In the past couple of months, I've kinda gotten into creative non-fiction. I realize I haven't posted many pieces lately, so I thought I'd give you an example of the creative non-fiction I write. Hopefully it will also tell you something about my life. This, by the way, is the piece I used for my college essay--hey! Come back! It's interesting, I promise! Please?
The Art of Reading
“‘Nothing ahead of them now but night. Night, and great, dark North America.’” I close The Hummingbird’s Daughter and pause, letting the ending sink in for my mother. I know she will say, “Is that it?” Or, “Is that the end?” And I nod. There’s no need to say anymore.
I always ask, “So what do you think of the book?” I already know most of her thoughts. But I like talking about the story, exploring the meanings hidden within. And even after three or four years of reading to my mother, my mom still surprises me with her insights into the book.
It started at the end of 8th grade. As I floundered my way through the Holocaust memoir Night, my mother asked me to read the book to her. She wanted to understand what troubled me so badly. Dimly I remember how she asked, so cautious and careful, as if I were an animal that might fright. And I remember how difficult the task was, how I fought to keep the tears from my voice as I read. She never asked about the tears, not until afterwards. I was always grateful for that. Questions would have disrupted the story.
I do not remember why I kept reading. No, that’s a lie—I wanted to share my favorite stories from old anthologies and magazines. I read every day in the car, on the way to and from school. That brief half hour on the road became a special time set aside only for us—no one else in the family seemed particularly interested in reading aloud. Most of the early stories came from Cicada, a magazine for adolescents, and old, battered copies of Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine that my brother had brought home from the school library. Authors ranged from teenage writers like me to Kurt Vonnegut and Ursula K. Le Guin.
Reading aloud, I learned, is an art. The reader does not simply dictate to the listener; she creates worlds with her words. Each character is distinct, special; each speaks with its own voice. Mothers speak in low sopranos, ladies’ voices are high and delicate. Priests, fathers, grown men talk in a low voice—but not too deep, for the lowest voices are for the distinguished elders. The warrior speaks loudly, proud of himself; the wise woman speaks briskly, a sharp edge to her words; the child stumbles through her words, bright with excitement; and the old men and women speak softly, voices cracked and weary.
The characters take on flesh during the reading. They become friends, part of a secret community my mother and I share. We talk of them as if they were real, gossiping as if they were neighbors: “Oh, he would never do that. Oh, that is so typical of her.” Like specters they float into our conversation, an inside joke, a reference: “Remember when…?” These are friends who will never completely leave, even after the book is finished; they always remain, a step away in our imagination.
Monday, December 18, 2006
DAMN YOU AIPAC!!!
Okay, let me say this once and for all:
FUCK THOSE ISRAEL ADVOCACY CLASSES!!! FOR GOD'S SAKE, ENOUGH!!! I GET THE FREAKING MESSAGE!!! YOU'VE SPENT THE PAST EIGHT YEARS INDOCTRINATING ME, FOR HEAVENS' SAKE WILL YOU SHUT UP ALREADY?!?!
See, you have to understand. There are certain required Jewish History courses required for each grade in high school; for seniors, it's "History of Modern Israel" (which, of course, everyone calls Zionism or Jewish History). My teacher, Ms. Goldstein, is actually very good. Overall she's done a fairly evenhanded treatment of the subject--pretty difficult, all things considered. She simply states the facts: This is what Egypt planned in '67, and this is how the Israelis attacked. This is why the PLO left Jordan for Lebanon. This is what Sabaa (sp?) and Shatila was about. This is how the Peace Process went. (We just had a quiz on that today, actually.)
Now, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, the school graduates the seniors early and takes them first to Europe (Prague, Poland) and then to Israel. So my school years ends pretty soon. Subsequently, today Ms. Goldstein mapped out the rest of the year in Jewish History, and she mentioned that we would be getting a visit from AIPAC representatives about Israel advocacy.
Actually, this is fairly predictable. I mean, it is Zionism class. And, well, AIPAC is AIPAC. But let me say this once more: I AM SO SICK OF ISRAEL ADVOCACY BEING THROWN AT ME ALL THE TIME!!
There's this myth floating around in Jewish circles that there's a lot of anti-Israel (read: anti-Semitism) on college campuses. To be fair, this is partially true. But sometimes, the way they talk about it, it sounds like as soon as you go to college MY GOD THERE ARE ISRAEL HATERS EVERYWHERE AND FOR THE SAKE OF THE JEWISH PEOPLE YOU MUST DEFEND THE JEWISH HOMELAND OR ELSE THEY WILL BURN YOU AT STAKE.
Me, I think this comes from good old Jewish paranoia, which (again) is based in reality. You hear all sorts of shit coming out of Europe these days, about people defacing synagogues and attacking people in kipas, etc. Why do you think Israel constantly flips off Europe? A lot of trust kinda flew out of the window with the Holocaust, and even though Jews in the Western world generally feel pretty secure, we tend to overreact to the smallest thing.
And then, sometimes, that "overreaction" is needed. We are not lying down and letting someone bulldoze us again. You wanna impinge on our rights, you're going to have to take us down kicking and screaming.
But this is not the point. The point is, every so often the school or some other Jewish children's organization (example: Panim) gathers a bunch of schoolkids together and lectures them about Israel advocacy. It is the most boring thing in the world. Everyone kinda zones out and doesn't pay attention. I've been to many of these things multiple times (generally against my will) and only once have I seen a speaker who really held my attention. But that was because he was a very good speaker. I can't remember his name...it was Ariel or Ariyeh...member of the Israel Debate Club, something like that. But it was what he SAID that made such a deep impression on me. I still remember the stories he told us.
Beyond that one guy, though, it's been dead boring, and now as a senior about to graduate, I am DEAD SICK of Israel advocacy. ENOUGH ALREADY!!! For heavens' sake, I've been going to Jewish school since 4th grade!!! It's not like I'm completely ignorant of the situation there!!! Besides, a lot of that shit feels like propaganda, and frankly that's the last thing I want right now. I want facts. I want a balanced point of view. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to let the Palestinians off. And if someone starts to blather some anti-Israel (read: anti-Semetic) bullshit that is blatantly wrong, biased, and inaccurate, of course I'm going to speak up. Of course I'll argue Israel's point of view. But this doesn't mean I'm going to let Israelis off either, because they've pulled some serious shit in the West Bank and Gaza. I mean, I could go on and on about the ethics of the situation, but there's a few things I'm certain of:
1) No one is innocent; both sides have done nasty stuff. And, by implication, both sides have lost innocent people to this conflict, often in horrible ways.
2) Both sides deserve their own country. Woot two-state solution.
