Fleece in June, the Tale of An[Other]

Yes, that’s right. I’m wearing fleece in June. I’m also wearing wool. After a few weeks of glorious warm weather, the weather in Poland seems to have bypassed summer and already ushered in autumn. Indeed, it feels like October or an[Other] autumn/winter month.

A few weeks ago, the Pope arrived in Poland. A larger-than-life cross was erected in the Ogrod Saski park (public property) in conjunction with a temporary ban on the purchase of alcohol. Hundreds of thousands of people took to the streets and parks to hear Benedict XVI’s words of “wisdom.” Some people camped out overnight to ensure that they’d view him in the flesh instead of on a large projection screen. An estimated 900,000 people attended Mass in Krakow. Transportation was a total balegan (disaster) which meant that getting across town was virtually impossible. And with the weather being a tumbling colossus of wind and rain, a leisurely stroll to a friend’s house wasn’t exactly pleasurable (though clearly I strolled anyway).

I had many moments of “Otherness” during the time that the Pope was in Poland. For one thing, my office was most definitely open and everyone came to work. Nearly every other organization, school, or business in Warsaw was closed -- even public schools; even the Jewish Day school. But the Jewish community offices were open and hence, arriving at work soaked to the bone on the Friday of the Pope’s big shebang, was a bit surreal. One would have thought it was just an ordinary day. For Jews, I suppose it was. But for everyone else in the country -- Catholics, Atheists, and Nationalists alike -- this was a day in history. So there I was in my office, photocopying materials for a seminar for Romanian-Jewish and Polish-Jewish volunteers and preparing a presentation about the Jewish responsibility of giving to others, while the Pope was (uncharismatically) addressing the world less than half a mile away.

That same Friday afternoon, I took my chances and got on a tram to go to Mokotow to visit my lady friends. I was delivering challah and homemade cheesecake (indeed, I actually nurtured my domestic side -- I baked!). Clearly, I should have known that the trams would be blocked, delayed, or re-routed. Eventually, we were all told to disembark from the tram at which point I had no patience to wait for another one, so I just walked. Walking proved to be equally inefficient though certainly a bit more amusing. There I was walking in the rain carrying challah for Shabbat and homemade cheesecake covered in tin foil that kept getting ruffled, torn, and ultimately blown off by the wind while everyone else in the city was marching toward me in the opposite direction carrying red and white Polish flags, crosses, and portraits of Benedcit XVI. Indeed, I was the fish out of water. I was the Other.

On Sunday, the Pope visited Auschwitz and the entire country was glued to the television watching his every gesture, his every kiss on every person’s hand, his every expression of introspection as he confronted gas chambers, prison cells, and his shameful history. I watched all of this for a short while; perhaps a total of 20 minutes. Then I gathered with my friends and some Romanian-Jewish visitors to celebrate Rosh Chodesh with candles, tea, and brownies. As the Pope addressed the nation, we read poetry by Adrienne Rich and Denise Levertov and blessed the New Moon.

* * *

Tomorrow morning is Warsaw’s Equality March (known to most Germans as “Christopher Street Day” and known to most Americans as “Pride”). I suppose it will be another “Otherness” experience, but this time the colors of the flags will be different and the masses won’t be praying.

Tribute to Annie Lennox (and to s/he who is her only inhabitant)

I was recently told by someone who works in my building that I need to close my office door and lock it even while I am working. He explained that by leaving the office door open, “someone could walk in and shoot you.” I reminded him that in addition to the main doors of the building being locked and alarmed, several guards stationed both outside *and* inside the building serve the purpose of protecting me from being harmed. He responded by asking why I choose to put my life at risk. I answered by remarking that locking the door while I’m inside my office is a risk in and of itself – hypothetically, I could pass out or have a seizure and no one from outside of my tiny cubicle could come to my aid. I then followed by explaining: “Keeping my door open while I’m working is a friendly gesture; it’s a way to make people feel welcome. Is there anything wrong with saying ‘hello’ and ‘good morning’ to those with whom I work?” “It’s not necessary,” he said. “Well, I realize it’s not necessary, but I happen to think it’s pleasant. It’s common courtesy to say ‘good morning’ and it’s nice to feel connected to the people with whom you are sharing a space.” He didn’t seem to appreciate my reasoning nor did I entertain his “demand.”

