How I got dumped (again) and how Tracee Ellis Ross got it right

I'm confused.

I'm confused about why men are not doing better. And by that, I mean doing better at being the best humans they can be.

I mean, I'm not confused by this deep and cyclical system of oppression woven into the fabric of society that continues to "put women in their place," and gaslights us into thinking that we're making shit up and being babies and crying wolf and -- basically insert any cliche about women making a big deal out of something that IS ABSOLUTELY A BIG DEAL.

I get that. That all makes sense to me. In light of the current political nightmare we're living in, dominated by misogyny and the continued oppression of women, of women speaking up and out about injustices and sexual assault and systemic inequality and inequity, I guess what I'm actually confused about is why I continue to date. More accurately, TRY to date.

And I'm tired of being silent about trying to date and about feeling like I'm failing at it. About how very aware I am that this feeling of failure goes right back to the PATRIARCHY. That sometimes I'm even ashamed to admit that I want to find a great guy and fall in love. So this post is about how I got dumped again and was not treated with common human decency for what feels like the BILLIONTH time. How some guy withheld information that tipped the power dynamic of this new relationship -- a relationship that had barely just begun -- in his favor.

So yeah, instead of being silent about being dumped for the billionth time -- because I'm supposed to be embarrassed that I'm undesirable and gullible and didn't trust my gut and bought some asshole's lies -- here it is: I GOT DUMPED. AGAIN. 

And while I know this guy is maybe not actually an asshole, and we were just getting to know each other, his behavior was unacceptable and the choices he made were poor ones. And yes, people are human and we all make mistakes. I'm all about the complexities and layers and multiple truths living in each person that dictate the choices we make. It can be really hard to to make the right choices. I get it. But how about treating people with common decency and respect, EVEN THOUGH it can be hard? When it's hard is when it counts. When it's hard is when it's the right thing to do. When it's hard is what makes us stronger, makes us connect more deeply, helps us learn things about ourselves, and (gasp!) maybe even demonstrates that someone else is equally as important as you.

MEN: your ego is not more important than my ego. And it is certainly not more important than my dignity and my right to be treated with respect. DO BETTER.

It's already tough being a 43-year old single, straight woman who has no aspirations of getting married and having kids without adding the unacceptable dating protocol for men in 2017. Tracee Ellis Ross got it so right in her speech at the Glamour Women of the Year Summit last week: "So here I am sorting out what MY LIFE looks like when it’s fully mine. It takes a certain bravery to do that. It means risking being misunderstood, perceived as alone and broken, having no one to focus on, fall into or hide behind, having to be my own support and having to stretch and find family love and connection outside of the traditional places." This could not be more real -- or more true -- for me.

And as this pertains to my dating life, I'm done being ok with mediocrity. I'm done being quiet about my heart getting broken and the mistakes I make. I'm also done not trusting my gut when I feel something's not quite right for fear that I'll drive some man away. That MY LIFE and my fabulousness, which includes all of my feelings and my beauty -- and yes even all of my flaws -- will come forth in full force and I will not accept anything less than men who do better.

I'm so over being pissed: The epic battle between empathy and anger

So, by now you know how I roll. Every few years I churn out a blog post. Apparently, 2017 is the year this time around. And yeah, not surprisingly, I have a few things to say about this new political reality this country is experiencing that I can't keep to myself. And also not surprisingly, I'm turning to you to share my thoughts, to hear yours, and to see where this might take us.

As you know, fellow Bad Jews, I consider myself to be a fairly open-minded, inclusive person. I've shared a lot about my perspective on traditional Judaism and making space for all forms of Jewish practice to be accepted as legit.

I'd also say my political views are pretty liberal. And yet I’ve always surrounded myself with people who think differently than me. In fact, I have many friends and loved ones in my life who do not share my perspectives on politics. So, I'm on board with empathy and listening to multiple narratives as ways to begin healing and, in some small way, closing the political divide that we Americans are so deeply entrenched in. Logically, my head gets it - and fundamentally, my soul does, too. It jives with my Bad Jew Nature.

