Women of the Wall

My friend Devorah emailed me, chiding me that Nerd With A Voice must have something to say about the Women of the Wall situation.

Here's what I think. Let's put aside the politics for a second. Let's forget about who feels oppressed and who is offended and who thinks they're right.

I'm too stuck on the fact that the Kotel has become a place where Jews fight with each other.

The Kotel, the pathetic piece of wall that is all we have left of the glory of the Beit Hamikdash. The Beit Hamikdash that was destroyed because of this very fault within our nation, because of a radical group that tore us apart. The kana'im, the Women of the Wall - it's all the same. These are our fellow Jews. Obviously we all have ideological differences. Obviously there is no easy, simple solution to any of this. Both sides have good points, but both sides have major flaws in their arguments. The problem is that we're too busy shouting at each other and throwing rocks at our brothers and sisters to even start untangling everything.

As I read recaps online of Friday's fiasco at the Kotel, I felt my heart breaking. It feels like we aren't any closer to redemption than we were when the Beit Hamikdash was still in flames.

I sing.

I performed a piece of slam poetry at an open mic on Saturday night. I would normally sing an original song at an event like that, but since it was coed, I decided to speak about kol isha, about why I wouldn't be singing. I wasn't even sure if I was going to do it since I didn't think people would get it. But with encouragement from awesome, supportive friends, I went for it.

The crowd was more responsive than I could have imagined. A few women told me that they related to my habit of singing in elevators and stairwells. One man asked for a copy of my poem to use it in a program with NCSYers and talk about struggles. Another performer said that the poem genuinely bothered him (apparently that was supposed to be a compliment).

It wasn't quite the same rush as singing for a crowd, but it was very cathartic and I felt great afterwards.

The poem was inspired by a Hadaya necklace my friend bought me as a high school graduation present. The verse engraved on the silver charm was from Song of Songs: "Let me hear your voice, for your voice is sweet and your appearance is fair." She chose that verse because she knows that singing is part of my identity.

During my year in Israel, I spent many hours researching kol isha. I wanted to be informed as to why I was denying myself all of these opportunities, to understand the intricate nuances of the halacha, and see if there were any loopholes I could take advantage of. I went back to the source of the prohibition, in Masechet Brachot. The verse brought in support of the idea that a woman's voice is "erva" is the verse that my friend picked for my Hadaya necklace. The irony of the situation has always stuck with me, and I've always wanted to write about that conflict - the anger and frustration, but also the acceptance.

Here is the poem:

I sing.

I sing in elevators. Sometimes stairwells, too.

I sing for my mirror. For my walls. But not for you. Not here, with men in the room.

Some insist kol isha is liberating – free of men’s expectations and immoral relations. I do not believe them. What is this freedom? The freedom to sing onstage with a pit of “I shouldn’t be doing this” hollowing out my stomach? The freedom to wish I hadn’t gotten into the collegiate a capella group at all, saving me the embarrassment of quitting? The freedom to show up to an open mic night empty-handed, without my keyboard, without my voice? What is this freedom?

A sweet voice, a fair appearance, a vile interpretation. From the Song of Songs antiquated to the Talmud’s fine-printed pages to women through the ages wedged behind a wall, warned to sing privately, quietly, or not at all.

To me. To my voice. To my neck. To a necklace I cannot wear. A verse about song. A gift gone wrong.

I sing. But not for you. Not here, with men in the room.

To you, tonight, I speak.

I speak for every rabbi who told me not to pursue music because it would ruin any chance I have for a good shidduch, that nice frum boys won’t marry a nice frum girl who seduces unsuspecting men with her sultry song.

I speak for every kumzitz and tisch and NCSY ebbing and Kabbalat Shabbat where I felt guilty for harmonizing too loudly, felt wrong for using the voice G-d gave me to serve Him.

I speak for every girl who seethes with jealousy every time a boy proudly flashes his guitar, riffing and crooning his way into everyone’s hearts.

I speak for every girl who sings in dim elevators and dark stairwells and not under the radiance of a spotlight where she belongs.

I speak for the Hadaya necklace whose words burn into my throat – beautiful, lyrical words that hold the ugly truth of silence and unsung talent.

So easily I could snap its dainty chain, toss it to the ground in a flash of silver. But I do not. To you, tonight, I do not sing. Not here, with men in the room.

