I have been asked by Eliyahu if the pope is Catholic. To sum up, a couple of years ago, I would have said that the pope is obviously Jewish--who else wears a white satin bar-mitzvah souvenir kippa to all formal religious occasions--but Benedict I ain't gonna claim. He may possibly be Catholic--some unpleasant people do manage to be, to my distress. He's not my cup of tea anyway.
My classroom features a nice memorial picture of Juan Pablo Dos, and I am happy to keep him up there along with the pretty Mexican folk-art cross. I don't think I could teach with Benedict glaring out over me.
JP2 came to the Throne of the Fisherman when I was quite a small kid, and he is 'the Pope', as far as I am concerned. Maybe I'll develop some fondness for a future pontiff, but the way things are going in Rome...When John Paul died, I followed the process of the papal election with some interest. My grandmother felt it was time for an African pope--I would quite agree, except that African Catholicism is just a touch reactionary these days. My mom and I were holding out for a liberation-theology preachin', guitar-strummin' Latin American, though not with much hope. Second choice would be a sweet Italian great-uncle. (Actually, what we wanted was the cool Spanish guy from Andrew Greeley's "White Smoke", but he's fictional, alas). And the folks down at the local Irish pub were united in their cry of "anyone but Ratzinger".
For some weird reason, the College of Cardinals ignored us all, even the Catholics among us. The day they made up their mind, I got a garbled voice-mail message from my darlin' fella, informing me that 'Ratzenberger' had been elected, and that he had taken the name of 'Constantine or something like that.'
Being as I was at the Fruitvale BART station, no one took the slightest notice as I stormed up and down the platform, snarling things like "Well, he's not MY pope!" and "Hitler Youth! For God's sake, he was in Hitler Youth!" and "The freakin' Grand Inquisitor? Gimme a break!"
I haven't really warmed up to him since, either. And I still call him Ratzenberger when he really annoys me. Which I am sure, drives him crazy...;)
And there STILL hasn't been an Irish pope. Oh well.
Anyway, here's my favorite piece of Christian education humor ever:
Then Jesus took his disciples up the mountain and, gathering them around him, he taught them, saying:
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven
Blessed are the meek
Blessed are they that mourn
Blessed are the merciful
Blessed are they that thirst for justice
Blessed are you when persecuted
Blessed are you when you suffer
Be glad and rejoice for your reward is great in heaven
Then Simon Peter said, "Are we supposed to know this?"
And Andrew said, "Do we have to write this down?"
And James said, "Are we going to have a test on this?"
And Philip said, "I don't have a pencil!"
And Bartholomew said, "What came after poor?"
And John said, "The other disciples didn't have to learn this!"
And Mark said, "I don't get it."
And Judas asked to go to the bathroom.
And a Pharisee who was then present asked to see Jesus' lesson plan and inquired of Jesus, "Where are your anticipatory set and your objectives in the cognitive domain?"
And Jesus wept.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Catholic School Adventures
You know you've been teaching in a Catholic school too long--well, maybe about two days--when a coworker marches into your room with her arms full of religion books and says briskly, "You need Jesus. I need morality." And you don't BLINK. You just say, "Wait, I thought I did morality. Isn't Jesus in the eighth grade?"
(We've sorted it out, now. She gets _Morality: Learning Through Our Faith_. I get _Jesus: The Word Made Flesh_.) We're doing fine.
I may not be doing so good. Three solid days with seventh graders is enough to make anyone a little nuts. We're off to an OK, but not great, start. I was too soft at first, and they went nuts. I was also, I think, too slow, which they saw as condescension. This is not really my fault, I've just spent two years teaching kids who CAN'T SPEAK ENGLISH. My teaching style has become...uh...emphatic.
"Oooookaaaaay, students. Is everyone on the right page? It's page fourteen. FOUR-teeeen. (Writes '14' on the board.) On THIS page we will learn about a kind of story. A tall tale is a special kind of story." Not that bad, but bad enough that some of the kids wrote me end-of-week feedback asking that I not treat them like 'a lower grade'. Gotta snap it up.
Tomorrow I meet the fifth graders, the sixth graders, and the eighth graders.
My coworkers are awesome. The kids are funny, bright, and adorable. The class is mostly Latino and black, with a scattering of Asian kids, and quite of lot of mixed Latino and black families. (The kids are extremely cute, as well. My coworkers swear that they don't require a picture like Stanford used to do with apps, they're just lucky that way.)
So far it's--well--better than anything I've ever had, teaching wise.
And I am scared to death. My last teaching job was hell, and I'm afraid it really was my fault, and I'll screw up big time here too. And that would be disappointing for me, and for my parents, who really like this place, and for my coworkers, who seem to have a lot of faith in me...more than I have in myself, right now.
One day at a time, right? Tomorrow we read Sandra Cisneros.
(We've sorted it out, now. She gets _Morality: Learning Through Our Faith_. I get _Jesus: The Word Made Flesh_.) We're doing fine.
I may not be doing so good. Three solid days with seventh graders is enough to make anyone a little nuts. We're off to an OK, but not great, start. I was too soft at first, and they went nuts. I was also, I think, too slow, which they saw as condescension. This is not really my fault, I've just spent two years teaching kids who CAN'T SPEAK ENGLISH. My teaching style has become...uh...emphatic.
"Oooookaaaaay, students. Is everyone on the right page? It's page fourteen. FOUR-teeeen. (Writes '14' on the board.) On THIS page we will learn about a kind of story. A tall tale is a special kind of story." Not that bad, but bad enough that some of the kids wrote me end-of-week feedback asking that I not treat them like 'a lower grade'. Gotta snap it up.
Tomorrow I meet the fifth graders, the sixth graders, and the eighth graders.
My coworkers are awesome. The kids are funny, bright, and adorable. The class is mostly Latino and black, with a scattering of Asian kids, and quite of lot of mixed Latino and black families. (The kids are extremely cute, as well. My coworkers swear that they don't require a picture like Stanford used to do with apps, they're just lucky that way.)
So far it's--well--better than anything I've ever had, teaching wise.
And I am scared to death. My last teaching job was hell, and I'm afraid it really was my fault, and I'll screw up big time here too. And that would be disappointing for me, and for my parents, who really like this place, and for my coworkers, who seem to have a lot of faith in me...more than I have in myself, right now.
One day at a time, right? Tomorrow we read Sandra Cisneros.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Along Came a Spider...
I am afraid of spiders. I am not so bad as I once was, but I really, really don't like spiders.
El Cerrito has a plentiful supply of spiders. Mostly, the house attracts the long, wispy-legged kind, which I simply gently pick up on a broom and remove from the house. However, the city of El Cerrito, in summer, seems to be a hot property for a very large (by my standards), decorative garden spider, which I think is a kind of argiope. They spin webs, and hang on them in the late summer heat. Thank God, they do not seem to have any interest in coming indoors, preferring to live outside and eat mosquitos. Good on them. Because if they came inside, I would absolutely lose it.
Unfortunately, the line between indoors and outdoors seems to be getting slightly vague. For three evenings now, an enterprising argiope has been trying to get a web going across my front porch. Specifically, across the FRONT of my front porch, stringing it between the spiky little tree on one side and the porch support on the other. I would have walked into it this morning, except that it had already caught a mosquito, which gave the web's location away to me. Twice, now, I have snapped the guide threads holding the web up. That stuff is STRONG.
I can only assume it is hoping to catch either me or the fella in this web. What it would do if it caught us, is another matter, seeing as we are approximately 800+ times its weight. It is possible that this is some form of recreational big-game hunting. I just hope it's catch and release.
It's also possible, of course, that the spider does not realize that the web is located in a path taken daily by big mammals. The porch, if you don't recognize it as a porch, probably looks like an ideal web frame. I am not sure if spiders can learn from repeated experience that a location is not suitable. I hope to God they can, because if this critter does not get the idea soon I am going to go slightly batty.
Last night I dreamed about big spiders. This morning, as I said, I had to deal both with the web, and with a mosquito I tried to assist (fellow feeling), and, well, didn't help much. Tonight, I took a full bag of trash from the kitchen, and began to take it out. Thanks mercy, I remembered at the last minute to check to see if the path was clear. It wasn't. There's a big new web out there right now, and I've finally spotted the spider. It's large. If I had walked into it, I would probably be in catatonic shock right now.
"Kill it," says the fella. I did not dignify this with a reply. Reading over my shoulder, now, though, he's offered to take the broom and dismantle the latest web, which I took him up on. He's a good fella.
There's a note on the door which reads "Spider Check". Just to remind me in the morning.
El Cerrito has a plentiful supply of spiders. Mostly, the house attracts the long, wispy-legged kind, which I simply gently pick up on a broom and remove from the house. However, the city of El Cerrito, in summer, seems to be a hot property for a very large (by my standards), decorative garden spider, which I think is a kind of argiope. They spin webs, and hang on them in the late summer heat. Thank God, they do not seem to have any interest in coming indoors, preferring to live outside and eat mosquitos. Good on them. Because if they came inside, I would absolutely lose it.
Unfortunately, the line between indoors and outdoors seems to be getting slightly vague. For three evenings now, an enterprising argiope has been trying to get a web going across my front porch. Specifically, across the FRONT of my front porch, stringing it between the spiky little tree on one side and the porch support on the other. I would have walked into it this morning, except that it had already caught a mosquito, which gave the web's location away to me. Twice, now, I have snapped the guide threads holding the web up. That stuff is STRONG.
I can only assume it is hoping to catch either me or the fella in this web. What it would do if it caught us, is another matter, seeing as we are approximately 800+ times its weight. It is possible that this is some form of recreational big-game hunting. I just hope it's catch and release.
It's also possible, of course, that the spider does not realize that the web is located in a path taken daily by big mammals. The porch, if you don't recognize it as a porch, probably looks like an ideal web frame. I am not sure if spiders can learn from repeated experience that a location is not suitable. I hope to God they can, because if this critter does not get the idea soon I am going to go slightly batty.
Last night I dreamed about big spiders. This morning, as I said, I had to deal both with the web, and with a mosquito I tried to assist (fellow feeling), and, well, didn't help much. Tonight, I took a full bag of trash from the kitchen, and began to take it out. Thanks mercy, I remembered at the last minute to check to see if the path was clear. It wasn't. There's a big new web out there right now, and I've finally spotted the spider. It's large. If I had walked into it, I would probably be in catatonic shock right now.
"Kill it," says the fella. I did not dignify this with a reply. Reading over my shoulder, now, though, he's offered to take the broom and dismantle the latest web, which I took him up on. He's a good fella.
There's a note on the door which reads "Spider Check". Just to remind me in the morning.
Back to School
Now that I'm feeling better...today was the second day of pre-start-of-school meetings. New school is so much better than the old school, I cannot even tell you. More details to follow.
Wishing I Could March for the All-Purpose Revolution...
Back in 2002, I wrote an essay, which read in part...
"I am jealous of people who are able to immerse themselves in left-wing politics without fear. I was raised in San Francisco, and I have wanted to be, as Rebecca Walker describes herself in Black, White and Jewish, ‘a full-fledged progressive, politicized Bay Area person’. I envy the security, the pride and the moral assurance of that description. But I can’t really have it. That much is clear.