But here’s the catch: It's not working. This effort I'm making to be less angry and more inquisitive; to be more open to hearing other perspectives so that I can work on compassion while also having my feelings is not working. Especially when those feelings are feelings of being bullied and scared; of being threatened and disrespected.

I still wake up crying angry tears most mornings. So of course it makes sense that it's not working. Because my heart is broken. And I'm struggling to make space for empathy. I feel betrayed and confused. Still now - all of these months later - it's just not changing or feeling any different.

And yet, I can't stop my quest - or my attempts - at seeking out others' truths that are not my truths with the intent to remember they are also human beings with feelings and stories. But holy shit. This new America we're living in is not my country. This place that is closing its doors to those seeking better lives for their families so they no longer have to live in fear or danger. This place that is dialing back the clock to a time when my reproductive health is public property and my choices about my body are no longer my own. And how we got here, to this new America, is so perplexing and complex that it’s blowing all of our minds.

Here’s another thing: it's really easy to be pissed. It's really easy to be angry. It's really easy to throw hate back at the hate I feel directed at me as a woman, as a granddaughter of immigrants, as a Jew, as a non-supporter of our new administration who feels bullied by every tweet and every mean statement that comes from this country's president. But I also know the easy way doesn’t feel authentic to me, which is super annoying at a time like this, when I wish I could just give into the hate.

A recent career transition brought me to this incredible organization, doing work in social change around the abortion conversation. For 15 years, Exhale has been working diligently to destigmatize and depolarize abortion by creating space for sharing personal abortion stories. Founder and Executive Director, Aspen Baker, calls this “pro-voice,” which she unpacks so beautifully in her book, “Pro-Voice: How to Keep Listening When the World Wants a Fight.” The concept and practice of how sitting in tension with one another around these personal narratives can change the abortion conversation and shape new political perspectives resonated deeply for me and, in a way, I feel like I’ve come home.

And this way of thinking is catching fire. I mean, other thought leaders are taking this approach, too. Take a look at the amazing work of Van Jones’ #LoveArmy. They’re seeking to create a different political reality through creating a culture of treating our opposition with love and kindness, by cutting out the name calling and looking through the empathy lens. Similarly, Arlie Russell Hochschild’s, “Strangers in Their Own Land: Anger and Mourning on the American Right,” provides us with a front row seat to her journey as a sociologist. Reaching deep into her personal empathy reserves, she has tough conversations and really listens to those who don't share her truths. And it’s not easy, but she articulates a narrative that reveals to us, as readers, that it’s possible to have compassion─even if we just don’t buy the story.

Yet here we are, those of us who believe in practicing pro-voice and are seeking to find empathy, wanting to be in the #LoveArmy, and wrestling with getting there. Even storytelling disrupters like Glynn Washington of the podcast, “Snap Judgement” have been very public about this struggle. A few weeks after the election, Glynn came over to Exhale’s headquarters and shared with the world through a Facebook Live session that he, too, is at a place where he’s questioning if he has it in him to empathize with those who voted for the new administration. If the guy who created a storytelling show to reveal multiple narratives as a way to tap into empathy and make us challenge the way we think is struggling with this, I feel pretty ok about struggling with it, too.

Does that mean my empathy button is broken? That the new America has rocked me off my foundational beliefs? No – I don’t think so. It means I have to work a little harder to get there and be compassionate with myself when I can’t. Because sometimes I just can’t. And that’s ok. Practicing some self-care around this battle has been tough, but here’s what I’ve learned these past few months:

• Breathe.
• Be patient with myself.
• It's ok to feel conflicted and angry.
• Pause to appreciate those feelings of compassion and empathy when they do appear so that I can recognize them more easily the next time they surface.

Because I believe in a next time.

For my Dad.

This post isn't about being a Bad Jew. It's about how my dad died. Well. It's not about how he died but more so about that he did die. And about how I am. And about how it's Yom Kippur today.

