Just call me Chaviva

אני רוצה להיות כמו הילד הזה!

Today in Jewish History (מחבד.ורג)

Golden Calf Made; Hur Killed (1313 BCE)

In the year 2448 from Creation (1313 BCE), Tammuz 16 was the 40th day following the Giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, and the people of Israel wrongly expected Moses' return from the mountain (he would actually return on the following day). When their leader failed to return, they demanded from Aaron: "Make us a god that shall go before us". Hur (Moses' nephew, the son of Miriam and Caleb) tried to stop them and was killed by the mob. Aaron fashioned a calf of molten gold.

Okay, okay, I lied. So sue me. How can I NOT blog about my first day at Middlebury's intensive Hebrew immersion program? I'll give you some bullet points. But wow, it's going to be one heckuva ride.

+ Our building is sans air conditioning, and with the tznius dressing, this makes Chavi one miserable little pickle. I'll be doing laundry probably twice a week. Thanks for the warm, icky, and constantly rainy weather, Mama Nature!
+ My roommate is from Lebanon. My initial reaction was "sweet, we can make peace in the Middle East, just me and the roomie." My second reaction was "man, I don't know much about Lebanon, but I have a rock taken from a bombed out Lebanese headquarters near the border that is now under Israeli control." We're both the easy going types, so I don't foresee World War III or anything, and if anything, I anticipate a friendship will be born. She's returning to Lebanon after the course, and maybe I'll get a house invitation?
+ There are people here from every walk of live and from every inch of the world. We have someone from England, the aformentioned roommate from Lebanon, a gal from South Africa, someone from Gaza, and someone from Palestine. Now, my initial reaction to all of this was "Whoa! Gaza! Gnarly!" and then when I met the girl from Palestine, well, I wasn't sure how to react. I've never met anyone who says they're from Palestine. It's usually, I'm from Israel, but I'm Palestinian. I'm a Palestinian Israeli. But being from Palestine? I have to think about this. But the ages vary from just out of high school to people working for the government in their middle/late ages. There are a lot of rabbinical students (mostly of the Reform/Reconstructionist bent), and a lot of international relation students, too. And there are a few like me, rocking the academia and needing a boost.
+ Our first meal, we went to the cafeteria where they were supposed to have kosher meals a'waiting (prepackaged this weekend, then real food henceforth), but they didn't have anything. For the past day I've mostly done salads, and it works. There's also an abundance of fruit. But eating the prepackaged Turkey and/or Meatloaf meals for every meal this weekend did not sound yummy on the tummy. However, supposedly the actual kosher here is delish. The upside to being kosher? I don't get tempted to nosh all the ice cream they have ...
+ It's beautiful here. I can't describe it, but it's just serene, quaint, quiet. And there are a million bugs everywhere and I appear to be as sweet as honey. Pass the aloe?
+ We're staying in a "house." Everyone (well, mostly) has a roommate and we all have common areas. I'll have to take some photos of the building. But we have a kitchen (can't use!) and a game room, as well as a big sitting area/living room that's pretty cool. It's neat having our own house, though. Outside the sign says Hebrew (in ivrit of course) and we all travel in packs like ducks.
+ I am one of two shomer shabbos people here. There are several others who are kosher, and there's a faculty member who is shomer, I believe. It made one of the activities last night ("draw something ...") kind of difficult. It will be a challenge, that's for sure. Probably more of a challenge for me to stay where I'm going than for those around me. Explaining my name, my story, it won't be possible after tomorrow. It's going to be a tough time here. I already miss the community in W. Hartford ... not to mention Challah.
+ We did Havdalah tonight in one of the teacher's "homes" here. There weren't many of us, but it was special. As a result, I'm missing the movie tonight -- I had to come home and shower, and getting dressed only to dirty another outfit just wasn't my prerogative tonight.

There was so much over Shabbos I wanted to write about. Starting tomorrow my thoughts will be compiled in a handy-dandy notebook (thanks Blue's Clues) b'ivrit. The day starts with a test, some music, a pledge, and then silence throughout the house I think. Shabbos was lonely because there weren't children running around, there wasn't hours-long meals and napping was nearly impossible with the heat. This place? It's a hotbox. It was interesting, I guess. I'm perpetually exhausted from the heat, the talking. But it will get better, surely, when we take the pledge and start really learning.

At any rate, I'm sure that the rest of the seven weeks will be more interesting, and I think it will be interesting to watch some of the conflicting personalities (with unique beliefs about the Middle East) attempt to express themselves b'ivrit. It will be, if anything, frustrating. But I love everyone here so far. The uniqueness and connections are amazing.

So, with that, Shavua tov, and so long!

