Category: Culture

Culture, Environment, Family, Kibbutz, Parenting

Second Spring

Jen

The weather is perfect today.

Blissfully perfect.

And by some magical alignment, my family is perfect today, too.

Tfoo. Tfoo. Tfoo.

We spent the morning together cleaning our yard, which had gotten frightfully ghetto this winter. Miraculously, everyone pitched a hand. Even my 9 year old, whom we hardly ever see anymore because he spends most of his spare daylight hours running around with his friends.

Our hand painted inspirational tiles from last spring didn’t make it through the winter, despite what we thought was a careful choice of paint and sealant. We laid them to rest along the side of our yard to make way for another herb garden and an experimental vegetable garden.

After spending some time together at the small nursery just outside Kfar Manda, we chose which plants to experiment with. With multi-generational love and care, with songs and brachot, with a little bit of mandatory blood, sweat and tears, we planted “Bubbi’s Garden,” in honor and loving memory of Bubbi (Marion Abrams) who would have been 87 years young tomorrow.

May we all only generate joy, love and beauty this spring and in the seasons to come.

Culture

Consumerista

Jen

Once a year, my husband and I used to head to Woodbury Common, a nice outlet mall off the NY Thruway. I remember laughing in bewilderment at the Asian or European tourists who would be bussed in by the dozens to the outlet center and would schlep out with bags and bags of who knows what like they were giving it away.

On the contrary, we’d usually leave with just a few things, a pair of pants from the Banana Republic outlet or a pair of Skechers or maybe last year’s LeSport Sac. And I would wonder, “Are things really that expensive in Asia? Do they not have malls in other countries? Where do they get the money to buy all this discounted crap? It’s not even that discounted!”

Well, after only a year of living in Asia (Middle Eastern Asia, that is) I have become the Asian tourist.

And I can tell you, they don’t have anything like Woodbuy Common in Israel. And the discounted jeans or handbags or Jockey underwear they sell in any outlet mall is indeed like giving it away to those of us who are used to buying such things in Israel.

Yes, Israel has its fragrant, bustling shuks, and of course, higher end chic goods, as well. But suburbia — with its malls and its Target and its Trader Joe’s — well, that doesn’t really exist in Israel. And the version that comes close (let’s say Kfar Saba, for example) comes at three times the price.

I don’t miss American suburbia too much when I am in Israel, but when I am back in the States, watch out. I become as delusional as a self-indulgent reality show housewife…without the bank account to back up my delusions.

For various reasons, none of them good, I’ve had to return to the States a few times since making Aliyah. This is my third trip back. I’m in Chicago right now preparing for a whirlwind business trip. Tomorrow, my colleagues will join me in Chicago, Day One of a six day “road show,” during which I will be accompanying 13 technology start-ups across the U.S. to present their companies to potential investors. But today, I am on my own for a few hours on Magnificent Mile.

Despite the saggy jetlagged eyelids and the airplane smell that’s still stuck to my cardigan sweater, I feel pretty sophisticated when I say “whirlwind business trip” and “potential investors.” And, quite frankly, if you saw me right now sitting at the desk of my Comfort Suites hotel room, you’d say I could almost pass for sophisticated. Particularly when you consider the view outside my Michigan Avenue hotel window.

But if you had seen me at Trader Joe’s earlier today, salivating over the “Avocados Number” Guacamole, or trying on hundreds of headbands and rings at Charming Charlie’s (where the Accessory Place meets Jelly Belly ) or at Walgreen’s snapping up the Gas-X on sale, you might have thought otherwise.

It’s hard to pinpoint who I reminded myself of…a cross between Madison, the mermaid from Splash, and Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman (before she had class), with a little bit of midget thrown in to account for the difference in height.

Before you get too disgusted with my materialism, I must tell you I’ve realized there’s a thoughtful side to this madness, too. The side that appreciates what I have…and what I don’t.  The side that sees the life I used to live as a treat reserved now for special occasions. And the side that sees how suffering the absence of all the things that I thought made my life easy –like fruit-flavored chewy kids’ vitamins — makes me appreciate those things more than ever before.

When was the last time you walked slowly through Trader  Joe’s, lovingly gazing at the frozen packaged gluten free waffles? When was the last time you walked into a Starbucks and closed your eyes as the Caramel Macchiato scented air filled your nostrils? When was the last time you felt exuberant at the discovery of “Angry Birds” Band-Aids, knowing that when you brought them home to your kids, they’d practically pee their pants with joy?

I held my Starbucks coffee today like it was a prize I had won. I ate my good old-fashioned American chocolate chip cookie like it was a delicacy reserved for royalty.  I spent the little money I have for spending with reserve and care, knowing that I only have one suitcase, and four people back in Israel who are excited for the treasure they’ll be handed upon my return.

Treasure.

I can see treasure inside a teddy bear shaped bottle of vitamins fromTrader Joe’s.

It’s a little disgusting, I know. But sweet, too. Don’t you think?

Culture, Love, Middle East Conflict, Politics, Religion, Terrorism

Tears in the desert

Jen

When I really want to feel life, I put on Billy Joel’s “Songs in the Attic” and drive to work.

It doesn’t have to be Billy Joel. Jackson Browne also works. Depending on the season, so does Randy Newman or the Beach Boys or Elvis Costello’s and Burt Bacharach’s Painted from Memory. In fact, I created a “Songs that Move Me” mix for the very purpose of crying in the car.

If I was more disciplined, I would commit to a regular heart-opening practice, such as meditation or journaling.  But as a full-time immigrant executive mom of three, my ride to work is about the only reliable stretch of quiet time I’ve got these days.

I realized this one day, as I was driving the 20 minutes from my house to my office, amongst the green hills of the Western Galilee. “Hmm,” I thought. “Rather than listen to the news or gripe about the traffic, this would be quite the picturesque opportunity to feel.”

Not move. Not do. Not think.

Feel.

I can’t speak for the rest of humanity, but I’m not well-trained for feeling and being.  Very well-trained for moving and doing, but not feeling and being.

One of my intentions when I moved to Israel was to get better at “being.” Being present. Experiencing life fully.

If there’s a place in the world to live that brings you ever closer to the realization that there’s “no day but today,” it’s the Middle East. But since I got a full-time job here, and moreso since I was promoted to a senior level management position at the company for which I work, my doing is trumping my being. I realized how severe the problem was when I started dreaming about people from work.  I started to understand just how not present I was when rockets started falling again in Southern Israel a few weeks ago.

Like everyone else, I thought a lot about it. I read about it. I posted articles on Facebook.

But, in all honesty, I didn’t feel it much.

And that worries me.

