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The Ukulele Life

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I want to reassure you that I am still trying to learn how to play the ukulele, and I have callouses on the index and middle finger of my left hand to prove it. I don’t have the patience to practice for more than fifteen or twenty minutes at a time, or the pain tolerance, but I’ve managed to learn a dozen or so chords, and I’ve gotten better at avoiding the buzzes and mutes, and can sort of switch from chord to chord in time, if I pretend there’s an extra rest between each measure.

 

My favorite lessons have been in fingerpicking (which sounds like a hygiene problem, but thankfully is not), where you play each note of the chord separately. I’m not saying that I’m good at it, but I like the way it sounds, even when I make mistakes. I’m also learning a lot of strumming patterns, though I’m still not sure how you’re supposed to decide which ones to use on different songs. And I’ve overcome my fear that strumming the strings will break the ukulele, so now I’m playing loud enough that I can actually hear it.

I’ve discovered that I don’t have to re-tune the ukulele as often anymore, now that the strings have worn in, and the ukulele has its own cozy case to sleep in. Though when I don’t hear recognizable music coming off the strings I try to tell myself that it’s because the instrument must be out of tune, and it’s not me at all.

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“No, Mommy. It’s you.”

 

I still find it impossible to sing and play at the same time, though, because the melody line and the rhythm are so different. I have a similar brain freeze in choir practice when I can hear the tenors next to me but I still have to sing the alto part. I don’t know how I missed learning this two-brains-at-once skill growing up, but it makes my head hurt.

 

I still can’t articulate what I’m hoping to get from this effort to learn to play the ukulele, though. In part, I’d like to feel like I could make the music I want to listen to if the need arises, in case my smart phone, TV, computer, and stereo all die at the same time. But it’s more than that. I used to write songs as a kid, to try and capture the sounds of how I felt, because the words were never enough. I wanted to be able to express more of everything. I wanted that from my dance classes as a kid, too, in tap and ballet and jazz and modern, but I couldn’t get past the basic proscribed vocabularies and find the movements that would speak for me. And I can’t draw for shit, so that avenue is closed to me. But music is still an option, and I feel like I need to keep trying, in case something begins to resonate. But, I fall too easily into thinking that I have to do what other people tell me is worth doing, and I need to master things in order, as they are written in the book. I get too easily stuck in that lane, and lose track of creating my own path forward. Because creating my own path is hard, and feels a lot like wandering around in the dark.

So, I haven’t uncovered all of the secrets of the universe, yet, but I can play some simple blues songs and keep myself entertained for minutes at a time. That seems like a good place to start. And the dogs don’t seem to mind. One or both of them will take a nap on my bed during my practice sessions, and I haven’t seen even one raised eyebrow. Though I’ve made a point of not watching their faces very carefully while I’m playing, just in case.

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If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Amazon page and consider ordering the Kindle or Paperback version (or both!) of Yeshiva Girl. 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 girl on Long Island named Izzy (short for Isabel). Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes that it’s true. Izzy’s father decides to send her to an Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, as if she’s the one who needs to be fixed. Izzy, in pain, smart, funny, and looking for people she can trust, 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 Joy in Community

 

I recently watched a documentary called Praying with Lior, about a boy with Down syndrome preparing for his Bar Mitzvah. Both of Lior’s parents were rabbis, but his mother died from breast cancer when he was six years old, and that shapes a lot of the story. There are bits of film of her praying with Lior, and with her larger community, that are heart breaking. Lior’s joy in prayer clearly comes from his Mom, and his love for her. He leads prayers in his classroom at school, and in his tree house, and then finally at his Bar Mitzvah in front of the whole congregation. His joy in prayer is contagious. The only person who is less than enthusiastic about him is his younger sister, because she is his younger sister. I can relate.

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The most poignant moment in the movie is when Lior and his dad go to the cemetery to visit his Mom’s grave for the seventh anniversary of her death, just before his Bar Mitzvah. At first it feels like a forced set piece for the movie, but then Lior starts to hug his mother’s headstone and he won’t let go. Eventually his father is able to hold him and Lior starts to keen with sorrow. It’s as authentic as everything else about this boy, and it feels like he’s giving permission to everyone around him to express more, and be more, of who they really are.

