The title of this blog almost doesn't need more explanation--at least not to be funny, that is. To be understandable, perhaps it does need a bit more. Dwarf-sized pickles. It sounds like the name of a teenage garage punk band, right? A kid named (or rather, nicknamed, much to his mother's discontent) "Bonehead" turns to his friend "Munchies" and gives him a high five, "Way to come up the name, man." "Yeah . . . . mannnnn."
But the truth is, you cannot make up this stuff. I ate a dwarf-sized pickle last week, really. I had no idea when I bought the jar or even after I opened it and tasted them for the first time. It was only on Tuesday as I wondered to myself, "How do you say mini-gherkin in Hebrew?" did I look at the label. Turns out it's, "Dwarf Pickle." Well, I guess you could say then that my addition of the word "sized" to the title is just my commentary or hopeful thinking. I can imagine that most people would rather imagine these pickles are made for dwarfs or at least a company makes fun of their size rather than actually being made out of them. Well, that is what I am hoping. I would rather my pickle company be a cruel kid in fourth grade making fun of the short kid (come to think of it, I think I was that short kid) than a cannibalistic cult who for some reason has decided that eating small, mystical creatures from the Lord of the Rings is better than eating normal sized human beings.
That is one funny thing from my week.
What else happened? Oh, yes, I apologized for bumping into a mannequin. It's actually more correct to say that I apologized to the mannequin. I felt pretty good about myself for saying, "Excuse me" in country where short people with canes (not dwarfs, old people) hit your shins and run over you get on the bus. You do hear "Excuse me" a lot in Israel. But there is also a noticeable silence many times when the expected "Sorry" or "Excuse me" floats into the universe instead of coming out of someone's mouth. In any case, I felt pretty good about myself for being polite . . . that is until the bastard stared at me in stony silence. Let me just say, "I can be Israeli, too." That's the last time I say excuse me to a store mannequin.
That is another funny thing from my week.
Ah, yes. I was the star of a horror movie last Monday. Monday, thank goodness*, was a very warm day. *Note: I said thank goodness until I became the star of a horror movie. Now, I say, "Monday, oh-my-freaking-G-d-I-think-I-almost-died-from-disgust-and-heart-failure, was a very warm day." As I was saying, spring finally came. How lovely. Spring. Birds chirping. Kittens (400 of them) being born on our little street. Flowers blooming. Oh yes, and invasions of bugs. Invasions of LOTS of bugs (it is important to mention that they were not dwarf-sized). Not outside. Not even in the hallway. In the bedroom, MY bedroom, on MY B-E-D! One minute I was speaking on the phone and the next my wall and bed were covered by tiny, flesh-eating (well, not really) insects all trying to make their way to me (maybe I'm being egotistical here) and not stopping even after I attacked them (my killer instincts have sharpened since my TWO encounters with hand-sized spiders in my room). The boogers (there is no other word for them but this favorite Southern-ism) were out for blood. So, I did what any respectable girly-girl would do--I saved my Popples (if you have to ask what this is, you have missed a fine generation of stuffed animals) and headed for the hills. That is, I sprayed the room, closed the door, and slept in my roommate's room. Thank the Lord this was a one-time (I hope) occurrence. After speaking with several Israelis on the topic, it turns out that every spring, on the first very warm day, thousands of bugs stream out from their holes in search of the season's first falafel. It's like Groundhog's Day, except Poxatawny Phil is not as disgusting (who ever thought you could say that about a furry, tunnel-dwelling rodent?). They come out, scare innocent girls like myself, and leave (perhaps for Bermuda). Now I am armed for WW3 (not as funny of a joke here in this part of the world). I've got Raid, I've got a BZZT light (you know, the light that goes "BZZT" when the bugs fly into it), and I bought Popples an African bush hat with a net. WE are prepared here in room number 4 at address Ezrat Yisrael 15.
That is the third funny thing that happened this week.
The fourth is that I walked out of a soup restaurant (where, ironically, I did NOT eat soup--I know, I'm so avant garde!) and was run over by a marching band. It was 9pm at night, I was a bit tipsy from my hot chocolate (not really) and out of nowhere comes a group of eight or nine traveling minstrels, playing none other than "If you wanna be my lover" by the Spice Girls. It was weird (perhaps also a bit sporty and posh if you know what I mean), very weird.
