thinking jewish

One Week

Saturday night. Too many people crowd into too small a dining room, kept warm by the light of a lone twisted candle. The cacophony of voices sing together the "la"s and "ba dee dai"s of the night's chorus. In harmonies so exquisite that even the angels on high could not match, a community of former strangers welcomes in the new week. The walls of the room vibrate with prayers. But more than that, they vibrate with love, with joy, with meaning, with God.

Was it only seven days ago that this began? It seems like ages.

Rabbinical school is not something that should be wished upon anyone. It undoubtably will leave a person scarred for life - neurotic, overworked and over-ambitious. If you don't really want it, don't even think of it.

And so the beginning of rabbinical school, those first few moments and days when a hodgepodge of new people comes together in the ridiculous endeavor of wanting to master a tradition, learn, grow and nearly conquer the Divine in the process must seem from the outside as an exercise in the absurd. Who are these children who want to be like the Sages of old? What chutzpah!

From the inside, it's even worse. How should I act? What should I say? Am I doing it right? The mind races with questions and worries. Awkward, uncomfortable, it is like a rough shirt that scratches at your neck incessantly.

It takes time to create a rhythm, to get used to the new atmosphere. But, no matter how far you go in the subsequent years, that first day of rabbinical school remains etched forever into the fabric of your soul.

I have had two first days of rabbinical school.

And it's hard, in those first moments of the new endeavor, to not get anxious and antsy, to keep the ego in check and remain patient. The mind races: did I make the right choice? are we really doing this? I have to go there again?

But I hold tight, and wait. I let the experience unfold as it is supposed to. I rant at night, and smile during the day, forcing an impatient mind to learn the art of wait.

I made a choice 13 months ago, I choice that I had been unable to make for almost four years prior. Once the choice was made, my fate was sealed. B'rosh hashanah yekateivun, uv'yom tsom kippur yekhateimun. This week came the time to open the book and see what was written.

In the intervening year, I bore witness to so much. I saw hairless children, their bodies ravaged by unfathomable disease, die in the arms of their mothers. I saw spite and envy, hatred, vengeance, the gamut of unenviable human behaviors. I saw things, one atop another, that no human in good conscience could wish on someone else. But this was all part of the process. And neither was it all bad. I also learned trust, and faith, and promise and commitment - firsthand. I saw beauty in so many people who helped me so much in the hardest moment of my life. I will never thank them sufficiently.

Days gave way to weeks, weeks to months. I had made a leap of faith, and now held my breath until my feet hit the ground anew.

And this week was the time for that to happen. The asphalt met my feet and I started running.

Out of the fog of the occurrence, I still struggle to lift my jaw up from the floor where it has fallen, my mouth gaped open in astonishment. Did that really happen? Is it really this good? Is this for real?

It does not seem possible that a community could be this caring, people so kind, that teachers could be so learned and sharing. It does not feel right that a group of people should be capable of such commitment and care and introspection, that walls should be able to contain such beauty. This is the stuff we dream about. It's not actually possible!

But it is. It all is.

I spent the last four years convincing myself to stop believing that dreams could be reality. I agonized in the pain of unmet potential. I felt the cold hard reality of disappointment and apathy and tried to believe that my expectations were impossible to meet. I struggled to stay alive surrounded by the self-imposed waft of death.

But my hopes were not incapable of achievement. I was trapped by my own intransigence, confined by my fear of the unknown.

It need not be that way. And, here, finally, I found that that is true. I found hope, and prayers-met. I found Torah, all around me. I found myself, and, for the first time in so very long, feel like I fit into the shoes on my feet. I feel real and alive and living.

Shabbat afternoon, I take a step outside, into the sunlight, into the warm Los Angeles summer. Before me, a giant trampoline. I take off my shoes, and get atop the massive circle of joy.

And, like a child fifteen years younger, I begin to jump. I jump and bounce and jump some more, every fall giving way to an even higher rise.

With each return to the air above, I gain a larger and larger glimpse of the city skyline, so many miles away. The magnificent buildings show themselves above a forest of trees, homes and power lines. Those testaments of human achievement make themselves briefly visible to the eye.

For those few moments that I remain airborne, I feel like I could fly - like no barrier could stop me, like i could go on forever. And then gravity takes over, and I return back downward, only to bounce up even higher.

