My Russian Learning Exchange in Jerusalem

I’ve always had a knack for languages. Maybe it was my mom’s initiative in sending me to a French-English preschool that got my linguistic wheels going. Maybe it was my father’s knowledge of random curse words in multiple languages that kept me curious. I can’t pinpoint the exact source of being a linguaphile, but suffice to say that I love having the ability to meet and communicate with different people in their languages.

Tonight was the beginning of my second stint studying Russian.  The first time I studied the language, I was a junior in high school. SUNY Stony Brook had offered after-school foreign language courses for excelling students, and I had a thirst to expand my horizons while taking advantage of my junior license and new car. I loved studying in a university setting, and soaked up the Russian by listening to tapes and reading books.

Fifteen years later, here I am living in Jerusalem, still with a burning desire to communicate with Russian people and learn more about their culture. Given my self-proclaimed status of ‘eternal student’ and ‘language nerd’ (חנונית לשפות in Hebrew), I felt that I needed another linguistic challenge in my life now that I am fluent in Hebrew. I figured I’d give this Russian class a try to see how much I remembered from high school and perhaps make progress with my comprehension and conversational skills.

I find that I learn best in group settings, so the class at Berlitz got me very excited. After the trial class, I am pleased to report that my reading and comprehension skills in Russian are actually still quite good, which I think is due to a combination of frequent eavesdropping on random Russian conversations while traveling on public transportation throughout Israel, and reading every single sign in Russian that my eyes land upon.  I would say that my visit to Moscow also plays a part in my language retention, but my trip was eight years ago, so I don’t think it’s a contributing factor anymore.

The other students in my class intrigue me more than the language study itself. Talk about an "Only in Israel" moment – their backgrounds are testimonies to the authentic diversity in Jerusalem as a city. Just hearing a small snippet of their biographies made my own narrative seem mundane and lackluster. I’ve only met these young adults twice thus far, but I am looking forward to starting an enriching encounter with a different face of Jerusalem.

Take V., for example, a twenty-something Armenian Jerusalemite. He lives in the Old City, and works in his family jewelry business, which has stores in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City and one of the fancy hotels on Road #1 (the busy thoroughfare which serves as the border between “Western” and “Eastern” Jerusalem).  He speaks four languages fluently, and already knew how to say in perfect Russian, “Friend, for you, I give you a discount!” 

Then there’s A., a young twenty-something Arab guy with strawberry-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He is finishing his degree in Mechanical Engineering. A. is from Abu-Gosh (I think that means he’s a Christian Arab), and went to school in Neve Shalom – the cooperative peace village near Latrun that I've been reading about for years. This came up in conversation because I assumed he had to translate the Russian exercises into Hebrew and then into Arabic, but he informed us that he’s been in an all-Hebrew learning environment since elementary school.  Hearing that he studied at Neve Shalom was a particularly exciting discovery for me since I’ve been following their work for many years, when I was researching bi-cultural peace education in areas of conflict. It also turns out that David Broza’s grandfather was one of the founding fathers of Neve Shalom –so many connecting pieces for me!  A. has the lowest level of Russian, but I think if he starts watching Russian TV, he’ll improve quickly.

K. comes from the FSU Republic of Georgia. He’s been here since he’s about 10, and works as a lecturer in Physics and Mathematics at ORT. He also studied German, plus he’s fluent in English, Georgian and Hebrew.  I don’t know how his Russian is so good, but he has little patience for A. and steals the spotlight. There’s always one know-it-all in every class!

Then there’s C, who is a sweet Charedi girl who was born to American parents in Jerusalem. It turns out that she volunteered with the same organization that brought me to Russia eight years ago, and spent three winters teaching Judaism to Russian students. She is kind, gentle and speaks Russian on a basic level. She reminds me of myself when I was young, more frum and more naïve.

The process of studying a foreign language in a foreign language is a fascinating process. There aren’t enough words to fully express how excited I am to refresh my Russian skills, but the added element of learning it in my third foreign language (Hebrew; Spanish is my second language) is going to be very challenging.  For me, the mental gymnastics is enjoyable. I love the cerebral challenge of translating back and forth, but I thought I would be the only one doing so in the classroom. I'm definitely not alone here.

