably the latter, but that I thought it could have had a side benefit of making Kosher eating more possible.

There were stories of Jewish emigrants throughout the exhibit, and they showed numerous newspaper clippings about the kinds of problems Jews faced in that day, before, during, and after the War. But clearly this was not a Jewish-focused museum. Not that it took a particular side. It just did not seem to be all that concerned with the Jewish plight. It was more of a curiosity than anything else. But of course, we all know it was much more. And it was what was left unsaid that of course was murmuring underneath. But they can't say those things. They are German.

And the other problem with Germany is pork. It seems pork is everywhere, in almost every dish that involves meat. Even if they make a beef dish, it's like they throw in some pork, just for flavor, or taste, or something. And so I find myself eating vegetarian mostly, but sometimes I end up eating something with pork in it, only so that I don't have to refuse hospitality. It's difficult when my German grandmother has made the food herself and served it to me, and it's what they are eating for lunch, and she doesn't even speak much English. I smile and say "Danke Shoen."

I am not to the point yet where I feel I need to eat all kosher all the time, or I will make myself feel guilty because I ate something. But I am kind of trying it out, seeing how it feels, and being here makes me very aware of the presence of pork and also that fact that I don't feel much like I want to eat it. It seems strange. For a country with so many cows, why do they eat only pigs? But I do try to avoid it. When my German uncle offered to go buy me a pork steak, I said, no, thank you, I prefer beef. Instead of Italian cured ham on my bread in the morning, I choose only cheese. I will be glad to get back to Paris, and back to the States, where I won't have to be faced with pork in my soup on a regular basis.

B"H

The Lovely American

Last Friday, I was invited to a party in Aix-en-Provence, where I am staying until Sunday. The host of the party thought it would interest me to be introduced to the only other American there. I had heard the woman talking to some other people before, and was quite aware of her nationality. You're from America, too? She exclaimed excitedly. Where are you from? I gave her the story in a nutshell. Not even. Really just the basic details. I didn't much feel like getting into it. It wasn't that I didn't care. It's just that when I travel, I don't usually go out of my way to seek out other Americans. It doesn't really excite me.

She told me she was from LA. How long have you lived France? Oh, half my life, she told me, and rolled her eyes, as if it were at once the most special and also the most boring thing in the world. What did she do? Oh, I'm an artist, she said, again in that blasée, self-important tone of voice. (This I knew from before, in fact, due to her loud American accent). She's the kind of artist that makes my skin crawl, because she has that self-righteous attitude about it. Knowing people like her kind of made me want to stop doing art when I was in college. And usually it's coming from the people who are over-priveleged, and never really appreciate the difficulty of making a living as an artist. She can grow up in some suburb or other - Hollywood, in her case. And she can just paint or do whatever she wants, and it doesn't matter how bad or good the art is. She can move to France, and then she can complain about it and go to lame parties where she can feel special. No, I should really give her the benefit of the doubt. She had probably had some problem in her life that she was dealing with and that's why she wanted friends so badly. Seems to me that's always the way. But I still didn't really like talking to her.

But when she said she's been to Israel, I became interested. I thought maybe we had some common ground. Oh, are you Jewish? How did you know? she asked. Well, aside from the dark hair, etc., she had mentioned Israel, in that kind of honorific way that Jewish people often do. She respected it (unlike France), which I took to mean it was important to her. I just put two and two together. she asked if I was Jewish, too.

I considered whether or not to tell her I was converting. I still don't really like the term. I prefer "Jewish by choice." But I didn't getting around to discussing it with her. I told her I was "in the process." That didn't sound quite right to me either, but I went with it. "I feel so bad for people who convert," She said, "For their boyfriends or husbands, or whoever." I couldn't believe she was saying this to me. "I mean, I'm Jewish," She said. "It's in my Blood." That's when I stopped talking to her. It is very rare for me that I will actually leave a conversation, but in this case, evasion seemed my best tactice. What she had said was so patently offensive, I could not even dignify a response. I suppose I could have said something like, "I'm not converting," or said I was Jewish by practice, but I don't think any of those things would have mattered to her. What I said was, "Never mind," and turned away to do what I had come to that side of the room to do: sign the bag of some guy who was about to embark on a three-year world tour. "I'm sorry I offended you," She said. I didn't say anything again to her for the rest of the night. I smiled at her once and that was it.

