saving people

Well, if you're a certain kind of person, then you'll know what I mean.

They come up to you like you can help them, and it's their trust that makes you real.

You're a bit of a chameleon; you become whatever they need at that moment in time.
And they thank you and look up at you with eyes that shine
and you feel like you've just won the lottery.

But then there are the times
where you can't help
and it's not up to you

and you try every which way, however you can,
you're sweet or angry, alternatively, in the hope
that one method will get through.

And that's when you realize the most important thing;
it's not up to you. you can't always change it.
and you hate that a lot more than you've ever hated

anything before.

so how do you give up on saving people?
how do you let the last grain of sand slip away?
you can tell yourself you're arrogant till you're blue in the face
won't matter; time tells it differently

you know that at least in part, this is why you're here.

and sometimes you dream of being rescued yourself;
no need to save anyone anymore,
because someone's busy saving you.

wouldn't that be nice for a change?

but it'll never happen,
because we've all got our roles.
and this one's mine.

so that's when I remember what he said
about bearing other people's crosses
and how sometimes, even though we want them
and would like to help others with them,
we can't.

because they don't belong to us.

well, I want, more than anything,
to take his pain away from him
and carry his cross.

but here's the thing about saving people:
you don't want to change them
you want them to want
to change themselves.

vanity

"That's a pretty heavy burden, Vicky."

"Do you think I'm strong enough to carry it?"

"I think we're given strength enough for what we have to carry. What I question is whether or not this burden is meant for you."

"He needs me, Grandfather."

"You, Vicky Austin, specifically?"

"Well- yes. I think so." I did not like the way Grandfather's eyes were stern as they looked at me.

He said. "There's a sermon of John Donne's I have often had cause to remember during my lifetime. He says, Other men's crosses are not my crosses. We all have our own cross to carry, and one is all most of us are able to bear. How much do you owe him, Vicky?"

I replied slowly. "I don't think of it in terms of owing, like paying a debt. The thing is- he needs me."

Grandfather looked away from me and out to the sea, and when he spoke, it was as though he spoke to himself. "The obligations of normal human kindness- chesed, as the Hebrew has it- that we all owe. But there's a kind of vanity in thinking you can nurse the world. There's a kind of vanity in goodness."

I could hardly believe my ears. "But aren't we supposed to be good?"

"I'm not sure." Grandfather's voice was heavy. "I do know that we're not good, and there's a lot of truth to the saying that the road to hell is paved with good intentions."

~A Ring of Endless Light, page 61

pleasure is not a substitute for life

America
by Tony Hoagland

Then one of the students with blue hair and a tongue stud
Says America is for him a maximum security prison whose walls

Are made of Radio Shacks and Burger Kings, and MTV episodes
Where you can't tell the show from the commercials;

And as I contemplate how full of shit I think he is,
He says that even when he's driving to the mall in his Isuzu

Trooper with a gang of his friends, letting rap music pour over them
Like a boiling jacuzzi full of ballpeen hammers, even then he feels

Buried alive, captured and suffocated in the folds
Of the thick satin quilt of America.

And I wonder if this is a legitimate category of pain,
or whether he is just spin-doctoring a better grade,

And then I remember that when I stabbed my father in the dream last night,
It was not blood but money

That gushed out of him, bright green hundred-dollar bills
Spilling from his wounds, and, this is the funny part,

He gasped, "Thank God--those Ben Franklins were
Clogging up my heart--

And so I perish happily,
Freed from that which kept me from my liberty"--

Which is when I knew it was a dream, since my dad
Would never speak in rhymed couplets

And I look at the student with his acne and cell phone and phoney ghetto clothes
And I think, "I am asleep in America too,

And I don't know how to wake myself either"
And I remember what Marx said near the end of his life:

"I was listening to the cries of the past,
when I should have been listening to the cries of the future"

But how could he have imagined 100 channels of 24-hour cable
Or what kind of nightmare it might be

When each day you watch rivers of bright merchandise run past you
And you are floating in your pleasure boat upon this river

Even while others are drowning underneath you
And you see their faces twisting in the surface of the waters

And yet it seems to be your own hand
Which turns the volume higher?

hurting

It's just hard to see a friend hurt this much. Especially when you can't do anything except "be there." I want to make him stop hurting, but I can't. So, I just follow him around whenever he wants to show me his world.

~the perks of being a wallflower, page 161

the damnable truth

We have advanced to a more tolerant and politically correct culture. We are kind to the LGBT community, believe in human rights, suffrage for women, believe that no people is genetically more advanced than another, that everything that makes us different from one another is individualistic rather than racial, due to our individual genes, backgrounds, upbringings and environments.

We have dismissed pseudo-scientific findings of the past that suggested that there was a difference and we were to act on it, such as in the matter of eugenics or in stating that black/ "negro" people had different brains or lesser intellects.

Here is what I am wondering, however:

What if one day in the future we were to advance to the point where people really could scientifically prove the intellectual superiority of one race over another? Suppose white people really were genetically wired to be smarter than black people? Then what? What happens to our carefully crafted tolerant and politically correct culture?

Do we tell the truth? Do we start teaching our children in our science textbooks about this divide?

If I am reasoning correctly, the reason that we promote and allow for the teaching of a subject like evolution, for instance, is because it is scientifically and factually based and for all intensive purposes, true. Similarly, in our public schools we do not promote teaching a creationist version of history and/or the theory of intelligent design because this is irrational and lacks a scientific foundation.

But do we act similarly in this case, this potentially inflammatory and terrible case? Do we state that in the same way that science suggests evolution is true and therefore we must teach it, science now suggests white people are wired differently from black people; we must teach that as well? Do we allow for this dangerous opportunity, something that will most probably end in racism and cruelty and the utter breakdown of respect for people from different cultures based on our supposed equality and common humanity, now proven false?

I think most of us would automatically say no. Because telling this truth leads to terrible consequences for all, a divided society, racism and intolerance, people hurting one another, etc.

But tell me, atheists- there are those of you who believe you have discovered a form of higher truth, and look down on those who are not brave enough or strong enough to discover this truth and instead cling to their religion, their moral guide. You believe science and reason support your view. But if science and reason supported a view you did not like- an intolerant, cruel view- what then? Do you believe it? Do you follow its dictates because science says so? Or do you refuse to know this supposed truth, do you pretend and perhaps lie- in order to be a better, kinder person?

And if you would be willing to follow your heart in this manner, who are you to judge the religious people who do the same?

Suppose, alternatively, that you would not do this. You believe in science and reason no matter the cost and state that this, like all other things, should and must be taught in high school and placed in the text books- because it is true. You believe we can create a respectful society that can intellectually understand that white people are racially wired to be smarter than black people, but who simultaneously don't take advantage of that. Even then...is this controlled attempt at not looking down at others preferable to the benign ignorance in which everyone believed themselves to be on the same footing?

Can it be that Colonel Jessep is actually right, and there really are times when "You can't handle the truth!"?

Are there times when we must spare the populace the truth due to the larger effects it may cause? Where something may be true, but it is not ethical to disseminate that information? If we were to one day prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, scientifically and genetically, that there are major racial differences and that white people are smarter than black people- would it be ethical to release this information?

Atheists often seem to dismiss religion as being cruel and oppressive (and can cite numerous instances where this is so, the penalty for homosexual behavior, etc.) And they suggest the reason for this cruel and oppressive behavior is because we believe in a God who tells us to do these things and we follow his laws. But, using one's intellect and reason, we realize that all people are equal and ought to be treated equally (including homosexuals, etc), therefore atheists who make use of science and reason are acting (or find it easier to act) in a much kinder manner than religious people.

So I have to wonder- what if this same intellect and reason which is now being used in order to scientifically excuse away people's actions and behavior (all very likable from not only an atheist's but from my point of view); for example, the idea that homosexuality is genetic and not necessarily a choice- suddenly switched? What if this same intellect, science and reason proved something very, very intolerant, very unattractive to our enlightened outlook, something that would lead to cruel and oppressive behavior- something like I suggested, such as racial mental superiority?

What then? How does the rational, scientific and intellectual mind respond to something like this, something proved beyond a shadow of a doubt- but nevertheless cruel and wrong on an emotional level, those same emotions this person fears to trust?

What do you do with this damnable truth? Do you hide it away? Pretend it doesn't exist? Face it, confront it, and try to ensure that it doesn't change anything- venture into the field of apologetics; "Yes, it has been scientifically proven that white people are smarter than black people but don't worry; we love you anyway!" How condescending can you be?

In fact, I now wonder- how many scientists, if they discovered any data like this, would simply refuse to release it because it doesn't fit the morals/ethics of our world and day-to-day life, our philosophy of tolerance and live and let live? Are our scientists biased? Should this data fall into their possession, would they simply ignore it or destroy it- because they know what lies in wait for them if they would dare to bring it to light, to tell the truth?

