It's raining and thundering so hard, I can't sleep. Lightening keeps flashing through the blinds on my windows. Often when I sleep during a storm, the sounds and flashes from outside incorporate themselves in my dreams in some way, and that makes me reluctant to fall asleep.
When I was younger, I used to imagine that thunder was the sound of a heavenly bowling alley God was making use of that night. It does sound like some sort of cosmic bowling night, doesn't it?
I also have a distinct memory of opening up an umbrella outside during a particularly windy rainstorm and being nearly carried off Mary-Poppins-style by the wind.
If I wasn't so tired, I would describe these memories more poetically and in greater detail, but I'm really only awake because of the din and commotion outside.
Did any of you ever have any strange notions about thunder and lightening?
I happen to love storms, but not while I'm trying to fall asleep. This old video I dug up on youtube was strangely comforting - if only because it's a clip from one of the best children's movies ever. It makes me sad to think kids don't watch Wee Sing movies anymore (I hope I'm wrong about that!) because they were such quality kid entertainment.
Also, I used to always want a dress like Sally's. :)
...Things seem to be quieting outside. For now, at least. Except I think the wind just knocked against our garbage cans outside because something scraped against the house just now. It had better be the wind, anyway. A little unnerving...
...And now the rain's started again. Wow, I think I'm liveblogging a storm. I am way too tired for this. The rain, if I'm going to start using metaphors for everything, or similes - as the case may be, sounds like the earth is taking a strong shower. Or like a humongous watering can from one of Jack and the Beanstalk's giants being poured down onto the world. Or like the clouds are dumping buckets of water on us. Which is somewhat accurate, anyway. Isn't is funny when your simile is actually what's really going on? The clouds are dumping water on us.
Well...so much for being poetic.
Alright - I'm going to try and let the rain lull me to sleep...
...Though I'm hungry. Have you ever read A Wrinkle in Time? It starts off like this. A storm. Meg, the protagonist, goes downstairs to get something to eat. Charles Wallace, her brother, has already made her a sandwich, intuiting that his sister would be upset by the storm and want something to eat. Their mother comes down and has something to eat, as well. And then they get a surprised visitor and the adventures begin...
Good book. Highly recommended.
I feel like Meg tonight. In fact, I feel like Meg often. Smart, not especially cool, average in looks, high hopes and dreams. And like Meg, I've learned many things this year about myself and my own strengths. I spent time learning about the Happy Medium (aka Balance). And I am still learning how I, an ordinary girl whose succes - until now - has remained only in dreams, can stand firm and grounded on my own two feet and face the world with my chin held high.
I was just thinking recently how, ever since school ended, I haven't written much on my blog. It seems a stormy night is fertile ground for thinking.
Someone said to me today that I ought to consider myself an adult, not a little girl. Well, that person is right. It's high time for me to take the mantle of adulthood, and I guess that begins with not letting a storm keep me up at night.
So I think I shall try going to sleep now. I'm certainly tired enough for it...
Good night!
But perhaps with a lamp on... ;)
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Friday, June 12, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Wholesome
For any of you who know my family, probably the best word to describe us is wholesome. Today we were especially so, first going to the park, then going bowling, and then playing a family game of Boggle (with a family trip to Bed Bath and Beyond in between).
As a kid, I never appreciated just how wonderful growing up in a wholesome family is. In some ways, I didn't understand it. I thought all families were that way unless there were lots of older kids.
I am an oldest and, that being the case, I was not used to big people being in the house when I was small; I did not understand the way things worked when there were older siblings around. I was afraid of people's older brothers (well - they were all so big!) and much too shy of their older sisters. Most of all, I didn't know what it meant for a family to not all be on the same schedule.
At my own house, we were all home between four and five, at which point we would all eat dinner together (except my father, who was always still at work). Sometimes our mother would eat with us, sometimes she would wait for our father to get home. Regardless, she always sat with us, asked us about our day, and got us started on our homework when dinner was over.
After homework, we would run outside and play with the neighbors until bedtime. By that point, it would have gotten darker and colder so gradually that we wouldn't even have noticed it until we came indoors and started to thaw.
We would be in bed by eight (or 8:30, when we got old enough), with our mother saying shema with us and singing hamalach. Our nightlights reassuringly lit, she would shut our doors and we would all drift off to sleep (or stay up and eavesdrop on anything interesting going on downstairs).
The routine was not always like this at other people's houses - especially people with older siblings. I remember going to friends and having to put together our own dinner. That was confusing to me. Why wasn't everyone eating dinner together? Where was this person's mother?
At friends, we wouldn't always get put to bed, either. And there were sometimes too many people around. Big people who did things that were loud and foreign and intrusive on childhood, like sisters blowdrying hair and putting on makeup, or brothers thumping around like they were giants. I almost expected them to shout, "Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum!" every time they passed by.
I was aware at a very young age that the more older siblings in a house, the less routine there seemed to be. Everyone appeared to be doing their own thing, was on their own schedule, lived in their own world.
But not in my house. In my house, everyone lived in the same world. Sure, we had different friends, different interests, etc. But when we were at home together, we existed in the same place in a way I didn't feel in some other people's houses. I think a lot of this had to do with my not being used to a world more sophisticated than my own. Girls my own age were part of something older and more grown up than I was because they were exposed to it in their houses.
Sometimes I felt I was missing something, but as I started growing up a little, I began to understand just how unique and important it is for a family to share a world with each other. That is what my family does, even now that we are all older. We are that wholesome family who plays catch with each other and goes on family picnics. We play games together and enjoy each other's company. We don't have any major family feuds.
I used to wonder what I would be like if I lived in a different family. Would I be shy of them? Would I be myself? Would I be a different person altogether? Would I be happy? Would they understand me?
The older I get, the more I appreciate how lucky I am to have been raised in a family like the one I have. We make many choices in our lives concerning ourselves, but one thing we don't have a choice about is our family. So when you find you are part of a great one, it's something to feel lucky about.
That is why I love being part of such a wholesome family. And I hope one day when I have my own, it will be just as wholesome.
(P.S. Happy Birthday, Straight Man, who is no longer a teenager, and who was Thing 2 to me for a long time.)
As a kid, I never appreciated just how wonderful growing up in a wholesome family is. In some ways, I didn't understand it. I thought all families were that way unless there were lots of older kids.
I am an oldest and, that being the case, I was not used to big people being in the house when I was small; I did not understand the way things worked when there were older siblings around. I was afraid of people's older brothers (well - they were all so big!) and much too shy of their older sisters. Most of all, I didn't know what it meant for a family to not all be on the same schedule.
At my own house, we were all home between four and five, at which point we would all eat dinner together (except my father, who was always still at work). Sometimes our mother would eat with us, sometimes she would wait for our father to get home. Regardless, she always sat with us, asked us about our day, and got us started on our homework when dinner was over.
After homework, we would run outside and play with the neighbors until bedtime. By that point, it would have gotten darker and colder so gradually that we wouldn't even have noticed it until we came indoors and started to thaw.
We would be in bed by eight (or 8:30, when we got old enough), with our mother saying shema with us and singing hamalach. Our nightlights reassuringly lit, she would shut our doors and we would all drift off to sleep (or stay up and eavesdrop on anything interesting going on downstairs).
The routine was not always like this at other people's houses - especially people with older siblings. I remember going to friends and having to put together our own dinner. That was confusing to me. Why wasn't everyone eating dinner together? Where was this person's mother?
At friends, we wouldn't always get put to bed, either. And there were sometimes too many people around. Big people who did things that were loud and foreign and intrusive on childhood, like sisters blowdrying hair and putting on makeup, or brothers thumping around like they were giants. I almost expected them to shout, "Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum!" every time they passed by.
I was aware at a very young age that the more older siblings in a house, the less routine there seemed to be. Everyone appeared to be doing their own thing, was on their own schedule, lived in their own world.
But not in my house. In my house, everyone lived in the same world. Sure, we had different friends, different interests, etc. But when we were at home together, we existed in the same place in a way I didn't feel in some other people's houses. I think a lot of this had to do with my not being used to a world more sophisticated than my own. Girls my own age were part of something older and more grown up than I was because they were exposed to it in their houses.
Sometimes I felt I was missing something, but as I started growing up a little, I began to understand just how unique and important it is for a family to share a world with each other. That is what my family does, even now that we are all older. We are that wholesome family who plays catch with each other and goes on family picnics. We play games together and enjoy each other's company. We don't have any major family feuds.
I used to wonder what I would be like if I lived in a different family. Would I be shy of them? Would I be myself? Would I be a different person altogether? Would I be happy? Would they understand me?
The older I get, the more I appreciate how lucky I am to have been raised in a family like the one I have. We make many choices in our lives concerning ourselves, but one thing we don't have a choice about is our family. So when you find you are part of a great one, it's something to feel lucky about.
That is why I love being part of such a wholesome family. And I hope one day when I have my own, it will be just as wholesome.
(P.S. Happy Birthday, Straight Man, who is no longer a teenager, and who was Thing 2 to me for a long time.)
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Freilichen Purim And Happy Birthday (Again)!
A few weeks ago, I wished a happy birthday to my little brother Mavis. The thing is...it's his birthday again!
Mavis, as I mentioned in the earlier post, was born on Purim. I already wrote about what it was like the day he was born. But I didn't go into much detail about his bar mitzvah, which we celebrated on his actual birthday - Purim.
He read megillah that morning in shul (and was amazing. I'm not just saying that because I'm his sister. People came up to us afterward and asked why my brother wasn't in the Yeshiva Boys Choir) and afterward he was having a party (costumes optional) about two minutes away. Various boys (Straight Man's friends mostly) were driving Mavis's friends from shul to the party. In fact, everyone was so concerned about getting all the guests there...we all sort of forgot that Mavis needed a ride, as well. I guess everyone assumed he'd be getting there somehow - that it wasn't up to them to figure out how. After all, he was the bar mitzvah boy, right?
Mavis ended up having to go over to another one of the guests who hadn't left shul yet and asking if he could please have a ride to his bar mitzvah.
The party itself was majorly fun, especially since my family was all dressed up in period costumess (colonial and stuff).
The chagiga tonight was also really fun. Highlights were:
I sort of love it when people dress up as random things from Tanach. I think it's hilarious and so clever.
On the bus ride back, I discovered that I do have the abilitiy to sit next to a random person and talk. So I am not hopeless in social situations, after all! How relieving. (Joke.)
