It's a funny thing - to find yourself writing in oblivion and then being acknowledged as part of a larger...oblivion. In The Death of the Liberal Class, Chris Hedges asserts that, because there is no real voice for dissent in this country, intellectuals have receded into their own veritable caves, with their own Platonic ideals as comfort. For a long time, I have wondered if the world would eventually transform into a place in which people stayed inside and did nearly everything virtually. Apparently E.M. Forster had this vision in 1909, in a story called "The Machine Stops," which Hedges also cites.
(You can read it here: http://archive.ncsa.illinois.edu/prajlich/forster.html)
Most teachers I have met are already in this stage of existence. They come home exhausted from the battle with their students, administrators and parents. Most of the discussion is about language - since you cannot own your own words anymore, students, administrators and teachers are free to re-define the terms for the courses you teach at any time. What is English? Is it spelling? Shouldn't my son spell? Shouldn't we stop all discussion of reading comprehension until every student can spell? What about penmanship? What about the names of literary devices?
I'd defy anyone to bring these kinds of questions into an academically respected classroom. Ask a professor at Harvard if he or she marks off for spelling? Do the students have to count off the literary devices in Shakespeare or is their interpretation what matters? The need to categorize is something I've encountered in friends who felt out of sync - who felt on the margins. I understand that. Why do we have to teach our students to present themselves as if they, too, are on the outer rim of culture? We are not only creating two classes of students - the kind who are allowed to think "independently" at Harvard and those who must "address the task" - but we are setting up a world in which most of the former will find themselves instructing the latter to their incredible dismay.
First, I wonder why everyone insists so much that students who are loathe to read in the first place have to dissect texts dryly. Why not invite them to comprehend what they read, discuss what it means and inspires, and stop asking them to prove their rights to do so by calling something an image, a metaphor or a symbol. What matters is their ability to understand when something can resonate in many ways, and not the training of their reflexes in the art of slapping down a pen and writing in a label. What it does is limit their response to what they read and make them constantly in search of approval. It is exactly what Hedges describes: they put literary works "in their place" in the hierarchy of things, which places the reader at an even lower rank than what he/she reads. It leaves the intellectual/teacher the task of further slamming down the students and he/she becomes a kind of grand inquisitor of mechanics.
Second, I recognize that I have become the "Underground Man" which Hedges points to and I am to frightened, sometimes, to leave my lair. Like the figure in Dostoevsky's story, I am bilious.
All of this keeps our country in a kind of stasis that we couldn't possibly want for our children. Or, more selfishly, for ourselves. We are a society of lonely people.
Our separateness makes empathy harder to come by. In our caves, we re-invent ideas which wisdom could teach us to re-consider.
How do we face 2012 and not be afraid of each other - of listening to each other and sharing our ideas? How do we refuse to be bullied by a society which has made most people feel powerless because they don't have the money that those in power possess.
The lesson of Chanukah was that the few conquered the many. It was a few rebelling against an oppressor. It is easy enough to spend time rebelling, though not to win. But what do we build after?
28 December, 2011
25 December, 2011
Refugees from Santa
Last night, Christmas eve, at about 8:30 EST, a group of about 50 people ranging in ages of 35-50, huddled in a kind of "L" shape across from the row of restaurants at the heart of the East Village's Little India. Certainly they were not waiting to enter one of the many establishments which are decorated in gold and silver tinsel lit with all patterns of hanging lights, in colors ranging from pink and green to white and red 365 days of the year, not just on Christmas eve. The irony of the desire of these restaurants to try to induce the feeling of an extended Christmas party is poignant, too, on more than just this specific night. Even on this cold night, teenagers and young men dressed in black and white beckoned to passersby across the street to "Come in, have dinner, no waiting, Miss? Mister?" Across the street, the increasing curl of bodies held its faces in wraps, alternating between the support of the iron gate and the warm light of the street.
As I joined the end of the line, I interrupted a lively conversation between two couples, with a brusque and perfunctory, "Are they not letting people in?" An equally arch response came back at me, "They've JUST started, but it's very slow," Then, the shorter woman in the couple whisked a hair upward in the same motion with which she rolled her eyes, "Good timing." I tried to unleash my hokey, "Well, I do my best, ma'am," smile, but it was no use. The sarcasm had no place in the group I eagerly joined tonight. For, it seemed, practically every New York Jew I could have gone to Hebrew school with (was not only on this line, but would file in all evening) to the exuberant, "Nittle Nacht" celebration at Sixth Street Community Synagogue, packing the place with a few hundred people. As the crowd grew, the age range extended broadly to include those who would have gone to Hebrew school with my parents, grandparents and my grandchildren.