I don’t miss the booming or the shaking — For that, I am grateful. I am grateful that we live three hours North of where the kassams are falling. I am grateful our kids are still going to school.  I am grateful I can leave for work in the morning and feel fairly confident that all will be well when I return in the evening.

As much as any of us in the world can, at least.

But I worry that I don’t physically feel that ache in my heart for the children who are missing school because the sirens won’t stop or physically feel in my throat the lump that represents compassion for the parents who have to drop down to the ground and shield their children each time there is “tzeva adom” (red alert).

Of course, I am not an animal. I think compassion and I think worry and I even think fear. I think about it a lot. But I don’t know that I feel it. At least, not deeply enough to do me good.

Martha Beck writes,

“Emotional discomfort, when accepted, rises, crests and falls in a series of waves. Each wave washes a part of us away and deposits treasures we never imagined.

Out goes naivete, in comes wisdom; out goes anger, in comes discernment; out goes despair, in comes kindness. No one would call it easy, but the rhythm of emotional pain that we learn to tolerate is natural, constructive and expansive… The pain leaves you healthier than it found you.”

In her bestseller, Expecting Adam, Beck also writes, “You’ll never be hurt as much by being open as you have been hurt by remaining closed.”

I know this to be true. And yet sometimes I forget.

And while I can’t speak for all humanity, I would guess that a lot of us do. Forget, that is. Feel numb, that is. Turn our faces away from the scenes that disturb us. Turn up the loud music to drown out the voices that worry us, or the memories that cause us pain. Breathe a sigh of relief that someone else’s worry is not our worry today.

I won’t drive down South with my children to experience the fear and pain of rockets for myself. But I can and will drive to work with my “Songs that Move Me” mix or my Billy Joel so that I feel the rhythm of emotional pain.

It’s an emotional pain I can tolerate. It’s, as Beck says, constructive and expansive.

I often compare my “heart-opening drive” to Holly Hunter’s cry in “Broadcast News.” For some reason, since I first fell in love with this film at age 13, I always related to the Holly Hunter character. In particular, to the scene when she unplugs the phone in her motel room and allows herself five minutes just to cry.

What is she doing? I always thought, when I watched this movie as a young adult. I don’t get it.

But now I do.

That motel room. Those five minutes of silence. It’s a safe space for her to flirt with deep emotion.

And my mountainous, twisting and turning commute up towards the Western Galilee offers me the same.

The solitude provides me with the opportunity; and the right choice of music weakens my chest just enough to let a little feeling in.

Today on my car radio, Billy Joel sings Summer, Highland Falls. And I cry.

Perhaps Joel was writing about his messy divorce, or his childhood, but this morning when I listen to the emotionally heavy poetry woven into his words, I only hear Israel:

“And so we’ll argue and we’ll compromise, and realize that nothing’s ever changed.

For all our mutual experience, our separate conclusions are the same…

Now we are forced to recognize our inhumanity…A reason coexists with our insanity…

And so we choose between reality and madness

It’s either sadness or euphoria.”

Culture, Family, Health, Middle East Conflict, Politics

Ob-la-di

Jen

As I was getting my kids into the bath last night, I heard a helicopter fly by close over our house. And I didn’t jump or startle.

I must be getting used to Israel.

When we first moved here, I jumped at every little sound: Not just the military helicopters flying by, but any loud booming noise; of which there are many in rural Northern Israel. Sometimes the sound comes from a digger breaking ground on a new lot; sometimes it’s an invisible jet soaring by, leaving a sonic boom in its wake and shaking the windows “The Right Stuff” style. Sometimes it’s just a tractor trailer driving by on its way to deliver petrol or chickens.

When we first moved here, I did a lot of pretending. Pretending like I didn’t worry about terrorist attacks or war. It wasn’t strategic or intentional pretending, mind you, and I was never actively scared to live here. It was the kind of pretending young women do when they choose to walk home by themselves from the club on Avenue A at one o’clock in the morning. You know that it’s both unlikely and yet still possible that you will get raped or mugged. But you have calculated the odds manually in your head, and counted the spare change in your wallet, and decided that walking home is your best bet.

Israel seemed like a good bet for us, despite the possibilities of terrorism or war.

But still, before I got a job, I was home a lot during the day…and jumpy. One day, a small propeller plane flew so close to my house I could see the pilot’s face. He flew across my street and back again. I tried to keep my panic in check for a few minutes as I carefully observed his flight pattern, but after about 5 flybys, I frantically called my friend Shira, who lived down the street, and who was already by that time a veteran olah. When she didn’t answer the phone, I ran down the street in my flip flops, covering my head with my hands, hoping to avoid the spray of bullets or heavy metal things he might drop out the window of his plane.

“Do you see that plane flying by?” I shouted to her before she opened the front door. She said she saw it, but without much trace of worry in her voice.

“What is it doing here? Why is flying over our houses?” I asked her.

“I think it’s spraying the wheat,” she replied. “But I’ll call the security guy.” The security guy confirmed that yes indeed the plane was there to spray the wheat fields adjacent to our homes with pesticides. We had nothing to worry about, he said, except poison exposure. (Emphasis mine, of course.)

Phew.

If my friend Shira was not as kind as she is, she would tell you about the other time I freaked out; when I made her hide behind a tractor to avoid the creepy-looking, strung out guy driving around our neighborhood aimlessly. I was convinced he was hiding an Uzi beneath his seat, hunting for some Jews to kill.

Or the other time I freaked out; when I ran to my de facto shelter because they were making announcements over the loudspeaker and I couldn’t hear, let alone understand, what they were saying repetitively in Hebrew. In my imagination, it was surely, “Run! Rockets are falling!” But, in reality, turned out to be “Blood drive today! Blood drive today!”

It’s not that I’m no longer jumpy. The other day, in fact, I literally jumped twice in one day: Once when thunder boomed over head and shook the windows. (I think, in general, windows are crap here in Israel.) And the second time, when I was about the fall asleep and my daughter’s balloon popped in the kitchen. I didn’t run to the shelter, but I easily lost 5 or 6 years from my life thanks to that scare.

I suppose I have become, for the most part, desensitized to the regular military drills that happen and general presence in and around Israel.

I imagine it’s this same desensitization that allows me to  casually ignore headlines like “Will Israel attack Iran?” and “Officials to discuss Israel-Iran showdown.”

I wonder about myself sometimes, though. Am I in denial? Stupid? Numb? Crazy?

And then I think about the fact that I used to live six minutes from one of the most dangerous cities in the U.S. — Newark, NJ. That muggings, drug deals and murders took place, literally sometimes, ten blocks away from my kids’ synagogue preschool, which sits on the border between South Orange and Newark, NJ. In fact, many of us New Jersey natives grew up only minutes away from some of the country’s most crime-ridden cities: Camden, Elizabeth, Paterson.