Also - I'm going to Israel tomorrow (what?!). For a wedding. I know, it's random and kinda weird and I'm missing two days of school and coming back to two midterms and a senior thesis, but what can you do? When a best friend from childhood gets married, everything else seems to get put on hold. Sort of. Not as much when it's in a different country across the ocean and you sort of aren't really sure that it's actually happening and won't be sure until after it's over when you say to yourself, "...Whoa. Was I just in Israel?" And even then, you're still not sure. Best to take pictures so you can prove it to yourself.
This post is random enough, I might as well end it with a Purim Torah joke. I used to know lots of these because the Rabbi of my fourth grade class gave us a whole sheet of them, but I only remember a few and only one of those that I remember is actually funny (in my opinion. Not laugh out loud funny. Just cute. They're all rather groan-worthy, really).
How do you know that Vashti was fat?*
In sixth grade, I remember we made fun of the Purim tape by going around saying in squeaky, whiny voices, "Vashtiiii...bring me a cup of caw-fee...!!!"
Anyway, I must go to sleep now, but happy birthday (again) to Mavis and a Purim Sameach to all my readers!!! That includes the lurkers, too! :)
*'Cause Vashti astah mishteh nashim! (Vashti was made of two women! [the real translation is Vashti made a feast for women])
Mavis, as I mentioned in the earlier post, was born on Purim. I already wrote about what it was like the day he was born. But I didn't go into much detail about his bar mitzvah, which we celebrated on his actual birthday - Purim.
He read megillah that morning in shul (and was amazing. I'm not just saying that because I'm his sister. People came up to us afterward and asked why my brother wasn't in the Yeshiva Boys Choir) and afterward he was having a party (costumes optional) about two minutes away. Various boys (Straight Man's friends mostly) were driving Mavis's friends from shul to the party. In fact, everyone was so concerned about getting all the guests there...we all sort of forgot that Mavis needed a ride, as well. I guess everyone assumed he'd be getting there somehow - that it wasn't up to them to figure out how. After all, he was the bar mitzvah boy, right?
Mavis ended up having to go over to another one of the guests who hadn't left shul yet and asking if he could please have a ride to his bar mitzvah.
The party itself was majorly fun, especially since my family was all dressed up in period costumess (colonial and stuff).
The chagiga tonight was also really fun. Highlights were:
- A girl wearing a sign that said, "Bernie Madoff stole my costume."
- A girl dressed up as a michlala girl - humongous poof and all.
- Zimri and Kozbi (that one was a little bit gross).
I sort of love it when people dress up as random things from Tanach. I think it's hilarious and so clever.
On the bus ride back, I discovered that I do have the abilitiy to sit next to a random person and talk. So I am not hopeless in social situations, after all! How relieving. (Joke.)
Also - I'm going to Israel tomorrow (what?!). For a wedding. I know, it's random and kinda weird and I'm missing two days of school and coming back to two midterms and a senior thesis, but what can you do? When a best friend from childhood gets married, everything else seems to get put on hold. Sort of. Not as much when it's in a different country across the ocean and you sort of aren't really sure that it's actually happening and won't be sure until after it's over when you say to yourself, "...Whoa. Was I just in Israel?" And even then, you're still not sure. Best to take pictures so you can prove it to yourself.
This post is random enough, I might as well end it with a Purim Torah joke. I used to know lots of these because the Rabbi of my fourth grade class gave us a whole sheet of them, but I only remember a few and only one of those that I remember is actually funny (in my opinion. Not laugh out loud funny. Just cute. They're all rather groan-worthy, really).
How do you know that Vashti was fat?*
In sixth grade, I remember we made fun of the Purim tape by going around saying in squeaky, whiny voices, "Vashtiiii...bring me a cup of caw-fee...!!!"
Anyway, I must go to sleep now, but happy birthday (again) to Mavis and a Purim Sameach to all my readers!!! That includes the lurkers, too! :)
*'Cause Vashti astah mishteh nashim! (Vashti was made of two women! [the real translation is Vashti made a feast for women])
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Not Just For Kids
Children's books are not just for kids.
Let me say it again--
Children's books are not just for kids.
I think there is something supremely beautiful in a book that both a child and an adult can read with real seriousness. The fact is - yes, children and adults exist on different maturity levels. But they share emotions. They share thoughts about the world. Adults are still very much like children, and children are very much like adults. They understand more than most adults realize. And sometimes, if adults can let go of their egos for a little bit, they'll see that they, too, can learn and feel and see anew from a book "meant for" children.
Because here's the thing. Books are books. At the end of the day, a good book is a good book, whether it is meant for children or not. And if it is on a level that children can understand, that doesn't mean adults will find it "below them." I'm not talking about entertainment. Adults and children may have different ideas about what is entertaining. But when something speaks to the heart - it can do so on a first grade level, a fourth grade level, a sixth grade level, a tenth grade level, a college level...it doesn't matter. If it speaks to the heart, it speaks to the heart. If it talks about our world - it's the same world. We live in the same world. We all share this human experience together, no matter how old we are.
I truly do believe that some of the best books you will ever read will be the ones you read when you were ten. Or seven. Or twelve. If you go back and read those books that made you cry when you were a kid, or even ones that gave you shivers because they were just that good, you'll see that they deal with a lot of the same issues and ideas as adult books. Because life isn't childproof. Real events are not split up into a "children's section" and an "adult section." Life happens to all of us at all ages. And we all feel real emotions. We all think real thoughts. We are all philosophers at all stages of life. If anything, the only books that have ever made me cry - or get the good sort of shivers - have been children's books. Adult books are so worried about sounding profound or intelligent, they often drown their ability to reach out and touch you. I'm not knocking adult books. But I think there is a way of reaching out that is unique to children's books - or perhaps the rare adult book - and that should not be belittled. It's different, not babyish.
I'm not really sure why I did it, but today I decided I wanted to read a book I had not read in a very long time. I don't think I've really opened it since I was ten. I still remember when I read it. In fifth grade, we had a literary club during lunch for those students who liked to read. It was run by the teacher of the other fifth grade class and we read books like The Witch of Blackbird Pond and Tuck Everlasting. Today I took down from my shelf another book we read called Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech. The title comes from the saying, "Don't judge a man until you walk two moons in his moccasins." And even though this book is probably on a twelve year old reading level, it made me cry. Simpler writing does not mean stupid writing. It means writing that can reach inside and gently touch you, maybe even hug you, because it's telling you something difficult or powerful or both. And sometimes this simplicity is what makes it powerful. It's a voice that speaks to all, not just to a select few. Sometimes life is not about being one of a select few. It's not about being the best or smartest or most sophisticated in order to understand what some great philosopher is saying. Sometimes life is just about communicating. Understanding. Reaching out.
Tell me that is not something adults think about, too. Even struggle with. I dare you to tell me that. Because even though this book is written using simpler words - words that children can understand, it is not a children's book. It is a person's book. A book for the inhabitants of this world - all inhabitants.
And sometimes, if you're looking for inspiration, for soft words of advice...if you're looking for someone to lift you up and tell you it'll be alright...it's right there in your favorite books from when you were seven. From when you would hide away under your blankets reading late at night with a flashlight so your parents wouldn't know, giggling in a hushed sort of way and wiping your eyes with your sleeve at some parts, until you would fall asleep and be carried off into dreams that would lift you up - just like the book. And tell you that it'll be alright.
Let me say it again--
Children's books are not just for kids.
I think there is something supremely beautiful in a book that both a child and an adult can read with real seriousness. The fact is - yes, children and adults exist on different maturity levels. But they share emotions. They share thoughts about the world. Adults are still very much like children, and children are very much like adults. They understand more than most adults realize. And sometimes, if adults can let go of their egos for a little bit, they'll see that they, too, can learn and feel and see anew from a book "meant for" children.
Because here's the thing. Books are books. At the end of the day, a good book is a good book, whether it is meant for children or not. And if it is on a level that children can understand, that doesn't mean adults will find it "below them." I'm not talking about entertainment. Adults and children may have different ideas about what is entertaining. But when something speaks to the heart - it can do so on a first grade level, a fourth grade level, a sixth grade level, a tenth grade level, a college level...it doesn't matter. If it speaks to the heart, it speaks to the heart. If it talks about our world - it's the same world. We live in the same world. We all share this human experience together, no matter how old we are.
I truly do believe that some of the best books you will ever read will be the ones you read when you were ten. Or seven. Or twelve. If you go back and read those books that made you cry when you were a kid, or even ones that gave you shivers because they were just that good, you'll see that they deal with a lot of the same issues and ideas as adult books. Because life isn't childproof. Real events are not split up into a "children's section" and an "adult section." Life happens to all of us at all ages. And we all feel real emotions. We all think real thoughts. We are all philosophers at all stages of life. If anything, the only books that have ever made me cry - or get the good sort of shivers - have been children's books. Adult books are so worried about sounding profound or intelligent, they often drown their ability to reach out and touch you. I'm not knocking adult books. But I think there is a way of reaching out that is unique to children's books - or perhaps the rare adult book - and that should not be belittled. It's different, not babyish.
I'm not really sure why I did it, but today I decided I wanted to read a book I had not read in a very long time. I don't think I've really opened it since I was ten. I still remember when I read it. In fifth grade, we had a literary club during lunch for those students who liked to read. It was run by the teacher of the other fifth grade class and we read books like The Witch of Blackbird Pond and Tuck Everlasting. Today I took down from my shelf another book we read called Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech. The title comes from the saying, "Don't judge a man until you walk two moons in his moccasins." And even though this book is probably on a twelve year old reading level, it made me cry. Simpler writing does not mean stupid writing. It means writing that can reach inside and gently touch you, maybe even hug you, because it's telling you something difficult or powerful or both. And sometimes this simplicity is what makes it powerful. It's a voice that speaks to all, not just to a select few. Sometimes life is not about being one of a select few. It's not about being the best or smartest or most sophisticated in order to understand what some great philosopher is saying. Sometimes life is just about communicating. Understanding. Reaching out.
"It seems to me that we can't explain all the truly awful things in the world like war and murder and brain tumors, and we can't fix these things, so we look at the frightening things that are closer to us and we magnify them until they burst open. Inside is something that we can manage, something that isn't as awful as it had at first seemed. It is a relief to discover that although there might be axe murderers and kidnappers in the world, most people seem a lot like us: sometimes afraid and sometimes brave, sometimes cruel and sometimes kind." --Walk Two Moons
Tell me that is not something adults think about, too. Even struggle with. I dare you to tell me that. Because even though this book is written using simpler words - words that children can understand, it is not a children's book. It is a person's book. A book for the inhabitants of this world - all inhabitants.
