Category Archives: Uncategorized

The Dreaded High Holidays

Posted on October 5, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

            I hate the high holidays. I hate the focus on repentance, and the large crowds at the synagogue, and all of the standing, and having to dress up, and the depressing Eastern European music, and the endless communal guilt. I would much rather spend the time watching a Father Brown marathon.

            But I pushed myself to join the choir anyway (which, at my synagogue, mostly sings during Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and not much the rest of the year), and each year I push myself to go to as many of the rehearsals as possible, even though I’m tired by 8 pm (which is when choir rehearsals always start). And I push myself to get up early for the morning services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and wear something other than a t-shirt and jeans, and stand and sit and stand for hours. And, I resent it, every year. I especially hate the emphasis on all of the sins we are presumed to have committed over the past year, as if I wasn’t already spending many hours each day combing through my life for my actual sins and trying to correct them.

            So, why do I go? Because it’s an obligation; because of FOMO (fear of missing out); because this is the one time each year when I get to see all of the people who rarely come to Friday night services; because I’d be lonely sitting at home knowing everyone else is there.

            And, because I love to sing. Music is such a mystery to me, because even when it’s imperfect or depressing, it is still, also, transcendent. It connects me with other people; even with people I might otherwise have nothing in common.

            Do I believe, or agree with, every word in every prayer we sing over the high holy days? Not at all. Is it meaningful to me to think of God as a judge or a king, doling out forgiveness for sins I’ve never even committed? Nope. But when those words that mean so very little to me, and even piss me off, are put to music, they are transmogrified into something new and my body becomes one of the instruments producing and receiving and echoing sound. This imperfect body of mine, that feels so much pain and that I feel so self-conscious about, becomes a vessel for transcendent sound for a little while every year, and that only works if my body is in the room with all of the other bodies.

            I wish we could all come together for happier occasions, and sing Israeli pop songs, or  just tell stories and laugh together, but for some reason, when everyone sat down to decide which holidays were going to be the most important ones on the Jewish calendar, they chose Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (at least after the destruction of the second temple in 70 CE, before then the most important holidays were Sukkot, Passover and Shavuot, weeklong festivals to celebrate harvests – more about Sukkot next week). So, why did my ancestors decide that the most important days of the year were the ones where we have to pound our chests and asks for forgiveness and beg God for another chance? I have no idea. But most of the Jews who go to synagogue on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and not once the rest of the year, pay expensive yearly dues for the privilege. And they seem to think it’s worth the cost.

            Maybe they’re there for the music too, and how it feels to be in a room full of people singing together, no matter what they happen to be singing. Or maybe they don’t realize that there are (much) happier holidays on the Jewish calendar that they could be celebrating with their congregation. Or maybe my people just really love repentance. It doesn’t matter. The decision has already been made, and I can either be there with them, or stay home alone. So, I go. Every year. And I sing, every year. And I whine and complain and need long naps to recover afterwards every year. And I wouldn’t miss it for the world. 

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

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Back to School

Posted on September 28, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

            For my first day back teaching, I was a whirling dervish of energy. I followed along with the Israeli teenager who led us in a TikTok style dance; I taught Hebrew through Movement, which involved a lot of standing up and sitting down and walking, walking, walking; and then I taught my two classes and met (most of) my new students, which meant a lot more standing and dancing and crazy hand gestures and funny breathing exercises. At the time, I was sure I was going to be fine. I mean, it’s not like I was running around the building, or doing pratfalls for laughs (like my students).

            But a couple of hours after I got home, my body started to stiffen and the pain began to set in. By the next morning, I could barely move.

“Hey! I can’t move either!”

            It took me a few days to recover. And, if possible, the second day of teaching was even more challenging. So now, I’m scared. I’m not sure if this physical response is worse than last year’s, or if I just got out of the habit of feeling like I’d been run over by a truck a few times a week. And I’m frustrated, because I spent the whole summer trying to build up strength and endurance in the hopes that I would start the new school year feeling more resilient, and, at the very least, it didn’t work.

            It was wonderful to see my students from last year, and to meet the new kids and hear their unique stories and start to untangle all of the drama among them (this will clearly take all year). And I can see a lot of interesting discussions and tons of silliness in my future, but there’s a voice in the back of my head warning me, you may not last the whole year.

            The fact is, I know I will do everything I can to be there for my students and to live up to all of my commitments – but it’s going to be harder, and it’s going to hurt.

            A few weeks ago, my therapist said, in passing, that my disease/disorder/undiagnosed chronic illness, is degenerative. She didn’t say, “it may be degenerative,” she said “it is.” For many years, she didn’t even believe that there was anything physically wrong with me. She was convinced that all of the pain and exhaustion was psychological, and therefore hard work in therapy would fix everything. But after decades of intensive therapy, and obvious progress in my mental and emotional heath, my physical issues have only worsened, and, finally, her theory of the case had to change.

            But there are so many things I still want to do! I want to teach more, not less. I want to write more, and meet more people, and travel, and dance, and sing. I was really hoping that this summer’s home-made physical therapy regimen was going to make a difference, and I’m so disappointed that it hasn’t helped. To be fair, it’s possible that without all of that work over the summer I would have been in even worse shape for the start of the school year. But for many years now, I’ve been trying everything I could think of: every medication and supplement doctors have suggested, and every exercise and treatment and strategy I could find. But I’m going to have to accept that it’s possible that this is as good as my health is going to get, and find a way to deal with that.

            But really, I don’t wanna. I want to throw a tantrum and scream and kick the floor and just cry. It seems to make my students feel a whole lot better, so, maybe it’s the next thing I should try. It couldn’t hurt! Much.