"So this article is my letter of resignation. My politics haven't really changed; I'm still a bleeding-heart tree-hugger social-services junkie and a nonpacifist who, in the words of Alan Lupo, 'keeps praying for multiple choice'. I believe that there is too damn much oppression in this world, and that, as a woman spared nearly all of it, as a citizen of a country that's both fought against and financed it, and as a Jew, I have to live my life in opposition to it.
"But this year has forced me to take a close, hard look at what passes for activism and progressive politics in my generation, and I am unimpressed. I have realized that I'm tired of pretending that the anti-Zionist rhetoric that permeates things you wouldn't believe it could be linked to can be excused or overlooked. I'm tired of watching other people bring their history and their community's problems to the coalition table and be honored for it, while I am expected to distort, dilute and denounce mine."
I wish I could say I've hardened up since then. I don't know. I am still jealous of the all-purpose revolution, and the ability to go to a peace march without realizing that peace for you is not on the list.
A lot of my friends don't understand why I don't think I'm invited to the party, and some others can't imagine why I would want to go in the first place. Not sure I can answer the second one. I went to college in the early 1990s. It was the heyday of pretentious watered-down identity politics. I learned the language of opression and cultural resistance, and was then told that mine, brought from the Soviet Jewry movement and my Zionist-ish childhood didn't count. I have been fascinated by, and furious over, concepts of race, opression, privilege, and identity ever since.
I'm angry. I'm angry at the anti-Semites. I'm angry at those smug, shrieky girls climbing the stage at the rally. I'm angry at www.indybay.org. I'm angry at Jews who can march with ANSWER and feel good about themselves. I'm angry at people who can show up to a rally with a "Destroy Islam" sign and feel good about themselves. I'm mad at Ana Castillo, and Gloria Anzaldua, and Luisa Teish, and Cherrie Moraga and Alice Walker, and Dorothy Allison, and God, I can't even begin to get through this list, because I read their damn books, and was taught to define their oppression, and not mine. I'm mad at people who think the Republican party is a rational refuge for Jews. I'm mad at Mel Gibson. I'm mad because American Jews MADE American progressive politics, and they haven't stopped biting our collective tuchis since them. And I'm really, really jealous of anyone out there who's been told that their nightmares are valid, and not an attempt to use the Holocaust to manipulate public opinion.
I'm tired. And I want to hit back. And I want to find the person who titled a picture of our rally on IndyBay "So much hate", and express just how much hate I got going on, for everyone in the world who wishes that me and mine would just lie down and die.
I am an upset Irish Litvak. Do not rile me.
"I am jealous of people who are able to immerse themselves in left-wing politics without fear. I was raised in San Francisco, and I have wanted to be, as Rebecca Walker describes herself in Black, White and Jewish, ‘a full-fledged progressive, politicized Bay Area person’. I envy the security, the pride and the moral assurance of that description. But I can’t really have it. That much is clear.
"So this article is my letter of resignation. My politics haven't really changed; I'm still a bleeding-heart tree-hugger social-services junkie and a nonpacifist who, in the words of Alan Lupo, 'keeps praying for multiple choice'. I believe that there is too damn much oppression in this world, and that, as a woman spared nearly all of it, as a citizen of a country that's both fought against and financed it, and as a Jew, I have to live my life in opposition to it.
"But this year has forced me to take a close, hard look at what passes for activism and progressive politics in my generation, and I am unimpressed. I have realized that I'm tired of pretending that the anti-Zionist rhetoric that permeates things you wouldn't believe it could be linked to can be excused or overlooked. I'm tired of watching other people bring their history and their community's problems to the coalition table and be honored for it, while I am expected to distort, dilute and denounce mine."
I wish I could say I've hardened up since then. I don't know. I am still jealous of the all-purpose revolution, and the ability to go to a peace march without realizing that peace for you is not on the list.
A lot of my friends don't understand why I don't think I'm invited to the party, and some others can't imagine why I would want to go in the first place. Not sure I can answer the second one. I went to college in the early 1990s. It was the heyday of pretentious watered-down identity politics. I learned the language of opression and cultural resistance, and was then told that mine, brought from the Soviet Jewry movement and my Zionist-ish childhood didn't count. I have been fascinated by, and furious over, concepts of race, opression, privilege, and identity ever since.
I'm angry. I'm angry at the anti-Semites. I'm angry at those smug, shrieky girls climbing the stage at the rally. I'm angry at www.indybay.org. I'm angry at Jews who can march with ANSWER and feel good about themselves. I'm angry at people who can show up to a rally with a "Destroy Islam" sign and feel good about themselves. I'm mad at Ana Castillo, and Gloria Anzaldua, and Luisa Teish, and Cherrie Moraga and Alice Walker, and Dorothy Allison, and God, I can't even begin to get through this list, because I read their damn books, and was taught to define their oppression, and not mine. I'm mad at people who think the Republican party is a rational refuge for Jews. I'm mad at Mel Gibson. I'm mad because American Jews MADE American progressive politics, and they haven't stopped biting our collective tuchis since them. And I'm really, really jealous of anyone out there who's been told that their nightmares are valid, and not an attempt to use the Holocaust to manipulate public opinion.
I'm tired. And I want to hit back. And I want to find the person who titled a picture of our rally on IndyBay "So much hate", and express just how much hate I got going on, for everyone in the world who wishes that me and mine would just lie down and die.
I am an upset Irish Litvak. Do not rile me.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Memity Book Meme
At The Back of the Hill threw this one over here, and since I've never seen a meme I didn't like:
1. One book that changed your life?
_Harriet the Spy_, by Louise Fitzhugh. I read it almost as soon as I learned to read, and a lot of it escaped me at the time...I knew no one with a nanny, for example, and the exclusive private school just seemed surreal, but Harriet's creativity, and ordinariness, and fascination with people were all things I could instantly relate to. Still can.
2. One book you have read more than once?
This is a very broad category, because I am an addictive rereader. If I like a book I will read it at least a couple of times, and there are books I pick up routinely and read sections of, sometimes out of sequence, for months and years on end. I treat books a bit the way most people treat CDs.
Ummm...R.A. MacAvoy's _Book of Kells_. And Judith Merkle Riley's _A Vision of Light_. And Barry Hughart's _Bridge of Birds_. All set in the Middle Ages, so I guess there's a theme going on here.
3. One book you would want on a desert island?
_The Once and Future King_ by T.H. White, and not only because it is nearly 650 pages.
4. One book that made you laugh?
Any of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum mystery novels.
5. One book that made you cry?
Will Eisner's _The Contract With God_. The part with the dog, naturally.
6. One book you wish had been written?
Ummm...a novel version of the film _Mina Tannenbaum_.
7. One book you wish had never been written?
Andrew Greeley's latest Nuala Anne book, _Irish Crystal_. Because it was so bad it made me cringe, but I KNOW I will buy the next one in hardcover anyway.
8. One book you are currently reading?
Just finished Terry McMillan's latest, _The Interruption of Everything_, and am moseying my way through Richard Clarke's _Against All Enemies_. (I read fiction much faster than nonfiction.) And for work I am reading _Johnny Tremain_.
9. One book you have been meaning to read?
_Outwitting History: The Amazing Adventures of the Man Who Rescued a Million Yiddish Books_. Aaron Lansky.
10. Now tag five people!
I still can't do links, but--
Westbank Mama
Chayyei Sarah
Jameel, if he ever has time
and, uh, whoever else wants to...
1. One book that changed your life?
_Harriet the Spy_, by Louise Fitzhugh. I read it almost as soon as I learned to read, and a lot of it escaped me at the time...I knew no one with a nanny, for example, and the exclusive private school just seemed surreal, but Harriet's creativity, and ordinariness, and fascination with people were all things I could instantly relate to. Still can.
2. One book you have read more than once?
This is a very broad category, because I am an addictive rereader. If I like a book I will read it at least a couple of times, and there are books I pick up routinely and read sections of, sometimes out of sequence, for months and years on end. I treat books a bit the way most people treat CDs.
Ummm...R.A. MacAvoy's _Book of Kells_. And Judith Merkle Riley's _A Vision of Light_. And Barry Hughart's _Bridge of Birds_. All set in the Middle Ages, so I guess there's a theme going on here.
3. One book you would want on a desert island?
_The Once and Future King_ by T.H. White, and not only because it is nearly 650 pages.
4. One book that made you laugh?
Any of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum mystery novels.
5. One book that made you cry?
Will Eisner's _The Contract With God_. The part with the dog, naturally.
6. One book you wish had been written?
Ummm...a novel version of the film _Mina Tannenbaum_.
7. One book you wish had never been written?
Andrew Greeley's latest Nuala Anne book, _Irish Crystal_. Because it was so bad it made me cringe, but I KNOW I will buy the next one in hardcover anyway.
8. One book you are currently reading?
Just finished Terry McMillan's latest, _The Interruption of Everything_, and am moseying my way through Richard Clarke's _Against All Enemies_. (I read fiction much faster than nonfiction.) And for work I am reading _Johnny Tremain_.
9. One book you have been meaning to read?
_Outwitting History: The Amazing Adventures of the Man Who Rescued a Million Yiddish Books_. Aaron Lansky.
10. Now tag five people!
I still can't do links, but--
Westbank Mama
Chayyei Sarah
Jameel, if he ever has time
and, uh, whoever else wants to...
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Palestine, Lebanon and Max's Opera Cafe
My father decided to come with me to the counterdemo against International ANSWER's anti-Israel extravaganza in San Francisco today. There were political reasons--Mr. Bluejeans has always loved Israel--but also gastronomic ones--the demo was taking place not far from Max's Opera Cafe, one of my dad's favorite places on earth.
Anyway, this morning I pulled on my nice gray-and-blue "Pro-Israel, Pro-Peace" t-shirt, and took BART to Civic Center. Then I walked up to Max's, where I had agreed to meet my dad, even though Max's was not, at ten-fifteen in the morning, open.
First, the Near Error:
On my way, I had to cross Civic Center Plaza, where the ANSWER demo was to take place. I spotted a sound stage already up, also signs for Mumia (natch), and a coalition to save Bayview and Hunter's Point (not directly related to the Middle East, as far as I know). I spotted a few familiar figures roaming around getting organized on the far side of the street. And nearby, I spotted a woman at one of the jungle gyms in the little playgrounds that dot the plaza. She was wearing a scarf tied over her hair and knotted behind her neck. Over the scarf was a summer hat. She wore long sleeves and a long denim jumper. On the bench near her was a man wearing a pale, knitted kippa, reading a book. On the jungle gym was a small boy, also in pale knitted kippa. I was on the verge of going over, wishing them a good Shabbat, and promising to see them at the demo.
Then I paused. On second inspection, the kippot were sliiiiiightly too big. I paused again. I observed. I decided to wait.
Later, spotting them again in the thick of the Palestinian flags across the street, I would be glad I waited. It would have been incredibly embarassing, otherwise.
I found the dad, and we found our counterdemo. Equipped with borrowed signs (mine read "Peace With Security"), we took up positions along the police barricades.