How much of science is simply recreating a popular myth, entrapping us in our own cozy beliefs? In our world, can a scientist who wishes to be taken seriously even advance a non-politically correct notion?

Doesn't this mean we've put barriers, deadlocks and gates around science, that very science which is supposed to be all about truth? But we don't want to hear a truth that conflicts with our tolerant worldview, now do we?

In which case, how does that philosophy make us- make any secular person- different from the Chareidi person who bars himself inside his insular community? He too has his gates and barriers; they are simply more obvious and at times more offensive to others, who view themselves as more enlightened. But even the enlightened ones don't wish to consider that something they hate might be truthful- who would ever entertain the idea that perhaps a stereotype could be correct? What if races, religions or nations do have certain genetic traits in common? What if those aren't all the most flattering traits?

I'm certain that someone who advanced this notion would be called a Hitler. Which just means that in some circumstances, even we, even the most enlightened, don't seem to be able to accept the truth (or the possibility thereof.) Because who would entertain this cruel and hateful possibility?

Wizard's First Rule: People believe what they want to believe.

It seems to me that this applies to all of us. To those who are putting up the obvious barriers- and also the ones who claim to have no barriers. Atheists and Chareidim alike, the majority of us all reach a point where we "can't handle the truth."

Of course, this is all hypothetical. I don't know the scientist who has proved racial superiority beyond the shadow of a doubt. But to me, it seems eminently possible that this could happen. And I wonder, where would we be then? Where would our worldview be? Our love for reason, science and truth? Our claim that we bar nothing, allow for anything when it comes to pure intellectual exploration?

Oh, I think you would find that that claim would become suddenly untrue.

There are some truths, which if they exist, are too ugly to tell.

What does the scientific mind do with a damnable truth?

I've really been wondering. I'd really like to know.

true heroes

Who is the true hero?

The true hero is the person who knows what it means to sacrifice.

I have always made a distinction between bravery and courage. To my mind, bravery is an instinctive reaction. The person doesn't have time to think or weigh the pros and cons of a particular action; he simply acts. It is bravery that allows a person to dash into a burning house and save a little child, to run forward and snatch another out of harm's way. It is an instinctive, spur of the moment, emotionally based reaction. Courage, on the other hand, is something very different. Courage is a reasoned, rational decision, a decision made by someone who knows what will follow, the consequences of his choice and all that he stands to lose. And who chooses that way anyway. Because he believes in a greater good. Because he is willing to sacrifice what he most values, what he holds dear, for the sake of that higher good.

Because he lives for something larger than himself.

This is the person who makes books special for me. My favorite books all include this type of hero. He is rarer than you think. Many books resort to archetypal black and white depictions of their heroes. Many authors refuse to allow for reality. But there are those that do, those that depict exactly this kind of sacrifice. And it's reading those books that uplifts you, that raises you higher, that makes you realize that you believe in something more than yourself, that you too have a dream and that you too will make that sacrifice one day. Because this is who you want to be. This kind of true hero.

When did I encounter him first? It must have been McMurphy. Has there ever been a man like McMurphy? I love him through and through.

McMurphy is a con man. He is in it for himself. His every action focuses around himself; he is an egotistical, self-centered bastard who is in it for the money. That's what his actions say. That's even what he says. So for a while, he fights against the Big Nurse, against the Combine, but then he realizes that he is committed and that the patients were using him to fight their battle. So he gets cagey. He starts toeing the line. He does exactly what the Big Nurse wants. Because, in his words, "I don't mean nothing personal, you understand, buddies, but screw that noise. I want out of here just as much as the rest of you. I got just as much to lose hassling that old buzzard as you do" (Kesey 167).

But that's when Harding sets him right and explains that McMurphy has more to lose than any of them. Because the majority of them aren't committed. And McMurphy gets quiet and then he gets angry. Because he can't understand how it's possible- how these men have been so beaten down, so hurt, are so emasculated-that they are here voluntarily. They're not even committed.

And this is when the great change occurs. It occurs slowly, subtly; change is always incremental. But McMurphy is no longer fighting for himself. Because he has absolutely nothing to gain from this- and everything to lose. No, now he is fighting for something greater than himself. He's fighting for their freedom, to help them, to build them up and set them free.

And at the last, McMurphy is the one who chooses to sacrifice himself for them, who chooses to give up everything that he is; his grand, wonderful and exciting life, for them. He has ample opportunity to get out of that ward. Harding warns him and tells him to get out. But he chooses to stay. Because he's committed, and he has to see it through.

And it's the ending that makes him a hero, because this was his choice. At the beginning, when he was hassling the Big Nurse, he had no idea what he was getting into. But then he learned, and he got cagey. And then he got over being cagey, knowing full well what it would cost him, knowing the price he would have to pay, choosing it, and he put himself on the line and he fought- because it was the right thing to do.

We couldn't stop him because we were the ones making him do it. It wasn't the nurse that was forcing him, it was our need that was making him push himself slowly up from sitting, his big hands driving down on the leather chair arms, pushing him up, rising and standing like one of those moving-picture zombies that had been making him go on for weeks, keeping him standing long after his feet and legs had given out, weeks of making him wink and grin and laugh and go on with his act long after the humor had been parched dry between two electrodes.

We made him stand and hitch up his black shorts like they were horsehide chaps, and push back his cap with one finger- like it was a ten-gallon Stetson, slow, mechanical gestures- and when he walked across the floor you could hear the iron in his bare heels ring sparks out of the tile.

Only at the last- after he'd smashed through that glass door, her face swinging around, with terror, forever ruining any other look she might ever try to use again, screaming when he grabbed for her and ripped her uniform all the way down the front, screaming again when the two nippled circles started from her chest and swelled out and out, bigger than anybody had ever even imagined, warm and pink in the light- only at the last, after the officials realized that the three black boys weren't going to do anything but stand and watch and they would have to beat him off without their help, doctors and supervisors and nurses prying those heavy red fingers out of the white flesh of her throat as if they were her neck bones, jerking him backward off of her with a loud heave of breath, only then did he show any sign that he might be anything other than a sane, willful, dogged man performing a hard duty that finally just had to be done, like it or not.

He gave a cry. At the last, falling backward, his face appearing to us for a second upside down before he was smothered on the floor by a pile of white uniforms, he let himself cry out:

A sound of cornered-animal fear and hate and surrender and defiance, that if you ever trailed coon or cougar or lynx is like the last sound the treed and shot and falling animal makes as the dogs get him, when he finally doesn't care any more about anything but himself and his dying.

~One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, 267

McMurphy chose to do this in order to set them all free; he knew the cost and what it would mean for him, that he was going to die. And he did it anyway.

But it is not only this obvious sacrifice that makes someone a hero. It is the sacrifice of anything that one cares for for the sake of a higher good; it need not be one's life. Dying is the most extreme example. A true hero is someone who does not make his decision in the heat of the moment but who makes it after much reflection and thought, who comes to his decision rationally and coolly, who truly understands his choice and will follow through on it. Such a person is Frodo Baggins.

In perhaps the most chilling scene in The Fellowship of the Ring, everyone remains silent, wondering who will embark upon this suicidal task. This is one of the great errors in Peter Jackson's film version, for he turns the scene into a brawl and a fight, which Frodo ends by exclaiming, "I will take the ring!" But there is a quiet power to the way in which Tolkien structures the scene. Everyone has heard about this ring of doom and the impossible burden and toll it will take upon its bearer. And then:

No one answered. The noon-bell rang. Still no one spoke. Frodo glanced at all the faces, but they were not turned to him. All the Council sat with downcast eyes, as if in deep thought. A great dread fell upon him, as if he was awaiting the pronouncement of some doom that he had long foreseen and vainly hoped might after all never be spoken. An overwhelming longing to rest and remain at peace by Bilbo's side in Rivendell filled all his heart. At last with an effort he spoke, and wondered to hear his own words, as if some other will was using his small voice.

"I will take the Ring," he said, "though I do not know the way."

~The Fellowship of the Ring, 303

Do you see the great and quiet power in this statement? Frodo is not forced. Nobody looks at him and attempts to force him to feel guilty so that he will take the Ring. There is no prophecy that states that he must fulfill this destiny. It is his choice, his absolute, free and total choice. And it is not a decision he comes to lightly for he wants to remain at Rivendell, where it is safe; he wants to bask in the peace and quiet and light that is the Elves' domain. But he knows that there is something greater than him, something beyond him that is at stake, and he makes the conscious choice to give up something precious to him, knowing the consequences, for the sake of this higher good.

And he pays. He pays dearly. As he explains to Sam:

So I thought too, once. But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them.

The Return of the King, 345

That is the quote that shocks you with its truth. Frodo can never again be one with his fellow Hobbits; he is too different from them, he has seen too much; he is burdened with feelings, thoughts and memories they cannot possibly understand. He is wounded and his wound will never really heal. He has saved the Shire, but it has not been saved for him. And he accepts this; he understands that he must sacrifice what he once loved so dearly- and yet loves- for the sake of Middle Earth. He knew what he was getting into when he volunteered for this mission, though perhaps he did not know the extent of it, and he did it anyway. And it is that- that choice, and the subsequent sacrifice- that makes him a true hero.