Is my life in Israel all that more dangerous?

Sure there’s tension, conflict, terrorism, really terrible drivers. But none of those things detract from the every day life stuff like homework, exams, chores, errands, my awesome sex life, mortgage, car repairs, illness, wellness, office politics, reality TV. The same stuff that distracts Americans from the dangers in their own backyards.

We humans have a lot to worry about: Purim costumes, for instance, and taxes and mammograms.

I can’t see spending much time worrying about Iran unless you’re paying me to.

I know it’s easy for me to say. I haven’t lived in Israel during an active time of war. I haven’t sent a kid off to the army. I haven’t been in the army myself. But I get the sense that even for those of my friends who have, and who do, the answer remains the same.

Life goes on here. There is only so much room in the human heart for worry.

Culture, Environment, Family, Food

Angry mom

Jen

This was originally posted as my alter ego, “The Wellness Bitch.” Please take that into consideration as you read it. The WB posts with a slightly different tone. Considering the relevance to my Aliyah experience here in Israel, however, I choose to re-post it, despite the chance that it might incite my friends and alienate my neighbors.

With any luck, though, maybe a few of you will join me in a “Makolet Ban” or an “Anti-Makolet March” or at the very least, one “No Makolet Day” each year. 

I feel blessed in my life for the moms who get it. I’m glad for the ones I’ve met in real life and the ones I have come to know and love virtually.

It’s these moms — the ones who struggle day in and day out to provide their families with their version of “healthy” despite society’s constant roadblocks — that bring me back down off the angry ledge. It’s these fellow moms who struggle as hard as I do; who understand the often daily battles I fight with myself and my kids. The struggle between giving my kids what they want and giving them what I think they need. The struggle between saying yes and saying no. The struggle between choosing to fight a battle and choosing to lose it. The struggle between choosing easy and choosing hard.

I need such a support group desperately here, in my real life community, where I am forced to make choices all the time between what I know is right for my kids and what other moms let their kids get away with.

I’m feeling very, very “angry mom” lately.

Here, in the small community in Israel where I live, there is so much I love. But what I hate to my utter core is the “makolet.”

The makolet is basically a corner grocery store. The Israel equivalent of a NYC bodega. Internally, I like to call it “the kiddie crack house.” Sure, conceptually, it’s nice to know I can run up the hill for a carton of eggs or a package of baking powder, but 99% of the time, it’s the bane of my existence here and representative of something I really can’t stand about Israel: For as advanced as this country is, it is still very far behind in the healthy eating revolution, and in denial that what you feed your kids contributes to their physical and emotional well-being.

Israel's national snack food, bamba

Every day here, it seems, the average Israeli child walks out from his preschool and is taken by the hand to the makolet where the average Israeli parent buys his child the average Israeli after-school snack — namely a popsicle, a chocolate milk, a snack pack of peanut butter puffed corn, yogurt topped with candy or just plain candy.

It’s the Wellness Bitch’s worst nightmare. Can you imagine?

A family "favorite"

For over a year, I’ve tried to make peace with the makolet. My husband and I have tried various incentive plans to get our kids on board with the idea that we don’t feed them makolet crack every day. These are kids who, up until a year ago, were happy to get candy once a month at a birthday party, and whose daily sweet treats included an organic sandwich cookie or a beet-colored fruit roll up. Now, these kids can be seen walking once a week clutching a bag of “Kliks,” slurping on sour gummy worms, or sucking down a spray bottle filled with the EU version of Red #40.

We’ve tried “Makolet Day,” one day a week when our kids get to pick something from the little store. But one “Makolet Day” a week suddenly turns into three when Saba comes to visit, or when the 3-year-old goes home with a different parent for a playdate and the two kids wind up sucking down “Shock-o,” the  chocolate milk drink packaged in sports bottles mechanically engineered for preschoolers’ tiny mouths. “Makolet Day” becomes a way of life here when my kids are treated to a “krembo” by their teachers or tutors or soccer coaches for doing a job well done. “Makolet Day” in not just a day here when it’s piled upon birthday parties and holiday celebrations and kiddushim, for which the focal point is sugary, processed crap masquerading as food.

Yesterday, I lost it because my daughter walked out from preschool with a snack bag full of candy thanks to an in-school birthday party (which they seem to have twice a month here). I told her she could have the birthday candy or “Makolet Day,” not both. She agreed. She proceeded to eat a handful of m-n-m’s and then ran to the makolet to pick out

"Krembo" the Israeli chocolate coconut cream treat

her weekly treat. When I reminded her of our agreement, she had a meltdown. That melt-down turned into a kicking and screaming performance for all my friends and neighbors (Did I imagine the tongues clicking in compassion for my daughter ?)

As I buckled her into her car seat, I screamed out loud in frustration to her and her two brothers, “That is it! No more makolet! I hate the makolet. I hate it so much I am going to come here in the middle of the night and spray graffiti all over the makolet! Do you hear me?? Graffiti!!!!”

Don’t you love days like that? When you are so angry, and yet so defeated, that graffiti is your best threat? (What would I even write? “F-off Makolet?” “Die, Makolet, Die?” And, really, how long would it take before they discovered the English expletives belonged to me?)

Don’t you love it when, in an effort to do right by your kids, you completely do wrong?

Don’t you love it when their meltdowns produce your meltdowns?

Somebody, please hand me a Krembo.

For years, I was luckier than I realized. I had a built-in community and support system in New Jersey. I lived in an educated, middle to upper middle class, health conscious neighborhood. I had a Whole Foods Market ten minutes to the West and one ten minutes to the East. I had a “Holistic Moms” network nearby, five yoga studios to choose from, a “green thumb” and a “wellness” committee at my kids’ schools.

For all that I gained when I moved to a small, country kibbutz in Israel, I lost that wellness-focused community.

And now I have two choices: I can stay angry or I can build…community, that is.

I do both really, really well.

I simply need to choose now, as we all do at some point, which one serves me best.

I recently mentioned to the members of my bi-weekly woman’s group that I think it’s time I start speaking up — getting “my leader on,” so to speak. On the one hand, it’s been nice living in my bubble, the one in which I pretend like I don’t have much of an opinion and don’t have experience leading community efforts for change.

Inside this bubble, I’ve allowed “little Hebrew” to become synonymous for “little voice.”

But the truth is, I have a voice. And it’s loud. And it’s lonely hiding here inside the bubble.

Culture, Environment, Health

Anemone

Jen

Soon after we made Aliyah in January 2010, my son and I created mini videos for our friends and family back in NJ with our Flip camera.  At the time, the kalaniyot were just beginning to bloom here in the North and there is this poignant moment during one of our virtual walking tours of Hannaton where my son, in the middle of some explanation of a particular cultural difference between the U.S. and Israel, stops walking, bends down, gazes at,  and then plucks from the ground a beautiful red anemone.

