Draydel

Employment update

2009-02-01T20:08:00.001-08:00

Shortly after my bitter rant about my professional prospects, I received a call back from a marketing communications agency to which I had submitted a resume weeks before. They brought me in for an interview, and, a week later, had me start on a free-lance contract for one of their clients, a nutrition supplement company. (a large, national corporation that is based in Pittsburgh) After a few weeks on the job, the creative director of the client company asked if I would be interested in applying directly to them for a copy writing job. I did, was interviewed, and have now been hired as a regular, full-time employee.

So, I think I have figured out what I can do with my writing skills. I am enjoying the new job, though it is not as emotionally fulfilling as a journalism job. On the other hand, it's also not as emotionally draining. The pay is good, and this is a great place for me to be now in my career. I don't know what the next step after this will be, but I think I am evolving into more of a writing generalist, which is a good thing to be in a volatile economy.

The idealistic person I was in college might have thought that taking this job was a sell-out, but the pragmatic me, who hopes to one day have children to send to day school, sees this as a responsible choice and a wise career move. Life is full of unexpected choices, and I am grateful to be working in a pleasant atmosphere, doing a job that is at least related to what I was trained to do in college and graduate school. And, I hope that having some reserves of emotional and intellectual energy will allow me to eventually do the serious type of writing to which I aspire. (And in the meantime, to do more personal writing for this blog.)

My return to blogging and a bit of a rant

2008-12-01T21:07:00.000-08:00

Fair readers, I am happy to report that married life has not marked the end of my blogging career, in spite of my long absence. Perhaps at some point I will elaborate on the joys and challenges of this wonderful change in my life, but in the meantime, I would like to jump feet first into that old enterprise I used to enjoy so much: thinking out loud.

Did I say a bit of a rant? Correction: A full blown rant

In these days of economic crisis and corporate downsizing, the chance of a talented journalist finding work at an old fashioned newspaper is slimmer than ever. Most daily newspapers in major cities have dramatically smaller staffs than they did a few years ago, and we all are left to wonder if these publications will exist at all in the future. While it is sensible and nearly inevitable that newspapers will eventually evolve into primarily (or entirely) electronic versions of their former selves, it seems likely that many publications will cease to exist even in electronic form because they have failed to remake themselves fast enough to match the new technology or because they do not offer content that is unique enough or compelling enough for consumers.

From a strictly capitalistic perspective, there may be nothing to weep about, since a free market allows the most successful products to survive. However, quality journalism is more than a buyable commodity -- it is an intangible resource of unpredictable content. More than a mere record of what has occurred, good journalism gives its consumers insight and understanding. Anyone who attends a public meeting (and few citizens ever do) can tell you if a resolution passes or not, but a good journalist can help readers understands what it means, and perhaps even why they should care.

As someone with years of training and experience in such matters, it is frustrating that such talents, which have never been particularly valued, are increasingly considered dispensable, even worthless. Even more upsetting, as I look at the remaining staffs of various publications where I used to work, is that it is not the most talented staff members who remain on board, but the most average. The envelope pushers, creative thinkers and masters of prose have been laid off, or have left in frustration (with important exceptions). Meanwhile, the folks who do clean, acceptable and unremarkable work are the ones who have jobs. The papers still publish on deadline, but there is a loss of ambition and passion. If articles about Paris Hilton sell more papers than those about storm sewers, then Paris Hilton wins (and so do the writers that can say the snarkiest things about her). Never mind that sewer systems have real and immediate health, environmental and community development implications.

I got into journalism because it was challenging and fun and creative. Sometimes the topics I covered were uncomplicated and other times they were intellectually exciting. Whatever I wrote, each day was different and exciting, and gave me the opportunity to meet people I would never otherwise encounter.

At one time, such experiences were commonplace for entry-level reporters at scores of newspapers all over the country. Now, it seems, the privilege of doing first-hand reporting for a respected daily newspaper is reserved for a very small class of journalists that is constantly shrinking.

My current employment situation is due in part to personal choices that I have made that are not directly related to the journalism jobscape. (I left my most recent staff position to move to a different city because I was getting married.) However, I can't help be frustrated that, whereas professionals in most other fields can look in the classified job ads in any major city and find at least a couple of jobs to apply to, journalists who are tied to a particular city almost inevitably have to consider working in another field.

This situation is not at all new -- it has been developing for more than a decade. I was fortunate to be insulated from the problem for a while, but now I am feeling it keenly. I am trained to do a job that I love, one which, giving license to my ego, I feel that I am called to do. I am not as brilliant or as cutting edge as I would like to be, but I am committed to doing my job well and I have touched many readers in the past with my work. I feel that I have lots of potential that I have only begun to mine.

And now I have to figure out what else I am qualified to do.

An unexpected, and happy, turn of events

2008-06-02T15:36:00.001-07:00

(Here is my final column for The Jewish Chronicle:)

Almost exactly eight years ago, after completing graduate school in New York, I went with a friend, Chana, to visit the Statue of Liberty, something I had not managed to do in five years as a student in the big city. Since I was preparing to move to Pittsburgh, I decided to finally check some items off my New York to-do list.

During our journey that day, Chana and I chatted about graduate school, jobs, the city, and, inevitably, our social lives. Chana, who is older than I am, had some fairly outlandish tales about bad dates she had endured, and we laughed together about our experiences.

I don’t recall speaking to her in the weeks that followed as I completed my move and started my new job in Pittsburgh. Then, in early September, just over three months since we had commiserated about our dating woes, Chana called me with the good news that she was engaged to a man she had met since we last saw each other. I was delighted for her, and encouraged that I would eventually have good news of my own in that area. I went back to New York for her wedding, and she advised me that “G-d’s salvation comes in the blink of an eye,” a sentiment that comes from the ancient Sages.

I have often thought about those words in the last eight years. I am fortunate to be predisposed to having a positive outlook on life, and I also have an appreciation for unexpected plot twists and reversals of fortune. While I have certainly had moments when I doubted that I would ever meet a man with whom I would want to share my life, the hopeful voice inside of me always said, “Just wait, you may be pleasantly surprised.”

The voice was right.

(It is worth noting that my mother was also right, since she encouraged me to move to Pittsburgh, and to stay here, even though others advised me to go back to New York to improve my dating odds.)

A few months ago, after enduring countless blind dates and other awkward situations, I agreed to date yet another young man who was suggested to me as a potential match. While I thought he was good-looking from the photos I had seen of him, and he sounded nice on the phone, I was filled with doubts. I wasn’t sure that we would see eye to eye on a number of issues and thought that our interests and lifestyles might be too different for us to forge any type of long-term commitment. I was guarded, and defensive.

In spite of being convinced before we ever met that he would be all wrong for me, I managed to walk away from our first date with the strong impression that he was extremely kind and thoughtful. I was taken aback when he suggested that we get together a second time. I agreed.

Still, I couldn’t imagine that we would ever get married.

Fortunately, it did not take very long to change my mind about that. The more I got to know Jonathan, the more I liked him, and the more I saw that differences between us were insignificant compared to our very important similarities. Exactly two months after we met, Jonathan proposed and I accepted. After years of disappointment and frustration, my life had indeed taken a wonderful turn in the blink of an eye.

Since then, life has become a tailspin of wedding preparations and plans to move to Baltimore, where Jonathan lives. As a result, I will be leaving my job at The Chronicle in a couple of weeks.
I am sad to be leaving Pittsburgh and The Chronicle, but happy that it is for such a wonderful reason. And, who knows? Maybe someday life’s journey will bring me back to Pittsburgh again.

