2006

Law and Order (watched while mending the knees of jeans) addressed the question of suicide. I’ll sidestep the issue of assisting someone to commit suicide, because the question which really interests me is: Why should there be any objection to a person killing themselves, if they so choose?

As Americans, “It’s my choice” is an almost irrefutable reason for just about anything. No one is surprised, then, that Reform Judaism took off so well here, with its mantras of “Informed Choice” and “Individual Autonomy” fitting the American psyche so well. And Judaism in general prizes our free will as human beings, seeing in it one of our important connections to God: Being able to make choices is understood to be a way in which we are created b’tselem Elohim, in the image of God (see Genesis 1:26). So why does Judaism, along with Christianity and I assume Islam, frown on suicide?

I remember reading a long time ago that for Christianity, committing suicide is giving into despair, and that’s the ultimate loss of faith. Many folks who attempt or succeed in killing themselves are experiencing despair. I can see why that would be equated with losing faith in God: If you believe that there is really no satisfactory way out of a situation (whether it be one of financial ruin, emotional agony, or physical pain), then you are assigning limits to God’s power. Of course, this point of view does not take into account the overwhelming power of depression to depict existence as utterly futile. I imagine that in a medieval Christian theology, the devil would get the “credit” for causing the feelings of hopelessness that today we understand is biochemical at least in part.

I think that in Judaism, the attitude toward suicide is something like this: That in choosing when to end one’s life, one is usurping God’s decision-making power about life and death, and that’s arrogant. That would be quite a different sin than loss of faith or being seduced by the devil. It would be, in a sense, a violation of the commandment not to set up false gods, in this case one’s own self. B’yado afkid ruchi / b’eyt ishan v’a’ira / v’im ruchi g’vi’ati: In Your hand, says the medieval writer of the hymn Adon Olam, I entrust my soul; and along with my soul, my body. Or as the second prayer of the Amidah says, God is meymeet um’chayey, death-giver and life-giver. We don’t get to choose when we are born; if we choose the moment of our death, we are usurping God’s power. So yes, we have free will, but we also have some very powerful direction on how to use it (that’s what the whole system of mitzvot is all about).

Strictly speaking in Jewish law, a person who commits suicide would not be buried in a Jewish cemetery nor officially mourned by their family. Practically speaking, however, there is a compassionate understanding that a person who kills him or herself is under emotional duress, and therefore is not truly acting out of free choice; so most rabbinic authorities rule that it is permitted — or actually, required — to bury and mourn them as one would mourn any relative. In this as in so many things, the ancient rabbis were good psychologists. They understood that that hypothetical arrogance would really only be present if a person killed themselves while in sound mind and good spirits — which is psychologically almost impossible.

That was one of the points made by this episode of Law and Order: The person who was assisting in the suicide was not even aware of the situation-specific emotional duress that the woman she was helping was under. It was not a truly “free choice” if the woman was distraught over the fact that her boyfriend had just broken up with her. And our rabbis understood that.

But trust the Jewish character (Munch) to come up with what, to me, was the most compelling reason not to commit suicide. When someone dies, there is a huge hole left in the universe of those who love them. After a suicide, those who are left behind suffer extra. They wonder if they could have prevented it. They wonder if they somehow contributed to it. My guess is that most successful suicides come as a surprise, which means that the survivors also have to deal with radical discontinuity between what they thought was going on in their loved one’s life and what they must now guess was the case. And they probably blame themselves for not seeing what was, most likely, carefully hidden from them.

I imagine that often the person who dies thinks that everyone will be better off without them. This is another measure of the disorder of the person’s thinking — because committing suicide leaves an emotional mess behind, rather than cleaning one up. It’s yet another reason why the person is not making a free and reasoned choice, even if they believe that they are.

Suicide disrupts the life and relationships of a family and a community. And from a Jewish point of view, that’s just not the right thing to do. Our focus as a people is on living life, and on how to do that well as part of a web of relationships. Suicide disrupts that web. It hurts other people. And we are not supposed to do that. It’s one of the reasons that Judaism chooses the life of the mother, who already is a fully-realized person whose loss will be felt deeply, over the life of a not-yet-fully-realized child who has not been born yet — if it comes down to a choice.