Several days later I received a “second warning” about how I am “violating security procedures” by failing to comply with the close-and-lock-your-door-while-working policy. I asked if I could see the policy in writing. As I suspected, the rule holds true only if the building is neither (a) alarmed or (b) guarded by human beings on the building’s interior or perimeter. Our building has both of these security measures in place. Nonetheless, after receiving my “third warning” earlier today, I decided that this “security policy” (euphemism for “unfriendly workplace”) could be used to my advantage. Indeed, I could exploit it. So, I closed and locked the door, cranked up the radio -- ever-so-pleased that Annie Lennox’s “Walking On Broken Glass” was playing for the 1000th time -- and I rocked out.

After the Annie Lennox dance party and the Celine Dion lip-sync contest with Jordan, Jordanka, Yardena, Gershona, and Jennifer Lopez (my alter egos) I thought of all the crazy things I could do behind my closed and locked office door about which no one would ever know. The possibilities are endless. I also thought about how exciting it will be to say ‘hello,’ ‘good morning,’ ‘how are you,’ to my alter egos when I arrive at the office at 9am tomorrow.

A lesson to be learned: when the power seekers surrender themselves to closed-and-locked doors, build your world anew and become its only inhabitant. There are times when we must learn to be our own best friend (or perhaps invent friendships with Divas on the radio). And if that means dancing scandalously in a tiny office because no one gives a damn about salutations or common courtesies, so be it. “Safety Procedures” aren’t so inhibiting after all.

* * *

Over coffee, my friend told me about a guy she knows who has begun wearing women’s clothing.

“It’s just awful,” she said. “I really can’t believe he’s doing that.”
“Why is it so awful?” I asked.
“Because it’s just wrong.”
“Why is it wrong?”
“Because, come on Jordan, it’s just wrong.”
“Okay, so is it also wrong that right now I’m wearing men’s clothing?”
[In truth, I was wearing boys’ clothing; men’s clothing is outrageously too big for me.]
“No, that’s not wrong.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you look sexy. Women look sexy in men’s clothes. Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone? I highly doubt that everyone agrees with that.”
“Well, okay, maybe not everyone, but most people think that women look sexy in men’s clothes.”
[This is my feisty little friend who I adore, but who prides herself on being an absolutist by replacing every possible “I think” with “everyone thinks,” “everyone knows,” or “Polish people believe.”]
“It seems to me that men wearing women’s clothes or women wearing men’s clothes is a matter of personal preference.”
“A matter of what?”
“Opinion. It’s a matter of opinion. I don’t think it’s a matter of “right” or “wrong.” I think it’s about what makes each individual feel comfortable.”
“Okay, fine, but be honest. Do you think it is pretty for men to wear women’s clothes? I mean, would you date a man who wears women’s clothes?”
“I don’t know. If I liked the person, I probably wouldn’t care one way or the other. And I certainly wouldn’t think that his choice to wear women’s clothes is wrong.”
“But Jordan, here’s the thing. Sometimes you like to wear a dress, right? And sometimes you like to wear men’s clothes, like baggy shorts that are too big for you, right? I mean, sometimes you are girlish and sometimes you are boyish.”
“I suppose you could put it that way, but basically I just like being me.”
“Okay, okay, but my point is this: women can be either girlish or boyish, but men can only be man-ish.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone!”
“Try the media. Try the president.”
“Well, whatever.”
“No, not ‘whatever.’ Do you like wearing dresses?”
“No, not at all.”
“Well, what if I told you that you must wear dresses all the time because dresses are what ladies must wear. You are being un-ladylike if you wear pants. Wearing pants is WRONG.”
“Hey, why are you being on the man’s side?”
“Huh?”
“Why are you being so pro-man? You’re not being fair.”
“I’m not being pro-man and I’m not being pro-woman. I’m being pro- self-expression and trying to help you understand that you are using a double-standard by curbing freedoms of expression for men.”
“Why are we talking about this?”
“We’re talking about this because you originally said that it is wrong for your male friend to wear women’s shirts and women’s pants. Then you explained that it’s sexy for women to wear men’s clothes. You’re not being consistent. And I’m trying to explain this to you.”
“Okay, fine. Fine fine fine. He can wear women’s clothes. It’s not wrong, it’s just ugly.”
“Good. Ugly is an opinion. That’s fine.”
“Your shoes are ugly, too.”
“My shoes?”
”Yes, they’re really ugly, Jordan. I think you should go buy new ones. One’s that look more girlish.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“You know, I like having coffee with you. Sometimes you’re a pain in my ass, but I like you.”
“Likewise, my dear. Likewise.”