With every fall, I reach a new height. Every decline gives way to a bigger rise.

I smile. I breathe a deep breath. And I bounce again.

Tectonic Plates

Rarely is one fortunate enough to embark on a journey fully aware of what he is getting himself into. The way life works, there are always things which change the plan, which alter the scheduling, which cause detour along the way.

Abraham was halfway to the Land of Israel before God spoke to him and told him to "Go forth." The Israelites were well past the Sea of Reeds before learning of their fated forty years of wandering.

And so too do I find in my own journey, in my learning, in my road to professional achievement, in my daily life, just how many twists and turns have been thrown in along my route. The me of today is so different, walking in such a different direction, from the me of yesterday. We're separate people entirely, it seems.

I had no idea where all this was leading, and never in my wildest dreams could I have guessed.

I left school to begin anew at another; I departed one coast for one 3,000 miles to the west. I left behind a life and friends and routine for one completely alien and yet so familiar.

Yet despite all these changes, or, really, thanks to them, I could not find myself in a happier place. The shoes finally fit. The zipper closes to the top. The kippah clips snap closed. And nearly two years of planning and contemplating, arguing and acquiescing, mulling, working, and thinking all come to a head this very night.

It is like the day of atonement. Erev Yom Kippur. In a few hours, we will recite Kol Nidre.

All vows, obligations, oaths or anathemas, pledges of all names...

In these final moments before the sun sets down beyond the horizon, I try to cleanse myself prior to entering a new period entirely. The anticipation mounts as I think about what is to come.

Will it work? Did I do it right?

The self-doubt pokes through my conciousness.

Was it all worth it? Did I make the right decisions? Am I sure.

It's too late.

Even in moments of grandeur, of excitement and gratitude, anxieties have a way of manifesting themselves.

But these thoughts do no good. All I can do is put one foot in front of the other and walk forward, continuing down this path, until another fork appears and decisions must be made.

Now is the time to sit back and enjoy the ride.

Because life is never clean, never easy or just-as-planned. The ground has a way of shifting underneath you. It happens when you least expect it.

But there's no way to avoid the tectonic plates. All you can do is sway to their movement and keep on walking through the messiness, towards better and more important things and places.

And that's where I am. And I couldn't be more thankful. But these last steps forward over the shaking earth seem to be the most difficult.

Here goes nothing. One last breath. Away I go, into the future.

Boxes and Bottles

I'm reading a new book these days: The Carbon Age, by Eric Roston. In his book, Roston traces the history of the Carbon atom, from the first moments after the Big Bang, through the creation and evolution of Earth and life on it, to this very day. He shows how carbon came to exist in the forms it does on this planet, the various ways that carbon has changed form and location over the eons, and how all this has affected, and been affected by, life on our home rock.

The book is fascinating, and certainly a great read in these days of eco-conciousness and abounding misinformation. I strongly recommend it.

When I stop to think about it, I find it curious how, why, within the last year society has generally, finally, started to become conscious of the environmental impact of our decisions. Out of nowhere, everyone is now using reusable shopping bags. Without warning, it is passé to throw away something which is recyclable. Green is not just good anywhere, it's cool. A tipping point was hit, and the idea has spread.

Thank God. It's about time.

But being green now and then is a far cry from the real work we must do to save the planet as we know it over the decades ahead. In our state of affairs, any carbon emission is too much. We have no room to spare.

So it was that I read this morning's op-ed in the Times with great interest. Apparently, due to its weight and irregular shape, a single bottle of wine is responsible for the generation of 5.2 pounds of carbon dioxide when it is shipped from vineyards in California to tables in New York. Get that: 750 ml of drinkable wine produces 5.2 pounds of unbreathable carbon dioxide (well, to be fair, you can breath CO2, it just doesn't do anything for you, and certainly doesn't get you drunk). And that's just from the transportation.

If we really care about saving the planet, about reducing the concentration of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere back to pre-Industrialization levels, then every pound of CO2 counts.

Which is why it should be pleasing to learn that were we to package 97% (the amount of wine that is not aged) of our domestic wines in boxes, rather than bottles, in a given year we would accomplish the equivalent of taking 400,000 cars off the road. It should be noted that boxes do not make wine taste crappy, rather, currently, only crappy wines are put in boxes.

