Antique Roadshow Junky
Thursday, 21 August 2008 I don't watch television often (no time, small children) but there is one show which feels like pure pleasure. If you are an Antique Road Show Junky like me, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Antique Road Show is essentially the same show every week. A pretty blond woman introduces us to whatever town's civic center we happen to be in and then retreats in order for the main course to be served. The main course, the heart of the show (and this is all that matters), is two people standing on either side of an art object. The first person may be an expert in Civil War memorabilia, or late 19th century Belgium glassware, or Baseball uniforms, and the other person may be nervous or giddy or strangely emotionless (those are the ones that fascinate me!). Between these two people is the Art Object. It may be a series of architectural photos, or a Shaker dresser, or a letter signed by Benjamin Franklin, or an.... An anything. You never know. Now, as a happy smile spreads across my face and as I sink deeper into my comfy chair, the ritual begins. The Art Expert begins to explore the origins of this Art Object, taking us on a guided tour of the dusty Milanese workshop where the glass was first blown, or to the remote Tibetan highlands where the rug was woven with yak hair, or to the ballrooms of the Court of the Sun King where....where, what? It doesn't matter. Keep talking. I'm hooked. All the while, the owner of the Art Object interjects little bon mots such as "huh," "gosh!", "my uncle bought this for a nickel in 1901", "we were using it for a dog bowl." As the monologue winds up, we tense for the outcome. The Expert Opinion, the money shot, the big payoff. Like a judge in the heavenly court, the art expert makes one final appraisal of the clock or vase or knick-knack, touches it lovingly, and says.... "If this was brought to auction, we would set the opening bid at $500 or $10,000 or .75 cents, but these have been known to sell as high as ten million or three hundred or one penny." The numbers flash on the bottom of the screen and the Owner looks pleased or politely disappointed or about to faint. It's like a game show for antique lovers. As the shows wraps up, I sign contentedly and allow myself to dream. It is the future, twenty or thirty or fifty years from now. I turn on the television and there is Antique Road Show, now in its hundredth season. And there positioned at the center of the show, being admired by some Art Expert, is a work of art that I recognize because it is the creation of one of our Artists. It is a hand colored print by Karla Gudeon. It is a menorah by Janine Sopp. It is a one of a kind ketubah by Nishima Kaplan ("it was my grandparents' ketubah - I have it hung it in a place of honor"). Family Heirlooms come from many sources but they all have a set of qualities in common. They are unique, hand-crafted, made with love, unmistakably the work of their creator. And most importantly, family heirlooms are cherished by the family who hands them down, parent to child, generation to generation. Why Aramaic?
Sunday, 27 July 2008 Yesterday, in the lobby of our local library, a Man began speaking to me in Biblical Hebrew. (This kind of thing happens all the time in our town of Asheville.) The context was so off, that it took me a moment for my mind to register that I understood what he was saying. The Man introduced himself as Binyamin, a hopeful seminary student. We drifted into a conversation about where I could find the Lord's Prayer in Aramaic (a gift I want to give to Christian friends) and whether any of the Gospels had originally been written in Aramaic (Binyamin was of the majority opinion that they had begun life in the Greek.) On the walk home in a light rain, it got me thinking: I believe I understand why the Gospels would have been written in Greek, the language of the then dominant Hellenic culture. Even though Jesus would have spoken Aramaic to his followers, the authors of the Gospels would have steered clear of Aramaic (the lingua franca of Judea) for a number of reasons. a) Aramaic was the language of the common people. b) It would have limited the appeal of the Gospels to only the residents of Judea, rather than the entire Roman world. c) Writing in Greek would confer an aura of respectability on what was admittedly pretty revolutionary (and politically dangerous) writings. d) The authors of the Gospel might not have been familiar with Aramaic, a semitic language adopted by the Jews exiled in Babylonia. Which then got me thinking: Why did the Rabbis choose Aramaic as the language of the Kaddish, the Ketubah, Kol Nidre, the legal formulas recited over Hametz (leaven) prior to Passover – and perhaps, most importantly, The Jerusalem Talmud? Especially, in later periods when Aramaic was no longer spoken by most Jews. Why did early Medieval Rabbis choose Aramaic (a language their congregation probably couldn’t understand) for publicly recited legal formulas like Kol Nidre or the Kaddish? (As Wikipedia puts it, “[The Kaddish] is not composed in the vernacular Aramaic, however, but rather in a "literary, jargon Aramaic" that was used in the academies.”) Was it analogous to Christian Europe using Latin for both legal documents and liturgy? Did Aramaic, with its connection to the Talmud, develop into a “quasi-sacred legal language”?
