The Anniversary Gift

When I was a kid, and we went out to restaurants where they still put paper on the table and gave out crayons to the kids to entertain them, my dad used to draw the same image over and over. No matter where we went, the time of day, or the mood he was in, he always drew a tree. It was a bare-branched tree, no lush leaves, but it always managed to capture something special about my dad. As time went on, and I became a doodler, the tree became a common theme for me. It was the same: no leaves, just bare branches.

Awhile ago, Mr. T asked me to draw him a picture of the tree I always sketch. Being generally grumpy and overworked most of the time, I brushed him off and said I'd do it eventually. He started bringing a piece of paper and pen over to me and asking me to do it. He said he wanted to make a paper cut or something with it, and after several tries I acquiesced and drew him the tree.

Then, he gave me this.

Our anniversary is February 20, or Erev Ta'anit Esther on the Hebrew calendar (that means, because this year is a leap year on the Jewish calendar, we celebrate the Hebrew date in March), but he wanted to give it to me early. He'd managed to hide the whole project from me (which is hard to do), and I never thought to ask him what had come of the tree.

If you can't read Hebrew, or read really, really small writing, the necklace says the following:

• 02/20/2013 חביבה טוביה (That's Chaviva and Tuvia written in Hebrew.)
• אשר יצחק 12/19/2013 (That's Asher Yitzhak written in Hebrew.)

It's my very own, super unique (just like my husband) family-based necklace charm, which I'd wanted for some time. And, there's space up another branch for The Blob (that's what we're calling the baby I'm brewing). 

I was really overwhelmed and surprised! And, of course, now I'm thinking "How am I going to match this!?" Here's to you, Mr. T. 

Scrabble with Eliezer ben Yehudah, anyone?

Ah, Eliezer ben Yehudah, the father of modern Hebrew. My hero. I'll admit that his style of parenting was a bit bizarre. At a time when his version of Hebrew was not spoken widely, even semi-widely, okay let's be honest, no one really spoke it, he raised his son to speak only modern Hebrew. I'll be honest that my love of this linguistic genius arose during my time at Middlebury College when I was there for my intensive Hebrew ulpan during the summer of 2009, and every time I speak Hebrew I stop and consider whether it's one of his words.

The truth is, most of modern Hebrew is the same Hebrew that was used in the Torah, although a host of new words appeared because, well, words like "ice cream" didn't exist in the time of the Torah. That's where Eliezer ben Yehudah really shined. He used the biblical roots of words to build and craft a whole new addition to the language. In 1880 he said: “in order to have our own land and political life… we must have a Hebrew language in which we can conduct the business of life.”

Anyhow, the whole reason I'm posting this is because the cartoon above made me giggle with delight.  For those of you who don't speak or read Hebrew, I'll translate (reading from right to left, of course):

Title: It was really not fun to play Scrabble with Eliezer ben Yehudah.
Top right: "Your turn, Eliezer."
Top left: "Please, handkerchief, 44 points."
Bottom right: "What? That isn't a word!"
Bottom left: "Now it is."

Hilarious, right?!

Have a question? Just ask: http://bit.ly/AskChavivaAnything

Book Review: Lashon HaKodesh: History, Holiness, and Hebrew

If I tell you that there's a book that is blowing my mind at every page turn, it means that you need to stop what you're doing, don't even read the rest of this post, and go out and buy the book. It's called Lashon HaKodesh: History, Holiness, and Hebrew, and I got the book as a review copy, but I would happily pay a few hundred bucks for this book. Why?

Okay, if you insist.

I'm only about 50 pages into this book about lashon hakodesh -- "holy language," also known as classic or biblical Hebrew or the language of prayer in Judaism -- but I've already uncovered a few fascinating things that have me poised for discovery. These will (hopefully) work themselves into much longer blog posts or articles over on About.com's Judaism page, but for now, let me blow your mind.

Aramaic

Did you know that there is an understanding of Aramaic as a language of mourning? You probably never thought about it, but ask yourself this: What language did Adam, the first human, speak? The rabbis toil over the topic, with my favorite theory being that Adam spoken lashon hakodesh in the Garden of Eden. After all lashon hakodesh was the language of G-d, right? What better language for Adam to speak? But what did he speak once he was booted from Gan Eden? Aramaic, evidently.

Lashon hakodesh became affiliated with the Land of Israel, with any use of Aramaic earning its user a negative outcome. Jacob, for example, agreed to a pact with Laban over an area that Jacob referred to in Hebrew but that Laban referred to in Aramaic. As a result, the rabbis say, Jacob was exiled to Egypt. Even Rachel suffered after she referred to her son in the Aramaic as Ben Oni (Jacob used the Hebrew, Binyamin or Benjamin), which earned her a swift death once she entered Israel. Yikes. Harsh! But thought-provoking, no?

I can't wait to explore this more. I have to hand it to Rabbi Reuven Chaim Klein for the intense and through footnotes and diversity of sources he has to offer on this topic (and others throughout the book, of course). My brain sparks are flying off in dozens of directions with every page turn.

Tower of Babel and Language Dispersion

The great thing about this book is that it provides unique perspectives on otherwise mundane aspects of language. Yes, the Tower of Babel is far from mundane, but how much have you really considered the language dispersion following the whole episode?

Think about it: The text says,

And they said, “Come, let us build ourselves a city, and a tower whose top is in the heavens; let us make a name for ourselves, lest we be scattered abroad over the face of the whole earth.” But the Lord came down to see the city and the tower which the sons of men had built. And the Lord said, “Indeed the people are one and they all have one language, and this is what they begin to do; now nothing that they propose to do will be withheld from them. Come, let Us go down and there confuse their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.” So the Lord scattered them abroad from there over the face of all the earth, and they ceased building the city. Therefore its name is called Babel, because there the Lord confused the language of all the earth; and from there the Lord scattered them abroad over the face of all the earth.

There are so many theories and discussions about this by the rabbis, you'd be amazed. The ultimate discussion surrounds whether there was really one language prior to the Tower of Babel or if there was one shared language. You see, there is a classic understanding in Judaism that there were 70 nations, based on Noah's descendants. The rabbis go into a textual, cultural, and archaeological  discussion of whether there could be 70 languages at that point in time depending on where the descendants were. 

The two theories main approaches I like from Rabbi Klein's book: 

• The people of the world spoke 70 languages prior to the Tower of Babel and when G-d confuses the language, he makes everyone forget 69 of the 70 languages they once knew. 
• The people of the world spoke two languages prior to the Tower of Babel: one external (lashon hakodesh) and one internal. After Babel, the external language was lost and the people of the world only spoke their internal language and thus couldn't communicate. 

The killer discussion on whether there was one main language prior to the incident (lashon hakodesh) and other languages were created post-Babel involves an argument about whether G-d could even create new languages and whether that "creation" was actually creation or just evolving an already created aspect of life. The argument is based on King Solomon's "There is nothing new under the sun" statement in Kohelet 1:9. Genius! I can't wait to give this another go-round in my brain cage. 

---

Ah! I love it! This stuff takes me back to graduate school. Rabbi Klein has created a book that feels, to me, to be a perfect balance between the religious and the historical, the secular and the holy, in a completely accessible manner. 