We learned soon after that these flowers are on the endangered list here in Israel, and it’s forbidden to pick them.  The kalaniyot (anemones in Hebrew) are so breathtaking it’s no wonder they caught my son’s ever wandering eye, and it’s no wonder they beckon us all to the fields when they start to pop up in January. If you do a Google search for pictures of kalaniyot, you’ll see what I mean.

I’ve been eager to go on a photo expedition myself among the kalaniyot on Hannaton, but I put it off due to sickness and continual bad weather. Finally the rains stopped enough for me to take a quiet Shabbat walk this past weekend to the fields above Hannaton overlooking nearby Kfar Manda and the Eshkol reservoir here in the Lower Galilee.

What I found was, as I expected, overwhelmingly and breathtakingly beautiful.

Kalaniyot overlook Hannaton

And, at the same time, heartbreaking.

Kalaniyot amongst the thorns

Heartbreaking how?

Heartbreaking in that as much as we revel in Israel’s beauty, and as much as we fight for ownership of her lands, we fail her.

To trash or protect, that is the question

Do you see what I mean? We are prohibited from plucking her beauty, and perhaps rightfully so, in an effort to preserve it. And while efforts to maintain the wildflower population seem to be working, efforts to enforce cleanliness are failing…immensely.

Is this the land we're fighting over?

Garbage litters this beautiful land — from fields to parks to beaches to city streets.  When out and about amongst Israel’s unparalleled landscapes, I often feel transported back to 1970s-era America where it was still socially acceptable to toss trash out the window of a moving car or leave your Happy Meal bag in the mall parking lot next to your car instead of carrying it the extra few steps to the trash can. I see the remains of picnics left behind without a thought in our heavily funded Keren Kayemet national parks — picnics from many season ago no doubt. I grimace as I see plastic bottles floating along the rim of the Kinerret. I am ashamed when I bring tourists to a treasured local landmark, and they have to navigate around discarded cigarette packs and broken beer bottles.

It’s a puzzle to me.

Plastic bottles decorate our landscape

How is it that the most contended over real estate on the planet is not cleaner? How is it that our Holy Land is not treated as sacred? 

Remains of the Israeli picnic

How are we so disconnected, so unimpacted by this irony?

How is it that we will scream and shout our political battles over borders and boundaries, but we won’t speak up when we see our neighbor litter? How is it that we, as a country, are careful so about Kashrut, but not proactive as individuals in our daily lives with honoring “God’s creation,” our land?

Paint the landscape of the Galilee

When I bring this up among my friends, they often blame our “cousins,” by whom they mean our Arab neighbors. But if that were true, why is there so much trash here on Hannaton? And I don’t mean on the fields just beyond our yishuv gates where our Arab neighbors will often picnic (as will we). But also in the playground our children play in, in our yishuv streets, in our driveways and in our yards? I walked along the beach just outside Haifa a few months ago and it was covered in trash. Again, reminding me of Jersey beaches decades before when we had to be mindful not to walk barefoot on syringes.

Plastic bag dots the green

I don’t imagine our Arab neighbors are coming by with their Bamba bags and dropping them on our Hannaton basketball court. I don’t think our Arab neighbors are sending their dogs over to poop on our playground.

Bamba in the fields

In my work over the past few years educating our communities about holistic health and wellness, I often shied away from calling myself an “environmental activist.” My main intention was always to teach people ways they could prevent illness, in particular chronic illness or cancer, by adjusting their lifestyle and dietary habits. I always noted the secondary benefits of living a less toxic life included “healing our planet.”

But more and more over the years, I’ve come to understand exactly how hand-in-hand these two initiatives are: healing ourselves and healing our planet. They are one and the same. One cannot succeed without the other.

And those of us who yearn for peace in this land — in other words, her healing — must understand that this poor land is ravaged both by emotional and physical pain. And to heal her, we must take a holistic approach. We must understand the unspoken implication of dropping our garbage thoughtlessly onto Israel’s earth, of polluting Israel’s water, of suffocating her with toxic fumes.

What message do we send to her when we treat her this way?

You wouldn’t court a beautiful woman with screams, bloodshed, and empty plastic bottles and bags, would you?

Culture, Middle East Conflict, Politics, Religion, Terrorism

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

Jen

(This originally appeared as “Israeli in Progress” on The Jerusalem Post)

Before I lived in Israel, I was a tourist to Israel.

I visited Israel three times as a program participant between the years 1992 and 2000, and twice independently with family.

Each time, there were outright rules and admonitions from tour guides, concerned locals, or experienced travelers to Israel (“Don’t drive to Jerusalem via Jericho.”); and unspoken or whispered advice (“You’re young. You’re blonde. Stay out of Arab villages and east Jerusalem.”)

The message received? “Sure, Israel is a lot safer than she often looks on t.v., but there is a real danger here nonetheless, and that danger is Arab.”

Twice during my earlier travels to Israel, I found myself alone with Arabs and frightened. Once deservedly – an Arab cab driver picked me up near the Kotel in Jerusalem and made me ride in the front seat with him and more than once on the way to my destination caressed my knee. Funny enough, I was less worried about being raped than I was of the idea of being dragged to east Jerusalem.

The second time was when I ended up lost on my way driving alone from Tel Aviv to Tiberias, and found myself in Nazareth. All it took for hysteria to set in was the sight of a billboard in Arabic promoting a fruit drink endorsed by Yasser Arafat. I quickly pulled into a parking lot and hid in my car trembling while I consulted the map. Thankfully, no one tried to make me drink the Arafat fruit punch.

When we made Aliyah, I arrived to Israel carrying the “Arabs are scary” baggage still.

In fact, it was only after we decided to live on Hannaton that I realized that Kfar Manda, the next big town over, was an Arab town, and that essentially, we were surrounded by Arab villages (some Muslim, some Druze — all Israeli). Once I found out, outwardly I felt proud, in the same way a white girl living in Harlem might. But inwardly, especially when I heard a rumor that Manda houses an active terrorist cell, I felt that same sense of discomfort. “Arabs are scary.” Whether or not the terrorist cell rumor has any truth to it, I still don’t know. But so far my comfort level extends only to getting gas at the station just outside of town (because it’s on my way home from work), but not heading into the town center alone for a shwarma or some vegetables.

I’m fully aware that my fear of Arabs is directly related to my ignorance and to lack of personal experience. That it has nothing to do with personal human interaction, and everything to do with stories spread by fearful people. Some of these stories are true, of course; but some are exaggerated. And, none of the stories belong to me.