The same happens with Prince Lir and Lady Amalthea in The Last Unicorn. Lady Amalthea protests and tells Lir that he should not allow the magician to change her back into a unicorn. She tells him of the consequences, makes it very clear that as a unicorn she will not and cannot love him, despite his love for her. She is willing to live out the rest of her days as a mortal and to forego her quest. But Prince Lir is a hero. And in a sad but infinitely beautiful statement, he informs her:

"No."

The word escaped him as suddenly as a sneeze, emerging in a questioning squeak- the voice of a silly young man mortally embarrassed by a rich and terrible gift. "No," he repeated and this time the word tolled in another voice, a king's voice: not Haggard, but a king whose grief was not for what he did not have, but for what he could not give.

"My lady," he said, "I am a hero. It is a trade, no more, like weaving or brewing, and like them it has its own tricks and knacks and small arts. There are ways of perceiving witches and of knowing poison streams; there are certain weak spots that all dragons have, and certain riddles that hooded strangers tend to set you. But the true secret of being a hero lies in knowing the order of things. The swineherd cannot already be wed to the princess when he embarks on his adventures, nor can the boy knock at the witch's door when she is away on vacation. The wicked uncle cannot be found out and foiled before he does something wicked. Things must happen when it is time for them to happen. Quests may not simply be abandoned, prophecies may not be left to rot like unpicked fruit; unicorns may go unrescued for a long time, but not forever. The happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story."

The Lady Amalthea did not answer him. Schmendrick asked, "Why not? Who says so?"

"Heroes," Prince Lir replied sadly. "Heroes know about order, about happy endings- heroes know that some things are better than others. Carpenters know grains and shingles, and straight lines." He put his hands out to the Lady Amalthea, and took one step toward her. She did not draw back from him, nor turn her face; indeed, she lifted her head higher, and it was the prince who looked away.

~The Last Unicorn, 179-180

The prince will not allow Amalthea to abandon her quest and remain a mortal; he believes that she must finish what she began, must rescue the unicorns. It is true that perhaps he does not let himself believe what she has told him, that she will not love him when she is a unicorn. Perhaps he deludes himself. But it is clear that he knows what the consequences of his decision will be, his decision to prevent his own happiness and to allow for her to complete her task. And though it is not the decision he wishes to make, though he wishes to wed her and keep her and love her, he allows her to be free and to do what she has come to do, even though she has forgotten herself. And this proves to be his great and terrible sacrifice- for in allowing her to free the unicorns, he loses his claim upon her; she is no longer a human but immortal, and she can no longer be his.

But perhaps the greatest hero is Taran Wanderer. He wishes to wed the Princess Eilonwy, but wants to be worthy of her. He therefore goes on a journey to find out who he is, hoping that he is of noble birth. He is obsessed with visions of glory and honor, of the birth that is his by right and the fact that he would then be able to ask for her hand in marriage. But his journey is one of discovery, and by the end of it he has realized the truth about his dreams.

"When I was a child I dreamed of adventure, glory, of honor in feats of arms. I think now that these things are shadows."

"If you see them as shadows then you see them for what they are," Annlaw agreed. "Many have pursued honor, and in the pursuit lost more of it than ever they could gain. But I did not mean a hired sword..."

Taran Wanderer, 261

The potter sends Taran to look into a pool of supposedly enchanted water, wherein he will see himself as he truly is. Taran looks into the pool (which is an ordinary pool; there is no enchantment laid upon it) and returns, having finally found himself and realized the truth. He sacrifices his dreams, his desire to prove that he is of noble birth and of noble blood. He sacrifices every image of himself that is based on fantasies and pursues the reality.

"As for my parentage," he added, "it makes little difference. True kinship has naught to do with blood ties, however strong they may be. I think we are all kin, brothers and sisters one to the other, all children of all parents. And the birthright I once sought, I seek it no longer. The folk of the Free Commots taught me well, that manhood is not given but earned. Even King Smoit in Cantrev Cadiffor told me this, but I did not heed him.

"Llonio said life was a net for luck; to Hevydd the Smith life was a forge; and to Dwyvach the Weaver-Woman a loom. They spoke truly, for it is all of these. But you," Taran said, his eyes meeting the potter's, "you have shown me life is one thing more. It is clay to be shaped, as raw clay on a potter's wheel."

~Taran Wanderer, 271

To choose a path and to choose it of one's own volition, to know the consequences of one's actions and all that one stands to lose- and to choose that path anyway- is a rare and courageous action. These men are heroes, all of them. McMurphy, who chooses to sacrifice his life for the sake of his fellows, in order to set them free. Frodo, who sacrifices his life as well, his joy and pleasure and his very hometown and relationship to his fellows, in order to save the Shire. Lir, who sacrifices the Lady Amalthea in order to enable her to fulfill her quest. And Taran, who sacrifices the hopes and dreams he cherished for so long in favor of a true and more difficult reality, one based on the fact that a man earns his place in the world, but it is not given to him.

I have wondered for a long time what it is that I would have to sacrifice. And I have wondered whether I would have the courage to do so, knowing the price, knowing the consequences, knowing full well what it would cost.

I think I know now.

And as for the rest, only time will tell.

The Butterfly

Butterflies are beautiful.

From the time I was in kindergarten, when we raised them all inside of their little boxes, watching them advance from the caterpillar stage to their full black-and-orange glory, I've thought they were beautiful. I remember going outside and opening the boxes and watching as at least forty butterflies flew about and fluttered about and lit upon green leaves only to take off again and continued to move on as I ran, laughing, to follow them.

Butterflies are fragile and delicate and exquisite. I have always loved them because they are free, never to be caught. And since I've always been Maria, the words of the song have always applied to me:

How do you solve a problem like Maria?
How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?
How do you find a word that means Maria?
A flibbertijibbet! A will-o'-the wisp! A clown!

A moonbeam, and I would add...a butterfly.

You can't catch a cloud or a moonbeam and you cannot catch a butterfly. A butterfly can choose, however, to alight upon you and stay with you, and that, of course, is what Maria does. I love Maria, which shouldn't surprise anyone, because I am Maria, gentle and wild and a headache and a girl.

It's a sin to keep a butterfly against its will, to pin it down so that it "may not escape." For the essence of a butterfly is its choice and its freedom...

I have always been fascinated by the idea of the butterfly effect. I believe it more than I believe anything else in the world. Everything we do, every single one of our actions, no matter how slight, causes a slight change, a reverberation; we have brought about something that wasn't there before; we have engaged in an act of creation. The merest word, the faintest smile, changes someone's day and leads them to act differently toward another person; it is a chain effect whose greatness cannot possibly be measured. And while the same exists for all that which is negative as well, I choose to think of the positives and the great good that lies within our power.

But the butterfly is not only important if it actually acts- if it actually flutters its wings. A butterfly is important merely because it exists. Its very existence is necessary for the world to continue as it should. In perhaps my favorite science fiction story, "A Sound of Thunder" by Ray Bradbury (and if you haven't read it yet, don't read this, because it will ruin it for you:)

Eckels felt himself fall into a chair. He fumbled crazily at the thick slime on his boots. He held up a clod of dirt, trembling, “No, it can’t be. Not a little thing like that. No!”

Embedded in the mud, glistening green and gold and black, was a butterfly, very beautiful and very dead.

“Not a little thing like that! Not a butterfly!” cried Eckels.

It fell to the floor, an exquisite thing, a small thing that could upset balances and knock down a line of small dominoes and then big dominoes and then gigantic dominoes, all down the years across Time. Eckels’ mind whirled. It couldn’t change things. Killing one butterfly couldn’t be that important! Could it?

But it can be.

Because, you see, a butterfly can change the world.

Sunflower Seeds

For all of you who didn't see, the boys commented on their Bar Mitzvah post.

Taran informs me that I am to write about sunflower seeds.

Basically, what it is is that Taran was coming up the stairs singing, "Sunflower se-e-eds forever!"

This is of course completely stolen from the Beatles' "Strawberry Fields Forever." Except now it's about sunflower seeds.

In other news, Urchin has clarified that he wants a pool table rather than an air-hockey table. My bad.

All Stories Are About Wolves

All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.

All of them?

Sure, he says. Think about it. There's escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.

~The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood, page 344

How do you want to be remembered?

In light of Rabbi Neil Fleischmann's recent post, I'd like to ask you a question.

How do you want to be remembered?

I think that this is a very important motivation when it comes to living one's life (at least initially.) If you want to be remembered as a good person who was generous and benevolent, you will have to structure your life accordingly.

