#“did you have fun in that bar mitzvah shabbat?” | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

germiyahu · 9 months

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If it’s non denominational people will probably be wearing a mix of clothing so you probably won’t stick out no matter what you choose. Some might be wearing a full suit and tie and some might be wearing khakis. Don’t wear the polo though that’s too casual. I would wear a nice dress shirt or button down and dress pants with a suit jacket or sports jacket depending on what shirt you’re wearing. You don’t need official dress shoes but nicer leather shoes would look good.

I personally wouldn’t bring money because it’s Shabbat, but it’s up to you. You can plant a tree in Israel in their honor through JNF and you get a certificate from that which you can give to them, you can get them a piece of Judaica (Tallis clips are a great choice) the envelope of money depending on how religious the family is might be controversial.

Don’t worry about telling people your story. Nothing you do unless you grab the microphone from him on the bimah will take away from him being the star of the celebration. Bar Mitzvahs are fun and joyous and unless you’re the kid himself or his parents, they are not stressful.

(If the Bar Mitzvah is literally tomorrow then ignore everything I’m saying and just have a good time)

Thanks for your advice! The Bar Mitzvah is next week, I already committed to a khaki colored sweater vest so I think I’ll be going with my existing khakis that taper at the legs, but I did still buy ugly black straight fit dress pants that make me look like a beach ball creature 😭 I don’t want to wear a jacket because then I’d definitely have to wear a tie… should I wear a tie btw??

I’ll definitely be emailing the Rabbi because it’s her congregation and she knows the people and the general etiquette like the back of her hand. She can also confirm if it would be out of order to give a gift, or merely cringe but harmless.

I’m being facetious when I say I’d be pulling focus, but it is something I’m naturally pretty averse to, being the center of attention, people celebrating me, people perceiving me, people forming opinions about me. And the Rabbi said explicitly that after I’m a Jew she would highly encourage me to have my own Bar Mitzvah like oh… attempting stand up comedy would be less harrowing 😭

I’ll probably just meet a few people and say “I’ll be taking classes with the Rabbi,” and leave it at that. She expects me to attend services somewhat regularly so as the next 18 months go on I’ll definitely form relationships and I’m sure my Journey and my Truth and the Truth of my Journey™️ will be much more naturally shared by then.

#jumblr #gerim #jew by choice #jewish convert #jewish

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absolutelynotclassicusernam-blog · 2 years

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Some Scattered Thoughts on Religion

Hi. Okay. (Is that how I started my last personal post too? Very possibly.) So I’ve been reading and reblogging and adding to some Judaism/religion-related posts recently, and after the most recent one, I thought I should maybe take some time to get my head on straight about what Judaism actually is for me.

God, where do I even begin? So. My great-grandparents, probably, across the board Orthodox. For those of you who don’t know, those are the traditionalists. Always wear hats or headscarves, don’t drive on Saturday, consider wearing a T-shirt and shorts in summer to be immodest, don’t believe in birth control, marrying outside the faith is grounds for disownment, who even knows what they would make of me being gay. There’s more to it than that, of course, but the point is: they’re straitlaced, all about the rules. My mom’s parents and siblings: Conservative. More relaxed about what exactly is allowed, but still a little bit patriarchal, still a little bit wary of outsiders, still very attached to the Correct Way to observe rituals.

Then we have my parents. My mom was raised Conservative but in her ‘20s went to India in search of herself and discovered Buddhist philosophy. My dad’s parents were the rebels of their families; they bar mitzvahed their sons but that was pretty much it. They didn’t believe in God, and neither does he. One aunt straight-up converted to Unitarianism, one uncle is still technically Jewish but married a Catholic woman and raised his kids Catholic, and I have no idea what my third uncle believes. When my parents met and fell in love, my mom kind of believed in everything and my dad kind of believed in nothing where religion was concerned, but they both believed in building a kinder, more fair world, and so...well, I don’t know exactly what they hammered out before I was born, but what it resulted in was raising three daughters in a small hippie town.

All this in one family. You see why I get confused when I hear Christians talking about their different sects like they’re completely different religions?

I was raised on Shabbat, the High Holidays, Hannukah and Pesach, mixed together with words like “enlightenment”, “lovingkindness”, and “Dharma”, neo-pagan rituals that may or may not have been stolen from the various cultures where they originated (I still have some questions about that), and in the Waldorf preschool I attended, some kinda-sorta Christian concepts of angels and heavens. In my earliest years, anything could be true, and there’s part of me that still feels that way.

Things got weird when I started public elementary school. The good thing about growing up way out in the country: lots and lots of space to play. The bad thing about it: not a whole lot of Jews. Or Buddhists, or neopagans, or even particularly poetic Christians, for that matter. (This is my experience. I do not say it is everybody’s.) Suddenly I was thrown into a world of really stringent rules, a world of really blatant American exceptionalism (not fun for a dual citizen whose parents have always stressed that all humans were equal) and thinly veiled Christian exceptionalism. I also started being the voracious reader I still am, which led to me coming to my parents a lot crying about this or that injustice I had just discovered existed, which required them to reassure me, among other things, that sin did not exist and hell did not exist. At some point I must have asked about Jesus. I think I by that point had enough of a concept of the world to come to my own conclusion that either all or no human beings are the children of God, but that it couldn’t be right for one to be singled out. I remember my mom affirming that Jesus was a great teacher, but that she didn’t believe he was the son of God either.

Um...let’s see. Pretty isolated elementary school life, one part due to the above and one part due to my being neurodivergent and very, very shy. In middle school, I moved to a more diverse school, and I was so used to being the only Jewish kid that when I first encountered others, I thought they were making fun of me. I had my bat mitzvah, which I enjoyed but in which I also made a point of stressing that I did not think I was superior to anyone else for being Jewish. (A courtesy that had not always been extended to me.)

During these years, there was also on-and-off war in Israel and Palestine, and while my parents worked hard for peace, other members of my family were...less invested. All my cousins fought in the Israeli Army. They have never told me exactly what they were required to do there, and I have never asked. Then one of my cousins got married, to a non-Jewish woman, and...well, he didn’t get disowned. But my grandmother, who I love with all my heart, was weird about it initially. Shortly thereafter, I came out, and while most of my family embraced me, I was afraid they wouldn’t.

During most of high school, I drifted away from religion somewhat. I had a lot of other stuff going on--coming out, being diagnosed with anxiety. I also felt quite guilty about my family’s role in the Palestinian occupation as I learned more about it, and that kind of made it hard to take pride in being Jewish.

Then, in college, I discovered my fellow Tumblr Jews. Not that I didn’t have other Jewish people in my life in this time, but most of them were family or elders, with whom I didn’t agree on everything. Even after coming to a school where there were other Jews, most of my life I have either been the only Jew, full-stop, in my friend group(s), or the only practicing one. I don’t know why. But what I do know is that Tumblr Jews opened up a new world to me--a world in which questioning everything was not only okay to do as a Jew, but an intrinsic part of the practice. A world in which the point was not to have blind faith in God, but to wrestle with the idea of God, to wrestle with whether there even is a God. A world in which the priority is not what happens after you die, but what you do with the life you’re living right now.

So...in conclusion, here I am, and I have been thinking more about my Jewish identity again, and I am just kind of trying to figure it out. I love our traditions. Even if I don’t agree with the exact wording of all the Hebrew prayers, I still love to sing them because they’re what I grew up on. And I understand why other Jews can be defensive of those traditions. Some sects of Christianity and some individual practitioners like to put them down, and others like to twist them around for their own uses, and that makes me angry too. On the other hand, I still believe in the emphasis on equality and kindness my parents taught me. At our family celebrations (and at the celebrations of the Reform synagogue we attend, although I have been told this is unusual), all are welcome. We come together not around the concept of God, but around the concepts of family, community, gratitude, and setting intentions to make the world a better place. If someone comes in and is rude or hurtful, of course we’ll deal with it, but to the best of my knowledge we’ve never had to. To the best of my knowledge, people come to us with an open heart, and we receive them with an open heart.

