The Shidduch Crisis: What Not to Say on a First Date

There are an inordinate number of young, single Jewish Orthodox men and women who just can’t seem to find their match. Forget beshert[1], we just want to find someone we can marry without ending up on Forensic Files or the Investigation Discovery channel. Kidding aside, we really want to marry so that we can lead fulfilled lives, so that we can serve Hashem[2] with our households and our families. And instead, we go out on awful date after awful date and complain about how all the men are looking for petite blondes and women for successful surgeons. Let me just say, I am not picky. All you have to do is look at my past dating record, and you would agree that I am far from picky. My requirements are relatively basic: I am looking for a kind, frum[3] man who has a job or is in school, who wants to marry and have a family. I would prefer someone who does not shun the outside world and would not want to drown my cats, parents, or siblings. Relatively simple, no?

And I am not under that impression that I am perfect. But I do my best: I go to the gym several times a week, Daven daily, go to shul weekly, support myself monetarily, and wear nice, sniut[4] clothes. I try to exercise patience with all around me and be sensitive and attentive to the needs of others. I have a good secular education, friends, and a healthy relationship with my family.

One would think that I, and people like me, would have no problem finding someone to whom they would happily devote the rest of their lives. Ha. Lol. Smiley face.

Having joined an online dating website, I thought that it might make meeting someone easier. Instead of an algorithm matching couples, or searching through the local singles yourself, a shadchan[5] searches through profiles for you. And, online, without opening up their mouths, most of them seemed like reasonable men. We had decent conversations, and then agreed to meet.

First, there was Dov[6], from Brooklyn, all his life. He seemed intelligent, willing to meet me in halfway in New Jersey, showed up in nice pants and a button-down shirt, kippah[7] on. He had been hesitant, over the phone, to agree to date someone who was shomer negiah[8] (me), but after some conversation, decided he was willing to try it out.

The conversation, for the most part, was interesting, if largely one-sided. He talked about ISIS, Israel, and how he became religious, sparked by a girl and a book, DerechHashem[9]. It turned out that he was currently reading one of the first Jewish books I had read, Immortality, Resurrection, and the Age of the Universe, by Aryeh Kaplan, a fascinating text which accepts both scientific knowledge and the Torah.

All went well, until the end, when I stood up. I was wearing a dress that I always received compliments when I wore it, and killer heels. I had, of course, dressed carefully for the date.

“You’re not that tall,” he said.

“No,” I said, “it’s my shoes.”

“Why are you wearing those shoes?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Shrugged.

“Are you trying to impress me?”

“No,” I said, “I like to look nice for work.”

“You like to look down on people,” he said. Ha. Lol. Smiley face.

While he thought that was wildly amusing, I found it a bit, well, rude. I don’t think it is appropriate to make fun of a girl on your first date. So, that was that. I closed the match on the dating website. When he saw this, he texted me, asking for another date, and apologized for not getting back to me within 24 hours. I did not bother to clear up his confusion as to why the match was ended.

Lesson for me: Well, as my mother told me, that is one I can cross of my list. One date closer to finding my beshert. Lesson for others: Do not insult your date, even if you think it’s hilarious.

To be continued...

The Snooty Shoes in Question

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[1] Soul mate

[2] G-d

[3] Keeps the mitzvoth, or the Jewish laws, as described in the Torah, Talmud, and instituted by the Rabbis.

[4] Modest, which for women means covers knees, elbows, and collar bone.

[5] Matchmaker

[6] Not his real name. Please do not go harassing any man named Dov.

[7] Sometimes called a yarmulke—that little cap Jewish men wear.

[8] Literally, “observant of touch,” but in practical use, means that men and women who are not married do not touch, and married couples only touch during certain times during a woman’s menstrual cycle. 

[9] The Way of G-d

I'm a woman, Phenomenally.

