The Lilith Blog

January 11, 2010 by admin

Jews as gentiles?

Pocatello, Idaho is not my first experience being a distinct religious minority in a small town. The first time I became known as everyone’s only Jewish friend was in DeKalb, Illinois, where I received my undergraduate degree in 1992 and graduate degree in 1997 from Northern Illinois University. 6 ½ years total spent living in the land of flying corn. Predominantly Catholic, I eventually learned why everyone had two middle names (saint names, you know), why everyone had a smudge of ash on their heads on that one Wednesday, and what that small paper scroll was hanging from everyone’s necks.

It was also here that a boyfriend told me about a mechanic who tried to “Jew him down (in his defense, he was properly horrified and ashamed upon learning why that expression was bad),” and I had a healthy argument with the student union cafeteria lady about why it was important to have Matzoh available during Passover.

While it was weird that the only Jewish fraternity at NIU was equally gentile, the DeKalb experience of being in a Jewish minority didn’t prepare me for the weirdness that comes from actually being referred to as a gentile. Which is what Jews, and all other non-Mormons, are considered in this part of the country.

When I was told at my job interview that the Pocatello, Idaho area was predominantly LDS (the official term for Mormons—Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints), I was immediately confused because I hadn’t seen anyone with bonnets or long beards cruising around in buggies during this first visit. I was not the full-fledged religious nerd I am today and thought Mormons were like Amish—and it all made sense to me when I saw an Amish family at the Salt Lake City airport on my return trip home. “Ah, there are the Mormons,” I said.

The attire and outward appearance of LDS members is not unusual come to find out, and many people outside the Mormon Corridor recognize members of the LDS Church as those pairs of young missionaries walking around in nice suits. The door-to-door salesmanship of Christ-based religion has been going on since the dawn of the common era, and at least now the people at your door are polite, well-groomed citizens with pamphlets or gold name tags. Just a few centuries ago, the people at your door were going to help you find Christ if it took every perverse, demonic instrument of torture they could design.

So proselytizing is a Christian thing, that’s always been the case, and the LDS Church based out of Salt Lake City is the latest Christian thing being aggressively marketed to the lost and soulless masses. There are many who claim the LDS Church isn’t “Christian;” and I suggest watching the first 10 minutes of Elizabeth starring Cate Blanchett (not for the faint of heart) to see that Christ-followers accusing other Christ-followers of “doing it wrong” isn’t anything new either.

The hot button issues between Jews and Mormons include the alleged affiliation between the two and the disturbing ritual of baptizing Holocaust victims and other Jews posthumously, which has since been discouraged by the LDS church. While I believe posthumous baptism is shocking and grossly misguided, It’s the issue of affiliation that provides the most consistent puzzlement living in the “Book of Mormon Belt.” I strive to manage this theological conflict gently, because often it’s more fun to try and get my LDS friends into a bar than get them into a religious debate where, ultimately, we’d have to agree to disagree. This certainly keeps me on my toes when it comes to my Jewish heritage; especially since, Mormon majority or not, Judaica out here is spread pretty thin.

–Nancy Goodman

The Lilith Blog

January 7, 2010 by Maya Bernstein

Up in the Air (With Children)

I used to love to fly. I would request a window seat and forget that I was in a tiny claustrophobic cabin and lose myself to the clouds, to the perspective of being in a liminal space, above life on land, and closer to the vast expanse beyond. I always travelled light; my carry-on contained a good novel, a pen, and a notebook. Airplanes represented the wide world of possibility, new languages, new vistas, the possibility of meeting kindred spirits, and adventure.

