Maggie's Farm

I arrive dragging one beige Hartmann carry on.  Its otherwise sturdy
wheels are knocked off their tracks by the path across the campus;
directed  to a dorm room I am to share with a slightly outsized midget
from Baltimore.  The "Baltimoron"  is a professional Jew, someone my
father would have labeled in Yiddish, "a kille grabbler," a grabber of
community funds (and a play on the word "kille," which would make him
also a "hernia grabber.")  He arrives later; takes over the room with
two oversized valises, two carry-ons, assorted bulging plastic sacks.
He spreads himself about as if acquiring square meters would
compensate for his challenged height.  He explains brusquely:  radio
must play at all times; when he leaves I must leave it on, he should
not return to a silent room (as if he were terrified to be alone with
himself); night time radio is necessary to lull him to sleep; remains
on to keep him asleep.  I buy earphones for him; uncomfortable to
sleep with.  He is meticulously groomed, a mustache clipped within
millimeters of the line between lip and frenulum, hair parsed,
shellacked into place by various pomades, gels, waxes that are aligned
like tin soldiers along the bathroom shelf.  He tops this "do" with a
black knit kippah, adhered in place by the hair glues.  Much deodorant
beneath each armpit; they are frosted white.  The mornings leave dust
clouds trails from his Gold Bond powder scooped plentifully around his
balls, the soles of his feet, between toes; needs the stimulating
mentholated zing.  Clothes are aligned by type, color, dancing
shirt-to-shirt, pant-to-pant.  He buys bargain tchatchkes, gifts, from
Arab souks by the gross to bring back to Baltimore.  These spill over
to my sliver of closet, onto the floor. Bury my one pair of shoes.
    I last two days, then beg for private quarter. I am exiled to an
unused dorm unoccupied for several days until a teen group from
Australia arrive, four to a room, a lively and loud collective.  In
early morning, they pray fervently, shaking the bleached gravely
outside landing, facing East.
    The Ulpan, its tin, and concrete sheds, lies west of the Green Hotel
The hotel an informal place.  One late evening, I come upon Tzakhi,
the desk manager, changing his pants into shorts behind the counter,
even as he attentively answers my questions.  To close out the
Shabbat, I ask to buy candle and wine to take to the Beach, say
prayers with friends after sunset.  "Buy? Buy!" he responds offended
as he pulls on one leg of the shorts, then straightens himself like a
gondolier. "Here.  From the kitchen; just bring back."
    The Ulpan has its unique breed of cockroach, Djukim the size of fat,
robust mice, but faster, tailless, silent.  These tend to prefer rooms
of young women, especially those closest to the only computer
terminal.  Late night internet users are jarred by episodic shrieks,
"Djukim! Djukim!" as if extolling the Beatles, followed by women
bursting through their doors, calling for aid.  Men armed with brooms
assemble, smack floors loudly, even as the we know that the lights
have sent the Djukim to safer quarters.
    I am placed in level Gimel Plus, pronounced "ploos."  I don't feel
very "ploos." The class, perhaps 25, is half new olim, -- adults from
Caucasus, teens from Chile, Peru, Argentina, one doe-eyed boy from
Persia, sent alone, snuck out by his family.  (He later, while biking,
is hit by a car, is brain-dead.)  One quarter are tourists from
England, French; the rest of us, Americans, "Amerrikanim."
    We have two teachers, alternating daily, each of whom alone could
have powered the secret Dimona reactor:  no need for nuclear with
these two.  Yonat locks the door at 800 promptly each morning.  Late?
See you tomorrow.  (Actually, you can slink in after the first break,
if you are up to weathering Yonat's glare the rest of the day.)
    I inhale the learning, like Akiva the forty year old farmer who laps
up the dust written by the angel, dust that reveals all knowledge to
Akiva, until erased by the Angel.
   
    By week two, we are asked to solo, some ten minutes, in front of
class, a tale, not read, spoken.  I do something, now forgotten,
perhaps the story of the cabbie who recites his daughter's
brain-plumbing ailment, their victory over death.
    Then Pascal, Nee Pinchas.  A Frenchie, delightful, of thin habitus,
sharp featured, yet from somewhere a Hapsburg lip; a small kippah
decorated with dentate figures clipped to his close-cropped but thick
black hair, and his trim beard reveal his religiousness.  Originally
from Paris, he now lives with his family in London.  France now too
alien, too populated by rowdy Moslem teen gangs for this Jew.  In
France, teen thugs from Arabi gang-up on a little Jewish girl daring
to wear her Magen David out; they force it down her throat, chase her
home.  He is here with his 11 year old daughter; wife and son are
staying with relatives nearby.  He carries a small pocket French
Hebrew computer into which he types unknown words, surreptitiously, as
the teacher frowns on dictionaries.
    His tale, his sport: mountain climbing, in Hebrew, he describes the
almost onomatopoeic, "l'tapes,"  scaling peaks.  He lists five major
peaks that have fallen to his tread.  The last, Mt. Blanc, scaled with
pickax, boots and ... well, tefillin.