Nowy Dror Mazowiewski

On Tuesday morning, I filed into Tomek’s car with Kasia and the boys and drove out to the town of Nowy Dror Mazowiewski. We would spend the morning cleaning an 18th century Jewish cemetery. After a stop at a gas station and a mini-mart, and after my comrades smoked their morning cigarettes along the highway, we arrived in a colorless, dilapidated village. We parked the car, unloaded shovels, trash bags and work gloves, and climbed a sandy hill to where the cemetery lay. From a distance, there were few traces of a burial site save for deeply receded cracked tombstones covered by moss, lichen, snails, and weeds. A closer glimpse of the area revealed a far more tragic reality.

Collecting candy wrappers, empty vodka bottles, shoes, rusted cans, door knobs, wet T-shirts, glass shards, and window frames, we wandered along a grassy plateau which became a sandy slope leading into a swamp. The swamp had become a garbage dump filled with old car parts, hubcaps, sinks, sofas, legless chairs, oil spills, diesel fumes, food waste and feces. Only after close examination did we discover that the grassy plateau, the sandy hill, and the perimeter of the garbage-infested swamp had also become inadvertent depositories for human bones; bones that had been unearthed as a result of poor cemetery maintenance, inclement weather, and by a group of locals who had come to dig for gold.

After three and a half hours of cleaning, we had filled four large trash bags of debris and four large bags of human remains – jaws, teeth, vertebrae, hip joints, shoulder blades, and even skulls, all of which were discolored from exposure to sun and rain. Some had nearly disintegrated.

Near a weeping willow, the boys dug a large ditch as Kasia sat down on the sandy slope and smoked cigarettes while I stared down at the swamp wondering how many more bones were beyond our reach. When the ditch had been dug, we emptied our bags of bones and refilled the ditch with dirt. As is the tradition, we buried the remains of our ancestors and marked the new burial site with stones.

* * *

It is hard to contemplate the turnings of the earth’s history,
the turnings of a people.
The old die off and the new shyly awaken,
uncurling as ferns arching upward toward the sun.
And then there are weddings.
And then there are invasions.
Neighborhoods turn to war zones.
Synagogues become horse stables.

In the 18th century, Nowy Dror Mazowiewski was a Jewish place. One can scarcely see the etchings of ancient Hebrew on abandoned chunks of tombstone and the jagged, hollowed grooves of markings left by mezuzot on doorposts. But now there is no life here; only a polluted swamp and piles of bones put back in the earth.

Sródborow

On May 9th, thirty Holocaust survivors throughout Poland gathered in the town of Sródborow for a 10-day bi-annual retreat. When I organized programs at the same retreat in September, it was during my first few months in Poland. Now, the second time around, I was especially moved.

On Friday afternoon, I facilitated a Polish-Jewish poetry "coffee house" so with my song sheets, Lag B’Omer information, and candles, wine, challah, and spices for Shabbat and Havdalah (all in my backpack), I carried ten books of poetry written by famous Polish-Jewish poets. One of the books was a volume of poetry written by A. Ziemny. Little did I know that Mr. Ziemny is alive and well and would be one of the 30 Holocaust survivors attending the retreat!

Outside, I arranged chairs in a circle and in my broken Polish asked everyone to sit down. I passed out the books of poetry and it didn’t take long before Mr. Ziemny was reading poems from his own book, answering questions, and initiating a conversation about the Jewish literary movement in Poland. After the discussion, he spoke with me in English and we talked about famous American poets.