I think the long and short of it is that I really like being part-Jew-part-Buddhist-part-pagan (although again, I still have questions about exactly what practices there are appropriate for me to take part in), with a little atheism and agnosticism thrown in. As Leonard Cohen famously said, “maybe there’s a God above”. I think I like the mystery of it. I think I like the possibility that everyone is right. And some religious things maybe feel righter to me than others, but that doesn’t mean that those other things aren’t righter to other people.

I don’t promise to never get angry about Christians who disrespect our traditions. I wish I could, but I know I’d be lying. But the core tenet that my parents raised me on is that if there is a God, we are all equal before Them. And as I continue to explore, I just want to take a moment to center myself in that. Religion can be cool and fun and beautiful and enriching, but if it’s not helping me to be my best, kindest, wisest self, if kindness and fairness to myself and to other human beings is not the center of it all, there’s no point. If my fellow Tumblr Jews are right, that may be a very Jewish thing of me to say. I hope it is.

So...yeah. I’ve written a lot here, and I so very much do not have all the answers about anything. But if I am going to be reblogging things about religion in general and Judaism specifically, I just kind of wanted to let you know where I’m at. I so very much do not speak for other Jews. But this is who I am, or at least who I’m trying to be.

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benevolentbirdgal · 4 years

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“Thirteen″ Tips for Writing About Synagogues / Jewish Writing Advice / Advice for Visiting Synagogues

So your story includes a Jew (or two) and you’ve a got a scene in a synagogue. Maybe there’s a bar mitzvah, maybe your gentile protagonist is visiting their partner’s synagogue. Maybe there’s a wedding or a community meeting being held there. For whatever reason, you want a scene in a shul. I’m here as your friendly (virtual) neighborhood Jewish professional to help you not sound like a gentile who thinks a synagogue is just a church with a Star of David instead of a cross.

Quick note: The are lots of synagogues around the world, with different specific cultural, local, and denominational practices. The Jewish community is made up of roughly 14 million people worldwide with all sorts of backgrounds, practices, life circumstances, and beliefs. I’m just one American Jew, but I’ve had exposure to Jewishness in many forms after living in 3.5 states (at several different population densities/layouts), attending Jewish day school and youth groups, doing Jewish college stuff, and landing a job at a Jewish non-profit. I’m speaking specifically in an American or Americanish context, though some of this will apply elsewhere as well. I’m also writing from the view of Before Times when gatherings and food and human contact was okay.

Bear in mind as well, in this discussion, the sliding scale of traditional observance to secular/liberal observance in modern denominations: Ultraorthodox (strict tradition), Modern Orthodox (Jewish law matters but we live in a modern world), Conservative (no relation to conservative politics, brands itself middle ground Judaism), Reconstructionist (start with Jewish law and then drop/add bits to choose your own adventure), and Reform (true build your own adventure, start at basically zero and incorporate only as you actively choose).

Synagogue = shul = temple. Mikvah (ritual bath) is its own thing and usually not attached to the shul. Jewish cemeteries are also typically nowhere near the shul, because dead bodies are considered impure.

A Bar/Bat/Bnai Mitzvah is the Jewish coming of age ceremony. Bar (“son”) for boys at 13+, Bat (“daughter”) at 12+, and Bnai (“children”) for multiples (i.e. twins/triplets/siblings) or non-binary kids (although the use of the phrase “Bnai Mitzvah” this way is pretty new). 12/13 is the minimum, 12-14 the norm but very Reform will sometimes allow 11 and anybody above 12/13 can have theirs. Probably a dedicated post for another time. Generally, however, the following will happen: the kid will lead some parts of services, read from and/or carry the Torah, and make a couple of speeches.

Attire: think Sunday Best (in this case Saturday), not come as you are. Even at very liberal reconstructionist/reform synagogues you wouldn’t show up in jeans and a t-shirt or work overalls. Unless they are seriously disconnected from their culture, your Jewish character is not coming to Saturday morning services in sneakers and jeans (their gentile guest, however, might come too casual and that’d be awkward). 1a. The more traditional the denomination, the more modest the attire. Outside of orthodoxy woman may wear pants, but dresses/skirts are more common. Tights for anything above knee common for Conservative/Reform/Recon, common for even below knee for orthodox shuls. Men will typically be wearing suits or close to it, except in very Reform spaces. 1b. Really, think business casual or nice dinner is the level of dressiness here for regular services. Some minor holidays or smaller events more casual is fine. Social events and classes casual is fine too. 1c. Even in reform synagogues, modesty is a thing. Get to the knee or close to it. No shoulders (this an obsession in many Jewish religious spaces for whatever reason), midriffs, or excessive cleavage (as I imagine to be the norm in most houses of worship).

Gendered clothing: 3a. Men and boys wear kippahs (alt kippot, yarmulkes) in synagogues, regardless of whether they’re Jewish or not out of respect to the space. Outside of Jewish spaces it’s saying “I’m a Jew” but inside of Jewish spaces it’s saying “I’m a Jew or a gentile dude who respects the Jewish space.” Outside of very Reform shuls, it’s a major faux pass to be a dude not wearing one. 3b. There are little buckets of loaner kippahs if you don’t bring your own and commemorative kippahs are given away at events (bar mitzvah, weddings). Your Jewish dude character not bringing or grabbing one is basically shouting “I’m new here.” 3c. Women are permitted to wear kippahs, but the adoption of a the traditionally masculine accessory will likely be interpreted by other Jews as LGBTQ+ presentation, intense feminism, and/or intense but nontraditional devoutness. Nobody will clutch their pearls (outside of ultraorthodoxy) but your character is sending a message. 3d. Tefillin are leather boxes and wrappings with prayers inside them that some Jewish men wrap around their arms (no under bar mitzvah or gentiles). Like with the kippah, a woman doing this is sending a message of feminism and/or nontraditional religious fervor. 3e. Additionally, prayer shawls, known as tallit, are encouraged/lightly expected of Jewish males (over 13) but not as much as Kippahs are. It is more common to have a personal set of tallit than tefillin. Blue and white is traditional, but they come in all sorts of fun colors and patterns now. Mine is purple and pink. It is much more common for women to have tallit and carries much fewer implications about their relationship to Judaism than wearing a kippah does. 3f. Married woman usually cover their hair in synagogues. Orthodox women will have wigs or full hair covers, but most Jewish woman will put a token scarf or doily on their head in the synagogue that doesn’t actually cover their hair. The shul will also have a doily loaner bucket.

Jewish services are long (like 3-4 hours on a Saturday morning), but most people don’t get there until about the 1-1.5 hour mark. Your disconnected Jewish character or their gentile partner might not know that though.

Although an active and traditional synagogue will have brief prayers three times every day, Torah services thrice a week, holiday programming, and weekly Friday night and Saturday morning services, the latter is the thing your Jewish character is most likely attending on the reg. A typical Saturday morning service will start with Shacharit (morning prayers) at 8:30-9, your genre savvy not-rabbi not-Bnai mitzvah kid Jewish character will get there around 9:30-10:15. 10:15-10:30 is the Torah service, which is followed by additional prayers. Depending on the day of the Jewish year (holidays, first day of new month, special shabbats), they’ll be done by 12:30 or 1 p.m. Usually. After that is the oneg, a communal meal. Onegs start with wine and challah, and commence with a full meal. No waiting 4-8 hours to have a covered-dish supper after services. The oneg, outside of very, very, very Reform spaces will be kosher meat or kosher dairy.