Rabbi Fleischmann asked, "If you could choose the things to be remembered by, what would you choose - fame, wealth, power? How would you wish to be known - as a hero, a saint, a sage?"

And does the way in which you want to be remembered inform your actions now?

Please think about this and answer the question in the comments.

Only after you have answered the question should you read this post, 'Sacrifice and Anonymity,' and even then, that is not meant for everyone.

Sacrifice and Anonymity

(Please read the post above this one, "How do you want to be remembered?" first.)

This is from The World of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Volume 2. This quote made me aware of the distinction between who I am and who I aim to be. I start off every morning thinking about this quote. For me, it is possibly the most important idea the Rav ever gave over:

A courageous life, an existence dedicated to service, creates a heroic life. A heroic life means a life of sacrifice. The highest level of sacrifice for a human being is not when he gives his life for his ideals. The highest form of sacrifice, as viewed by Judaism, is the readiness of man to leave the stage after discharging his role and vanish into anonymity and oblivion. More than a person wants to continue living, he wishes to be remembered. He wants to be recalled by individuals and by society at large. He wants to feel that he has accomplished something with his life.

This quest to be remembered and to not be forgotten is intensely powerful. I remember that many years ago in Boston an old woman would bring me some quarters every week in order to pay for a hundred-dollar memorial tablet in the shul. She would count the money with trembling hands: one quarter and another quarter, a third quarter and a fourth quarter. It was during the difficult years of the Depression. I finally asked her: “Tell me, my dear lady. Do you have savings in the bank?”

She answered that she had none.

“So why do you give the money to the shul? You cannot afford to do so,” I stated.

She replied: “Rebbe, I want to be remembered. Once I die I know that my children will not think about me. They will never come to shul to say the Yizkor memorial prayer. This way the shul will remember me at Yizkor.”

This is not just the mentality of an unlettered or perhaps a primitive old lady. She was an honest woman who was expressing the mentality of Western man. When [Lyndon] Johnson accepted [John F.] Kennedy’s invitation in 1960 to run as his candidate for Vice-President, many felt it was a comedown for Johnson. A journalist asked him: “Why did you accept it? After all, as the majority leader of the [U.S.] Senate, you wielded so much more power and influence. You commanded the respect of the White House, and now as the Vice President you will be little more than an errand boy for the President.”

Johnson answered the reporter: “Yes, you are right. But history textbooks will accord two more lines to the Vice-President than to the majority leader of the Senate.”

To this way of thinking, power in the present means little if the individual will not be remembered in the future. This is in contradistinction to Judaism, where the stress is on anonymity. Let me give you an example.

There are many men here who study gemara. Many times in the Mishnah the anonymous opinion of the tanna is quoted. He is known as the tannah kamah [the first tannah]. Who is he? What is his name? Who is the tanna bathra [the last tanna]? They are part of the majority of Jewish scholars who remain anonymous, men without names. In the Talmud we often come across the introductory phrase tanu rabbanan [“the rabbis taught.”]. Who were these rabbis? What were their names? Why were the sages so tight-lipped about these rabbis? It is not just a coincidence or neglect on the part of the talmudic scholars. The names were purposely not recorded, to teach us that we must remain anonymous. The greatest of all sacrifices that a Jew must bring is his readiness to sink into oblivion and remain in the shadows of anonymity.

It is very strange, but we know more about the lives of Aristotle, Socrates, and Plato than we know about the Vilna Gaon. What do I know about my father? Very little. He never spoke about himself and did not write an autobiography. What do I know about the life of my grandfather Reb Chaim? Only isolated episodes. He never confided his private experiences or clandestine emotions to anyone. Whatever happened, happened between them and God.

God requires of man the greatest of all sacrifices- anonymity. He hates vainglory but loves the actor or the actress who appears on the stage for a short while and humbly discharges his or her role, disappearing afterwards without receiving applause. Man stands in the limelight as long as he consecrates himself to the covenantal community. The very moment he finishes his job, the lights are dimmed or, rather, extinguished, and man steps off the stage.

What does the Megillah tell us about Mordechai and Esther after the Haman episode? Did she remain the queen of Persia? After all, she was a young girl and must have lived for many more years. Nevertheless, the Megillah does not mention one word about this part of her life. “Then Esther the Queen, the daughter of Abihail, and Mordecai the Jew, wrote down all the acts of power to confirm this second letter of Purim” [Esther 9:29]. The story was finished, and Esther removed herself from the stage.

What do we know about Mordecai the Jew? “And all the acts of his power and his might and the full account of the greatness of Mordecai, how the king advanced him, are they not written in the Book of Chronicles of the kings of Media and Persia?” [Esther 10:2]. Go ahead and find this volume! Yes, one episode of their lives, and a short one at that, was recorded. The rest was anonymous. That is exactly what the prophet Micah said: “He has told you, O man, what is good, and what the Lord seeks from you; only the performance of justice, the love of kindness, and walking humbly with your God.’ I would say: walking anonymously with your God.

(pages 87-89)

The Essential Unity of Israel

The reason R' Kook's writings (those of them that I can understand) are so beautiful is because of his extreme positivity. He sees everything in a positive light; indeed, he sees everything as emanating from light. Every individual, every person, has his purpose and his way of serving God, even those whom we might initially dismiss. In Orot, Rabbi Kook writes about the importance of Israel's remaining an undivided and whole community, explaining that even the wicked have their purpose and contribute to the goodness of the nation:

The difference of opinion concerning the communal direction—whether at this time, because of the proliferation of rebels who hold high the banner of anarchy, it is correct to divide the nation, so that the pious who raise the banner of God will disassociate themselves from the rebellious sinners, or whether the power of overall peace outweighs all- this entire controversy comes about because of the overall lowliness, for purity has not been fully completed in the basic character of the nation as regards the exterior of its soul,119 and it is being progressively purified. Both these parties are on the level of the two harlots who came to Solomon. The fiat, “Bring a sword,” is a probing on the part of the divine wisdom of Israelite kingdom: the one who is to be spurned is the one who says, “Cut!” In her murmuring she pronounces the real gripe in her heart. Her only interest is, “It shall be to neither me nor you. Cut!” And the merciful mother, the real mother, says: “Give her the living child, only do not slay it!” And the divine spirit screams: “Give her the living child, she is its mother!” There is no end to the physical and spiritual evils of dividing the nation into sectors, even though total separation as imagined by those who cruelly operate is impossible and will never be. This is really a thought of general idolatry, which we are promised will not be fulfilled. That which you say, We shall be as the nations, as the families of the land to serve wood and stone- as I live, says the Lord, if not by a strong hand and an outstretched arm and outpouring rage I shall rule over you. As every idolatrous thought, it destroys and worries- even though it has not, and will not, come to deed. The foundation of the righteousness of the just in every generation is supported by the wicked as well, who, with all their wickedness, as long as they cling with their heart’s desire to the collectivity of the nation, are referred to (by the verse), Your people are all righteous. Their outer wickedness serves to anneal the strength of the righteous, “as dregs to wine.” The imagined division undermines the foundation of all holiness, as the deed of Amalek who attacked the stragglers disgorged by the Cloud (of Glory.) He stretched his hand against his peace, he profaned his covenant.

~Orot Ha-Tehiyah, XX, page 179

(If you want to see the footnoted version of this piece, with the sources for all the quotes, I'd be happy to email it to you.)

Is this not utterly beautiful? One cannot and ought not divide the nation into sectors; to do so is a selfish action, similar to the desire of the woman who cried "Cut!" It is not a desire for the sake of Heaven. It is not even truly possible, should people attempt it. Rather, one must and should accept the presence of the wicked, for the wicked anneal the righteous; just as the "dregs serve to preserve the wine, so the coarse will of the wicked strengthens the existence of the flows of life." (Orot XLV) Everything has its purpose.

This reminds me of Gandalf's words, "Even Gollum may have something yet to do." There is nothing so evil that it cannot serve its purpose, whether it will or no, for the benefit of a greater good at a future time. And that is an uplifting thought.

According to His Custom

There's a fascinating article in today's WSJ that gives new meaning to the story recorded in Ketubot 67b. That is the story about the poor man who comes before Raba and asks for luxuries and delicacies- a fattened chicken and aged wine. Raba is amazed; how can this man possibly think it's okay to ask for such rich foods when he's a beggar? The man answers with a biblical verse, citing that the food belongs to God and God apportions "in his time." Sure enough, Raba's sister stops by with a fattened chicken and aged wine. The idea is that we must treat people according to the way in which they were accustomed to living- a beggar who was once a rich man must be provided for in that manner as opposed to someone who has always been poor and never tasted of such delicacies. (See Hirhurim's "Laws of Charity" post for more details.)

Here's the link to this fascinating WSJ article, though unfortunately you can only read the full article if you are a subscriber.

