Alef: The NEXT Conversation
Jews Gone Camping, Part 1
by Ruvym Gilman
I didn’t get why it was such a big deal. People go camping all the time so why should my weekend trip raise eyebrows, ruffle sensibilities?
It was while at a conference the weekend before my trip that I was reminded what seemed to be so unusual about it. One gentleman read a poem to the crowd.
“If you’re sleeping bag is tiltin’ you can find me at the Hilton, cause Jews don’t camp. If you’re tired of the diet come and meet me at the Hyatt babe. Jews don’t camp.”
Jews don’t camp? Wasn’t this just an idea that people liked to perpetuate because it was a complement to the stereotypes?
I thought of the Jews who had gone to sleep-away camps since they were five. Hadn’t they spent summers out in the woods, fighting away gnats while succumbing to the emergent urges of pubescence?
I thought of the Jews I met while in Israel, the tanned ones with rock-hard calves peeking out from worn-out hiking boots, the ones who seemed to levitate on their way up mountain paths and would laugh at us Americans whenever we grimaced at the splattered mud build-up on the backs of our jeans.
“Will this come out?”
Then I remembered my own short-list of camping experiences. Even while I saw myself as a “camper,” I realized that this was still a relatively new thing for me. I thought myself “deflowered” after the overnight experience at the “Bedouin” tent tourist-trap while on Birthright. Then, a year later, committed to taking my ruggedness a step further, I told a friend that I was going camping in upstate New York. I described the trip, pointing to my rolling suitcase and double-wrapped sleeping bag that I had in tow.
“Car camping is not ‘camping,’” she announced. “You’re lame.”
I decided to blame my lack of outdoorsy acumen on my parents and their Soviet Union origins, their rejection of all community-based ideals like the Boy Scouts or belonging to a temple, their entire philosophical approach to the world embodied in the way they pronounced the word “beach.”
They never sent me to sleep-away camp when I was a kid, surely because summer camp and camping were intimately associated in their Eastern European-bred minds with Communist youth groups and indoctrination. Who knows what they teach those kids in the woods? They come back wearing red berets and Che Guevara t-shirts, carrying pocket-sized copies of Mao’s writings and spouting anti-capitalist rhetoric.
“You bourgeois pigs! I don’t need to take this.”
“Off to bed for you! No borscht!”
Instead I spent my summers at my grandparents’ “datcha” out in Eastern Long Island, gaining weight on an unsupervised diet of kielbasa and slushies.
I was committed to getting past my upbringing, and car camping was a necessary step in the right direction. Here was finally a chance to brave the elements, to sleep on the ground and feel every little pebble and variation in the terrain under my back. I woke up after that first night with a strained neck and numb toes. As far as I was concerned, I was now a camper.
Photo provided by the author.
Ruvym is on the Alef editorial board. He has also written about traveling in Israel, foreign languages, Russian accents, and fur coats.
It’s Like Riding a Bike
by Jake W-M
When did bike-riding as an adult become a “thing?” One moment I was riding around the suburban Connecticut neighborhood where I grew up, the next moment I was old enough to drive, and my bike was rust. Now that I’m in my late 20s, it’s a “thing.” I don’t necessarily mean a thing as in a trend (though it’s clearly trendy in some spheres). I had to get a bike, a helmet, get a lock–because how is it ever going to fit in my tiny Brooklyn apartment–and learn to ride in traffic–to work! Let’s not forget that I was not even a particularly athletic kid to start. Energy and endurance are at a premium now.
And what’s so Jewish about biking? This is a Jewy blog, isn’t it?
I’ve always considered myself environmentally conscious, but only recently an activist. One of the most fundamental values of Judaism is Tikkun Olam, or fixing the world. This means different things to different people. “Environmentalism” is possibly just the most literal translation. The best part about fixing the planet is that it really means helping people. We can’t let the planet go down the tubes because we need a place for our kids to live (there are countless articles about Jewish continuity that never seem to mention this; wonder why). Getting out of my car onto a bike is one simple way to minimize how much damage I do to the world while I’m here.
A year ago I began working for Hazon, a Jewish environmental organization and home of the aptly named “People of the Bike.” One of our flagship programs is our New York Ride and Retreat, a two-day retreat over Shabbat in upstate New York followed by two days of cycling into Manhattan, now in its eleventh year. Participants raise money to benefit innovative Jewish environmental projects. As staff, I was told I would have the privilege of cycling alongside riders and crew (the crucial support team for the riders) of all different ages, backgrounds, and levels of experience. I had a few short months to get a bike, start training, and begin fundraising. I was excited but incredibly nervous. I wasn’t up on my bike lingo, my body wasn’t exactly a well-oiled machine, and the thought of riding with traffic left me concerned to say the least. My only goals at the time were to survive this ride, not embarrass myself, and ultimately to begin commuting to work by bike. Needless to say, Hazon got me there.