"So who do you like?” he asked.
“Well, I like a lot of poets.” Trying to think of poets whom he’d know, I rattled off a few names.
“Lawrence Ferlinghetti, William Carlos Williams, E.E. Cummings, Jack Kerouac..."
“Yes, yes, I like them.”
“Sylvia Plath, Gertrude Stein...”
“Stein mostly writes prose, but I like her.”
“Emily Dickinson, Carl Sandburg—”
“Carl Sandburg?! You know Carl Sandburg? He’s the greatest.”

And so we talked about Carl Sandburg and tried to quote his poems as best as we could remember...

The child’s wonder
At the old moon
Comes back nightly.
She points her finger
To the far silent yellow thing
Shining through the branches
Filtering on the leaves a golden sand,
Crying with her little tongue, "See the moon!"
And in her bed fading to sleep
With babblings of the moon on her little mouth.

...

There are no handles upon a language
Whereby men take hold of it
And mark it with signs for its remembrance.
It is a river, this language,
Once in a thousand years
Breaking a new course
Changing its way to the ocean.
It is mountain effluvia
Moving to valleys
And from nation to nation
Crossing borders and mixing.
Languages die like rivers.
Words wrapped round your tongue today
And broken to shape of thought
Between your teeth and lips speaking
Now and today
Shall be faded hieroglyphics
Ten thousand years from now.
Sing--and singing--remember
Your song dies and changes
And is not here to-morrow
Any more than the wind
Blowing ten thousand years ago.

- Carl Sandburg

On another continent, in a language you hardly understand or speak, it’s quite astounding to find yourself sitting on the grass talking about the works of Carl Sandburg with a famous Jewish poet who survived the Holocaust. Before dinner, I asked Mr. Ziemny how he felt about living in Poland. He said: “It is hard to love Poland. Very hard. I don’t love this country. But we have to live. That’s the only thing to do. Am I right?”

* * *

Friday night during Shabbat dinner, I passed out song sheets (Polish transliteration of Hebrew) and Mr. Wajner told me that the women from Krakow are eager to sing. We had practiced some of the songs earlier in the afternoon so I was pleased with their enthusiasm. Mr. Wajner gave a short sermon about the meaning of Shabbat and then told me to light the candles and say the blessing. “Women light the candles, and men bless the wine,” he said. “This is the tradition. This is how it has always been.” After the blessings, we sang “Shalom Aleichem,” ate or meal, and then turned to our song sheets. Ms. Ela told me to “give everyone a note” so that they could start on key. I complied only to have all of the seniors chime in on a different key each at his or her own pace. But amazingly enough, they sang. Soon, they were banging their fists on the tables and singing songs in Polish and Yiddish in addition to Hebrew. I moved my seat when Ms. Maria motioned for me to sit next to her to look at her sheet music. She had the Yiddish verses of Dona Dona and even though I only know the English, I sat next to her and sang anyway babbling along in mis-pronounced Yiddish for as long as they wanted.

They could have been small children with their singing and their fist-banging. They could have been Ramahniks in the Berkshires. But then it hit me again that they had actually survived the Holocaust and I felt a little warm tear dribble down my cheek as I took in this joyous, holy, spirited scene of singing elders.

On Saturday, Laura came to Sródborow. Outside in the beautiful warm weather, she led a “Rainbow Sand-Art Landscape” workshop in conjunction with the holiday of Lag B’Omer. Lag B’Omer commemorates a time of rejoicing and Jewish mystics associate the Rainbow with a symbol of renewal. The seniors reflected upon sources of joy, color and renewal in their own lives as inspiration for their art. At first, many of the seniors remarked “Nie moge. Jestem bez talenta” – “I can’t. I am talentless.” But with a bit of persistence, they created the most beautiful landscapes of rainbows, mountains, bonfires, rivers, date palms and donkeys in Israel, and valleys and lakes in Poland. One woman made a picture of Moses at Mt. Sinai. Another drew a picture of the trees and flowers that surrounded us.