Well, that’s changed. My carry-on now contains: ten diapers, thirty wipes, two half-empty tubes of diaper cream, one thermometer, Infant’s Tylenol, Children’s Tylenol, seven hundred (broken) crayons, three hundred markers (out of which three have ink), five coloring books, three sticker books, four pacifiers, two extra pairs of socks, pants, shirts, onesies, and tights, one stuffed elephant, one stuffed dog, five squishy bath toys (don’t ask), two board books, hand sanitizer, five extra clips, four sandwiches, two plastic bags full of noodles, three cheese sticks, carrot sticks and celery sticks, apple slices, fruit leather, crumbled crackers, pretzel sticks, one sippy-cup, and two juice boxes. Though we often order a window seat, if I am lucky enough to convince my four-year-old to let me sit in it, the little one spends the entire flight on my lap pulling the window shade up, and down, up, and down, up, and down, up, and down, so that I have no choice but to vacate said seat and let my four-year-old sit there.

The hardest part is getting the little one to sleep, since one of her greatest joys in life, to quote Amy Ozols: “is wakefulness—and not simply passive wakefulness but the kind of vigorous wakefulness that makes a person like me start to question the very possibility of silence as a condition that can exist in the universe.” The process usually takes at least an hour of my telling endless stories, singing endless renditions of “Hello, Everybody” and “Mary had a Little Lamb,” and physically wrestling with my daughter to keep her lying down. During this time, I endure vicious looks from the passengers around me. It begins with a slight shifting from the people in the rows directly in front of and behind me. Then come the not-so-subtle over-the-shoulder glances. Then people clear their throats. It moves like the wave in a ripple until I feel like the entire plane is going to stand up and scream at me to just keep my kid quiet, and how dare I subject them to this torture, and shouldn’t there be a rule that children shouldn’t be allowed to fly, and that I shouldn’t be allowed to be a parent.

Ironically, it’s these same people who, before the flight, smile at the girls as they run through the airport, arms horizontal, pretending to be airplanes, and who delight in how cute they look in their fur-hooded vests. Just hope we’re not on your flight, I mutter as we pass them by.

We recently flew to Montreal, via Denver, and our bags decided they’d rather ski west than east. As I railed against fate, and argued with the guy in India hired to tell me he was sorry for the inconvenience, I couldn’t help but notice that my daughters weren’t fazed. They were wide-eyed, busy with playing with new toys, connecting to their grandparents, gasping at the frigid air, gaping at the snow, and listening intently to the sounds of French on the radio. They had traveled, and this was an adventure. And so I hung up the phone, put the girls in borrowed boots, and took them sledding beneath the cloudless sky.

–Maya Bernstein

The Lilith Blog

January 4, 2010 by admin

Jewish Community Involvement…and Skiing

My first job after college was at a therapeutic group home for adolescent girls. This group home, along with many other family and children services, was operated by the Jewish Children’s Bureau of Chicago (now Jewish Child and Family Services). Were any of the group home residents Jewish? No. Were many of my co-workers Jewish? No. Was there a Jewish education component? No. But, like other urban religious counterparts such as the Catholic Charities of the Archdiocese of Chicago, the Jewish Child and Family Services was backed by such a strong and committed Jewish community, it had a reach that could extend far beyond the five books of Moses.

In more rural areas, be they in Illinois, Idaho, Georgia, or New Mexico, the Jewish capacity for greater social justice and involvement, one of the cornerstones of Jewish ethics, is greatly reduced. It seems, at least here in Pocatello, Idaho, that it’s often hard enough to simply maintain a solid base of active Jewish community members to keep Temple Emanuel‘s lights on.

So Jewish community involvement in a smaller town is more individual–at least in the smaller town of Pocatello. And Temple Emanuel in Pocatello has members at nonprofit clinics and co-ops, on community and philanthropy boards, and involved in interfaith dialogue and relations.

The beauty (and curse) of a small town is that everyone knows everyone. A joke that a friend of mine once made is that there are .6 degrees of separation between everyone in Pocatello. Meaning, we all know each other from at least one source, if not more. So while our arms are stretched taut and our fingers are cramping, the Jewish population in Pocatello does weave a significant ribbon through the greater community, and our local participation in the bettering of the world is significant.