Some Notes:
1. The dad was disturbed by some of the signs on display by our fellow protesters, particularly those attacking Islam. He attempted to deal with one such sign by getting a larger sign, and attempting to obscure it, then by talking to one of the security guys, and ultimately had to be talked (by me) out of trying to pay the guy to put it away.
2. One of the earliest speakers at the ANSWER demo announced, as part of her rant against Israeli aggression, that women and homosexuals were being denied basic rights. I confess to being baffled. On so many levels.
3. I have more in common with the ANSWER people than I had thought. For example, at one point, the speaker started a chant that went "U.S.! Israel!" I think there was a response the crowd yelled, but we couldn't hear it. Delighted, all the pro-Israeli crowd began to scream back happily "U.S.! Israel!"
4. In addition, at one point, a speaker announced bitterly, in some context I missed, that while you always hear about the 6 Million, the Belgian colonial imperialists had killed twelve million people in the Congo. I am pleased to announce that I (as a happy reader of the liberal romance novel that is _The Poisonwood Bible_) am entirely against Belgian atrocities in the Congo, even if they were a bit before my time. I will even spare a tear for poor old Patrice Lumumba. I hope I can form a warm relationship with the ANSWER people on the basis of this common concern.
5. I was briefly interviewed by Channel 4, and also asked by a random stranger if I was 'angry' with the people across the street. Let me speak for the record. Yes. I'm quite mad at the people across the street.
Anyway, the speakers kept speaking, and I kept running into old family friends, and at some point, my father, who is getting a bit low blood-sugar, starts to get rather slap-happy, and also urgent about getting to Max's.
At some point he lost it, and started his own counterpoint to the chant:
Speaker: "Occupation is a crime!"
Mr. Bluejeans: "I'd like to get to lunch on time."
Speaker: "Occupation is a crime!"
Mr. Bluejeans: "I'd also like a glass of wine."
Speaker: "Occupation is a crime!"
Mr. Bluejeans: "A glass of Chardonnay'd be fine."
Anyway, FINALLY, they started streaming toward downtown, and we went to Max's, where the Balabusta had a tomato salad, and Mr. Bluejeans ate a patty melt.
I thought we'd head home after that, but my dad came up with a new idea, which was to infiltrate the ANSWER crowd. He even had a plain white t-shirt to spare, so I could take off my Israel one. I should explain. I can't explain. We're Irish. Deal with it.
So we infiltrated. We even dressed up a bit, since I found a Free Palestine pin, which my dad decided to put on his hat. We walked all around the ANSWER side of things, and looked around:
Some Notes:
1. The Greens showed up. Tack-o-rama.
2. I was briefly interested in a booth selling Palestinian olive oil. The ex-husband of my former Hebrew teacher (they were married at the time), when I stayed for dinner, used to bring out this incredible olive oil he got from a friend in the West Bank who got it from Arab neighbors who kept olives. (Grew olives? You know. Were oliviers. Whatever.) It was so good you could have drunk it from the bottle, and was the color they call 'olive' in, like, floor tiles. Deep, murky green. It came in empty soda bottles, and other random containers. I wasn't, however, going to give fifteen dollars to anti-Semites for olive oil with a Palestinian flag on it, and besides, it was probably Carapelli siphoned into politically correct bottles.
3. There were some funny anti-Bush t-shirts on sale, but I refrained.
4. Other than that, about what you would have expected.
5. Further, though, I did note that there was very little in the ongoing rhetoric from the stage to suggest that a two-state solution is still considered viable.
The dad, emboldened by his success in threading through the Code Pink protestors, and the young Arab moms, and the scruffy socialists, and so on, decided that he would like to see what our demonstration looked like from the other side. We were winding through the dense tangle of Palestinian teenagers closer to the barricade, when I noticed that, about ten feet up and over, someone had set fire to an Israeli flag and was waving it overhead.
I announced it was time to leave, so we left, and moved back to our rightful side of the street, where we remained until we went home.
Well, sort of went home. As we were waiting for the bus, the dad decided to engage a woman who was driving an SUV around and around the block, with her sunroof open, and her small daughter holding a Palestinian flag and a big green sign saying "Palestine Will Be Free, From The River To The Sea" through it.
My dad began to talk to her about a two-state solution, which she rejected on the grounds that Israelis don't want it, and are killing Palestinians. My dad's not easily put off, he kept talking, and reengaging her each time the SUV pulled up to our corner.
In the third round of this, some of the guys with the unpleasant signs showed up, and started to shout at her about teaching her kids to chop people's heads off. (Decapitation was something of a preoccupation for these guys.) The dad yelled at them. They yelled back, about not negotiating with terrorists. They got on the bus. We decided we needed drinks, and went back to Max's.
On the whole, I had a great day, even with the slightly pink nose I came home with. But I'm not sure I see a whole lot of hope for a good resolution to either the current mess, or the ongoing mess.
I think the Jewish community needs to get organized around this. We need more people. We need a sound system. We need chant leaders.
I think we should also be doing coalition-building. ANSWER's got Filipino activists talking about the oppression of Muslim, er, freedom fighters, in the Philippines. We should have Filipino activists as well. (I like this idea, because the reciprocal demos would include some causes I feel quite strongly about.) We should connect with the Indian community. ANSWER's getting Latino activists involved by pretending to care about immigration. We should get Latino activists. We DO care about immigration. Lots of them are evangelicals. They should like Israel.
And also, we should get Fred. Fred the Sign Guy keeps gravitating to the Palestinian side of the street, I think because there are more of them. We should extend an invitation to Fred. If twelve galaxies are imperiled to a zygnatronic universe, and we need to impeach Ford, that's fine. He can do it with us.
I think we need a sound system, oh, and food. The ice cream guy went to them too. My dad's got a suggestion about that too, involving neutral falafel, but it can wait for its own post...
Anyway, this morning I pulled on my nice gray-and-blue "Pro-Israel, Pro-Peace" t-shirt, and took BART to Civic Center. Then I walked up to Max's, where I had agreed to meet my dad, even though Max's was not, at ten-fifteen in the morning, open.
First, the Near Error:
On my way, I had to cross Civic Center Plaza, where the ANSWER demo was to take place. I spotted a sound stage already up, also signs for Mumia (natch), and a coalition to save Bayview and Hunter's Point (not directly related to the Middle East, as far as I know). I spotted a few familiar figures roaming around getting organized on the far side of the street. And nearby, I spotted a woman at one of the jungle gyms in the little playgrounds that dot the plaza. She was wearing a scarf tied over her hair and knotted behind her neck. Over the scarf was a summer hat. She wore long sleeves and a long denim jumper. On the bench near her was a man wearing a pale, knitted kippa, reading a book. On the jungle gym was a small boy, also in pale knitted kippa. I was on the verge of going over, wishing them a good Shabbat, and promising to see them at the demo.
Then I paused. On second inspection, the kippot were sliiiiiightly too big. I paused again. I observed. I decided to wait.
Later, spotting them again in the thick of the Palestinian flags across the street, I would be glad I waited. It would have been incredibly embarassing, otherwise.
I found the dad, and we found our counterdemo. Equipped with borrowed signs (mine read "Peace With Security"), we took up positions along the police barricades.
Some Notes:
1. The dad was disturbed by some of the signs on display by our fellow protesters, particularly those attacking Islam. He attempted to deal with one such sign by getting a larger sign, and attempting to obscure it, then by talking to one of the security guys, and ultimately had to be talked (by me) out of trying to pay the guy to put it away.
2. One of the earliest speakers at the ANSWER demo announced, as part of her rant against Israeli aggression, that women and homosexuals were being denied basic rights. I confess to being baffled. On so many levels.
3. I have more in common with the ANSWER people than I had thought. For example, at one point, the speaker started a chant that went "U.S.! Israel!" I think there was a response the crowd yelled, but we couldn't hear it. Delighted, all the pro-Israeli crowd began to scream back happily "U.S.! Israel!"
4. In addition, at one point, a speaker announced bitterly, in some context I missed, that while you always hear about the 6 Million, the Belgian colonial imperialists had killed twelve million people in the Congo. I am pleased to announce that I (as a happy reader of the liberal romance novel that is _The Poisonwood Bible_) am entirely against Belgian atrocities in the Congo, even if they were a bit before my time. I will even spare a tear for poor old Patrice Lumumba. I hope I can form a warm relationship with the ANSWER people on the basis of this common concern.
5. I was briefly interviewed by Channel 4, and also asked by a random stranger if I was 'angry' with the people across the street. Let me speak for the record. Yes. I'm quite mad at the people across the street.
Anyway, the speakers kept speaking, and I kept running into old family friends, and at some point, my father, who is getting a bit low blood-sugar, starts to get rather slap-happy, and also urgent about getting to Max's.
At some point he lost it, and started his own counterpoint to the chant:
Speaker: "Occupation is a crime!"
Mr. Bluejeans: "I'd like to get to lunch on time."
Speaker: "Occupation is a crime!"
Mr. Bluejeans: "I'd also like a glass of wine."
Speaker: "Occupation is a crime!"
Mr. Bluejeans: "A glass of Chardonnay'd be fine."
Anyway, FINALLY, they started streaming toward downtown, and we went to Max's, where the Balabusta had a tomato salad, and Mr. Bluejeans ate a patty melt.
I thought we'd head home after that, but my dad came up with a new idea, which was to infiltrate the ANSWER crowd. He even had a plain white t-shirt to spare, so I could take off my Israel one. I should explain. I can't explain. We're Irish. Deal with it.
So we infiltrated. We even dressed up a bit, since I found a Free Palestine pin, which my dad decided to put on his hat. We walked all around the ANSWER side of things, and looked around:
Some Notes:
1. The Greens showed up. Tack-o-rama.
2. I was briefly interested in a booth selling Palestinian olive oil. The ex-husband of my former Hebrew teacher (they were married at the time), when I stayed for dinner, used to bring out this incredible olive oil he got from a friend in the West Bank who got it from Arab neighbors who kept olives. (Grew olives? You know. Were oliviers. Whatever.) It was so good you could have drunk it from the bottle, and was the color they call 'olive' in, like, floor tiles. Deep, murky green. It came in empty soda bottles, and other random containers. I wasn't, however, going to give fifteen dollars to anti-Semites for olive oil with a Palestinian flag on it, and besides, it was probably Carapelli siphoned into politically correct bottles.
3. There were some funny anti-Bush t-shirts on sale, but I refrained.
4. Other than that, about what you would have expected.
5. Further, though, I did note that there was very little in the ongoing rhetoric from the stage to suggest that a two-state solution is still considered viable.
The dad, emboldened by his success in threading through the Code Pink protestors, and the young Arab moms, and the scruffy socialists, and so on, decided that he would like to see what our demonstration looked like from the other side. We were winding through the dense tangle of Palestinian teenagers closer to the barricade, when I noticed that, about ten feet up and over, someone had set fire to an Israeli flag and was waving it overhead.
I announced it was time to leave, so we left, and moved back to our rightful side of the street, where we remained until we went home.
Well, sort of went home. As we were waiting for the bus, the dad decided to engage a woman who was driving an SUV around and around the block, with her sunroof open, and her small daughter holding a Palestinian flag and a big green sign saying "Palestine Will Be Free, From The River To The Sea" through it.
