"I don't care. Sorry, I just don't care!"
My best friend turned towards me, laughing, and asked, "Who are you, and what have you done with Rachel?"
You see, I always care. I care too much, in fact. I'm an ESFJ, in Myers-Briggs speak. I am always the hostess: I cook too much food, and I make you take home leftovers. I'm a fabulous Jewish mother-in-training. I claim to find good in even the nastiest of people; I get upset when everyone isn't able to get along and sing songs around the metaphorical campfire. I'm a social justice nerd, one of those freaks who actually believes that she can change the world. If nothing else, I care.
But, senioritis has officially kicked in. I have 3 weeks left. I am 4 assignments away from graduation. I only have 3 more Shabboses left at Hillel. I have 10 classes between me, and my cap and gown -- and I intend to make them count. I am going to pass all of my classes, so I officially don't care about trivial homework. I am leaving the cliques of this undergraduate community behind, so I truly don't have the patience for tangled red tape anymore. If a program doesn't succeed, or a class is boring, it's honestly no skin off my back.
Because -- actually -- I care very much about making these last moments count. I refuse to spend them fretting over event planning, he-said-she-said nonsense, or grades that won't matter 10 months from now. I care about cherishing this time with my friends. I care about carving these moments into my brain, so I'll have something great to tell my grandchildren someday. I care about making this second count. I care about my loved ones, about my friendships, and my dreams for the future. I care about the good times I've had, not the drama of days gone by; I care about the places we're going, not the mistakes we've made. I care about girls night out, and dinner in with friends, and sitting in the fountain at Washington Square Park. I care. I just don't have time to care unless it counts right now.
twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. so throw off the bowlines. sail away from the safe harbor. catch the trade winds in your sails. explore. dream. discover. --unknown
and, of course, care.
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
April 19, 2010
March 3, 2010
Trusting your gut
After a long, snowy winter, I heard the ice cream truck boo-bee-dee-boop its way down the block the other day -- and I instinctively scrambled for quarters. I didn't end up getting my Firecracker pop, but I knew exactly what to do.
I made pesto sauce from scratch yesterday, based on a whole lot of guessing and praying, and that turned out well, too. I'm starting to realize that I have enough of my mother in me to be able to cook instinctively. Should I add more olive oil? Probably. Will a little cream cheese brighten up that sauce? You betcha. I know what to do, even if I have trouble trusting my inner Betty Crocker at times.
Some things, I think, are just automatic: cookies need milk; kites gotta have breezes; don't wear white after Labor Day. My best friends and I went to a showtunes-only piano bar in the West Village this past weekend; I know that when I'm with them, there's a 95% chance I'll laugh so hard that my beverage'll shoot out of my nostrils. (This is, apparently, genetic in my family. Thanks to my aunt for passing on this darling propensity to snort liquids out of my nose. Totally chic.) Before you eat birthday cake, you blow out the candles. Before babies can walk, they have to learn to crawl. I've heard that you never forget how to ride a bicycle once you've learned, either. Some things...some things you just know.
I should have known, then, that senioritis would come knocking at my door. I'm not being an extraordinary procrastinator - I just can't sleep very well lately. My brain is whirring through thoughts and ideas and dreams at a hundred-bajillion miles per hour. There's too many banquets, and projects, and parties to look forward to! Spring is coming, and with it comes the end of my year-long thesis project and the conclusion of four years of workworkwork. Daffodils will be blooming soon, and I'll have heard about graduate school and decided on my summer plans and settled into a post-coed life.
I've been working towards these next few weeks for the past four years. I'm almost a legitimate participant in the real world. But I'm not all that nervous - though my five-year plan is fuzzy, I'm weirdly at peace. Somehow, I think I'll know what to do when the time comes.
I made pesto sauce from scratch yesterday, based on a whole lot of guessing and praying, and that turned out well, too. I'm starting to realize that I have enough of my mother in me to be able to cook instinctively. Should I add more olive oil? Probably. Will a little cream cheese brighten up that sauce? You betcha. I know what to do, even if I have trouble trusting my inner Betty Crocker at times.