Because she did offend me. For years of my life I've told myself that I couldn't "convert" because I'm not "Jewish" - because it's not "in my blood," and I wasn't raised that way. And I was miserable. But now I have learned that I can choose Judaism. It is something you do, and it's available to me, and to anyone who truly wants it, and not just something you are born into. Doing is what makes it part of who you are. To me, it's like people who are born Jewish have a free ticket to synagogue or Bar Mitzvah or whatever you want. You never have to work for it. And those people can complain about their heritage and whine about persecution, never appreciating what they have. I wondered if she had even read the book of Ruth.

I feel the way I think a legal immigrant feels about illegal migrant workers. I have to work to get my visa, pay lots of money, study, pay, and study some more. Finally, I will take a test and get my green card. I will do everything to the nth degree, but I will always be somewhat of an outsider. Those people - the illegal aliens - just walk in and take everything for free. I'm not saying that all Jewish people are like illegal immigrants, because they're not, but when they don't appreciate what they have, then they are, and it's disrespectful to me.

When you are born Jewish, it's like you are given a free pass. A magic gift. You can come and go as you please. Choose to practice or not. You will always "be" Jewish. How great, and what a blessing to be born Jewish. But maybe - and this is what I think the book of Ruth might really be about, at least in part - you need someone to choose it from the outside to make you realize that you have a special thing. I know I did that for at least one person I've met. Yes, you are Jewish and you have something desirable. You can be proud of it. But you can also be welcoming. I don't think a haughty attitude will do very much to impress people. I just realized that that woman did not speak the truth for me. And the best I could do was let her think about her words. I know the truth for myself already. I've done my research, and I've made my choice. And even though I will always be slightly jealous, I think, of people who have had the opportunity to be raised Jewish, and live in that kind of house hold, I will be even more thankful that I've been given the freedom and the ability to choose it for myself. And that's something I could never do if I was born Jewish.

French Sabbath

Last night I had my first French synagogue experience and my first Orthodox synagogue experience all at the same time. C'était trés interesante.

First, I should mention that I spent several hours - or at least one hour - earlier in the day traipsing around an approxiately one-block area, looking for the synagogue, who's address was either 5 rue de Jérusalem or 3 rue de Jérusalem. With no luck. I kept trying different streets that looked like they would take me to the right place. Every time, I would either find myself obviously too far away, or else completely blocked from where I wanted to go. Finally, when I was able to check a more detailed map, I found it seemed to be in the one tiny alley I had not gone down at all. But I was generally in the right place.

So I went back that evening, and luckily was able to walk there from the place that I was staying. I went down the tiny alley, which was indeed marked (in a very hard-to-see place) Rue de Jérusalem. It was very short, and as far as I could see, there was no synagogue. There wasn't even an apartment entrance or a store or anything. There were some beat-looking cars parked, some dumpsters, and a depressing-looking building with lots of garage doors. This was not the "good" part of town." I thought, is this one of those groups that meets in someone's basement? How did they get marked on the map? Where is the synagogue?

So I went down to the end of the alley, which had a one-way street coming from the main road, up and to the left. It wasn't there. Then I turned to the right. There, clearly not physically on the "Rue de Jérusalem" at all, but down a brick-paved pedestrial walkway, was a likely synagogue-looking building, which was fairly non-descript, but nice, and even more indicated by the old man wearing a yarmule and standing outside the door. I was right on time, and I could hear the chanting already inside.

The old man smiled at me as I approached. He seemed perplexed that I would ascend the stairs. Est-ce-que je peut entrer? Vous êtes Juive? Oui. Then he got really excited and looked very happy. He asked where I was from and told him I was an American. He enlisted the help of a man and his bar mitzvah-age son, who were just arriving, to tell me where I was to go in the synagogue - the "Premiere étage." This is an Orthodox synagogue, he told me in French. Men are on the first floor, and women are on the second floor - the balcony. Okay, well, I wasn't going to let that turn me away. They were warm and welcoming. There was no sense of being left out. Except there really weren't a lot of women there. There wasn't a whole lot of anybody, but it was definitely mostly male, all chanting in Hebrew on the first floor.