I haven't been this excited about a book in a long time, folks. I've gotten a lot of books and a lot of them get read and passed over. Trust me: This one is completely and totally worth your time.

Also? The cover is pretty. So go buy it already. 

When Language Ego Ruins You

This past Shabbat, there was a community experience here in Neve Daniel. You could sign up to either be a host or a guest, you were paired up with perfect strangers, and the idea was that you'd meet new people and spread yourself out a bit on the yishuv.

I've experienced these kinds of things before, and I've always loved them. Back in Teaneck they called it Mystery Shabbat, and you didn't know where you were going for the meal until you showed up at synagogue and someone handed you a card with an address on it. It was fun, I met some awesome new people, and I got to break out of my insulated introverted bubble.

Here, on the other hand, my attempt to burst out of that bubble failed miserably and resulted in a demoralizing and alienating experience.

It's no one's fault but my own, I'm sure.

The hosts were great -- the hostess even went out of her way to make a gluten-free cake for dessert. When we arrived they spoke in English, the comfort zone for both Mr. T and I, but when the other guests showed up, there was no turning back, Hebrew was the name of the game at the meal.

Mr. T has been in Israel off and on for nine years and works as an electrician on job sites where Hebrew is the common denominator among Russians, Arabs, and other workers. As a result, he doesn't have much of a language ego -- he just speaks, he doesn't care if he gets things wrong or his accent isn't right, he knows he's getting the message across and that's fine for him.

I, on the other hand, have a huge language ego. My first Hebrew class was my senior year of undergrad in 2006 in Nebraska, and it was biblical Hebrew, one semester. I refined my already keen knowledge of the aleph-bet (thanks to attendance at a Reform synagogue where singing allowed me to pick up on the Hebrew sounds and words) and picked up a few basic words that, thankfully, existed in biblical and also modern Hebrew. But it was several more years before I took a legit Hebrew course in graduate school and then carried on to the intensive Hebrew-language learning program at Middlebury College in 2009.

June-August 2009. That was my first taste of actual Hebrew. Of being able to speak a full sentence with some semblance of confidence. That's less than four years of modern Hebrew under my belt.

I know plenty of people who got a bit of Hebrew in primary school or Sunday school, even a few people who had cousins in Israel, who are able to get more out than me. My problem is I know it, but because of my background in copy editing and how well-spoken I am in English, my language ego halts me.

I think of what I need to say, I evaluate the sentence structure, I consider the pronouns, I conjugate the verb, I make sure I have the right tense. And by the time I've finally reassured myself that I know what to say, the moment has passed.

So I sat there throughout the meal just listening. I picked up bits and pieces of the conversation. The hosts translated words here and there into English, but the other couple seemed to act as if I wasn't even there. When I did want to say something, I tried in Hebrew, and inevitably switched to quick English, getting whatever I needed to say out of the way as quickly as possible.

It was embarrassing.

And yet, I can walk into a restaurant, ask for a menu, ask questions about the menu, place an order, make smalltalk with the waitress, ask for my bill and pay with the greatest of ease. I can see the Efrat Burgers Bar girl working in Jerusalem and -- without thinking -- instantly blurt out in Hebrew, "Hey! What are you doing here, you don't work here!" and have a brief conversation about how she needed a change of scenery.

I know that someday, when I have children, they'll hear the sounds of Hebrew outside and at school, and they'll teach me something I don't know. Inside the house they'll get a polite mixture of American and English, thanks to their parents whose languages are similar but so different. My kids will be fluently bilingual.

But there's something about being placed in a situation with people you would call my neighbors in a community that isn't so big where Hebrew is what will be spoken where I just cave, I turn inward, and I look like an idiot.

I've had a Jewish neshama my entire life, but with my awakening didn't come automatic or even primitive Hebrew knowledge. With four years of Modern Hebrew floating around my brain, it's done nothing but insulate me. And Israel makes it far too easy to default to English.

Something's got to change.

Ask Chaviva Anything: The Grab-Bag Edition

As I prepare for yet another bowl of Gluten-Free Fruity Pebbles ...

This is going to be quite the grab bag, because there hasn't been a theme as of late. Question Number One asks,

How does hair care when you cover your hair work? Do you get your hair trimmed or cut, or do you just let it do whatever? And if you do get it cut, how does that work?

Since moving to Israel, I've had my hair cut twice -- once up in Ra'anana (near Tel Aviv) in December and one by a local friend before the wedding. Since getting married, I've been sort of letting my hair do whatever it wants, occasionally trimming my own bangs (or, if you're from the U.K., "fringe") against my own intuition. It's long enough now that I can put it in two little pigtails in the lower back, or one sort of loose small ponytail in the back with pins. The interesting thing that I've experienced is that my hair is reacting a lot better to being covered this time around than last. When I was married the first time, my hair started thinning out and became really frail, but this time around it's getting thicker and longer much faster. It can be hard to maintain hair while covering, but it just takes some attention to shampooing and conditioning to really make it work.

How long did your Orthodox conversion process take? 

I started attending an Orthodox synagogue before Pesach in 2008, moved to Connecticut in August 2008 and started attending an Orthodox synagogue in West Hartford around November 2008. My official "training" began in January 2009, I applied with the RCA to officially convert in October 2009, and had my conversion dip on January 1, 2010. So it was roughly, officially, a year.

I'm turning green with envy at your head covers you're posting on Instagram. I live in the U.S. Do you know where I can find some like that?

I wish I knew where you could find some of these coverings. The thing that I've noticed about head coverings here in Israel is that the fabric is more breathable, flexible, and forgiving than those I've seen in the U.S. Here, the designs are functional and easy to wear, and in the U.S. they're just ... fabric. Maybe I should start an import-export business? If you can, find a way to get someone to bring you the scarves they sell at Hoodies -- they are a lightweight stretchy cotton that is so comfortable and flexible and gives an amazing body. Also, look out for the "fake poof" -- yes, I use a fake poof to give my scarves body. Until my hair is long enough to build it up, I'm faking it. (Fake it 'til you make it!)

Hi Chaviva, I'm learning hebrew and I'm interested in knowing about you experience with this language? it's hard? what books do you use (or did you use)?

I wish I had an answer to this question. The truth is that my best and most valuable Hebrew learning experiences were by sitting in a classroom or at an ulpan desk. When you're immersed, things stick. When you're learning in a book and then going back to the "real world" where English is the norm, it's hard to really feel entrenched in the language. That being said, there are all sorts of learners out there, and some really do benefit from Rosetta Stone or similar programs. I, unfortunately, did not. The best textbook out there is the one put out by the Brandeis University Modern Hebrew program, but I'm not sure if you can find the answer book.

Does anyone have tips on hair care while covering, Hebrew language learning, or any other topics discussed here? Please share!

Have a question? Just ask at Ask Chaviva Anything!

Anatomy of a Name: Chaviva

So I was thinking, my name is Chaviva -- חביבה -- is quite pretty, and I often get comments about how bizarre and unique it is. Yes, it's pretty rare in the scheme of things. It's not a modern Hebrew name, although it's working its way into the lexicon pretty swiftly. So from where is the name sourced?  I see it in two different interesting spaces.

