Room 2 is one of the calm ones. The students there are able to sit at their desks most of the day, either because of their disposition, their medication, or their good training. They are high school age. Most of them wear diapers, if not all. This class has 2 girls, which is unusual at this school. The room’s location by the door at the end of the hallway allows students to venture outside daily. None of them are verbal, though some can use picture symbols, called pecs.
At first glance, it seems as though they are all lumps. They do not interact with each other or with staff. But when you spend a few minutes in Room 2, you can see that each one does have their own personality and abilities. Some are more compliant than others. Some can sweep the floor using a modified push broom. Some can feed themselves. Some of them are learning to buy things at the store. One boy likes to take naps on the couch, which they allow as long as there is a plastic mat between him and the couch—he has a habit of wetting himself during his naptimes. Another boy only runs goals if he knows he will be allowed to sit in the hallway or outside and listen to the music on a toy guitar. The teacher bought dozens of these for him.
Because the kids rarely need to be restrained or physically “helped” into compliance, many of the staff are older women. One is young and pregnant.
One of the staff in the room scared me for a long time. She was the only Latina at school, and she had dozens of awful tattoos. She had her own name tattooed in cursive on her left hand between her thumb and index finger, as if she doodled it there with a pen and decided to keep it. She has Chinese characters behind her ear. She has them on her neck, hands, arms, and surely other places I haven’t seen. She shaves her eyebrows and draws in perilously high ones. She wears lip-liner without lipstick. She greases her hair so that the top is completely flat, and the rest is wavy. (Any style is as good as another, but people from my background make certain judgments about people dressed this way.) She said a number of critical things to me in passing before she ever said anything nice. She wears hospital scrubs.
But I came to see her many talents as I worked as a sub in her room, and as a teacher across the hall. She is very patient with her students. She talks and jokes with them (or at them.) She gets very enthusiastic when a student succeeds. When other verbal and higher-functioning students at the school cause trouble, she tells them off right proper. You don’t want to cross her.
I learned in Room 2 to relate to people as people. There are valuable people with different social backgrounds and teaching styles than me, and they still deserve respect. There are children who cannot perform basic functions, and they also deserve respect. One can interact with them on their level—praise them when they are behaving correctly, correct them when they are lazy, and give them the attention they deserve.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Cultural Learnings 5.0
This latest update comes to you in 6 parts: one philosophical and pedogological question, one holiday experience, and four random events.
5.1 The quandary in question presented itself after attending a seminar at the Pardes Institute about the 4 sons mentioned in the Haggada (the book used at the Passover seder). There were many failures about this class, and few wins. The teacher was one of the problems. She spoke loudly and quickly, in a most abrasive manner. She also had on very tacky clothes. This is important, because there is a fair chance that post-college adults with varying degrees of Jewish education will be skeptical of a religious woman teaching modern interpretations of Judaism. Your authority on the subject is already questionable, and if you look like a weirdo, we’ll think you’re weird. That’s not fair, but it’s still something which must be accounted for. This lady’s fashion aside, her material was not well-done. Our task was written at the end of the many papers she gave us, so we read through them all without realizing that there was something to look out for. While I strongly support “thinking for yourself” and validating your “feelings,” there is only a limited space for that in serious text study. While coming up with your own thoughts on the text is extremely important, it’s even more important for the teacher to listen to those thoughts, and use them to present something insightful which perhaps her students hadn’t come to on their own. Instead, she briefly listened to the few who were brave enough to share, then shared her own feelings on the subject. Her feelings are valid, but it’s not the teacher’s job to share her feelings. I want something more substantial. As if this wasn’t enough, she had the nerve to completely shoot down a student when she offered her thoughts on the subject at hand; and if that isn’t enough, that student was me! Fuck my life!
This incident raised many questions for me: What kind of a teacher do I want to be? What is the effect of bad teaching? Will I ever be in the position of teaching something I know nothing about, and if so, how did I get into that situation? I really don’t have any answers to these questions, or to the nebulous other doubts I have about my talents in my future profession. All I know is that bad teaching is very bad. I’m sure everyone can remember a bad teacher, and how they hated that teacher’s very existence, and perhaps were unable to satisfactorily complete work for that teacher, among other results.
My first education professor presented his class with a triangle, and at each point was written “teacher,” “students,” “curriculum.” He asked which the most important relationship was between any two of them. Some students argued that the teacher must have a comprehensive understanding of the material in order to effectively teach. This was opposed by people who had experienced very learned teachers who were nasty, unclear, or scattered. Other students suggested that the teacher and students form the strongest bond. Many recalled influential and positive teachers they had had, who had inspired or guided them. The professor argued against this, saying that it wasn’t the teacher’s job to fraternize with the students, nor was it their job to make friends or entertain. The most important relationship, he showed, was that between the students and the curriculum. Only that can lead to effective learning. I can be really enthusiastic about English or linguistics or history or Latin or whatever I end up teaching. I imagine I can win over my students (dear G-d let it be so.) How the f**k am I supposed to make my students care about English? They might do work to please me, or to get a good grade, but can I get them to work for the sake of learning?
