Finding what's real

I read a job posting on Friday morning, asking for a reporter "to oversee coverage of the changing world of technology" -- at a newspaper. What journalist with a sense of "the changing world of technology" would sign up for a job with no online possibilities in sight? Who would be interested in working for an employer with their head in the sand? What HR rep wrote that job description? Please tell me that someone has since sat them down and explained this grand ol' thing called the Internet.

Later, I went to synagogue with a friend. We arrived late (My fault. Well, in all fairness, we should blame our tardiness on the 1 train.) so we had to sit in the balcony, looking out across the large congregation of smiling faces seated amongst old Gothic pillars. I exhaled, and felt the week's worries start to drop from my shoulders as easily as my winter coat had a moment before...

And then the band began to play. I've been to my fair share of "Shabbat Unplugged" experiences, and I am all too familiar with Debbie Friedman; this was not my first time at the musical Shabbat rodeo. But, one musician began to play a clarinet (or maybe a recorder?), swaying rhythmically in their seat as the congregation began to sing psalms, and I couldn't help but think: "Is this 'The Prince of Egypt: Live'? Was the big blue genie in Aladdin a Member of the Tribe? Why on earth are we praising G-D with a snake-charmer?" Hearing a live band while singing a prayer for Sabbath peace seems a bit oxymoronic to me.

Worst of all, the rabbi focused his d'var torah on silence, urging everyone in the shul to find a way to set aside the noise of their week. "Put aside technology for a moment," he advised us, his voice booming ironically from the microphone. He said that his hope for all of us this week would be that we would truly find Sabbath peace in that moment of silence... It was a beautiful thought, until, seconds later, the band picked up where it left off.

I am so sick of all of this hypocrisy -- be it from journalists, Jews, or otherwise. I may not always know what I want, or how to do something best. I may not always make the right decisions. I am not always on time, and I don't always know the answer. I'm not the richest, or the skinniest, or the bravest. But I know what's important to me. I know what I value. I know who my loved ones are, and I know my hopes and dreams. I am who I am, and I don't pretend to be anyone else.

A bird does not sing because it has an answer.
It sings because it has a song.
-Joan Anglund

A New World

In less than two hours, it'll be 2010.

My Blackberry keeps buzzing with people's memories of where they were ten years ago; most of my friends' Facebook statuses are some variation of "Ten years ago, I was in middle school. Where did the time go? Holy crap."* What does that even mean, "Where did the time go?" Even if time could stand still, would we really want it to?

Ten years ago, I was 11 years old. I'm pretty sure that I spent New Year's Eve watching the ball drop in my pjs, cuddled up on the sofa - some things, apparently, never change. I was in 6th grade then; I loved ballet class, hated that I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend, and desperately wanted to fit in. I had these ridiculous pants with a tiger's face silk-screened across the crotch, which I adored and wore at least once a month (probably didn't help to boost my coolness factor). I still liked math class then, since I hadn't met that beast otherwise known as geometry. I still told people that I wanted to be a pediatric cardiologist when I was 11...I didn't decide that journalism was a better choice (less blood involved, theoretically) until 7th grade. I liked roller skating, *NSYNC, and going to Creanies for a banana split with Mom when I got good grades. I went to bed by 10pm. I was a little girl still.

In the editor's letter of Glamour this month, readers were asked to think about when they were ten years old. What would we tell that young girl? Would she be proud of us? Well, I hope the girl that I was a decade ago would like the Rachel of 2010. I guess I'm finally "cool" now: I live in a studio in New York, I'm about to graduate college, I no longer have braces, and I am, in fact, allowed to have a boyfriend. I think my younger self would be proud of my dedication to community service, and she'd expect nothing less than my absolute devotion to Jewish student life on campus. She'd go nuts when she saw my armoire full of sparkly, shiny dresses. Most of all, though, the Rachel that I was ten years ago would be proudest of the woman that I am now, I think, because I'm happy. I have friends that make me laugh, parents that never seem to stop giving and caring and teaching, and a city that never ceases to amaze and amuse me.