1. משנה תורה מנוקד - ספר עבודה - הלכות מעשה הקרבנות פרק ד

Even though the eimorim and the limbs [of the sacrifices] may be offered on the fire of the altar at night, they may not be willingly delayed. Instead, an attempt should be made to offer everything during the day, for it is desirable that a mitzvah be performed at its designated time. [The importance of this can be seen from the fact that] the offering of the eimorim and the limbs [of the sacrifices] on the fire of the altar supersedes the Sabbath prohibitions on that day. We do not delay this until Saturday night. (via Chabad.org)

2. משנה תורה מנוקד - ספר זמנים - הלכות מגילה וחנוכה פרק ד

The mitzvah of kindling Chanukah lamps is very dear. A person should be very careful in its observance to publicize the miracle and thus increase our praise of God and our expression of thanks for the miracles which He wrought on our behalf. Even if a person has no resources for food except [what he receives] from charity, he should pawn or sell his garments and purchase oil and lamps to kindle them [in fulfillment of the mitzvah]. (via Chabad.org)

And then, according to my Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature, חביבה was the name of many Amoraim. Most oft' quoted I see is

"R. Habiba says men call their grandsons sons..."

So what's in a name? I'm still not sure. I chose it way-back-when because my given name, Amanda, means lovable or "worthy to be loved." Chaviva means basically the same thing in Modern Hebrew. The translations above suggest that חביבה means desirable or very dear.  I searched again and found three pages worth of Chaviva goodness. A super common use of חביבה that many folks know is the following:

חביבה עלי כת קטנה שבארץ ישראל יותר מסנהדרין גדולה שבחוצה לארץ

Essentially, it says something along the lines of, "More beloved to me is a sect/faction in Eretz Yisrael than a Great Sanhedrin outside of the land." I'm also loving a portion from the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Berakoth 63a where it discusses what to do if the people hold the Torah dear, and what to do if they do not hold it dear (תורה חביבה).

Okay, I could seriously spend days looking at the references to this word in the Talmud, but I won't bore you with it. It seems that the word חביבה is used in instances of deep and passionate commitment. In Babylonian Talmud, Berakoth 10a, the text refers to King David, saying,

כל פרשה שהיתה חביבה על דוד פתח בה באשרי וסיים בה באשרי

Basically, every parshah or chapter that was "beloved" by David began with happiness and ended with happiness. It seems to be a word of endearment, devotion, passion.

A long time ago, in my senior year of high school, I wrote a paper on etymology -- the study of names. I learned of the importance of names in the development and creation of our personalities and lives, and it's something I've always clung to. I chose the name Chaviva without really thinking about it, and all of the years as I've further embodied the name, I haven't really thought about whether I'm actually embodying the depth of the name. 

So, what do I say? To fully live up to the oomph of my name, I would live a life such that HaShem would be comfortable and eager to call me חביבה חביבה -- Chaviva, beloved. Chaviva, very dear. And am I living my life in such a way that HaShem -- or even those closest to me -- would see me as someone ever-so dear and beloved? 

I think that every day when I open my eyes, when I thank HaShem for giving my spirit back to me, I am trying. I am starting and striving to embody the beloved. So, you could say it's appropriate that I'm spending the month of Elul reading Shir haShirim -- Song of Songs -- every day. It's a segula, you see.

There's a tradition to say Psalm 27 during morning and evening davening from Rosh Chodesh Elul through Yom Kippur. I won't explain it here, but you can read about it here.  The bit about reciting Shir haShirim comes from the fact that Elul is an acronym from Ani l'dodi, v'dodi li -- I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine -- from Shir haShirim 6:3. During this time, the Ba'al Shem Tov said that these are the days when "the King is in the field." The idea here is that HaShem is in the field, ready to listen and accept, to hear our prayers completely. 

So 'tis the season to really talk to HaShem for me. To be the beloved, to learn to embody my name. To ask HaShem to see my deeds, grant me a zivug sheni, grant me shalom. And then, perhaps, my second Hebrew name -- אליענה -- will make all the more sense. 

How are you embodying your name? How are you approaching the month of Elul?

Are We Chosen? What About Israel?

Eikev is, in truth, one of my favorite parshiot. It repeats a lot of what we heard elsewhere in the Tanakh, but clearly HaShem thinks we need to be swung over the head a few times to really have things sink in (we are, after all "a stiffnecked people"). Last year I wrote some thoughts down on the parshah, and I'm repeating them here. Why? Because no one reads my parshah posts anyhow. This is more self-gratifying than anything. But I hope you do read. Especially this first bit and the last bit.

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Eikev comprises Deuteronomy 7:12-11:25 and is a continuation of Moshe's final words to the Israelites in which he implores them to follow the word of HaShem and he reminds them of all of those ... missteps ... that they're so well known for, the Golden Calf incident among them.

In Deut. 7:14, it says

ברוך תהיה מכל העמים

Most would probably use this line as proof, especially with the English translation, that Jews view themselves as greater, holier, more special than other people. The English translation often reads "You will be blessed above all people." The Hebrew uses the preposition min (מן or -מ), which means "from." It's a comparative preposition, and it would be used to say "I am smarter than him" (אני יותר חכמה ממנו). A literal translation would be "I am more smart from him," but that's how Hebrew works. When you're comparing two things, you're setting them apart. Something is XXX from XXX.

Thus, this specific phrase from the parshah, which is found in a million other places in the Torah actually means that HaShem has made us different from other nations. Different, separate, unique. Remember that when you're eating a big plate of bacon with all of your non-Jewish friends. (I'm only half-joking here.) Is our uniqueness granted by HaShem inherent? Or must we act different?

....

Later on in Deut. 9 I find it odd that the retelling of the Golden Calf incident from Ki Tisa doesn't mention an important aspect of the narrative. When Moshe descends the mount and finds out what has happened, the Golden Calf is burned and its ashes are spread into the water that trickles down from the mountain. In Ki Tisa, the people are then required to drink the concoction of ashes and water, but in Eikev, there's no mention of this ritual. I find it interesting simply because this very ritual of ashes and water was a very common one in the Ancient Near East, which makes me wonder if when the writing of Deuteronomy was going on the ritual was taboo among the Israelites. (Remember: The Golden Calf is one of my academic pursuits du jour.) 

....

There's also a lot of talk in this parshah about going to "possess" the land that HaShem as given our forefathers. It makes me jealous of those who've been able to make aliyah (or moving to Israel) a real, tangible thing. And maybe what that nagging empty feeling that really strikes me at random intervals is. All I can say for now is, in time. Ultimately I'll be in Israel, I just don't know when. HaShem promised it to my -- OUR -- forefathers, so it's only right that we should make it happen. It's not a "maybe," it's a "must be."

Note: I'm jealous no more! A year ago I was longing for freedom from a bad marriage, for aliyah, and now? Well, here I am -- it's happening B"H!

....

