I am distressed that I will never discover the correct spelling of the word “Tikatevu”. Oddly, Microsoft Word offers no suggestions. Fortunately, a cut and paste web search on Google reveals 29,300 hits. Having not checked them all, I cannot be sure that a percentage of them do not refer to an ancient Mayan sacrificial ritual or a Scottish game of dog tossing.
It is revealing that 29,300 individual web users have posted a site with the word “Tikatevu”, and it confirms the arrival of web-based Judaism. I understand that there are now avatar-based Shabbat dinners and Seders (“Sedarim for the purists among you – 78,900 hits on Google). While this may be a viable alternative to the Jewish tradition of having extended family converge on your home for 3-days to consume 300 pounds of matzah and 476 eggs, I would not attempt a bris in this fashion. A Google search on the phrase “How to perform a bris” offers 206,000 selections. This is troubling.
I digress. During this period of profound reflection and soul searching I punctuate my personal search for meaning by typing “Shanah Tovah Tikatevu” at the end of every email. This is an act of profound devotion, only matched by wearing my Saucony ProGrid Omni 8 running shoes on Yom Kippur. Since I do not run, this will be the most time I spend wearing them all year. I think they will look fabulous with my charcoal suit and red tie.
I do miss the annual ritual of sending and receiving high holiday cards and the accompanying family tradition of hanging them from the bamboo roof of my Sukkah (“Shach” – 102,000 hits on Google) to have them fall immediately when it rains on the first night. Sadly, in this era of e-greetings, these cards from friends and family have been replaced by photos of Judaica clipped from the calendar of Epstein’s Funeral Home in Smyrna, Georgia.
I sometime pine for a simpler, less electronically charged Judaism. I remember with such fondness the intimate, if somewhat claustrophobic, confines of the Jewish Center of Bayside Oaks when the High Holidays found Richard Fruchter and me singing soprano in the choir, Dan Kauffman duchaning (1,280 hits on Google) in a deep resonate bass voice and Rabbi Hertzberg uttering his memorable words “shhhhhh” while all the men stood outside smoking Kents and Lucky Strikes. These were halcyon days and they have accounted for no less than 7 months of my psychoanalysis.
Thus, as a Jewish community that Facebooks, blogs, texts and tweets we send our greetings of affection and good will for the year 5770 to friends and family around the globe. We are one, and if texting brings us closer it is a good thing. Thus, this year, in lieu of sending out greeting cards, I opened my Twitter page and typed in “Shanah Tovah Tikatevu”, a phrase that was well below the 140 character maximum. Unfortunately, I immediately received 47 requests to be followed on Twitter by Scottish dog tossers. A new strategy was called for and thus I endeavored to pen the perfect 140 character Twitter High Holiday message. Here is the progression:
“L'shanah Tovah. May you be inscribed in the book of life.” 58 characters.
“L'shanah Tovah. May this new year bring you and your family much joy and peace.” 120 characters.
“L'shanah Tovah. My best wishes to you and your family for a happy and healthy new year”. 97 characters. This is harder than I thought.
Finally, I nailed it: “L'shanah Tovah. May this New Year bring much peace and happiness to you and your loved ones. With love the Raphael family and Goldie the dog.” 140 characters on the button.
As we say in the vernacular: “Ken Yirbu.” Look it up on Google.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The Road Test
Jacob took his road test at the Sandy Springs branch of the Georgia Department of Driver Services approximately two years after he first received his Learner’s Permit at the Westminster Branch of the Maryland Motor Vehicle Administration. Our move to Atlanta, and the requirement that he begin the process anew, was the primary reasons for the delay. Our sense of dread was, most probably, lurking somewhere in the background as a further deterrent.
It was all planned out: I would pick Jacob up at his school at 1:30 pm. The drive to the Department of Driver Services (DDS) branch would take 10 minutes. Jacob would have ample time to fill out the requisite forms and calm himself down before the time for the test arrived. At 1:20 pm I finished writing an email, looked at the clock and realized to my horror that it was - 1:20 pm. Driving like I hoped Jacob never would, I arrived at his school at 1:23 pm. He was nowhere to be found. The receptionist intercommed the Economics teacher – to no avail. The administrator barked into her walkie talkie; to no avail. I pleaded to be allowed to go search the halls; to no avail. Finally, at 1:40 pm he emerged from the stairwell apologetically – providing a fine alliterative pairing to my state of apoplexy.
“I forgot”
Again, driving like I hoped he never would, we arrived at the DDS at 1:50 pm. Two lines and three forms later, at 2:05 pm, we were ready. No, that is a misstatement; all the required administrative requirements had been carried out. I am still not ready
As Jacob completed the last of the forms, I went outside and moved the car from the parking space to the curb in front of DDS, and stood outside and waited.
The examiner came first. I was expecting a state trooper with badge, Smokey the Bear hat; Glock and pepper spray dispenser. Instead, he was a slight, middle aged man with a goatee, yellow knit shirt and a warm smile.
“Is he ready?” He enquired.
So many answers swirled through my head. But this was not the time for honesty.
“Yes”
“A Prius” “What year?”
“2007”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s great”
“Is he nervous?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Don’t worry, I calm them down. I sing Frank Sinatra to them.”
“I’m not sure whether that would make things better or worse”
He smiled.
Jacob emerged from the building and, after a brief inspecting of the lights, horn and turning signals he and the driving examiner entered the car, strapped on seat belts and drove through and out of the DDS parking lot. Not quite knowing what to do with myself, I lingered outside on the curb in the August in Atlanta humidity.
To say that I was nervous doesn’t quite get at the complexity of my emotion state at that time. “Is he ready?” What kind of question is that? The crucial question is "am I ready? Is this another test along the path to normalcy? How far has he really come? How much will my auto insurance go up? I pondered this emotional Gordian knot as I made my way to the bathroom. As I exited, graffiti on the wall provided a valuable perspective and put things in their place: “Wash your hands asshole”.
I opened the book I had brought with me to pass the time but could not find the concentration to read a single word. Instead, I practiced my Torah reading for the next day. “Thou shalt not abhor an Edomite, for he is thy brother; thou shalt not abhor an Egyptian, because thou was a stranger in his land.” I looked for meaning in the verses, but could find none.
After fifteen minutes, I spied the Prius returning to the parking lot. It disappeared behind the rows of cars and then, Jacob emerged, walking toward me, looking solemn. I prepared words of condolence.
At three feet he broke out in a grin and proclaimed: “I passed”
We hugged
As the examiner passed by he proclaimed: “He did very well – he’s ready”
Not quite knowing what to say, I responded: “You’re a mench” (Yiddish – you’re a good man)
“Gay G’zint (Yiddish - “go in good health”).
It’s a strange world.
Jacob and I returned to the DDS office to complete the requisite form filling, photo taking and fee paying. As he stood in line I e-mailed Jo, Alya and Naomi: “Holy Shit – PASSED”
Fine minutes later, Jo responded “OMG”
My Facebook post: “Under the joint heading of miracles and profound anxiety attacks Jacob just passed his road test. I don't know whether I should say a Shehehiau (a prayer of thanks for reaching an auspicious occasion) or Gomel (a prayer for making through a dangerous time). I don't know whether to celebrate or throw up. I know; I'll drink heavily.
We drove home looking for a suitable ice cream place to celebrate. As we drove, a wishful litany, written 15 years ago, repeated itself in my head: “Jacob will go to school and he will have friends. He will join a soccer team and play an instrument. He will be bar-mitzvahed and will go out on dates. He will drive a car. He may not go to MIT, but he just might. But then again, that will be his choice.”
We’re almost there.