Funny, you don't look like a Jewish story
Sunday, 20 July 2008 One of my pet peeves (and a major reason why I began leading a Friday night Kid's Service) is having to sit through any "Jewish" story that begins, "Once there was a poor peddler named Moishe." Or a poor tailor named Berol Shmerol.... Or a poor widow name Chana Yankel.... I have a certain reserved affection for shtetyl life in the 19th century. I love the stories of Dybbuks (poltergeists) and miracle working Rabbis and Chelmic fools. I relish the hoary old jokes and Yiddish curses ("May you make money doing something you love!" Oy!) and Kabbalistic fables. But I also recognize that for most everyone in the audience, Moishe the Peddler is farther removed from their personal experience than Spongebob Squarepants or Luke Skywalker. Although to many of us, the image of Moishe the Peddler is drenched with "Jewish Identity," to the kids, he's just a grownup with a weird sounding name doing a weird adult job and worrying about weird adult things. Worse, he's an antiquated vision of an adult. How many of their friends' parents are peddlers? Who worries about buying wine and candles for Shabbat? Yes, the Hispanic nanny listening to the story might identify strongly with the troubles of a poor man trying to make ends meet, but what, if anything, do the kids get out of it? When I first met Rabbi Ira Stone of Congregation Beth Israel in Philadelphia, I announced to him that I wanted to write "Jewish stories." Rabbi Stone raised an eyebrow and said, "Do you mean you want to write stories about Jews or do you want to write stories that are Jewish?" It was a packed question, one that sixteen years later I am still busily unpacking. What is a Jewish story? The first titles that come to mind are, of course, anything found in the Tanach. Then, the aforementioned fables of Eastern Europe and Sephardic Jewry. Next, I'd list Chaim Potok's "The Chosen" or anything by Isaac Batshevis Singer. New entries to the pack might be Jonathan Safran Foer's "Everything is Illuminated" or Tova Mirvis' "The Ladies Auxiliary." All stories with Jewish characters doing recognizably Jewish things, often in Jewish historical settings. Now, what about Franz Kafka's "The Trial"? What about Joseph Heller's "Catch-22"? Kafka is the easier of the two. After all, he expressly wrote Midrashim (extra biblical narrative commentaries) of a mystical nature (see "Parables and Paradoxes", Kafka.). My personal favorites can be found in Howard Schwartz's "Tree of Souls, the mythology of Judaism." - The Messiah will arrive when we no longer need the Messiah. - Leopards break into the temple and drink the sacrificial vessels dry. It happens again and again. Eventually it can be predicted. It becomes part of the ceremony. Heller's angry scatological novel may be harder to read as a Jewish story. Yet at its core, it is the tale of Yossarian's longing to know "the God that I don't believe in." In a society where morality and ethics have been upended, perverted and inverted, Yossarian refuses to do as many of the other characters have done, namely to treat the world as a moral vacuum. Like his ancient Assyrian cousin, Job, Yossarian refuses to shed his core beliefs, regardless of the unimaginable suffering and cruelty around him. I don't bring up these two examples as suggested reading for children (or even adults). But they are instructive for anyone wanting to tell Jewish stories. It's not the outer trappings that make a story Jewish. It's not the Yiddishisms or the romanticized shtetyl life or the extras from "Fiddler on the Roof." The qualities that make a story "Jewish" fully come into play when the story is purposefully not set in a "Jewish" environment. It's when, for example, Marvin Wolf begins telling us about sitting down with a baseball umpire or going to the funeral of a housekeeper and by the end of the story we've got goosebumps because he has not only told a wonderful, moving story-- he's reminded us why we choose to be Jewish and what "being Jewish" really stands for. I have told children stories about Biblical chatacters, about Squirrels trying to make a minyan, about time travel, about Hannukah angels, about challah-eating ducks, and about the Magic Shabbat Fairy(tm). I have learned that a Jewish Story does not have to be clothed in the rags of a 19th C. Yiddish Peddler to impart an authentic Jewish experience in my listeners. It is enough that inside each of my tales, there beats a Jewish Heart. Baggage, Luggage, Shleppage