But the way the parshah ends has me a little unsettled. From Deut. 11:22-25:

For if you keep all of these mitzvot that I command you to do, to love HaShem, to walk in all His ways, and to cleave to Him, then HaShem will drive out all of these nations from before you and you will possess nations greater and stronger than you. Every place upon which the soles of your feet will tread will be yours: from the desert and Lebanon, from the river, the Euphrates, and until the western sea, will be your boundary. 

No man will stand up before you: the Lord your G-d will cast the fear of you and the dread of you on all the land upon which you tread, as He has spoken to you.

This sort of makes it sound like we're going to be some big scary force that the rest of the nations cower before, and I'm not sure I like the sound of that. There's no real "how" for this, and that also has me worried. And the word "possess" ...? Of course, I'm thinking of the physical, when perhaps HaShem really means possess in terms of possessing respect and acknowledgement. The verb is לרשת, which translates to inherit or succeed, so I suppose it's pretty clear that it's a physical take-over or succession.

But now I wonder ... back then, nations were small, nations were made up of peoples sharing a similar geographic boundary. Nations aren't like what we have today. The boundaries are clear in this portion, so perhaps, then, the claim has been satisfied -- almost. Maybe it doesn't mean world domination, but simply geographic domination over the specific land area that HaShem gave our forefathers. Does this mean we're just that much closer to redemption? It does say "HaShem will cast the fear of you and the dread of you on all the land upon which you tread," so perhaps it does intend something bigger, something greater, something more massive than the geographic boundaries of Eretz Yisrael. However, maybe that bigger, greater thing isn't domination in the sense of politics or military but rather a domination as I mentioned before -- one of the heart and mind, one of respect and acknowledgement.

Perhaps HaShem meant for us to have Eretz Yisrael, but perhaps he also meant for us to have the hearts and minds of the rest of the world. The children of Israel, set apart from all other people yet loving and caring for those unlike ourselves. Perhaps HaShem expected us to fight for mutual respect.

Ask Chaviva Anything!: Mamaloshen

Another one from the ole' question box for Ask Chaviva Anything!

Do you think a person can be part of the Orthodox community without being fluent in Yiddish and/or Hebrew?

I think it's completely possible to be part of the Orthodox community without a fluency in Yiddish. Now, it's different if you're in the Chassidish world, in which Yiddish is standard and kids grow up learning it. I can't imagine not knowing the language my children speak!

As for Hebrew, I think it's more difficult. Sure, there are people who survive in the Orthodox world without a fluency in Hebrew, but my question is this: Why would you want to? Hebrew can be an intimidating language, especially when you consider the differences between the Hebrew of prayer and spoken, Modern Hebrew. But as someone who went through the process of learning both, I can tell you that having that knowledge is incredibly empowering and makes me feel so much closer to HaShem when I daven.

It doesn't have to be an overnight success, but I think that a commitment to learning and understanding Hebrew should be a part of any Jew's plan, period.

Then again, I'm a big evangelist for the Hebrew language. What do you think, dear readers?

(Note: Mamaloshen is Yiddish for "mother tongue.")

Re-imagining Israel Education Part II: Hebrew!

Okay, so I already posted some theories of mine about the importance of Hebrew in Jewish identity and identification with the land, people, and state of Israel, but I think I need to hit the point home a little more and a little more clearly.

I wrote a paper for one of my courses this semester called "The DNA of Jewish Education: Modern Hebrew and Identity Formation" (<-- that's the Google doc). I don't expect anyone to go read the entire thing, but I want to highlight a few of my findings from my research. For those of you who don't believe that Modern Hebrew language literacy is key in Jewish identity formation and ultimately identification with Israel, I hope this information is compelling! Feel free to argue back any of the points made below or in the full paper. Mad props if you actually read the paper, too.

A thought to consider while reading: Had we decided to teach Yiddish in Hebrew and Day Schools, it likely would have stuck. Why? It was spoken at home; Modern Hebrew as not. But the Zionist lobby won out on this front and thus Modern Hebrew became the tour de force of the Talmud Torah and even made its way into public schools in the New York area (and is still offered as a foreign language in 36 U.S. public schools).

In Gilead Morahg's Language is Not Enough, he cites a 1989 University of Wisconsin survey of all 284 students in the university’s Modern Hebrew program that shows “very clearly” that most of the students chose to study Hebrew because, on one level or another, they were seeking an “authentic connection to their own culture and a more coherent sense of their own identity.” Ultimately, the survey showed, when asked students to indicate and rank the areas in which they anticipated using Hebrew later in life, the students ranked the following as the top three: (1) Travel to Israel; (2) Educating Your Children; and (3) Religious Services.

...

Students in many schools take French or Spanish for language requirements, and so Hebrew tends to fall into the pit of general language instruction. The missing piece, Gilead Morahg argues, is that for most students and teachers, Hebrew is presented as a foreign language, but that for most students and teachers of modern Hebrew, it is not the language of a foreign country but of a people of which they are a part. Morahg refers to this as the “suppression of the profound cultural connection between the Hebrew language and its Jewish learners,” and that this is what threatens to invalidate much of what goes on in the classroom. “It disorients and frustrates the teachers and it almost invariably disappoints the students,” Morahg says.

...

A people has traditions, a shared history, memory, and, most importantly, a common language. “A group speaking the same language different from that of other groups in the same or neighboring location, and identifying with the same language as a symbol of this social unit,” one scholar says, “has basic advantages for maintaining its own existence as a distinct community." Thus, without a common language, cultural and structural assimilationist tendencies become stronger. When groups are faced with rapid assimilation, Elana Shohamy argues, groups tend to use the device of language to recreate their identity, which is what we call subtractive learning in the language acquisition.

...

Elana Shohamy cites a 1996 Imber-Bailey study that examined the hypothesis that children acquiring an ancestor language develop an ethnic identification that differs from those not acquiring it. The study concluded that bilinguals perceived themselves as part of a community using “we” more frequently than monolinguals, not to mention that bilinguals tend to have a more positive evaluation of their culture.

...

If parents and educators can begin looking at the Hebrew language as Waxman does, as “symbolic communication” and as Hayim Nachum Bialik and Ahad Haam did, as a “repository for a culture’s cherished attitudes and values,” perhaps headway can be made.

...

Identity, Morahg argues, is a mode of action: Who you are is not a function of what you know but of what you do. The ability to communicate using the Hebrew language, then, is probably the “most powerful means of enhancing and expressing a personal sense of Jewish identity.” In this way, Hebrew language functions in an entirely different way than most other aspects of a Jewish studies curriculum, because language is more than a form of knowledge, but a “behavior, a mode of personal and cultural action.”

And my conclusion:

Just as Jews cannot agree on a universally accepted definition of Jewish identity, so, too, it is unlikely that educators will ever agree on why we teach Hebrew, let alone how we should teach Hebrew. What is agreed upon is that Hebrew is critical to the social project of Jewish education in its formal and informal modes” and it is a “key component of transmitting Jewish religious and cultural identification.” Citing a Jewish educator, Sharon Avni accurately observes that “Hebrew is the DNA of Jewish education” -- it permeates all areas of study. But there are few external incentives for children to learn Hebrew. 

