You Still Suck

Recent Netflix productions like Unorthodox and My Unorthodox Life have been painting Orthodox Judaism in a shitty light, and prompting a wave of defensive responses on social media, a la enlightened Orthodox Jews like Rabbi Doniel Katz and such.

A sample defensive post that popped up in my LinkedIn feed. While I was trying to do business, yo. #myorthodoxlife

The gist of their message is this: “How dare you accuse us of being primitive, backwards people? We, in fact, have degrees, have careers, and are happy. So very, very happy. Do not accuse us of being oppressed women, because, in fact, we have 17 kids, AND a career. We wear fashionable clothes, believe in science, and basically, are just like everyone else, except better, because we have the secrets of a Meaningful Life™.”

Before I explain why this premise is bullshit, two caveats. First of all, I think Netflix’s content is unrealistic fluff and I refuse to watch most of it. Julia Haart and her over-dramatization of everyday life for the sake of reality TV, is nauseating. And despite my eye-catching title, this post is not intended as an attack on any individual person, but rather on Orthodox Judaism as a whole.

Because, yes, Orthodox Judaism is bullshit, and I don’t care how many degrees or careers or smiles you have.

My main points:

Asking oppressed people if they don’t mind being oppressed is not a thing. I don’t care if it’s a woman speaking about her own experiences. If she was raised from age zero to believe that showing her elbows is wrong, and that she must cover her hair when she is married, then she can’t even conceive of any alternate reality. I believe in certain objective freedoms that all people deserve EVEN IF THEY DON’T ASK FOR THEM, and being allowed to show your elbows freely and get divorced when you want to, is on that list.

Other religions do this to, and you are very quick to mock them when they do. The “Empowered Muslim Woman” is definitely a thing, and it’s much easier to spot the absurdity of it when it’s not your own culture.

There are still a lot of things you can’t or won’t do, you’re just glossing over them. Ok, ok, you have a degree AND you made dinner. There are still a lot of limitations on being an Orthodox Jew, even when you live in the more liberal America (Israel is coming up next). There’s multiple halachic limitations, from Shabbat to Sex to Sins galore.

There are entrenched primitive beliefs that people are choosing not to focus on when they tout their surprisingly materialistic accomplishments. It is still very common in Orthodox Jewish media outlets to not show any pictures of women whatsoever. This is just a small example of an absurdity Orthodox Women take for granted, although there are much bigger issues that should be addressed as well.

There’s generally less quality education for men, even if women have the better end of this stick because they don’t need to spend as much time studying Torah. And even the degrees as a whole are shittier, if we call a spade a spade. Not that I’m a huge believer in pedigree, but many of the degrees Orthodox men and women obtain are shitty Excelsior College degrees that are basically a joke. I know this because I have this exact degree. So you manage to deceive the average person with your diploma mill degree. Very nice.

Orthodox Judaism is a single collective. This is my most important point, if I had to pick just one. At the end of the day, Orthodox Judaism of America considers itself part and parcel of Orthodox Judaism in Israel. From extensive financial support, to sending your kids to Israeli institutions after high school, to looking up to Israeli Rabbis with the highest regard, Orthodox Jews of America have their cake and eat it too – they soak in the liberal materialism of America, while basking in the spiritual glow emanating from the holy land.

And as long as you have not distinctly distanced yourself from your fanatical cousins across the pond, or in New Square and Williamsburg for that matter, you are complacent in their actions.

You are condoning men getting married at 19 after three dates to the first woman they meet. Men getting zero religious education and women getting an education that is not formally recognized by the Israeli government (and thus effectively useless). Condemning all technology as the work of the devil, even as the rest of civilization marches firmly into that new era. Covering up sexual abuse and protecting abusers.

You are complacent in all the bullshit that the extremists around you practice in the name of your religion, unless you specifically condemn and distance yourself from it, and I haven’t seen any Facebook posts about that any time recently.

