- Renting a car for the first time by myself.
- Driving in Seattle for the first time.
- Booking my first Seattle feature, thanks to my dear friend Jack
Writing will re-commence once stability has returned. For now, another of Andi's pictures:
4/30/2009
Seattle 16, or Things I Am Doing Today
- Moving here.
- Renting a car for the first time by myself.
- Driving in Seattle for the first time.
- Booking my first Seattle feature, thanks to my dear friend Jack
Writing will re-commence once stability has returned. For now, another of Andi's pictures:
- Renting a car for the first time by myself.
- Driving in Seattle for the first time.
- Booking my first Seattle feature, thanks to my dear friend Jack
Writing will re-commence once stability has returned. For now, another of Andi's pictures:
4/28/2009
Seattle 15, or Extra, Extra, Read All About It!
Actually, I mean read it over here.
(all pictures by Slam Photographer Andi Burk)
Karen Finneyfrock - a keystone of the Seattle poetry scene, she's the one whose blog I wrote for. Check out the link!
Maya Hersh and Ela Barton; an iconic picture of Seattle Slam's cutest couple. Maya made the team!
Jack McCarthy, grandfather in the scene; has propensity for doing poems about sex in ways that are funny, insightful, tender and only appropriate because he's old and can get away with such lecherous comments. Deliberately lost the Grand Slam because he didn't want to be on the team; he just wanted the chance to toast an old poet friend from the stage.
(all pictures by Slam Photographer Andi Burk)
Karen Finneyfrock - a keystone of the Seattle poetry scene, she's the one whose blog I wrote for. Check out the link!
Maya Hersh and Ela Barton; an iconic picture of Seattle Slam's cutest couple. Maya made the team!
Jack McCarthy, grandfather in the scene; has propensity for doing poems about sex in ways that are funny, insightful, tender and only appropriate because he's old and can get away with such lecherous comments. Deliberately lost the Grand Slam because he didn't want to be on the team; he just wanted the chance to toast an old poet friend from the stage.
4/27/2009
Seattle 14, or Placeholder
Things I will write about very, very soon:
- the Seattle Grand Slam
- my first week at work (with all appropriate confidentiality boundaries in place)
- moving
- thoughts on "Jewess"
They may not all be in the same essay, but I wanted to park them all here so I wouldn't forget.
- the Seattle Grand Slam
- my first week at work (with all appropriate confidentiality boundaries in place)
- moving
- thoughts on "Jewess"
They may not all be in the same essay, but I wanted to park them all here so I wouldn't forget.
4/21/2009
Seattle 13, or Warmth
I was supposed to get trained to do my job yesterday, but only two of us bothered to show up for the training, so they paid us for two hours and sent us home. I was mad, but not too mad - the sun was out, and it was close to 70 degrees, and the city seemed to be sprouting color from every available crevice. I came home to find Jason curled up on the back porch with a glass of tea (he always has tea - he's got entire cabinets devoted to bags of loose tea. pineapple green tea. hibiscus lemon. chamomile.)
I joined him with my lunch: yesterday's leftover stewed black beans and greens, served with a fried egg, wrapped in a tortilla. We didn't say too much at first; we were busy basking like lizards. This happens in Seattle - when the sun appears, people get out, as though they've got solar panels in their shoulderblades that need recharging.
I spent the whole afternoon on the porch, emailing work to fix my schedule (it's fixed - I've got more work now, and I have the dates for retraining) and on the phone with friends, family and the insurance company. (For the record, I'm not going to be pursuing physical therapy here - it's just too expensive. I'm good with what Deb gave me before I left, and Jason's keeping an eye on my knee, working on it when I ask him to.) By the time I left for writing class, I even felt a little - dare I say it? - golden.
Writing class was hard this week - hard edits, hard prompts. I'm hitting a bout of writers' block for the first time since arriving here. Luckily, writers' block here means I'm still held accountable to writing something, which is far healthier than my usual writers' block diet of kvetching and junk food. I did some grocery shopping after class, came home on the late bus.
As I walked up the driveway, I smelled smoke. When I opened the high fence door into our patio/backyard (there's no grass; it's all terra cotta bricks), I saw Jason had made a bonfire in our outdoor fire dish. It was roaring, hissing, spitting (he was burning pine), and he'd set up his laptop with a projector, and was projecting a Margaret Cho video on the wall of the garage. (Margaret Cho is an excellent comedian.)
"I've been waiting for you, little one!" he cried when he saw me come in. "What took you so long?"
After I put my groceries away, I came outside and pulled up a chair next to him. We turned off the video and talked for a good two hours, just curled up there by the fire. He's a Vermont boy in his bones, all woodsmoke and maple syrup. After working on the fire, his shirt smelled like smoke and boy and pine, and I breathed deep while hugging him. He smelled like summer nights in Canada, like all the men I've ever known who loved fire.
We sat under the magnolia tree, next to the forsythia, watched petals fall into the fire and onto our heads. I collected forsythia blossoms, made a circle of them in my palm. We burned bags of raspberry tea, breathing deep as they puffed and vanished.