Aside from the need for central institutions, realistic goals and outcomes, appropriate learning conditions, and a dedicated, passionate, and educated workforce, there are basic ways we can start to infuse Jewish education with the taste for Modern Hebrew. Educators must create classroom environments that encourage students to identify with the communal feelings they have during a Passover seder or when lighting Chanukah candles. Educators need to express the validity of Hebrew as the language of the Jewish people as a cultural construct, and not just a foreign language or rote of the Zionist dialogue. Only then will Jewish students become more engaged in their heritage language, Hebrew, and, one can only hope, in their own Jewish selves as well.

The Tale of the Magic Tichel and Its Hijab Envy

Last week I was sitting in the office of a coworker (I use that term loosely since I work from home and don't technically have coworkers) when a woman walked in and began talking to him swiftly in Hebrew about something he had sitting on his desk. The conversation was incredibly fast-paced, even for me, and I didn't catch most of what was going on. Something one of them said I did understand and I smiled, and the woman looked at me and said something in Hebrew (I forget what) and then asked if I spoke/understood Hebrew, to which I motioned that "so-so" thing with my hand. She apologized and said she'd assumed I spoke Hebrew, I said "kol b'seder" (it's okay), and they continued their conversation.

I immediately realized why this woman had assumed I spoke Hebrew. I was sitting in an office at a Jewish institution, and I was wearing a tichel (nifty Isreali head-scarf) on my head.

The tichel, I realized was the tip-off to my supposed mastery of Hebrew. The tichel meant I was Israeli or had some connection. I wasn't wearing a hat or a sheitel (wig).

That got me thinking -- again, as always -- about head coverings and what they mean. In my Hebrew class last week we read an article about the politics of the kippah and what it means, whether it's black velvet, or knitted, or one of those Nah Nach style ones. Our headgear, it seems, delegates how others view and categorize us, both politically and religiously. If you wear a tichel, chances are people will assume you're somehow tied to or involved in Zionism and Israel. If you wear a sheitel, you're from Monsey or one of the more religious and showy areas of Teaneck. And if you wear a hat -- especially a baseball cap -- well, then we all know you're just doing it to appease everyone else. (These are generalizations, folks, not my own beliefs.)

And then I was sitting in Bergen Town Center, biding time waiting for Tuvia to show up so we could look at those fancy lightweight suitcases since I'm going to be traveling so much and have a problem with ... ahem ... overpacking. I was people-watching near the fancy fishtanks that attract children and elderly alike for their bizarre, prehistoric-style fish that just look fake. Two Muslim girls walked past me in the most beautiful hijab coverings I've ever seen. I started thinking: These women look so beautiful in their head coverings that wrap over and around and here I am, wearing a headscarf that I'm perpetually shifting and pulling and tucking and I don't feel beautiful in it.

I expressed my frustration on Twitter and people suggested that it's because no hair is showing -- the focus of the viewer rests entirely on the face of the woman. Someone else posed a question that I've been wondering for quite some time: Is there anything that says a Jewish woman can't cover her hair hijab-style? And if not, why don't we? Is it because it's a Muslim thing to do and we want to distinguish ourselves? I know that in many parts of the world, Jewish women do cover their hair hijab-style, and it tends to be those with historic ties to historically Muslim lands.

Yes, that's J.Lo on the right. Stylin' in her tichel.

I guess, what I'm saying is, the hijab seems to be more, well, more tzniut and more stylish -- more mysterious, if you will. Am I nuts?

When the seasons change, I always have this kind of existential hair-covering crisis. I got married as spring was upon us, then I dealt with the summer-to-fall change, the fall-to-winter change, and now I'm dealing once again with that winter-to-spring change. I'm almost a full cycle of weather-related hair woes, and I don't think I'm a pro yet. I've had my bangs since I was a wee lass, and I just can't get rid of them. That bodes well for cute winter knit hats, but I am not loving how it looks with a tichel these days. I feel like I'm cheating. Tefach (the hand's breadth allotment of hair showing) or not.

I'm guessing if I walked out of my house and to shul with my scarf wrapped all hijab-like, I'd probably be chastised, and my conversion would go out in the window (she's a closet Muslim!). But sometimes, I troll the sites that sell these beautiful scarves and am jealous. Envious. I sometimes covet the beauty that these women accomplish in their clothing and hair coverings.

Sure, some might say I fall into the Orthofox category with my fashion sensibilities, but I'll never look as good as some of the women I see schlepping around the mall. And my tichel will never fit the way it should -- even so far as my ability to suddenly master Hebrew when it's placed upon my head (like a magic slipper or something).

Thoughts?

Zig Zaggin' Rhetoric

I'm currently in a Teaching a Second Language: Theory and Practice course, and although I was really apprehensive about it at the beginning, I'm slowly growing to enjoy it. The textbook is kind of a drag, but every now and again there's something particularly interesting or thought-provoking. For the most part, what is most fascinating about this class is the off-topic, tangential interaction of the students on our experiences in learning, teaching, or encountering second languages. Probably three-quarters of the class is from China, Korea, Japan, or Taiwan, which has really opened my eyes to a culture group I've never really spent much time with before. Overall, all of our experiences are truly unique and interesting, and I like to bring in the Jewish and Israeli cultural experience.

Something we read recently gave me pause, and we discussed it, and I'm still not sure I get it. I thought perhaps you -- my highly intelligent and educated readers -- might have better insight on this. There's this guy, Robert Kaplan, who wrote a paper on contrastive rhetoric in 1966 suggesting that different languages (and their cultures) have different patterns of written discourse. Okay, easy enough, makes sense. But then he went and created this diagram, which is really beyond me. Sort of.

So, English makes sense. English speakers, and Americans especially, like to be direct, to get to the point, and they expect others to get to the point. They don't dance around the answer or subject or topic. I didn't really get the Oriental image until it was explained to me that individuals from the Asiatic countries don't like to say "yes" or "no," because, depending on who you're talking to, your opinion isn't really necessary to share. So you sort of loop around a "yes" or "no" by explaining all of the possible answers and reasoning and never really stating your opinion, except in a roundabout way.

But Semitic, Russian, and Romance really leave me confused.  Any Russian or Romance language speakers think they can explain the visual representation of a written or spoken discussion? And Hebrew speakers? Care to take on the Zig Zag?

The dashes represent something, too. I'm perplexed.

Adventures in Covering!

Yes, it's as exciting and thrilling as you think. It's Chaviva, your hair-covering newbie, and her wacky adventures in name changes and hair covering! Today's adventure begins in the Poconos at 5:30 in the morning (yuck) and ends, well, back in the Poconos at 6:30 in the evening (yawn!).

I got up at the you-know-what-of-dawn today in order to make it to Danbury, CT, today for a new driver's license. Yes, I know what you're thinking, we are moving to New Jersey in about a week, but you see, for ease of transition, it's easier to get myself in order in Connecticut first. This meant a visit to the Social Security Administration for a new card (where I discovered that my mother's legal maiden name is spelled differently than she thought ... according to the feds, anyhow), to the DMV, the bank, and to the post office for a new passport!

Whew. There was also some packing up of gigantic notebooks full of notes and papers so I can tackle my graduate exam in a few weeks after we're settled, as well as oodles of other things from the slowly emptying Galatz house in Connecticut.