” I love a good tantrum!”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

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Hebrew Practice Groups

Posted on September 21, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

            At our first professional development of the year, we were asked which sound most characterized our summer, and I realized that mine was laughter, because the laughter in my online Hebrew class this summer was constant, even when we were on mute and could only see each other’s laughing faces. We became a tight knit group, with our young Israeli teacher, able to cover all of the emotional ground that came our way, without ever getting too depressed, because we knew we would be laughing again soon.

            But actually, I spent even more time in Hebrew practice groups this summer than in the class itself, because I had the time and because I finally felt like I could handle the social anxiety that comes with meeting so many strangers and making mistakes in front of them. It was all under the safe canopy of the same online Hebrew language program as my class, but in the practice groups I was meeting dozens of people from different Hebrew levels, and time zones, and ages and cultures.

            There are so many strange topics for discussion in the practice groups. Of course there are the standards: favorite food, favorite movie, what would you bring to a desert island. But then they start to get creative: what’s the weirdest food you’ve ever eaten (Ptcha – calf’s foot jelly); how would you solve global warming? (teach everyone how to fly: Laoof, like a bird, instead of Latoos, on a plane); how many languages can you speak (this one gets very competitive, and more than a few people have tried to count Spanish because they know how to say “Hola.”)

“I can teach you how to fly, if you want.”

            But we are always free to talk about something else in the breakout rooms, as long as we say it in Hebrew, so I’ve had long conversations about my dogs, or teaching, or growing up Jewish on Long Island. And if we’re pretty sure the teacher isn’t about to pop into the breakout room, we can discuss our favorite and least favorite teachers. You’d be amazed how diligently we can stick to Hebrew in the midst of a good gossip session. Because, you know, we’re studying here. We take it very seriously.

            The way the teachers lurk in the breakout rooms is always a topic of conversation. First of all, because they just appear and disappear without warning, like spies. But also, they keep their cameras off, as if we’re supposed to pretend they’re not really there. So, if I make a point of saying hello to the other students in the breakout room and don’t specifically say hello to the teacher, a disembodied voice might say, “Whatever, I’m not here, just ignore me,” which means, Hey, how dare you ignore me!

            Sometimes we’ll talk directly to the teacher – or to the box on the screen with the school logo on it – and ask for the Hebrew word for this or that, and the teacher will pop up on screen to answer “in person.” One time, a friend of mine asked her question, got her answer, and then said, “okay, you can go back into your little box now.”

            We get to meet a lot of teachers in the practice groups and see what their styles are – how they do corrections, how rigidly (or not) they follow their lesson plans, whether or not they have a sense of humor – and I’ve been able to get a much better idea of what works for me and what doesn’t, so that when a teacher’s style starts to get on my nerves, or leaves me feeling stupid, I’m less likely to assume it’s my fault (but only a little less likely).

            Our young Israeli teachers have also introduced us to something called pitzuchim – which literally translates to cracking nuts or seeds, but is used in Hebrew to refer to the way Israelis are always trying to figure out where they might know each other from (among American Jews this is called Jewish geography). It turns out that a lot of the teachers and students in the program have connections, through second cousins or long lost neighbors or who knows what else. So far, though, I have cracked no nuts or seeds on these zooms, which is kind of disappointing. Getting to Israel would be so much easier if I discovered a long lost wealthy relative with an empty apartment by the beach.

(Not my picture)

            This time spent in breakout rooms used to be the most stressful part of practice groups for me, and the reason why I avoided them so assiduously for years, but now, after the first few twinges of anxiety, I’ve come to really enjoy hearing everyone’s stories, and I’m less self-conscious about my broken Hebrew (though I still feel grumpy each time I make a mistake, which happens often).

            The most stressful part for me now is when we have to translate sentences from English to Hebrew, often using words I haven’t practiced recently (because I’m visiting practice groups at different levels from my own); but I’m getting used to laughing at my mistakes, and I’ve noticed that when I screw up, and laugh at myself, other people start to relax about their own mistakes. It’s almost like I’m doing a service.

            In some of the practice groups, after we go over some grammar from previous levels, we’ll read short articles together, or even just headlines, from online Hebrew language newspapers – often about food or travel or popular culture, so we can learn words we wouldn’t come across in class, like how to say “laundering money” in Hebrew. The words that are hardest to read in these articles are often borrowed from other languages. So, more often than not, our Israeli teachers will start to giggle when we can’t figure out how to pronounce “Mexico,”when it’s written in Hebrew letters.   

One of the lowest stress exercises that we do in practice group – though I can make anything feel stressful without really trying – is when the teacher puts an article on the screen and instead of asking us to read, and, God forbid, translate it, we just have to find one word at a time. It reminds me of being in first grade or so and realizing that there were English words I could just recognize on the page, without needing to sound them out, because they had become so familiar to me just by their shape.

            As a result of all of this time in the practice groups, I sometimes hear myself speaking in Hebrew, without having planned what to say ahead of time; the words just come out of my mouth, and I kind of look around the room, wondering who said that.

            And, really, during a summer where, aside from Mom, most of my in-person human interactions were at supermarkets or doctors’ offices, these practice groups gave me the chance to meet and chat with and learn from dozens of real people, who are fascinating and funny and weird and challenging. It’s still strange to me how real a community can feel, even when it only exists online; but in a way, the boundaries created by the computer (of time, and purpose, and mute buttons) creates a sense of safety that allows me to say what I really mean more often. Now, if only I could translate those safe boundaries into the real world…

“Pfft. Who needs the real world?”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

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The Colorful Masks

Posted on September 14, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

I want to hide myself,

or hide from myself.

And so, I wear a mask,

or masks,

to distract myself, and everyone else,

from what’s underneath.

