Can I Be A Jew?

I lit the candles last night, though I'm not sure why. Something deep down just compelled me to do it, as if the rituals of my childhood came out to play. Mom didn't light the candles last night. They've lost their meaning for the brother who went over to his friend's house on Friday night for pork chops. But they still mean something to me.

For even as I type this on the Holy Sabbath, I'm doing arguably more than most would--I'm thinking. I'm questioning and struggling with this religion that just doesn't yet make sense to me. I am bold, I am courageous and I am. . .absolutely confused. Confused beyond all doubt. When people ask me what I am, I reply that I'm Jewish--as if nothing more needs to be said. But there is always more that needs to be said.

I should say that I am not Jewish overnight camp, or a flunked Hebrew school class that my transcript will never show. I am not teen Israel trips in which you tell your rabbi that the highlight was climbing Masada when we know the real highlight was climbing the Israeli soldier. There are so many things that I'm not, though it's hard to say exactly what I am.

My parents are Jewish, so by default I am too. I am a Bat Mitzvah, I am engaged in my Jewish community, but when people speak of this Jewish identity--I stare blankly back. Can a Jewish identity be comprised of broken puzzle pieces that may or may not fit together? How is a girl in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago supposed to feel a connection to Israel when the country itself is struggling to make that claim for themselves?

I'm a sea of what ifs, a sea of doubts and insecurities. But if my Jewish community has taught me one thing--that sea is Jewish. And it may not mean much, but it'll mean I'll never be alone.

Right Now

It's been a while. Been a while since I've seen the once familiar orange icon at the top of my screen light up as it awaits a new blog post. I could sound off a laundry list of excuses, each more valid than the last--but I'll spare you that. It's time for me to write once more, to dust off the keyboard and delve into the ideas that have long since been rattling my brain.

It's you. Because it's always you. And it always has to be you. Because you have no name, though as I write this I have one in mind. Yet when I read this almost time capsule of a piece in months to come, I might just remember who it is my wanderlust heart decided to follow in the moment my the publish button was pressed. The post might be published, but it's far from over.

Far from anywhere near comprehending all that you are to me, and all that I wish I could say. All the times I've come so close to a hug, but instead backed away.

This is a toast to you, the boy so different than me. The one that's making me dream that maybe one day we won't be. For I once chose boys I could fall apart with, so at least misery wouldn't have company. But I'm on an uphill swing, and it's obvious you are two. Our pasts don't align, maybe our futures don't either. But we have today.

We have tonight, so let's not waste it on words we know we'll never say. Just hold me close, and I promise we'll be okay.

Forget the future, ignore the past--because all we have is right now, and I want you here, with me. . .right now.

Crazy

Written Winter of newly 2013

Crazy

                “You’re crazy,” they jokingly retort.

                I nod along, as if being crazy is anything to joke about. Spend a few days with my best friend’s family at Thanksgiving and you’ll know what crazy is. But is crazy such a bad thing? Isn’t crazy the name we give to things that we ourselves are not able to understand? We once called going to the moon “crazy”, yet look what it’s become—reality. It’s the fear of failing that enables us to label things. That boy must be a “player” because he’s much more attractive than I am and I happen to have feelings for him. I’m “crazy” to like him . . . yet he just might be crazy enough to like me back.

                “What’s so wrong with crazy,” I finally respond.

                “It’s crazy I mean, pretty self-explanatory,” I hear back as an eye roll is shot my way.

                Crazy is self-explanatory—it’s doing what you feel without thinking twice. There are few things in life we look back on and say, “I’m so glad I did that—it was so tame.” Those are the stories we tell our parents, and Lord knows those are watered down at best. Life is all about the crazy moments, and the moments you’re just crazy enough to take.

                “You there,” they question, “ugh, I knew I should’ve gone to the mall today instead . . . .”

                “I’m going to go save the world,” I reply unemotionally, “I’ll drop you off at the mall on my way.”

                As confusion and pure annoyance set in, I get up, grab my keys and walk to my car. Two honks of the horn later, and she finally decides to grace me with her presence.

                “What do you mean you’re going to go save the world,” she inquires, equally concerned as she is curious.

                “Put your seatbelt on, the GPS says I’ll have you there in 6 minutes,” I respond, maintaining my composure and focus.

                As I drive through the eerily picturesque suburban jungle, I begin to ponder what changing the world really means. By changing one life, that is changing the world. Hm . . . yes, I very much so like that. If I can change one person, then that means that another person can change a person’s life. Maybe not force them to change, but allow them the opportunity to change--should they choose to take it. Crazy, right? What about the chain reaction, or the movie Pay It Forward or Groundhog Day, what about those? Exactly!

