The Sky is Falling, or Why Does it All Hurt So Bad?

"The sky is falling, the sky is falling," said Chaviva. Move over Chicken Little, this mama is struggling.

For two weeks we had Mr. T's son iBoy with us in Denver. It was amazing. Although I spent the bulk of that time guilty that I wasn't actively in the office working because of all of the ups and downs of being back in the U.S., we had an amazing time traversing Colorado. I saved up all the places I wanted to take Mr. T until iBoy was here. We went to the Celestial Seasonings tea factory (alas, no babies allowed, so I got hopped up on tea in the tasting room), Garden of the Gods, to the Flatirons near Boulder, down to the REI flagship store and rented a kayak and went out on the lake in a thunderstorm ... we did tons of things to keep ourselves entertained, to show iBoy how beautiful it is here, and to make sure, above all, he felt like he was our family, that we love him, that we miss him, and that we want what is best for him in life.

It was a hard thing letting him go on Monday, but these things have to happen (legally, of course). Since then, it's been tough to get him on the phone or Skype, which has been hard on us all. Ash got used to him being around, Mr. T got used to having him around and his entire demeanor changed -- after all, wouldn't yours with both of your sons around you? And me? I got used to seeing Ash light up in a new way, to seeing Mr. T so, so happy, and to having the sound of giggling and snoring and the thump of iBoy running around the apartment and begging to go out and play soccer with his dad.

Last Shabbat we spent ages with iBoy and his dad playing soccer, until it started to rain. Ash and I sat and watched, with Ash mesmerized by this bigger version of himself kicking around a ball and falling all over the grass with his dad.

We felt like a complete unit during those two weeks. So it's a bit heartbreaking as we go back to "normal" without iBoy.

On Tuesday, after dropping iBoy in Omaha, we stopped in to check on my dad, who'd taken the week off from work. Mr. T, playing on a Jewish softball league, wanted to pick up my dad's old bag of softball bats that they had out in their storage unit. I don't think my dad had touched those bats since we left Joplin in 1996. In southern Missouri, baseball reigns supreme. T-ball, little league, adult league softball, it consumes the summertime. My dad played on and coached softball teams throughout my childhood, and he loved the sport. His bats were housed in a green, old Navy bag with his name stamped on the shoulder strap. It's not that military surplus stuff, it's the real deal.

Then, on the way out of the unit, my dad started acting weird. Buckled safely into the car, he wasn't answering questions I asked again and again, and then? Then he seized. His entire body clenched into a giant fist. Asher was in the backseat watching Baby Einstein, Mr. T was in the seat next to him, and I was in the driver's seat, my dad next to me, and I held him and panicked.

In an instant I became a child again. I don't think I've called my father "Daddy" in years. All of a sudden it's the only thing I could say, with a giant question mark at the end of every single utterance of the word. He shook, he clenched, it was like I was watching a TV show or movie. It was textbook. I'd seen it before, but never never in person. I knew they were happening, but I'd never experienced it.

I just held him. I held his head when it flung back. I grabbed the storage unit keys from his hand once his body relaxed. We raced to the hospital, not sure if it was the right one, unable to call my mom thanks to T-Mobile having zero service in Lincoln, Nebraska.

He was out of body the entire drive. For 20 minutes he was gone. His head back, my hand holding it up, it was almost like he was sleeping, snoring. I kept on. "Daddy? Daddy? Are you okay? Daddy?"

We got to the hospital and all of a sudden I was in parent mode. My dad slowly became lucid, but didn't know what happened or where we were or why we were there. He was curled into himself, not sure of himself. I coaxed him out of the car with nurses, took him inside. Gave them his information; they knew him, he'd been there before.

They went through the same motions as always. CT scans, EKGs, vitals, etc. He slowly became lucid and realized what was going on. We were all frustrated, especially after several hours when the ER doctor came in and said everything looked fine; they were sending him home. As usual.

I now understand what he is going through, first hand, after seeing it, and after seeing how the ER doesn't seem to have much to say or do about it all. They offer up the usual: three meals a day, cool and calm environment, low-stress activities, plenty of sleep, take your meds.

For months this has been going on. No one seems to really have a good idea of what's causing the seizures or why. So I found an internist who is going to take on his case. And we're going to hope, pray that something gets figured out.

On that note, maybe Mr. T and I will move to Nebraska and set up a B&B or a little shul for passersby to have a nice, quiet Shabbat. We'd be close to dad, rent would be cheaper, we'd have peace of mind.

Ah emotions. Between family and what's happening in Israel, my head is about to explode. The things of the world that do make sense people don't seem to get (you can't negotiate with terrorists) and the things that should make sense (having seizures, a child and divorced parents) just don't.

HaShem? Let us see you.

That Woman: We're Heading Stateside

We're seven weeks in to life with Ash, and it's magical.

Magical.

The first few weeks are hard and exciting, then things get rough if and when baby gets colicky, so you try a few things, figure out a plan, and attack. Then baby gets better, happier, and then the cooing and moments-that-sound-like-giggles-but-aren't-exactly start and it's falling in love like the first moment all over again.

I've learned to truly appreciate the Asher Yatzar blessing that Jews recite after going to the bathroom thanking HaShem for the proper functioning of the body. With a colicky baby whose gas and reflux make him a mini Godzilla, you realize the blessing of communication and proper body function. Can you imagine not having the ability to say "it hurts here, please help me" ...? That's a baby's life.

And now, with baby having calmed down a bit, we're off to the United States so he can meet his Grandma Deb and Grandpa Bob, his Uncles John and Joe, his cousins Owynn and Oliver, and his Aunt Jess. And ... maybe, just maybe ... he'll meet another new cousin if she shows up on time.

I'm scared to death of becoming "that woman" on the plane. You know, the one with the screaming child that won't calm down. I don't sleep on planes in any circumstances anyhow, so I don't mind being up and about with Ash while Mr. T catches some Zzzzs, but being "that woman" has always been my greatest fear when it comes to parenthood.

Assuming all goes well and the three legs of the flight go according to plan, we'll be stateside on Tuesday for a few weeks in Nebraska and Colorado. I'm hoping for snow, lots of cold weather, and all of the comforts of being back in familiar surroundings (Target, gluten-free and vegan food out my ears, and the ease and quiet of a life I know well).