Of course, the reason the doors were just opening had to do with the end of the Sabbath - there hadn't been that much time between sundown and show time to get over to the building and set-up. Nevertheless, they should have known that the audience would be eager to come inside - the evening promised to be a novel take on the yearly escape from Christmas eve made by Jews worldwide. Traditionally, this ritual involves things like Chinese food (some of it Kosher, some, well...), movies, cheesecake and card playing. This isn't to say that we don't like Christmas. Pop culture is replete with Jews hosting Christmas specials, producing albums of sacred and fun holiday music - with the most famous, glaring, and ironic example being "White Christmas," written by our own Irving Berlin The holiday begs the "Jackie Mason"-like remark: "If it weren't for Jews, there would BE no Christmas."
The star performer at the Sixth Street Celebration, John Zorn, has also produced a Christmas album. On this night, Zorn and a group opf talented Klezmer musicians did a rip-roaring rendition of "Winter Wonderland," that had the audience snapping it's fingers. If there had been room in the aisles for swing dancing, I'm sure that some people would have leapt to the dance floor, and everyone else would've been envious of their courage. The music throughout the evening was a fantasia on the traditional "Jewish Jazz" sometimes switching from electric guitar to one stringed lutes, but always keeping a wild, euphoric beat. Only a crowd of over-educated, hyper-self-conscious, post-modern, and self-referential New Yorkers would JUST SIT THERE, bouncing their heads to it and not actually dancing - there was sufficient room in the aisles for some kind of rhythmic movement. I've never felt more comfortable in my whole life.
The desire to dance, to sing, and to be a part of our own wild traditions was what drove both those who stood outside and those who waited for the precise moment when they thought the streets would be quiet to make the pilgrimage. It wasn't for lack of things to do downtown. The streets were not as crowded as they usuallly would be on a Saturday night, but they were filled with rich eavesdropping experiences. At St. Mark's Bookshop, where, I'm afraid, I was NOT the first person to think of this as the perfect night to buy a book by the late Christopher Hitchens (sold out), as I tried to decide whether I needed left wing exhortation or Mallarme, the tapping of a pen against a cell phone diverted my attention, "No, Alexander, no. Bubba (Yiddish for grandfather) cannot turn the car around now! If you were well enough to go this morning, you are not suddenly SO SICK now. You are meeting him in front of the opera and I don't care ....We've had this planned FOR WEEKS. You made a commitment. Alex, I'm being reasonable with you....Just, NO...Yes, I'm sure." There were about five of us in tears as the woman tousled her vines of red ringlets away from her face and pretended that she was not, in fact, in a store full of Jewish people who had a pretty good picture of Alexander, Bubba and all of the conversations that her family has had for the last two generation, perhaps more.
The "Nittle Nacht" celebration provided a place for all of us to confront and rejoice in our heritage in mor than just the fact that we were surrounded by people whom we all vaguely recognized. (There were a fair number of possible members of the Goyishe persuasion in the audience, by the way, though I cannot be sure) Rabbi Greg, a gifted saxophonist who leads his own, Ayn Soph orchestra (which sadly came on at midnight when half the audience had already left for the long subway ride and the LIRR) encourages musical exploration that is as intense as prayer. The highlight of the evening was John Zorn whose music unleashed the celebratory Hasid in all of us - the whirling dervish dancing to the delight of god. But, all of the performers were incredible and ambitious - one band interpreting Shlomo Carlbach through the lens of Fela. At intermission, there was a staged reading by 24/6, a theater company in residence at the synagogue. The play was a kind of SNL skit with the aim of teaching the audience the meaning of "Nittle Nacht" - the Jewish reaction to Christmas eve. For centuries and even now (I learned about this in Hebrew elementary school) Jews have made a habit of not engaging in any religious study on Christmas eve so as not to seem to be advocating in any spiritual way on Jesus' behalf. "Santa wasn't such a popular character until Coca Cola revived him! Christmas eve has meant pogroms for us. We have to honor these memories." When the husband claims never to have heard of this tradition before, despite being observant his entire life, the wife exclaims, "You're a Litvak, what would you know about it!" "Oh, some local Rebbe said it," counters the husband. With that debate, the couple shook much of the audience back to a corner of a room in their childhood home infused with the traditions and gossips of their forefathers and in which the rivalries between Jews of different sectors of Europe felt as palpable as those between Yankees and Red Sox. Any minute, I could see my grandmother mugging the high mannered ways associated with the academicians of Lithuania. Although my grandmother's town was one of the early centers of Reformed Judaism, she retained her regional respect for the Shtetl synagogues of Poland and the words ot the reigning local Rabbis.