I'm sitting here on Monday afternoon, wondering if I'll go out tonight for all the bonfires (In Israel, on Lag B'Omer, we celebrate by building really . . . really big fires). I think about all the random things that happened to me last week, and I wonder if it was any stranger than any other week. I think I'll have a dwarf-sized pickle and contemplate life for a bit. Or maybe just the possibility of a Spice Girl called "Dwarf Spice" . . .
Monday, May 15, 2006
Friday, May 05, 2006
There's No Place Like Home
I've decided to do a master's degree in saving the world--graduate studies in making the world a better place. Do you think I'll graduate with honors? Do you think that my dissertation will get published? Or will it get thrown into the trash, or if I'm lucky and I've changed the world a bit by the time I finish my MA, the recycling bin?
From the time I was young, I knew I cared about people. December 25, 1989--this date marks my first act of social change. I volunteered with my father and members of our synagogue preparing Christmas dinner for homeless individuals and those who simply needed something to eat on a cold, winter day. I thought about the home I would return to after we finished carrying the big vats--or, for me, a small vat--of green beans and mashed potatoes to the large tent where they would eat. I thought that it was strange that even though I was Jewish, I was probably having a warmer Christmas than they were.
I was seven years old, and even then, I knew that some people in the world do not have enough to eat; some people do not have enough money to pay for heat; and most importantly, some people do not have anyone who cares enough to help them do something about it.
When I was six years old, I wanted to do something about it. Eighteen years later, I still have this desire. Now, however, my thoughts on social change are more extensive. I know what the “it” is; I can begin to imagine what “doing something” means.
So, I've applied for a master's program in Democracy and Citzenship--a program where the focus is how to change the world--knowing that education is not the only action needed but that it is a good place to start.
As my application is processed and I simply wait for my interview with the admissions committee, I think about the homeless individuals I've encountered the last couple weeks of my life. Beyond my daily encounters with truly homeless people in downtown Jerusalem--those who sleep on the sidewalks and beg for change from tourists, from Israelis, from anyone who is willing to give--I think of others.
Where did I spend my Passover seder? With women and children. Not so different that most seders, except that they were in a shelter for people who can't go home. Why? Because they don't have a home. Home for me, for most of us, is a place where one feels safe. If we define it that way, then they are homeless. They are in the shelter in an undisclosed location because they are escaping abusive husbands and fathers. What may have been--or may never have been--their homes were places where nobody felt safe, where violence and threats were the norm, where punches and yelling replaced embraces and kind words.
What's been in the news the last couple of weeks? The week of Passover, nine people were killed in a bombing in a falafel shop in Tel Aviv, more than fifty injured. What now for the spouses who lay in half-empty beds, staring at the dent in the mattress of their loved ones who will never return? Have they yet stopped making the extra cup of coffee in the morning, realizing that there's no need, that there isn't anyone to drink it? Is this a home? Or just a premature casket to live in for the next 50 years?
What else? A man murdered his wife--and then killed himself--leaving five children behind. What else? A man murdered his wife--and then killed himself--leaving two children behind. Yes, twice, in the span of a week. The children are taken from their homes, maybe to an aunt's house or maybe to a foster home. But is it home? Is home without your parents, without your loved ones, really a home?
I met a man last week who was arrested for trying to get into Jerusalem to get his medicine from a doctor and receive some money that had been donated to his family. He was arrested--released in the end--but still put in a holding cell because he didn't have the right paper work. He lives 10 miles away from me. How is it that his home is so different than mine? How is that the place he has called home his entire life is not considered his home by others?
And now, I think about myself--about my "home situation." I have a home where I grew up. And I have a home here. Does having more than one home mean you are lucky, or is it a curse of a different kind? Am I, too, homeless? But it's not acceptable for me to say this, for me to even think this way. The sacrifices so many before me have made to make my life easier, happier, more complete prevent me from even dwelling on the thought. I think of the soldiers who are fighting wars that will hopefully make the world a little safer. And when I think a little "closer to home," the numbers I heard this week arise in my thoughts. The almost 21,000 soldiers who have died defending Israel. The 83,000 who have been totally incapacitated as a result of the wounds they received during service. The millions more who have willingly put on khaki green and beige and navy blue to fight for their right to exist, to live in a place that is (even if not exclusively) the home of the Jews.
Tuesday was the Memorial day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror, and I attended a program where we discussed our different experiences of this powerful day in Israel. One of the phrases that came up numerous times was "how lucky we are to be able to be here," in essence to have a Jewish homeland.
Even if there are abusive parents and murder? Even if there are bombings and discrimination? Even if there people sleeping on the streets? Yes, even if there are all of these things and more, it's our home. And we'll quiet the noisy children. We'll fix the broken shingles. We'll make it so that one day, every one gets a seat at the dinner table.