I'll admit I'm anxious about going home. The fact that I call it home is enough to get me lashed here in Israel, too.

When you make aliyah to Israel, you are home. Right? But I still refer to Nebraska as home. If home is where the heart is, does it mean my heart is in the U.S.? Does it mean I'm not really committed to life in Israel?

It's stupid that I'm eager to shop at Trader Joe's and pick up the gluten-free food that made life easy and liveable back in the U.S. I'm excited to go to Target where the clothes are inexpensive and fit me. I'm elated to see coworkers I haven't met yet and to spend even half a day working with them in a "normal" work environment for the first time in a year and a half. But at the same time, it isn't stupid. It's just the life I know. The life I've been comfortable with. It's the life I know how to live. Emotionally and financially.

Since Ash was born, I've been scared to death of postpartum depression because of what I've been through in the past. I've been keeping the most obsessive and close tabs on it. Luckily, I haven't been experiencing depression.

But am I happy?

There's something a little askew right now, and I'm worried that going home is going to show me that little bit that I'm missing. That nudge of what I need to feel stable. And then what?

I suppose we'll see what two weeks in the U.S. does for me. Maybe I'll have the reaction of some friends that people in the U.S. are commercially obsessed and life there is miserable. I have an inkling that it will be quite the opposite of reactions.

Either way, I hope Ash doesn't make me "that woman" on the plane. Let's start there.  

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. 

I'm in Nebraska!

Wait, what?

What a mug, right? Runs in the family. 

Stay tuned for details.

Yes, There Are Jews in Omaha

I spent a Shabbat in Omaha, Nebraska, recently and really enjoyed my time. If you ever wondered what the community there is like, read on. Was I asked to write this? No. I did it because I think it's a community worth looking at if you're considering a move out of the city life or the typical NJ/NY experience. Also: Nebraska's unemployment is the second-lowest in the nation and Warren Buffett lives there, so ... that's awesome, right? 

Do you even know where Omaha is? Most people know Omaha and only Omaha when I mention that I'm from Nebraska. We landed in Nebraska in 1996 and I left there after graduating college in 2006, but there are moments of longing for the simple, easy life that it provides. Luckily, Denver gives that same kind of chill living, almost to a second degree.

My only pre-recent experience with the Omaha Jewish community: a Shabbat visit to the Chabad there where they let me light Shabbat candles despite not being converted yet (which made me feel awesome and special and Jewish) and Passover at the big Conservative synagogue there. Both experiences I had with the University of Nebraska-Lincoln Hillel as we attempted to broaden our Jewish life in Lincoln.

So when I was planning my most-of-the-way-cross-country trip, I knew that I needed to stop somewhere for Shabbat, and my options were Chicago, Des Moines, and Omaha, and because I was trying to stay on I-80 for the trek, I opted for Omaha because, well, it's my home state and I'd read in the OU magazine once that the community there was booming with young adults and a happenin' Jewish experience. I mean, they had a kosher bagel shop that burned down and was immediately rebuilt because of its importance to the community.

So I looked up the rabbi at Beth Israel (Orthodox) -- Rabbi Gross -- and sent an email out into the abyss hoping for a Shabbat hookup. He responded quickly with a place for me to stay and meals, too! (Truth time: I actually wrote to him on Shabbat.com and email and Facebook ... I was anxious.)

I arrived just in time to my hosts' house to find out there was another Shabbat guest who currently is United States trotting (her story is fascinating), and at dinner discovered there was another stopperby on his way to Arizona. It was an impromptu Shabbaton, and we were all welcomed with the openest of arms by the rabbi and community.

The shul is very new and modern, which some like and some don't. I'm one of those traditionalists who really likes the old-school, old-world shuls with lots of character and history, but for an Orthodox shul, it had beautiful artwork and stained glass and quite the nice mechitzah, too, which, let's be honest, can make or break the experience of davening. (Wait, am I the only one who thinks this?)

I really enjoyed the rabbi's d'rash, if only because for the first time in a long time, I watched an Orthodox rabbi interact with his audience! He asked questions, took answers, and made it more of an interactive learning experience then a soapbox pulpit presentation, which I really enjoyed. Next time I'll have to study the parsha to make sure I'm prepared for the Q&A.

The community is diverse -- black hats to women without covering -- but it seems that everyone jibes well with one another, and that's the sign of a very powerful dynamic. And rumor has it that the eruv is going up soon, which will be the first time there's been one in Omaha ever!

As the community grows, so too will its infrastructure. I have no doubt in my mind that with Rabbi Gross's leadership the community will be rocking out plenty of Jewish amenities in the future that will make Omaha a more tantalizing location. But if you want out of the NY/NJ scene and want to buy a house for what you'll get a shoebox apartment in the City? Then consider Omaha. A community can only grow and become awesome if people go there.

Believe me, if I weren't in Denver right now, I might very well be in Omaha. My friends are there, the congregation is growing, the amount of children running around is enough to put a smile on your face, and there's a bagel joint. What more could you ask for?

PS: Check out the rabbi's blog here. 

Can Football be Jewish?

Once upon a time, I was a huge college football fan. The moment my family moved to Nebraska in 2006, we bled red -- yes, that's the joke of Nebraskans. Being from Middle America, baseball and football always competed for first place, but the moment we ended up in Nebraska the deal was sealed. How sealed was it? Well, eight years ago, on this very date, I was recovering from quite the Nebraska Cornhuskers football experience.