                And as my heart and mind combine into a brainstorming frenzy, my hands and feet manage to do quite well on autopilot. Six minutes later, I am pulling up to the front entrance of the mall, yet my friend doesn’t flinch.

                “Is there a problem, I thought this is where you wanted to go,” I asked.

                “This isn’t where I should be . . . I kind of want to change the world too,” she meekly replies.

                “But that’s crazy,” I respond, keeping my eyes locked on the entity that is my ex-boyfriend walking 20 feet in front of my car.

                “Well, yeah, it is crazy I guess,” I hear her softly ponder aloud “but then again, what’s wrong with being crazy?”

                “Exactly.”

Empty Boy Apartment

Written 8/17/13

            And I see you, through the corner of my eye. In a mall, in a hallway or in a crowded parking lot. You are any and everywhere. You are momentary flirtation, a boy I will never see again, a man just trying to have a little fun. The cute guy at the mall kiosk, the older gentleman who catches my breath—the face and name of a constantly changing illusion of love.

            It’s the daydreams hours later that will leave me wishing there was more. It’s the times that I’m caught off guard by someone so true, so genuine and so different. By someone I’ll never see again, though I secretly and not so secretly hope to. He’s the story I’ll tell my friends, and the joke they’ll laugh at me for years to come. We’re all constantly searching for him, for her, for it—for love.

            And it’s never love, but it can be lust. Lusting after that which we don’t think we deserve. Is happiness in our cards? Was that ever truly an option? Who could bear to love us, when the burden is one we haven’t yet been able to bear? If only we could stop questioning the lies and admit the truth: we deserve to be loved, we deserved to be happy . . . I deserve to feel loved and to be happy.

            It’s funny, because I never thought I’d be able to say these words. But I guess you have to fake it until you make it. And isn’t it that one moment of doubt that helps us to see the beauty in the world? We tell ourselves that they could never love us, so we lust after them because we know it’s safe. That they’ll never get close enough to hurt us, so hurting ourselves a little in the process won’t hurt nearly as much as if we let them in enough to break our hearts that have long been held together with duct tape.

            And I’m kind of okay with that. At 16, I’m fine with believing that I am going to fall in love with some random guy I see in the mall. I’m okay with daydreaming about my friend’s new boyfriend, or questioning if a guy I saw running down the street would make a good father. Because that’s what my life is about now. Trying to figure things out, that maybe love is in the cards for me, or maybe I’m condemned to a life of Facebook stalking and listening at the gossip mill.

            It’s a crazy world, the world of a girl who just wants to be loved. The world of a girl who refuses to let love in. It’s messed up and convoluted, but I enjoy the insanity to be honest. Who else can say that they’ve pictured themselves with over hundreds of people? For these fantasies and illusions never come real, it’s the ones that you don’t play over a million times in your head that turn into reality. As Nev from Catfish said, “If we don't hope, if we don't stay positive - at least about love, or finding love - then the rest of life becomes really just painful to think about, because for the most part, you know, day-to-day stuff is monotonous.”

            And I’ll believe in the insane, let guys think me the “crazy girl” I often label myself as. But I guess I’m better than that. In fact, I know I am. I’m wild and free and boy crazy and I’m ready to have fun. For time was stolen from me, and I’m ready to not reclaim it, but to make the most of the time that I’ve still got when I’m at this age. I love life, and nothing is going to stop me from continuing to love what the big man up there wants to bring me.

Summer Internship 2013-- "Places"

Places

Written July 29th, 2013

            The 7:12 train pulls out of the Northbrook station as I find my place on a worn leather seat, next to a man in a navy suit, his addiction of choice steaming from a mug in his hand. The train pulls into Union Station as I find a new place, my place among the ceaseless swarm of people walking; half asleep souls milling around in long skirts and pantsuits as horns honk their wishes for today not to be their last. As I push through the revolving door on 30 South Wells, I find yet a new place, a place among my colleagues as I flash the security guard my ID badge, punch in a code and scan my finger before finding yet another place in the elevator. Finally, my last place of the day is found on the 5^th floor of the JUF building, in an office never held by a sixteen year old, in a world not intended for such “young” eyes to see.

            As a sixteen year old girl, I’m constantly trying to find my place, trying to find the places that I can rest my head—the places I can feel safe. With a world like the one we’ve created, where Snapchats and human contact only last but 10 seconds, it’s difficult to try and find something permanent amongst it all. I’m a Jewish teenager, so I guess my place is at Jewish overnight camp, youth groups and the synagogue I’m expected only to have seen on High Holidays, right? There are expectations that have been set by previous generations as to where my place is, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find some discomfort in it all.