And sometimes, if you're looking for inspiration, for soft words of advice...if you're looking for someone to lift you up and tell you it'll be alright...it's right there in your favorite books from when you were seven. From when you would hide away under your blankets reading late at night with a flashlight so your parents wouldn't know, giggling in a hushed sort of way and wiping your eyes with your sleeve at some parts, until you would fall asleep and be carried off into dreams that would lift you up - just like the book. And tell you that it'll be alright.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Three Whole Hands
Not only is it Rosh Chodesh Adar, but it is also my little brother Mavis's English birthday. These two are inherently related because Mavis has always been a rather Adar/Purimish sort of person. In fact, his Hebrew birthday is Purim. He's always been very happy, a bit of a troublemaker, and certainly in the business of making people laugh. One of my mother's favorite stories about him was when my parents took him to meet the principal of his new school for kindergarten. The principal, who already knew Straight Man as, well, a yashar sort of kid, smiled over his desk at little Mavis and said, "how old are you? Five?"
Mavis shook his head.
"No?" The principal asked. "How old are you then?"
Mavis looked up at the rabbi before him, raised up his palm - fingers spread out - and said, "I'm a whole hand."
The principal looked at my mother and said, "He's not like Straight Man, is he."
It wasn't a question.
Mavis is certainly his own breed, but we all love him for it.
He's the only sibling I really remember visiting in the hospital as a baby. I remember visiting my sister Trademark vaguely, but I remember the white powdered doughnuts Straight Man and I got to eat more than I remember actually seeing my baby sister (I actually don't remember her at all - only the doughnuts). What I remember most about visiting Mavis as a baby was how much he looked like a bobblehead doll. Straight Man, who was nearly five at the time, then proceeded to go to school and tell everyone that he had a new baby brother named Achashverosh.
It was a strange purim that year. My brother, sister, and I woke up to a house with no parents (at least, the way I remember it). Somehow we knew what had happened before we were told. I remember Straight Man and I stumbling down the stairs to our babysitter and asking in rushed, excited voices, "did they go to the hospital? Huh? Did they?" I remember exactly the blue of the stairs and the emptiness in the house that wasn't quite emptiness. It was more like hugeness. The sun was shining brightly through the window and there was snow. Lots and lots of snow. Then we got hoisted off to friends and stood around awkwardly unsure what to do with ourselves in all the excitement. At some point our father came back and someone read megillah to him in a bedroom.
(By the way Ima, I'm sorry if I got any of that badly wrong. That's how my mind tells me it went)
Two years ago, it was my brother's bar mitzvah and instead of doing the parsha on shabbos, he lained megillah on the day of his actual birthday. Then we had a costume party and it was exceedingly cool. For this year, my brother has already started practicing to lain again (he did it last year, too), so when you start hearing that in my house, you know Purim's only 'round the corner.
Anyway, happy birthday Mavis (who is now three whole hands!) and chodesh tov to all my readers! :D
Mavis shook his head.
"No?" The principal asked. "How old are you then?"
Mavis looked up at the rabbi before him, raised up his palm - fingers spread out - and said, "I'm a whole hand."
The principal looked at my mother and said, "He's not like Straight Man, is he."
It wasn't a question.
Mavis is certainly his own breed, but we all love him for it.
He's the only sibling I really remember visiting in the hospital as a baby. I remember visiting my sister Trademark vaguely, but I remember the white powdered doughnuts Straight Man and I got to eat more than I remember actually seeing my baby sister (I actually don't remember her at all - only the doughnuts). What I remember most about visiting Mavis as a baby was how much he looked like a bobblehead doll. Straight Man, who was nearly five at the time, then proceeded to go to school and tell everyone that he had a new baby brother named Achashverosh.
It was a strange purim that year. My brother, sister, and I woke up to a house with no parents (at least, the way I remember it). Somehow we knew what had happened before we were told. I remember Straight Man and I stumbling down the stairs to our babysitter and asking in rushed, excited voices, "did they go to the hospital? Huh? Did they?" I remember exactly the blue of the stairs and the emptiness in the house that wasn't quite emptiness. It was more like hugeness. The sun was shining brightly through the window and there was snow. Lots and lots of snow. Then we got hoisted off to friends and stood around awkwardly unsure what to do with ourselves in all the excitement. At some point our father came back and someone read megillah to him in a bedroom.
(By the way Ima, I'm sorry if I got any of that badly wrong. That's how my mind tells me it went)
Two years ago, it was my brother's bar mitzvah and instead of doing the parsha on shabbos, he lained megillah on the day of his actual birthday. Then we had a costume party and it was exceedingly cool. For this year, my brother has already started practicing to lain again (he did it last year, too), so when you start hearing that in my house, you know Purim's only 'round the corner.
Anyway, happy birthday Mavis (who is now three whole hands!) and chodesh tov to all my readers! :D
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The Problem With Advice
Advice, especially when actively sought after, can be extremely helpful. But when people give you advice, they are missing one crucial thing. They are not you.
Sometimes a thing may have a practical answer, but it is in your best interest to reject it anyway. Not always. Not even necessarily most of the time. But when it comes to certain things about yourself (that are not harmful), sometimes you know best.
For example:
When I was younger, I was in the middle of reading a certain YA book and decided to write to the author. I confided in her various difficulties I was having with my amateur writing abilities. Her response to me: Maybe you shouldn't be a writer.
I can't even begin to describe the pang those few words gave me. The sinking feeling that what I wanted to do most - even at that young age - was being snatched from my grasp all because I mustered the courage to ask for advice. And then, in anger, I decided this author knew nothing about me, that she was a horrible person for discouraging a young kid, and I boycotted her books. I marched straight to the library and returned the one I was in the middle of - and I have never read a single book by her since.
It's always good to listen to advice. You never know when someone's going to say something useful. But it's even more important to remember that you know yourself best, that advice comes with a choice, it's just an option, not something binding that you must follow.
Even more - it's crucial not to feel discouraged just because someone else thinks you're not good enough. What does that person know?
Sometimes you just have to listen to yourself.
Sometimes a thing may have a practical answer, but it is in your best interest to reject it anyway. Not always. Not even necessarily most of the time. But when it comes to certain things about yourself (that are not harmful), sometimes you know best.
For example:
When I was younger, I was in the middle of reading a certain YA book and decided to write to the author. I confided in her various difficulties I was having with my amateur writing abilities. Her response to me: Maybe you shouldn't be a writer.
I can't even begin to describe the pang those few words gave me. The sinking feeling that what I wanted to do most - even at that young age - was being snatched from my grasp all because I mustered the courage to ask for advice. And then, in anger, I decided this author knew nothing about me, that she was a horrible person for discouraging a young kid, and I boycotted her books. I marched straight to the library and returned the one I was in the middle of - and I have never read a single book by her since.
It's always good to listen to advice. You never know when someone's going to say something useful. But it's even more important to remember that you know yourself best, that advice comes with a choice, it's just an option, not something binding that you must follow.
Even more - it's crucial not to feel discouraged just because someone else thinks you're not good enough. What does that person know?
Sometimes you just have to listen to yourself.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Illustrated Milk
One Shabbos while at SerandEz, this conversation happened:
Now, on the surface, that seems to make no sense. What on earth is illustrated milk? What can I mean by it? Why do I find it so calming?
Here is a picture of illustrated milk:
There is something about that cool blue and white image that I find extremely comforting. I'm going to let you all into the workings of my mind for a moment. From this sort of picture, I think about similar images from childhood. For example, my mind today jumped from the image of milk to this image from If You Give A Mouse A Cookie*:
Illustrated milk, for me, symbolizes childhood. A sort of cookies-and-milk childhood. And I find that childhood comforting. It's a safe place. It's a world where you feel like anything is possible. Don't you remember being a little kid and feeling the wide world out in front of you, sensing all the possibilities, all the adventure, feeling you could do whatever you wished when you were old enough? Remember when people used to tell you that you could be whatever you want when you grow up?
But then you grow up and realize it's not enough to just want to be something. You have to actually have the capabilities for it. You have to be qualified. And the world has to also want you. And so, too many dreams drift slowly away in the dirty city air, or get crushed by the multitude pairs of feet rushing, rushing, rushing to and from office buildings and banks and courts and banks and office buildings. That dreaming little voice in your head gets drowned out by the screeching subway cars as they storm by like a herd of charging elephants.
And then again, sometimes you're able to approach things from that childlike point of view, to see the world in its vastness and possibilities once more, and feel that you really could do anything if you wished to. If you can do that, the very narrow, trapped feeling of, "I am finishing college and must now follow the next step in this path set for me by some sort of authoritative figure and find a job doing something I know I'm capable of, probably starting at the way bottom filing and answering phones, etc. etc. etc." melts away, is overpowered by this new - or perhaps old - eye-opening mindset.
Who says I have to play by the rules? Who says I have to be obvious? Just because I always thought of myself as an English person doesn't mean I can't get a job doing something that has nothing to do with books. Maybe I'll find something to do that's entirely random and yet utterly enjoyable. Maybe I'll find something that's completely out of the blue and yet insanely interesting.
I'm not bound by my major or by my passions. I think sometimes passion can be stifling. It's very possessive. It doesn't let you even want to do anything else.
I don't want to shed my passions. I still want to write. My dream is still to write. But I also wish to enjoy my life. This is my life I'm living, here. Not some checklist someone created for me with elements I must tick off every couple of years. A life does not have to be lived according to a list. A life is not something linear where you go from one predetermined thing to the next predetermined thing to the next. A life is all over the place. It's spontaneous. It's surprising. It's the only one I've got - I want to make it worth living. I want to enjoy it. And why shouldn't I enjoy it?
In this life, I wish to follow the Torah and halacha properly, to one day raise a frum Jewish family, to fullfill all my goals and ambitions as a writer, and to be happy with my life in every aspect.
I think we should all strive to be happy with our lives. We aren't going to get another opportunity to enjoy where we are other than in this life we are now living. Make the most of it.
Be happy. :)
* If You Give A Mouse A Cookie is one of the best children's books EVER.
Erachet: It's calming. It looks like milk.
SJ: So when I need to calm you down I should just pour you a glass of milk to look at?
Erachet: No, only illustrated milk.
Now, on the surface, that seems to make no sense. What on earth is illustrated milk? What can I mean by it? Why do I find it so calming?
Here is a picture of illustrated milk:
There is something about that cool blue and white image that I find extremely comforting. I'm going to let you all into the workings of my mind for a moment. From this sort of picture, I think about similar images from childhood. For example, my mind today jumped from the image of milk to this image from If You Give A Mouse A Cookie*:
Illustrated milk, for me, symbolizes childhood. A sort of cookies-and-milk childhood. And I find that childhood comforting. It's a safe place. It's a world where you feel like anything is possible. Don't you remember being a little kid and feeling the wide world out in front of you, sensing all the possibilities, all the adventure, feeling you could do whatever you wished when you were old enough? Remember when people used to tell you that you could be whatever you want when you grow up?
