Once Upon a Time, I Was Going to be Something

Eleven years ago, I was poised to be a Judaic studies scholar. It was my dream, and I was willing to do just about anything to make it happen. After graduating with my bachelor of journalism, I went to The Washington Post for an internship after which I got hired on as a full-time employee. I was miserable in DC, and I started working on chasing my real dream: a master's in Judaic studies followed by a PhD followed by a prolific career as an academic, professor, and writer.

Instead, I ended up moving to Chicago, living with a guy I thought was my forever, working for a Nobel-prize-winning economist, and only a year later heading to graduate school. Just a few years after that I was married, divorced, and quitting a program at NYU where I was attempting a second and third master's degree.

Now? Well, life is different now. I don't have time for books or papers or pursuing all those fascinating topics that were going to keep me happy and sane and on the chase. So what did my dreams look like? This. And, I'll point out, I was going to be the scholar to blow up the Ulysses S. Grant history, not Jonathan Sarna. When I interviewed at Brandeis in 2009/10, I mentioned the fascinating issue to Professor Sarna. Then, in 2012 he released his book.

Coulda been me. Here's a letter I sent with my application to the University of Chicago. Maybe, someday, I'll get back on this track.

Does the world really need another Jewish studies scholar? There are truckloads of academics in pursuit of answers from the Holocaust or the perplexing makeup of American Jewry and the Diaspora. But what about the uncharted grounds of Jewish history and thought? What about, for example, Ulysses S. Grant and his expulsion of the Jews in 1862? A piece of U.S. history you won’t likely find in most history books, this is just one of the complicated, uncultivated avenues on which I plan to tread in pursuit of a career in Jewish studies. 

During my junior year, while pursuing a journalism degree and minor in Judaic studies, I took an ethnopolitical conflict class – nicknamed the “genocide class” – which I was told by those who had taken the course that it would either break me down or change my course of study. The class, taught by Prof. Patrice McMahon, was centered on a single ethnic conflict research paper written in three parts throughout the semester. I knew instantly that I would research Grant’s infamous action, which I had heard about from a rabbi visiting my synagogue as part of the celebration of 350 years of Judaism in America. Unfortunately, the rabbi couldn’t tell me much about the event, thus piquing my interest. 

I spent weeks in the library scouring the school’s collection of Civil War, Grant and Jewish histories. It turned out that few people had heard about the incident and even fewer had written extensively on the topic. It was clear that I had my work cut out for me, which only wrapped me up more in the research. My research focused on what motivated Grant to issue the order, including the effects of war, economics and other generals on his decision. My research turned up a rabbi and professor, both of whom had detailed accounts and assessments of the incident. My shock of the unexplored event turned into excitement. Could I chart a new path or cover new ground on an anti-Jewish and anti-Semitic act sanctioned by the U.S. government? I set out to advance the study of General Order No. 11. 

The result of my semester-long effort was a comprehensive look at what led Grant to issue the antiSemitic order in a paper, “Ulysses S. Grant and the Jews: A Mighty Order and a Blemish on U.S. history.” At the end of the semester, in presenting the research to classmates, the expression of surprise on the faces of the 30 or so students was the most rewarding aspect of the venture. When detailing this seemingly veiled incident with others, friends were hesitant to believe and fellow scholars were shocked to know they were unaware of such a significant instance of antiSemitism in U.S. history. It was then that I staked my claim as a scholar, researcher and educator. Ralph Waldo Emerson said it best: “Passion … is a powerful spring.”

I hope to expand my undergraduate research on Grant to explore aspects of the incident beyond the motive. Few have focused on the lasting effects of the order or how Grant managed to carry the Jewish vote in both of his bids for president. Additionally, I would like to explore how such a significant event has managed to go unmentioned in textbooks and whether similar orders were issued during the Civil War or during other U.S.-inclusive wars. In a way, Grant has helped me find my raison d’etre.
But my interests reach much further than Grant and U.S. Jewry. My passion for Jewish studies spans American-Jewish fiction and authors such as Tova Mirvis, Jonathan Safran Foer and Cynthia Ozick; biblical Judaism; Jewish printing of the Middle Ages; and Jewish, Christian and Muslim relations. I hope to explore Rashi, his daughters, and whether his encouragement of their Talmud study was widely explored or purely rejected. I’m also fascinated with Emma Lazarus, whose outward effort to connect to the Jewish people seems hypocritical and insincere; I’m drawn to her understanding of Jewishness. Perhaps the most interesting avenue of research I’ve pursued and hope to look at further involves Jewish television and the rise of the sitcom, which spanned “Brooklyn Bridge” and “Bonanza.” 

My passion for Jewish languages has made me desperate to learn Ladino in order to study the Jews of Salonika, which I know so little about and yet am constantly reading about. My knowledge of Hebrew is limited, having taken only one semester of biblical Hebrew with Prof. Stephen Burnett late in my undergrad. Although my undergraduate university lacked regular Hebrew courses, my liturgical Hebrew is strong, and I am constantly working toward a fluent understanding of Modern Hebrew, in addition to biblical Hebrew.

I have to stress that this field of study is as much an academic endeavor as it is personal. The pursuit of a master’s degree will serve as another spring on a path to teaching, writing and researching, whether through a PhD and professoring or, as my rabbi has suggested, through rabbinical school. My work with Grant and the Jews proved to me that there are a bounty of uncultivated avenues in Jewish studies begging to be examined and shared by curious, burgeoning scholars such as myself.

The University of Chicago has a history and reputation of excellence, brought forth by the presence of passionate scholars – both students and professors – who are searching for answers to some of history’s and society’s most significant puzzles. While researching the scholars of the Committee on Jewish Studies, I found professors who I know will be beneficial to work and study with. I only hope that my passion for Judaic studies is apparent and that I can continue my studies and work toward a career in teaching Jewish history, religion and philosophy with the help of the Jewish Studies department at the University of Chicago.

I Fell Into a Black Hole, And?