            You’ll find me at Shabbos dinner on Fridays, schul on Saturday’s and facing East twice daily. You’ll find me at Shabbatonim and reading the new issue of JUF Magazine as if it were the new People. You won’t find me on Facebook on Shabbos or eating bacon. I’ve found my places among the Jewish crowd—in whatever sense that may be. Yet I’m constantly trying to solidify my place among not only my secular peers, but among my religiously observant ones as well.

            In all honesty, I think that’s part of the fun of life, trying to find where we truly belong. I know to whom I belong, and I know to whom I owe nothing at all. Regardless of where I may or may not will myself to go, I know one thing—my place will always be with the Jewish people. Even the simple aspects like playing Jewish geography with someone from across the country can solidify a place with a person you never even knew existed.

            While I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I am a “typical” teenager in any sense of the word, I do believe that my desire to belong is mutual—among all generations. My place as I type this is at an internship created for me. My place is with my family as we celebrate simchas, among my friends as we commemorate our losses—with anyone and everyone.

            It’s 5:25 in the evening when the train takes off from Union station, a new seat in a new place, both with a familiar feel. A new place next to a stranger I boldly decide to strike up a conversation with, a new place next to a person I now can no longer call a stranger. It’s 6:00 when I step off and walk to the car in the place I parked it hours ago. And it’s midnight as I stare at my ceiling, trying to find my place among the rest of the sleeping world. Yet it’s as I wake and say my prayers the next morning that I realize the true beauty of it all—my place resides with me. My place resides with my solidified commitment to Judaism and to the land of Yisrael. My place is with my Jewish community, because it is every place and any place. It is my place.

Presence Through Absence

Dear Angelo--

I write to you, though not as often as I would like. . .not as I should. An emoticon or two will be sent your way, a statement about missing you which is oh too, but it disguises the truth. The truth that I'm just not ready to let go of you, that it's hard here without you and that I'm scared that I could encounter your same fate. I want you close, so I'll send you pictures of what I've been doing just to keep your name at the top of my messages list. I need to feel you close, because it seems as if you've been slipping further and further away lately.

It's like a distant memory, your shining face in the halls. I used to be afraid of you, though now I'm afraid of the thought of losing you. I'm afraid some days that I already have. But this is to you, for in your absence I have learned how I need to improve my presence. How many days go by that I don't hug someone, don't chase them down the halls just to tell them that I think they look pretty? It's out of fear, and I'm done being afraid. I want to do a tribute to you, and I know that words on this empty screen won't mean much. So I'm changing who I am so that maybe others won't have to feel like the place they call home is just too much of a Hell to keep living.

Angelo, we were never as close as we should've been, we were never as close as I would've liked to be. But I've been trying to keep you alive these past few months. Please don't forget to visit soon. I love you.

I'll write to you soon.

--Toby

The Lies in the Law

I guess that's the double edged sword of a centralized legal system. We're able to put away the "bad" people and keep the "good" people functioning in our well established societal orbit. But it's hard not to feel like the prison bars are holding only just the select 10% back.

I get it, that the legal system is complicated for a reason, that everyone deserves the right to a fair and speedy trial, yada yada yada. But what I can't seem to wrap my mind around is why money can allow you to cover you with enough sleaze to slip right through the prison bars. If you can buy a good enough lawyer, chances are you can buy yourself a ticket out. For a price, your crime no longer matters, because money matters more.

At sixteen, I'm realizing that this system wasn't created for me. My actions mean little, my opinions even less. For if I report a crime, I need to come with evidence. I need eyewitness testimony and factual, hard core, bulletproof data. I need to hand them the case on a silver platter, because I'm a teenager, and teenagers lie. Tell me, what teenager would willingly take time out of their lives to go to the police station and willingly receive hours upon hours of interrogation? Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. Since when did the victims of the crimes become the aggressors?

If I report a crime, and there is reasonable doubt, why won't it immediately go to trial? Why have I been waiting for four days for a phone to ring when I know it never may. I was too scared to call the cops, too traumatized to open my mouth, yet the second I do the "right" thing, the legal system gives me a blindsided kick of reality. I'm a minor--the legal system was made to protect me. I'm a minor--the legal system discredits everything I will ever say. It's funny how our country can lock up 10% of it's people, yet you'll never spend a day outside of the picture perfect world you created during the destruction of mine.