Our class discussion on the Holocaust made me reflect upon a conversation that I had with one of my friends when she and I were traveling in Amsterdam over winter break of last year. The Anne Frank house is located there, and before I set off on the trip, my mom reminded me of that fact and said that I should definitely check it out. When I asked my friend whether she would be interested in going to the museum, she was adamantly against the idea since she believed that the Anne Frank story was not an accurate portrayal of the Holocaust, and thus she did not feel like it should be so widely broadcast and received as one of the most crucial Holocaust stories. Since it was only she and I who were traveling, and we wanted to stick together, I did not end up visiting the house. Many people that I spoke with about my decision did not understand, and said that if they were me, they would have protested and made their friend come to the museum, or would have broken off from her for a couple of hours to get the experience. My reasoning had multiple layers: for one, I did not want to share the experience with someone who would be meanwhile resenting it, and two, on some level I did understand where she was coming from, in terms of how the Anne Frank story is over-broadcasted, and because of that, does not portray the message that stories of the Holocaust should necessarily be sending.

The Anne Frank story, along with Schindler’s list, and the gate of Auschwitz, mentioned in the article that we read for class, is a product of Holocaust myth. It is the story of one girl that has become so famous, adapted into numerous cinematic pieces, read by countless students. But does it help people remember the Holocaust in an effective way, or does the constant appearance of the story serve to numb individuals to the event? In addition, does the focus on this particular story take away the importance of the other stories of the individuals involved in the Holocaust? Is remembering one story enough? In a way, I felt embarrassed that I did not visit the museum, and felt as though as a Jew I had done a disservice to my family and my religion. It was as if, even if I did not think I would be affected by a visit from the house, and even though I thought the story was over-told, I had not performed an act of remembrance that was expected from me.

I can relate a lot to the comment that was made by Caroline, about how, as a descendant of Holocaust survivors, and as someone who has a lot of knowledge about the Holocaust, she often feels jaded when it comes to Holocaust related material. This has definitely been something that I’ve experienced; my grandmother is a Holocaust survivor, she has told her story numerous times at our JCC, for a project conducted by Steven Speilburg, and at my middle school. I have been to both Yad Vashem and the Holocaust memorial in DC, but I did not feel incredibly moved at either museum. Sure I understood the gravity of the material in these museums, and sure there were parts of the museum that had an effect on me, but I was not anywhere close to tears, or any immense emotion. I remember that there were even instances during these types of trips where I questioned whether I should be imposing some sort of emotion upon myself to make up for my absent tears.

So there are a lot of questions that I have about how to remember the Holocaust, and whether mythologizing is harmful as well as helpful. It seems that the repetition of certain stories are effective, because they immortalize the Holocaust within our culture. However, as these stories are told and retold, individuals are simultaneously remembering the Holocaust as well as growing desensitized from its terror. So is there a way of remembering the Holocaust, and creating myths without the repercussions? I have found that the few times I did have a visceral reaction to things Holocaust-related was when specific details were mentioned. For instance, in Hebrew school, I felt a bit sick when we learned about how Nazis performed experiments on pregnant women, in which they would sew the vagina shut, and monitor the repercussions. In a less gruesome example, I also felt something when I learned that after my grandmother and her sister were smuggled out of Auschwitz by a kind, German soldier, the other people at the camp were informed that the two women were killed. This fact was explained to my grandmother by a woman from the camp, who she ran into years later at a train station, after she moved to the States.

I guess the process of creating myth surrounding the Holocaust strikes me as problematic because it buries the smaller details, and the experience becomes impersonal, quite often masked by the faces of actors in a film. In this, I am not denying the immense importance of these myths; they make it possible to remember the Holocaust, and make these memories accessable to individuals everywhere. I just wonder what the myths will look like in years to come, how many of Holocaust’s lesser known voices (the people who did not keep diaries, and even the ones that did) will be silenced, and how many stories will be forgotten in order “to remember.”

For my second fieldwork assignment, I interviewed both of my parents about their views on Kashrut, and the ways in which their views changed once they moved in with one another. The interviews gave me some insight into how my views on kashrut have been constructed, as their child. When I was younger, it felt as though I was expected to keep kosher. The other kids in elementary school ate ham and cheese sandwiches at lunch, but type of sandwich seemed off-limits to me, and it was an unspoken rule that I was not supposed to eat crab or lobster. I did not question those dietary restrictions much, because I accepted that they were a part of Judaism that my parents observed and therefore I was expected to observe them as well.