It was all planned out: I would pick Jacob up at his school at 1:30 pm. The drive to the Department of Driver Services (DDS) branch would take 10 minutes. Jacob would have ample time to fill out the requisite forms and calm himself down before the time for the test arrived. At 1:20 pm I finished writing an email, looked at the clock and realized to my horror that it was - 1:20 pm. Driving like I hoped Jacob never would, I arrived at his school at 1:23 pm. He was nowhere to be found. The receptionist intercommed the Economics teacher – to no avail. The administrator barked into her walkie talkie; to no avail. I pleaded to be allowed to go search the halls; to no avail. Finally, at 1:40 pm he emerged from the stairwell apologetically – providing a fine alliterative pairing to my state of apoplexy.
“I forgot”
Again, driving like I hoped he never would, we arrived at the DDS at 1:50 pm. Two lines and three forms later, at 2:05 pm, we were ready. No, that is a misstatement; all the required administrative requirements had been carried out. I am still not ready
As Jacob completed the last of the forms, I went outside and moved the car from the parking space to the curb in front of DDS, and stood outside and waited.
The examiner came first. I was expecting a state trooper with badge, Smokey the Bear hat; Glock and pepper spray dispenser. Instead, he was a slight, middle aged man with a goatee, yellow knit shirt and a warm smile.
“Is he ready?” He enquired.
So many answers swirled through my head. But this was not the time for honesty.
“Yes”
“A Prius” “What year?”
“2007”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s great”
“Is he nervous?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Don’t worry, I calm them down. I sing Frank Sinatra to them.”
“I’m not sure whether that would make things better or worse”
He smiled.
Jacob emerged from the building and, after a brief inspecting of the lights, horn and turning signals he and the driving examiner entered the car, strapped on seat belts and drove through and out of the DDS parking lot. Not quite knowing what to do with myself, I lingered outside on the curb in the August in Atlanta humidity.
To say that I was nervous doesn’t quite get at the complexity of my emotion state at that time. “Is he ready?” What kind of question is that? The crucial question is "am I ready? Is this another test along the path to normalcy? How far has he really come? How much will my auto insurance go up? I pondered this emotional Gordian knot as I made my way to the bathroom. As I exited, graffiti on the wall provided a valuable perspective and put things in their place: “Wash your hands asshole”.
I opened the book I had brought with me to pass the time but could not find the concentration to read a single word. Instead, I practiced my Torah reading for the next day. “Thou shalt not abhor an Edomite, for he is thy brother; thou shalt not abhor an Egyptian, because thou was a stranger in his land.” I looked for meaning in the verses, but could find none.
After fifteen minutes, I spied the Prius returning to the parking lot. It disappeared behind the rows of cars and then, Jacob emerged, walking toward me, looking solemn. I prepared words of condolence.
At three feet he broke out in a grin and proclaimed: “I passed”
We hugged
As the examiner passed by he proclaimed: “He did very well – he’s ready”
Not quite knowing what to say, I responded: “You’re a mench” (Yiddish – you’re a good man)
“Gay G’zint (Yiddish - “go in good health”).
It’s a strange world.
Jacob and I returned to the DDS office to complete the requisite form filling, photo taking and fee paying. As he stood in line I e-mailed Jo, Alya and Naomi: “Holy Shit – PASSED”
Fine minutes later, Jo responded “OMG”
My Facebook post: “Under the joint heading of miracles and profound anxiety attacks Jacob just passed his road test. I don't know whether I should say a Shehehiau (a prayer of thanks for reaching an auspicious occasion) or Gomel (a prayer for making through a dangerous time). I don't know whether to celebrate or throw up. I know; I'll drink heavily.
We drove home looking for a suitable ice cream place to celebrate. As we drove, a wishful litany, written 15 years ago, repeated itself in my head: “Jacob will go to school and he will have friends. He will join a soccer team and play an instrument. He will be bar-mitzvahed and will go out on dates. He will drive a car. He may not go to MIT, but he just might. But then again, that will be his choice.”
We’re almost there.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Justice, Justice Shall You Pursue
Whether one is a Republican or a Democrat, it is easy to cast a callous eye at Senate Judiciary Committee confirmation hearings for Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor and view it as no more than political theater and partisan grandstanding. In spite of my own personal need to be as cynical as is humanly possible, I do occasionally take a step back and reflect on just how extraordinary it is to live in a nation with an independent judiciary. Whether or not we agree with a Presidential nomination or a particular Supreme Court decisions, the fact that these nine individuals are empowered by our Constitution to make rulings that stand independent is a great gift that we should never take for granted. In countless countries across the globe the judiciary is no more than a strong-arm carrying out the policies of oft corrupt regimes. Chinese parents are deemed criminals for seeing the truth about children lost in an earthquake; Iranian protesters are arrested and die in prison for speaking out against a rigged election; A recent report on the Russian judicial system speaks of “telephone justice" -- an official calling and telling a judge how to rule.
For over three thousand years justice has been at the core of our Jewish tradition. “Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may live, and inherit the land which the Lord your God gives you. (Deut. 16:18-20)
As we begin each day with the morning Shaharit service we are reminded of this extraordinary heritage. We read from the pages of Pirkei Avot 1:18:
“Rabban Shimon ben Gamaliel taught: The world rests on three principles: On justice, on truth and on peace – as it is written: “With truth, justice and peace shall you judge in your gates.”
Gamaliel’s restatement of the text from Proverbs places justice first within this trilogy of core human values. Can truth or peace exist without justice?
In our prayers we recall the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, but are reminded in Proverbs 21:3: “To do what is right and just is more desirable to G-d than sacrifice.” Countless generations of injustice and oppression have been pursued and perpetuated around the world since those words were uttered. For 3,000 years we have been called to pursue justice.
In preparing this D’var Torah I pondered that Hebrew has a number of terms to express the concept, or concepts of “justice”. “Din” refers to the exact quality of laws – one might say “the letter of the law”. “Mishpat” can be interpreted as the act of judging. Finally, “Tzedek” refers to a larger sense of social justice. These multiple terms reveal a keen cultural awareness of the complexity of justice. In the act of judging, the exact letter of the law must be balanced with the quality of “Rachamim” - compassion. Through these judgments we seek to advance a greater good.
From a Psalm for Tuesday (Psalm 62)
Champion the weak and the orphan;
Uphold the downtrodden and destitute
Rescue the weak and the needy;
Save them from the grip of the wicked
For over three thousand years justice has been at the core of our Jewish tradition. “Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may live, and inherit the land which the Lord your God gives you. (Deut. 16:18-20)
As we begin each day with the morning Shaharit service we are reminded of this extraordinary heritage. We read from the pages of Pirkei Avot 1:18:
“Rabban Shimon ben Gamaliel taught: The world rests on three principles: On justice, on truth and on peace – as it is written: “With truth, justice and peace shall you judge in your gates.”
Gamaliel’s restatement of the text from Proverbs places justice first within this trilogy of core human values. Can truth or peace exist without justice?
In our prayers we recall the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, but are reminded in Proverbs 21:3: “To do what is right and just is more desirable to G-d than sacrifice.” Countless generations of injustice and oppression have been pursued and perpetuated around the world since those words were uttered. For 3,000 years we have been called to pursue justice.
In preparing this D’var Torah I pondered that Hebrew has a number of terms to express the concept, or concepts of “justice”. “Din” refers to the exact quality of laws – one might say “the letter of the law”. “Mishpat” can be interpreted as the act of judging. Finally, “Tzedek” refers to a larger sense of social justice. These multiple terms reveal a keen cultural awareness of the complexity of justice. In the act of judging, the exact letter of the law must be balanced with the quality of “Rachamim” - compassion. Through these judgments we seek to advance a greater good.