So, here's to next year. Here's to more living, laughing, and loving. Here's to a decade of job-finding, reporting, and change; here's to another ten years of exploring my city. Here's to the weddings (And babies? Oh Lord.) that the next decade will bring, and here's to growing up without growing old. Here's to being happy. I hope time does anything but stand still.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

*(Mine, for the record, says "Rachel Slaff is ready for a new year, a new perspective, a new decade, a new journey...let's go, 2010.")

I Should Be Sleeping...

It's hard to fall asleep when I have such an awful knot in my stomach. I get emotional during commercials for baby shampoo; witnessing my friends and family deal with grief makes me ache beyond words. I've said Kaddish too often lately. I've whispered "May their memory be for a blessing" three times in five days. I lit candles tonight in memory of the victims of the Holocaust. I have, officially, reached my quota of depressing things.

In Judaism, death isn't a time for dwelling on the past. Kaddish is about the glory of G-d, not the deceased; we light candles as a reminder to the living, not for the dead. So, enough gloom. I'm living life. I have a healthy, happy family (okay, actually, Mommy has a head cold - feel better! xoxo). I have friends that I can count on. I have classes that challenge me and teachers that encourage me and a city full of opportunities outside of my front door. I got life - and I got a lotta nerve, baby (Hair reference, anyone?).

L'chaim.

I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane

When I told Dad that I was going on a trip to Kazakhstan, he was surprised -- until I said it was a service project. Social action is simply what I do: delivering Meals on Wheels in middle school, leading Interact in high school, volunteering at the HUC Soup Kitchen with Kesher, leading the social action component of Project FEED. I ran for Hillel president because I believe that we are all responsible for one another, because I feel obligated to give back.

I didn't think (as odd as it might sound) that this trip to Kazakhstan would be any different. It was volunteering, it was Jewish, it was peer-led -- of course I was going and of course I would have a great time.

I was excited to see new places and meet new people. I was terrified to try to keep kosher in Central Asia. I was thrilled to get the chance to do what I've always loved. But, community service is nothing new for me, so it didn't dawn on me that this trip would be anything out of the ordinary, beyond my bizarre destination.

I didn't expect my outlook to change. I've helped the elderly in the US so often -- I didn't realize that helping the elderly in Kazakhstan would affirm my commitment to doing what I can for others as never before. Volunteering used to be my norm, but now I know that my actions can be a way to reach, to strive, to go beyond what is expected. Scrubbing walls, smiling, and delivering meals took on a deeper meaning for me in Kazakhstan. I didn't just feel warm and fuzzy because I'd helped someone; I felt energized as I realized my own blessings. I felt truly connected to something holy as I realized how alike we all are. I felt as if I finally understood why it is better to give than to receive.

I went halfway around the world to discover that joy and humanity can be found anywhere. I spent 32 hours on airplanes to remember how much value one moment can have. I left what I've always known to revive the purpose of what I've been doing all along.

As Borat would say, I like.

Wherever You Go

I've said it a million times, but today it finally clicked: this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I went horseback riding in the hills of Central Asia today. I went swimming with no fear, and sat in a sauna with Kazakhstani teenagers. I davened at a campsite alongside my Orthodox, rainbow-haired friend, and I was so absorbed by my prayers and the sunshine that I didn't mind hearing the Black Eyed Peas blasting in the background.

I learned what it's like to have kashrut tested today. We asked for vegetarian meals, our noodles arrived, and -- halfway through the meal -- I found a piece of meat on my plate. I didn't eat any, to my knowledge, and I immediately pushed my plate away, but I still felt awful. Guilty. Disappointed. Angry. Worried.

So I prayed. I resolved to keep trying. I reminded myself that I keep kosher to connect with G-d and to find moments of holiness -- and this brush with trayfe had allowed me to pray and refocus and pause my day, so I'd still accomplished something. Onward and upward.

I've seen how important a Jewish community can be. I've realized how impactful one helping hand can be. And I'm ready to go home.