I remember one time in middle school when Lunchables meals were popular, and I asked my mother in private whether I could take a pepperoni pizza meal to school one day. She had no problem with this, but it turned into a clandestine operation; she called me over to the refrigerator and showed me the Lunchable container that she had put inside of a paper bag, so that my father would not find out about it. When he asked what we were talking about, and I had to admit to him about my treif meal, I felt embarrassed, and as though I had let him down in some way, even though he did not make a fuss about the pepperoni.

When I recently interviewed my father about his views on kashrut, he said that, although he is not entirely sure that he believes in a God, he feels a certain amount of guilt whenever he eats non-kosher foods and so therefore does not enjoy eating them. It is evident to me now that during the pepperoni Lunchables dilemma, I was witnessing, and to a point experiencing, that same type of guilt.

At this point in my life, I only keep kosher within my house and do not think about it much when I am away from home. Even so, I tend to eat less pork than other meats; I’m fairly certain that I just had my first ham and cheese sandwich last year, and although I did enjoy it, I do not seek out ham on a regular basis. It was also in the past five years that I began to eat shellfish regularly, and I think I can somewhat accredit this to the fact that I am no longer affected by the guilt that my father experiences when he eats treif foods.

I always knew that my mother was not as firm a follower of kashrut as my father, but it was not until the recent coursework assignment that I learned how her practices and my father’s practices were fused upon their marriage. Since my dad was more adamant about keeping kosher and my mom not as much, their compromise produced a house with two sets of dishes and silverware, one oven, stove, refrigerator, sink and dishwasher, and a constant supply of plastic silverware and paper plates to be used for treif items.

Since I have grown accustomed to this level of kashrut at home, I think that once I move out of my house and start my own family I will want to keep kosher in my own house.  I know that this practice will provide me with a comfort connected with my parents’ house and my childhood. I do not think I will ever feel a personal necessity to maintain a kosher lifestyle away from home, but the keeping of a kosher household will allow me to stay connected with the traditions of my family.

When my parents visited me earlier this semester, they brought with them a copy of Mitch Albom’s new book, Have a Little Faith, and told me that it was about Rabbi Lewis, our synagogue’s Rabbi Emeritus, who passed away a little over a year ago. Once I started reading the book, I was immediately sucked into the narrative: it follows a friendship and mentorship that developed between Albom and Rabbi Lewis, after the latter asked Albom to write his eulogy: a project that Albom assumed would only take a few months, but ended up lasting eight years. That story is paralleled by the growth of a friendship between Albom and a local minister, and also Albom’s overall quest to understand and define his own, personal faith.

There were many things in the book that intrigued me and seemed to echo some of the things that we have been talking about in class. Early on in the book, Albom and Rabbi Lewis have a conversation about the Rabbi’s rituals. The rabbi believed ritual to be vital to his life, because in his opinion faith is “about doing. You are how you act, not just how you believe.” The Rabbi lived through these rituals, and most of his days were filled with acts of praying, studying, doing charity, or visiting the sick. He commented that by repeating “the same old routine” he is able to stay connected to his grandparents and great grandparents.” This idea reminded me of when we talked about memories, and how they are used to create connections between Jews. In this case, those connections exist within one Jewish family: “If I take the pattern and throw it out, what does that say about their lives? Or mine? From generation to generation, these rituals are how we remain.”

The idea of community is touched on again, in the context of the congregation. A congregation, in Rabbi Lewis’ eyes is all about being a part of other people’s lives. “If someone was about to slip, someone else could catch him.” However, the modern world and the suburbs have begun to pull apart that idea of Kehillah Kedoshah, or “sacred community.” In today’s society, everyone has their own busy schedule and so there is less time for them to be there for one another; to conquer this fast-paced world, Rabbi Lewis made sure to keep track of every congregant’s milestones and to listen patiently to anyone who called for his attention. He knew everyone’s name, and even paid extra attention to oldest congregants because “it makes them still feel a part of things.” This was neat to read, because I have seen things in action. I only spoke with Rabbi Lewis a handful of times, but every time we spoke, he knew my name and would have an on-point question to ask. In retrospect, this attention to congregants, which is also exhibited by our synagogues other (still living) rabbi, Rabbi Lindeman, was what made me feel so comforted at services. It felt like a family. When my grandfather died, the cantor and rabbi both made appearances at my grandmother’s house, and did all that was in their power to comfort her.

The novel also brought up some interesting concepts about death, and dealing with loss.  The Rabbi lost his daughter to an asthma attack when she was very young, and afterward admitted to using some very strong words in God’s direction, demanding to know why that little girl deserved to die. In the end, he resolved to accept the loss and be satisfied that she was in his life for a brief period of time. He also looked forward to the time when he would be reunited with her after death.