Collective Jewish outreach, I believe, will always be a challenge in a smaller town, or any city with a small number of Jewish residents. While it’s definitely a good thing that one can’t simply walk into a city office and request a complete mailing list of Jewish residents, it’s hard even to reach out to members of our own faith. But, Temple Emanuel’s mailing list is growing, and members who grew up in larger Jewish communities bring their ideas and energy to advance the growth and community outreach of the congregation.

And so it goes on. Now that the winter holiday festivities are wrapping up, it will be a relief to step away from my annual month-long quest for improved religious diversity and appreciation in Pocatello and into some ski boots. The snow dances are in full-force as we pray with Mary, Temple Emanuel member and manager of Pebble Creek Ski Area, that the lifts will be open soon.

Pebble Creek Ski Area is the social hub of the winter season. During the summer in Southeastern Idaho, the outdoors enthusiasts are all dispersed—on bike trails, rivers, mountaintops, gardens, climbing areas. But people you don’t see all year long become regular pals when the snow flies. You might ride the chair lift up with a city official, or share a pitcher of beer and the best cheese fries ever with a member of Rotary. As a small business owner, board member of Pocatello Neighborhood Housing Services, Girls on the Run coach, or whatever else I have my hands in at the moment, there’s always an opportunity to advance a cause on the deck of Pebble Creek. Unless it’s a powder day and I am overcome with God’s majesty in the Far Glades.

–Nancy Goodman

The Lilith Blog

January 4, 2010 by admin

Etz Chayim: Hanukkah, Christmas, and Jewish Theology in a Christian Context, Part 2

In last week’s post, I wrote about some of my experiences growing up Jewish in New Mexico, living with fear of assimilation as well as attraction to certain aspects of Christian spirituality.

This week I want to reflect on some of the broader political and spiritual implications of what we might call “theological assimilation,” or the fact that many of us have a “Default G-d” idea that is derived from the mainstream Protestant theology that is ambient in the US. In the US, when someone says “G-d,” the words “faith,” “belief,” and “doctrine” aren’t too far from our minds (in my experience, at least). To me, this reflects the fact that this country is essentially mainstream Protestant, and as a result, Protestant theology pervades our “national” idea of “G-d,” no matter what faith background we come from. How does this “Default G-d” contribute to Jewish theological assimilation in the U.S.? (Now, I’m no theologian, and my knowledge of the history of religion is spotty at best, so keep in mind that I’ll be speaking as a layperson. I would love to hear the thoughts of other laypeople, and also of any experts out there who think I’ve got something here, or even that I’m totally off the wall!)

To state the obvious, Christianity and Judaism have been influencing each other for centuries, so the impact of Christianity on Jewish theology is neither new nor specifically United-Statesian. However, I think the fact that many young US Jews (not to mention Christians) have grown up with little exposure to Jewish theology and practice means that Christianity has the ability to influence with a broad brush (perhaps unlike earlier eras when Christianity was subtly, or forcibly, influencing Jews who were profoundly steeped in Jewish life). In my experience, many non-observant Jews from my generation and my parents’ generation unconsciously “fill in the blanks” of what we know about Judaism with concepts borrowed from US Protestantism.

I began thinking about this two weeks ago when I was trying to explain my relationship with G-d to an agnostic friend. I found myself explaining to her that I consider myself to have a relationship with G-d, but I don’t necessarily “believe in G-d” or have “faith in G-d” or subscribe to any doctrinal “creed” about the literal existence of or nature of G-d.

At first I thought that I was using these terms because I was speaking to an agnostic — someone who feels no conviction about the existence of G-d — and thus I was attempting to emphasize the non-literalness of my relationship with G-d so that she could better relate to my experience. However, upon further reflection, I recognized that the terms I was using (belief, faith, creed, doctrine) were all terms that I associate with Protestantism’s emphasis on redemption through faith in the literal existence of a supernatural, omnipotent, tripartite God. In other words, my sense of “what it generally means to believe in G-d,” and my (correct) assumption about the G-d my agnostic friend feels distant from, were fundamentally based in a Protestant theology.