I wish I could wear masks

made of beautiful gemstones.

Shiny yellows and reds and blues,

diamonds and silver and gold.

But most of my masks are only a smile or a laugh,

or indifference,

to hide the feelings

I can’t tolerate.

My masks look like me,

or so I’m told.

I don’t recognize myself

when I wear them.

When I see myself without a mask

I feel fragile,

and the masks protect me,

and strengthen me.

But maybe the masks are true just for me

and everyone else can see

the broken places in me,

and the scars,

and the open wounds.

I am afraid to find out

that people see me as I am,

despite the masks,

and they still don’t care,

or even notice,

and they simply continue to walk away from me.

Maybe all of the masks aren’t there to hide me

but to get attention,

so that someone will stop,

and see me.

But the masks never stay on long enough.

They fall and explode

like shattering glass.

I’m afraid that I will discover that the masks

are all that are left of me,

and underneath there is only

a storm of feelings I can’t control.

Maybe there is no real me without my colorful masks.

המסכוֹת הצבעוֹניוֹת

אַנִי רוֹצָה לְהַסתִיר אֶת עַצמִי

אוֹ לְהַסתִיר מְעַצמִי,

וְאַז אַנִי לוֹבֶשֶׁת מַסֵכָה,

אוֹ מַסֵכוֹת,

לְהַסִיחַ אֶת דַעַתִי, וְאֶת כֹּל הַשַׁאַר,

מִמָה שְׁמִתַחַת.

הָלְוַואי שְׁיָכוֹלתִי לִלבּוֹשׁ מַסֵכוֹת

מֵאָבנֵי חֵן יָפוֹת,

צְהוּבּוֹת וְאָדוּמוֹת וְכְּחוּלוֹת מָבְרִיקוֹת,

יְהָלוֹמִים וְכֶּסֶף וְזָהָב.

אַבַל רוֹב הָמַסֵכוֹת שֶׁלִי הֵן רַק חִיוּך אוֹ צְחוֹק,

אוֹ אָדִישׁוּת,

לְהָסתִיר לִי אֶת הַרְגָשׁוֹת

שְׁאַנִי לֹא יְכוֹלָה לִסְבּוֹל.

הָמַסֵכוֹת שֶׁלִי נִראוֹת כָּמוֹנִי,

אוֹ כַּךְ, לְפָחוֹת, אָמרוּ לִי.

אַנִי לֹא מְזָהָה אֶת עָצמִי

כְּשְׁאַנִי לוֹבֶשֶׁת אוֹתָן.

כְּשְׁאַנִי רוֹאָה אֶת עַצמִי בְּלִי מַסֵכָה,

אַנִי מָרגִישָׁה שַׁבִיר,

וְהַמַסֵכוֹת מַגִינוֹת אוֹתִי,

וְמָחְזִיקוֹת אוֹתִי.

אַבַל, אוּלַי הַמַסֵכוֹת הֵן אַמִיתִיוֹת רַק לִי,

וְכֹּל הַשַׁאַר יְכוֹלִים לִראוֹת

אֶת הַמְקוֹמוֹת הַשׁבוּרִים שֶׁלִי,

וְהַצַלַקוֹת,

וְהַפְּצַעִים הַפְּתוּחִים.

אַנִי מְפַחֶדֶת לְגָלוֹת

שְׁאַנַשִׁים רוֹאִים אֶת הַאַנִי הַאַמִיתִי

לַמְרוֹת הַמַסֵכוֹת שֶׁלִי,

וְעַדַיִין לֹא אֶכְפַּת לָהֶם,

אוֹ אַפִילוּ לָשִׂים לֵב,

וְהֵם פַּשׁוּט מָמְשִׁיכִים לְהִתְרַחֵק מִמֶנִי.

אוּלַי הַמַסֵכוֹת הֵן שַׁם לֹא כְּדֵי לְהַסתִיר אוֹתִי,

אֶלַא כְּדֵי לִמְשׁוֹך תשׂוֹמֶת לֵב.

כְּדֵי שְׁמִישְׁהוּ יַעַצוֹר

וְיִראֶה אוֹתִי.

אַבַל הַמַסֵכוֹת אַף פַּעַם לֹא נִשְׁאַרוֹת מַספִּיק זמַן.

הֵם נוֹפלִים וְמִתְפּוֹצְצִים

כְּמוֹ זכוּכִית שְׁמִתְנַפֶּצֶת.

אַנִי מְפַחֶדֶת שְׁאַנִי אֶגָלֶה שְׁהַמַסֵכוֹת

הֵן כֹּל מָה שְׁנִשׁאַר מִמֶנִי,

וְמִתַחַת יֵשׁ רַק סְעַרָת רְגָשׁוֹת שְׁאַנִי לֹא יְכוֹלָה לִשְׁלוֹט בָּה.

אוּלַי אֵין אַנִי אָמִיתִי, בְּלִי הַמַסֵכוֹת הַצִבְעוֹנִיוֹת שֶׁלִי.

“I have other ways of hiding. I can teach you.”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

42 Comments

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How Do I Write a Prayer?

Posted on September 7, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

            This question came up after a conversation with my boss at the synagogue school, because she was trying to figure out a way to remind kids and parents about the value of building a community. I tend to speak without thinking (which is why I prefer writing, because it gives me a chance to revise my thoughts into something I can agree with), and I may have said something like, wouldn’t it be great if we had a prayer to say, in English, that specifically focuses on the value of being in community, so they can hear themselves saying it each week. My boss’ eyes lit up and she said, that would be great! Can you have it done before school starts?

The fact is, there are plenty of traditional Jewish prayers that imply the need for community, but I don’t know of any that do it explicitly, in a way that makes everyone realize that they need to show up on a regular basis to make the magic to work.

