Her eyes twinkling behind oval glasses, author Phoebe Potts led seven of us into the kitchen of the education center at a suburban Boston community mikveh. She lit a piece of paper on fire in the sink, and then urged us one at a time to toss our slips of paper into the flame. On that slip of paper each of us had written what got in the way of our voice — as writers or artists. Then, we symbolically destroyed what Potts refers to as our “internal mugger.”
Welcome to the irreverent, frank, poignant, and often hilarious world of Phoebe Potts, the 40-year-old author of “Good Eggs. ” The graphic memoir, published last year, chronicles her attempts to find a mate, to deal with depression, to come to terms with her Jewish faith (she is a child of an interfaith marriage) and, especially, to navigate a painful battle with infertility.
Why so much humor, asked a participant at Potts’ free writing workshop held Sunday at the Mayyim Hayyim Living Waters community mikveh and education center in Newton, Mass. “It’s part of the Jewish gestalt. If we didn’t laugh, we’d cry,” Potts said.
The women’s basketball team Elitzur Ramle won the Eurocup championship for the first time in Israel’s history in a 63:51 victory against French team Arras. Star player Shay Doron who was also the first Israeli woman to play in the WNBA, said the team was “ecstatic” about the win. Despite the incredible triumph, women’s sports in Israel remain largely under-reported and under-attended, lamented Ramat Gan council member Israel Zinger who was at the national championship and found few public officials there. Needless to say, that wouldn’t be the case had the men’s team been up for the European championship.
Gila Klein is running for the head of the teachers’ union under the campaign slogan, “Revolution! After 107 years of male authority, it’s time to go from ‘mazcal’ [male director general] to ‘mazcalit’ [female director general].” Despite the fact that teaching is undoubtedly one of the most female-dominated professions, the inverse pyramid has held fast even here. That is, the higher up on the ladder, the more men dominate women. Elections for head of one of the most powerful unions in Israel are set for this week, and we’ll see if there will indeed be a gender revolution.
Nearly all of those who have already applied to this year’s Jewish Funds for Justice Community Organizing Residency are women. And last year, which was the program’s first, 14 of the 16 people selected for the interfaith program were women. Overall six Jews, six Muslims and four Christians made up the group.
COR pairs Community Organizing Residents with houses of worships and non-profit organizations, where they are tasked with doing social justice work on a grassroots level. In the program’s first year, that included labor organizing, getting out the vote for the midterm elections, trying to prevent home foreclosures, and working on various immigration and refugee issues. Residents receive a stipend during the six-month program.
Why the gender imbalance among applicants, The Sisterhood asked COR’s director.
“You look great” is one of the conversation starters that I most despise. When someone says that to me, it always feels like what they are saying is that the last time they saw me I looked terrible. Or is it that they are surprised to see me not bed-ridden or comatose? Or, maybe, they simply have nothing interesting to talk about other than our superficial appearances. Regardless, I hate it because it reminds me how much people are constantly looking at each other and judging others’ entire lives based on thinness, youthful appearance and shallow versions of beauty.
I thought of this last week as someone remarked to me that she had seen my daughter and that my daughter “looks great.” My first thought was, duh, of course she looks great; she’s an active 13 year-old and has a beautiful spirit and she looks exactly how she should look. My second thought was, why are you observing and judging my daughter’s appearance? What are you looking for? What are you expecting to see? And what does “good” even mean? Does it have any meaningful interpretation at all?
Apparently a love for Kabbalah runs in the family. Contact Music is reporting that in an upcoming episode of “Who Do You Think You Are?” Gwyneth Paltrow discovers that her great-great-great grandfather was a master of Kabbalah.
In other celebrity Kabbalah news, The Kabbalah Centre has apparently sent out an email to its members explaining that it has formally ended its relationship with Madonna’s charity, Raising Malawi, which the IRS is rumored to be investigating and is being sued by villagers.
Gloria Steinem gives an icon-worthy interview to BlogHer, in which she discusses ways to get girls interested in feminism, and the very real existence of a professional “maternal wall.”
You know Passover is around the corner when a) you’ve finally finished the last of the chocolate-filled wafers from Purim mishloach manot and b) your friends start kvetching — on Facebook and in person — about the cleaning they have to do.
I despise cleaning, and my cleaning lady of several years quit last week because she’s going back to school. Still, I’m not worried about it, probably because Boychik and I have just emerged from the college application process and no amount of crumb-searching and scrubbing can compare with that roller-coaster of stress.
In fact, I’m sort of looking forward to doing the cleaning it this year. It’s probably because I am again holding to the guidelines of Rabbi Chaim Pinchas Scheinberg, Rosh Yeshiva of Jerusalem’s Yeshivas Torah Ore. On this website he urges women to do what is necessary to abide by the halachic requirements of ridding one’s abode of chametz, but not to go overboard.