Furthermore, while I usually think of myself as a “new Jew” theologically (i.e. someone who has departed from a traditional, literal theology in favor of a highly metaphorical, eclectic theology), it is possible that my theology is actually quite traditional in some respects, and that one of the main reasons it seems highly non-traditional (or, more precisely, non-literal) is because I’m comparing it to Protestantism, rather than to traditional Judaism. (In other words, when I was explaining my relationship to G-d to my friend, I felt at first that I was explaining how G-d fits in with “modernity,” but perhaps I was simply explaining how G-d fits into Judaism as opposed to Protestantism.)

Now, the friend to whom I was speaking is a non-Jew. However, I’ve had similar experiences with Jews. For example, when I told one of my sisters that I was considering rabbinical school, she said, “That’s nice, but I really don’t get it.” After talking with her further, I discovered that “it” means “G-d”: she feels utterly unrelated to the concept of G-d. This is one reason, I think, that throughout her adult life she has been essentially uninvolved with Jewish practice. Now, far be it from me to say that everyone should be involved with organized religion. However, I think it’s somewhat sad, or at least ironic, that there are Jews who feel removed from Judaism because they experience “an inability to believe” in G-d — since the “ability to believe” is, in my experience, primarily a Protestant concept. While G-d as a figure is certainly at the core of Judaism, the “ability to believe” in a specific theological manifestation of G-d seems to me to be peripheral at most. (Admittedly, in some cases, this confusion may spring from the fact that a particular local Jewish community isn’t providing any compelling spiritual alternative to doctrinal theology.)

Now, I know that Protestantism is more than just the Creeds, and not all Protestants emphasize doctrine (and not all Jews don’t!). But I think that there is a prevalent stereotype, among both Christians and Jews, that having a relationship with G-d means “believing in G-d.” And this is unfortunate, because there are lots of other ways to relate to G-d besides “believing,” and these other ways don’t get enough press — with the result that people who will never “believe in G-d” are unnecessarily exiled from spiritual life, which is a loss for everyone. I’ve had several friends say to me that they “just can’t get into the G-d thing,” but wish they had access to the community life and the deep meaning on which their religious friends seem to thrive. When I peel off what I imagine to be the “Protestant overlay,” it seems to me that traditional Jewish theology may provide a storehouse of useful tools for relating to G-d in ways other than through “faith,” and as a nascent spiritual leader, I’m interested in exploring how to offer those tools to those who are intrigued but as yet uninvolved.

–Ri J. Turner

The Lilith Blog

December 28, 2009 by admin

Etz Chayim: Hanukkah, Christmas, and Jewish Theology in a Christian Context, Part 1

Happy (belated) Chanukkah to all you readers!

The winter holiday season is a time when many United-Statesian Jews become aware of their level of visibility. (By the way, I like to use the term “United-Statesian” rather than American to respect our hemispheric neighbors, who also consider themselves American, but don’t live in the US.) We United-Statesian Jews may feel invisible when we are wished “Merry Christmas” for the hundredth time, and we may feel hypervisible moments later if we choose to respond, “Actually, I’m Jewish.” (See Nancy Goodman’s recent post below for stories of Jewish visibility in Idaho during the winter holidays.)

Since I’ve been living in Brooklyn, and avoiding malls and the radio, I haven’t been too overwhelmed by the Christmas behemoth this year. Nevertheless, I can’t help but be reminded at this time of year that I’m living in a predominantly Christian country.

I don’t know about you, but I grew up hearing my mom say things like “Oh G-d, that sounds so Christian,” for example when she encountered certain specimens of contemporary Reform liturgy. Similarly, a Jewish friend of mine (also someone I’ve know from childhood) was recently telling me that she finds it “too Christian” when a mutual Jewish friend of ours says things like “G-d was working through me.” “That Jew is too Christian” — sound familiar? (Not a rhetorical question — please leave comments about your experiences!)

