City Lass, Country Bound

As I mentioned below, my schoolwide Shabbaton was this past weekend, and it was as diverse an experience as such gatherings typically are. I am by nature a negative person, but I will dry- excuse me, try to avoid saturating this recounting with too strong a dose of pessimistic partiality. The experience was best characterized by a few choice nouns (mostly of the tactile variety) so I will follow history's advice and use those guidelines to recount the weekend's events.

1. Wet- The rain started mid-afternoon on Friday, a wild, torrential country storm that raged for two hours and then pattered out- unfortunately, not before the gusts had succeeded in wiping out the power on the entire location. The lights went back on by 8:00 that night, but the rain started again at 5:00 the next day and continued to drone down, drenching and relentless, until Sunday morning. In addition, reluctant as I was to shower in hotel quarters, my dear friend S kindly offered to wash my hair in the sink after Shabbos. Although the experience certainly added to the drippiness of the weekend, it was an immeasurably salubrious and generous act on my friend's part and I really can't thank her enough.

2. Musty- Fairly predictable, as the Shabbaton took place in a converted camp grounds that had seen better days (I hope.) Every room, every chair, every rank, ratty rug wafted with age, wear and habitation The resulting odor was... unpleasant, to say the least. I ended up sleeping in pajama pants, socks and my robe for disgust and fear of invading critters.

3. Greasy- Despite my most concerted efforts to prevent my hair from transmogrifying into something resembling a very old, very rancid Caesar salad, by the time Shabbos was over my scalp was limp and slick with obvious, unpleasant 'lubrication', shall we say. Nothing I tried, from clipping back my bangs to tying on headbands of varying widths and thickness over the front of my hair (which only made me seem 22 and quite married) succeeded in masking the overt greasiness- thankfully, the problem was finally assuaged with S's help. Also regarding such unctuous splendor, the food served at the place was quite savory and tasty, due largely I am certain to the copious volume of oil infused in every bite. I am fairly confident my cholesterol rose over the weekend, but it's better than eating dry food, I suppose!

4. Minutiae- One thing I hate about Shabbatons is the ever-present threat of some external disaster occurring. For instance, what if my hair frizzes in the damp? What if I forget the right color eyeshadow? What if my tights rip, or no one else is wearing round toe shoes? Everything is magnified, and appearances become the unofficial, unbreakable guidebook. Be pretty, be classy, be original, be stylish... An endless, relentless cycle of invisible obligation. Everything is imagined, of course, but ay ay ay! I'd tear my hair out, if bald patches weren't the fashion faux pax of the past three centuries.

5. Song- I had joined the Senior choir, although I didn't have time to practice as I had somehow been given the job of skit Co-Head. Luckily, the choir more or less crumbled by Shabbos afternoon and I was able to join. I learned a gorgeous song ("B'Shem Hashem Elokei Yisroel, b'yimini Michoel, u b'smoli Gavriel, u milfonai Uriel, u mayachori Rephael. V'al roshi Shechinas K-L.") The choir didn't turn out terribly well (read: it crumbled like a piece of paper) but even practicing was nice. There was also quite a bit of singing involved at mealtimes and just before Shabbos ended. I strained my throat a bit, but it was honestly worth it.

In spite of what may mislead, I really didn't have a terrible time. I was fortunately not involved in any major politics, although I did have a birds eye view of several circles of conflict. Sunday was a completely separate kind of experience and it needs an entry of it's own, so I will conclude this here. I hope everyone had a good Memorial Day!

"Then Close Your Eyes and Tap Your Heels Three Times; And Think To Yourself...

I'm home from my school Shabbaton. All fifty-two glorious, drenching, mind-bendingly stressful hours of it.

I'm exhausted. I'm slightly nauseous. I am so sweaty, my clothing must think I am some kind of canine, or teenaged male.

Something in particular happened on the way home that I would like to recap, but I have a stringent obligation to collapse at the moment so that will have to wait until later.

In conclusion... I'm sure everyone can finish the quote in the title, but I you can't I'd recommend a set of dentures and a childhood.

Something Like Suppression

There is a morass of graduation expostulations sludging through my mind that I don't want to succumb to. Hackneyed, tired, sentimental ribbons of similes and metaphors and paragraphs straining one and all to describe the gaping abyss of the graduation syndrome. (Example: It is a perceived, imagined danger that only poses real risk to the utterly supine....) I don't want to join (or at least fall further into) the endless annals of syrupy, lachrymose laments of graduates past. Every thought I am thinking, every swelling, seditious emotion has swept through legions of souls in cap and gown clad figures, and the result has spilled over millions of empathetic eyes. I know the drill so well: Terror, excitement, loss, joy, push - pull, stay - go, change, boredom, comfort, laziness, ambition, the feeling that your suddenly standing on a pedestal that is quivering under you but you can't get off and G-d, what happens if you fall...

It's too much of the same. It's like a formulaic drug that everyone takes and everyone feels, and then a year later you are tall and strange and cynical and it's "Oh yeah, graduation. I was crying so hard... how could I have been such a dork?"

I hate this limbo, this feeling and not wanting to, this conformity when all I want to do is say good-bye with grace. But there is nothing I can do, except cry and quiver and mourn until June is over and the stinging reminders of everything missing fade away.

That's all I can do, except not write about it.

A Crucible? No Kidding, and Thanks for the Warning!

Cryptic note of caution:

Should one ever endeavor to view the film "The Crucible" based on the play of the same name by Arthur Miller from any span of time between 12:00 PM and 9:30 AM, I must strongly advise you to STOP and consider the overwhelming psychological ramifications of such a decision. If you fail to heed this warning, it is the unfortunate truth that the only remotely successful cure for the resulting waves of smothering depression is an hours-long marathon viewing of Friends and other such saccharine slices of televised cotton candy.