So, to start with, I need to figure out what I want to highlight about community in this prayer. The most obvious benefit of having a community, to me, is the way we can offer each other comfort and attention, and experience joy in each other’s company. Then, there are the invisible threads we create during those moments, that we can still feel later on when we’re alone, and that can hold us together through hard times. And, then, most concretely, there are the things we can accomplish together as a community that are impossible for any of us to do alone.

            My next task was to see what has already been said about community in the Jewish texts, since this prayer should be rooted in the tradition, rather than floating around untethered to anything that came before. I went to a site called Sefaria, where many people have created source sheets on different topics, quoting traditional Jewish texts. It has become a very popular site with Judaic studies teachers, but also with anyone who wants to research a particular Jewish topic, in depth, without having to, you know, read a lot of books in Hebrew and Aramaic.

            One of the first quotes I found was very familiar to me: I do a lesson with the kids each year on a saying by Rabbi Tarfon (from Pirkei Avot/Sayings of the Fathers) that has been made into a song: Lo alecha hamlacha ligmor, ve lo atah ben chorin le’hibatel mimena – “it’s not your responsibility to finish the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.” I like that it implies community, by saying that while we must do our part, and there will be others who can continue on after us.

Lo Alecha – https://youtu.be/04-tMMe4lrw?si=pKP4gDcRaubRIecz

            Another quote I use each year, because it’s from the book of Leviticus (the book of the Hebrew bible that I study with my students), also showed up on Sefaria: Ve’ahavta lerayecha kamocha, “love your neighbor as yourself.” This is another universal value, across religions and societies, though it feels impossible to live up to, which makes it more intimidating than inspiring, for me.

Then I found a familiar quote from the Talmud, Kol Yisrael arevim zeh la zeh, “all of Israel is accountable/responsible for/connected to each other,” which has become more obviously meaningful again since October 7th of last year, though I worry that it could feel alienating to some of our interfaith families.

A quote I found that I’d never heard of before is from Rabbi Soloveichik, a modern orthodox rabbi: “a community is not just a group of people working together for mutual benefit, but a metaphysical entity.” And that’s much closer to what I’m looking for, because I want people to feel like they are part of something larger than themselves and that they are essential to it.

            In my search for sources, I also came across some explanations for why certain traditional Jewish prayers (like the prayer for mourning) are only said when you have at least ten Jews together (ten men above Bar Mitzvah age, if you are orthodox). The idea that you’d need ten men to make a prayer legitimate always bothered me, because, of course, I couldn’t count as one of the ten to make a quorum. But now that I am part of a liberal Jewish community, where women do count, I’m a little more open to the idea that we benefit from having a group of people with us when we say certain prayers. The idea I liked most was: when ten people pray together the divine presence comes into the room, specifically the Shechinah, or the female face of God. There’s something beautiful about the idea that creating a community, even for a few minutes, brings in the presence of God. But it also makes practical sense to require a community in order to say something like the Mourner’s Kaddish in particular, because when people are grieving they often isolate themselves and they need to be reminded that they have a community around them to provide support and comfort.

            A few more things I found, or imagined, because I wrote them down in my notes but now I can’t seem to find the attributions: God is the Neshama, the soul, of which each one of us has a small part. We ask for rain even when only our neighbors need it, and we ask for guidance when it is a stranger who is lost, and we ask for abundance even when our own plates are full.

            But even though these are all wonderful ideas, I have no idea how to transform them into something short and sweet and to the point. I feel like I’m in danger of creating a Frankenstein-style prayer, and, if we believe Mary Shelly at least, those sorts of things never end well.

There are already some songs in our repertoire that I like very much and that capture aspects of what I’m looking for. Rabbi Menachem Creditor wrote a beautiful song based on a Jewish text, called, Olam Chesed Yibaneh, which he translates as “We will build this world with love,” and it emphasizes how people can come together to change the world.

Olam Chesed Yibaneh – https://youtu.be/ZHp-jcPlKIY?si=L8ieTeZ7z1g-397e

            There’s also a variation on a traditional prayer (Ahavat Olam) by another Rabbi, Rami Shapiro, that has been made into a beautiful song by Shir Yakov (yet another rabbi, I think), called “We are loved,” which focuses on how we find God in our relationships with other people.

We are loved – https://youtu.be/ovj5HD1jUws?si=DGaNl2T04aAeWW_6

            So, if I can’t write my own prayer, these are both good options. And, really, I’m sure it would be fine with my boss if I didn’t come up with something. In fact, since she’s currently drowning in a maelstrom of new school year details, I doubt she even remembers our conversation. But I do.

I worry, though, that not only don’t I know how to write a prayer, as opposed to a short blessing, I’m not sure if I’m even allowed to write one. Like, do I need permission from a rabbi? Or do I need to actually be a rabbi to write a prayer?

            My answer to this thorny question is to avoid it completely, so instead of calling it a prayer, maybe I can call it a kavanah (the Hebrew word for intention or direction). When I teach the official prayers to my students, we do all kinds of writing (and singing and dancing and drawing) to try to understand the purpose of each prayer, and then the kids offer their kavanot (the plural form of kavanah) at a family service, before they sing the prayer itself. So maybe I can think about this as writing a kavanah, a piece to be read before we say the real prayers, as a way to help us keep the idea of community in mind throughout the service.

             Here’s what I have so far:

We are part of a community that has existed for thousands of years, and embraces all of us, every version of us.

We renew and re-build this community with each word, each action, each gift of time, and attention, and compassion.

Each time we come together to pray or work or sing or study, we create invisible threads attaching us to one another, connections that can still be felt when we’re alone, and that can hold us together through hard times, like a net that will catch us when we fall.