What makes this possibility so interesting, I think, is that it falls into the category of ways in which we can help to save the planet that does not actually negatively impact our way of life. A preference for bottles is all in the head - it's all about style and taste and pride. There is no real reason why we should prefer a given glass of wine that came from a bottle to one that came out of a spout.

So there's the question. Is this a "sacrifice" you are willing to make, for the sake of the planet, and the future?

I happened to be at Whole Foods today, in need of some wine. I looked, but they only carried bottles. Damn.

So, in need of wine and without patience to search for boxes of bad wine, at least yet, I bought some, and carried them home in a cardboard wine-bottle-holder.

As I walked up the steps to my apartment, the bottom of the holder gave-out, and a bottle of wine went bouncing it's way down the stairs to my building's courtyard, where it exploded in a sea of red and glass.

Double damn.

Fast-Day

To the untrained eye, it looked like a youth group sleepover: pillows and blankets on the cold tile floor, people seated in a semi-circle around the room. So normal, relaxed, nice.

But it wasn't, at all.

There is something almost eerie about Tisha B'Av. Not a holiday, but it is. Live your day like normal, only don't. Don't eat, do work. Don't shower, don't wear leather, do drive. While other Angelinos go out for a Saturday night on the town, we gather in our nice clothes and sneakers to sit on a cold floor and lament.

My father was a wandering Aramean. And then he settled. And then he was killed, and his house destroyed. And I wander, like he did, to this day.

For so many years, this time of year the focus turned to the ultimate question: do we observe this day or not. To me the answer was always so simple - of course. It's not that I enjoy a day without food. Not that I like feigning sadness. To the contrary. But this is part of our tradition - there is good and there is bad. We're stuck with both.

There is a time for wailing and a time for dancing...

This is the time for wailing. But in the world of Reform choice, this holiday too was on the table. And so I was one of its lone defenders. Like the rebels in Jerusalem to the bitter end, I fought to defend what was left of this relic.

It's not so much that I yearn for a rebuilding that will be, as I do regret the loss of something that was, and reflect on the loss of an idea, and human life - I take a day to join with my people and mourn our past, allowing it to serve as a guide for the future.

Not everyone agreed. Some people just don't care. And so I fought.

Time can change so much.

This time around, I no longer had to fight. There's no convincing, no arguing. It's so easy.

But mourning is never easy.

And so, with the encroaching darkness this evening, as the last moments of Shabbat were swept away into history, there was no joyous separation to be made - no wine to drink, no sweet spices to smell. We don't get to. Not yet. One more day to wait.

And at the end of this evening's service, after the praying and the chanting, after our bodies could take no more of sitting on the cold tile floor, people got up and began to go their ways.

Standing there, watching, thinking, looking from the outside to the inside of what was going on around me, I could not help but smile at the way that people, mourners, still find a way to enjoy company, to group together and talk - maybe even gossip - to welcome in strangers and tell good stories. Even in the face of death and destruction - be it real or in memory - life goes on. People laugh, people build, people create. The world turns.

We fast, we abstain from food and pleasure for the day, because we don't have to witness firsthand the destruction.

From the corner of the room, a dean from my school comes over to say hello. "If it weren't Tisha B'av, I'd say it's nice to see you," he said.

I smile back, struggling for the witty retort, but come up empty handed. It's good to see you too.

And then, after a quick turn to the side, he looks back my way. "There's a nice shrimp buffee outside," he says, "Want to go check it out?"

Or Le Goyim

On the other side of the coin in today's news, the Conservative Movement's Heksher Tsedek is moving closer to reality, envisioning itself not as a kosher seal, per se, but, rather, a social justice seal that would go on food alongside the "OU" "OK" "KO", what have you.

Check it out, here.

Really, then, the Heksher Tsedek is a service to all Americans who care about the conditions under which their food was produced. Using the best of our tradition, we advocate for and encourage good social policy. Light unto the nations, if I've ever seen it.

Final score: Embrassing Jews 1, Totally Awesome Jews 1. Breaking even ain't half bad in this day and age.