My dad began to talk to her about a two-state solution, which she rejected on the grounds that Israelis don't want it, and are killing Palestinians. My dad's not easily put off, he kept talking, and reengaging her each time the SUV pulled up to our corner.
In the third round of this, some of the guys with the unpleasant signs showed up, and started to shout at her about teaching her kids to chop people's heads off. (Decapitation was something of a preoccupation for these guys.) The dad yelled at them. They yelled back, about not negotiating with terrorists. They got on the bus. We decided we needed drinks, and went back to Max's.
On the whole, I had a great day, even with the slightly pink nose I came home with. But I'm not sure I see a whole lot of hope for a good resolution to either the current mess, or the ongoing mess.
I think the Jewish community needs to get organized around this. We need more people. We need a sound system. We need chant leaders.
I think we should also be doing coalition-building. ANSWER's got Filipino activists talking about the oppression of Muslim, er, freedom fighters, in the Philippines. We should have Filipino activists as well. (I like this idea, because the reciprocal demos would include some causes I feel quite strongly about.) We should connect with the Indian community. ANSWER's getting Latino activists involved by pretending to care about immigration. We should get Latino activists. We DO care about immigration. Lots of them are evangelicals. They should like Israel.
And also, we should get Fred. Fred the Sign Guy keeps gravitating to the Palestinian side of the street, I think because there are more of them. We should extend an invitation to Fred. If twelve galaxies are imperiled to a zygnatronic universe, and we need to impeach Ford, that's fine. He can do it with us.
I think we need a sound system, oh, and food. The ice cream guy went to them too. My dad's got a suggestion about that too, involving neutral falafel, but it can wait for its own post...
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Slice of Life--BART
As the Richmond train pulled out of the 12th Street station, a young man (part of a largish group of young people all with bikes), bids farewell to his friends on the platform by pulling up his shirt and plastering his body against the window.
On cue, a baby at the other side of the car begins to scream.
"Now I just feel like a jerk," says the young exhibitionist.
On cue, a baby at the other side of the car begins to scream.
"Now I just feel like a jerk," says the young exhibitionist.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Why I Cannot Meet You In The Lobby of the King David Hotel
Note, this is not a slam on Treppenwitz, nor is it his fault. He just happened to be the trigger for a rant of mine.
Over in DovBear's comments, Treppenwitz writes:
Ahhhhh. Here we are again. The bombs fly, the refugees seek refuge, the world denounces Israel, and the Israelis denounce Diaspora Jews.
OK. Here goes my whimpering explanation:
I cannot go to Israel instead of going to Florida because I am not going to Florida this year. I did not go to Florida last year. It has been three years since I have last taken a vacation out of state. This is not because I have anything against Florida, or Israel, mind you (actually, both are too hot for my taste this time of year. Christmas in Jerusalem, maybe), it's because I have no money to spare. If I scrape together the money for a trip any time soon, I will probably be going to Hawaii, because that is where my machetenim live, and the fella has not seen them in five years. If you don't want the (modest)check I can write, fine, I will use it here in the Diaspora to further Jewish life. I suspect I can get some good cause to cash it, however, plus one for one of those cute ceramic clocks with the skyline of Jerusalem on it.
And honestly, I do not understand why, aside from the money, my spending time in the King David Hotel, swimming lazily up and down the big pool will be helping in any way other than my bringing dollars, and frankly, helping out in a hospital is gonna be a vanity gig for the American girl. Even if I could afford to take off right now, which I, as I may have mentioned above, cannot.
Why do I go to rallies?
1. It creates in the U.S. press a statement of public support for Israel. If you say Israel doesn't care about the U.S. press, you're lying. I read the JPost.
2. It creates a way to connect with other Jews, and share our feelings. Many of us do other work elsewhere, and yes, that includes both sending money and visiting Israel. But standing together in solidarity is worth something. Or were we wasting our time back in the old days of the Soviet Jewry movement by not taking the protests to Moscow?
3. It keeps us out of the closet and in touch with one another, in scary times. As recent news has shown, not all the jihadis bother to get a ticket to the old country either.
4. It is a chance to find out what is happening, and see what opportunities there are to help. Orgs bring their literature with them.
5. I really like standing in the sun and being screamed at by deranged Berkeley students with white-girl dreadlocks. You should try it sometime.
I am an American Jew, and I am damn proud of that. My great-grandparents went to quite a lot of trouble to create this outcome. I am not an incomplete Jew, nor am I simply part of a support system for Israel. I support Israel. I am at home in Northern California. Could that change? Sure. I want to visit some day. Maybe I'll convince the fella he really wants to live in a hot climate. But those Jews of Bavel, and the Jews of all the other great diaspora communities created a whole Jewish world, in the long time between Jewish states, and I am part of that world. I absolutely refuse to be told that anything I do at home is inherently unworthy.
And yes, this is home. I'm a tumbleweed Jew. I carry all the seeds for a next generation with me wherever I go.
You want to know why aliyah has never seemed all that appealing? Because it's never seemed aimed at me. You want to know how aliyah gets advertised for the 'anglo-saxim'? I remember the column in JPost, just a few years ago. It was addressed to 'Alisa and Josh', parents of 'Noam and Tali', or something very like that, and in the very first paragraph it talked about finding a cleaning lady and a 'good' kindergarten. And every time the bombs fall, I get asked why I don't just take a few weeks' vacation abroad.
You know, I think I WILL just send a check.
A peaceful newish week to us all...
Over in DovBear's comments, Treppenwitz writes:
I'm still not sure where I stand on the whole issue of rallies. I mean, go ahead and have them if it helps solidify the community over there. But I have to agree that it does hurt when Jews outside of Israel go to a rally and think that they have done their job.
...
I'm not saying send your kids to join the army and fight. But what's stopping you from coming to stay in a hotel in order to keep the tourist industry alive. Why can't you and/or your kids come to volunteer in hospitals, and on army bases instead of going to Florida. Why can't you figure out a way to do something more for Israel than go out and socialize with your neighbors on some main street in yourtown USA.
And if one more person say to me "I won't tell you how much we give to Israel every year, but..." and then proceed to tell me to the penny how much they give... I will scream. Keep the money if you think that's where your obligation starts and ends. Ezra wouln't take contributions from Jews in Bavel and I think it is bad that today's diaspora Jews think thier contributions are in place of actively helping Israel with their physical presense.
Ahhhhh. Here we are again. The bombs fly, the refugees seek refuge, the world denounces Israel, and the Israelis denounce Diaspora Jews.
OK. Here goes my whimpering explanation:
I cannot go to Israel instead of going to Florida because I am not going to Florida this year. I did not go to Florida last year. It has been three years since I have last taken a vacation out of state. This is not because I have anything against Florida, or Israel, mind you (actually, both are too hot for my taste this time of year. Christmas in Jerusalem, maybe), it's because I have no money to spare. If I scrape together the money for a trip any time soon, I will probably be going to Hawaii, because that is where my machetenim live, and the fella has not seen them in five years. If you don't want the (modest)check I can write, fine, I will use it here in the Diaspora to further Jewish life. I suspect I can get some good cause to cash it, however, plus one for one of those cute ceramic clocks with the skyline of Jerusalem on it.
And honestly, I do not understand why, aside from the money, my spending time in the King David Hotel, swimming lazily up and down the big pool will be helping in any way other than my bringing dollars, and frankly, helping out in a hospital is gonna be a vanity gig for the American girl. Even if I could afford to take off right now, which I, as I may have mentioned above, cannot.
Why do I go to rallies?
1. It creates in the U.S. press a statement of public support for Israel. If you say Israel doesn't care about the U.S. press, you're lying. I read the JPost.
2. It creates a way to connect with other Jews, and share our feelings. Many of us do other work elsewhere, and yes, that includes both sending money and visiting Israel. But standing together in solidarity is worth something. Or were we wasting our time back in the old days of the Soviet Jewry movement by not taking the protests to Moscow?
3. It keeps us out of the closet and in touch with one another, in scary times. As recent news has shown, not all the jihadis bother to get a ticket to the old country either.
4. It is a chance to find out what is happening, and see what opportunities there are to help. Orgs bring their literature with them.
5. I really like standing in the sun and being screamed at by deranged Berkeley students with white-girl dreadlocks. You should try it sometime.
I am an American Jew, and I am damn proud of that. My great-grandparents went to quite a lot of trouble to create this outcome. I am not an incomplete Jew, nor am I simply part of a support system for Israel. I support Israel. I am at home in Northern California. Could that change? Sure. I want to visit some day. Maybe I'll convince the fella he really wants to live in a hot climate. But those Jews of Bavel, and the Jews of all the other great diaspora communities created a whole Jewish world, in the long time between Jewish states, and I am part of that world. I absolutely refuse to be told that anything I do at home is inherently unworthy.
And yes, this is home. I'm a tumbleweed Jew. I carry all the seeds for a next generation with me wherever I go.
You want to know why aliyah has never seemed all that appealing? Because it's never seemed aimed at me. You want to know how aliyah gets advertised for the 'anglo-saxim'? I remember the column in JPost, just a few years ago. It was addressed to 'Alisa and Josh', parents of 'Noam and Tali', or something very like that, and in the very first paragraph it talked about finding a cleaning lady and a 'good' kindergarten. And every time the bombs fall, I get asked why I don't just take a few weeks' vacation abroad.
You know, I think I WILL just send a check.
A peaceful newish week to us all...
I lack the paper-hanging gene
I'm blogging from my new classroom, where I am trying to put up bright colored paper on the corkboards.
So far it is not going so well.
There are people who seem to be able to just cut a couple of pieces of paper, slap them on the wall with a stapler, and have beautiful, color-coordinated boards up. I am not those people. ("I am not those men. I am Saleh ad-Din." Well, no, not that either, really.)
Cut, staple, crumple, cut, why didn't they teach me to do this in teaching school instead of the stupid Rachel Hunter lesson plans you never use? Cut, staple, staple the wrong side forward, crumple, mutter.
There was this woman at my old school who had the world's most beautiful classroom, I can't describe how lovely it was. Double edgings of trim, and all color-coordinated, and neat and tidy. And plants. And yes, she was also a terrific teacher, and kids all loved her. It was only a small consolation to know that she never got any sleep.
Oh well. I'm putting in another hour on cut and staple, and then I'm going home and doing lesson plans, something I CAN do well. Gaack.
So far it is not going so well.
There are people who seem to be able to just cut a couple of pieces of paper, slap them on the wall with a stapler, and have beautiful, color-coordinated boards up. I am not those people. ("I am not those men. I am Saleh ad-Din." Well, no, not that either, really.)
Cut, staple, crumple, cut, why didn't they teach me to do this in teaching school instead of the stupid Rachel Hunter lesson plans you never use? Cut, staple, staple the wrong side forward, crumple, mutter.
There was this woman at my old school who had the world's most beautiful classroom, I can't describe how lovely it was. Double edgings of trim, and all color-coordinated, and neat and tidy. And plants. And yes, she was also a terrific teacher, and kids all loved her. It was only a small consolation to know that she never got any sleep.