I said I wished I could've taken a picture of this moment and sent it to myself six months ago, as reassurance that I would get somewhere wonderful. "Me too," said Jason. We both said "hmmm" and watched the coals, thinking about other fires and other places, feeling grateful and scared and entirely blessed.
I joined him with my lunch: yesterday's leftover stewed black beans and greens, served with a fried egg, wrapped in a tortilla. We didn't say too much at first; we were busy basking like lizards. This happens in Seattle - when the sun appears, people get out, as though they've got solar panels in their shoulderblades that need recharging.
I spent the whole afternoon on the porch, emailing work to fix my schedule (it's fixed - I've got more work now, and I have the dates for retraining) and on the phone with friends, family and the insurance company. (For the record, I'm not going to be pursuing physical therapy here - it's just too expensive. I'm good with what Deb gave me before I left, and Jason's keeping an eye on my knee, working on it when I ask him to.) By the time I left for writing class, I even felt a little - dare I say it? - golden.
Writing class was hard this week - hard edits, hard prompts. I'm hitting a bout of writers' block for the first time since arriving here. Luckily, writers' block here means I'm still held accountable to writing something, which is far healthier than my usual writers' block diet of kvetching and junk food. I did some grocery shopping after class, came home on the late bus.
As I walked up the driveway, I smelled smoke. When I opened the high fence door into our patio/backyard (there's no grass; it's all terra cotta bricks), I saw Jason had made a bonfire in our outdoor fire dish. It was roaring, hissing, spitting (he was burning pine), and he'd set up his laptop with a projector, and was projecting a Margaret Cho video on the wall of the garage. (Margaret Cho is an excellent comedian.)
"I've been waiting for you, little one!" he cried when he saw me come in. "What took you so long?"
After I put my groceries away, I came outside and pulled up a chair next to him. We turned off the video and talked for a good two hours, just curled up there by the fire. He's a Vermont boy in his bones, all woodsmoke and maple syrup. After working on the fire, his shirt smelled like smoke and boy and pine, and I breathed deep while hugging him. He smelled like summer nights in Canada, like all the men I've ever known who loved fire.
We sat under the magnolia tree, next to the forsythia, watched petals fall into the fire and onto our heads. I collected forsythia blossoms, made a circle of them in my palm. We burned bags of raspberry tea, breathing deep as they puffed and vanished.
I said I wished I could've taken a picture of this moment and sent it to myself six months ago, as reassurance that I would get somewhere wonderful. "Me too," said Jason. We both said "hmmm" and watched the coals, thinking about other fires and other places, feeling grateful and scared and entirely blessed.
4/19/2009
Seattle 12, or Sunday at the Kibbutz: a True Story
"Bagels"
They are impressed with my kneading stamina
at the dining room table.
It is important to use barley malt syrup
instead of sugar or honey,
and high gluten flour. I pocket these secrets
like keys to the house I grew up in,
though I know I am as likely to make my own bagels
as I am to walk through that door again.
Adam holds a piece in two hands and pulls,
the dough hardly stretches,
but doesn't break, either.
This means it's ready.
The kitchen is a warm like a schoolhouse in April:
yeast, steam, sesame seeds, sliced cucumbers.
Everyone takes a turn at the stove
to watch the baby bagels float
in boiling water.
Then, we decorate them with crowns
of sesame, flax, poppy, garlic.
We eat every single one,
passing the schmear and the lox,
the slices of avocado,
the bowls of strawberries,
melon, pineapple.
As we clean up, I sing.
No one really joins,
but no one complains, either.
They are impressed with my kneading stamina
at the dining room table.
It is important to use barley malt syrup
instead of sugar or honey,
and high gluten flour. I pocket these secrets
like keys to the house I grew up in,
though I know I am as likely to make my own bagels
as I am to walk through that door again.
Adam holds a piece in two hands and pulls,
the dough hardly stretches,
but doesn't break, either.
This means it's ready.
The kitchen is a warm like a schoolhouse in April:
yeast, steam, sesame seeds, sliced cucumbers.
Everyone takes a turn at the stove
to watch the baby bagels float
in boiling water.
Then, we decorate them with crowns
of sesame, flax, poppy, garlic.
We eat every single one,
passing the schmear and the lox,
the slices of avocado,
the bowls of strawberries,
melon, pineapple.
As we clean up, I sing.
No one really joins,
but no one complains, either.
4/16/2009
Seattle 11, or An Essay Draft about Jews
I knew coming here just in time for Passover was a bit of a mistake. Though I've found Jewish community, and there are plenty of synagogues, let us be honest: Seattle is not New York. Your average non-Jew Seattleite has no idea there's a Jewish holiday going on, not only because they don't know many Jews, but because the stores are putting matzah in the aisle with the crackers, and gefilte fish next to egg noodles, and nobody seems to have heard of horseradish in a jar. Creamed horseradish, next to the ketchup? Yes. Raw horseradish, in the produce section? Yes. Bottles of Goldman's red and white horseradish in the kosher aisle? What kosher aisle? You mean the place with the Maneschewitz grape juice next to the egg noodles?