Jerusalem’s colorful cultural tapestry is once again showing its face. Each one of us is learning Russian in a foreign language, yet most of the students (besides K. and I) were born in this very city! This “Only in Israel” moment is one that I have never encountered before. 

Today's cultural experience once again shows me how much similarity there can be between individuals who otherwise seem to have little in common. Each person has a narrative, and each person is fascinating in his/her own right. Even the aggressive, sketchy merchants in the Old City have families and children who wish to help develop their families' businesses! I find that when you encounter different people from various walks of life, you develop an appreciation for and curiosity about everyone.

Oh, I am a student of life, and every day in Jerusalem is my classroom!

Things Israelis Say On a Date

On a first or second date, there is a fine line between getting to know the person who sits before you, and crossing into the 'too-personal zone'. I find that Israeli men tend to live to the reputation of 'dugri' even when it comes to dating. However, many times, especially from an American perspective, such direct talk can be jarring, stifling, tactless and very much over the boundaries of first date small-talk.

I've come up with a short list, which I hope will be a work in progress (actually, no I definitely do not want to continue facing such questions). I'd appreciate hearing any feedback on appropriate responses.

1. Do you rent your apartment or own?
2. How religious are you? What length are the skirts you wear?
3. How much do you pay in rent?
4. Which kupat holim do you have?
5.(Upon learning my parents are divorced): Who do you live with? Are you in touch with your father/mother? Why did they get divorced?

Ok I'm done for now. Thanks for listening.

On Grandma's 100th Birthday

I still remember walking into my grandmother’s modest house in Elmont, New York. We would always enter through the door in the backyard because she had turned the front of the house into a second-level apartment which she rented. I would walk in the door, which immediately had us standing in her kitchen, and I’d reach for the refrigerator door because I knew that’s where the kept her stash of M&Ms. She would stop me in my tracks, welcome me, and then quickly look at my hands. “You have to stop biting your nails, J.,” she constantly reprimanded me. Even at the age of six or seven, I had already developed a habit that continues to this very day. “Oy vey, your nails are so short,” she whined in her raspy voice, “it’s so bad for you!” “Ok, ok, ok, I’ll stop,” I would tell her over and over again. I’m now thirty-two, and sometimes my fingers still hurt from biting them. Oops, sorry Gram!

We were always pretty diligent about visiting my grandma. My mom had an exceptionally close relationship with her, and I believe both she and I take after my grandma in many ways. And so, today, what would have been her 100^th birthday, I would like to reminisce about my grandma, Ann S., and maybe try to shed some light on who she was.

Ann (Anna) S. was born on Stanton Street on the Lower East Side on August 12, 1912 to Molly (Malka) and Hymie (Chaim) W's. As far as I know, the W's had many children, but only four girls survived beyond infancy: Sarah, Gussie, Dora and Anna.  At a certain point, they moved to the Bronx, then seen as moving up the socio-economic ladder. Even back in the 30s and 40s, my grandmother was already challenging societal roles: she became a working woman, and became the main breadwinner of her family. I don’t know what her parents did for a living, but they were immigrants from Poland, presumably limited professionally and linguistically. "Anna", as they called her, was a first-generation American, worked as a bookkeeper in New York City, and helped finance her family. When she wasn’t working in the office, she worked hard at home.  I believe they were Orthodox Jews growing up, but once she had her own family, she chucked frumkeit and Yiddish. She chose a more cultural-Jewish route, making the world's best matzah ball soup for yuntifs, chopped liver, and went to the Elmont Jewish Center a couple of times a year. During her early adult life, she dedicated her life to helping her parents, and also helped her sisters raise their children.

Her older sister Dora, was widowed when her two sons were about two and five years old. My grandma helped raise Dora’s two sons, H. and R., and encouraged them both to stay in school and empower themselves.H. went on to get his PhD, and is still active in local politics. He has become a role model for me, and I love getting together with him on the rare occasions that I go to the U.S. R., too, has developed his own career, and still lives in the Bronx. My grandma used to tell us stories about their childhood friend from the Bronx, Al Pacino, who of course, went on to become one of the most famous movie stars of all time. I wonder if there's a chance that he remembers "Aunt Anna"?!