5.2.1 On the cab ride to the above-mentioned Passover lecture, we passed an awning which read “Obama Pizza.” I gleefully pointed this out, and the cabbie said in Hebrew that there are lots of things called Obama in Israel now. Also Clinton. “Bush,” he added, “lo zochrim”—we don’t remember.
5.2.2 A friend from Tel Aviv joined me in Jerusalem one day, and we set about to find the view from the Austrian hostel. Her friend had given her directions from the Damascus Gate in the Muslim Quarter. Hundreds of people poured out of the gate, and I felt a close connection to salmon swimming up stream at that moment. We walked through the streets, never quite sure if we were lost yet. An Arab vendor helped me when he saw me struggling to read an Arabic sign, and was quite impressed to find that an American learned Arabic in Uni. He invited us into his store saying that “everything is free.” He only lost interest in us when I gave the excuse that I have to get ready for Shabbat. We miraculously stopped on a corner to look around, and found ourselves quite at the doorsteps of the hostel. We buzzed to get in, and climbed a few flights of stairs through its impressively charming and modest corridors. From the roof we had a close view of the Dome of the Rock in front of the Mt of Olives (covered in graves), and thousands of Jerusalem rooftops.
5.2.3 A few friends and I went to Tel Aviv for the BeKova festival. This is an event in which people perform in front of a crown on the Harbor, and then hold out their hat to collect money. True to my nature, I found the acrobats the best. They dressed up in vaudeville costumes, made suggestive comments over the heads of the children, and performed daring and freakishly flexible and strong moves. I was absolutely charmed. One juggler made quite a few mistakes during his act, but had a 50’s Rock N Roll theme complete with appropriate musical selection, sideburns, and red sparkly pants. I was quite smitten. One lady tied herself up in ropes and fabric at least 20 feet in the air, and absolutely made me gasp. A couple had members of the audience hold up their trapeze as they climbed and tumbled over each other with impressive grace. I love circuses!
5.2.4 There is a Jewish blessing said every 28 years called Birkat HaChamah. The sun is considered to be in the exact location it was the moment of its creation. This is figured out with some complicated math tricks. Most astronomers and mathematicians and even theologians discount this calculation. Regardless, an estimated 50,000 thousand Jews assembled at the Kotel at daybreak to bless the sun. I was there with two of my close friends, and it was quite amazing. Hundreds of Jews came from all directions into the gates of the Old City, and streamed through the ancient streets toward the Wall. The women’s section was expanded. We could not get past the steps after security for lack of space to walk. The morning prayers were broadcast over loudspeakers. Jews from all over the world, speaking many languages, came to experience this rare—if regular-- event. It was the morning before Passover, and I was terribly disappointed to find all the waffle bars closed. We ate at the one restaurant that was open at 8 am. We spent two hours there on account of it being this café’s first day in business. With much of my naptime stolen, I was exhausted at the Passover seder.
5.3 At every Passover seder around the world, they conclude with “Next year in Jerusalem!” This year I was blessed to fulfill that eternal wish. Among the many perks of holidays in Israel, Passover was 7 days long with 2 days of chag, instead of 8 days with 4 days of chag as it is in galus—exile (the rest of the world). I met 7 members of my extended family for the first time, including the 90 year old brother of my grandmother. I spent the night there in Netanya, awakened periodically by the mysterious tappings of my great-uncle’s cane. At 1 I awoke to the sound of shattering glass as a shelf broke in the kitchen.
All sorts of restaurants and grocery stores were open (to me.) Back in Berkeley, there are no kosher for Passover (K-P) restaurants. We eat at home what we can get out of the “Jewish” aisle in Safeway. Lately my parents have been taking long trips to Molly Stone’s to get enough K-P food to sustain them for the 8 days. On Passover we don’t eat bread, or anything resembling bread, or anything that’s touched anything resembling bread. A rabbi recently ruled that everyone is permitted to eat kitniyot (the foods which Ashkenazim don’t eat on Passover but Sephardim do), so I ate kitniyot this year! I got sushi on Passover! I could go to the grocery store and buy anything on the shelves—all the non K-P food was hidden. There were some pizzerias in Tel Aviv offering “kosher for Passover pizza,” but which weren’t even certified kosher in the first place. I was turned away from 2 restaurants in Tel Aviv because they expected so many guests. I was so giddy off of living in a Jewish country that I forgot to check for kosher certification on some items. I accidentally bought non-K-P ice cream at the markolet in Kfar HaStudentim because it’s run by Arabs and they don’t particularly care to turn their store upside down on account of the lunatic laws of Passover.