We pray for everyone, because even when we aren’t struggling ourselves, we know that someone else is struggling and needs support.

We are all part of one soul, each carrying a small light within us, and when we come together we beam like the sun. Together we can accomplish more than we ever thought possible alone.

“I pray that one day I will be a real dog and get to eat chicken treats.”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

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The End of Summer

Posted on August 31, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

I’m not ready for the summer to end. I still have writing to do, and doctors’ appointments to go to, and lesson plans to revise. I still want to go to every online Hebrew practice group I possibly can, and see if more poems arrive (I have no idea what makes them bubble up, though there may be storks involved). I tried to get so much done this summer: rebuilding my exercise practice, working on nutrition, changing medications, taking continuing education social work classes, working on therapy, and writing, and Hebrew, and social skills, and on and on. But it’s not enough. I still don’t have a dog. The novel still isn’t finished. My health is still whatever it is. There are still tons of movies I want to see, and issues I wish I could resolve. I’m not ready to go back to work, and choir practice, and trying to find time for my writing in the spaces in between.

This is not my picture, but this is how I picture the poetry stork.

            I’m pretty sure I feel this way at the end of every summer, wishing for another month of “vacation” in order to get more of my work done, before the new school year can make me feel like I’m being tied to the back of a speeding train.

            I know I will enjoy getting back to the kids, and singing with the choir, but I also know that I will miss this feeling of open time, where I can do things at my own pace and give myself enough time to recover from one panic attack before embarking on the next one.

            Here’s hoping that all of the work I’ve done this summer will have shifted something inside of me, creating more space for my summer self to exist during the school year. Because I really want to feel more like myself all year, and not just for a few months at a time.

            Fingers crossed.

“Um, I don’t think I have fingers.”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

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Two More Poems

Posted on August 24, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

            I recently went to a zoom presentation on Modern Israeli poetry, and both the presentation and the poetry were down to earth and unpretentious and grounded in daily life in a way that made me think, hmm, maybe I am writing real poetry after all, and not just noodling around. I was even more encouraged to find out that, for poetry as opposed to for everything else, Israelis use the vowels under the letters (Nikud in Hebrew) to make sure each word is read correctly, and because it looks cool. The thing is, I grew up learning Hebrew with the vowels intact, and trying to get used to Israeli newspapers and blog posts and books, where there is no Nikud and you have to guess at the pronunciation of new words, has been breaking my brain.

            I gave up on writing poetry in English a long time ago, after a lot of rejection, mostly from classmates who thought I was crap at it. But writing poetry in Hebrew seems to bypass a lot of that noise in my head. I’m still self-conscious, of course, and I worry that I’m going to depress people, or that my Hebrew is less real Hebrew than my own invention. But whereas when I try to write poetry in English the words just drip drip like a leaky faucet, in Hebrew they come out with more force, as if they actually have something they want to say.

            I’m not sure if these two poems are finished. In fact, I’m pretty sure they’re not, despite many edits, but I wanted to reward myself a little bit for trying to write them at all, so I’m sharing them here. And then sharing links to some actual Israeli poetry, in English Translation.

הכאבים שלי

כּוֹאֶבֶת לִי הַבֶּטֶן.

אוּלַי זֶה נִגְרָם מְהַתרוּפוֹת

נֶגֶד הַחָרָדָה, נֶגֶד הַדִיכָּאוֹן,

נֶגֶד כֹּל הַכְּאֵבִים הַאַחֵרִים,

אוֹ אוּלַי זֶה נִגְרָם מְהַפָּסטָה שְׁאַכַלתִי בַּצַהַרַיִים.

כּוֹאֵב לִי הַגַב

כּאִילוּ מִישׁהוּ בַּעַט בִּי,

אַבַל אַנִי לֹא זוֹכֶרֶת אֶת הַמָכּוֹת,

אוֹ לָמָה מִישֶׁהוּ הָיָה רוֹצֶה לִפגוֹעַ בִּי.

כּוֹאַבוֹת לִי גַם הַכּתֵפַיִים וְהַמוֹתְנַיִים

וְהַבִּרכַּיִים וְהַקַרסוֹלַיִים

כּאִילוּ מִישׁהוּ מְנָסֶה לְפָרֵק אוֹתִי

כּמוֹ עוֹף מְבוּשָׁל.

כּוֹאֶבֶת לִי הָנְשָׁמָה

אַבַל עַל זֶה אֵין לִי מִילִים.

אַנִי מְפַחֶדֶת שְׁאִם כֹּל הַכְּאֵבִים הַיוּ מִתְרַחְשִׁים בְּבַת אַחַת

לֹא הַיִיתִי מְסוּגֶלֶת לִשׂרוֹד.

מָזָל שְׁכֹּל יוֹם יֵשׁ לִי רַק חֵלֶק מִכֹּל הַכְּאֵבִים

וְאַנִי יְכוֹלָה לִקְפּוֹץ מִכּאֵב לְכּאֵב

כְּמוֹ צפַרְדֵעַ שְׁמְדַלֶגֶת עַל פּנֵי הַמַיִם

וְלְעוֹלָם לֹא נוֹפֶלֶת פְּנִימָה.

אוּלַי יוֹם אֶחַד אַנִי אַרגִישׁ אֶת כֹּל הַכְּאֵבִים בְּאוֹתוֹ זמַן,

וְבַּיוֹם הַהוּא,

אַנִי מְקַוָוה,

שְׁאִם הַיִיתִי נוֹפֶלֶת לְתוֹך הַמַיִם

בָּסוֹף, הַיִיתִי מְסוּגֶלֶת לִשְׂחוֹת.