Since motherhood and the Middle East are what I’m all about these days, the first paragraph of a recent opinion piece in the Wall Street Journal jumped out and bit me. Virginia Postrel writes, “Motherhood, it seems, is the Middle East of social controversy. Alliances may shift, new dogmas and leaders may arise, tactics may change, but the fundamental conflict resists resolution. Despite the efforts of would-be peacemakers, impassioned partisans continue battling to claim all the territory as their own. My way, they declare, is the one right way to be a good mother, a real woman, a fulfilled human being.”
Luckily, Postrel immediately addresses my main objection to the metaphor, by quickly pointing out that: “Fortunately, nobody dies in the mommy wars.” Yes, indeed, that is very fortunate. Happily, nobody gets maimed, tortured, traumatized or held prisoner in the mommy wars either.
Let’s put the relative seriousness and ramifications of the two conflicts aside — because after all, a wounded ego is not really comparable to a wound caused by gunshots or bomb blasts. But is there any real basis for a comparison, even a flip one, between the sniping that goes on between Israelis and Palestinians and the back-and-forth between stay-at-home moms and working mothers?
Without getting graphic about it, I remember the moment the condom broke.
It was my senior year of college. I felt eerily composed as I drove, later that same night, to campus health services to get the so-called morning-after pill. I can’t believe how calm I was; it’s completely contrary to my personality, but somehow, my brain managed to get quiet and I saw the solution.
The fact that I knew about emergency contraception (EC) was the result of having access to correct information about it — what it is, where I could get it, how it would work. I knew I needed to use it within 72 hours, and that it was safe, effective and readily available. I had no trouble getting it; there were no strange looks, derisive comments or accusations. No “conscience clause” was invoked. I also am white, was over the age of 18 and went to a large university in the Northeast. I was given two pills — one of which I took that night, the other the next day. I don’t remember any significant side effects, and a few weeks later, I got my period.
Ever since the marriage of Rebecca and Isaac over three millennia ago, the children of Abraham and Sarah have toyed with the practice of betrothing their daughters at very young ages. Of course not all scholars agree that Rebecca was actually three years old when she took the fateful decision to feed Eliezer’s camels and cement her destiny as a Jewish matriarch. Realistically, many scholars (including Maimonides, Tosafot and Sifrei, for example) argue that the age is a fabrication. Nevertheless, the mythology of the girl-bride has relentlessly taken hold, to such an extent that even now, thousands of years later, the practice is frightfully tenacious.
The latest chapter in the Jewish annals of child-brides emerged last week in Kiryat Sefer (Modi’in Illit), a Haredi town in the center of Israel not too far from where I live. A 13-year-old girl whose parents were horrified to discover that she was talking to boys (my word!) was apparently married off to a 16-year-old boy from Rehovot. Rumors are sketchy about whether they were merely engaged or secretly married. But according to a report in Haaretz, the girls’ parents were so overwhelmed by their daughter’s rambunctiousness that they turned to a local kabbalist who told them that “this was the only way for the girl to supposedly atone for …. her sin.” The welfare department, the police, and even other local rabbis tried to intervene to prevent the marriage from taking place, but the social workers learned that the marriage took place anyway. (Government social workers are now on strike in Israel, and are thus not currently involved.)
This weekend, The New York Times profiled four prominent young, mostly progressive bloggers: Ezra Klein, Matt Yglesias, Dave Weigel and Brian Beutler. The hook? They are all friends, they hang out together in DC and they have all emerged quite quickly in the media world — moving from bloggers to serious members of DC’s pundit class. Not surprisingly, they were largely white and all male.
I happen to admire the work of many of the guys profiled. And I admit, when the New York Times calls up for a profile, there are very few people who would stand up and say, “You can only include me if you include XX person too.” I highly doubt I’d be able to do that. Still, like many of the article’s readers, I was turned off by the lack of women (except girlfriends and fiancées), people of color and bloggers with a more aggressive or activist bent in this piece. It was troubling particularly in light of this Times Style article published a few years ago, which profiled a similar group of bloggers with several overlapping members who, at the time, lived together in a house in DC. The previous article wasn’t exclusively male, although it was male-centric. So it almost felt as though the original story, problematic to begin with, was whittled down to its white male core for this unofficial follow-up.
Even though she was ineligible for the Forward’s recent Triangle Fire Poetry Contest because she is a Forward contractor and is not a resident of the United States, The Sisterhood’s Elana Maryles Sztokman penned this poem in honor of the centennial of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, which killed 146 people — mostly young Jewish and Italian immigrant women — on March 25, 1911.
Have You Seen Me?
Have you seen me?
I came on the boat, you know, that one
With all the others.
I was with Sophia, remember?
Sophie, with the red hair
We stood next to each other as we docked.