 

Some of Lior’s fellow congregants wax poetic about the greatness of Lior’s spirit, and wonder if maybe he’s the reincarnation of a great Rebbe, but his godmother laughs it off and says that if Lior had been born into a Christian family he would have been singing Christmas songs with the same passion. Because it’s not about his particular religion, or some magical force that is out of reach for other people; Lior’s joy comes from his love for his mother, and his memories of singing and praying with her, and from the heart of who he is. He just happens to be a Jewish boy, in a Jewish community, so that’s how his joy expresses itself.

The way Lior’s family and community embrace his passion for prayer gave me a lot to think about, because another community might not have been as welcoming of him. He might have been shut out, or shut down, instead of encouraged to grow in his spirituality and in his role in the community. The fact that he didn’t just have his family behind him, but also a wider community, made a huge difference in who he was able to become. His dad, a Reconstructionist Rabbi, works with him on his speech for his Bar Mitzvah and jokes that Lior has heard way too many sermons about the value of community in Judaism, but the fact is, Lior has gone beyond hearing it, he’s taken it to heart. He sees himself as a full-fledged member of his community, because he has been seen and treated that way by the people around him.

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“Huh, are we a community?”

 

After the movie ended, I looked up Lior to see how things had turned out for him, and I found an article from 2018 about how Lior, at twenty-six, was living in his own apartment in supportive housing, had a girlfriend, and a job, and went to his drum circle and synagogue events every week, and also did speaking events to help people see that communities can be inclusive of children and adults with disabilities, and that those children can do so much more in their lives, with that support, than anyone might have thought possible.

I want my community to be more like Lior’s. I’m trying to figure out my role in making that happen, but it’s hard to overcome the resentment I feel, that what I need doesn’t already exist, and that I have to first imagine it, and then create it, and fight for it myself. It is hard work to teach our communities how to accept us as we are. I don’t have 2.5 children, or a husband, or even a Seder to go to for Passover, but I still exist. And I still have a lot to offer. I want my community to see me, and be open to hearing what I have to say, instead of assuming that they already know, or that I have nothing to add.

Maybe what I really need is for Lior to come to town and show me how it’s done. At the very least, he could teach us how to run a drum circle. Cricket and Ellie would love that.

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“I love making noise!!!!”

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“Me too!!!”

 

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Amazon page and consider ordering the Kindle or Paperback version (or both!) of Yeshiva Girl. 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 girl on Long Island named Izzy (short for Isabel). Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes that it’s true. Izzy’s father decides to send her to an Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, as if she’s the one who needs to be fixed. Izzy, in pain, smart, funny, and looking for people she can trust, 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.

 

 

 

Studying for the LMSW Exam

 

Scheduling the LMSW (Licensed Master Social Worker) exam was a four or five part process and cost a truckload of money. I couldn’t get a test date until April, which was actually nice, because it gave me more time to study, which I seemed to need, because most of the testing materials read like gobbledygook to me.

I resent tests like this where there is more than one common sense answer, but you have to figure out which one the testers are looking for. And then there’s all of this incredibly dry information you have to memorize, about the code of ethics, and the names of different theories, and it all has very little to do with the actual practice of social work.

I get different feedback from different people about the difficulty of the exam. Some people tell me not to worry, and others scare me with stories about barely passing, or needing two or three tries. There’s a popular bootcamp class that focuses on tactics for the test, rather than a review of the material, but I feel like if I go that route I’m accepting the test-as-trick philosophy. And it’s one more expense I can’t afford. I don’t understand why becoming a not very well-paid social worker should put me so deeply in debt.

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“Wait, you’ve been spending money on something other than chicken treats?”

If I fail the licensing exam, they require me to wait another three months before taking it again, and part of me wishes that I would fail, just to get another three month grace period before I have to look for a job. My school offers very little guidance on that part of the process. We had a short workshop on resume writing somewhere along the way, and there are some bits and pieces on the school website, but most of the jobs they list are too far away from where I live. I’ve been checking local social work job listings and Facebook groups and newsletters to acclimate myself to what’s out there, but there seems to be a lot of confusion, between clinical social work and general social work. I would not be good at case management: making thousands of phone calls a day, referring clients to all kinds of services I know nothing about, or doing outreach to bring in clients. I’m good at listening to people and getting to know them, but I’m not sure how many of those jobs are available for a beginner who can only work part time.

