Affliction, All Stars, and Adult Rebellion

As I was getting ready for Yom Kippur and already an hour behind schedule, I realized that I had exactly one non-leather shoe. The other one is snoozing contentedly somewhere in Memphis. They were separated during Tisha A’Bav, when I was still wearing one shoe and one boot. Interestingly enough, the shoe that made it was the boot shoe. Huh.

Since I was running behind to get to Highland Park and very much desiring to get there in time to eat before the fast began, I decided to jump on New Jersey Intrastate Highway 1 and jump off at the first place where I might be likely to find non-leather shoes. Which was how I found myself dashing into Target, desperately looking looking for the footwear. Now, although I don’t consider myself a shoe person—I don’t love to go shoe shopping and I don’t spend a lot of money on shoes—I still don’t like to wear ugly shoes. And, to make the non-leather thing more difficult, the only fashion tip my mother ever gave me was to never wear sneakers with a dress. Even when I was wearing a boot, I found flats (or nearly flats) to wear because I could not bring myself to wear sneakers.

But then I saw them: black Converse All Stars. My last pair of Converse was in high school, and the orthopedist threw them in the garbage for me. He took one, bent it in half, and said, “You know what these are? Caca. You know what caca is? It’s what we Italians say instead of shit.” Away went my beautiful rebel sneakers, my one nod to rock and roll clothes.

Here they were again, staring me in the eye with the pristine white star blinking in the perfect black material. Material—just cloth. And rubber soles with rubber toes. Which meant no leather. In less than five minutes, I picked up the shoes, confirmed with a sales person that they were all rubber and cloth, found socks and insoles (to silence the voice of the podiatrist), paid, and was out the door.

I silenced my mother’s voice, too. Converse are not sneakers, exactly, certainly not tennis shoes. They might not be dress shoes, but I could get away with wearing them with a dress. I did still have a small question in my mind, though, because the point of not wearing leather is that you are to afflict yourself on Yom Kippur, to fast and also feel uncomfortable. Were the shoes with the insoles too comfortable?

It turned out that they were not uncomfortable, but the podiatrist was still right—they weren’t the best for my feet. During the Amidah, my feet fell asleep. And my toes were a bit pinched because of the room that the insoles took up. However, I made it through, prayed fervently, and drove home after breaking the fast.

In the morning, the brand new Converse All Stars were again staring at me, sticking out from under my bed. They had not been cheap and it would be a shame if there were only used twice a year. How could that be fair?

Again, I was thinking of high school, how they made me feel like a rebel, even though they were wildly popular among certain groups. Could I wear sneakers with a dress? Was I too old for the rebel shoes?

For me, this is a question of not only fashion, but propriety. I felt disdain in college when I saw newly divorced women putting on baby tees with Diva written in rhinestones. Once, I commented to my sister that she ought to shoot me in the neck if I was still wearing Emily the Strange t-shirts when I was thirty. Yes, I judged the women who dressed too young harshly. What I wondered was, didn’t they know that that super pink pink was not for them? That it did nothing for their hair or complexion? That they looked older, not younger? Harsh judgment from a girl not even in her twenties.

No, I don’t wear Emily the Strange t-shirts anymore, or t-shirts at all. I shop in the women’s section, wear dresses, and cover myself well. But I do have affectations—I have allowed my hair to grow out, and I wear a flower barrette to keep it out of my face. Would the sneakers be too much?

Perhaps I had judged those women too harshly. Perhaps they deserved to allow themselves to dress like the youth for a moment, to flaunt their bodies. After all, they were coming out of the worst of it, from marriages in which they were not appreciated and probably rarely felt attractive. If clothing made them feel rejuvenated, wonderful. Down the road, maybe they would allow themselves to find a middle ground between the juniors section and the garbage bag shaped dresses they wore during their marriages.

I decided that today, I would wear my rebel shoes, with a purple cotton dress. At the copier, a woman confronted me. “Are you a student?” she asked. Before I could answer, she pushed me out of the way and made her copies.