I've been answering a lot of questions about Passover this week - my roommate wanted to know if Passover food traditions have to do with cleansing the body, someone asked if matzah is "that stuff made with lamb's blood", and, perhaps more understandably, another Jew asked, "So why do beans and rice count as bread?" (The answers: No. No. It's complicated. And has to do with rabbis and geography.)
But there's been one other question that's come up twice, from two different people who do not know each other, who both are Black and were raised Baptist. One is my roomate's boyfriend, the other a student in my writing class.
"Is Jew a bad word? Isn't it correct to call someone Jewish, but not a Jew? Is calling someone a Jew like calling them the n-word?"
I've never had to articulate this before. My use of the word "Jew" has been intuitive for most of my life. I was lucky enough to grow up in a place where I never heard terms like "Jewing people down" or "kike". And yet, in both literature and history, I encountered the use of the word "Jew" as something derogatory. After talking it out with both these folks, I realized that the distinction is one that's very Jewish-specific, and was able to form some coherent thoughts on it.
Because "Jewish" is both a religion and an ethnicity, it challenges the assumptions we make about language. When referring to someone's religion, it's entirely appropriate to refer to them as "a Christian", "a Muslim," or "a pagan." In this context, it is appropriate - and to me, preferable - to be called "a Jew."
Ethnicity is a little more complicated. After all, many people identify as Jews without ever practicing the religion. If we look at other ethnic groups for precedent, it gets more confusing. We refer to people as "Latino" or "Asian." These are used as adjectives to modify some other identifier - "an Asian man," "a Latino professor." With race, it gets even more defined - would any politically conscious person of my generation ever refer to someone as "a Black?"
And yet, many of us Jews persist in identifying ourselves as "a Jew." What's more, some of us identify with the ethnicities within Judaism, calling ourselves Ashkenazi, Sephardic, or Mizrachi. I have used (and have heard) Jews resist using these words as adjectives, calling themselves "an Ashki", "a Sephardi", "a Mizrachi," though use of the adjective form is more common, as in "I'm a Mizrachi Jew." Does this mean other people shouldn't? Is there a parallel between Black-on-Black use of the word "nigger" and Jew-on-Jew use of the word Jew? I'm pretty sure there isn't. "Jew" isn't a derivative of another word, designed and meant to be used disparagingly.
I think, for some of us, it comes down to the question of central identity: what you're willing to use as a modifier, and what you want to hold firm. In Hebrew school, they once asked us:
"Do you identify as a Jewish American, or an American Jew?"
Many of us didn't get the difference; as assimilated kids, our identities were never challenged. Most of us didn't feel like our Jewishness excluded us from American culture. Most of us didn't know what it meant to choose assimilation over culture. It has already been chosen for us. Those of us who did get the distinction had very clear and specific preferences.
"I'm a Jewish American, because I love my country more than I love Israel."
"I'm an American Jew because my grandma says no matter where they kick us out from, we'll always be Jews."
"I'm an American Jew because I pray in the morning before I say the Pledge of Allegiance."
"I'm a Jewish American because I never pray."
I never forgot that lesson. My answer is not among those above. I had no answer at the time. Today, I'd say I'm an American Jew because when I'm in a foreign place, I look for communities of Jews before I look for communities of Americans. The rituals of Judaism create a home for me, even among strangers.
But of course, that's not the case for everyone. There are those Jewish Americans (or Jewish women, Jewish doctors, Jewish Canadians, or Jewish Marxists) who choose to centralize some other aspect of their identity. To call them "a Jew" would not be incorrect or cruel, and certainly not the equivalent of calling them a racial slur. But it might make them uncomfortable, especially if s/he isn't used to identifying solely as a Jew. In short: if you're unfamiliar with someone's identity, say they're Jewish. But don't be afraid that the PC police will come running after you for saying "Jew."
Unless, of course, you accompany it with a word like "dirty." There's no confusion about that.
I've been answering a lot of questions about Passover this week - my roommate wanted to know if Passover food traditions have to do with cleansing the body, someone asked if matzah is "that stuff made with lamb's blood", and, perhaps more understandably, another Jew asked, "So why do beans and rice count as bread?" (The answers: No. No. It's complicated. And has to do with rabbis and geography.)
But there's been one other question that's come up twice, from two different people who do not know each other, who both are Black and were raised Baptist. One is my roomate's boyfriend, the other a student in my writing class.
"Is Jew a bad word? Isn't it correct to call someone Jewish, but not a Jew? Is calling someone a Jew like calling them the n-word?"
I've never had to articulate this before. My use of the word "Jew" has been intuitive for most of my life. I was lucky enough to grow up in a place where I never heard terms like "Jewing people down" or "kike". And yet, in both literature and history, I encountered the use of the word "Jew" as something derogatory. After talking it out with both these folks, I realized that the distinction is one that's very Jewish-specific, and was able to form some coherent thoughts on it.
Because "Jewish" is both a religion and an ethnicity, it challenges the assumptions we make about language. When referring to someone's religion, it's entirely appropriate to refer to them as "a Christian", "a Muslim," or "a pagan." In this context, it is appropriate - and to me, preferable - to be called "a Jew."