Cricket thinks I should put off going to work and do another internship instead, with her this time. She’s pretty sure I am deficient in my understanding of complicated personalities, like hers, and how to help them reach their full potential. She has already taught me a lot about having patience and meeting people (or dogs) where they are, so she may not be wrong. Interestingly, they don’t mention dogs at all in my study guide for the licensing exam. Someone really needs to work on that.

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“We have a lot of work ahead of us, Mommy.”

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“Can I play, too?”

 

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Amazon page and consider ordering the Kindle or Paperback version (or both!) of Yeshiva Girl. 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 girl on Long Island named Izzy (short for Isabel). Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes that it’s true. Izzy’s father decides to send her to an Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, as if she’s the one who needs to be fixed. Izzy, in pain, smart, funny, and looking for people she can trust, 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.

 

 

 

My Watchlist

 

Sometime last fall, one of my Mom’s friends told us about something relatively new at our local library, where you can sign up for the streaming services Kanopy and Hoopla, with your library card, and watch five movies free each month, on each service. One has more television shows (especially from Acorn TV), and the other has more art films, foreign movies, and documentaries. I don’t have Hulu or Netflix or Amazon, because they cost money, and my cable bill is already prohibitive. So I signed up for Kanopy and Hoopla right away, even though I wasn’t sure if these services would have anything of real interest to me. And then I spent hours scrolling through the options, and dropping dozens of movies and TV shows onto my watchlists. There are tons of television shows from outside of the United States on Hoopla that I’d never seen, and videos on psychological topics, and all kinds of music and history shows. Then, on Kanopy, I found a trove of movies from Israel, and the rest of the Middle East, some in Hebrew, some in English, and all new to me.

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“Je ne comprend pas, Maman.”

Of course, I started out with the TV shows, lots of mysteries set in Dublin and Australia and New Zealand and England. I watched on my phone while I was on the semi-recumbent bike, because each episode was the perfect length for an exercise session. There’s a show called No Offence that is absolutely addictive; a British police drama with a sense of humor and a uniquely female sensibility, including three female leads. American TV shows tend to run in seasons of twenty-two episodes, so the realization that each season of this show only had seven or eight episode was heartbreaking. But I made up for it by watching a lot of different shows.

No Offence

And then I pushed myself to watch the documentaries; some of it was hard to watch, and some of it challenged my prejudices, but all of it seemed to be expanding the world I could feel comfortable in, bit by bit.

There was a documentary about Autistic kids in New Jersey, on a Special Olympics swim team, and one about a high school for the Arts in Los Angeles, and then seniors in a Jewish nursing home, and training a guide dog in Japan. It took a while for me to be willing to watch the Israel-related movies, because I was worried about what I’d find. The most difficult for me to watch, months along in the journey, was called The Settlers, about the Ultra-Orthodox Jewish settlers in the West Bank. I knew about the settlements. I knew that Orthodox Jews had started to move into the occupied territories after the 1967 war, when Israel captured land from the surrounding countries, including the West Bank territories from Jordan, but I didn’t know how much violence was involved. I didn’t know how terrible the rhetoric was. It was extremely painful to see and hear terrorist ramblings from my own people; from people I could have gone to school with, or prayed with.

The Settlers

This documentary was aimed at Jews, like me, who don’t know enough about the settlements and the settlers. It is not a balanced view of the overall situation in Israel, because it assumes you already have that information from other sources. It helped that before I watched The Settlers, I watched a documentary about the kibbutz movement in Israel – a utopian social experiment that helped to create the country, but has largely fizzled out, though some kibbutzim are still trying to adapt to the modern state of Israel. And then another documentary about Modern Orthodox teenagers form America spending a post high school year in Israel.

I feel like my headspace is widening with all of these shows from other countries, making me feel less isolated in my own world. TV has always been my way of researching the human condition, because I found it so hard to understand the people I saw in person as a kid. I couldn’t figure out what was going on in their heads, or in their lives, but people on TV told me so much more about themselves and their lives. Watching on a tiny screen doesn’t really change that feeling of openness, except that now I have access to even more people and even more worlds I’d never otherwise see.

