a rallying cry

by Leah Bieler


Can Jews and Arabs work together to oppose Trump? Some Jews think the answer is no. I'm hoping the answer is yes. Today in The Times of Israel, adventures in protesting.

 

Years ago a friend of mine sent me a picture of a sign that made him giggle. It was from a march of some kind — I can’t recall the cause — and there was a small group holding up a banner emblazoned with the words, “Jewish Lesbian Vegetarians.” Together we laughed about how unbelievably specific the sign was, and wondered aloud whether this group would deign to associate with meat eaters. Or vegans.

It feels quaint now, our surprise. Today, we are slicing ourselves into smaller and smaller pieces of the pie. This isn’t all bad. How amazing to discover that scattered around the world there are at least 117 people who share your passion for Indonesian airmail stamps from 1971-77?

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Mourning in America

by Leah Bieler


It hits me when I least expect it. I’m driving to Target for paper towels, and out of the corner of my eye, in my very blue state, I see a bumper sticker. My stomach does a flip, and suddenly, despite myself, I am chocking back tears. I’ve heard countless people say I ought to ‘get over it.’ And yet, I remain unable to contain the emotion. Why on earth is it so hard?

 

We live in arguably the best moment in all of human history for women. I can own property by myself, I can work in nearly any profession. I have the right to vote. But as our culture has changed so blindingly fast over the last 100 years, I still live with memories of a different time. Those memories are at the same time deeply painful, and the things that spur me on to fight for a more just and equal society. 

 

Only recently, in an unfortunately timely discussion about sexual assault, I was recallingthe lyrics to the song “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” from Fiddler on the Roof. Maybe you remember it? Tevye’s daughters are taking turns pretending to be Yente the Matchmaker. They are describing potential suitors for their sisters. As part of the rundown, one of the young women explains, “You’ve heard he has a temper/ He’ll beat you every night/ But only when he’s sober/ So you’re all right.”

 

My whole life, starting when I was a little girl, I had sung that song with abandon. I never balked at that line. But now something in me has changed, and I cannot go backwards. When I hear that line, I shudder. How comfortable we were with the idea that a man would beat his wife. How comfortable I was. 

 

This, of course, is why I’ve worked as I have, protested, signed petitions, lectured, marched - in the foolish confidence that I would fight so that my children wouldn’t need to. 

I had an optimistic vision of progress as a one-way street. I truly believed, I’m only now beginning to realize, that once things moved in the direction of more equality and tolerance, they would not - they could not - slide backwards into the abyss. 

 

On November 8, I was certain that Hillary Clinton would be the next president. Not because I have been a lifelong Democrat, or even because she is a woman. But because I truly believed that this country could not relinquish the progress it had made, and elect someone who ran on racism, and xenophobia, and on famous men being given blanket permission to sexually assault women. 

 

I was sure my daughters, and my sons, would be watching with awe as we swore in our first woman as President. I thought Donald Trump represented the past, and that America would vote for the future. And right there, in the space between my hopes and my reality, right there sits my grief. I am mourning for the future I had envisioned, and it feels, in some measure, like a death. 

 

Some will balk at that comparison, but in terms of my emotional experience, and that of many women my age and older (I’m 44), it is apt. No other event in my life, except an actual death,  has left me feeling this raw, and angry, and suddenly tearful. Sometimes it wakes me in the night, this realization that my vision of the world was too hopeful, and I find it hard to return to sleep. 

 

Over time, the sharp blade of my feelings will dull around the edges, as with any loss. Most people I know, more like all of them, if I’m being truthful, see me as a cynical person. I’m not sure I was even aware myself that this upbeat, rosy, idealistic side of me was hiding underneath. But there it was, open, and vulnerable, and available - to be crushed like a bug.

 

Over winter break, as a respite from the news, we watched old Muppet Show DVDs with the kids. One episode opened with a musical number wherein Sandy Duncan did copious numbers of shots and then got manhandled (monsterhandled?) in what might be charitably described as assault. Through it all, Ms. Duncan seemed quite sanguine.  My husband and I glanced at one another, waiting to see if anyone would react. Our third grader looked over, eyes wide. “Wow,” he exclaimed, “She is NOT a feminist.” So for now, I’ll try to revel in the little victories.

 

Because I have learned a painful lesson this season, and it’s a lesson I won’t soon forget. Progress is not inevitable. I will need to teach my children to continue the fight that I thought I could save them from. 