Sweet holy Moses where have I been? It's like I'm stuck in a wormhole ... make that a workhole! Yes, the past month has had me travel to California twice (once for a week, boy oh boy did I miss my boys), leading up to the hugely awesome launch of the world's first intelligent tea infusion machine: Teforia!

Now? Well, now I'm just riding the wave and trying not to have my head explode in the process. I've neglected the blog hardcore, which has me feeling both guilty and upset. There's a lot going on that is worthy of talking about, but unfortunately I don't have the koach (strength, energy) for that at the moment.

What I will say is that I'm knee deep in reading The Secret of Chabad by David Eliezrie, and I'm absolutely loving it. It's got some fascinating tidbits about Chabad that I hadn't learned about in the other books I've written, with a really intense look at the Russian efforts of the movement.

I attempted to crochet a cozy for my mason jar tea infuser, and I failed, so I bought one on Etsy instead. I just wasn't cut out for this kind of stuff. I clearly missed the gene, because my mother is an amazing crocheter of all things.

I've got some goodies from Pereg Gourmet to giveaway. It's going to be a Chanukah giveaway, of course, because who wouldn't want some free food for the next Jewish holiday in the lineup, right? The best part, it's all gluten free, too!

What else what else? Asher is becoming quite the little man, Mr. T is finding his place as a Mr. Do It All here in Denver, and ... yeah, that's that.

What's new with you?

Teachers Change Lives: Mr. Eaves, Respect, and Curiosity

Being back in Nebraska, I'm feeling pretty nostalgic about just about everything. The food, the places, the experiences. I've even seen in passing a few people I went to college with, which is strange for me, having been away for so long. Or maybe it wasn't even that I've been away for so long but rather that I've been so far away for a few years that it seems like a completely different world that I once belonged to.

In honor of feeling nostalgic, now seems like the right time to tell you about a teacher who inspired me once upon a time.

Despite me loathing the subject he fancied to the extreme, my fifth grade teacher Mr. Eaves took my curiosity to a new and interesting level. The last year I spent at Stapleton Elementary in Joplin, Missouri, was filled with experiments, trips, explorations into the organic world, and, most importantly, the gift of trust and respect from an adult.

In elementary school I was part of a group of seven girls -- the Magnificent Seven they called us. We ran around the school like we ran the place, and the teachers knew that we were super tight knit. As we all ended up in the same fifth grade classroom, Mr. Eaves took advantage of our clique.

Between experiments with wave bottles (soda bottle + oil + colored liquid), tornado machines (two bottles taped together with water, spin it and tornado), and building rockets that we shot off on a non-school day at a field near the local university, Mr. Eaves put together an aviary in the back of the classroom and filled it with zebra finches. Our task, as the Magnificent Seven, was to spend our fifth grade year taking care of the birds.

We fed them, cleaned the cage, made sure their nests were cozy and clean, and at the end of that fifth grade year, Mr. Eaves gave us each a gift: We got to take some of the birds home with us. Me, being sentimental at that age and having the utmost respect for the teacher who made soda bottles interesting, named one of the birds Teaves.

Our final project was to take the empty, barren space between the two legs of our school building and plan a large garden. We created water features, decided which plants would grow best in the shade and which needed complete sunlight. We built in little walking paths and bridges. We created an entire ecosystem based on our teacher's guidance and our own creativity. It wasn't until a year later -- when we were all in middle school -- that the area was transformed. Mr. Eaves invited us all back for the unveiling, and the picture of most of the Magnificent Seven is one of my most precious.

The spark of curiosity that he inspired in me -- to get down and dirty to understand the mysteries and fun in the universe -- sticks with me even today. We loved Mr. Eaves for trusting us enough to raise birds and build rockets. He gave us the kind of respect that a fifth grader needs before launching into Middle School, which was such a gift for me at that time.

And if you know the kind of person I am, you won't be surprised to find out that the Magnificent Seven went to the lengths of purchasing Mr. Eaves a plaque and balloon on the last day of school to show him how much we loved, respected, and appreciated him. Ridiculous, right? 

Although I fell a bit out of love with science later in life after some bad experiences with honors courses and not great teachers, I still have a fascination with hands-on activities and creating things. As someone who reflects on life through the written word in numerous capacities, I have to think on and thank Mr. Eaves for giving me the gift of trust, respect, and most of all, the gift of curiosity. 

Feeling inspired? I'd love to hear about a teacher who inspired YOU! Check out this video of Chris Emdin, a science teacher in the Bronx who (oddly enough) incorporates hip hop into his lessons to help students see science in a different way. 

Also: Consider donating to Teachers Change Lives by clicking on "Donate to a Teacher" on their website. After all, teachers are doing innovative things in the classroom and you can help them do more by donating!


I was selected for this opportunity as a member of Clever Girls Collective and the content and opinions expressed here are all my own.

IKEA: The Mitzvah

Tonight, Mr. T and I trekked off to IKEA to track down a few clutch items for the kitchen (I can't get enough of those storage jars). We partook of the food (fish at a price more than half that of most restaurants in Israel) and picked up the dozen items we'd gone there for and headed out to the car park.

While I waited for Mr. T to pull the car up to the curb, I watched an older Israeli couple reviewing their purchase and their incredibly small car. When Mr. T pulled up, I suggested he go help them out, and that's where the fun starts.

He walked over and helped them remove the cardboard and the plastic, and we were all shocked to find this was a piece of furniture that came completely put together -- only the feet needed to be added on. As a result, the small car was not going to hold this piece of furniture. They wedged it in the best way they could, Mr. T suggested they tie it off with rope and then walked over toward me. My immediate reaction? "Ask them where they live," I said. So he went over, found out they lived in Rishon LeZiyon, where the IKEA was, and I told him we should offer to take it home for them. With a quick flip of the back seat, the chair slid in like a dream. The wife hopped in the car, and we were off.