Note: In August 2003, I was a mere 19 years old. Yes, I was underage. Yes, I was drinking illegally. I don't endorse it by any means, especially in the raucous pre-football drinking that went on in my college days, but you live and you learn. And let's be honest, I wouldn't change any of it for a moment. 

we left for [a friend's] where there was drinking and laughing and consumption of wingzone wings and salads and pizza and beer and vodka and whiskey shots. first time whiskey shots that ran down the corners of my mouth. then we walked to the game in a sea of red like the exodus from egypt when the sea parted. screaming "GO BIG RED!" and hearing the echo of fans from all over scream the same back. laughing and walking and giggling and feeling ridiculous and -- perfection. 

there was something about the air. something about whipping my head back and closing my eyes and hearing the roar of the crowd and the thundering way it echoed around and around the stadium. to see the wave moving slowly around through red and white and a small strip of orange. watching the crowd flap back and forth like corn waving in the wind when we scored. and our voices becoming sore not even half-way through the game due to screams and hollers for "go big red." and the drunken people around me falling all over and grabbing me and laughing and hi-fiving and screaming at the top of their lungs for hours on end was enough to make you burst into tears at the glory of the simple life. the whiskey shot stayed in the middle of my chest cavity for too long and the smell of skyy blue was in my nose. and the boys smelled of miller high life, the champagne of beer. 

For me, Nebraska football was an experience. That was freshman, sophomore, and junior year of college for me -- every weekend I was standing in the student section at Memorial Stadium, a member of the third largest city in Nebraska (on game day, that is). And then? I got over it. 

I'm not sure why, and I'm still nostalgic about my college-football-loving days, but being out East has made my passion for sports wane. In Middle America, football reigns supreme. The entire state gets involved in collegiate games. But out East, it's all major league baseball, paychecks and numbers. It's not the same. It's glamorous and kind of ridiculous. And I just can't do it. I think it's having a counter-effect, actually. 

That's my roundabout way of asking: Is it un-Jewish of me to not be into professional East Coast baseball? Because sometimes, I feel a little out there with my love of football. 

Who Am I?: Part II

Up until 1992, things were moving along smoothly in my life. It was my mom, dad, my older brother John, and me. We lived in Joplin, Missouri, and for all intents and purposes life was good.

So. So. So. Cute.

And then, mom got preggo with my little brother Joseph, and he entered the world on March 18, 1992. His arrival necessitated a lot of things, like a new minivan (that would proceed to catch fire about three times over the next ten years) and a huge choice: little brother or the dog. My older brother and I had lived our entire lives with a dog, Precious, but once the little brother was coming, my parents insisted that the dog needed to go. Precious had only snipped at one person, and that was my grandmother, and she was probably asking for it, but the dog went and the little brother arrived. John and I came home from school to find a neighbor from across the street (who doubled as a babysitter) at our place waiting for us. She whisked us off to the hospital where we met the little bundle of joy, who was named after the same grandfather from which my middle name comes. I was immediately in love with the kid, probably a result of that little girls like babies mentality. My older brother wasn't as stoked and attempted fratricide. I'm only half kidding, really. When I was a kid and we lived in Iowa, my brother shoved me down some steps in one of those rolling, bouncy things that are no longer made, and when Joe came along, John just happened to let him roll off the bed while we were watching him. From the beginning, I took on a very protective role with my little brother. Being 9 years old when he was born, I felt a duty to be a big sister like the other big sisters I knew around me who had siblings closer in age -- but better.

I have more pictures of Joe than anyone in my family in all of my old albums. Remember: I started taking photos when I was in kindergarten, thanks to parents who understood that I was uber into photography. I have pictures of Joe on his favorite little red stool, laying on my day bed, playing video games, sitting in his car seat, and just posing in general. I was in love with this kid. He changed my life, my purpose, my everything. But he also was really annoying. I mean, he destroyed my Barbie Dream House on a daily basis while I was at school and he was constantly in my room for no reason. I loved him, but he was the typical annoying younger sibling for whom I felt more than responsible.

We are geeks. Like my mushroom 'do? | Fifth Grade

When I was in elementary school, I ran around with a very specific group of friends, so specific, in fact, that the teachers and even the principal of Stapleton Elementary School in Joplin had a name for us: The Magnificent Seven. There was Jessica, Jennifer, Allison, Kendall, Annie, Chelsea, and me. We were peas in a pod and we did everything together. We bought BFF necklaces, we had sleep overs, we swooned over the same boys in class, and by fifth grade our friendship was so solidified that we managed to start our own little newspaper/zine that we sold. The zine had lists of all the hot boys and profiles about each of us, and with the money we made we ... embarassingly ... purchased a plaque and balloons as a fifth-grade graduation gift for our teacher, Mr. Eaves. We were ridiculous, it's true, but we were besties, for life. We had plans, big plans, to be friends forever. We were in charge of the fifth-grade class aviary, for pete's sake!

During fourth and fifth grade, I left Stapleton to go to one of the other elementary schools for what was called the Enrichment Program. In fourth grade, it was a relief because Mr. Smith, our teacher, was a little loopy, what with making us watch Little House on the Prairie and having "parties" so frequently that I got sick of eating cheese and crackers. (Pretty sure he was later arrested for indecent acts with a child.) At Enrichment, we learned how to program computers, dissect a frog, and do gigantic projects that culminated in an end-of-year project presentation at Joplin High School (z"l). Fourth grade was wombats, and fifth grade was origami. I was such a nerd. But from what I remember about elementary school, it wasn't incredibly challenging. I was in a special reading group in the early grades because my advancement left me bored in class and, well, I was loquacious, as one teacher noted. I needed constant stimulation. Thinking back, I probably would have been given ritalin or something had they not known what to do with me.

Sixth Grade | That shirt? It's from the Sears
womens' section. Beginning of the end for me.

But then middle school arrived. Sixth grade. A bigger school, more people, and some of my friends were going off to different schools, private schools. But Joplin wasn't big. I remember it being about 80,000 when we lived there, so I wasn't worried about losing friends. Thus, in 1995, I started at South Middle School, not knowing what my parents were cooking up for the family at that point. I was still in the Enrichment Program, but this time around it wasn't so much challenging as it was entertaining. We visited a Taxidermy Shop and went to this small donut hut for Coke in glass bottles (what a novelty!). The rest of school was frustrating and kind of a bore. My friends were making new friends and I was dressing in all black. The only class I really enjoyed was art class, and my mom still has some of my works up on the wall at home. Sixth grade was hard for me for many reasons, most of which I can't pinpoint today. I remember being more overweight than I had been in the past -- or, at least, for the firs time it bothered me. I was taller than all the other kids my age (for the first and only time in my life), too. And then?