Tuesday, 15 July 2008 I was at my friend Mike's house, relaxing on the porch, when his daughter's friend arrived for a sleepover. The guest dropped her bag on the floor and announced that she had brought her "horrible luggage." "Why is it horrible?" we asked her. "Because I have to lug it," the eight year-old said. We marveled for a moment at this hidden connection between the word "lug" and a container for personal items. "Maybe instead of saying, ‘she comes with a lot of baggage' we should say ‘she comes with a lot of luggage,'" I said. After all, ‘psychological baggage' merely connotes the volume of personal issues that a person is dealing with - i.e. how annoying (or risky) that person is to others. ‘Psychological luggage' brings to mind the mentally exhaustive act of having to lug your thoughts & anxieties around with you wherever you go. Rather than focus on the effect that Person A is having on me, I refocus my thoughts on the suffering that Person A is inflicting on him or herself. "Why isn't it called shleppage?" asked Mike, the son of a Presbytarian Minister. Shleppage is an excellent word - a neologism as far as I know - and if Seinfeld was still on the air I would be calling the show runner and demanding that they write an episode around it. I hope that shleppage enters the English language - and not only because I was in on its birth (a porch on a sultry Summer's day in Appalachia.) 1) Shleppage sounds funny. 2) In my mind's eye, it conjures up an image of a cartoonish tramp dragging an enormous cartoonish burlap sack. That alone is worth the price of admission into the English language. 3) It's democratic. I shlep, you shlep, they shlep. Therefore, I have psychological shleppage and so do you. (‘psychological baggage' is something that only other people have.) 4) ‘He comes with a lot of luggage' makes sense, if you fixate of the meaning of lug. But for most of us, ‘luggage' is synonymous with neat rows of identical Samsonite in matching colors and trim. (I want to own luggage, but as anyone who has traveled with me knows, I only possess baggage.) Here is my definition of shleppage: Shleppage n. (a contraction of shlep and baggage). 1) A set of psychological and emotional assumptions that a person brings with them into a relationship that strongly affects their reactions to situations. Characterized by a laborious effort in maintaining this set of assumptions that far outweighs the benefits that these assumptions provide to the individual. (eg. "I am worried that Berol's shleppage is preventing him from finding a good job." Or "My shleppage makes me think that any job I take will be a dead end.") 2) An inconveniently and burdensome amount of personal belongings that must be moved from one location to another, causing distress to the individual performing the task. (eg. ‘We brought so much shleppage on our ski trip that I spent half the time shlepping stuff back and forth from the car to the lodge.") What are your thoughts? Should shleppage become a part our language? Or is English already shleppaged out with too many pop psych terms, slang and yiddishisms? Letting Down Your Hair (and your Readers)
Monday, 07 July 2008 In the back pages of this month's New York Review of Books is a fascinating exchange about the fairy tale, "Repunzel" between Marina Warner, the prize-winning writer of fiction, criticism and history, and Alison Lurie, the author of two collections of essays on children's literature. Warner calls attention to the earliest, more compelling versions of Repunzel, before they were bowdlerized by the Brothers Grimm. In the first Italian and French tellings, Repunzel's parents are not longing for a child. Rather, the wife is already pregnant and asks her husband to go fetch parsley from the garden of the Witch/Midwife. Parsley, Warner informs us, when concentrated is a powerful abortifacient (which is why the Witch/Midwife would have the herb growing in her garden in the first place.) The Witch/Midwife catches the Husband stealing the parsley and demands that he turn over the child to him - not as some demonic bargain - but in order to save the child from infanticide. The child is born and named "Parsinette" (Parsley) - a name which carries with it the baby girls' brush with annihilation and a warning