Dairy products, baked goods, and drinkable tap water, here I come.

Things I Learned Today

• Language barriers make me feel incredibly dumb. There is no doubt in my mind that the 2 Kazakhstani girls in my work group talked about me at lunch, and the phrase "stupid American" was used.
• I don't care if your country has oil; I don't care how big your nation is, or how corrupt your democracy is. If you cannot flush toilet paper in your toilets (hence the name of TP, no???), you're not exactly advanced in my eyes.
• Boys are ridiculous everywhere, and, somehow, awful come-ons are universal. The Kazakhstanis have a "dance party" every night; smoking and drinking is involved, so I politely decline. One of the boys just came into our cabin to recruit more people to join the party, and I told him that I was tired, so I wasn't going to go. His reply? "Do you know...massage? Is this right word? If tomorrow you cannot come to party because tired, I can massage." Either Jewish boys have some kind of inherent ego-inflater, or our AEPi guys are rubbing off on the Kazakhstani boys.
• Smoking is not good for you; Kazakhstanis do not understand this. In our 4 hour volunteer shift this morning, Ruslan had easily 15 cigarettes. James tried to explain what cancer is; I simply said that cigarettes will kill you (bluntness seems to work better when you're working with a very small common vocabulary set). Ruslan laughed, though, and explained to us stupid Americanskys that 3 or 4 cigarettes a day aren't so bad.

Gila gave us packets today during our group reflection; on the front was a quote from Pirkei Avot: "It is not your job to finish the task, but you are not free to desist from it." Thank you, G-d, for lightbulb moments.

Earlier today, Ruslan asked James and I why we were here...volunteering isn't popular in Kazakhstan, he scoffed, because you should take care of yourself first. I mumbled something about needing to give before you can take, and marched angrily up the stairs of the apartment building that we were visiting. I was about to explode with frustration, with anger at my peers' selfishness, when I was handed a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water.

"Spaseba," I said. Thank you. And I meant it.

I will scrub these walls until they shine like the top of the Chrysler Building. I will help this lonely old woman as best as I can, even if I don't speak Russian. I will try. I will work hard. I will keep kosher in this godforsaken land. I will hope, even if you give me every reason not to, thank you very much. I will pray and believe and struggle and challenge and yearn. I will love. I will care, no thanks to you.

Spaseba. Yeish tikvah.

30 Hours Later

I flew over the Atlantic Ocean and continental Europe. I walked through Kiev, ate at a strange diner dedicated to Depeche Mode, and saw how much America's community service has influenced the Ukraine. I ate apple crepes and read magazines. I suffered through 30 hours of transit. I was excited to get to Kazakhstan.

Then we went to Babi Yar.

Our tour guide, an active member of Kiev's Hillel, told us matter-of-factly how Kiev's Jews were brutally murdered in the spot where we stood 70 years ago. There are cyprus trees now, and evergreens, where my people were killed. I wanted to cry, but the pain was so raw that I couldn't: we walked to the edge of the ravine where Jews, just like us, were lined up and shot, and James asked in bewilderment, "Wait, there are bodies down there?"

We said Yizkor and Kaddish and read poetry mourning the loss of so many beautiful lives. I closed my eyes and crossed my arms tight as I recited the Aramaic words quietly; the sun was shining, and I desperately wanted to ignore the beauty of the spot, so that I could properly remember those lost at Babi Yar. It seemed profane for the breeze to blow, for birds to chirp, for life to carry on unaffected where such evil had happened.

James said our prayers made him feel better, that they were our way of telling the Nazis and their Final Solution to fuck off: Here we are, praying and living and thriving; here we are, despite what you thought this massacre would achieve.

But I wasn't comforted. Our prayers seemed like one drop in a giant, empty bucket. When we reached the end of the pathway leading to the ravine, a young Ukrainian woman walked by on the sidewalk, chatting on her cell phone, totally unaware. How often, I wondered in horror, have I walked by an atrocity unknowingly? How often have I stood idly by? Is our best effort not enough?