But I speak.

I speak.

Crossed legs and kiruv

This morning in one of my smaller classes, I was sitting in my desk with my legs crossed (that detail is relevant, I promise). One of the girls who was sitting across from me fake-gasped and said in mock horror, "Woah, Nerd With A Voice! (except she said, you know, my actual name). That's the shortest skirt I've ever seen you wear! So scandalous!"

My first reaction was to think "Um, rude." But I was also confused - the denim pencil skirt I was wearing was not any shorter than my other skirts. I ordered it from one of those frum clothing stores - the skirt came with the slit sewn up, for crying out loud.

So I stood up and showed her that the skirt is in fact below my knees, and my habit of sitting cross-legged to the point where my legs resemble a game of Dr. Pretzel caused the hemline to retreat higher than usual. She looked disappointed, muttered "Oh..." and went back to her iced coffee.

I have this subtle but constant awareness that I stick out as a religious Jewish woman on campus. But I guess I didn't realize the extent to which people are watching me. I don't feel like it's in a creepy, stalker-ish way. It's more like they're keeping tabs on the fact that I'm observant because it's something different, and people who look, dress, or act different tend to awaken others' curiosity.

It's harmless - I think. As long as I'm aware of it. As long as I'm conscious of the fact that I am representing both G-d and His people. Not to the point where it drives me crazy, but I think I should always have that knowledge somewhere in the back of my mind.

I've never been comfortable with the idea of doing formal kiruv here - there are many unaffiliated Jews on campus, and I do feel a certain responsibility to awaken their interest in Judaism, but I find that the best way of doing that is not trying to befriend people in order to get them to come to Hillel or inviting people to a Shabbat meal for the sake of inviting them. My "kiruv" is just living my life as an open and proud religious Jew on campus. The rest comes naturally. Seriously, friends and random students alike tell me all about their Israel trips, their synagogues, and their Passover seder traditions because when it's your way of life, it just comes up in conversation.

I've recently had a few different people tell me that they look up to me for various reasons, we don't have to go into them. But I hadn't even been trying to make myself someone for people to look up to. I was just being myself and making time for what I like to do and doing what I want to be doing. I think if you live your life on your own terms and are genuinely happy and well-adjusted, that radiates without you needing to push yourself on people. I try not to think too much about what people's opinions are of me and just live without looking over my shoulder.

Of course, people don't see that sometimes I'm insecure and feel like I have no real friends on campus and worry that I'm not bubbly and popular enough and feel l'm missing out on something by not dating because everyone else seems to have a boyfriend. I don't want people to think I'm some kind of saint with no struggles who is perfectly happy with everything in her life and can do no wrong.

But then again, I don't want to think about what people think of me. But I have to. It's complicated.

Be our guest!

I just got back to school after missing tons of class for Pesach. It's 12 AM, I have 3 pages of Hebrew homework due tomorrow, 2 readings for English class that I haven't looked at, a pile of laundry waiting to be attended to, and a crazy, busy week with an event that I need to attend at every moment that may have been a spare one. Yikes.

Despite those stress-inducing facts, Pesach was very nice. I spent the first days at home with my family, flew in for one day of class on Chol Hamoed, and spent Shabbos and the second days by friends in Brooklyn. It amazes me how willing people are to host me, and what gracious hosts they are. A few weeks ago, I hosted a girl in my dorm room for a reunion that was taking place on campus. I didn't know her, but tried to make her feel comfortable and welcome. I guess you never really know if you succeed when you host people. You can ask them if they enjoyed their stay, but it's not like they'll actually tell you if they had an awful time. You aren't there when they go home to hear how they sum up their stay.

The year I spent in Israel showed me a lot about how to be a good guest and a good host. I appreciated it when hosts weren't overbearing, when they showed me where things were and left me to my own devices. I felt like I had to refuse an offer of a drink upon arrival to be polite and not seem like a high-maintenance guest, but when they showed me where the cups were kept, I felt more comfortable helping myself and not making them serve me.

It's a difficult balance to navigate, being a guest in someone's home. The hosts work so hard cleaning and preparing your bed and making food, and all you do is show up - you take so much more than you give. Presumably they are happy to have you, but that doesn't minimize everything that went into getting ready to have you. Does the bouquet of flowers you bring in thanks really say enough?

Dating? Eh, no thanks.

