Henry Kissinger's hairdo
While standing during the silent Amidah during Yom Kippur services on Monday, I noticed that a teenage boy near me was holding a book — and not one of the prayer variety. My eyesight is the pits, so I casually leaned over, pretending to get a prime view of the Torah, and saw that he was reading SLAUGHTER-HOUSE FIVE by Kurt Vonnegut.
“I love that book,” I whispered.
“It’s my second time reading it,” he replied.
I felt inferior to this boy on two main levels:
1. He must have been 14 years old. I’ve read SLAUGHTER-HOUSE FIVE only once, when he was an infant.
2. For each and every time I wished I’d had a book to read during services, I never had the cojones to bring one, probably because I knew my parents would kill me. The kid has balls.
My instinct — after giving him mad props — was to be a little appalled, figuring that bringing into synagogue a book that had nothing to do with the holiday was disrespectful and slightly blasphemous. But then I thought, Why? How was this boy reading Vonnegut any different than me standing there, not believing in a god of any kind and not reading the prayer book in my hands? I was at services for two reasons: to participate in the collective culture and tradition of a holiday, and more important, to say the mourner’s prayer for my grandmother, who would have wanted me to go to Yom Kippur services. I think the fact that the boy went to shul for the shared experience of a tradition is the point; how he chooses to observe it isn’t.
I have a clearly defined view of my own connection to my religion. I am absolutely a cultural Jew. I believe in the traditions and the holidays and the history and the language and the specific aspects of my personality that define me more as Jewish than as American or female or educated or brunette. I think the fact that I don’t believe in an all-powerful god doesn’t make me any less Jewish, because I think your religion (or choice to not follow one) is how you connect to it, whether you believe in God or not. (I do believe in spirit and view that as my own deity.) I like that I can go to synagogue and pick up a prayer book and read the Hebrew and respect the beauty of the alphabet and the sounds, but I choose to believe my own version of what it says because I am often uncomfortable with the direct translation. So who am I — who prays to nobody but, really, myself — to say that a 14-year-old kid can’t pray to Kurt Vonnegut? I recall a six-year stretch when I was kind of doing the same thing, especially after I read BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS. Because it’s a really good book.
Isn’t my soapbox pretty?
It’s been a festival of cupcakes at the office this week. People’s birthdays, gifts from publicists, the place reeks of butter frosting. I was told that there’s a saying that’s been passed among some staff members during gluttonous food gatherings: “I’m eating my feelings.” Says Kevin, “The statement works best without eye contact, spoken with a small voice directed into a steaming tray of carbs.” Or, in this case, cupcake carcasses. Also? Very true.
James (the one who didn’t move to L.A. — SUCK IT, JAMES WHO MOVED TO L.A.!) also moved last weekend (locally). He was reflecting on his pleasant commute, free of the NYC subway. I said that he must be getting so much reading done. He said, “I already have! I’m already halfway through DIPLOMACY by Henry Kissinger.” He said there’s a lot of “Yeah, Vietnam? That probably wasn’t such a good idea” going on, which got me thinking about regretful biographies (as opposed to regrettable biographies). On one hand, it takes a big person to admit, in print, that they were wrong, especially if they’re in possession of a sizable ego. On the other hand, “Whoops, Vietnam” is a bit troubling. It’s not like, “Whoops, my hair was really bad straight through the Nixon era.”
Or, in my case, 1987. Cuz mullet.
Happy Anniversary, Stacy and Mark!
Happy Birthday, My Mother-in-law!
Happy Birthday tomorrow, Stephanie!
Does this mean more cupcakes?
“I love that book,” I whispered.
“It’s my second time reading it,” he replied.
I felt inferior to this boy on two main levels:
1. He must have been 14 years old. I’ve read SLAUGHTER-HOUSE FIVE only once, when he was an infant.
2. For each and every time I wished I’d had a book to read during services, I never had the cojones to bring one, probably because I knew my parents would kill me. The kid has balls.
My instinct — after giving him mad props — was to be a little appalled, figuring that bringing into synagogue a book that had nothing to do with the holiday was disrespectful and slightly blasphemous. But then I thought, Why? How was this boy reading Vonnegut any different than me standing there, not believing in a god of any kind and not reading the prayer book in my hands? I was at services for two reasons: to participate in the collective culture and tradition of a holiday, and more important, to say the mourner’s prayer for my grandmother, who would have wanted me to go to Yom Kippur services. I think the fact that the boy went to shul for the shared experience of a tradition is the point; how he chooses to observe it isn’t.
I have a clearly defined view of my own connection to my religion. I am absolutely a cultural Jew. I believe in the traditions and the holidays and the history and the language and the specific aspects of my personality that define me more as Jewish than as American or female or educated or brunette. I think the fact that I don’t believe in an all-powerful god doesn’t make me any less Jewish, because I think your religion (or choice to not follow one) is how you connect to it, whether you believe in God or not. (I do believe in spirit and view that as my own deity.) I like that I can go to synagogue and pick up a prayer book and read the Hebrew and respect the beauty of the alphabet and the sounds, but I choose to believe my own version of what it says because I am often uncomfortable with the direct translation. So who am I — who prays to nobody but, really, myself — to say that a 14-year-old kid can’t pray to Kurt Vonnegut? I recall a six-year stretch when I was kind of doing the same thing, especially after I read BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS. Because it’s a really good book.
Isn’t my soapbox pretty?
It’s been a festival of cupcakes at the office this week. People’s birthdays, gifts from publicists, the place reeks of butter frosting. I was told that there’s a saying that’s been passed among some staff members during gluttonous food gatherings: “I’m eating my feelings.” Says Kevin, “The statement works best without eye contact, spoken with a small voice directed into a steaming tray of carbs.” Or, in this case, cupcake carcasses. Also? Very true.
James (the one who didn’t move to L.A. — SUCK IT, JAMES WHO MOVED TO L.A.!) also moved last weekend (locally). He was reflecting on his pleasant commute, free of the NYC subway. I said that he must be getting so much reading done. He said, “I already have! I’m already halfway through DIPLOMACY by Henry Kissinger.” He said there’s a lot of “Yeah, Vietnam? That probably wasn’t such a good idea” going on, which got me thinking about regretful biographies (as opposed to regrettable biographies). On one hand, it takes a big person to admit, in print, that they were wrong, especially if they’re in possession of a sizable ego. On the other hand, “Whoops, Vietnam” is a bit troubling. It’s not like, “Whoops, my hair was really bad straight through the Nixon era.”
Or, in my case, 1987. Cuz mullet.
Happy Anniversary, Stacy and Mark!
Happy Birthday, My Mother-in-law!
Happy Birthday tomorrow, Stephanie!
Does this mean more cupcakes?
Labels: food, philosophical whatnots, politics, pop culture, religion, work
posted by Marla at 6:54 PM
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