After a winding adventure through Rishon LeZiyon (who knew it was so gigantic), we arrived at some beautiful high-rises surrounded by palm trees that reminded me of Florida. I was going to sit in the car and wait, but the wife insisted I come upstairs with them. So while the boys managed the chair in a cart, I went upstairs with the woman, who apologized to me that she didn't speak English (she has family living in English-speaking countries, so it's hard for her, she said). I realized that this woman is the epitome of a generation -- the child of survivors, most likely, and if not, of kibbutzniks who settled the land and built this country, who knew that Hebrew was the only language that anyone needed, that Israel was the Jewish homeland and Hebrew its sustenance.

When the boys got upstairs, Mr. T quickly put on the feet of the chair, removed it from the cart, and we wished them well and started to head off. But after asking again and again if we wanted a sandwich or something to drink, we finally relented when the woman offered us watermelon. She cut some up and we all went out to the mirpeset for some cool air. Sitting around the table, we joked about how far off the ground the chairs were, making our feet swing off the floor. After a few minutes, we told them we really needed to go, I gathered up a beautiful outdoor lantern the woman had given me, and we were off into the cool, humid night.

I've been having a very hard time lately -- finances, missing Colorado, realizing how permanent this move really is. Yes, I hit the six-month slump of "Wait a second, I really did this?" and am struggling to find my footing with HaShem. I'm struggling to feel grateful some days, to feel happy other days, to feel like it's all going to be okay most days. I'm blessed with an amazing husband and friends, but I miss the conveniences that I had in Colorado of inexpensive gluten-free food, being able to go into a Target and find anything I wanted, and knowing that when I'm feeling down that comforting cup of always-the-same-made coffee I always ordered would be there. It's hard knowing that if I were living in Colorado I'd still be employed right now, but it's even harder knowing that if I were living in Colorado I wouldn't have met Mr. T or started filling up that eternally empty space inside that longed for Israel.

Living here is a tug-of-war. A violent, confusing, explosive tug-of-war of emotions. It's never easy -- even the woman who gave me watermelon said it can't be hard living here, not for people who weren't born here. This sabra understands.

But it's moments like this, when you offer someone help and they ply you with watermelon and soda water on their balcony, where I remember why living in Israel is a gift. When someone takes down your phone number, invites you to come back, and makes you wish you had Israeli grandparents, you know that you're at home.

A Memorial Day Tribute

I come from a devout military family that, up until my generation, treks back hundreds of years throughout Europe. My father was a Navy man, my mother an Army brat, and the military representation just keeps going.

I'm blessed because my mom's side of the family traces itself through the Duval Family Association, which documents a very well-documented family hailing from France and arriving in the U.S. while fleeing religious persecution in 1701. (Think Catholics marrying Hugeonots!) These folks rubbed elbows with George Washington and other well-known historical giants.

But let's get to honoring so many of my family members who defended freedom.

My dad's dad, Joseph Edwards, was a military man who served during World War II in France, but what he did there I'll never know because the facility that held his military records burned down in the 1950s or 60s, which I find hugely disappointing. What I do know is that he ended up in France after the liberation, but I don't know what he did there, what his rank was, or anything like that. Joseph -- my middle name sake -- died of a heart attack on August 17, 1965, just 11 days after my dad turned 12 years old (his mother died a few years prior).

My mom's dad, John Baskette, was a Navy man who served during World War II in Pearl Harbor -- and yes, he was there when the attacks of December 7, 1941 happened. He spent his entire life in the military, and when my mom was born he was stationed in France. He died in April 2007 after quite a long life devoted to retelling what happened at Pearl Harbor. When I was in Middle School in Joplin, Missouri, I got to do a huge report on my grandfather and even borrowed my dad's old Navy uniform and dressed up like him.

Much further back, we're talking Civil War time, I have oodles of family that served. John Howard Baskette was born in 1829 and died in 1884 and was a Colonel of the 68th Regiment of Tennessee Militia of Coffee Company (mmm ... coffee). Then there was Dr. William Turner Baskette (the aformentioned's father) who was caught three times by the North while traversing across the war line. His house still stands today in Mufreesboro, Tennessee, where the local Women's Club now meets.

William's father, Abraham, was a private in the War of 1812, and his father William Semple Baskette was a Baptist minister in Virginia who was a Lieutenant during the Revolutionary War.

There are dozens of other members of my family that served in the military, but I think this will suffice. I wish I knew more about my father's family line, but with his parents having died so young, there are a million questions I didn't get to ask and will probably never get the answers I need.

So here's to soldiers -- past, present, and future -- who fight for peace, freedom, and liberty!

The 2012 Recap

I love giving gifts to the people I love. And he's a Whovian.

Oh 2012, you were a good year. Despite experiencing some of the hardest and most emotional moments of my life, the highs were also incredibly high. I managed to end 2012 with the most amazing prospects -- marriage, happiness, love, family, possibility.

The biggest events of 2012 for me can be summed up as follows.

Dangerous relationship. 

Started officially at the Colorado Agency for Jewish Education.

Tons of teshuva. 

Lots of driving all over the place.

Started officially at Taste Guru.

Applied for aliyah. 

Moved to Israel. 

Met an amazing man.

Got engaged.

And now? Now I'm anticipating a wonderfully unpredictable 2013, full of getting married, starting a few amazing projects here in Israel, and who knows what else. At this point, life can't get worse -- it can only get better. That, my friends, is a certainty.

What was YOUR biggest event of 2012?

The Sensory Christmas

No Chinese food, no movie. But I was at Google Tel Aviv!

For the first time in my life, I wasn't in the United States for Christmas.

Yes, I know, I'm Jewish, who cares, it's Christmas. But when you spend your entire life in a Midwestern classic Christmas setting, there are aspects that surround the holiday that are so normative -- they're like breathing. The lights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes. They're all simply a part of my life. My genetics are bound to crave the smell of fireplaces, the site of lined and beaded lights, the taste of warm apple cider and holiday cookies.

