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Posts Tagged ‘spring 2012’

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LeviaCrew

In Spring 2012 on July 18, 2012 at 8:54 pm

Karin Gold- Year: Three - Major: Intensive Psychology

Aaron Giannini- Year: Three - Major: History

Oren Gotesman- Year: Four - Major: Politics

Shani Chabansky - Year: Four - Major: Anthropoloy and Jewish Studies

Savyonne Steindler - Year: Four - Major: Anthropology and Jewish Studies

David Lee - Year: Three - Major: Literature

Jennine Grasso - Year: One - Major: Anthropology

Ephraim Margolin - Year: One - Major: Philosophy

Karina Garcia - Year: Three - Major: Literature and Jewish Studies

Matthew Davis - Year: Three - Major: Environmental Studies and Economics

Published on page 64 of the Spring 2012 issue of Leviathan.

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White Noise

In Poetry, Spring 2012 on July 18, 2012 at 8:43 pm

By Amrit Sidhu

 

Run into the field of bounty, 

of all that is aesthetically

pleasing.

Bask in the glory of its scent.

Let its poison overflow your lungs

and kill every living cell

within your essence.

Run into that field of

extravagance.

 

Where sunflowers follow the

path of light

and bestow smiles upon the world.

For behind those smiles lies a deep,

hidden meaning.

Tall and surmounting any

imposing force,

the sunflowers rise up against the world.

Grimacing over the weak and powerless below.

Sucking up all nutrients

and scoffing at the famished.

 

Run into the field of mercy

and allow yourself to become entranced

by the flash of colours.

They beckon those without souls.

 

For once you enter,

you are forever signed away as a slave of society.

A dead society full of colour.

Feed them, clothe them, bathe them,

and pray to them.

A slave of a system in which

Agua es vida.

Published on page 58 of the Spring 2012 issue of Leviathan.

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I Can’t

In Poetry, Spring 2012 on July 18, 2012 at 8:24 pm

By Karin Gold

I can’t write poetry.

I never could.

Words don’t come out

the way I think they should.

My words fly out my mouth

choppy, awkward, and broken

Like a poor one-winged dove.

An attempt at grace

That fails miserably.

I can’t write poetry.

I really can’t.

The thoughts that

cloud my mind

are just too loud.

Too much for

my mouth to form.

For my hand to write.

I can’t write poetry.

I never will.

It feels too odd

forming thoughts

while molding them

into short lines and

counted syllables.

Seems a little contradictory.

I can’t write poetry.

I never could.

Published on page 48 of the Spring 2012 issue of Leviathan.

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The Masked Dash

In Multimedia, Spring 2012 on July 18, 2012 at 8:10 pm

By Allison Carlisle

Published on page43 of the Spring 2012 issue of Leviathan.

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Meaning

In Poetry, Spring 2012 on July 18, 2012 at 8:09 pm

By Anisha Mauze

 

There is something

these dendrites at the end of my fingertips

cannot touch.

A past time

where I could pass time

doing what, I don’t really know.

Now I climb trees

hoping their antenna branches

can contact satellites,

because they know all the answers.

Why we feel in neurotransmitters

and the difference

between what makes people tick

and what makes them talk.

This knowing,

it feels like electricity in my veins.

It feels like my cells

are galaxies.

It feels like there are more wonders in this world

then there are fingers to count them with.

My lungs have holes in them

for my breath to escape through

even though it is already taken

far too easily.

We are all miracles.

Carbon-base we may be,

but then again, so are diamonds.

We are all diamonds.

Sharp and clear

and if there’s one thing I know

it’s that satellites

are always

right.

Published on page 42 of the Spring 2012 issue of Leviathan.

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The Story of Yael: My Transition From Orthodoxy into Non-Observant Jewishness

In Judaism and Society, Personal Interest, Spring 2012 on July 18, 2012 at 8:08 pm

By Shelby Backman

I have two sets of names. The first set consists of my federally recognized first, middle, and last name: Shelby Alexandra Backman. The second set I rarely use or even with my closest friends: Shira Yael Hertzliya. These are my three Hebrew names. It is Jewish custom to be named after ancestors; my names are the female version of my two great-grandfathers and a great uncle: Asher, Yoel, and Hertzl. Two of them were supposedly rebbes and all three of them had escaped from Russia to the United States at the turn of the century. “All of them,” my mother would say, “were great men and leaders in the Jewish community.”