The group ride was incredibly powerful. The two-day retreat that precedes the ride builds the community and sets the tone. Buzz words like pluralism and inclusiveness get thrown around, but I saw and stood by 300 people of every type of Jewish observance level and background eat a meal together without starting a fight. Diversity truly felt more than tolerated, but appreciated and encouraged.
I felt the same once we hit the road. I rode with the group going the shortest distance. There were beginners, families, and what seemed the largest age spread. There was no judgement, only smiles and encouragement. We cheered each other on, stopped for breaks together, walked when the hills were too steep, and made sure no one had to ride alone. At some level, it was a demonstration. We represent the Jewish community, we care about the environment, we care what Judaism has to say about healthy and sustainable living, and we’re going to be very public about it. The times I’ve felt united with a large group of Jews about anything are few and far between. This was for sure one of them.
At the end of our 36 mile route for day one, I wish I had picked a longer route. More importantly, I felt like I had the tools I needed to make biking a part of my daily routine. My commute is just a fraction of the mileage of the New York Ride route, and I now do it a few days a week. The benefits keep surprising me. The days I ride to work usually my most productive–by the time I arrive, I’ve already accomplished something. I feel like I’m in the best health of my life. When I need to run an errand, my mind jumps to the time and distance of riding before I think about the bus or the subway. More importantly, I feel less destructive and less passive as a member of my eco-system. I’m living a healthier lifestyle and using a highly sustainable form of transportation.
I still take the subway, I still ride buses, and I’ve been known to rent a car. There’s no pretending that I’ve got this completely figured out, but I’ve made some critical changes that have turned out to be pretty simple. Riding my bike makes me feel like a better person and a better Jew. Really, it’s just like riding a bike, only it’s even better with a bit of cavanah, or intention. If I can do it, anyone–really, anyone–can do it.
Photo care of Hazon.
Jake W-M is an Alef regular. Read his posts on Indie Minyanim, Jewish Communal Workspace, and being Jewish-Italian for the Holidays. Email alef@birthrightisraelnext.org to learn how to join the regulars.
Changing the Face of Judaism/Judaism’s Changing Face
By Erika Davis
This post originally appeared on Erika’s Blog, Black, Gay, and Jewish: A Gay, Black Woman’s Discovery of Her Jewish Self.
A few conversion classes ago the rabbi asked how we thought we, a room full of Jews-to-be, would change Judaism. We all gave answers and today, for some reason, two weeks later I’m still thinking about it. As converts, we are changing Judaism and as a result the “face” of Judaism will be forever changed. Things that I like, foods that I like, music I enjoy will inevitably become Jewish Things, Jewish Food, Jewish Music.
As a black woman, that fact seems clearer, or more obvious, but is it? When I think of my born-Jewish friends I think they all are making changes to Judaism in their own way. One of my friends is in love with a Catholic man who loves being Catholic. Whenever I see him lately, it is at Shabbat service and he’s wearing a kippah, clapping, singing, chanting. He’s there because he loves her and if they get married they will change what Judaism means. Their children would be Jews because their mother is a Jew but they’d be living in a multi-faith family weaving different traditions into one another-forever changing the fabric of Judaism.
I have another friend who is a born Jew who’s a lesbian (truth be told, I’ve got a lot of lesbian Jewish friends) and we’re all changing the structure of the Jewish family. When two Jewish women make the decision to spend their lives together and create a family together that family will be Jewish-as both mothers are Jews-but that Jewish family is “different” than what the mind thinks of as a Jewish family. The family may be secular or observant but that lesbian (or gay) family changes the face of Judaism.
When Jews adopt children from China, Korea, or black boys and girls those children will be raised as Jews and hopefully they will raise their children as Jews and then the spectrum of color in the Jewish religion in the US would be as varied as the faces of Christians and Muslims.
I always struggle with the concept of the Jewish race because I’m a religious Jew. When emerge from the mikvah as a Jew and identify with all Jewish people my racial make up will still be black. I’m learning, as I visit synagogues and talk with other black Jews or Jews of Color, that in the US the picture that comes to mind when one says Jew is European. Even when one says Sephardic Jew, the image isn’t one of a black face, or even an Asian face when there are many black Jews and Asian Jews-born and converted.