But then you grow up and realize it's not enough to just want to be something. You have to actually have the capabilities for it. You have to be qualified. And the world has to also want you. And so, too many dreams drift slowly away in the dirty city air, or get crushed by the multitude pairs of feet rushing, rushing, rushing to and from office buildings and banks and courts and banks and office buildings. That dreaming little voice in your head gets drowned out by the screeching subway cars as they storm by like a herd of charging elephants.
And then again, sometimes you're able to approach things from that childlike point of view, to see the world in its vastness and possibilities once more, and feel that you really could do anything if you wished to. If you can do that, the very narrow, trapped feeling of, "I am finishing college and must now follow the next step in this path set for me by some sort of authoritative figure and find a job doing something I know I'm capable of, probably starting at the way bottom filing and answering phones, etc. etc. etc." melts away, is overpowered by this new - or perhaps old - eye-opening mindset.
Who says I have to play by the rules? Who says I have to be obvious? Just because I always thought of myself as an English person doesn't mean I can't get a job doing something that has nothing to do with books. Maybe I'll find something to do that's entirely random and yet utterly enjoyable. Maybe I'll find something that's completely out of the blue and yet insanely interesting.
I'm not bound by my major or by my passions. I think sometimes passion can be stifling. It's very possessive. It doesn't let you even want to do anything else.
I don't want to shed my passions. I still want to write. My dream is still to write. But I also wish to enjoy my life. This is my life I'm living, here. Not some checklist someone created for me with elements I must tick off every couple of years. A life does not have to be lived according to a list. A life is not something linear where you go from one predetermined thing to the next predetermined thing to the next. A life is all over the place. It's spontaneous. It's surprising. It's the only one I've got - I want to make it worth living. I want to enjoy it. And why shouldn't I enjoy it?
In this life, I wish to follow the Torah and halacha properly, to one day raise a frum Jewish family, to fullfill all my goals and ambitions as a writer, and to be happy with my life in every aspect.
I think we should all strive to be happy with our lives. We aren't going to get another opportunity to enjoy where we are other than in this life we are now living. Make the most of it.
Be happy. :)
* If You Give A Mouse A Cookie is one of the best children's books EVER.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Pre-Chanuka: Rechov Sumsum Edition
Chanuka is one of those chagim which just sort of sneaks up on you when you're no longer learning about it in school. It's only a few weeks away! Today I realized - they should start serving us sufganiot in the caf soon!
These clips bring back such childhood memories. This one always made me hungry:
And this one is just classic:
These clips bring back such childhood memories. This one always made me hungry:
And this one is just classic:
Thursday, November 6, 2008
In Defense Of My Home And Childhood
"I hate New York."
Over and over and over.
"I hate New York."
I want you all to close your eyes for a minute and just imagine someone, no, several people, no, almost all your closest friends throughout your life saying they hate where you grew up. It starts off as a joke, doesn't it? Oh, yeah, haha, very funny. Maybe it stays a joke. But how long can a joke last before it starts to become a sharp little attack at what made you who you are today? And I'm not looking for a snide remark to that like, "well, if you're an overly materialistic, narrow-minded jap, then why shouldn't I knock what made you into that?" ...Am I those things? Do you really think that's what it means to live in New York? I'm not talking about Brooklyn, I'm not talking about Queens, I'm not talking about New York City, I'm not even talking about the Five Towns. I'm talking about all of us who live in none of those places but who still live in New York and who still get knocked for it (and, by the way, there are also people who do live in those places who do not fall under all the stereotyping going on about them). It is possible to live your entire life in New York and be a reasonable, open-minded, not-on-fast-forward, appreciative of the simpler things in life person with excellent values, a realization that there are others different than you, good manners, a friendly disposition, and practical ideas.
"Do you live on farms where you grew up? Did you spend your free time going cow tipping?"
Sound familiar? If any of you think I'm directing this post at you specifically - I'm not. Amazingly (or maybe it's not such a shocker), nearly all my good friends from out of town complain about the same thing and nearly all of them gripe about how they hate New York. And I have and have had many, many, many friends from out of town. In fact, most of my closest friends in life have not been from New York or have moved out of New York at a young age.
Do any of you not from New York enjoy hearing about the cow tipping over and over? When it's a joke, well, you can laugh along with it. You can even make fun of it amongst yourselves. But is it really funny to you after the hundredth time? Don't you wish people realized that wherever you're from is a normal community?
I'll let you in on a secret.
I grew up in a community not that different from yours.*
I loved my childhood. I was a happy-go-lucky kid with an incredibly loving family and I thrived in quite a close-knit community. When I was younger, nearly everyone went to the local Jewish elementary school. It was close enough to my house to walk. I knew basically every single kid, no matter what age. I may not have spoken to a lot of them, especially the ones a lot older or a lot younger, but I knew who they were. There weren't people in my community I didn't recognize and it was rare that I didn't know another kid's name (again, no matter what age). Back then there was one main shul everyone davened at (now there are a few smaller ones). The Rabbi was, and still is, one of the greatest people I know - I'm talking in terms of gadlus. We as kids all took him for granted because he was the only Rabbi we really knew, but as we got older, went to Israel, things like that, we realized how recognized he was (is) even outside of our quiet community.
On Sundays in the Spring, our shul ran (and still runs) Little League baseball for kids of all ages, with both girls teams and boys teams. I spent many, many Sundays in the local baseball field. When I was younger and first started playing, I was in the outfield. I remember being both extraordinarily bored and swelteringly hot as I stood there with nothing to do (none of the other girls could hit far enough for me to do anything) and the sun beating down on me as I watched the infield through squinted eyes, my hand getting sweaty in my glove. When I got a little older, I was, thankfully, moved to shortstop (where I finally got to do things). I remember going to my brother's games often, too, and thinking that Lawrence was a place in Cedarhurst because their team was called Lawrence Cedarhurst (and they were always so good, too).
In the summers, the Sisterhood has camp-like activities for women who are home (baseball, barbeques, arts and crafts activities, etc.). In fact, my community has lots of activities that create a nice, close community feel. The Purim carnival where all the mothers make their kids promise not to bring home any goldfish, the Simchas Torah kiddush while all the men are getting their aliyas, the women's Simchas Torah tisch on Simchas Torah night (so they don't have to just stand there watching the men dance), Shabbos youth groups, Parent-child learning, the shul Sukkah hop, the shul kiddush-a-thon, the nut roll on both Succos and Pesach (always an exciting event for a kid), tashlich at the duck pond...
Just - everything. The fact that my community, like any community that is small enough, has its quirks that everyone knows about, has its characters that everyone knows about, has that feel that you can just walk down the street and know everyone you pass by and can smile at them and say hello, not just because you're being polite but because you actually know who they are.
In some ways, the community is growing - a lot of young families are moving in and they're not all sending their kids to the local elementary school and not all of the older members of the community know the younger members. But the community tries to stay cohesive and tries to integrate the newer version with the version it used to be as best it can.
On a more personal level, my parents raised me with excellent values - and both of them are born and bred New Yorkers. I learned to put others before myself. I learned to give more than I receive. I learned to always smile, to always greet someone in a friendly way, to always act like a mentch. I learned that wherever I go, I represent my family and I have a responsibility to do so in the most positive way possible. I learned that material things don't matter as much as family, friendship, knowledge, manners. I learned to always treat others with respect, to approach the world with an open mind, and to value the differences another person might have from myself. I learned not to judge too quickly, that midos are more important than money, and that it's highly important to appreciate what we have and to take the time to enjoy the world God has created for us - not to rush through with our heads down.
A classic example of how I was taught values:
This sentence is grammatically incorrect, though is colloquially the way little kids speak:
"Me, Sarah, and Bracha went to the park."
"Sarah, Bracha, and I," my father would say. "Always put yourself last."
There are two lessons there. The first is that, grammatically, it is "I," not "me," and the "I" goes at the end of the list. The other is that it is crucial to recognize the importance of other people and to respect that importance by listing yourself last. Be polite. Don't cut in front of other people. For instance, when you're driving - don't cut someone off. Don't make it impossible for them to get into your lane. When you're handing something out, make sure everyone else has before you take for yourself. Things like that.
Wait, you think. Wait a minute. But...you're from New York! And you have...manners?!
Yes!
Amazing, isn't it? Incredible! Bizarre! Unthinkable!
And guess what?
I'm not the exception to the rule, either!
Isn't that just the most bizarre thing you have ever heard?
Do you want to hear something even more unbelievable?
...I know some pretty jappy people who are not from New York! And who are not even from the tri-state area! I even know jappy people who are from ( gasp) the Midwest! The problem is not only in New York, you know.
Yes, there are issues with New York. There are problems with people who fit the stereotypes you are thinking. And those people are real. They exist. There are way too many of them. I agree.
But we are not all like that. And not all New York communities are as horrible as you think they are. Some of them are just as tame as what you're used to. I can't even tell you how many times I've had an out of town friend come to me for Shabbos and say, somewhat surprised, "Wow, your community is just like mine. This feels exactly like where I live." And why shouldn't it?
Just like you don't like being stereotyped, I don't like being stereotyped. Just like you love where you grew up, I love where I grew up.
But after years and years and years and years and years of having my own friends knock my home, it's starting to hurt.
I know what you mean. I do. I understand completely. I went to a high school in the Five Towns and I felt what you feel when you come to New York and don't like it. My community is not like the Five Towns and I wasn't used to it. And I went through a time where I was completely intimidated by the city. I did not always like the city. I found it dirty. I found it smoky. I found it loud. Even when I was in Israel in the Old City, I mourned the lack of grass. I mourned the fact that there was no autumn. I desperately did not want to go back to New York because I was so done with that whole scene. But I had been thinking of the intense scene from the Five Towns that had left its impression. I had forgotten that there are people even in the Five Towns who don't fit that mold. And that my own community does not fit that mold. And that Stern College is big enough that you don't have to be in that scene at all.
Autumn in my community is so gorgeous. It's got that New England look with multitudes of trees of brilliant reds, oranges, yellows, and every shade in between. We have grass. We have parks. Big parks not that far away! We have a creek! We have a duck pond! We are not all fancy homes. We do not have big buildings. We have plenty of parking. We don't have smoke. We don't have dirt and grime. We don't have much crime. We're a relatively sleepy town. By an out of towner friend of mine, we've been called "quaint." We are heimish. We are warm. We are welcoming.
We are in New York and, you know what? It's still a great place to live. And I'm not at all sorry that I grew up there.
*As far as community life goes. I'm not talking about hashkafa or anything like that.