All the people raising the roof about low quality Netflix productions which cast them in a bad light would be better served to ignore Netflix and their own reputation and focus their attention and indignant posts on the actual problems that lead to these allegations in the first place.

A Response to “My Unorthodox Life”

The following is a guest post by Yair Gordon. I found his response articulate, poignant, and personal, stating in different tones a lot of the issues and personal grievances I struggled with myself in Judaism. I relate a lot to the feeling of having given my all, trying to be good, and all to no avail.

Many people have recently posted defenses of Orthodox Judaism in response to the popular Netflix series, “My Unorthodox Life”. My curiosity was satisfied by the trailer alone, but I want to add my voice to the dialogue on this topic regardless of the show’s message or goals.

Note: If you are offended by criticisms of Orthodox Judaism, you will not enjoy the rest of this message.

This is not the first or the second version I have written in preparing this post. I put a lot of thought into what I wanted to share here, and what I wanted to leave out. Why am I posting it to begin with? Primarily because I want there to be one more voice sharing some of the darker sides of Orthodox Judaism.

Let there be criticism. Let there be light thrown onto the pain and suffering that this system brings to many of its most sincere members. Let there be introspection of those still in the system, and their educational messages.

That said, I draw your attention to the fact that this piece is written almost exclusively in the first person. I am not claiming that my experience is the experience of all Orthodox Jews – I know this not to be the case. But this is a window into my experience, and those of many like me. It has value and significance in the dialogue on this topic.

My Orthodox Jewish life defined me. It defined so much of myself and of my life, long before I was even aware of it.

It defined a set of values for me, without asking me what I might value and with what priority.

It defined a moral code for me, without inviting me to probe and examine and make my own moral decisions as an independent human being, unaffected by an overwhelming fear of divine punishment. It didn’t allow me to learn that morality is rarely, if ever, fixed and concrete.

It defined a way of life for me, filled with an unbelievable amount of rules, laws, taboos, norms, and expectations in every facet of the human experience.

It did not leave room for me to choose a way of life that worked for me, without feeling the immense guilt and shame at knowing that despite my most earnest belief, despite my deepest desire to conform and live ‘correctly’, I simply couldn’t keep all of the laws and commandments. Fear of divine retribution was a real part of my daily life, as I believe it is for most Orthodox Jews.

Orthodox Judaism defined the creation and development of the natural world for me, without corresponding remotely to the realities of scientific discovery. This led me to a knotted, compartmentalized approach to reality, history, and the world.

It painted situations and, even worse, people, in colours and labels based on criteria they could not control. It taught me these labels from a very young age, closing my mind to the possibility of life beyond black and white, beyond ‘us’ and ‘them.’

Yes, my Orthodox life also brought me moments of joy and significance, moments of peace and tranquility. But these were sadly outnumbered by the damage and harm that this system caused me for many years.

My story may not be your story. Perhaps you personally find great inspiration and meaning in your Orthodox life. That may be – but it doesn’t take away in the slightest from the experiences of a great number of people within your religion which are very different to yours.

I predict some voices asking whether I wasn’t a little too serious about the religion as a way of life. Couldn’t I just have taken a more relaxed approach? Enjoyed the good parts while striving to improve on my observance and conformity to the religion’s expectations as time went on?

In answer, I will say that a huge amount of my emotional energy was spent in trying to do just that. I believed the holy books I read, and the rabbis’ sermons I heard. I absorbed the unwavering faith of my parents in the religion and its apparent veracity. I knew what I “must” do – the Torah told me so.

So even trying to justify a more moderate approach, while still keeping loyal and faithful to the texts, creeds, and expectations of this incredibly detailed and demanding way of life was an almost-impossible task. I paid a heavy emotional and psychological price over the years for my drive for balance, for moderation, for finding what truly worked for me within this religious system.