3) Both sides need to stop shooting things at each other.
4) Both sides smoke like chimneys.
Okay, I threw the last part in for kicks, though you have to admit it's true. Both Israelis and Arabs smoke constantly. Honestly, are Americans the only people in the world who DON'T smoke and regard it as a filthy habit?
But to come back to Israel advocacy: Enough is enough. Just stop. I got the message a long time ago, I don't need your lessons anymore. Leave me alone, for heavens' sake.
Honestly, you have to wonder: do Palestinian advocacy groups visit Muslim schools and lecture them about Palestinian advocay? Ten dollars say they're just as boring. "Blah blah blah Palestine, blah blah blah atrocity, blah blah blah blah blah HEY! PAY ATTENTION, DAMMIT!!"
Maybe somewhere in the blogosphere, there's a Muslim girl ranting on about how there's yet another Palestine adovcacy meeting in school. Hee. That's an entertaining image. Misery does enjoy company. To my Muslim counterpart out there in the blogosphere: How's about you and me skip those damn advocacy meetings and drop by Starbucks, mm'kay?
FUCK THOSE ISRAEL ADVOCACY CLASSES!!! FOR GOD'S SAKE, ENOUGH!!! I GET THE FREAKING MESSAGE!!! YOU'VE SPENT THE PAST EIGHT YEARS INDOCTRINATING ME, FOR HEAVENS' SAKE WILL YOU SHUT UP ALREADY?!?!
See, you have to understand. There are certain required Jewish History courses required for each grade in high school; for seniors, it's "History of Modern Israel" (which, of course, everyone calls Zionism or Jewish History). My teacher, Ms. Goldstein, is actually very good. Overall she's done a fairly evenhanded treatment of the subject--pretty difficult, all things considered. She simply states the facts: This is what Egypt planned in '67, and this is how the Israelis attacked. This is why the PLO left Jordan for Lebanon. This is what Sabaa (sp?) and Shatila was about. This is how the Peace Process went. (We just had a quiz on that today, actually.)
Now, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, the school graduates the seniors early and takes them first to Europe (Prague, Poland) and then to Israel. So my school years ends pretty soon. Subsequently, today Ms. Goldstein mapped out the rest of the year in Jewish History, and she mentioned that we would be getting a visit from AIPAC representatives about Israel advocacy.
Actually, this is fairly predictable. I mean, it is Zionism class. And, well, AIPAC is AIPAC. But let me say this once more: I AM SO SICK OF ISRAEL ADVOCACY BEING THROWN AT ME ALL THE TIME!!
There's this myth floating around in Jewish circles that there's a lot of anti-Israel (read: anti-Semitism) on college campuses. To be fair, this is partially true. But sometimes, the way they talk about it, it sounds like as soon as you go to college MY GOD THERE ARE ISRAEL HATERS EVERYWHERE AND FOR THE SAKE OF THE JEWISH PEOPLE YOU MUST DEFEND THE JEWISH HOMELAND OR ELSE THEY WILL BURN YOU AT STAKE.
Me, I think this comes from good old Jewish paranoia, which (again) is based in reality. You hear all sorts of shit coming out of Europe these days, about people defacing synagogues and attacking people in kipas, etc. Why do you think Israel constantly flips off Europe? A lot of trust kinda flew out of the window with the Holocaust, and even though Jews in the Western world generally feel pretty secure, we tend to overreact to the smallest thing.
And then, sometimes, that "overreaction" is needed. We are not lying down and letting someone bulldoze us again. You wanna impinge on our rights, you're going to have to take us down kicking and screaming.
But this is not the point. The point is, every so often the school or some other Jewish children's organization (example: Panim) gathers a bunch of schoolkids together and lectures them about Israel advocacy. It is the most boring thing in the world. Everyone kinda zones out and doesn't pay attention. I've been to many of these things multiple times (generally against my will) and only once have I seen a speaker who really held my attention. But that was because he was a very good speaker. I can't remember his name...it was Ariel or Ariyeh...member of the Israel Debate Club, something like that. But it was what he SAID that made such a deep impression on me. I still remember the stories he told us.
Beyond that one guy, though, it's been dead boring, and now as a senior about to graduate, I am DEAD SICK of Israel advocacy. ENOUGH ALREADY!!! For heavens' sake, I've been going to Jewish school since 4th grade!!! It's not like I'm completely ignorant of the situation there!!! Besides, a lot of that shit feels like propaganda, and frankly that's the last thing I want right now. I want facts. I want a balanced point of view. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to let the Palestinians off. And if someone starts to blather some anti-Israel (read: anti-Semetic) bullshit that is blatantly wrong, biased, and inaccurate, of course I'm going to speak up. Of course I'll argue Israel's point of view. But this doesn't mean I'm going to let Israelis off either, because they've pulled some serious shit in the West Bank and Gaza. I mean, I could go on and on about the ethics of the situation, but there's a few things I'm certain of:
1) No one is innocent; both sides have done nasty stuff. And, by implication, both sides have lost innocent people to this conflict, often in horrible ways.
2) Both sides deserve their own country. Woot two-state solution.
3) Both sides need to stop shooting things at each other.
4) Both sides smoke like chimneys.
Okay, I threw the last part in for kicks, though you have to admit it's true. Both Israelis and Arabs smoke constantly. Honestly, are Americans the only people in the world who DON'T smoke and regard it as a filthy habit?
But to come back to Israel advocacy: Enough is enough. Just stop. I got the message a long time ago, I don't need your lessons anymore. Leave me alone, for heavens' sake.
Honestly, you have to wonder: do Palestinian advocacy groups visit Muslim schools and lecture them about Palestinian advocay? Ten dollars say they're just as boring. "Blah blah blah Palestine, blah blah blah atrocity, blah blah blah blah blah HEY! PAY ATTENTION, DAMMIT!!"
Maybe somewhere in the blogosphere, there's a Muslim girl ranting on about how there's yet another Palestine adovcacy meeting in school. Hee. That's an entertaining image. Misery does enjoy company. To my Muslim counterpart out there in the blogosphere: How's about you and me skip those damn advocacy meetings and drop by Starbucks, mm'kay?
We Are a Family Only in Name
"We are a family only in name,"
She said,
Pressing the pedal down,
Engine revving, rumbling,
Thrusting forward into the night.
I stared out the window, thinking
Of plate glass, shattered
By a bullet, cracks spiderwebbing
From the hole. The glass
Is whole, and yet
In many pieces. Press it
And the semblance of unity falls away,
Leaving behind the broken shards.
Based on a comment my mother made despairingly about her own family. I'm proud to say that my immediate family is actually pretty close.
She said,
Pressing the pedal down,
Engine revving, rumbling,
Thrusting forward into the night.
