Tag Archives: religion

Don’t Impinge on My Holiday

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On Christmas, Jews go to the movies and, before the 1980s, ordered in Cantonese Chinese food (now we have more choices).  It isn’t as if we have a holiday to celebrate although the Federal Government long ago, in a flagrant “fusion” (I don’t want to say violation) of the separation of church and state, declared Christmas a national holiday.

It used to be that if you went to a movie theater you would see all your Jewish friends in the neighborhood.  And you knew NOT to talk about synagogue matters even in whispers because even a stone deaf Jew can hear when you talk about synagogue politics or intrigue.

Over the past few years, I have noticed that the movie theaters are crowded and some people are wearing new hats, gloves and jackets and talking about recently received presents.  Hmmmmm.  Chanukah has usually come and gone by that time.  Hmmm. 

I thought that the fun and cheer and Norman Rockwell-like frolicking started at sundown on the 24th when, magically, everyone you know has a beautiful voice and all (miraculously, one could say) sing Christmas carols in perfect harmony.  Everyone, of course, has a chimney with a fire (why, if Santa is supposed to climb down, would you want to roast him and your presents in the fire) or at least a broken window for the Great White Man from the North Pole to enter.  Then, off to Christmas Mass where long-lost friends, lovers, siblings and parents materialize right on the music’s rhythmic beat to surprised and loving looks, but surprisingly little body contact.  (In my family, I assure you, the music would stop and the prodigal person would be asked for an explanation of his or her actions and what atoning actions will be undertaken.)  Christmas morning, everyone wakes up cheerily despite too much eggnog and other Santa’s helper drinks.  Then everyone spends the day on the 25th having meaningful talks, kumbaya moments and epiphanies.  So, clearly no time for the movies.

Am I wrong?  This wouldn’t be the first time. 

But, it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t hang mistletoe or go a-wassailing because it is not my holiday.  So, don’t squeeze me out of tickets to the movies on December 25th because THAT part IS my holiday.

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Chanukah Party

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We had a family Chanukah party at our synagogue this afternoon.  The kids had activities; the parents were just hanging out with only coffee and tea as refreshments.  Someone suggested that we get a bottle of wine.  The rabbi overheard and went into the kitchen and brought out red and white wine and iced vodka.  The senior rabbi produced three kinds of single malt scotch.  We had only Dixie cups and were crowded around a card table with a paper table cloth with dreidels on it.  It was a little like smoking dope in the bathroom while the high school dance is going on downstairs.

Apparently, the wine was for a party later on tonight and the man in charge got into a distemper over our poaching some of the wine, and had a bitchy, chastising tone as he grabbed the wine and said, “I am going to talk to the rabbi about this!”  Ok, so the hall monitor is ratting us out to the principal who gave us the wine in the first place.  NOW, who was going to be in trouble??  Mister Officious-Avec-Attitude came over and said, “the rabbi will go out and buy more wine so HERE.”  Ok, now I was pissed.  I say, “the wine is awful anyway, so don’t have anyone buy more of this vinegar.”  Ok, we were going to have it out, the lesbian mom and the gay man c-list event coordinator.  In the nick of time, the senior rabbi came over wearing a velvet Menorah hat and asked if anyone liked the scotch.  That diffused the brewing cat fight.  Phew.

Ok, the kids never knew what was happening, except the parents were laughing a whole lot more than any Sukkot and Tu B’Shevat parties at the synagogue.

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Taxi cab stories

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Since I threw out my back, I have taken a lot of cabs (the subway just seemed too much to handle).

Cab drivers like to talk to me.  I must have “schmuck” written across my forehead.

One cab driver starts a conversation with, “you don’t look Christian.”  Bait me, why don’t you.  So, I say, “I am not”.  “You are Jew!!”  Oy, I think, this is going to be bad and all the world’s ills are being distilled in this one moment in a cab in holiday traffic.  I say nothing.  He says, “I know you are not Muslim.”  So I respond, “Maybe I am Sikh or Hindu.”  He laughs.  He is a Christian from Egypt.  He hates Muslims.  He says all the Muslim cab drivers are terrorists.  I knew that Christians had it hard in Egypt, but he went on a diatribe against Muslims for what seemed like an eternity.  Then he says, “I don’t believe in G-d anyway.  How do I pray to G-d who makes me short and fat?” I think to say, “and with enormous earlobes” but I think better of it.  I get out of the cab, exhausted from the hatred spewing out of this guy.