As a community of “Jews becoming white folks” (click here to learn about Karen Brodkin’s excellent book on this subject), I think United-Statesian Jews are understandably jumpy about “sounding Christian.” I also think it’s no accident that the Jews I knew growing up (in Los Alamos, NM) were particularly sensitive to this issue, since many of them were displaced East Coast Jews who were raising children in an overwhelmingly white Protestant community. (Let me not neglect to mention the many Hispanic Christians who were also living in the area. However, due to high levels of professional and class segregation along racial lines, my parents and the other Jewish parents that I knew did not view most Hispanic adults as their peers–nor most Hispanic children as our peers–and thus did not consider Hispanic Christians to be a serious threat to our Jewishness.)

Something that complicated the situation in Los Alamos was that, in my experience, the Jewish community was somewhat spiritually uninspired. From my mom’s mutterings about people and things that were “too Christian,” I knew that I was supposed to hold on to my Jewishness. And, I shared some of my parents’ skepticism about and fear of Christianity (or, perhaps more accurately, of Christianity’s dominance), especially as I began to confront the subtle anti-Semitism and the conservative political leanings of the white Protestant community, who dominated local affairs. Also, my father raised me to be fiercely anti-dogmatic, and I knew well that local Protestant churches were highly doctrinal.

On the other hand, I was always deeply spiritual, and the local Jewish community, where most people seemed to attend “because it would look bad if we weren’t there,” just wasn’t doing it for me. The following anecdote will give you an idea of the extent to which personal practice went unacknowledged: I remember practicing reading the V’Ahavta in my Hebrew school class, at age 10 or 11. I was able to read it quickly, and I mentioned that this was because I recited it twice a day as part of my personal practice. Upon observing my classmates’ expressions, I quickly blushed and said “Just kidding” — because I distinctly felt that by admitting to a personal practice and a personal relationship with G-d, I had rendered myself ridiculous in their eyes, and thus dangerously vulnerable. (To be fair to the Jewish community of Los Alamos, I think there were, and are, many highly intentional and spiritually committed people at the Jewish Center. It is possible that the community was as embarrassed about faith and personal practice as I remember, but it is also quite possible that I grew up feeling so vulnerable about my own faith that I projected my own embarrassment and judgment onto the community at large.)

As a result of all this, I was slowly being drawn into the local Lutheran church, where my best friend (now studying to be a Lutheran pastor) attended services. No, I didn’t believe in the Father, the Son, or the Holy Ghost, but dang it all, the congregents seemed to be there because they wanted to be there, and because they cared about G-d and about living reflective and generous lives. They might have cared too much about doctrine and blind faith for my taste (although I did try really hard to believe in their G-d, in order to do away with these obstacles), but they seemed to have a level of intention and commitment that I just wasn’t finding over at the Jewish Center.

So I didn’t want to be one of those “too Christian” Jews, but I also was beginning to be attracted to some aspects of local Protestant communities (and I was bombarded, like most United-Statesian children, by the ambient Protestant theology of the mainstream US). What was I to do?

I’m going to sign off for now, but next week, I’ll share some of my questions and reflections about the prevalence of Protestant theology in the US mainstream, and its effects on Jewish theological assimilation.

–Ri J. Turner

The Lilith Blog

December 24, 2009 by admin

The Newest Jew in Jewdaho

This past Sunday, the Jewish community welcomed its newest member. Baby Miriam Aviva was born December 10 to Temple Emanuel members and Iowa natives Amanda and Naomi. Amanda, who converted to Judaism shortly before her commitment ceremony with Naomi, is a doctoral student in Biological Sciences at the local university. Naomi is an attorney specializing in immigration law, and is now looking forward to staying home with Miriam.