I have officially been asked out for the first time ever.

Stupidly, I didn't see it coming. I thought this guy and I were just friends. Oops.

I hear from so many religious girls my age that they aren't ready to get married, but they want boyfriends. I kind of thought I was one of them. Only when the possibility actually became tangible did I realize that I'm not really into the idea of a boyfriend right now. Maybe it's the particular male specimen in question. But maybe it's not.

I've never been the type to need someone's company at every waking moment. Just tonight, I went to a jazz concert by myself, and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. College is such a social place - every class, every meal, every trip to the gym or the grocery store or the drugstore or the library involves running into someone you know, or at least being in their company. Sometimes, I appreciate it. But sometimes, I just need some time alone, away from the same faces and conversations about the amount of work we have and the amount of sleep we don't.

When I do one day decide to accept a guy's invitation out, I want the affair to be done properly. I'm not talking about him holding doors or paying the bill or whatever society dictates that men do. I'm talking about dating with dignity. I don't want to feel uncomfortable, like the guy is pushing himself on me and not giving me an option to refuse his offer. I want to feel appreciated for my personality as well as my looks. I want to feel like the guy I'm with respects me as well as himself. I want to know that he is committed to keeping our relationship proper and tzanuah, yet fun and exciting.

I can't decide if this all sounds really deep or really stupid. Thoughts?

Holier than thou

I'm in Israel, staying at my seminary from last year. It feels like I never left, but at the same time so much has happened since last year that I look at the shana aleph girls and think how far I've come.

Today I went to the Kotel tunnels, to the arch that is the closest point to the Holy of Holies from both Temples. I felt something peculiar, something I couldn't put my finger on. It wasn't fear, or joy, or excitement, or reverence. It was kind of a mix of all of those.

I felt holiness. Kedusha.

I tried to think back to the last time I felt like I was in the presence of something holy or Divine. I considered the experience of lighting Shabbos candles in the Hillel, but it didn't compare. I considered the Gemara shiur I attended once a week, but it only came close. I considered the Yom Kippur davening we had on campus, but it still fell short. 

Let's face it, kedusha is hard to come by on a secular college campus. It's certainly possible to infuse holiness into my college life through mitzvah observance, but it's a constant balancing act. Remaining an inspired, halachic Jew while managing school, extra curriculars, and the social scene is quite a task. The satisfaction I feel when I act as an observant Jew on campus has a different flavor than the purity of Jewish life in Israel. On campus, I find meaning in being different, in being who I am despite the environment I'm in. In a place like Jerusalem, the environment is precisely where and how I find meaning.

I can't say I felt the kedusha as soon as I landed at Ben Gurion - I was groggy, nauseous, and stiff. But the longer I'm here, the more I realize how much I really, really, really missed the Holy Land.

Praise the Lord!

I just watched the movie "Joyful Noise" with Queen Latifah and Dolly Parton. The plot was kind of unfocused at times, but man, the MUSIC. I've always joked that in another life, I was part of a gospel choir in a southern church. I just love that whole style - seriously, I'll listen to any Christian music that's not about Jesus.

I wish Judaism had more opportunities to serve G-d with that kind of energy, that electricity that can only be released through creative pursuits. A lot of halacha exists in order to maintain a certain level of restraint - what we eat, what we say, who we touch, and where we go are all carefully dictated in order to remind us that we're not the ones in charge. But I think there's a certain value to losing control and giving yourself to G-d through music. The way some of those church members sing...well, you don't often see that kind of excitement at minyan.

What does it take to get religious Jews excited about serving G-d? Even holidays can grow tiresome year after year. It's easy to become complacent if you do something often enough.

I once came across an article saying the same region of the brain active during conversations is active during intense prayer. (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/18/how-does-prayer-meditation-affect-brain-activity_n_1974621.html) I shared this with a rabbi, and his reaction was, "If they checked the brain activity of your average Orthodox Jew, teenager for sure, they wouldn't see any brain activity."

I think we have a lot to learn from gospel choirs. They are engaging, exciting, and inspiring, and it all comes from a sincere place. Change isn't exactly an easy or welcome thing in Orthodoxy, but even Rav Hirsch made his synagogue more like European churches when people started losing interest. I'm not saying we all have to don polyester robes and riff our way through chazarat hashatz. I just wonder if there's some way to incorporate more passion into our observance.