Maya Angelou died today. The world has lost an amazing voice and a great inspiration to writers and artists everywhere. I read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings when I was in sixth grade, and became hooked on Angelou’s memoirs. I suspected that maybe my teachers and parents were unfamiliar with the content—did they know that Angelou had been a sex worker? Did they know her writing was so frank and honest? For an adolescent girl, her writing and attitude were a revelation. She discussed so many topics without shame, subject matter that I could not bring myself to form questions about, let alone the courage to ask.

At about the same time that I began to read Angelou, my life changed dramatically. My father, who had worked on the road closing furniture stores for years, quit his job and moved back home. My mother subsequently became pregnant with my third and final brother. I was in middle school, with all the social, psychological, and physiological changes which that entails. There was no more recess, more homework, dances I was not allowed to attend, three-way calls—everything at school and home was different. Not to mention, of course, the changes of the body and mind of a person who is neither teenager nor child.

At the time, I had three things that kept me going: reading, writing, and acting. The old music teacher retired, and the new music teacher formed a Drama Club, something which had previously existed only in high school. I was thrilled—and for my first performance, I chose “Phenomenal Woman.” I owned the stage as I strutted and repeated her words, “Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. /I’m not cute or built fit a fashion model’s size.” Already, at thirteen, I had learned to hate my thighs, to be uncomfortable with my skin and flesh. I might not have believed Angelou’s words about myself, but when I acted out her poem, I tried desperately to channel her strength.

One of the most powerful portions of Angelou’s story was her discussion of her first writing group. She sought to dazzle them, to show how amazing she was. I wanted the same thing: I wanted to be complimented and loved for my writing. Instead, she was brought back down to normal size, and a group member recommended she start with a short story, and not a novel. She was told that it would be a challenge, and she scoffed. She learned, however, how challenging the form could be. As a young writer, I marveled at how she presented the experience, as well as what I had in store for myself.

Angelou was scheduled to read in Erie when I was in high school, but cancelled due to ill health. In high school and college, I fell in love with new writers and poets, less in love with her work as I once had been. But the lessons I learned from her work: self-acceptance, transforming difficulties to art, and not being ashamed—these are lessons I continue to learn, and her work is an excellent teacher.

My beautiful new niece. For her sake, may we all strive to be as strong as Maya Angelou and be the cause of great change.

You Don't Know What You Don't Know

Five classes, all new to me, four different schools, in five different campuses. 74.5 miles between the two furthest. Twenty-two hours of driving a week. Fourteen weeks. 85 students. A bazillion essays. And I did it. I finished. I really did.

This past semester, Spring 2014, was one of the most challenging I have ever had, but also one of the most incredible. As a result of dedicating so much time to prep, classroom, and driving, I have not had a lot of time to do my own writing. Now that the semester has ended and all the grades are submitted, I have decided to take the time to reflect upon what I have learned from my students.

Lesson 1: Students Need to Know That Their Professor Cares

My most challenging class was a remedial college writing class. The class was difficult simply because it was remedial. The latest studies show that by college age, classroom instruction in grammar has very little impact, and I have used this as an excuse for years not to cover much grammar during lecture. Further, I rarely mark grammatical errors on my students’ essays because I save comments for the content. Too many comments written by the professor just frustrates students and they quit reading and do not take in any of the recommendations for improvements. However, this class needed grammar lessons.

I have heard that Tim O’Brien, author of the highly anthologized short story “The Things They Carried” does not move past the level of paragraph in his workshops, but this is because he goes in-depth. I did not move past the level of paragraph because my students did not know how to write a complete sentence. They needed to be told what the definition of a sentence is. The class did not even begin with essays, but with paragraphs. This is how you write a topic sentence. Make sure that every idea is connected. Etc, etc, etc. For the first month of their writing, if it wasn’t a sentence fragment, it was a run-on. What’s a fragment? I asked them. What’s a run-on? They had the same old grammar phobia that all students seem to have. What’s a noun? Give me an example. Find the verb in this sentence.