Both Naomi and Amanda have been very active in the Jewish community since moving to Pocatello for Amanda to attend graduate school. Naomi is the Temple Emanuel board secretary (or “Chief Information Officer” when we are feeling fancy), and facilitated the resurrection of Purim last spring by insisting on having a blow-out Purim carnival, even if we had to drag kids in from the street to participate. Naomi and Amanda have also created and facilitated a monthly Rosh Chodesh group for the women of Temple Emanuel in the past.

Last month Miriam’s baby shower brought out many of the women from Pocatello’s Jewish community. Joan, the matriarch at 90 years young. Debra, English faculty turned IT goddess. Gail, a Jewish convert from the east coast whose daughter currently lives in Israel. And Judith and Mary, non-Jewish wives of the congregation’s lay rabbi and board President, who are as strong a presence in the Temple Emanuel community as anyone.

Miriam’s baby naming and Friday’s Chanukkah party brought many people from the Pocatello community who had never previously been inside Temple Emanuel. It’s a brief tour. Foyer, classroom, coat rack, restroom, community room, kitchen. The crowning glory of Temple Emanuel is the chapel, draped on three sides with gorgeous stained glass works. When afternoon light hits that perfect spot, the air fills with color.

Temple Emanuel sits on a large lot in a residential neighborhood. Caught up in one of the hot civic issues, the synagogue has had to face the prospect of hillside development behind the synagogue property line. Pocatello sits in a valley and is surrounded on many sides by gorgeous low mountains, which developers look at and say “I wonder how many houses will fit there, especially if I take a big grader and flatten out those problematic hilly parts.” This is in direct opposition to the belief that “just because you technically have the ability to build a house on a 15-25% grade hillside, doesn’t mean you should.” I’ve spent many a night glaring at city council members and development attorneys trying to protect the tremendous natural and historical resources in this area—with some success, I might add.

The development issue, while currently dormant because the bubble crashed here just like everywhere else, has served to bring Temple Emanuel more into the neighborhood scene. I’m sure there will be continued solidarity with our neighbors to insure that safety, privacy, and quality-of-life is preserved.

This weekend, Temple Emanuel was flush with visitors and activity. The latkes disappeared so fast on Friday I barely got to taste Jim’s curry ones. And with the arrival of baby Miriam, Amanda and Naomi doubled the number of children congregants and brought everyone together to celebrate. It’s been a joyous and busy weekend in Jewdaho, indeed.

–Nancy Goodman

The Lilith Blog

December 17, 2009 by admin

Introducing Etz Chayim

Hi everyone, my name is Ri, and this is my inaugural post as a Lilith blogger. To find out more about me and my writing, check out my bio here.

Here’s the question that I hope to explore with you all here on the Lilith blog: What does Judaism — and particularly Jewish spirituality — have to do with activism?

To me this is a question about understanding the relationship between my tiny personal world and the “big world out there.” If I sleep poorly, or have a fight with a friend, or start keeping Shabbat — do these things have anything to do with race? Gender? Economic systems? International relations?

Sometimes I see myself as a magnet, being drawn back and forth between two poles. Sometimes I throw myself wholeheartedly into the political, only to be drawn back, sometimes violently, to focus on developing balance in my personal life (balance — which for me is at the core of spirituality). Inevitably, that focus only lasts so long before I am snatched back into political life with a bump. Is it possible to integrate these two aspects of my life, to acknowledge their intersections, to get beyond the feeling that they’re in conflict?

I’ve known for a while that my activism is inspired by my knowledge about how I fit into the big picture. When large-scale social injustice feels irrelevant to me (as it sometimes can, due to the insulation afforded me by my relatively privileged race, class, and citizenship statuses), or when oppression seems so big and overwhelming that I don’t know where to start — in those moments, it’s easy to throw up my hands and say “I can’t do anything anyway, so forget about it.” And yet I know that I’m implicated, and that even if I could “forget about it,” “it” will never forget about me.

I also know that when I work on these issues without understanding why they matter to me personally, I am not effective, and I don’t find the work sustainable. A quote attributed to Australian Murri activist Lilla Watson sums up this idea: “If you have come here to help me, then you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.”