From a Psalm for Tuesday (Psalm 62)
Champion the weak and the orphan;
Uphold the downtrodden and destitute
Rescue the weak and the needy;
Save them from the grip of the wicked
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Surfing
Stories of Summers Past
For me, a child of New York ,whose lineage traces back through Flatbush, the Lower East Side and Romania and Russia, surfing as about as alien as the mating rituals of Dagara tribe of West Central Africa. Out of nowhere, but perhaps consistent with her peripatetic persona, Naomi had become interested in surfing.
A week before she was to leave for her year in Israel we took our annual family vacation together in Duck, North Carolina. These weeks on the beach have become increasingly precious to me as our family ages and each child heads down their own path. As I would not be seeing her for at least five months I agreed to both indulge and embrace her spirit of adventure by joining her in a surfing lesson. I did this being mindful of what, I believe, Woody Allen said, that for Jews, the definition of swimming is not drowning.
I understand Naomi’s interest in surfing in the context of her passion for almost everything new and untried; having said that, to me, surfing is about as alien as it comes. In fact, it is a bit of a personal anathema Ever since I shred the ligaments in my ankle playing basketball in high school I have always favored those sports that provided for consistent and steady agony over those that offer very brief periods of excitement followed by long periods of boredom. So, for instance, while all my college friends were busy downhill skiing, I was out trudging across the upper New York State landscape on cross country skis. To this day, it is difficult for me to comprehend why one would hurl himself down a frozen mountain on two sticks. To me, the odds of high speed collision, with another hurler or misplaced tree seem fairly high. This is why I now bicycle and why I am particularly drawn to trail biking with its long periods of unremitting discomfort punctuated only intermittently by brief periods of abject fear.
But it was surfing that Naomi selected and, on a profoundly hot and sunny Friday afternoon, I found myself lined up with six teenagers, facing the long-haired and meticulously tattooed Jason – our surfing instructor.
“There is only one reason to surf” he began.
Being a responsible adult, I’m guessing “to better appreciate nature” or “become more attuned to our environment”.
“To have fun”, he continued.
I never would have considered that. He then briefly went over the safety instructions. To me this was a bit of a red herring (an unintended seaside pun). Just hours earlier, I had signed a waiver limiting the liability of the surfing class. Among the rest of the small print, the waiver commented that “surfing may cause serious injury or even death.” And as Jason continued, it occurred to me that signing the release was perhaps the least stupid act of the day.
He concluded by telling us that he would keep an eye on us and flash the “thumbs up” sign if it appeared as if we were in difficulty. We only had to thrust our thumbs in the air and return the sign to let him know that all was well. How would he see my thumb if I was underwater? I recalled and seemed newly invested in a quip I often had mentioned that I purchased a watch that was waterproof to 100 meters so I would know what time it was when I was drowning. Jason concluded the safety instruction phase of the lesson by showing us how to cover our faces when emerging from the water. Why cover our faces – to avoid being hit by an errant surfboard – ours or someone else’s. This to me seemed like the proverbial insult added to injury - that one would go careening off a surfboard and with his last breaths of air manage to pierce the surface of the water only to be creamed by someone joyously riding the waves.
It seemed relatively simple on the sand. We all lie down on our surfboards, feet just touching the edge to ensure the proper front-back balance, pretend to paddle, paddle, paddle and then “pop up” into a low crouching combat-like stance at his command. Just when I was thinking that it was not quite so terrible or terrifying, Jason raised his arms and we all followed him into the surf. Lugging the surfboard behind me – mind you, this thing is seven feet long - I made my way through the surf and waited my turn as Jason took each of us out, turned us around and pushed us in front of a wave.
I’ll admit it; there was a very brief period of pleasure as Jason pushed me forward. I jumped up into my fighting stance and stood on the board for an estimated 1.3 seconds before I plunged into the water.
We spent the remainder of the time paddling and paddling and then attempting to turn around, find ourselves in front of a wave and, as we gathered steam, “pop up” into the familiar surfing stance. Naomi was remarkable and I had a notion of asking my wife if she had ever spent time with Brian Wilson in California around the time Naomi was conceived. I was, well, pathetic. I caught one good wave and couldn’t think of any reason to ruin the ride by standing up only to plunge into the water.
It was then I realized that the unremitting rocking of the waves and the series of saltwater cocktails I had downed made me very seriously nauseated. More likely, it was existential motion sickness; the acute awareness of my age and my personal limitations as well as my internal referencing of the water as the River Styx. Certainly, I was treading in the watery boundary between the earthy plane and the underworld.
While Naomi, her peer surfers and the bronzed, indefatigable Jason paddled on and rode the waves I lumbered ashore, prostrated myself on the surf board and prayed for the two hours to be up. As I was about to head into a peaceful stupor I saw Jason flash me the “thumbs up” sign. With seemingly my last ounce of strength I returned the gesture, although my heart wasn’t in it.
Whether or not my surfing outing with Naomi counted as “quality time” remains to be seen. Perhaps, it depends on how one defines quality. But I did it for Naomi and I would do it again if she asked. And as she grows in to adulthood and has children of her own, I hope she will always take that image of me on the surfboard with her. I am praying that she does not take up an interest in rock climbing or spelunking. Quality time should have its limits.
For me, a child of New York ,whose lineage traces back through Flatbush, the Lower East Side and Romania and Russia, surfing as about as alien as the mating rituals of Dagara tribe of West Central Africa. Out of nowhere, but perhaps consistent with her peripatetic persona, Naomi had become interested in surfing.
A week before she was to leave for her year in Israel we took our annual family vacation together in Duck, North Carolina. These weeks on the beach have become increasingly precious to me as our family ages and each child heads down their own path. As I would not be seeing her for at least five months I agreed to both indulge and embrace her spirit of adventure by joining her in a surfing lesson. I did this being mindful of what, I believe, Woody Allen said, that for Jews, the definition of swimming is not drowning.
I understand Naomi’s interest in surfing in the context of her passion for almost everything new and untried; having said that, to me, surfing is about as alien as it comes. In fact, it is a bit of a personal anathema Ever since I shred the ligaments in my ankle playing basketball in high school I have always favored those sports that provided for consistent and steady agony over those that offer very brief periods of excitement followed by long periods of boredom. So, for instance, while all my college friends were busy downhill skiing, I was out trudging across the upper New York State landscape on cross country skis. To this day, it is difficult for me to comprehend why one would hurl himself down a frozen mountain on two sticks. To me, the odds of high speed collision, with another hurler or misplaced tree seem fairly high. This is why I now bicycle and why I am particularly drawn to trail biking with its long periods of unremitting discomfort punctuated only intermittently by brief periods of abject fear.
But it was surfing that Naomi selected and, on a profoundly hot and sunny Friday afternoon, I found myself lined up with six teenagers, facing the long-haired and meticulously tattooed Jason – our surfing instructor.
“There is only one reason to surf” he began.
Being a responsible adult, I’m guessing “to better appreciate nature” or “become more attuned to our environment”.
“To have fun”, he continued.
I never would have considered that. He then briefly went over the safety instructions. To me this was a bit of a red herring (an unintended seaside pun). Just hours earlier, I had signed a waiver limiting the liability of the surfing class. Among the rest of the small print, the waiver commented that “surfing may cause serious injury or even death.” And as Jason continued, it occurred to me that signing the release was perhaps the least stupid act of the day.