Today, in Almaty, the head of the JDC in Kazakhstan was asked what the biggest challenges are for the Kazakhstani Jewish community. I expected him to say reintroducing lost culture, or a lack of money, or anti-Semitism.

"The youth," he immediately replied. It's extremely difficult, he explained, to find young Jews who are willing to get involved and to take action to shape their community.

I sucked in my breath sharply, and the rest of his words blurred together in my ears as I sat in shock. Are you kidding me??? I flew halfway around the world to help this community, to gain inspiration, to be reminded of the blessings of being an American Jew. I was sure that the NYU community -- despite its inability to get liberal Jews in the door, its red tape, its shaky pluralism and solid cliques -- was superior to what I would find in Kazakhstan. But now I've been told that Jews in Central Asia have the same major problem that we do in NYC. We are no better. We cannot help them solve their problems.

I'm embarrassed. I'm angry and sad and confused and frustrated and exhausted. Apparently, the only leg up that we American Jews have on Kazakhstanis is that our toilets can handle flushing TP.

Our generation of Jews, and those that will follow, are in so much more trouble than I thought - no matter the country, economic standing, political dogma, or religious practice, we cannot seem to organize. My peers, worldwide, seem to have trouble giving a damn. Not enough of us are willing to step up to the plate, to take a risk, to make a difference.

Going to sleep off my disappointment and hoping that tomorrow's volunteering will change my mind. There's so much to be done - and 20 stupid Americans crazy enough to come to Kazakhstan can't do it alone.

Yeish tikvah?

Living the questions

A year ago, I went home for the 4th of July. We had a great time shopping, BBQing, and watching the Phillies, but I spent most of one evening sobbing about how much I hated my job. I interned for a Jewish non-profit last summer, so I spent my time sitting in an (almost) empty office, sifting through old camp newsletters. Actually - to be more precise - I spent my summer asking questions, and getting mad when I didn't like the answers that friends and family offered. Why I was stuck in a cubicle all by myself? Why didn't I love my summer job as much as everyone else did? What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life? Why didn't I know exactly where I'd be in 10 years?

Back then, I still thought of myself as a Reform Jew. I made the same mistake that I so often criticized more observant Jews for: I didn't question my world, my practice, my choices. I continued to do what I'd always done, despite my inner sea of uncertainty.

Life is different now.

I love my internship this summer. It is undoubtedly the biggest opportunity that I have ever been granted journalistically: I am challenged, as a researcher, a writer, an editor, and a team player, every single day. I don't leave my job wondering why I continue to shuffle into work every morning - I leave the office every evening excited for what the next day will assuredly bring. I help to create something that women look forward to each month, and I am part of a tradition, of a cultural mainstay, that has existed for over 100 years. It is thrilling (as one of my dear friends would say). And so, thank G-d, this summer, I did not have an emotional breakdown on the 4th of July. There were no questions wailed into pillows, no late-night movies interrupted by smeared mascara and unanswerable cosmic quandaries. Instead, I spent this Independence Day watching fireworks, snacking on picnic food, and thanking our forefathers for granting themselves and their posterity such a glorious 3-day weekend.

This 4th of July, I was at peace. I have figured out, at last, that Judaism is not something I "do;" it is who I am. So, now, I force myself to question what is meaningful for me. I have to challenge what I know. I have to push my limits, and reach for new meaning, and grapple with this tradition that has been handed down to me. A great Jewish concert or a weekend reminiscent of campfire sing-a-longs might be spiritual for some people - but I've learned that sometimes I need a little silence in order to hear myself think. I sing at services, not to harmonize with instruments, but to offer up as sincere a prayer as I can. Being a Jew, as I've realized during this past year, means being part of a community that is larger than I can ever fathom - so I try my best to connect, through prayer, through thought, and throughout my life. Now, I ask questions, even if I can't find the answers. I like being ruffled from my complacency and seeing where it takes me.