I do appreciate that I am named after these men. But I never associated my names with theirs, nor my life with theirs. I’m not ashamed of my Hebrew names; they just don’t have a place in my everyday life. Still, despite the fact that I rarely use these names, they define a part of me. My relationship with them mirrors my relationship with Judaism and how it has developed and been redefined throughout my life. In fact, when I lost my faith in God, my Hebrew names returned to me a Jewish identity that I thought I would never regain.

For most of my early life, my mother raised me as an Orthodox Jew. I was a part of a Chabad congregation in San Diego and attended the same Jewish summer camp as the children in my synagogue. My mother and I weren’t as strictly observant as the other members of Chabad. We still drove and turned on lights during the Sabbath, and only used one set of plates even though we kept the laws of kashrut. Even still, she and I would study the Midrash (rabbinic commentary of the Torah) on a weekly basis. I even joined and actively contributed to an adult Midrash group while I was still in elementary school. I loved knowing that I was Jewish. I was one of the chosen people, and the world was my oyster.

Karin Gold

My names reflected this feeling. In the Orthodox community I preferred being addressed as Shira, or sometimes Herzliya. Shira means “[holy] song,” and Hertzliya is both related to the word for “deer” as well as a city in the Tel Aviv district of Israel. A search on Google will give “mountain goat” as the common translation for Yael. In comparison to a song or deer, a mountain goat did not feel particularly flattering. Later, during my Midrash studies with my mother, I learned that Yael is also the name of the heroine who saved the Jews by stabbing an enemy general with a wooden pin. In comparison to my other names, Yael’s relationship to Jewish history seemed relatively unimportant. Firstly, her tale is recorded in the book of Judges, Jewish scripture not included in the five books of the Torah. Secondly, only two parshas (chapters) are dedicated to her story. Thirdly, Yael isn’t even a Jew. As a child, I only wanted to be known by the two names that explicitly portrayed my Jewish identity. Yael wasn’t a part of that agenda, so I shunted the name and dismissed it as “just another name I have.”

As I got older, I felt less and less connected to the Orthodox community. This disconnect was partly exacerbated by the problems that developed between my mother and me. More importantly, it was difficult for me to relate to the Orthodox customs or beliefs any longer. I hated having to wear long skirts and long-sleeved shirts, even during the summer, as mandated by Orthodox Jewish law. I could never commit prayers beyond the Shema and the Aleinu to memory and never felt the desire to. I wanted to be like my non-Jewish friends who didn’t have to go to temple on Saturdays and didn’t have to read the Midrash every night. Bit by bit, I began to cut away pieces of my Jewish upbringing.

Once I came to UCSC, I stopped attending temple altogether. I didn’t want to return to the Orthodox way of life, but I still recognized myself as Jewish. However, because I’d grown up extremely religious, I felt like I couldn’t connect with any Reform or Conservative Jewish group. Essentially, I felt like I wasn’t a part of the Jewish community, regardless of my steadfast Jewish identity. So I kept my relationship with Judaism private and personal.

Then, earlier this year, I became an atheist. I fell into a depression. I had lost God. I knew that I could count on my friends to celebrate my successes and to sympathize with my struggles. However, I felt that only God could experience my life as I experienced it. Losing him meant I lost my closest confidant. His existence also reaffirmed my Jewish identity. The belief that my relationship with him had a different meaning in this life because I was Jewish allowed me to be comfortable with my Jewishness,

regardless of which prayers I said or which customs I chose to keep. By losing God, I felt like I’d not only lost the ability to be a part of any Jewish community, but I’d also lost an integral part of my being, a part that shaped so much of my childhood.

Once I became an atheist, even my favored Hebrew names seemed foreign to me. All three belonged to ancestors who, unlike me, were proud of their Jewish heritage. At that point, it was much easier to shun my Jewish identity because I felt like I didn’t deserve to call myself Jewish. I was the stereotypical “wandering Jew.”