I'll be Jewish for the rest of my life, but there will always be certain pangs of sadness at this time of year. And I don't feel guilty about it because the way I grew up, Christmas was about trees and presents and food and visiting Silver Dollar City* (where, for years, my aunt and grandmother worked) and dipping candles and eating s'mores. It was about driving around as a family looking at the city bedecked in holiday lights. It was presents, snow, and the knowledge that this is what everyone everywhere just does.

But?

I was in Tel Aviv last night at the Google Tel Aviv Campus for an event (which was awesome), and on my way back I hopped the Jerusalem light rail for a few stops and got off at Mahane Yehuda (that's the shuk, the giant outdoor market). At that hour, the shuk was quiet and filled with cars and trucks dropping off or picking up late-night deliveries. A few shops were still open and closing, and a few people were using the walkway as a quick bypass to get from Agrippas to Yafo.

About halfway through the shuk, I experienced something beautiful. I closed my eyes, breathed in, and the corners of my mouth curled up in a smile. I was transported to Silver Dollar City, the smell of cookies and s'mores, constantly kindled fires, fresh wax from candle dipping, and the crisp, cold air. For probably 10 seconds, I got my piece of childhood, my piece of December in the United States, in the Ozarks.

More and more, I understand the role HaShem plays in our everyday lives. The things we don't realize but experience in fleeting moments of absolute awareness with all of our senses. Those are the moments when HaShem reaches down to provide us a comfort that we might not even know we need. It was a gift. A 10-second gift.

I think it will get me through until next year. In fact, I know it will.

To read some past posts on my Christmas-time experience ... check out these posts from 2009 and 2007 (which is a particularly emotional post).

*This place has changed so much since the days I went there and purchased American Girl cards, watched glass being blown, got tin-type photos made, and enjoyed the simplicity of a rickety train ride (where, of course, robbers would take over the train, Old West style). Now it's all water rides and fancy things. I haven't been there since 1996, and I'm guessing I'll never go back. Some things are better left to memory, aren't they?

Getting Back to Normal, Whatever That Is

Today I woke up sick. I had a migraine. My stomach felt fully ulcerous. I was exhausted emotionally and physically. I texted my co-volunteers (we're rocking out Stop the Rockets and @StopRockets) and told them I needed to take some time off.

So I took my agalah (that's a cart in Hebrew). I got an espresso, which I chugged, I went to the bank, and then I sat on a bench on Yafo for about 45 minutes, just watching the world pass me by. It was therapeutic, it was peaceful, it was exactly what I needed.

I went to the shuk (where the number of IDF soldiers at the entrances had tripled since yesterday) and picked up oodles of ingredients to make several different delicious things this week, came home, and then met up with a friend and her kids at the park and watched the sun slowly fall behind the buildings as the weather cooled to a brisk chill.

I went home and got to work cooking these delicious Spicy Indo-Chinese Noodles from Vegan News, which also was therapeutic. (And delicious.) (Recipe at the bottom.)

And then? I got back to work, doing what I do best, putting out quality, meaningful, and well-branded content. Facts, not memes. Content, not rhetoric.

My goal for this week is to focus on work, focus on eating healthy (I'm sticking to a strictly veggie diet -- I've been cheating because cheese here is so good, and I really have to stop because I'm feeling the effects), getting plenty of sleep and fluids, and being honest with myself about my limitations.

I can and should say no sometimes. It's hard for me, but I've come too far to let stress, anxiety, and living an unhealthy lifestyle destroy me.

---

Recipe for Spicy Indo-Chinese Noodles Modified from VegNews 

Ingredients
1 8-ounce package of  Vermicelli Rice Noodles, cooked, drained, and rinsed in cold water (these are hard to find kosher in the U.S. and here you can find them EVERYWHERE)
1 Tbls sesame oil
1 Tbls olive oil
1 small yellow onion, sliced thin
4 cups shredded cabbage (I did this the old fashioned way, but feel free to buy pre-shredded)
2 small green bell peppers, cut into thin strips
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 tsp agave
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1 tsp red pepper flakes (because I like it hot)
1/4 cup gluten-free soy sauce (tamari)
1 tsp Sriracha
2 Tbls ketchup
2 Tbls rice vinegar
2 Tbls water
Options: carrots, broccoli, other Asian-y veggies

1. In a large bowl, toss noodles and sesame oil and set aside. 
2. In a large skillet over medium, heat the olive oil and add the onion, cabbage, bell pepper, garlic, and whatever other veggies you have on hand and saute for 3-4 minutes. 
3. Add agave, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes and saute another 3-5 minutes. 
4. Add cooked noodles, tamari, ketchup, Sriracha, vinegar, and water, and saute for 3-5 minutes more until heated through.
5. Serve hot! (Top it with more Sriracha, if you're like me!)

2002: Let's Do the Time Warp Again

I'm what we in the biz call "an early adopter." When it comes to new technologies, I just adapt to them. I download them, install them, explore them, learn them, become fluent in them, and then prepare as the target moves. That's the nature of the beast that is social media and the digital world.

It began way back when in the late 1990s when my family invested in a computer. I can't remember the exact year but I think it was 1998, because that was the same year that I started my first LiveJournal account. I also can't remember what my first account name was on LiveJournal, but I think it was "shakinbakin02," which still exists on the interwebs as a purged user on LiveJournal.

Yes, when I was in high school I went through many an over-emotional phase where I created and deleted accounts, some locked up tightly to write about someone I was dating or hating, others public. But that account was the big one up until college. I repeated the overly emotional antics in college, but the unique thing here is that there was one LiveJournal account that survived from 2002 up until the present, off and on, sometimes skipping entire chunks of years, but it's still there.

It gives me a sort of time capsule of 10 really strange and completely transformative years of my life.

It also shows me how incredibly ridiculously sentimental and quick to fall in love I've been in my life. I sometimes forget this fact, especially because since the year 2008, this hasn't been such an issue with me. But now that I'm single again, I'm finding myself in that quick-to-jump-in-and-get-hurt kind of headspace. I'm back to wanting romance and fireworks and that connection of what one friend recently called "profound understanding." If I could lead off every encounter with a potential zivug with requesting profound understanding, we might get there. Someday.