Oh well. I'm putting in another hour on cut and staple, and then I'm going home and doing lesson plans, something I CAN do well. Gaack.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Seattle News
I have a very vivid memory of one particular Rosh Hashanah when I was a little girl. I think it must have been the fall of 82, so I would have been nine. I think I had a dress I really liked, although I don't remember what it looked like. My parents would have been a couple of years older than I am now. We walked to Temple Emanu-El on Lake Street from our apartment, and the weather was incredible, perfect yontiff weather, sunny with deep blue skies, but not warm, crisp and cool. The SFPD was standing around the building, checking people as they came in.
I don't remember how old I was when it really occurred to me that Methodists don't have security in front of their churches on Easter day, that most ethnic and religious organizations don't have elaborate security measures. About the time I talk about above, one of my close friends and I used to worry about synagogue bombings all the time. It was something we'd discuss together.
So. A guy who may or may not be crazy, who probably, we think, acted alone, walks into the Seattle Federation building and opens fire at a bunch of women, one of them pregnant, working on a Friday afternoon, about to close up for Shabbos. Because he's a Muslim American, and so it follows, angry at Israel. I am reminded of something an elderly man, raised in Egypt, said once at a conference I attended: "We are all Zionists, whether we like it or not."
The Balabusta's mother works in a Jewish agency, so there's just a slight personal edge here to my anger and fear. (OK, a very sharp and serrated personal edge. How did he get past security? What was the emergency plan? How come all these Federation bigwigs were home when this happened, leaving their secretaries in the line of fire? Why the hell didn't someone hit him with a car when he shot someone out in front of the coffee shop? Do I care that the spokeswoman was making challah when she got the news? Can we ask for the death penalty? Who put this idea into his head? Where did he get the gun? Oh God.)
You know--with all of this, we cope. We speak out, we comfort each other, we plan for the future and revamp our security measures. You realize, at some point, if you're going to live as a Jew in the world, that this is the score. My rabbi, who has made it to his mid-eighties with his sense of humor and his cute German accent intact, made a point of telling the congregation after 9/11 that he was still driving the Bay Bridge--this was when the whole SF area was a little nutso about the bridges. (They attract people with problems. Most of those are self-destructive, rather than homicidal, but the bridges do seem to turn up regularly in terrorist planning stages.) He's not a fatalist, his point was that if you change everything you can think of to avoid danger, you end up boxed inside, having ceded your whole life to your fear, and those who want to make you afraid. But you know what they say. Paranoia is when you think they're out to get you. Jewish paranoia is when you KNOW they're out to get you. You live in world. You do what you can to stay safe.
And now a woman working at Federation on a Friday afternoon--safe enough, no?--is dead. Now five others are wounded. Now I'm jumpy again. No new realizations. I've lived with this a lot of years. But being reminded, especially with a death, is never pleasant.
I don't remember how old I was when it really occurred to me that Methodists don't have security in front of their churches on Easter day, that most ethnic and religious organizations don't have elaborate security measures. About the time I talk about above, one of my close friends and I used to worry about synagogue bombings all the time. It was something we'd discuss together.
So. A guy who may or may not be crazy, who probably, we think, acted alone, walks into the Seattle Federation building and opens fire at a bunch of women, one of them pregnant, working on a Friday afternoon, about to close up for Shabbos. Because he's a Muslim American, and so it follows, angry at Israel. I am reminded of something an elderly man, raised in Egypt, said once at a conference I attended: "We are all Zionists, whether we like it or not."
The Balabusta's mother works in a Jewish agency, so there's just a slight personal edge here to my anger and fear. (OK, a very sharp and serrated personal edge. How did he get past security? What was the emergency plan? How come all these Federation bigwigs were home when this happened, leaving their secretaries in the line of fire? Why the hell didn't someone hit him with a car when he shot someone out in front of the coffee shop? Do I care that the spokeswoman was making challah when she got the news? Can we ask for the death penalty? Who put this idea into his head? Where did he get the gun? Oh God.)
You know--with all of this, we cope. We speak out, we comfort each other, we plan for the future and revamp our security measures. You realize, at some point, if you're going to live as a Jew in the world, that this is the score. My rabbi, who has made it to his mid-eighties with his sense of humor and his cute German accent intact, made a point of telling the congregation after 9/11 that he was still driving the Bay Bridge--this was when the whole SF area was a little nutso about the bridges. (They attract people with problems. Most of those are self-destructive, rather than homicidal, but the bridges do seem to turn up regularly in terrorist planning stages.) He's not a fatalist, his point was that if you change everything you can think of to avoid danger, you end up boxed inside, having ceded your whole life to your fear, and those who want to make you afraid. But you know what they say. Paranoia is when you think they're out to get you. Jewish paranoia is when you KNOW they're out to get you. You live in world. You do what you can to stay safe.
And now a woman working at Federation on a Friday afternoon--safe enough, no?--is dead. Now five others are wounded. Now I'm jumpy again. No new realizations. I've lived with this a lot of years. But being reminded, especially with a death, is never pleasant.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
The language of the blogs
Does anyone else sometimes look at the odd collections of letters Blogger asks you to reproduce to prove you're a real poster, and not a mailbot, and think that they must be words from some mysterious and exotic language? Not all of them, I mean zxetgds doesn't seem to mean much, but today I got:
raqhaqu
I pronounce it rock-HOCK-oo, but obviously you might come up with something different. What IS a raqhaqu? I think it is a noun, and I think it must be onomatopoetic.
Perhaps a raqhaqu is the sound of tree braches being tapped against your windows by a rising autumn storm.
A raqhaqu could be a kind of love song.
Or a kind of dove.
A raqhaqu could be a warm, intense wind that rushes into town off the desert, and causes people to eat eclairs and take their shoes off in public.
The possibilities, they're endless. What do YOU think it is?
raqhaqu
I pronounce it rock-HOCK-oo, but obviously you might come up with something different. What IS a raqhaqu? I think it is a noun, and I think it must be onomatopoetic.
Perhaps a raqhaqu is the sound of tree braches being tapped against your windows by a rising autumn storm.
A raqhaqu could be a kind of love song.
Or a kind of dove.
A raqhaqu could be a warm, intense wind that rushes into town off the desert, and causes people to eat eclairs and take their shoes off in public.
The possibilities, they're endless. What do YOU think it is?
Sunday, July 23, 2006
We Sweat, But We Stand With Israel
The Balabusta's report on the San Francisco Jewish Community's Israel Rally at Justin Herman Plaza today, respectfully submitted:
For me, a rally begins when you're on public transit, lurching along, and trying to figure out which of the people on the BART train are also going to the rally. Not the bike guys, they're talking about riding in the mission. The woman with the Israel/U.S. flag pin on her "Galilee Comes To The Bay" shirt? Too easy. But how about the older ladies in the sun visors over there? Hmmm...something says yes...
As we disembark and start streaming upstairs it gets easier. Conversations begin to stand out. Speaking Russian? Ours. Speaking Hebrew? Ours. Speaking English, talking about how a cousin in Jerusalem may or may not be coming to visit? Ours. Tring to convince father that they should go to CompUSA and buy the new game after the rally...and so on.
We're having a heat wave here in NoCal, and it was hot, oh, God, was it ever hot. Lots of flags, lots of signs. JCRC was selling "Pro Israel, Pro Peace" t-shirts for five bucks, so I bought one and pulled it over my own shirt, which was a mistake. Sweating through my clothes kind of hot.
The event was MCed by John Rothman, who I've known for approximately forever. Present to speak were--let me see--Dianne Feinstein, a congressman whose name I didn't catch, Doug Huneke, SF Supervisor Bevan Dufty, Nonie Darwish, an Israeli woman from JCRC who grew up in one of the northern towns, Danny Grossman, and the voice of the mayor of Haifa via speakerphone. Gavin Newsom attended, but did not speak. Schwartzenegger was at the LA rally, but sent someone from his SF office who gave a nice address. Some other people, who I'm sure I will remember after I post this.
Bevan Dufty got up to speak and said that with a good Irish name like Bevan Doyle Dufty, people can always tell that he's gay, but not so many realize that he's Jewish. (Gotta love the Jewish-ands. We rock.) After he finished his speech, and told the crowd a little about his soon-to-be-born daughter, I heard someone saying "who was that?" as he walked off the stage. I turned my head. "Bevan Dufty," I said.
"WHO?" Remember, this is over the roar of what DiFi guesstimated at about 700 people. I turn my head, and right there is the Balabusta's former boss for all of four months, a certain left-wing Zionist Renewal rabbi and magazine editor, with his wife. "BEVAN DUFTY," I shout.
"WHO?"
"Supervisor Bevan Dufty, from District Eight."
"Thanks."
Not a flicker of recognition. I guess I didn't make much of an impact in his life.
GRROOOOOAAAAN.
At some point I decided that I needed to move out of my up-by-the-barricades, getting grilled like a trout, location, so I wandered back to see what the counterprotest situation was. I was immediately met by a JCRC representative--crisp-shirted in the heat--who wanted us to ignore the counterprotesters, because looking at them would give them publicity, which was what they wanted. "OK," said the Balabusta, and kept heading toward the barricades.
He actually sort of got in my way, and made it clear that they REALLY did not want people going over there. I lost my temper a little. I have a rather low level of tolerance for the organized Jewish community, sometimes.
"Look," I said. "I want to see what the turnout over there is like. I have family who can't be here today, and friends in Israel who will want to know. I am not going to start a slanging match with those guys. I'm going to look and go back to the rally. And I am allowed to go anywhere I want in Justin Herman Plaza."
He did kind of a nervous laugh. "Of course you are..." he said. Anyway, dude, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I really did just look at them and come back. Maybe I overreacted.
I don't think they had even forty, which made me feel good---we were so outnumbered last Monday. Turnabout, like they say.
Anyway, a good time was had by all. Let me close with something John Rothman said, which I'm sure I paraphrasing a little:
"We are not divided. We are Democrats, we are Republicans, we are liberal, we are conservative, we are black, we are white, we are Asian, we are Christians, we are Jews. We are here united, to stand with Israel and for peace."
Omeyn v'omeyn.
For me, a rally begins when you're on public transit, lurching along, and trying to figure out which of the people on the BART train are also going to the rally. Not the bike guys, they're talking about riding in the mission. The woman with the Israel/U.S. flag pin on her "Galilee Comes To The Bay" shirt? Too easy. But how about the older ladies in the sun visors over there? Hmmm...something says yes...
As we disembark and start streaming upstairs it gets easier. Conversations begin to stand out. Speaking Russian? Ours. Speaking Hebrew? Ours. Speaking English, talking about how a cousin in Jerusalem may or may not be coming to visit? Ours. Tring to convince father that they should go to CompUSA and buy the new game after the rally...and so on.
We're having a heat wave here in NoCal, and it was hot, oh, God, was it ever hot. Lots of flags, lots of signs. JCRC was selling "Pro Israel, Pro Peace" t-shirts for five bucks, so I bought one and pulled it over my own shirt, which was a mistake. Sweating through my clothes kind of hot.