Ethnicity is a little more complicated. After all, many people identify as Jews without ever practicing the religion. If we look at other ethnic groups for precedent, it gets more confusing. We refer to people as "Latino" or "Asian." These are used as adjectives to modify some other identifier - "an Asian man," "a Latino professor." With race, it gets even more defined - would any politically conscious person of my generation ever refer to someone as "a Black?"
And yet, many of us Jews persist in identifying ourselves as "a Jew." What's more, some of us identify with the ethnicities within Judaism, calling ourselves Ashkenazi, Sephardic, or Mizrachi. I have used (and have heard) Jews resist using these words as adjectives, calling themselves "an Ashki", "a Sephardi", "a Mizrachi," though use of the adjective form is more common, as in "I'm a Mizrachi Jew." Does this mean other people shouldn't? Is there a parallel between Black-on-Black use of the word "nigger" and Jew-on-Jew use of the word Jew? I'm pretty sure there isn't. "Jew" isn't a derivative of another word, designed and meant to be used disparagingly.
I think, for some of us, it comes down to the question of central identity: what you're willing to use as a modifier, and what you want to hold firm. In Hebrew school, they once asked us:
"Do you identify as a Jewish American, or an American Jew?"
Many of us didn't get the difference; as assimilated kids, our identities were never challenged. Most of us didn't feel like our Jewishness excluded us from American culture. Most of us didn't know what it meant to choose assimilation over culture. It has already been chosen for us. Those of us who did get the distinction had very clear and specific preferences.
"I'm a Jewish American, because I love my country more than I love Israel."
"I'm an American Jew because my grandma says no matter where they kick us out from, we'll always be Jews."
"I'm an American Jew because I pray in the morning before I say the Pledge of Allegiance."
"I'm a Jewish American because I never pray."
I never forgot that lesson. My answer is not among those above. I had no answer at the time. Today, I'd say I'm an American Jew because when I'm in a foreign place, I look for communities of Jews before I look for communities of Americans. The rituals of Judaism create a home for me, even among strangers.
But of course, that's not the case for everyone. There are those Jewish Americans (or Jewish women, Jewish doctors, Jewish Canadians, or Jewish Marxists) who choose to centralize some other aspect of their identity. To call them "a Jew" would not be incorrect or cruel, and certainly not the equivalent of calling them a racial slur. But it might make them uncomfortable, especially if s/he isn't used to identifying solely as a Jew. In short: if you're unfamiliar with someone's identity, say they're Jewish. But don't be afraid that the PC police will come running after you for saying "Jew."
Unless, of course, you accompany it with a word like "dirty." There's no confusion about that.
4/14/2009
Seattle 10, In Which Dane Joins The Ranks Of the Gainfully Employed
Okay, so it's nothing to really jump up and down and scream about. It has no health benefits, pays above minimum wage, and consists of many night shifts. But it's a JOB. An honest-to-G-d job, doing something that is not irrelevant or time-wasting or wildly off track, but a job that might actually give me tools to do what I want to do one day.
More later.
More later.
Seattle 9, or Delights
When I was homesick in Prague, I thought about Sesame Street. Here, I'm not exactly homesick, but I'm definitely getting some delight from this little piece of public performance art:
4/12/2009
Seattle 8, or New Acquisitions
I almost didn't make it to the house I was visiting today. The buses were running late (as usual), the rain was cold and getting through my sweatshirt, and I wasn't crazy about the place anyway. But, my mind reasoned, what else did I have to do?
The house is not perfect, or even close. The room is nice enough, with good windows, hardwood floors, and a deep closet. But the kitchen is depressing, even if it is a nice size and has a gas stove. The ceiling is low, the lighting fluorescent, the floor dingy, and the house is entirely undecorated. It has, one might say, a lot of potential.
It also has a lot of stuff left by the previous tenants. The woman showing me the place (she lives there) has been working with the landlord to get rid of the extra couches and the closet full of stuff that seemingly belongs to no one.
Among these things was a dark green men's Schwinn mountain bike, 21 grip-shift gears, big juicy tires and only a tiny bit big for me. My dream bike. Not perfect for Seattle's massive hills - one really needs road tires - and in need of some decent chain lube, some air, fenders, and maybe a little rear brake adjustments but good enough. She asked if I wanted to take it right now.
I had to tell her I wasn't sure about the house, but she let me take the bike anyway. It's sitting outside in the drizzle right now, and once Easter is over, I'll take it down the street to the bike shop and ask them if they can help me tune her up. I hope she looks something like this when I'm finished:
Serendipity shows up in the weirdest of places.
The house is not perfect, or even close. The room is nice enough, with good windows, hardwood floors, and a deep closet. But the kitchen is depressing, even if it is a nice size and has a gas stove. The ceiling is low, the lighting fluorescent, the floor dingy, and the house is entirely undecorated. It has, one might say, a lot of potential.
It also has a lot of stuff left by the previous tenants. The woman showing me the place (she lives there) has been working with the landlord to get rid of the extra couches and the closet full of stuff that seemingly belongs to no one.
Among these things was a dark green men's Schwinn mountain bike, 21 grip-shift gears, big juicy tires and only a tiny bit big for me. My dream bike. Not perfect for Seattle's massive hills - one really needs road tires - and in need of some decent chain lube, some air, fenders, and maybe a little rear brake adjustments but good enough. She asked if I wanted to take it right now.