for her not to repeat her mother's trajectory. Thus, the Witch/Midwife's choice to lock Parsinette/Repunzel away from men becomes perfectly understandable (although deeply flawed.) Also understandable is the Witch/Midwife's fury when she discovers that her young charge has been visited (and impregnated) by the Prince. What is missing from this Ur-version is a Villain - the Witch - whose monstrous behavior in the Grimms' version carries with it the stench of blood libels against the Jews and the endless persecution of midwifes and old women by Church authorities. What is gained by the Persinette version is everything. Rich, nuanced characters each believing themselves both noble and victim, each the hero of their own story. In other words, Tragedy. Thick, savory spoonfuls of human tragedy, ladled out to everyone in steaming piles. I have long felt that the Villain flattens out Narrative and sucks the life out of characters. Just as the Hero flatters the Reader by saying, "look here, all my imaginary qualities I confer on you" the Villain cheats the Reader by similarly saying, "there is nothing of you in me." The classic stories - the truly timeless narratives - are populated by deeply flawed characters, Hero and Villain marbleized, who live and breathe alongside us, century after century, because we cannot help but see ourselves within their tortured rationalizations, pettiness, apathy, hope, self-delusion and so on. Think of Milton's Satan vs. a cardboard creation like Voldemort - both embodiments of Evil, and yet, whom do we weep for? Whose arguments seduce? From whom do we (hopefully) learn to guard ourselves from the seductive, slippery quality of evil. Voldemort - a Villain - teaches us nothing about ourselves. Satan, in all the dazzling glory of his serpentine convolutions, is our Virgil, our guide, through a moral antimatter world. Similarly, the flattening out of Narrative has been going on for a long time in Jewish storytelling, specifically in the way that our midrashim (extrabiblical stories) deal with the twin brothers, Jacob and Esau. For the authors of the midrashim, living in a time of persecution by Rome, Esau became the epitome of everything brutal, base, animalistic in man, while Jacob was elevated to a Yesiva Boy par excellence. We have Esau engaged in every act of depravity until he resembles little more than a cartoon of his Biblical Self. Jacob, on the other hand, is white washed to the point where his midrashic counterpart might as well grab a rung of the dream ladder and ascend to Heaven with the angels. This is all very understandable given the period in which the stories were composed. But from a point of view of Sacred Storytelling, it is bad news for the Reader. Judaism is not a dualistic religion - from the onset, our God is recognized as the Creator of All - good and evil, embodied, if you will, in the Tree of Good and Evil that sits at the heart of Pardes (paradise.) Nowhere in the Torah are dualistic notions given much truck. We receive Blessings and Curses from the same God, positive and negative Commandments. We see ourselves in Jacob's triumph over his brother, and we weep alongside Esau in the anguish of his defeat. We do not need simplistic Heroes and cut-out Villains in the Torah, because the Torah provides us with an instrument to enter into the fray of real human emotion, real drama, and to glean our true paths from the confusion of real life. That instrument is called "l'havdil" - to distinguish. Judaism (and the Torah) is a tradition, which at its best, does not dualize. It Distinguishes. Just as God distinguishes the filaments of light and darkness from the void of pre-creation, Torah (and all sacred story) demands that we too perform the divine act of distinguishing. In Story, we must distinguish between the sacredness of the Witch/Midwives' desire to save Persinette/Repunzel from infanticide from that same Witch/Midwives' cruelty in imprisoning the girl. In the Torah, we must distinguish Esau and Jacob's sins from Esau and Jacob's acts of loving-kindness. Both as present. Both are instructive. And in doing so, in not cheating our audiences and in demanding emotional honesty from our authors, we too can grow - both Hero and Villain - in our own stories. Disposable Ideas