Soon after I became an atheist, I began dating a fellow atheist-Jew who, unlike me, embraced his Judaism. In my relationship with him, I saw that it was possible to be Jewish without believing in God, but I still didn’t understand my place in the community. I thought I would never reconcile with my Jewish identity, let alone my Hebrew names (which I had long since stopped using).

During my last quarter at UCSC, I enrolled in Rabbi Chein’s “Women of the Hebrew Bible” class in order to understand what it means to be a Jewish woman, especially one without faith. Weeks went by and I felt no more connected with Judaism than I had at the beginning of the quarter. Then, as I was starting to accept my fate as an outsider, I revisited the story of Yael.

The story takes place in Israel, where the evil King Jabin had sent his general Sisera to wage war against the Jews. In response, Deborah, the reigning prophetess, appoints a Jewish man, Barak, to lead his army into a war against Sisera’s forces. Meanwhile, the story introduces Yael’s character. She is married to Herber the Kenite, a man who has separated himself and his tent from the Jews and has befriended King Jabin. Because of her association with Herber, Yael is considered an outsider in respect to the Jewish people. Barak and Deborah ride into battle against Sisera’s army and the Jews come out the victor. Unfortunately, General Sisera survives the defeat and runs to the safety of Herber’s tent. When Sisera arrives, Yael greets him and serves him a glass of milk. After Sisera lies down to rest, Yael takes a wooden tent pin in one hand and a hammer in the other. She then drives the pin through Sisera’s temple. When Barak rides up later in pursuit of Sisera, Yael shows him the general, lying dead on the tent’s floor. She, the wife of Herber the Kenite, friend to King Jabin, had killed the enemy of the Jews despite her husband’s allegiances. Even as an outsider, she came to the aid of the Jewish people when she was handed the opportunity, betraying her expected loyalties.

After rereading the story of Yael, my names were no longer a painful reminder of the Jewish identity I had discarded. In fact, the name that I had once regarded as the least Jewish of the three now gave me a sense of identity within Judaism. Deborah and Yael represent two extremes within the Jewish community: Deborah is completely involved and immersed in Jewish life, whereas Yael is essentially detached from it. During my childhood, I was a Deborah in my Jewish community. As an adult, I have become a Yael. The story of Yael demonstrates the important role that both women play in the survival of the Jewish people. By chronicling the heroism displayed by these two extreme Jewish identities, the story of Deborah and Yael showed me that my lack of faith didn’t have to dictate my place in the Jewish community. It didn’t matter which path I chose to express my connection with Judaism;

Judaism could manifest itself in many forms. From religious practices to cultural observances to recounted histories, I could be a part of all of it, or none of it, or somewhere in between and still identify as Jewish. My ability to relate to other Jews through my experiences and our shared history is what matters. This is what makes me a Jew.

Although I still don’t use my Hebrew names in everyday interactions, they are just as much a part of my identity as my secular names. Regardless of my feelings about God or Jewish customs, Judaism’s history and culture shaped my childhood and connected me to my ancestors. As an atheist, I’m no longer a part of the religious community I’d once identified with. But I also know that to be part of the Jewish community, I don’t have be a Deborah. I’m proud to be a Yael.

By Karin Gold

Published on page 37 of the Spring 2012 issue of Leviathan.

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Finding My Religion: Matthew’s Story

In Jewish Culture, Judaism and Society, Spring 2012 on July 18, 2012 at 7:42 pm

By Aaron Giannini

“Cover your eyes this time, then say it.” At this point, not only had I messed up the ritual of wrapping myself in tefillin, I apparently hadn’t even recited the shema correctly. I closed my eyes, put my hand in front of my face, and waited for further instruction. “The word is shema: listen. It’s not just about speaking the words; it’s about hearing them. Your sight gives you a limited window into what’s really happening in the world around you. Close your eyes and hear, allow yourself to be present, then say the words when you’re ready.” When I ultimately recited the prayer, I wasn’t sure to whom I was speaking. To myself? To God? Was I just humoring a friend, or was I wrapping myself in leather and saying the ancient words in an attempt to share even a fraction of a religious experience with him?