In fact, all of my interactions with Arabs since I’ve moved to Israel have not only been benign, but a few have even been memorable examples of human kindness.

For instance, there’s a Middle Eastern restaurant my in-laws frequent: of all the restaurants we’ve been to Israel, it’s the one where the kitchen staff is the most sensitive to my kids’ food allergies. And just yesterday, I was driving home from a business meeting in Tel Aviv when I realized something was terribly wrong with my car. I ignored the noise for a good ten minutes, long enough to get off the beach highway and pull over to the shoulder. It didn’t take long to understand that the piece hanging off the front side of my car was not necessarily going to stop the car from running, but certainly was not going to allow me to get home safely if it kept dragging. I made it to the nearest gas station, one near an Arab Village, where two Arab attendants fixed my car temporarily. They didn’t hesitate when I asked them to help me and they didn’t ask for payment.

If I had followed the “Rules for American Jewish Girls Travelling in Israel,” I would have never made it home. The Arab-run gas station was the only one around for miles.

I can’t hold myself up as the picture of co-existence or tolerance just because I live in the lower Galilee and ask for help from handy, young Arab guys. But I have realized in the short time that I have lived here that my understanding of the situation between Jews and Arabs in Israel is transforming from one informed by stories to one informed by experience — and we all know that it’s real, live interaction between people that is the miraculous cure to both real and imagined conflict.

And my real, live Jewish interaction with real, live Arabs makes us all one teeny tiny step closer to peace

Culture, Living in Community

A big girl in a little bubble

Jen
(This was originally posted on my Jerusalem Post blog, Israeli in Progress)
 
My husband and I often laugh that we really enjoy the little bubble we’ve created for ourselves here in Israel.

We live on a small kibbutz in the North. We have a 20 minute drive to the nearest supermarket, and a 45 minute drive to the nearest shopping mall. That might be off-putting to most; and admittedly it’s sometimes off-putting to us. But placing ourselves at a great distance from crowds and commercialism forces us to live a more simple life. We have less decisions to make, less traffic to navigate, less people to growl at.

We’ve noticed that “The Bubble,” as we call it, keeps us relatively safe from the stresses of modern family life. The stressors I’m referring to include mainly getting in and out of cars, weaving in and out of traffic, suffering the impacts of noise pollution, air pollution, and people pollution.

Instead of packing ourselves in and out of our cars multiple times a day, or boarding busses or trains; we walk our two little kids to preschool in the morning and our oldest son walks himself to a bus stop on our street.

When we get together with friends for playdates or social outings, it’s typically at our house or theirs. And we walk there. We hardly ever eat out. We hardly ever go out, to be honest. I work 20 minutes from the house and my husband works mostly from home. Our most spontaneous and adventurous day is typically Saturday, when we might hop in the car for a drive up to the Golan to hike, explore ancient ruins in the Galilee, or spend Shabbat with my in-laws who live 20 minutes away.

Some would call our simple life boring. But we call it easy. And easy translates for us as good.

This is not to say that everything about our life here is easy, but we’ve successfully managed to eliminate a lot of the every-day life stressors that we felt while living in New Jersey, without adding too many new ones to the mix.

(If you read my blog, you know the short list of Israel-related stressors includes:

1. Too many nuts here; 2. Rockets sometimes fall nearby; and 3. Hebrew is hard.)

Yes, our little Israeli bubble is nice. Our Bubble is quiet. Our Bubble is fairly uncomplicated.

But, it’s still a bubble, of course, which makes it a world contained within itself. There is a world, however, that still exists outside of it.  And in this world lives my extended family, my friends, and my colleagues.

So unless I plan on completely walking away from modern life, which my husband tells me I can’t, it’s important to exit the Bubble every now and again, as scary as that can be.

After ten years of American suburban life, I learned that if you don’t, you undoubtedly lose movement in your “brave muscle,” the one that keeps your inner scaredy cat in check.

In the States, this fear to leave your safe little bubble is sometimes a side effect of Suburban Malaise – when you move out from the City to the suburbs and your life becomes a bit too predictable; a bit too mundane; a bit too regimented and conformed. I imagine there are some people who also experience Kibbutz Malaise, a depression stemming from being away from all that city excitement when you move up North.

But not me. Here in my little Israeli Bubble, with its cozyness and simplicity, I risk suffering from Kibbutz Contentment.  The condition stems not from being stuck, but rather, not wanting to ever leave.

When you suffer Kibbutz Contentment and you have a pressing need to venture out from your bubble, you find yourself fretting for days beforehand. You scour Google maps, plot your routes in advance, and, if you have rusty Hebrew, write down all the words you will need in your own handmade little pocket dictionary.

When you suffer Kibbutz Contentment you avoid not only planes, trains and automobiles, but platforms, lines, and crowds. Sometimes you are brave enough for parking garages or malls, but never big sales and only during the week and mid-day hours.

When you suffer Kibbutz Contentment, you’re often worried equally at the idea of being alone in the city and being around too many people. Taxi drivers are your enemies, as are cashiers, waitresses, and homeless people. Why? Because they all want to talk to you.

I was in Tel Aviv at least five times in the past month for work, and all five times I experienced anxiety as I prepared to head out of The Bubble. But I have to say, I worked my Brave Muscle and it came out the other side achy, yet stronger.

I rode the train. I’ve even switched trains… three times! I bought multiple tickets. I spoke (in Hebrew) to all my “enemies” — the taxi drivers, the waitresses, and the clerks — and even the sophisticated Tel Avivians I had to conduct meetings with.

I was courted at fancy schmancy agencies and conference centers; sipped espresso in cafes; and pushed my way in and out of ticket lines. Twice this week, I drove Cvish HaHof, the beach highway to Tel Aviv from the North, as well as the super-highway, Cvish 6. I drove alone and pumped my own gas; which isn’t as easy as you would think considering all the instructions are in Hebrew.

After a long week of working my Brave Muscle, I returned home from work last night as exhausted as I would have coming home from an extreme workout at the gym. But I smiled as I drove through the yellow gate that separates my Bubble from the rest of the world.“Aizeh Bogeret,” I said to myself.What a big girl you are.

And the hugs and kisses and big glass of red wine that awaited me as I walked into the door of my bubble within a  bubble were all sweeter for having missed them.

Culture

A boy in soldier’s clothes

Jen

I have no idea what it’s like to send your son off to the army.

And before I moved to Israel, I didn’t much think about it.