That evening, in another cab, the driver asks me, “have you done all your holiday shopping?”  I respond, “I don’t celebrate these holidays.”  He says, “you are Jew!” [Now this is becoming weird.]  He goes on without a response from me, “I am Muslim and I know you are not Muslim.” So I try my Sikh or Hindu line on this guy.  He laughs, too.  I ask him where he is from.  “Egypt.”  Ok, I don’t usually get Egyptian cab drivers and in this one day alone, I have an Egyptian Christian and now an Egyptian Muslim.  So I ask, “who do you think will succeed Hosni Mubarak?”  He answers, “Mubarak’s son will, but that is no democracy, that is a dynasty like Syria or Jordan.  I would vote for Boutros Boutros Gali, but he is a Christian and a Christian head of state would never be allowed in a Muslim country.”  I mention that no one ever thought that a black man would be president of the United States.  He responds, “I live in this country and I am glad to have a job, so I do not worry about politics.  But it would be great if Mr. Obama were President of Egypt!!”

An angry Christian and a grateful Muslim. Each the opposite of what the other envisions.

The next day I get into a cab and the radio is on.  Someone is talking about global warming.  “Miss, do you believe in this global warming?” I respond yes.  “My village will be flooded in 2050!  I must buy a boat!”  Ok, no one has EVER been cheerful about global warming.  Clearly, this guy is out of kilter, just like our ecosystem.  “Where are you from?”  “Bangladesh, Miss. Do you hear of it?” “Yes, of course, but I heard on CNN that the flooding [other than during rainy season and when India opens a large dam] in Bangladesh won’t be bad until 2100,” I say, trying to be helpful and upbeat [ok, now I am in his crazy world of surreality]. I think, wow, coastal cities in the US will be flooded.  Good thing we live on the fourth floor.  Now I am crazy enough to drive a cab.

Next week I take the subway, even if I have to crawl up and down the steps.

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Black Friday? Cyber Monday?

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We are a nation of unrepentant shopaholics, egged on by big business.  There is no other nation that designates two shopping days as the bellwethers for a strong economy. 

Black Friday follows Thankful Thursday, the day we humbly give thanks for the important things in life — health, happiness, love, family and friends.  Now that we are thankful for all these people, we get to stampede over them for the best bargains that are only available on Black Friday.

Then came Cyber Monday.  The day after the long weekend that started with Thankful Thursday, roared on into Black Friday and culminated in Remorseful Saturday and Sunday.  Why remorseful?  Well, after getting bruised kicking and pushing other people out of the way for the bargains on Black Friday, we realize that we could maybe get better bargains if only we waited until Cyber Monday to shop from the comfort of our homes. 

Why do we engage in this frenzy?  Oh, yeah, it is for the gift-giving that has overtaken a religious holiday where those who believe in Jesus mark his birth and his message of peace on earth, good will to all.  And the fat guy in the red suit with all the gifts for a society that wants everything immediately.  The holiday is about him, too.

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In our Tribe

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My hairdresser, a woman raised Catholic, was cutting my hair and we were just chit-chatting about things. She had watched a segment on circumcision and AIDS. She was wondering where the practice originated.

I mentioned that, under Jewish tradition, it is a sign of (and cost to join) the covenant between Abraham and G-d. After I said that, I wondered aloud about a man who believes in an omnipotent G-d, invisible to humans and who, after looking into the Heavens, looks down and sees not his toes but the foreskin on his penis and decides that he should cut that. Imagine how different life would be if he saw his toe or maybe if he just pierced his eyelid. Would Jerry Springer even let Abraham on his show?

Then Abraham hears G-d telling him to sacrifice his son Isaac. Abraham is willing to do that. Greeeeaaaat. After that episode is over, Isaac nevertheless goes home with him. Oprah would have an intervention. Judge Judy would have a coronary.

Isaac lets Jacob, his second son, steal his birthright from his firstborn, Esau. Corleone?

Jacob sees Rachel in a field, rips his clothes and falls down weeping. She marries him. Whaaaat? Before she can marry him, her sister, the bleary-eyed one (who knows) marries him. Two sisters, same man. Hugh Hefner-esque. EEEEEEEeeeeewwwwwwww.

G-d rewards Jacob and promises that he will give rise to a great and mighty people.

Yep, this is the heritage that the fundamentalist Jews and Christians are trying so hard to inculcate in our children. Some family values.

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David Letterman, Senator Ensign, Roman Polanski

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There are no parallels among these men.