I would like to think that I get my ambition and drive from my mother, who I believe, got it from my grandma. She was a tough lady, didn’t let anyone stop her when she wanted to do something, and spoke her mind…She grew to hate my father, and made no secret of that. She also, did not like the fact that we became more observant religiously. She felt that this lifestyle was better left in the shtetl, and said, “We’re in America now! Who needs this?!” Yet, we continued in our ways. And, for some reason that I still do not understand, she wasn’t so fond of my sister Rachel, who was a cute little rolly-polly blonde baby, yet she would tease her and trip her with her cane when she started to walk. I still don’t understand why!

 

Surprisingly, my grandma didn’t get married until she was about thirty-nine years old! She gave birth to my mom at forty, and to my aunt at forty-one!  To start a marriage and have kids at that age in the 1950s was unheard of! To thicken the plot, her husband, Harry, my grandfather, was about six years younger than her. Just consider that for a moment to get an idea of how unconventional my grandma must have been. Of course these are details that I only became aware of as I got older, but now that I have some awareness of societal norms in a historical perspective, I am so curious to uncover the mystery of my grandma.  It sounds like she was so busy in her professional and family life, but to put off starting her own family, when everyone around her was presumably starting their own families at such young ages, either she just didn’t care (very likely) or it was difficult for her to handle. Most likely it was a combination of both.

My mom, M. was born in 1952 in the Bronx, and my aunt R. was born in 1953. My grandparents then moved out to the suburbs of Long Island for a better life, and so both my mom and aunt were raised in Elmont, NY. To this day, my mom’s two claims to fame are: 1) Billy Joel played at her high school prom with his then- garage-band; and 2) she is a proud participant of the original Woodstock, to which her very own father drove her for hours, while getting stuck in traffic from Long Island all the way to Saugerties, New York.

Once into adulthood, my mom and dad stayed on the North Shore, while my mom developed a successful career as an English teacher, and my aunt and uncle struggled their way their whole lives, moving around the South Shore with my cousin Brian.

Even though I was already an adult when my grandma passed away (she died in May 2002), I didn’t have the opportunity to get to know her life story. She had dementia for the last few years of her life, and just at the time in my life when I developed a curiosity to get to know her and ask her about her life, she was not lucid anymore. Yet, what always made an impact on me was how well my mother took care of my grandma. Just like my grandma dedicated her life to helping her own parents for so long (presumably until they died), my own mother bent over backwards to make sure my grandma had the best of the best care as she became elderly.

After she moved out to the Assisted Living Center, she had a stroke which left her blind. My mom spent months researching the best options for her, and chose to hire a companion nurse for her to help her with her everyday living. She specifically chose this option, I think, because she knew that she wasn’t ready for a nursing home. It would have been degrading for a woman who was used to balancing her checkbook to the penny to move into a nursing home just because she couldn’t see anymore. At the time, she was still “with-it” mentally; she was blind and needed help around the house. So my mom hired Genevieve, a kind woman with a slight southern twang, was in her late 50s and lived nearby. My mom trusted her with my grandma, and had her do help with her shopping, cooking  and light chores. My grandma, called her “Genovese” like the pharmacy, because she just couldn’t hear her name right. She stayed with my grandma for a while until her situation deteriorated, necessitating the care of a nursing home. My mom then found her the most palatial nursing home in the area: the Gurwin Jewish Geriatric Center, where we spent a lot of time. I was already in college by then, but my mom took my little sister and visited her nearly every single day.  As a divorced mom of three spoiled, high-maintenance children who had held down a full-time career for her entire adult life, I honestly don’t know how my mother found the time to juggle everything and still take care of my grandma. She knew that my grandma always made sure to have her hair permed and set once a week; this didn’t stop once she was in the nursing home. She made sure she had everything she needed, that she was comfortable and lived in dignity. 

I can go on and on, but here is a short list of things I believe I learned from my grandma:

·         Don’t be afraid to speak your mind.

·         Dedicate one room in the house for the kids to ruin. ( I say this because I have distinct memories of seeing the spray-painted graffiti from the 60s and 70s that my mom and her friends must have sprayed on my grandma’s basement walls!)