Musings while the cat makes a late-night visit to the kitchen to say hello.

What a week. We’ve had a funeral (our congregant Arthur Rosen, z”l); the adoption of our son (big, huge grin!); a 70th wedding anniversary celebration in Pittsfield (cousins on my father’s side); my parents visiting for almost a week, along with a quick visit from my Orthodox aunt and uncle, which means bring out the paper plates and find what hechshered food we can locally (great list of hechshers here); a little emergency surgery on the 7th night of Chanukah to clip the dog’s toenail that had broken on a new spinning and flashing toy; and two neglected boys added to our household as foster children last Friday. (What do you do when you have 5 children, two sibling groups, to place 3 days before Christmas? Call the Jews! It was the day of our son’s adoption celebration at the synagogue, but we found a way to take two of them and still celebrate with the congregation.) We hoped it would be a short-term placement; our sons gave the new boys their beds and slept in sleeping bags. Yes, we’re a bit meshugganeh. That means crazy. But you would have done it too if you’d heard their story. And it’s not like we had family Christmas plans to disrupt.

I say “we” had a funeral because it affects the whole family. I am the one who meets with the bereaved family and encourages them to tell me (and each other) the stories. I am the one who writes the eulogy and delivers it. I am the one who goes to the cemetery, stays until the coffin is covered, and comes home exhausted. But I come home to my family, and they take care of me while I recover, because I’m not useful for much, the rest of the day.

I read somewhere once that some people thrive on emotional drama. I really do appreciate calm and regularity in my life, when I can get it. But it’s true that I also love the focus and prioritizing that comes with, for instance, having to find two more places for children to sleep, looking for pajamas and diapers of the right size, making room at the table, remembering how to feed toddlers, finding two clean toothbrushes, sitting by the bedside of a frightened child until the child falls asleep.  Helps me know that I am alive. Alive and making a difference.
During the past week our teenaged foster daughter was dealing with Christmas approaching and being without her family for the first time. Not only that, but she had to do it in a household that doesn’t celebrate Christmas. She’s actually been a good sport about it; it can’t be easy. (Could the rabbi put the child’s presents under the little potted and decorated tree that we bought her? Of course. How ironic that I am living in an interfaith household that has been struggling with the December dilemma!)

Our original plan was to go out to see the lights erev Christmas, a ritual from my childhood, and to deliver Christmas meals on the 25th. But with four kids in booster seats plus one more, we no longer all fit in our minivan! That would be the minivan we bought a year ago last November shortly after we said “no” to a sibling group of 3, in part on the grounds that we had no vehicle into which we could fit four booster seats…. So I took the 3 oldest on the morning of the 25th and we did our Christmas mitzvah, delivering some of the 250-plus meals that Berith Sholom congregants had cooked and assembled over the past couple of weeks. I told the seniors to whom we delivered the Christmas meals that they were “from the Jewish synagogue downtown.” The last man to whom we brought a meal wished us “Happy Chanukah!” several times. Perhaps he was Jewish too?

The two new boys moved to another foster home today, and our boys are sleeping in their own beds again tonight. At dinner (we ate out) I made a special point of thanking all our children — and my partner, who does the “heavy lifting” around the kids — for making it possible to take in two extra boys for a few days. On the way home, with sound effects, we told the story (or see this version) of putting the chickens, goats, and cow in the house; amazing how quiet, calm, and spacious it is once you take them out again!

But we find it’s both happy and sad. Happy because we have more time and space for ourselves and each other. Sad because we intersected with the lives and stories of two little boys for four days, and came to care about them, and they about us; we started to get comfortable with each other, and now they are moving again and getting used to a different household. (The six year old asked only two questions: “Does he punch?” when he heard that there would be a foster dad, and the question that’s most common: “Do they have a dog?” I called back the new foster mother and asked, and yes, they have two small dogs. And I explained again that in foster care, no one hits children.) Our own son said it very clearly when we came home: He’s happy because now he gets more attention and has his own bed back, and sad because he misses the boys and had fun playing with them.

What a week.