Some things, I think, are just automatic: cookies need milk; kites gotta have breezes; don't wear white after Labor Day. My best friends and I went to a showtunes-only piano bar in the West Village this past weekend; I know that when I'm with them, there's a 95% chance I'll laugh so hard that my beverage'll shoot out of my nostrils. (This is, apparently, genetic in my family. Thanks to my aunt for passing on this darling propensity to snort liquids out of my nose. Totally chic.) Before you eat birthday cake, you blow out the candles. Before babies can walk, they have to learn to crawl. I've heard that you never forget how to ride a bicycle once you've learned, either. Some things...some things you just know.
I should have known, then, that senioritis would come knocking at my door. I'm not being an extraordinary procrastinator - I just can't sleep very well lately. My brain is whirring through thoughts and ideas and dreams at a hundred-bajillion miles per hour. There's too many banquets, and projects, and parties to look forward to! Spring is coming, and with it comes the end of my year-long thesis project and the conclusion of four years of workworkwork. Daffodils will be blooming soon, and I'll have heard about graduate school and decided on my summer plans and settled into a post-coed life.
I've been working towards these next few weeks for the past four years. I'm almost a legitimate participant in the real world. But I'm not all that nervous - though my five-year plan is fuzzy, I'm weirdly at peace. Somehow, I think I'll know what to do when the time comes.
February 7, 2010
Long time, no type
I usually don't make official New Year's resolutions. Despite my penchant for to-do lists, I've always tried to live, love, and laugh with gusto every day - as opposed to being gung-ho for only the first two inspired weeks of each year.
Still, I promised myself that I'd make a few changes in 2010, as I began my last semester of college. I resolved to take more pictures and to write on my blog more often. (Will I ever be 21 in New York again? Nope. Better make sure I remember these moments, then.)
It's February 7th: I have no new photos on my Canon, and this is my first blog post of the new year. Womp, womp, womp.
But maybe - since I don't normally do this whole resolution shpiel - I can amend the rules? I loathe messing up; being late, spilling things, and disappointing people are all on the things-that-make-my-stomach-lurch list, and slacking on my resolutions is no exception. In the interest of avoiding stomach ulcers, and in the hopes of capturing the magic of my last 4 months as a co-ed, I'm calling for a do-over. Did I swing and miss? You bet. But I'm granting myself another metaphorical at-bat.
After all, January was pretty jam-packed with awesomeness. I love all of my classes, and I may actually complete my senior thesis (or, BLT, aka a Big Long Thing) on time and with some panache. I've celebrated good friends' birthdays, and I've gone on some ridiculously tasty food adventures in my neighborhood: Mercadito and Podunk are my current obsessions, albeit their guacamole and scones (respectively) are total opposites. I led the BC's campaign to help the people of Haiti, as if I needed another reminder of how incredible the Jewish community is. I've learned and laughed and loved a lot already.
Now I just have to remember to capture it all, to say cheese and to write witty banter, so that I can remember all of my silly young hi-jinks someday.
Still, I promised myself that I'd make a few changes in 2010, as I began my last semester of college. I resolved to take more pictures and to write on my blog more often. (Will I ever be 21 in New York again? Nope. Better make sure I remember these moments, then.)
It's February 7th: I have no new photos on my Canon, and this is my first blog post of the new year. Womp, womp, womp.
But maybe - since I don't normally do this whole resolution shpiel - I can amend the rules? I loathe messing up; being late, spilling things, and disappointing people are all on the things-that-make-my-stomach-lurch list, and slacking on my resolutions is no exception. In the interest of avoiding stomach ulcers, and in the hopes of capturing the magic of my last 4 months as a co-ed, I'm calling for a do-over. Did I swing and miss? You bet. But I'm granting myself another metaphorical at-bat.