In general, Rabbi Lewis looked at death with a sense of humor. He expressed that in some ways he was excited to die, so he would finally understand whether there is an afterlife. My favorite part of the book is the description of the Rabbi’s funeral. After Albom gave a moving speech, which is transcribed within the book, a tape recording of the Rabbi’s voice was played, and featured responses to two of his most frequently asked questions: whether he believed in God, and whether there is life after death. The answer to the first question was yes, and to the second he said, “My answer here, too, is yes, there is something. But friends, I’m sorry. Now that I know, I can’t even tell you.” I enjoyed the fact that it was because of the Rabbi’s faith that he was able to crack jokes about things as morose as death, and was able to find ways to accept and understand the unfair things that happened to himself and his congregants.

This was an interesting read about a man whose dedication to Judaism allowed him to touch the lives of both Jews and non-Jews. In fact, there has been once or twice throughout my life when I have mentioned something from one of Rabbi Lewis’ sermons in casual conversation, which seems like the mark of an excellent and effective Rabbi.

As Caroline mentioned briefly in our penultimate class, Mortin Levitt, one of the fathers of the Modernist movement, and graduate from Dickinson came to give a lecture on “Jews and Modernism” last week. He spoke a lot about what we have been covering recently, concerning what makes a piece of art, or literature, or music Jewish. I thought his example of a person viewing an abstract painting that was declared to have Jewish content, yet not finding any visual Jewish content within the work, a great example of how the same object can be considered both Jewish and not Jewish at the same to examine within this debate. Levitt went on to explain that the same person turned to another work by the same artist and was able to see Jewish themes within that piece. It seems that the first piece of art can be considered both Jewish and not Jewish at the same time.

This analysis covers three ways of reading a text, widely studied within literary tradition: author’s intent, close reading, and reader’s response. Oftentimes, literary scholars also refer to the intentional fallacy, which dictates that it is incorrect to view the intended meaning of a text with primary importance. In the example of the modern art piece, the intentional fallacy is not relevant, since the painter was present to tell the viewer of his Jewish intentions. If the artist were not present, if the title was not related to Judaism, and if there were no known information about the artist, the piece of art would probably not be considered Jewish at all, and rather than thinking about what it might be trying to portray, the viewer would examine the painting as a text by itself (close reading) and their response to the work would be shaped by experiences within their own background (reader response).

Levitt seemed to be opposed to the reader response theory in terms of what makes something Jewish. In his view, if something was not created by a Jew, but had Jewish content, it cannot be classified as Jewish art. However, it seems to me that there are plenty of Jewish songs, and pieces of art, etc. that were not composed or produced by Jewish people that are very Jewish, since they have been used in Jewish contexts, for Jewish purposes. If all Jewish people adhered to Levitt’s conception of what makes a piece of art Jewish, Judaization in terms of art would never be able to occur.

There was this one day in high school when I got into a conversation with an acquaintance on the swim team about my inability to eat the chocolate chip cookies that he offered me. I explained in an abbreviated fashion that it was Passover, and so I wasn’t allowed to eat bread products or anything else that rises. His response, something that I have never forgotten was, “well if you eat it are you going to get struck down by lightning or something?”

I think I countered it with, “No, it’s just a part of the Jewish religion,” and trailed off. The truth was that when he asked me that, I was a bit stumped. I never thought about it like that; not eating cookies on Passover was just a given, like brushing your teeth in the morning, or changing into pajamas before bed. There were a couple years when my parents and I did not observe the holiday because we were going on vacation and it seemed that in order to completely enjoy the trip, it was necessary to leave all dietary constraints behind. Those times, nothing much happened, apart from the tiny guilty feeling that came after the first bite of prohibited bread, but all the other times when we were home, it just seemed wrong to even touch a baked good.

The rest of the day after that conversation, I kept asking myself the same question. What would happen if I never observed Passover, or broke the Yom Kippur fast an hour early, or did not eat a new fruit on Rosh Hashanah? Certainly the sky would not open up in a Monty-Pythonesque manner. There would not be a visible punishment. Perplexed by the question, I put it on the backburner of my mind: a place where it has remained for a long time, and its consistency has changed over that period. Now it exists more as a question of “Are Jewish traditions meaningful to me, and if so, why?”