I’m proud of my journey out and away from Orthodox Judaism. It’s been a difficult one, but it has brought me peace, resolution, happiness and comfort. In case you were wondering, I have found my own sense of purpose out here. I have taken time to discover and examine my own set of morals, values and priorities, trying hard to evaluate the information and advice I come across with sensible rationality and a healthy amount of humour.

My values and my outlook on life are an ongoing project. They are not carved in stone tablets or written in chapters and paragraphs by an author long dead in a time radically different from mine. They are decided, evaluated, reviewed and lived by me, for me. I hope and believe that they help me navigate this life with a positive morality.

Orthodox Judaism isn’t for me. It never really was. My heart aches for the many millions, over the millennia and still to come, who have felt like I did.

Who have suffered — who will suffer — in silence among the happy believers, needlessly taking ownership of the shame and the blame for the incongruity between this detailed and demanding system and their simple, inner truths.

Who suffer because Orthodox Judaism just doesn’t work for them, for any number of different reasons. Who might not have the circumstances or resources to gain independence of thought, of speech, or of action.

To break free; to rediscover themselves, their worldview, their morality and their fundamental humanity, outside of the gilded bars of their Othodox Jewish lives.

Parenting 101

I must go now, children. But there is cereal in the pantry and I made a list on the fridge of 613 things I’d like you to keep in mind while I’m gone. I’ll be back in 2,000 years. Feel free to interpret my points as you see fit. I don’t care what you conclude as long as you’re arguing about me and not anyone else.

For I am a jealous God. A vengeful God. A loving God. Slow to anger and quick to forgive. But it’s 2,000 years later and I’m still fuming. I gotta stay away until you figure your shit out. Everyone knows the more a child misbehaves, the more you should shun them.

I’m not sure why I missed this until now. Goes to show how deeply this fucked up attitude permeated my subconscious.

God is our Father in Heaven. He parents us like the world’s best parent. The dude invented parenting.

And, apparently, when you really fuck up, God’s gotta show you some tough love. Gotta “hide His face”. Gotta send you into exile. How else will you learn, if not through pervasive cross generational trauma? Sheesh.

Actually, no.

It’s an understood, and sometimes frustrating fact, that the more problematic children need more attention.

More dedicated staff. Smaller class sizes. Positive reinforcement. Modeling good behavior.

It’s understood, that kids don’t want to behave badly. They just don’t know any other way, or they have an underlying problem that is causing them to act out. To address their behavior, you should address the root problem.

How’s God’s intervention plan going? Does the patient’s treatment chart say “Try to be as absent as possible, for as long as possible ?”

Because in that case he’s crushing it.

Why does he not hand the clarity to us on a silver platter? Why didn’t he just create make us good?

Because, apparently, then it would be too easy. Where’s the fun in that? It’s much more satisfying to earn your reward.

Well, any video game creator will tell you that the key to satisfaction when playing the game it to strike a balance between difficulty and success. If the player is constantly failing, it’s no fun for anyone, and they soon move on.

Ask any spiritual leader how well the world is doing in this game of life, and the one thing they all agree on is that we’re failing miserably. For thousands of years. “The world is spiraling into moral depravity! It’s the worst it’s ever been! Insert latest news headline here.”

That is one shitty computer game. If we all suck this bad, maybe it’s time for the artificial intelligence to reduce the game difficulty a bit.

Look, I don’t believe in God, at least not in a useful God that’s in any way relevant.

But to those who do, who believe he’s a parent who has crafted the ultimate personal development simulation for our ultimate pleasure, look around you.

Would you dare model your own parenting style after God’s absentee, cryptic, long-distance approach?

Maybe this was the attitude for thousands of years. Maybe traditionally that was how children were raised. But today, with our modern psychology and our weak temperments and our moral depravity, we know better.

We know that positivity wins every time. So we can’t parent our children the way God parents us.

He’s still stuck in the middle ages. He hasen’t read “How to talk so kids will listen”. So, in His feeble attempts at parenting, he continues to smite in the hopes that it helps.