It has been a privilege to write this monthly column, and I have enjoyed and appreciated all the feedback I have received from readers. I especially appreciate all the warm wishes I have received since my engagement announcement was printed a few weeks ago.
I wish all of you the happiness and fulfillment that I have found.

Happy ending, and beginning

2008-05-15T08:09:00.000-07:00

By now readers of my blog who know me in real life know that four weeks ago today I became engaged to a wonderful guy named Jonathan Jablow.

After years of dating frustrations, and so many blind dates that I actually lost count, I feel so blessed to have found a wonderful man to build a home and a future with. Perhaps later I will have a chance to give some more details about how we met, but the short version of the story is: we were set up by a mutual friend in Baltimore (where Jonathan lives), first spoke in late January, met on Feb. 17 and got engaged exactly two months later on April 17. We plan to get married on July 6 in Pittsburgh.

The last four weeks have been an absolute flurry of activity, with Pesach, traveling to see each other and our families and planning a wedding, and a move -- I will be moving from Pittsburgh to Baltimore, and Jonathan also has to move, from his current apartment to a larger one for the two of us.

Thank G-d, I am very, very happy, but also exhausted by everything that has to be accomplished in the next 7 1/2 weeks!

Waiting for Elijah

2008-05-13T12:08:00.001-07:00

It's way overdue, but this was my pre-Pesach column.

When I was a child, one of my favorite moments during the seder was when we would open the door to symbolically welcome in Elijah the prophet. I nearly always volunteered to stand with an adult at the open door. I loved peering out from the warm, well-lit house into the quiet, dark enigmatic night.

Just as all the other events of the seder night are designed to inspire the asking of questions, opening the front door at night, and leaving it open for a few moments, piqued my curiosity. I peeked out onto the quiet street while my grandfather read the appropriate passage from the Haggadah.

Just at the moment when Elijah was supposed to sweep into our house for a sip of the wine, there always seemed to be a light spring breeze, adding an air of mystery to the experience, as though Elijah were rustling through the tree branches on his way to our house and then silently slipping away.

After we closed the door, my sister and I would look closely at Elijah’s cup to see if any of the wine had mysteriously disappeared. Since there was never a noticeable difference, an adult once assured us that Elijah could only drink the tiniest of sips from each cup since he had so many seder tables to visit all over the world on one night.

I am still charmed by these childhood memories, but I later learned a different way of thinking about the cup of Elijah.

In traditional Jewish thought, the cup of Elijah is connected to the other four cups of wine at the seder.

Among the many meanings assigned to the four cups is the idea that each is connected to a different term used in the Torah to describe the redemption from Egypt. In the book of Exodus, God’s redemption is described in the following ways: “Vehotzati” – I took you out; “Vehitzalti” – I saved you; “Vega’alti” – I redeemed you; and “Velekachti” – I took you to be my people.
But there is a fifth term in the Exodus narrative – “Vehavati” – I will bring you … to the land of Israel. The rabbis of the Mishna debated about including a fifth cup of wine at the seder to remind us of this promise from God for a final redemption.

The rabbis ultimately decided to have just four cups of wine, but in recognition of the minority opinion of Rabbi Tarfon, they included a fifth cup that was to be filled, but not drunk.

This unresolved dispute is one of many that tradition teaches will be resolved when Elijah comes and resolves all doubts.

Furthermore, since this fifth cup was thematically connected to the idea of the coming of the Messiah -- which tradition teaches will be announced by Elijah -- the cup is appropriately named for the great prophet.

So, in the end, it is not that Elijah is clandestinely visiting our homes on Pesach to sample our wine. Instead, we are waiting expectantly for him to settle our disputes and announce the beginning of Messianic times.

While the time and method of Elijah’s arrival remains an unresolved mystery, certainly we can all hope that we will notice when he comes.

When all the pieces fall into place

2008-03-19T20:37:00.000-07:00

This is my March column from The Jewish Chronicle.

Megillat Esther, which is read on Purim, is among the most spellbinding of the books of Tanach. Filled with intrigue, lavish feasts, pageantry, near-destruction for the Jews, and ultimately, salvation, it has all the elements of an epic tale.

In fact, the story is such a tightly written narrative, that it can be difficult to remember that it recalls actual historical events. Unlike a dry historical account, the Megillah gives readers insight into the feelings and motivations of the players in the drama.

The story is so fast-paced that it seems to unfold in a matter of weeks or months, so I was surprised when I learned in college that the events of the story actually took place over the course of about 11 years. It is hard to imagine a modern historical account of a similar time period that would be as concise, compelling and perceptive about the meaning of events.

When we read the Megillah in synagogue, in a matter of moments we have gone from Vashti’s termination as queen to Esther’s selection as the new queen. But upon closer reading, the text of the Megillah gives us clues that Esther’s ascent to the throne took a few years, from Vashti’s banishment (and possible execution) through the rounding up of eligible maidens from the 127 provinces of Ahashuerus’ kingdom, and ultimately Esther’s coronation. Similarly, the rest of the events of the story take place over the course of several more years, finally culminating in Esther’s revelation to Ahashuerus that Haman intends to kill her people, the Jews, and the king’s decision to instead spare the Jews and kill Haman and his collaborators.

According to tradition, Esther and Mordechai had the insight to recognize the connections between these events and to record them for posterity in Megillat Esther, which was later edited and rewritten by the men of the Great Assembly for canonization in Tanach.

Although some of the events of the story seem arbitrary, or extraneous, by the end it becomes clear that all along, God was behind the scenes, orchestrating the events.

Even though God is never explicitly mentioned in the Megillah, a careful reading of the text reveals many illusions to God. For example, throughout the story, there are repeated references to “the king,” which seems to ostensibly be a reference to Ahashuerus, but can also be understood to be about God.

As one of the last books included in the Bible, and one of the few to record events that took place in exile from Israel, the Megillah is a guidebook for how to think about God in a world in which events may seem arbitrary. Sometimes life goes on for years in which circumstances may be frustrating, frightening, painful or even devastating, and then in an instant, a single event or decision clarifies the meaning of everything that preceded it.

When Esther was called upon to be brave on behalf of her people, she rose to the occasion, and suddenly it became clear why this self-effacing nice Jewish girl had been chosen to be queen. Circumstances had unfolded so that she would be in precisely the right place at the right time to save the Jews from destruction.

It is not surprising when all the disparate parts of a novel come together in the final chapters of a book, because we know that the story was invented by the writer to turn out this way. In life, however, things do not always work out so neatly. Sometimes it is hard to discern where a story begins and ends, and what it means. And, none of us has an omniscient voice in our heads to explain the motivations of the people with whom we interact.

However, like Mordechai and Esther, sometimes we know that we are in a situation or circumstance for a reason, and that we are uniquely situated to do some important task. When we are really fortunate, we can look back afterwards and see all the machinations of destiny that led to that serendipitous moment.

Newest addition

2008-02-24T19:36:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, on January 28, my sister gave birth to her second child, a beautiful girl named Abigail Irene Smith. She is every bit as wonderful as my nephew, with the extra benefit that we get to buy her lots of pink clothes and accessories. So far, her favorite activities are eating, sleeping and, well, you know the third one. But, she also smiles and is super adorable, and my family is sure that she is just as brilliant and talented as her older brother. Not that we're biased or anything.

Tribute to my hosts

2008-02-24T19:22:00.000-08:00

Here is my February column from The Jewish Chronicle.

Open invitations for Shabbat are real

Shortly before I started college in New York, an Orthodox family from the Bronx whom I had met through my youth group told me that I should call them after I was settled in at school to arrange a time to visit them for Shabbat. They would love to have me over, they said, and I shouldn’t hesitate to call.