Yom Kippur always makes me think of being a little kid, sitting next to my dad at synagogue, holding  the fringes of his prayer shawl in my small fingers while he stood and then sat back down for what felt like a billion times on an endless day. And that I didn't really get that this is holiday about forgiveness and reflection. But I've grown up into an adult person who does truly understand that this holiday is about forgiveness and reflection, and has opted out of the traditional synagogue trajectory of sitting and standing a billion times on an endless day and has instead embraced meditative hiking as a means of reflection. And my dad was always so confused and appalled every year by his oldest kid's choice to do this. And on my hike today, all I thought about was him.

Being my dad's kid wasn't easy for me. The package of being my dad's oldest daughter came filled with lots of baggage and subsequent therapy.

There was a lot of protecting myself and keeping my feelings from him. I spent so long trying to keep him out of my life because of the past; to keep him from really knowing me and who I've grown to be. Really putting him into an isolation that I felt, most of the time, he deserved. Which is kinda funny to me now because he's everywhere. I feel him in everything I do and every thought I have. And many of my loving friends and family, even as recently as two days ago, have asked me if I have regrets. To which I've told them, "No. I don't." But the more I reflect on this, the more I realize I was wrong. Or was at least doing a really awesome job of hiding that from myself.

So I guess yeah.

I have regrets. But not the way I've always experienced regret. It's not the kind of regret that's actionable in partnership with another person. I have to make amends with only myself; with him only in my heart and not physically here and able to accept my amends. And I feel capable of that.

As it turns out, I'm still working on my relationship with him. Even now that he's gone. I miss him, even though I never thought I would. And my work for this coming year will be to have compassion for my dad - and for myself - for not being perfect. And for somehow, unrealistically, expecting us both to be.

And it doesn't matter how he died. Or if he was sick, which he was. Or if it was sudden, which it was. What matters is that my siblings and I did right by him. We gave him a peaceful death and an honorable burial. Like any human being deserves. No matter what the landscape of our relationship looked like in the past. At least that's what matters to me.

So. How am I doing?  I'm pretty sure this isn't the right question to ask. Because here's what it's like, this losing a parent, at least for me. It's like sitting on the edge of the deep end of the pool. Everyday. All day. And some parts of the day are spent just dipping my toes in the water. To cool off a little because it's warm. And some parts of the day are spent fully submerged in the water because it's scorching hot. For hours. And I can't breathe.

And after spending so many hours at the pool I feel drained, and waterlogged, and sluggish. And I've had too much exposure. But not to the sun. To the rawness of my own feelings. And then I just need to be alone. Or to watch really bad tv. Or to have a drink. And sleep. Or try to. So I'm pretty sure the right question isn't, "How am I doing" but maybe the right question is, "What can be done, if anything, to help you breathe easier; to feel less burdened"?

So. That's how I am. I'm working on filling myself back up with all of the goodness that exists in the world. I'm giving myself space and time. I'm taking a lot of walks. I'm breathing a lot of fresh air. I'm learning to be patient with myself and how to experience life one moment at a time. Because that's never been easy for me. 

That's how I am.

Bad Jew with a Twist (preferably with some really good vodka)

So. Here we are again. And sure, it's almost three years later, and sure, you don't recognize me because my hair is shorter or different and I'm wearing a new shade of lip gloss you've never seen me wear before. And I don't recognize you either, probably because of the same reasons or because I've never seen you in that shirt and you have new glasses when you didn't even used to wear glasses. Or maybe we don't recognize each other because we've been out in the world doing our thing, fighting crime, trying to rid the world of the evils of social injustices through all of the various ways in which we each do that sort of thing.

That's where all of this started, right? As a space to bring to light that being part of The Tribe isn't always easy for us Bad Jews. Us bacon-eating, non-synagogue-going, Shabbat-ignoring, cheeseburger-inhaling and even atheist, Jews. Where being recognized as a "practicing Jew" means we're living and breathing Jewish values through the ways in which we treat others, our work in the nonprofit community and public school systems, the donating of our time and money to the things we believe most in, being awesome parents and teaching our nieces and nephews how broken the world is and we've got an obligation to help repair it. That's where this all began.