And, finally, we all know that the Orthodox Rabbinate controls religious affairs in Israel, but what about New York. Certifying something as kosher in New York involves using a term legally controlled to protect consumers from abuse - fair enough. Unfortunately, the law uses solely Orthodox standards for determining what is kosher and what is not. That is to say, and let us be clear, that a non-Orthodox rabbi is, technically, legally barred from making his/her own determination of something being kosher or not.

A lawsuit has been filed against the unconstitutionality of these standards. Read about it here and here.

Shanda Fur Die Goyim

One cannot read this morning's editorial in the New York Times without feeling a lump in their throat. Whether more outrage should be directed at the pursuit of Jewish expression that allowed for the systematic obfuscation of worker's rights and the humane treatment of animals, or the American government that treated illegal immigrants like war criminals without rights is debatable.

Either way, this should serve as a call to action (if not, at least, a source of revulsion) for all.

• Buy (kosher) organic/free range.
• Stand up for worker and immigrant rights.
• Bottom line across the board: know the industry you're supporting with each purchase you make.

No more need be said. Read the editorial below.

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August 1, 2008
EDITORIAL
‘The Jungle,’ Again

A story from the upside-down world of immigration and labor:

A slaughterhouse in Postville, Iowa, develops an ugly reputation for abusing animals and workers. Reports of dirty, dangerous conditions at the Agriprocessors kosher meatpacking plant accumulate for years, told by workers, union organizers, immigrant advocates and government investigators. A videotape by an animal-rights group shows workers pulling the windpipes out of living cows. A woman with a deformed hand tells a reporter of cutting meat for 12 hours a day, six days a week, for wages that labor experts call the lowest in the industry. This year, federal investigators amass evidence of rampant illegal hiring at the plant, which has been called “a kosher ‘Jungle.’ ”

The conditions at the Agriprocessors plant cry out for the cautious and deliberative application of justice.

In May, the government swoops in and arrests ... the workers, hundreds of them, for having false identity papers. The raid’s catch is so huge that the detainees are bused from little Postville to the National Cattle Congress fairgrounds in Waterloo. The defendants, mostly immigrants from Guatemala, are not charged with the usual administrative violations, but with “aggravated identity theft,” a serious crime.

They are offered a deal: They can admit their guilt to lesser charges, waive their rights, including the right to a hearing before an immigration judge, spend five months in prison, then be deported. Or, they can spend six months or more in jail without bail while awaiting a trial date, face a minimum two-year prison sentence and be deported anyway.

Nearly 300 people agree to the five months, after being hustled through mass hearings, with one lawyer for 17 people, each having about 30 minutes of consultation per client. The plea deal is a brutal legal vise, but the immigrants accept it as the quickest way back to their spouses and children, hundreds of whom are cowering in a Catholic church, afraid to leave and not knowing how they will survive. The workers are scattered to federal lockups around the country. Many families still do not know where they are. The plant’s owners walk freely.

This is enforcement run amok. As Julia Preston reported in The Times, the once-silent workers of Agriprocessors now tell of a host of abusive practices, of rampant injuries and of exhausted children as young as 13 wielding knives on the killing floor. A young man said in an affidavit that he started at 16, in 17-hour shifts, six days a week. “I was very sad, and I felt like I was a slave.”

Instead of receiving merciful treatment as defendants who also are victims, the workers have been branded as the kind of predator who steals identities to empty bank accounts. Accounts from Postville suggest that that’s not remotely what they were. “Most of the clients we interviewed did not even know what a Social Security number was or what purpose it served,” said Erik Camayd-Freixas, a Spanish-language interpreter for many of the workers. “This worker simply had the papers filled out for him at the plant, since he could not read or write Spanish, let alone English.”

The harsh prosecution at Postville is an odd and cruel shift for the Bush administration, which for years had voiced compassion for exploited workers and insisted that immigration had to be fixed comprehensively or not at all.

Now it has abandoned mercy and proportionality. It has devised new and harsher traps, as in Postville, to prosecute the weak and the poor. It has increased the fear and desperation of workers who are irresistible to bottom-feeding businesses precisely because they are fearful and desperate. By treating illegal low-wage workers as a de facto criminal class, the government is trying to inflate the menace they pose to a level that justifies its rabid efforts to capture and punish them. That is a fraudulent exercise, and a national disgrace.