David Letterman did get out in front of the “scandal”. That was smart media.  As long as the women with whom he was intimate were consenting adults — that means without fear for their jobs or career advancement — then it is just another philandering person.  What makes it news is that he is a TV star.  What is sad is that sexual harassment happens everyday and there is no famous star to blackmail to make it stop.  David Letterman has a lot of heartache ahead of him.  But he doesn’t need to apologize to me.

Conversely, Senator Ensign needs to apologize to his voters because he is a fraud — he is not the “family values” candidate that his constituency elected and he broke the public trust in the cover-up. His extra-marital affair was not criminal or actionable — consenting adults without any specter (so far) of harassment in the workplace.

Roman Polanski is, based on the information available, a scoundrel and a sexual predator.  A thirteen year-old is a child and is not capable of consent in sexual circumstances.  Justice delayed is justice denied.  Lock him up and throw away the key.

Let’s not lump these men and their actions together.  None is a shining star, but in only one case was there a sexual criminal.  In another, it was the cover-up that is criminal.  The third, well, unless we hear more, is just disappointing and ooky.

There is one guy, whose handle is TheFlaCracker on Twitter, who refers to all Libiots (liberal idiots) as defending Roman Polanski.  That’s unfair.  I am a G-d damn Democrat and liberal and a Hillary-lover.  I am proud of it.  But, child abuse is not a liberal or conservative issue.  It is solely about our expectations and demands for the safety of society’s and our children.

The true measure of our society is how we treat the children others have “cast off”and those who abuse them.

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Where are we? Where do we go from here?

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This Yom Kippur, our rabbi spoke about the first two questions G-d asks in Genesis: of Adam, G-d asks “where are you?” and, of Cain, G-d asks “where is your brother?”

Why, the rabbi posed, does G-d ask these questions since G-d is omniscient and knows the answers? Because, the rabbi posits, of the importance of Adam and Cain to be accountable for who they are (as in “Dude, look around you.  What are you thinking?”) and what they have done (as in, “Dude, did you think that was a GOOD idea?”).

Once we answer these questions, then next question is:  where do we go from here?

I believe that President Obama has tried to engage us in this conversation.  Especially on the topic of torture.  We, individually and as a society, need to acknowledge that we tortured people and that is wrong and that we failed at the very moment our national character demanded that we stick to our ideals.  It is ok to be imperfect, it is ok to fail at things.  But it is not ok to stay there, mired, unwilling to recognize the imperfection and the failings and set a new course.

Well, this year, I am moved to start trying to answer these questions in my life.  It will probably take me a lifetime to get it right.

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Yom Kippur

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First, to everyone, Jewish and non-Jewish, I wish you happiness, health and prosperity in the year 5770 (or 2009-10).

With the Yom Kippur fast came a blogging fast.  Both fasts have ended.

This Yom Kippur had bloggable moments, some profound and others, well, let’s just say that I have already started the list of sins for next year’s atonement:

Muslim-Jewish Greetings. A Muslim cab driver wished us health and happiness in our new year.  And I told him that we hope that he had had a blessed Ramadan with his family.  There is an advantage to living in NY.  There are no territorial, ideological or historical impediments to honoring other traditions and religions.  (We are cramped in this City, but for purely capitalist reasons.) I am a conscientious objector when it comes to religion (but not tradition), but I see G-d in these ordinary exchanges between individuals of different backgrounds.  These seemingly mundane holiday greetings have transformative power, precisely because they were between Muslim and Jew.

Gay, Muslim and Palestinian. There was a gay Palestinian Muslim at our Yom Kippur services as a guest of our synagogue (we flew some GLBT Israelis here after the attack on a gay center in Israel, so they can feel a part of a huge community of supporters).  Now, that is bizarre on so many levels.  But closeness to community, to spirituality comes with the setting, not the liturgy.  And, I know, I feel more at home in a mosque than in a church.  The lack of iconography (i.e., no depictions of suffering Jews) and the Sephardic melodies are familiar to me.  Spirituality doesn’t, I believe, require belief in a deity, or a particular theology; rather, a sense of essential goodness in (most) people who are inextricably tied one to another because of our inherent humanity.

A River Runs Through It. The rabbi reprised her Rosh Ha-Shanah theme of the colors of the river.  It reminds me of when I tell a joke (or make what I think is a witty comment) and no one laughs.  I assume that no one heard.  I have to remember that everyone heard but no one thought it funny.  So, the rabbi didn’t get that no one could follow her metaphor at Rosh Ha-Shanah, let alone ten days later when people are hungry and have caffeine and nicotine withdrawal.  My head was pounding and all I heard was the light of the river, river, river, and whether we saw the light or not and whether we followed the changing light of the river, river, river.  And I thought, I will wait until the light of the river is a major motion picture but please get to the part where the Shofar is blown and the fasting is over and the pounding in my head stops.  The river, river, river made me dizzy, dizzy, dizzy, AGAIN.  Torture comes in many shapes and size and pretexts.