As an atheist and a skeptic, my reaction to Matthew’s newfound religious views was one of confusion and doubt. The biblical conception of a “God of the Desert” is not an intuitive idea; it must be taught, internalized, and reinforced over time in order to become personally meaningful. At the time, I simply could not understand what could motivate an educated, critical person to accept the traditional Orthodox views of God and the Bible without having grown up in an Orthodox community. It seemed that Matthew had gone on a self-reflective journey, searching for morality and truth in the world, and the Tanakh gave him answers. As someone who feels that Judaism has evolved to become more grounded in culture and genealogical history than in the factual truth of the Bible, I felt the need to pick his brain.

Matthew was raised in a progressive Jewish household, attending Sunday school throughout adolescence and, like many Reform Jews, receiving a parentally motivated Bar Mitzvah at the age of 13. He joined a Jewish youth group in high school not for religious reasons, but for social ones. It was a fraternity of sorts, complete with morally questionable initiations, a code of ethics to swear by, and fierce comradery between its members. While Matthew believed that spirituality existed in the world, he felt no religious connection to Judaism other than the sense of community it instilled in him. He believed the only thing that tied him to his Jewish brethren was the fact that his parents raised him to know the prayers, the songs, and the rituals. Towards the end of high school, however, his perception of Judaism took a dramatic turn. A falling out between himself and his Jewish peers came to redefine the course of his spiritual journey. After a prank gone wrong, in a single night his relationship with his youth group became sour, turning him off from “social Judaism.” Unbeknownst to him, this fallout would mark the beginning of his search for a true spiritual community.

While his experience with his own small Jewish community ended with a feeling of betrayal, he retained his belief in the spirituality inherent in the world. Matthew had always felt that something was “out there,” something omnipotent and beyond his comprehension. If only he could find a way to connect to it, he believed his life could take on new meaning. In college, he explored the Tao Te Ching, and also researched how Islam and Christianity differ from Judaism.  He was not convinced by the Christian idea of transubstantiation, and also found little value in the rigidity of Islam and the abstractness of Taoism. His frustration with the irrationality and perversion of other religions inspired him to take a deeper look into Judaism. He dove into Jewish canonical texts, studying the traditions of his forefathers and the reasoning behind them. His intensified engagement with religion motivated him to go to Israel one summer, an experience that changed his outlook on life and Judaism.

In Israel, Matthew enrolled in a study group that focused on how the Tanakh and its corresponding interpretive literature constitute the forefront of Jewish consciousness. He learned biblical stories and traditional explanations for how they retain their relevance in Jewish daily life. He studied Jewish history, seeing firsthand the place where our ancestors built the temples and passed on the story of our lineage. Having been burned by one Jewish organization in the past, Matthew felt the need to be critical during his stay in the Promised Land. He didn’t break down in divine bliss in front of the Western Wall, but instead studied its significance in the Jewish world and appreciated it all the same. Unlike many visiting Jews, he didn’t hastily begin wearing tzitzit or a yarmulke upon his arrival into a yeshiva environment. He researched what they mean and why they are important aspects of Jewish identity, and only then did he feel comfortable using them as an expression of his connection to the divine. Slowly, Matthew’s experiences in the land of Israel and his newfound religious knowledge gave him a context in which he could understand the traditional Jewish conception of God. The customs that define Orthodox Judaism started to make sense to him. He found himself personally affected by the spirituality and history woven into the words of the Tanakh.

Savyonne Steindler

What I found most fascinating about Matthew’s recent Orthodoxy was the fact that it was not inspired by a single spark of revelation. It was already clear to him that spirituality existed in the world, but his decision to study Torah and live by its teachings arose from research and careful analysis. The more he read, the more he learned, and the more he grew attached to the halakhic lifestyle. He began to attribute the existence of life on Earth to God, drawing on the fact that such a phenomenon is a staggering statistical anomaly. According to Matthew, so too is the survival of the Jewish people, now a flourishing nation despite an exile that lasted for thousands of years—further proof of the divinity of our lineage.