Such as the one that I (at yes, 1:00 in the morning) am about to drown myself in.

Good night, and good luck.

Physical Education

Thirty girls aslouching by the dank and sallow wall
Clad in uniformity, they wait for Captain's call
To reaffirm their status in regard to basket-ball
And again condemn my feeble dreams of aptitude to fall.

They cluster in bi-conscious cliques of devious design
Each praying she will be the lucky first to leave the line
And when the hallowed Captain grants the honor to her kind
It stings, although I knew the name she'd call would not be mine.

And one by one the girls on every side of me alight
Their height, their speed, their status has awarded them this right
But small and round and reading, I seem not to garner sight
And so I stand alone in place and wait the silent fight.

The battle skews the moments into agonizing years
As the thought that rings around the room assaults my callused ears
The college-student Coach stands dumb, her power disappears
So I curl up within myself, and choke away the tears.

Eventually the game ensues, apologies unspoken
The ball is gone, the room is cleared of any tactile token
But I emerge once more with something new in me awoken
A knowledge of the finer ways an innocent is broken.

The First Last

Yesterday afternoon was the final session of the program I wrote about in The Shabbos Sisters. I was looking forward to spending time with the few girls who had continued to attend, who's company I had strangely come to enjoy. I wasn't sad, just eager to complete my surprising tenure as a group leader on a confident and satisfying note. It was a happy ending, or so I had though.

Unfortunately, because it was the last week, many girls who hadn't come in months decided to return for one last hurrah. The numbers weren't overwhelming, about six or seven girls in my group, but the bulk of them were some of the worst behaved little heathens I had ever met. How difficult can it be to respond in positive to "Devora, please stop screaming," or "No Bracha, you can't take the entire bag of lollipops for yourself" ? They became so out of control that even the girls who were normally better behaved went wild- if I hadn't been so appalled, I would have been able to write a pages-long thesis on the complete lack of resistance to social facilitation of fourth grade girls. At one point, there were about five of them shrieking some nonsense at the top of their lungs, and each canine-pitched catcall resonated louder and louder around the useless acoustic perfection of the detention room until it got to the point that I actually had to walk out and let my friend deal with them alone for a few minutes. My friend did manage to coerce them into playing some sort of game, but the level of noise was still significant enough to make thought processes difficult, and by that time the session was all but over.

Overall, it was a highly disappointing conclusion to a difficult and often unpleasant undertaking. I know I tried my best and I'm sure I have grown somehow from the experience, but I can't help but wish my efforts had been awarded a more satisfying sendoff. Hopefully my upcoming good-byes, which antagonize me far more than I anticipated yesterday's to, will resultantly be eased by the ordeal.

The Master of my Fate

 

This is my favorite necklace. It's comforting on several levels, especially when I am feeling hopeless and uncreative. And of course, I adore subtle tactile symbolism.

But if I really were "the master of my fate" in the fullest sense (which is not necessarily a power I would be entirely at ease with) I wonder; what would I do?

Well...

- I would publish at least one book.
- I would learn to ice skate.
- I would take a regular yoga class.
- I would learn to speak at least three languages fluently.
- I would meet JK Rowling.
- I would take gymnastics lessons.
- I would read more "classics".
- I would sing on a Broadway stage (with or without an audience.)
- I would take cooking lessons.
- I would climb a rock wall.
- I would take all kinds of dancing lessons.
- I would meet Robin Ventura and Todd Zeile.
- I would watch "Gone With the Wind" in its entirety.
- I would discipline myself and learn to play the piano.
- I would go to Greece, Japan, Australia and New Zealand.

It's an interesting thing to think about. I never realized how badly I wanted to climb a rock wall before, or go to Japan of all places. Isn't it fascinating when you discover bits of yourself that you never fully felt?

And because it is spring, and it is nice to try fresh things, I will put this to you. If you could do anything, what would you do?

That Someone

I really hate checking back here and realizing that it's been almost a week since I've written something. Unfortunately, the next three and a half weeks that (oh, G-d) represent the conclusion of my high school career are quickly beginning to resemble a very large spring being pushed into a very small thimble- something's got to give. Though I suppose I should be thankful; it's difficult to mourn graduation when you are grinding the finals millstone until your nose is raw.

Example A: Tommorow is the first part of the Advanced Placement English Exam. I'm not sure why I signed up for the thing, it's impossibly difficult and practically useless in terms of college credits. Or perhaps I do know why- I signed up to impress my teacher. Such touching motivation.

The exam is at eight o'clock in the morning. I will most likely go in with far too little information or time to have a chance to score well. I'm worried, but not for the test. I think I am worried because I should be worried. I should care about this, or at least try to. Everyone else does. Why am I missing this drive that seems to come to everyone else so terribly easily?

I feel like I am driving down a road, and at the end there is a sign that says "Graduation. Mature Persons Only." Only it isn't a place, just an abyss where everything safe and familiar is gone, and I have nothing to grab on to for support. In reality I know it isn't nearly so drastic, but the only framework I've ever really known is dissolving around me. What am I without high school, with something so similar yet so strange looming ahead of me?

It's almost as though I won't be myself any more. I'll be someone new and capable and unfamiliar, all of a sudden. Without warning or preparation I'll be someone grown up, comfortable and invincible in everything she does. Someone without fear, who doesn't need or enjoy the things I so take comfort in now.

It's ridiculous. It's impossible. But I can't believe how terrified I am of becoming that someone.