My Pains

My stomach hurts,

maybe from the medications

against anxiety, against depression

against all the other pains,

or maybe from the pasta I ate in the afternoon.

My back hurts,

as if someone kicked me.

But I don’t remember the beating,

or why someone would want to hurt me.

My shoulders and hips and knees and ankles

also hurt,

as if someone is trying to take me apart

like a cooked chicken.

My soul hurts,

but about that I have no words.

I’m afraid that if all of these pains

took place at the same time,

I wouldn’t be able to survive.

Thank God, each day I only feel some of the pain,

and I can jump from pain to pain,

like a frog skipping over the surface of the water,

and never falling in.

Maybe one day I will feel all of the pain

all at once.

And on that day,

I hope,

if I fell into the water,

in the end I would be able to swim.

אני כמו אבן

לִפְעַמִים,

אַנִי מָרגִישָׁה כּמוֹ אֶבֶן כִּי אַנִי לֹא יָכוֹלָה לָצוּף.

נִראָה לִי שְׁהָאַוִויר סבִיבִי מָלֵא

בְּמָחשַׁבוֹת וְכּאֵבִים וְחַרַדוֹת,

שְׁיוֹצְרִים חוֹמָה שׁקוּפָה

מָחזִיקָה אוֹתִי בָּמָקוֹם.

לִפְעַמִים,

אַנִי מָרגִישָׁה כּמוֹ אֶבֶן

שְׁתָמִיד נוֹפֶלֶת עָמוֹק יוֹתֵר

לְתוֹך הָמַיִם הָשׁחוֹרִים.

יוֹם אַחַרֵי יוֹם,

אַנִי מְנָסָה לְהַפסִיק לִיפּוֹל

וְלִמתוֹחַ מֵעֵבֶר לָחוֹמָה הַשׁקוּפָה.

הַעָבוֹדָה הַזֹאת מְתִישָׁה

וְבִּלתִי נִראֵית מִכּוּלָם מִלְבַדִי.

אוּלַי בְּקָרוֹב,

אוֹ בַּסוֹף,

אַנִי אַצלִיחַ בָּעָבוֹדָה הַקָשָׁה שֶׁלִי

וְאִנִי אוּכַל לְהַרגִישׁ יוֹתֵר כְּמוֹ צִיפּוּר

שְׁעוֹמֶדֶת גַבוֹהַה

עִם כְּנָפַיִים פּרוּשׁוֹת

מוּכן לַעוּף.

I am like a Stone

Sometimes,

I feel like a stone because I cannot float.

It seems like the air is full

of thoughts and pain and anxieties

that create a transparent wall around me

that keeps me in place.

Sometimes,

I feel like a stone that is always falling deeper

into the black water.

Day after day,

I try to stop falling,

and to stretch beyond the transparent wall.

This work is exhausting

and invisible to everyone but me.

Maybe soon,

or in the end,

I will succeed in my difficult task,

and I will be able to feel more like a bird

who stands tall

with wings outstretched,

ready to fly.

Some Israeli poetry to try:

Yehuda Amichai – https://allpoetry.com/An-Arab-Shepherd-Is-Searching-For-His-Goat-On-Mount-Zion, https://allpoetry.com/poem/8513161-Jerusalem-by-Yehuda-Amichai, https://allpoetry.com/The-Diameter-Of-The-Bomb

Maya Tevet Dayan – https://www.worldliteraturetoday.org/2021/winter/land-maya-tevet-dayan

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

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Srugim, or The Modern Orthodox Singles Scene in Jerusalem

Posted on August 17, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

            There’s an Israeli TV show from about ten or fifteen years ago called Srugim that I’d been avoiding for quite a while. Srugim means “knitted,” or “crocheted” and it refers to the kippot (skullcaps) worn by the modern orthodox men featured in the series (I learned how to crochet kippot in Junior high, because girls were supposed to know how to make these for boys. No, really.) Especially in Israel, but also in the United States, you can tell which particular division of Judaism a man belongs to based on whether he’s wearing a crocheted kippah, a black suede or black velvet kippah, a Sephardi kippah (these are actually more like hats and are incredibly beautiful), or a large white kippah, and, of course, if you wear a black hat over your black kippah you are probably ultra-orthodox, but the style of hat will differ depending on which group you belong to. These careful decisions about what to wear on your head allow people to know who’s in the group and who’s an outsider, kind of like how high school students can tell from across a crowded lunchroom who’s in drama club, who’s a jock, and who wants to be the next Mark Zuckerberg.

I’d watched the first episode of Srugim a few years ago, on the recommendation of my best friend from high school who moved to Israel many years ago. We like a lot of the same things, so it surprised me how much I hated this show, or at least that first episode. It wasn’t actually the show overall so much as this one character who just made me angry, and I wasn’t sure if the writers of the show wanted me to like him and tolerate his obnoxious behavior or if they recognized how much of a jerk he was. And, really, I didn’t have the patience to deal with him either way.

            When we got our Chaiflicks subscription (a Jewish streaming service) last winter, I tried to watch that first episode again, because, really, how could my friend love this show and I couldn’t even watch more than one episode? But I still couldn’t tolerate that one guy.

            I kept seeing the show on my watchlist, though, each time I jumped over it to watch something else, and I kept wanting to erase it, but I couldn’t. Finally, a few weeks ago, I decided to try again, this time starting with episode two. And I was hooked! It turned out that the writers absolutely knew this guy was an asshole, and wanted to show how his behavior impacted the people around him, especially the woman who was falling in love with him.  As I watched episode after episode, I realized that the whole point of the show was that these young modern orthodox Jewish singles in Jerusalem are as complex and confused as everyone else, even if their lives looked very buttoned up from the outside.