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“I need my own, Mommy?”

I can’t promise that I will watch every difficult movie on my Watchlist, because there are too many to choose from, but I feel stronger for making the effort. Now if only they had a category for movies about dogs, or better yet, starring dogs. Cricket and Ellie would love to meet some Irish Wolfhounds, or French poodles, or Australian shepherds with authentic accents. Cricket used to have an English Bulldog friend named Rupert, but he had a distinctly American bark, and that was disappointing.

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“Woof woof.”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Amazon page and consider ordering the Kindle or Paperback version (or both!) of Yeshiva Girl. 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 girl on Long Island named Izzy (short for Isabel). Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes that it’s true. Izzy’s father decides to send her to an Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, as if she’s the one who needs to be fixed. Izzy, in pain, smart, funny, and looking for people she can trust, 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.

 

How the Book Signing Went

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I have discovered that three out of four writers can stand for two hours at a book signing event, and I am the fourth writer. I did stand for the short presentations, where each of us described our books, though I had to lean on random pieces of furniture while the others spoke, and then I almost tripped myself when it was my turn. For the rest of the time we were set up at four small tables, side by side, though, again, I was the only one actually sitting at my table, with everyone else sort of floating nearby. I chose the table with a Picasso-like picture of a girl with brown hair, because it looked like I felt, and sat behind a copy of Yeshiva Girl set up in a Lucite holder. It occurred to me that I should have made some kind of display – two crocheted dragons, maybe, like the YA Fantasy writer, or a blow up of the cover photo on the book, like the memoir writer – but, too late. All I had was me.

I was the newbiest of the newbies there, because the fantasy writer had been doing signings for her book since 2016, and the other two were classroom teachers, but I found that as long as I was able to sit down, and people could come over to me to ask their questions or tell me their stories, I did really well. I’ll have to practice my standing-and-speaking skills, though, for the future. People seemed to actually be interested in the premise of my book, which surprised me. I walk around assuming that no one will be interested in anything I have to say, though, of course, desperately hoping that they’ve been waiting all their lives just to meet and hear from me.

Each person I met had a story, or a thousand stories, to tell and I was awed by them and curious about them, and a little bit overwhelmed, as in, who’s going to notice my star in the midst of such a starry sky. I met a local humor columnist, who bought my book, and we talked about wanting to write mysteries, and the books we’ve read, and writing inspirations, and I had to be careful not to geek out too much and ignore the rest of the potential readers in the room. I met one woman who wanted to read my book, but was afraid it would be too painful, though she encouraged her friends to read it, and talked to me about the importance of people feeling safe to speak up and tell their stories. And there was a woman who’d gone to a tiny catholic school in Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, way back when, and had plenty of stories to tell about the experience. And another woman who had worked for a Chassidic-run company and felt her otherness acutely.

I’d only started to get nervous two nights before the book signing event, and the anxiety only became acute that morning, with an internal voice telling me that it would all turn to shit, and I was completely unprepared, and I didn’t have the right clothes or makeup, and I would fall into a deep depression after the inevitable and complete failure.

But I did it! I signed books! I stood in front of strangers and presented my book! I didn’t hide under my bed – the way I wanted to – or pretend to be someone I’m not.

I sold four books and signed five (my aunt came with her own copy, and she stayed for the whole two hours for moral support! Yay Aunt Debbie!). And the woman who ran the event, Robin, one of the owners and the superstar event coordinator at Dolphin Books in Port Washington, NY, asked me to sign two extra copies for the store. Here’s hoping I get more chances to try it again, and next time bring one or both of the dogs for moral support, or to scream at people to buy Mommy’s book.

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“Let’s go, Mommy!”

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“Buy my Mommy’s book!”

I want to thank the other authors at the event:

A high school history teacher/coach (Billy Mitaritonna, Last of the Redmen: Memoir of a St. John’s Walk-on) who wrote about the power of perseverance, and said that the secret was in how his coaches and his father encouraged and supported him no matter how many times he failed. He said that his students were the ones who told him to write his memoir, to share his story with others because it had been so inspiring to them.