After all, January was pretty jam-packed with awesomeness. I love all of my classes, and I may actually complete my senior thesis (or, BLT, aka a Big Long Thing) on time and with some panache. I've celebrated good friends' birthdays, and I've gone on some ridiculously tasty food adventures in my neighborhood: Mercadito and Podunk are my current obsessions, albeit their guacamole and scones (respectively) are total opposites. I led the BC's campaign to help the people of Haiti, as if I needed another reminder of how incredible the Jewish community is. I've learned and laughed and loved a lot already.
Now I just have to remember to capture it all, to say cheese and to write witty banter, so that I can remember all of my silly young hi-jinks someday.
December 31, 2009
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.")
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.")
November 10, 2009
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.
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.
October 18, 2009
If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops...
The girls came over for junk food dinner and a chick flick (which was soon turned off so we could root for the Phils) tonight.
One of them came over a bit early; actually, I got back from the grocery store 2 seconds before she buzzed. She announced, as we both tugged off our rain boots, that it was an absolutely dreary day. She had no energy, everything was blah...life was as yucky as the weather outside.
"Nah," I grinned. "Good things happen on rainy days."
She grimaced, as if to say that she wished it were so.
But it is - and I'm not just saying that because my mother always told me that good things happen on rainy days. It has rained, without fail, every year on my birthday. It rained when my parents got married; it rained the night that I was born. It almost always rains on the first day of school. It rained tonight, and the Phillies won, 11-0.
Even putting superstition aside, rain is pretty awesome. We pray for it - and we have for bajillions of years. It makes grass grow, and fills lakes, and makes all kinds of other nature-y, circle-of-life things happen.
You have to know who you are, and be comfortable with it, when it rains. Rainy days are not exactly good hair days. They're the days when your commute takes longer, and people are stressed, and your homework might get a little soggy. They're the tough days, sometimes - but that's why they're good. They challenge us. They force us to realize what will matter 10 seconds from now and what will matter 10 years from now. A little rain? No big deal.
Rain brings us rainbows. It brings us peace. (Oh man, I love napping when raindrops are pitter-pattering on my window.) It brings us joy: when I was little, Mom would take me for walks during rain showers to wave hello to the earthworms that had crawled onto the sidewalk; I still look for them when it rains now. And there's puddle-jumping, too - rain gives even grown-ups an excuse to be silly.
So, yes, it was gray today. It was cold, and blustery, and damp. I wore 3 shirts and ridiculously high socks. I plodded across 14th street in my checkered rain boots, with my floral-print umbrella, hoping that my groceries wouldn't melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. But it was also a day full of accomplishment (homework, I will not miss you when I finally graduate) and friendship and laughter. It was a rainy evening full of girl talk and cookie dough and cozying up on the couch. Good things happened today.
Luckily, there's also a chance of showers tomorrow...
One of them came over a bit early; actually, I got back from the grocery store 2 seconds before she buzzed. She announced, as we both tugged off our rain boots, that it was an absolutely dreary day. She had no energy, everything was blah...life was as yucky as the weather outside.
"Nah," I grinned. "Good things happen on rainy days."
She grimaced, as if to say that she wished it were so.
But it is - and I'm not just saying that because my mother always told me that good things happen on rainy days. It has rained, without fail, every year on my birthday. It rained when my parents got married; it rained the night that I was born. It almost always rains on the first day of school. It rained tonight, and the Phillies won, 11-0.
Even putting superstition aside, rain is pretty awesome. We pray for it - and we have for bajillions of years. It makes grass grow, and fills lakes, and makes all kinds of other nature-y, circle-of-life things happen.
You have to know who you are, and be comfortable with it, when it rains. Rainy days are not exactly good hair days. They're the days when your commute takes longer, and people are stressed, and your homework might get a little soggy. They're the tough days, sometimes - but that's why they're good. They challenge us. They force us to realize what will matter 10 seconds from now and what will matter 10 years from now. A little rain? No big deal.
Rain brings us rainbows. It brings us peace. (Oh man, I love napping when raindrops are pitter-pattering on my window.) It brings us joy: when I was little, Mom would take me for walks during rain showers to wave hello to the earthworms that had crawled onto the sidewalk; I still look for them when it rains now. And there's puddle-jumping, too - rain gives even grown-ups an excuse to be silly.