While I was flattered by their warm invitation, I was uncomfortable with the idea of “inviting myself over” to someone’s house. After all, I had been taught never to make myself an unwelcome guest, which meant that I should only take advantage of someone’s hospitality if it were specifically offered, since general statements of “come over anytime” could turn out to mean “but not right now.”

However, I slowly got used to the idea that in the Orthodox community an open invitation is not a mere pleasantry, but a sincere offer.

At school, friends of mine told of spending Shabbat with families in various communities in the United States and Israel that had extended open invitations, and of those families being genuinely happy when my friends called to ask when they could come over. And the informality worked both ways – if a family was not able to have guests on a particular week, they would say so, and arrange another time instead.

After a few weeks at school, I happened to see the husband of the family from the Bronx. He asked me how I was doing at school and then said, “So when are you coming for Shabbat? Why haven’t you called us?”

Soon after, I spent a fun Shabbat with them, and over time became a regular guest at their home.

This family was one of several that extended similar invitations. Since I was far away from home, and many of my classmates’ families lived in or near New York, during my college years I spent Shabbat in all five boroughs of New York, plus several communities in New Jersey, Long Island and Connecticut, and was impressed and moved by the generosity of all of my hosts.

Since I have lived in Pittsburgh, I have encountered similarly enthusiastic invitations, ranging from people who call a week or two in advance to invite me for a specific meal, to those who have told me that I am welcome to show up on a moment’s notice if ever I am without plans for Shabbat.

The motivation behind all these invitations is the belief that no one should be alone for Shabbat, which is supposed to be a day for connecting with others.

During the week, most of us stay in touch with others by using electronic devices. But on Shabbat, for many of us, all that changes.

Without use of the phone, television or Internet, Shabbat can be a long, lonely day for a person who is alone.

Fortunately, it doesn’t have to be that way, since the community is so welcoming of those who live alone.

And the invitations do not come with the sense that the hosts are acting only out of obligation. I have learned that many of these families genuinely enjoy having Shabbat guests. When a person is already cooking a meal for a whole family, the addition of one or two people does not increase the workload, but can enhance the experience for everyone.

I know this is true because I periodically host Shabbat meals, and hope to eventually be able to “pay forward” at least a small part of the kindness I have received when I have a family of my own.

There is an old idea that the entire Jewish nation is in fact one very large family. Even though none of my relatives live in Pittsburgh, when I am a Shabbat guest, I truly feel that I am with family.

Unveiling the mysteries of hair covering

2008-01-23T20:21:00.000-08:00

This is my latest column from The Chronicle.

When I was first becoming acquainted with the Orthodox practice of married women covering their hair, I remember noticing that one woman I knew sometimes had her hair covered by a cloth head-covering, and other times wore a neat, chin-length hairdo with bangs.

It seemed odd to me that sometimes her hair was covered, and other times it was not. I later found out that her “uncovered hair” was in fact a wig.

Over time, I learned that there are many different customs related to hair-covering, concerning everything from how much of the head or hair should be covered, and in what places and circumstances, to the materials used – everything from scarves and hats to wigs, and sometimes more than one at the same time.

The variety of hair-covering methods is a reflection of different interpretations of halachah, outside cultural influences and personal preferences.

Hair covering is among the most difficult of Orthodox practices to understand and accept, and I sympathize with those who find the practice utterly baffling.

As an unmarried woman who, according to halachah, is not yet obligated to cover my hair, I also find the practice somewhat challenging.

The Torah does not offer a specific reason for hair covering, but in practice this mitzvah is primarily an expression of modesty.

There are opinions in halachah that describe a married woman’s hair as erva, a term that refers to “nakedness,” and indicates that hair has seductive properties. While that idea is difficult for the American mind to grasp – especially since this category apparently does not apply to single women’s hair – even our culture acknowledges the beauty enhancements of hair. Models, for example, generally wear long, luxurious tresses, and letting one’s hair down is a euphemism for relaxing one’s inhibitions.

Of course, wearing a gorgeous shaitel (wig) would not appear to be particularly modest, especially if the woman’s natural hair was not nearly as flattering. However, most women who wear shaitels manage to strike a balance between hair coverings that are comfortable and attractive and those that are unduly attention-grabbing.

In Judaism, when something is covered, whether a person’s body or a religious object, such as a Torah scroll, it is concealed not because it is debased, but because it is special. While halachah permits a married woman to uncover her hair in the presence of other women and immediate family members of either gender, her hair becomes something private and exclusive.

Covering one’s hair becomes symbolic of the idea that there are some things that are to be shared only between husband and wife.

In some ways it is the act of covering that makes the hair special. When something is covered it takes on an aura of mystery and it becomes that much more appealing.

A few years ago, a married friend of mine had a teaching job at a juvenile detention center. When her students realized that she was wearing a wig, they began badgering her to take it off, just once, so that they could see her hair. They were obsessed with seeing her hair, as though it had magical properties.

And that reminds me of another example of modesty. Many Orthodox women do not wear short sleeves and are careful to keep their elbows covered. The idea is that even a woman’s upper arms can be alluring, and the elbow is a good point of demarcation.

Of course, elbows on their own are generally not especially seductive parts of one’s body. A college friend of mine used to say that when she got married, she would roll up her sleeves and ask her husband if he found her elbows sexy. “Hopefully he’ll say yes,” advised another friend.

The first friend has been married for several years now. I once asked her husband what he thought of her elbows, and, in reply, he pretended to swoon.

I’m sure he feels the same way about her hair.

Living vicariously through Jane Eyre

2008-01-20T18:01:00.000-08:00

I have long been a fan of Charlotte Bronte’s novel “Jane Eyre.” I first read it the summer I was 20. At that point, I was trying to catch up on some of the “classics” I hadn’t already read, and my mom told me that it had been a favorite of hers and of my grandmother.

It took me a while to get into the book, but soon I was enthralled with Jane’s reserved flirtation with Mr. Rochester, and the palpable romantic tension between them, and by the time Jane finally expresses her feelings in the emotional garden scene I was totally spell-bound. Not long after I finished the book, A&E aired its version of “Jane Eyre” with Ciaran Hinds and Samantha Morton, both of whom were superb. I was so fond of that version, that my mom eventually bought be a copy on VHS. Meanwhile, she bought herself the version with William Hurt and Charlotte Gainsbourg, which also has its charms, but, in my opinion, was not as good.

A few weeks ago, on Dec. 30, I was running errands and looking forward to a couple of days off from work when my mom told me that PBS was airing yet another version of Jane Eyre that night. A friend had recently told me that she liked this version – and was none too sorry that this Mr. Rochester was really more attractive than indicated by the book. So, even though I could not imagine that any version would equal the one by A&E, I decided to tune in.

How wrong I was.

This 2006 production by the BBC is absolutely masterful, and has me wondering how it was possible that I missed its PBS debut in early 2007. Ruth Wilson, who plays Jane, is captivating. At moments she is really a plain Jane, but with sparkling eyes and an animating smile, she is also quite attractive.

She can blend into the shadows, but asserts herself when necessary. And although Jane does not speak much, with her expressive face and mannerisms, Wilson artfully shows when she is embarrassed, exhilarated, devastated and delighted.

While the character of Jane is about 18 in the book, Wilson was 24 when this version was filmed, which was a wise decision. Wilson still has the blush of youth and innocence, but also the inner depth and maturity to convey Jane’s stormy interior.

Toby Stephens, who plays Mr. Rochester, is truly swoon-worthy material. He is wry, sarcastic, troubled, vulnerable, and irresistible. Because Jane and Rochester have many interactions long before they express their true feelings for one another, there is time for their relationship to develop real depth, a rarity in most romantic movies.