That's the difference, I think, between me at 20 (well, almost) and me at 21 (okay, again, almost): I don't ignore the big questions naively anymore, but I don't waste my breath with the even bigger questions. I cannot possibly know what the future holds, but I'd like to think that I'll be better prepared for whatever comes my way if I'm able to wrestle with who I am and what I hold dear. So I wonder and argue and inquire. Que sera, sera.

My mom gave me a card almost 6 months ago; I kept it, even though the quote on the front was irksome to me at the time. (I wanted answers! I wanted things to be neatly resolved and folded up and put away.) ... The card makes more sense to me now:

"Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer..." (Rainer Maria Rilke)

Learn to use a semicolon

I was waiting for some friends outside of a restaurant tonight, people-watching and window-shopping, when this little old couple passed by: an elderly man with thick glasses was pushing a very frail old woman in a wheelchair down the sidewalk. As soon as I saw them, I said a prayer. I do that - I thank G-d for my health, for the weather, for luck and friendship and hindsight and everything in between. I am, as they say in Sister Act II, down with G-O-D (yeah, you know me; watch this if you are so culturally illiterate as to not know what I'm talking about: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-wNmlrdCBkE).

So, there I was, smiling sadly at the elderly people as they went by and thanking G-d for my youth and energy and well-being...when the woman in the wheelchair began to hum. She smiled up at her husband, and serenaded him as they continued down the sidewalk together.

I quickly amended my prayer: thank you, G-d, for bringing these two people together and for blessing them with each other. Thank you for music, G-d. Thank you for peace. Thank you for breezy summer nights.

And thank you, G-d, for helping me learn to open my eyes, my mind, and my heart, so that I can know it when my guy comes along. Because, G-d, I've danced for nearly 20 years now, and I am totally going to have arthritic knees - I'm going to need someone to push me in my wheelchair as we go up Second Avenue together someday.

I was searching for a quote today at work and stumbled across this one, also known as my new to-do list:

1. the path is not straight.
2. mistakes need not be fatal.
3. people are more important than achievements or possessions.
4. be gentle with your parents.
5. never stop doing what you care most about.
6. learn to use a semicolon.
7. you will find love."
-Marion Winik

Some Jews live in tents, and some live in pagodas...

...and some Jews pay rent, cause the city's not free! Oh, Jewish folk songs...

Just got home from the Salute to Israel parade, also known as the sea of blue and white that flooded Fifth Avenue today. There were babies in strollers with Israeli flag bibs, Hebrew schools, synagogues, youth groups, and a truly impressive amount of college students. NYU had easily 30 people marching this afternoon to represent our Hillel (even if we didn't have matching tee shirts, whoops), alongside at least 10 other colleges; I was so incredibly proud.

We waved Israeli flags, cheered with an uncharacteristic amount of school spirit whenever it was announced that we were from NYU, and walked together in the sunshine. I have not felt as awed and blessed and excited by my Judaism since I was in Israel...it is moments like this afternoon that cement my need to be in New York, to be in this huge, crazy, vibrant community, to joyfully lead a Jewish life as fully as I can.

There were ultra-Orthodox Jews protesting the parade, too. They're there every year, with their signs and their black hats, protesting the existence of a Jewish state because the messiah hasn't arrived yet.

To most people, their presence is upsetting: one group of girls from NYU cheered and clapped and chanted "Am Yisrael Chai" even louder than usual as we walked by the protesters' spot in the shade at the south end of Central Park.

But I don't mind the protesters. In fact, I was oddly glad that they were there...whatever our reasons, the parade had brought all of the Jews in the area together. We disagree about so much (too much, sometimes, I think), but, regardless of our personal beliefs or points of view, we're all Jews. So, sure, there was tension today as we passed each other at the parade, but at least we were all in the same place for (more or less) the same cause.

Of course, it'd be nicer if we could all get along...but, then, if everyone was the same, our world would be ridiculously boring.

Amsterdam, Disney Land, Tel Aviv,
Oh, they're miles apart
But when we light the candles on Sabbath eve,
We share in the prayer in each one of our hearts