·         Sprite tastes better when it’s cold and flat.

·         Don’t bit your nails. (still do, sorry Gram!)

·         Never leave the house with hair looking bad.

·         A woman should never rely on a man to be the sole breadwinner in the family.

·         No matter how much you disagree with them, family comes first.

·         It’s ok to marry a younger man (if it was ok in 1949, it's certainly ok now!)

So I guess now you get a sense of the female role models in my family, and perhaps this sheds light on some of my own character traits. For those of you who remember my grandma, you’ll agree that she was one, feisty old lady!

I miss you Gram, you are always in my mind.

5 Reasons Why I Love Being Lighter

5 Reasons Why I Love Being Lighter

I am celebrating 52 lbs gone, gotten rid of, goodbye, don't want to ever see you again. GONE! I didn't "lose 52 lbs" because "lost" implies I am looking to find them, which I am not. I don't ever, ever want to see that weight again.

I've taken on a this attempt at getting rid of my weight, but I had no idea how much better I'd feel about myself. Thank G-d, I am in a much more positive place in my life, but I cannot take it as a given. Every day is a blessing, every pound I lose is a blessing, and I cannot take it for granted!

So, here is a short list of things I love about being 52 lbs lighter. I hope it serves as a reminder to me if I ever think of stopping with my program or going back to the way I was.

1. I love that when I look in the mirror these days, I actually like what I see. In 31 years, this hardly ever happened.
2. I love that there is hardly any chub sticking out on my back anymore.
3. I love that I can wear those cute platform and wedge shoes comfortably. Last year, I tried to put them on and almost tipped over. My knees hurt me after 5 minutes on putting them on in the house.
4. I love that I feel comfortable looking at people. I wasn't comfortable looking people in the eyes before because I was embarrassed of how I looked.

There are so many more things I love about being lighter, but this is a preliminary list. I'd like to write up these lists every now and then, to inspire myself and others. We are worth investing in ourselves because our value increases everyday! (you can quote me on that last part!)

The Longest Six Miles Away

The mainstream media makes conflict zones seem so black-and-white. You’re either on this side or that side. One side is the aggressor, the other the underdog. We are made to think that one side is made up of terrorists, and the other consists of innocent, peaceful civilians. Riots, demonstrations, divestment strategies. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

The longer I actually live in a so-called 'conflict area', the more encounters I have in my day-to-day life that make me realize how grey and complex the reality is. I come home at night after a day at work and a short shopping stint in the city center, and realize that the most palpable conflict zone is the one going on in my mind. Exhausted, with a million thoughts in my head, I come to see that this geographic conflict zone has become an emotional conflict zone for me. Short sociocultural exchanges quickly become long, twisted existential dialogues in my mind, when all I really want to do is live in pleasant surroundings and be able to trust those around me.

So I will rewind to the scene last night, as I walked by the luxurious David Citadel Hotel on my way to meet a date. I got off the bus and began to head towards the outdoor Mamilla Mall. As I walked down King David Street, I saw a large group of teenagers and young adults hanging out with some snare drums parked on the side, close to the building. They were all wearing a beige uniform with tassels on the shoulders and carried green flags. The closer I got, the more visible the Arabic writing on the flags became. At first I thought they were a group of tourists who had returned from a pro-Arab rally or maybe were about to start one. Then I got even closer and saw small Palestinian flag emblems on their uniforms, and noticed that they did not look like any European tourists. The dark hair, olive complexions, mustaches (Yes- Mustaches! Hello 1982? You were 30 years ago.) They were also speaking Arabic. I thought I was mistaken because even though I see lots of Arabic writing in Israel, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a Palestinian flag in real life.

However, these youngsters definitely we were wearing Palestinian flags on their uniforms. I got closer.

Now, I recall my own days in marching band. We were not a scary bunch. We wore those dorky green uniforms every darn Memorial Day Parade and marched down the bridge in Centerport proudly displaying our shiny instruments which glared from the sun as much as our metal braces in our mouths. As I walked by this group, I made the presumption that the nature of marching-band-geeks prevails internationally, and therefore did not sense any threat of potential violence. Fellow band nerds, Palestinian style. OK I have nothing to fear.