So where was my head at 10 years ago today? I posted six posts in one day on November 8, 2002. The benefit of LiveJournal was that you could post that many times a day and it was normative. They were more "this is what I'm doing today" and "this is how emo and cranky I am" than actual substantive and meaningful blog posts -- I transitioned to that arena in 2006.

I went from being unexplainably happy at 12:53 a.m. after a party in my dorm (the Honors Dorm, mind you) called "Bootie Grind," to being really depressed and crying at 1:48 a.m. Up at 7:54 a.m., I was poised to register for Spring 2003 classes, and by nearly 10 a.m. I was back to my happy cheerful self with this little gem.

today is the most beautiful day. more gorgeous than yesterday. the sun is hitting the leaves in all the right ways. the noise is enough, and the wind through the nearly bare trees is comforting. its beautiful, so very very beautiful.

(Note: I cringe at the day when I didn't use proper capitalization.) And then a little after 1 p.m. I was angry and depressed again, and by the end of the night I'd experienced my first visit to Knickerbockers for a show and a viewing of "8 Mile," yes, the classic Eminem film. 

Yes, I'm a personality of extremes. I've always been that way. I suppose I would have done well in the theater. The interesting thing is that LiveJournal was very much for me what Facebook and Twitter are today. I used LiveJournal as a microblogging platform, before "microblogging" was even a thing. I'd argue, as an early adapter, that LiveJournal was the first microblog -- people weren't using it as a means of collecting personal thoughts for private use, it was a sounding board for your friends. It was a broadcast medium. I don't think I know many people who wrote novellas on LiveJournal back in the day. 

So every so often, when I'm feeling curious, I'm going to adventure back to LiveJournal -- sorry folks, it's off limits to everyone and it's unsearchable on the web, so good luck finding it. And even if you did, so many of my posts are clouded in ridiculous mystery. I know -- even today -- what they're about. November 8, 2002, for example? I know exactly what was happening on that day and what was driving the emotional roller coaster. I was attempting to balance a complicated long-distance relationship while dealing with evolving emotions and a space full of new people and friends. When I think back to that period of my life, it was quite messy. One of the messiest. I ended up really hurting and destroying someone that I loved very much. 

I also was only 19 years old at that time. Those were some serious growing pains. Although I'm a person of emotional extremes, I don't think my life will ever compare to the emotional ups and downs I experienced over the past 10 years, especially in those early days. Why? I know myself a lot better these days. I know when I'm falling into an emotional up or down. The difficulty these days is finding the way out that came a lot easier when I was younger. 

Do I love having a 10-year catalog of my life? More than you can imagine. The 10 years before that, of course, are all in paper journals boxed up and packed away. Yes folks, as shocking as it may seem, I've been documenting my every move since at least 1992. 

For this, it seems, I was destined. 

What is This Life?

Late August 2011 on one of my many trips alone to the Poconos.

On these trips I'd speed around the tight, curvy corners 

of Valley Road between 84 and 6.

I prayed to lose control.  

Wait. How did I get here?

Nearly 29, selling all of my belongings, moving to a perpetual "war zone," starting over -- again -- after so many fresh starts. How do I know if this one is the one? I just know, that's how.

A year ago, I knew that my life was over. I say that in the most literal way possible. A year ago, I saw two ways out of my life: divorce or suicide. The latter seemed like a more noble approach to the situation. I'd failed to make my marriage work. It was me who couldn't fix it, so it was me that failed. I could even muster the strength to ask out, so what kind of person would I be to anyone else? The reality of the financial and emotional impact (of losing everything I knew -- friends and family) seemed too strong to handle. And all the while, I played the part of me, Chaviva. Age 27. Blogger. Wife. Teaneck, NJ Orthodox Jew. Strong, confident, stable. Happy above all. Here, on this blog.

It was a dark space. A very, very dark space. I owe my being here to several friends who helped me baby-step through that scary part of my life. They are angels on earth.

I vlogged on September 1, 2011, about a debate between my ex-husband and I about whether -- when there's one breadwinner -- the person not pulling in the bulk of the cash can treat the other person. I watch that video now, and I see the deadness in my eyes. I was attempting to fix the break in the levee with duct tape.

On September 6 I blogged about the world of Jewish women bloggers and whether when I started this blog I intended to be anonymous, for the content to be public or private. I wrote about how the things I didn't discuss on this blog could fill entire libraries. I wanted to speak, but I was distracted.

More duct tape for the levee appeared on September 7 when I tried to explain and ask for help in my battle for a new, proper full sheitel, because my ex-husband didn't believe in sheitels and couldn't validate the expense. So I bought a fake wig. I stressed out. People began to see something was up.

After realizing life is greater than death, and with the support of friends and realizing that I am stronger than I appear, I asked for a get on September 12. You have to understand -- it took me nine months to ask for the get. We spent a lot of time in therapy trying to fix things, but I think that we both knew that it wasn't going anywhere. Finally requesting the get is probably the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Period.

By September 14, I put my blog on hiatus. "For the High Holidays," I said. Clearly I was lying.

Faster than was expected -- than anyone expected -- we were divorced according to the Jewish religion on September 20.

On September 25, I revealed what was happening. I was getting divorced. I was moving to Colorado without a job, I was starting over. "It's going to be an interesting 5772," I said. Boy was that the understatement of the year.

I arrived in Colorado on September 28 and was thrust in to the Colorado scene for the High Holidays. It was a strange circumstance to be in -- new, newly divorced, surrounded by strangers.

What. A. Year.

The pendulum had a mighty swing in both directions this year for me. From feeling free and released from a dark depression, to finding myself in a relationship with someone unexpected, to finding myself and my teshuva, to deciding to make aliyah.