PBS aired the first half of the four-hour series on Dec. 30, and the second half a week later. I spent most of that week telling anyone who would listen that I was looking forward to the “exciting conclusion.”

Even though I knew how the story would end, there were still plenty of wonderful moments to enjoy in this adaptation. A day after watching the first half, I watched the A&E version again. While I still enjoyed it immensely, it was obvious that Stephens’ Rochester has significantly more warmth than Hinds.’ (After marveling over his acting abilities, I looked up Stephens online and discovered that he is the younger son of Dame Maggie Smith, and he obviously inherited some powerful acting genes.)

The other important difference between the A&E version and this one is the age difference between the two main characters. Hinds and Morton are probably close to 30 years apart in age, whereas with Stephens and Wilson, there is just a 12-year difference. While in the book the characters are about 20 years apart, I think it is difficult for most modern audiences to fathom a mutual attraction between people of such a wide age gap. Because Stephens and Wilson are relatively close in age, the chemistry between them is much more believable. (And there is no shortage of chemistry in this version!)

And, whereas Hinds overpowers Morton in some scenes (apparently an issue in other film versions of Jane Eyre as well), Stephens and Wilson balance each other well. He is abrupt and moody, and she is reserved, but she never seems to cower in his presence, and from the start he seems intrigued by her ideas and opinions.

The BBC production has caused some to ponder whether Stephens’ Rochester will replace Colin Firth’s Mr. Darcy as the thinking woman’s sex symbol.

I certainly have a preference for the brooding Mr. Rochester to the aloof Mr. Darcy, but it seems to me in general that “Pride and Prejudice” is the more popular book, and so is its hero.

In a sense it is really unfair to compare the two books. Jane Austen wrote a brilliantly funny social commentary with a suspenseful and unlikely romance, while Bronte wrote a mysterious, passionate, sometimes outlandish tale.

As much as I like and admire “Pride and Prejudice,” I am drawn to the passions of “Jane Eyre.”

I also identify more with Jane than I do with Elizabeth Bennett.

Elizabeth possessed the confidence that comes of a comfortable upbringing, and she is unabashedly outspoken and opinionated. While I admire her forthrightness – and the charged banter she has with Mr. Darcy, I identify much more with Jane’s quietness and uncertainty.

Jane may seem plain and uninteresting on first glance, but she is smart, strong-willed and fiercely independent. And she has a deep moral resolve that carries her through life’s difficulties.

I can’t imagine myself in Elizabeth Bennett’s shoes, but, like many average looking women who dream of being appreciated by a desirable man, I can easily envision myself in Jane’s place.

Even though Jane and Rochester also banter a fair amount, their relationship is more a slowly growing friendship than a dramatic changing of heart.

One of the most moving scenes in “Jane Eyre” is the garden scene, which I referred to above.

As the story goes, Jane is under the impression that Mr. Rochester is about to announce his engagement to Blanche Ingram. He tells her that he has found a job for her in Ireland, since his fiance does not like governesses.

In this scene, Mr. Rochester says to Jane, “We’ve been good friends, haven’t we?” He then goes on to say that he feels that there is some sort of invisible string that ties him to Jane, and he fears that their connection will be severed when she leaves, causing him to bleed inwardly.

I am particularly fond of this imagery, and the notion that Rochester and Jane share a deep connection that transcends time, space and social class. More than mutual admirers of one another, they are true friends, who help one another in the most unusual of circumstances, and who will continue to care for each other, even if they cannot marry.

When Jane expresses her distress at the idea of Rochester’s marriage to Blanche, she speaks of how much she will miss him, and of how she has enjoyed interacting with him as an equal.

Even though the plot of “Jane Eyre” is a lot more fantastic than that of “Pride and Prejudice,” Jane’s feelings are very real, and that is what is so appealing to me.

Jane, after all, is an expression of Charlotte Bronte’s own passions and pains, and in that sense she is as real as any of us.

Just me and the guys

2007-12-25T14:11:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday I was invited as the guest speaker for the men's club at a local Jewish assisted living facility. Since men are in the minority at the residence (which is fairly typical of most senior homes) they have their own group that meets twice a month for lunch-time activities, which gives them a chance to form friendships with other men and have their own space, away from all the female-dominated activities.

Apparently the men-only rule does not apply to guest speakers, which was lucky for me, since I had a wonderful time with this group of gentlemen.

I wasn't sure what to expect before I went. Often, even facilities for fairly independent older adults end up caring for those with early dementia and other serious health problems. I thought perhaps my lunch crowd would not be able to hear what I said, and not be able to understand what they could hear.

Fortunately, I was wrong about that. While one man complained at the end that he "hadn't heard a word" I said, the rest of the group of about 11 men seemed to be able to hear me (I spoke as loudly and clearly as I could), and a few of the men were very inquisitive. I was asked to talk about my work at The Chronicle, while we all lunched together. I had prepared some notes, but they were really unnecessary, since there were enough questions to keep the conversation going for about an hour.

Even the food was good -- most of us had the four-cheese chef salad with various side dishes and chocolate cupcakes for dessert. The meal was served restaurant-style, with each person asked for his order. The waitresses told me that this meeting of the men's group was the largest one yet. Since there were more men than could fit around the large dining room table where we were seated, some ended up clustering around me at the head of the table. I felt like the most popular girl in the high school cafeteria, especially since all the men were so intent on hearing what I had to say.

I was also glad to see that the men treated each other well. Some of the ones who came earliest to lunch gave up their seats at the table for those who came later, so that everyone would be comfortable, and everyone was nice to the waitresses. Altogether, it was one of the nicest lunch meetings I have had in a long time.

Now, if only these guys were 50 or 60 years younger...

Living the cliche

2007-12-25T14:32:00.000-08:00

On Dec. 25, Jews are supposed to go to the movies and out for Chinese food. Well, I didn't have any Chinese food this year, but I did go to the movies, and it seemed like everyone at the theater was someone I knew.

Totally by coincidence, four of my friends were going to the same showing of Juno as me, so we sat together. Meanwhile, my boss and her daughter were just leaving the previous showing, and another one of my coworkers had stopped by the theater to bring some food for her son, who was working there. I guess that's what happens when you go to a theater in the middle of a Jewish neighborhood on Dec. 25.

Anyway, Juno is a very good movie -- funny and touching and unpredictable. Lots of great lines, lots of great music, and some very poignant moments. The language is a bit crude, but very clever. Also, even though the film is based around a teen pregnancy, and there is no pretending about how that happened, the, shall we say, preceding circumstances are referred to artfully and minimally.

Oh, and as a bonus for Jewish audiences, one character has an alef-beis chart and a dreidel in his bedrooom, which of course set half of the theater today off into whispered conversations of "Was that?" "Yes it was!" Ah, the perfect Jewish moment in a theater on Dec. 25.

Why Jews are funny

2007-12-30T10:06:00.000-08:00

Here's my latest column, about Jewish humor:

You might call it the intellectual borsht belt.

Go to hear the average Jewish guest speaker or scholar in residence, and you are bound to get at least a few good laughs. Whether they are rabbis, professors or writers, effective speakers for Jewish audiences are almost inevitably funny, even when their areas of expertise are anything but.

After attending a couple of such presentations recently – one about the astonishing rates of assimilation among young Jews and the other about the environment, each with several laugh out loud moments (who knew?) – it occurred to me that, within the Jewish community, we don’t merely appreciate humor, we practically demand it from our speakers.

As I thought about this, I asked Danny Butler, the local former magistrate who is also a popular (and very funny) speaker, for both Jewish and general audiences, whether Jewish audiences, more than others, expect speakers to be funny.

Not necessarily, he said, since non-Jewish audiences also appreciate good humor. But then again, not all audiences are created equal.