Then there was the Dragon Girl (Elana A. Mugdon, Dragon Speaker: The Shadow War Saga, Book One), who was brave beyond my capacity to imagine. She dressed as the protagonist in her young adult fantasy series, wearing a long white wig, in pig tails, a corset, and leather armor. Her protagonist is the only non-magical person in her world, and yet she is the heroine of the story.

The fourth author was a graphic designer (Beth Costello, The Art of the Process: establishing good habits for successful outcomes) with a workbook to help people through the process of design. She had the confidence of a practiced teacher, and the social media skills to have a roomful of supporters waiting to hear from her and buy her book (which meant that I had an audience too!).

I could have used a vat of chocolate frosting in the aftermath of the event, to soothe my frayed nerves, but as soon as we got home the girls needed to go out to pee and that helped with the depressurization process. They squealed their excitement at having their humans back home and raced around the yard with their famous author slash pooper scooper Mommy, and then we settled in on the couch to watch something silly and romantic on television. Overall a successful day.

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“Can we watch something else?”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Amazon page and consider ordering the Kindle or Paperback version (or both!) of Yeshiva Girl. 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 girl on Long Island named Izzy (short for Isabel). Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes that it’s true. Izzy’s father decides to send her to an Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, as if she’s the one who needs to be fixed. Izzy, in pain, smart, funny, and looking for people she can trust, 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.

 

 

 

Watching Roots

 

One day in February, the Sundance Channel advertised that it would be replaying the original miniseries version of Roots, for Black History Month, and I realized that I’d never actually seen it. I’d seen little clips here and there, but I was too young to watch it the first time around, and I’d never made a point of finding it on video or DVD later on. So I set the DVR to tape every episode, and then made sure that the episodes wouldn’t be erased until I erased them (the DVR generally saves things for two weeks and then they magically disappear), because I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to get through all of it.

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“I’ll help you, Mommy!”

I knew Roots would be hard to watch, but Mom’s good friend from high school, Olivia Cole, won an Emmy for her role in Roots, and I’d watched everything else Olivia had done on TV, but not this. Mom, of course, had seen Roots when it ran the first time, but she was ready to see it again, if only as a tribute to Olivia, who died a little more than a year ago.

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Mom and Olivia

We watched an hour at a time, because I couldn’t handle any more than that, especially when Kunta Kinte was on the slave ship travelling to America. I felt like I was being beaten, and I could almost smell the crowded bowels of the ship, and feel the chains on my wrists and ankles, and chains, like a yoke, around my neck. I felt powerless and triggered and complicit, as if just by watching the horror on the screen I was making it happen. Even more awful was listening to the language of the white men as they discussed their “cargo,” as if the young men were animals. Words like “herd” and “buck” were used constantly. And of course, the “N” word. They talked about the girls as “belly warmers” for the crew to take to bed overnight. I watched one girl jump off the ship, in the middle of the ocean, rather than remain in that dehumanizing world. I wanted to jump with her.

I forced myself to keep watching, though, taking a day or two off between each hour, partly because I needed to see Olivia in her role, and that came later in the series, but also because I needed to watch all of the minutes before and after Olivia, to understand where she fit in.

The moment that shows up in all of the clips is of Levar Burton, as a young Kunta Kinte, being whipped, and refusing to call himself by his “new” name, Toby. The scene was even more powerful in context, because it was clear that the intention was to take his self away from him, not only his language, his home, or his freedom, but his sense of himself as an individual with his own thoughts and his own name.

 

It took me two weeks to make my way through the whole miniseries, because each time there was a seeming respite from pain, some damned white person had to go and screw it up. There were some elements to the story that felt too easy, too perfect: characters made out to be too noble to be human, or events working out Forest-Gump-like so that this one family experienced all of the highs and lows known at the time about slavery. But the hardest parts, for me, were the endless rapes.

Some men seem to take rape lightly, and I use the present tense advisedly, despite the #MeToo movement and the wisps of awakening that came with it. She’s not dead. You can’t even see any bruises. So why is it such a big deal? But the people who made Roots in the 1970s seemed to understand. Rape is the soul destroyer. It’s the violence that goes past your skin and invades your body so that there’s no safe place even inside of yourself.