Today is the 21st of December 2006; the 30th of Kislev, 6th day of Chanukah, ‘א Rosh Chodesh Tevet, 5767; the 75th day of Kindergarten at the Albany JCC; depending on where you are in the world, it’s the solstice (or tomorrow); and it’s our Eldest Son’s Adoption Day. What a lovely multiplicity of calendars we live by!

We sang Shehecheyanu in the chambers of Judge Hummel — whose name means “bumblebee,” as does D’vorah, my Hebrew name; and remember, we’re going to be beekeeping next year. My parents were here, along with all kinds of local “family.” What a lot of love and joy, so many years in the making. And my sisters are now off the hook — I’ve provided the first grandchild.

It’s amazing. It’s lovely. It’s awe-inspiring. It’s bewildering. How and why are things different this evening than this morning??! But we have a signed and sealed piece of paper (actually, quite a few copies with gold seals on them) attesting to the fact that an order of adoption was signed today. Later we’ll have a birth certificate listing us as his parents.

But the most important piece of paper was the one that the three of us signed. We decided that there should be a piece of paper that Eldest Son got to sign, too, so I got out the calligraphy pens and fancy acid-free paper and created it. It listed all the dates above (except the solstice), our three names, and says that today we “promised to be family forever and always.” He signed his new name, including his new middle name, after my paternal grandfather, Rabbi Theodore Herzl Gordon. Grandpa died the very first week our son-to-be (not that we knew it at the time) came to live with us, nearly 2 years ago. Basically the first thing that this little almost-four-year-old did with us was bundle into the car, drive to Philadelphia in the dark and the rain, stay in a hotel for the first time, swim in a big pool for the first time, and meet all my family. Now we honor Grandpa by passing on his name.

And while Theodore Herzl’s Hebrew name was Binyamin Ze’ev, my grandfather’s was Matityahu Herzl. Theodore and Matityahu both mean “God’s gift.” And he is. He’s our 6th-day-of-Chanukah present.

Tonight, at his request, I found a big box (no, we haven’t totally unpacked), covered it with Chanukah wrapping paper, taped a card on top that he signed and addressed in his 5-year-old handwriting, and our new son climbed in.  Then before we lit Chanukah candles, both of us (newly-legal) moms opened the card and the box, and out popped our Chanukah-present son with a gold bow in his hair.

Shehecheyanu v’kiy’manu v’higi’anu la-z’man ha-zeh…

It’s a whole interesting world out there. I’ve been noticed and linked to. (Silly me. As pleased as if I were 5.) Check it out: Dove’s Eye View, subtitled “An Arab-American woman sees signs of hope.” (I hope she’s right.) And there’s a third blog whose creator has commented on both mine and Dove’s Eye View, and I imagine that I shall soon be commenting on hers: Velveteen Rabbi.

There’s a whole set of categorizations for folks that you’ve “met” in cyberspace but not in person, indicating the closeness and type of relationship.  I wonder whether and how those tags help anyone. Having photos brings the person to life a little more, but I really do wonder how important it is to interact face to face and in person. It’s the same question I’ve been debating off and on with Teenaged Foster Daughter, who has phone acquaintances she’s never (or rarely) met in person.

That’s all for this morning. I really had to get dead chickens off the top of my blog. I was tired of logging in to check for comments and seeing that post still. The remaining chickens are doing well, thank you very much, and I’m not too traumatized by the memories of the two dead ones. Chag urim sameach, happy 5th day of Chanukah.

Yes, I’m Jewish and lesbian. These make me part of historically persecuted minorities, and I don’t make the mistake of thinking “it couldn’t happen” to me or my family. Yes, as a woman I’m not an equal everywhere and all the time. But the significance of these things pales in contrast with the combination of my skin color, middle class up-bringing and earning power, and sometimes my gender.

We got home one afternoon this Fall, almost haphazardly, since we decided not to take Middle Son for a haircut till later. The phone rang. It was our friend, a tall, large, and gentle (at least around my family) African-American man who lives in Albany. “They’re arresting me,” he said. What I said to myself can’t be printed.