So, yes, it was gray today. It was cold, and blustery, and damp. I wore 3 shirts and ridiculously high socks. I plodded across 14th street in my checkered rain boots, with my floral-print umbrella, hoping that my groceries wouldn't melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. But it was also a day full of accomplishment (homework, I will not miss you when I finally graduate) and friendship and laughter. It was a rainy evening full of girl talk and cookie dough and cozying up on the couch. Good things happened today.
Luckily, there's also a chance of showers tomorrow...
October 9, 2009
Seasons of love
I was almost home yesterday when I looked down and realized that the sidewalk was strewn with leaves. Weren't those still on trees the day before? When did it become autumn?
For that matter, when did I become a grown-up? I walked out of a rough meeting in the journalism department yesterday and somehow felt sure that my mom would be sitting in her red car waiting for me across the street - but then I realized that I haven't been in high school for four years. Mom still talks me down when I'm upset, of course, and Dad still helps me see things clearly (how does he always do that?). But I'm a not a little girl anymore. I have to solve my own problems. Actually, I've been so busy lately that I have to decide which problems are worth solving.
So, on my way home, I crunched through leaves and realized that I don't have time to be upset. I don't have the time to be anyone but myself, to do anything beyond what gives me glee, or to share my life with anyone but the people that make me happy. (Homework doesn't count, here - I read a book on the history of the color blue last week. Seriously, 200 pages on a color. It was ridiculous.) I looked up at the trees on 12th Street and realized that they'd changed colors without a fuss - no upset or tantrum, just a subtle shift from green to gold. They were different, sure, but they were still beautiful.
I went to rehearsal with my friends instead of pouting last night. We laughed and ate fake chicken nuggets (holla, Red Bamboo) and sang, and I decided to face whatever is in front of me without fear.
I have no idea what my future will be like. But I do know this: I'll be the best Rachel Liane that I can be. I'll be goofy, and sweet, and a little edgy; I'll write with wit and live with intention; I'll cherish sunshine and friendship. Seasons change. Leaves fall. I have no idea exactly when I grew up; no one hands you a manual and says, "Welcome to adulthood." (Wouldn't it be great if you got one of those car navigation ladies in your brain when you turned 21? "Turn left here." "In 2.3 miles, you should ask that guy out." "Pay your bills." That'd be swell.) Life, though, has granted me enough friendship and love to make it through.
For that matter, when did I become a grown-up? I walked out of a rough meeting in the journalism department yesterday and somehow felt sure that my mom would be sitting in her red car waiting for me across the street - but then I realized that I haven't been in high school for four years. Mom still talks me down when I'm upset, of course, and Dad still helps me see things clearly (how does he always do that?). But I'm a not a little girl anymore. I have to solve my own problems. Actually, I've been so busy lately that I have to decide which problems are worth solving.
So, on my way home, I crunched through leaves and realized that I don't have time to be upset. I don't have the time to be anyone but myself, to do anything beyond what gives me glee, or to share my life with anyone but the people that make me happy. (Homework doesn't count, here - I read a book on the history of the color blue last week. Seriously, 200 pages on a color. It was ridiculous.) I looked up at the trees on 12th Street and realized that they'd changed colors without a fuss - no upset or tantrum, just a subtle shift from green to gold. They were different, sure, but they were still beautiful.
I went to rehearsal with my friends instead of pouting last night. We laughed and ate fake chicken nuggets (holla, Red Bamboo) and sang, and I decided to face whatever is in front of me without fear.
I have no idea what my future will be like. But I do know this: I'll be the best Rachel Liane that I can be. I'll be goofy, and sweet, and a little edgy; I'll write with wit and live with intention; I'll cherish sunshine and friendship. Seasons change. Leaves fall. I have no idea exactly when I grew up; no one hands you a manual and says, "Welcome to adulthood." (Wouldn't it be great if you got one of those car navigation ladies in your brain when you turned 21? "Turn left here." "In 2.3 miles, you should ask that guy out." "Pay your bills." That'd be swell.) Life, though, has granted me enough friendship and love to make it through.