To conduct certain prayers (including the mourner’s prayers and the Torah service) you need a Minyan, which at least 10 Jewish “adults” must be present, defined as post Bar/Bat/Bnai Mitzvah. In Conservative/Reform/Recon, men and women are counted equally. In Ultraorthodox women are not counted. In Modern Orthodox it depends on the congregation, and some congregations will hold women’s-only services as well with at least ten “adult” Jewish women present.

In Conservative and Orthodox shuls, very little English is used outside of speeches and sermons. Prayers are in Hebrew, which many Jews can read the script of but not understand. Transliterations are also a thing. In Reform synagogues, there’s heavy reliance on the lingua franca (usually English in American congregations). Reconstructionist really varies, but is generally more Hebrew-based than Reform.

We’re a very inquisitive people. If your character is new to the synagogue, there will be lots of questions at the post-services oneg (meal, typically brunch/lunch). Are you new in town? Have you been here before? Where did you come from? Are you related to my friend from there? How was parking? Do you know my cousin? Are you single? What is your mother’s name? What do you think of the oneg - was there enough cream cheese? What summer camp did you go to? Can you read Hebrew? Have you joined? A disconnected Jew or gentile might find it overwhelming, but many connected Jews who are used to it would be like “home sweet chaos” because it’s OUR chaos.

In Orthodox synagogues, men and women have separate seating sections. There may be a balcony or back section, or there may be a divider known as a mechitzah in the middle. Children under 12/13 are permitted on either side, but over 12/13 folks have to stay one section or the other. Yes, this is a problem/challenge for trans and nonbinary Jews. Mechitzahs are not a thing outside of orthodoxy. Some older Conservative synagogues will have women’s sections, but no longer expect or enforce this arrangement.

Money. Is. Not. Handled. On. Shabbat. Or. Holidays. Especially. Not. In. The. Synagogue. Seriously, nothing says “goy writing Jews” more than a collection plate in shul. No money plate, no checks being passed around, even over calls for money (as opposed to just talking about all the great stuff they do and upcoming projects) are tacky and forbidden on Shabbat. Synagogues rely on donations and dues, and will solicit from members, but don’t outright request money on holidays and Shabbat.

Outside of Reform and very nontraditional Conservative spaces, no instruments on Shabbat or holidays. No clapping either. Same goes for phones, cameras, and other electronics outside of microphones (which aren’t permitted in Orthodox services either). 11a. In the now-times an increasing number of shuls have set up cameras ahead of time pre-programmed to record, so they don’t have to actively “make fire” which is “work” (this is the relevant commandment/mitzvah) on Shabbat, so services can be live-streamed. 11b. After someone has completed an honor (reading from the Torah, carrying the Torah, opening the ark, etc), the appropriate response is a handshake after and the words “Yasher Koach” (again, Before-Times).

Jewish services involve a lot of movement. Get up, sit down. Look behind you, look in front of you. Twist left, twist right. A disconnected Jew or gentile visitor would be best off just trying to follow along with what an exchange student we had once termed “Jewish choreography.” Some prayers are standing prayers (if able), some are sitting prayers. It’s just how it is, although a handful of prayers have variations on who stands.

#jumlbr #jewblr #jewish #jewish writing help #jewish writing #jewish characters #writing jewish characters #jewish representation #writing advice #writeblr #writing jewish spaces #how to write synagogues #another long one sorry not sorry

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gay-otlc · 3 years

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Hello my Quaen (shitty ae/aer honorifics my beloved), I would like to ask for jewish Prentice+family? So like, Prentice, Wylie, Cyrah, and Tiergan. (signed, @gaykotlc, which is me. I am just anonymous because gaykotlc is not my main)

QUAEN MY BELOVED

(Every time I see your url I get confused as FUCK because that's me isn't it? When did I send this ask? I don't recall sending myself an ask about Jewish Prentice- oh wait there's a letter difference.)

I have Thoughts™ about Wylie's Bar Mitzvah

Actually I still love genderqueer Wylie so... Wylie's B'nei Mitzvah, I guess.

Anyway, I can't remember how old Wylie was canonically when Cyrah died, but I'm going to go with like... thirteen-fourteen ish.

So Cyrah died shortly after Wylie's B'nei Mitzvah but she was alive for it, at least

Yay?

Wylie (and Tiergan and Cyrah) were really upset that Prentice wasn't able to be at their B'nei Mitzvah though

And after Prentice was healed Wylie decided to have another sort of ceremony that Prentice could attend, even though it wasn't actually their B'nei Mitzvah.

Wylie's Hebrew name is לִיאוֹר (Lior)

Why? It's a gender neutral Hebrew name that I considered before deciding on Shai.

But also, it means "my light," which works because Wylie is a flasher. Also, it's a nice name.

Hebrew names are typically formatted as [Name], son/daughter/child of [father's name] and [mother's name], and that's the name used when people are called up to the Torah and whatnot

So imagine their Rabbi using Prentice's name, Cyrah's name, and Tiergan's name for Wylie's parents.

Imagining that gives me happy chemicals. :)

Tiergan's Haftorah for xyr Bar Mitzvah was Machar Chodesh, the gayest Haftorah

(It was also, coincidentally, my Haftorah)

Wylie lighting Yartzite(?????) candles for their parents

Tiergan doing the spouse mourning rituals for Prentice even though they weren't tEcHnIcAlLy married

I do not think there are mourning rituals for metamors so idk what he would have done for Cyrah

Anyway this is kind of depressing

On a happier note, their favorite holiday to celebrate together is Sukkot

They really like building the sukkah together and decorating it

Cyrah's favorite holiday is Tu B'shavat (the tree holiday)

I am a horrible person I'm so sorry

But it is genuinely a nice holiday and she likes eating the fun elf fruits

Tiergan loves Shabbat, and he always does the cooking for Shabbat dinners

Prentice really likes Rosh Hashanah. He plays shofar really well.

(Tiergan always times his tekiah gadolahs)

Wylie's favorite is Purim, it's a fun celebration and hamentaschen taste good

Anyway this is getting rEALLY long so I'm going to shut up but I love this headcanon so much thank you

#jewish!endals #shai's kotlc headcanons #kotlc is jewish now #wylie endal #prentice endal #cyrah endal #tiergan alenefar #cursing tw #death tw #caps tw #religion tw #jewish endals my beloved

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boasamishipper · 5 years

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jewish iceman kazansky headcanons

but you don’t look like a jew! is the statement that follows iceman kazansky for most of his life. the goyim who say it always look some mixture of surprised, uneasy, and mildly curious, like he’s some kind of unknown specimen at the zoo. he’s never treated the same after they find out. the nicer ones walk on eggshells around him and glance at him when they think he can’t see; probably searching for some semblance of jewish features in him (or checking him for horns). the other ones don’t talk to him or fully trust him again. he can’t really say he gives a damn.