Are the sneakers too young for me? Maybe. Probably. But I get to be a fashion rebel again, and atone for the judging I did many years ago, by in turn, being judged myself. So, shoot me in the neck, if need be. At least I’ll be wearing cute shoes.   

What to Expect When a Southern Belle Is Transplanted in New Jersey

I can call myself a Southern Belle, right? Because that's what I am, right? At least, my heart's still there.

So. New Jersey. By far the strangest thing is the driving. Everyone I met seems pretty normal, so I don’t know where they got all the maniacs driving the cars. Changing lanes is taking your life into your hands. And making a U-turn—ha! Basically, you have to cross the state border before you can turn around. But Princeton is very picturesque and it is lovely to walk outside and not immediately begin to sweat. (You hear that, Memphis? When are you going to simmer down?)

A lovely couple from Highland Park agreed to host me for Shabbat. They were welcoming and sweet, served delicious meals with great conversation, and invited fabulous guests for Saturday lunch. They even had two very cute cats.

The service was only slightly different from what I’m used to, and of course the shul looked different and the mehitza was different. The important part, however, was the things that were the same. Listening to those around me sing the first part of the “Shema,” following along in the Chumash as the week’s parsha, “Shoftim,” was chanted, and taking three steps back, then three forward, before saying the “Shemoneh Esrei.” All these things occurred not only at Ahavas Achim in Highland Park, New Jersey, and Anshei Sphard Beth El Emeth in Memphis, Tennessee, but in every congregation of every shul in the world on every Shabbat. It felt good to know that certain things will not change. It felt even better to know that, as a Jew, I am part of a larger community, a greater force and a stronger pulse, all doing our best to be close to G-d.

Shavua Tov, y'all. 

Cabin in the Woods--Not a Horror Story!

I had the pleasure of spending this past weekend with my entire family: Mom, Dad, three brothers, one sister, two sisters-in-law, one brother-in-law, one nephew and one brother’s girlfriend. All in the same cabin in the mountains of Pennsylvania. And it was relaxing and beautiful and pleasant.

Three mustached, but beautiful ladies. My sister-in-law, me, and my brother's lovely girlfriend.

My family has many ways in which they show how much they love and care about me. One of the very important ways that they demonstrate their love is by respecting that I keep Shabbat and kosher. They do their best to understand not only the Halacha (laws) but also ask questions in order to better understand. They are careful to leave on bathroom lights and watch television in another room, as well as planning activities that will not force me to break Shabbat. For example, we went hiking (I was so glad my ankle held up!), played board games, and retold stories for the benefit of my baby brother’s girlfriend. Keep in mind, my baby brother is about to begin his junior year at Emory, so he is a baby only in the pecking order of the family.

The visit reminded me of how much I miss seeing everyone in person. We talk on the phone often, but it does not replace a real-life hug. And my family are definitely huggers.

Being from a big family is a blessing. There was always someone with which to argue, play, and discuss problems. We tormented each other but protected each other from outside tormenters. I always knew that my teachers would be pleased to see another Green, because of the impression that my older brother and sister set before me. Now, as adults, we have strengthened our relationships, which grow and change as we grow and change. We are friends as much as we are siblings, and that is not something that everyone can say. I am very appreciative to be so close with my brothers and sister. I guess my parents must have done something right.

My adorable nephew and I mug for the camera.

You Look Cute with Two Shoes

Sunday, after close to three months of trying to heal a sprained ankle, I took off the giant, black boot the doctor prescribed. 

By doctor’s orders, I wore it all day, every day, except in the shower. As one can imagine, in the heat of a Memphis summer, there were complications. Since I still lived on the third floor apartment for the majority of the time, even getting to work could be perilous. As a good friend stated, it really helps you appreciate your health. Being unable to run, use an exercise machine, or even swim, my body was not happy with me. I am definitely a bit fleshier than when I first turned my ankle.