My parents told us we were moving to Nebraska. Nebraska? What is in Nebraska? My friends aren't there, our house isn't there, our town isn't there. What about Benito's (my favorite Mexican restaurant of all time)? Dad got a promotion, they told us, and he would be a regional auditor based in Lincoln, Nebraska, and we were moving on August 1, 1996. In the midst of middle school, in the midst of an image crisis that left me eating nothing but a Kool-Aid burst at lunch for an entire year, I was angry, but naive. I imagined my friends would come visit and that I'd visit them and everything would stay the same. That was partially true, but only for a few years. Of all of The Mag Seven, only one friend has kept in touch with me regularly over the years, and that's Jessica -- but not in the way we once were friends. Only 350 miles away, a six-hour drive, one would think that things wouldn't change that much, but they did.

Chloe's on the left, Joe on the right. 

As an aside, I have to mention the role of baseball in my childhood, because it's summertime and, well, summertime in my world in Joplin meant one thing: pickles. Okay, that sounds weird, I know, but let me explain. My father coached and played on his job's softball team, and my older brother started playing ball back when he was Tee-Ball aged. Every summer, we were at the field pretty much every single day, with either John or dad playing. I was lucky that Jessica's dad was a big baseball buff and so she also was always out there with us. As kids, we used to wander around during the game picking up trash and when the bag was full, we'd race back to the concession stand for a free treat. Sometimes it was a Chick-o-Stick, but usually, it was a gigantic pickle. Other kids got ring pops or the dip sticks that go into powdered sugar, but I stood by my two options. When Joe was born, he came to the field in a stroller and as he got to walking, he would run around the park, too. Oddly enough, one of the other kids his age was born the day after or before him (I forget) and her name was Chloe. Back in those days, we thought Joe and Chloe were going to grow up and get married, what with their summer baseball romance and all. After we moved to Nebraska, Joe and Chloe would send each other little letters (of course, our moms were the ones doing it), but that, too, stopped. But that was life for me in Joplin: Baseball, baseball, and more baseball.

In Nebraska that all would change. Football was the word of the day and my brother hopped on that bandwagon early. My friends would change, my ambitions would change, everything would change when we moved to Nebraska. I was a different person the moment we settled into our house in Lincoln and I started school in Fall 1996 at Goodrich Middle School.

But that's for another installment ... stay tuned for the move to Nebraska, in which I stop wearing black, get into Nirvana and the Spice Girls, fall in love with JTT, start over again with friends in high school and ... oh wait. I haven't even mentioned my religious upbringing in these posts. But that's okay, y'all can find that in other posts. 

The Roadtrip in a Nutshell

I'm back in New Jersey after a whirlwind week-long schlep to Nebraska and back. Our trip included some interesting stop-offs like Antique Archaeology (a.k.a. the home of TV's "American Pickers"), the World's Largest Wooden Nickel, a former bank robbed by Bonnie and Clyde, Freedom Rock, and, of course, Ken's Diner in Skokie, Ill., for a bit of kosher nosh. We visited the Omaha Zoo, which was amazing and included the Skyfari -- a ski-lift style ride over the expanse of the zoo, and we spent a bucketload of time hanging out with my nephews Oliver and Owynn. I made my parents dinner, and I got to spend some time with a few of my best friends from high school. And I can't forget to mention the beautiful sunsets and the 360-degree view of fireworks on the Fourth of July.

For oodles of photos from my trip, check out my Facebook Album! And check out this very brief video of the sleepy ones in action!

I have a lot to say about the trip, especially how it made me feel. I can't lie: the trip left me feeling kind of sad, but not in a nostalgic way. More like, why haven't I tried harder to keep in touch with people and keep up on their lives? When did I stop being a friend to my friends?

Whatever Happened to Civility?

Last week, during a dip in the temperature, I fell walking to class. It was raining and I was wearing sandals. I was schlepping a bag full of exams, my backpack (with laptop), another bag with my lunchbox in it, a coffee, and, of course, my umbrella. I probably looked like a bag lady, but there I was, crossing the busy intersection on campus, cars stopped waiting for me to pass, and I stepped wrong, my foot flying out in front of me. The umbrella went flying, and I landed on my wrist and hip (amen for cushioned hips). I was laying there, in the middle of the crosswalk, water pouring down on me, skirt soaked through and through, trying to get up while balancing all of my bags.

And not a single person stopped to help me up.

One girl grabbed my umbrella, brought it back, and handed it to me. But the 10 or 15 other people that walked by did just that -- walked by. No one grabbed an arm, offered to help me up, asked me if I was okay, anything. These were, of course, college kids, but I have a question: What the hell happened to manners? Helping the fallen, literally?

I grew up in the Midwest, first in Southern Missouri and then Nebraska. Raised on the Golden Rule, I was raised to respect those around, to help those in need, and to at least try to be civil. I'm known for being insanely apologetic at every turn, especially in grocery stores where I tend to apologize for even walking in the vicinity of someone else, let alone running into them or their cart. Tuvia has been perplexed about my weird, Midwestern mannerisms from square one and a trip to Nebraska last year really sealed the deal for the New Jersey boy on the overly apologetic and polite ways of Midwesterners.

I'll admit, sometimes I miss the polite and simple ways of the Midwest.

The prospect of moving closer to New York City and New Jersey has me excited. After all, I'll be attending the school I've always dreamed of (NYU). Along with that dream was always living in the city, but Tuvia isn't down with in-city living, so we're looking outside the city at modern, Orthodox Jewish neighborhoods with folks our own age. It only hit me last week when I fell, however, that the experience of being ignored and passed by while suffering on a soaking street corner would not improve the closer I move to the city, but instead probably will get considerably worse. Am I ready for that?

Sometimes, I stick out like a sore thumb with my mannerisms. I wear my Nebraska/Missouri heritage with pride, of course, because to most people it's exotic and unique. "There are Jews in Nebraska!?" If I gave most people a map, I doubt they could even find the large, boxy state in the center of the U.S. But where I grew up and how I grew up paved the way for me to be this overly apologetic person, and I'm okay with that. Better to apologize every time I step within a few feet of someone else's cart or come close to brushing a shoulder than to ram into people and go about my business like a shark on a warpath.