Passover was pretty painless this year, but I missed my Chabad family in Santa Cruz. I used to spend nearly the whole week there. I relied upon them for my Shabbat and chag meals, and they also gave me dinner during hol hamoed. But hey, why not come a few hours earlier and get lunch, too? I was disappointed that I was unable to make my house sufficiently kosher. I didn’t starve or get constipated (try eating flour crackers for a week!), but I also felt my lack of community.
5.1 The quandary in question presented itself after attending a seminar at the Pardes Institute about the 4 sons mentioned in the Haggada (the book used at the Passover seder). There were many failures about this class, and few wins. The teacher was one of the problems. She spoke loudly and quickly, in a most abrasive manner. She also had on very tacky clothes. This is important, because there is a fair chance that post-college adults with varying degrees of Jewish education will be skeptical of a religious woman teaching modern interpretations of Judaism. Your authority on the subject is already questionable, and if you look like a weirdo, we’ll think you’re weird. That’s not fair, but it’s still something which must be accounted for. This lady’s fashion aside, her material was not well-done. Our task was written at the end of the many papers she gave us, so we read through them all without realizing that there was something to look out for. While I strongly support “thinking for yourself” and validating your “feelings,” there is only a limited space for that in serious text study. While coming up with your own thoughts on the text is extremely important, it’s even more important for the teacher to listen to those thoughts, and use them to present something insightful which perhaps her students hadn’t come to on their own. Instead, she briefly listened to the few who were brave enough to share, then shared her own feelings on the subject. Her feelings are valid, but it’s not the teacher’s job to share her feelings. I want something more substantial. As if this wasn’t enough, she had the nerve to completely shoot down a student when she offered her thoughts on the subject at hand; and if that isn’t enough, that student was me! Fuck my life!
This incident raised many questions for me: What kind of a teacher do I want to be? What is the effect of bad teaching? Will I ever be in the position of teaching something I know nothing about, and if so, how did I get into that situation? I really don’t have any answers to these questions, or to the nebulous other doubts I have about my talents in my future profession. All I know is that bad teaching is very bad. I’m sure everyone can remember a bad teacher, and how they hated that teacher’s very existence, and perhaps were unable to satisfactorily complete work for that teacher, among other results.
My first education professor presented his class with a triangle, and at each point was written “teacher,” “students,” “curriculum.” He asked which the most important relationship was between any two of them. Some students argued that the teacher must have a comprehensive understanding of the material in order to effectively teach. This was opposed by people who had experienced very learned teachers who were nasty, unclear, or scattered. Other students suggested that the teacher and students form the strongest bond. Many recalled influential and positive teachers they had had, who had inspired or guided them. The professor argued against this, saying that it wasn’t the teacher’s job to fraternize with the students, nor was it their job to make friends or entertain. The most important relationship, he showed, was that between the students and the curriculum. Only that can lead to effective learning. I can be really enthusiastic about English or linguistics or history or Latin or whatever I end up teaching. I imagine I can win over my students (dear G-d let it be so.) How the f**k am I supposed to make my students care about English? They might do work to please me, or to get a good grade, but can I get them to work for the sake of learning?
5.2.1 On the cab ride to the above-mentioned Passover lecture, we passed an awning which read “Obama Pizza.” I gleefully pointed this out, and the cabbie said in Hebrew that there are lots of things called Obama in Israel now. Also Clinton. “Bush,” he added, “lo zochrim”—we don’t remember.
5.2.2 A friend from Tel Aviv joined me in Jerusalem one day, and we set about to find the view from the Austrian hostel. Her friend had given her directions from the Damascus Gate in the Muslim Quarter. Hundreds of people poured out of the gate, and I felt a close connection to salmon swimming up stream at that moment. We walked through the streets, never quite sure if we were lost yet. An Arab vendor helped me when he saw me struggling to read an Arabic sign, and was quite impressed to find that an American learned Arabic in Uni. He invited us into his store saying that “everything is free.” He only lost interest in us when I gave the excuse that I have to get ready for Shabbat. We miraculously stopped on a corner to look around, and found ourselves quite at the doorsteps of the hostel. We buzzed to get in, and climbed a few flights of stairs through its impressively charming and modest corridors. From the roof we had a close view of the Dome of the Rock in front of the Mt of Olives (covered in graves), and thousands of Jerusalem rooftops.
5.2.3 A few friends and I went to Tel Aviv for the BeKova festival. This is an event in which people perform in front of a crown on the Harbor, and then hold out their hat to collect money. True to my nature, I found the acrobats the best. They dressed up in vaudeville costumes, made suggestive comments over the heads of the children, and performed daring and freakishly flexible and strong moves. I was absolutely charmed. One juggler made quite a few mistakes during his act, but had a 50’s Rock N Roll theme complete with appropriate musical selection, sideburns, and red sparkly pants. I was quite smitten. One lady tied herself up in ropes and fabric at least 20 feet in the air, and absolutely made me gasp. A couple had members of the audience hold up their trapeze as they climbed and tumbled over each other with impressive grace. I love circuses!