Of course, my oldest child is not even 9, but still, any mother will tell you that time passes quickly when you are raising children. As I consider how quickly nine years has passed since I was pregnant with my first child, I become very present to the fact that nine years will be here before I know it. And if we’re still living in Israel, my son too will leave for the army. So will his classmates, his girlfriend, his buddies, the kids he now rides the bus with or plays soccer with. The kid who sits next to him in math class. The kid whose mom packs him hummus with pickles in a pita. The kid with the glasses. The one who still doesn’t know how to ride his bike. The boy who likes Legos.  The girl who still sleeps with a blankie.

Little boys and girls now. Soldiers some day soon.

They will all serve. The smart ones and the dumb ones. The ones with their faces in books and the ones who prefer TV. There’s no profile of soldiers in Israel. There’s differentiation between units, of course. And there are also exceptions to the rules. The teenagers with really bad eyesight or asthma get excused or you can register for office duty instead of active combat. Gilad could have avoided combat duty because of medical issues, apparently, but he chose not to.

I have many mixed feelings through this entire process, like most Israelis, like most Jews, like most human beings.

I am thankful that this event is getting international coverage and sparking conversation. I know that I will always remember this day and my experience as a new immigrant in this country — the celebration and joy. The anguish and heartbreak. The confusion. The frustration.

And crying for all of it. Tears for the reunited family embracing on tv and tears for the childless parents who must face the darkness that accompanies the knowledge that your child’s murderer has been set free.

Mostly today I will remember being a mother. A mother who doesn’t see a soldier returning home, but an emaciated boy who was forced to grow up too soon.

I pray for you Gilad. I pray that you will find love and light in your life. That you will find a pathyway to healing. I pray for your fellow soldiers, for your friends and your former classmates. For the children running around in adult clothing.

I pray for those still missing. I pray for those who have fallen.

I pray for understanding and for empathy.

I pray for humanity, for a miracle, for peace.

But mostly, in this moment, I pray for the mothers. My heart, today, is with the mothers.

Culture, Family, Kibbutz, Letting Go, Living in Community, Love, Making Friends, Parenting, Spirituality, Uncategorized

Unwound

Jen

A friend of mine moved from NJ to Guam with her husband and two boys a few months before we decided to make Aliyah. On Facebook, I followed her move and her family’s transition with interest, particularly once we decided we were moving to Israel.

Despite what I assume must be vast differences in culture and landscape between Guam and Israel, I often find myself nodding in agreement and understanding when I read Shelley’s posts. (This could also have much to do with our common interests in holistic parenting and healthy eating, as well.)

There is, I’ve realized, companionship in leaving the busy American suburbs, the busy American life, for the “outskirts.”

Today Shelley wrote, “There are times when I miss living in the States with all of its modern conveniences, but then there are days like yesterday when I never want to leave our little bubble in Guam.”

I know exactly what she means.

Except our bubble is not Israel, per say, as Israel is no island paradise: She possesses as much hassle, aggravation, and overstimulation as any developed country.

My bubble is Kibbutz Hannaton, the small 120-or-so family Lower Galilee community in which we live. And a sub-bubble of Hannaton is my little red house with green shutters.  And yet another sub-bubble is my little work enclave of former Americans whom allow me eight hours a day to pretend I still live and work in the U.S.

But the true sub-bubble is the one I created for myself with intention last December when I  chose not just to live somewhere different, but to live differently.

I often tell people (in fact, I did so just yesterday during lunch) that our successful “absorption” here is due in large part to the community in which we chose to live: one made up of young, growing families like our own. One where friendships are only now being formed…because the community is still new and finding itself. So, despite being different, we still somehow fit in.

But I also credit our successful transition to the conscious lifestyle changes we, as a family unit, decided to make in conjunction with our move.

In addition to many of the comforts we gave up — the modern conveniences Shelley mentions in her post — we also gave up our attachments to what we knew up until then as the “right way to live” in the hopes that we might find happiness living another way.

One modern convenience I gave up was information overload.

I was (and still am in many ways) an information addict. My understanding up until recently was that with more information comes more control…over my own life…over what happens to me and to my kids. My understanding was that information made me safer; made my life easier. This is why I easily fell in love with the Internet, email, blogs, Facebook. And, to some extent all those modern conveniences have improved my life. But what I’ve discovered, retroactively, was how much they also controlled my life.

I had a really good excuse for feeding my addiction; addicts always do. I was a business owner. A writer. A blogger. My success depended on my communication with the outside world. I needed to check check check…all the time. Who knew when the next big opportunity, client or connection would land in my inbox? At the height of my addiction, I had six different email addresses, four blogs, two Facebook profiles, three Fan Pages, a LinkedIn and two Twitter accounts to manage. Not to mention those I managed for my clients. 

I also had kids with asthma and allergies. I had unexplained chronic illness of my own. I had an acute awareness that with more information about the world around me, the greater chance I had of healing myself and healing them. Information provided answers. Tools. Connections to the right people. How could I give up information? 

I also consciously understood that my information interface, so to speak, was possibly unhealthy.  Which made for a bit of a contradiction.

Despite my awareness that my commitment to my online personas (and to my business and clients) was likely impacting my real-life relationships with my husband and my kids, I persisted.  Despite the fact that my comments on your “feed” may have been keeping me from experiencing real, waking, daily pleasures, I couldn’t shut down. I couldn’t give it up. I couldn’t walk away from it.

Until I started walking away from it. Taking baby steps. That started once my feet touched ground in Israel.

As I said, my information withdrawal began first with an intention. But I followed through with an action: I purposefully did not register my Blackberry here in Israel. I got myself a regular old cellphone with a regular old phone call plan. No emails, no SMS packages. My husband did not register his IPhone either which was a HUGE shocker for me because my husband loves his IPhone more than I love information. Or, at least, equally as much.

Just this simple choice, along with the decision not to purchase Cable TV made a great impact on the quality of our lives in the first few months we lived here.  We quickly adjusted to checking emails only on our computer (remember when you used to do that?) and our kids spent more time outside and not in front of the TV than they had ever in their lives.

And that was nice for a while. I’d like to say that we remained unplugged, but we didn’t. A few months in, we used Hebrew immersion as an excuse to sign up for basic cable. The kids still only watch a portion of what they used to. (I haven’t watched an episode of the evening news or any sitcom, save for Israel’s Ramzor.)

A few months after that, my husband bought a new IPhone, much to my dismay, and I often find him face down fingering the thing with pleasure. That said, it only takes one semi- dirty look from me for him to put the thing down when the kids are asking him a question (repeatedly) and his finger keeps methodically sliding across the little touchpad as if it’s in a trance. He also gave up TV and for the first time in many years I can now find him in bed in the evenings reading e-books on the Nook. 

Once I got a full-time job, they handed me a Smartphone with my work email configured, but amazingly, without the unspoken expectation that I be attached to it 24-7. And I like that. I like that a lot.

