All skirts, All the time

I asked for skirts with pockets and the other day I saw them at Target. I had to buy the style in each color (good thing there were only three types). I asked for longer skirts so that I wouldn’t have to wear leggings in the boiling lab—today it was 88F. And on a whim I stopped in at Ross, which I haven’t been to in almost two years, and there they were, four perfectly fitting long skirts. Retail therapy hit a whole new definition.

In the States, we have a certain dress standard which applies to particular groups. And through that dress, a message can be conveyed about the person if they choose. Take for example, professional men usually wear suits and ties (Boulder being a very notable and unique exception). Jeans and tee-shirts are the norm for students. Slacks and polos for casual workers, etc. Here, we identify dress with profession.

Granted, clothes can certainly be an outlet for personal expression. And if outside the perceived norm, judgments will be cast. Take for example the people who sport baggy, low hanging black pants, black tee-shirt, and a long trench coat. This is outside societal norm. Onlookers might make assumptions that this person is not mature, is a troublemaker, possibly does drugs, had a difficult home life. And who knows what of that would be true.

Perhaps it’s human nature to instantly judge, from primitive times when we had to be able to assess a situation rapidly or it could cost lives. Or maybe it’s that we want others to see an aspect of our personality before meeting. This is potentially a chicken/egg debate and as a tangent from my intended topic, one which will be put on hold for another time.

Jerusalem has a different reason for their dress code, a religiously based one. I specifically point out this city in Israel because I did not heed tremendous attention to it elsewhere and this is where I spent the majority of my time. The clothes you wear indicate which branch of Judaism you follow, or which one you don’t. From the length of skirts and shirts, to the material of head coverings and shoes, outward appearance is taken extremely seriously by many. Even those who are unaware of these not-so-silent rules are judged by them. Ankle length skirt, full coverage shirt, closed toed shoes, without a doubt frum, practicing tzinuit (modesty) and maybe even shomer negia. (A woman) in pants, general tee-shirt, and sandals, is clearly secular. Don’t get me started on a someone in shorts and a tank-top.

What happens when a particular dress code just doesn’t fit a particular style of Judaism? And, since I am writing this from Colorado, how does this apply here, if at all?

Since returning September 2007, I have not put on a pair of pants in public. I put it that way because I just cannot give up lounging in my pajama bottoms on my weekends. What first came about from trying to understand, to put my initial reaction aside, has blossomed into so much more than I ever anticipated.

Women here do not wear skirts much. That is especially true in the winter. Chemists do not wear skirts. People who wear skirts do not pair them with steel-toed shoes. Reform Jews do not wear skirts (out of religious mentality). I have found that I have been asked to explain myself to so many different groups, to defend myself to a variety of people. I obliged more for myself than for them.

Many people wanted me to just say I did it for religious reasons, but I couldn’t. In the Torah, it says that men shouldn’t dress as women or vice versa. This day and age, men don’t wear skirts and they are typically seen as women’s clothing. If it were the opposite, then I’d be in pants. The religious aspect then is that I am showing that I am woman and not a man. I took this idea and went with it. In college I dressed very androgynously; jeans and a baggy tee-shirt. My first job too, in ill-fitting navy scrubs. Then something happened and I began to shop in the ladies department. I bought high heels and fitted tops and jewelry. And I began to embrace my femininity. Rather than looking at it as a negative aspect to me, I started to become aware of the benefits and accepting of the differences between the sexes. As usually happens when my perspective changes, I began to see people in a new way, including myself. No longer did I have to act like a man to fit in a man’s world (one of chemistry). I claimed my femininity and decided that I did not have to conform to bring value. I could bring so much more by being a woman and letting that happen as opposed to being a woman and trying to stifle that feature.

So when this new job came up and I had previously decided that I was all skirts all the time, I faced challenges.

Why do it: I am reminded that I am a woman to myself and to those I interact with; I am reminded of the tzinuit attitude—that is of modesty in the general sense not just the dress code; I am reminded of being Jewish; I am reminded to see people as individuals and not let clothes impact my view of them. Some perks I gained that I had no idea would come of this decision. I get to wear fun clothes because many skirts that I purchase are not bland but instead are vibrant. I find it hard to be blue in mood when I don on a bright pink skirt. I have to wear socks at work to cover my legs, so that part of my wardrobe has also expanded, and as I’ve said in a previous post, I like socks. Through the answering of questions, I have become more secure with me and more immune to strangers’ criticisms. Nostalgia of Jerusalem comes upon me when I walk down a windy street. A deeper connection with Judaism too has evolved, inexplicably.