Passport, Here I Come!

So what's the adventure? Hair covering. At two locations today I was required to have a photo taken -- the DMV and the post office (for the passport). At both locations, I was asked to remove my hat. What!? Remove my hat!? I played it cool, said politely, "I wear this hat for religious reasons." At the DMV it got a blank stare, so I replied with "I'm Jewish." It took the woman about 10 minutes to find the necessary paperwork for me to sign regarding my hat, and the paperwork merely said something along the lines of, "I vow that I must cover my hair for religious reasons, if I'm lying, you can throw me in the clink" followed by my signature (which, of course, is a whole other thing because I never know when to sign A. Edwards and when to sign C. Galatz). So I signed the paper, gave it to the woman, took my picture, and I have to say I was pretty pleased with the photo.

Then, a few hours later at the post office, the postal worker asked me to remove my hat. "Well, I can't," I said, "I've got to keep it on for religious reasons, I'm an Orthodox Jew." Another blank stare. "Um, well, I don't know what to tell you," he said. With my vast experience in this field, I asked him if there was a waiver or something I could sign, and he, once again, stared blankly at me. Inevitably, he pulled out a piece of loose-leaf paper and said, "I guess just write a note or something, to whom it may concern, explaining the hat thing." So I wrote the following:

To whom it may concern:

In my passport photo, I am wearing a hat. This is because I am a religious, Orthodox Jew, and am required by bible and law to cover my hair.

Thank you,

Chaviva Galatz

Hopefully my mention of "law" will play to their heartstrings. If they decline my passport, you can bet I'll raise a ruckus.

Overall I wasn't left with a sour taste in my mouth from either experience, it's just a long, grueling process this name change and getting married is. I'm forever going to be known by the non-Jewish public (and some of the Jewish public, unfortunately) as CHA-viva. As in, the "ch" of cheese. It gives me a nice Latina flare, right? I'm so diverse. Except not.

So my question for the readers is: Do you have a passport in which your hair is covered? A driver's license? Any other legal ID? How did you deal with having to cover your hair (or how did your wife handle it)? Is it a big deal? I almost think it'd be harder for a muslim woman in a full covering to get her driver's license ... how does THAT work?

A Bendable Reader?

Hat tip to the folks at QuiteLikeIt.com (who, might I add, also are doing our wedding invites) for posting about the upcoming Skiff Reader. Let me just wet your palette with some photos.

I think this last photo is what has me jazzed the most. It's BENDABLE! Why? The specifications have it listed as having a "Rugged Metal-Foil e-paper Display" as well as "Silicon thin-film-transistors (TFT) on flexible stainless-steel substrate," and, perhaps best of all, it's shatter AND crack proof. So the big question is, how can I get my hands on a free one of these? I'm looking to really branch out. "Brand" myself as it were. But really I just want nifty and fun gadgets to mess around with and give away on this here blog.

I wonder if it's Hebrew character compatible?

The Road Diverges, Where's Chavi Going?

I'm worried that I've lost hope in the future (or the present) of mankind. All it took was a small stack of exams given to me to grade, and I was scratching my head, shaking my head, opening my mouth in utter surprise. All I could think was, "This isn't rocket science, folks," as I marked down points that would make even a regular ole D student cry. I mean, these exams? They're bad. They're really bad. And as I scribbled notes into the margins -- the same idea about 20 times, that is -- I began to wonder, to really wonder, if I could handle being a professor, knowing that the words that I might speak on a daily basis would be sucked into ears, processed in some absolutely mindless filter, only to be regurgitated out on paper like this.

Ever since I returned from Middlebury, I've been thinking, reconsidering, where I'm going. My desire to teach hasn't changed, don't get me wrong, but I am trying to figure out what's practical and possible for me at this point in my academic journey. I started out thinking modern, after all, my big-time term paper in my undergrad was on Ulysses S. Grant and the Jews. I slowly moved backward, thinking about Rashi and his daughters, considering Medieval Jewry. I read books and more books and the text that discusses the rabbi who decreed that if you're yawning in shul you better cover your mouth had me delighted. And then I came here to Connecticut and I found myself drifting even further back, to the Talmud, the rabbis, and the Second Temple Period as we know it today. But as the past year showed me, I'm so far behind it might take me years to catch up. In a perfect world, I'd be reading-fluent in Aramaic, Greek, French, German, and of course Biblical Hebrew. I'd read the texts in their originals, because that's what a scholar does. I vowed after realizing that the author of Rashi's Daughters didn't do any of her own legwork that I wouldn't be like that -- I'd work from scratch forward. But the reality? It might take me years.

I keep telling myself that I have all the time in the world. Tuvia has granted me that time, knowing that I want to follow my heart and really throw myself into that which I am passionate about. He's patient and kind like that. And in reality, I could probably toil away at school for the rest of my life studying those languages and working the texts until I'm blue in the face. Even if I don't pursue academic Talmudic work or what have you, I'll still do that in the outside world -- after all, my inquiring mind doesn't let me sit still on the sidelines when it comes to my Orthodox Judaism. I seek, read, and learn.

But the reality of the situation is that I'm reconsidering my situation. Life is a series of reconsiderations, you know. And after Middlebury, and even before, I was considering a future in Hebrew language. My time in Middlebury allowed me to gain a fluency I couldn't have dreamed of. But it was just a start, and much like my hungry neshama, my hungry brain wants more. Speaking Hebrew feeds my mind, my heart, and my soul. It's like I'm speaking in the voice of generations past and future. It empowers me and it makes me happy and excited.

And for all intents and purposes, it's practical and doable. At least, I think so.

So I sent an email off to my morah (teacher) from the summer, to see what she thinks and whether she has any advice. I would continue on with a PhD, but it would be in language -- Hebrew language. I'd rehash all the grammar rules I've forgotten (from English, that is; who can tell me what a past participle is!?). I hate to say it but although I've got mad editing skills, when it comes to the vocab and the nitty gritty, even the best editors are lacking. I want to perfect my language skills so that I can take what I know to a university or day school level and INSPIRE people. Inspire them to use and love the living language of the Jewish people. And furthermore, at least with a language, there are rules and measures and styles and words that mean exactly what they mean. I don't have to explain themes or devices to students. Language is like mathematics -- 99 percent of the time, there is really one right answer.

And maybe, once I've got that under wraps, I'll turn back to my dreams of being a Talmud chacham.

Of course, I want to be a mother, too. A mother, a wife, a community member, a shul member. A friend and a confidant. There are many things I want to be, and I find that as time goes on, my desires change along with my needs. What the soul needs to be comforted changes as new people come into our lives and also when we realize we need to reassess a situation. Unfortunately for Tuvia, being Morah Chavi the Hebrew teacher might not be exceedingly lucrative, but if there's one thing my father taught me, it's to do what makes me happy.