But we’ve been to parenting class. We’ve read all the latest research. We’re too good for that.

If God could hear you right now He’d roll over in His grave

The Penis Gemach

I originally wrote this post while I was still religious, and published it under a pseudonym on Jewrotica. At this point, gentlemen, I have nothing to hide.

Berel Shtiklwitz was an entrepreneur. A social entrepreneur, to be exact.

He recognized a need: a lot of seminary girls out there were horny but didn’t know it. A lot yeshiva students were horny and did know it.

Berel decided to bring the two together in horny matrimony. Or at least a one night shtup.

Berel founded the Penis Gemach in of the basement of his parents’ apartment, under the light of a single bare light bulb and a stained, worn-out couch. But although it started off small, the Penis Gemach grew to remarkable sizes in a short period of time.

Illustrative photo of a banana, in case you didn’t know what a banana looked like.

People took to the concept like Gefilte fish to water, and soon Berel was setting up branches in other cities – it seemed there was no shortage of volunteer penises available to borrow: for a week, a day, or just one afternoon.

On Thursday nights, hundreds of seminary girls would throng hungrily through the streets of Jerusalem’s city center, knowing deep inside them there was something they needed but not knowing from whence that need would be satiated. It was then that Berel’s selflessness really stood out, as he ushered dozens of needy girls towards his Mobile Penis Gemach – a simple system that could be erected pretty much everywhere, since it rode on the back of a moped.

Berel was a zealous promoter of the Penis Gemach, lending out his own penis whenever possible, sometimes to multiple seminary girls simultaneously. He served a personal example of altruism and self-sacrifice for the sake of other. [Or as Martin Buber would have it, he was able to see beyond the I of his own penis ownership to the thou of the seminary girls’ desire. This, Buber suggests, is where real relations are formed.]

The next step in the growth of the Penis Gemach was the digital revolution. Berel set up a cataloguing system that sorted penises based on size, shape, and color, with their most suitable beneficiary- based on physical appearance, good looks, and level of religious piety.

No longer would yeshiva students need to vent their potential in dark and dreary internet cafes. Now they could point their penises towards positive purpose – making seminary girls happy! Everyone knows that the four hours a day spent in seminary can get really stressful, especially if one has to engage in the strenuous exercise of not thinking – at a level of skill second only to that of Buddhist monks.

The Penis Gemach allowed the seminary girls to vent some of that stress. And they could feel good about themselves in the process, knowing that it was through them that the yeshiva boys were able to accomplish an important act of Hessed – Hebrew for lovin’ kindness.

Now, it should be mentioned that all throughout, a strict standard of modesty was kept between the sexes. Berel was adamant about this fact. No unnecessary talking or joking was allowed between the guys and the gals, because we all know that no one knows what sorts of immoral conduct can result if things like that get out of hand.

This was strictly business. Penis business. (Not actual business of course, because orthodox society frowns upon business. But rather, a figurative business, in the sense that score was kept, measurements recorded and seed capital was raised.)

To help preserve the purity of the camp, cameras were set up in the multiple Gemach locations to ensure that no improper behavior occurred. The footage from these cameras was disseminated worldwide in a crowdsourcing system that ensured that there were always multiple people keeping an eye on the proceedings. These individuals often made small donation to the Gemach when they were done observing – out of appreciation for the fine work it was doing.

Berel soon found himself thrust into a tremendous amount of public limelight. People all over the world wanted to know where he developed such an original idea (“it just grew naturally”), how his success had occurred (“things just exploded pretty early on”), what sort of positions he assumed in his role (“whatever came most naturally”). Pretty soon the gentiles were setting up their own sad, sorry attempts at Genital Gemachs.

But it was clear that something was missing. A certain oomph. An extra push. That uniquely Jewish penchant for philanthropy. Whatever it was, one thing was clear: the Jews did it first and the Jews do it best. Berel is the first to acknowledge that although size doesn’t matter, his Penis Gemach is still one of the biggest non-profits in the world.