For Matthew, believing in God comes naturally. The world is a spiritual place, and one doesn’t need to be religiously devout to deduce that there are greater forces at play in life than can be understood by our narrow perception of reality. The historical significance of his own religious bloodline, the ancient traditions, and the inspiring words of the Hebrew Bible provide Matthew with a language to speak about the spiritual aspects of life.

Orthodoxy also gives him a community in which he can thrive and discuss God and Jewish identity in terms familiar to all within it.

While belief in the divinity of the world may be intuitive for Matthew, the practice of maintaining his Orthodox lifestyle is a daily struggle. The act of recognizing the holy nature of all aspects of life is essential to what makes him Jewish. He describes the process of blessing wine on shabbos as a symbol of what separates people from animals:

We recognize that the ‘fruit of the vine’ (boray p’rei hagafen) that created the wine, in the end, came from God… We pause, recognize what an honor it is to eat and drink the creations that God made in this world, and we thank God for giving us the knowledge to do this, and even more so, to be here today to participate in this ancient tradition that goes back scores of generations to the time of Moses. This is just a small example of the many traditions and commandments we perform as Jews on a daily basis. Every time we bless God before a meal, wear a talit, wrap tefillin, or read the Torah, we are suppressing our animalistic, barbaric nature, and making sure the intentions of our actions come from a pure source.

For Matthew, this commitment to seeking out spirituality in all aspects of life represents a metaphysical elevation into the realm of God. It can be exhausting, especially for a newcomer, but ultimately he finds that it gives his life depth and meaning in ways that transcend the natural world.

Matthew is a critical and passionate person. While I may not agree with the religious conclusions he drew from his spiritual journey, I have come to respect them as part of our greater culture as Jews. He shares a similar outlook on my atheism: “The name ‘Israel’ means ‘to struggle with God,’ which I do as a baal teshuva and which Aaron does as a skeptic…. After all, if God wanted everyone to believe in him, what would be the purpose of God?” His beliefs, like my own, represent the culmination of our millennia-old history. I am happy to say, there is room for both of us under the umbrella of Jewish identity.

Published on page 31 of the Spring 2012 issue of Leviathan.

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Ha-Tzevah Sagol (The Color Purple)

In Spring 2012 on July 18, 2012 at 7:34 pm

By Gabi Kirk

0. Motherland

Just before my Bat Mitzvah, my dad gave me permission to dye my hair, provided that I choose a “color not found in nature.” He meant neon, a high-resolution hue. I browsed the aisle of fluorescent oranges and pinks before settling on a temporary tone of deep purple. It barely shone in the light on my kinked, dark hair, a subtlety one can just make out in my seventh grade school picture.

My hair has often drawn attention, so the color made little difference. Like a web, it attracts questions, traps stares, and entangles a fair share of scratches and tugs, some desired and some not. Curious minds inquire, “So where are you from?” That question holds back possible judgments like a rat in a box. They’re hidden, but you can hear them sniff. If you don’t feed them, they’ll chew their way out. I’ve found rats nesting in my locks, nuzzled against my neck.

I’ve been granted phenotypic plasticity. Those who expect an exotic answer to their inquiry will be mildly disappointed. I have successfully blended into markets in Israel, Italy, and the Inner Sunset. But my birth certificate says California, and my “ethnicity,” a European mutt.

1. First wave

I come from red, settlements beyond the pale of my comfortable existence. In cafés and cramped apartments in Eastern Europe, we argued quickly in hushed tones about how the revolution would lift all ships. For all our disagreements and religious differences, we could still share bread. But then, change came, and it didn’t lift ours. We saw our neighbors beaten and broken, the red of dreams pooling in a puddle dripping from a father’s ear. So, abandoning a temporary home for another one that gave a bit more wiggle room, we left behind another set of empty shells, like hermit crabs, scattered across the sands of the globe.

When we crossed to our newly minted Promised Land, we quickly learned the rules of the game. There were others there already who suffered like us, wept unending, felt the sting of the rope of capitalism and brutality. Their suffering ran through our veins too. Some brought red dreams with them, mixing them with the black of anarchy upon arrival. Most of us were too tired to argue anymore. A more muted hue would do well for us. We eagerly took up the brush to paint the pale of our skins into our spirits.