I stared out the window, thinking
Of plate glass, shattered
By a bullet, cracks spiderwebbing
From the hole. The glass
Is whole, and yet
In many pieces. Press it
And the semblance of unity falls away,
Leaving behind the broken shards.
Based on a comment my mother made despairingly about her own family. I'm proud to say that my immediate family is actually pretty close.
Beat Up by Hanukkah Harry
What does it say about me that I tend to post only on school computers? A lot of stuff has happened but I never wrote it down. Well, I'll get to the past few days in a moment, but right now I feel like bitching.
See, it was because of mornings like this that I started this blog. No joke: I felt the exact same tension in my knees, the exact "Oh-God-I-Need-To-Get-Out" feeling. You ever feel like that? It's not like you're running away to something, or even FROM something. You're just running away. Stop the world, I wanna get off. That sort of stuff.
But let me give you a little explanation about this title. See, yesterday I dropped by the comic store and picked up a comic called "Emo Boy." The cover depicted Emo Boy getting the shit beat out of him by Santa Claus. Basically, in the midst of all that Christmas cheer, Emo Boy felt, well, emo and depressed because all these people are starving while we're eating ourselves to death on Christmas!! Etc. But then Santa shows up and...beats the crap out of him. For protesting Christmas.
And that's how I feel this morning, albeit about Hanukkah, like I'm being beat over the head by Hanukkah Harry. Today just got off to a bad start. I slept terribly (I'm a chronic insomniac) and woke up at 5:40 or so. So that's maybe 4, 5 hours of sleep. Then Mom gets pissy in the morning because no one did the dishes, and she starts shouting at me while I'm making my lunch. I'm kinda bewildered--I understand why she's pissed, but for heavens' sake, can't I make my lunch in peace?? (Yeah, that sounded self-centered even to me. Deal with it. It's my blog after all, I have the right to be self-centered here.) Then when I'm ready to go, she's still in a bad mood. So she doesn't want to take me. The following scene approximately records what happened:
Lawrie: Okay, I'm ready to go.
(Pause. Mother continues her work in the kitchen)
Lawrie: (worried about the time, seeing as she's been chronically late in the past and may well get a dentention if she's late in the future) Uh...
Mother: (to Father, in tired tone indicating the pissy mood she's in) Can you take her this morning? I really don't feel like it.
Father: (shocked, irritated) I can't do that! I've got a meeting at 9:00!
Mother: I don't see what that has to doing with anything.
Father: I gotta get dressed first!
(Pause of a few more seconds.)
I should insert here that I sincerely felt like saying, "Just give me a couple of dollars and a note explaining that neither of you wanted to take me to school this morning, and I'll walk to the metro." Partly because I was impatient. Partly because I wanted to feel like a self-righteous martyr. Partly because, well, I was pretty upset and anxious with this exchange.
So after a significant silence indicating how angry she is about the injustices imposed upon her and that she's doing this as a favor, Mom finally grabs her coffee cup and walks out the door. Subsequently, I am late because of this little argument. I mean, Mom and I talked about this morning in the car, but I still walked into school feeling like shit. The last thing I wanted to go through was Mr. Blank's nonsense about Hanukkah.
Mr. Blank is one of those really annoying people who think if they act the right way, they can be friends of the students. It's true--I've seen students become close to their teachers. But the way to make friends with your students isn't to consciously try to be friends. That always pisses me off--I don't find it funny like other kids do. I find it condescending and annoying and full of bullshit.
So he starts out minyan by passing around these dreidels for Hanukkah. "I want you to tell us a story about these dreidels," he says. And I go, Oh no. It's the last thing I want. I feel like shit, I feel all tense, I feel my knees going all tight, the last thing I want to do is to drag out some bullshit story about a dreidel. Honestly, where do they get these ideas? My problem with Mr. Blank is that every single thing he does seems to be directed at kindergardeners. I liked it when I was in 7th grade, but now that I'm a senior, I can't stand it. I don't know why. It just rubs me the wrong way. I get impatient and anxious and upset. And when Mrs. McMillan shouted at us that we weren't being mature enough for this activity, I felt like shouting back, "No, the activity isn't mature enough for us."
Not that Drisha Minyan J (or I or H or whatever the designation is, I don't care) is that mature. Quite the opposite. We ARE a bunch of sheltered, childish bastards.
But still. I just felt myself getting more and more tense throughout minyan. I can't explain it. It was just a combination of all this shit I'd been through this morning. In a way, it goes back to the Santa Claus metaphor I mentioned before.
This morning felt like someone was bludgeoning me with Hanukkah. Beating me over the head with it. Because it's in the winter, I think Hanukkah picks up a lot of the shit that Christmas gets, from the nonsense about presents to the stupid, cloying sugary songs that clog your ears. So let me say this once and for all:
FUCK HANUKKAH. AND FUCK CHRISTMAS TOO.
Not the holidays, I suppose. I mean, I light candles. I get the story. But all the bullshit surrounding it, all the hype, I just can't stand it. Especially when it's clear in the Christmas program that they just threw in the bit about Hanukkah to be nice to the Jewish kids. You know what? I don't need your goddam menorahs in the mall. In fact, I think I'd prefer to cut myself off entirely from the cynical consumerist bullshit that fills American culture this time of the year. It cheapens the holiday and turns it into a crude sweet. Where's the spirituality? The respect? I know all of this has been said before, but I'll say it again: FUCK THE WINTER HOLIDAYS. They've been turned into these disgusting exercises in capitalism. And for God's sake, turn off that damn Christmas muzak. If I hear one more "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or any of that shit, I will shoot myself. Play some of those old beautiful Christmas songs, please. Silent Night. You know what I mean.
Edit: At lunchtime they had these "Hanukkah clowns." Do not ask me what these are. Apparently clowns are the way to observe Hanukkah. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like walking into your lunchroom to be confronted by someone in full clown outfit handing out ballon animals and talking to you in this nice Midwestern accent. It is freaking scary. I don't know who is responsible for this, but I hope that they pay for it in their next life. Bad karma, man.
See, it was because of mornings like this that I started this blog. No joke: I felt the exact same tension in my knees, the exact "Oh-God-I-Need-To-Get-Out" feeling. You ever feel like that? It's not like you're running away to something, or even FROM something. You're just running away. Stop the world, I wanna get off. That sort of stuff.
But let me give you a little explanation about this title. See, yesterday I dropped by the comic store and picked up a comic called "Emo Boy." The cover depicted Emo Boy getting the shit beat out of him by Santa Claus. Basically, in the midst of all that Christmas cheer, Emo Boy felt, well, emo and depressed because all these people are starving while we're eating ourselves to death on Christmas!! Etc. But then Santa shows up and...beats the crap out of him. For protesting Christmas.