Yes, a year ago Denver felt like the right move. And now? Israel seems perfect. Am I a nutjob? I don't think so. Look at what I wrote a year ago:

Why Denver? Well, I didn't have this blog back in 2005, but if I did, you would have heard me sing the praises of Colorado as the healthiest place on earth. The moment my wheels hit Colorado, I felt the need to eat healthy, to be healthy, to feel healthy. I went through a heartbreak there, but it didn't smack me in the face like it did elsewhere, because I was mentally and emotionally healthy. I was able to cope and move on. When I lived in Denver, I went running and walking, I ate fresh vegetables and maintained a mostly vegetarian diet, I explored the state, I got out. I did things. I was happy, I was healthy, I was positive about my future and confident in who I was. Everyone keeps telling me Denver's a horrible choice because there are no single frum folk there. To that, friends, I say, "I'm not interested in dating at the moment. Seriously?" 

Why not Israel? Divorce is a big enough shock to my system right now. I need a change, so I'm starting small with a move to Denver where I can regroup, clear my head, and find some inner peace. The balagan of Israel is too much for the tender state of me right now, so stay patient. I haven't ruled it out. After all, the world is my oyster at this point.

I think I knew. I just needed to take stock. But people were right -- Denver is a horrible choice because there are no single frum folk here!

So will 5773 be as crazy with the balagan as 5772 was? I don't think so. I foresee more of a wave of changes than a pendulum of heavy swinging back and forth. There's something about the great ease of everything with this move -- the aliyah process, the paperwork, finding the apartment, how quickly my stuff is selling, my being able to keep my job. Everything is just fitting into place without hesitation. 

I think I'm finally doing what HaShem wants from me. To take the land, to make it my own, to dwell there, and to take the happiness that I've found into a home and to grow Am Yisrael. 

But nothing in life is absolute. I'm not that naive. But stick with me friends, for another year, and let's see where the road takes me. Okay?

I'll Never Get Used to This

Anyway ... Wait, what is Chavín de Huantar?

Oh, okay. (It's in Peru.)

Joseph and Ethel: Part I of a Love Story

So my plans for Los Angeles fell apart in a quick instant, so I had to rejigger my entire plan, which means that I'm now in Lincoln, Nebraska, and on my way to Chicago. Why? Because I can. 

I left Denver on Friday morning en route to Omaha, where I arrived just in time for Shabbat at everyone's favorite Nebraska Orthodox synagogue (okay, so it's the only). I stayed Saturday night with an amazing old friend Melanie (we once took a trip to Kansas City to stay with her very cool sister and the trip, being on Halloween, included me reading what should have been scary stories but were pretty lame, overly long stories) and her husband in Omaha. Then, yesterday morning, I took off back to Lincoln where I surprised my dad for Father's Day.

While hanging out with my dad, he brought out the scrapbook that his mother, my Grandma Ethel Edwards, kept during the war. The book, which only spanned a few years from 1943-45, included gobs of Western Unions, wedding greetings, Valentine's cards, and more. It's a little time capsule of the relationship of two people that I never knew, and that, more importantly, my father barely knew.

Ethel Louise Nelson and Joseph Francis Edwards in San Antonio circa 1944.

It's funny, because when I look at them they look so Jewish to me. Is that weird? Or did everyone look Jewish in the 1940s?

My father was born on August 6, 1953.

Ethel died eight years later of lung cancer on January 20, 1962. Joseph died three years later of a heart attack on August 17, 1965. My father had just turned 12 years old 11 days before.

Joseph was 47 when he died. Ethel was 39; she died on her birthday.

Let's just say my father had a rough childhood and leave it at that.

In the scrapbook are oodles of Western Unions from Joseph to Ethel talking mundanely about the weather or modes of travel, but in a romantic, funny way. There's even an entire conversation that was recorded as it happened (not sure what this is called) between Joseph and Ethel's sister (Helen). It's a really funny conversation to read. It also expresses the modesty of dating during that era.

One of the peculiarities of their communications during this time (Joseph was being moved around while he was active duty, they married on October 3, 1943, and Joseph eventually was sent to France in late 1944) is some of the language that Joseph uses. He frequently refers to 88s and 73s.

January 1, 1943 -- this is almost 70 years old! Eeep!

"Maybe it's the weather?" my dad suggested.

"Nah, that's insane," I said. "Maybe it's some kind of military lingo?"

My dad was able to clear up a lot of the weird military lingo in the letters and Western Unions, but not this one. After some digging, and with the knowledge that Joseph was a technician involved in radios, I discovered that 88s and 73s is radio speak!

According to Wikipedia, for amateur radio users, 73 means "best regards" and 88 means "hugs and kisses." (Oddly enough, amateur radio websites kvetch about those who add -s to the end of 73 or 88 as being grammatically incorrect. I'd like to think Joseph was a pro at the radio speak, however.)

Seriously? Aw. Big squishy puppy kisses aw! My dad never knew his father as a romantic, but boy do these Western Unions and cards really paint a different picture.

Stay tuned for more cuteness shared between Joseph and Ethel during 1943 and 1945, including some one-of-a-kind souvenirs from early 1945 in France. These things are wartime artifacts. It seems that my grandfather landed in Paris just after the liberation. Awesome!

Note: I've been trying to trace my grandfather's path during World War II for years. It would be a lot easier if his military paperwork had not gone up in flames during a fire in the 1950s in the Missouri facility that held his documents. So, from here, I have to piece together where he was stationed (Alabama, San Antonio, Cincinnati, and so on). It's quite the fun time. 

The Awful(ly Awesome) Truth

You'll notice that this post has no commenting option. I've actually never done that before. I'm a firm believer in the flow of communication and reining things in if they get ugly. But on this post, well, the awful truth is that I don't really care what people think about my take on life.

After my post The Storyteller's Dilemma, I got a comment (that was deleted) saying that the pendulum is swinging to fast, that my choices and decisions are abrupt, that it's a sign of the delicate state of my mental health. Yes, I know, I deleted the comment and here I am telling you about it, but I'm talking about it on my terms.