However, my boot taught me several important lessons. The first of which is that other people notice a handicap much more than the handicapped person. Aside from some pain and not being able to move as quickly as I would have liked, the boot did not alter my everyday life. After having it on for a month, I began to get constant “when are you going to get that off” questions, which were immediately followed by “how long have you had that on” and (since I’m in the South) “bless your heart” type comments. For me, the boot was not that great of a hardship. Sure, I slept better without it on and when I was moving, carrying boxes down to my car, there were several times when I began to slip and saw the exciting bits of my life burst before my eyes. But aside from that, life went on.

More importantly than the attention, I learned that when I don’t slow down, life has a way of forcing me to slow down. Before spraining my ankle, I was working fifty hour weeks. After spraining my ankle, before the boot was put on, I could not walk great distances, and was forced to quit my second job. Had I not sprained my ankle, I would have continued to work two full-time jobs indefinitely, taxing my body and mind, and not leaving myself time for anything else.

Boogie, my beautiful cocker, got his stitches taken out and his cone off Monday. 

Boogie had to wear the cone for months, due to an irritated growth on his head, which has since been removed. Sweet by nature, he is clearly happy not to have to deal with the difficulties of not being able to judge the size of the cone when walking by things and also not being able to reach his ears to scratch. Released from both the cone and the growth, Boogie is now free to enjoy his adult puppyhood.

For the two of us, life is just waiting to happen. I can’t help but think that the physical healing is just the beginning of greater spiritual and emotional growth. Soon, we will be in Princeton, after close to seven years in the South. But most importantly, getting the boot off got me the strangest compliment of my lifetime: “You look cute in two shoes.” The second strangest? “You look cute in that headband, like Gwen Stacy.” 

On Your Doorposts

Before...

After.

Wednesday night, I finished carrying the last bit of trash from my apartment, and cleaned from top to bottom, scrubbing the floor on my knees. When I was through, I almost forgot the mezuzot, until I was standing outside the door. I had to come back with a screwdriver and hammer to pry them off of the door posts. I can predict with high confidence that the next person to live in that apartment will not be a Jew.

Taking off the mezuzot had a finality that even turning in my keys did not. I realized that I was truly leaving. Not just my apartment, but the Memphis that has embraced and held me for the past four years. I will be celebrating the New Year in a new state.

Since 2008, when I first drove from Oxford to Memphis in search of a synagogue, I have been keeping Shabbat and the holidays with the congregation of Anshei Sephard Beth El Emeth. I studied Torah there, met many beloved friends, and converted in the mikveh attached to the shul. There are so many people I will miss dearly, and it will be difficult to leave.

Removing the mezuzot did not turn out to be as easy a task as I had expected. Since they were nailed in, I had to first hammer the blade of a baby screwdriver under the cover, and then a normal-sized screwdriver when I had loosened it enough. Then I had to wiggle and hammer and pry until I could free the cover and scroll. Then it was no longer my home.

I don’t know what Princeton has in store for me, but I know that I will miss all of my loved ones dearly. Thank you, every one, who has helped me so far on my journey. I hope that you will continue on this glorious ride with me.

Say What You Will about Memphis

So this is why moving is awesome: it’s so exhausting and time consuming that you can’t possibly think about all the people you love who you will be leaving behind. That said, I just am not going to be able to say good-bye to all the people that have been so kind to me since I started making the commute from Oxford to Memphis in 2008. Now that I live here, I have developed so many rich relationships that will be sorely missed. Thank you to everyone who has been so wonderful to me, especially the Memphis Jewish Community. Let no one say there are no Jews in the South.

Now, as for moving: how on earth did I come to acquire so much stuff? An exercise ball? I used it for exactly one week. It took me three days just to pack all of my books. Now I’m wrestling with those things that I need, but it might be easier just to buy a new one. You know: broom, dish drainer, hair dryer, etc, etc. How many garbage cans have I bought in my one short life time? And the cleaning! A little scrubbing on the hands and knees never hurt anyone. Except if you have bad knees.

Time to take a weird rolling-wheel exercise thingy that I’m not even sure where it came from to the trash compactor. More fun to come!

Someone decided that she did not want to get left behind!

G-d loves you, but He loves you too much to let you stay that way.