(but you don’t look like a jew!, coming from other jews, is a benediction, a blessing, not surprise. his grandmother used to get tears in his eyes when she said it. when they come for us, she said, god be willing, they might ignore you.)

ice’s paternal grandparents boris and rachel immigrated to the united states during the start of the soviet era, from a russian town razed by pogroms (and no longer exists on a map). boris got sick at ellis island and never fully recovered; rachel worked long hours sewing dresses at a garment factory to support her husband and her three children. they attended synagogue every week and she saved for weeks to bake challah on shabbat, just like her mother did before her.

ice remembers listening to his father’s stories about growing up in the tenements. how he used to get so angry whenever he’d hear charles coughlin preaching on the radio, or the right wing mocking fdr’s ‘jew deal,’ but rachel kazansky would always stay calm. why are we here, then? he would demand of his mother after she told him to calm down. why are we here if they don’t want us here? if they don’t trust us? rachel kazansky set down her spoon and stared him down. here is just talk, lyubimyy moy, she would say quietly. america is better than where we left by far.

ice’s sister is born nine years after the holocaust, and ice is born five years after that. ashkenazi jews name their babies after those who have passed, and with so many people dead (relatives, friends, siblings, from gas chambers and death marches and mass graves), there are too many names to choose from. ice’s mother, who ice’s grandmother still calls that shiksa in private, mostly affectionately, chooses their names instead: taylor michelle kazansky for her great-grandmothers, and thomas james kazansky for her great-grandfathers, respectively. rachel kazansky calls it a blessing in disguise, especially when ice and taylor grow up and take after their mother. look at them, she used to say. relieved, sad, and proud. no one will be able to tell.

the one and only time ice gets in trouble in school is when he snaps at mark wilson for making fun of sam friedman. what’d you expect? mark had sneered. jewboy needs to learn his place. (as mark wilson later learned, it was hard to sneer around a broken nose. and a black eye.) ice is set to be suspended until commander bill kazansky of the united states navy walks through the doors and asks (ice cold, quiet, calm) the principal to explain why his son was in trouble for standing up for someone. ice’s suspension gets pushed back to an after-school detention, and ice’s dad takes ice out for ice cream.

in hebrew school, the rabbis teach them about heroes, about good and evil, how to survive in a world that refused to have you. “the wise man is the one who foresees the consequences,” rabbi schapiro tells his class, quoting the talmud, and ice takes the quiet intelligence of the words to heart.

their family’s reform and pretty secular, all things considered: they exchange gifts on hanukkah, only attend synagogue on the high holidays, don’t actively keep kosher, don’t get bar/bat-mitzvahed, and so on and so forth. ice’s relationship with god and religion is complicated; taylor has no relationship with god and religion at all. his grandmother doesn’t mind as long as he promises to remember who he is and always ask questions.

bill kazansky never got into the united states naval academy because of his “antecedents” - otherwise known as the double shame of being the son of immigrants and having a jewish last name. when ice gets his acceptance letter, he almost tears it up, but decides against it. he’ll show them they were wrong to ever cast aside his father by becoming the best student (and the best pilot) they’ve ever seen -- and takes a certain, perverse satisfaction from going to shabbat dinners at the campus rabbi’s house.

in 1977, the ccar (the reform movement’s rabbinical council) decides that in judaism, one is only responsible for religious obligations that one can freely choose to fulfill; thus, since homosexuality is not chosen, its expression cannot be forbidden. ice comes out to his family in 1981, when he’s 22 years old. his grandmother doesn’t bat a lash, and instead asks when he’s going to bring a nice jewish boy home instead of a nice jewish girl. ice doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing.

don’t tell anybody you’re one of us, tom, bill kazansky tells him. not unless you trust them. promise me that, son. bill kazansky, who spent years having people call him that fucking k*ke kazansky behind his back, would know, and ice promises.

but you don’t look like a jew! says bill cortell with wide eyes, after ice tells him that he doesn’t really celebrate christmas. ron kerner smacks bill on the back of the head and tells him to shut the fuck up. he and ice become fast friends after that.

ice speaks fluent english, conversational russian and spanish, and only knows insults in yiddish -- all of which he’s tempted to say whenever maverick mitchell (an oysshteler if ice has ever seen one) does something stupid, either in the air or on the ground.

after goose dies, after the funeral, after placing a few smooth stones at the base of goose’s tombstone, ice goes to synagogue for the first time in years and says the mourner’s kaddish for goose. jews don’t believe in heaven or hell, but he hopes goose is in a better place now anyway.

david ben gurion once said that a jew who doesn’t believe in miracles is not a realist, but ice isn’t quite ready to accept that maverick mitchell flying to his rescue after five migs come out of nowhere counts as a miracle. (what does count as a miracle, in his opinion, is that his feelings for maverick get enthusiastically reciprocated after painful months of shoving them down -- and ice has never been happier to be proven wrong.)

ice doesn’t tell maverick he’s jewish until after they get together -- and even then, he’s nervous because this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him and he doesn’t want maverick to look at him with disgust and ask him where his horns are. maverick thinks it’s cool and pesters him with questions. (so why are the matzah balls separate from the whole matzah anyway? he asks, genuinely curious. god mav you’re so fucking stupid, ice says, and kisses maverick until they both run out of air.)

(when ice introduces mav to rachel kazansky, who’s in her early nineties but no less sharp and proper, she sizes him up with the cool assessing gaze that ice inherited and says, are you jewish, maverick? when maverick admits he isn’t, she gives a long dramatic sigh and shakes her head. oh well, she says dryly, almost perfect.)

#top gun #iceman kazansky #judaism #jewish headcanons #jewish characters #wow this got long #sorry not sorry lol #my stuff

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manicpixiedreamjew · 6 years

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ok i rewrote and revised my letter! let me know what you think

2/9/19

Rabbi Randy,

As our Into class comes to an end, a lot has been on my mind. My spirituality, my values; how my perception of the world has changed as I solidify my Jewish identity, especially as a young woman. I spent a few hours poring over journal entries dating back all the way to 2016 this Shabbat, and a consistent theme stood out in all of them: an overwhelming, genuine urge to live an authentic Jewish life. I read, thrown back into the innocent curiosity, the puppy love, the childlike fascination with Jews and Judaism that began with a book. The Chosen, the very first Jewish book I read, and I’m sure I’ve told you this story before; I’ll spare the details.

Anyway, those first inklings of interest, say, early 2016, were academic. I was a vehement atheist born to a family of atheists. Then again, who has a nuanced understanding of religion and people-hood at sixteen? My atheism was an obstinate, cynical world view triggered by traumatic experiences with Christianity. When I picked up The Chosen, though...I was slapped right across the face. Judaism was the first thing that challenged my philosophies; it forced me into an entirely foreign universe I never thought I’d know, need or understand. It taught me empathy foremost, in those early days...studying Judaism exhorted me to bear the burden of others, to feed the hungry (a MAZON seminar comes to mind), comfort the weary. Looking at my journal, an entry dated 3/3/17 elaborates on the effects of antisemitism in America, and next to that a newspaper cut out of a Magen David. It wasn’t quite personal then, but it was something I wouldn’t have looked twice at a few years earlier. It disturbed me deeply.

Then, mid-late 2017. The journal entries shifted, as you’d expect; I’d been exhaustively involved in reading and researching by then. I see a lovingly inscribed entry detailing, religiously, my first Kabbalat Shabbat at CRC. 7/1/17. The smells, the melodies, my friends, the birthday celebration of two elderly men who loved baseball. “A deep, riveting admiration for something ancient and pulsing with life.” That puppy-love stage was in full effect, my love of Judaism and its personal implications blossomed over the springtime, although its fragrance wasn’t entirely sweet: I was forced to confront my identity and ask myself that looming question. Do I want to become a Jew?

That question threw me for a loop. It was an emotionally intense time. I confided to my closest friend that, although it may sound absurd, converting to Judaism was something I was interested in. I remember crying myself to sleep some nights because the decision was so massive, so heavy, so entirely suffocating for someone with no background in religion, no sense of community or family. Eventually, though, my fate did not seem so dire, and I came to my senses: I loved Judaism. I loved it, I love it. One of the first things that stood out to me and comforted me was the Jewish emphasis on family, something I never experienced. I clung to it: how someone’s always there for you; how you’re adopted into world-wide support network called the Tribe. How no matter where you travel, anywhere in the world, someone will enthusiastically invite you over for Shabbat lunch. How, because you are Jewish, you will never suffer alone.