            Of course, the show is in Hebrew (with English subtitles – before being on Chaiflicks it was on more mainstream American streaming services), so I can tell myself that I’m watching it as homework to help build my Hebrew listening skills.

            The show starts when the main characters are on the brink of being “too old” at age thirty to make good matches in the modern orthodox world (though the age for a good match seems to be rising as women have been going to school and starting professions before marriage).

            Other popular shows recently have focused more on the ultra-orthodox Jewish world (though there are many ultra-orthodox communities and they are not all the same), rather than the modern orthodox, because they live more isolated lives, avoiding popular culture, including television and smartphones. I’m fascinated by those closed worlds too, but the modern orthodox Jewish singles portrayed in Srugim are trying to straddle two worlds, engaging in the modern world of culture and technology and feminism and professional lives, while also trying to maintain religious laws and traditions, and, for me, that’s much more interesting.

            I went to an orthodox Jewish day school (in New York) for Junior high and high school, and I felt like an outsider the whole time, because I could never master all of the rules, let alone believe in them. I kept being overwhelmed by how perfect everyone else seemed to be, on the surface, and how simple and clear their lives looked, with all of their choices made for them.

            It took me a long time to understand that my classmates were struggling just as much as I was, and if anything, they felt more pressure to hide their struggles than I did, and to avoid being judged by their community for the ways they inevitably fell short. Something about watching these characters on Srugim, who are like adult versions of my old classmates, has made me see my old friends (and enemies) more clearly and with more compassion. They get embarrassed too, and feel not good enough sometimes, and get lonely, and struggle to keep all of the rules, or struggle to want to. They can fall for the wrong guy, or be the wrong guy, while still wearing a kippah or keeping kosher and following all of the obvious rules. Being religious doesn’t protect them from life, though for some it is able to offer guidance and comfort along the way.  

            My high school best friend (the one who recommended Srugim) lived in Jerusalem during her twenties, and though she’d told me some of the highs and lows of those years along the way, I didn’t really get it. Her life seemed so clear and straightforward compared to the incoherent chaos and fear I lived with at that time. I took a lot of comfort in the idea that at least she was doing okay. But now I’m getting a fuller picture of what she lived through, with all of the blind dates and coffee meetups and the endless pressure to find “the one” in order to start her real life (aka, having children). I should have known better, given how well I knew her, but at the time I wasn’t up to understanding that everyone’s life is complicated.

            Often, when I only see the Facebook or Instagram versions of orthodox lives (the beautifully baked challah on the perfectly set Shabbat table, all seven kids lined up in age order and well-behaved), I forget that behind those images are real lives, with temper tantrums and burned meals and lost jobs and grief and betrayals.

            There’s something about being a religious Jew that moves me, though Not the way the rabbis are in charge of everything and the rules are so strict, but the way that every event of the day, every simple handwashing or meal or walk, takes on meaning, because it is acknowledged by a ritual or a blessing. I love the way life is meant to be something to treasure: even when you are bored or confused or angry, there’s a prayer or a lesson from the Talmud to help you through it and to acknowledge that this is life and every moment of it, however painful, has value. It’s like a complex piece of music, where each note matters: each pause, each cacophony, each harmony, each predictable scale or unexpected resolution, is an important part of the whole.

            One of the main characters on Srugim goes through her own crisis of faith, partially because she falls in love with a non-religious man, but mostly because she realizes that even though she grew up in the religious world, it doesn’t really fit her, or at least it doesn’t allow for all of who she is. And watching her gradually find her own way forward, while still holding onto the friends who remain in that world, without the show ever judging which way is right or wrong, was really validating. It reminded me of something I’ve known for a long time, but always need to re-learn: being religious isn’t supposed to be a way to hide from the difficulties of life, even if many people try to use it that way, like my father did. Being religious is meant to be a way to help you get through it, and to remember what’s important to you when you are overwhelmed with all of the chaos that keeps pulling you off track.

Friday Night Dinner

Even among the religious characters on the show, each one has their own relationship with the laws they follow, and how deeply they think about their choices, or not; some feel deeply connected to God and some seem to follow all the rules by rote, and the same people can do it all differently at different times in their lives.

I was sure I’d missed a lot on my first binge through the three seasons of the show (I watched 45 episodes in about a week and a half), so I was thrilled when my mom was interested in watching it through from the beginning with me, at a somewhat slower pace. And on second viewing I’m noticing a lot more details, of course, but I’m also feeling more, allowing myself to sit with these characters and their certainties and doubts and their mistakes and their deep love for each other. It feels like these characters are my friends now, even the one I hated at the beginning (though he still pisses me off on a regular basis), and I’m allowing myself to know them as they are, and accept them as they are, without (too much) judgement.

I saw an article online saying that the creator of the show tried to make a sequel a few years ago, showing this same community in the next phase of their lives. I don’t know if anything came of that effort, but if they ever get a chance to make that show, I will be watching.

Srugim trailer – https://youtu.be/zbxgf3cNV4U?si=m7eUiplvnZ6x9a-H

Srugim theme song – https://youtu.be/OrvMH0hQClQ?si=kD4KQP3S7_EL7pUR

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

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Chocolate

Posted on August 10, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

            The most recent South Korean series I’ve been watching on Netflix is a romantic drama called Chocolate. It’s made up of sixteen hour-long episodes and tells a love story that crosses decades and starts and ends with food, especially chocolate. A boy prepares a meal for a girl when she’s starving, and that sends her on a lifelong journey of feeding others, both to relive the kindness she received and to pay it forward. It feels like the boy transferred his love of cooking to the girl, as if a piece of his soul was grafted onto hers.