The event was MCed by John Rothman, who I've known for approximately forever. Present to speak were--let me see--Dianne Feinstein, a congressman whose name I didn't catch, Doug Huneke, SF Supervisor Bevan Dufty, Nonie Darwish, an Israeli woman from JCRC who grew up in one of the northern towns, Danny Grossman, and the voice of the mayor of Haifa via speakerphone. Gavin Newsom attended, but did not speak. Schwartzenegger was at the LA rally, but sent someone from his SF office who gave a nice address. Some other people, who I'm sure I will remember after I post this.
Bevan Dufty got up to speak and said that with a good Irish name like Bevan Doyle Dufty, people can always tell that he's gay, but not so many realize that he's Jewish. (Gotta love the Jewish-ands. We rock.) After he finished his speech, and told the crowd a little about his soon-to-be-born daughter, I heard someone saying "who was that?" as he walked off the stage. I turned my head. "Bevan Dufty," I said.
"WHO?" Remember, this is over the roar of what DiFi guesstimated at about 700 people. I turn my head, and right there is the Balabusta's former boss for all of four months, a certain left-wing Zionist Renewal rabbi and magazine editor, with his wife. "BEVAN DUFTY," I shout.
"WHO?"
"Supervisor Bevan Dufty, from District Eight."
"Thanks."
Not a flicker of recognition. I guess I didn't make much of an impact in his life.
GRROOOOOAAAAN.
At some point I decided that I needed to move out of my up-by-the-barricades, getting grilled like a trout, location, so I wandered back to see what the counterprotest situation was. I was immediately met by a JCRC representative--crisp-shirted in the heat--who wanted us to ignore the counterprotesters, because looking at them would give them publicity, which was what they wanted. "OK," said the Balabusta, and kept heading toward the barricades.
He actually sort of got in my way, and made it clear that they REALLY did not want people going over there. I lost my temper a little. I have a rather low level of tolerance for the organized Jewish community, sometimes.
"Look," I said. "I want to see what the turnout over there is like. I have family who can't be here today, and friends in Israel who will want to know. I am not going to start a slanging match with those guys. I'm going to look and go back to the rally. And I am allowed to go anywhere I want in Justin Herman Plaza."
He did kind of a nervous laugh. "Of course you are..." he said. Anyway, dude, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I really did just look at them and come back. Maybe I overreacted.
I don't think they had even forty, which made me feel good---we were so outnumbered last Monday. Turnabout, like they say.
Anyway, a good time was had by all. Let me close with something John Rothman said, which I'm sure I paraphrasing a little:
"We are not divided. We are Democrats, we are Republicans, we are liberal, we are conservative, we are black, we are white, we are Asian, we are Christians, we are Jews. We are here united, to stand with Israel and for peace."
Omeyn v'omeyn.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
A Learner! I Have A Learner!
(Sorry, I've been reading too many posts about girls who want to be kollel wives and won't settle...)
Anyway, the fella has decided to go back to school and do a bachelor's degree in something practical--computer science or engineering. He's enrolled in a local community college with an eye to transferring to Cal State in a while.
The Balabusta is kvelling big-time. So are the machetenim. He's all signed up with classes for the fall, and we're just working out the financia aid details. The place is a short BART ride away, and right in the middle of a business area, so if he wants to get a job off-campus, it won't be a schlep.
The problem with the fella's original line of work, administrative assisting, is that he is, by nature, not cut out to do it. Neither is the Balabusta, but being a girl, she could mimic the required behavior better. Also, I am a RIGHTEOUS receptionist.
"No, sir, I'm sorry. Mr. Donnelly is not in the office." (Mr. Donnelly is in front of me, making gestures indicating that he will shoot himself if he has to talk to the caller.)
"May I take a message? Yes, I know I took a message earlier, and I delivered that right to Mr. Donnelly's desk. Yes, I placed it very prominently. I would be happy to let him know you called again."
"No, I do not know when he will be back. No, he does not normally leave me his schedule. I really can't guess."
"No, I don't know where he is."
"No, I guess I don't know much, sir." (This is spoken without the slightest trace of hostility or sarcasm.) "May I take a message?"
The fella does not like to talk to the public. This makes being an office assistant quite difficult at times. We hope to find him a job where he solves problems in the privacy of his own cube.
I'm happy. And I think he will be happy, once he gets over the heart-pounding terror of dealing for the first time with campus bureaucracy.
Anyway, the fella has decided to go back to school and do a bachelor's degree in something practical--computer science or engineering. He's enrolled in a local community college with an eye to transferring to Cal State in a while.
The Balabusta is kvelling big-time. So are the machetenim. He's all signed up with classes for the fall, and we're just working out the financia aid details. The place is a short BART ride away, and right in the middle of a business area, so if he wants to get a job off-campus, it won't be a schlep.
The problem with the fella's original line of work, administrative assisting, is that he is, by nature, not cut out to do it. Neither is the Balabusta, but being a girl, she could mimic the required behavior better. Also, I am a RIGHTEOUS receptionist.
"No, sir, I'm sorry. Mr. Donnelly is not in the office." (Mr. Donnelly is in front of me, making gestures indicating that he will shoot himself if he has to talk to the caller.)
"May I take a message? Yes, I know I took a message earlier, and I delivered that right to Mr. Donnelly's desk. Yes, I placed it very prominently. I would be happy to let him know you called again."
"No, I do not know when he will be back. No, he does not normally leave me his schedule. I really can't guess."
"No, I don't know where he is."
"No, I guess I don't know much, sir." (This is spoken without the slightest trace of hostility or sarcasm.) "May I take a message?"
The fella does not like to talk to the public. This makes being an office assistant quite difficult at times. We hope to find him a job where he solves problems in the privacy of his own cube.
I'm happy. And I think he will be happy, once he gets over the heart-pounding terror of dealing for the first time with campus bureaucracy.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Enemies: This Is Not A Love Story
Reading Newsweek this week, I found a short article about how many Iraqis are now carrying two ID cards. One carries their real name, be it Shiite or Sunni. The other is a fake, carrying a Sunni or Shiite name. Hopefully, producing the right one at checkpoints will protect you from being found in a sack in the river, or dumped on the doorstep of the police station.
This reminded me of a conversation in Andre Dumas' _The Three Musketeers_. The novel is, of course, set against the backdrop of France's vicious seventeenth-century internal religious wars between Catholics and Protestants. (No one ever remembers this, they remember the swashbuckling.) One of the musketeers--I can't recall which right now--has a servant who explains that his father made a living for years as a highway robber. When he saw a Protestant coming down the road, he would be overwhelmed with loyalty to the true Church, and would rob the Protestant. When he saw a Catholic, he would be set afire by the rightness of the reformed faith, and rob the Catholic. And he baptized his sons accordingly--"I'm a Catholic," the servant explains, "but he made my brother a Protestant."
Eventually, we learn, the father was killed by two men he'd previously robbed--a Catholic and a Protestant who forgot their differences long enough to gang up on him. The sons, however, avenged their father--the Catholic killed the Protestant, and the Protestant the Catholic. Quite the little fable.
And Kohelet was, in fact, correct, there is nothing new under the sun. Worse, nothing under the sun seems to change much.
You want to know what detail from the last couple of months in Iraq really stood out for me? When al-Zarqawi was killed, they reported that one of the other people in the house was his sixteen year old wife. (One of three I understand.) I haven't been able to find a name for her. I read that he used one of his fathers-in-law as a suicide bomber, but I don't know if this was her father or someone else's. I don't know anything about her, except what's above.
But I can guess. She didn't choose him, not because she loved him, or thought he'd be a good provider, or admired his zeal. He took her, or someone gave her to him. She was sixteen. She was travelling with him (because she was the pretty young one? Because she didn't have small children yet?) when the sky fell on them.
She probably would have defined herself as my enemy. And I probably would have, given the option, taken out Zarqawi knowing she was there. But I haven't been able to stop thinking a little about her, and wishing things could be different, for her and all the other kids in the line of fire.
I keep thinking, too, about the lady who wanted me to extend the hand of friendship to the Palestinian teenagers on Montgomery Street. I've said this before--I always feel closer to Palestinian activists than to people who have no stake in the Middle East, but imagine that peace is just a matter of willpower, like losing weight or stopping smoking. We understand what lies between us, and that if we have to pick--you or me--we'll choose for our own people.
Like Alan Lupo said, I keep praying for multiple choice.
I really do have some very cheerful things to talk about--but I think I'll talk about them tomorrow.
This reminded me of a conversation in Andre Dumas' _The Three Musketeers_. The novel is, of course, set against the backdrop of France's vicious seventeenth-century internal religious wars between Catholics and Protestants. (No one ever remembers this, they remember the swashbuckling.) One of the musketeers--I can't recall which right now--has a servant who explains that his father made a living for years as a highway robber. When he saw a Protestant coming down the road, he would be overwhelmed with loyalty to the true Church, and would rob the Protestant. When he saw a Catholic, he would be set afire by the rightness of the reformed faith, and rob the Catholic. And he baptized his sons accordingly--"I'm a Catholic," the servant explains, "but he made my brother a Protestant."
Eventually, we learn, the father was killed by two men he'd previously robbed--a Catholic and a Protestant who forgot their differences long enough to gang up on him. The sons, however, avenged their father--the Catholic killed the Protestant, and the Protestant the Catholic. Quite the little fable.
And Kohelet was, in fact, correct, there is nothing new under the sun. Worse, nothing under the sun seems to change much.
You want to know what detail from the last couple of months in Iraq really stood out for me? When al-Zarqawi was killed, they reported that one of the other people in the house was his sixteen year old wife. (One of three I understand.) I haven't been able to find a name for her. I read that he used one of his fathers-in-law as a suicide bomber, but I don't know if this was her father or someone else's. I don't know anything about her, except what's above.
But I can guess. She didn't choose him, not because she loved him, or thought he'd be a good provider, or admired his zeal. He took her, or someone gave her to him. She was sixteen. She was travelling with him (because she was the pretty young one? Because she didn't have small children yet?) when the sky fell on them.
She probably would have defined herself as my enemy. And I probably would have, given the option, taken out Zarqawi knowing she was there. But I haven't been able to stop thinking a little about her, and wishing things could be different, for her and all the other kids in the line of fire.
I keep thinking, too, about the lady who wanted me to extend the hand of friendship to the Palestinian teenagers on Montgomery Street. I've said this before--I always feel closer to Palestinian activists than to people who have no stake in the Middle East, but imagine that peace is just a matter of willpower, like losing weight or stopping smoking. We understand what lies between us, and that if we have to pick--you or me--we'll choose for our own people.
Like Alan Lupo said, I keep praying for multiple choice.
I really do have some very cheerful things to talk about--but I think I'll talk about them tomorrow.
Monday, July 17, 2006
More Fun Than A Land War In Asia
So now that I'm on the SFVoiceForIsrael mailing list, it came to my attention that there was gonna be a 'Jewish-led' protest at the Israeli Consulate in SF, at noon today, against, um, well, everything Israel has done for
1. The last month
2. The last forty years
3. The last sixty years
(you choose)
and that people were invited to counterprotest. So I went.
