Alef: The NEXT Conversation
25: Changing Traditions
Does the word “Tradition” make anyone else think first of this unforgettable scene from Fiddler on the Roof?
Actually, the story of this Broadway-musical-turned-film is a pretty accurate representation of what Alef writers are talking about in this issue: Changing Traditions. Just as each of the daughters of the Old Country grappled with Jewish traditions in their lives, so did each of the generations that followed.
When we first started putting this issue together, we thought that maybe it was a generational phenomenon – that the Birthright Generation is reinventing older traditions to fit a more modern life. Boy, were we surprised to find the story of a 105 year-old Jewish woman whose remains had been held onto since September because she wanted to be cremated instead of (more traditionally) buried. It seems that even our grandparents were making waves when it came to maintaining age-old Jewish cultural practices.
With so many laws, rules, and rituals to be evaluated and either kept or challenged, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Be a part of this conversation for the next few weeks and share with us the traditions that you’re grappling with as well.
Photo by Jemsweb, licensed under Creative Commons.
Changing Traditions Posts:
Cross to Bear
The First Cut is Always the Deepest
A Not-So-Dangerous Tradition
My Journey in Judaism
Punk Rock Prayer Space
A Herring Restoration
By Rafi Samuels-Schwartz
We’re standing in the back of a small New York establishment, learning the finer points of how to eat Herring, when Niki Russ Federman looks up at the portrait of her great-grandfather, Joel Russ, hanging on the wall of her shop, Russ & Daughters.
“Young Jews don’t necessarily realize the distinction between the terms ‘Appetizing” and ‘Deli’” she explains. “The word ‘appetizing’ didn’t make it into the American culture, like ‘deli.’”
In a sense, this is true. Today both a pastrami-on-rye as well as bagels-and-lox are celebrated, if not revered, by American Jews trying to connect with the tastes of Eastern Europe’s “Old World” Jewish communities by eating what they call “deli” food. And, while ordering a brisket sandwich can be a delicious way to commune with the past, you simply can’t appreciate “Old World” food without understanding the distinct “appetizing” history, and terminology, of bagels and lox, smoked salmon, herring, and fancy cream cheeses; the food Niki’s great-grandfather Joel sold from his pushcart 95 years ago, and the food that she still sells today, in the store that bears her family name.
In some ways Russ & Daughters, one of the last of New York’s “appetizing stores” is an anomaly: an American store devoted to the particularly Old World specialty of forshpayz, the cold appetizers many Jews ate before their full meals. That Russ & Daughters exists today is both a testament to the quality of their lox, and the dedication of their many fans, both young and old. Niki tells a story of hiking a trail in California, only to be stopped, chatted, and ultimately thanked by fellow hikers who noticed her Russ & Daughters t-shirt.
“It’s not just about the food,” she explains. “There are all these stories wrapped up,” She notes that most encounters, like the one on the California hiking trail, follow the same pattern: “[people say] ‘Oh, I love that place. And then they tell a story.’” It’s these stories that makes Russ & Daughters so special, infusing the shop with an air of authenticity and Old World street-cred, and earning Russ & Daughters’ blog, Lox Populi, a webby award this past year.
As we browse toward the back of the shop a customer turns, and without prompting, remarks that he comes to Russ & Daughters because it represents a “living food tradition” in a way that grocery stores can’t. Introducing himself as Mark, he goes on to order pickled herring, mustard dill herring, and a little bit of bright yellow curry herring as well. We chat for several minutes, and Mark explains that he sees the food at Russ & Daughters as a form of soul (sole?) food.
“My herring restoration,” he chuckles.
As I turn to examine the jars of jams and jellies lining the back wall Mark begins to leave, but is caught by Niki who gives him a big hug. While the the name of the shop refers to Joel Russ’ children, it’s clear that in Russ & Daughters everyone feels like family. We ask Niki about her own familial connection to the Old Country. She explains that she has “herring in her blood” and that working in the shop, surrounded by the food eaten by Jews for centuries, “reinforces who we are in the most primal way.” And, how does Niki feel about the portrait of her great-grandfather Joel looking down over the counter?