And that's how I feel this morning, albeit about Hanukkah, like I'm being beat over the head by Hanukkah Harry. Today just got off to a bad start. I slept terribly (I'm a chronic insomniac) and woke up at 5:40 or so. So that's maybe 4, 5 hours of sleep. Then Mom gets pissy in the morning because no one did the dishes, and she starts shouting at me while I'm making my lunch. I'm kinda bewildered--I understand why she's pissed, but for heavens' sake, can't I make my lunch in peace?? (Yeah, that sounded self-centered even to me. Deal with it. It's my blog after all, I have the right to be self-centered here.) Then when I'm ready to go, she's still in a bad mood. So she doesn't want to take me. The following scene approximately records what happened:
Lawrie: Okay, I'm ready to go.
(Pause. Mother continues her work in the kitchen)
Lawrie: (worried about the time, seeing as she's been chronically late in the past and may well get a dentention if she's late in the future) Uh...
Mother: (to Father, in tired tone indicating the pissy mood she's in) Can you take her this morning? I really don't feel like it.
Father: (shocked, irritated) I can't do that! I've got a meeting at 9:00!
Mother: I don't see what that has to doing with anything.
Father: I gotta get dressed first!
(Pause of a few more seconds.)
I should insert here that I sincerely felt like saying, "Just give me a couple of dollars and a note explaining that neither of you wanted to take me to school this morning, and I'll walk to the metro." Partly because I was impatient. Partly because I wanted to feel like a self-righteous martyr. Partly because, well, I was pretty upset and anxious with this exchange.
So after a significant silence indicating how angry she is about the injustices imposed upon her and that she's doing this as a favor, Mom finally grabs her coffee cup and walks out the door. Subsequently, I am late because of this little argument. I mean, Mom and I talked about this morning in the car, but I still walked into school feeling like shit. The last thing I wanted to go through was Mr. Blank's nonsense about Hanukkah.
Mr. Blank is one of those really annoying people who think if they act the right way, they can be friends of the students. It's true--I've seen students become close to their teachers. But the way to make friends with your students isn't to consciously try to be friends. That always pisses me off--I don't find it funny like other kids do. I find it condescending and annoying and full of bullshit.
So he starts out minyan by passing around these dreidels for Hanukkah. "I want you to tell us a story about these dreidels," he says. And I go, Oh no. It's the last thing I want. I feel like shit, I feel all tense, I feel my knees going all tight, the last thing I want to do is to drag out some bullshit story about a dreidel. Honestly, where do they get these ideas? My problem with Mr. Blank is that every single thing he does seems to be directed at kindergardeners. I liked it when I was in 7th grade, but now that I'm a senior, I can't stand it. I don't know why. It just rubs me the wrong way. I get impatient and anxious and upset. And when Mrs. McMillan shouted at us that we weren't being mature enough for this activity, I felt like shouting back, "No, the activity isn't mature enough for us."
Not that Drisha Minyan J (or I or H or whatever the designation is, I don't care) is that mature. Quite the opposite. We ARE a bunch of sheltered, childish bastards.
But still. I just felt myself getting more and more tense throughout minyan. I can't explain it. It was just a combination of all this shit I'd been through this morning. In a way, it goes back to the Santa Claus metaphor I mentioned before.
This morning felt like someone was bludgeoning me with Hanukkah. Beating me over the head with it. Because it's in the winter, I think Hanukkah picks up a lot of the shit that Christmas gets, from the nonsense about presents to the stupid, cloying sugary songs that clog your ears. So let me say this once and for all:
FUCK HANUKKAH. AND FUCK CHRISTMAS TOO.
Not the holidays, I suppose. I mean, I light candles. I get the story. But all the bullshit surrounding it, all the hype, I just can't stand it. Especially when it's clear in the Christmas program that they just threw in the bit about Hanukkah to be nice to the Jewish kids. You know what? I don't need your goddam menorahs in the mall. In fact, I think I'd prefer to cut myself off entirely from the cynical consumerist bullshit that fills American culture this time of the year. It cheapens the holiday and turns it into a crude sweet. Where's the spirituality? The respect? I know all of this has been said before, but I'll say it again: FUCK THE WINTER HOLIDAYS. They've been turned into these disgusting exercises in capitalism. And for God's sake, turn off that damn Christmas muzak. If I hear one more "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or any of that shit, I will shoot myself. Play some of those old beautiful Christmas songs, please. Silent Night. You know what I mean.
Edit: At lunchtime they had these "Hanukkah clowns." Do not ask me what these are. Apparently clowns are the way to observe Hanukkah. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like walking into your lunchroom to be confronted by someone in full clown outfit handing out ballon animals and talking to you in this nice Midwestern accent. It is freaking scary. I don't know who is responsible for this, but I hope that they pay for it in their next life. Bad karma, man.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
WOOT!!
OHHHHHHH YEAAAAAAHHHH!!!
It's finally come--the big day. 18 years ago, a few minutes after 12, my mom gave birth to yours truly. Man, I'm pumped. I'm finally an adult! I'm finally an adult!! From now on, in the eyes of the goverment I'm responsible for myself. No more parents' signatures for permission!
I realize that, for now, there's not going to be such a huge impact in my life. I will continue living with my parents; when I go to college, they will be the ones to pay. I still do not drive. And I still have the same independence they usually give me. Many of the rights I now have--for example, the right to buy porn or a weapon--I will not exercise. And I still cannot drink legally (not that I like alchohol anyway). But I will be able to vote. I will be able to do things without my parents permission. Simply knowing that I am now legally an adult is enough for me.
And yet, this coming-of-age still isn't complete. Like I said, I can vote, but even this vote does not count for much. Why? Because I live in DC, America's last colony. And we do not have a voting representative in Congress. We only have a delegate who can proprose legislation. Eleanor Norton Holmes, bless her, does a wonderful job--but she is unable to fully represent the people of Washington DC, thanks to the laws of this country. How ironic that the capital of a country that prides itself on its legacy of freedom does not even have that most basic right--self-representation.
Moreover, DC's status in the country allows other congressmen who have nothing to do with DC use this city for their own agenda. For example, a few years ago, a few Congressmen tried to loosen gun-control laws in DC to satisfy the gun lobby. Did they live in DC? No. Did they care at all about DC? No. They only wanted to curry favor from the powerful lobbyists on Capitol Hill. As for the Washingtonians, they didn't want any of such nonsense. We were satsified with the way things were. Ironically, this took place during the same year when there were a record number of juvenile murders--19 of which were committed with a gun. Fortunately, the legislation did not get passed, but DC remains at the mercy of Congress.