The article is about Mr. Kishore Biyani, a man who initially tried to implement US methods in his retail stores in India and failed. He then reverted to the style of supermarket Indians were accustomed to and succeeded. Quote:

Americans and Europeans might like to shop in pristine and quiet stores where products are carefully arranged. But when Mr. Biyani tried that in Western-style supermarkets he opened in India six years ago, too many customers walked down the wide aisles, past neatly stocked shelves and out the door without buying.

Mr. Biyani says he soon figured out what he was doing wrong. Shopping in such a sterile environment didn't appeal to the lower middle-class shoppers he was targeting. They were more comfortable in the tiny, cramped stores -- often filled with haggling customers -- that typify Indian shopping. Most Indians buy their fresh produce from vendors who keep vegetables under burlap sacks. Even the dirty, black-spotted onions serve a function. For the average Indian, dusty and dirty produce means fresh from the farm, he says.

Powerful message: Treat people in the way they are accustomed to being treated. The rich man who is now poor must receive his fattened chicken and aged wine; the natives to India should be given their cramped, cluttered supermarkets. To each what he desires, not what we think he ought to desire.

(Hat Tip: Daddy!)

ugly truths

I never wanted to write this down, because I've thought that by not writing it, that would make it not true. But it is true. So I might as well deal with it.

I am a very needy person.

I need attention, flattery, praise and compliments as much as I need breakfast in the mornings. I need this like other people would need a drug, a fix; I need it to the point where I not only crave it but demand it, outright ask for it, monopolize people's time and conversations and beg for it.

Why do I rely upon this external validation? Why aren't I self-sufficient?

I can't imagine why people would possibly desire to spend time with someone who takes all their time monopolizing conversations or fishing for compliments. I am therefore astonished when anyone says they'd like to get together with me. To me, it seems ludicrous.

There are times when I am so completely sick of myself, and more than that, frustrated because I can't figure out how to move forward. Tonight's one of those times.

If I could learn to do things without craving the reward of recognition, flattery, praise or compliments, I'd be an infinitely better person. But it seems impossible.

I need to tear this part out of me, but I don't know how...and I wish, I wish I did.

The Initiator

There are times when I am so glad to be alive, and this is one of them.

These are often times where I feel a kind of sadness, a kind of sorrow that I can't express in terms that other people will understand. It is not a sadness born of pain but a sadness born of joy, a gratitude and thankfulness and indebtedness that I cannot describe in mere words.

It is so important to feel like someone else cares about you, about whether you exist. It is important for other people to tell you that you matter.

There are some people who are initiators in relationships. They are the people who initiate the zany adventures, who reach out to others, who cling to friends and force them to stay close, who try to show them in every way they can how much these people matter to them. They try to give people the words they need, to prove to them that they are good and loved and respected. They want to show the person that they matter because that is the most important gift one can give.

But what others may forget- because they look at the initiator and see him as so strong, so creative, self-reliant and self-fulfilled- is that the initiator, too, needs to hear that he matters. He needs someone to tell him that they care whether he exists.

Well, tonight someone I love very much told me that I mattered. But it was not her voice that told it to me; it was her actions. Because she had been the one to tell me she wanted to get together with me, she had been the one to bother me and work on these plans until they were solidified, to push me until this actually happened. She had been the one to reach out to me, and that, more than a thousand words, matters to me.

The very fact that someone would like to see me always astonishes me. You mustn't put this down to low self-esteem; it's not that. It's simply that I often find other people so very compelling that I am amazed they are willing to spend their time on me. And I feel grateful and loved and overwhelmed by their kindness. And I wake up in the morning and thank God that there is someone out there in the world who thinks about me and cares about me and who notices that I am here.

Because despite all evidence to the contrary, we can sometimes feel very lonely and that validation- that message that I see you, you exist and I am glad of it- can go a very long way. You do not know how much I treasure anything I receive that comes unbidden, unasked. An email from a friend that is not in response to my own, a request from someone to see me or for us to get together for coffee- and of course, most importantly, when people act on their words, for then I know they are not merely lying, telling me something in order to be polite, but they mean what they say- they really do like me- and then I can be fiercely glad.

I live on these words that come unbidden; they are my bread and water and sustain me.

Meet My Family!

Just in case you haven't seen these, I hereby introduce you to...

The Curious Jew's Family!

We've got my dominant, strong mother, my gentle, listening father, my social butterfly of a sister and my two brothers.

It's a party.

There's even an example of the party in action...see here.

Huzzah!

What's the Matter With College?

I don't see how anyone can take Rick Perlstein's essay seriously. It's quite possibly the most ludicrous string of nostalgic, nauseating assertions I've read in a while.

An attempt to follow his argument leaves me quite confused. This is because there really isn't an argument. Instead, we rely upon the technique recently perfected by Noah Feldman of extrapolating from specifics to the whole. Perlstein uses his own personal experience, his limited discussions with students and his own alma mater as a basis for a most ridiculous set of generalizations.

He begins his essay with a nod to days gone by, sadly describing the lost Reagan era. The issue of the day was that of college; apparently the very question "What are you going to do about Berkeley?" garnered applause. Perlstein determines that the fact that it is "unimaginable now that a gubernatorial race in the nation's largest state would come down to a debate about what was happening on campus" demonstrates absolutely that college nowadays is a failure and a sham. College is obviously no longer that hotbed of intellectual debate and "sexual orgies so vile" that they must be addressed by a President.

I do not see where his neat line of cause and effect comes into play. Perlstein is describing a different world, a different society, people with different sets of values. Surely he understands the value of history, the value of world events and politics at a particular time. Can he honestly compare the legitimacy of anti-war sentiment toward Vietnam to college students protesting the war in Iraq today? Are those two wars comparable? Is there a draft in place? I don't think so. Perlstein is utilizing an overly simplistic approach toward the issue; he has already determined that college is the root cause of all that is evil and simply desires to prove his point. He completely neglects to take into account the differences between socioeconomic and political affairs in the world he grew up in and the world we live in today. Perhaps college students had more influence due to the severity of a particular issue at that particular time. If there were a draft in place at the moment, who knows how that would change the issue? But we all know that the war in Iraq has little to no impact upon our daily lives. This is in extreme contrast to the Vietnam war.

Is it really fair to compare people fighting for or against such important issues as civil rights, equal rights for women, women's suffrage and tolerance to the issues of our day? We, who live in a sickeningly politically correct world, are suddenly supposed to arm ourselves with flags and picket in front of school buildings? For whom? For what?

You can offer some examples of relevant issues, if you wish: global warming is one. And how many people truly understand global warming? People need to understand an issue before expressing an opinion. I've been told to watch An Inconvenient Truth in order to receive some form of introduction to the issue. But even then, does this actually impact me? Do I have a broad enough sense of vision to care that the world might blow up at some time in the distant future, that we are limiting our resources and killing ourselves and someone in the future might lose out? Probably not. Another example might be the genocide in Darfur. Once again, this is not an issue that directly connects to students. Although I am certain that many people engage in rallies when organized by others and there are certainly some who are driven by the desire to make the world a better place, Darfur is not here. It is not here in America; it is not happening here; it is disconnected from us and we are disconnected from it. It is therefore harder to care.

Perlstein does not note that the issues that existed in the eras he discusses were all issues that directly affected Americans and college students. Racism and a lack of equal civil rights directly affected people here in America. Women's rights is an issue that directly affected women in America. The war in Vietnam obviously affected young people here; there was a draft in place and it was the college-aged students who were dying! So of course people were involved, people cared, people were busy fighting. People are always involved with issues that directly affect them, issues that actually touch them or impact them in some way.

But now? Can he really compare the events of those days to the events of our days? Because his entire argument rests upon the strength of that comparison. He is suggesting that our youth is more apathetic, that we as college students are more weak-willed due to the fact that college has failed us, college is not what it used to be. It is college that is at fault, not the difference in events, political structure, economics. No, none of these factors matter! It is the school that has changed.

In order to support this assertion, Perlstein leads into his own personal experiences at the University of Chicago, his alma mater. He nostalgically describes a world where college was the teenager's gateway to independence, the first time that he could experience "a kind of freedom that you couldn't imagine until you turned 18, you were no longer under adult control, and you made your own schedule....," what is in his eyes "the most liberating moment Americans have in life."

Now, however, Perlstein laments what he sees as the utter lack of drive and initiative on college campuses, claiming that students grow and prosper not because of college but despite it. Although he only has one student backing that assertion, Perlstein answers affirmatively that this is characteristic of colleges on a whole rather than a particular college. What does he give as support for that proof? Oh, that the same particular student went to visit his guidance counselor and was informed, "You're not meant for college. You should really drop out."

So let me get this straight. Hamilton asserts that college is a place that is straitlaced, confining, an environment that does not allow him to act in a creative fashion. Perlstein wonders whether this is characteristic of Hamilton's particular college or the college experience as a whole. After hearing that Hamilton's guidance counselor told him that he wasn't meant for college, Perlstein is able to claim that the "culture of ennervation" described by his selected student sampling is true for all because "Hamilton Morris told me stories" that suggest that.

