In my last post I would like to take a moment and reflect on this class blog. This may seem a bit odd, but I think it could be interesting to apply some of what we have been learning and discussing in class to an experience of the class.

What makes something Jewish? Does a Jew have to do something for it to be Jewish? Is something Jewish just because its content is? These are questions we have been asking ourselves since the beginning of this course. Given what we know now, can we ask and answer the question, what makes this blog Jewish? I would argue that both the question and the answer fit in very well with our work on this blog. Earlier we outlined four possible ways to define something as Jewish. The four ways were, content, context, perception, and intent. The first one is easy, if we are defining something as Jewish by content, than this blog most certainly fits the bill. Context is nearly as simple. The blog posts have been written in the context of a Judaic Studies class, so this would seem to make them Jewish. Perception and intent are more difficult, because admittedly these terms are more complex even outside the realm of Judaism. However, I feel that they are just as present. Although all of the participants did not necessarily perceive themselves as Jews, I do not think that it is too far a reach to call them Jewish scholars, and for them to consider themselves so. The students in this class were thinking critically and reflecting on Jewish life, and this is where I believe the final element of intent comes in. To me, the intention of the blog is entirely Jewish. Thinking critically about texts, reflecting, analyzing, conversing, joking (if only there was a way to share food over the internet) all happened in this blog and they are all pieces of Jewish culture. Of course, they are elements of other cultures, but I do not believe that this makes them any less Jewish.

This blog has felt like a sort of electronic beit midrash (literally “house of interpretation”) to me. The point of the beit midrash is to study, learn, and interpret Torah, but what makes it so special is that this process is not done alone, but rather with others. Although we’re not exclusively addressing Torah, the core components of the beit midrash were what this blog was about. I have truly enjoyed participating in this great Jewish past time of learning. I feel that hearing the perspectives of Jews and non-Jews alike has enhanced my experience in this class and my general Jewish experience. It has given me a lot to think about and I can’t imagine anything more Jewish than that.

“How does one “accurately” depict the horrific crimes? Can anyone who did not witness it truly grasp the horrors of it? You can tell me people were gassed to death, but I cannot fathom how someone could push a button to kill hundreds of innocent men, women, and children. How can my children understand if I cannot and I have heard from people who were there in the midst of it all?”

Wow. I think Christy has almost exactly described how I feel about Holocaust remembrance. In this blog post I would like to respond to her quote above, and also further explain one of my comments in class that seems to have sparked some discussion in others blog posts.

When I said that it did not truly “hit me” until I was standing in front of a pile of ash, I did not mean to say that thinking about the Holocaust has never upset me, or that it stopped upsetting me. I think that what I feel is much better said by Christy and explained by Webber. How can we process what we cannot possibly understand? And as Webber explains, are some things so painful that we have to forget them, in order to remember them differently? I have been learning about the Holocaust since elementary school and it has always painful, but it has never felt real. Even Auschwitz failed to help me fully understand, despite its cases of human hair and shoes. Birkenau was more chilling, but still no tears. I have memories of walking alone down the train tracks that brought so many to their deaths as I exited the camp. I was desperate to feel their pain. Midanek was different, mostly because I do not think I will ever look death in the face quite like I did that day. What I did not say in class though, is that something else happened at Midanek. We all (the students, teachers, and parents on our trip) gathered around the memorial structure created to enclose a massive pile of human ash, and a father spoke. I will never forget one of the things he said. “A parent’s greatest fear is that they will not be able to protect their children from pain and suffering.” As I type this, I can feel the emotions I felt at the moment he said this rushing back in. To me, this one sentence captures it all. When we visited the camps, not much time had passed since my uncle’s death. When this father said those words I could not help but think of my uncle’s two young daughters, my cousins, whom he could no longer protect. At that moment I finally felt the pain of those who perished and survived the Holocaust, because I was experiencing a similar pain myself. I will never be able to experience or understand their unimaginable life events and suffering, but I can begin to experience and understand what that may have felt. Experiences are not universal, but emotions are.

I believe that the concern that Christy expressed, as well as many other non-Jews in our class, indicates that the Holocaust is not simply a Jewish concern or experience. I respectfully disagree with those who see it as so. I understand the need in the Jewish community to incorporate the Holocaust into Jewish identity. However, I feel that recognizing others suffering in the Holocaust does not take away from Jewish suffering in any way, it may in fact strengthen it.