There were two great electrical candelabras up front, and in the center of the floor, was an enclosed space with two chairs, and an immense Torah book in red, covered with plastic. A young-ish man in a black suit and black yarmulke approached the enclosure and began to lead the chanting. I thought he might give a drasha in french, but he did not. And as he chanted, he would periodically look at us up in the balcony. I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to be doing, so I just tried to stand up and sit down at the appropriate times. There was a printed page in French, but other than that, everything was in Hebrew. So I decided to practice my letter-reading a bit. The young boy who came in with his father was there on the floor. Or perhaps he had already had his bar mitzvah. He looked relatively old.

It's odd. There is a certain kind of maturity that I see in younger Jewish males [I say "males" because I'm referring to that entire age group of all people, at a point where neither "man" nor "boy" would really be descriptive.] Maybe it is true for females as well, but I feel that teenage boys, generally, are pretty immature. Let's just take that for granted, with a few exceptions - at least in America. The girls tend to be mature a little bit earlier. Again, a generality. But when I reached the airport in New York City, there was a young Jewish male sleeping sitting on a bench near our luggage claim. He could not have been more than 16. Probably 14. He had on a yarmulke and a nice suit. His bags were there next to him. There was no one with him. And he just slept. Looking at his face, he seemed to exude a knowledgable peace. He trusted himself and the world enough to sleep in this place, and indeed he seemed to have the trust of many others behind him. His whole life seemed to make sense for him. He was not worried about the future. He was not worried about the past. His age seemed irrelevant. He had the sense of being fully a man, even though he was very young. And it's something I have seen before - a certain sense of the world - but which was very pronounced in this young man I saw.

The young man at the synagogue did not seem quite so old in his bearing. But he, too, like all Jewish men I know, had that certain spark of dignity. It manifests differently in women, but it's there, too. One woman on the balcony had her hair covered. I realized that I probably should as well. But the two other young girls didn't. I guess perhaps it is okay, if you are not married. In fact, I am pretty sure the poster outside the door said something to that effect.

What I thought was most intriguing was hearing Hebrew in a French accent. I wonder what it sounds like to someone who really knows Hebrew. And the man recited long passages entirely from memory. I am sure he has been doing it his whole life. It is probably, like for me, going to church and automatically knowing all the prayers, only what he knew was so much more vast.

The service was short. It was over in less than an hour. So I walked around a little bit, sat and thought for a while in the pedestrian area nearby, and then called my friend so that I could join him for his party in another part of town, in Aix.

But even though I experienced services entirely in two languages I don't really even know, I nevertheless felt fulfilled. I felt I could at least imagine what was supposed to take place, and I took comfort in hearing the words, and seeing the devotion of the other men and women in the place. It was uplifting, even though the direct meaning of the words was unavailable to me. And that made me think more about the power of words: that these words can have power and meaning, even if I don't know what those meanings are.

Les Juifs France

So I was waiting at the airport in New York City with 40 kids that I was to see safely across the Atlantic Ocean. We were at JFK. And there were of course a fair amount of yarmulkes visible, it being New York, it's only to be expected. And there was this group of hasidic-looking young men who seemed to be waiting for my flight. They seemed like a very congenial group. Maybe five or six of them. I found myself watching with interest, hoping they would be on my flight, in fact.

Funny how things work out. The airline had somehow placed my seat about 20 rows back from the rest of the kids. So I arranged to move, from row 44 to row 26, where I was sitting next to a dark-skinned boy, one of the group. At that point, I still thought he was a New Yorker. And he was sleeping, so there was not much conversation. At one point, he even rested his head on my shoulder. I'm not sure if he ever became aware. But I didn't move him.

Anyway, it turns out he was not from New York at all. He was from Paris, and he and his friends had just finished a semester of special (I assumed he meant probably Jewish-oriented) business school in New York. So they were all French. And at one point, several of them came over to talk to my seat mate. So there I was, surrounded by yarmulkes and tassels, all talking French. I smiled to myself, but didn't say a thing. It was like G-d was guarding and guiding my journey, and they had no idea. They were just there. I was in awe.

Choosing the Garden

I have been fascinated and enthralled by fruit trees lately. Just walking around my neighborhood, I can see peach trees, lemon trees, fig trees. I see palm trees, fruits, and succulents I have never even seen before. Last weekend, I had the joy and pleasure of visiting an actual vineyard in the country, which was a small vineyard, owned by someone I know, and they blessed us with an invitation to spend time on their beautiful property.