It was, and this is not exactly the word I expected to use, lots of fun. I was surrounded by upset Jewish activists, there were flags and police barricades all around, and people were yelling at us that we were enemies of peace. We sang Hatikva. It was exactly like the Soviet Jewry rallies of my childhood in some ways. I had a very good time. Is that sick? It's much more cathartic to wave a flag and scream 'Hezbollah out of Lebanon' and 'Am Yisrael Chai' than to read the papers and get more and more worked up.
Some Notes:
1. In theory this protest was a brainchild of Jewish Voice for Peace and some outfit called Jews for a Free Palestine, who do not seem to have a website. Clearly, there were some other people involved. Many of the protesters were waving A.N.S.W.E.R. signs. Palestinian flags, and one or two Lebanese ones were being waved vehemently. There was only one sign bearing JVFP's name.
2. This group may want to get together more to discuss their agenda more clearly. One sign demanded a return to the pre-67 borders, but during the chanting there were several rounds of "From the river to the sea..." Also the thing about redeeming Palestine with blood and fire, which is the only nonreligious, nonfood piece of Arabic I understand.
3. The media were being dopes. One woman snarled something about killing all the Arabs, and was immediately descended on by Channel 7, and miked. Channel 7 was then surrounded by non-homicidal protestors demanding a chance to speak and balance the homicidal protestor. Then the non-homicidal protestors were descended on by the JCRC representative, who wanted to be the voice of the community, although this was not actually a JCRC demo. Tohu vavhohu, LIVE!
4. A sweet older lady walked up to me and started to talk about how the two flags should be together, for PEACE, and how I just needed to cross over and extend the hand of peace and friendship to the kid flapping his 'I voted for Hamas' shirt at us. I expressed some doubts, and she told me that if I thought like that, then of course it wouldn't happen. Wished to hammer her on head with flag, but was better brought up than that, also Channel 7 still lurking.
5. What is it with very pale white girls with scary intense eyes wearing khaffiyehs? There were a couple of Arab guys wearing them around their shoulders, and one girl who had something in a check pattern tied over her hair, under her scarf. Then there were the very very white kids, mostly female, all with mad, staring eyes (I'm not making this up, it was sort of frightening) wearing khaffiyehs wrapped around their heads, in that sort of mask style you see stone-throwing types wearing it in photographs, but bare-faced. (The better to yell.) I couldn't help but wonder what the hell this meant to them. Combining cultural appropriation and cross-dressing seems particularly odd. Nowhere did I see a Palestinian man wearing a khaffiyeh on his head, which I think is what it was originally for, and which looks a darn sight more normal.
6. I discussed with the person next to me what the equivalent for our crowd might be of the insane khaffiyeh style. The only thing I could come up with was the silly kibbutznik hats (tembels? timbas? urkels?) and they're not flattering. I suppose the exact equivalent would be for me to wear a black fedora, but...no. Somehow I don't think so.
7. Lots more happened.
I don't know if this did any good in the world, realistically speaking, but it felt right.
1. The last month
2. The last forty years
3. The last sixty years
(you choose)
and that people were invited to counterprotest. So I went.
It was, and this is not exactly the word I expected to use, lots of fun. I was surrounded by upset Jewish activists, there were flags and police barricades all around, and people were yelling at us that we were enemies of peace. We sang Hatikva. It was exactly like the Soviet Jewry rallies of my childhood in some ways. I had a very good time. Is that sick? It's much more cathartic to wave a flag and scream 'Hezbollah out of Lebanon' and 'Am Yisrael Chai' than to read the papers and get more and more worked up.
Some Notes:
1. In theory this protest was a brainchild of Jewish Voice for Peace and some outfit called Jews for a Free Palestine, who do not seem to have a website. Clearly, there were some other people involved. Many of the protesters were waving A.N.S.W.E.R. signs. Palestinian flags, and one or two Lebanese ones were being waved vehemently. There was only one sign bearing JVFP's name.
2. This group may want to get together more to discuss their agenda more clearly. One sign demanded a return to the pre-67 borders, but during the chanting there were several rounds of "From the river to the sea..." Also the thing about redeeming Palestine with blood and fire, which is the only nonreligious, nonfood piece of Arabic I understand.
3. The media were being dopes. One woman snarled something about killing all the Arabs, and was immediately descended on by Channel 7, and miked. Channel 7 was then surrounded by non-homicidal protestors demanding a chance to speak and balance the homicidal protestor. Then the non-homicidal protestors were descended on by the JCRC representative, who wanted to be the voice of the community, although this was not actually a JCRC demo. Tohu vavhohu, LIVE!
4. A sweet older lady walked up to me and started to talk about how the two flags should be together, for PEACE, and how I just needed to cross over and extend the hand of peace and friendship to the kid flapping his 'I voted for Hamas' shirt at us. I expressed some doubts, and she told me that if I thought like that, then of course it wouldn't happen. Wished to hammer her on head with flag, but was better brought up than that, also Channel 7 still lurking.
5. What is it with very pale white girls with scary intense eyes wearing khaffiyehs? There were a couple of Arab guys wearing them around their shoulders, and one girl who had something in a check pattern tied over her hair, under her scarf. Then there were the very very white kids, mostly female, all with mad, staring eyes (I'm not making this up, it was sort of frightening) wearing khaffiyehs wrapped around their heads, in that sort of mask style you see stone-throwing types wearing it in photographs, but bare-faced. (The better to yell.) I couldn't help but wonder what the hell this meant to them. Combining cultural appropriation and cross-dressing seems particularly odd. Nowhere did I see a Palestinian man wearing a khaffiyeh on his head, which I think is what it was originally for, and which looks a darn sight more normal.
6. I discussed with the person next to me what the equivalent for our crowd might be of the insane khaffiyeh style. The only thing I could come up with was the silly kibbutznik hats (tembels? timbas? urkels?) and they're not flattering. I suppose the exact equivalent would be for me to wear a black fedora, but...no. Somehow I don't think so.
7. Lots more happened.
I don't know if this did any good in the world, realistically speaking, but it felt right.
Friday, July 14, 2006
I got the job I got the job I got the job
I was offered, and have accepted, a job teaching English, religion and PE (Maybe I can get enough credit for #2 that Herself will offer me some help with #3) at a small Catholic school in Oakland.
Now, I am still a little black and blue from the last two hideous years, and I am very, very nervous about buying too wholeheartedly into anything but THIS ROCKS! I have a sweet principal, keys to the building, the ability to teach from novels, and a big room. With individual little desks. Next week I'm going to start going in a couple of times a week and getting my room ready for the coming year.
As for the Balabusta teaching religion in a Catholic school--yeah, go ahead and laugh. I'm reading the textbook now, and I think it will go fine. About 40% of the students are not Catholic either, and the same principles that apply to creating a good lesson in anything else apply to teaching about the Eucharist. We'll be all good. I'm planning a snappy little bit where they make poster-cards of sacramental symbols.
Now comes the intense nervousness, though. I interviewed really well, and I think I've made a great impression--now all I have to do is teach well enough to match that impression. Oy, that's the catch. But I am a good teacher (I know this when I'm in my right mind) and I'm going to work my tuchis off. I'm doing my best to NOT THINK about the last two years. I know my classroom management skills have improved dramatically under fire. I know that I can (per my BTSA mentor, too) plan a really good lesson. I'm smart. And I talked about what I believe and what I know in the interviews, and they responded to it. I can DO this. The teachers talk about the kids and parents with a lot of enthusiasm, and OHHHHH, this is just great. Bounce, giggle, rub hands together gleefully.
And yes, I've been reading the news. NOT bounce giggle there. Crud, there. More to follow.
Now, I am still a little black and blue from the last two hideous years, and I am very, very nervous about buying too wholeheartedly into anything but THIS ROCKS! I have a sweet principal, keys to the building, the ability to teach from novels, and a big room. With individual little desks. Next week I'm going to start going in a couple of times a week and getting my room ready for the coming year.
As for the Balabusta teaching religion in a Catholic school--yeah, go ahead and laugh. I'm reading the textbook now, and I think it will go fine. About 40% of the students are not Catholic either, and the same principles that apply to creating a good lesson in anything else apply to teaching about the Eucharist. We'll be all good. I'm planning a snappy little bit where they make poster-cards of sacramental symbols.
Now comes the intense nervousness, though. I interviewed really well, and I think I've made a great impression--now all I have to do is teach well enough to match that impression. Oy, that's the catch. But I am a good teacher (I know this when I'm in my right mind) and I'm going to work my tuchis off. I'm doing my best to NOT THINK about the last two years. I know my classroom management skills have improved dramatically under fire. I know that I can (per my BTSA mentor, too) plan a really good lesson. I'm smart. And I talked about what I believe and what I know in the interviews, and they responded to it. I can DO this. The teachers talk about the kids and parents with a lot of enthusiasm, and OHHHHH, this is just great. Bounce, giggle, rub hands together gleefully.
And yes, I've been reading the news. NOT bounce giggle there. Crud, there. More to follow.
Monday, July 10, 2006
GOAL! BURRITO!
The Balabusta's mother walked into the neighborhood burrito place apparently just as Italy finished winning the World Cup.
They made her a burrito anyway, but she describes it as being slightly off in proportions, and she went so far as to unroll it before eating to doublecheck it had not accidentally had some carnitas or somethng similarly trayf rolled into it as the guy behind the counter tried to make a burrito by the burrito equivalent of touch-typing, with his eyes glued to the TV.
There is massive rejoicing happening at the Italian deli, too, and they have hung up a big blue flag with gold stars.
The Balabusta celebrated by making spaghetti for dinner.
They made her a burrito anyway, but she describes it as being slightly off in proportions, and she went so far as to unroll it before eating to doublecheck it had not accidentally had some carnitas or somethng similarly trayf rolled into it as the guy behind the counter tried to make a burrito by the burrito equivalent of touch-typing, with his eyes glued to the TV.
There is massive rejoicing happening at the Italian deli, too, and they have hung up a big blue flag with gold stars.
The Balabusta celebrated by making spaghetti for dinner.
Separation of Church and State (Commie Plot?)
Republicans are super-weird people. If my chance I have any Republican readers, I do apologize for being so blunt, but truly dudes. You're super-weird. Or at least you share a party with some who are.
The cause of the Balabusta discussing Republicans, is that a few nights ago, she and the fella attended a party at the home of friends where she ended up talking to a couple of Republicans over Guinness and cheese and crackers for about an hour. It began when they started discussing the persecution of Christians in the United States, and ended, at least for me, when they started talking about the feasibility of the Chinese landing troops on American soil. (I slid out at that point and joined the group talking about Batman movies.)
Sections of the conversation were quite civilized, although somewhat hindered by the fact that I like to know what the hell I am talking about before mouthing off about specific topics. Sections were weirder. Three things stood out in particular:
1. The tendency to tell me, when I said that something was not true--for example, that you cannot be forced to let your kids sit through any form of sex ed, at least here in California--that whatever it was was the case in New York. At one point, one of the Republicans apologized for referencing New York so often, but 'everything comes out of there and spreads'. I was almost tempted to say "Yes, my grandparents, for example'. Alas, I was too entertained by the fact I didn't really think he quite understood the subtext he was invoking to get a good hot fight going there.