Hello! Or should I say, Shalom! From Middlebury, Vermont. The trip up was fun, and I'll have a video of it at some point, maybe, or the video-shooting might have been all for naught. Either way, it was a beautiful drive up and Tuvia has left me in beautiful, but sweltering Middlebury for seven weeks.

Tonight is our first meal, Hebrew games, and getting to know everyone. It's also Shabbos, and I met at least one other girl who is Shomer Shabbos like myself (why couldn't she have been my roommate? although, my roommate hasn't actually shown up yet), so we'll see how seven Shabboses can go in Middlebury. I met the director of the program, had a conversation, and was declared an "Advanced Novice." Next, I take the plunge, and hopefully in the end, I'll be at "Advanced Intermediate." Until then, I go with the flow. Tomorrow is a tour of campus and after Shabbos ends, a big Hebrew movie night. Sunday we take some written tests and find out where we're placed. And then? Then we take the language pledge. Somewhere around 8 something or other Sunday night, I'm speaking the Hebrew.

At last, when I tell people my name is Chaviva I'll be able to follow it up with a big blabbery helping of Hebrew since the name itself is very early Zionist in its etymology. People expect me to be fluent. I know, I could have picked Rachel or Leah or Tzipporah or something. Oh well, I'm difficult.

So this will be my last blog post in English (I think, unless I get the hinkling for a post-Shabbos ditty, that is), and henceforth you'll likely just be getting photos out of me. I don't want to try and write b'ivrit until I'm wholly comfortable with what I'm attempting to say. Call me crazy, but I'm a hardcore perfectionist who likes to be, well, perfect, in all things. It's damaging most of the time, but it gives me the oomph to achieve life's greatest goals.

I hope you all stick around, pop in every now and again to see if maybe I've written something. Otherwise, well, I guess I'll see you in about seven weeks, post-Hebrew immersion, with what hopefully will be lots of interesting stories and a whole lot of Hebrew learnin'.

Be well, l'hitraot, and Shabbat Shalom!

I've spent the past few weeks burning and burning Hebrew and Judaica music borrowed from some incredibly awesome friends. I got a few more CDs last night from our host family, including a couple that are child-oriented but useful none-the-less. We use lots of these types of CDs and videos in my Hebrew class during the year -- sometimes "Geshem, Geshm MiShamayim" is where one should start to really grasp the beauty and ease of Hebrew. I've got Ugandan Hebrew music, Idan Raichel, The Chevra, Erez Lev Ari, you name it, I've got it.

What's it for? For Middlebury, of course! If I'm going to be speaking, writing, and living Hebrew, I need to be listening to it, as well. Did I mention that our only TV access is Israeli television? Score!

So before I leave for Middlebury, I wanted to share a couple of things that came through my email of the entertainment variety since I'm scooting off and want a spic-and-span clean email box.

I was contacted about a Jewish film called "Tickling Leo" that will be (hopefully) opening on the East Coast in August/September and G-d willing, subsequently spreading above and beyond with success. A ditty on the film:

A family drama set in the Catskills on Yom Kippur, the story explores how a family is affected by the choice one man made to survive the Holocaust in Hungary. It stars the wonderful Eli Wallach, Lawrence Pressman, Annie Parisse, Ronald Guttman, Daniel Sauli and Tony Award Winner Victoria Clark. It was produced by Mary Stuart Masterson and Barn Door Pictures.

and some more details ...

On March 4, 1957, Rudolph Kasztner, former head of the Jewish Rescue Committee in Hungary, was assassinated on the streets of Tel Aviv for the choices he made while negotiating the rescue of 1600 Jews aboard his controversial "Kasztner Train."  Fifty years later in the Catskills, one of the survivors of that train struggles to face his own family's choices in relation to this historical event.

I was intrigued when I was contacted about the film, and I have a lot of reading I've been meaning to do about Rudolph Kasztner and the true incident of his life and death. The trailer will pique your interest, without a doubt, so be sure to give it a look here.


Since I've been all up and down with the Israeli and Hebrew music as of late, how perfect that I was contacted about an Indie Israeli record label, Oleh! Records. In particular, Onili was mentioned, and although I don't know if her music is right up my alley, it most definitely makes me want to crawl onto a lounge chair by the pool and drink something tropical. It appears she's big in Tel Aviv and has connected with Israel's biggest underground stars, so maybe you've heard of her? If not, give her website a gander.

On an otherwise bummed-out day, @PopJudaica has me giggling and enjoying the Jewish Zodiac. Unfortunately, I'm not the Year of the Pickle, but on the upside I'm Year of the Latke, which is pretty nifty I guess.