Like a lot of people, I will often wait until a situation becomes intolerable before I do anything about it. I had, unfortunately, been carrying around a lot of old hurts that were continuing to haunt me. Because I had not been able to address them, I was feeling pretty miserable and unable to appreciate the many good things in my life. With the help of some very good friends and G-d, I finally began to understand why I was behaving the way I did, and I will be able to begin behaving in a healthier and less dramatic manner.

Most importantly, I have come to understand a saying that I thought I already understood, “If you don’t love yourself first, no one else can love you.” This truism did not make sense to me because you can love anyone, regardless of how you feel about yourself and regardless of how that person feels about himself. I had loved plenty of men who did not care too much for themselves. And they, in return, loved me. Now, I see that as much as I loved anyone else and they loved me, it was not enough. I could not give myself and I could not accept what was given to me, because of how I felt about myself. It is not that love was impossible, it was just ineffective.


And so now, my project is to love myself. Cheesy, yes, but completely necessary. And it does not mean that I put myself on a higher plane than everyone else or that I think that I’m better than everyone else or that I think that my excrement tastes like ice cream and everyone wants a lick. No, it means that I am going to take good care of myself and respect myself and learn to like myself. I will forgive myself, which will make room for improvement.


It is not always easy for people, especially women, to appreciate themselves. You owe it to yourself to love yourself. If you don’t, it doesn’t matter how many people love you or how much they love you. You will still feel like the only person in a room full of empty chairs.

It's a Good Thing They Decided to Write The Unwritten

In the third volume of Mike Carey and Peter Gross’s Unwritten: Dead Man’s Knock, we find the gang newly returned from Nazi Germany and the world about to open up the latest, long lost Tommy Taylor novel.

For those of you jumping in late, the premise of Unwritten is that Tom Taylor, a man who has spent his life in the shadow of a Harry Potter-esque character created by his father and named Tommy Taylor, has been dragged into a monumental war. The war, as the reader slowly learns, has been initiated by Taylor’s father, Wilson, against an undefined entity that seeks to manipulate the world’s stories.

In this volume, Taylor must confront his father, the latest novel, and the nature of his female companion, Lizzie Hexam. The stories, as usual, are compelling. One job of a comic book should be to make the reader keep flipping pages, and while this is not always true, it is with Dead Man’s Knock. Although Carey has not yet been able to engage a good deal of empathy for Tom, Lizzie, and their third, Richie, the mystery of the plot does drag the audience along for the ride. As the heroes learn the nature of the journey they must take in order to battle the creative forces against them, we also learn bits and pieces about the conspiracy they are trying to fight.

Part of what gives the story such tension is the fact that the reader discovers the machinations of the bad guys and the attempts of the good guys to battle them, we can see that although they mean to combat each other, their efforts, thus far, are parallel stories. For example, the latest Tommy Taylor novel has been written as a way to draw out Taylor’s father, Wilson, not necessarily to attack Taylor directly. And since Taylor does not yet understand the entity he’s fighting, he does not know how to make a direct counter-attack.

Perhaps, then, what makes the series so fascinating is Carey’s ability to use dramatic irony and his exquisite understanding of withholding information. For example, we do not exactly understand the nature of the magical world encroaching on the physical world, but we can grasp enough that we don’t waste time asking questions. Take, for instance, the doorknob that lets Taylor travel on the map. Since the doorknob works in a way similar to a real doorknob—-by allowing the characters to enter different realities—-then we can accept its existence without asking too many questions. We know its physical purpose and we begin to see its purpose in the story, and so we go along with it.

Lizzie Hexam’s back story, also quite interesting, is told in a risky format, a take-off on the Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novels that were once popular. By manipulating the genre, what we learn from Lizzie’s story is that it doesn’t necessarily matter how Lizzie ended up where she did or how Wilson manipulated her, just that she ended up where she needed to end up not just for the sake of story, but for the sake of her character’s fragile well-being, also.

Volume 3 of The Unwritten lives up to the previous volumes, and shows that the series matches and even exceeds the quality of other similar series.