And hey. As it turns out, being a Bad Jew is getting a little easier; trending even. Expressing one's Jewishness through the act of community service, social activism, doing good in the world...this is seen in the same light as other forms of practicing non-traditional Judaism. Enter Embodied Jewish Learning through dance and yoga. Enter Jewish food justice and local sustainability through food conferences and urban farming. Enter Jewish mindfulness practices through meditation and chanting. These are just a few examples of what we Bad Jews are doing these days to practice whatever it is we feel most expresses our "Jewish."

And everyone is looking at us. And staring. And it's awesome.

So. You're probably thinking I'm feeling pretty ok about taking a three year break from writing. Look at all the expanded space that now exists for us Bad Jews since we last hung out. Sort of.

I'm thinking about other ways in which some of us are still struggling to the surface for air. Some of us still don't quite have a place, even with the recent acceptance of Jewish Bad-Assery into mainstream Jewish culture. Rather than share someone else's story, I'll just share mine: as a proud, single, childfree by choice, successful, soon-to-be 40-year old woman I find myself standing in front of a line-up of bubbes and yentas telling me "it's not too late, honey" and "your b'sheret, your soulmate, is out there" and "there's always adoption."

Now, here's the crazy, Bad Jew twist: what if I don't want those things? If marriage and kids aren't my thing; if the mixers and the speed dating and the singles' lox and bagels brunches are keeping me out of synagogues and such, just like Shabbat services and Torah readings do, then where do I go? And, moreover, do I want to go anywhere?

I'm sharing this with you because it's been on my mind, because, well duh, it's my story and I live it every day. And although I'm not sure where this is going to take me - or take us, I thought I'd share it with you because I think you may have something to say about this. And I trust you. And I know you may have your own version of this story. Maybe it's not about being a fabulous, single woman but maybe it's about something else that has you seeking space and a place.

I guess what I'm wondering is this: whether you think of yourself as a Bad Jew or not, what's keeping you outside of the Jewish community looking in?

Voters Right(s) On

Last week an extremely significant event happened. It was ELECTION DAY. November 8th, to be exact. As a Bad Jew devoted to saving the world, this day was of the utmost importance to me. One might say to me, "Uh, I don't get it. Election days happen all the time in this country." Let me explain to you why voting is such a big deal to me by taking you back to my childhood.

I'm not sure she knows this, but my mother was one of the most...no, wait...she was actually THE most influential factor in the development of my passion for voting. I remember being a little kid and going with my mom to our polling place, which I'm pretty sure was in an elementary school gym. I remember following her across the basketball court to the row of little huts with curtains that were opened and closed by pulling down a big, heavy lever. And I remember my mom letting me close the curtain, which I had to do with both hands, once we both stepped into the booth, sealing us into a cone of voter silence. And I remember holding my breath in anticipation once the curtains swooshed shut; waiting to see which of the teeny metal levers my mom would click down on the crazy metal voting machine that somehow tallied her votes. Once she was done she would let me pull the heavy lever again and the curtains would part, letting us out of the voting booth and back into the world. And I would follow on her heals out of the polling place, glancing back to watch other grown-ups step in and close the curtains to take their turn. This ritual always filled me with excitement and wonder. And my mom always told me that some day it would be my turn to go in all by myself so that I could make a difference in important issues that I didn't quite understand at the time.

Reflecting on this experience from my childhood, I feel like voting is sort of a Bad Jewry Rite of Passage. It's like the Bat Mitzvah of Bad Judaism. And how fitting that the legal voting age in this country is 18? The two Hebrew letters that make up the number 18, chet and yud, create the Hebrew word, "chai," which means "life." As an American Bad Jew, I can honestly say that I felt my life really kick in once I had the privilege and the power to vote.