After intermission, there was more Klezmer, though the crowd began to thin, worrying about transportation on Christmas eve/early morning. Those who waited were treated to two really good numbers by Ayn Sof which performed starting around midnight. Even later, there was a mix of music and spoken word which, perhaps because of the thinning crowd, was especially acerbic. At past midnight, it wasn't necessarily fair to ask an audience to enter into debate about which escape from the floods of Santa-colored windows and packaging was THE SMARTEST choice for the evening's refugees. I was feeling good - shaken by the music into a wish to talk, but not to debate with other Jews about how I should have spent my evening. It was a naive urge, certainly, but one I needed to follow out of the synagogue.
When I left the synagogue, I felt a strange desire to tell everyone about my evening. Since it was well-past midnight, and I really should have left with the crew taking the train back to affordable housing, I grabbed a cab. Unsurprisingly, but to my delight, my driver was a devout Muslim. "Obviously neither of us is celebrating Christmas,," I announced smuggly, as if I could just high-five my long-lost cousin and declare peace in the Middle East. I went into my well-rehearsed monologue about the irony of killing a tree and putting it in your house in honor of the birth of a savior. But, while he chuckled, my driver was much more solemn. "Jesus was killed because he wanted to teach people the right way, and the Romans wouldn't allow him to do it. Just like Moses and Muhammad. Human Rights have never been respected in this world." His comment brought me back to Egypt - 2011 and all the issues throughout Israel, the West Bank and Middle East. And everywhere. While I had huddled with a happy audience to escape the Yule logs and kids everywhere tracked Santa on Google, it seems obvious, but it doesn't go without saying that most of the world is not that lucky. Perhaps next year, or even sooner, we should be doing concerts and tracking the development of freedoms while listening to each others' music. The wait has been far too long.
As I joined the end of the line, I interrupted a lively conversation between two couples, with a brusque and perfunctory, "Are they not letting people in?" An equally arch response came back at me, "They've JUST started, but it's very slow," Then, the shorter woman in the couple whisked a hair upward in the same motion with which she rolled her eyes, "Good timing." I tried to unleash my hokey, "Well, I do my best, ma'am," smile, but it was no use. The sarcasm had no place in the group I eagerly joined tonight. For, it seemed, practically every New York Jew I could have gone to Hebrew school with (was not only on this line, but would file in all evening) to the exuberant, "Nittle Nacht" celebration at Sixth Street Community Synagogue, packing the place with a few hundred people. As the crowd grew, the age range extended broadly to include those who would have gone to Hebrew school with my parents, grandparents and my grandchildren.
Of course, the reason the doors were just opening had to do with the end of the Sabbath - there hadn't been that much time between sundown and show time to get over to the building and set-up. Nevertheless, they should have known that the audience would be eager to come inside - the evening promised to be a novel take on the yearly escape from Christmas eve made by Jews worldwide. Traditionally, this ritual involves things like Chinese food (some of it Kosher, some, well...), movies, cheesecake and card playing. This isn't to say that we don't like Christmas. Pop culture is replete with Jews hosting Christmas specials, producing albums of sacred and fun holiday music - with the most famous, glaring, and ironic example being "White Christmas," written by our own Irving Berlin The holiday begs the "Jackie Mason"-like remark: "If it weren't for Jews, there would BE no Christmas."
The star performer at the Sixth Street Celebration, John Zorn, has also produced a Christmas album. On this night, Zorn and a group opf talented Klezmer musicians did a rip-roaring rendition of "Winter Wonderland," that had the audience snapping it's fingers. If there had been room in the aisles for swing dancing, I'm sure that some people would have leapt to the dance floor, and everyone else would've been envious of their courage. The music throughout the evening was a fantasia on the traditional "Jewish Jazz" sometimes switching from electric guitar to one stringed lutes, but always keeping a wild, euphoric beat. Only a crowd of over-educated, hyper-self-conscious, post-modern, and self-referential New Yorkers would JUST SIT THERE, bouncing their heads to it and not actually dancing - there was sufficient room in the aisles for some kind of rhythmic movement. I've never felt more comfortable in my whole life.