August 10, 2009
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.
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.
August 4, 2009
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?
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?
July 21, 2009
Editing Carrie Bradshaw
I was watching TV on Saturday night, when one of my all-time favorite Sex and the City episodes came on. The very last line explains the whole half hour show, really: "Some people are settling down, some people are settling...and some people refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies."
I've always loved the episode because Carrie raves about the importance of zsa zsa zsu, that indescribable chemistry that makes sparks fly, stomachs flip, and relationships last. But, as I heard that line at the end of the episode for the bajillionth time, I suddenly was struck: what if you don't have butterflies?
I refuse to settle. (Ok, at least, I try not to settle.) I'm certainly not settling down. And, of course, I want a truly great love story.
But -- what am I supposed to do until those butterflies show up?
I spent the weekend wondering about my state of flux, my butterfly-less romance purgatory. I watched friends flounder in relationships; I noticed little old couples in Riverside Park and wondered if, as Carrie claimed, the memory of their zsa zsa zsu kept their love alive. I smiled and nodded as friends tried to fix me up, and laughed when my mother suggested putting on lipgloss and knocking on doors in my building until I found a Jewish boy with a cup of flour. It was exhausting.
You see, you can't hurry love (no, you just have to wait...). Sure, I could go on a date. I could go for coffee. I could march right over to the next cute Jewish boy I notice on the A train and exchange phone numbers. But I'm not in this for a booked calendar, or coffee, or a hefty little black book. I'm in this for butterflies, and those cannot be manufactured. Carrie forgot to mention that refusing to settle can mean settling in for the long haul.
So, enough already. I'm through with making jokes about being the third wheel, and I'm done with fending off those gut-wrenching looks of pity from happily coupled friends. I refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies, I do - but I also refuse to believe that I cannot be happy now. I refuse to wallow in singledom. I am determined to find my own glee.
Someday my prince will come. There'll be butterflies, and romance, and we'll ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But, no fairytale starts at its end. Here's to the first part of the story, the beginning of my fairytale, the part that Carrie Bradshaw skimmed over. Here's to chasing butterflies.
I've always loved the episode because Carrie raves about the importance of zsa zsa zsu, that indescribable chemistry that makes sparks fly, stomachs flip, and relationships last. But, as I heard that line at the end of the episode for the bajillionth time, I suddenly was struck: what if you don't have butterflies?
I refuse to settle. (Ok, at least, I try not to settle.) I'm certainly not settling down. And, of course, I want a truly great love story.
But -- what am I supposed to do until those butterflies show up?
I spent the weekend wondering about my state of flux, my butterfly-less romance purgatory. I watched friends flounder in relationships; I noticed little old couples in Riverside Park and wondered if, as Carrie claimed, the memory of their zsa zsa zsu kept their love alive. I smiled and nodded as friends tried to fix me up, and laughed when my mother suggested putting on lipgloss and knocking on doors in my building until I found a Jewish boy with a cup of flour. It was exhausting.
You see, you can't hurry love (no, you just have to wait...). Sure, I could go on a date. I could go for coffee. I could march right over to the next cute Jewish boy I notice on the A train and exchange phone numbers. But I'm not in this for a booked calendar, or coffee, or a hefty little black book. I'm in this for butterflies, and those cannot be manufactured. Carrie forgot to mention that refusing to settle can mean settling in for the long haul.
So, enough already. I'm through with making jokes about being the third wheel, and I'm done with fending off those gut-wrenching looks of pity from happily coupled friends. I refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies, I do - but I also refuse to believe that I cannot be happy now. I refuse to wallow in singledom. I am determined to find my own glee.
Someday my prince will come. There'll be butterflies, and romance, and we'll ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But, no fairytale starts at its end. Here's to the first part of the story, the beginning of my fairytale, the part that Carrie Bradshaw skimmed over. Here's to chasing butterflies.