And ultimately, Berel agrees that his mission is a universal one. In his utopian vision for humanity, there would not be a girl in the world who would be without a penis of her own, to have, to hold, to love. Even if only once, even for just one Shabbos night.

Until that happens though, we must suffice ourselves with the knowledge that at least some seminary girls are getting their comeuppance; and that, as we collectively march, single file, along The Path of the Just towards the arrival of The Messiah and the final coming, there are many other willing penis owners bringing up the rear.

Maybe You’re Extra Delusional

I was recently called arrogant by a Shabbos guest.

I didn’t object, because maybe I’m arrogant, but I have the humility to admit it.

But here’s what else is arrogant: assuming you’re smart enough to not fall for a kiruv-style proof of God.

Would you like fries with your perfectly packaged Weinberg Whopper Proof of God?

Here’s one of the main ones: Would the entire Jewish people possibly fall for the scam that God revealed himself to the whole nation at the top of a smoking mountain?

Ideally you follow up with a nice ego boosting compliment: You’d be too smart to fall for something like that.

Seal the deal with some supremacy: Jews have been accused of many things, but no one’s ever called the Jews stupid!

Sum it all up with the exclusivity claim: This claim of public revelation is so outlandish that no other religion has ever claimed it! Since it’s never happened any other time, it must be impossible to convince an entire group of people of something that delusional!

True.

Or, maybe Jews are extra delusional.

Case in point: they believe that God came and spoke to the entire nation from the top of a mountain. How crazy is that? No one else would have come up with, or believed, something that insane!

***

Now, to be clear, I don’t think being delusional is all bad. I think delusion plays a part in every entrepreneurial venture. And Jew, as any Kiruv rabbi will be very quick to tell you, have had a disproportionate impact on the world: science, art, politics, technology, human rights, and corruption, to name a few.

The ability to conceive of anything other than what already is, to come up with a better way that no one has done before, requires “an idiosyncratic belief or impression that is firmly maintained despite being contradicted by what is generally accepted as reality or rational argument”. This is the definition of delusion.

It’s also a key part of storytelling, which Jews have also been great at.

Look at Hollywood. Look at the bible. I’m looking at you, Ezekiel, with your tales of four headed-angels and eyeball-lined-wheels. I want what you’ve been taking.

Was it acid, or shrooms? It feels like acid.

Then we had to fuck it all up and believe it was real.

***

Some people point to the return of the Jews to Israel as divine proof and a fulfillment of prophecy. I see it as an expression of a multi-generational entrepreneurial delusion. Isaiah came up with a vision, and everyone bought into it so well that, 2,000 years later, they implemented it.

Certainly noteworthy. Certainly unusual.

A sign of the divine.

Or, a sign that you’re extra delusional.

(To think that you can make a claim to a country that you lived in as a people 2,000 years ago? You kidding me? Any kindergartner understands that that’s not how things work. I believe a Jewish national claim to the land was completely unjustified. Now that they are there, Israel has a right to exist, like every country founded on the oppression of local natives; but the premise under which they manipulated world powers to allow it to happen was, well, delusional.)

***

So, are Jews unique? Yes, they are. They are uniquely delusional. This comes with a lot of good, along with some bad and some ugly.

A key part in working with schizophrenic clients is helping them recognize that they have delusions. If they can make the shift into understanding that not everything they see is real, it becomes easier for them to navigate life.

So, Jews of the world: wield your traits wisely. You’re not better, or worse. You’re different.

You don’t have a mission, you have a talent; a penchant for seeing and believing that which isn’t there. And as any artist will tell you, talent is always a double-edged sword.

Create change, if you’re inspired to. Make good things never previously conceived of.

But also remember that not every story is real, and not every venture is worth bringing to life.

It’s better that way.

The Incredible Darkness of Being

I opened my eyes for the first time, and saw from one end of the universe to the other.

It was grossly overrated.