So, dear readers, do this favor for a girl on her birthday--write to your Congressman and ask them what THEY are doing about DC rights. This isn't a matter of Republican or Democrat--this is matter of the basic rights of citizenship. This is about fulfilling the promises made to ALL Americans with the creation of this country. It is past time we get our proper representation in Congress.
NO TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!!
It's finally come--the big day. 18 years ago, a few minutes after 12, my mom gave birth to yours truly. Man, I'm pumped. I'm finally an adult! I'm finally an adult!! From now on, in the eyes of the goverment I'm responsible for myself. No more parents' signatures for permission!
I realize that, for now, there's not going to be such a huge impact in my life. I will continue living with my parents; when I go to college, they will be the ones to pay. I still do not drive. And I still have the same independence they usually give me. Many of the rights I now have--for example, the right to buy porn or a weapon--I will not exercise. And I still cannot drink legally (not that I like alchohol anyway). But I will be able to vote. I will be able to do things without my parents permission. Simply knowing that I am now legally an adult is enough for me.
And yet, this coming-of-age still isn't complete. Like I said, I can vote, but even this vote does not count for much. Why? Because I live in DC, America's last colony. And we do not have a voting representative in Congress. We only have a delegate who can proprose legislation. Eleanor Norton Holmes, bless her, does a wonderful job--but she is unable to fully represent the people of Washington DC, thanks to the laws of this country. How ironic that the capital of a country that prides itself on its legacy of freedom does not even have that most basic right--self-representation.
Moreover, DC's status in the country allows other congressmen who have nothing to do with DC use this city for their own agenda. For example, a few years ago, a few Congressmen tried to loosen gun-control laws in DC to satisfy the gun lobby. Did they live in DC? No. Did they care at all about DC? No. They only wanted to curry favor from the powerful lobbyists on Capitol Hill. As for the Washingtonians, they didn't want any of such nonsense. We were satsified with the way things were. Ironically, this took place during the same year when there were a record number of juvenile murders--19 of which were committed with a gun. Fortunately, the legislation did not get passed, but DC remains at the mercy of Congress.
So, dear readers, do this favor for a girl on her birthday--write to your Congressman and ask them what THEY are doing about DC rights. This isn't a matter of Republican or Democrat--this is matter of the basic rights of citizenship. This is about fulfilling the promises made to ALL Americans with the creation of this country. It is past time we get our proper representation in Congress.
NO TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!!
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Silly story
A funny thing from today--
Before I tell this story, I should explain to you about the senior trip. After many years slaving away under a double-curriculum of super-hard courses, my Jewish school awards the seniors by taking them abroad, first to Europe (Poland and Prague) and then to Israel. We graduate at the end of the first semester, and then it's off in February! Woot!
So today after school my friend Ary, who I like to call Sephary, passes by me complaining about a letter. "The letter for my waiver," she says. "My military waiver, so they don't conscript me when I'm in Israel." Sephary, you see, holds dual citizenship in America and Israel because her mom is Israeli. However, she's lived in America her whole life, and I'm petty certain she doesn't want to join the army. Apparently she's been having a hell of a time getting a waiver, though. First of all, the forms are in Hebrew. Second of all, aforesaid Hebrew appears to be the same dense, bureaucratic nonsense that you find in ALL languages, as even her mother and grandmother--both native Israelis--can't read the damn thing. Lastly, for some reason the teacher who was supposed to write a letter for her put her down as a male (!!). Now, I would call Sephary many things, but masculine is definitely not one of them. Sufficed to say, she was pretty pissed.
Before I tell this story, I should explain to you about the senior trip. After many years slaving away under a double-curriculum of super-hard courses, my Jewish school awards the seniors by taking them abroad, first to Europe (Poland and Prague) and then to Israel. We graduate at the end of the first semester, and then it's off in February! Woot!
So today after school my friend Ary, who I like to call Sephary, passes by me complaining about a letter. "The letter for my waiver," she says. "My military waiver, so they don't conscript me when I'm in Israel." Sephary, you see, holds dual citizenship in America and Israel because her mom is Israeli. However, she's lived in America her whole life, and I'm petty certain she doesn't want to join the army. Apparently she's been having a hell of a time getting a waiver, though. First of all, the forms are in Hebrew. Second of all, aforesaid Hebrew appears to be the same dense, bureaucratic nonsense that you find in ALL languages, as even her mother and grandmother--both native Israelis--can't read the damn thing. Lastly, for some reason the teacher who was supposed to write a letter for her put her down as a male (!!). Now, I would call Sephary many things, but masculine is definitely not one of them. Sufficed to say, she was pretty pissed.
Monday, December 4, 2006
Succubus
I build my walls
With eyeliner and black polish
And dyed-dark hair, rebelliously spiked;
I grid myself with chains for war.
FUCK YOU
With your pretty perfect hair
And your Barbie-doll smiles
And your greasy blue eyes
You cookie-cutter children in your
Little bubble world--
I see your sneers, and smile
In your plastic faces, plastic insults
Hollow, echoing back
Your empty fashion talk
Of boys and girls and gossip--
You talk and talk and talk and
GOD, don't you ever shut up?
--Covering the holes you've carved
Deep within your souls--
How much? How much?
How much do you cost?
Fifty dollars? One hundred?
Or that DARLING skirt from macy's?
When did you sell yourself
To match the illusion
You dreamed in your mirror?
Witch, bitch, I hear
The hate you hurl behind me
And laugh, for I read
Your secret names
Within the words--
For I know, I KNOW
the truth behind your hatred--
I know your secrets, I see the holes
Of your mind, your soul,
Your daily hara-kiri
On the altar of your idols--
And I myself, impenetrable,
Indefinable by your
Polyester standards--
Gnostic turpitude, if you will--
I feel your hatred,
And revel in its warmth.
(Written for a class assignment about teen social structures. For all the sad outcast girls, there's always one misfit that nurses a bitter hatred for the popular girls. I was trying to get some of that burning acid Sylvia Plath gets into her poetry, though I'm nowhere nearly as good as she is. And, well, some of my own thoughts undoubtedly went into this poem. "Gnostic Turpitude"--the crime of being opaque--comes from "An Invitation to a Beheading," the crime for which Cinncinatus C. is convicted. Maybe a bit heavy for this poem, but it popped into my head, and I had to put it in. Yay Nabokov.)
With eyeliner and black polish
And dyed-dark hair, rebelliously spiked;
I grid myself with chains for war.