Very few of you have been reading this blog since it started in April 2006. Even fewer of you (if there are any) have known me since I started college in 2002. I can count one person who reads this blog who knew me in 2001. Before that? None of you knew a lick about me. You only know what I tell you, and perhaps I haven't told you much. Maybe, just maybe, if you knew me better, you'd look at what seems like swift and abrupt pendulum swings as normative for me.

The thing is, not everyone lives in a world where you grow up on a street, you go to college in-town or away and move back to that same town you grew up in, you stay friends with all the people you grew up with, you probably marry one of them or your college sweetheart, you have some kids and send them to playdates with the people you grew up with, and you envision them all getting married in a big happy wedding someday. You have wine and cheese parties with friends you've known forever. You buy a house. You life happily ever after. And then you're buried in the plot you bought where you grew up next to the spouse you've been married to for 75 years.

That narrative, is, to be completely honest, not mine. It never has been. You're talking to someone who has had some crazy revelations in life that have resulted in a lot of life-altering changes. That's in my DNA, it's my "free spirit" nature as my father says. He's always told me to follow my sense of rightness and justness that resides in my heart, and that's what I do. The result of that? I make a lot of life change, sometimes abruptly. It's who I am.

Where do I begin? How about a sampling of the "unhealthy" abrupt changes I've made.

When I was a kid, I was involved in dance classes for seven years. Suddenly, at the age of 11, I decided I was done. It wasn't for me. Years of investment, and nope, done. My entire childhood I wanted to be an artist. I took classes, entered contests, again, lots of investment, and then in the eighth grade I met a girl who was really good, so I up and quit artistry. In ninth grade I decided I wanted to be a photo journalist. By the end of the semester, I decided I wanted to be a writer (well, that one stuck, sort of). In ninth grade, I decided I wanted to play volleyball, having never been athletic in my entire life. One year later, I was done with it. When I was a senior in high school, I decided I wanted to date a girl, so I dated a girl for a year. And then that phase of my life passed. I changed my major about two months into college from English to Journalism. I was going to be a copy editor forever! I was so passionate, I loved it. One year into a gig at The Washington Post, I quit. (People nearly murdered me for this -- who quits The Washington Post?) I moved to Chicago for a boy. I decided I didn't want to get married. I left the boy. I left Chicago. I pursued a degree in Judaic Studies (one of my happiest times). I decided I wanted to be a professor, only a year or so later after getting my degree to realize that it probably wasn't the best fit. I wanted to be a Hebrew Language Educator, that lasted about nine months. Heck, even when I converted to Reform Judaism that didn't stick long. I asked for a get, got it a week later, picked up and restarted in Colorado. I started talking to a Lubavitcher online, was smitten, but ended up dating a non-Jew instead. I was convinced it was the best, most right thing for me. I swore off marriage and children. We broke up after five months, and I'm talking to the Lubavitcher again. I've been working in the nonprofit world for a few years, and I've decided that maybe it's not the right fit for me. And so on, and so forth ...

Changes.
Changes.
Changes.

My life is peppered with constant change. It's how I function. To the curious onlooker, it may not look healthy.

The only words/actions/things that I have changed and stuck to 100 percent?

Tzniut
Kashrut
Coffee
Bibliophile
Big Sister
Aunt
etc.

And none of those require me to be in the same place and with the same person doing the same thing at the same time.

"What about roots!?" people ask.

For some people, with a strong, deep-seeded family situation, roots are important, location is important, relationships are important. For someone like me, who doesn't know her extended family and took to genealogical research to find some semblance of self and who converted to Judaism and became a part of the vast network of Jews around the world, my lifestyle makes sense. The Wandering Jew. It's a concept people.

It doesn't make me sick, or mentally ill, or a bad person. Okay? Okay.

Back to your regularly scheduled blogging ...

The Storyteller's Dilemma

I used to think I was good at everything. At least, everything I put my mind to and am passionate about. But I'm wondering if my passion for something doesn't necessarily mean I should pursue it. Professionally, especially, personally perhaps.

There's one thing I've always been good at, and that's storytelling. When I was a kid I "published" several "books" through our elementary school's "publishing house." One on ballet, another on my dog. I still have them somewhere. For some reason, I thought I had something to say, so I wrote it down and illustrated it.

My oldest diary starts in 1992, when I was 9 years old. Shockingly, it was a Precious Moments journal. We lived a few minutes from the location of the Precious Moments Chapel in Southern Missouri, so it was natural that I loved the stuff. Since 1992, I filled journal after journal. When I was in high school I did what I'll call "mixed media" journals. I took things I posted on my LiveJournal, things I cut out of magazines, and I put them together into an emotional explosion of my life as a teenager. In 2006, I started Just Call Me Chaviva to catalog my Jewish journey. Oddly enough, I didn't start the blog at the beginning of my journey to Judaism, but rather the moment I lept from the mikvah. That was the beginning of a chapter, if you will. At some point in college, I became the Kvetching Editor, and since then I've successfully branded myself, my vision, my story, in kind.

I tell stories. Mostly I tell stories that ooze out of my own experiences, and that's what I've always been good at. Maybe people like me aren't meant to exist in the real world, but rather in words and pages and compositions.

Of course, the question is, how do you monetize yourself?

Or, better yet, do you even want to monetize yourself? In a perfect world, I'd have millions of dollars in my pocket and I'd just write. And write. And write. Until my fingers curled from overuse.

I guess I'm not sure what I'm doing right now. Emotionally, I'm invested in finding a spouse and making cute little mini mes. Professionally, I guess I feel confused. I'm trying to figure out whether my personal passions translate into professional success. And if they don't, then where that leaves me.

I wish I could fall in line. Life would be easier that way. I don't know how I ended up this way, but for some reason all I have in me is letters and words and sentences and paragraphs and narratives.