So now I would like to attempt to answer the question that Christy proposed, how will we help our children to understand? I do not think that the answer lies in textbooks, films, or even visiting concentrations camps, although I see all of these elements as necessary and valuable. I believe that the answer is in a very famous quote given by Rabbi Hillel when asked to explain the Torah, “That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation; go and learn.”

When we were shown the painting of the elderly Orthodox men as a form of Judaica I have to admit I laughed. Out of all the items that we went over that day I found this piece to be the most odd. Who would have this is in their household?  That question was answered for me over our recent Thanksgiving break.  I visited my two best friends who are brothers, in their home at the end of their shabbos meal. This is a familiar scene to me, but I feel that our discussion on Judaica caused me to look at this house that I have been in countless times with a new set of eyes. When I stood up from my armchair in their living room I was faced with a sketch of an elderly Jewish man and a Torah scroll swept across the page in an artistic manner. Once again, I laughed. I turned to my friend, Micah, and said, “You know, I just saw something like this in a class and asked myself who owns something like that? Now I know.” He laughed and responded, “Yea we have all sorts of stuff like that around here.” Before he could even finish this sentence I spotted another piece of Jewish artwork on the other wall, this one looked like paper cut outs of a woman and children. Next to this painting, a havdalah set and several volumes of the Talmud rested on a shelf. I then looked into the dining room that I had sat in so many times before, and truly saw it for the first time. I knew that it had been painted to look like the Kotel (The Western Wall); in fact, my Mom and I were some of the first to see this room that their mother was so excited to show off. It was not until I took this course though that I could see what Pilar was so excited about, what this house said about her and her family.

Pilar, like many others I know who convert to Judaism, has taken on the religion with her whole heart and her home is a reflection of this.  When I looked around the rooms I was privately identifying objects that were discussed in Heilman’s article, but now I think that it might be interesting to think about the meaning of these objects in the context of his article, and what I know about this family. The objects that I encountered in the two rooms alone encompass three of Heilman’s categories. The prayer books and Talmud volumes are Klay Kodish, the havdalah set and Sabbath candle sticks are Tashmishey Mitzva, and the paintings are likely R’shoot. I feel that the presence of the objects in the first two categories represent a more traditional Conservative home. The objects help to make religious ritual possible. However, I think that the artwork and Kotel themed dining room are saying something entirely separate. These items are related to the idea of Jewish identity that we discussed in class. Elderly orthodox men have no religious significance in this context, and I would venture to say that many Jews could find more visually appealing artwork. It seems that these paintings serve as markers, much like the mezuzah, that this was a Jewish home.  In class, we discussed these “markers” as more commonly used in less religious households, because the religious have the items they need to identify themselves as Jewish. What about this family’s house though? Many of the objects they possessed were more common among the Orthodox than the Conservative, so why are the paintings needed? I am not sure that I have an answer to this. I think that the incorporation of many types of Judaica is related to Pilar’s conversion. It is important for Pilar to be religiously Jewish, but it is likely just as important that others see her home as a Jewish home, that they see her as a Jew. The Kotel themed dining room speaks to another theme in Judaica that we discussed, a connection to Israel. I am sure that this family has collected many items from Israel over their visits, but even a hundred objects, do not speak as loudly as recreating a part of Israel in your dining room.

Until recently, I have not thought of Judaica as more than the mezuzot and dreidels lined up in my synagogue’s gift shop.  The more I think about it though; objects are essential to Jewish practice and Jewish identity. Much like the secular world, the Jewish world uses different tools and clothing to perform jobs and express individuality.  I look forward to using this new awareness to learn and understand more about Jewish identity and experience as I encounter different Jews and different Jewish homes.

I was recently asked to attend a dinner with a visiting scholar, Dr. Morton Levitt. Following dinner, Dr. Levitt gave a lecture on Jews and Modernism. As a Judaic Studies major and a Psychology major I do not know very much about modernism. I feared that with such little knowledge I would be lost during the lecture.  Interestingly enough, my ignorance about modernism did not keep me from being able to relate to Dr. Levitt’s material. As he spoke, I found myself wondering if he could have made his lecture fit any more perfectly into our coursework in The Ethnography of Jewish Experience.  There are two quotes that I jotted down that I think are especially intriguing given our class discussions.