The real question becomes: What happens if I someday move to Israel? New Yorkers think they've got attitude, well, they've obviously not experienced the Israeli "force." There is no apologetics or soft, calm demeanors there. Would I crash and burn? Probably. Would it be worth standing out and saying "slicha!" every five seconds? You bet your tush it would be.

So listen, when you walk by someone on the street or in a store, and they look like they need help, offer it. If they refuse or act embarrassed by your offer, it's their problem, not your's. Do a mitzvah, help someone out, pretend you're me for a day. Slap on that Midwestern charm and make someone's day.

Things You Might Not Know About Me! Part I

I don't know what spawned this, but I'm trying to catalog things about myself that people might not know about me. I like to maintain a human atmosphere here so you all know that I'm a real person living a normal life. I like to douse my tomatoes in salt, eat cold apple crisp, organize my clothes in my closet by color, and I prefer black pens over any other color (except red when I'm editing). So here are some other, perhaps more deeply meaningful, things you might not know about me. 

That's me, yes. On the right. With my Momma Brady haircut, circa my senior year of highschool 2001-2002. On the left is one of my oldest friends, Christina, and the guy in the middle? I forgot his name. He went to Norris High School, which is there in the background, and actually was mostly destroyed during Tornadoes in 2007. We're all supporting LNE quiz bowl team shirts, since we were at a quiz bowl tournament! I was a geek. I still am. I was the "random knowledge" guru. 

In high school, I gave one of three graduation speeches while standing before my class of 525 students in Lincoln, Nebraska. My school was gigantic, but luckily only 20 some students tried out for the graduation speech spots. If I remember correctly, the dual validictorians got speeches, and the other went to a lucky winner. I tried my temporary speech out in a classroom one day after school and was lucky enough to get chosen. I wish I could remember where my speech is, as I know it's on a computer somewhere in the Edwards family home. It might also be in one of my high school boxes with all the random homework and papers I'd kept. I should find it. It was written in poem form and touched on everyone in the class, from jocks to choir nerds to academic decathalon nerds to the drama geeks. Why? Because during high school I was privileged to run in all of those crowds. You see, I played volleyball my freshman year and was the team manager my sophomore year. I was in choir every year of high school, and I managed the Math Club as secretary for two or three years. I served on Academic Decathalon and Quiz Bowl for three years, and I also found my way into the Model UN and about a half-dozen other clubs. Contrary to a lot of people, I loved high school. So standing up, before all of my friends and people I'd never even seen in school before, I told about my experiences. As a surprise ending, I closed with something my father always says to me -- and he had no idea it was in the speech, which left him speechless. The quote: "Life is not a problem to solve, but a reality to experience."

Also, during that same graduation, I had the leading off solo for Concert Choir. We were singing R. Kelly's "The World's Greatest," and after years of just singing in the choir, I finally stood out senior year with my belting voice. You see, I can't sing good quietly, but if you give me enough room and volume, and I could rock your world. I guess I just have that kind of a voice -- sing loud, sing proud. So I landed the opening verses: "I am a mountain, I am a tall tree, ohhhh, I am a swift wind, sweepin' the country." Now, that's just a few small verses, but the soul I got to punch into them empowered me. I guess, if anything, R. Kelly's craziness aside, those verses sort of expressed who I wanted to be and who I saw myself as. But singing those words, jamming with friends, and having people -- years later remind me of that solo -- makes me feel good.

I've started about seven different versions of a book on my life. They're all really cheesy and ridiculous. I watch friend-bloggers nab book deals about their life, about their conversion stories, and I feel like my story is just lame. I feel like it's weak. I didn't grow up in an abusive household, I'm not a minority, I'm not the product of some kind of oppressive family that forced Christianity or Islam or something else down my throat. Then again, I also had no inspiration from people or experiences to choose Judaism. Someday I'll write my story. Someday. I just want to inspire others.

I love to drink pickle juice. Yes, you heard me right. My mom used to pack me a Tupperware with pickles for lunch when I was a kid and she'd always pour in a bunch of extra juice and I'd drink it while making my tiny classmates gag. We're talking first grade here, folks. I still do this, however. I think I make Tuvia gag!

A Flashback!

I promise there's a RH post to come, but I will write it only once my face is looking better. It's put me in a crappy place having my face all bludgeoned up with hives and what have you. Luckily, I'm on prednisone now and hopefully my face will chipper up quickly.

But I thought I'd entertain you all in the meantime with an early photo of me. I suppose this photo might be an indication of my future almost-frummie lifestyle. Weird, isn't it? This is Freshman Homecoming, circa ... 1998 I think?

Yes, that's crushed velvet and a long, velvet black skirt. And that hair? I had that my entire life, until about 2001 when I chopped it all off. What a relief! And the guy next to me with the glasses and the black/white shirt and black pants is my older brother. Let's just say he looks nothing like that now. I think I resemble myself, right?

Happy trails!

EDIT: Just for kicks, here's me a mere year later!

School starts soon, and I am so unprepared.

I'm back, part two. (That's me in the Omaha airport on Thursday, nursing a 2-hour delay with $3.99 unlimited day's web access.)

After returning from Israel, I headed home to Nebraska to get some time in with my family -- specifically to see how my father was doing after his first round of chemo at the end of December. The trip out wasn't too bad, we flew out of Newark in the wee hours of the morning on Monday and got to Nebraska with time to do some outlet shopping at some sad, sad outlet malls between Omaha and Lincoln. Our first stop? Runza. The world's greatest fast-food joint. Tuvia loved the place so much, every time we talked about getting another bite to eat, he'd joke about going back to Runza. We spent the next few days driving around town, me showing Tuvia my old haunts (especially the Coffee House, where we went three of the four days we were there), my high school, my favorite places, and cheesy places like the mall to buy me a nice formal dress for an upcoming awards ceremony that was canceled due to the inclement weather last night (but it was beautiful -- well, the weather, that is; I guess the dress is okay, hah). We ate at all my favorite places -- Runza, Bison Witches, Lazlos -- and a few places that I wasn't so fond of. We went book shopping and I discovered that my favorite bookshop -- The Antiquarium -- that used to be down in the Old Market in Omaha is no longer there, trading space for someplace out of town. The old places are turning into new places with condos and lofts popping up all over downtown Omaha and in the Haymarket in Lincoln.