5.2.4 There is a Jewish blessing said every 28 years called Birkat HaChamah. The sun is considered to be in the exact location it was the moment of its creation. This is figured out with some complicated math tricks. Most astronomers and mathematicians and even theologians discount this calculation. Regardless, an estimated 50,000 thousand Jews assembled at the Kotel at daybreak to bless the sun. I was there with two of my close friends, and it was quite amazing. Hundreds of Jews came from all directions into the gates of the Old City, and streamed through the ancient streets toward the Wall. The women’s section was expanded. We could not get past the steps after security for lack of space to walk. The morning prayers were broadcast over loudspeakers. Jews from all over the world, speaking many languages, came to experience this rare—if regular-- event. It was the morning before Passover, and I was terribly disappointed to find all the waffle bars closed. We ate at the one restaurant that was open at 8 am. We spent two hours there on account of it being this café’s first day in business. With much of my naptime stolen, I was exhausted at the Passover seder.
5.3 At every Passover seder around the world, they conclude with “Next year in Jerusalem!” This year I was blessed to fulfill that eternal wish. Among the many perks of holidays in Israel, Passover was 7 days long with 2 days of chag, instead of 8 days with 4 days of chag as it is in galus—exile (the rest of the world). I met 7 members of my extended family for the first time, including the 90 year old brother of my grandmother. I spent the night there in Netanya, awakened periodically by the mysterious tappings of my great-uncle’s cane. At 1 I awoke to the sound of shattering glass as a shelf broke in the kitchen.
All sorts of restaurants and grocery stores were open (to me.) Back in Berkeley, there are no kosher for Passover (K-P) restaurants. We eat at home what we can get out of the “Jewish” aisle in Safeway. Lately my parents have been taking long trips to Molly Stone’s to get enough K-P food to sustain them for the 8 days. On Passover we don’t eat bread, or anything resembling bread, or anything that’s touched anything resembling bread. A rabbi recently ruled that everyone is permitted to eat kitniyot (the foods which Ashkenazim don’t eat on Passover but Sephardim do), so I ate kitniyot this year! I got sushi on Passover! I could go to the grocery store and buy anything on the shelves—all the non K-P food was hidden. There were some pizzerias in Tel Aviv offering “kosher for Passover pizza,” but which weren’t even certified kosher in the first place. I was turned away from 2 restaurants in Tel Aviv because they expected so many guests. I was so giddy off of living in a Jewish country that I forgot to check for kosher certification on some items. I accidentally bought non-K-P ice cream at the markolet in Kfar HaStudentim because it’s run by Arabs and they don’t particularly care to turn their store upside down on account of the lunatic laws of Passover.
Passover was pretty painless this year, but I missed my Chabad family in Santa Cruz. I used to spend nearly the whole week there. I relied upon them for my Shabbat and chag meals, and they also gave me dinner during hol hamoed. But hey, why not come a few hours earlier and get lunch, too? I was disappointed that I was unable to make my house sufficiently kosher. I didn’t starve or get constipated (try eating flour crackers for a week!), but I also felt my lack of community.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The Short Story of My Trousers
I was a normal-sized 12 year old, and I am still a normal-sized 12 year old. Because of my failure to grow after middle school, I continued to wear the same clothes for many years. In the past 10 years, I believe I have surrendered 3 pairs of pants because they were just ugly (a pair of overalls, sparkly pants, and a pair which lost its elasticity and became extremely baggy after one wash.)
My senior year of college found me with no less than four pants from middle school, and I believe four from high school. I bought no pants in college. I was more focused on black and white or outrageously colored dresses and skirts. I was also more focused on eating. Three pairs of pants were lost in that year-- two to busted zippers, one to a prominent crotch-hole.
I was able to keep these pants for so long on account of my purchasing standards: if I get something, I will wear it forever. By college graduation I was down three pairs of jeans, and it was becoming painfully clear that I needed new pants.
Yes. New pants.
I tried to shop for pants, but I was unable to select a pair because of a basic unresolved dilemma: to buy pants which fit my style, but which didn’t look like a middle schooler’s. I didn’t even know what pants size I was. Compounding the problem was my short stature. My height, skinny legs, and surprisingly large bottom made finding perfect jeans impossible!
After many fruitless and tiring attempts at trousing myself, (yes, I know that’s a made-up word) it was time for a new course of action. I selected a store from which I’d like to buy pants, and resolved to not leave until I had found a suitable pair. But it was not that simple. Concessions had to be made. During negotiations, it was decided that the pants which left with me that day did not have to be “forever” pants.