I keep thinking back to the early episodes of the miniseries, on the slave ship, when the young black men fought to be free, risking their lives against their captors, but the one woman who escaped her chains jumped over the side of the ship, in the middle of the ocean, with no hope of survival. She wasn’t fighting to survive; she was fighting to make it stop, to make the violation stop, and to take back the only thing she had left: her life.

Olivia was wonderful, by the way. She played Mathilda, the wife of Chicken George, Kunta Kinte’s grandson. She had an oracle-like quality to her in the miniseries, and in real life too: the straight-backed wise woman who knows when to pause for dramatic effect. It’s interesting that her character was never raped, or at least it wasn’t told as part of her story, because she was able to maintain her sense of self in a way that other women through the course of the saga were not, and that rings true.

The hopeful ending to the story, when Kunta Kinte’s descendants ride their wagons to a piece of land of their own, is iconic: this is an American family, a family of pioneers discovering their own land and building their lives from scratch. All through the miniseries, the voice overs introducing each episode made it clear that this was the story of an American family, rather than a story of slavery. That message resonates at this moment in our history as a country, when we need to be reminded that being American is not about where we came from, or the color of our skin, but about the freedom to start over and make a new life, despite everything.

We tend to focus on the freedom, instead of on the “everything” that still needs to be overcome, individually and communally. There are so many more stories to be told, about the “everything” that we all need help to overcome.

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Cricket is worried about “everything.”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Amazon page and consider ordering the Kindle or Paperback version (or both!) of Yeshiva Girl. 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 girl on Long Island named Izzy (short for Isabel). Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes that it’s true. Izzy’s father decides to send her to an Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, as if she’s the one who needs to be fixed. Izzy, in pain, smart, funny, and looking for people she can trust, 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.

 

p.s. The Book signing event went well, and I will tell you more about it next week!

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The girls are still grumpy that they didn’t get to go.

The Bookstore Event

 

The bookstore signing event is coming up on Saturday March 9th from 2-4 pm at the Dolphin Bookshop and Café, in Port Washington, on Long Island, and the promotional materials have been sent out (see below). Mom also made up her own poster, just for my book, and put it up around town. Fingers crossed there will be a good crowd and I won’t be too terrified.

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“You’ll be okay, Mommy.”

Mom is doing an amazing job as my agent, calling around to get the bookstore signing in the first place, asking permission to put up posters, getting the local library to order a few copies, and talking the book up all over the place. I would like to think that this is the job she spent her whole life training for, but that might be a little bit narcissistic of me.

My expectation is that the bookstore event will be a lot of schmoozing and signing books, not a reading, but I marked out a few sections of the book to read, just in case. I have a lot of questions about how to sign the book, though. I assume it should be something more than just signing my name, and something less than a three page soliloquy, but I’m not sure where it should fall in that spectrum. A lot will probably depend on if the people who come to the event are strangers or people I already know.

I think I’ll be leaving Ellie at home this time, even though her presence would be a comfort to me, because Cricket needs her more than I do. I can’t even imagine the panic Cricket would be in if we all left without her. No amount of treats would make that bearable. When I imagined Ellie as an emotional support dog. I didn’t realize she would turn out to be Cricket’s Emotional support.

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Cricket needs a lot of emotional support

I’m a little bit uncomfortable that the book signing event is on a Saturday, given that the book is called Yeshiva Girl and religious Jews don’t go to bookstores on the Sabbath, but then again, maybe this will be one more way to reach out to a new audience that wouldn’t ordinarily read about religious Jewish life. I haven’t met the other three authors, so that will also be something to look forward to, and maybe our very different audiences will cross over and provide each of us with new readers. We’ll see. Wish me luck!

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“Good luck, Mommy!”

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Amazon page and consider ordering the Kindle or Paperback version (or both!) of Yeshiva Girl. 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 girl on Long Island named Izzy (short for Isabel). Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes that it’s true. Izzy’s father decides to send her to an Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, as if she’s the one who needs to be fixed. Izzy, in pain, smart, funny, and looking for people she can trust, 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.

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