Circular reasoning, anyone? Hamilton Morris' experience is limited to that: Hamilton Morris' experience. And yet Perlstein has no problem extrapolating from it in order to assert that college on a whole is flawed. And seems to find this argument logical.

Perlstein chooses to put down students who are actually happy with their college experiences, students like Caroline Ouwerkerk. He subtly characterizes her as flighty and unreliable by using the word "gushed" in relation to her. "As I futzed with my digital recorder, she gushed, "I'll talk all day about the university, whether or not I'm being recorded!" She gushed about the house system, where "someone is caring for you right from the start." She gushed about her job," and so on and so forth. Perlstein wants to give over the impression that a normal student couldn't possibly enjoy the confining college experience. Ouwerkerk is simply an outsider, someone who shouldn't be taken seriously. She doesn't "speak." She doesn't "talk." She doesn't "express her opinions." She gushes.

Perlstein goes so far as to classify Ouwerkerk, dismissing her as an "Organization Kid." The reason that she is unaware of the problem with college? It couldn't possibly be because one can legitimately enjoy college and find the environment helpful and conducive to growth and learning. Of course not. Instead, it is because poor Ouwerkerk is a "cog in the organization." She doesn't find college to be "infantalizing" as the supposedly brighter Hamilton Morrises do, but this is because "organization kids don't mind it." The clear insinuation is that organization kids aren't to be taken seriously. If you engage in impressive fun; if you work within the system, your opinion must automatically be discounted.

Perlstein does make a good point when he focuses on the question of respecting ideas for their potential market value versus respecting ideas for being just that: contributions to the intellectual sphere. I hadn't been aware that Chicago was considering trading in their Uncommon Application for a typical application. I think that would take away quite a lot of Chicago's allure and would be rather sad if they did that. It is precisely because the Chicago application was one that encouraged the students to really think and apply their minds that I found it appealing. I would be a pro-Uncommon Applicationist, but unlike the students Perlstein interviewed, my argument would not be "couched in economic terms."

Perlstein's argument now descends into maudlin nostalgic drivel. "You used to have to go to college to discover your first independent film, read your first forbidden book, find freaks like yourself who, say, shared a passion for Lenny Bruce. Now, for even the most provincial students, the Internet, a radically more democratic and diverse culture - and those hip baby-boomer parents - take care of the problem." Is Perlstein really that short-sighted? Does he truly believe that one can trade in finding friends who are similar to oneself for the cold comfort of the Internet? The Internet is a presence, and a strong one, in all of our lives, but I would argue that it is absolutely not the same as actually knowing a person who is similar to oneself, someone who shares "a passion for Lenny Bruce" or any other eclectic work or band. The idea that college is only important if it is a "first," the first place that one can discover an independant film or forbidden book, is unnecessarily limiting the institution. Why do this?

Perlstein concludes his essay by focusing upon the divide between the University of Chicago marketing materials which display "bucolic images of a mystic world apart, where 18-year-olds discover themselves for the first time in a heady atmosphere of cultural and intellectual tumult" and the reality, one where students could conceivably complain that they have been swindled. However, as he has not firmly established the truth of this reality, basing his assertions entirely upon a few scattered responses and ignoring those who oppose him by dismissing them as "organization kids," his conclusion is false. My limited experience at the University of Chicago was such that I know I would have been one of those to discover myself "for the first time in a heady atmosphere of cultural and intellectual tumult." But why base an opinion upon my limited knowledge? There are many students who enjoy college, who learn and grow and feel challenged within their particular environments. Perlstein's essay is a selective, cautious study in proving a point he wants to make to begin with rather than actually looking at the facts. He has only focused upon students at his alma mater, making no mention of students at other universities or colleges. He has completely neglected to deal with the economic, social and political issues of our time as opposed to the previous generation. Rather than engaging in an intellectually honest approach toward the issue, he has relied upon a biased, skewed portrayal of feelings over fact. If this is the case, my feelings are just as legitimate and just as valid: to Hamilton Morris and all those like him, I say, I enjoy college. I enjoy it very much. I find it to be a place that is entirely conducive to my learning and growing, to being challenged and forced to think.

My experience is obviously different. I am not at a secular university, so I do not expect the amenities and opportunities afforded by one. Nevertheless, I do feel that I can express my opinion, be quite vocal and be heard. The decision that I as an Orthodox Jew am making is how much of my reputation I want to put on the line. If I express ideas or opinions that do not fit within the confines of my religious spectrum, I will have to deal with the consequences and/or with the lack of understanding due to lack of exposure. But that is an entirely different issue and one that I do not feel most people would have to grapple with. When it comes to an experience at a secular college, you make of it what you will. There is certainly opportunity to be a lazy, apathetic, whining and complaining child who claims that he feels confined, straitlaced and otherwise hemmed in. But there is also the opportunity to grow and be challenged within the system and the structure presented, and there are certainly people who will succeed in that way as well.

College is not the issue at hand. There is nothing the matter with college.

There is, however, something the matter with people.

What is it? What causes some people to be driven, strong and determined, wishing to actualize their goals, to recreate their reality, to rise for the top and succeed in reaching it? And what causes others to complain and blame those outside themselves (such as institutions of higher education) for their lack of success?

The answer to that question is beyond the scope of this essay. But the point remains: It is people who determine the value of their college experience. People who can choose to act or not to act. People who are alternatively passionate or apathetic, resigned or committed.

People.

So let's not blame college. Let's not blame the schools. This is not their fault.

Let's deal with the root of the problem: the people attending those schools.

You. Me.

Us.

Term Papers, Action Figures, Hotels and Boxers

And so we bring you another episode in the bizarre and amusing life of Chana.

Despite the fact that I am more than wiped out due to the fact that I have not slept in the past two days, I could not ignore my friend's cry for help via Gmail chat. "Does anyone feel like editing and proofreading my paper?" his status read.

Now, I determined that this message had been meant for me, goddess and queen of all things English. And I noticed that just as I read this message, my friend signed off of Gmail Chat. I immediately assumed that he had given up hope, and alone and solitary, would now make his winding way back to his abode, sit morosely in front of the computer screen and pray to the god of words. There he would remain, basking in the bluish light, feeling completely unloved and utterly abandoned. No! I could not allow this to happen. Taking my weariness in stride, I instantly sent out the joyous email informing him that I would be quite happy to edit and proofread his paper.

My assumption, at first, was that the paper had been written and that I need only read it, then correct it. But this is because I had not considered the insane and looney nature of my friend. You see, despite the fact that he had three months to write this paper, that indeed, it was due over spring break, he decided to wait for the absolute last possible minute to write it and turn it in, that is, tonight. The professor will only begin taking off points tomorrow, you see, on Monday. So my friend was in the process of writing the paper and would update me accordingly.

During the course of the evening [while waiting upon the various pages of the paper], I learned about the existence of shomer sluts, ladies who are apparently "super flirtatious and a tease, but shomer," the fact that I am a drama queen, the inability of my friend to rhyme- or spell- during late hours of the night- I present to you his pitiful attempt to amuse me (upon my commanding that he do so.) Read it and weep:

"Roses are read violets are blue
Chana is true, true and true"

See? Roses are read. Like, readable. Now, when is the last time that you have read a rose? Have you ever noticed gentlemen lifting monocles to their eyes, attempting to decipher the delicate and spidery writing upon its curling petals? Perhaps you have seen me dancing about the streets holding roses before my eyes, looking at a writing only I can see? Well, never fear, dear folks of mine. I am not mad. I am simply fulfilling the dictates of my friend, who commands me and informs me that roses are read.

My friend becomes more and more entertaining over the course of the night. This makes sense, as his paper does need to be fifteen pages long at the minimum and I am quite enjoying ripping it to pieces. Well no, I was slightly kinder than that. Definitely the best excuse of the night was when I tore into him for using passive voice.

His response?

"Now I'll be annoyed for a second. I use passive voice when I am lazy. I am tired, and cranky and want this done."

Aha. So let me see. You, my friend, are the one who chose to wait for the last possible moment to write this paper, despite the fact that you had three months of notice. You are the one who is now writing it in solitary confinement, cooped up in a computer lab and frustrated. And yet I am the one who is supposed to feel sorry for you because you are "tired, and cranky, and want this done?" I don't think so...

Of course, that isn't quite how I responded at that point in time, since I didn't think he would take well to hearing the truth. But the truth is quite delightful in retrospect, and now that the paper is finished, all is well.

Oh yes; I see that you have lifted your heads in awe and reverence. The paper is indeed finished. I am a rather mad child, for despite the fact that it is the summer and I am not supposed to have work, despite the fact that I have work tomorrow and despite the most important fact that I have not slept due to the Bar Mitzvah, I decided that it was far more important to assist my friend (I provide the entertainment) with writing his paper from the hours of, oh, let's see, 4:39 PM to 1:23 AM. Let's see, that is about 8 hours and 23 minutes. Yes.