At first, I felt like I was completely out of my league. I was a tee ball player showing up at an NCAA practice for a big ten baseball team. And so, I did what I always do: I made them work harder. They were required to write weekly paragraphs, and each week, I made the print out the paragraphs, we marked them up together, they edited and reprinted. I would not accept them until they were virtually perfect. We read published texts and we examined the sentences. What is a verb? What is the verb in this sentence? What is the subject? What part of speech must a subject have? I had many rules for our classroom, but one of the most important was: I don’t know is not an answer. At first, every answer was a guess, and ended with a question mark. If it was correct, I asked why; if it was incorrect, I asked why.

Worse than the battle of knowledge and skill was their work ethic. They did not hand in work. They did not come to class. They did not do the reading. I tried to motivate them in every way that I could: praise when they did what they should, extra credit, gentle teasing, quizzes, pulpit speeches, stories of personal experience in which I worked very hard or failed myself because I did not work hard enough. And still, attendance was lousy. I cannot teach you if you’re not here, I said again and again. Come even if you don’t have the work. Come even if you’re late. I might give you a hard time, but I’m going to be glad that you are there. And so will you. I did everything except stand on my head and spit wooden nickels.

The last week, when I was collecting their paragraphs, one student looked very upset. “Wait,” she said, “aren’t you going to tell me what’s wrong with it?”

“No,” I told her, “it’s the last class. From here on out, it’s up to you.”

“Give mine back,” she said, and began to mark it up.

“Me, too,” a chorus of voices said, until I had handed back every paper. I smiled. It was the first suggestion that they actually cared.

On the last day of class before the final, we were reviewing an essay called “How to Make It in College Now That You’re Here” by Brian O’Keeney. One of my students, who hated to read out loud but grumblingly did so every class, read, “Many of us never did much studying in high school; most of the learning we did took place in the classroom. College, however, is a lot different. You’re really on your own when it comes to passing your courses. In fact, sometimes you’ll feel as if nobody cares if you make it or not.” She paused. “Boy, is that true.”

“Hey!” I objected. “Do you know how much intestinal distress and sleepless night y’all have caused me?”

“Well, you care,” she said. “And my study skills professor. But that’s it.”

“Is she right? Do you agree?”

“Yes,” they said, each naming one other professor who cared.

“The rest are just here to pick up a paycheck,” another girl said.

“If they’re here for the money, they’re definitely in the wrong place. Trust me, if I didn’t love teaching, I wouldn’t be here.” And of course, they wanted to know how much I was paid, and of course I did not tell them. But it struck me that all along, when I was trying so darned hard to get the best work out of them, to push them to just put in a bit more effort, they already were. They were giving me the absolute best that they knew how. Further, as I racked my brain on how I could encourage them, I’d already found the secret: they knew that I was invested in them and wanted them to succeed.

Old Reliable Got Me Through Another Semester

Part of me felt really good about what I had accomplished over the semester. But part of me also felt really sad. The effort that they had put in was the best that they could do. For whatever reason, be it personal, financial, or simply learned habits, they were not able to give any more. Perhaps worse was that these students felt uncared for by their professors. Maybe their professors did care, but did not know how to show it. But some of them might just be checked out. And if that’s where you are at, you should not be teaching.

When I read the finals from the class, all of the students had made progress. There were significantly more grammatically correct sentences than on the first-day writing sample. Many more were on topic and able to develop a single idea and argument. I had taken a few pictures of them on my phone on the day when they were complaining about the lack of love from professors. I had taken the pictures because I knew that I would miss them. 

I'm Kind of over Being Told to Put My Hands in the Air

When I was the age for reading comic books, I had no interest in them. Instead, I read what I considered to be real books, with the occasional Archie or Katie Keene (a comic about a model which also included a paper doll in every issue). At the time, I was no book snob, and read high literature, children’s chapter books, and mysteries with the same avidity. But comic books—they had pictures, and that meant that they were not serious.

It was not until I was in college that I developed an interest in comics, and but not because I had any interest in the comics themselves. Another long held obsession, Tori Amos, led me to them. Amos, whose career was only made possible by the alternative music movement of the 90s, wrote surreal lyrics, played piano expressively, and sang breathily. Amos happened to be friends with Neil Gaiman, and even mentioned him in her lyrics. Gaiman, in turn, loosely based his Sandman character, Delirium, on Amos. Amos was invited to write the introduction to the collected volume Death: The High Cost of Living.