But the most important part of the trip was probably the time spent at home, just sitting with my family. Tuvia managed to spend a good hour stumping my mom, little brother, the little brother's girlfriend, and me with a game called "Petals Around the Rose." I could have killed him, that game is so ridiculous. I got to look at old photos of my mom and dad, and many of my mom when she was just a child. My grandmother, in an effort to clean out the house after my grandfather passed last year, has come up with some real gems. My favorites are probably the ones of the car my mother wrecked -- there are so many of that poor front bumper. But the photos of mom and dad opening gifts, dad in his plaid shirts and overalls (a style he managed well into the early 2000s) are some of the most prized I saw.

Last Tuesday, we took my dad to his doctor's appointments, eventually shuffling him to a hospital across the way for some extra looks into what was making him feel so crappy. We spent nearly four hours with my dad that day. I followed him into the doctor's office, helped ask questions, and took about four pages of notes to share with my mom on his medicines, how he was feeling, his shocking weight loss, and other notable things. He kept apologizing for taking up our time, and I kept reminding him "We're in Lincoln, Nebraska, there isn't that much for us to do, it's okay!" In some way, I have to believe that me being there helped calm him, in some way maybe.

It was more emotionally exhausting than I had planned for, and it didn't really hit me how drained I was until Tuvia and I got back to our little Motel 6 room each night. I just wanted to sleep it all off, prepare myself for another day, and go. Even now, as I sit comfortably in Connecticut staring out the window after a night's snow leftovers, I feel a little tired. I talk to my mom who tells me when dad is having his up days and down days. Some days he's down for some Subway, other days he just feels sick. It's the chemo.

So that was the past week for me. Trying to smile and stay lifted. Excited to see my little brother, who has managed to grow a nice little "emo" 'do on his head (men in my family are blessed with thick heads of hair), which his girlfriend seems to really like. He's a smart kid, a really smart kid, and he always makes me smile, no matter how crappy I feel. I miss him -- a lot. Luckily, having Tuvia there was a great lift. He's kind of a personified smile. He is always optimistic, uplifted, and manages to keep me afloat. I think it was a good thing for my parents to meet him when they did -- he allowed laughter, smiles, and fun to enter the house for a few days.

At any rate, a sobering post, I know. I have more Israel to talk about, of course, and I'll probably write next on my Bat Mitzvah ceremony, which was a major trip. I think, if anything, the photos will do the talking for me, though. The look on my face? Priceless and cheesy!

A mini break.

So I won't really be blogging much probably until late next week, if not beyond that, mostly because I'm en route (as my last blog mentioned) and as such I don't have easy access to internet, nor do I really have the energy necessary to dish out meaningful and relevant posts. Please keep me in mind, though, as I travel. I can use all the helpful prayers I can get.

In the meantime, here is a thought that I hope to blog on at some point in the not-so-distant future: Torah as given to Moses and the Israelites by G-d versus Torah being taught by G-d to Moses and subsequently the Israelites. Is the wordage necessarily different? Significant? Important? I think so, yes.

Until then ... Iowa from the road (circa August 13) says hello.

Chavi en Route: Part I

The thing about a nearly eight-hour drive across Western Illinois, the entire state of Iowa, and a smidgen of Nebraska, is that you have a lot of time to sit and think. Yes, the rental car is brand new (a 2009 Ford Focus), and yes it has a bajillion channels on Sirius Satellite radio, but that doesn't mean the wheels stop turning. The car lacks cruise control, so I had to spend a certain amount of energy making sure I wasn't breaking the sound barrier, but I made really good time and as I pulled into Nebraska a little after 10:15 last night, I felt a sense of nervous calm flush over me. I know that sounds contradictory, but I guess I have to explain.

Driving into Nebraska, you realize how dark and quiet everything is, and this is where the calm comes from. I miss being able to see every last star in the sky, to watch the moon shuffle behind dark clouds and it to be completely, utterly pitch black. The nervousness comes from being home again after eight months. Though, I don't know if I can really call it home anymore, since it isn't where I hang my hat and it is most definitely not where my heart it. Then again, my heart is on one coast and I'll soon be on the other coast. That was food for thought during the length of my trip, but I digress.

Have you ever been to Nebraska? Do you understand it's absolutely underrated beauty? The simplicity, the quiet, the dark, the complete and utter sanctuary-style life. This truly is G-d's country. 

I'm sitting at my favorite coffee shop in the entire world -- the Coffee House in Lincoln, Nebraska. Some call it Panache, but in truth they don't really get it. Panache is what the overhang reads, but it's the Coffee House. I started coming here in high school, and I lived for a long time off of their Irish Mocha before I was able to drink straight coffee without gagging. I've watched the furniture change from dingy couches to upscale plus chairs and couches you might find at Pier 1 Imports. But it still has that classy, collegiate coffee house vibe. The chalk board still hangs in the women's bathroom, and people have taken to writing on it in marker since, well, chalk in the bathroom isn't very sanitary.

But the best part?

I walked into the coffee shop and there, sitting in the big open first room were two classic regulars of the Coffee House -- the Russian who was always friendly and here more than I ever was, and the old man with tattoos all over his arm, sporting the sleeveless shirt I always knew him in. The guy at the counter is the same as it was those years ago when I'd spend eight hours a day studying Biblical Hebrew. Those days were more productive, too, because I didn't have a laptop and I actually had to focus on the work (sans distractions). It was like coming home. I mean really, really coming home.

So I haven't even been "home" for an entire 24 hours, but I notice the divide. Maybe when I go out with friends tomorrow and Saturday I'll start to feel like I'm back and like I'm floating right back into the place I once fit. But there are certain people who aren't here, who -- to me -- make this place feel like home. Thus, I'll drink my Irish Mocha and surf the web and eat at all my old haunts and watch little Timmy fill up his coin collecting book and watch people study and the regulars do their thing and I'll think about the long drive I have coming up.