I walked over to a girl who was sitting down talking to a guy. They were probably around 17 years old. “Where are you from?,” I asked in Hebrew.

“What?” They responded in English.

“What kind of group is this?” I asked in Hebrew again.

“We don’t understand,” in English they responded.

“Oh,” I said in English, “Where are you from?”

“From Ramallah,” the guy said, “We are scouts.”

“Oh. Ramallah. Where did you play your music?”, I asked them in English.

“Beit Fajjar. You know it?,” he asked me.

Now at this point, I was stunned. Stumped! For 2 reasons:

1) Here is a group of school kids- boy and girl scouts - from a town about 20 minutes from Jerusalem who do not speak a word of Hebrew. Their English wasn’t so great either, but they didn’t even understand me when I spoke Hebrew, and usually comprehending a ‘foreign’ language is easier than speaking it (note: this is my own theory, not based on any research). And they live just up the road! Do they not get reception for Galgaltz Radio or Yes TV?!

2) Beit Fajjar? Do I know it? Um, yes. It’s in Gush Eztion. I pass by the sign for Beit Fajjar whenever I go to Alon Shvut. I distinctly remember the sign because it’s right near a trempiada (hitchhiking stand) in Tzomet HaGush which stands out in the open on the highway. There have been numerous shootings in that little traffic circle called, "The Gush Junction". It is one of few places in the Gush that frighten me. Whenever I see hitchhikers there, I get anxious that another shooting could easily occur again because there’s really nowhere to hide for safety except for behind a bus stop. So yes, I know of Beit Fajjar.

I also have heard about it because it was the village in which the mosque was vandalized by some fanatic Gush Eztion residents.

So how would you respond to this exchange?

Do you make reference to “Gush Eztion”, a totally legitimate, legal, widely recognized name that refers to the same exact neighborhood they were playing their music in? No.

The trempiada? Nope, they don’t stand there. They’re probably not allowed to.

The shootings? Em, nope.

Tzomet HaGush? ‘Shu Hadaa?’ They won’t know what that is either.

The mosque? Oh God no.

South of Jerusalem? Maybe, but they call Jerusalem ‘al-Quds’. So probably not.

Each time I tried to make some reference to show recognition of the town, I couldn’t.

Different language, different recognition, different frame of reference, different mentality, different ways of life. Different, different, different.

Foreigners with no common frame of reference at all who literally live 6 miles away from each other.

Sad.

More than that, and this is where I get crazy, but the likelihood of some of their close relatives being members of the very organizations who actively pursue our annihilation is high. Hamas? Fatah? They build their parks, hospitals, and schools in their neighborhoods! Internationally-recognized terror organizations are the equivalent of the freakin’ Salvation Army down the road a few miles.

I don’t know what they were doing waiting openly in front of the hotel, but I am confident that there is no way a group of teenage, Jewish scouts would ever survive hanging outside of a Ramallah hotel lobby in one piece.

Perhaps I should be upset to see this group so comfortably hanging out on the streets of our Jerusalem. But honestly, I felt fine. I had a calm, yet admittedly awkward conversation with a group of Palestinian marching band members, with not one guard or policeman around.

I don’t know whether I should have been scared or comforted. Hopeful, maybe?

Maybe if we just find some common ground, and keep ourselves open to listening, we could just have a conversation and move on with our lives.

…And maybe in the end of the day, I’m really grateful they’re heading up 6 miles to Ramallah – the longest 6 miles away in the world.

Keep on dreaming

Whenever I hit a dry spell dating (yep, happens from time to time), there is that one guy who I dream about over and over again. It's been years. He is still there, on my mind, in my heart.
We don't see each other much. He is far away. I am far away. Facebook does not count; not for meaningful communication anyway.
Those blue eyes, his masculinity, strong, tall. He is grounded, serious, playful at times. Tall, broad, so handsome. Makes me feel safe and protected. His voice gets excited when I call.
No idea how he feels about me, but I get happy every time I am about to see him.
He is a lot younger than me, yet as the years go by, and we are both still 'available', that age gap becomes less and less relevant.
Thinking about him today, tonight.
I want to say something, but I am scared.
What if he says no? That he's not interested? There goes my fantasy, my fall-back guy.
And then what?
So is it better to keep on dreaming?
For how long must I dream?