FUCK YOU
With your pretty perfect hair
And your Barbie-doll smiles
And your greasy blue eyes
You cookie-cutter children in your
Little bubble world--
I see your sneers, and smile
In your plastic faces, plastic insults
Hollow, echoing back
Your empty fashion talk
Of boys and girls and gossip--
You talk and talk and talk and
GOD, don't you ever shut up?
--Covering the holes you've carved
Deep within your souls--
How much? How much?
How much do you cost?
Fifty dollars? One hundred?
Or that DARLING skirt from macy's?
When did you sell yourself
To match the illusion
You dreamed in your mirror?
Witch, bitch, I hear
The hate you hurl behind me
And laugh, for I read
Your secret names
Within the words--
For I know, I KNOW
the truth behind your hatred--
I know your secrets, I see the holes
Of your mind, your soul,
Your daily hara-kiri
On the altar of your idols--
And I myself, impenetrable,
Indefinable by your
Polyester standards--
Gnostic turpitude, if you will--
I feel your hatred,
And revel in its warmth.
(Written for a class assignment about teen social structures. For all the sad outcast girls, there's always one misfit that nurses a bitter hatred for the popular girls. I was trying to get some of that burning acid Sylvia Plath gets into her poetry, though I'm nowhere nearly as good as she is. And, well, some of my own thoughts undoubtedly went into this poem. "Gnostic Turpitude"--the crime of being opaque--comes from "An Invitation to a Beheading," the crime for which Cinncinatus C. is convicted. Maybe a bit heavy for this poem, but it popped into my head, and I had to put it in. Yay Nabokov.)
The Paint-Set
Last night
I dreamed
Of a Chinese paint-set
Like the one I owned as a child.
With wolfshair brush
Crooked carefully in my hand
I painted vast scenes
Of my imaginings
On crackling rice paper:
Red and blue, yellow and white
With daubs of black, here and there.
Grinding my inkstone
Into waterydark blackgrey I
Traced the mysterious sigils
Of Bamboo, Luck, and Blossom
To match my perfect pictures;
Masterpieces!--or so I thought,
And hung hem on the wall.
Pasted there, alone, forlorn,
They tranformed magically
From lovely landscapes
To children's copies
Of fine work foreign to their minds
Old mistakes blaring
From behind the painstaking layers
Of green, green, green;
The black, tracing river currents
Standing unblended
In the midst of waterfall blue--
I sneered, staring
At spidery Chinese letters
Bloched by a trembling
Western hand.
Last night
I dreamed
Of a wolfshair brush
Dipped in deepest blue
That swept, S-shaped,
Across a sky of white rice paper
Again and again:
A waterfall of color
With currents greenblack gliding through
And foaming white delicately daubed
By a bamboo-handled brush
A perfect painting
Like the Chinese Masters
Pressing, pressing, bursting through
Old dams in my imagination.
(Based on an actual dream. Could probably use some work.)
I dreamed
Of a Chinese paint-set
Like the one I owned as a child.
With wolfshair brush
Crooked carefully in my hand
I painted vast scenes
Of my imaginings
On crackling rice paper:
Red and blue, yellow and white
With daubs of black, here and there.
Grinding my inkstone
Into waterydark blackgrey I
Traced the mysterious sigils
Of Bamboo, Luck, and Blossom
To match my perfect pictures;
Masterpieces!--or so I thought,
And hung hem on the wall.
Pasted there, alone, forlorn,
They tranformed magically
From lovely landscapes
To children's copies
Of fine work foreign to their minds
Old mistakes blaring
From behind the painstaking layers
Of green, green, green;
The black, tracing river currents
Standing unblended
In the midst of waterfall blue--
I sneered, staring
At spidery Chinese letters
Bloched by a trembling
Western hand.
Last night
I dreamed
Of a wolfshair brush
Dipped in deepest blue
That swept, S-shaped,
Across a sky of white rice paper
Again and again:
A waterfall of color
With currents greenblack gliding through
And foaming white delicately daubed
By a bamboo-handled brush
A perfect painting
Like the Chinese Masters
Pressing, pressing, bursting through
Old dams in my imagination.
(Based on an actual dream. Could probably use some work.)
Desperation
I am smothered, SMOTHERED,
Drowning in thick layers of wool,
A scarf wound round my face,
My mouth, my eyes--
I am blind, choking
Thick wool filling my mouth,
Dragging me down, down,
Down into the deeps,
Struggling, scratching, screaming,
"Help HELP"--but the wool
Stuffs my cries,
Smothering, strangling,
Silence.
(Something I thought of while bundling up for winter.)
Drowning in thick layers of wool,
A scarf wound round my face,
My mouth, my eyes--
I am blind, choking
Thick wool filling my mouth,
Dragging me down, down,
Down into the deeps,
Struggling, scratching, screaming,
"Help HELP"--but the wool
Stuffs my cries,
Smothering, strangling,
Silence.
(Something I thought of while bundling up for winter.)
Ugly Equations
Talking about Haley makes me want to right this. Settlements are a painful subject among Jews. Something I should tell you before I go on--what happens to one Jew, happens to all. No joke. In such a small community, everyone is a relative or a friend or an acquaintance. You hear this about Israel, but it's true for the whole world. True story--a friend of ours once walked into a shop looking for a gift for the family. She got to talking with the shopkeeper, and guess what? The owner knew who we were. The owner was our relative Diane. I have already told you about Halley in the West Bank, and I want you to understand--she is a real person. She is not just a statistic, or someone in the newspaper pictures. She is real. She has four kids. Ayelet dropped out of college but is now working. Noa, who is a little older than me, has just entered Community Service (an alternative to army service). Her husband Danny--a wonderful man, by the way--got a cancer in his neck and, after surviving for several years in relatively good health, finally died (may he rest in peace). So whenever they talk about evacuation in the West Bank, the thought of Halley niggles in the back of my mind. I want you to know this, that you should understand how painful this subject is for Jews, because believe me, many of them in and out of Israel have relatives in the West Bank and formerly Gaza.
I support the peace plan. I support the two-state solution. And I understand that evacuation is necessary for that to happen. It's the inevitable equation. And there are many, many other Jews like me. Most Jews in the States are fairly liberal and also support withdrawal, though of course there is a sizable chunk with their doubts. Similarly, during the withdrawal last year, I believe (though I'm not certain) that a slight majority of the Israeli population also supported withdrawal (whether they do now is another story). But how, how do you tell your relatives, "Pick up and leave the homes you built behind." Jews shouldn't expell Jews. For thousands of years we have been chased from one end of the world to the other, forced out of Spain, France, England, Germany, old Judea, Iraq (chaval! The old Babylonian community!), Egypt, you get the idea. The whole POINT of Israel was to provide a refuge, one place where they would never be expelled again.