For all the judgments, the teasing, the cold legs, the breezy days, the financial expense, the daily dressing struggles, the disapproving looks, the shoe dilemma, and other obstacles I have hurdled, I would not change. The gain has been much more rewarding than any of that could ever take away. And these rewards will far out last some initial minor inconveniences.

Fluffernutter sanwiches rule!

I had a slight epiphany last night which created some much needed internal peace. A friend came over for dinner yesterday. It was the first time she had come to my house, so a tour was in order. My home is pretty self-explanatory, given that there are three rooms and all--living space, bedroom, bathroom. Tour is more of a grandiose affair and gives me thrills when I do it. Anyway, little quirks aside, one of the things that I feel the need to show certain people is my kitchen utensil drawer. Odd, I know. I don't have a mass quantity of drawers in my kitchen, four to be exact. And I love to cook and love even more little utensils and fun kitchen gadgets, space at a premium or not. The idea of having to use two of these precious drawers for everyday silverware was almost more than I could take. Target to the rescue. They have a drawer insert where the forks flip and so do the spoons, so there is twice as much space for everything, using the same size footprint as traditional holders. I was ecstatic when I found and purchased it.

Why is this a big deal? Because it means I can separate out dairy from meat flatware. My small spoons are for dairy (easier for eating cereal), big for meat. The forks with holes in them are for dairy, the ones without for meat. It's a big deal because every time I open it I am reminded that I am trying to keep kosher.

Why is this a big deal? Kashrut isn't one of the top ten mitzvot (think murder, steal, shabbat, etc). I don't even know if it makes the top 25. I seem fixated on it though.
And last night I partially figured out why. Kashrut observance is tangible, visible, challenging. When I have to decide what to bring to the company potluck and I opt for kosher hotdogs and a dessert that I can eat (parve that is), it sinks in a little further. When I still crave fast food and yet only the fries (love chick-fil-a and Arby's ones, yum!) it's embedded some more. Having a parve alternative to many things that don't really need dairy products, or that even imitate dairy (think soy milk and margarine) makes cooking so much easier.

While attempting the kosher-thing, I have been altering my perspective in addition to my diet. I started the process because I didn't feel right rejecting a practice without cause, esp. considering it has been going on for millennia. And what a difference doing something does for understanding it. Until very recently I thought I was pretending. I kept looking at my kitchen and my shopping habits and thinking "I'm not really doing this am I? I'm not really going this far? Who does this (with the exclusion of our orthodox friends as a notable exception)?"

I found myself incapable of throwing out marshmallows even though I knew I wouldn't eat them after finding out they have pork gelatin in them. But it was a fight, something I held on to fiercely, that I was not going to get that crazy. I cleaned out my cupboards and finally threw them out, stale as little rocks. Just a few days later, I was in the grocery store (personal pitch--King Soopers is more accommodating to the kosher-population than Safeway, so I shop there most frequently), getting frustrated that I couldn't find spaghetti sauce that was kosher. I was looking at every brand, every variety, when I happened on Barilla's garlic type and I saw the familiar OU. A piece of me sighed. Not just in relief but in peace. There was something comforting in knowing I didn't have to make my own sauce. I happily bought four jars. And no, I don't eat that much spaghetti, but just in case they pull this off the shelf and stop selling it, I want this feeling to last.

As said earlier, I love to bake, but I don't always need things. This particular night, I didn't need to go down the bakers aisle and yet I found myself wandering that way. I had to pass the candy lane on my way there. This was depressing. A fellow kashrut participant told me not that long ago that Skittles weren't kosher. And anyone that knows me, knows this is my all time favorite candy. My 19yr cat is named after them (give me a break, I was 8 when I named her). I could feel the bitterness rising. Then the marshmallows reared their ugly tempting head. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a treat I haven't had or even thought of in years--Jet Puff Fluff, marshmallow crème. With an exasperated hand and cynical eye, I glanced at the label, with no expectation. To my utter surprise, there it was, K in a little circle. I actually clapped my hands and hugged the jar and yes, let out a tear.