I had to tell her I wasn't sure about the house, but she let me take the bike anyway. It's sitting outside in the drizzle right now, and once Easter is over, I'll take it down the street to the bike shop and ask them if they can help me tune her up. I hope she looks something like this when I'm finished:
Serendipity shows up in the weirdest of places.
4/10/2009
Seattle 7, or Why You All Wish You Had *My* Roomate
Exchanged:
One lunch of roasted leeks, matzah with almond butter, and tomato-avocado-lime salad
for
A 20 minute massage that undid about three years worth of damage to my upper trapezius muscles (I had an ugly shoulder spasm this morning)
One lunch of roasted leeks, matzah with almond butter, and tomato-avocado-lime salad
for
A 20 minute massage that undid about three years worth of damage to my upper trapezius muscles (I had an ugly shoulder spasm this morning)
Seattle 6, or Pesach
Wow. That was the longest and latest seder I have *ever* been to. We were still singing at nearly 2 o'clock in the morning! (Then again, we also started around 9.) I missed my last bus and spent the night at the Ravenna Kibbutz! We used seven different haggadot simultaneously! We sang the entire Chad Gadya, complete with animal noises! There were matzah balls! And fresh horseradish that nearly gave me a heart attack! We dipped! We leaned! We drank! It was a wonderful seder.
Here's the best new thing I learned: the word chag does not actually mean "holiday." It means "pilgrimage," and refers to the times in which the Israelites who lived outside Jerusalem would journey in for major festivals.
This word, chag, shares an important root with an Arabic word: haj. According to the Jewish Reconstructionist Federation, "Just as Haj to Mecca is a requirement for the Moslem (if one can afford it) so is the Chag to Jerusalem if one is a Jew." (citation)
During benching, I sang "Harachaman hu ya sim shalom ben b'nai Sarah u'vayn ben b'nai Hagar" - May the Merciful One make peace between the children of Sarah and the children of Hagar.
Abrahim, the one mizrachi at the table (or maybe he was Muslim. I couldn't figure it out the whole night), smiled at me for that one and added an "Amen."
It feels like Pesach for real now.
Here's the best new thing I learned: the word chag does not actually mean "holiday." It means "pilgrimage," and refers to the times in which the Israelites who lived outside Jerusalem would journey in for major festivals.
This word, chag, shares an important root with an Arabic word: haj. According to the Jewish Reconstructionist Federation, "Just as Haj to Mecca is a requirement for the Moslem (if one can afford it) so is the Chag to Jerusalem if one is a Jew." (citation)
During benching, I sang "Harachaman hu ya sim shalom ben b'nai Sarah u'vayn ben b'nai Hagar" - May the Merciful One make peace between the children of Sarah and the children of Hagar.
Abrahim, the one mizrachi at the table (or maybe he was Muslim. I couldn't figure it out the whole night), smiled at me for that one and added an "Amen."
It feels like Pesach for real now.
4/09/2009
Seattle 5, or Next Year In...?
Davey wrote an excellent entry over at "Sometimes Davey Wins" about his favorite part of the Passover story. It got me thinking. For the last four years, I've spent a significant amount of time working on a Haggadah in the weeks leading up to Pesach - sometimes mine, sometimes a different one. It always makes me feel really grounded and connected with the holiday. I usually focus my edits on one or two sections each year, trying to find new meaning in a ritual, or in a retelling.
This year, what with the moving and packing and all, I haven't had much time to sit down and really focus on the Haggadah. Most of the edits I made this year were about improving the flow of the seder, adding an explanation here or there, and updating certain sections so they would appeal to a group of 20somethings instead of 4 year olds. Not wholly engaging.
I didn't even go to a seder last night. Instead, I chose to go to the poetry slam. That's why I'm here, isn't it? And I'm going to one tonight, so I don't feel bad. I just feel disconnected. Tonight's seder promises lots of good singing. I hope it brings me back to the holiday. It's one of my favorites.
Sidenote:
I had an adventure trying to find matzah today. Trader Joe's was all out, the not-fancy supermarket only had whole wheat and onion flavor left, but the co-op had a few boxes still sitting next to the matzah ball mix when I got there. It was in the cracker aisle. Oh, Jewish neighborhood grocery stores, how I miss your Kosher Aisles, your Jewish Holiday sections...but at least now I'm very well stocked with all of the aforementioned list items (except almond milk - but I bought almonds to make my own milk with in the super-powerful blender!)
Back to random Pesach musings:
If you asked me today what my favorite part of the Pesach story is, I'd say the story of the Gentile midwives, Shifra and Puah. In the traditional seder, they're given about two lines of text and three seconds of thought, but I wrote a longer version of their story for my own Haggadah two, maybe three years ago. These women put themselves at immense personal risk to continue delivering Jewish babies and finding ways to hide baby boys. The recognition of their righteous actions not only echoes through Jewish history, but reminds me of the risks and sacrifices people have made for me. It's humbling.