2. A weird moment when the other Republican started trying, I think, to assure me that I would get the picture someday. The phrase she insisted on was that "If you are not a Democrat at twenty you have no heart, and if you aren't a Republican at forty you have no brain." She paused. "I just went straight for the brain," she said. I think I was expected to applaud. I believe the real phrase is: "If you are not a communist at twenty you have no heart, and if you are still one at thirty, you have no head." Also, I can't imagine making a sweeping statement like that about Republicans in a social conversation with one, and was greatly intrigued that she apparently did not think that she was insulting me, or that I should mind if she was. ("Hey, I just met you, but I think you're a moron. Let's hang out.")
3. Then we got to the separation of church and state exchange. This happens when a Republican asks you if 'separation of church and state' is in the Constition. This is a trick question, although I'm not sure it's meant to be. They mean NO, because those words do not appear. However, some people who know perfectly well the words don't appear will say YES, meaning the establishment clause establishes the concept. Anyway, I've been put through this one so often that I can't even be bothered anymore, so I said "No, that phrase does not appear," which led to the canned response about how no one knows that. (Anyone who's had to have a long conversation with a Republican at a cocktail party lately knows that.)
"Do you know what it comes from?" comes the next question. Now I've been told by Republicans before, but I couldn't remember for the life of me what it was supposed to be, and while I was trying to recall, he announced that it's from the Communist Manifesto.
"Oh my," I said. "Reeeeeellly?" And the conversation wheeled away to the evils of something else--Bill Clinton, or clean needles, or some damn thing.
Anyway, this is the third or fourth time I've been through this shtick, and my bullshit detector has always gone off big-time each time I hear about separation of church and state being a Commie import. For one thing, it has the ring of something thought up by someone who really, really, wishes that the establishment clause be made to go away, or at least hit really hard with a hammer until it got woozy.
So I looked it up. (Yes, I'm a moron for not having just known the source. And yes, let this be a warning to people who hear stuff that suits their political ideology and don't look it the hell up on the Internet.)
OK. Here we go. Please feel free to pass the word along, regardless of your party affiliation. This is what I've found:
Briefly, the phrase appears to enter the common American political usage through a majority opinion authored by Supreme Court Justice Hugo Black in the case of Everson vs. Board of Education (1947, the year the Balabusta's father was born.) Black wrote:
"Neither a state nor the Federal government can, openly or secretly, participate in the affairs of any religious organizations or groups and vice versa. In the words of Jefferson, the clause against the establishment of religion by law was intended to erect 'a wall of separation between Church and State'."
Jefferson? Oh, yeah, the phrase ORIGINALLY comes from an 1802 letter of Thomas Jefferson's to a committee of Baptist leaders in Connecticut. Communist Manifesto...BLEEEEEEEEP.
Now, the exact meaning and context of both Jefferson's letter and Black's opinion can be argued till the cows come home. That is not the point. The point is that it is an American concept of honorable age and precedent. And the Communist Manifesto thing is bull.
Where does the version I keep hearing come from? According to Snopes, Article 124 of the 1936 Constitution of the USSR states that 'the church is separated from the state, and the school from the church'. In Russian of course. I'm guessing that's the only connection here. But Communists are always a good scare tactic.
And this from a woman trying to get a job at a Catholic school. ;) God bless Google and the United States of America.
The cause of the Balabusta discussing Republicans, is that a few nights ago, she and the fella attended a party at the home of friends where she ended up talking to a couple of Republicans over Guinness and cheese and crackers for about an hour. It began when they started discussing the persecution of Christians in the United States, and ended, at least for me, when they started talking about the feasibility of the Chinese landing troops on American soil. (I slid out at that point and joined the group talking about Batman movies.)
Sections of the conversation were quite civilized, although somewhat hindered by the fact that I like to know what the hell I am talking about before mouthing off about specific topics. Sections were weirder. Three things stood out in particular:
1. The tendency to tell me, when I said that something was not true--for example, that you cannot be forced to let your kids sit through any form of sex ed, at least here in California--that whatever it was was the case in New York. At one point, one of the Republicans apologized for referencing New York so often, but 'everything comes out of there and spreads'. I was almost tempted to say "Yes, my grandparents, for example'. Alas, I was too entertained by the fact I didn't really think he quite understood the subtext he was invoking to get a good hot fight going there.
2. A weird moment when the other Republican started trying, I think, to assure me that I would get the picture someday. The phrase she insisted on was that "If you are not a Democrat at twenty you have no heart, and if you aren't a Republican at forty you have no brain." She paused. "I just went straight for the brain," she said. I think I was expected to applaud. I believe the real phrase is: "If you are not a communist at twenty you have no heart, and if you are still one at thirty, you have no head." Also, I can't imagine making a sweeping statement like that about Republicans in a social conversation with one, and was greatly intrigued that she apparently did not think that she was insulting me, or that I should mind if she was. ("Hey, I just met you, but I think you're a moron. Let's hang out.")
3. Then we got to the separation of church and state exchange. This happens when a Republican asks you if 'separation of church and state' is in the Constition. This is a trick question, although I'm not sure it's meant to be. They mean NO, because those words do not appear. However, some people who know perfectly well the words don't appear will say YES, meaning the establishment clause establishes the concept. Anyway, I've been put through this one so often that I can't even be bothered anymore, so I said "No, that phrase does not appear," which led to the canned response about how no one knows that. (Anyone who's had to have a long conversation with a Republican at a cocktail party lately knows that.)
"Do you know what it comes from?" comes the next question. Now I've been told by Republicans before, but I couldn't remember for the life of me what it was supposed to be, and while I was trying to recall, he announced that it's from the Communist Manifesto.
"Oh my," I said. "Reeeeeellly?" And the conversation wheeled away to the evils of something else--Bill Clinton, or clean needles, or some damn thing.
Anyway, this is the third or fourth time I've been through this shtick, and my bullshit detector has always gone off big-time each time I hear about separation of church and state being a Commie import. For one thing, it has the ring of something thought up by someone who really, really, wishes that the establishment clause be made to go away, or at least hit really hard with a hammer until it got woozy.
So I looked it up. (Yes, I'm a moron for not having just known the source. And yes, let this be a warning to people who hear stuff that suits their political ideology and don't look it the hell up on the Internet.)
OK. Here we go. Please feel free to pass the word along, regardless of your party affiliation. This is what I've found:
Briefly, the phrase appears to enter the common American political usage through a majority opinion authored by Supreme Court Justice Hugo Black in the case of Everson vs. Board of Education (1947, the year the Balabusta's father was born.) Black wrote:
"Neither a state nor the Federal government can, openly or secretly, participate in the affairs of any religious organizations or groups and vice versa. In the words of Jefferson, the clause against the establishment of religion by law was intended to erect 'a wall of separation between Church and State'."
Jefferson? Oh, yeah, the phrase ORIGINALLY comes from an 1802 letter of Thomas Jefferson's to a committee of Baptist leaders in Connecticut. Communist Manifesto...BLEEEEEEEEP.
Now, the exact meaning and context of both Jefferson's letter and Black's opinion can be argued till the cows come home. That is not the point. The point is that it is an American concept of honorable age and precedent. And the Communist Manifesto thing is bull.
Where does the version I keep hearing come from? According to Snopes, Article 124 of the 1936 Constitution of the USSR states that 'the church is separated from the state, and the school from the church'. In Russian of course. I'm guessing that's the only connection here. But Communists are always a good scare tactic.
And this from a woman trying to get a job at a Catholic school. ;) God bless Google and the United States of America.
Friday, July 07, 2006
The Ups and Downs
Pluses:
-I turned thirty-three yesterday!
-I went to get my nails done with my mother, and had them painted a cool shade of orange. They look very nice.
-The new Janet Evanovich book is out, and I've borrowed my mother's copy.
-My parents got me a cell phone as a present, which is going to make life a whole lot easier.
-I went to a 2nd job interview this morning, and think I did really well. Whether they hire me or not, I made a great case for myself.
-I have lit for Shabbos, this made possible by the incredible cleaning work I have been doing this past week. The dining room table is not piled with junk.
-I had rosewater ice cream from the Persian grocery place earlier.
Minuses:
-I went to another job interview after the first one, and it was a wipe-out.
-My feet hurt.
-I was tired and hot and stressed, so I ate an entire pint of rosewater ice cream. I didn't really notice it happening, I just kept reading DovBear and eating ice cream. Back to the gym.
I think the pluses are winning.
Thirty-three. It sounds good, doesn't it? Mature. I found my first gray hair some weeks ago. I could only find it once, and then lost it in the rest of the hair, but the fella saw it and confirmed its silveriousity. I've even got some tiny wrinkles developing around my eyes.
Mostly, though, thanks to being chubby and round-faced, I apparently look about twenty-four half the time. This may sound great, but it is not. People talk down to me. They assume a job is my first, or maybe second. This is getting better, but it's slow. And the general trend is the reverse, you want to look as teenybopperish as you can. Last year when I went to get work clothes, the lady at Chicos started showing me how if I did this, or that, I could look a LOT younger. All I could think was "What about older? Do you have any suggestions for hairdos or accessories that could make me look forty-seven?" I teach. All teachers are old ladies. Those of us who are actually not-quite-middle-aged ladies have to do the best we can with what we got.
I think next time I will try the rosewater saffron ice cream with pistachios.
-I turned thirty-three yesterday!
-I went to get my nails done with my mother, and had them painted a cool shade of orange. They look very nice.
-The new Janet Evanovich book is out, and I've borrowed my mother's copy.
-My parents got me a cell phone as a present, which is going to make life a whole lot easier.
-I went to a 2nd job interview this morning, and think I did really well. Whether they hire me or not, I made a great case for myself.
-I have lit for Shabbos, this made possible by the incredible cleaning work I have been doing this past week. The dining room table is not piled with junk.
-I had rosewater ice cream from the Persian grocery place earlier.
Minuses:
-I went to another job interview after the first one, and it was a wipe-out.
-My feet hurt.
-I was tired and hot and stressed, so I ate an entire pint of rosewater ice cream. I didn't really notice it happening, I just kept reading DovBear and eating ice cream. Back to the gym.
I think the pluses are winning.
Thirty-three. It sounds good, doesn't it? Mature. I found my first gray hair some weeks ago. I could only find it once, and then lost it in the rest of the hair, but the fella saw it and confirmed its silveriousity. I've even got some tiny wrinkles developing around my eyes.
Mostly, though, thanks to being chubby and round-faced, I apparently look about twenty-four half the time. This may sound great, but it is not. People talk down to me. They assume a job is my first, or maybe second. This is getting better, but it's slow. And the general trend is the reverse, you want to look as teenybopperish as you can. Last year when I went to get work clothes, the lady at Chicos started showing me how if I did this, or that, I could look a LOT younger. All I could think was "What about older? Do you have any suggestions for hairdos or accessories that could make me look forty-seven?" I teach. All teachers are old ladies. Those of us who are actually not-quite-middle-aged ladies have to do the best we can with what we got.
I think next time I will try the rosewater saffron ice cream with pistachios.
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