He concluded by telling us that he would keep an eye on us and flash the “thumbs up” sign if it appeared as if we were in difficulty. We only had to thrust our thumbs in the air and return the sign to let him know that all was well. How would he see my thumb if I was underwater? I recalled and seemed newly invested in a quip I often had mentioned that I purchased a watch that was waterproof to 100 meters so I would know what time it was when I was drowning. Jason concluded the safety instruction phase of the lesson by showing us how to cover our faces when emerging from the water. Why cover our faces – to avoid being hit by an errant surfboard – ours or someone else’s. This to me seemed like the proverbial insult added to injury - that one would go careening off a surfboard and with his last breaths of air manage to pierce the surface of the water only to be creamed by someone joyously riding the waves.
It seemed relatively simple on the sand. We all lie down on our surfboards, feet just touching the edge to ensure the proper front-back balance, pretend to paddle, paddle, paddle and then “pop up” into a low crouching combat-like stance at his command. Just when I was thinking that it was not quite so terrible or terrifying, Jason raised his arms and we all followed him into the surf. Lugging the surfboard behind me – mind you, this thing is seven feet long - I made my way through the surf and waited my turn as Jason took each of us out, turned us around and pushed us in front of a wave.
I’ll admit it; there was a very brief period of pleasure as Jason pushed me forward. I jumped up into my fighting stance and stood on the board for an estimated 1.3 seconds before I plunged into the water.
We spent the remainder of the time paddling and paddling and then attempting to turn around, find ourselves in front of a wave and, as we gathered steam, “pop up” into the familiar surfing stance. Naomi was remarkable and I had a notion of asking my wife if she had ever spent time with Brian Wilson in California around the time Naomi was conceived. I was, well, pathetic. I caught one good wave and couldn’t think of any reason to ruin the ride by standing up only to plunge into the water.
It was then I realized that the unremitting rocking of the waves and the series of saltwater cocktails I had downed made me very seriously nauseated. More likely, it was existential motion sickness; the acute awareness of my age and my personal limitations as well as my internal referencing of the water as the River Styx. Certainly, I was treading in the watery boundary between the earthy plane and the underworld.
While Naomi, her peer surfers and the bronzed, indefatigable Jason paddled on and rode the waves I lumbered ashore, prostrated myself on the surf board and prayed for the two hours to be up. As I was about to head into a peaceful stupor I saw Jason flash me the “thumbs up” sign. With seemingly my last ounce of strength I returned the gesture, although my heart wasn’t in it.
Whether or not my surfing outing with Naomi counted as “quality time” remains to be seen. Perhaps, it depends on how one defines quality. But I did it for Naomi and I would do it again if she asked. And as she grows in to adulthood and has children of her own, I hope she will always take that image of me on the surfboard with her. I am praying that she does not take up an interest in rock climbing or spelunking. Quality time should have its limits.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Babette
Having managed to sleep in the 38 square inches allotted to me by Delta Airlines and having my luggage wondrously find its way more or less unscathed, I am once again reminded that Israel is a land of faith and miracles. Today marks the arrival of the Pope. Although I am someone intrigued to discover the impact of his (is that a capital “h”?) arrival is this already profoundly over relgiousized and politicized city, my single greatest concern is the impact of the visit on Jerusalem’s overcrowded narrow streets and the near psychotic drivers who inhabit them.
It is 3:30 am on the night/morning of my first full day in Israel and I have already witnessed one of the small and unpublicized miracles that make Jerusalem the Holy City and Israel the Holy Land.
It takes a special kind of masochist to choose to confine oneself to an overstuffed moving chamber after spending 11 hours and 22 minutes on the flight to Israel but that is what I chose to do. There were 8 of us in the sheruth to Jerusalem and I found myself tightly wedged between one of the four black hats in the minivan on my right and a slight young and profoundly non-Jewish looking woman on my left who, based on my keen understanding of culture and anthropology, along with her sandals and socks, had to be from Europe. Being fully intimidated by my neighbor to the right (both geographically and religiously) I struck up a conversation with Babette from Amsterdam. Here is what I learned:
Several months ago, Babette came to Israel to be with an young man she had met in Amsterdam. Unfortunately, when she arrived she discovered, to her dismay, that the prospective Israeli suitor was already engaged. She found herself alone, a stranger in a strange land.
But, she said that she was curiously drawn to this ancient city and instead of falling in love a young man, she fell in love with Jerusalem. She found herself spending almost every Friday night at the Kotel mesmerized by its energy. And so she stayed. She found herself feeling like an Israeli and doing all the things an Israeli might do including getting in an auto accident. So she travelled home to Holland where she discovered that, rather than getting engaged in Israel, she had gotten a concussion.
But while back home in Amsterdam, she uncovered something remarkable; her grandmother’s sister was Jewish. Based on this discovery, she is uncovering what she believes is her own Jewishness. A trail of documents, dating back to the Holocaust, seems to have confirmed her personal revelation. It has made her understand that, perhaps, in travelling to Jerusalem, she has truly come home.
So she plans on staying. She has no work but seems unconcerned. She is ready to begin the process of Aliyah but she has no idea how to proceed. I told her about Nefish b-Nefish. As it turns out, our Sheruth neighbor to the right is the Chabad Rabbi of Salt Lake City and he gave her the name of a woman’s yeshiva that would welcome her in. The sheruth stopped on King George Street, Babette squeezed down the aisle and disappeared into the Jerusalem evening.
It is 4:09 am. The imam is calling the faithful to prayer. The Pope will soon arrive. The Kotel will swell with Shaharit. It will soon be dawn of another day in Jerusalem.
It is 3:30 am on the night/morning of my first full day in Israel and I have already witnessed one of the small and unpublicized miracles that make Jerusalem the Holy City and Israel the Holy Land.
It takes a special kind of masochist to choose to confine oneself to an overstuffed moving chamber after spending 11 hours and 22 minutes on the flight to Israel but that is what I chose to do. There were 8 of us in the sheruth to Jerusalem and I found myself tightly wedged between one of the four black hats in the minivan on my right and a slight young and profoundly non-Jewish looking woman on my left who, based on my keen understanding of culture and anthropology, along with her sandals and socks, had to be from Europe. Being fully intimidated by my neighbor to the right (both geographically and religiously) I struck up a conversation with Babette from Amsterdam. Here is what I learned:
Several months ago, Babette came to Israel to be with an young man she had met in Amsterdam. Unfortunately, when she arrived she discovered, to her dismay, that the prospective Israeli suitor was already engaged. She found herself alone, a stranger in a strange land.
But, she said that she was curiously drawn to this ancient city and instead of falling in love a young man, she fell in love with Jerusalem. She found herself spending almost every Friday night at the Kotel mesmerized by its energy. And so she stayed. She found herself feeling like an Israeli and doing all the things an Israeli might do including getting in an auto accident. So she travelled home to Holland where she discovered that, rather than getting engaged in Israel, she had gotten a concussion.
But while back home in Amsterdam, she uncovered something remarkable; her grandmother’s sister was Jewish. Based on this discovery, she is uncovering what she believes is her own Jewishness. A trail of documents, dating back to the Holocaust, seems to have confirmed her personal revelation. It has made her understand that, perhaps, in travelling to Jerusalem, she has truly come home.
So she plans on staying. She has no work but seems unconcerned. She is ready to begin the process of Aliyah but she has no idea how to proceed. I told her about Nefish b-Nefish. As it turns out, our Sheruth neighbor to the right is the Chabad Rabbi of Salt Lake City and he gave her the name of a woman’s yeshiva that would welcome her in. The sheruth stopped on King George Street, Babette squeezed down the aisle and disappeared into the Jerusalem evening.
It is 4:09 am. The imam is calling the faithful to prayer. The Pope will soon arrive. The Kotel will swell with Shaharit. It will soon be dawn of another day in Jerusalem.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Happy New Toothpaste Tube
Measuring time by hours, days and weeks seems unreliable and devoid of context or meaning and I have come measure the passing of my life by its consumption of commodities - tubes of toothpaste, bottles of shampoo, containers of milk.