The first quote I mentioned in class. Levitt was describing a conversation he had with an artist at a gallery of modern art.  After viewing the pieces, Levitt said that he had some trouble making sense of all of it. In their conversation following this, the artist told him that she felt that her painting “was deeply informed by her sense of her ‘Jewishness’.” The second quote is one that Levitt gave himself. Unfortunately, I do not remember his exact wording, but it was something like, “All Jewish writing, since the holy books has contained common elements of inquiry, a sense of justice, a search for truth, but the difficulties known within that…”. His list continues, but I am unable to capture his detail and eloquence here.  These two quotes and our discussions in class about what makes something Jewish have led me to one question, is there a way to think Jewishly?  Perhaps, Jewish art, writing, humor, music, anything, is Jewish because there is a Jewish way of thinking. I say perhaps, because I am not entirely sure of the answer to this question myself. I would argue that yes, there is of course, a way to think Jewishly, but I am not sure if every Jewish artist, writer, etc. is thinking in a Jewish mindset, or even aware of this mindset.

I believe that Levitt’s quotes stick out in my mind, because they express something I have felt. The way I think and act daily has to do with being Jewish. I am not always fully aware of this, but sometimes I am given the opportunity to see how true this really is. Several weeks ago, I attended a meeting where the possibility of the Asbell Center (Dickinson’s center for Jewish life) temporarily sharing its space with another office/department was being discussed. Who it was does not matter for my purposes here. What does matter is that this office’s work is not dissimilar or unrelated to the work of the Asbell center. At this meeting, there was a significant about of discussion over the logistics of the situation, and there was quite a lot of “boundary making” happening. At the time, I was very frustrated with some of the comments of my fellow Jews.  To me, their way of thinking and “boundary making” was “not Jewish”. After spending some time in this class, however, I now realize that their way of thinking and dividing was actually quite Jewish.  Still, their comments feel “Jewishly” wrong to me.  When I was given the opportunity to speak, I expressed how the Asbell Center and those who fill it had become a sort of home, or even holy place for me.  The idea that we as Jews had a home we were somewhat unwilling to share felt very uncomfortable to me. Had we wandered in the desert, experienced persecution time and time again, only to shut our doors to those looking for the same safe space that we were enjoying?  It did not feel “Jewishly” right to me to do so.

As the artist showed, “Jewish thinking” can be done outside of Jewish contexts. I think that my experience with “Jewish thinking” mentioned in this post became particularly relevant because it was in a Jewish context, but I believe that thinking Jewishly is a component of every part of my life. This is not to say that those who are not Jewish cannot think in the same ways. It is more that, like the artist, I feel that the way I interact with others, make decisions, express creativity, read, write, (the list goes on) is deeply informed by my sense of “Jewishness”.

The article “Childbirth and Magic: Jewish Folklore and Material Culture” by Shalom Sabar has sparked my interest in how the old becomes new again, especially in religions. According to Sabar, amulets with images like the hamsa or evil eye were adopted and made new by Jews. They were not originally Jewish creations. Today, Jews continue to wear these amulets and they have taken on a new fashionable meaning.  Even more interesting, is that modern non-Jews are beginning to take on ancient Jewish customs and in this way making them new. The more I look for it, the more I see Jews and others actively pursuing making the old new again. I believe that people find a great deal of comfort in making old Jewish practices and customs relevant to their modern lives.

At first glance, all of the “superstitions” about childbirth in Judaism seem somewhat primitive. In our modern world with doctors, hospitals, science and much greater understanding, these old practices seem irrelevant and in many ways silly. And yet, they are still present. Sometimes they are dressed up in different clothing, but they are present nonetheless. Reading about folklore surrounding childbirth has made me think about many conversations I have had with my Mom about the topic. My Mom likes to tell the story of a time before my sister was born when I wanted to help in the preparation of the nursery. As I was about to place diapers in my sister’s changing table, my Mom pulled me aside. She explained to me that as Jews we do not decorate or fill the nursery before the baby is born. I am not sure how much of this she explained to me at the time, but being 6 years old I quickly dismissed her remarks and said, “Well I’m only half Jewish!” and continued on my diaper task.  As I got older, these conversations became much more in depth. I began to ask my Mom why more conservative Jews did not find out the sex of their babies and why they did not decorate nurseries before their births. She explained to me that this is a protective measure. We do not decorate the nursery before a baby is home and healthy, because it is less traumatic to come home to a nursery that has not been decorated if the baby is lost. This always made sense to me, and until reading about childbirth and magic in this class I did not realize that there was much more historical background involved in my Mom’s response.