Jews shouldn't expell Jews, but sometimes you need to amputate a diseased limb.
Gaza belongs to the Palestinians. We built our homeland in Old Judea; it's only fair they build theirs. And so there needs to be a sacrifice. But the soldiers wept when they forced the settlers out and for good reason too.
Which is why I get so pissed at Hamas!! Why they hell are they firing rockets?!?! Hell, why are they spending money on rockets in the first place??? What about homes? Schools? Hospitals? Basic infrastructure, for heavens' sake?? It gets me so pissed off. Israel fucked over the Palestinians--there's no doubt about it. And undoubtedly the government should contribute to rebuilding Palestinian infrastructure and help get people out of those Godforsaken refugee camps. But why does Hamas spend so much money on rockets? Why is it that most Palestinians live in poor housing while their leaders live in palaces? Look, I know how most of the world feels about Palestinians and Israelis. People like an underdog, and the Palestinians really do live in nasty conditions. So all this money pours into the Palestinian cause. Millions of dollars. Billions, even. Where does that money go, pray tell?
I know the equation. For every Halley in Israel, there's another among the Palestinians. And those Palestinian Halleys have had a nasty time, to say the least. And I understand the desire to defend home, land, family. After all, every Israeli (almost, haredim, ahem ahem!) serves in the army. Everyone--theoretically--puts his life on the line. So I can understand the Palestinian militias. But how can any mother let their son (or daughter now) go off on a suicide bombing mission? Don't you WANT your children home alive?
Man, I'm depressed now. I've got more to say--a lot more--but I honestly don't feel like talking about it now. I'll post the lastest poetry instead.
I support the peace plan. I support the two-state solution. And I understand that evacuation is necessary for that to happen. It's the inevitable equation. And there are many, many other Jews like me. Most Jews in the States are fairly liberal and also support withdrawal, though of course there is a sizable chunk with their doubts. Similarly, during the withdrawal last year, I believe (though I'm not certain) that a slight majority of the Israeli population also supported withdrawal (whether they do now is another story). But how, how do you tell your relatives, "Pick up and leave the homes you built behind." Jews shouldn't expell Jews. For thousands of years we have been chased from one end of the world to the other, forced out of Spain, France, England, Germany, old Judea, Iraq (chaval! The old Babylonian community!), Egypt, you get the idea. The whole POINT of Israel was to provide a refuge, one place where they would never be expelled again.
Jews shouldn't expell Jews, but sometimes you need to amputate a diseased limb.
Gaza belongs to the Palestinians. We built our homeland in Old Judea; it's only fair they build theirs. And so there needs to be a sacrifice. But the soldiers wept when they forced the settlers out and for good reason too.
Which is why I get so pissed at Hamas!! Why they hell are they firing rockets?!?! Hell, why are they spending money on rockets in the first place??? What about homes? Schools? Hospitals? Basic infrastructure, for heavens' sake?? It gets me so pissed off. Israel fucked over the Palestinians--there's no doubt about it. And undoubtedly the government should contribute to rebuilding Palestinian infrastructure and help get people out of those Godforsaken refugee camps. But why does Hamas spend so much money on rockets? Why is it that most Palestinians live in poor housing while their leaders live in palaces? Look, I know how most of the world feels about Palestinians and Israelis. People like an underdog, and the Palestinians really do live in nasty conditions. So all this money pours into the Palestinian cause. Millions of dollars. Billions, even. Where does that money go, pray tell?
I know the equation. For every Halley in Israel, there's another among the Palestinians. And those Palestinian Halleys have had a nasty time, to say the least. And I understand the desire to defend home, land, family. After all, every Israeli (almost, haredim, ahem ahem!) serves in the army. Everyone--theoretically--puts his life on the line. So I can understand the Palestinian militias. But how can any mother let their son (or daughter now) go off on a suicide bombing mission? Don't you WANT your children home alive?
Man, I'm depressed now. I've got more to say--a lot more--but I honestly don't feel like talking about it now. I'll post the lastest poetry instead.
Denver
Whoosh! I'd be a mess if this had been a full schoolday. The past week was pretty tough, and this weekend we flew to Denver and back. You heard right--quickie 24-hour trip. We were visiting our cousins Bev and Moe. They're on Dad's side of the family. Strange--we've always been closer to Dad's family than Mom's. We keep up with Diane and Jac and the rest of the clan over in Israel, but we don't often see the relatives in Ohio. In fact, I think I was surprised when I learned that we had relatives in Akron. Mom just isn't as close with her family as Dad is to his. A story she likes to tell about Grandma Barbara and Grandpa Sandy is when Dad introduced her to them, they just opened their doors. "Welcome." And, well, I guess you've heard about the stuff that's gone down recently. Oh wait--I didn't tell you the lastest adventure. But that can wait a moment. First, Denver.
Moe looked much better than I expected. After watching Grandpa Sandy slowly decline over the years, and watching Grandma Betty fall apart completely, I expected him to be bedridden. Or something. But he looked like a healthy old man--just one with an oxygen tank. He also had some trouble moving around (he used a wheelchair and walker), but that I'm used to because Grandpa Sandy always needed a walker or cane because he had lost a leg to diabetes.
We went to this Tex/Mex bar and hung out. I think it might have once been owned by the family. Here's the thing--the dinner with the relatives was also a business meeting with some of Bev's associates. Well, I say meeting--it was more like a get-together between people in the same business. I felt odd--kind of like the city cousin come to visit the small town cousin, God forgive me for saying. But really, it did feel odd. I don't go to bars (being a minor and not liking alcohol anyways) and I don't like Tex/Mex. That, and I was tired after a 3-4 hour plane ride. I also had this lingering, awful headache--probably from altitude sickness.
Still, it was nice to see the family. Missy had a baby almost a year ago--Zoe. And she's ADORABLE!!! But you know me--I go bonkers over wittle babies. Must be a girl thing or something. Zoe is surprisingly quiet--she didn't really cry or complain about anything. Just pointed or reached for the person she wanted to hold her. But she walks very well already and has two teeth! Eeeeeee!! Debbie is also pregnant via artifical insemination. The baby's due in July. Maybe then we can go out there for a longer visit. Well, maybe not me--Mom wants me to stay in Israel when the school Israel trip finishes. Complete immersion, etc. (Dad's not so excited).