I've learned that, in life, you can't waste your time on the things that don't excite you. If it isn't one of the first things you think about when you wake up and when you go to sleep -- positively, with absolute excitement and eagerness -- then maybe you should reconsider where you are and where you're going. Life's to short to waste your time and energy. As Qohelet tells us,

So enjoy what you have. (Note: Many read Qohelet/Ecclesiastes as a text about the futility of life. I do not read it this way. I read Qohelet as an old man, full of wisdom, relating to us how to live one's life in order to gain the most from it. To seek happiness in all things and to not toil over that which is wasteful or futile. Rather, seek happiness in all that you do, here, in this life!)

Kosher Catfish? I think not.

Grab a stiff drink, a comfortable chair, and brace yourself for a most horrid tale. The tale of the Kosher Catastrophe in Central Vermont. Where do I begin? I'm worried this post will end up a lot longer than you're all willing to read, so I'll just start. I have no intentions of blasting any hecksher or rabbi, but this situation should make you all exceedingly wary of what you eat and from where you eat it.

When I signed up for school in Vermont at Middlebury College, I signed up for kosher food. The documents didn't state what the hecksher was, the specifications of the kitchen, or whether there was a mashgiach on the premises. When I was told that there was a kosher kitchen with kosher food, and that it opened in 2008 when Brandeis teamed up with Middlebury for a new Hebrew ulpan-style program, I trusted that the folks in charge knew what they were doing. After all, Brandeis has a kosher kitchen, and they know their Judaism.

I arrived on campus on Friday, June 26, and for the first three days ate salad from the salad bar and the "airplane style" kosher meals they had available. They didn't tell us that they weren't starting kosher operations until the first day of CLASSES, not the move-in day. I was perturbed, but forgave them. From June 29 to July 20, all was well in the kosher food world at Middlebury. That is, of course, aside from the fact that everything was doused in oil to a point of inedibility, that it was the same food over and over (rice/grain + veggies + small piece of bread), and that the portions were small enough that a few of the girls ate two of the packaged meals for every meal. I forgave the kitchen their oil and their portions. I ate, and I was thankful for kosher food.

And then, on July 20, in the evening, I plodded into the cafeteria to our special container with our special kosher food, opened the latch, peered inside, and saw several different containers. On one side were small containers of cooked fish and on the other side were containers with vegetables. How weird, I thought to myself. Then, I picked up the ingredients list and the first item on the list: "CATFISH." Yes, catfish. That sneaky little unkosher fish was in my kosher meal, but conveniently placed in a separate container from the vegetables. Why? I wondered.

We complained immediately to the guy who deals with us sometimes in the cafeteria, and he said he'd call the kosher kitchen, but that they wouldn't get the message until the morning. The shomer professor spoke to the program head and we were told the next day, Tuesday, that they had rekashered the kitchen that morning after calling the rabbi who grants them their hecksher. At that point, I was eager to find out A) who this rabbi is and B) if this hecksher is legitimate. Many people proceeded to go ahead and eat the food that came out of the kitchen, but I had my doubts and I continued to express my opinion. After much pushing, we landed a meeting with the head of dining services on July 27. Boy were our eyes opened.

It turns out the hecksher is Tablet K, the rabbi is Rabbi Rafael Saffra, and the kitchen is only open for kosher food during the summer. This means that the folks running the kitchen have only 7 prior weeks from summer 2008 under their belt, are not trained in kosher cooking, and that -- perhaps worst of all -- there was no mashgiach in the MEAT kitchen. The rabbi visits the campus at the beginning of each summer (which means he's visited all of twice), and gives all of his advice and guidance on kashrut from a great distance. Basically, Tablet K took the money and ran, which appears to be their M.O. We also found out that the guy who makes all the food realized, almost instantly, that the fish wasn't kosher. Making it fishy (har har) that he even made the product. I'm guessing this is why it was packaged separately for our consuming pleasure. The campus rabbi was less than excited to help or discuss the issue, and he was of no help in the situation. I expressed a desire for the kitchen to be rekashered -- that was the only way I'd eat anything out of the kitchen. I was told that it WAS rekashered (though without supervision by ANYONE). The rabbi didn't offer to rekasher, and neither did the school.

Over the next three weeks, a lot of things happened. I was forced to explain to people just about every day why I wasn't eating the kosher food. My rabbi, who by all accounts is not ultra anything, advised me not to consume the food from the "kosher" kitchen. After this, people asked me frequently, "Is your rabbi a Chabadnik?" as if the food is kosher enough for everyone else, why not me? I ate a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cottage cheese with pears, and other fruit. I ended up losing 7 pounds throughout the summer, and whether my measly food options played into this, we'll never know. I pushed for the program head to call Chabad in the city just north of where we were, because I knew that the rabbi there would be more than stoked to rekasher our kitchen. It turns out he was, but only if we had a full-time mashgiach, which we didn't. They didn't have the money and the efforts to find a pro-bono were met with nothing. I got a lot of sad looks and apologies as I shoveled pears into my mouth, but that was about it.

The constant frustration from those around me at my stern choice not to consume the kosher food was alienating. We were given the option of touring the kitchen on Tisha B'Av, which we did. We found a lot of Hebrew National, a few items without heckshers, and a handy-dandy list on the bulletin board with the largest 10 or 12 heckshers that are legit by all accounts (OU, Circle K, CrC, etc.), but was Tablet K on the list? Heck no. We asked the cook if he bothers to use the list. We pointed out that neither Tablet K nor Triangle K are on the list, so chances are he shouldn't be using them. He seemed clueless. I felt bad for him. Here he is, this cook trying to make kosher meals without a clue in the world. It seemed that they shoved a bunch of books at him and sent him on his way. That's no way to run a kosher kitchen, and it's deplorable that Tablet K and Rabbi Safra would be willing to stamp their hecksher on such a kitchen. Deplorable.

So I ate my crap food and everyone gave me looks of pity. "Is that enough to eat?" and "Everyone else is eating the kosher food, you know?" And then right before the last week, I was told that there's a kosher caterer in the city north of us that caters sometimes to Chabad and that the last week of classes there will be kosher food for every evening meal. Eegads! I was elated. I was stoked. I was coming down with a cold/flu thing and I was so excited to eat real, real, real food. After watching my compatriots scarf pizza and burgers and fries and cake and cookies every day, I was ready. My day had come. REAL kosher food. I was two seconds away from forgiving the universities all their failings. And then?

• Yom Rishon (Sunday): Kosher food! Veggies and Mac and Cheese and Blueberry Crumble!
• Yom Sheni (Monday): Kosher food! I was sick, but ate a few potatoes with GLEE.
• Yom Shlishi (Tuesday): Kosher food? Nada. Sorry. No dice. Why? No clue. No explanation.
• Yom Revi'i (Wednesday): Kosher food! For the banquet. Steak, eggplant and potatoes. Yum! (Sorta.)
• Yom Chamishi (Thursday): Nope. No kosher food. Sorry, No dice. 
• Friday (Yom Shishi) I returned to Connecticut and G-d bless my friends for making me banquet-style meals for Shabbat. 

I paid $2,500 for room and board. I paid $2,500 for seven weeks of a room without air conditioning filled with bugs and mosquitos with a bathroom light that broke a week before classes ended (and no one bothered to repair it -- peeing in the dark was an adventure) and cottage cheese with pears for roughly three weeks. I think I deserve some money back.