Despite the reintroduction of information overload devices, my information withdrawal continues. I didn’t configure my personal email into to my new phone. I never check my work email after I leave the office or on the weekend. And I have found as the months pass, I check my personal email less and less often: Sometimes going as much as 2-3 days without checking. People who were used to hearing from me immediately would write back after only hours asking me, “Where are you? Did you get my email?”

Sure, I am still on Facebook. It’s my lifeline to friends and family who didn’t follow me to Israel. But I’m hardly on Twitter; have no interest in this new thing called Google Plus. Sometimes, I even find it difficult to motivate myself to blog. I find that at the end of the day, after working and spending time with my family, I prefer to walk and then to read. And then to sleep.

Yesterday, I discovered my main personal email account was down. I had forgotten to pay the web host for a month or two and they shut my account down temporarily. People reached out to me via Facebook or SMS asking me what happened to my email. Why were mails being bounced back?

At first I panicked that my email was down, “What if someone is trying to reach me??” But my panic lasted only a minute. Soon after, the feeling transformed into freedom.

I realized I had passed over the hurdle of my information addiction. I was now able to say no. To be without. To let go. In particular, I wasn’t worried about what I had missed or would miss over the day or so the email account would be down. I wasn’t worried about what people might think when they received their emails returned, unread.  In fact, I decided right then and there to pare down all my email accounts, returning only to one. One that I may or may not check during the day.

This is not to say I’m unplugging completely. Or that I will ever really be able to fully walk away from easy access information. There is no guarantee that this represents a permanent recovery from information addiction. But it certainly indicates a big step in the right direction.

I think I’ve developed a taste for something new.

Being here. Being present. Absorbing today. Still with an eye on tomorrow, but with a good solid foot planted in today.

Culture, Education, Family, Kibbutz, Learning Hebrew

Fool’s errand

Jen

This morning, as I was just starting to feel better about my tough week, my husband corrected my Hebrew.

It’s perfectly okay that he corrects my Hebrew — it’s something I have asked him to do with the intention of learning quicker. After all, aren’t your mistakes sometimes more memorable than your achievements?

Despite the fact that I’ve asked him to correct me, I still often feel like an asshole when he does. Particularly when I realize that I’ve previously made the same mistake in front of someone who didn’t correct me. Someone who let my mistake just hang there in midair. Who just nodded, but inside thought to herself either a) “awww…isn’t the new immigrant so cute?” or b) “dumbass.”

The correction, in case you are wondering, was my use of the word “chuggim” when I really meant “chaggim.” Chuggim, for those who don’t speak Hebrew, are after-school enrichment type classes. Chaggim are literally holidays or festivals, but refers here in Israel to the Jewish High Holidays. In  September, people are constantly referring to “achrei hachaggim” (after the holidays) because the chaggim are as disruptive to your life and schedule here in Israel as winter break is in the States. In September, you’re just getting your life back on track after the summer break and then WHAM, the chaggim hit you.

I actually know the difference between chuggim and chaggim. It wasn’t a true mistake; the kind where I used the wrong word because I thought it was the right word.  It was a mistake of confidence. It was a mistake rooted in my desire to speak Hebrew without thinking, which is what all the veteran immigrants advise you to do.

The two words are similar sounding and used frequently (at least by weary parents). Chuggim just came out. I quickly understood my mistake after my husband corrected me and also suddenly realized it wasn’t the first time I made it…and that the previous time was to a friend of mine. (A friend, I hope, in the “aww….isn’t she cute” category.)

The chuggim/chaggim mistake came up in the context of my mother’s upcoming visit to Israel, which we are all very excited for. (Yes, emphasis added with love for my mother who reads every word of every blog post…and then analyzes what I must have really meant when I wrote it.)

In June, I asked everyone I knew if they had a school calendar for the upcoming school year. My mother was planning a trip during the chuggim (which is probably what I  said at the time, though you now know I meant chaggim). It was my intention to coordinate her trip with the break from school and work during the chaggim.

Everyone assured me that yes, there would be a national holiday declared, but they couldn’t tell me the exact dates.

What?!? This was maddening to me, and more so to my mother, from whom I inherited my “bordering on maniacal” organizational skills and obsessive need to plan in advance. How could they not know in June the official school break for the High Holidays? Wasn’t it the same every year? Didn’t it occur between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur? Or during Sukkot? Or both? Sure, our winter break in the States varies from year to year, but it basically starts a few days before Christmas and ends a day or two after New Year’s. It’s predictable! You can plan around it! You don’t need to be a fortune teller to figure it out.

But no one here could answer my question. Not the parents with kids currently in the system and not parents of older kids. No one knew. I even searched our regional web site (in Hebrew!!!) to try to find out the answer on my own (after my husband politely decided not to on my behalf).

I finally just heard yesterday from a coworker who heard it announced on the radio that the school break would be during Sukkot (the week after my mom’s visit.) I think, but I’m not 100% sure, that the Ministry of Education just decided this the day before school started.

So much for trying to coordinate my mom’s visit. (Yes, mom, I am still taking time off work and we will keep the kids home so they can visit properly with you.)

“You could have called the school,” I blamed my husband this morning when he got the “official” announcement in his email inbox.

Huh, what are you talking about?, his look said back to me.

“Don’t you see? This is my life here,” I wailed at him this morning before he left for a meeting. “Half the time I feel like a moron and the other half I feel like an imbecile!!! Maybe you should take pity on me! Moving to Israel made me stupid!”

“On your walk to your meeting,” I spat at him with venom (but really sadness and frustration), “think about that! Spend some time thinking about what it must feel like to be ME! Stupid, stupid me!” (The words I actually used were a little more foul, but the above is basically what I meant.)

In a moment of brilliant patience and kindness, my husband kept his mouth shut, nodded, and walked out the door. Whether or not he actually spent time pitying me on his way to work is another issue.

I was blessed with a quiet house in the hour after he left. My oldest kid was out at a friend’s house and the two little ones were in Gan. I spent this luxurious hour sulking, cleaning my dirty house, sulking, putting in some dirty laundry, and catching up on the lives of my far-away friends through their posts on Facebook.

While scanning the Facebook updates from Hurricane Irene-damaged New Jersey (and still selfishly sulking), I was fortunate enough to find a video link in my News Feed from my FB friend Carol, a veteran American immigrant to Israel who I’ve never met in real life. The video she posted reminded me of something very important; something that wiped the sulk away and replaced it with a guilty sigh.

In between the moments I feel like a moron and the moments I feel like an imbecile, I actually feel alive. More alive than before. More connected to myself, my kids, my husband, my community, my planet.