“The more educated and intelligent an audience is, the more they seem to absorb humor,” said Butler.

That makes sense, given that an expert speaker will probably rely on sarcasm, puns and other subtle forms of humor, not the low-brow sort.

And, with our advanced degrees and prominence in a variety of intellectual fields, it is no secret that Jews are brainy folks.

But with Jews, it’s not just that we appreciate humor, but that we are comfortable with it, even in the unlikeliest of places.

I asked Butler if a minister on the guest speaker circuit would be expected to be as funny as the average rabbi. He said probably not. “They would be afraid of not being taken seriously.”

Apparently this is not a concern for rabbis.

But seriously, something about Jewish culture allows us to be simultaneously funny and somber, and to understand that the two are not mutually exclusive.

“Memorable funerals even include laughter,” said Butler. “Humor helps to make what might otherwise be an uncomfortable [situation] more palatable for people.”

And that led us to the old standard explanation for Jewish humor, which is that persecution and powerlessness led us to develop humor as a defense mechanism.

Unfortunately, this has not been the response of the Palestinians or the Kurds.

Hardship alone never made anyone funny. So, it seems, there’s something more to the comedic tendencies of Jews, and it goes back to our very roots.

Years ago, Butler told me he asked the late Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan, who wrote his own translation of the Torah and authored several books, whether there were any jokes in the Talmud.

“Without missing a beat, he said, ‘Yeah, but they’re all old.’”

In fact, said Butler, the Talmud instructs teachers to open their lessons with jokes, and quotes the prophet Elijah as predicting that the comedians of a particular town would surely go to heaven for all the laughter they brought to others.

So, even before the expulsions and pogroms, we had reasons to laugh.

Our good humor allows us not to take ourselves too seriously and to find something happy or hopeful in the bleakest of life’s moments.

To illustrate the Jewish approach to humor, I like to think of the parent’s advice to a child who has just endured an embarrassing situation.

“Someday you’ll look back on this and laugh.”

As Jews, we say, “Why wait for someday? Laugh now!”

Taking the time to listen

2007-12-10T18:27:00.000-08:00

In the mornings on my way to work I usually listen to public radio. Since I am often running late, I am frequently tuned in at the point when the local broadcast concludes Morning Edition. After a few minutes of national headlines, there is a local sports report, followed by a broadcast of jazz music.

Being neither a sports fan nor a jazz enthusiast, I usually switch stations at that point. However, I have become accustomed to hearing the raspy voiced announcer -- who typically would banter with another commentator -- start the report with a standard opener, "Sunshine and blue skies...," which is often a sarcastic remark since it rains a fair amount in Pittsburgh.

Today, I was startled to hear announcer #2 say that there would be no sports report in recognition of the death of Sean Doherty, the raspy-voiced announcer. I was shocked and saddened, especially since I hadn't registered that he had been off the air for quite some time, due to illness. Judging from the sound of his voice, I thought he must have been fairly old, or maybe a smoker.

Neither was true. Doherty was only 47, and had been seriously ill for some time due to complications to a condition he had had since his teen years. While playing on his high school football team, he suffered a spinal cord injury and had spent the rest of his life as a quadriplegic. In all the times I had heard his voice on the radio, I had never known this about him.

In spite of the raspy tone of his voice, Doherty was rather upbeat -- a bit sarcastic, a bit colloquial, but never a downer. In spite of his debilitating condition, he earned a college degree and worked for about 20 years in local sports broadcasting. He was well-known and respected. He never let his injuries hold him back.

His voice became raspy after being hospitalized in 2000 because of a blood clot in his lungs, whose treatment required a tracheotomy. He used his local fame to raise money for spinal cord research, but never asked for pity.

Even though I wasn't interested in what he had to say about sports, I am glad I caught bits and pieces of Sean Doherty's voice over the years. If I had known more about him, I would have listened more.

Apparently, he hoped that his story would help inspire others to realize their dreams. His story has certainly moved me today.

It seems like just yesterday...

2007-11-16T08:36:00.000-08:00

was my 30th birthday, and here it is my 31st today. I am very grateful that the past year has been a good one -- no major events, but steady progress at work and other areas of my life. I was recently having a conversation with someone about cooking and baking, and I was realizing that I've learned to make several new dishes in the last year and am becoming generally more comfortable in the kitchen. I wasn't bad before, but I am feeling less like a novice, which is nice.

I also came to the realization a few months ago that, whereas I used to get nervous every time I got behind the wheel of my car, now -- except when I am over-tired or under pressure -- driving is not something I have to think about; I just do it and it comes naturally.

Someone, probably my rabbi, once said that the way to live life is to spend our whole lives "growing up." That is to say, like kids, we should approach life with a sense of wonder and an excitement to learn new things and get better at the things we already know how to do. It's also about continuing to discover who we are and who we want to be. I hope I never stop growing up.

American culture values youth to the point of obsession, and approaches the idea of getting older with a sort of dread. The older we are, the less useful and interesting we are supposed to be.

Of course, anyone of substance will tell you that the exact opposite is true. The older we are, the more fascinating and multi-faceted we become. If we do things right (and if we learn from doing things wrong), we get better with age.

30 was a big milestone for me, but so far 31 is somewhat easier. It also helps that 30 was really a good year. Yesterday, I went to my ballet class, as I always do on Thursdays, and realized that last year, when my birthday was on a Thursday, I had done the same. So, I spent the first and last days of the year that I was 30 in ballet class. Not too bad.

Here's to the adventures of the year ahead!

Taking stock

2007-11-11T17:06:00.000-08:00

Hello, faithful readers. Here is my latest column from The Jewish Chronicle.

The relative worth of things

It seems incredible that it was just a couple of weeks ago that wildfires were raging in Southern California. Judging from the lack of media coverage of their aftermath, the fires might as well have been months ago. Our nation has moved past the tragedy and onto other distractions.
But for the people who lost their homes and possessions, these two weeks are just the beginning of an ordeal that may last for years as they rebuild their lives.

Whenever natural disasters strike – from floods to earthquakes to hurricanes – and we witness wrenching scenes of people returning to destroyed homes, I am forced to consider how I would react to such a situation.

While intellectually I know that material possessions are worthless in the grand scheme of things, I must confess that I am rather attached to mine. I would be devastated to suddenly lose my home and furnishings, not to mention a host of personal items to which I am emotionally attached.

I have conflicted feelings about this. On one hand, I feel a little bit shallow to admit that my possessions mean so much to me. After all, Jewish tradition is full of admonitions not to be overly concerned with acquiring material wealth.

For example, Pirke Avot 2:8 quotes the sage Hillel in laying out the consequences of having too many physical belongings. According to Hillel, “The more flesh, the more worms; the more possessions, the more worry.” The message of the Mishna is that physical amenities are not only fleeting, but also come with unpleasant complications.

On the other hand, Judaism does recognize the importance of having the basic necessities in life, which include suitable shelter and clothes. Halacha requires us to provide these things for those in need, and even recognizes that people who are accustomed to a wealthy lifestyle suffer the losses of their possessions with particular pain. Because of this, the Talmud instructs us to help those who have lost money and possessions to regain their former comforts.

In this day and age, most of us live with comforts that our ancient sages could not have even imagined. Even those of us who live modestly are wealthy by the standards of much of the rest of the world. While we are fortunate to be in this situation, we are also at risk of losing sight of the proper place of our possessions.

There are some cultures and religions that eschew all possessions, but Judaism takes a more balanced view. In our tradition, most belongings are neither good nor bad, but are judged upon how they are used, or the effect that they have upon a person. A person can use wealth solely for his own comforts or share it with others, and help those in need.