“I like that I have to think about him all the time.”
Before we leave, Niki gives us a Holland Herring to sample. Almost entirely uncooked, and covered with diced onions, this is forshpayz “in the raw.” As we sit together eating the fish, I hear other customers toward the front of store laugh, and wish us L’chiam, “to life!” It may be 2009, and we may be on New York’s Lower East Side, but it’s clear that the spirit of the Old Country is alive and well. We can practically taste it.
Thumbnail photo by J_bary, licensed under Creative Commons.
I've Got a Crush on Regina Spektor
By Richard Skeen
This piece originally appeared on Alef in Issue #1: Old Country.
Unlike most of my Jewish friends, I didn’t have a Bubbe who regaled me with stories of the “Old Country.” I loved my grandmothers, but they were modern and American (one was actually a part-time rancher!) and simply didn’t fulfill my longing for Jewish tales of sad, forbidding places that, in my mind, represented the soul of the Jewish people. I wanted a personal history full of daring escapes from menacing Cossacks, of warm borscht soup and klezmer tunes, wise old Rabbis and alien-sounding names. I wanted Russian roots to enhance my Jewishness and figured a Bubbe was the ticket.
Soon after arriving to New York City from Oregon, I found a Jewish girlfriend with Old Country Russian roots, at least on paper. While I imagined that her deep brown eyes carried generations of Lithuanian Shtetl wisdom, and her brooding moods were by-products of oppression and pogroms, the truth was a little tamer. And her mother, the Bubbe I’d hoped to score in the match, was anything but: an Upper East Side contemporary art dealer, she had little interest in things Jewish or Perestroika.
With time, my Bubbe-longing faded. But it all came back in a flash when I discovered my perfect woman – Regina Spektor. In a faux KGB hat and a wicked smile – compelling if not quite beautiful on the cover of her Soviet Kitsch album – it was love at first sight. And her music – brilliant, quirky, funny, and wise – immediately struck me as, well, as something that could only come from a Russia-to-the Bronx (with a couple of years in a New Jersey Yeshiva) soul who had serious “Old Country” cred. Part of the anti-folk scene, Spektor’s songs are full of funny language and Jewish references. She uses a heavy New York accent on some words as an ode to the City, and her lyrics on songs like Samson and Laughing With are almost Dylan-esque in their biblical knowing. I was smitten, Spektor was part Russian-Jewish temptress and part Old Country Bubbe, always easily available on my iPhone. My desires were fulfilled.
Fortunately, Spektor’s talent justifies my crush, including the frequent Facebook uploads and disproportionate presence on my play lists. And truthfully, my wife may even understand, because listening to my former-Soviet crush while I prepare Shabbas cholent is almost as good as having my very own Bubbe.
Photo by jmtimages, licensed under Creative Commons.
09: What's So Funny?
This past October, comedian Marc Maron sat down with fellow funny-man Eugene Mirman to record an episode of “WTF,” Maron’s weekly podcast. As the two seasoned comics traded jokes, insults, and stories of life on the road, Maron remarked that he had, until recently, felt uncomfortable doing “Jewish humor” on stage. Mirman, himself a Jewish immigrant from the former Soviet Union, began to regale Maron with stories of growing up Jewish in Russia, where “they really hate Jews.”  Maron’s reluctance to be too “Jewish” on stage, juxtaposed with Mirman’s experience with old fashioned, actual, Jew-hating (for lack of a better term) is insightful, poignant, and above all, hilarious.Â
But, is it “Jewish” humor?
What about this:Â A well known Jewish comedian hamming it up (yes, pun intended) at the Last Supper:
The comic is Jewish, but the context? Not so much. So, is it “Jewish” comedy? You tell us…
Alef wants to know “What’s so funny?”  For the next few weeks, we’ll be featuring stories about comedy, humor, and the things that make us laugh as Jews.  Think we missed something? Are we not nearly as funny as our grandmothers always told us we were? Post your favorite examples of “Jewish” humor in the comments section, or email them to Alef@birthrightisraelnext.org.
