I was fascinated by this article, which talks about the difficulties some Israelis of American ancestry are having proving to the Israeli rabbinate that they are in fact Jewish. Apparently you have to have official proof of your Judaism from an Orthodox rabbi -- and not just any Orthodox rabbi, but an Orthodox rabbi whom the Israeli Orthodox rabbis think is Orthodox enough to pass muster with them. The Suzie Goldstein mentioned in the article is a shirttail relative -- a cousin of a distant cousin of mine. And the North Side of Minneapolis --also mentioned in the article -- is the birthplace of my heritage in America, too. (My great-grandmother designed and built a house that still stands on Elwood Ave N in Minneapolis; if I could remember the exact street address....was it 711?....I could show it to you on Google Street view. If any of my relatives are reading this and remember, comment with it, will you?) In any event, the article has me thinking about my own exile from Judaism.

I made my grandmother's hamantaschen for Purim this year, and in a couple of weeks I go to visit with family for Passover. I once hosted a Passover seder myself -- for which I wrote my own Haggadah --  for my family and roommates in my house. I was the only person in the (Scandihoovian Minnesota) theater who got the joke in Angels in America where the American secular Jewish protagonist starts off reciting the kaddish for the Rosenbergs and then finishes off with the prayer for lighting Chanukah candles, because he doesn't know the whole of the kaddish. Not only that, I can relate: The prayer for lighting Chanukah candles -- recited in my household eight times yearly, with great excitement by a certain small somebdy  -- is the only Hebrew I know, too. I vividly recall chatting by telephone with the rabbi in the first week of my son's life, trying to arrange a bris. My son is already hoping with great anticipation for a Bar Mitzvah. I have a Jewish last name, and I've been the victim, at least once that I know of, of anti-Semitic discrimination. Culturally I have a lot in common with Jews.

But I'm not Jewish. My son didn't get the bris, because the (Reform, female, very nice) rabbi agreed it was impossible, neither of his parents being Jews and all (disappointing my grandfather, who of course very much wanted Floppy to have one).  I've no idea what to tell Floppy about the Bar Mitzvah -- we've visited synagogues occasionally as a family, but never felt entirely comfortable. After all, my mother is Christian, and in the Jewish community I've been frequently -- and sometimes none too nicely -- reminded of the fact that I'm not Jewish. It's probably schadenfreude that I am taking some comfort in learning that most of my mishpoche aren't either, at least according to the Israeli Rabbinate.

Christians, when I was growing up, also were highly aware that I wasn't in their club. But they went to great (albeit fruitless) lengths to let me know that they wanted me to join. Every one of my mother's pastors, when I was growing up, tried hard to make friends with me. If the bris were a Christian ceremony -- and my husband and I as non-Christians somehow requested one for our son -- I've no doubt the pastor would have thrown one arm 'round my shoulder while calling the mohel with the other. 

Judaism used to be an evangelical religion. In fact, the famous Talmudic verse on conversion states explicitly that God exiled Jews from Israel in the first place in order that they might gain converts. (How surprised the Israeli Rabbinate will be if God comes down and explains that He wasn't kidding about that!) Jews stopped evangelizing for a practical and humane reason: Christian oppression made it dangerous for anyone to be Jewish.

I wonder what would be different if Jews had never stopped their mission, or if they sought converts anew now. They would probably be more powerful and less vulnerable in the Middle East and throughout the world. They would have reason to treat their Arab neighbors decently and humanely. The world might be a safer and more secure place. And I would probably be a Jew, with a Jewish son and a Jewish husband and a Jewish family.

When he came wholly forth
I took him up in my hands and bent
over and smelled
the black glistening fur
of his head, as empty space
must have bent
over the newborn planet
and smelled the grasslands and the ferns.

I found saying something I have never said before this weekend (and no, it wasn't "Colorless green ideas sleep furiously"). I attended Split This Rock Poetry Festival here in DC, and at the end of the festival, early in the morning, they had a festival wrap-up evaluation and planning session with the organizers where they solicited suggestions for "What next?"

