The I is in Israel

I spent six weeks in Israel the summer of 2009. It was one of the most amazing and definitive experiences of my life and served as the perfect bridge from homeschool and Hebrew school to college. One of our writing assignments near the end was to write about what it means to be Jewish. A lot of people despised it, many of us knew it was coming, and I just sat in the computer lab until it was finished.

No matter, as a prelude to the assignment, we were asked to walk around an area of Tel Aviv where we were visiting for the day and see what people living in Israel considered Jewish. We went up and down the streets in small groups. We walked to a cafe. We walked past soldiers. We sat down with some modern Orthodox Jews. It was exciting, yet nerve-wracking approaching strangers in a strange land (alright, it wasn’t that strange, but I’m naturally quiet, so it was surely an exercise in extroversion!). And then, with our classes, we sat down. And then they dumped it on us.

The essay doesn’t stand as my best example of writing (in rereading it, I feel it lacks an air of sophistication about its coherence and structure), but it reflected my evolving views on Judaism and being Jewish at the time, and for that, it did what was intended of it. I hadn’t ever had the intention of sharing it at the time, at least with none other than our teacher, and since length wasn’t it issue, it ended up becoming a fair bit longer than the bit I posted yesterday. So, without further ado, I present to you the essay I called “Recon.”

(Short for “reconfirmation,” of course.)

Confessionals

I must confess. I’m not entirely honest. I don’t deceive, not intentionally at least, but I usually know a thing or two more than I let on. It helps me hold onto something, a sliver of control, a ground wire to make sure I don’t shock myself by coming to a dead end. If I don’t have the whole picture, I hide the pieces I have in pursuit of those I need to hold. When it’s all put together, and I meet someone, I don’t enlighten them. They need to come to it on their own, I might say, or it’s better to wait–maybe what I think is whole isn’t whole yet.

It’s not exactly deception. It’s not exactly honesty either.

As many of you may know, there’s been a couple people on campus that have made this semester hell. I mentioned their backstabbing in “Awfully Whetted Strife” where I discussed how my very sense of trust has been injured. In a few words I expressed my rising indignation over the one of them in “The Man Who Lied to My Face.” You don’t need to read those, not unless you want to, but it’s worth knowing how long this has been going on.

Because today it’s going to stop.

Thankless Thursday

Thursdays are awful days to be thankful. Thursdays are not Fridays when the week is almost up and the weekend is right around the corner to look forward to. Thursdays are not Saturdays when I get to sleep in. Thursdays are not Sundays when a new week begins and there’s freshness in the air, inspiration everywhere, and new potential bleeding forth from every orifice of the world.

Thursdays are not Mondays when I get to return to the interesting topics discussed in my classes and see my friends after a lonely weekend. Thursdays are not Tuesdays when I get to go to my creative writing class and indulge myself in my deepest passions. Thursdays are not Wednesdays, the busiest day of the week, when I get to see all my friends in the SGA and then, in the evening, be thankful for surviving all the chaos that inevitably erupts every Wednesday.

But Thursdays are Thursdays.

Thursdays are just deep enough into the week to feel exhausted and overwhelmed, but not near enough the week’s end to look forward to relaxation or another week rising on the horizon. Thursdays are Thursdays–and Thursdays are awful days for thankfulness.

Bring Out the Bling

There’s something ironic to everything, and I think one of ironies of my life is that everything I say I’m not, I become. For example, I’ve never considered myself one for jewelry, and yet I find I wear more now than I ever had before–period. The funny part is, when I forget to put on my watch, or when I lost my Equality Ring in the car one day, I felt a part of my identity had slipped away. It was like missing a breath and knowing your lungs aren’t as full as they should be–but that breath is already gone and you can never bring it back.

So, although I’m sure it’s an odd thing to say (especially coming from one such as myself, who frequently must refer to dictionaries to divine the meaning of slang), today I’m thankful for bling.

Indices of Identity

It began with a desire to write better: I enrolled in Creative Writing I. It was more fun than I had imagined possible, and I learned a tremendous amount about screenwriting and poetry, but it didn’t satisfy my want to write stories better.