Thursday, 03 July 2008 I made an important and accidental discovery lately - that is that the metal blade on my disposable razor can be used more than once (a discovery of necessity since I was out of new blades.) In retrospect it's no surprise - how could even the most venal manufacturer build a blade that break after exactly one shave. Certainly, they must design the blade to shave both the thickest black stubble and the wispiest follicles? A light shave and the once-a-week-clean-up-for-Shabbat-caveman-look. And where do I fall on the spectrum? And yet, despite being able to chance it with two shaves from one blade, I've been reluctant to chance scraping a third shave out of the same blade. After all, I can't see the micro-nicks and imperfections in the blade that could turn a pleasant shave into a scarification rite. The same goes for ideas. If I could look inside my mind, I would probably find any number of not-so-gently-used ideas, thoughts, assumptions and theories - a good number of which have long outlived their usefulness, yet can't quite make it to the Trash Can of my brain. These ideas are like razor blades that have been left to rust on the edge of the sink. In the physical world, I would never think of using a rusty razor to shave my thin skin. But in the metaphysical world - the world of thoughts - I often don't hesitate to wield a rusted idea against my mind, or spirit. You know what I mean: Those worn out tapes that sabotage your efforts. Those tired aphorisms that some teacher or authority figure drummed into your head. Those over-the-counter prejudices, hand-me-down fears and expired reactions undermining your relationships with friends, family and God. When does an idea expire? When does it become dangerous? I can tell you one that I'm busy sweeping into the dustbin: It's the voice that says to me, "You can't succeed at [insert goal here]. You'll only get hurt/suffer disappointment/ruin your life." It's a voice that used to anger, infuriate and demoralize me. Especially when I found myself nodding in agreement. But it wasn't all bad. Like the disposable razor blade, it once served a purpose. Before it turned against me, it had a use: It was a shell, a Self, that protected a twelve year-old boy who was terrified of the world and never wanted to risk failure. So the voice said, "don't worry, I'll make sure you never risk anything to begin with." And long after that twelve-year-old had matured into a person (me) who loved risk, who delighted in taking changes, who wanted to grow and fail and pick himself up off the floor and try again, the voice was still there, doing it's tired old job of saving me from something I didn't want to saved from. It's a tired, old voice and I think it wants to be treated little the doddering old dog who was once the formidable guardian of the home - shown a bit of respect and politely thanked for its concern. Then ushered to a cozy spot by the fire, so the rest of us can get on with our lives. Eating Poison
Tuesday, 01 July 2008 I spent part of last week telling stories to children at a wonderful Christian Bible Camp called Marketplace 29 A.D. For two days, hundreds of children trooped through a beautiful sanctuary and listened in respectful animation to me bring to life events that happened thousands of years ago to our Patriarchs. The campers - who were grouped into the Twelve Tribes of Israel - asked questions, interjected their thoughts and shared in my awe at the depths of human suffering and joy contained in the words of Torah. The two stories that were assigned to me were Jacob Wrestling with the Angel (God In Search of Man) and Jacob Meeting Esau (Man in Search of God). Truthfully, neither were stories that I had much considered. Nor would they have been my first choice (nothing against the feuding brothers - but what, I wondered could I wrestle from those events that would appeal - or even make sense - to kindergarden through teenage kids living in 21st Century America.) Well, it turns out that there is a lot that they could relate to. And as often happens, there was a whole lot that I needed to relate to as well. Just as the Students teach the Teacher, the Story instructs the Storyteller.... But first there was a more immediate problem. I had no story. For the week leading up to Marketplace, I was at a loss. I read midrashim (extra-biblical tales) and racked my minds for ideas. No good stories immediately presented themselves to me. The night before Marketplace arrived and I was panicking. I had to