Over and over and over.
"I hate New York."
I want you all to close your eyes for a minute and just imagine someone, no, several people, no, almost all your closest friends throughout your life saying they hate where you grew up. It starts off as a joke, doesn't it? Oh, yeah, haha, very funny. Maybe it stays a joke. But how long can a joke last before it starts to become a sharp little attack at what made you who you are today? And I'm not looking for a snide remark to that like, "well, if you're an overly materialistic, narrow-minded jap, then why shouldn't I knock what made you into that?" ...Am I those things? Do you really think that's what it means to live in New York? I'm not talking about Brooklyn, I'm not talking about Queens, I'm not talking about New York City, I'm not even talking about the Five Towns. I'm talking about all of us who live in none of those places but who still live in New York and who still get knocked for it (and, by the way, there are also people who do live in those places who do not fall under all the stereotyping going on about them). It is possible to live your entire life in New York and be a reasonable, open-minded, not-on-fast-forward, appreciative of the simpler things in life person with excellent values, a realization that there are others different than you, good manners, a friendly disposition, and practical ideas.
"Do you live on farms where you grew up? Did you spend your free time going cow tipping?"
Sound familiar? If any of you think I'm directing this post at you specifically - I'm not. Amazingly (or maybe it's not such a shocker), nearly all my good friends from out of town complain about the same thing and nearly all of them gripe about how they hate New York. And I have and have had many, many, many friends from out of town. In fact, most of my closest friends in life have not been from New York or have moved out of New York at a young age.
Do any of you not from New York enjoy hearing about the cow tipping over and over? When it's a joke, well, you can laugh along with it. You can even make fun of it amongst yourselves. But is it really funny to you after the hundredth time? Don't you wish people realized that wherever you're from is a normal community?
I'll let you in on a secret.
I grew up in a community not that different from yours.*
I loved my childhood. I was a happy-go-lucky kid with an incredibly loving family and I thrived in quite a close-knit community. When I was younger, nearly everyone went to the local Jewish elementary school. It was close enough to my house to walk. I knew basically every single kid, no matter what age. I may not have spoken to a lot of them, especially the ones a lot older or a lot younger, but I knew who they were. There weren't people in my community I didn't recognize and it was rare that I didn't know another kid's name (again, no matter what age). Back then there was one main shul everyone davened at (now there are a few smaller ones). The Rabbi was, and still is, one of the greatest people I know - I'm talking in terms of gadlus. We as kids all took him for granted because he was the only Rabbi we really knew, but as we got older, went to Israel, things like that, we realized how recognized he was (is) even outside of our quiet community.
On Sundays in the Spring, our shul ran (and still runs) Little League baseball for kids of all ages, with both girls teams and boys teams. I spent many, many Sundays in the local baseball field. When I was younger and first started playing, I was in the outfield. I remember being both extraordinarily bored and swelteringly hot as I stood there with nothing to do (none of the other girls could hit far enough for me to do anything) and the sun beating down on me as I watched the infield through squinted eyes, my hand getting sweaty in my glove. When I got a little older, I was, thankfully, moved to shortstop (where I finally got to do things). I remember going to my brother's games often, too, and thinking that Lawrence was a place in Cedarhurst because their team was called Lawrence Cedarhurst (and they were always so good, too).
In the summers, the Sisterhood has camp-like activities for women who are home (baseball, barbeques, arts and crafts activities, etc.). In fact, my community has lots of activities that create a nice, close community feel. The Purim carnival where all the mothers make their kids promise not to bring home any goldfish, the Simchas Torah kiddush while all the men are getting their aliyas, the women's Simchas Torah tisch on Simchas Torah night (so they don't have to just stand there watching the men dance), Shabbos youth groups, Parent-child learning, the shul Sukkah hop, the shul kiddush-a-thon, the nut roll on both Succos and Pesach (always an exciting event for a kid), tashlich at the duck pond...
Just - everything. The fact that my community, like any community that is small enough, has its quirks that everyone knows about, has its characters that everyone knows about, has that feel that you can just walk down the street and know everyone you pass by and can smile at them and say hello, not just because you're being polite but because you actually know who they are.
In some ways, the community is growing - a lot of young families are moving in and they're not all sending their kids to the local elementary school and not all of the older members of the community know the younger members. But the community tries to stay cohesive and tries to integrate the newer version with the version it used to be as best it can.
On a more personal level, my parents raised me with excellent values - and both of them are born and bred New Yorkers. I learned to put others before myself. I learned to give more than I receive. I learned to always smile, to always greet someone in a friendly way, to always act like a mentch. I learned that wherever I go, I represent my family and I have a responsibility to do so in the most positive way possible. I learned that material things don't matter as much as family, friendship, knowledge, manners. I learned to always treat others with respect, to approach the world with an open mind, and to value the differences another person might have from myself. I learned not to judge too quickly, that midos are more important than money, and that it's highly important to appreciate what we have and to take the time to enjoy the world God has created for us - not to rush through with our heads down.
A classic example of how I was taught values:
This sentence is grammatically incorrect, though is colloquially the way little kids speak:
"Me, Sarah, and Bracha went to the park."
"Sarah, Bracha, and I," my father would say. "Always put yourself last."
There are two lessons there. The first is that, grammatically, it is "I," not "me," and the "I" goes at the end of the list. The other is that it is crucial to recognize the importance of other people and to respect that importance by listing yourself last. Be polite. Don't cut in front of other people. For instance, when you're driving - don't cut someone off. Don't make it impossible for them to get into your lane. When you're handing something out, make sure everyone else has before you take for yourself. Things like that.
Wait, you think. Wait a minute. But...you're from New York! And you have...manners?!
Yes!
Amazing, isn't it? Incredible! Bizarre! Unthinkable!
And guess what?
I'm not the exception to the rule, either!
Isn't that just the most bizarre thing you have ever heard?
Do you want to hear something even more unbelievable?
...I know some pretty jappy people who are not from New York! And who are not even from the tri-state area! I even know jappy people who are from ( gasp) the Midwest! The problem is not only in New York, you know.
Yes, there are issues with New York. There are problems with people who fit the stereotypes you are thinking. And those people are real. They exist. There are way too many of them. I agree.
But we are not all like that. And not all New York communities are as horrible as you think they are. Some of them are just as tame as what you're used to. I can't even tell you how many times I've had an out of town friend come to me for Shabbos and say, somewhat surprised, "Wow, your community is just like mine. This feels exactly like where I live." And why shouldn't it?
Just like you don't like being stereotyped, I don't like being stereotyped. Just like you love where you grew up, I love where I grew up.
But after years and years and years and years and years of having my own friends knock my home, it's starting to hurt.
I know what you mean. I do. I understand completely. I went to a high school in the Five Towns and I felt what you feel when you come to New York and don't like it. My community is not like the Five Towns and I wasn't used to it. And I went through a time where I was completely intimidated by the city. I did not always like the city. I found it dirty. I found it smoky. I found it loud. Even when I was in Israel in the Old City, I mourned the lack of grass. I mourned the fact that there was no autumn. I desperately did not want to go back to New York because I was so done with that whole scene. But I had been thinking of the intense scene from the Five Towns that had left its impression. I had forgotten that there are people even in the Five Towns who don't fit that mold. And that my own community does not fit that mold. And that Stern College is big enough that you don't have to be in that scene at all.
Autumn in my community is so gorgeous. It's got that New England look with multitudes of trees of brilliant reds, oranges, yellows, and every shade in between. We have grass. We have parks. Big parks not that far away! We have a creek! We have a duck pond! We are not all fancy homes. We do not have big buildings. We have plenty of parking. We don't have smoke. We don't have dirt and grime. We don't have much crime. We're a relatively sleepy town. By an out of towner friend of mine, we've been called "quaint." We are heimish. We are warm. We are welcoming.
We are in New York and, you know what? It's still a great place to live. And I'm not at all sorry that I grew up there.
*As far as community life goes. I'm not talking about hashkafa or anything like that.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Here In Machane
So I decided I want to write about Bnei Akiva and Camp Moshava. Although I no longer do Bnei Akiva, Moshava has been a huge part of my childhood and really helped shape who I am today. It gave me an incredible foundation in my love for Israel and my passion for Jewish unity. I know a lot of people just write it off as a Zionist cult (hey, even us Moshavaniks do), and in a lot of ways, it really is, but there is so much more to it than that. I'm not saying Moshava is for everyone. But it is different from any other camp and in a really, truly beautiful way. I think this is going to take a lot more than just one post, but we shall see how it goes. I suppose I'll begin with my first summer there.
When I was in fourth grade, my best friend (we'll call her Dot) asked me if I wanted to go to sleepaway camp with her. Now, I was one of those kids who was very happy to run around in the dirt barefoot, climb trees, crawl under bushes, and generally be one with nature. I had always wanted to go hiking, I had always wanted to go on a campout, and I loved the idea of going to a sleepaway camp. So, of course, I immediately said yes.
I had no idea which sleepaway camp we were going to. I had barely heard of any. I didn't know the difference between all those 'M' camps, as everyone likes to call them. Mesorah, Morasha, Moshava? What were they? They all blurred together for me into one entity: camp. So when I found out we were going to Moshava, it meant absolutely nothing to me. Bnei Akiva I for sure had never heard of.
I was nervous, of course. It would be my first extended period away from home and that was scary. But I would be with Dot and I was too excited to spend energy on being homesick. The bus stop for camp was at Central, in Queens (I actually had no idea that it was Central until years later when I applied there for high school and ended up going to the Moshava bus stop for my interview). The way it worked for the Long Island kids was there were two buses from Queens - one direct to camp and one that stopped in Monsey along the way. Dot and I were always, without fail, on the Monsey bus. The consequences of being on the Monsey bus were high. The trip was longer, of course, and at least one or two of the Monsey kids were always missing so we'd have to wait ages until we could actually leave and go to camp. And that meant we got to camp late. Getting to camp late meant one, crucial thing: last pick for beds. Dot and I hadn't understood this our first year, of course, but it was something we quickly learned.
Pulling into camp (finally) was intimidating. There was a long dirt road which climbed a steep hill and then landed us right in the middle of a big, grassy field (which I later learned was called the Main Migrash). Surrounding the bus were a lot of big, older people in brightly colored shirts holding brightly colored signs with Hebrew letters on them whose significance I did not understand. Everyone was screaming and shouting and cheering and singing in one, big cacophonous uproar. And me, as a little nine-year-old first-timer, well...I was pretty terrified. Getting off the bus that first time was like plunging into a multi-colored neon monster.