And we found work together. Our sewing machines were across from each other.
It was a great job. A steady job. It paid the rent.
At the Triangle Shirtwaist factory.
We were lucky.
We didn’t talk much. No time. No lunch break. No money.
We were friends. She smiled at me over the machines. Sophie, with the red hair.
One Friday, she whispered, “Tomorrow is my birthday. I’m turning 25.”
I had $2.50 in my purse. After work I bought her a necklace for $1.50. Engraved “Sophie” on it. So people could see her. And know her name. She wore it every day and people saw. Sophie with the red hair.
When the fire started, people were running, shouting.
“I’m glad I saw you,” she said as she grabbed my hand.
We went to the fire escape, but it started to shake. Before we stepped on, it broke. They all fell.
We screamed, ran to the other side. Door was locked. “Sophie,” I said, crying. And then the flames came and engulfed us.
“Where’s Sophie?” He searched over the bodies lined up on the sidewalk. “Have you seen my Sophie?”
Can’t you see her? I wanted to say.
“This one is called Sophie,” the Officer called from the other end of the street. “See, it’s on her necklace.”
My necklace. My Sophie. He took his Sophie away and mourned.
More bodies. More searching. More crying. 140 funerals.
Not me. They never came for me. Six of us left alone. I was waiting for someone to see me.
“Have you seen my…”
But they did not. They all walked past me on the sidewalk. Lots of them.
They thought my body was a sight, unseen.
When it was all over, I gathered unto my people. The other women whose lives, and deaths, were not seen. We, the Unseen Women.
I see them. They see me.
Maybe next time you will see me too.
Read the poetry contest’s winning entry by Zackary Sholem Berger here.
Suddenly, on the heels of some high-profile teen suicides during the past year, we’ve realized that bullying is something we should be paying attention to. How it’s managed to escape our consciousness seems to be about “boys being boys,” or making kids tougher in the long run, or punishing and shaming gay kids into being “normal.” Lately, there have been press conferences, celebrity ads, studies, and initiatives, even from the White House, to bring to public awareness what a whole lot of people have learned the hard way.
I was not a fortified kid. I had no backbone for dealing with being teased, with having my chair kicked, with being stage-whispered about, so I quit Hebrew school in fifth grade — much to the lamentation of my mother, who swore I would regret it. I didn’t. Maybe sucking it up and staying would have laid the foundation for me to become a Talmudic scholar, but I doubt it. I couldn’t take it; I had to get away from those kids, even if it just meant postponing my encounters with them until I started high school in the same town. (By that time, we all seemed to have developed a certain amnesia about our previous lives together.)
Well, it looks like its time to say goodbye to the phenomenon known as LUG, or lesbian until graduation, that, according to a Times piece, never actually existed. The story reported that a recent study showed that college-educated women were actually less likely to have a same-sex experience than those without high school diplomas.
I was never a big fan of the whole idea of the LUG, and I’ll tell you why. It’s because, during college, a lot of the women I knew on campus who made out with women weren’t actually LUGs; they were instead something I am going to call HUGs, or hotties until graduation.
I have no problem with sexual exploration and, like any right-minded person, I support expressions of sexuality across the spectrum. My issue isn’t with sexual curiosity; it is with those that engage in girl-on-girl action for the sole purpose of titillating men. This lesbianism as a way to be sexy has made serious inroads in pop culture over the last decade, and, I would argue, is part of our initial fascination with LUGs in the first place. (It’s a fascination that I can’t help but think had something to do with the Times pretty thorough coverage on the recent study.)
Like many close girlfriends, my best pal Faye and I check in with each other every day and, even in the age of Facebook, we do it the old-fashioned way, on the phone. Our morning call usually takes place car-to-car, while she is commuting to work from the southern suburb of Meitar to her job in Beersheba, and I am dropping the kids off at school before hunkering down at my home computer.
But when I woke up to the morning news of two Grad rockets falling in the heart of Beersheva, I immediately called her at home, earlier than usual, to ask if she was going to her office at Ben-Gurion University, and if so, whether that was a wise idea.
She said, yes, the university was open, even though public schools in Beersheva were closed, and as she worked in public relations, going to work wasn’t optional: It was going to be a busy day, with all eyes on Beersheva (this was before the bus station bombing in Jerusalem, later in this far-too-newsworthy day….)
It seemed as if all Israelis were glued to their televisions or radios this morning to hear the prison sentence handed down to former President Moshe Katsav, who was convicted of charges of rape, sexual harassment, indecent behavior and obstructing justice in December.
At home, in stores, offices, or in my case, at the gym — where everyone was huffing and puffing on the treadmills and exercise bikes as they watched the televised images of Katsav enter the Tel Aviv District court building and listen to commentators speculate on whether the sentence would be harsh or light.