It’s my acknowledgment of and addiction to this feeling that makes the stupid bearable. It makes me want to stay, instead of leave.

True, when I lived in New Jersey, when I had my own business, when I was considered a community leader and an educator, when I was writing for important publications and being interviewed by journalists, I felt like a smart Somebody. It was a really good feeling.  But, in truth, what was attached to that feeling of being smart was a compelling need to constantly know more and do more. To research, to learn and to share. Naturally, I was addicted to my computer, to my BlackBerry, and to social media outlets. In order to maintain my competitive edge in that space, I had to be turned on all the time.

All the time.

What were the consequences of being turned on all the time?

You know what they are. Think about your irritation when your husband interrupts you when you are in the middle of an email; or the compelling urge to check Facebook while you are sitting at a table in the Food Court across from your son; or the panic you feel when your internet isn’t working.

My life here has allowed me (forced me?) to disconnect. Not completely, obviously, but significantly.

And, suddenly, I remember there’s a good side to being Stupid.

Culture, Education, Family

The immigrant mother goes to school

Jen

When we began seriously considering making Aliyah, one of the obvious concerns I had was regarding our kids’ transitions into new schools. We loved our children’s preschool in N.J. and both of our preschoolers were in the middle of fantastic years with loving teachers. Our oldest son was in the middle of 2nd grade with a teacher who adored him and encouraged him, at a school that just hired a vibrant, energetic principal who was making positive changes. We were (I was) afraid to rock the boat.

 On top of the typical transitional concerns of moving schools and moving countries, we were debating whether or not to move to Israel in December, during Winter Break in the U.S., or to wait until summer. When a rental on Hannaton became available in October (for a January move-in), we felt the need to decide.

In general, most of the “experts” we spoke to (ie. Nefesh B’Nefesh/Jewish Agency/child psychology professionals) agreed that a move during the summer would be ideal for our kids. In this optimal scenario, the children would finish the school year in the States and start the new school year in Israel with the rest of their peers in September after adjusting over the summer to the new community and culture.

Well, as is typical when my husband and I make big decisions, we decided to buck the system. We moved in December – and our kids entered their classes in the middle of the school year.

But, you know what, future olim? Despite the warnings and concerns, I think it was the best decision we could have made for them.

Perhaps, it might have been more difficult for kids with different personalities or needs. But for our family, it actually worked. And, in retrospect, moving in January turned out to be better for us than moving in August would have!

Since our oldest was excelling academically (insert bragging moment:  he was reading in English above his grade level), we comfortably encouraged him to focus his early school efforts here in Israel mostly on learning Hebrew and making friends, rather than on academics. Bottom line: We weren’t too worried that he was working in the first grade workbook while his classmates were in the 2nd grade workbook, as long as he left in the morning and came home happy. The stretch from January to June, in our minds, was designated a “get adjusted period;” with July and August as a summer breather.

We applied the same thinking to our 2 and 5 year olds. Now, post adjustment period, the two year old is practically caught up. The middle guy, who took the longest to adjust, is fortunate to return again this year to his multi-age classroom, now  as a part of the older, experienced group.  Were we lucky? Or did we accidentally make a really good decision?

I am not sure, but today, on their first day back at school, my children no longer look or act like the new immigrant kids in the middle of “klita,” but veterans.

Not so their mother.

(Cue pout.)

I’ve still got immigrant written all over my face.

Last week, before school started for my now third grader, we were invited to a back-to-school Open House evening during which we could meet privately with my son’s new teacher and with the other parents in the class.

I normally love these type events.

I love them.

As a “mindful mama,” I am very involved in my children’s education and I am always very interested in the teacher’s technique and style.

Let me be perfectly clear: How my child experiences school is very important to me.

Therefore, up until now, I’ve been the “school parent” – the one who sits on committees, and meets attentively with the teacher during conferences. The one who files away report cards along with the special drawings and milestone achievements. I’ve participated in “special meetings” behind the scenes with school community leaders. I’ve donated my time to parent-run after school activities. I’m a presence at my child’s school – intentionally. I feel my presence is necessary in an age where public education is not set up to holistically meet our children’s individual needs. I accept this challenge and welcome it.

And now, I am powerless (or, more accurately, language-less) to meet that challenge.

This feeling of helplessness goes against my nature, as anyone who has been fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of my “Everything Is a Choice” lecture will tell you.

The bottom line of my lecture? We human beings are never powerless. We are always making choices. Sometimes we choose between good and bad. Sometimes we choose between bad and worse. Sometimes, when we are very lucky, we get to choose between good and even better.

And our family has made some choices:

  1. To move to Israel where they speak Hebrew;
  2. To move to the North where English is not the first nor second spoken language (like in Jerusalem), but the third; and
  3. For me to forgo an intensive language ulpan to instead work full time at a company where I may speak English every day.

These were our choices, which we made willingly (and even excitedly).
But these choices are difficult to acknowledge when I am filled with bitter mom resignation and have tears of frustration streaming down my cheeks.

As you might imagine, at the school open house I did not volunteer for any committees, nor did I stay to listen to the teacher’s speech about her educational and disciplinary style when she shared it during the parent meeting. Instead, I resentfully banished myself outside to watch my two little ones who were  hyped up on the sugar and artificial food coloring from the taffy candy the teacher gave out at the beginning of her talk. Like their little friends, they ran around the brick walkway barefoot (despite my warnings and yells) while I sulked.

Why should I bother to stay, I thought. I’m not going to understand what the teacher says anyway. And even if I do understand a little, I won’t adequately be able to express my questions or concerns to her. And even if I can express myself even a little, all the other parents will just think I am too strict or too involved or too American.

Boo hoo hoo. Poor me.

(Later my husband would give me the Cliff Notes version of the teacher’s talk which he may or may not have doctored to make me feel better. Because the picture he painted of my son’s teacher — inspired and patient, but tough– did in fact make me feel better.)

So, instead of engaging at all, I sat by myself on the expansive patio in between the school buildings, and swallowed my bitterness until my friend Ian came along and coaxed the disappointment (and tears) out of me with a kind question and compassionate eyes. Though he has been in Israel a little bit longer than I have, and his Hebrew is stronger than mine, Ian can also relate to what it feels like to be an outsider in this country. His was a good shoulder to subtly weep on. And all he could do was nod in sympathy, and tell me it would (most likely, but not for sure) get better.

Kind and compassionate friends is the only happy ending to this story. And, if I am lucky enough to keep them despite my sour puss, my kind and compassionate friends will continue to be the soul bright spot in the ongoing lamentations of this immigrant mother until more time passes, more opportunities arise, and more choices are made.

My fellow immigrant mother friends all assure me “It Gets Better.”  I have hope that this blog will one day be a testament to that.