Similarly, houses can be monuments of materialism or conduits for welcoming others.

But a house is more than just another possession.

A person’s home is a sanctuary from the world and the weather and a place in which to express oneself freely and fully.

We can all imagine the agony of losing a home because we enjoy the privileges of privacy and comfort that come from having a safe home.

While the trappings of a home, and its glamorous dimensions, may indeed have little intrinsic value, the idea of a home is truly priceless, and that is why its loss is so devastating.

Random round-up

2007-09-23T21:45:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I was walking down the street and noticed the following bumper sticker: "So many men, so many reasons to sleep alone."

***

Today I stepped out onto my porch to water my chrysanthemum (I've had it more than two weeks and I haven't killed it yet!) when I heard a man's voice coming from another apartment shouting and using language that I will not repeat. Suffice it to say that it was something akin to "progeny of a wench!" I was alarmed, wondering if I should call the police to report a domestic dispute, as I did once when other neighbors were violently arguing. A moment later, I heard him yell "touchdown!" "Oh," I thought, "it's just the Steelers' game."

***

Today, for the second time, I went to see the movie Stardust. It is a lot of fun. It is a fairy tale sort of in the spirit of "The Princess Bride" -- a bit of a parody while still celebrating the romance and adventure of fairy tales. The dialogue is not as tight or as witty as Princess Bride, and the story definitely has some superfluous elements, but it is lots of fun with some wonderfully sentimental moments thrown in for those of who like movies that require the use of tissues.

***

Speaking of blending sentimentality with parody, it is September, the season of "The Fantasticks." Last year I wrote about this favorite musical of mine, but never let my readers know that I did, indeed, get to see the newest incarnation of the play in New York. I saw it back in January when I was in New York for a friend's wedding. The Snapple Theater is in the midst of the theater district and lacks some of the charm of The Sullivan Street Theater, but the musical is as magical as it ever was.

Thinking about the important stuff

2007-09-20T21:40:00.001-07:00

It's just a matter of hours before Yom Kippur begins. There never seems to be enough time to mentally prepare for this awesome day, but sometimes one is lucky enough to get reminders of the things that one should focus on at this time of year: living life well, maintaining healthy relationships and reminding ourselves that we are here to be part of something bigger than ourselves.

All of these points are illustrated well by the "last lecture" of Randy Pausch, a professor at Carnegie Mellon University here in Pittsburgh. He is dying of pancreatic cancer, and on Tuesday, he delivered an inspiring, upbeat lecture about his life and the importance of fulfilling childhood dreams. I did not attend the lecture, but have watched parts of it on YouTube. You can read about Pausch here.

And while you think about living a good life, I present my monthly column:

Pondering life's questions on Yom Kippur

In the late 1980s, singer Edie Brickell and her group, the New Bohemians, produced a song, “What I am,” that mocked the shallowness of American culture and our reluctance to be educated, thinking people.

“Philosophy, is the talk on a cereal box,” sings Brickell in the 1988 release, “Religion, is a smile on a dog.”

The implication is that empty aphorisms and superficial experiences have replaced profound ideas and beliefs.

The song continues: “Chuck me in the shallow water before I get too deep.” In other words, “don’t let me get confused by more complicated ideas.”

The phenomenon that Brickell mocked in 1988 is even truer today. With a culture that is saturated by so-called reality television, flashy images and an emphasis on instant gratification, there is even less incentive to think deeply about life, or even to think at all.

The trouble is, no matter how deafening the sound on one’s MP3 player, we can’t shut out life’s complications and complexities. Eventually the music stops and we are left alone with ourselves, wondering why things happen the way they do and what it all means.

For Jews, the High Holidays are an appropriate time to dip our toes into those deeper waters, to consider the fragility of life, the awesomeness of God and our responsibility to live ethical lives.
At the end of all of our searching, it is entirely possible, even likely, that we will emerge with even more challenging questions, and fewer answers. And that is precisely the point.

We enter this season with the audacity to believe that our prayers can somehow affect our fortunes for the next year, but conversely, one of the themes of the High Holidays is that God’s actions are beyond our comprehension.

A person who believes in God must wake up every morning and wonder why a merciful God would allow there to be so much pain in the world. The existence of evil is not proof that God is not there, but a challenge to humanity, both to grapple with the difficulty and to do our part to alleviate the world’s injustices.

The High Holidays bring this dilemma into stark relief.

As we pray for good health, sustenance and peace, we simultaneously acknowledge that there is sickness, poverty and war in the world, and that while we personally may be safe, healthy and well-fed, there are others in the world who are suffering, and it is hard to understand why this is so.

By the end of Yom Kippur, when we triumphantly recite the Shema and declare God’s oneness and sovereignty, we believe that we have done all that we can to secure a good new year. But the doubts don’t end there – Yom Kippur is not a once-in-a-lifetime event, but an annual phenomenon that we need to keep us religiously centered and aware of life’s unanswerable questions.

By the day after Yom Kippur, it is tempting to set aside the big ideas and to go back to our sugar-coated comfortable lives, bombarded by silly catch phrases and frivolity. But if our prayers are to truly have an impact on the coming year, then we have an obligation to continue pondering life’s difficulties, and not just relegate them to three days of the year.

My thoughts on "Orthodox Paradox"

2007-08-09T18:31:00.000-07:00

I'm way behind the pack on this one, but sometimes a late opinion is better than none at all. Below is a copy of my latest column, from the Aug. 9 issue of The Jewish Chronicle.

Feldman story focuses new light on intermarriage

Three weeks after the fact, it seems that every Jewish thinker and pundit has reacted to “Orthodox Paradox,” an essay by Noah Feldman, which appeared in the New York Times Magazine on July 22. For those who missed it, Feldman, a law professor at Harvard University, describes at length his hurt feelings at being snubbed by the alumni newsletter of his Modern Orthodox day school because his wife is not Jewish. He then goes on to criticize what he considers contradictions in Modern Orthodox belief and practice with regard to engagement with the non-Jewish world.

Other writers have already disputed many of Feldman’s claims and criticized him for being bitter, intellectually inconsistent and generally callous with the facts. I agree with many of these assessments, and do not feel it is necessary to repeat them.

Instead, I would like to focus on Mr. Feldman’s feelings as an intermarried person. Despite degrees from Harvard, Oxford and Yale, not to mention a long list of other distinguished accomplishments, Feldman seems unduly obsessed with being rejected by his high school and, by extension, the religious community in which he was raised, even though he writes fondly of his former classmates, with whom he remains friendly.

Whatever his arguments, it is hard to believe that an intelligent man who graduated from an Orthodox day school would be surprised when that school was disappointed in his marriage to a non-Jewish woman. Of course, emotions are seldom logical, and it seems that Feldman is pained that he can’t be both a paradigm of secular success and a source of naches to his rabbis.

As Gary Rosenblatt, the editor of The Jewish Week in New York, points out in a July 27 column, Feldman has raised “some important issues, less about his old yeshiva and Modern Orthodoxy per se than about dealing with Jews who do not see marrying out as leaving the fold.”

Intermarriage used to be viewed as a one-way ticket out of Jewish life. When the National Jewish Population Survey of 1990 reported a 52 percent intermarriage rate (which has since been adjusted to a slightly lower number), there was widespread alarm in the organized Jewish community about how to stem this tide. But just a decade and a half later, it seems that much of the Jewish community seems to have given up fighting intermarriage and accepted it as inevitable. These days, it is almost politically incorrect to say that Jews should marry only other Jews.