I stuck close to Dot as we were quickly swept up by one section of the monster holding a sign with a big letter Hey on it. "What are your names?" asked a very smiley man. I froze, the question suddenly extremely complicated. I seem to have left my entire identity back at the bus stop in Queens. Finally, I managed a very frightened, "E-Erachet."
"Dot," said Dot.
We were told we were now in Eidah Hey and belonged to bunk G-12.
We quickly learned a few things about this strange new place called Moshava. We were not part of divisions. We were part of Eidot. The Eidot did not exactly go in alphabetical order, either. They went Eidah Hey (going into fourth and fifth), Eidah Aleph (going into sixth), Eidah Bet (going into seventh), Eidah Gimmel (going into eighth), and Eidah Daled (going into ninth). Machal was going into tenth, but we didn't learn about Machal until later.
And we were not campers. We were chanichot (the boys were chanichim). We had madrichot and lived in tzrifim (bunks). We ate at the chadar ochel, not the dining room. No one ever called it the dining room. We had peulot, not activities, and they were called things like melechet yad and nagarut (rather than arts and crafts or woodworking). If we didn't feel well, we went to the Marp, which was a nickname for the Mirpa'ah (infirmary? never!). We swam in the breicha (pool). There was girls' migrash and boys' migrash - and main migrash, of course. No such thing as "field" or "campus." We had shekem, not canteen. And, on top of it all, there was the Rosh Eidah (not division head) and the Rosh Moshava. If you needed the Rosh Mosh or the director of camp for anything - or even your Rosh Eidah - you went to the RML. It took us more than one summer to learn what RML stood for (Rosh Mosh Lishka [office] - and actually, for a while that first summer a bunch of us really thought it was "aramel," and we had no clue what "aramel" was supposed to mean).
Announcements went like this, "Hakshivu na, hakshivu na, kol hamachane - Erachet, na lageshet la RML." I never understood why "kol hamachane" had to pay attention when they wanted one person to come to the RML, but there you have it.
And that was my first introduction to the world of Moshava, Hebrish, and, well, Zionism.
And that's all I have the energy to write about today. Besides, this post is long enough as it is. I hope it was enjoyable enough for people to want to read more (don't worry, I'll get to the real B"A and Zionism stuff later, I just want this to be a true representation of my experience at Mosh, not just the bare bones of what Bnei Akiva is all about).
Thanks for reading!
When I was in fourth grade, my best friend (we'll call her Dot) asked me if I wanted to go to sleepaway camp with her. Now, I was one of those kids who was very happy to run around in the dirt barefoot, climb trees, crawl under bushes, and generally be one with nature. I had always wanted to go hiking, I had always wanted to go on a campout, and I loved the idea of going to a sleepaway camp. So, of course, I immediately said yes.
I had no idea which sleepaway camp we were going to. I had barely heard of any. I didn't know the difference between all those 'M' camps, as everyone likes to call them. Mesorah, Morasha, Moshava? What were they? They all blurred together for me into one entity: camp. So when I found out we were going to Moshava, it meant absolutely nothing to me. Bnei Akiva I for sure had never heard of.
I was nervous, of course. It would be my first extended period away from home and that was scary. But I would be with Dot and I was too excited to spend energy on being homesick. The bus stop for camp was at Central, in Queens (I actually had no idea that it was Central until years later when I applied there for high school and ended up going to the Moshava bus stop for my interview). The way it worked for the Long Island kids was there were two buses from Queens - one direct to camp and one that stopped in Monsey along the way. Dot and I were always, without fail, on the Monsey bus. The consequences of being on the Monsey bus were high. The trip was longer, of course, and at least one or two of the Monsey kids were always missing so we'd have to wait ages until we could actually leave and go to camp. And that meant we got to camp late. Getting to camp late meant one, crucial thing: last pick for beds. Dot and I hadn't understood this our first year, of course, but it was something we quickly learned.
Pulling into camp (finally) was intimidating. There was a long dirt road which climbed a steep hill and then landed us right in the middle of a big, grassy field (which I later learned was called the Main Migrash). Surrounding the bus were a lot of big, older people in brightly colored shirts holding brightly colored signs with Hebrew letters on them whose significance I did not understand. Everyone was screaming and shouting and cheering and singing in one, big cacophonous uproar. And me, as a little nine-year-old first-timer, well...I was pretty terrified. Getting off the bus that first time was like plunging into a multi-colored neon monster.
I stuck close to Dot as we were quickly swept up by one section of the monster holding a sign with a big letter Hey on it. "What are your names?" asked a very smiley man. I froze, the question suddenly extremely complicated. I seem to have left my entire identity back at the bus stop in Queens. Finally, I managed a very frightened, "E-Erachet."
"Dot," said Dot.
We were told we were now in Eidah Hey and belonged to bunk G-12.
We quickly learned a few things about this strange new place called Moshava. We were not part of divisions. We were part of Eidot. The Eidot did not exactly go in alphabetical order, either. They went Eidah Hey (going into fourth and fifth), Eidah Aleph (going into sixth), Eidah Bet (going into seventh), Eidah Gimmel (going into eighth), and Eidah Daled (going into ninth). Machal was going into tenth, but we didn't learn about Machal until later.
And we were not campers. We were chanichot (the boys were chanichim). We had madrichot and lived in tzrifim (bunks). We ate at the chadar ochel, not the dining room. No one ever called it the dining room. We had peulot, not activities, and they were called things like melechet yad and nagarut (rather than arts and crafts or woodworking). If we didn't feel well, we went to the Marp, which was a nickname for the Mirpa'ah (infirmary? never!). We swam in the breicha (pool). There was girls' migrash and boys' migrash - and main migrash, of course. No such thing as "field" or "campus." We had shekem, not canteen. And, on top of it all, there was the Rosh Eidah (not division head) and the Rosh Moshava. If you needed the Rosh Mosh or the director of camp for anything - or even your Rosh Eidah - you went to the RML. It took us more than one summer to learn what RML stood for (Rosh Mosh Lishka [office] - and actually, for a while that first summer a bunch of us really thought it was "aramel," and we had no clue what "aramel" was supposed to mean).
Announcements went like this, "Hakshivu na, hakshivu na, kol hamachane - Erachet, na lageshet la RML." I never understood why "kol hamachane" had to pay attention when they wanted one person to come to the RML, but there you have it.
And that was my first introduction to the world of Moshava, Hebrish, and, well, Zionism.
And that's all I have the energy to write about today. Besides, this post is long enough as it is. I hope it was enjoyable enough for people to want to read more (don't worry, I'll get to the real B"A and Zionism stuff later, I just want this to be a true representation of my experience at Mosh, not just the bare bones of what Bnei Akiva is all about).
Thanks for reading!
Monday, June 30, 2008
Writing to Yourself
I've been kind of cleaning my room this summer (it's an on and off project) and have been coming across various diaries I kept as recently as my year in Israel and as far back as third grade. Then I thought about this post that I wrote a while ago. Finding things that you've written when you were little is a bit like uncovering a secret within yourself. It's funny to see how you viewed the world as a little kid and how similar yet different you are now.
Here's something I wrote when I was in third grade (spelling and grammar errors kept for fun):
Okay, this one was an entry for my teacher (we had to keep a journal in class):
Hmmmm. I was shy as anything in third grade but I guess I felt comfortable enough complaining in my own journal. :)
But then, of course, me being me, I kept my journal into the summer when school was already over. This, apparently, was how I dealt with bullies (I was good friends with a girl who used to bully me a lot):
And, interestingly enough, I wrote an entire book in the back of the journal called A Guide Book About Handeling Bullies.
I was a very interesting little kid, I'm discovering.
Here's something I wrote when I was in third grade (spelling and grammar errors kept for fun):
February 5, 1995
Today I thought about how I like being the oldest and how I don't like being the oldest. I like being the oldest because I get to stay up late. (Sometimes.) I get my own room. I get my own new furniture and I get to hold Mavis (my baby brother) by myself. I don't like being the oldest because my little brother and sister (Trademark and Straight Man) bother me alot. And when we watch t.v. they get to watch what they want and I don't. Also on shabas Trademark (my little sister) gets to eat supper befor my father comes home from shool and I don't even if I'm starving.
Okay, this one was an entry for my teacher (we had to keep a journal in class):
February 12, 1995
How come I always have to write in my Journal every friday? Sometimes it's anoying. Maby sometimes I will not have anything to write. If I do that's great. But if I don't then I'll be in trouble. Why can't I write in my Journal every other friday?
Hmmmm. I was shy as anything in third grade but I guess I felt comfortable enough complaining in my own journal. :)
But then, of course, me being me, I kept my journal into the summer when school was already over. This, apparently, was how I dealt with bullies (I was good friends with a girl who used to bully me a lot):
August 4, 1995
Dear Journal,
Today I might go to bossy Friend X's house. I have a plan. If Friend X get's bossy then I'll get bossy too. I hope my plan works.
Erachet
And, interestingly enough, I wrote an entire book in the back of the journal called A Guide Book About Handeling Bullies.
I was a very interesting little kid, I'm discovering.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The Storyteller
Ever since I was very young, I knew I wanted to be a writer of stories. The term 'author' was not one I thought about. It was 'writer of stories.' I was not always fascinated with words, with rhythm, with grammar...(nor did I ever use the hated ellipses. I HATE ellipses), no. I didn't really much care about how a thing was written. The point was that it was written. What I loved as a little kid were stories.
Last semester in the Writing Kiddie Lit. class (not to be confused with just plain Kiddie Lit, which I also took), the teacher brought in a speaker and he asked us to raise our hands if our parents read to us a lot as kids. Mostly everyone raised her hand. Then he asked us to raise our hands if our parents told us stories more than they read to us.
I was the only one.
This shocked me completely. I couldn't understand how other people's parents did not tell them stories. Those were my favorite kinds of stories as a kid. Granted, I liked it when I was read to, as well, especially since I would memorize the books and I'm convinced that's what taught me to read, but being told a story is what I loved most of all. You never knew what you were going to get, and my dad (who was the designated storyteller in the house) would put my siblings and I into his stories and also the friends of our choice and our favorite book or TV characters (batman made frequent appearances, as did my favorite stuffed animal, Yellow Doggie) and those stories would go on forever. My dad usually fell asleep while telling them and we'd have to wake him up (my siblings and I), and sometimes it would be hours before my mom would call up, "what's going on in there? You went to put them to bed two hours ago."
The thing about being told stories is that it allows so much room for imagining the details and what places and people look like, and anticipation for what will come next. It was my first experience with stories without pictures. And I liked stories without pictures. They allowed me to imagine whatever pictures I wanted to be there.