The courtroom was closed to cameras, and so reports of the sentence dribbled out over the course of half an hour as the decision by the panel of judges was read, and reached TV screens second-hand. In the lobby of my gym, members were clustered around the television and reacted as a Greek chorus to the words that were flashed across the screen: “SEVEN YEARS IMPRISONMENT.”
The men of the club were grim-faced, but nodded in approval. “Good job,” one of them said. The reaction of the women was immediate: “Poor Gila!” they clucked, referring to his long- suffering wife.
It seems the gender wars are trickling down…to preschool. This recent article in Slate is about a new preschool in California called “The Pink Academy” which features pink everything and no boys.
Preschool founder Donna Wood told The Santa Cruz Sentinel, in this article, “It’s about empowering girls, and they like pink right now.”
It sounds less empowering than limiting, if you ask me. Generalizations like Wood’s are troubling because they are so reductive. They offer too limited a notion of who girls are and what they can be interested in.
President Obama’s decision to bomb Libya apparently has something to do with gender.
The New York Times reports that Obama was waffling on whether to attack, while Secretary of State Hillary Clinton was in favor, but having trouble convincing the president. It was only when she recruited two other women to form a coalition that Obama made the decision to act. “The change became possible,” the Times writes, “only after Mrs. Clinton joined Samantha Power, a senior aide at the National Security Council, and Susan Rice, Mr. Obama’s ambassador to the United Nations, who had been pressing the case for military action….Now, the three women were pushing for American intervention to stop a looming humanitarian catastrophe in Libya.”
This coalition of women is apparently up against a coalition of men. Under a headline “Obama agenda: The women vs. the men, Andrea Mitchell reported that “In the end, it became the women foreign policy advisers against the men. ….This is a rare instance, by the way, of Clinton going up against Defense Secretary Bob Gates and the National Security Adviser Tom Donilon among other men in the White House who were much more cautious about this.” The Times concurred on this assessment, adding that counterterrorism chief, John O. Brennan, “had urged caution.”
This Purim, for the first time in more than three decades, I wore my wedding dress. It was a strange experience.
The idea was born out of desperation. My husband and I only began thinking of costumes for the Megillah reading and Purim spiel we attend every year just hours before it was due to begin, and because it was Shabbat, we had no chance to purchase anything. My usual backup, a beautiful kimono he bought me on a business trip to Japan, seemed inappropriate this year. While I want to express solidarity with the grief-stricken country, this didn’t seem the way to do it.
My second backup, a long, embroidered Arab dress and white hijab from Jordan, also was problematic. An expression of solidarity with Middle East women protesting for freedom? A worthy feeling, but this year the outfit could also be interpreted as something far less sympathetic. So, that was out, too.
As a last resort, my husband went to the basement to retrieve my wedding gown, last worn nearly 31 years ago (our anniversary is in a couple of days).
As I prepared for the beginning of the perennial Purim question of “Esther vs. Vashti” at the same time as I delved into Jane Eyre-mania, I began to think about how women are always pushed into dichotomies. I wondered cynically how soon someone would write about the new Brontë films by declaring Jane Austen passé. I didn’t have to wait long. This article about the “Battle of the Bonnets” in the Washington Post is a witty and sharp look at women’s cultural obsessions and it contains some great literary observations. But the headline, and the “battle” premise, rankles.
It always seems to me that when it comes to women who take different paths there’s a meme out there that there’s only room for one. Virgin or whore, Esther or Vashti, Austen or Brontë. Yes, the two most famous Brontë sisters, Charlotte and Emily, and Jane Austen took divergent approaches to writing about the “woman question.” Austen was sort of an Esther, using her brilliant wit to dazzle readers but containing steely critique of the system under her perfect prose, while the Brontës, Vashti-like , seethe with rage at women’s unfortunate lot and churn with a desperate desire for escape.
These women were writing in different styles, and in completely different cultural eras. Why not just appreciate the fact that both of those approaches worked so well that readers can’t get enough of them even today?
As International Women’s Day flooded the social scene with events celebrating women’s political, economic and social advancement, my own personal empowerment took place in a flood in the bathroom.
My adventure began unexpectedly at 2:30 on a Friday afternoon — when else do emergencies happen, really? — when I walked into the bathroom and stepped into a two-inch puddle of water. I might have chalked it up to shower spray, except that there was also brown water on the toilet and a few inches of dirty water in the bathtub. Clearly there was a problem.
As loath as I am to admit this, my first thought was, predictably, about the man in my life. (To put it in perspective, the fact is my husband worked as a plumber for our first few years of marriage, so it’s not necessarily a gender thing, just a professional thing. Or so I keep telling myself.) But my spouse of nearly 20 years happened to be away last week, and there I was at home a few hours before Shabbat with my 15-year-old son and 7-year old daughter facing a flooded bathroom.