Keeping kosher doesn't mean depriving myself. Keeping kosher gives me additional tools to evaluate my relationship to Judaism, Jewish people (past and present). Keeping kosher reminds me all day long that I am Jewish and that 'title' means something very dear to me. Keeping kosher is a tangible activity, a public announcement, a personal acceptance to my life. That was my epiphany.
So for now, I will continue to struggle with kashrut and all the things it symbolizes and brings up. And I will continue to find comfort in the little things like fluffernutter sandwiches.

FIRE

There exists a fire in each of us. The spark, the catalyst, the igniter being variable. For some, knowing what makes us light up is so obvious, so knowing. For others, lots of searching is required. Then there are those who happen upon it by random chance or accidental coincidence or fate. I feel as though I am a combination of these. Chemistry has been a fire in my life for so long, nearly 20yrs from the time I knew, just KNEW I had to do chemistry. This knowing only actualized itself a few years ago when I graduated college and stepped out into the 'real world'. Cliché as that sounds, it's true for me. Working in chemistry is very different than undergraduate research, very different than television shows (think CSI or NCIS), very different than the romanticized version I had constructed in my mind. Perhaps it's the job itself rather than the career that is really making me wonder whether or not this fire I felt was a quick burst, whether it was already smoldering when I happened up on it, or whether it just needs a little fanning.

And then there is a new kind of fire. The kind where I don't want to sit still, the kind where I NEED to get up and do something. The kind that begs me to throw caution to the wind. Eliminate all my practicalities and logical thoughts and just DO. Like never before I had that experience recently. I watched 'Encounter Point'. Perhaps described as a documentary about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, it tells of tales from a very personal level. By parents who've lost their children. By those held prisoner. By an array of people passively fighting for peace.

Jerusalem quite possibly is the religious center of Israel. Tzfat is the mystical center of the country. Tel Aviv is the international headquarters. But what of the other cities? Like Kiryat Shmona, toeing the northern border with Lebanon. Or S'derot, which recently has been subjected to near daily bombings. And this doesn't even bring into mind the Gaza Strip or the West Bank.

Personal background. When I was a kid, I knew Israel existed--I saw it on a map and had to memorize it's location for geography. I knew that's where Jews went. Frankly, it was just some other country. As my Jewish identity began to form and grow, I felt a stronger connection with this distant land, though my knowledge was minimal at best and disgraceful in the least. I thought the West Bank and Gaza Strip were the same thing--thinking West referred to that side of Israel. I didn't understand why the two sides were fighting. Couldn't they just straight up share? And if not live peacefully as neighbors, at least go 50/50 on the land?

I've had the privilege of going there twice now, returning each time with a different perspective. I remember very clearly last summer going to a settlement town (West Bank area because by that time all Jews had been moved out of Gaza). The drive to protect those parcels of land was stronger than anything I'd ever felt. Not being interested in American military, I found myself wondering how to join the IDF; realizing that I'm too old to do so as a woman (cut off is really 20yrs, and at 27, I'm practically ancient). Plus, military aims don't mesh so well with my non-aggressive approach.

People who make aliyah do so for very different reasons. Some go and label themselves as religious. They go because Israel is the homeland to the Jews and it's holy and they feel that is where they can live a Jewish life to the fullest. Others call themselves Zionists. They may never step foot in a synagogue and they will eat a bacon cheeseburger on Yom Kippur and they will be the first in line at the enlistment office to defend their country. I fall in between, as the two views I've presented are on the extreme sides of the spectrum.

I cannot deny that I feel more religiously inclined when there. Few things compare to praying at the Western Wall (Kotel). Jerusalem day in Jerusalem seems to pack more of a punch than when celebrated in Boulder. The other side of me felt such pride in those settlements. I felt grounded and ancient and home in a completely different way on those desert lands.

After seeing the aforementioned film, I was inspired to act on these feelings. Do we just sit around and talk about these things or do we do something about them? The practical side kicked in, at least momentarily. Long enough to question what would I do there? I'm a chemist by trade, not a journalist nor a peace talker nor a moderator. How can I fit into this puzzle? What right do I have to go there and introduce a Palestinian to an Israeli and say you two should get along (and in what language since my Arabic is non-existent and my Hebrew little better than pathetic)? What suffering have I endured that can even come close in comparison to them that would lend me any respect?
And yet, it is really only the practical (and financial) part of me which is preventing me from calling El Al and booking the next flight to Tel Aviv and taking a sheruit (taxi) to Nablus, Hebron, etc.

So this fire in me which started in December 2005, roared in the summer of 2007, is only growing more intense with each passing day. With each new book I read and each new movie I watch, the fire is stoked.