    Yes, tefillin at the summit.  Only he and one guide, he details the
cold final assent. They begin before dawn; rising sun reveals the
narrow, one-person path with terrifying sheers on each side.  At the
summit, his guide, eyeing a gathering storm, whips out the camera for
the token shot.  But Pascal, even as blistering winds strip away his
words, mimes:  "Wait!".  He whips out his tefillin and demonstrates to
class, most of us unfamiliar with the morning ritual.  He shrugs off
the left parka, pulls up the thermal sleeve to bare skin to the
howling mountain winds; places one box on his biceps facing his heart,
another around his crown, "as frontlet between his eyes," Torah
commands. The leather straps must be wound on bare arm, biceps to the
hand, about the knuckles,  just so, to write "Shadai" over the fist.
He proceeds rapidly: seven windings to the hand, some boondoggling
around the fingers to proclaim God.  poises arm in the air, he freezes
for photo.  Then off with the tefillin even as they start the truly
frozen descent.
    Delighted, we applaud.  He, approaching God on Europe's highest peak,
reaches just a bit closer to Him. The Shema commands that one teach
God in our home, and on our roads; on this high road, Pascal/Pinchas
reaches both a personal and Jewish "best."
    Then Saunders, the never married Reform Rabbi, who sabbaticals
himself after two decades on Long Island pulpits.  Saunders is the
Americanization of his grandfather's Shmulik, he confides to me.  For,
we have already met, strolled the grounds, coffee-d together.  He is
short, a bit too short, broad shouldered, soft handed, moves en-bloc,
close to the ground, like some Allan Lomax-described Athabascan Indian
dancer -- slow, methodical.  Call, and he turns with his entire body.
Soft-spoken, a bit unsure of himself.  Lovely fellow.  Couldn't date
on Long Island -- too public a figure, he explains.  Quit rabbi-ing.
Burnt out, his phrase, he was.  In old days, we would have called this
a mental breakdown, a nervous exhaustion: today, "burn out" covers
for many, and "sabbatical," for rabbis and academics.
    Hopes to spend a year in Jerusalem, elaborating a new idea of
Judaism, something he recites to me as we cover the dusty sidewalk
along the ridge over the Mediterranean, claustrophobically walled
residences to our right.  Curs, hang-headed, follow at a careful
distance, hoping from handouts from these Americans, yet prepared to
skedaddle at any threat.  An empty gesture at them and they scatter,
soon regroup.  Lean-ribbed, panting in the heat, tongues lolling, they
follow like hyenas.
    He explains his idea.  Something -- he looks into my eyes, hopeful
for lights of comprehension --  something about pursuing the Shekhina,
God's feminine aspect, some Kabbalah thing, that he believes can be
done through Buddhist meditation.  Such meditation, done by enough
people, generates some spirit vapors, emits some soul-gasses, that
envelop those nearby and, like some pebble cast into still waters,
radiates out spirit rings that engage other spirit rings in
interrupted patterns.  (I am pressed to recall some physics, here,
wave dynamics, ripples meeting ripples.  Harmonics of the waters.)
    These radiating spirit rings, he continues, somehow connect us up
with the Shekhina, somehow repairs or joins the sparks let off by God
when he created the world.  Perhaps, Saunders (almost nee Shmulik)
says that these sparks are wandering about (like Plato's primal men
and women, sundered apart, desiring to be whole again?).  And as these
meditation rings (the people, not the spirit rings emanating from
them), enlarge, a greater sense of community is created, some kind of
super Jew, some Uber-organism that transcends the individuals who
constitute it.  (Now, my mind wanders silently to coral formations,
those elegant rocky exudates of miniature organisms.  How these coral
beauties can both attract you and then strip you of your hide should
you get too close, to free or careless, while swimming.)
    I nod politely, yet do not want to encourage him:  I neither truly
understand, nor wish to pursue this much.  I think of the Hassidic
story of the boy who tries to conjure up Kabbalah to fervently; goes
mad.  I demur, as he sees my eyes glaze over: I am but a
psychoanalyst, not religious, don't really get these deep spiritual
matters.  Instead I encourage him in his recent dating: after one
mother here, more women than he has been with form some years.  (I
think:  that's the Shekhina you really need, a piece of Shekhina.)  I
see him light up, his eyes, his body bounce as I mention this.
    Days later, his eyes cloud over in anger, the bounce disappearing
after his class recital.  Anger at me for what I have said, for the
words that spilled from my lips, which could not be pursed. Here is my
confession (about which I never told you).
    Saunders, nee Shmulik, gives his talk b'Ivrit. He titles it, Yahadut
Hitkadmut, Progressive Judaism. This sounds appealing, almost good, to
the many immigrants, even to our morah: a bit of progression, a bit
more liberty, a bit something for women to do, he says.  Flexibility
of interpretation, he waxes.  Live the essence of Judaism -- its
ethics with a touch of singing and praying. No need for the antiquated
613 and all the adjunctive fences around fences to protect the central
herd of laws. Kashrut? Outmoded.  Long tefillot?  Boring, meaningless.