Part of the reason I want to go to Israel so badly is to see what the faces of non-American Jews look like there. Even now, when I see an Orthodox Jew of color walking down the streets of Ditmas Park or Midwood I’m shocked, in awe, and I’ll totally admit I’m captivated. I actually tried to stop a woman on Coney Island Avenue late summer to chat her up. She thought I was crazy, of course, and brushed passed me and what could I have expected from her? For her to chat with a woman who was her same color but definitely not of the same faith. I was wearing pants and most definitely sporting a low-cut v-neck shirt, she was frum.
Before I made the formal commitment to going through a conversion I attended a few different synagogues in Manhattan. I was incredibly nervous. I was sure that I’d be the only person of color in the room. I was sure that everyone would turn around a look at me, as if a spot light had shone on me. I was sure that I’d be completely lost. When I walked into the first synagogue some people looked up, most did not and I was completely lost. Even now when I enter a new synagogue I get annoyed at the people who look at me, and do not talk to me. I want to say, “If you have a question, ask” Other times I think, why should they look and stare? I have walked into synagogues where no one seems to notice me and I get paranoid that they’re trying to avoid looking at me and become incensed that they aren’t seeing my blackness.
There was a time when, to be PC, people would say “I don’t see race, I see the person.” That sentiment irked me, and still does today, because I need you to see my race. I need you to see that I am a black woman and try to understand what that means. If you don’t see my race then you don’t see who I am as a person. As a Black Jew, I struggle with identifying as such. Yet, I am a black Jew and I need you to see that the two can be one. I may be a convert but my future children will be just a Jews who are black.
In the end all of us are changing Judaism’s face. We add to it and take away from it what we will, at the same time strengthening it and dare I say, sometimes weakening it? I like to think that I’m bringing to Judaism my years of Christianity, however faulty they were. I’m bringing my love of Southern cooking and what it means to bring in a New Year (with black eyes and collard greens) I’m bringing my love of singing, clapping, and praising God in a way that brings a “joyful noise”. I’m bringing my questions and doubt, most of all, just me.
This month in Sh’ma, there are great articles on the definitions of Jews along with a beautiful photo essay on what a Jew looks like. I love meeting Jews of Color and born Jews here and in my life. It’s a blessing and joy to know that there are so many of us, small threads, being woven into the larger fabric that is Judaism. I can only hope that our diversity, our ethnicity, and our non-Jewish paths can only enrich the Jewish experience now and in the future.
Photo by Zeevveez, licensed under Creative Commons.
Cross to Bear
By Ari Averbach
I try to go to temple regularly. This is a good idea since I am studying to be a rabbi. Two weeks ago I went to the synagogue where I became a Bar Mitzvah and I saw a new sign as I walked in. It identified four different services happening at the same time. One in the main sanctuary, and the rest in other rooms scattered around the large property. I went to a wonderful service in a pre-school classroom.
Last week, I went to the largest synagogue west of the Mississippi and again was confronted with the choice of multiple services, only one of which was in a normal sanctuary. I joined a side service in the room that usually hosts the kiddush lunch. I was sitting behind the cantor and rabbi.
The more I thought about place and space, the more I realized that the modern synagogue is set up like a church. Have you noticed that? If all you added was a cross over the ark, then it would feel like we were at a church. The congregation sits in pews or rows of folding chairs stretching in one direction with the rabbi and cantor, typically, standing behind lecterns on a stage of some sort. Stained glass windows, choir section, organ, all of the necessary accoutrement for American-style worship.
If you’ve gone on the Taglit-Birthright Israel trip, you have probably been to the synagogue in Tsfat that the Ari (no relation) helped build four hundred forty years ago. It’s tiny, colorful, and looks like no American synagogue that I have ever seen. Somehow, over the last few hundred years, we have come to a religion-wide tacit agreement to build all of our places of worship in a way that, if we went bankrupt or lost too many members (a constant fear in every Jewish board meeting), we could easily sell it to our Protestant neighbors.
Growing up, our shul was the typical American major center of Judaism, and I thought that was normal. In Los Angeles there are several temples that look like that, able to hold a thousand people in the sanctuary while kids could hang out in the playgrounds, the youth areas, or one of the many classrooms around the ginormous building, so I assumed that was how traditional Judaism had always been. Then I started looking around and doing some reading.
So did many other people. Especially young rabbis fed up with same-old same-old invented tradition. In recent years, there has been a bucking of that tradition to get back to the roots of our original customs. Unaffiliated minyanim are popping up all across the country, playing with the rules. Seats are arranged in circles, there is no stage, there is no choir, no organ, no obvious place to hang a cross. They are portable and rearrange-able week-to-week, trying out new layouts. The rabbi and cantor, if they are employed by this minyan, are of the people, not over the people. They do not want to be cookie-cutter, or standard, or similar to the mega-shul down the road. They want to be unique and authentic and faithful to true tradition. They want to question our rituals the way the Ari did in the 1570s.