Seeing fruit from a tree reminds me that stores are sometimes unnecessary. If I am hungry, I could walk down to the local market and spend some money. Or I could walk out into my back yard and pick a huge bowl of plums from the heavy branches of our fruiting tree. That's real food. I don't lose any money, and I don't have to worry about whether it is locally grown. It's about as local as it gets. Next I probably want chickens. But the point is, our food and sustenance doesn't actually come from a store, it comes from the earth. And providing for ourselves isn't just about money, it's about how we can avail ourselves of the opportunities at hand.

So my friend from New Zealand and I sat in the back yard last night, drinking tea and occasionally eating plums from the tree. She and I met singing in the choir at church. She is getting ready to leave for England with her husband. I am trying to decide if I will go back to the choir or not. And I shared with her my decision to become Jewish. She is Christian, of course, but she is Christian much in the same way that I was, which is in a broad-minded, non-evangelical sense. She was happy for me.

I find it actually very easy to talk about my choice, even among Christians. I anticipate some opposition from my parents, and I am sure that my grandfather will try to evangelize me, but at this point I really don't care. And how do I know what their reaction will be? I could get all worked up about it, and the next thing I know, I will sit down with them, I'll say, hey, guys, guess what, I'm Jewish. And they'll say, ok. Want to go to the beach?

But that doesn't mean I can't back myself up with plenty of solid arguments for my position beforehand. Which of course is not hard, because I have ultimate faith in what I am doing. I believe it's the right thing for me, and, well, I believe in one G-d, so that's about it really. I am following my belief.

I am also following my gut and intuition, and I feel like I can back that up with reasoning.

I was telling my friend last night that it comes down to choice. If I have the freedom to choose one or another religion, I want to choose the one that makes me happiest and makes me feel like I am living a full life in concert with my beliefs. Freedom of choice is really a big thing in Judaism, if not in other beliefs. (Freedom from choice as well, and that's another story.) But, for a religious argument, if you want to say G-d created the world, then you have to believe that He created the whole world, not just Jews or Christians or Muslims or anybody else. All of it. Even the people with no belief. And part of our being created is our freedom. We have the ability to choose what we want or where to go. This is the essence of the story of the Garden of Eden, which I think is often misconstrued or used for emotional manipulation and guilt tactics, talking about "original sin" that we somehow have to perpetually make up for. But what it is really about, to me, is freedom of choice. G-d gave us all these things, including the freedom and the ability to choose what is not right for us - that shiny thing that promises redemption and release but is ultimately a sham. But we can choose that thing. We can listen to the snake. We have that capacity. It's available to us. We will be punished, and we will be unhappy, of course. But G-d made us that way. It's all part of His plan. Possibly, if not probably, to show us the right way. How do I know I am not choosing the apple now? Is this me trying to taste forbidden fruit? And I say, no, because I've done that already. It was a sham. And now I feel like I am choosing the Garden.

The Omer

I have to say it was a great experience counting the Omer this year. I learned a lot. And I also felt that in a way it's what I've always wanted to get out of therapy and never had. Because it was like homework. Literal, physical, actual emotional homework. I mean, talk therapy is great, but I always get a little bit frustrated after talking for an hour, and then hearing almost nothing back, or just a regurgitation of everything I just said. And then, okay, I'll see you next time. Write a check for $120. But, you see, what I always wanted from my therapists was homework. They never gave it to me, and I never felt like I got anywhere. But this year, I decide to start doing Judaism, and I got what I always wanted - for free!

All I had to do was go home, pray every night, think about the meaning of the specific sefirah I was supposed to concentrate on, and then either do the activity that was suggested, or come up with my own. And I made an effort to do it every time. In fact, sometimes, if the day was coming to an end, I would start to panic a little if I felt I hadn't yet fulfilled my obligation for the day. One day this happened, as I was walking home from choir rehearsal of all places (yes, I still sing in a church choir - at least for the moment). It was a Wednesday, which meant it was the day of Tiferet, and I think it was Tiferet of Yesod, bonding.