I walked resolutely into that H&M, flanked by two girl friends and a gay—a winning team. We spent nearly an hour in there, debating first which cut I wanted, then what my size was, then which color the sacred jeans would be. But alas! they didn’t have the color I wanted in my size. Painful concessions. No one said it would be easy. I walked out of there with a pair of light blue size 27 skinny jeans. And a free shirt.
Skinny jeans! Skinny jeans are absolutely not “forever.” They look retarded. The 80’s are over for a reason, people. On our way through the mall we found another H&M, and I exchanged the pants for a darker shade. Brilliant! A bold move.
Of course, my attempt to look normal/trendy fell short, as the skinny jeans got a little baggy, and ceased being skinny. Now they’re just slightly baggy tapered jeans. But it’s the thought that counts, right?
My quest for jeans continued through the fall, though in less force than before. I combed through the second-hand stores on Telegraph, but to no avail. I just couldn’t commit myself to any one pair. Sometimes I’d still be thinking about one weeks after I’d tried it on. Those jeans that were calling my name would inevitably have vanished by the time I’d come back for them. But one day—oh that glorious day!—I found THREE pairs of jeans! (and a sweater.) They were beautiful, and I love them.
I had been hoping for pants with double buttons up the front, like a sailor. I found a dark, thin pair with buttons going diagonally, at the edge of the pockets. Fatigue pockets are nice because you can put your hands in them more naturally, instead of hunching your shoulders to get into those tiny front ones. It has a little buckle at the back to tighten them, and no back pockets. They made my ass look splendid. Success! If I had found them in a Forever 21 whence they originally came, I would have given the excuse that they were not exactly what I wanted. However, that is purely hypothetical, since I would never go into a Forever 21.
The second pair found me with its striped trim and giant striped buttons in the front and back. I have never seen a fly with such an oversized button, but I liked it. Mine.
The third were simple Levi’s. Light blue 518 superlow bootcut, size 3S. The S is key.
And I live happily with my four pairs of hard-earned post-college pants.
My senior year of college found me with no less than four pants from middle school, and I believe four from high school. I bought no pants in college. I was more focused on black and white or outrageously colored dresses and skirts. I was also more focused on eating. Three pairs of pants were lost in that year-- two to busted zippers, one to a prominent crotch-hole.
I was able to keep these pants for so long on account of my purchasing standards: if I get something, I will wear it forever. By college graduation I was down three pairs of jeans, and it was becoming painfully clear that I needed new pants.
Yes. New pants.
I tried to shop for pants, but I was unable to select a pair because of a basic unresolved dilemma: to buy pants which fit my style, but which didn’t look like a middle schooler’s. I didn’t even know what pants size I was. Compounding the problem was my short stature. My height, skinny legs, and surprisingly large bottom made finding perfect jeans impossible!
After many fruitless and tiring attempts at trousing myself, (yes, I know that’s a made-up word) it was time for a new course of action. I selected a store from which I’d like to buy pants, and resolved to not leave until I had found a suitable pair. But it was not that simple. Concessions had to be made. During negotiations, it was decided that the pants which left with me that day did not have to be “forever” pants.
I walked resolutely into that H&M, flanked by two girl friends and a gay—a winning team. We spent nearly an hour in there, debating first which cut I wanted, then what my size was, then which color the sacred jeans would be. But alas! they didn’t have the color I wanted in my size. Painful concessions. No one said it would be easy. I walked out of there with a pair of light blue size 27 skinny jeans. And a free shirt.
Skinny jeans! Skinny jeans are absolutely not “forever.” They look retarded. The 80’s are over for a reason, people. On our way through the mall we found another H&M, and I exchanged the pants for a darker shade. Brilliant! A bold move.
Of course, my attempt to look normal/trendy fell short, as the skinny jeans got a little baggy, and ceased being skinny. Now they’re just slightly baggy tapered jeans. But it’s the thought that counts, right?
My quest for jeans continued through the fall, though in less force than before. I combed through the second-hand stores on Telegraph, but to no avail. I just couldn’t commit myself to any one pair. Sometimes I’d still be thinking about one weeks after I’d tried it on. Those jeans that were calling my name would inevitably have vanished by the time I’d come back for them. But one day—oh that glorious day!—I found THREE pairs of jeans! (and a sweater.) They were beautiful, and I love them.
I had been hoping for pants with double buttons up the front, like a sailor. I found a dark, thin pair with buttons going diagonally, at the edge of the pockets. Fatigue pockets are nice because you can put your hands in them more naturally, instead of hunching your shoulders to get into those tiny front ones. It has a little buckle at the back to tighten them, and no back pockets. They made my ass look splendid. Success! If I had found them in a Forever 21 whence they originally came, I would have given the excuse that they were not exactly what I wanted. However, that is purely hypothetical, since I would never go into a Forever 21.