Anyway, Bev took us down to her glasses store. It's really remarkable--she gets these glasses from all over the world, and they look NOTHING like the boring old frames you see in most stores. You get these crazy, goofy European glasses that are just darling. For example, one of the pairs I just got has this lacy red frame--it's kind of hard to describe, but it's adorable. Mom says it's like going into a candy shop, and she's right. The shop is amazing. Thing is, when people talk to you, they usually look you in the eye. So glasses can make a big impression if they're the right kind. Which is why it's so important to get a good set of glasses. I believe in the value of looking good (though I don't always follow through on that value!), though one should not go over the top. Just make a small effort to look nice, because it makes a much better impression on the rest of the world. Heh heh--listen to me going on like some fashion mogul. I don't really follow fashion--just buy the clothes I think look nice. I suppose this comes from being the granddaughter of a textiles businessman (Grandpa Sandy).
Anyway, I asked Moe how they got into the glasses business, and he said they'd been working in it for twenty-some years. They were involved in importation mainly at first. Later they got a factory--a bad decision, Moe said. Later, when importation became very expensive ("you needed a lot of money to import," to quote Moe) they set up the glasses store in this small mall in Denver. All of their kids live in Denver, which is very nice, I think.
You have to understand--our family in general is spread all over the States. Texas, for example, and Ohio, Conneticut, South Carolina, and of course our little clump in the DC area. Grandma Betty and Grandpa Ben live up in Baltimore, Uncle Jeff lives in a suburb, and Uncle Steve lives...somewhere near. I think in Virginia. Like I said, we don't keep up as much as a family with Mom's brothers, not because there's a family split, but because they're just not close. Though they've been calling each other a lot with this crisis over Grandma and Grandpa.
There's also the overseas family. I think Mom has a cousin in Hong Kong, but I don't know anything about him. Ben-Ari actually comes from the Israeli side of the family, but he moved to Toronto to get a medical degree (med school in Israel is very crowded, probably because all the mothers want their kids to grow up to be nice Jewish doctahs). He met and married Eve there, and they've just had a baby--Noam--so I'm pretty certain they're rooted there. Then, of course, there's not one but TWO branches of the Mazer/Goldberg clan in Israel. Ben-Ami and his wife moved there even before 1948 I believe (not certain, though) and lived on a Moshav. Later Diane and Jac moved there with their kids. Most of the family still lives around Jerusalem, I believe, except for Haley, who married Danny and moved out to the West Bank. Near Nablus. Yeah. Tough situation. I'd like to see them when I go to Israel, but Mom will never let me go out to the West Bank. I wish they would move in-- at the very least to the bloc near Jerusalem. What should I say--go abandon the place you've spent most of your life in and move somewhere else? I love Haley and the kids, but we don't talk politics with them.
Moe looked much better than I expected. After watching Grandpa Sandy slowly decline over the years, and watching Grandma Betty fall apart completely, I expected him to be bedridden. Or something. But he looked like a healthy old man--just one with an oxygen tank. He also had some trouble moving around (he used a wheelchair and walker), but that I'm used to because Grandpa Sandy always needed a walker or cane because he had lost a leg to diabetes.
We went to this Tex/Mex bar and hung out. I think it might have once been owned by the family. Here's the thing--the dinner with the relatives was also a business meeting with some of Bev's associates. Well, I say meeting--it was more like a get-together between people in the same business. I felt odd--kind of like the city cousin come to visit the small town cousin, God forgive me for saying. But really, it did feel odd. I don't go to bars (being a minor and not liking alcohol anyways) and I don't like Tex/Mex. That, and I was tired after a 3-4 hour plane ride. I also had this lingering, awful headache--probably from altitude sickness.
Still, it was nice to see the family. Missy had a baby almost a year ago--Zoe. And she's ADORABLE!!! But you know me--I go bonkers over wittle babies. Must be a girl thing or something. Zoe is surprisingly quiet--she didn't really cry or complain about anything. Just pointed or reached for the person she wanted to hold her. But she walks very well already and has two teeth! Eeeeeee!! Debbie is also pregnant via artifical insemination. The baby's due in July. Maybe then we can go out there for a longer visit. Well, maybe not me--Mom wants me to stay in Israel when the school Israel trip finishes. Complete immersion, etc. (Dad's not so excited).
Anyway, Bev took us down to her glasses store. It's really remarkable--she gets these glasses from all over the world, and they look NOTHING like the boring old frames you see in most stores. You get these crazy, goofy European glasses that are just darling. For example, one of the pairs I just got has this lacy red frame--it's kind of hard to describe, but it's adorable. Mom says it's like going into a candy shop, and she's right. The shop is amazing. Thing is, when people talk to you, they usually look you in the eye. So glasses can make a big impression if they're the right kind. Which is why it's so important to get a good set of glasses. I believe in the value of looking good (though I don't always follow through on that value!), though one should not go over the top. Just make a small effort to look nice, because it makes a much better impression on the rest of the world. Heh heh--listen to me going on like some fashion mogul. I don't really follow fashion--just buy the clothes I think look nice. I suppose this comes from being the granddaughter of a textiles businessman (Grandpa Sandy).
Anyway, I asked Moe how they got into the glasses business, and he said they'd been working in it for twenty-some years. They were involved in importation mainly at first. Later they got a factory--a bad decision, Moe said. Later, when importation became very expensive ("you needed a lot of money to import," to quote Moe) they set up the glasses store in this small mall in Denver. All of their kids live in Denver, which is very nice, I think.
You have to understand--our family in general is spread all over the States. Texas, for example, and Ohio, Conneticut, South Carolina, and of course our little clump in the DC area. Grandma Betty and Grandpa Ben live up in Baltimore, Uncle Jeff lives in a suburb, and Uncle Steve lives...somewhere near. I think in Virginia. Like I said, we don't keep up as much as a family with Mom's brothers, not because there's a family split, but because they're just not close. Though they've been calling each other a lot with this crisis over Grandma and Grandpa.
There's also the overseas family. I think Mom has a cousin in Hong Kong, but I don't know anything about him. Ben-Ari actually comes from the Israeli side of the family, but he moved to Toronto to get a medical degree (med school in Israel is very crowded, probably because all the mothers want their kids to grow up to be nice Jewish doctahs). He met and married Eve there, and they've just had a baby--Noam--so I'm pretty certain they're rooted there. Then, of course, there's not one but TWO branches of the Mazer/Goldberg clan in Israel. Ben-Ami and his wife moved there even before 1948 I believe (not certain, though) and lived on a Moshav. Later Diane and Jac moved there with their kids. Most of the family still lives around Jerusalem, I believe, except for Haley, who married Danny and moved out to the West Bank. Near Nablus. Yeah. Tough situation. I'd like to see them when I go to Israel, but Mom will never let me go out to the West Bank. I wish they would move in-- at the very least to the bloc near Jerusalem. What should I say--go abandon the place you've spent most of your life in and move somewhere else? I love Haley and the kids, but we don't talk politics with them.
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