Rabbi Moses ben Maimon (aka the Rambam, aka Maimonides) was a Bad Jew who is renown for being an incredible theologian and teacher of the famous Maimonides' Ladder: a code of giving to those less fortunate. This code is broken into 8 levels, with the lowest level being to give begrudgingly and the highest level being to give an anonymous gift that enables a person to become self-sufficient (http://www.myjewishlearning.com/practices/Ethics/Tzedakah_Charity/History/Jewish_Tradition/Maimonides_Ladder.shtml).

A dear friend and colleague (and fellow Bad Jew) who works in Early Childhood Education taught me a fantastic activity for teaching kids about Bad Jewry using Maimonides' Ladder. She created a paper ladder and taped it to the wall. She then asked us to rank various service activities, from volunteering at a soup kitchen to cleaning up a beach, according to what we felt was their level of importance. For me, voting was on the top rung.

I suppose this is where this post's dirty confession comes in: direct service is my least favorite form of service. I am drawn to service activities that are indirect, giving me some anonymity while also enabling me to create a ripple effect that I hope will result in an impact that will make positive changes our community. To me, voting is the ultimate service activity where I get to use my voice to create the community I want and need. And sure, I guess this is a bit idealistic, but I also think that sometimes we Bad Jews forget that there are so many different ways and levels of healing the world, so why not reach for the ideal every chance we get? And these chances can occur with every Election Day.

What my mom taught me, and what I still believe today, is that I have the power to make a difference with this one simple act. I'm honored to have this privilege and this is why I never vote absentee unless I'm out of town. I love the smell and feel of my polling place. And wearing my "I Voted" sticker for the day is like wearing my Bad Jew Badge for all the world to see.

So for today's consideration, my fellow Bad Jews, ask yourselves this: What's on each of the rungs of your ladder?

Footprints

As I sit here, reflecting on the length of time it's been since I wrote my last blog post, I'm struck by the realization that I haven't made much time for reflection at all lately. I've filled my time with work and with bacon and with more work. I've managed to squeeze in some time with out-of-town visitors and I've celebrated a birthday or two. Yet, I have not taken time to think reflectively about...well...anything. This is antithetical to my Bad Jew Practice and I'm blown away at how far off my own track I've gotten. I suppose there's no better time than the present to return to my core and get down to business. It's been almost a month since Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, so let me back up in order to move forward.

You may already know that Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, honoring the memory of Dr. King, has become a National Day of Service where American citizens are called to action to serve in their local communities. Basically, it's a pretty excellent opportunity to practice Bad Judaism. Now, sharing my feelings about this holiday's transformation into a "day of service" is not the purpose of this particular blog post. What I'd like to take this opportunity to reflect upon is something each of us may do every month, every week, or even every day. Something we may not even notice we're doing. But wait, let's back up even further. Let's go back to 1965.

In 1965, during the famous march for Black voting rights from Selma to Montgomery, AL, Dr. King was joined by his good friend and fellow civil rights advocate, Dr. Abraham Joshua Heschel. Talk about BAD JEW. Dr. Heschel was one of the greatest Jewish thinkers and teachers of the 20th century, not to mention a Bad Ass Jewish Activist. So here he is in Selma, this rabbi and master scholar, marching with Dr. King, doing his Bad Jew Thing, rather than staying in New York where he worked and studied at the Jewish Theological Seminary. Heschel's own reflection on this experience?

“When I marched in Selma, I felt my feet were praying.”

Now, coincidentally, if we keep our reflection focused on the weekend of MLK Day, we can easily find out that the Torah portion for that particular Shabbat was Beshalach, in which Moses gets some serious instructions on how to part the Red Sea and the Israelites use their feet to march themselves to freedom from Egypt. I mean, lots of other things happen in the parsha, but let's focus on the fancy footwork.

So here we have two distinct ways of looking at using our feet: 1) marching for freedom (freedom to vote, freedom from slavery) and, 2) praying. The first way is pretty literal. We were in Selma, and now we're in Montgomery. We were in Egypt, and now we're not. But how do we PRAY with our feet? What did Heschel mean?