The second pair found me with its striped trim and giant striped buttons in the front and back. I have never seen a fly with such an oversized button, but I liked it. Mine.
The third were simple Levi’s. Light blue 518 superlow bootcut, size 3S. The S is key.
And I live happily with my four pairs of hard-earned post-college pants.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Cultural Learnings 4.0
4.1: March 21st marked the 1000th day of captivity for IDF soldier Gilad Shalit. He was kidnapped in a cross-border raid by Hamas militants from Gaza. While military targets are certainly more legitimate than civilian, it’s hard not to feel compassion for the kid. He was only 19. It is fairly certain that he is alive, and Hamas has assured his family that he is in good health, though he had suffered wounds in the kidnapping. The Red Cross has not been allowed to see him. He has been able to send a few letters home. There have been a few proposals for prisoner swaps, but clearly none have worked out. One required the release of all female prisoners and children under 18 from Israeli jails, and another demanded hundreds of prisoners, many of whom were responsible for horrific terrorist acts.
I feel conflicted about a prisoner swap. While on one hand I recognize that this is a political situation, on the other I don’t think Hamas should be rewarded for kidnapping someone. Then they can just continue kidnapping people and making more demands. Now his release is linked with opening one of the Gaza crossings, but Hamas has rejected that. During Operation Cast Lead IDF soldiers left graffiti for Shalit, saying they were there (the picture below says [gil'ad anaxnu bderex aleixa]-- Gilad, we are on the way to you). That poor kid! Do you think his captors speak to him in Hebrew or Arabic? It feels like the Israeli government hasn’t been able to reach an agreement with anyone in ages. One day Israel will have peace and secure borders, and military conscription will be eliminated. It’s a sad anniversary.
4.2: One of the boys on my program came out to me and a few other girls (who all had crushes on him.) While I felt touched that he would trust me with this sensitive and personal information, I was also mad that gay people have to come out at all. I have been chasing boys since I was 6 years old (at that time, literally), and I would be a completely different person if I had to pretend not to like dick until I was 23. Fuck that! A number of boys on the program have made homophobic comments, including “I want to go to a bar with no gay people,” and saying that gay men should not live near schools. It’s absolutely retarded that gay people—who have existed for all of history, mind you—STILL face violent discrimination. wtf?! On that note, Tel Aviv is a great city to be gay in. Jerusalem, less so. In Tel Aviv there are posters for gay events, gay bars and clubs, and 60 year old men with fake tans and white pants dancing to trance music in salons.
At my high school, it was cool to be gay. People would announce their homosexuality only to be shot down with “You’re not REALLY gay.” It wasn’t until I was 17 and a friend at camp came out to me that I started to understand what it means to be in the closet. He feared losing his friends, and how his family would react. Wow, I thought, that sucks. Of course, his mom already knew. Many participants on the program went out to a club which turned out to be gay, and I think my friend is just assuming that everyone knows now.
And it’s like, if there are gay events and gay bars, then there are also straight events and straight bars, right? That sucks! I would go crazy if everything I did was gay and I had to search out straight events. But I don’t really know. Maybe I should consult a gay.
4.3: When I was ages 6-9, my backyard abutted that of a Palestinian family. I was too young to have a clear picture of what that meant, but I knew it meant something. They had two daughters my age, and more cousins than they could count. We were always hopping the fence (apartheid wall??) between our yards and playing at each others’ houses. That whole time I had some kind of feeling of being an example, as though if I did something wrong, all Jews had just wronged all Palestinians. That’s a lot of pressure for a 6 year old. I found that same feeling in Amos Oz’s A Tale of Love and Darkness. That was the first time I’d seen that sense of responsibility explicitly described. I found it again this week, coming home on the bus.
Four Palestinian women wearing hijabs were seated facing each other in the front of the bus. One of my particularly graceless friends was holding onto a pole connected to one of the seats, with a bag of hangers dangling from her wrist. Bus drivers are crazy here, and—I think you can see where this is going—she lost her balance, and the bag of hangers banged into one of the women, knocking off her hijab. My friend was so embarrassed, and kept apologizing (in English.) She is still embarrassed about it. The woman kind of sat there and rubbed her ear. She didn’t put her hijab back up. You can tell she felt responsible for all Arab-Jewish relations because she wouldn’t have gotten so mortified if it were someone else she had hit. I’m sure she would have apologized and felt bad, but she wouldn’t have gone on saying “I’m so sorry” for 10 minutes if she had smacked a religious Jew or an Ethiopian kid in the head. Jewish responsibility for peace is common in my communities. I don’t know if all Jews feel that way, or if there is a correlation with observance or politics. I don’t know if any Arabs feel that way, nor do I know if they know we feel that way.