tell six groups of children each day a fifteen minute story that would engage, energize and enthrall them. But there was no story. Even as I walked into Marketplace on Wednesday, I only had the shadowiest idea of what I would say. And so I did what I often do when I am stepping up to the microphone to chant a haftorah or to tell a story. I Trusted. I trusted that God would put some words into my mouth, if only not to disappoint the children. And I sang. I sang my favorite "soul opening" songs. Elohi Neshamah (O Lord, the Soul that You Put in Me in Pure) and Rav Nachman's "The whole world is a narrow bridge, but the main thing is not to fear." I sang and I paced. It felt strange to be signing these transcendant, crystiline prayers. It felt strange singing these hymns in a Church sanctuary with a large silver cross hanging from the pulpit (not the Bimah, I had to keep reminding myself.) But the acoustics were too heavenly to pass up... and apparently whatever angel sent with the stories was not confused by the environment that she found me in. Because she brought with her Three Stories. Two variations of Jacob Wrestling with the Angel and one mystical tale of "Jacob in the City of Tents" which you can read here (in the drop down menu above). But what does this have to do with eating poison? As I told the stories, and marveled at all the tiny details that unpacked themselves ex nihilo (I swear they weren't in my brain) what emerged for me about both stories what that both Jacob and Esau had been "eating poison" for their whole lives. "Eating Poison" is a term that I borrow from Reb George Forman, the ex-boxer and successful entrepeneur. Like Jacob, Mr. Forman sought to usurp the birthright of a formidable opponent, in his case, a man named Muhamed Ali. As George Forman himself tells it, in the famous "Rumble in the Jumble" Ali launched a psychological Shock and Awe against his opponent. Ali not only won over the crowds, but at one point had tens of thousands of people screaming, "Kill him! Kill him!" George Forman lost the fight and found himself hating his rival. Like Esau, he became consumed with thoughts of revenge. Like Jacob, he pictured himself the helpless victim. Then one morning, again as George Forman tells it, he woke up and realized that hating Ali was like eating spoonfuls of poison. George Forman could go on filling himself with poison until he ruined his life, or he could consciously decide to put himself past his anger at Ali and build a life for himself. The rest, as they say, is history. George not only became a multi-multi-millionaire, but more importantly, he became a good person. A Mensch, if not a Tzaddik. It was in L.A., driving down Westwood Blvd. that I heard George Forman telling this story on NPR. And like the George Forman of decades before, I was consumed with hate and fear and envy. I was a struggling screenwriter and had become painfully fixated on the infinitely more successful career of a writer/director whose work I detested. So much so, that I was eating psychic poison each day and making myself literally sick. But when I heard George Forman speak, it was like the scales fell from my eyes and a glimmer of understanding of what I was doing to myself - the self-inflicted punishment - pierced through the gloom and began my faltering journey back into the light. So as I told these stories to the kids - stories about envy and reconciliation, hatred and tsuvah (turning back), I thought of the old George and the old Alon - two men spooning heaping tablespoons of the icky green stuff into their mouths - and how the power of storytelling can transform lives. George Forman's story transformed mine. It is a noble thing to tell sacred stories, my religious studies teacher in college once told me. After so many years, I am finally beginning to understand the depth of his words. How to Read My Mind
Thursday, 26 June 2008 Gathered here is the outpouring of my mind - stories that I have told to children and adults, in synagogue and church, spurious theories, midrashim, parables and dreams. Think of it as a jumble sale of my inner workings. Pick up a piece, turn it over, marvel or not, comment or not, linger or move on. These pieces are happy to see the light. recent writings
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Alon Kaplan Writings
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Alon Kaplan Writings