In this blur of days, I seek to find meaning in the everyday and look for life’s lessons by transforming daily activities into metaphors for life, living and learning: the soft light of dawn illuminating the morning sky and offering hope and new vistas for the new day. I can see a bit of myself in the squirrel as it darts in front of imminent danger, pauses momentarily to choose rushing forward or desperately retreating (occasionally getting crushed in the process)
The weeks whip around. Monday becomes Wednesday which transforms into Friday and it is the weekend again.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
D’var Torah in honor of my father Alvin who died at Age 49 on erev Shabbat Hagadol 37 years ago.
I am intrigued by the term “Yayekra” the name of the book of the bible that we are currently reading. Yayekra means “to call” as in “to summons”. But it can mean to name – to define. For instance after each day of creation God “called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night." As we read through the bible those times when God “calls” someone - using the term “Yayekra” are often defining moments.
The first time it is used in this context Adam and Eve have just eaten the forbidden apple:
"But the LORD God called to the man, "Where are you?" (Genesis 3:9)
Man and woman have defined themselves as creatures who are seduced by and drawn to knowledge. This capacity to know and the desire to pursue knowledge defines us has humans.
Another dramatic moment when the word “Yakerah is used is in the story of the Akedah, “the Binding of Isaac”. As the knife is raised in Abraham’s hand:
"the angel of the LORD called out to him from heaven, "Abraham! Abraham!"
"Here I am," he replied. (Genesis 22:11)
Abraham has defined himself as someone who is willing to make remarkable sacrifices to his God.
So what about Moses?
The first four times God uses the term Vayekrah to call Moses are very dramatic. The first is when God calls Moses from the burning bush. The next three times occur at Mt. Sinai at the giving of the Ten Commandments. Clearly these are defining moments for Moses and for the Jewish people. But what is so definitional about this time that God called Moses and what is so definitional about this whole book that it is called “Vayekrah”? And, by the way, this is the last time God “Calls” to Moses using the term Vayekrah.
“God called to Moses, speaking to him from the Communion Tent and said: Speak to the Israelites, and tell them the following: When one of you brings a mammal as an offering to God, the sacrifice must be taken from the cattle, sheep or goats.” (Leviticus1:1)
In the book of Vayekrah, the Jewish people and their relationship to God are defined by rituals and by behaviors:
My father defined himself as many of our fathers did. By getting up every day at 5:30 am to wrestle with the traffic on the Long Island Expressway and spend the day mixing and packaging spices at the family business J. Raphael and Sons. Only after he died did I learn that he never enjoyed his work. He had wanted to be a teacher. He loved history. But his portion was to mix and package spices and he did it every day until he became ill with cancer.
His definitions were those of steadiness, commitment and sacrifice. He defined himself by his unwavering commitment to his family. And for this may his memory be for a blessing
The first time it is used in this context Adam and Eve have just eaten the forbidden apple:
"But the LORD God called to the man, "Where are you?" (Genesis 3:9)
Man and woman have defined themselves as creatures who are seduced by and drawn to knowledge. This capacity to know and the desire to pursue knowledge defines us has humans.
Another dramatic moment when the word “Yakerah is used is in the story of the Akedah, “the Binding of Isaac”. As the knife is raised in Abraham’s hand:
"the angel of the LORD called out to him from heaven, "Abraham! Abraham!"
"Here I am," he replied. (Genesis 22:11)
Abraham has defined himself as someone who is willing to make remarkable sacrifices to his God.
So what about Moses?
The first four times God uses the term Vayekrah to call Moses are very dramatic. The first is when God calls Moses from the burning bush. The next three times occur at Mt. Sinai at the giving of the Ten Commandments. Clearly these are defining moments for Moses and for the Jewish people. But what is so definitional about this time that God called Moses and what is so definitional about this whole book that it is called “Vayekrah”? And, by the way, this is the last time God “Calls” to Moses using the term Vayekrah.
“God called to Moses, speaking to him from the Communion Tent and said: Speak to the Israelites, and tell them the following: When one of you brings a mammal as an offering to God, the sacrifice must be taken from the cattle, sheep or goats.” (Leviticus1:1)
In the book of Vayekrah, the Jewish people and their relationship to God are defined by rituals and by behaviors:
- Sacrifices
- The rites of Yom Kippur
- Keeping Kosher
- Worship
- Observing holidays
My father defined himself as many of our fathers did. By getting up every day at 5:30 am to wrestle with the traffic on the Long Island Expressway and spend the day mixing and packaging spices at the family business J. Raphael and Sons. Only after he died did I learn that he never enjoyed his work. He had wanted to be a teacher. He loved history. But his portion was to mix and package spices and he did it every day until he became ill with cancer.
His definitions were those of steadiness, commitment and sacrifice. He defined himself by his unwavering commitment to his family. And for this may his memory be for a blessing
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Relativity
Those seeking to understand Einstein’s Theory of Relativity should log on to their computer and either copy or download a large file. As the process initiates, a long rectangular bar displays on the screen and, beginning on the left, is gradually filled with green as the download or copy progresses. Often, the time remaining to complete the transfer process is cited below the bar. The progression of remaining time often reads something like this:
1hour 40 minutes
24 minutes
36 minutes
43 minutes
17 minutes
3 weeks, 2 days, 13 hours, 53 minutes
4 minutes
4 score 7 years
12 minutes
42 minutes
47 seconds
7 minutes
14 seconds
File download complete
This is profoundly unhelpful when you are seeking to organize your work flow.
Why do they bother? Perhaps it is a metaphor for life. Just as we feel that some satisfying conclusion to our current crisis is moving toward resolution the anticipated time of completion increases exponentially. Life is like that- you never know what will happen next. Perhaps this is the same for life in the computer world, where clearly, time is a relative matter.
This file will complete downloading in a period of time yet to be determined.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Smoothies
Has anyone else notices that, no matter what flavor you get, all smoothies taste the same? After a long hard week of work and school I took Jake out for smoothies (by the way: $12.41 for a small and a medium smoothie - I could have bought three grand skim lattes for that). He got the Strawberry Surprise and I opted for the Tropic Wonder (without sugar). Other than his being an unhealthy shade of red and mine being a odd off-yellow, they were identical. Next week I'm going to try the old shoe, spinach and fish head smoothie to compare. More to follow.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Bad Banks
I am intrigued by the notion of a “bad bank”. As far as I can understand it (even thinking the word “economics” causes me to descend into a stupor), a “bad banks” is a place to put “bad or toxic assets”. The World Street Journal says: “A good bad bank forces banks to write down their bad assets and cleanse their balance sheets with those made insolvent being recapitalized, nationalized or liquidated by the state.” To begin, this concept provides us with two new wonderful oxymorons to ponder: “Bad asset” and “toxic asset.” I’m not the linguist here, but it occurs to me that if something is bad or toxic it is not an asset. In a disturbing side note, I can’t seem to shake the image of Tim Geithner with a tiara and a wand querying: “Are you a good asset or a bad asset?”
The notion of a “bad bank”, a place to isolate or sequester something to prevent it from doing further damage to the society, is not a new concept. When we have people who are “bad assets”, we send them to prison. When people are toxic, we lock them in isolation wards.