 

And all of us, women and men, young and old, who still have a lump in our throats, we are allowed to mourn. Like in a bad dream, there is a marathon we thought we had run, and instead we find ourselves back at the starting line. We can take a little time to lick our wounds, and to assess our losses. Then, sooner rather than later,  we’ll need to take our children by the hands, keep our eyes on the horizon, and start running that very first mile.


what comes next

by Leah Bieler


In the surreal weeks since the election, I've struggled with what positive steps we can take to change the direction in which we seem to be moving. Not just the US, but the Jewish community as well, seem to be hunkering down in an us vs. them posture, which gives us just enough distance from our foes that we feel comfortable speaking our minds, no matter the cost. Or maybe the price has become too cheap to bother. So, in response, my plea. 

 

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” Could a phrase, an admonition, feel any more out-of-date? Who in their right minds thinks they have the authority to tell me I should be embarrassed about my behavior? First amendment rights and all, I can say whatever I please. Freedom of speech, yada, yada, yada.

 

True. Nearly all of the time, we can say whatever we want without fear of prosecution. A certain vocal segment of the population, railing against ‘political correctness,’ has been complaining for years that they are unfairly constrained in their speech. Unable to express what they truly want to express. Shamed into remaining silent.

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A quick thank you note to Donald Trump

by Leah Bieler


If you’re a woman, and likely some of you are, there’s one question, repeated nearly hourly these past few weeks in the media, that is making your head spin. 

 

“Why didn’t she report it?”

 

Indeed. Such a simple question. Why didn’t they report it? Surely - if it actually happened - they would have, right?

 

I decided to put this theory to the test. Recently, I posted this simple request on my Facebook page. ‘Women - comment here if you've ever been groped without your consent and failed to report it.’ I thought it would be a good way to begin a conversation about why women don’t always report. I had no idea what I was in for.

 

Within minutes, responses started pouring in. Most of the women said the first time it happened to them they were in middle school. So, ten to twelve years old. One woman reported repeated incidents, beginning when she was six. A close friend said her first encounter, a daily one with a camp counselor, was when she was only five years old. 

 

Just a sampling of the responses - 

 

“Camp- a guy took my hand and put it in his crotch and held it there tightly enough that it took me a few seconds to get free.”

 

“8th grade. Back of the science lab before homeroom by 2 boys in my class.”

 

“On a subway in 1986. A guy stalked me for a week and then stuck his hand up my shirt.”

 

“In the movie theater by the man sitting next to me. I had gone to see a matinee on my own. When I realized what was happening, he got up and ran. I was frozen in the dark theatre. Couldn't move or speak until it was too late.”

 

“Rockaway Beach. A man put his hand down my bikini bottom. I was in junior high.”

 

 

“Yes. More than once. I was full on sexually assaulted in my college dorm room and never reported it. I was drunk and he was a star football player. I was concerned with how he'd be treated. So backwards.”

 

“I was groped by a guy at the bus stop in Jerusalem, late at night. I was 19. He had a gun.”

 

That last one was me. 

 

Lots of the stories repeated themselves. There were numerous accounts of girls and women being groped on the subway, the bus or the train. Of girls being assaulted in school. Of women being grabbed at their jobs. 

 

The women who responded were not shrinking violets. I didn’t know all of them, but among the ones I do know, a quick count revealed 10 teachers, 7 Ph.D.s and 7 rabbis. There were at least 3 attorneys, and the same number of M.D.s and professional writers. The list included an architect and a school principal. 

 

All these woman are successful advocates for themselves and others on a daily basis. So why, in the face of such vile behavior, have they remained silent all these years? Why did they neglect to speak out? 

 

As children they were likely confused and embarrassed, their silence a piece of their willful forgetting. As adults, as professionals, they were aware that any such accusations invariably devolve into the type of he-said she-said that leaves them looking whiny and weak. Better to firmly reject and hope, even in the face of ample evidence to the contrary, that it doesn’t happen again.

 

Maybe we should consider sending Donald Trump a thank-you note. For being the grope that broke the camel’s back. For forcing so many women to finally speak out, so that they could drown out his nonsense. 

 

Most poignant to me, was a message I received past midnight from an old friend who had posted about a particularly upsetting incident, then deleted it, deciding that she didn’t want to be so public. She wrote that, 20 years later, she was at home shaking with anger, at herself, that she had never reported it. Because even though none of it was her fault, she was the one feeling guilty. 

 

And that’s how it goes, men. Women, nearly all of us, walk around every day weighed down by these accumulated injustices. feeling angry, and guilty, and angry at ourselves for feeling guilty. And the men who violated us are so free of shame that the denials flow like water, so smooth that we almost believe them. But only almost.