That, then, began my serious resolve to be Jewish, do Jewish and live Jewish.

Ever since I met with you on 11/21/17 (I have an entry for that, too!), my life has been a foray into Jewishness. You told me to start observing Shabbat and Yom Tov, and I did so with vigor: I bought a chanukiah, acquired the shiniest candlesticks I could, and read every book the local library had regarding proper observances. I look back on my first few holidays and laugh now, playfully admonishing myself for my mistakes and mishaps. But that’s the fun, right? If I learned anything from this week’s Parsha (Terumah), it’s that the means are more much important than the end, the intention more meaningful than the actualization. Late 2017 to early 2018 was all that: learning, doing, experiencing, interacting, existing with a fat dose of humility. Organizing a basic Jewish vocabulary, and through Shabbat services and working with the community, pinning down what it means to live a Jewish life.

Enter 2018! This was, perhaps, the most frustrated and chaotic year on my Journey to Jewish. To start, it was my last semester of high-school. Everything, and I mean Everything, was dependent on my graduation—most saliently my own happiness and sanity. My synagogue attendance was dwindling, my ambition and motivation was all but absent. I’ve always suffered from depression and severe anxiety, but its clutch tightened horribly those first few months. I managed to attend a Kol Nidre service in early September—and, it remains one of my most beautiful and cherished memories to date. December, I know, was the hardest. Between my Catholic father making crusade jokes and my Jesus-obsessed mother spewing casual antisemitism, between unending loads of coursework and no free time, I felt my spirit literally withering. This never weakened my resolve to live Jewishly, but some days I just couldn’t bring myself to enact the values I knew I held in my heart. Some days Judaism felt like a beloved friend, and others Judaism felt like a stranger. Nevertheless I continued to live as Jewish a life I could, but even kindling the Chanukah candles felt joyless. I was like Tevye standing in the middle of the woods, anguished, as his horse refused to budge. Through all of it, though—the sadness, numbness, friction—I was never, ever, once deterred. That’s how life is sometimes. But to be a Jew, as our own Reb Tevye zealously insisted, you must have hope.

And I did. This is when Judaism became real to me, when I realized it was a part of my life and etched into my very being. If I could live Jewishly, study, be a part of my community and find solace while also dealing with these hardships, this was clearly meant to be. I’ve been using “us” and “we” pronouns for a few months now, referring to myself as Jewish even though I’ve yet to immerse in a mikveh. When our class visited the Holocaust museum, the loss and heartache I felt was profoundly intimate...a personal loss, the loss of family I never had the opportunity to know and love. I had never experienced anything like that before, and it continues to haunt me. I’ve been the target of hateful and ignorant remarks. People have glowered at my Magen David; they’ve called me names and insulted me. “Christ killer, money hoarder, dirty Jew.”

But, and I’m a bit weepy remembering this, living Jewishly (and loudly at that) is a blessing. Maybe two summers ago I catered to an older family for their son’s graduation party. An uncle approached me, blinked at my Magen David and muttered “bless you.” I was visibly shaken; I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Later in the evening the grandmother touched my shoulder and asked, “are you Jewish?” I told her I was a conversion student. She embraced me, dug out dreidels from her kitchen drawer, and told me that she was separated from her Judaism during childhood. That it was too dangerous for her to practice, that she wanted to go back to synagogue now that she was safe. I encouraged her daughter to finally have her bar mitzvah. My heart was full. Another memory I’m fond of: wishing a stranger chag Pesach sameach and Shabbat Shalom on the street. He was wearing a kippah. The smile on that man’s face was unforgettable.

Those moments, to me, were godly. Actions are a conduit of holiness; I’ve learned that over the years. To act with intent and sanctify the mundane is second nature to us. A bracha, a kind word, charity, song...everything is a vessel for godliness.

Fast forward a bit: 2019. As I grew into my adult identity, so did I into my Jewish identity. I had my 18th birthday, graduated, passed my driving test. I began to wrap my hair on Shabbat, meditate on the Sh’ma swathed in a tallit, give tzedakah. Often times I sat in the little CRC classroom and pondered on the application of my learning: how it translated into my everyday life, how it reconciled with my values as a progressive woman in today’s society...but mostly, I think, I thought about how at home I felt. I walk into CRC and immediately feel at peace; a part of a family, the member of a loving household. I walk into the sanctuary and about a dozen people are ready to greet me with big, heartfelt smiles. It melts me every single time.

Alright, I’ll quit boring you with all this schmaltz.

I’m not sure that there was one definite moment when I knew, for sure, that being Jewish was the right choice for me. In fact, to assume all that soul searching could fit into one tiny, fleeting, ephemeral moment is ridiculous...as you know from the absurd length of this letter, which is only a minute fraction of my story. Seriously, I could go on, and on, and on; but I digress. Sitting at our Sukkot celebration and dancing with all the other people, looking up through the sukkah and marveling at the hanging plants and leaves. Baking challah on Friday morning and realizing that somewhere, other Jewish women are doing the exact same thing. Feeling warm summer wind on my face, seeing fireflies flicker through the bushes and knowing that HaShem is there. Touching my siddur to the Torah for the first time and bristling, feeling as though something breathed new life into me. Group Aliyah, a guiding hand on my shoulder as we chant the brachot in clumsy unison…

Each moment (and many more, and yet more to come) reaffirmed the fact that Judaism is my home. Ruth said it more succinctly and eloquently than I ever could: Your people shall be my people, and your God shall be my God.

Randy, I never thought I’d be doing this. Ever. Looking back at the learning and growing I’ve done, reading those journals and reminiscing on my journey, I can firmly say, if you agree, I’m ready to enter this Covenant officially.

Thank you for everything, as always,

Zoë

#oops its 5 pages #save

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josephbnaimitzvah · 2 years

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A Very (Very) Busy Few Days!!

We landed in Israel on Saturday and it has been an utter whirlwind since then. First things, first, photos! I have added a number of posts to this blog, broken down roughly by day, with some great pictures of our adventures.

So many people have asked me about why we chose to have Oscar and Judah’s B’Nai Mitzvah at Masada, or even in Israel at all. For people that have never been here, it may seem a strange choice to travel thousands of miles to a conflict ridden region of the world to celebrate a family event that most people have in their local synagogue.

The most honest reason is that I never really understood or identified with being Jewish as much as I do in Israel. That does not mean that I have not enjoyed or found meaning in Judaism outside of Israel; I definitely did. Jewish summer camp, youth group, being in a Jewish sorority in college, and marrying a Jewish man all offered me something tangible and connected to the idea of being a Jew.

But being in Israel is like having all of the good things about each of those experiences and then getting to feel that way in everything you do. Having a Jewish country means that all every day experiences are “Jewish” from buying an ice cream to watching the country close down for Shabbat.

I am sure the value of that reality is hard to translate, but the best analogy I can think of is ubiquity of Christmas celebrations in the U.S. Anyone living in the States knows that starting about November 1 every year, you can’t turn your head without being hit with a Christmas tree ornament. Most homes, businesses (including mine, because I love it), shops, restaurants, neighborhoods, and public spaces are covered in Christmas decorations. We even get new cups at Starbucks, which is a small message of communicating that the holidays are here. Everyone starts signing their emails with “Happy Holidays” and even the culture wars find new topics to argue over (taking the Christ out of Christmas, whether winter concerts at schools have enough for everyone, etc.).

There are probably lots of reasons everyone loves the holiday season. I have always assumed it was because it reminds those who celebrate of happy times, of being with family, of taking time out of life to celebrate and find joy. It is festive and it is fun. It often frustrated me though too, because I could never understand why it has to BE EVERYWHERE.

