mnchm

I’m no longer satisfied with infuriating only one tiny sub-sub-group (namely, modern-day nazi hunters). So I’ve decided to enrage another: Lithuanian vegetarians!

My piece about the current state of vegetarianism in Lithuania just went up. Take a look, and if you’re a vegetarian in the Baltics, you’ll probably be justifiably upset by my stubborn American-centric view of things. But the slideshow is pretty neat.

We had an enormous bagel party this weekend, and Tablet was kind enough to let me talk about it. There are lots of wonderful photos that couldn’t fit over there, so I’ll post those later today.

They kept telling us at orientation that we were cultural ambassadors. So I put it on my business card (a very serious necessity in these lands).

I’m apparently enough of an Uman expert that radio wants a piece of me. Tomorrow at 9am eastern time, god knows when my time, I’ll be interviewed on Shalom USA Radio. Here’s their link, where the promise of live webcast is made.

(So I took a month off.)

I left DC a few weeks ago — prematurely it turns out: I was just beginning to fall for the place — for the wilder, poutine-er pastures of Canada. Now, there are several options w/r/t to transportation, but considering the not-insubstantial amount of stuff I’ve accumulated (about 90% of which is books/clothing), only driving really made sense. And wouldn’t you know — a family member’s minivan was mine for the taking.

I’m not supposed to like the Minivan. It’s big, clunky, devoid of any cool quotient — the exclusive vehicle of a mom (or the mom-like), inexcusable for anyone who is none of the following: parent, kidnapper, flower guy, handyman. I repeatedly sideswiped parked cars — the Toyota Sienna, I tell you, is wide beyond comprehension or driver-seat perception — and collected a bouquet of parking tickets. (Not really related to vehicle size or uncool factor, I know, but I can’t help but suspect that a parked minivan in downtown DC makes a sensible first stop for Mr. Meter Maid — the owner is almost certainly not violent (with possible exception of kidnapper (see above), but his van is, almost by definition, all-white, rundown and tinted/windowless), plus it’s big, instantly noticeable, and whatever the ostensible logic behind specific parking violation, the van runs doubly afoul.)

But then I packed the baby up. I’m trying to avoid a full-blown, crying-in-the-rain, knees-in-mud, boombox-over-head rhapsodic declaration for my vehicular love here, but a van outfitted with two sliding doors, a back door that opens like a magnificent yawn, and the back seats removed is just an orgasmic joy to pack. You don’t need to plan meticulously, and/or triage the luggage and stuff so the more necessary = more accessible; EVERYTHING is accessible. It’s like a closet with entries from all sides.

Literally everything I owned went in. There’s something exquisite about this, all possessions more or less ready and within reach — you’re prepared for anything.

Much more tomorrow.

(NB. This is the intro for a cobbled-together but still pretty snazzy journal for Prozdor, a Sunday school I’ve had the privilege of teaching at. You can preview and purchase it here.)

Here’s the existential question behind Sunday school: how do you squeeze a vast, unwieldy, and complex culture/tradition/religion/language into a handful of groggy hours? You can’t, of course. Not even close. But the attempt must be made nonetheless, and so the morning becomes a sort of pedagogical triage: which subject deserves to be taught, what can be taught, how best to teach with limited resources. How to make the boring but necessary more palatable? What’s preferable, narrow expertise or a wider familiarity? Ethics or history? Holy books or wholesome living?

It’s like viewing a galaxy through a peephole.

Because the uncomfortable truth is that Jewish education was never meant to be supplemental. Actually, it wasn’t even designed for the classroom, even as a non-extracurricular; tests, lesson plans, projects are far too limited a tool. Sure, the gifted teacher can relay information and hope (pray) that it’s retained, maybe – if she’s exceptional –provoke curiosity, or even occasionally inspire. But whatever Judaism is simply can’t be reduced to a series of questions/answers, fill-in-the-blanks, or a monologue of bulleted points, even with handy visual aids and charts.

That’s not to say that the classroom experience isn’t important. It is, in fact, vital: Specifics have to be taught, memorized, practiced. But rarely will plain ol’ schooling successfully transmit the messy intangibles of ‘tradition’: the ambience, modes of thought, the appreciation, the curiosity, the pride. The feelings, the attitudes and associations, have to be cultivated and nurtured. And that’s a constant and never-ending assignment.

Most importantly, the educational conversation can’t be one-way. There has to be dialogue, provocation and reaction and re-reaction, where experience and involvement – on whatever level – is at least on par with hard information. Prozdor has, through continuous reflection and innovation, long excelled at maintaining their end of the conversation. A forum for the students to respond is really the final, logical piece.

And so I’m proud to present the inaugural edition of pröz, a journal by Prozdor students, for, well, everyone… [Note: the remainder has been excised, cuz it's none of yo bizness.]

Thank you.

Q Menachem, say again where you’re moving?

I’m moving to Vilnius.

Q Uh, why? Don’t you like N. America? Is this about impending healthcare?

I do like N. America, a lot. But the US gov’t sees it proper to subsidize my scholarly trip there. (For the record: I do not presently have health insurance.) Called a Fulbright.

Q Do you think you’ll be more alpha around Lithuanian women?

Doubtful. I think they’re pretty tall.

Q What do you plan to do there?

Well, I made a fairly detailed proposal for my academic year of study, something to do with the sociolinguistics of the Yiddish in the Baltics. I do not know how this will play out. I’d post it, but it’s pretty ridiculous, and kinda embarrassing. Email me if you want it.

Q Will Lithuania be damaging to your spiritual health?

Is this my mother?

Q How come Lithuania is not on the Risk board?

That’s a good question. But did you know it was once the biggest country in Europe during the 14th century?

Q What happened?

I do not know. But I plan on finding out.

Q Will you get a cool Russian hat?

Yes, most certainly.

Almost forgot: Here’s my piece kinda-reviewing Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself. More to say on the book later.

dear peeps,

this jew is moving to lithuania.

with love,

menachem

(N.B. This is, more or less, a book review, complementing the shorter, more neutered piece I did a few weeks back. I’m currently halfheartedly shopping it around for a suitable home, so please holla if you’ve got any ideas.)

Growing up, my friends and I found the Sabbath to be a day of too much rest.

Because aside from the meals, which were great but predictable, and synagogue, which was dull and predictable, how does a kid fill the roughly 25 hours of prescribed downtime? We could read, sure, but few of us could remain occupied by a book for very long. Couldn’t write, or even do homework. No television or computer or video games. No practicing piano or guitar.  Playtime activities were severely curtailed by the adults’ admonishment not to disturb their shabbes schluf (nap), a tradition as sacred as kiddush or cholent. If the weather wasn’t welcoming – and I grew up in Toronto – and we were forced indoors, then no basement hockey, tag, hide n’ seek (always noisier than you’d expect), wrestling matches, food fights, or ping pong. Board games were an option, but even here it was slim pickings: Scrabble was verboten (word construction might be a form of ketiva, or writing, one of the 39 prohibited activities); Monopoly was frowned upon (closely resembles business transactions); and even chess was questionable (the active selection of the pieces might be a violation of borer, or sorting, another Sabbath no-no). And scorekeeping without a writing utensil is a bitch.

You’d think we’d eventually grow adept at passing time, like a jail inmate or a kind of Sabbath Zen master, but we never did. Sabbath – or shabbes, the term I grew up with and am still most comfortable using – usually meant severe, crushing, unrelenting boredom.

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