So you are wondering, what could I possibly talk about for eight hours and twenty-three minutes? Oh, lots of things. You see, I couldn't possibly abandon my dear friend to his awful fate. Never! So instead I must amuse him with the exciting doings of the life of Chana. These included hypothetical situations that included the retelling of this story to an attentive and inspired audience, you, my dear readers. Just as Sam and Frodo got through everything by thinking of the tales that would be told about them one day, I managed to force my friend onward to the grand and glorious finish line by suggesting that the hilarity of our evening would be shared with the world and all would benefit from the craziness that is my life (or in this case, our lives.)

So what was so hilarious? Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it would be the constant assignation of points. I have a system, you see; Chana's Golden Book in the Sky. I assign points when someone does well and deduct points when I am displeased. During the course of the evening, I believe my friend amassed twenty-two points. Whenever someone says something particularly original, I give them hundreds of points, but alas, originality was not the focus of this evening. Hilarity was, however. I enjoy talking about myself in the third person (cue for all of you to instantaneously assume that my glorious ego has overtaken my mind and infected my brain.) Well, I was able to manipulate my friend into speaking in the third person as well, and that just made my night utterly perfect. For what is a night without referring to oneself as Chana and envisioning the various scenarios one could enact if one only has the time and desire?

I have decided that all of us need to come in miniature action figure sizes. We could all have particular talents. Imagine carrying around little miniature Chanas who could fit into your pockets. As my friend dryly remarked, I'd be "quite popular amongst the college set." This because I could be the quintessential editor and proofreader. Now, what talents would you have? Suppose that you could fit into someone's pocket a la The Indian in the Cupboard. Perhaps you could whisper all the answers in math to your human host. Or blow up little bombs inside his shirtpocket, creating a diversion that would allow him to escape the classroom. Who knows what. But wouldn't it be lovely if we were all action figures?

Oh, I know you think that I am on a sugar high. And perhaps I am. After all, I do have two refrigerators filled to the brim with cakes and cookies. That is the loveliness of a Bar Mitzvah, after all...

Oh, the drama of this evening! The fights, the tears, the passion and the conflicts! My friend made a joke that I took as an insult; I was mad at him, then insulted him back, then apologized, the continued our conversation- I mean, how many emotions can one feel in one night? Oh, I have run the gamut and all is very lovely.

Well, my dear people, my friend is now the proud owner of a 16.5 page paper and a profound sense of weariness. Add to the cocktail the fact that his computer quit on him, which means he had to hang out at the computer lab till two in the morning and....well, you get the general idea. Basically, my friend is wiped out. And if he is not, it is because he has consumed illegal quantities of caffeine in the form of coffee or soda or energy drinks.

But not as wiped out as the insane and irrepressible Chana!

I have one more story that I have been informed per Ezzie I must share with you (and it is this story that led my friend and I to the conversation about shomer sluts.) It took place as I was packing up and readying myself to go home after the Bar Mitzvah.

So I'm at the hotel and we're packing up because we're going back to my house and I've got one of those rolling trolleys (or dollys?) and this other guy, probably a couple of years older than me is standing in front of the elevator in his boxers. Except that being me, I don't realize they are boxers because I just assume they're rather short shorts.

So he pushes the button and gets in and I ask if it's okay if I get in as well (because I have the trolley and all) and he says sure, then asks me how my evening's going, "Must be better than mine, right?"

So I say "Oh, what's the matter? Your evening's not going well?"

So he sighs and says, "Well...so I had this bottle..."

(And I think, this is an alcohol story)

"of water...and...well...so it spilled all over my pants...so it looked like I pissed my pants, so obviously I had to change...and then my room key didn't work...so I had to go to the front desk in my underwear"

(It is at this point that I become aware that he's just wearing boxers)

The elevator opens and we both step out and he says "Yeah, I'm going to be pretty mad if the card key doesn't work now" and I can't help it, I start laughing.

And he's walking down the hallway and goes, "Hey, that's not nice; you shouldn't be laughing at me" and I say, "No, no, I'm not laughing at you; I'm laughing with you, at the stituation" and he says "Good call" and smiles and I continue, "I'm just laughing at the situation. I think you're handling it incredibly well...if it were me, I'm sure I'd be rather depressed by now."

At this point as he walks down the hallway he says, "Yeah, you can come to my room and we'll cry about it together" and actually looks over his shoulder to see if I'm going to follow him to his room and motions to me a little and I shake my head and laugh and go to my room with my trolley type thing.

Ezzie finds this story extraordinarily amusing, mostly because he thinks it would make a great commercial. The girl, all dolled up, beautiful makeup, exquisite clothes, her hair in curls...and the guy, wearing a t-shirt and boxers and informing her of the tale as they ride the elevator upstairs, and then, after knowing her for all of three seconds, deciding that they ought to develop a...closer relationship, shall we say?

Honestly, I swear this stuff only happens to me...

In the words of my cousin, "Now if you really wanted to make things even funnier, you should've told your Uncle [his father] about this guy, and his whereabouts. Then the guy would've really had a night to remember. *evil smirk*"

I love my cousin rather a lot.

But the person who summed it up most amusingly was my friend (the same friend who is now the proud possessor of a 16.5 page paper) who informed me that he was "glad to hear I didn't sleep around with strange men."

Ah yes. Let us inscribe that on my gravestone.

"Here lies Chana, who did not sleep around with strange men."

What can I say; it's my new claim to fame.

The Boys

They're tall, olive-skinned, extremely handsome, obviously Sephardi; their chocolate brown eyes hide a mischievous glint. They're standing next to each other in their matching suits and ties, proudly displaying their kippahs which have their names embroidered in gold. That's the only way that anyone can tell them apart, because though they are fraternal everyone outside of our family sees them as being identical.

They're shuffling in the lobby, grinning hugely, standing outside of a washing station, looking up at the various assembled relatives who are all coming over to them to shake their hands and congratulate them on their speeches (which, per family tradition, they wrote themselves.) They're surrounded by classmates and about to go into the banquet hall, where they will busy themselves with the food and allow me to catch them and hold them close and tell them how incredible they were today.

It's their Bar Mitzvah.

It's such a strange thought for me, that my little brothers are thirteen. These are the boys. That's their title in our family; they're the youngest and they're twins, so whenever I call for them I cup my hands to my mouth and exasperated shout up the stairs, "Bo-o-o-oys!" At some point I will hear the patter of feet that suggests dashing to the head of the stairs, that is, if anyone can hear me over the Pirates of the Caribbean or Lord of the Rings soundtrack from their supercool CD and alarm clock combination (though recently Star Wars has come to be incorporated as well.) "Yes?" one of them will ask and I will sigh and inform them that they'd better come downstairs right now if they know what's good for them.

The boys are incredible. They're joyous and entertaining and never fail to amuse me. At times they exasperate me and I find them incredibly frustrating, but the majority of the time I'm so proud of them and I think it's an honor to be their older sister. Of course, I don't tell them that too often.

I remember the boys being little and yanking at one another's hair, the one twin reaching over to grab a fistful of the other's hair. They would both yelp but neither would let go and they would continue; their little fists gripping tightly and unwilling to let go. They'd both have tears in their eyes and Dustfinger and I would run to separate them, but as soon as we'd done that, they'd be at it again.

I remember the boys looking at us with these incredibly sweet faces after they'd done something wrong, these really innocent looks that suggested that it was all in our minds; we were imagining that they had committed this crime. I remember them looking out at us from inside the chest of drawers (when they were younger, they destroyed the chest of drawers because they climbed into them, sat in them, had one boy push the other inside and out, used them as ladders, removed the drawers from the bureau and so on and so forth) with these smiles when we would be at our wit's end.

I remember Taran microwaving his teddybear because his teddybear was feeling too cold; I remember being horrified and dashing to the kitchen and saving us all from a lovely fire, though his teddy was slightly scorched. Perhaps the most famous story about them is the one concerning their magical thinking. It was the middle of the winter and Taran and Urchin managed to open their window and throw everything they owned outside onto the snow. This included their comforters, their toys, possibly their sheets, literally everything. They looked at all the objects on the ground with a puzzled frown, deeply disturbed. You see, they expected these objects to act like a ball, which bounces back up from the ground. They assumed they would throw their comforter out the window and then the comforter would bounce back up and come inside, just like the ball. My poor father had to go out and collect everything...

And now I see them and I remember their entire lives and it is strange to recall how they were when they were little and how they are now, officially men, having accepted the yoke of mitzvot and the covenant of God.

Many people confuse Taran and Urchin because they see them as identical. As their sister, it's impossible to confuse the two of them. They are so much themselves; their personalities are so different, that the idea is laughable. Each of them is their own person and I think that it a beautiful and rare thing and so I am proud, pleased and proud and so happy for them.