I was walking down to Powell Street station, and as I passed the Walgreens window, I thought to myself, I'd really like to give a homeless person a bottle of water. I don't want to give them money, I want to give them something meaningful and sustaining. Something that person actually needs. The thought passed and I kept walking. Less than a block later, as I approached the station, I noticed a young-ish black woman in a wheelchair outside a pizza store. She didn't have a cup or anything, she was just asking for help. There were a lot of people on the street, but she looked right at me, wearing my bright orange coat. Can you help me, ma'am? Please? She looked right into my eyes. It was like she knew what I had just been thinking. And her voice was insistent, desperate, hungry. Buy me a slice of pizza, ma'am? I was a little freaked out. I gave her an apologetic look, kept my hands in my pockets and kept walking. I didn't see how I could possibly buy her a slice of pizza. But then it was also like G-d had heard my thoughts, and here was this person, not just begging for change, but asking for a specific thing, and asking it of me, and it was up to me to say, ok, I'll do it, or no. She didn't know who I was. She didn't know what I was thinking. But there was something about her. Something different. Unabashed. Not trying to get anything. Just hungry. Her voice stayed with me. Echoing in my brain. It was high-pitched. Almost childlike. And I had walked away from her. I could have done it without saying anything. Just given her the pizza and walked away. But oh, no, I was in a hurry. And there I was, in the subway station, waiting for my train. And I waited 10, 15 minutes. No train. Every other line passed by except the one I was waiting for, and crowd was gathering of all the other people waiting for the train. 20 minutes. 25. It was again uncanny. I thought - and I know this isn't really true - but it felt like, I'm responsible. G-d doesn't want me to leave this place until I've done what I set out to do. So I became determined. I left the station and went out to go and find the woman. But when I got there, the pizza place was closed she was gone. What could I do? I walked back up the street and figured I would just give something to the first person I came to. Luckily, in San Francisco, the odds of coming across just such a person are high.

At the next light, there was a frail black woman crumpled at the foot of the light post across the street. I looked in my wallet. All I had was a $5 bill. I took it out, folded it up in my hand and walked with purpose. I gave it to her. Thank you, she mumbled. She looked at what it was. She looked at me, her eyes filled with amazement. Thank you, her toothless mouth said to me again, sincerely. I gave a small smile and a nod and walked away. Just turned around and went back to the station. I waited only a few minutes for the train and I was home. As I approached my door, I felt better. I felt clear. I had done my job. Now I could move on to the next sefirah. But I had done something for the woman. Who knows what she did with those $5, but maybe it will give her a different feeling. Maybe it will be a story she can treasure, having gotten just once, maybe something more than little scraps and pennies. But something that can maybe give her dignity. I have to wonder, what was it like? Was I an orange-coated angel for her?

The next day, when I took some of my paintings to a small store, I sold them, for a total of $50. And even though I know there is no real correlation, it seemed to suggest that when you give, wholeheartedly and purely, with no thought of the cost to you, you open your heart and are more able to receive. In this case, ten-fold, but always more than you give.

And even though I might have done something for her, perhaps in the end, she - and also the young black woman in the wheelchair - was the real angel to me.

Darkness and Light

It is not that there will be no more darkness, no more suffering, that those things shall cease to exist. It will be such an essence-light that darkness itself will become light —-even the darkness and suffering of the past.
(from a letter by the Rebbe)

rendered by Tzvi Freeman on Chabad.org

Chutzpa

What is the opposite of chutzpah?

If chutzpah is this thing where you know you are right, damn the rest, what's the word for the thing where you know you are right but you go along with other stupid things people say anyway? Is there a word for it? Maybe there isn't. Maybe it doesn't deserve a word, because it's really a stupid way to be anyway. And it's annoying. I can't tell you how many times I give people the benefit of the doubt, only to discover that my thinking was correct all along. But why are people so incorrigible? Why do they hold on to their things with such ferocity even when there is another obvious point of view out there waiting for them? I think sometimes there is a point at which you kind of have to trust your gut, even if you don't know why, just to get to where you need to be.

Discipline

I have decided that discipline is not so much about what you don't do as it is about what you do do.

Getting Acquainted

There is that old thing about getting to know people. Can you ever really know anyone? It's a frustrating thing, if knowing someone absolutely, in every aspect is something you try to do. But that's because people are constantly changing. It's like everything. Things sort of "are," but being is in a state of flux. That essence of change is the being and being is the essence of change. Do you follow me? Or have I lost you already. Anyway, my point is, people are hard to get to know. But if you are going to get to know somebody, it's good to do it in small batches, and actually concentrate on getting to know how the person changes, not necessarily how they are at any given moment. Because that moment will soon be gone and you'll have to do the process all over again. But if you figure out the function of a person, you have a much better view, and then you're not worried about the particulars. I think this applies to a lot of life. I don't know yet how this connects, but I was thinking it and it seemed momentous, so here it is.