4.4: And on a completely separate note: fruit juice. It’s a problem here. In the States you can find orange juice, apple juice, cranberry juice cocktail, grape juice, fruit punch, grapefruit juice, lemonade, strawberry lemonade, lemon ginger Echinacea, tangerine juice, etc. All grocery stores carry at least 20 kinds of fruit juice. That’s how juice is in the US. Here, there is fresh juice, and crap juice. Fruit juicers are everywhere here. They have fruit displayed, they have a juicer—it’s pretty straightforward. The grocery stores, on the other hand, have no fruit juice. Sometimes they have orange juice which may or may not be refrigerated. There is grapefruit soft drinks and a few other flavors (like 5), but they’re nowhere near Tropicana/ Ocean Spray/ Trader Joe’s. I think there’s real apple juice. I miss CranApple!
4.5: Mexican food in Israel: FAIL. I asked for a bean, cheese, and rice burrito. Apparently that wasn’t possible. Ok, I’ll get the vegi burrito. This was a tortilla folded around some beans, tomatoes, peppers, and a few other sweet vegetables. I think there was some cheese in there. The “burrito” was grilled to the point of being crunchy and cut in half. There was a scoop of yellow-brown rice on the side, with burnt slivered almonds on top. My side salad came with Thousand Island dressing-- just like in Mexico. The food wasn’t inedible, but it was not at all Mexican, or even Tex-Mex, or even just Tex. I miss Mexicans.
4.6: I’ve been working at my internship teaching English for a few weeks now, and it’s going ok. Kids here are way more hutzpadic than in the States. Teachers resort to screaming immediately. There are two Ethiopian kids, and I saw one get called “chocolate.” In the States, that’s called racism. Nearly all the teachers are women. I think I’ve seen two men so far. The day before Passover break, the teachers passed out wine in the lounge and toasted to a happy and kosher Passover in the lounge at 10:30 am. That would never happen in the States. Or maybe it would; I haven’t been in many teachers’ lounges. It seems like no one is ever quite sure of what’s going on.
4.6.1: All of the teachers have oral herpes. I don’t want to drink out of the mugs in the teachers’ lounge.
4.7: My program took a day trip to Haifa. We went to Christian, Muslim, Baha’i, and Jewish holy sites. We went to a Carmelite monastery, which was pretty. We went to the Baha’i gardens. We went to an Achmadiyyan mosque. (I think that’s what they were called? Sorry.) They preach “love for all, hatred for none.” The speaker said he would never die for stones (meaning holy sites or land.) He considers that idol worship. He hiked down Mt Carmel to the cave of Elijah. None of us were quite sure what was going on for large portions of the day, and I beat up one of my nice pairs of shoes, so I’m pretty irritated at Mt Carmel now. It was a long day and I had to get up at 6. Haifa seemed like a peaceful city, with peaceful religions and less honking. Our madrichot handed us cash for lunch, and that is one of my favorite things ever.
I feel conflicted about a prisoner swap. While on one hand I recognize that this is a political situation, on the other I don’t think Hamas should be rewarded for kidnapping someone. Then they can just continue kidnapping people and making more demands. Now his release is linked with opening one of the Gaza crossings, but Hamas has rejected that. During Operation Cast Lead IDF soldiers left graffiti for Shalit, saying they were there (the picture below says [gil'ad anaxnu bderex aleixa]-- Gilad, we are on the way to you). That poor kid! Do you think his captors speak to him in Hebrew or Arabic? It feels like the Israeli government hasn’t been able to reach an agreement with anyone in ages. One day Israel will have peace and secure borders, and military conscription will be eliminated. It’s a sad anniversary.
4.2: One of the boys on my program came out to me and a few other girls (who all had crushes on him.) While I felt touched that he would trust me with this sensitive and personal information, I was also mad that gay people have to come out at all. I have been chasing boys since I was 6 years old (at that time, literally), and I would be a completely different person if I had to pretend not to like dick until I was 23. Fuck that! A number of boys on the program have made homophobic comments, including “I want to go to a bar with no gay people,” and saying that gay men should not live near schools. It’s absolutely retarded that gay people—who have existed for all of history, mind you—STILL face violent discrimination. wtf?! On that note, Tel Aviv is a great city to be gay in. Jerusalem, less so. In Tel Aviv there are posters for gay events, gay bars and clubs, and 60 year old men with fake tans and white pants dancing to trance music in salons.
At my high school, it was cool to be gay. People would announce their homosexuality only to be shot down with “You’re not REALLY gay.” It wasn’t until I was 17 and a friend at camp came out to me that I started to understand what it means to be in the closet. He feared losing his friends, and how his family would react. Wow, I thought, that sucks. Of course, his mom already knew. Many participants on the program went out to a club which turned out to be gay, and I think my friend is just assuming that everyone knows now.