If I thought the nearly eight-hour drive was long, my head just might implode during the 22-hour trek to Connecticut I have coming up.

The Great Divide: Conservative Judaism in the 21st Century.

So ... Shabbat Shalom, friends.

I've sort of taken on a, well, academic endeavor into Conservative Judaism. I realize that I have slowly floated away (more or less) from Reform Judaism, in which I converted. Now, I have to give the precursor that the Reform Judaism that I converted into in Lincoln, Nebraska, in my mind, is nothing like the Reform Judaism I have found anywhere else. The Reform Judaism there is filled with people who are active in the shul, everyone knows each other, the same people go to services every week, it's just very close-knit. I mean, not everyone keeps kosher or davens daily or anything, but it felt more genuine. Like the people were there because they believed in Judaism, not necessarily Reform Judaism, but Judaism itself. It never felt like church. It never felt like the Protestant Reform Judaism that I've witnessed elsewhere. I went to shul, it was shul.

But as I grow, and as I learn and explore what it means to be religious or observant or devout in Judaism, I realize more and more that what Reform Judaism is (with the exception of that which I came into, which is always the sweetest) is not the kind of Judaism that I practice or want to practice. I don't mean to offend, and I know I have Reform readers. But in my mind, it has become all the more clear that it -- in my mind, once again -- is insincere, it's like, a show. A repetitive, droning show that no one really wants to be at. The b'nai mitzvah celebrations are benign and the kids -- it would appear -- are not having to learn much of any Hebrew to become b'nai mitzvah. The people look bored, except when they're noshing at the pre-oneg or scarfing desserts afterward at the oneg. It's more about socializing than anything. It's like, belonging to a club. A club where you see people and you say hi and then you listen to some guy speak and it lasts way too long and then you go home and that's that. It feels like church to me anymore. It doesn't feel passionate. And I know that it depends on the shul, but I've been to shuls in Denver and Washington DC and New York and Nebraska and Chicago. And save for the one in New York and my home shul, I'm just not getting it. It's so suburban and benign. And the idea that I keep "somewhat" Kosher or -- G-d forbid -- go to shul every week or study the Torah portion or want to go INTO Judaic studies just astounds many of my Reform/Secular friends.

So as time has pressed forward, I have found myself more and more leaning toward Conservative Judaism. But then I realized, I really, truthfully, know nothing about Conservative Judaism except that it was birthed as a middle-ground, to keep the shtetl Jews who wanted to Americanize but keep their traditions. Reform was too lazy, Orthodox was too crazy. So what is Conservative? What does it say? What is its function? What is it all about?

And so I found a paper by Jack Wertheimer, "The Perplexities of Conservative Judaism." I read this paper with great interest last week on the train ride home from work. I often find it incredibly difficult to focus on reading anymore on the train, but this had me glued. I'll admit, too, that the "lazy" and "crazy" lines are taken right out of his paper, because his comments on the issue of what Conservative Judaism strives to achieve really struck me and actually are what made me realize that what I know about the movement could fit on a single page of paper. Says Wertheimer,

"In religion as in other areas of life, disunity and disorganization can be symptoms of a deeper confusion. A wag once memorably classified Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform Judaism as, respectively, 'crazy, hazy, and lazy.' The 'hazy,' at least, is not inaccurate."

At this point I realized that what I didn't know and now did know made sense. You have this middle-ground movement that is losing members left and right to, well, the left and right -- Orthodox and Reform. Why? Because of the hazy. Conservative Judaism, it would appear from this paper and other documents I've poked at, doesn't know what it's doing with itself. In its beginnings the rabbis had things one way and the lay community had things another way. I also didn't realize that there is no defining body of Conservative Judaism, but rather the body of rabbis and then the organization for the synagogues. What's more, Orthodox and Reform leaders predict the movement will go defunct in the next 10 to 20 years, for lack of membership.

It makes sense, of course. I am sure there are those within the movement who keep strictly kosher and walk to shul and edge on Modern Orthodox, but perhaps who grew up in the movement with parents or grandparents who came to the states and vowed to not maintain orthodoxy. And then there are those who go every now and again, enjoy a nice pork chop, but appreciate the services with their bounty of Hebrew or perhaps simply grew up in the movement. So what do these individuals do? Over time, they shift, one way or the other. It's only a natural progression, nu?

So here I am. I have a few books here from the library, including "Conservative Jewry in the United States" by Goldstein (which surveys the demographic and trends among the community), as well as "Conservative Movement in Judaism" by Elzar, which is, well, what you would expect. Avi has suggested some texts to me off the Conservative movement's website, and, well, we'll see if I can't pick those up locally or up in Skokie and then go from there.

The thirst for knowledge is strong in this one, believe that folks. I just want to understand what the movements have to say -- while knowing, of course, that within every movement are a million microcosms of different ideals and beliefs and systems of living the law. Then, perhaps, I can figure out why I feel as though I'm in this weird dimension of floating around, feeling like I don't necessarily fit anywhere, but at the same time craving the organized chaos of a Sabbath service. I mean, I feel fine at the Conservative shul. I love it, I really do. But if there is this tension and confusion that I don't know about, I'd rather be prepared than hit head-on when people start defecting to the other movements en masse. I feel like "Jews in Space" or something. Trying to find a planet that will accommodate my specifications, if that makes sense.

So with all that in mind, Chavi shall search for a place to land that has more to offer than simply oxygen and challah.

Be well, and Shabbat Shalom.

A diversion from Judaism.

I'm diverting (slightly) from Jewish talk for a moment to highlight my favorite all-time state senator -- Ernie Chambers of Nebraska, also the longest-serving state senator of all time in Nebraska.

Why? You ask. Check out this news story, which features Chambers's lawsuit against G-d! So sayeth the news piece:

Chambers says in his lawsuit that God has made terroristic threats against the senator and his constituents, inspired fear and caused "widespread death, destruction and terrorization of millions upon millions of the Earth's inhabitants."

I mean, really, folks, does it get any better than that? The lawsuit, of course, is a tactical move, aimed at a ridiculous lawsuit (discussed in the article, of course). The man is a genius. His filibusters are lengthy, his amendments are hilarious.