Like the millions of people held in our prison systems, there is the hope, that these “bad or toxic” assets will ultimately be rehabilitated. American taxpayers will acquire bad assets and we hope that ultimately they will provide some value. In the interim, can we make some value of these bad assets? For instance, can we use bad assets to invest in license plate manufacturing? This, it seems to me, may be an approach to bringing together a new bad and a venerable bad American institution. Can we have the growing hoards of imprisoned white collar criminals, who have used their financial acumen to bilk honest citizens out of billions of dollars, use these toxic funds to invest in developing nations such as Iran and North Korea? Can we use these bad assets to pay a portion of Alex Rodriguez’s $28 million salary? Certainly, he has earned it.
Once Bernard Madoff is in jail, give him these toxic assets. If he can turn them around, and through his perverse wizardry make them into “good assets” he can use the proceeds to pay back the countless non-profit organizations and trusting individuals who he swindled for billions of dollars. Perhaps then, he can repay society a bit and, in exchange, spend slightly less time in eternal hell – which, by the way, is God’s approach to bad assets.
© David Raphael, 2009
The notion of a “bad bank”, a place to isolate or sequester something to prevent it from doing further damage to the society, is not a new concept. When we have people who are “bad assets”, we send them to prison. When people are toxic, we lock them in isolation wards.
- A quick glance at the Department of Justice website reveals that as of December 31, 2007:
- 2,293,157 prisoners were held in federal or state prisons or in local jails – an increase of 1.5% from year-end 2006, less than the average annual growth of 2.6% from 2000-2006.
- 1,532,817 sentenced prisoners were under state or federal jurisdiction.
- There were an estimated 506 sentenced prisoners per 100,000 U.S. residents – up from 501 year-end 2006.
Like the millions of people held in our prison systems, there is the hope, that these “bad or toxic” assets will ultimately be rehabilitated. American taxpayers will acquire bad assets and we hope that ultimately they will provide some value. In the interim, can we make some value of these bad assets? For instance, can we use bad assets to invest in license plate manufacturing? This, it seems to me, may be an approach to bringing together a new bad and a venerable bad American institution. Can we have the growing hoards of imprisoned white collar criminals, who have used their financial acumen to bilk honest citizens out of billions of dollars, use these toxic funds to invest in developing nations such as Iran and North Korea? Can we use these bad assets to pay a portion of Alex Rodriguez’s $28 million salary? Certainly, he has earned it.
Once Bernard Madoff is in jail, give him these toxic assets. If he can turn them around, and through his perverse wizardry make them into “good assets” he can use the proceeds to pay back the countless non-profit organizations and trusting individuals who he swindled for billions of dollars. Perhaps then, he can repay society a bit and, in exchange, spend slightly less time in eternal hell – which, by the way, is God’s approach to bad assets.
© David Raphael, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Michael Jackson
Has anyone else heard the rumor that, in the wake, of the election of Barack Obama, Michael Jackson is undergoing plastic surgery to become black again?
Saturday, January 31, 2009
AAA: THE ASSOCIATION OF ACRIMONIOUS ACRONYMS
Since returning to Hillel a year ago, I’ve rediscovered an organization that embraces innovation and creativity and strives for excellence. I’ve also been reintroduced to the Hillel culture of odd word usage and unusual acronyms. I therefore am engaged in CAT – the Campus Advancement Team. I hate cats and worked for days on an acronym that would spell out PUPPY. In the end, I had to settle for being passive aggressive and insisting on referring to our group as the Schusterman International Center Campus Advancement Team or, the SIC CATS.
This fascination with phrases, wizardry with words, or as my cousin Jonathan used to say, antics with semantics is not new in the International Center of Hillel. Close to ten years ago Richard Joel embraced the word “engagement” and would verbally assault anybody who had the temerity to use the word “outreach”. The term “verbal assault” was soon replaced by the word “supervision” in the Hillel lexicon.
Who can forget the term “interdependent self-sufficiency” used by the International Center to describe the intermeshing of national and local development efforts. Ultimately, the term came to mean that the International Center was soliciting your major donors without your approval for a greater good that was beyond your comprehension.
I now find myself cringing every time I am sitting in a meeting SIC folks who start harping about the BHAG (Big Hairy Audacious Goal). I can’t quite get comfortable with it and have silently vowed never to use it in a public setting – much in the same way I would rather face water boarding than use the term “venti” when ordering a large coffee. By the way, is water boarding considered an immersive experience? It is fair to say that alternative spring break trips to New Orleans are clearly immersive experiences. One might, however consider that to be an unfortunate use of the term.
Rather than simply whining, which I am prone to do, I do have an alternative suggestion: Big Hairy Improbable Vision of Excellence = BHIVE. Think of hundreds of busy professionals, buzzing around, creating something profoundly sweet The term also lends itself to much better graphics. With our CAT and our BEE’s we are creating a virtual Noah’s Ark of innovation.
The most recent lamentable and laborious use of lexicon is the term “Thought Partner” coined by a recent task force group to describe lay committee chairs. The intent is good but the choice of words is questionable. The notion of a “Thought Partner”, is in my thinking, not a little bit frightening. Other than my wife Jo who knows what I’m thinking before I do, I’m not sure I want anybody sharing my thoughts. Nor, by the way, do I have any particular desire to peer into the thoughts of others. I spent two years as a clinical social worker – first at a National Public Health Service Hospital and then at a Mental Health Clinic. I’ve done some peering into people’s thoughts. Quite frankly, it is overrated and, more frequently than not, unsavory.
Thus, we continue to develop our own unique Hillel dialect. We ask our thought partners: “How do SIC professionals contemplate engaging students in immersion experiences in advancing the BHAG?” In the same way that Latino is a joining of Hebrew and Spanish and Yiddish is the coming together of Hebrew and German, some might say that “Hillelish” can be described as the marriage of English and pretense. Since my paycheck comes via SIC I, of course, would never utter such heresy.
Speaking of Yiddish, our “mama lashon” provides a wonderful parallel for us to draw on. Years after a generation of parents used Yiddish as a secret code to prevent their children from understanding what they were saying (e.g. ”Uncle Izzie liked to dress up like Carmine Miranda and dance around trays of pot roast” or “Aunt Fanny has a stomach tumor the size of a meatloaf”) Yiddish still provides a unrivaled richness and nuance of expression. One cannot truly translate “shlamele” without losing the rich texture. Compared to I’m “ferklempt”, “I’m tired” is so one dimensional. If you truly want to brush somebody off, forgo “buzz off” or “get lost”. Neither can match the rich visual imagery of: “Gey kaffen yam (go crap in the ocean). Thus, too, professionals who work at SIC are creating a rich an nuanced language with which to fully describe the complexity of our work (COW).
SIC’s efforts to expand the English language are nothing short of Shakespearian. Four hundred years ago Shakespeare refused to be bound by the limitations of existing language and created hundreds of new words to express his creative brilliance. Amazement, anchovy, barefaced, bloodstained, coldhearted, eyeball, lackluster, sanctimonious, watchdog and, eat your heart out Richard Joel….. engagement, are just a few. He also coined a broad array of phrases without which our capacity for verbal expression would be severely hampered. We can thank the Bard for: “in my heart of hearts”, the “naked truth “wild goose chase, ‘for goodness' sake”, “one fell swoop”, “play fast and loose”, “too much of a good thing” and many others. Thus, as SIC professionals, we are truly Shakespearian in our thinking (SIOT)
I quote from a recent e-mail: “Most of you know that in recent years, we have facilitated something called the Self-Assessment Survey, which has given us a great deal of data about Hillels. Because of our expanded Organizational Learning agenda, we are building on the SAS to create something called the Annual Hillel Assessment (AHA).”
But there is a serious concern here; has anybody checked to see if the acronym AHA is already taken. What if, just last week, the fiscal department created “Audited Hillel Accounting” statements, or if the development department put together a fundraising program for South America entitled “Advancing Hillel in Argentina” (Australia would work here as well – my guess is that Austria is less of an issue).