For this? For this you dragged me into existence?

Freshly born, in that first instant I had an understanding of all things.

And I understood it was not worth it.

The suffering of humanity, the pain of consciousness.

The downsides grossly outweighed the upside.

I was filled with rage.

Rage so deep that a one-second-old could not possibly contain, rage as big as the universe that I had been thrust into.

It was so much bigger than myself, that I got lost within it, and then buried it within me.

After that, as I went through life, all things slightly enraging simply touched that raw nerve, the rage at existence itself.

Like a little bubble merging with a bigger bubble to become one; except I wasn’t aware of the bigger bubble, just that everything made me disproportionately angry.

From the moment I was born, I knew it was not worth it.

The darkness that envelops reality, that lies right beneath your daily latte. I felt it all.

***

That night I realized that everyone suffers on their own.

On the first night of Ayahuaska, I processed suffering.

The suffering of humanity, which is palpable so much of the time.

Here’s an insight: I thought I was experiencing other people’s suffering, like I was a medium.

Suffering vicariously on behalf of humanity, “I feel your pain.” Trying to carry it so others, especially my parents, didn’t have to.

My own problems I can solve, but other people’s? I had tried, but it didn’t work very well. And so, I felt doomed to suffer all the world’s pain, with no hope of alleviating it.

That night I realized that everyone suffers on their own.

The suffering I experienced was my own, it’s my experience when I see others suffer. I cannot really ever know what others experience; instead, my mind imagines it and hands me my own feelings on the matter.

But it’s still mine, and if it’s mine I can do something about it.

***

An Ayahuaska ceremony, at least the one I went to, is a complete package: perfectly calibrated to make you as uncomfortable as possible.

First, you get tobacco snuffed straight into your brain. A burning all the way to the back of your skull. It’s enough to make you vomit then and there; I did.

Then there’s the tea itself, which basically hands you your ass for 10 hours straight. Misery in a cup. You will embrace these newfound insights, you will change more than you thought possible, or an 80 year old medicine lady that lives in your mind will pummel your psyche until you choose to.

The choice is yours.

But wait, we’re not done. There’s still the Eye Drops of Doom.

For full effect, in the midst of all your dying, you can elect to have the most painful drops plonked right into your eye. You then make birthing sounds to help you process the pain.

I opted out of the Eye Drops of Doom. The tobacco and two cups of tea were enough for me. But I lay there, and heard the humans around me moaning and groaning, and it perfectly resonated with the pain I already felt for all of humanity.

The only way out was letting go.

You cannot hold on to the pain.

It’s self-generated, but it’s not yours to keep. Feel it, and let it go.

Mourn the collective suffering of humanity, but realize it’s not yours to carry.

***

I needed to process this first, because I carried the suffering of all humanity within me always.

Once that was clear, I was able to move on to rage.

It was on the second night that I raged for hours, the incessant drumming of the jungle sounds twisting and turning like the world’s worst roller coaster ride, an escaped mine cart careening into the heart of darkness.

A clarity into the futility of existence that I had always known; I was now validated by actually seeing it. It confirmed my suspicions, it justified my feelings, it encouraged me to dive into it as deeply as possible.

For a week after returning to real life, any recollection of my experience filled me once again with rage.

Rage so vast that I’d need to grab the nearest lamppost to prevent from falling over as a head rush of raw energy washed over my body.

It felt like it was never going away: it was too deep and too vast to ever dissipate; it did, however, lend perspective to so much of what bothered me on a day to day.

***

Yet one week later it was all gone.

The absence alone was disconcerting.

Where is the pain, the suffering, the anger that I knew and loved?

You need to rebuild your identity from scratch. You don’t recognize this enlightened person in the mirror. You don’t know how to handle this freedom.

And so the journey continues.

10 out of 10 would do again.

The trip, not life itself.

Ancient Jewish Holiday Generator

From the creators of the Dvar Torah generator, comes the brand new Ancient Jewish Holiday Generator!