And at the same time, it pushes me to not only support my communities (Jewish, family, poet, friends) in all the ways that I can, but to support others who are struggling under unfair and oppressive rules/laws/customs/situations/governments. I had a job interview yesterday at a residential treatment center for younger (6-12) kids who've been abused and neglected. In all honesty, the job description is scary. It's messy, and sometimes violent, and is full of things I'd rather not deal with. And yet, I'm feeling called to it. Partially to learn, and partially because it's righteous work. And, in doing it, maybe I will learn not to be afraid. Or maybe I will start to understand what it means to keep going in spite of fear.
This year, what with the moving and packing and all, I haven't had much time to sit down and really focus on the Haggadah. Most of the edits I made this year were about improving the flow of the seder, adding an explanation here or there, and updating certain sections so they would appeal to a group of 20somethings instead of 4 year olds. Not wholly engaging.
I didn't even go to a seder last night. Instead, I chose to go to the poetry slam. That's why I'm here, isn't it? And I'm going to one tonight, so I don't feel bad. I just feel disconnected. Tonight's seder promises lots of good singing. I hope it brings me back to the holiday. It's one of my favorites.
Sidenote:
I had an adventure trying to find matzah today. Trader Joe's was all out, the not-fancy supermarket only had whole wheat and onion flavor left, but the co-op had a few boxes still sitting next to the matzah ball mix when I got there. It was in the cracker aisle. Oh, Jewish neighborhood grocery stores, how I miss your Kosher Aisles, your Jewish Holiday sections...but at least now I'm very well stocked with all of the aforementioned list items (except almond milk - but I bought almonds to make my own milk with in the super-powerful blender!)
Back to random Pesach musings:
If you asked me today what my favorite part of the Pesach story is, I'd say the story of the Gentile midwives, Shifra and Puah. In the traditional seder, they're given about two lines of text and three seconds of thought, but I wrote a longer version of their story for my own Haggadah two, maybe three years ago. These women put themselves at immense personal risk to continue delivering Jewish babies and finding ways to hide baby boys. The recognition of their righteous actions not only echoes through Jewish history, but reminds me of the risks and sacrifices people have made for me. It's humbling.
And at the same time, it pushes me to not only support my communities (Jewish, family, poet, friends) in all the ways that I can, but to support others who are struggling under unfair and oppressive rules/laws/customs/situations/governments. I had a job interview yesterday at a residential treatment center for younger (6-12) kids who've been abused and neglected. In all honesty, the job description is scary. It's messy, and sometimes violent, and is full of things I'd rather not deal with. And yet, I'm feeling called to it. Partially to learn, and partially because it's righteous work. And, in doing it, maybe I will learn not to be afraid. Or maybe I will start to understand what it means to keep going in spite of fear.
4/07/2009
Seattle 4, or A Pesach Shopping List (not including Seder)
Almond milk
Chocolate Almond milk
orange juice
Quinoa
vegetables and fruit
eggs
cheese (The white cheddar is wicked expensive here. Maya says to get used to orange.)
yogurt
matzah
Actually, food is more expensive here in general. Washington taxes the hell out of everything it can get its grubby paws on, but there's no income tax. Joel, from the Ravenna Kibbutz, writes letters to the state government, begging for an income tax (and tax relief on things like food and clothing) so that poor people don't have to make up for the state's deficit as much.
In other news, I have an interview tomorrow at a residential space for battered and neglected children. I'd be working nights, staying awake in case anything went wrong. I don't mind the idea of this. I'm good at nightmares.
Chocolate Almond milk
orange juice
Quinoa
vegetables and fruit
eggs
cheese (The white cheddar is wicked expensive here. Maya says to get used to orange.)
yogurt
matzah
Actually, food is more expensive here in general. Washington taxes the hell out of everything it can get its grubby paws on, but there's no income tax. Joel, from the Ravenna Kibbutz, writes letters to the state government, begging for an income tax (and tax relief on things like food and clothing) so that poor people don't have to make up for the state's deficit as much.
In other news, I have an interview tomorrow at a residential space for battered and neglected children. I'd be working nights, staying awake in case anything went wrong. I don't mind the idea of this. I'm good at nightmares.
4/05/2009
Seattle 3, or Some Public Letters
Dear, Veracruzana, Bueno Y Sano, Rosa Mexicana, and every other "Mexican" restaurant on the East Coast,
You have officially been dumped in favor of the Pacific coast states. Even the most lowbrow burritos here are invariably delicious. They're not completely gigantic (ahem, Bueno), nor are they completely filled with rice (right, that's you, Veracruzana), but have mouth-bursting, throat-burning, yes-that's-fresh-cilantro flavor.
I am in love.
Maybe we can still be friends?
~Dane
**********************************************
Dear Rain,
You're a shy little minx, aren't you? I haven't seen your pretty face since the day I landed. No, it's been sun, sun, and clear skies. I can see Mt. Rainier from Maya and Ela's porch today. It's beautiful. It feels like spring.
Really, no pressure. Come back when you're ready. Stay wherever you are for a little while.
Love,
~Dane
**********************************************
Dear Jason,
I've decided to take you up on your generous offer to let me stay with you guys for a month while we all try to figure out our next housing moves. I will especially enjoy being allowed to use your vast collection of Le Creuset pots and pans, your adorable kitchen, and your beautifully clean and artistic house. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. So sorry it has to kick off right when Passover does - don't blame me for the grumpiness, it's just my digestive system.