2. Second wave

My blue spills over dams and crumbling retaining walls. I am tied to a land trapped between seas (Yam el Yam) even though I have no blood ties in that small sliver of bitterly contested desert. Those who did not go to America went to the ancient Promised Land. We pretended not to know we were not the only ones there. Those who spoke up for the rights of the natives were flooded with criticism and hate. Sixty years later, the blue of the flag remains. But the blue of the Jordan has been clogged with waste. The blue of the springs have been tapped dry. Blue instead flows into making the desert bloom and swimming pools built on top of crushed homes. We are proud of the blue glow of computer screens we have invented. I wonder if we will solve our wars and have the blue flow freely again, or if both sides will perish in the process.

3. Third wave

Red flows and meets the blue sea in estuarine ecstasy in a sleepy California town. The purple ebbs and dissipates. The seas sustain all life, from the squiggling brine shrimp, to the bellowing blue whale. I want to burrow in the muddy banks and hibernate for a while, rather than make a choice between my values and my community. I feel they should integrate as nicely as these two colors do, but I wonder if anyone else feels the same.

Published on page 29 of the Spring 2012 issue of Leviathan.

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Supermoon

In Multimedia, Spring 2012 on July 18, 2012 at 7:33 pm

By Andrew Dunningan

Published on page 28 of the Spring 2012 issue of Leviathan.

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Why This Night is Different

In Literature, Personal Interest, Spring 2012 on July 18, 2012 at 2:36 am

By Shani Chabansky

The congestion got to her consciousness first. Then came the afternoon sun, staring at her through the slats of the venetian blinds she’d forgotten to shut before her afternoon nap. When she reached for the clock on her nightstand, she felt the sweat that had seeped through her clothes and onto her bed sheets. 5:00 p.m. Sophie Reznik still couldn’t breathe through her nose, but the lack of tension in her neck and shoulders and the ease with which she could move her limbs told her that the fever had broken.

“Soph, are you awake? I need your help in the kitchen!” Her mother had been bustling about all week long, preparing for the seder. Watching her multitask was like watching a professional circus clown, juggling her zillions of post-it notes and to-do lists.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute!”

Wading through the mountain of used Kleenex, damp pajamas, and piles of half-highlighted social theory articles ripped unceremoniously from school readers, she tossed on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and shuffled into the kitchen.

The pre-Pesach preparations dance began. There is no professional choreographer in the world who could match the elegance of a mother and daughter symbiotically concocting a meal. It was pure telepathy, the way they skirted around each other like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

In many ways it was sure to be a typical seder, nothing special. It would be just as anxiety-inducing and potentially explosive as the years before. The subjects of tonight’s arguments would be the only variable to set this seder apart. It was her stepfather’s first Passover experience, as her grandmother would be sure to mention. Although she claimed that she’d made peace with her daughter’s newly acquired Italian husband, Bubbe’s subtle little comments about the “unconventional” relationship gave her true feelings away. And then there’d be her father, who was quite the character himself—an Israeli, obsessed with the high-tech industry in Silicon Valley. He was sure to bring his latest toy, this time a tiny digital video camera to record the evening and share with the chevrei in Ramat Gan. And then there’d be Rosa, Sophie’s first girlfriend.

The doorbell interrupted their trance-like preparations.

“Hello?” A septum-pierced nose followed by a pair of brown eyes peered around the door.

“Hey!” Sophie said. “Mom, I’d like you to meet Rosa.”

When she came out to her parents back in high school, she didn’t have any proof to support her claim that she was a lesbian. As much as she enjoyed the bi-curiosity of the girls in the drama department, an actual lesbian relationship seemed as impossible as acceptance into a Haredi community. But during her first quarter at UC Berkeley, she enrolled in FMST 1: Introduction to Feminist Studies, and that’s where she met Rosa. When she informed her parents that she would be accompanied by her first girlfriend at the seder, they supported her (albeit with raised eyebrows and tones tinged with skepticism).