I truly do believe that being told stories is what created that imaginative spark inside me to want to come up with my own stories. After all, if my dad could do it, why couldn't I?
I remember thinking this way one day as I was in my room, looking at all my books. I think I might have been organizing them. I remember thinking that I wanted to be a storyteller when I grew up and just make up stories all day long. But I soon realized that that's not a very practical thing to be doing and I didn't want to spend my life entertaining little kids at birthday parties or something (even though, at the time that I was thinking this, I was a little kid. I think I was about seven or eight). So then I thought, maybe I'll be an actress. Then I could play my imagination games (of which I had many) forever. But no, I checked myself on that, too, and realized that as a Religious Jewish girl, aspirations for being an actress would not really go anywhere past school plays. So that's when, glancing at all my books, it came to me.
Of course! I would write stories! After all, all these authors did it, and as far as I was concerned, my dad was just as good as any of those authors and all he had to do was write down what he told us at night and then he could be on a bookshelf, too! So why not me? I was good at coming up with my own stories. I sometimes imagined my books having different details or I would create back-stories for the characters because I decided I wanted things to happen precisely that way and it was my imagination, after all, and my book (I was very possessive over these things. It didn't occur to me much that zillions of other people were enjoying the same books as me. I always felt that they were mine and only mine). And so it was settled. I was going to write stories. The end.
I'm not sure why I'm thinking about all this now. It might be because recently in one of my classes, we were talking about books on tape, and also recently, a friend gave me Wuthering Heights on CD to listen to. I think it's important for kids to be told stories, as well as read them. They both serve their purposes, but I just remember my shock at being the only one to raise my hand about having my parents tell me stories more than they read to me. Telling stories is also so much more interactive for the kids listening. I've told my siblings stories when I was older, and I've told kids in summer camp stories, and seriously, it's the most fun thing you can do during a rest-ish time and it's a great way to connect. And basically, it's the best exercise for the imagination you can have.
So, yes, everyone should tell stories!
Last semester in the Writing Kiddie Lit. class (not to be confused with just plain Kiddie Lit, which I also took), the teacher brought in a speaker and he asked us to raise our hands if our parents read to us a lot as kids. Mostly everyone raised her hand. Then he asked us to raise our hands if our parents told us stories more than they read to us.
I was the only one.
This shocked me completely. I couldn't understand how other people's parents did not tell them stories. Those were my favorite kinds of stories as a kid. Granted, I liked it when I was read to, as well, especially since I would memorize the books and I'm convinced that's what taught me to read, but being told a story is what I loved most of all. You never knew what you were going to get, and my dad (who was the designated storyteller in the house) would put my siblings and I into his stories and also the friends of our choice and our favorite book or TV characters (batman made frequent appearances, as did my favorite stuffed animal, Yellow Doggie) and those stories would go on forever. My dad usually fell asleep while telling them and we'd have to wake him up (my siblings and I), and sometimes it would be hours before my mom would call up, "what's going on in there? You went to put them to bed two hours ago."
The thing about being told stories is that it allows so much room for imagining the details and what places and people look like, and anticipation for what will come next. It was my first experience with stories without pictures. And I liked stories without pictures. They allowed me to imagine whatever pictures I wanted to be there.
I truly do believe that being told stories is what created that imaginative spark inside me to want to come up with my own stories. After all, if my dad could do it, why couldn't I?
I remember thinking this way one day as I was in my room, looking at all my books. I think I might have been organizing them. I remember thinking that I wanted to be a storyteller when I grew up and just make up stories all day long. But I soon realized that that's not a very practical thing to be doing and I didn't want to spend my life entertaining little kids at birthday parties or something (even though, at the time that I was thinking this, I was a little kid. I think I was about seven or eight). So then I thought, maybe I'll be an actress. Then I could play my imagination games (of which I had many) forever. But no, I checked myself on that, too, and realized that as a Religious Jewish girl, aspirations for being an actress would not really go anywhere past school plays. So that's when, glancing at all my books, it came to me.
Of course! I would write stories! After all, all these authors did it, and as far as I was concerned, my dad was just as good as any of those authors and all he had to do was write down what he told us at night and then he could be on a bookshelf, too! So why not me? I was good at coming up with my own stories. I sometimes imagined my books having different details or I would create back-stories for the characters because I decided I wanted things to happen precisely that way and it was my imagination, after all, and my book (I was very possessive over these things. It didn't occur to me much that zillions of other people were enjoying the same books as me. I always felt that they were mine and only mine). And so it was settled. I was going to write stories. The end.
I'm not sure why I'm thinking about all this now. It might be because recently in one of my classes, we were talking about books on tape, and also recently, a friend gave me Wuthering Heights on CD to listen to. I think it's important for kids to be told stories, as well as read them. They both serve their purposes, but I just remember my shock at being the only one to raise my hand about having my parents tell me stories more than they read to me. Telling stories is also so much more interactive for the kids listening. I've told my siblings stories when I was older, and I've told kids in summer camp stories, and seriously, it's the most fun thing you can do during a rest-ish time and it's a great way to connect. And basically, it's the best exercise for the imagination you can have.
So, yes, everyone should tell stories!
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Letter to self
Last night, my dad came to my room and told me I got a letter, commenting that the address looked like my handwriting. I frowned, took the letter, and said it looked like my handwriting from when I was, like, six.
On the back of the envelope were the words: I'm so sorry for this delay. Please enjoy it now!
Curious, I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter inside. This is what I found, in little kid scrawl (very messy little kid scrawl):
On the back of the envelope were the words: I'm so sorry for this delay. Please enjoy it now!
Curious, I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter inside. This is what I found, in little kid scrawl (very messy little kid scrawl):
June 19, 1995Dear Erachet,
Today Mrs. [third grade teacher's name] asked us to write a letter that will be mailed back to us in 2005. This is what I would like to say: will my brother stop bothering me and being a pain? Will I still have to go to bed at eight o'clock? Will I go to Israel. I hope so. I hope I get neater handwriting.
Sincerely,
Erachet
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Rising to Potential
In light of Chana's most recent post, I would like to comment on the difference between being thought smart and actually being smart. I don't know how many people have actually thought about this or considered being a part of the thought-smart category, but it's something I know all too well.
When I was in elementary school, I was smart. I was. I can't remember not knowing how to read, but I do remember when the rest of the class was learning. I remember that I already knew how. I didn't need the letter books. I didn't need the readers. I was already reading books at home on my own. In school, I thirsted for chapter books, especially when most of the book in our classroom library were simple picture books. During this time in my life, I always did well in school and I was seen by the other kids as part of the 'smart kids' category. But there was something wrong, something that wounded my pride, that made me feel inadequate, unnoticed, unappreciated, or just plain not good enough. There was an enrichment program originally called Project Extra and then renamed Rise. My good friends were in it. I wasn't. I wanted to be so badly, but never did any of my teachers place me in it. It was like a special club that only the smart kids could be in, but yet I was excluded. I, who was smart, who couldn't make it on my own in the classroom when the rest of my friends were at Rise. It made me secretly resentful of my friends. I hated feeling that way. I hated not being part of it. I hated being smart, but not smart enough. If I was going to be burdened with being a reader, being studious, being quick at learning, then why could I not be rewarded along with my friends? And if I wasn't going to be rewarded, then couldn't I at least be good at whatever the other kids in my class enjoyed to do? So that I could have friends when my other friends weren't in the classroom? So that I could have things to share with other students in the class?
In elementary school, we also had an annual poetry contest. This was something I wanted very badly to win. I entered a poem every year and never did I get to read mine out loud in front of the whole school during the poetry festival. And I was the writer! I was the one constantly writing stories, writing poems, playing make-believe. But I never won. Not once. There was only one moment in elementary school when I felt pride for my writing and that was when we had an actual poet come to our class. It was in fifth grade and the poet told us each to write a paragraph about something, anything we wanted. I wrote about waking up on a Sunday morning and the rush of racing down the stairs to beat my siblings to the television so I could choose what program we would watch. I remember the poet singled my paragraph out. She said it was very good and that a phrase I had written, "I fumbled for my glasses," was just the sort of phrase writers liked to use. She said it showed a sophistication in my writing. I glowed with pride.
But that was my shining moment. My only shining moment.
In sixth grade, I got the biggest shock from a teacher that I had ever gotten before. I got my first C. Now, you have to understand, not only did I not get C's in elementary school, I didn't even get B's. I mean, I was a good student. This was also the year that I'd had hepatitis, so you would think the teacher would be a bit more understanding. We had a country report which included an actual report and an oral presentation. We drew from a hat and, lucky me, I was chosen to present first. I was eleven. I had never seen an oral presentation before. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. The teacher gave a few suggestions, but I had to make most of it up on my own. I worked incredibly hard with my parents building the Eiffel Tower out of a large 3-D puzzle (I had France as my country). I learned how to play La Marseillaise, the French national anthem, on my flute (I played the flute at the time). I made posters, I gave out what I thought were little French yogurts but really ended up being cheese (no one knew until later. It was pretty funny when my mom and I figured it out). And after all that work, the teacher gave me a C on my oral. Why? Yes, many of the other presentations were more impressive than mine, but how could I have known that? I was first. And I was terrified I would do it all wrong. I didn't have the confidence to go first. I remember being horrified. An actual C.
In seventh and eight grade, I was placed in the highest level class of my grade. It was then that I started to do badly in science and not amazingly in history. What was happening to me? I was supposed to be smart! Everyone still thought I was smart. I never shared my unsatisfactory grades with anyone. Let them still think I was smart, that I was capable, that I was up to their level.
In high school, for the first time I wasn't in the honors class. I was in a class right in the middle. While for many, this would be just fine, for me it was a wound to my pride. Again, almost all my friends were in the honors class. In fact, I was barely friends with anyone in my own class. I was miserable in that class. I didn't show it; I'm quite good at hiding my feelings - at least, I like to think I am. But I was in a class with all the jappy girls who didn't want to work. They just wanted to go on tangents with the teacher about her outfit. I admit, those were ideal times for me to get some solid bit of writing done ( I wrote many a story during class in high school) but I wanted to learn. I didn't care where the teacher got her skirt from, or her shoes. And, what was worse, my real friends and I began to have less and less to talk about during school. We were having different high school experiences on a day to day basis. We couldn't study together. We couldn't talk about teachers together. It was awful.