I often wondered whether it could still be Christmas without flooding our senses with what is, at its core, a Christian holiday. I used to feel resentment and a feeling of being left out, especially as a kid, during the holidays. Strangers ask kids what they want for Christmas and I had to explain, awkwardly, that my family is Jewish. The reaction was always strained with the adult not quite knowing what to say. I am still asked why we don’t put up lights or have a tree. But as I have gotten older, I no longer feel any negativity associated with Christmas, and have come to enjoy the time, without necessarily being part of it.

Why do I bring this up from a hotel room in Jerusalem? Because the way most Americans feel about Christmas, the sense of belonging, shared tradition, happiness and pride in celebrating, is what I feel in Israel. Hearing the stories of my religion come to life by walking the walls of King David, while also marveling at the way the modern Israelis have made a literal desert bloom, fills me up in a way I only experience here.

Brent and I never wavered about wanting the boys to be Jewish. So, to make it quite simple, we brought them here to celebrate their Bar Mitzvah so they could fall in love with the country, the place, and the feeling of being Jewish here. We want them to love being Jewish, and even with all of Israel’s complexities, it is easy to feel that way here.

I think we are off to a good start!

More later about our activities and the B’Nai Mitzvah, which was yesterday. Thanks to all for following along!

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cannibalisticshadows · 6 years

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Dear Evil Heaven (Chapter 1/2)

Wow look at that I actually made and finished a two-shot for once.

Ao3 Link | FF Link

Fandom: Megamind Relationship: Megamind/Roxanne Rating: T Warnings: brief antisemitic slur

“…And you look like a skank!”

“That’s big talk coming from a bobble head!”

“At least I cover myself!”

“You could walk into an BDSM club and no one would bat an eye!”

“Gah!” The blue supervillain threw his hands up, frustrated with the woman. Seriously, how hard was it to act a little bit scared? They had an audience! Well, soon, anyway. Metro Man was taking his sweet-ass time today, and hadn’t even made his expected appearance at the Park’s reopening yet! Megamind huffed, leaning back into his chair with all his villainous allure. He bet Waaayne was still primping his hair. Fwah!

And to make matters more difficult, his number one kidnappee was being an absolute brat!

“Is that anyway a lady should talk, Miss Ritchi? I’m sure it makes you a ton of free-ends!”

“More friends than you’ll ever make, blueberry!”

Oh, that was low even for her.

Megamind bolted upright, causing his chair to squeak on its wheels as it was pushed backwards most roughly. “Call me that again and I’ll really make you scream!”

“Oh I’m so scared,” Roxanne’s voice dripped with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes, “what in heavens will I do?”

“Yes! Beg for mercy! I’ll show you to never underestimate me again!” He shouted, and actually slammed his fist onto the control panels, causing one of his torture devises to spur into action. Roxanne, clearly thinking she had been in control, actually jolted with surprise as the razor-sharp blade came spinning and whirling down from the ceiling.

He hadn’t intended to let one of his inventions out, but yelped and grappled for the appropriate control to stop the blades—they were so close to her—!

It stopped, finally, after much fuss on his part. He turned, a little bit frightened to find what might be of Miss Ritchi… And thank goodness she was okay.

But apparently it cut a few hairs off her head. Oops.

Minion, who was standing idly by in the background, stared with his jaw open. The razor had been very close to actually touching their hostage.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, looking concerned. For once. “Goodness, Megamind, if I knew that calling you names would rile you up so bad I’d hold back a bit.”

He sniffed. He didn’t want her to know that by calling him blueberry would poke a tender spot. It was a favorite name the kids at school liked to call him.

“No! No, I’m perfectly fine! This is normal me!” Megamind insisted, ignoring Minion’s look of worry. “But you’re better than calling me names shool-yard brats use!”

Her blue eyes had been actuall anxious, before, but once he finished speaking Roxanne shot him a look of—what? Surprise?

“Shul?”

“That’s what I said, damn it!” He threw himself down onto his chair. Great, now she was making fun of his mispronunciation problem. This was turning out to be a disaster before it even begun! He turned to Minion to order him to get the knock-out gas out and cancel today’s evil plot, when—

“I thought I was the only one here—I mean, sure there are others, but—Megamind, I had no idea! Where do—or did—you go?.

One of his brows curled upward. Was she actually surprised he went to school? Wow. Sure, he only went for a few months, but still… “I went to shool like everyone else, Miss Ritchi! And I’m looking right through your nosy reporter skills, so don’t—“

“It’s just I didn’t expect you of all people to be Jewish.”

A look of confusion fell over his face. He spun around in his chair to face her properly.

“Say what now?”

She was looking in her lap with a look of thoughtfulness, an expression he only saw on her when she was reporting a case particularly interesting, with her brows drawn up and her lips curled into a funny little smile. “Did you have a bar mitzvah? What was your parsha?”

“What?”

She laughed, somewhat nervously. This was… unlike her. “Sorry, haha! I’m just—really surprised! I mean, you’re—an alien, right? You’ve never really confirmed that. As a kid I went to an orthodox shul—Sephardic. But after my father passed away, a little bit after my bat mitzvah, my family became more reformed… Megamind?”

She was looking at him, like she expected him to say something—Oh, had he hit his head on something? He wasn’t understanding a word she was saying. Panicking, he shifted his eyes to Minion, who shrugged, clueless as him. What was she talking about?

“Megamind?” She asked again.

“What—what language are you—“ If she had somehow changed languages, he had no clue. That frightened him, because he knew just about every language!

With his words, the report’s shoulders, previously up and attentive, slowly drooped down along with her expression. Her blue eyes became shifty. Worried, almost. “Shul… You know, synagogue? Temple?”

“I—“ Of course he knew was a synagogue was, he wasn’t stupid. But—how did Ritchi get the assumption he was apart of one of this planet’s religious groups? Megamind wasn’t religious himself; he was a man of science. Yet, as a child, he and Minion liked the idea of Heaven—a place where souls go to after a person dies. It comforted him to think his parents still watched out for him, even in death. He hadn’t been around long enough on his home planet to know of its religious aspects, but he was not one to completely dismiss the theological belief of a being greater than man. After all, he believed in Destiny to the point of worship. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Ritchi. But confusing me will get you nowhere! Minion!” Said henchfish jumped in place. “Plans are canceled! Take Miss Ritchi home!”

Roxanne opened her mouth to speak, looking almost frightened for a moment (wow she was hitting a lot of damsel-worthy expressions today) before Minion brought out the knock-out spray and gave her a reasonable dosage.

They watched the reporter slump in her chair, unconscious. He blinked owlishly and looked to his fishy friend. It seemed they had some research to do on this theology his favorite kidnappee associated herself with.

~.~.~.~

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Roxanne groaned as she came to, vision blurry and unfocused.

She’d slipped up big time today, and in front of Megamind of all people! Oh, this could be her downfall. If the station found out—Shit, she was fucked.

Slowly, she rose up from her red couch and stretched, angrily rubbing her eyes. Megamind was always looking for a weakness in her, and today he just found it.

Roxanne remembers her childhood well—Shabbat dinner, making Challah with Mom, the candles, kissing the mezuzah, preparing herself for her bat mizvah—yet that was in the past, when her father was still alive and well, laughing with her and her brother at the table, walking to shul. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Yet her father died, leaving her mother and her brother and herself alone, to a community, though it meant well, couldn’t keep their damn mouths shut with gossip. One little rumor and—oh, poor mama. Roxanne shook her head. Religion, in her eyes, could be good and well, but people—people could just make it shitty.