Comedy writer Seth Front was sitting at a Chinese restaurant one Sunday night, waiting for his Moo Goo Gai Pan and reading the Chinese Zodiac placemat that served as his table setting. Being the good rabbi’s son that he is he thought to himself - - "Jews love Chinese food. Why isn't there a Jewish Zodiac?" But what would a Jewish Zodiac be? It wouldn't be 'Year Of The Dragon' or 'Year Of The Ox,' it would be 'Year Of The Bagel' and 'Year Of The Lox.' It would be deli food!  And thus "The Jewish Zodiac" line was born.

You can get your Jewish Zodiac T-Shirt at the one and only PopJudaica.com!

On Thursday and Friday, I buckled down and baked and cooked my heart out. Tuvia and I were heading down to the Poconos for my last weekend before heading off to Middlebury, so I wanted to make Shabbos meals fit for celebration of not only Shabbos, but also my last weekend around. So what did I make?

For Shabbos dinner, I made Garlic Chicken with Orzo (sans Parm cheese as a topping, of course); some Parve Kishkah; a Strawberry, Sunflower Seed, Cucumber and Lettuce salad with Balsamic Vinaigrette; and of course the Challah.

For Shabbos day, I put together my first Cholent. It was a somewhat scary endeavor, especially since it seems like the ability to make a Cholent is like a ticket to Jewish success (I'm only half-joking, of course). I used this recipe as a base, but didn't make it exactly like this. There were some beans, onions, potatoes, barley and beef, and the base was the same, but as Cholent goes, it was mostly "a little of this, a little of that." We also had Challah, and I consumed some of my delicious salad.

For Seudat Slishit, I brought out the Kugel I'd made (not precisely like this recipe, but close), some challah, lettuce leftovers and whatever else was laying around.

I wish I had photos, but alas, Shabbos doesn't allow for photography. It was nice to spend my last pre-Shabbos cooking, doing something I won't get to do for seven weeks and probably for the next year when I head back to campus in August.

T-minus four days and counting.

Iquitos

Spotted an interesting piece in the New York Times about the lost Jews of Peru heading to Israel from the fringe of Peru.

Definitely worth your time!

When I was a kid, my parents urged me to live by the Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” They bought me a Precious Moments bible at a young age; after all, we lived just minutes from the Precious Moments Chapel in Southern Missouri and spent many holidays visiting the grounds to see the work of the artist known for cute figurines and graphics in childrens’ bibles. I even attended a wedding there once. Even now, looking back, the artwork and the artist’s inspiration are beautiful, even if his book isn’t my book.

I don’t remember a single time that my parents attended church with me, unless it was a wedding of course. My childhood experiences in church were had with friends, actually. I went to vacation bible school during the summer with my friend Annie, and I remember one summer where the theme was something about Cowboys and the Wild West. I remember wearing a cowboy hat (that I had for many years after that, until I was in high school I believe), and helping make fresh ice cream in some wooden barrel, intermixed with coloring pictures of Jesus in cowboy gear. I don’t remember the message, I just remember that the ice cream was really good and the church was massive. This was in Southern Missouri, right there in the bible belt where the evangelical agenda swirls about as fierce as the tornados in Tornado Alley. Annie was incredibly religious, and everything her family did I remember was intermixed with a religious theme. She was one of my best friends, too. One of the six that I was attached to for the first 12.5 years of my life. One of my other friends, Kendall, was a Jehovah’s witness and despite their beliefs about holidays (there are none), her parents still showered her with gifts when the rest of us were getting them – all because she was a “good girl.” She left school during every celebration, too. I was always bummed that she missed out on the Valentine’s Day box contest. I won one year for “The Love Boat.” It was a classic three-tier box with a hatch that opened for cards to be undelicately shoved inside. Oy, that was a proud moment. But I digress! They say there is a friend turnover every seven years, and when I turned 14, I stopped talking to most of my Missouri friends. I hope they all are finding what they’re looking for.