June 16, 2009
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
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
May 12, 2009
Hot child in the city
This is the third or fourth night this week that I've heard people sing "Happy Birthday" in the garden across the street...they laugh and listen to music, and tonight they popped champagne. They're celebrating and happy and very East Village chic, and it all seems so glorious that it takes lots of willpower to not throw on a sundress (instead of the schlubby sweats that I've been wearing all week as I work on my final papers) and crash their shindig ASAP.
I was absolutely positive that my 21st birthday was going to involve several jazz clubs, dancing, tons of friends, and cocktails galore. I wanted that sacred moment where you flash your totally legitimate photo ID at the bartender with pride.
Now, I'm reconsidering: my close friends and an ice cream cake in the garden seems so lovely. Flowers and laughter in the moonlight is very Midsummer Night's Dream a la 2009, and it seems so much more me than a night of bar-hopping, however traditional that may be.
There'll still be cocktails galore, though. Some things never change.
I was absolutely positive that my 21st birthday was going to involve several jazz clubs, dancing, tons of friends, and cocktails galore. I wanted that sacred moment where you flash your totally legitimate photo ID at the bartender with pride.
Now, I'm reconsidering: my close friends and an ice cream cake in the garden seems so lovely. Flowers and laughter in the moonlight is very Midsummer Night's Dream a la 2009, and it seems so much more me than a night of bar-hopping, however traditional that may be.
There'll still be cocktails galore, though. Some things never change.
May 8, 2009
Firsts and lasts
It's been raining all week; Mom always says good things happen on rainy days.
I'm almost a senior in college (only 2 more finals until it's official!), I start an amazing editorial internship in a few short weeks, and I've been blessed with a year full of life lessons, ups and downs, and lots of love. But that's not what the rain's been making me think about this week...the future is exciting, and the past year has been great, but I'm unable to look at things so concretely lately. Instead, I just keep wondering if the rain is washing away the old, cleansing our figurative slates or palettes or faces or whatever it is that you'd like to be symbolically refreshed. It's as if the rain is preparing us for something new, waking us up for whatever's about to happen. So many of my friends are graduating and moving on, and I can just feel my circle growing up, whether we like it or not.
This sounds so much more somber than I intended; I don't mean to say that we're all leaving or turning a new page too abruptly. I just have this feeling in my gut, an odd mix of excitement, joy, too much dessert, and contentment. I keep getting this lump in my throat, this knot in my chest, as I wander down the city streets...it's like I can feel the change coming. It's very close to that happy-bittersweet sensation you get when you hug family members who live far away, or when you watch a very small child learn something that you normally take for granted.
Something is going to happen, and it's thrilling and confusing and nerve-wracking and exhilarating all in one breath...or maybe it's just the humidity.
I'm almost a senior in college (only 2 more finals until it's official!), I start an amazing editorial internship in a few short weeks, and I've been blessed with a year full of life lessons, ups and downs, and lots of love. But that's not what the rain's been making me think about this week...the future is exciting, and the past year has been great, but I'm unable to look at things so concretely lately. Instead, I just keep wondering if the rain is washing away the old, cleansing our figurative slates or palettes or faces or whatever it is that you'd like to be symbolically refreshed. It's as if the rain is preparing us for something new, waking us up for whatever's about to happen. So many of my friends are graduating and moving on, and I can just feel my circle growing up, whether we like it or not.
This sounds so much more somber than I intended; I don't mean to say that we're all leaving or turning a new page too abruptly. I just have this feeling in my gut, an odd mix of excitement, joy, too much dessert, and contentment. I keep getting this lump in my throat, this knot in my chest, as I wander down the city streets...it's like I can feel the change coming. It's very close to that happy-bittersweet sensation you get when you hug family members who live far away, or when you watch a very small child learn something that you normally take for granted.
Something is going to happen, and it's thrilling and confusing and nerve-wracking and exhilarating all in one breath...or maybe it's just the humidity.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)