Still a widow, her mom’s “friends” let one little rumor get to them and—well, they moved away, when the stares and whispers became too much, to a smaller community. It was better, and they made new friends and the rabbi was much more understanding—that actually let to her mom getting remarried, but—Roxanne and her brother David went down two very different paths. He went to yeshiva and studied, while she—well, still bitter from the horrible way their community in New Bergville treated them, she moved away to college and got her first real taste of the outside world and became attached. Roxanne’s love for journalism grew and she learned, graduated, and—

Drifted. Of course she still spoke to her mom and brother—and her step-dad—but her visits home lessened until she could barely remember the morning prayers anymore. She didn’t even have mezuzahs up.

And if—if her boss found out—

”Jews! Filthy, money-greedy rats—never trust one!” Her boss had said, himself, before her and several people. Fuck, she’d so loose her job if he found out—

Vivian, who happened to be Hindu, and a good friend of hers, was “let go” after Joe found out she wasn’t “normal”. Joe had a serious intolerance for religion in general.

And now Megamind knew because she messed up and misheard him.

Fuck.

#megamind #avi writes stuff #megarox #jewish roxanne because why not #gag idea from megamind saying shool

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tevotbegotnaught · 4 years

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Dubov's Last Jump-off pt 3

Saturday afternoon, we found out the club couldn’t (or wouldn’t) accommodate our third night. Dubov had to pay us, of course. Mo was looking at other venues, possibly for tonite, realistically for the coming week. He asked our availability. Once we all responded, possibilities quickly evaporated. That weekend passed and more days after.

After waiting a week, I texted Mo about money. Hours later, he replied:

“High paint he otter eyes or sue didn’t cut anything”

At the gigs, I watched Mo use his phone; its screen at his nose, glasses mid way between forehead and hairline. He looked down precipitously, grumbled, grumbled again, then pressed send. What usually came through was a ransom note clipped from Beckett. He never corrected these puzzles until one of us asked. Here, a fully translated version of our exchange:

“I paid the other guys, you sure you didn’t get anything.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Did you send your invoice to Julie.”

“Yes”

“I’ll call them”

“is there anything I can do to expedite this?”

“Chris, I’m not your employer”

“Right”(!)

“There’s a rehearsal tonite, will you be there”

“I didn’t know about a rehearsal. Where and when?”

“Still working on a place. Maybe 7?” (3 hours from now)

“Tough for me”

“No worries. If you go, you’ll be paid of course”

“Ok”

“No worries. I’ll get back to you”

Now, I was enrolled in the Godot payment plan. Dubov was looking at spending four lifetimes in more chains than Issac Hayes ever wore. I just wanted to get my money.

Weeks later, Mo Bedbug went live.

“Bears ash oh Friday”

Mo called in a favor with some Long Islanders. We had a show Friday. I lobbied for travel money.

Any evening rush hour on the LIE (a highway, not an enormous falsehood) was a parking lot. Friday rush was tailgating minus libations. I pressed him for my other money in the bargain.

“I paid Pianist with Venmo. Do you have Venmo.”

(I send my Venmo)

“This is will be easy, I didn’t know you had Venmo.”

“Ok”(I offered twice before)

“I’ll see you Friday my place"

Mo balked at travel money, though. Arranging an Uber from his place and promising we'd miss rush hour. To get to Mo's, I took the bus, two of them. It cost me way more than the fare. Flushing Avenue, Shabbat imminent, was a sightseeing tour: high school kids, restaurant workers, construction crews. So many people boarding, I couldn’t see nor hear my stop and had to walk an extra half-mile.

Turning onto Mo’s street, a familiar Bushwick tableau appeared. A massive pit, surrounded on three sides by green plywood. Graffiti tags and band decals fading under the shrouds of old posters. At the curb, a ziggurat of garbage-strewn ten-foot pipes and a marooned RV, black spray paint scrawled over its siding and vents, windows cracked and stuffed with wads of insulation, front seats piled to the ceiling with bundled magazines and crumpled newsprint.

On the next block, I found Mo's address stenciled on the brick wall of a old factory. Drummer stood away from its entrance smoking and scrolling his phone. He looked up.

"Man, I texted him like 10 minutes ago."

"No answer?"

"He said he’s coming right down"

"I’ve been giving him progress reports. F***ing bus was crawling."

The building’s entrance, a glass and brushed steel module, sat cheek by jowl with a battered freight elevator. After a text reminder and more waiting, the freight elevator doors parted vertically. Mo let the canvas strap swing overhead.

"This way" he said, glancing over his shoulder at the gleaming foyer before pulling the strap down. The elevator enclosure, a hypoxic chamber of fuel vapors and sawdust, led darkly to a huge steel door. Mo punched a code and pulled the handle. Inside, a newly carpeted hallway, filled with tarps, drywall, paint cans and the potent smell of sandalwood.

"They’re still doing work....as you can see. My place is cool, though.”

"Where’s Keys (the new pianist)?"

"He’s here. Been here a while. Working on the music."

"You have a piano?"

"Uh, I have kind of a studio. Not for recording, but you know, instruments and stuff."

Mo had room for those instruments and plenty more. His walls sprouted art in every medium and material: paintings on wood, metal, plastic jugs, shards of glass; sculptures of bottle caps, cardboard, styrofoam; violent, erotic black and white photos fetishizing punk style and concert posters from Downtown’s acme.

I stooped to gawk at an undulating video in a KFC bucket.

“That’s from my gallery. I used to have a gallery. When it closed I moved everything here. Well, not everything, but…you know.”

Keys sat on a leather couch. He was a kid, maybe twenty-five. I was his grandfather. That messed me up. Before excusing himself, Mo pulled me an espresso from a fancy Italian machine. I packed sandwiches and coffee, but the extra shot was welcome. From a closed door, medicinal-grade weed wafted. We were a full hour behind schedule.

Out on the street, waiting for the Uber, Mo nodded at the construction site and listing RV, saying in his mumblecore voice,

"That’s my girlfriend’s art project.... I mean, ex-girlfriend. "

"The RV? She did THAT?"

"Yeah....Well, her friends... they did it together. I don’t know who did which part"

(There were ‘parts’?)

"How long has it been there?"

"Uh....nine months. Wait...yeah. We broke up six months ago. She was living in it for a while."

"Living in it? You’re kidding. Was that part of the project?"

He chuckled. "Yeah...I don’t know."

"We’re still friends" he said, mostly to tumbling litter in the street.

Inside the Uber, Mo continued: “the realtor told me this was east Williamsburg, but it’s not, it's Bushwick. I don’t care what they call it, of course. I don’t mind living in Bushwick. It’s easier to have a car here.”

“You have a car?”

“Not now. Had to get rid of it. Wasn’t right for this neighborhood”

“Wasn’t right?”

“it was an Audi R8. Midlife crisis car. These streets are so bad, I kept having to get it fixed.”

Driving due east, the winter sun behind us pooled on the shiny road. We careened through four lane traffic. Ahead, break lights fanned out, ruby droplets cascading off a humpback’s tail.

Drummer and Keys talked through the set, then volleyed gossip about mutual friends.

When the radio spun an artist he knew personally, Mo turned around and apropos-ed a story, interrupting the other guys. In the 80s, he produced videos for many fledgling stars. It was a new medium for him and Pop music. A few of his clients soared from Downtown digs to world domination. Mo didn’t stay on for their ascent, though. He also worked on an early Dubov-produced movie until the boss’s relentless cost-cutting and hostility wore him down. While he rambled, a vape pen did plenty of its own talking.

Tonight’s venue, a redux of a famous Long Island rock room, now tucked in the basement of a new boutique North Shore Inn. That building, a block-size Cape Cod, dropped like Dorothy’s whirling farmhouse at an angle to the tony commercial strip.