Our Child, Our Oracle. Ok, so here is the best part of the whole Yom Kippur.  Our son was prone to melt-downs this holiday season.  Maybe it was his bow-tie or his blazer that caused a karmatic imbalance (although he was such a chick magnetic and he was in Heaven being kissed and adored by women old and young). So, we had to leave for a while (to relieve everyone from having to hear the meltdown) but PRECISELY because we wanted to leave, our son then wanted to stay.  My partner asked him to rate his behavior in the children’s service.

Our 7 year-old responded, “Mommy, I was a complete ass.”

Parenting manuals don’t teach you how not to laugh and how not to applaud the razor-sharp analysis even though your child used “bad words”.

Choking back laughter and “bravos” for spot-on analysis, we told him those were not words that we used and his choice of language was not ok.  His response:

“Mommy, I don’t think I am being brought up well.  In good homes, children don’t say such words.”

Ok ok ok ok ok ok, it is Yom Kippur, and we are tired, cranky, hungry and our precocious child has laid down the gauntlet.  My partner says something that adjourns the conversation, so that we can prepare for battle or, more precisely, litigation, with our 7 year-old. I have called in reinforcements.

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Dear Mom

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It’s almost Yom Kippur and I have that rage inside me again.  I am supposed to seek forgiveness and I am still waiting for an apology from On High for making you suffer and taking you away.  Just an acknowledgment of a “Heavenly oops” would work. 

Two of my friends are dealing with the terminal illnesses of their mothers.  I just try to offer my ear because, as you know, it is all of jumble of good, bad, generous and selfish emotions.

The one thing that stays with me always is your last day.  “Your girls” knew from the change in your breathing — the increasingly shallower breaths and the elongation of your breathing rhythms — that the end was near. 

Breathe, two, three, four, five.  Breathe, two, three, four, five.

Breathe, two, three, four, five.  Breathe, two, three, four, five.

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six (phew).  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.

I even went to the medical supply store to get a suction machine to suction out the mucous because it sounded like you were choking and couldn’t clear your throat (I later learned that is known as the death rattle).

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six.

At the end, Dad was holding you in his arms and your children were touching your hands and your legs and we watched and we listened. Your breaths were even more shallow and the length between them got even longer.  We stayed with the rhythm and we were breathing with you. 

Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven (phew).  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Breathe, two, three, four, five, six, seven.  Breathe, two, three, four, five, six. . . .

And then you didn’t take the next breath and you were gone.

There was an eternity in that time between the last breath and the next one you didn’t take. 

In that eternity was the difference between life and death.  In that eternity was the secret of what makes a person alive.  What was that infinitessimal change that made the difference between life and death? 

I am not religious (as you know) but I really believe that we helped put your soul on the wings of angels.  And I am glad.  And then I think: angels, shmangels.  I just miss my mom. AND I am waiting for that apology.

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The rest of Rosh HaShanah

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Saturday the family came over for our traditional New Year’s lunch.  It was pleasant and generally uneventful.  Which is why I thought aliens had taken over my family.  My sister did not go as far as to say that she agreed with my assessment, but she did note the absence of the usual guaranteed bloggable moments.  The rest of the day was a blur except that I chugged Pepto Bismol.

Sunday, POB (partner of blogger) roused everyone to go to synagogue on the second day of the holiday.  We went Friday night, we went Saturday morning (and dashed home to prepare for the luncheon).  And now we are going to shul for the third day running?  Did I go to sleep a Reform Jew and wake up Conservative?  Is this my beautiful house, Is this my beautiful wife?  How did I get here?  WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Theological arguments were a non-starter.  So, schlepped we did.  Our son was fraying through this.  After all, up to this point he was lovely and gentle and sweet-looking in his oh-so-cute bowtie.  And he is a boy.  And boys need to run around.  A LOT.  But, he was in services, I was chugging Pepto-Bismol, and he was acting out.   

We went to a luncheon at our dear friends’ house that afternoon.  Those present at the luncheon played connect the riffs of the rabbi’s talk on Saturday, to see who could string them all together into one message.  People did brilliant jobs and came up with different conclusions.  (After Friday night, I just played it safe at the children’s services.)

Bottom-line:  Two days of RH are too much for me.

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