Thus, in keeping with my belief that “800” should not only be the address of the SIC but the target number of professionals, I would propose that we create the DOAE – the Department of Organizational Acronyms and Euphemism. I believe that this new department will serve the BHAG and prepare us for next year’s AHA. We will need to ensure that all new acronyms are shared with HPCs and that they are consistent with the CEI and EEE initiatives. We will also need to consult with our Thought Partners. Otherwise, we could be SOL and things would become FUBAR.
This fascination with phrases, wizardry with words, or as my cousin Jonathan used to say, antics with semantics is not new in the International Center of Hillel. Close to ten years ago Richard Joel embraced the word “engagement” and would verbally assault anybody who had the temerity to use the word “outreach”. The term “verbal assault” was soon replaced by the word “supervision” in the Hillel lexicon.
Who can forget the term “interdependent self-sufficiency” used by the International Center to describe the intermeshing of national and local development efforts. Ultimately, the term came to mean that the International Center was soliciting your major donors without your approval for a greater good that was beyond your comprehension.
I now find myself cringing every time I am sitting in a meeting SIC folks who start harping about the BHAG (Big Hairy Audacious Goal). I can’t quite get comfortable with it and have silently vowed never to use it in a public setting – much in the same way I would rather face water boarding than use the term “venti” when ordering a large coffee. By the way, is water boarding considered an immersive experience? It is fair to say that alternative spring break trips to New Orleans are clearly immersive experiences. One might, however consider that to be an unfortunate use of the term.
Rather than simply whining, which I am prone to do, I do have an alternative suggestion: Big Hairy Improbable Vision of Excellence = BHIVE. Think of hundreds of busy professionals, buzzing around, creating something profoundly sweet The term also lends itself to much better graphics. With our CAT and our BEE’s we are creating a virtual Noah’s Ark of innovation.
The most recent lamentable and laborious use of lexicon is the term “Thought Partner” coined by a recent task force group to describe lay committee chairs. The intent is good but the choice of words is questionable. The notion of a “Thought Partner”, is in my thinking, not a little bit frightening. Other than my wife Jo who knows what I’m thinking before I do, I’m not sure I want anybody sharing my thoughts. Nor, by the way, do I have any particular desire to peer into the thoughts of others. I spent two years as a clinical social worker – first at a National Public Health Service Hospital and then at a Mental Health Clinic. I’ve done some peering into people’s thoughts. Quite frankly, it is overrated and, more frequently than not, unsavory.
Thus, we continue to develop our own unique Hillel dialect. We ask our thought partners: “How do SIC professionals contemplate engaging students in immersion experiences in advancing the BHAG?” In the same way that Latino is a joining of Hebrew and Spanish and Yiddish is the coming together of Hebrew and German, some might say that “Hillelish” can be described as the marriage of English and pretense. Since my paycheck comes via SIC I, of course, would never utter such heresy.
Speaking of Yiddish, our “mama lashon” provides a wonderful parallel for us to draw on. Years after a generation of parents used Yiddish as a secret code to prevent their children from understanding what they were saying (e.g. ”Uncle Izzie liked to dress up like Carmine Miranda and dance around trays of pot roast” or “Aunt Fanny has a stomach tumor the size of a meatloaf”) Yiddish still provides a unrivaled richness and nuance of expression. One cannot truly translate “shlamele” without losing the rich texture. Compared to I’m “ferklempt”, “I’m tired” is so one dimensional. If you truly want to brush somebody off, forgo “buzz off” or “get lost”. Neither can match the rich visual imagery of: “Gey kaffen yam (go crap in the ocean). Thus, too, professionals who work at SIC are creating a rich an nuanced language with which to fully describe the complexity of our work (COW).
SIC’s efforts to expand the English language are nothing short of Shakespearian. Four hundred years ago Shakespeare refused to be bound by the limitations of existing language and created hundreds of new words to express his creative brilliance. Amazement, anchovy, barefaced, bloodstained, coldhearted, eyeball, lackluster, sanctimonious, watchdog and, eat your heart out Richard Joel….. engagement, are just a few. He also coined a broad array of phrases without which our capacity for verbal expression would be severely hampered. We can thank the Bard for: “in my heart of hearts”, the “naked truth “wild goose chase, ‘for goodness' sake”, “one fell swoop”, “play fast and loose”, “too much of a good thing” and many others. Thus, as SIC professionals, we are truly Shakespearian in our thinking (SIOT)
I quote from a recent e-mail: “Most of you know that in recent years, we have facilitated something called the Self-Assessment Survey, which has given us a great deal of data about Hillels. Because of our expanded Organizational Learning agenda, we are building on the SAS to create something called the Annual Hillel Assessment (AHA).”
But there is a serious concern here; has anybody checked to see if the acronym AHA is already taken. What if, just last week, the fiscal department created “Audited Hillel Accounting” statements, or if the development department put together a fundraising program for South America entitled “Advancing Hillel in Argentina” (Australia would work here as well – my guess is that Austria is less of an issue).
Thus, in keeping with my belief that “800” should not only be the address of the SIC but the target number of professionals, I would propose that we create the DOAE – the Department of Organizational Acronyms and Euphemism. I believe that this new department will serve the BHAG and prepare us for next year’s AHA. We will need to ensure that all new acronyms are shared with HPCs and that they are consistent with the CEI and EEE initiatives. We will also need to consult with our Thought Partners. Otherwise, we could be SOL and things would become FUBAR.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Excerpts from Bayside Oaks II - Going to Israel
The Dance
Three large suitcases sit in the living room packed and ready to go. We have told my mother that she is going to visit Ruth in Israel. And we have told her again, and again. But it is difficult to know just what she comprehends and what has been retained. The taxi arrives to take us to the airport. I take the suitcases outside and Leon helps her put on her coat.
“He is very nice.” She says of the cabdriver. And he smiles.
The airport may be the ideal location to camouflage an individual with advancing Alzheimer’s disease. This may be especially true of the El Al terminal at JFK. The noise level is deafening. It seems as if everybody is muttering to themselves. Hoards of travelers pushing baggage bumper cars; lines that seem to go on forever; legions of security officers, ticket agents, and airline officials all of whom seem to numb to the maddening cauldron of human activity and emotion that surrounds them. My mother is lost and dazed. But no one seems to notice.
As we pass through the metal detectors, there is a wonderful moment of profound humanity. Leon and I have helped her remove her coat, shoes and jewelry, patiently explaining that we will return it in a moment. I walk through the metal detector and begin to reclaim and repack my valuables (computer, watch, shoes, passport, toothpaste, shampoo) on the other side. But my mother does not know what to do and neither Leon nor I can take her hand and walk her through the detector. For a moment time stand still and the legions of travelers behind her begin to stare angrily. Then, a young, lovely Black security agent reaches out and clasps my mother’s hands. My mother smiles and, having found a new partner, begins to sing and dance. And the security agent dances with her and gently pulls her through the metal detector. They hug and my mother proclaims: “You’re beautiful”. It is a moment that brings me great joy in the midst of a difficult time and gives me hope for this yet to be experiment – still in progress – that we have entitled human kind.