We had a seriously low pressure slot, opening for a veteran blues band. Ten white guys from three generations; a solid outfit with a long history playing sincere, tasty covers. Always simpatico, Karolina added "Stormy Monday" to our set list. Due to the short notice, we lost Pianist, our stellar MD, and Trumpet wasn’t available. Pruned to prototypical stripper band: saxophone, piano and drums. Not without some irony..

When the ladies hit “Uptown Funk", shimmying and signifying, the audience, almost all sixty year-old white dudes with the occasional spouse, started hooting and whistling. T and A wasn’t on the bill, but it still satisfied. Margherita did her canned steps for ”Too Darn Hot". Karolina was confident and sold her songs. Keys somehow kept the basslines and harmonies together. I completely missed the famous trumpet intro to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy". The ladies jumped in undaunted. The Male Gaze kept the show alight until we exited, dodging the headliner's B3, Leslie and vintage amps.

The ladies were pros now and we repaired to the underground parking lot to celebrate. The girls in jeans and hoodies, band in our "gangster suits". While she waited for Keys to blaze up. Margherita asked me,

“Did you have fun?”

"Sure, I always have fun" I told her. What counts as honesty when the entire premise of an act is fakery?

"Great" she said, tracking down the joint.

A couple hits and we went back inside, sitting down near the jacked-open exit door. The blues band’s horn section looked on wearily as the front man sang verses fashioned by tougher men for harsher times. From our seats, we saw Mo sweep through the green room doorway, his long canvas coat and scarf swinging. He pivoted at the closest table and exchanged with the owner, a grizzled man with a barely legal date. Their conversation rearranged chairs and sent the men striding out of the club, proving there actually were blues to be had everyday.

When Mo and dance partner failed to return, we headed upstairs and onto the porch, where patio furniture gleamed under blinding lights. At the foot of the wooden steps, livery cars glided in and out of the glare. After a flurry of texts, the ladies gathered their garment bags and kissed us goodbye. A black SUV, indistinguishable from the others, stopped and a rear window opened. Inside, Dubov’s face, like crumpled paper, if paper were milled from lipids and dusted with ash. "Good job guys" he said, voice level and hoarse. We thanked him. The ladies got in on the far side, Dubov’s window closed and the car drove off.

************************************************************************************

After dropping him at the factory, Mo left the meter running on our Uber so the band could get home. On the way, we speculated about Dubov’s eventual prison sentence, Mo’s fee and when "the New Yorkers" might book their first Bar Mitzvah.

The driver, a Bengali, navigated without commenting on our post-mortems, confirming and re-confirming each address for his app. I was last on the circuit. Once we were alone, I asked the driver about his night. His answers were brief and courteous. As we waited at a light, he turned his head toward me. "Excuse me, one question. Have you ever been to Las Vegas?"

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furtivefreckles · 5 years

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Leftovers, Saints, and Excitement

Hello!

I have so much to tell you! It has been a whirlwind of a first week, and my freckles have at least doubled in number! The only reason I have any time for blogging right now is because it is Shabbat. Many of you are probably familiar with the concept of the Sabbath, the day of rest, and Shabbat is the OG Jewish version. In Israel, public transportation shuts down for the day, as well and most shops and businesses. I have a picnic planned with some of my new friends, a sort of pot-luck lunch because we won’t be able to go out and buy food anywhere until late tonight when Shabbat ends.

My contribution will be a pasta salad-type dish that was the leftovers from the Shabbat dinner yesterday (Friday). I did a thing that I think most religious people will recognize, which was that I stood around talking until they were about ready to shut the lights off on us. Since we were the last people there, they forced the leftovers upon us. The dinner was simple but delicious. It was obviously kosher, and it is difficult to find non-kosher foods here. On the 4th of July, I had a burger to celebrate, and I desperately missed having cheese on it.

Leftover Pasta covered for reasons, photo creds to Roy (furthest left)

We were invited to attend that Shabbat dinner and service through our school’s student life office, and it was lovely. The vast majority of the service is sung. There was a hymn that was literally Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah note for note and everyone hummed along. They had a female rabbi, which is something that I believe is indicative of how diverse the people and cultures within Jerusalem are.

You have the Muslim neighborhoods, the more secular neighborhoods, the ultra-orthodox neighborhoods; where you see the men with the long sidelocks, in black suits no matter the temperature, and in the wide-brimmed hats that remind me of the Amish back home; and you have everything in between as these cultures mix, ebb, and flow into one another. Yesterday I had the chance to go to the Old City and visit three incredible sites that represent these cultures.

The Western Wall, photo creds to my girl Kara

Prayers, including mine, bursting from the crevices in the Wall

The first was Temple Mount, which we didn’t get to spend a lot of time at, so I will be going back. The second was the Western Wall, where the men and women have separate sections to go up and pray at one of the original walls of the Temple (the female side being much smaller). There was a bar mitzvah happening, and all of these women in white were crowding and peering over the separating wall to be a part of the celebration. The Wall itself was packed with women praying and touching those holy stones. Every crack was full of paper as high as any human being could reach; the prayers that had been left by so many before us. I left my mother and grandmother’s prayers they had given me in a large crack towards the base of the wall. Right now the significance of all these women, all mothers, daughters, sisters, etc., and me putting prayers from two of the most influential women in my life, hits me. The sheer number of women throughout history that have been to this holy city hits me, and reminds me of a woman one of my professors is in love with.

Probably not the most accurate depiction of her, but it’s pretty

Her name was Helena, and she was a prostitute in the 3rd century. A Roman officer fell in love with her, and they had a son together. The officer was called back to Rome, and he took their son, the young Constantine. If you recognize that name, it is because he became emperor of the Roman Empire and was heavily influential (an understatement) in the early years of Christianity. The reason he became interested in Christianity is because once he was emperor, he sought out his mother. Now an octogenarian, she became Empress of the Roman Empire, and Constantine bade her ask anything of him. She asked for three ships to take her to what she would make the terra sancta, the Holy Land. She had become Christian and wished to go to where Jesus had lived and preached. She asked where he had been born, had preached, had been crucified, etc., pointed her finger and said build a church here, many of which are still around in one form or another, including the Church of the Holy Sepulchre which I will get to in a minute. This elderly woman spent two years riding around building churches, and then she returned to find her son in the middle of a war between the eastern and western halves of his empire. She told him to carry the Cross of Christ, which she had found in the Holy Land, in front of his army and he would surely win. He did, and he stopped the persecution of Christians, making the religion the law of the land. My professor credits St. Helena with being the true beginning of Christianity, but he also believes that St. John the Baptist was a more influential person than Jesus Himself. It’s a fun class.

The most amazing place we went was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I can’t even begin to describe the feeling of it. The feeling of being in what may have been the place where the most important event in human history happened. You may disagree with that, but to me and to any Christian, Jesus dying and rising for us is literally the biggest deal. I touched the slab of rock where they supposedly prepared Him for burial, and stood huddled out of the way in a stone archway as the monks processed by, chanting in Latin and bringing me to tears. I am hoping to attend a Mass there tomorrow, so I will definitely let you know how that goes. Even if this place is not what we believe it to be, the significance that it has been given is what makes it special. Which reminds me; please send me prayers! I’ll try to pray a few rosaries tomorrow for you all!

Religious praying in front of the Tomb

The dome above the Tomb

I have so much more that I could tell you about, like the wonderful group of friends I am making, or how much The Shuk (Manahe Yehuda Market) reminds me of my time in Guatemala, but I think I will leave you wanting more. Keep being awesome!!

#Jerusalem #Travel #Israel #Church of the Holy Sepulchre #Western Wall #Temple Mount #Helena

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