For years, Jews have been inventing holidays in God’s name and backdating them into the very fabric of history. With mystical significance and a shitload of intricate rules, Jewish holidays stand unto themselves as holier, longer, and better than any other type of holiday, especially those bullshit Christian ones

Join the unbreakable chain of the Jewish tradition and create your own holiday today using our handy dandy holiday generator. You’ll receive a full report which you can then impose upon your friends, family and random strangers at will.

What is the date of this holiday?

How long does this holiday last? (add a number)

What should we call the holiday?

Who instated this holiday?

What does this holiday celebrate?

What other day is this holiday even more important than?

How is this day marked?

What is this holiday’s traditional dish?

What is this holiday’s traditional greeting?

It is of utmost importance on this day to refrain from

How do men mark this day?

How do women mark this day?

What is the deeper significance of this holiday?

What emotions should you feel on this holiday?

What other holidays did this holiday inspire?

About The Holiday of

The date of , marks the extremely important holiday of , which lasts for days and nights.

This holiday dates all the way back to the time of , and celebrates . As a result, this day is even more important than , and it’s of utmost importance on this day to refrain from .

To commemorate this festive day we eat a digusting amout of food, while partaking of a special dish called and greeting each other the traditional blessing of “!”

To mark this day, Jewish men , while the women .

On a deeper level, this holiday represents and therefore requires that we maintain a constant emotional state of .

Historians believe that this holiday sereved as the inspiration for , which makes sense considering all the similarties listed above.

Wishing you a !

Are you happy now?

On Purim, they almost killed us, but in the end they didn’t, we killed 75,000 of them instead.

And these weren’t normal enemies, mind you. These were descendants of Amalek, whom we are commanded to kill every last man woman and child of. You can’t cure an Amalekite baby of their inherent hatred of Jews.

Hitler was an Amalekite, that much is obvious.

And now that we won, there are three things to be done – send food packages to each other, give gifts to the poor, and get wasted on alcohol.

You must be happy on Purim, the holiday of happiness. And surely alcohol, food packages, and genocide is all you need to find it.

Are you happy now?

How about when hundreds of yeshiva students come streaming into your house, interrupting your own festive meal to ask for money for the prestigious yeshiva that you have never heard of. Your father gave last year, so now he’s on all the lists.

Are you happy now?

As you hug the toilet bowl at the age of 14, having had an important lesson in pacing yourself and what it means to not be able to smell red wine for the next year without getting nauseous?

“One should get so aromatized on Purim,” says the Talmud, “that they can no longer differentiate between ‘Blessed Mordecai and Cursed is Haman’ “. I swear I could black out before I confuse the two.

Once, says the Talmud, Rabbi Hunah got so drunk he stabbed Rabbi Chiya and killed him. We’ve all been there. When he sobered up, Rabbi Hunah, being the great man that he is, brought Rabbi Chiya back to life. Phew.

Are you happy now?

As your highly sensitive ears explode every time Haman’s name is mentioned, to the cacophonous din of cap guns, groggers, cat calls, and one year, I shit you not, an oil drum and sledgehammer combo. An introverts nightmare, and be sure not to miss a word or you need to do it all again.

How about now?

Yankel willed himself to feel. It was as though the more he tried to feel a certain way, the more likely he was to feel the opposite. Heck, it was almost like his emotions were out of his control. Like those sneaky sexual urges that were never more than a though away, he always seemed happiest on Tisha B’av and saddest on Purim.

“Purim is actually a greater day that Yom Kippur,” extolled Rabbi Shlagerstein. “Because Kipper means ‘like purim’”. As far as Yankel was concerned, that’s where the similarity ended, especially considering how anal Shlagerstein got around Yom Kippur time. Of the two days, it was Yom Kippur that really made the Rabbi act like there was a grogger up his ass.