The Kikar
We walk her through the cobblestone streets of the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem. Orthodox women pass by with infants in strollers and multiple children in tow. My mother coos and sings. Men in dark wool suits, fedoras and tzitzit flapping go rushing by. Large groups of Birthright students gathered around outdoor tables are munching on falafel and pizza. I lock my arm in hers, or hold her hand and we move ever so slowly through the alley ways. Young girls in long skirts and long sleeve shirts and sweaters hurrying to school squeeze by us. We move forwards so tentatively, the world swirls around us, and it is as if in we are in another time dimension. We make our way to the “kikar”, the central square, find a bench in the sun and sit. My mother tilts her head up towards the sun and closes her eyes. Directly across from us workmen scurry across scaffolds on the soon to be completed rebuilt Hurva Synagogue, whose yet incomplete concrete dome rises high above the Jewish Quarter. The sound of saws, hammers and concrete mixers fills the air. In the face of the noise and the swirls of people, or because of them, it is a moment of sacred peacefulness.
Family and friend call to ask how the move to Israel is going. For me it is impossible to respond more than in the moment. Now my mother is fine. This morning was difficult. She took a nice nap this afternoon. This morning we went for a long walk to the “kikar” ( the central square). I cannot say how things will be next week or even in the afternoon. My mother’s life is in the moment.
Three large suitcases sit in the living room packed and ready to go. We have told my mother that she is going to visit Ruth in Israel. And we have told her again, and again. But it is difficult to know just what she comprehends and what has been retained. The taxi arrives to take us to the airport. I take the suitcases outside and Leon helps her put on her coat.
“He is very nice.” She says of the cabdriver. And he smiles.
The airport may be the ideal location to camouflage an individual with advancing Alzheimer’s disease. This may be especially true of the El Al terminal at JFK. The noise level is deafening. It seems as if everybody is muttering to themselves. Hoards of travelers pushing baggage bumper cars; lines that seem to go on forever; legions of security officers, ticket agents, and airline officials all of whom seem to numb to the maddening cauldron of human activity and emotion that surrounds them. My mother is lost and dazed. But no one seems to notice.
As we pass through the metal detectors, there is a wonderful moment of profound humanity. Leon and I have helped her remove her coat, shoes and jewelry, patiently explaining that we will return it in a moment. I walk through the metal detector and begin to reclaim and repack my valuables (computer, watch, shoes, passport, toothpaste, shampoo) on the other side. But my mother does not know what to do and neither Leon nor I can take her hand and walk her through the detector. For a moment time stand still and the legions of travelers behind her begin to stare angrily. Then, a young, lovely Black security agent reaches out and clasps my mother’s hands. My mother smiles and, having found a new partner, begins to sing and dance. And the security agent dances with her and gently pulls her through the metal detector. They hug and my mother proclaims: “You’re beautiful”. It is a moment that brings me great joy in the midst of a difficult time and gives me hope for this yet to be experiment – still in progress – that we have entitled human kind.
The Kikar
We walk her through the cobblestone streets of the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem. Orthodox women pass by with infants in strollers and multiple children in tow. My mother coos and sings. Men in dark wool suits, fedoras and tzitzit flapping go rushing by. Large groups of Birthright students gathered around outdoor tables are munching on falafel and pizza. I lock my arm in hers, or hold her hand and we move ever so slowly through the alley ways. Young girls in long skirts and long sleeve shirts and sweaters hurrying to school squeeze by us. We move forwards so tentatively, the world swirls around us, and it is as if in we are in another time dimension. We make our way to the “kikar”, the central square, find a bench in the sun and sit. My mother tilts her head up towards the sun and closes her eyes. Directly across from us workmen scurry across scaffolds on the soon to be completed rebuilt Hurva Synagogue, whose yet incomplete concrete dome rises high above the Jewish Quarter. The sound of saws, hammers and concrete mixers fills the air. In the face of the noise and the swirls of people, or because of them, it is a moment of sacred peacefulness.
Family and friend call to ask how the move to Israel is going. For me it is impossible to respond more than in the moment. Now my mother is fine. This morning was difficult. She took a nice nap this afternoon. This morning we went for a long walk to the “kikar” ( the central square). I cannot say how things will be next week or even in the afternoon. My mother’s life is in the moment.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Are We Clear?
Clearly, (that word will come back to haunt us in a moment) among the chief joys of life in the fifties (my fifties, not those of “Ozzy and Harriet”) is the colonoscopy.
I arrived at the outpatient surgical center having subsisted on lime Jell-O and diet Sprite for the last 36 hours. Further, having drained the requisite 3 ounces of “Fleet® Phospho-soda® EZ-Prep™ Bowel Cleansing System” I had spent the better part of the previous 10 hours running to the bathroom and, not to be overly graphic, running in the bathroom. I was not at my patient and magnanimous best.
The receptionist glanced at me with some combination of disinterest and condescension and could not have been curter:
“Did you fill out the paper work we sent you?”
I had not. And, with a cold, condescending look, she handed me the multitude of documents; medical history questions (heart murmurs, medicines, mental disorders?) , release forms clearing (that word again) the physician of any liability should he puncture the lining of my large intestine, and insurance documents all attached to the requisite clip board along with the click ball point pen advertising another in a series of pharmaceutical wonders. Dutifully, I completed them to the best of my limited capability.
I had not completed my charge adequately.
With a voice dripping with officious disdain, the receptionist calls me to the window, and to the mat.
“Mr. Raphael, you did not complete the questionnaire”
By now, with my patience level dramatically shortened by the tribulations of the last days and I am prepared to do verbal battle.
“What parts?”
“What bowel cleansing regimen did the physician prescribe?”
“Fleet® Phospho-soda® EZ-Prep™ Bowel Cleansing System”
When did you last have anything to eat or drink?
“Between 5:00 am and 6:00 am I had 24 ounces of clear liquid”
“Are you clear?”
Now, I know what she is asking but, to me it (1) seems intrusive coming from someone with a clipboard and a high school education and (2) is vague enough for me to be mean-spirited and passive aggressive.
Realizing that this clerk would, most likely, not recognize get “A Few Good Men” reference if I responded “crystal”, I simply responded: “Clear about what?”
Now she is fumbling for the phrasing required. I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.
Clearly, the last laugh was on me.
I arrived at the outpatient surgical center having subsisted on lime Jell-O and diet Sprite for the last 36 hours. Further, having drained the requisite 3 ounces of “Fleet® Phospho-soda® EZ-Prep™ Bowel Cleansing System” I had spent the better part of the previous 10 hours running to the bathroom and, not to be overly graphic, running in the bathroom. I was not at my patient and magnanimous best.
The receptionist glanced at me with some combination of disinterest and condescension and could not have been curter:
“Did you fill out the paper work we sent you?”
I had not. And, with a cold, condescending look, she handed me the multitude of documents; medical history questions (heart murmurs, medicines, mental disorders?) , release forms clearing (that word again) the physician of any liability should he puncture the lining of my large intestine, and insurance documents all attached to the requisite clip board along with the click ball point pen advertising another in a series of pharmaceutical wonders. Dutifully, I completed them to the best of my limited capability.
I had not completed my charge adequately.
With a voice dripping with officious disdain, the receptionist calls me to the window, and to the mat.
“Mr. Raphael, you did not complete the questionnaire”
By now, with my patience level dramatically shortened by the tribulations of the last days and I am prepared to do verbal battle.
“What parts?”
“What bowel cleansing regimen did the physician prescribe?”
“Fleet® Phospho-soda® EZ-Prep™ Bowel Cleansing System”
When did you last have anything to eat or drink?
“Between 5:00 am and 6:00 am I had 24 ounces of clear liquid”
“Are you clear?”
Now, I know what she is asking but, to me it (1) seems intrusive coming from someone with a clipboard and a high school education and (2) is vague enough for me to be mean-spirited and passive aggressive.
Realizing that this clerk would, most likely, not recognize get “A Few Good Men” reference if I responded “crystal”, I simply responded: “Clear about what?”
Now she is fumbling for the phrasing required. I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.
Clearly, the last laugh was on me.
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