This is not to say that I dislike Jewish traditions, because I do not. There are just times when some things seem silly or pointless to me and our conversation about Kashrut the other day is an example of that. We as Jews are not supposed to eat animals that differ from the norm; that is, birds that do not fly, fish that do not swim. I understand the idea of killing humanely, and of refraining from cooking a kid in its mother’s milk (and the fence-around-the-torah ideas connected) but as to the former rule I am a bit torn. Questions like “Am I a bad Jew because I like pepperoni on my pizza sometimes?” come to mind.

Another class discussion that we had cleared a bit of this uncertainty for me: the one about how Jews follow the laws of Judaism in order to feel individually closer to God. I think I had heard that explanation before, but in a less concise way, and so when it was mentioned last week, my appreciation of Judaism was greatened. The ideas to better the world via Tikkun Olam and mitzvot, and purse greater spiritual contentment during one’s lifetime are nice ideas, and make better sense to me than the constant preparation for what comes next, on which some other religions focus.

These ideas, and primarily Judaism’s focus on the individual’s quest to feel closer to God, made me realize that I have been phrasing my questions wrong. It is not constructive to start phrases with “Am I a bad Jew because.” Rather, it is imperative to think about “How can I use Judaism to enrich my life?”

Generally when I think about Judaism I think about how much it emphasizes the importance and existence of community: as Lowenstein puts it, “ties to a common book, a common tradition and a common ancestry.” The interviews in the first fieldwork assignment demonstrated that I am not alone in this perspective, as most individuals who were interviewed commented on how the community aspect of Judaism is most important to their Jewish identity. However, the thought of the practice of Jewish laws bringing one closer to God reminded me that it is just as important to look at the aspects of Judaism that affect the individual. To quote one of the people interviewed in “A Jew is Not One Thing, Judaism is “a community made up of individuals and individuals in search of a community.” To be tied to the Jewish people is more than just the recitation of common memories and the practice of common rituals (both in the sense of little tradition and great tradition) but even more importantly, it is the individual choice to experience and appreciate these traditions.

In class a few weeks ago, we spoke briefly about the ways in which one can deal with their sins on the High Holy days. That is, some feel it is satisfactory to use certain objects as scapegoats for their sins and then dispose of that object or animal, thereby disposing of their sins, while others feel it is important to interact with those that you have sinned against, and request their forgiveness. This discussion made me think about the ways in which I’ve seen and/or engaged in the atonement of sin throughout my life.

This year my Rabbi’s sermon was about the latter way of atonement. He urged the congregation that it is crucial to take action into one’s own hands, verbally ask friends and family for forgiveness. He also spoke about how prayer should be with people and to someone (God) rather than for something. If there is a change that we want to make in our lives our in the world, it is our responsibility to take action rather than to wait around for God to intervene and cause these desired things to occur.

Contrary to this, in my early days of Hebrew School, we were forced to take part in this exercise on Yom Kippur where we would report to the front of the room, stand at the trashcan and say one of our sins out loud. Then we would have to drop either a piece of paper or piece of bread into the trash. This exercise always made me very uncomfortable, because, even though my sins back then were more along the lines of “I’m sorry that I lied to my mom about eating her bag of M&M’s” than anything else, I did not think that they were anyone else’s business but my own, and the affected person’s (in the example’s case, my mother’s). I suppose that the Hebrew School instructors felt that it was a good thing for us to vocalize our sins, and hoped that we would each individually take the atonement to the next step and ask the said person for forgiveness, but that activity still strikes me as unnecessary and rather humiliating.

The next type of atonement that I will discuss was introduced to me just last year in the form of an internet meme (a catchphrase, concept or survey that spreads quickly from person to person via the internet) that a friend of mine posted on his blog page. The entry said something like, “In light of Yom Kippur, I would like to ask you to send me an email describing anything that I might have done that hurt or offended you, so that I can atone.” Although I am sure that he had good intentions, as did the person from whom he copied the post, it strikes me as a very lazy and counterproductive approach toward atonement. To me, it seems that the point of Yom Kippur is to seek out those people who you know that you have sinned against and offer your forgiveness, rather than to sit back and wait for sins to be presented to you. Indeed, for most people, the most difficult part of asking for forgiveness is the working up of courage to ask for it, and with meme-style atonement, that process is annihilated.

Another thing I notice after examining these three methods, is that there seem to be two results that can potentially spring from atonement for sins: relief of the sinner, and relief of the sinner plus benefit of the one that has been sinned against. Only the first method yields the latter result. Also, is simply asking for forgiveness enough, or is it necessary to plead until forgiveness is granted? What is Judaism’s stance on that, I wonder?