I don’t think I’m alone in the experience of trying to figure out where I fit into large-scale social justice issues. I think that most activists spend time working out the relationship between our own lives and the broad movements in which we take part. I also think that the relationship between self and political issue differs depending on whether, in a particular context, we are working to end the oppression of an identity group to which we belong (for example, Jews working to end anti-Semitism) or are working in an “ally” capacity (for example, straight people working for LGBTQ rights).

As a white US Jew who cares about ending racism, one of my particular political commitments is organizing other white folks (including or perhaps especially white Jews) against racism. And I believe that the first step to organizing is education — and I believe that a key part of education, for white allies in particular, is coming to understand, in the words of Watson, why our liberation is bound up with the liberation of people of color, both in the US and globally.

I believe Judaism has a lot of insight to offer about the relationship between microcosm and macrocosm. In mainstream Western culture, to generalize broadly, we are often encouraged to compartmentalize. By contrast, in my experience, Judaism encourages integration: scholarly, legalistic texts provide insight for communal living, the pursuit of social justice is conjoined with the celebration of life’s pleasure, and everything in life is shot through with the search for spiritual vibrancy and ultimate meaning. This integrative model is well symbolized by one of the core organizing principles in Kabbalah: the Tree of Life, or Etz Chayim.

In addition to being a metaphor for the Torah (and, perhaps, a relic of ancient goddess worship — click here to read more about that), the Tree of Life is a diagram that describes the fundamental structure of the universe. Its graphical depiction often looks like something out of modern topology (click here to see an example), with edges connecting ten (or, controversially, eleven) nodes known as “sephirot.” Sephirot are sometimes described as emanations, or aspects, of G-d or divinity. The underlying structure delineated by the Kabbalistic Tree of Life unifies all things: not only do the sephirot describe the nature of divinity, they also describe the structure of the universe as well as the structure of the human body and spirit.

Thus, the Tree of Life is a key Jewish representation of the relationship between micro- and macrocosm, local and global — and spiritual and political.

Stay tuned to “Etz Chayim” for more explorations of the sacredness of activism and the politics of spirituality over the coming weeks and months.

–Ri Turner

The Lilith Blog

December 17, 2009 by Maya Bernstein

Searching

I’ve spent the past month searching for a new nanny. Albina, our beloved babysitter, who had lived three doors away, moved. She doesn’t drive, and now lives just far enough away to have rendered me mad with searching for a chauffeur for our nanny, and then distraught that I am not an upper-class lady in Victorian England, able to afford a nurse, nanny, governess, maid, gardener, cook, butler, footmen, and chauffeur, all of whom, I have convinced myself in the course of this upheaval, I need.

One night while lying in bed, after two weeks of conducting interviews, subjecting my daughters to new faces every day, staying home from work, sending friends to spy in the park, and coming up empty, I burst into tears. My husband bolted up in bed and asked what was wrong. “I miss Albina,” I sobbed. We had finally found our groove together, she and I. My children loved her. She took care of our plants. She cooked us home-made blintzes and French fries, baked apples and squash, and a pea soup that my picky daughters would eat when they would eat nothing else. She spontaneously cleaned things – our porch, the garage, the floors. And she was the best newborn care nurse I’d ever met, bathing the children in strange Russian herbs, and swaddling them so that they had no choice but to sleep for hours. My husband tried to reassure me. He had never really connected with Albina; he couldn’t communicate with her in Russian, and found her aloof and reserved. “We’ll find someone else, and the children will learn to love her too. Don’t worry.” And he gave me a kiss, rolled over, and immediately fell back asleep, oblivious to my tortured state, my unappeasable angst.