And it’s like, if there are gay events and gay bars, then there are also straight events and straight bars, right? That sucks! I would go crazy if everything I did was gay and I had to search out straight events. But I don’t really know. Maybe I should consult a gay.
4.3: When I was ages 6-9, my backyard abutted that of a Palestinian family. I was too young to have a clear picture of what that meant, but I knew it meant something. They had two daughters my age, and more cousins than they could count. We were always hopping the fence (apartheid wall??) between our yards and playing at each others’ houses. That whole time I had some kind of feeling of being an example, as though if I did something wrong, all Jews had just wronged all Palestinians. That’s a lot of pressure for a 6 year old. I found that same feeling in Amos Oz’s A Tale of Love and Darkness. That was the first time I’d seen that sense of responsibility explicitly described. I found it again this week, coming home on the bus.
Four Palestinian women wearing hijabs were seated facing each other in the front of the bus. One of my particularly graceless friends was holding onto a pole connected to one of the seats, with a bag of hangers dangling from her wrist. Bus drivers are crazy here, and—I think you can see where this is going—she lost her balance, and the bag of hangers banged into one of the women, knocking off her hijab. My friend was so embarrassed, and kept apologizing (in English.) She is still embarrassed about it. The woman kind of sat there and rubbed her ear. She didn’t put her hijab back up. You can tell she felt responsible for all Arab-Jewish relations because she wouldn’t have gotten so mortified if it were someone else she had hit. I’m sure she would have apologized and felt bad, but she wouldn’t have gone on saying “I’m so sorry” for 10 minutes if she had smacked a religious Jew or an Ethiopian kid in the head. Jewish responsibility for peace is common in my communities. I don’t know if all Jews feel that way, or if there is a correlation with observance or politics. I don’t know if any Arabs feel that way, nor do I know if they know we feel that way.
4.4: And on a completely separate note: fruit juice. It’s a problem here. In the States you can find orange juice, apple juice, cranberry juice cocktail, grape juice, fruit punch, grapefruit juice, lemonade, strawberry lemonade, lemon ginger Echinacea, tangerine juice, etc. All grocery stores carry at least 20 kinds of fruit juice. That’s how juice is in the US. Here, there is fresh juice, and crap juice. Fruit juicers are everywhere here. They have fruit displayed, they have a juicer—it’s pretty straightforward. The grocery stores, on the other hand, have no fruit juice. Sometimes they have orange juice which may or may not be refrigerated. There is grapefruit soft drinks and a few other flavors (like 5), but they’re nowhere near Tropicana/ Ocean Spray/ Trader Joe’s. I think there’s real apple juice. I miss CranApple!
4.5: Mexican food in Israel: FAIL. I asked for a bean, cheese, and rice burrito. Apparently that wasn’t possible. Ok, I’ll get the vegi burrito. This was a tortilla folded around some beans, tomatoes, peppers, and a few other sweet vegetables. I think there was some cheese in there. The “burrito” was grilled to the point of being crunchy and cut in half. There was a scoop of yellow-brown rice on the side, with burnt slivered almonds on top. My side salad came with Thousand Island dressing-- just like in Mexico. The food wasn’t inedible, but it was not at all Mexican, or even Tex-Mex, or even just Tex. I miss Mexicans.
4.6: I’ve been working at my internship teaching English for a few weeks now, and it’s going ok. Kids here are way more hutzpadic than in the States. Teachers resort to screaming immediately. There are two Ethiopian kids, and I saw one get called “chocolate.” In the States, that’s called racism. Nearly all the teachers are women. I think I’ve seen two men so far. The day before Passover break, the teachers passed out wine in the lounge and toasted to a happy and kosher Passover in the lounge at 10:30 am. That would never happen in the States. Or maybe it would; I haven’t been in many teachers’ lounges. It seems like no one is ever quite sure of what’s going on.
4.6.1: All of the teachers have oral herpes. I don’t want to drink out of the mugs in the teachers’ lounge.
4.7: My program took a day trip to Haifa. We went to Christian, Muslim, Baha’i, and Jewish holy sites. We went to a Carmelite monastery, which was pretty. We went to the Baha’i gardens. We went to an Achmadiyyan mosque. (I think that’s what they were called? Sorry.) They preach “love for all, hatred for none.” The speaker said he would never die for stones (meaning holy sites or land.) He considers that idol worship. He hiked down Mt Carmel to the cave of Elijah. None of us were quite sure what was going on for large portions of the day, and I beat up one of my nice pairs of shoes, so I’m pretty irritated at Mt Carmel now. It was a long day and I had to get up at 6. Haifa seemed like a peaceful city, with peaceful religions and less honking. Our madrichot handed us cash for lunch, and that is one of my favorite things ever.
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