Need new songs with a few sopranos.  He wears a kippah during his
recitation, bounces on the balls of his feet.  Finishes with an
abbreviated version of his kabbalah-to-do he had tried with me: how we
will ripple each other with our prayers.  And assures us that this is
progressive Judaism.
    I can't hold the words back.  I hear within, "misrepresentation!"
"deceit!" "tell the truth!"  And out spills my tale.
    In the beautiful "progressive" Temple (called Reform in the U.S.) in
which I had been a Sunday school teacher of second graders happened
the following, I say.  (I try to hold back; I try to mitigate with a
description of the elegant architecture of this Temple.)  It is
modeled after the Golden Age of Judaism under the Moors in Spain.  The
courtyard is after the Alhambra, even with the same fountain,
surrounded by the Lions of Judah heads encircling, emerging from the
fountain. (Lions planted subversively by the Jewish architect in
Moorish Spain.)  The halls decorated in Islamic style and colors; the
dome deep red, almost the Cherokee red of Frank Lloyd Wright.  And in
this Temple of Temples, which is one of the oldest Reform
congregations in the U.S., this Sanctum Sanctorum of Yekkish
immigrants, the first Rabbi was the great grandfather of Leonard
Bernstein's Chilean Catholic wife.  And before I arrived, the chief
Rabbi (for they needed chiefs of the many other acolytes) was
discharged for having shtupped too many of the congregant wives.
Wisely, the Temple congregants searched and found another chief who
would be the least likely shtupper: married many years, severely
balding, of bloodless mien, boring.  A very decent fellow I found.
And his first acolyte was a woman rabbi, one of the first female
graduates of HUC, who was divorced.  Whose daughter married, had a
daughter, then divorced; then remarried; then underwent a sex change
operation to become the man she had always wanted to be.  Whose
daughter -- the second-in-command rabbi's granddaughter -- tried to
explain to her six year old peers why she now had, well, um, two
fathers.  Then they found rabbi three, who bearded, kippahed, liked
dancing with Torahs.  Like the Marranos, he was a secret Conservative
Rabbi, who insisted that he run only the Sunday school and refused to
attend the services of the Chief Rabbi; later started an alternative
service for Friday night.  Not exactly by sundown -- too hard to match
service to calendar.
    And then there were four.  An assistant to the assistants (sous-rav
to rabbi three, the Marrano) is hired. She looks like.  Well, she
looks like a very nice "he":  short curly hair, sideburns, Brooks
Brother's suit, Oxford shirt and capped-toed shoes.  (I can see
Saunders, nee Shmulik, twisting in the wind in front of the class as
my words, mean-spirited, come out as if from a golem's mouth.)  She/he
is charming.  Married, she/he has a child, artificially conceived with
her/his wife, or husband, or both.  She is funny the first day arising
to the Bimah, gesturing, doing good Borscht Circuit shtick. And my
second graders crowd around me as they see her, or him.  And they ask,
"Chanan, is it a man or a lady?"  I do not know how to answer. I do
not know how to teach this form of Judaism. I resign instead.
    My story is almost told. The class, even those from foreign lands who
have been deprived of Jewish education, are squirming uncomfortably as
I continue.
    Having failed at the "progressives," I turn to the conservative
congregation. A very bright, knowledgeable rabbi they have. I go
Friday nights and he sometimes leads the service in his rough, almost
tuneful voice, a lack of refinement I find comforting, as it fits the
slightly anarchic prayers in the small shul.  And after I join, he is
"outed" by a journalist.  This rabbi was once a Buddhist acolyte,
almost a priest.  At the time of his ceremonial initiation,
approaching forty years, he has an epiphany, and like Rabbi Akiva (he
later says), turns (back) to Judaism.  His response to the "outing?"
He embraces his Buddhism again.  Announces proudly to all that he is a
Jew-Bu.  Uses money collected for a new school for the children,
instead, to buy a building next door to make a Buddhist temple;
meditates there in the early a.m. to prepare himself for Shacharit
services in the Temple (the Jewish one, I mean). Invites real,
shaven-headed Buddhist priests to come teach (most of whom are Jewish,
anyhow).  My spirit sinks.
    My tale is done.
    Saunders, now barely Shmulik slinks to his seat.  I apologize to him
and the class.  I had to tell of what I saw of progressive Judaism to
complement what Saunders said.  This apology meets with hearty nods
from the class and sullen face from Saunders.  He does not speak to.
    All this done in Hebrew, still I feel badly.
    Then the bell rings for the hafsakah, the break.

       I also realize one reason I make aliyah: the bankrupcy of
Judaism in San Francisco.

Copyright N. Szajnberg 2005