My own interpretation is that action IS prayer. And if we define prayer as the space in which we talk to God, then for some of us, that space is created through civic engagement; through service, in whatever form speaks most clearly to us. Moreover, if we forget to take time to reflect and listen to what's calling us to pray, we may lose sight of our Bad Jew purpose.

Now, think about your past month, your past week, the past 24 hours and ask yourself this: How do YOU pray with your feet? And if that's not enough, if you need to go deeper, ask yourself this: How do you bring yourself back to your core and reflect when you're out of practice?

Me? I'm still asking myself both.

Just Service

Stop me if you've heard this one:

Two dudes and a lady are walking along a river bank when they look down at the water and notice something peculiar: there are babies floating downstream. Like, actual babies. All three of them run into the river and start plucking the babies out of the water and placing the little tykes on dry land. All of a sudden, the lady stops mid-pluck, turns to the two dudes and tells them to keep fishing the babies out of the water while she goes upstream to find out how the babies are getting put in the river in the first place.

I don't know about you, but I've heard this story told in a million ways, sited from multiple faith-based traditions, all over the country, during professional conferences and during volunteer events, while eating bacon and while not eating bacon, by day and by night, on a plane and on a...uh, well...you get my point. And what is pivotal about this story is not the part about the babies floating down the river. What is compelling about this story is its ability to so clearly identify the roles that the acts of both service and education play as vehicles to achieving justice.

Let me explain myself. As a professional working in the field of service learning, I'm often asked to clarify the difference between service learning and social justice. Out in the universe of Bad Jewry there are various differing opinions on this particular topic. It's been told to me that social justice is really the "cure" for the world's ailments while service learning is "merely" a method to meeting immediate community needs. UMMMM...ok. So let me get this straight: service learning is a band aid and social justice is the only authentic way to achieve tikkun olam, a repaired world? I'm sure I'm not interpreting that correctly. I must be hearing this wrong. Are my ears still clogged from when I was taking those babies out of the river?

Speaking of the story of the babies in the river, I see this excellent anecdote as a prime example of the intersection of social justice and service learning. Both involve education and action. Both impact the community in order to affect systemic change. Both feed the hungry and clothe the homeless. Both stop social injustices at their roots because we are educating ourselves and others AND we are also serving urgent, immediate needs.

To create social justice, to repair our broken world, to right the egregious societal wrongs at which we Bad Jews hurl our super powers, we don't have time for semantics, my friends. Global warming is endangering our planet, our public school system continues to crumble before our very eyes, citizens of our country are being denied equal rights...and we're having a battle of righteousness? Like I said, I must be misinterpreting this.

My humble, yet loud, opinion has me shouting at the top of my lungs that service learning and social justice are equal players on the Bad Jew Scene. To put it simply, I choose to see Service Learning as my method, as my costume with the colorful spandex leotard and shiny black boots, and Social Justice as my mission, as the logo emblazoned across my chest. And I'm pretty sure our costumes are all manufactured at the same place, my fellow Bad Jews. At that place deep within each of our souls that burns with tradition and tzedek, Justice.

We learn in Pirkei Avot 2:21 from the wise Rabbi Tarfon that it's not up to us to finish the task, but neither are we allowed to desist from the task. So being that each and every one of us is right here, reading this blog post, thinking about what we must do next to fulfill our Jewish destinies as citizens of the world united through the fuel of passion and chutzpah to make the world Just, let's agree to drop the semantics and get back out there (talk about a serious Justice League, huh?). Service learning, social justice - interpret them how you may: volunteering at a homeless shelter, voting on November 2nd, community organizing to empower those who have no voice, raising money for cancer research, raising awareness about gay rights, and so on, and so on. It doesn't matter as long as you DO IT. It doesn't matter as long as you TEACH OTHERS TO DO IT.

So where does our reflection lie this time around, my fellow Bad Jews? It's right here, deep in the heart of what feels authentic to you: How do you live your Jewish values - is service "just service" or is it "Just Service?"