Happy Laughing!Â
-Alef
Photo by Procsilas, licensed under Creative Commons.
…
What’s So Funny Posts
Falling for Funny Guys
The Set Up
My Father’s Name was Lewis Lander
If You Ask Me…
Make ‘em Laugh
The Tennis Lesson
Scientists? Sure. Noble laureates? Easy. Writers, business men, film makers, and revolutionaries, those lists are long. But athletes? It’s tough, I know; Judaism and sports are not exactly in concert. Trying to find my identifications as a Jew I’ve been exploring this peculiarity of mine over the last three years by learning about the Torah and about Jewish traditions, culture, and history. I’ve even traveled to Israel twice, yet I learned just recently that over 7000 Jewish athletes gather every four years in Israel. The existence of the Maccabi Games, the “Jewish Olympics,” came as a complete surprise to me. I’m competitive, I like sports, so why have the rabbis kept this from me? I even have a sport I can play.
When I was 10 years old, it was decided for me that tennis was the sport I needed to pick up. Asking my mother and father why they decided to send me to tennis I only get vague non-answers:
“Hard to remember why we sent you there,” my father explains. “Maybe it was convenient, maybe we thought you were short and didn’t have a basketball future, maybe we thought we didn’t want your long nose broken in boxing and the few brain cells you have damaged.” He paused, “Hard to remember now.”
Typical protective Jewish parents.
I think back to the first day, when my father took me up the street, and up the hill to the bus station. We hopped on the bus which wound its way through town, to parts not clearly recognizable to me. Within 20 minutes we were there, walking off the bus and into a building made of heavy stone or cement. As we walked in, I remember thinking the building was a fortress and found it fascinating that a tennis court was set up inside. There was a wooden floor, and the ceilings were extremely high, with the windows above our heads covered in a rusty metal mesh. After a quick introduction my father left me with the instructions that I was to come home right after my tennis lesson.
I was left, deserted, with the instructor, and given a tennis racket. I had played table tennis many times and was part of a table tennis training group. Badminton was a family tradition played on all of our vacations as well as in front of our nine story residential building. But tennis was something completely new. The trainer was a middle-aged man with a mustache and socks rolled up over his calves. This being my first lesson, he pointed out the proper way to hold the racket and explained the point of the game: “the ball flies over the net to the other side of the court and the other person hits it back to you.”
The learning ended there. Practice consisted of people hitting balls back and forth, chasing the balls down and then doing it over and over. At one point, a ball came zooming at me with incredible speed. I hit it with the racket facing up, and watched the ball fly high up in the air, and into the window, its progression stopped only by the rusty protective metal. The impact made a loud CLING that reverberated through the high empty space. The game stopped. Everyone was looking at me.
The trainer decidedly took this interruption as an opportunity to teach and proceeded to yell at me for a few minutes about how “the ball should land on the other side of the court, that the game was played with the other opponent not with the window and why the hell was I aiming for the window in the first place if my goal was not to break it?” The lesson was over but my anguish was not soon forgotten, and I vowed not to be part of this dumb sport, with balls that have a mind of their own, flying wherever they want, and I’m the one who gets yelled at in the end.
In true family disposition I came home and said nothing to my parents. Next week, as it would be for many following weeks, it was time for another lesson. Either my mother or my father would take the bus down with me to the fortress of tennis. I would waive goodbye to my parents and walk into the building, only to immediately turn around and walk right out. I would spend the next hour walking the streets, kicking rocks, and sitting around. I would not hold the tennis racket in my hands ever again.
By end of the summer of that year, the Jewish Federation finalized our papers and the “Union,” which by now was quickly falling apart, allowed our family to make our exit to America. Our emigration put a stop to this farce and saved me from explaining why my tennis skills are what they are today. Had I know about the Maccabi Games I might have chosen to pursue tennis, to become like a Maccabee, a winner, successful in my pursuit of victory and showing courage in the face of adversity. Maybe not.
Anyway, the way I see it, if you want to get ahead in this world, you have to play golf.
Photo provided by StuSeeger, licensed under Creative Commons
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