My Mom explained this concept to me as it made sense to her as a modern Jew, but I wonder if her belief is rooted in Jewish folklore and the more historical fear of losing a child in childbirth.  Initially, Jews may not have decorated their nurseries or spoken about a child out of a fear that a baby killer, like Lilith, would actually come and kill their child. Infant mortality rates were much higher in the past, and this fear seems completely reasonable given the time. Although Jewish mothers today have the knowledge that losing a child in the birthing process is extremely unlikely, many of these “superstitions” or at least the practices associated with them remain. I believe this goes back to the idea of finding comfort in the old and making it relevant to our lives. Mothers today are not as fearful as those who came before them, but because a child is seen as so special and valuable there will always be concern. Jewish parents who are looking for a Jewish response to this fear have found an answer in much of the folklore surrounding childbirth. They may give it different meanings, but there is still a sense that the old has not lost its purpose, and can still be quite relevant and meaningful in our lives.

In this class, a large portion of our discussion surrounding cultural boundaries is in relation to how Jews created boundaries between themselves and other cultures. We have spent some time talking about the differences between movements in Judaism and among individuals, but we have not really referred to these differences as boundaries. I wonder if this language is rarely used to discuss interactions among Jews, because it is uncomfortable to recognize that Jews are actively working to separate themselves from each other, as well as other populations. Borrowing, rejecting, and dividing are concepts that are most certainly not exclusive to Jews’ relations with non-Jews. It would be nearly impossible to acknowledge all of the ways in which this happens within Judaism. Because of this, I would like to explore how I have begun to recognize my own borrowing and rejecting processes within Judaism and how these processes have shaped my own cultural boundaries.

I recently attended a very untraditional Rosh Hashanah(Jewish New Year) service in a neighborhood park. I do not think of myself as particularly traditional, Jewish or otherwise, but I think that in experiencing something so untraditional, I was made much more aware of my traditional tendencies. Some of the Jewish cultural boundaries we discussed in class relate to food, costume, music, and religious practices. Costume is an example of a boundary I used to separate myself from fellow Jews in the park on Rosh Hashanah. Because we were in a park, many people there wore jeans and other casual attire. As appealing as wearing jeans sounded to me, I could not bring myself to wear them. Something felt funny to me about dressing so casually for one of the most important days on the Jewish calendar. I chose to wear a skirt. This boundary is not only a visible boundary to others, but also a personal time boundary. I believe that part of my inability to dress casually came out of the desire to create an internal boundary between my everyday life and the time of the High Holy Days. This can arguably be done through means besides clothing, but perhaps my use of clothing reflects my borrowing of more traditional ideas. My clothing that day created more than one boundary. I arrived in a jacket covering my shoulders that I later removed after spending some time in the sun. Uncovering my shoulders would always be seen as unacceptable in an Orthodox setting, and it would have been equally inappropriate during a High Holy Day service in my Conservative synagogue.  By rejecting this notion of modesty I made a second boundary. This time it was not between a more liberal Jewish population and me, but rather a more conservative one.

This specific costume choice is only one small example of boundary making in my own life and lives of other Jews. Of course, my experience is not representative of all Jews, it is not meant to be generalized. However, I feel that my borrowing, rejecting, and boundary creating is particularly reflective of my experience as a Conservative Jew.  I find the desire or need to create boundaries to be very interesting. This Jewish desire for separation starts on a large scale with separation from other cultures, continues into divisions in the form of movements in Judaism, and still proves necessary in the lives of individuals. Sometimes we experience and internalize boundaries without even realizing, but it is especially fascinating to step back and examine their existence and influence in our lives.