That is unfortunate. While it is important to be cognizant of the modern realities of the Jewish community, and crucial that we be welcoming to all Jews, whatever choices they have made in life, it is equally important for us to stand behind what we believe to be core values of our tradition. History has shown us that the best way for our cultural and religious heritage to be maintained from generation to generation is through the inculcation of strong Jewish households in which both parents are Jewish.

There are certainly exceptions to the rule – interfaith families that are raising deeply committed Jewish families – but we know from formal studies and informal interactions that children of intermarriage are less likely to be Jewishly educated and connected than children of in-married families.

The challenge faced by the Modern Orthodox community, and really the Jewish community as a whole, is figuring out a way to welcome Jews who are intermarried without endorsing interfaith relationships themselves. Feldman asks too much when he expects his alma mater to celebrate his interfaith marriage as a success, but, if he genuinely wants to reconnect to his heritage – and not just slander his former school in The New York Times – Feldman should not be turned away.

Intermarriage does not have to be a ticket out of Jewish life, but we cannot and should not say that marrying outside the fold is just as good as marrying within it.

Take me home, Country Roads

2007-06-27T21:52:00.000-07:00

It's several weeks overdue, but below is my May column from The Jewish Chronicle.

‘Mountain Mama’ nurtures Jewish souls

Recently, I was home in Charleston, W.Va., to see my family. While there, I had time to attend to some important tasks, not the least of which was paying a visit to Hubcap Heaven, a side-of-the-road operation outside of Charleston where one can find replacements for long-lost wheel covers.

A hand-written sign identifies the white trailer that is Hubcap Heaven, which is decorated with hubcaps of various origin. Hubcap Heaven has no phone book listing, so there’s no calling ahead to make sure they carry the specific hubcap you seek, but chances are good that they will have it. And shopping there is truly a West Virginia experience.

Less typical of the state, but more emblematic of my family’s Jewish experience there, is the old B’nai Jacob Cemetery, which I also visited while I was home.
Three generations of my family are buried there, beginning with my great-great-grandmother, who died in 1912, and ending with my grandfather, who died in 2004.
I find it remarkable that I had great-great-grandparents who lived and died in the same city in which I grew up. And they were Jewish. In West Virginia.

Five generations of my family have lived at least part of their lives in West Virginia, which means that our stay in the "new country" has been more extensive than that of Jews in many places that one might call the "old country."

My great-great-grandfather, Isaac Padlibsky, is rumored to have been a firebrand who reprimanded his offspring for acting like goyim. It is worth noting that his daughter, my great-grandmother, kept a kosher home and was very active, along with her husband, in the local chevra kadisha. They made their own kosher wine and married off their daughter, my grandmother, to the son of a chazzan. Goyim indeed.

Still, Isaac's fervor may have amounted to something. While some immigrants of his generation, and many of their descendents, were all too eager to cast aside the burdens of Jewish observance and identity, Isaac's staunch devotion to tradition likely played a role in his descendents' continued observance of Jewish rituals.

Some of us have even chosen to be more traditionally observant than our parents and grandparents – proof that what was lost can be found again.

Which brings me back to Hubcap Heaven.

Since some of the lost hubcaps on my Ford Taurus disappeared while traversing West Virginia's highways and byways, the spiritual side of me wondered if perhaps in purchasing my "new" hubcaps I was somehow reuniting my car with its original wheel covers.

And that leads me to reflect on deeper matters. That, as much as we each become our own persons, we are inextricably linked to those who came before us.

My grandmother sometimes recounted her memories of Isaac Padlibsky, who lived into her teen years, but she had no memory of his wife, who had died years earlier. Not that long ago, I realized that this great-great-grandmother of mine and I share the Hebrew name Chaya. For some reason, I believed that she had died in Europe, but on this latest cemetery visit I finally noticed her grave stone, right next to Isaac’s. She had been there all along, buried in the hills of West Virginia.

Being Susan Jacobs

2007-07-23T15:26:00.000-07:00

Just over two years ago, I got in touch over e-mail with another Jewish journalist named Susan Jacobs. I had seen her writing for The Jewish Journal Boston North among the stack of newspapers from other Jewish communities that arrive every week at The Jewish Chronicle, and so I sent her a friendly note, and we wrote back and forth a few times, before letting the correspondence drop off. The connection amused me enough that I wrote a column (with the encouragement of Susan Jacobs), detailing my various brushes with other Susan Jacobses. (Susans Jacobs?)

I sent Susan Jacobs (not me, the other one) a copy of my column, and she encouraged me to look her up if ever I were in the Boston area. Last week, I had the good fortune to participate in the Gralla Fellows Program, so I let her know that I would be around, and we managed to meet, thanks to the help of Ben Harris, who termed our meeting last Wednesday at Government Center in Boston "The Susan Jacobs Summit."

I am pleased to say that this summit did not get mired in political wrangling, as Susan Jacobs and I have agreed to share our name, and both agree that it is one to be proud of. Despite our sameness of name and job title (we are now both associate editors), Susan Jacobs and I are different enough from one another that people should be able to tell us apart.

Perhaps Susan Jacobs and I will meet again someday, but in the meantime, we can both laugh at the inevitable occasions when folks in our profession will mistake one of us for the other.

And now, for your reading pleasure, I present the Susan Jacobs column.

A Susan by any other name

When I was a little girl, my mom used to tell me, "There's only one Susan," by which she meant (as Mr. Rogers would say) there is only one person in the world who is exactly like me, and I am special. Of course, I knew even then that there were many other girls and women in this world who are named Susan. Beginning in first grade, there always seemed to be at least one other Susan in my class. That was OK, because we had different last names. After all, how many people named Susan Jacobs could there be? Quite a few it turns out.

When I was still in elementary school, I recall my grandmother pointing out that the local newspaper had a photograph of someone named Susan Jacobs who sold cars and lived in North Dakota. I was excited that my name has appeared in the paper and was shared by someone semi-famous. That was my first exposure to another Susan Jacobs, but there would be many more.

As a college student in New York, I once got a call from a pleasant sounding man who asked to speak to Susan Jacobs. "That's me," I said. "Is this the Susan Jacobs who is a music producer?" he asked. "No, I told him. You have the wrong Susan Jacobs." He sighed. He had been calling every Susan Jacobs in the phone book and hadn't found the one he was looking for yet.

A couple of years after that, on a flight from New York to Cincinnati, I was surprised to find another woman occupying my assigned seat. "Excuse me," I said, "I think you're sitting in my seat." She assured me that the airline had assigned her what I believed to be my window seat. Not wanting to make a fuss, I sat in the aisle seat instead.

When a flight attendant walked past me, I pointed out that the airline had assigned the same seat to two people. She said she would look into it and asked us to give her our tickets. When she returned, she said, "It's funny, not only do these two tickets have the same seat number, but they also have the same name."

"What's the name?" I asked. "Susan Jacobs," she said. "I'm Susan Jacobs," I responded, and then looked over to the other woman, who was laughing because she was also Susan Jacobs.

"Whoa, go play the lottery!" exclaimed a man in the row ahead of us. With an hour-long flight ahead of us, there was no easy access to lottery tickets, but the other Susan Jacobs and I had a nice chat about our lives. She was about 10 years older than me, and worked for a television station. (It seems that women with our name are good communicators.) She was on her way to visit her parents, and I was traveling to a cousin's wedding. It turned out we were headed to the same neighborhood, so when we landed in Cincinnati, her parents gave me a ride to my cousins' house.

My latest Susan Jacobs encounter has been via e-mail with a woman who holds a job similar to mine at another Jewish newspaper. Susan Jacobs is the Assistant Editor of the Jewish Journal Boston North. I contacted her and we exchanged some friendly messages, and she encouraged me to write this column about our name. So, please note that full credit for this column goes to Susan Jacobs. The editor. The one who works for a Jewish newspaper. You know who I'm talking about.