And I hear the question already: "And if we don't succeed?" The answer is that in many ways, we already have and-- "And if don't succeed?" it interrupts my answer mid-sentence. The answer is that there is no choice, we will.
From the time I was young, I knew I cared about people. December 25, 1989--this date marks my first act of social change. I volunteered with my father and members of our synagogue preparing Christmas dinner for homeless individuals and those who simply needed something to eat on a cold, winter day. I thought about the home I would return to after we finished carrying the big vats--or, for me, a small vat--of green beans and mashed potatoes to the large tent where they would eat. I thought that it was strange that even though I was Jewish, I was probably having a warmer Christmas than they were.
I was seven years old, and even then, I knew that some people in the world do not have enough to eat; some people do not have enough money to pay for heat; and most importantly, some people do not have anyone who cares enough to help them do something about it.
When I was six years old, I wanted to do something about it. Eighteen years later, I still have this desire. Now, however, my thoughts on social change are more extensive. I know what the “it” is; I can begin to imagine what “doing something” means.
So, I've applied for a master's program in Democracy and Citzenship--a program where the focus is how to change the world--knowing that education is not the only action needed but that it is a good place to start.
As my application is processed and I simply wait for my interview with the admissions committee, I think about the homeless individuals I've encountered the last couple weeks of my life. Beyond my daily encounters with truly homeless people in downtown Jerusalem--those who sleep on the sidewalks and beg for change from tourists, from Israelis, from anyone who is willing to give--I think of others.
Where did I spend my Passover seder? With women and children. Not so different that most seders, except that they were in a shelter for people who can't go home. Why? Because they don't have a home. Home for me, for most of us, is a place where one feels safe. If we define it that way, then they are homeless. They are in the shelter in an undisclosed location because they are escaping abusive husbands and fathers. What may have been--or may never have been--their homes were places where nobody felt safe, where violence and threats were the norm, where punches and yelling replaced embraces and kind words.
What's been in the news the last couple of weeks? The week of Passover, nine people were killed in a bombing in a falafel shop in Tel Aviv, more than fifty injured. What now for the spouses who lay in half-empty beds, staring at the dent in the mattress of their loved ones who will never return? Have they yet stopped making the extra cup of coffee in the morning, realizing that there's no need, that there isn't anyone to drink it? Is this a home? Or just a premature casket to live in for the next 50 years?
What else? A man murdered his wife--and then killed himself--leaving five children behind. What else? A man murdered his wife--and then killed himself--leaving two children behind. Yes, twice, in the span of a week. The children are taken from their homes, maybe to an aunt's house or maybe to a foster home. But is it home? Is home without your parents, without your loved ones, really a home?
I met a man last week who was arrested for trying to get into Jerusalem to get his medicine from a doctor and receive some money that had been donated to his family. He was arrested--released in the end--but still put in a holding cell because he didn't have the right paper work. He lives 10 miles away from me. How is it that his home is so different than mine? How is that the place he has called home his entire life is not considered his home by others?
And now, I think about myself--about my "home situation." I have a home where I grew up. And I have a home here. Does having more than one home mean you are lucky, or is it a curse of a different kind? Am I, too, homeless? But it's not acceptable for me to say this, for me to even think this way. The sacrifices so many before me have made to make my life easier, happier, more complete prevent me from even dwelling on the thought. I think of the soldiers who are fighting wars that will hopefully make the world a little safer. And when I think a little "closer to home," the numbers I heard this week arise in my thoughts. The almost 21,000 soldiers who have died defending Israel. The 83,000 who have been totally incapacitated as a result of the wounds they received during service. The millions more who have willingly put on khaki green and beige and navy blue to fight for their right to exist, to live in a place that is (even if not exclusively) the home of the Jews.
Tuesday was the Memorial day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror, and I attended a program where we discussed our different experiences of this powerful day in Israel. One of the phrases that came up numerous times was "how lucky we are to be able to be here," in essence to have a Jewish homeland.
Even if there are abusive parents and murder? Even if there are bombings and discrimination? Even if there people sleeping on the streets? Yes, even if there are all of these things and more, it's our home. And we'll quiet the noisy children. We'll fix the broken shingles. We'll make it so that one day, every one gets a seat at the dinner table.
And I hear the question already: "And if we don't succeed?" The answer is that in many ways, we already have and-- "And if don't succeed?" it interrupts my answer mid-sentence. The answer is that there is no choice, we will.
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