* * *

On Sunday, members of the Polish Union of Jewish Students joined the survivors to participate in an inter-generational dialogue about Polish-Jewish identity. The dialogue enabled younger and older community members to discuss the challenges and joys of expressing their Jewish identity over the decades. It was scheduled to last for one hour and lasted for nearly two. Never before had I seen Poles be so expressive and open with each other. They talked about real issues, real challenges, and real Jewish experiences with a deep sense of honesty. When an 85-year-old woman talked about the time she stood up for herself in school when her teacher made jokes about Jews, the 12-year-old boy I've been tutoring mentioned that he'd been teased and called names at school, too. He is the only Jew in his class. Several participants explained to me that this was the first time they had been able to have an open discussion about these issues without feeling a sense of anger, fear, or insecurity.

* * *

Today is Lag B'Omer and in a few hours I will be picnicing outside around a bonfire and eating good Kosher food and drinking not-so-good non-Kosher beer. It is a day to be joyous. Joyous and grateful I am.

Here and Now

You can blame my infrequent blogging on the weather. Or perhaps on the realization that my life in Poland has turned into a park-jogging, outdoor-picnicing, sunset-gazing, ice-cream eating, milkshake-drinking, dog-watching, baby-lusting, grassy hill-lounging kind of heaven. Pole Mokotowskie Park is amazingly beautiful during this time of year – all of the trees are in bloom and the grass is exquisitely green. Kids play Frisbee, pregnant women eat pickles under a cherry blossom tree, dogs splash around in the lake, and the rollerbladers smile at me (and sometimes hit on me) as I wave at them when I run by. Now I trot around Mokotowskie every day and if I’m lucky (which is usually) I am invited to meet a friend or two at Lolek (the outdoor beer garden pub) for a post-run beer. A good life indeed.

Springtime casts a spell on us. I think it is a spell of gratitude. Or maybe it’s joy. Or freedom. Under a magnolia tree, I look up at the sky and with a few fleeting moments of calm when my brain stops spinning, the whole world is just right. Just breathing is a kind of enchantment; a kind of love.

If you are reading this, you should stop whatever you’re doing and go out and frolic. Buy yourself an ice-cream or drink yourself a beer; or run or swim; or kiss someone you love because “it’s life and it’s really happening right now.”

I could blog about preparing for the Holocaust survivors’ Spring retreat, about my running list of joys/concerns/frustrations, about my recent adventure in Belgium, about working at the Kosher hot dog stand at the Yom Ha’atzmaut party, or about being seated right next to Venus Williams at a restaurant in Warsaw this past Sunday evening (I’m not kidding), but instead I am going to enjoy the here and now. I am going to abandon my words and just be.

“... deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
time is a tree (this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough.”
- ee cummings

Eight Months, Spring

The first of Spring
swept through my sick lungs
past the gypsies curled along the curbs
with their cans clinking of coins
their hand-woven slippers of purple and turquoise yarns
their babies’ glassy gaze into a timeless, seasonless space
I wonder if they know it is Spring.

At the corner of Swietokrzyska and Marszalkowska
the man with hollow cheeks and crooked glasses with frames that fold over his ears
kneels on a cushion
he wears a cardboard sign around his neck and
gingerly holds out a half-clenched palm between his chest and belly.
He asks nothing of those crossing the street
and the Spring air doesn’t seem to stir him.

In the morning, I woke in a sad sleep and
watched the sun rays curl round the clock of the Palace of Culture.
Eight months ago I’d left for Warsaw; eight months later came the Spring.
The same gypsies are still curled along the curbs
The man with crooked glasses is still kneeling
with his cushion
with his cardboard sign.
What had changed for them in eight months?
How do they measure their time?

* * *

Eight months is enough to know that sunlight in the winter is a gift; that a run through a snow-dusted forest chased by a cup of hot wine is a Polish novelty; that being thrust into a buzz of Yiddish songs and paluszkis and ciastko and non-alcoholic champagne can feel both alien and blessedly comfortable; that 85-year-old women in ball gowns and 14-year-old girls in halter tops can dance together quite effortlessly; that on Purim, the serving of three kinds of kosher chicken, two types of kosher kilbasa, and four cuts of Kosher salami on the flimsiest of plastic plates is “normal”; that a Holocaust survivor who lost his arm was filled with joy after making a Purim mask blue and white like the Israeli flag; that joy also comes from dancing the hora in the former Warsaw Ghetto on the eve of the Autumn Equinox with a necklace of mini-bagels strung around my neck; that I’ve been mistaken for an Italian, a Spaniard, a South American and a German; that I can now pay in exact change at the open market after mastering my Polish numbers; that I’ve painted snow-flakes on windows, made Seders and services, made mandalas, made omelets, made mistakes; that the sunsets behind the Ogrod Saski park can’t go unnoticed; that Polish tea blends and miod pitny (honeyed wine) soothe my soul; that work is complicated and so is love; that questions far out-number answers; that I have much more to learn.