I can't really put into words how angry I am about the entire situation. I try to laugh about it, but in the long run, it's not funny. The president of the university has a kosher kitchen in his home, with his own personal chef. Why didn't he play into this? Why did it take them two weeks to figure out that there was a kosher caterer a half-hour away? And why couldn't they put up MY MONEY to buy me some edible kosher food? Why did everyone feel like I was over-reacting? Was I over-reacting? At this point, I don't feel comfortable suggesting this program to anyone who is shomer anything.

I wanted to talk to the head of dining services after the incident, to tell him to give my rabbi a call, to look into getting a new hecksher, and to explain exactly WHY the kitchen wasn't truly kosher and to explain what should be happening in the kitchen. I'm no expert, but I could offer my two cents and send them the way of my rav, who is the head of the local kashrut committee. But I was told that I had to go through a series of channels in order to do this. In the end? I never got the chance to talk to him. I wanted to call the rabbi at Tablet K, but I was told (by the campus rabbi) that we shouldn't contact him directly. At every point I was turned down. I felt patronized. Like I was a pain in the side of everyone there because I wanted to hold them to a standard of kashrut that was, well, plain ole kashrut. It wasn't like I wanted them to be Israel-only products or that I wanted to be there when they were cooking. I just wanted kosher food! Criminey.

So this is the saga. I'm sure some of you will say I'm nuts. Others will say I didn't do enough to change the situation. Some of you will probably say that posting this is really bad. But, you know, it's my experience and story. And the universities will hear about it.

In the meantime, I thank the rabbis who listened to me and gave me advice and offered their assistance. I thank the friends that offered to send me food, and I thank the friends that made me food upon my return. This issue, I think, will be one of ongoing proportions, but I'm willing to handle it. B'ezrat haShem, maybe next year the school will get its matzo balls in a row and produce some REAL food with a REAL mashgiach and a REAL hecksher.

Reintegration Ain't Easy.

I'm warning you now: There are going to be a lot of Ulpan posts in the coming two weeks. I'll be writing about the catfish/kosher food fiasco, being observant and in a program where I was definitely not the norm, and more. The catfish issue will BLOW your mind. Here's a preview of how I feel:

But now. At long last (sof sof), I have returned to the English-speaking world. On Thursday night, halfway through our end-of-the-program party in the Juice Bar of the campus's "student center," the teachers all climbed on stage, boogied a bit, and did a countdown in Hebrew to announce that we could speak English. All the students (all 38 of us or so) stood there, counting, in anticipation, and the moment that pledge was up, the students were blabbering at light speed, running from person to person screaming "Say something to me in English!" There were some students that hadn't showed up until after the pledge, so we actually had no clue what people sounded like. It was outrageously funny -- a girl with a deep lusty Hebrew accent spoke in English with a heavy New York accent; the guy with the deep gronit (throaty) Hebrew voice had a much higher voice in English; the teachers all had exceedingly heavy Israeli accents.

But after the party, after Evan and I hopped onto the road and headed back to Connecticut, and after I entered the community for Shabbat, it really hit me that there was this divide, this difference, this unfortunate alienation because of my language experience in Vermont. Maybe alienation is too strong of a word. I found myself throughout the weekend exhausted, thinking about how weird it was to be around all these English conversations. At shul people walked up to me and spoke in Hebrew with a heavy American accent, I spoke to a guy who had a nice accent who was fluent, and I spoke to my Israeli friends in Hebrew -- mostly without hesitation, but with that over-arching fear that I was going to screw something up. A day out of bootcamp and I was anxious as hell that I was going to mispronounce a word or use a masculine verb instead of feminine. The anxiety. Oy. I woke up Saturday morning after a delicious REAL kosher meal on Friday night (oh the delicious Italian, thanks hosts!), and said to Evan "maybe coming to the community wasn't such a good idea."

It's sort of like returning to some place you lived for years, only to realize that everything's changed. New people, changes, new things. But it wasn't all that, it was that I wasn't sure how to talk to people. I'm sure the experience would have been the same anywhere. I'm guessing I'll feel like this for a long time. Wanting desperately to speak in Hebrew but not being sure if it's right or acceptable or if anyone will understand me. At the same time, worrying that what I'm saying won't be right. It's a teeter-tottering flux of anxiety.

On Saturday afternoon I crawled into bed. I snuck out of the room, out of the conversation, and crawled into bed to rest. I wanted quiet. I wanted peace. Although I'd been in the middle of nowhere for seven weeks, I'd spent 24 hours a day 7 days a week speaking Hebrew nestled within a group of 38 other people. Every minute and second of my time there was spent doing something, and because the subject was Hebrew, it never felt like I was just hanging out. I was never just being Chavi. I was always working, thinking, studying.

As a result, I felt like I didn't sleep for seven weeks. (Okay, I didn't much. We didn't have air conditioning, it was hot as hades, and the homework and studying kept me constantly going.)

Did I come out on the other end of the program in a better position than I was before? Yes and no. I can write better, I can speak better. I don't feel that I can read better or understand the spoken word any better. Part of the summer left me alienated as an "observant" Jew, and part of the summer left me feeling excited about my classmates and THEIR excitement about Judaism. I managed to discover some interesting perspectives on the Middle East conflict from my classmates from Palestine, too. I learned that images can be horrifying, and that people can be judgmental. I learned that we live in a big world, with a lot of people, and that in the end, we all want the same thing. I also learned that we all don't learn the same.

As I mentioned, I'm beat, still. I've slept a lot the past few days, and I still feel exhausted. My mind has finally stopped running around in Hebrew, and it's part of why I'm so anxious, but at least I'm sleeping.

Right now, I'm just scared that without the immersion, I'm going to lose it all.

But on a much, much happier note: I got to see one of my most AWESOME and most intelligent friends, @kosheracademic and her family in New Haven for some yummy kosher food. It wasn't nearly enough time to talk about the past year of our lives, but it felt like it's only been a few days. Boy do I miss her.

תמונות!

יש לי תמונות חדשות בפליקר.

Middlebury Flickr Photos

והתמונה הכי טובה?

אתם רואים הדבורה?

שלום!!!

שלום חברים, ממדלברי. פה, כל בסדר, כי עכשיו אני יודעת שזה אין הסוף של העולם אם אני לא עושה מגניף פה. באמת, אני חושבת שאולי אני אתן עצמי אולקוס אם שאני לא קריר...

כל יום אותו, ויש אין הרבה על לדבר. אני אוהבת הסידרה "מרחק נגעיה" ואנחנו -- כל יום ראשון -- רואים הסידרה בספרייה. יש רק שני עוד פרקים!!

אני שמתי שעון פה, לימינה, כדי להראות כמה עוד ימים יש לי פה.

או קיי. יש לי הרבה שיעורי בית לעשות. אולי אני אכתוב עוד מחר. עכשיו ... תמונות!

PS: אם מישהו רוצה לתרגם זה...בבקשה!

גם מבקר: www.youtube.com/kvetchingeditor!

So long for now, friends. L'hitraot!

Middlebury welcomes students to the Language Schools!

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!

BEGIN HIATUS!

An Entertainment Interlude!

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.

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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.

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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.