The first feast

            There’s a sense of ceremony and ritual to the cooking in this series as we watch her sift and chop and snip and stir. And watching the way people receive and enjoy her food is satisfying, even when the particular foods she makes don’t appeal to me (Ahem, kimchi. There’s a kimchi section at my local HMart that always looks so inviting, and I keep trying different dishes hoping to find something with a spice level I can tolerate, but that hasn’t happened yet. 

not my picture

            She constructs her dishes with an awareness of how they look and smell and feel and sound, like colorful flowers deep fried and added to the plate, for crunch and color, or a cherry blossom roll where you can see the blossom in the center. And I love the way slurping is encouraged rather than frowned upon. Throughout the series, the chef tries to recapture people’s memories with her food, and then relies on chocolate, baked into cakes, molded into designs, or eaten as is, to remind her that there is reason to hope and to hold on, even when she’s at her lowest.

Watching episode after episode of this show has been inspiring but has also reminded me of how little energy I’ve had for cooking over the past few years. I can’t stand at the counter long enough to chop and mix and sauté; one minute at the sink leaves me feeling like there’s a cleaver in my back, two minutes in front of the chopping board and my vision starts to swirl. And yet, I can watch this fictional chef prepare dish after dish for hours without feeling any pain, and I feel taken care of, by osmosis. She reminds me of how I felt when I was little, watching my mother make dinner, peering over the counter to see what she would add next.

            I spent many years trying to learn how to cook satisfying food for myself. I took cooking classes and baking classes and cake decorating classes, and I made soups and pastas and dumplings and cakes, but it never felt good enough. I worked so hard to try to feel joy in making the food, but in the end it just felt like work, often tedious and thankless, resulting in food that still disappointed me. Something always seemed to be missing from the final product; something I couldn’t name and couldn’t recreate.

            But this fictional chef is able to share some essential element of herself with others through her food, and yet never seems to be diminished by how much she gives away. I wish I could believe that by studying her recipes and techniques I could discover the secret ingredient I keep missing in my own cooking, whether it’s fish paste or a certain way of slicing the onions or some ineffable quality that she infuses into the process from her soul.

The reality is, I don’t go hungry; and I don’t lack joy in my life, or even in the food I eat. But there is always this slight bitterness, this inkling that something is missing, something I need and want and can’t seem to find. I may have to rewatch all sixteen episodes to see if I can figure out what I’m missing; or maybe one day, if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to find it within myself.

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

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Watching Movies on Chaiflicks

Posted on August 3, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

            This year for my birthday I got a subscription to Chaiflicks, a Jewish streaming service that has movies from around the world (France, Hungary, Germany, South America, the United States, and, of course, Israel). And since there’s almost nothing new on regular TV in the summer, except for news and sports, I’ve been making my way through their movie collection.

            There was one movie called Nowhere in Africa about a Jewish family who left Germany for Africa just before Kristallnacht (1939), leaving behind family members who still weren’t convinced that Hitler and the Nazis really meant all of the awful things they said they wanted to do to the Jews. The transition to life in Africa was hard for them: the heat, the villagers, the farming and hard labor, and of course the language and culture and food. The movie is based on an autobiographical novel by the daughter of the family, and we get to see a lot of the events through her eyes, both her incredible adaptability and the grief she feels when, after the war ends, the family returns to Germany to help rebuild the country.

Another movie, called Gloomy Sunday, was about a thruple (two men and a beautiful woman) in Hungary during World War II. One of the men is a Jewish restaurant owner and the other is a penniless musician who is hired to play piano in the restaurant. Drama ensues, of course. The musician writes a song that becomes intertwined with a series of suicides, and the Jewish restaurant owner is eventually sent to the camps and killed, despite thinking he had a friend among the Nazis who would protect him. But the ending is satisfying, in a revenge is best served cold sort of way.

            You may be sensing a theme at this point, because many of the non-Israeli movies on Chaiflicks focus on the Holocaust, from many different perspectives. One of the more hopeful stories was about a grandmother in Bordeaux, France who thought her whole family had been murdered in the Holocaust and then she accidentally finds her granddaughter, alive.

The Missing Granddaughter

            There are so many stories that deserve to be told, and have so much to teach us about survival and grief and evil and fighting back, but it’s hard to take it all in.

            One of the non-Holocaust movies we watched was about an event I knew almost nothing about: the bombing of the AMIA Jewish community center in Buenos Aires, Argentina in 1994, which killed 85 people, including children. The movie is called Anita, and focuses on a woman with Downs’s syndrome who is injured in the blast and survives, but gets lost for days, while her brother believes she must have died along with their mother in the explosion. Anita seems to bring out the best in a lot of the people she meets, but not right away. In a strange coincidence, the week after we watched the movie the 1994 bombing was in the news again, because it was the 30th anniversary of the bombing and after a court in Argentina had finally placed blame for the bombing on Iran and Hezbollah, the government vowed to pursue justice.

            We’ll see what else I can learn from Chaiflicks this summer, though I’d really like it if the filmmakers could be more gentle with my prudish American sensibilities and stop randomly showing women’s breasts in every other scene.

            I don’t think I would have had the emotional bandwidth to deal with these movies during the school year, and I feel really lucky to have summers off, not just to rest but also to challenge myself in ways I couldn’t tolerate the rest of the year.

            Of course, I still take tons of breaks to watch Hallmark movies, or to binge one of the great South Korean series on Netflix, so I’m not overdoing it. Don’t worry. I just wish I had more time for all of the things I wanted to do this summer. I’m not ready for it to be August already, with only one month left before school starts again. If anyone knows where I can find one of Hermione’s Time Turners (from Harry Potter) I’d be eternally grateful.

“Is there a doggie streaming channel for me?”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

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