I didn't have any ideas in this regard, but I did find myself moved to the front of the room, holding the microphone, and telling Sarah Browning, the event's main organizer, that I felt as if I had been waiting my whole life for this event. I was tearful as I spoke, in a further bit of uncharacteristic depth of feeling. In attending this conference, I felt as if I was finally meeting a number of people I had so wholly given up hope of ever encountering that I did not even know I was missing them. I felt sharply spurred to act on my values and warmly nourished in my  own efforts at crafting poetry. And I had the opportunity to simply enjoy some beautiful art and learn from some wise individuals. I've written before about how much I hate going to conferences, so I was startled at myself. But this was an extraordinary event: idealistic, brilliantly well-organized and administrated, and visionary. I've often commented to colleagues that I wish I could -- just once -- attend a psychological conference that accomplished something important, that signaled an historic change and commitment to the future in our field (like the Boulder Conference, for example). I've no idea if I ever will have such an opportunity in psychology, but I felt that this event might just possibly be such a conference for lovers of poetry and peace. So I was thrilled and grateful at the synchronicity that led me there (I'd simply stumbled over it in the course of looking up Busboys and Poets Cafe as a good place for a weekend diversion; everything important happens by accident, it seems). 

In any event, Thursday 3/20 was the first night of the festival (and perfect timing for me -- during UMD's spring break, but the day after our Minnesota houseguests went home, which is yet more synchronicity, I suppose). I put in a day at work, spring break be damned, but went to Busboys and Poets in the evening for the Festival's opening celebration with Sonia Sanchez. I got there about 5:30, and the cafe was already absolutely packed, but I picked up my festival packet and finally found an unoccupied bench in the corner. There were itty bitties to eat, so I picked anxiously at a plate of hummus, good pita, olives, fruit and cheese, but I was feeling shy, so I didn't order a drink. I've gotten better at quietly observing my own misery in these situations, and at lowering expectations. I'd come alone, there was no chance of my meeting anyone I knew, and of course all around me were happy people drinking and warmly hugging one another. In front of me a small girl sat with her mother happily coloring and drinking some sort of hibiscus-colored drink that was flashing garnet in the light. I wished I had brought the Floppy, at least. But mindfulness training pays off: I watched my mind repeatedly supply the suggestion that I go home and go to bed, immediately, and I thanked my mind for the thought, and then I ignored it. I was there to see what happened, and worst-case scenario: I would get to see poets. So I sat on my little bench in the corner, and waited. 

Sonia Sanchez came on about 6:30, I think, and gave an impassioned speech about empowering young people to be writers and activists. My favorite moment came as she was speaking about working with youth in school, and about the reedeeming qualities of rap and Hip Hop music (or lack thereof). She talked about boys excusing their consumption of misogynistic and hateful music by saying that they just get down to the groove, that they don't pay attention to the lyrics. Sanchez is a little bitty woman, a bit stooped, foul-mouthed, behatted, rich and expansive with gesture. She threw up a hand and hollered: "Oh, please. You listen to the goddamn lyrics, too!"

I am constantly but less persuasively making the same argument to my husband, so I wish he'd been there.

I'd seen Sanchez speak (and read) before, and I have some of her books; she is entertaining and provocative and a wonderful instigator, but there was little that was new to me in her talk. She only read one poem, as I recall, and I don't remember it. Also, I find that I dislike the intense focus on youth that often comes when we speak about social justice: The idea that we should focus on youth, and especially the idea that the youth are the future, and that they will solve our problems if we only listen to them. For one thing, it strikes me as ageist. I never hear impassioned speeches about how we must take care of and listen to our elders, because they will save us with their wisdom and their knowledge of our history. For another thing, it strikes me as patronizing of the youth: People of all ages are diverse, are individual, differ in their needs. Jamie Lynn Spears and Miley Cyrus are children, but I don't feel moved to focus any additional social attention on them. And, finally, it strikes me as avoidant. Expecting children as the future to pay for the mistakes of the present is not visionary social policy, W's deficit spending notwithstanding. So as much as I was amused by Sanchez's talk, I wasn't dazzled by it.

The most interesting commentary on the I35W bridge collapse is available exactly where you might have guessed..... on the structural engineers' professional forum.

Lots of technical wonkery, but also plenty of interesting and readable speculation on what might have happened and how.

The I35W bridge over the Mississippi River here in Minneapolis has collapsed, wholesale, north and southbound lanes, at the height of rush hour, with the northbound lane packed with people going to the baseball game and the southbound lane packed with commuters going home. 

My household is all fine and hanging out at home, cancelling the evening grocery run.

If you live in Minneapolis and read my journal, please post that you are ok, because I am probably worrying about you.