And now for an encore

2007-06-27T21:54:00.000-07:00

Here's my June column:

A dancer’s leap of faith

Nearly every little girl gets a taste of ballet class at some point in her life. Even with a dizzying array of other extra curricular activities from which to choose, most girls, at one time or another, still go through the paces of learning the five positions of the feet and arms and how to do a grande plie.

After that, a small minority stick with ballet’s strict regimen and go on to learn the intricacies of entrechat quatre and pas de chat, among other graceful and complex steps. Others go on to modern dance or hip-hop, or abandon dance entirely for sports or music and other pursuits. A demanding art form, ballet is certainly not suited for everyone.

Friends of mine are sometimes surprised that I still go to regular ballet classes, twice a week. Officially, my explanation is that I am terribly undisciplined about putting myself on an exercise schedule. Ballet class begins and ends at prescribed times, which makes it easier for me to find the time to be there, and the classes themselves build strength, flexibility and endurance, offering a well-rounded workout. (Anyone who thinks ballet is for sissies has obviously not met my teacher, Maria, who compares herself to a drill sergeant.)

But really, the other reason I take ballet is that a big part of me still aspires to perform the graceful leaps and turns that I have loved since I first saw a televised ballet as a child. I may be naturally clumsy, but deep inside, I was born to dance.

My physical limitations and religious priorities kept me from ever considering life as a dancer. With rules of modesty and restrictions that make Shabbat performances verboten, Orthodox Judaism and ballet are an uneasy mix.

However, some time ago it occurred to me that the two disciplines really have quite a bit in common.

Both demand dedication, sacrifice and passion. Both have their own vocabularies, both literal and symbolic. Both are best appreciated by devoted followers, and are easily misunderstood by outsiders. Both are learned best from teachers who mix firmness with compassion, and who understand how to transmit love for their field of study.

On a sadder note, ballet and Orthodox Judaism both have legions of disillusioned former students, sometimes because of the influence of shortsighted or overly strict teachers or a general aversion to the demands of regimen.

Another challenge of both disciplines is that many people see the rules and restrictions and never see the beauty that such guidelines can produce.

For example, a newcomer to ballet class may find it frustrating that three quarters of class may be spent at the barre, instead of leaping across the room. Similarly, one who drops into an Orthodox service may hear lots of Hebrew recitations without ever feeling a connection to God.

However, a veteran of either discipline will tell you that without a solid plie, a dancer will never soar, and that by delving into centuries-old prayers and texts, one will eventually learn how to connect to the Almighty.

There are certainly other paths to artistic beauty and other ways of finding God, but I have found that these time-tested and intricate methods work best for me.

A real champion

2007-05-31T21:13:00.000-07:00

I write now to extend congratulations to Evan O'Dorney, the winner of the 2007 Scripps National Spelling Bee. I watched some of the final rounds of the bee, and they were very intense. Evan and his competitors can spell words that I can't even pronounce.

I have great appreciation for their talents as a third-place winner in the 1990 Kanawha County Spelling Bee. I flubbed up the spelling of "wraith" and did even worse the following year when I misspelled "yachtsman." And, no, I've never gotten them wrong since. Not that those words come up in casual conversation. Still, I'm ready if they do.

Jewish clothes and other illusions

2007-01-28T19:00:00.000-08:00

For your reading pleasure, I present my latest column from The Jewish Chronicle:

Funny, you don’t dress Jewish

A couple of years ago, while visiting a friend in New York, she remarked that my Shabbat outfit – a pastel cardigan and conservative pastel skirt – was very goyish. She, at that moment, was wearing a fitted charcoal gray sweater, black skirt and knee-high black boots.

“And what you’re wearing is Jewish?” I replied.

We both laughed.

Upon further discussion, we concluded that my look was unpretentious Midwestern while hers was New York sophisticated. Neither look, in fact, had anything to do with being Jewish. But the conversation is illustrative of the characteristics that people associate with being Jewish.

Thanks in part to the influence of television and movies, many people assume that Jews are smart, urbane, fast talking and funny, not to mention wealthy, large-nosed, dark-haired and more than a little neurotic. As in all stereotypes, there is a core of truth embedded within the myth. But there are smart, funny, neurotic, dark-haired people in this world who are not Jewish, and a fair share of well-adjusted, natural blondes of average intelligence in this world who happen to be Jewish. (Not to knock the intelligence of blondes, of course.)

The point is, being Jewish is more than being the walking embodiment of a “Seinfeld” character. (Which, incidentally, had a lot more to do with being a New Yorker than with being a Jew.)

On the other hand, there is no denying that Jews share certain cultural tendencies that are unique to us. Another friend of mine attended college in North Carolina. A classmate who was an exchange student from Ethiopia once asked him if he were Jewish.

“Yes,” he answered. “How did you know?”

“You remind me of other Jews I’ve met,” he said.

Those other Jews were Ethiopian.

Something about the mannerisms or speech patterns of this nice Jewish boy in North Carolina were strikingly similar to his very distant, and otherwise very dissimilar, Jewish cousins in

Ethiopia

.

Which isn't all that surprising.

Meet a Jew in the middle of nowhere and you are sure to feel a special bond that you don’t share with non-Jewish compatriots. This stems not just from a shared love of pastrami or potato latkes, but from a shared vocabulary of life and a set of cultural experiences that are unique to Jews.

American Jews tend to be nostalgic about Yiddish culture and the quirky speech pattern of turning almost any statement into a question. (And how else should we talk?)

But, even Jews of Sephardic, Yemenite and Ethiopian descent -- who have never met a shmendrick or a shlemazel -- share the self-effacing inquisitiveness of their Ashkenazi cousins.

Some of these similarities stem from knowledge of the Hebrew language, whose application is rife with its own sarcasm and tendency toward unanswerable questions.

But, more importantly, our similarities come from the values imparted by Jewish tradition.

The Jewish legal tradition is founded upon an ongoing Hebrew and Aramaic dialogue that has as many rhetorical questions as practical ones.

This rhythm has been so utterly absorbed in Jewish culture that even Jews who have never studied a page of Talmud seem genetically programmed for critical thinking and spirited debate. As a people, we see life as the impetus for ongoing intellectual wrestling. The cerebral struggling is not a mere exercise, but an effort to understand how to behave ethically in the world.
This outlook -- along with a shared familiarity and comfort with Jewish language and rituals -- are part of what make Jews seem Jewish.

So, whether we are trendy or out of style, cosmopolitan or countrified, being identifiably Jewish is about extracting important values and mannerisms from our tradition, and not about fitting into a superficial mold.

Would we want it any other way?

A note to lovers of children’s literature

2007-01-28T19:21:00.001-08:00

Several weeks ago I went in search of an appropriate birthday gift for an 11-year-old girl. While browsing the children’s section of my local Barnes and Noble, I came across a delightful book called “The Tale of Despereaux – being the story of a mouse, a princess, some soup, and a spool of thread.” The cover has a drawing of a tiny mouse with a needle tied around his waist, as though it were a sword.

If that description is not enough to whet your imagination, then I humbly suggest that you are out of touch with your inner child. I spent a lazy first day of January 2007 curled up on my couch engrossed in Despereaux’s tale. (I kept the first copy of the book for myself and bought a second one for the birthday girl.)

After finishing the book, I was satisfied that I had chosen a very good gift, but then wondered if the intended audience for such a book would appreciate it as much as I had. While sophisticated adolescent readers will appreciate the author’s irony and humor, adult readers are likely to understand the book’s artistry and depth that much more.

Despereaux has a lot to teach us about courage and loyalty, and I suggest you give him a try.