This semester, Creative Writing II. And not only are we doing multiple workshops a week, we’ve got a great company textbook–that’s hardly a textbook at all. It’s called Method and Madness by Alice LaPlante and it’s quickly becoming one of my favorite books on writing–and I’ve read a bit on the topic, and I’ve written a lot, so I consider my opinion rather versed on the subject.

This last chapter was all about the details–bringing the abstract into the concrete, making every little thing as sensory as possible to build a world within which our readers can lose themselves.

Now that I’ve got a prompt to work with, I’m going to spend the next few weeks taking a break from my typical stories and instead playing with some writing exercises. Hopefully they’ll prove as entertaining to read as they are to write, and hopefully you’ll be able to witness my growth as a writer just as I am. For me, there’s few things more incredible than watching someone grow before my very eyes, and perhaps you’ll be able to feel this same way watching me.

So where do I begin? Right at the beginning: An index of identity.

The End At Last

It’s finally happened. Yesterday while I was at work my boss of over three years (and teacher a long time before that) came up to me and asked, “Am I correct to assume you won’t be returning next year?”

I looked at him and said, “My hope is to be at State, so… yes.”

It was only after he had walked away and I was walking back to my kids that I clutched at my chest and shook my head, whispering to myself, I can’t believe it’s finally true. It’s all suddenly real now. It’s hard to believe that I’ve reached the end at last.

Sabbath Delight

Family was this week’s theme. My brother and his family came up the first and we all visited until they left today. And whenever I had free time, I was busy journalling and playing video games. In fact, I’d probably be off playing video games right now if it weren’t Friday.

“If it weren’t Friday?” But–but the weekends are supposed to be for fun! And aren’t video games fun? Well, yes, but you see, that’s not the only thing the weekends are for….

Spoken Word Syndrome

This weekend I attended the National Association of Campus Activities South conference, a weekend of educational sessions, showcases, and networking to bring activities to colleges across the South. I will no doubt draw upon this experience for a number of posts (so much happened in such a short span of time that I can easily foresee two or three other topics already), but today I’d like to talk about the end.

For all who know me, and especially for those who have just met me or don’t know me very well, it may come as a surprise to hear that I am the biggest introvert you will ever know. You may imagine me speaking in front of a group, or casually carrying on friendly a conversation, or introducing myself with poise and purpose, and surely then, surely then I must be lying.

But I’m not.

“Editorials” and Other Poems

Last week my creative writing class moved from screenwriting to poetry–and now I’m rolling in the poems and have finally amassed a number of reasonably good enough ones to share here! I’m quite incredibly excited by this, I’ve felt these pages have been rather empty of art lately, and I’ve been eager to add something here for a while.

Today I also completed my screenplay–a forbidden romance with a philosophical slant entitled “Sinners and Sine Waves”–and after I’ve edited it sufficiently, I’ll begin posting it serially for a few weeks. But in the mean time, please enjoy some word-wrought poetry!

Hello, I’m Evil

I don’t think I’ve ever done this before, but I’m doing it now: I’m spending two weeks on the same mishneh, the same teaching. I hadn’t thought I’d be able to say so much on it, hadn’t expected it at all, but I got so carried away in my talk of prayers that I left no room for a further discussion on evil and identity. But perhaps that was for the best. Maybe we should keep our prayers away from what’s evil. But just maybe, we’ll see otherwise.

For those who might have missed it, or simply would like to read it again, here is the teaching I’ll be writing from, which is the same as last week’s:

2.18 Rabbi Shimon taught:

Be careful when you recite the Sh’ma and the Amidah.

When reciting the Amidah do not make your prayer a prescribed routine but a plea for mercy and grace before God, as it is said, “For He is gracious and merciful, patient and abounding in love, taking pity on evildoers” (Joel 2:13).

Do not regard yourself as an evil person.

In my first post, I focused primarily on the first two lines of this teaching. Today, I shall focus on the last.