Sometimes I fear that I am not enough here.
And other times I am so much here I don’t know if I’d ever leave.
Some days are stubborn and never seem to fold; I ache for a new one to take me in soon. Other days I would very much like to linger; I’d cradle life back into them again and again. I’d dance inside them as in a Spring breeze.

Too Much, Too Little, and All that Lies In Between

About eleven years ago, my rabbi delivered a Yom Kippur sermon that I vividly remember. The theme of the sermon was: “sometimes we say too much.” It was a sermon about language, about sharing, about relationships, and about finding that delicate balance of honesty, integrity, and self-preservation. It was the best sermon I’ve ever heard and, in many respects, the most Jewish sermon I’ve ever heard. During the past few months (and especially within the past two days), I’ve been thinking more about this sermon, about the nuances of communication, and about the tension between what we share and what we hold back.

Contrary to this sermon’s message, Poland is not a country in which people say too much. Overwhelmingly, it is a country in which people say too little. Polish culture is not a culture of sharing. It is rare for Poles to forwardly express their opinions or wear their emotions on their sleeves. Indeed, Polish people are quite guarded. Though I, too, have often been described by my friends as “guarded” (and I would generally describe myself as such), I am learning that my self-actualization is profoundly impacted by culture and circumstance.

Achieving a balance between not saying too much and not saying too little is a great challenge. In my relationships, in social gatherings, and at my workplace, this balancing act is all too paramount. I’ve been on both ends of the “too much” and “too little” spectrum. Sometimes I swing the wrong way... and sometimes that hurts.

* * *

Last night was Rosh Chodesh (the Jewish New Moon) for the month of Adar. It is a month characterized by great joy -- “Mishe-nichas Adar, marbim b’simcha.” (Ta’anit 29a). “When Adar enters, our joy increases.” But it is also a month to explore deep questions about identity. During the holiday of Purim (the 14th day of Adar), it is customary to wear masks or costumes. For kids, it is a “dress-up” holiday. For adults, it is a time to examine the “masks” we wear in relation to what we hide. There is a time to wear masks, and a time to reveal what is hidden. For me, the month of Adar is about examining these dualities and the temporal constraints that shape them. It is a month to reflect upon courage.

As part of our Rosh Chodesh gathering, we decided to do a self-assessment art project. Using construction paper, each person cut out two large “selves” (much like paper dolls). On one “self” we were to draw what we show to the world. On the other “self” we were to draw what we hide from the world. Then we would attach our selves respectively. Although I had helped plan this activity and was well-aware of its depth, I had a very difficult time completing it. Part of my difficulty stemmed from the fact that I don’t draw. Indeed, I am a word-nerd and I don’t express myself in images. But a larger part of my difficulty was steeped in the frustration of realizing that so much of who I am is hidden. What I choose to show or share is largely conditioned by what makes others feel comfortable. Perhaps the reason why “sometimes we say too much” resonates with me is because I am generally inclined to keep things close. On the occasions that I haven’t, I’ve done a bit of damage and that damage hasn’t felt good.

The people who I respect most would rival “sometimes we say too much” with “more often, we don’t say enough.” These individuals are proud, loud, dignified, and uncompromising. They are my friends, my intimates, my family members, and my mentors. They are the people reading this blog. And they are believers in Audre Lorde’s “your silence will not protect you.” It is a valuable motto. It is also a complicated one to actualize.

I’ll close with these questions for you to ponder:

How do we know what is “too much” ?
How do we know what is “too little” ?
And how can we navigate all that lies in between?

As always, your responses are most welcome.