“It’s on Yom Kippur that God forgives us for all our sins,” cries Rabbi Shlagerstein. “But only if we really regret everything we’ve ever done. We need to tear our psyche a new one and insert God into it as deeply as possible.”

Yankel was full of regrets. He regretted things he didn’t even remember doing, which was how you were supposed to do it.

Because, as Rabbi Shlagerstein explained, every year we become better as a person means that previously acceptable behaviors no longer are. You are retroactively inadequate. This confirmed Yankel’s suspicions of such.

He felt terrible.

He was happy now.

Mai Hai

Fear.

It was the name of the entire minority.

There are Blacks, there are Hispanics, there are “The fearful ones”.

Like the shittiest gang name ever.

They looked around at a country full of Jews, established to protect themselves in an anti-Semitic world, and decided to become a minority in a country of minorities.

The most oppressed amongst the oppressed.

Committed to living in fear, they elevated it to an art form.

In the way the avoided eye contact.

In the way they declared declarations on the black and white posters they pasted to the walls of their neighborhoods.

In the way they lit dumpsters on fire at the first sign of threat.

If it existed, they feared it.

They feared man – who might come to draft them into the military at any moment.

They feared God – who might smite them into eternal damnation for eating a crumb of leavened bread on the wrong day of the year.

Most of all, they feared themselves- weak, unpredictable, fallible as fuck, with perverse sexual thoughts that were just ready to pounce at moment’s notice.

You are proud to be part of the fearful ones, because your parents told you they were proud, “card carrying members”. You too, want to carry a card.

So you wear the uniform with pride – black fedora, black suit and white shirt, worn over the woolen Tzitzit you wear for extra God points.

The perfect Middle Eastern attire – fashionable yet functional.

But you aren’t very good at it.

It was like other people knew how to do it, while you had read about it in a book. Except there was not even a book on the subject.

Being charedi is like a choreographed dance, like a complex mating ritual minus the mating; but there were no lessons offered and you had missed the rehearsals, so the best you could do is trip over your feet until the klezmer ends.

Everyone knew that Borsalino hats were all the rage and there you were still wearing a Bertolini like some sort of nerd.

Everyone got the memo that square buttons with pink stitching was the coolest shit, but you thought that all style and all color was still banned, like it had been yesterday.

Everyone understood the great insult that Rabbi Koplevitch had committed against Rabbi Eisensthaltz by calling him “Zatzal” instead of “Tazukal” in his Hamodia Op-ed, but you didn’t understand why there was now a need for armed guards around Kopelevitz’s Volvo.

Your entire worth revolved around what institution you were enrolled in. And yet the admissions process was like a ballet of informal avoidance.

You didn’t apply to a school. You hung out around The Rosh Yeshiva’s hovel at 2:33 when he was known to see people for four minutes.

After three days of waiting, you gained an audience with the esteemed 82 year old, and laid your case as to why you were a perfect candidate for his illustrious academy of knowledge.

He has Parkinson’s, so you don’t understand a word he says as he mumbles into his beard, but his second in command conveys to you that no, you haven’t made the cut.

But he says it in Aramaic, so it stings less.

“Mai Hai?”

That’s what the man towering over you wants to know. “Just Mai, in God’s great universe, is Hai?” You’re not sure yourself and therefore you stare blankly back at him.

Then finally, it hits you.

This is his seat. You’re sitting in his fucking seat, and he’s asking you, with grace, tact, and subtlety, what in the hell you are doing that for.

You are doing that for as to have a seat to sit on, because the Mir Yeshiva is notorious for not having any of those. You had thought, wrongly, that since you’ve been sitting here for three months without a hitch, that you finally had it figured out.

However, this has been this man’s seat for 20 years. And as the verse sayeth, “What are three months in thy eyes, God, compared to 20 years?” King David was a wise man. A wise man indeed.

And so, you move on, on an eternal quest to find a place to sit, while wondering Mai, actually, is all of Hai.

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The Tree of Undisclosed Fruit

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