When I learned about Delirium, I agreed to go to the comic book store with my brother, who started collecting at the age of five, and flipped through a volume of Sandman looking for Delirium. Knowing nothing about the series, I did not know that Delirium did not figure prominently in every issue, and I was disappointed when I could not find an image of her. In addition, I did not find the illustrations appealing, and so did not brother taking one home with me. Later, my parents tracked down a Delirium T-shirt with an image that resembled Amos a good deal and also gave me copy of Death: The High Cost of Living as Christmas presents.

Amos’s introduction was beautiful, but I also found the story intriguing. Death is cheery and sweet, unlike her human companion. Her human companion is a typical teenage boy, disaffected and unhappy with his experiences. The story is dark and brilliant full of hope. It came to me at a point in my life when I particularly needed it, and I was grateful and surprised that comic books could contain such emotionally moving content. At the time, I did not desire to pursue the Sandman series, as it was Death I was in love with, and I knew that she was not the star of the other comics.

It wasn’t until my stint at Borders that I picked Sandman back up. I was in graduate school, reading lots and lots of poetry, writing lots and lots of poetry, with little time for any other reading. In addition, while there was downtime at work, it wasn’t possible to read anything of substance, because a good book would distract from a customer who might need assistance. So, I tried sneaking Preludes & Nocturnes to the information desk, and decided to buy it so that I could take it home and have it for my own. By this time, the series had long been completed, and I knew that there was a finite number of books to read. With great self-control, I spaced out the purchasing and reading of the compilations, until they were done, and I had fallen hopelessly in love with Gaiman.

Sandman tells the story of immortal icons of Dream, Death, Delirium, Desire, Despair, and Destiny. All are siblings and all are involved in the lives of mortals, to varying degrees and with varying amounts of empathy. The plot encompasses Shakespeare, myths, and history, and explores political, emotional, and ethical topics. As imaginary as the characters are, they become real in a way I had not experienced since James and the Giant Peach. Magic. Gaiman allows magic to return.

It was not until my second run of graduate school that I begun to consume graphic novels with a voracious hunger. I had moved to Oxford, Mississippi, where I knew no one, and where I found myself experiencing a culture shock worse than I felt the summer I spent in Prague. Searching for a friendly face, I found Gaiman’s The Books of Magic at the public library. In fact, while the library itself was not terribly impressive (I had been spoiled by enormous libraries in Pittsburgh), the graphic novel selection was extensive. And so, in an effort to distract myself from loneliness, I read all the books by Gaiman, and then everything that looked like a literary type book, and then anything that looked fantastic, but stopped short of superheroes. But I made flesh and blood friends, and comics were not always a necessity. Then, a few laters, when I found myself in the midst of a devastating break up and temporary bout of unemployment, I returned to comic books, this time discovering superheroes. It was not as bad as I thought it was going to be, and I was fascinated by how different interpretations of Batman could be.

For me, comic books offer popcorn reading, a relief from the intensity of reading literature and grading papers. I do not have to analyze (as much—I can never turn it off) and I find myself more forgiving of poor dialogue and plotlines. Though, I must admit, that more I read, the more I find myself aware of poor technique. However, I still feel that I am doing something frivolous, and it feels both comforting and relaxing. Now, I have series I have followed for years, such as Fables and Unwritten, as well as series I followed from the beginning, like Saga. I still wait for the collected volumes to come out, instead of purchasing monthlies, because it feels more satisfying, but I might yet come around to the phenomena of individual issues, as I did buy the first issue of Sandman: Overture.

Have comic books informed my own writing? Surely. Everything I experience, see, and hear influences my writing. And I still harbor a dream that I will write my own comic book someday. As to why comic books are so good at offering me comfort, I don’t yet know, but I continue to question. Question—always question. When we quit questioning, we are surely dead.

Pay no attention to the girl behind the book.