Namaste,
~Dane
**********************************************
Dear Faire Gallery and Cafe,
I love your space. Having a second-floor gallery to look down on the open mic performers is kind of genius (especially since there's also enough room on the bottom floor to not make it feel like one is performing from the bottom of a swimming pool.) I enjoyed the warmth and camaraderie of your open mic, especially the rousing cheer I got when I told everyone I'd landed in Seattle a day and a half ago. It was a poet's introduction.
Au Revoir,
~Dane
***********************************************
A poem.
Jake, that sneaky bastard,
found out where I was staying
in Seattle
and sent me a letter
that said mostly nothing.
It came with a CD he'd made;
I knew a lot of the songs.
I shouldn't tell him
how I lifted the thin blue pages
to my nose,
closed my eyes,
and thought hard about
our last hug.
How lucky I am to have a friend
who understands the comfort
of familiar handwriting,
no matter what it says.
You have officially been dumped in favor of the Pacific coast states. Even the most lowbrow burritos here are invariably delicious. They're not completely gigantic (ahem, Bueno), nor are they completely filled with rice (right, that's you, Veracruzana), but have mouth-bursting, throat-burning, yes-that's-fresh-cilantro flavor.
I am in love.
Maybe we can still be friends?
~Dane
**********************************************
Dear Rain,
You're a shy little minx, aren't you? I haven't seen your pretty face since the day I landed. No, it's been sun, sun, and clear skies. I can see Mt. Rainier from Maya and Ela's porch today. It's beautiful. It feels like spring.
Really, no pressure. Come back when you're ready. Stay wherever you are for a little while.
Love,
~Dane
**********************************************
Dear Jason,
I've decided to take you up on your generous offer to let me stay with you guys for a month while we all try to figure out our next housing moves. I will especially enjoy being allowed to use your vast collection of Le Creuset pots and pans, your adorable kitchen, and your beautifully clean and artistic house. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. So sorry it has to kick off right when Passover does - don't blame me for the grumpiness, it's just my digestive system.
Namaste,
~Dane
**********************************************
Dear Faire Gallery and Cafe,
I love your space. Having a second-floor gallery to look down on the open mic performers is kind of genius (especially since there's also enough room on the bottom floor to not make it feel like one is performing from the bottom of a swimming pool.) I enjoyed the warmth and camaraderie of your open mic, especially the rousing cheer I got when I told everyone I'd landed in Seattle a day and a half ago. It was a poet's introduction.
Au Revoir,
~Dane
***********************************************
A poem.
Jake, that sneaky bastard,
found out where I was staying
in Seattle
and sent me a letter
that said mostly nothing.
It came with a CD he'd made;
I knew a lot of the songs.
I shouldn't tell him
how I lifted the thin blue pages
to my nose,
closed my eyes,
and thought hard about
our last hug.
How lucky I am to have a friend
who understands the comfort
of familiar handwriting,
no matter what it says.
4/04/2009
Seattle 2, or CHESED!
I just spent my first Shabbat in Seattle with the Jews of the Ravenna Kibbutz. I've been telling everyone that they're a Moishe House, but this isn't true. The Kibbutz was there long before it adopted Moishe House status, and has a much broader scope of programming and focus than do the Moishe Houses.
Here is the first image I want you to get: after getting off the bus, I have about a fifteen minute walk to find the Kibbutz. The sun is just beginning to go down, and the light is catching every window and tree. It's cool enough to walk briskly, but I'm warm. I'm walking - no, striding - through a neighborhood of wide sidewalks, large, arching trees, houses of many shapes and colors. I see people with dogs, a gray-haired man playing catch with a young boy, the unmistakable thwap of ball hitting glove. There are gardens, already in bloom. About halfway through the walk, I think, "If only some ridiculously triumphant song were to play right about now, this would be the greatest cliche in the world."
And, as though some god were chuckling at my thoughts, Bruce Springsteen's "Born In the USA" comes pounding through my headphones.
Enjoy that. I did.
Dinner and Shabbat were just as golden. Dinner was a thick vegetable soup and lasagna, salad I helped make in their little kitchen. Everyone talked loudly, like Jews, marveled at the fact I'd landed less than 24 hours before finding them, urged more food around the table. We sang three different tunes to Shalom Aleichem, including my favorite Smith Hillel tune. There were jokes, stories, advice, prayers, thanks.
(this paragraph is mostly for the benefit Smith-affiliated people)
I led benching, loud and raucous, from the same old blue B'Kol Echad benchers I learned on at BCHSJS and Smith. They even knew "the man in the moon" song, Sparrow!! I threw in every joke, every additional line, and one guy matched me for each one: "rachamim" became "sour cream", and "asher asher bara" became "I swear I saw your bra", and of course, the controversial "l'olam va'ed/l'olam drop dead". Joel, one of the organizers, went into spasms of laughter when he saw my hand motions for "rohhhheinu" and nobody noticed me shout "CHESED!", but I did.