He was first featured in 1966's "A Time for Burning," an Oscar-nominated flick about a pastor trying to get his congregation (all white) to reach out to the black community. It lost the pastor his job, but put Chambers in the eyes of the public. He was first voted into the senate in 1970. Among some of his famous efforts were the 1989 Franklin Coverup Hoax and his support in 2006 of what was basically state-sanctioned segregation in Omaha Public Schools.

Really, the man's a genius. In an effort to prove the idiocy of so much in politics, he comes out as the hero shining brightly on his stead of justice for the downtrodden. The greatest thing about Ernie Chambers, though, is that so much of his life is a mystery. At 70 years old, I can only hope that there's a secret manuscript somewhere that will unleash the details of his life the moment he passes (though here's hoping that's 30-40 years down the line).

But for your lawsuit against G-d, Ernie, I salute you. Keep on keeping on, and being the coolest state senator EVER.

Like an old shoe.

They say you can never go home. And they lie.

I'm back in Nebraska for the weekend. My college friend Patrick married his Husker sweetheart, Amanda, last night in a short, but kind wedding at St. Paul's in downtown Lincoln. Aside from a lot of Christy-talk, it was a nice ceremony. The song was strange, as it was about the "beauty of Christ's body." Being me, it made me squirm a little in my seat. I guess there's nothing beautiful about a crucified body, in my opinion. Though I imagine it was metaphorical, I don't get that kind of stuff. The reception that followed was small, beautiful and what I'd hope mine could be. It wasn't ritzy (the steak was delicious, though), but had a flare of class. The music options (some Sinatra, and other big band tunes) were astounding, not to mention that the cake was moist as anything I've ever had. The best part? The jellybeans on the tables. Kudos, my man. Kudos. The bride and groom were dashing, and I nearly cried after finishing my dollar dance with Patrick. There's something about seeing a good friend happy, glowing in what they really deserved that makes you want to cry for them. In happiness, of course. Mazel tov, my friends.

The trip has gone quite well so far.

We went to South Street temple on Friday night, and I can't even begin to describe how fulfilling it was. If there's one thing I miss most in my life, the one thing that if I could top it all off right now and be completely happy, it would be to be able to be with my synagogue family again. It's been more than a year since last I went to temple there, but I fell right back in. Rabbi Emanuel welcomed me to read a bit from the siddur (which was so nice, considering it will be eons before I'm asked to read at our new synagogue in Chicago) and there was a baby name ceremony, so myriad people were there. All of the old friends -- Barb, Deb, the Zlotskys, the rabbi and his family, Sara and her husband -- everyone was there. It seems I've missed a lot in the past year. Babies, engagements, catastrophe at the Conservative synagogue in town (which I INTEND on finding all about, of course). I miss my friends there. I miss the Torah studies and conversation. It's so hard to get to the new temple on Saturdays for Torah study, when it takes an hour and a half by transit to make it there. But it was reassuring, reaffirming, and uplifting to be there again. The place where I kindled my faith and found a home and a family among all the world's Israelites. It will always be my home, and each time I come back is a reminder that no matter how lost and far away I feel, I always have somewhere to go back to.

We hit the Starlite Lounge Friday night, where we ran into Johnny and other old Daily Nebraskan chums. I fell in love with the Tom Collins and relished in the hipness of the place I used to go every Thursday for free appetizers and cheaply priced faux martinis. There was Bison Witches yesterday afternoon for lunch, which I was happy that Ian loved. If I could franchise a restaurant, that might be it. We visited Target and went to the wedding, topping the night off with some Runza to fill our stomachs. If you've never had a Runza burger, then you're missing out. It's another restaurant I'd like to franchise -- if only so I could eat the burgers and fries for the rest of my days. Even Ian, a burger/food connoseur and the toughest critic I know, said it was the best fast food burger he'd ever had (topping Inn-N-Out, among others). Today it was Frenchees and the Coffee House, the latter being a staple of the College Years for me.

Either way, every place felt like home. It's quiet, being summertime with classes out. The college kids make up a big chunk of the heart of this city, which is why when many graduate they move on to Omaha -- it keeps that umph that many miss from college around these parts. But it's flat, and the buildings are low. I took Ian out to my "spot" -- Alvo Road at 14th Street -- where you can see every star in the sky, no matter what type of night it is. Big Dipper, Cassiopia, you name it, it's there. It's a gravel road that leads somewhere, though I'm not sure where. I've always just pulled right in, turned off the engine and killed the lights. It's the kind of place where you can just hold your breath and hear all the sounds of the world. There are few places left like that, and definitely none in Chicago.

When they say you can never go home, they lie. I'm back where I used to be and I feel as though I've never left. I settled right in at synagogue and Bison Witches and among the streets of Lincoln. There are new roads, new people, new restaurants and structures, but it's all the same old shoe. It's comforting and I couldn't be happier to be back. So now I know that the myth is a lie, and I couldn't be happier.

A poem.

I'm browsing scholarly journals looking for papers that thrill me or authors that might want to get to know me. In the shuffle, I came across this poem by Jehanne Dubrow. It's about where I got my undergrad, the place I garnered a minor in Judaic studies -- if only they had had a major option. But then again, I suppose this poem says it all. This is excerpted from a 2006 issue of Judaism.

Judaic Studies
University of Nebraska-Lincoln
The department doesn't even fill a floor
but one room at the university,
fluorescents dark behind a frosted door
which answers woodenly to every knock.
No secretary waiting there to call
me puppele, German for little doll,
or feed me raspberry-swirled rugelach,
the sweetness now an eaten memory.
On certain days, Nebraska could be Poland,
the same blond silences of plains, each field
a never-ending corridor of gold.
What happened to the open door? It's sealed,
with every light tumed off, and no one home
except the wind breathing alone, alone.

JEHANNE DUBROW received her MFA in poetry from the University of Maryland, College
Park. She is currently working toward a Ph.D. in creative writing at the University of
Nebraska-Lincoln where she also serves as the senior poetry reader of Prairie Schooner. Her
work has appeared in Poetry, The Hudson Review, Tikkun, Midstream and The New
England Review.