minhag america

On our street in Jerusalem, there is a Turkish shul, and a Hungarian one. Both are prized for their 'authentic' devaluing and preservation of unique traditions. Why is it, though, that my traditions are never taken seriously. In today's Times of Israel, I discuss what the Jewish world could learn from Minhag America.

Last week, prominent American and Israeli Jewish leaders went to the Israeli government on an “emergency mission” to plead the case of those who want mixed prayer available at the Kotel, as had been agreed upon only a few months ago. But my money is on the status quo. Because as much as Israelis claim to value the traditions and customs of Jews all over the world, when it comes to Minhag America, there is simply no love at all.

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Filling our table

When I was a child, I remember feeling inexplicably lonely. My sister and I would sit at the shabbat table, one on each side, our parents at the ends. For sure, we had many lovely times, delicious food, singing, laughter. But often, in the back of my mind, there was something missing. 

Though my parents created a community of friends, inviting them for shabbat and for holidays, I was always aware that my friends had something I did not. Family. Choosing your friends is of course a wonderful way to expand your circle, and sometimes those relationships are the most important we will ever have. But I missed the forced intimacy of relationship with people who I would need to be connected to, whether I wanted to or not. The shared history, biology, language - all linking us together. 

Some of this was a function of geography, my relatives living too far away for a last minute shabbat invite. but much of it was a result of the war, and what it had done to my family. When the fighting was over, my grandfather and his brother were the only ones left from a large extended family in Tarnopol, then Poland, now Ukraine. 

With four children, and family and friends, our table is almost always full. And my hope is, that my kids will have even bigger gatherings as they create their own families in the future. But I can't help missing the cousins I will never know, who float above my shabbat table every week, reminding me what could have, what would have been. 

On Yom Hashoah, they come into focus, and I say their names out loud. 

Yekutiel Schmelke Bieler

Betka Bieler Fischer

Israel Fischer

Sabina Bieler Teichholtz

Abysch Teichholtz

Giza Teichholtz 17

Klara Teichholtz 16

Jakob (Kuba) Teichholtz 9

Moshe Bieler

Gusta Spitzer Bieler

Henya Bieler 7

Josef Bieler 5

Sosie Bieler Biloraj

Abraham Biloraj

Two Biloraj children ages 3 and 1.5

Chava Dvojre Bieler

Hersh Bieler

Rakhel Bieler

Herman Bieler

Misia Bieler

Bernhard Bieler

Wilhelm Bieler

and tens of others whose names are forever forgotten.

May their memories be for a blessing, and may our crowded, loud, infuriating tables filled with family be a measure of our revenge.

women won't vote for Hillary because we wear the same bra....

I've been wondering, as I watch the coverage about the campaign, why so little is said about the truly radical possibility that we could, possibly, elect the first female president in November. Like it's no big deal. But here's why I think it IS a big deal. From Huffpost Women.

You remember the feeling. You watched all night as the numbers started to build. Your heart skipped a beat when you heard that another state was being called. At some point, as the wins stacked up, and the Republicans on FOX News went into full panic mode, you could feel it becoming true. 

America had elected an African-American president. It was exciting to be on the winning side, but it was more than that. It felt like a cleansing of sorts. Like absolution. Sure, our country had a history of racism and slavery and Jim Crow and lynchings, but maybe, in this one act, we had gotten ourselves on the road past our legacy of oppression.

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sunday in the park with Bernie

As a kid, I described myself as a socialist, proud of my (semi) radical roots. In many ways my political goals remain surprisingly unchanged. What has changed is my perspective. I'm way more concerned about employing effective tactics than about being true to my ideals no matter the cost. Sometimes, that makes me look like the bad guy. In today's HuffPost Politics I examine an aspect of the presidential campaign that may be familiar to some of you from your own lives.

I hate being the bad guy. But no matter what I do, there it is. It follows me. Sticks to my shoe like week-old gum, which, even though I've scraped it out with a bamboo skewer, still stubbornly connects with the floor, then lingers for a fraction of a second, holding me back. When I try to run from it, it becomes my shadow, just as fast as I am, but skinnier. 

I could blame my kids. The four of them have made my life into an endless series of responsibilities that pursue me even in sleep. I bolt up at 3 a.m., unable to remember if I've filled out the latest form, sent in the appropriate check, without which my child will never get into Princeton. And while I'm up, did I remember to call the plumber about that leak?

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