And still, somehow, I was regarded as smart. I don't know if it's because I never goofed off in school or if it's because I sound smart when I spoke (which I highly doubt. I usually become too nervous to actually say anything very coherent. I find it much easier to express myself when I'm writing). But there it was, I was still thought of as smart. There was one time, I was in twelfth grade, when a teacher from the honors class subbed for one of my classes and she and I ended up having an intellectual debate for a good part of the forty minutes we were together. Sometime after class, she came over to me and told me she had no idea I was like that (like what? That I liked to debate? That I liked being intellectually stimulated? I still don't know exactly what she meant) and that she feels like she missed out by not teaching me. That was probably the first time in the entirety of high school that I felt proud of my performance in the classroom. And that was when I was almost up to graduation.
So even now I wonder, did I actually rise to my potential in elementary and high school? Did I really do my best? And if not, could I have been in Rise? Could I have been in the honors class? Could I have, as a result, ended up with more friends and had a better experience? Sometimes I get so angry at myself when I realize that the answer to these questions is, most probably, yes. And I don't know why I ruined it for myself. Laziness? Getting too used to being regarded as smart that I forgot to try my hardest? I don't know. I just know I'm unsatisfied with the way I've performed as a student all this time. I'm smart. I know I'm smart. It's just not as easy for me to rise to my own potential for some reason.
When I was in elementary school, I was smart. I was. I can't remember not knowing how to read, but I do remember when the rest of the class was learning. I remember that I already knew how. I didn't need the letter books. I didn't need the readers. I was already reading books at home on my own. In school, I thirsted for chapter books, especially when most of the book in our classroom library were simple picture books. During this time in my life, I always did well in school and I was seen by the other kids as part of the 'smart kids' category. But there was something wrong, something that wounded my pride, that made me feel inadequate, unnoticed, unappreciated, or just plain not good enough. There was an enrichment program originally called Project Extra and then renamed Rise. My good friends were in it. I wasn't. I wanted to be so badly, but never did any of my teachers place me in it. It was like a special club that only the smart kids could be in, but yet I was excluded. I, who was smart, who couldn't make it on my own in the classroom when the rest of my friends were at Rise. It made me secretly resentful of my friends. I hated feeling that way. I hated not being part of it. I hated being smart, but not smart enough. If I was going to be burdened with being a reader, being studious, being quick at learning, then why could I not be rewarded along with my friends? And if I wasn't going to be rewarded, then couldn't I at least be good at whatever the other kids in my class enjoyed to do? So that I could have friends when my other friends weren't in the classroom? So that I could have things to share with other students in the class?
In elementary school, we also had an annual poetry contest. This was something I wanted very badly to win. I entered a poem every year and never did I get to read mine out loud in front of the whole school during the poetry festival. And I was the writer! I was the one constantly writing stories, writing poems, playing make-believe. But I never won. Not once. There was only one moment in elementary school when I felt pride for my writing and that was when we had an actual poet come to our class. It was in fifth grade and the poet told us each to write a paragraph about something, anything we wanted. I wrote about waking up on a Sunday morning and the rush of racing down the stairs to beat my siblings to the television so I could choose what program we would watch. I remember the poet singled my paragraph out. She said it was very good and that a phrase I had written, "I fumbled for my glasses," was just the sort of phrase writers liked to use. She said it showed a sophistication in my writing. I glowed with pride.
But that was my shining moment. My only shining moment.
In sixth grade, I got the biggest shock from a teacher that I had ever gotten before. I got my first C. Now, you have to understand, not only did I not get C's in elementary school, I didn't even get B's. I mean, I was a good student. This was also the year that I'd had hepatitis, so you would think the teacher would be a bit more understanding. We had a country report which included an actual report and an oral presentation. We drew from a hat and, lucky me, I was chosen to present first. I was eleven. I had never seen an oral presentation before. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. The teacher gave a few suggestions, but I had to make most of it up on my own. I worked incredibly hard with my parents building the Eiffel Tower out of a large 3-D puzzle (I had France as my country). I learned how to play La Marseillaise, the French national anthem, on my flute (I played the flute at the time). I made posters, I gave out what I thought were little French yogurts but really ended up being cheese (no one knew until later. It was pretty funny when my mom and I figured it out). And after all that work, the teacher gave me a C on my oral. Why? Yes, many of the other presentations were more impressive than mine, but how could I have known that? I was first. And I was terrified I would do it all wrong. I didn't have the confidence to go first. I remember being horrified. An actual C.
In seventh and eight grade, I was placed in the highest level class of my grade. It was then that I started to do badly in science and not amazingly in history. What was happening to me? I was supposed to be smart! Everyone still thought I was smart. I never shared my unsatisfactory grades with anyone. Let them still think I was smart, that I was capable, that I was up to their level.
In high school, for the first time I wasn't in the honors class. I was in a class right in the middle. While for many, this would be just fine, for me it was a wound to my pride. Again, almost all my friends were in the honors class. In fact, I was barely friends with anyone in my own class. I was miserable in that class. I didn't show it; I'm quite good at hiding my feelings - at least, I like to think I am. But I was in a class with all the jappy girls who didn't want to work. They just wanted to go on tangents with the teacher about her outfit. I admit, those were ideal times for me to get some solid bit of writing done ( I wrote many a story during class in high school) but I wanted to learn. I didn't care where the teacher got her skirt from, or her shoes. And, what was worse, my real friends and I began to have less and less to talk about during school. We were having different high school experiences on a day to day basis. We couldn't study together. We couldn't talk about teachers together. It was awful.
And still, somehow, I was regarded as smart. I don't know if it's because I never goofed off in school or if it's because I sound smart when I spoke (which I highly doubt. I usually become too nervous to actually say anything very coherent. I find it much easier to express myself when I'm writing). But there it was, I was still thought of as smart. There was one time, I was in twelfth grade, when a teacher from the honors class subbed for one of my classes and she and I ended up having an intellectual debate for a good part of the forty minutes we were together. Sometime after class, she came over to me and told me she had no idea I was like that (like what? That I liked to debate? That I liked being intellectually stimulated? I still don't know exactly what she meant) and that she feels like she missed out by not teaching me. That was probably the first time in the entirety of high school that I felt proud of my performance in the classroom. And that was when I was almost up to graduation.
So even now I wonder, did I actually rise to my potential in elementary and high school? Did I really do my best? And if not, could I have been in Rise? Could I have been in the honors class? Could I have, as a result, ended up with more friends and had a better experience? Sometimes I get so angry at myself when I realize that the answer to these questions is, most probably, yes. And I don't know why I ruined it for myself. Laziness? Getting too used to being regarded as smart that I forgot to try my hardest? I don't know. I just know I'm unsatisfied with the way I've performed as a student all this time. I'm smart. I know I'm smart. It's just not as easy for me to rise to my own potential for some reason.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Serendipity
Someone once told me when I was younger that the word 'serendipity' means finding something you used to like by accident. Well, cleaning my room this afternoon, I found plenty of things I used to like by accident. One of these is a memory game which used to be popular in camp and in youth groups like NCSY. Basically, one person starts off by saying, "one hen." The person who is sort of like a contestant then has to repeat, "one hen." Then the one leading the game says, "one hen, two ducks" and the contestant has to repeat. It goes all the way until ten. This is the list (some things might be spelled wrong, this list is from a number of years ago, not that my spelling is amazing now, but anyway):
Anyway, one of the other items I found buried away in my desk drawers are six little figurines, bigger than Polly Pocket - about the size of Lego people, I guess, maybe a touch bigger. They came from a toy I had when I was younger, maybe six or seven years old, called Jenny's Tree House. It was a tree house and came with five of the little figurines, an orange-haired girl with painted on pink clothes, a brown-haired girl with painted on blue clothes, an orange-haired boy with painted on red clothes, a brown-haired boy with painted on blue clothes, and a blonde-haired girl in pigtails with painted on yellow clothes. At some point, I thought I lost some of them and my mom got me another set, but then I really did lose some, so I'm left now with the girl in pink clothes, two girls in yellow, two boys in red, and a boy in blue. I used to have, besides the boys, two yellow girls, two blue girls, and the pink girl, and I remember I named them after the quints in the Baker's Dozen books (whose names I can't really remember now - Rivka, Zahava, Tikva...that's all I remember). I used to play with them all the time, especially while doing homework. I remember I used to arrange them on my desk like students in a classroom and I would pretend to have them answer the homework questions, or do the readings out loud, taking turns of course (I would do a different kind of voice for each, and sometimes they'd be British, too) like we did in school.
That was aaaages ago. I mean, I was literally six and seven when I used to do that, maybe even until I was eight. So I was very pleasantly surprised to find them still tucked away in a corner of my desk drawer. They're the sort of toy I just can't bring myself to throw away - I have too many nice memories of playing with them.
I have to say, I love cleaning my room (well, sometimes). It's like going on a treasure hunt. You just never know what you're going to dig up!
One henWhew.
Two ducks
Three squawking geese
Four limerick oysters
Five corpulent porpoises
Six pairs of Don Elverso's tweezers (I have no clue who Don Elverso is)
Seven thousand Macedonian soldiers dressed in full battle array
Eight brass monkeys from the ancient, sacred crypts of Egypt
Nine apathetic, sympathetic, diabetic old men on roller skates with a marked propensity towards procrastination and sloth
Ten lyrical, spherical, diabolical denizens of the sea who haul and stall around the corner of the quo, the quay, and the quiver all at the same time.
Anyway, one of the other items I found buried away in my desk drawers are six little figurines, bigger than Polly Pocket - about the size of Lego people, I guess, maybe a touch bigger. They came from a toy I had when I was younger, maybe six or seven years old, called Jenny's Tree House. It was a tree house and came with five of the little figurines, an orange-haired girl with painted on pink clothes, a brown-haired girl with painted on blue clothes, an orange-haired boy with painted on red clothes, a brown-haired boy with painted on blue clothes, and a blonde-haired girl in pigtails with painted on yellow clothes. At some point, I thought I lost some of them and my mom got me another set, but then I really did lose some, so I'm left now with the girl in pink clothes, two girls in yellow, two boys in red, and a boy in blue. I used to have, besides the boys, two yellow girls, two blue girls, and the pink girl, and I remember I named them after the quints in the Baker's Dozen books (whose names I can't really remember now - Rivka, Zahava, Tikva...that's all I remember). I used to play with them all the time, especially while doing homework. I remember I used to arrange them on my desk like students in a classroom and I would pretend to have them answer the homework questions, or do the readings out loud, taking turns of course (I would do a different kind of voice for each, and sometimes they'd be British, too) like we did in school.
That was aaaages ago. I mean, I was literally six and seven when I used to do that, maybe even until I was eight. So I was very pleasantly surprised to find them still tucked away in a corner of my desk drawer. They're the sort of toy I just can't bring myself to throw away - I have too many nice memories of playing with them.
I have to say, I love cleaning my room (well, sometimes). It's like going on a treasure hunt. You just never know what you're going to dig up!
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