And then I taught them the version of Lo Yisa Goy I learned in college, and lo and behold, a good fistful of them can sing and harmonize! I, for once in my life, got to sing the Tzur Mishelo part. And then they invited me to a Sing-Along Shabbat, some unscheduled time in the future.
And slowly, the pieces start to come together...(now, if only that little nagging employment/housing thing would fall into place.)
Here is the first image I want you to get: after getting off the bus, I have about a fifteen minute walk to find the Kibbutz. The sun is just beginning to go down, and the light is catching every window and tree. It's cool enough to walk briskly, but I'm warm. I'm walking - no, striding - through a neighborhood of wide sidewalks, large, arching trees, houses of many shapes and colors. I see people with dogs, a gray-haired man playing catch with a young boy, the unmistakable thwap of ball hitting glove. There are gardens, already in bloom. About halfway through the walk, I think, "If only some ridiculously triumphant song were to play right about now, this would be the greatest cliche in the world."
And, as though some god were chuckling at my thoughts, Bruce Springsteen's "Born In the USA" comes pounding through my headphones.
Enjoy that. I did.
Dinner and Shabbat were just as golden. Dinner was a thick vegetable soup and lasagna, salad I helped make in their little kitchen. Everyone talked loudly, like Jews, marveled at the fact I'd landed less than 24 hours before finding them, urged more food around the table. We sang three different tunes to Shalom Aleichem, including my favorite Smith Hillel tune. There were jokes, stories, advice, prayers, thanks.
(this paragraph is mostly for the benefit Smith-affiliated people)
I led benching, loud and raucous, from the same old blue B'Kol Echad benchers I learned on at BCHSJS and Smith. They even knew "the man in the moon" song, Sparrow!! I threw in every joke, every additional line, and one guy matched me for each one: "rachamim" became "sour cream", and "asher asher bara" became "I swear I saw your bra", and of course, the controversial "l'olam va'ed/l'olam drop dead". Joel, one of the organizers, went into spasms of laughter when he saw my hand motions for "rohhhheinu" and nobody noticed me shout "CHESED!", but I did.
And then I taught them the version of Lo Yisa Goy I learned in college, and lo and behold, a good fistful of them can sing and harmonize! I, for once in my life, got to sing the Tzur Mishelo part. And then they invited me to a Sing-Along Shabbat, some unscheduled time in the future.
And slowly, the pieces start to come together...(now, if only that little nagging employment/housing thing would fall into place.)
4/02/2009
Seattle 1, or Arrival Post
I'm here. I'm happy. I'm starting to get excited.
I'll let you all know more as it comes up - I'm going to see an apartment tonight.
Later...
Well, here's the bad news: the landlord of the house I went to see tonight has changed his mind again, and has decided he's actually going to turn the house into a triplex (read: total remodeling), and he's not going to let his current tenants (of three years) renew their lease.
This is particularly bad, because I liked the house and the housemates almost immediately. The guy I've been in contact with is a massage therapist (AND he's familiar with/has taken workshops about Bowen!!). He and I and one of the other housemates sat and talked for an hour, swapping stories and sharing jokes. The house was warm, beautiful, and inviting. They told me that if I want the room for the month of April, for some place to stay while I (and they) look for other housing, they're not going to show it to anyone else. There's a bed in the room, and space for my stuff. When I told them that I was most anxious about receiving/transporting the boxes coming from Jersey, he smiled and said, "Honey, it's okay. The universe did not just drop you on my doorstep for no reason. No matter where you end up living, we'll take care of you."
(Did I mention the part where everyone in that house radiates gayness? And friendliness?)
And then he gave me a ride back to Maya and Ela's, where we're now relaxing while I cook rice and beans.
Feels good.
I'll let you all know more as it comes up - I'm going to see an apartment tonight.
Later...
Well, here's the bad news: the landlord of the house I went to see tonight has changed his mind again, and has decided he's actually going to turn the house into a triplex (read: total remodeling), and he's not going to let his current tenants (of three years) renew their lease.
This is particularly bad, because I liked the house and the housemates almost immediately. The guy I've been in contact with is a massage therapist (AND he's familiar with/has taken workshops about Bowen!!). He and I and one of the other housemates sat and talked for an hour, swapping stories and sharing jokes. The house was warm, beautiful, and inviting. They told me that if I want the room for the month of April, for some place to stay while I (and they) look for other housing, they're not going to show it to anyone else. There's a bed in the room, and space for my stuff. When I told them that I was most anxious about receiving/transporting the boxes coming from Jersey, he smiled and said, "Honey, it's okay. The universe did not just drop you on my doorstep for no reason. No matter where you end up living, we'll take care of you."
(Did I mention the part where everyone in that house radiates gayness? And friendliness?)
And then he gave me a ride back to Maya and Ela's, where we're now relaxing while I cook rice and beans.
Feels good.
New Jersey 40, or So Kiss Me and Smile for Me
I'm so lucky to have the mother I do. Not only have we made really good roommates for the last six months, she plunged headfirst into helping me pack last night. And together, we put my life into nine boxes, one big duffel bag, one small duffel bag and a backpack.
I'll let you all know when I get in.
It's time to get going.
I'll let you all know when I get in.
It's time to get going.
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