So much of modern Judaism is formed by the world around us, which is not a bad thing. Our service is fashioned on Islamic services, since Judaism was going through a re-birth thirteen hundred years ago, when ninety percent of world Jewry lived under Muslim rule. Then when we shifted into a Christian world, it transformed in some ways, mainly in Germany and Eastern Europe, to suit that world. After the Shoah, there was a thought that we needed to fit in and be the same as our neighbors so it would be harder to single us out.
Finally, for the first time in recent history (maybe ever) we can daven how we like, in buildings we erect. And maybe we can even create our own new traditions, pushing Judaism forward inch-by-inch.
Photo by Emmanuel Dyan, licensed under Creative Commons.
Nice Catholic Girl
By Danielle Selber
Come to one of my many Shabbat dinners, and you’ll find a motley crew of diverse and spirited people. You’ll see a dark Yemenite Jew with a broad smile arguing about Torah with a freckled Jew of Polish descent, kippahs askew; a contingent of secular Russian-born Jews playing Hungry Hungry Hippos; and a black Jew trading chummus recipes with a Jersey-born Italian Jewish girl with an attitude to match. But even if the room is packed, you won’t be able to miss my good friend Cindy. Cindy is a Columbian, dark-skinned, jet-black haired beauty, with heavy eyelids and a bright, catching smile. And to the chagrin of all my Jewish male friends, whose faces become comically crestfallen when I break the news, Cindy is the only non-Jew in the room.
Roman Catholic by faith, Cindy ended up in my group of close friends through my best friend from high school who she works with. Our circle is comprised almost exclusively of Jews, people with strong Jewish identities and a close connection to our local community. That means Cindy spends a lot of her time doing very Jewish things, surrounded by very Jewish people. She attended the very first Shabbat dinner I ever hosted, and since then she has become a best friend and an integral part of my community.
Endlessly curious and open to new experiences, Cindy is always up for a Jewish happy hour or a hearty game of dreidel at my parent’s annual Hanukkah party. One Friday night, a bunch of friends and I, including Cindy, ended up at a “Jazz Shabbat Concert” in the city. We settled ourselves into the pews, Cindy between two of our best girl friends, and me one row ahead. I had assumed there would be a short service before the jazz began, but most of my friends hadn’t thought that far ahead. When the cantor opened his mouth to sing, our two friends began to shift in their chairs, giving each other sideways looks in worried panic. I had a moment of pause – poor Cindy, how uncomfortable she must be! But when I turned around to look at her, she was clapping her hands with a look of pure delight on her face. Afterward she exclaimed about the loveliness of the service, the beauty of the music.
So surrounded by Judaism and Jewish ritual, I find I sometimes take for granted things like the elegance of a Shabbat service or the camaraderie of a Jewish community. It’s so easy to miss the loveliness of these rituals that often become rote after too many years of Hebrew school and Bat Mitzvahs. When I see Judaism through Cindy’s eyes, I suddenly appreciate it that much more.
I am getting my Masters in Jewish Studies and plan to enter the field of Jewish communal service. I will certainly be exposed to Jews of varied backgrounds and mixed faiths. Cindy’s presence in my community keeps me constantly inspired to create a culture of welcomeness, where even a practicing Roman Catholic can feel accepted and comfortable. I’m extra careful to define terms and explain rituals so she never feels left out or slighted. I find that even people who were brought up Jewish benefit from this consideration, learning new things about rituals or being encouraged to ask questions.
Once in a while, the fact that Cindy isn’t Jewish comes up (like the time she sent away her half-finished plate of food at Houlihan’s and the rest of us – all Jews – yelled to the waiter to bring it back, someone remarking “Cindy, you are definitely not Jewish” as she laughed, shaking her head). But usually, Cindy blends seamlessly into our community, soaking up experiences and radiating positivity. This year, we all spent Christmas Eve at Cindy’s parent’s house. For once, it was me who was asking questions, learning new things, and experiencing something so foreign from my upbringing.
It happens to be that Cindy embodies some of the most coveted Jewish values – impossible kindness, endless humility and easy grace. I see her choice to be so closely connected to a community so different than her own as reflecting a genuine love of humanity, an embracing of differences for what they can teach us instead of how they can divide us. In this way Cindy is a role model to me, and I have found that our friendship makes me a better person, a better friend, and a better Jew.
Read more posts from Issue 24: Jewish Women
Photo by Jakob Montrasio, licensed under Creative Commons.
Follow Us
2009. Alef: The NEXT Conversation All rights reserved.
Home |
About |
Contact Us
Recent Comments