Last week, I finally hired someone. The kids are delighted. Our new babysitter is Portuguese, but speaks fluent English. I am mourning the loss of a beloved second language in our home, but my older daughter, whose Russian I admit has deteriorated with her preschool attendance, is delighted to have someone she can understand. Our new babysitter brings her toddler daughter on the days she works for us. My need to hire someone, and the fact that she comes so highly recommended from a friend, and that she drives, and can help with carpool, has outweighed this detail. This, for me, was a distressing decision, but my little one asks every day for her new little friend; she loves spending those days with a buddy, someone with whom to play in the park, eat lunch, and color.

Why is it that the transition has been harder for me than for anyone else in my family? Who is our nanny really for?

I work part-time – a decision I made for emotional, intellectual, financial, and sanity reasons. But, despite what I thought before I birthed my children, I can’t help but feel that the primary responsibility to care for their daily needs is on my shoulders. What I’ve realized over the course of the past month, in searching for a replacement for Albina, is that I am, in some strange way, searching for a replacement of myself. I am looking both to replicate myself for my children, and to bring someone into my home who makes me feel cared for. Someone to seamlessly take my place when I rush out of the house at seven-thirty in the morning, and quietly relinquish it when I return in the darkness of suppertime. And more. I want someone who will cook for me when I’m tired and hungry. I want another mother in my home, a mother who fills in my gaps, who has a green thumb and can darn socks, but who doesn’t threaten to replace me. This is a delicate, intricate, trembling balance of power, of identities. It has taken me years to establish. And now, bereft, I am the one in mourning, having lost a piece of myself.

–Maya Bernstein

Podcasts

December 16, 2009 by admin

“Zhid”-The Lilith Fiction Podcast Series

The next installment of the Lilith Fiction Podcast series is here!

In “Zhid,” rose-petal jam and stolen furs lure a young immigrant mother in 1940s America. The story, which first ran in the Spring 2002 issue of Lilith, is read by its author, writer and Lilith fiction editor Yona Zeldis McDonough.

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Plus, don’t forget: the Lilith podcasts are available through iTunes (just click here to launch it), where you can sign up to receive each new podcast automatically! If you’re playing this on your browser window, don’t worry if it takes a few moments to load.

The Lilith Blog

December 15, 2009 by Amy Stone

'Tis the Season

My doctor goes into a shockingly racist rant about the government’s being incapable of managing health care as proved by H1N1 vaccine just going to “pickaninnies in the ghetto.”

A truck turning into Broadway completely crushes the passenger side of a car stopped at a light. The driver leans on his horn.

My fellow tenants are resorting to primal screams at the handyman to express their displeasure with the endless months of construction.

We are in holiday meltdown.

As someone who is Jewish and married, I am not under Christmas pressure or anxiety over a dateless New Year’s Eve. But what is it about the end of the year that drives people to insanity?

We’re told the suicide rate is highest over the Christmas-New Year’s season-–people who can’t go on in their loneliness and unhappiness as all the rest of the world appears coupled and happy. And we assimilated Jews could well be among those numbers.

I will spare you my enumeration of the sadness of New Year’s Eve dates grimly in search of joy. Better to be alone than to experience existential loneliness in the company of others desperately seeking holiday happiness. But I will confess the loneliness of one New Year’s Eve many decades past. Home alone in my six-floor walkup, weeping on my red velvet
mermaid couch.

The phone rings. I pick it up. Not prince charming but my best friend since high school calling to wish me a happy new year. She can tell I’m in tears and counsels me: “If you’re crying you shouldn’t answer the phone.”

And so we go into another year.

Actually, there’s a lot to be said for the Jewish new year spent in soul searching and reflection. No pressure to have a date.

In fact, the shofar’s call is not so far removed from the blowing of horns welcoming in the goyishe new year. We hark back to the ancients who banged on anything at hand to scare off evil spirits as humankind passed through the liminal space between the old year and the new.

Personally, this time around I’m planning to cook, eat and drink my way into the next Gregorian decade. 2010 has a nice ring to it and I’m going to welcome it with one husband, one friend and two dogs.

There’s a lot to be said for a low-key approach to the end of one year and the start of another.

–Amy Stone