Taran is the wise child. He has an owlish kind of wisdom, a cleverness that expresses itself through books, words and English (for which I take full credit, incidentally. So when you grow up, dear Taran, you'll please remember it was your sister Chana who helped you grow when it came to that.) He cracks jokes all the time; in my mind he is associated with being The Jokester. He has an offbeat sense of humor, the thoughtful kind; one that is very much based on words and ideas. He's always thinking and often has insights and ideas that astonish me. I don't know how he comes up with them, but they're great. He's a sensitive child who is able to understand others, a good friend (I have seen him interact with his buddies) and an excellent listener. This, his sense of humor, his confidence and his desire to learn and grow have always impressed me. He plays the violin and it is the perfect instrument to describe the kind of soul that he has. He has a very melodic, musical voice and when he leins he sounds like my father. This is not surprising, as Taran has always resembled my father in both looks and personality. When he grows up, Taran wants to be an inventor, a Rabbi and a mechanical engineer.

Urchin is the hard worker. Of all the children in the family, he works the hardest. He is stubborn, determined and strong. He works until he understands the material, no matter how long it takes him, and he doesn't stop asking questions until he truly comprehends. He is not embarrassed to ask, and that is a gift. Just like Taran, he is smart, but his smarts express themselves differently. Whereas Taran explores the world through his intellect, Urchin understands the world through an extremely high sense of intuition. Urchin can tell whether people are good or bad simply by meeting them; he is able to detect things that others cannot. Without even trying, he notices the way that a person acts or the aura that surrounds him and he can read it. He is our fix-it guy; he's incredibly gifted when it comes to working with anything with his hands. He intuitively understands how things should fit together; he can build desks, construct objects, fix the plumbing in the house or otherwise help us out. If anything is broken, it's a safe bet that Urchin can fix it. When he grows up, he wants to be a parrotkeeper and a mechanical engineer.

Urchin's strongest quality is his stubborn and unyielding desire for truth. If you lie to him, he will remember it and he will know not to trust you. He is always honest. His determination is both impressive and maddening. Urchin, unlike Taran and myself, is extremely organized and keeps his room very neat and clean. Once he has mastered a certain piece of material, he will not forget it. Urchin works for his knowledge and retains it. He has a strong personality; he's the one who will always be on the phone making plans with friends while Taran is in his room reading a book. He puts himself forward and he gets what he wants. He is not afraid.

Urchin and Taran have different skills. Things come easily to Taran. Taran can read a book once and understand absolutely everything in it. Urchin may have to read the book two or three times before comprehending everything. However, once mastered is forever retained for Urchin, and it is not necessarily so for Taran. Urchin is at home in this world in a way that Taran, my father and I are not. Taran, my father and I all live in fantasy realms where ideas are all that matter. Urchin, Dustfinger and my mother are the practical people, strong and driven. While Urchin and Taran's skill-sets overlap (they both helped put together the computer desk, for instance), it is obvious that their strengths differ. Even the instruments they play differ. Taran is the violin, the stirring strains that move the soul. Urchin plays drums; he goes in for percussion, for beats, for rhythym. This is symbolic of the way the two of them live their lives.

Urchin is the outgoing extrovert, the one who takes the initiative, who makes plans with friends, who bothers people until they actualize his ideas, making his thoughts a reality. He advances arguments when his ideas are resisted and he is stubborn enough to beat down the opposition. He takes everyone's word very seriously; if something is conditional (you can do this after you do that), he will perform whatever task or chore is at hand and then expect to be allowed to have his reward. He is thick-skinned, able to walk away from arguments if they are beneath him. He protects his brother.

Taran is an introvert, a dreamy-eyed child who lives in a world based on his own thoughts and ideas. While he is happy to participate in the plans his brother makes for him, he is not the one to take the initiative, not the one you will see talking on the phone and planning get-togethers. He's far more likely to be reading in bed, digesting a new piece of information or otherwise amassing knowledge. If he is not doing either of these things, then he is playing violin or acting as a witty sounding board for one of his sisters. His casual remarks are often quite witty and his incisive understanding and instinctive comprehension lead him to ask pointed, detailed questions that force his adversary to think. He laughs frequently and chooses his friends very carefully. If he trusts you, it is because he has determined that you are a person that he can respect.

They are both incredibly smart, aside from which, they both perform beautifully in school. Urchin consistently outdid Taran during Chidon throughout the school year and was named Regional champion. Taran, intriguingly, outperformed Urchin on the actual National test. It's not necessarily a competition, especially as they're not always in the same classes, but there is a sense of good-natured fun in seeing how well they do comparatively. Both of them take great pride in their work.

If you want to see what's truly beautiful about them, you'd have to look at the relationship between them. What underscores the relationship is their complete and total happiness for one another if one has an opportunity the other does not or benefits from something the other does not have. There is no such thing as jealousy or envy. There is only joy that the other brother was able to have this.

For example, Taran and Urchin both had the opportunity to go to St Louis and see a baseball game. This was a very exciting trip and Taran couldn't stop talking about it. Urchin would not be able to go because he had drum practice with his classmates in preparation for their final performance as an orchestra. Urchin was completely happy for his brother to go on this trip; he harbored no feelings of jealousy or envy.

Here is what actually happened: Urchin got sick and had to stay home.

I went downstairs to the basement and this is what I saw:

Urchin was curled up on the couch, his comforter spread over him, a box of tissues beside him, blowing his nose every so often and he was watching the baseball game on TV. I asked him whether he'd caught a glimpse of his brother yet, but he hadn't. He watched the entire game and then went to sleep.

When Taran came home the next day, excitedly talking about the entire experience, the fact that a ball had come really close to them and they maybe could have caught it, describing all the wonderful things that he'd gotten to see, I mentioned that Urchin had watched the baseball game on TV.

Taran said something about how he had had a lot of fun and continued talking about the wonders of actually having been at the game in person.

Urchin smiled, truly happy for his brother and said, "Yeah. But I had the better view."

This is something that comes so naturally to the boys and is so difficult for me; their total and complete love for one another to the point where there is absolutely no jealousy, no envy, no desire that the other one shouldn't have had something if he couldn't have it. Urchin didn't feel left out, wasn't upset that Taran had gotten to go to the game when he wasn't able to go. Indeed, he felt that he had had just as good a time of it! "Yeah. But I had the better view."

I don't know if you can appreciate how powerful those words are for me, but the lesson they exemplify is what truly moves me.

Another point: one of the benefits to Urchin's having stayed home sick was that he read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows while there. Taran returned home and explained that he had also finished the book; he had read it on the bus ride home. I know, because I am a little twisted this way, that had it been me, I would have been upset. I'd have felt "Not only does he get to go on this trip, but the one thing that remained to me, the fact that I got to read the book- well, he also went and did that, too?"

But Urchin's not like that, because my little brother Urchin is a much better person than I am. His face lit up with joy, absolute, pure and total joy. He was so excited his brother had finished the book, so anxious to compare notes and talk about their different views. He was smiling and laughing and ran upstairs to go get the book and compare notes. I felt humbled by that, because I have so much to learn from him- from both of them- and the way they interact with one another.

I'll tell you one more story so you can see how amazing they are.

We were talking about birthday presents and I wanted to get them something. So I asked what they wanted. So at first they told me they wanted Light Saber Replicas (the fancy kind that costs about $130 or so). I was willing to buy those, but upon further research learned they can't be used for heavy dueling, so went with the HASBRO kind instead. But I wanted to get them a real gift and asked them what they wanted.

Urchin informed me that they wanted an air-hockey table. I said I'd be happy to buy it for them, provided that they could convince my parents that there's a place to put it. At this point, my little brother Urchin very seriously explained that it would cost too much money and that he doesn't want me to spend this much money on them, maybe I could get them something that costed a little less. He was doing this very seriously and he meant it very sincerely; he was truly concerned that I shouldn't spend too much money on them.

When this conversation took place, Taran was in the shower. He got out of the shower (Urchin had gone downstairs to his room) and I told him Urchin had informed me that they wanted an air hockey table and that I was willing to buy it for them. Taran, who remember had not heard a word of the former conversation, because he was in the shower, now did a repeat of Urchin. He informed me that this would "cost too much money" and he didn't think I should be buying them the air hockey table. Again, this was said in all sincerity and with absolutely no manipulation, guile or lying as part of it.

So the two of them, without speaking to one another, without having heard what the other one said, simply in response to having heard that I was willing to spend the five hundred plus dollars on their air hockey table (the fancy kind with electronic scoring and the like), took it upon themselves to very seriously inform me not to spend so much of my money on them. This despite the fact that I was (still am) willing to buy them the very thing they wanted.

I don't know how many people are privileged to be the older sister to kids like these, kids who are as sincere, honest, considerate and truthful as these. I only know that I am very lucky to have them in my life. I admire them and learn from them and there's never a dull moment around them.

I love you very much, boys.
Mazal Tov on your Bar Mitzvah.