When I was 13, we moved to Nebraska, and I also happened to fall into a religious group of friends. In Middle School I ran around with a crowd that belonged to a large church downtown that frequently had lock-ins and activities for the younger kids. One fall I managed to stay up 72 hours straight: one day was a dance, the next a lock-in, the next a sleepover. Those were the days. But I don’t remember doing anything religiously motivated at that lock-in. I just remember a friend chugging a bottle of Mountain Dew and subsequently hurling all over the rec room. In high school, my group of friends came from a variety of backgrounds: Protestant, Lutheran, Catholic. I learned early that a friend’s parents weren’t really accepted by the Catholic Church for one reason or another. I spent holiday services at different churches, and at one point I remember taking communion because everyone else was and I still don’t even know what it was that I did, but I remember knowing that it was wrong. One Ash Wednesday I went with friends and got ashes placed on my forehead and I remember thinking how weird and uncomfortable I felt. But it was pervasive around me – everyone was Christian, everyone was religious. Everyone with ashen marks upon their foreheads. It was how I rolled. I was the secretary of Fellowship of Christian Athletes and went on several “Weekend of Champions” adventures in Nebraska, including a trip in which I was “saved.” I was in Campus Life, where Jesus was presented through large assemblies on Club Day and it was more about having fun than getting or experiencing Christianity. I wanted so badly to fit in and feel the way my friends felt. That unbending faith that you didn’t have to worry about a thing because Jesus died for you. It was easy peasy. Just believe, and you’re saved. That’s all it took. And even that time, when I was saved, it was a lie. I didn’t believe it. I wanted to believe it. My entire life I’d wanted to believe it. But I couldn’t.

The last straw of my social Christianity, my trying to fit into the mold that was pervasive around me, was in college. I attended services with my friends, and I really liked them. The singing was powerful and intense, and the pastor was so hip and friendly. I remember during emotional services he’d call students down to pray at the front of the shul, if they were suffering. I stood there, wanting to go down, wanting to try, that one last time, to make it work. But I didn’t. And then the pastor confronted me at a dinner and handed me a copy of a book that is known for turning people toward Jesus. I put that book on my bookshelf and never looked back.

I’d spent my entire life attempting to fit into the mold around me because my friends were all devoutly religious individuals comfortable in their Christian skin. Whenever I’d bring up a controversial topic, wanting to discuss what scripture says about modern topics that need practical applications, I was shunned, given a bible verse, and sent on my way. It had never sat right with me, and my questions always were left unanswered. Christianity, in my experience, had become an easy out that I just couldn’t grasp. It would have been so easy to just believe, to put all my faith in a single idea, and let the rest of my life waft by. But that wasn’t my mold. So much of my unhappiness throughout high school and into college was supported by my never-ending attempts to make it work, to fit in, to force myself into the Christian club. There are so many experiences I could write about in my efforts to fit my soul into Christianity. Retreats, discussions, arguments, fights, lost friends …

These, my biggest problems in high school resulted in a deep depression. I tried hard to fit, but I didn’t. Anywhere. I was the Christian Girl in Academic Decathalon and Quizbowl, Math Club, but also Choir and sometimes Volleyball, Model UN, honors society. I went a variety of avenues. I attempted to perfect who I was. But it always came back to the search. The Big Search. I was helpless, hopeless, lost. I kept pushing the square peg in the round hole. I’d done it my entire life. It hadn’t worked, but it was an effort. It was something.

And then? Judaism. Out of the blue, the word was whispered to me in a conversation about beliefs and religion my freshman year. My knowledge of Judaism was the Holocaust, a topic covered by my 8th grade teacher Mr. Smith. I met a Holocaust survivor, I watched the movies, we talked about the catastrophe. But the Jews were a distant people and I didn’t know a single one. Eighth grade came and went and the Jews were never affiliated with anything more than the Holocaust. In high school, my junior year, we did Fiddler on the Roof – never a more distant musical topic for a group of Midwestern Christian kids. But we didn’t talk about Judaism, or why we were singing certain songs, or why the chuppah was important or why Shabbos was so special. I played Mottel’s mother, and that was that. He was 6-foot something and I was 5-foot something. It was implausible, and the musical was more about getting a chance to step out in my musical prowess than about the characters, the history, the story, of the Jews.

How funny to think that me, the little girl who delighted in ice cream at VBS in Joplin, Missouri, and the Precious Moments Chapel’s Christian Bible depictions, who tried her entire life to be a devout and serious Christian, would be at the doorsteps of Orthodoxy, stepping over a threshold of thousands of years of memory and tradition. Even in the six years that I have pursued Judaism, I still vividly remember all of my experiences living the way I thought I was meant to live. I remember taking my little brother and older brother to a Christmas service at my friend’s church – urging my parents to come with, but them denying attendance. I felt so proud then, bringing my little brother to something he’d never known about or understood (he didn’t grow up with the pressures that my brother and I did with friends and school).

But here I am. Still giggling about Jesus in cowboy boots, wondering if I grew up with Jews and just didn’t know it. Smiling, knowing that my children will be brought up with not only the golden rule, but a tradition deeply embedded in my soul. My children will have the right and will be encouraged to embrace what is truly true for them as my parents allowed for me. But at the same time, I hope that I can raise my children in a way that they will respect, connect, and cherish who they are as Jews, carrying on a tradition that their mother’s neshama traveled so long and so hard to give them.