Ho-Hum, Hum-Drum

It's weird how I feel like my life is a lot less interesting and mundane being single in Colorado. You'd think I'd have all sorts of interesting and wacky stories about the community or the people I meet or what it's like to be a traveled-everywhere Jewish girl in a state with 83,000 Jews -- most of which are secular.

But for some reason, and maybe this is a good thing, the ho-hum, hum-drum that is my life right now feels good. At times, it's uncomfortable because I feel like something should be happening, that I'm still in a state of flux. Instead, I feel calm, rested, excited.

So I figured now would be a good time to open it up to questions. All you have to do is click here, and ask away. I'll try to be super prompt on answering questions this time around, too.

Until then, I'll be watching my tomato plants grow out on the balcony, with the silhouette of the mountains not far behind.

It's Time to Take a Stand

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, bully meant lover. A sweetheart. A fine chap. How do we know? It derived from Middle Dutch boele, meaning lover, and its first use in the 16th century. As an adjective, it once meant excellent in the 17th century. Bully for you! Bully indeed. And then?

1 to treat abusively
2 to affect by means of force or coercion

What happened?

When I was a kid and eczema began to plague my legs and arms horribly, I became the focus of bullying. I had weird legs, weird sores, weird skin. People didn't want to touch me. I was different. 

When I entered middle school in Joplin, MO, I was taller and larger than just about everyone I knew. I had my first period before everyone else. In home room, my purse was stolen and thrown around the room; I had pads. Every girl goes through it, but I went through it before everybody. I felt out of place, large, big. I spent the second semester of 6th grade throwing away my lunch and drinking only juice boxes. The difference in my 5th and 6th grade bodies is stark. I was different. 

When I was in middle school in Lincoln, NE and at the Belmont swimming pool, a classmate sang the Butterball Turkey theme song to me as I swam. He called, "Beached whale!" And to this day, I don't like to swim, I don't like to be in the water or near it, and I went nearly 10 years without owning a swimsuit. I was larger than other girls my age. I was different.

When I was in seventh and eighth grade, a boy decided that my body was meant to be objectified. He emotionally assaulted me with his inappropriate thoughts, harassed me in class, and his friend prodded him on. We went to the administration, and nothing happened. Nothing ever happened. I had a figure, and I was different. 

For some reason, when I got to high school, I blended in. I was in choir, honors classes, volleyball. I covered my bases in order to survive. But my older brother had bullies -- jocks who thought they were funny -- and those bullies became my bullies. I was associated with different. 

In college, my Jewish neshama burned bright and woke me up. I felt relieved, excited, eager. People who I'd considered friends began bullying me about being interested in Judaism online, making anti-Semitic jokes, and everyone egged everyone on. I consistently shrugged it off, until I couldn't, and then I removed myself from the situation. Years later, some apologized. Being Jewish meant it was okay to bully me. After all, I was different.

After college, when I lived in Chicago, Jews bullied me. "You'll never be Jewish, because you don't have Jewish blood," they said. I was "too Jewish" in their eyes. I was proud to be something that they deemed that I wasn't. I was scared to go out, I was scared to leave my apartments. And it all happened online. But the threats were vivid, scary, and I crumbled under them. I was different. 

And then, as my blog became more well read, I experienced the bane of the internet: anonymous, hate-filled bullying. That is, at first a lot of it was anonymous. As time has progressed, the bullying has come from those I once considered friends who probably don't consider themselves bullies. "To treat abusively" covers many bases, not just physical. Emotional abuse is perhaps the worst of it all, and the emotional abuse that I've received for being me continues to amaze me. Why am I a target of bullying by other Jews? Because I AM DIFFERENT. 

The funny thing about the Jewish community, I've realized, is that we're the perfect community to combat bullying and yet we are horrible, horrible bullies. Jewish ethics and values tell us that man was made in the image of G-d and should be treated accordingly. How poorly we follow through. How badly we treat one another on behalf of differences. I wonder if some of the things people have said to me they would be willing to say to HaShem. Our values teach us that we are responsible for repairing a very broken world. Hatred, abuse, and bullying exist at every stage of life, and while we should be fighting these abuses, we're allowing others in our community to participate in further breaking into pieces this world we live in. 

All of this comes because I saw the movie "Bully" tonight, and it left me outraged. Sick to my stomach. An 11-year-old boy should not have to carry the casket of his best friend (also 11) to a hole in the ground because that friend killed himself because he was being bullied. Eleven. Years. Old. I cried. I cried, and I cried for the parents that lost or were losing a child from something they could not control and something that school administrators refused to change out of stubbornness or ignorance. It made me sick. 

They call it "Bullycide." Every year, 6.3 percent of high school students attempt suicide. With that, I am a statistic. I did a quick search of recent bully-based teen suicide. In the past month ...

• Grace McComas, 15, killed herself on Easter in Howard County, MD. She was cyberbullied. 
• Kenneth Weishuhn, 14, killed himself on Easter in Paullina, IA. He was bullied for being gay.
• Ted "Teddy" Molina, 16, killed himself in on April 2 in Corpus Christi, Texas. He was part Latino and part Asian and was bullied for being "mixed."
• Rafael Morelos, 14, killed himself in late March in Cashmere, Washington. He was bullied for being openly gay.

I'm sure there are more. Many more. 

And then there are cases like Austin Rodriguez of Wellsville, OH, who attempted suicide in late March -- entering a coma. He was bullied for being gay. Imagine how many other suicide attempts there are everyday because of the despair of bullying? 

We think that words are simply words, but words are the worst daggers of all. We have a responsibility to stand for one another, to give a voice to the voiceless, and to make sure that children reach adulthood and can experience life. What am I going to do? I'm going to create a resource at work as a means of education for parents and teens in what to do if they are being bullied online and how to make it stop. 

And I advise those who wish to come to this blog and bully me, that I will no longer stand for hate, judgment, or abuse. This blog is a bully-free zone. If you can't handle that, then you need to reevaluate what the Torah, the Talmud, and our sages have to say about repairing the world and treating those who inhabit this world.