10 Lessons my little sister taught me

My little sister is actually getting married pretty soon. I won't be there to celebrate her bridal shower with her, so I wrote this up, hoping her best friend will present it to her...

SPECIAL FOR R’s BRIDAL SHOWER
10 LESSONS MY LITTLE SISTER TAUGHT ME

1. Dedicate yourself to people you love.

R. is an amazing friend, and she is an amazing sister. She dedicates herself to the people she loves by going out of her way to make those people happy. R. has taught me that it is important to treat the people you love kindly, and not to worry about putting on a show or bragging. The people you love are the most important people in your life. And the people who love you will love you no matter what.

2. Take your time to find your path.

So… in case you didn’t realize, R. and I are very different, but we’re also quite similar in many ways. R.’s more laid back than I am in many respects, and I admire that about her. She has taught me that it takes time to figure out your path in life! No need to make yourself crazy overachieving and pushing yourself too much because you know what? It will all work out.

3. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade!

For such a young woman, R has overcome a lot of challenges in her life. I think many of these challenges have shaped her into the wonderful, caring, intuitive person she is today. I have learned that even when life gets challenging, you have to look for the good, and keep going. She also knows how to laugh – even at some tough things. That is SO important because a) she has a great laugh and b) it’s so much better to LAUGH than to CRY!

4. When you leave the house in the morning, be sure to look g-o-o-d.

R always looks G-O-O-D. I really don’t know where she gets her sense of style from… ST? E.? M.? It isn’t really trait that we share in the family, but man, do I appreciate the times she’s saved me from walking out looking like a shlump. Thanks for teaching me some fashion & makeup skills!

5. Wait. You made that?!

So…. Cooking isn’t really our forte in our family (in case you didn’t know). Thank G-d R. has changed that and has taught me that even home-prepared foods can be delectable and healthy! We might just starve now that you’re not going to be at Mom’s house anymore, but I think the whole neighborhood will celebrate your visits from now on!

6. Kids with special needs deserve (and give) lots of love.

I was never really involved with children with special needs. But R.’s passion for working with these kids is really admirable and inspiring. Her enthusiasm for kids with special needs has changed the way I see them. I look forward to the day that R. is running her own facility for kids with special needs because they deserve someone as dedicated and caring as R. is with them.

7. When communication fails to work with Israeli Morrocan women, stay FAR AWAY.

[to be read in a high pitched voice]: “R! Get back in there!” All I’ll say is that our repulsion from Israeli Moroccan women proves, more than anything, that we are sisters. Us girls + Moroccan Israelis DO NOT MIX! STAY AWAYYYY

8. Do good deeds for people…even strangers.

I remained in wonderment how much good R. does for people…even people she doesn’t really know. One time, a close friend of mine in Israel was really feeling sick. She needed help cooking and cleaning before Shabbos, and no one was able to help her because they were all busy with their own homes. Rachel went over there Erev Shabbos, and sorted everything out for her. I was in shock that she agreed to do such a tedious, time-consuming task. But she did it happily (or so I thought!) I am in awe of you R.

9. Life ain’t always easy, but it all works out.

I think above all, R. has taught me to keep a positive perspective. Even when she was really young, I was stunned how intuitive she was, how perceptive she was of our family members, of her teachers, her classmates, etc. She does the BEST impressions, by the way! Things that took me AGES to deal with, she managed to deal with, process , overcome & move on. ..without going nuts about it! That is a priceless lesson to learn!

10. If you want to look good, get your butt to the G-Y-M.

R., I know I’m becoming an old lady, but thanks to your encouragement and motivation, I FEEL GREAT! Thanks for getting my butt (which is shaping up nicely, by the way!) to the gym!

See, these are all really priceless lessons that no one else in my life, except for my little sister, R has taught me. I am so grateful to have you as my sister, and I hope, even though you’ll be a married woman soon, we will still grow closer together.

I love you, I love your fiance, I love you together. You guys make each other shine, and I hope you stay that way forever!

MAZAL TOV!