More than anyone, it was Bubbe’s reaction to Rosa that Sophie was concerned about. Radical in all senses of the word, Bubbe was the kind of grandma your friends envy, while you’re stuck coping. Sure, her noodle kugel made Sophie’s house the high school hang-out spot and, once in a while, the old jewelry she gave Sophie for birthday presents would come back into fashion. But somehow, dinner conversations with Bubbe always involved a half-hearted attempt to avoid anything remotely controversial, the inevitable slip, and then the plunge into the political whirlpool (no snorkels involved).

She could just imagine the dinner conversation unfolding. Her father would inevitably tell the story of when his mother bought a live carp and kept it in their bathtub for a few days before the seder. He and his sister grew attached to the fish, then were forced to witness the death of their pet when their mother turned the carp into gefilte. Bubbe would be white-knuckling her walker while Sophie and Rosa discussed the prison industrial complex. Having had enough, Bubbe would open up the floodgates, arguing that, in fact, slavery is a thing of the past and that, in fact, the United States is a post-racial society. What do undocumented workers in Los Angeles have anything to do with Moses and the burning bush?

“Let’s turn now to the first page and begin with the kadesh,” her mother announced.

Sophie grabbed Rosa’s hand underneath the table and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The first cup of wine, as always, went down silently. Sophie wondered why they always sang “Ma Nishtana” before they were sufficiently sloshed. By the time they’d downed the second cup, Sophie’s congestion came back with a vengeance and her patience for Bubbe’s wisecracks started waning.

“Well, I’d ask you when I can expect grandchildren, but now that you’re lesbian, things are different…”

“You want different?” Sophie exploded, blowing a wad of phlegm into her napkin and tossing back her second second cup. “I’ll give you different! How about the difference between an egalitarian, agrarian society and a colonialist, capitalist enterprise? You wanna talk differences? How about the differences between a progressive Judaism driven by social justice and a conservative Judaism blinded by faith?”

“Progressive Judaism? You’d be happier in a Marxist system where, as we all know, Jews are treated with the utmost respect,” Bubbe sarcastically spat. “I’m sorry to say, sweetie, that you should get a life and step outside your crazy leftist echo chamber.”

“Banot…” her father interjected. “We haven’t even hidden the afikoman yet! Nu? What’s with the pause? Save the fireworks for the dinner. Yalla!”

“What’s the point of finding the afikoman? I know what’s coming. What’s the prize this year, a new freaking iPhone?” Sophie demanded. Rosa squeezed her hand under the table and Sophie sighed. “Okay, okay. What’s next? The Four Sons?”

“Let’s see, let’s skip ahead to the plagues,” her mother

finally spoke up. “Let’s start with dam, sephardaya, kinim…”

They managed to get through the first half of the seder without any further interruption. Well past midnight, Sophie toyed with the half-eaten macaroon on her plate. Between the wine and the fever that was claiming her mind, it was getting extremely difficult to recall the lyrics to “Chad Gadya.” Bubbe was nodding off into her Nescafe. She looked across the table and found her

mother’s gaze.

“Well, I guess it’s about that time, folks,” said her mother. “Don’t worry about the dishes, just leave everything where it is.”

Sophie walked around the table and touched Bubbe lightly on her shoulder. “Hey Bubbe, it’s time to get up. The seder’s over.”

“What’s that? Oh, thanks Soph. You’re a good girl,”

Bubbe said.

“Thanks, Bubbe.” Sophie helped her out of her chair, called a taxi, and waited with her in the living room.

“I think we forgot to let Elijah in,” Sophie murmured. The prophet’s absence was the least political thought she could muster up. She hoped Bubbe’s exhaustion would prevent another

argument.

“Serves him right,” Bubbe replied. “Seventy-five seders and not once have I seen the guy lift a finger around the house.”

Outside, the taxi honked. Sophie helped Bubbe into the car.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take home any haroset?”

“No, no. I’ll be fine. Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Lyla tov, Bubbe.”

“Good night, Sophie.”

Published on page 11 of the Spring 2012 issue of Leviathan.

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