The desire to dance, to sing, and to be a part of our own wild traditions was what drove both those who stood outside and those who waited for the precise moment when they thought the streets would be quiet to make the pilgrimage. It wasn't for lack of things to do downtown. The streets were not as crowded as they usuallly would be on a Saturday night, but they were filled with rich eavesdropping experiences. At St. Mark's Bookshop, where, I'm afraid, I was NOT the first person to think of this as the perfect night to buy a book by the late Christopher Hitchens (sold out), as I tried to decide whether I needed left wing exhortation or Mallarme, the tapping of a pen against a cell phone diverted my attention, "No, Alexander, no. Bubba (Yiddish for grandfather) cannot turn the car around now! If you were well enough to go this morning, you are not suddenly SO SICK now. You are meeting him in front of the opera and I don't care ....We've had this planned FOR WEEKS. You made a commitment. Alex, I'm being reasonable with you....Just, NO...Yes, I'm sure." There were about five of us in tears as the woman tousled her vines of red ringlets away from her face and pretended that she was not, in fact, in a store full of Jewish people who had a pretty good picture of Alexander, Bubba and all of the conversations that her family has had for the last two generation, perhaps more.
The "Nittle Nacht" celebration provided a place for all of us to confront and rejoice in our heritage in mor than just the fact that we were surrounded by people whom we all vaguely recognized. (There were a fair number of possible members of the Goyishe persuasion in the audience, by the way, though I cannot be sure) Rabbi Greg, a gifted saxophonist who leads his own, Ayn Soph orchestra (which sadly came on at midnight when half the audience had already left for the long subway ride and the LIRR) encourages musical exploration that is as intense as prayer. The highlight of the evening was John Zorn whose music unleashed the celebratory Hasid in all of us - the whirling dervish dancing to the delight of god. But, all of the performers were incredible and ambitious - one band interpreting Shlomo Carlbach through the lens of Fela. At intermission, there was a staged reading by 24/6, a theater company in residence at the synagogue. The play was a kind of SNL skit with the aim of teaching the audience the meaning of "Nittle Nacht" - the Jewish reaction to Christmas eve. For centuries and even now (I learned about this in Hebrew elementary school) Jews have made a habit of not engaging in any religious study on Christmas eve so as not to seem to be advocating in any spiritual way on Jesus' behalf. "Santa wasn't such a popular character until Coca Cola revived him! Christmas eve has meant pogroms for us. We have to honor these memories." When the husband claims never to have heard of this tradition before, despite being observant his entire life, the wife exclaims, "You're a Litvak, what would you know about it!" "Oh, some local Rebbe said it," counters the husband. With that debate, the couple shook much of the audience back to a corner of a room in their childhood home infused with the traditions and gossips of their forefathers and in which the rivalries between Jews of different sectors of Europe felt as palpable as those between Yankees and Red Sox. Any minute, I could see my grandmother mugging the high mannered ways associated with the academicians of Lithuania. Although my grandmother's town was one of the early centers of Reformed Judaism, she retained her regional respect for the Shtetl synagogues of Poland and the words ot the reigning local Rabbis.
After intermission, there was more Klezmer, though the crowd began to thin, worrying about transportation on Christmas eve/early morning. Those who waited were treated to two really good numbers by Ayn Sof which performed starting around midnight. Even later, there was a mix of music and spoken word which, perhaps because of the thinning crowd, was especially acerbic. At past midnight, it wasn't necessarily fair to ask an audience to enter into debate about which escape from the floods of Santa-colored windows and packaging was THE SMARTEST choice for the evening's refugees. I was feeling good - shaken by the music into a wish to talk, but not to debate with other Jews about how I should have spent my evening. It was a naive urge, certainly, but one I needed to follow out of the synagogue.
When I left the synagogue, I felt a strange desire to tell everyone about my evening. Since it was well-past midnight, and I really should have left with the crew taking the train back to affordable housing, I grabbed a cab. Unsurprisingly, but to my delight, my driver was a devout Muslim. "Obviously neither of us is celebrating Christmas,," I announced smuggly, as if I could just high-five my long-lost cousin and declare peace in the Middle East. I went into my well-rehearsed monologue about the irony of killing a tree and putting it in your house in honor of the birth of a savior. But, while he chuckled, my driver was much more solemn. "Jesus was killed because he wanted to teach people the right way, and the Romans wouldn't allow him to do it. Just like Moses and Muhammad. Human Rights have never been respected in this world." His comment brought me back to Egypt - 2011 and all the issues throughout Israel, the West Bank and Middle East. And everywhere. While I had huddled with a happy audience to escape the Yule logs and kids everywhere tracked Santa on Google, it seems obvious, but it doesn't go without saying that most of the world is not that lucky. Perhaps next year, or even sooner, we should be doing concerts and tracking the development of freedoms while listening to each others' music. The wait has been far too long.
24 December, 2011
16 December, 2011
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