He’d been looking for returnables, cans and bottles that could add up to enough money for a meal. He’s between jobs and between homes. He didn’t have time to tell me the story then, but here it is: He hadn’t even started collecting, he was just walking down the street in the neighborhood of Beth Emeth and Albany Academy. A cop stopped him and asked him where he was from. He didn’t tell me if the cop was black or white. Doesn’t actually matter.

“Albany.”

“Oh, a wise-ass? Where do you live in Albany?”

“Downtown.”

Something about “I’m tired of downtown people coming over here…” and “I’m going to arrest you.”

“You’re going to arrest me for Walking While Black?” For all of you who haven’t heard this before, it’s a variation on the infamous DWB: Driving While Black. It doesn’t matter what you’re driving or how conservatively or expensively you are dressed, black men (it’s men in particular) get pulled over for being in the “wrong” neighborhood all the time. Sometimes it’s the neighborhood that they live in. If you’re shocked, if you think that this happens only occasionally or to people who look suspicious, then learn from me that it doesn’t. If you’re a middle class white person and you have any middle class black friends, ask them if this ever happens to them.

My friend says that the cop told him he had no right to ask why he was being arrested. He says to me, “I do have a right to ask!” Technically he’s right, but I keep thinking, “Just be polite, don’t insist on anything, don’t confront the racism and ignorance, get safely out of there!” And I suppose that that is what we will teach Youngest Son, if we are fortunate enough to adopt him — actually, we’ll teach it to all our children: If you do tangle with the police in any way at any time for any reason, say “Sir” and “Ma’am” and be polite and respectful and for heaven’s sake, call us as soon as possible.

But Youngest Son is African-American, and he will need to know in addition that certain kinds of jackets or headgear might make him more of a target of suspicion; that it’s more likely to happen to him no matter what he’s wearing; that if he’s stopped, he needs to move slowly and keep his hands in sight at all times, because his life may depend on it. That’s just not likely to be a problem in the life of Older Son, who is Caucasian (do we call him European-American?) and blonde.

And all our children need to know loud and clear that while this is real, it is not fair. Not fair to our child(ren) whose skin color means that they might be watched and suspected more, and not fair to our child(ren) whose skin color means that they may have special privileges not available to their siblings. (Like walking down the street in an affluent White neighborhood.)

So the police officer arrested my friend, at which point he called us. Thank goodness we were home instead of getting a haircut. He called us because we have a friend who is a Detective in the Albany Police Department, and he couldn’t remember this person’s name. So we gave it to him.

And he said the name. I don’t know exactly what he said, but he tells it like this: “I said the name, and the handcuffs came off.” Then they told him to get out of there. Which, all in all, is probably the best ending he could have gotten at that point.

I listen to this and I am shaken. He said a name and the handcuffs came off? They had handcuffed my friend, my large and gentle friend with the wry sense of humor, my friend whose voice and demeanor lets you know that he’s lived close to the streets, my friend who’s gentle and respectful of people who respect him, my friend who has a bit of a temper and will not stand by while his personhood is disrespected? I keep wanting to tell him to keep it in, that it’s not worth it, not to antagonize the police by verbally sparring with officers … But what right do I have to say that? It’s his dignity that’s on the line, not mine. And honestly, if everyone who’s stopped for DWB, or this apparently new crime of WWB, follows the script of polite and respectful, what does that teach the police department about what’s acceptable or not??? If no one ever challenges this behavior, then they learn that it’s all right.

I am grateful we were home. I am grateful that we had made this connection in the first place, so that when challenged as to whether he really knows this Detective he could say, “Well, call and find out.” I am grateful that he’s all right.

And the only word that describes what it feels like to talk to my friend about this, from the safety of my home and my family and my entire experience in life, is “surreal.” It’s just not going to happen to me. Not like that.

I sat on this story for long enough that I feel safe publishing it; hopefully there’s no way that it will jump up and bite my friend. But I worry anyway.

See Part I and Part II.

Here’s Part I (good comments too)

So I almost ALWAYS wear a skirt on the bimah, — except when I’m leading Jewish Renewal-style services (which I rarely lead from on the bimah anyway. We usually set up some chairs in a circle). For those services I try to wear something in which I can move, since movement/stretching/dancing is often a part of the service; so, sometimes, is sitting still and meditating. But it’s actually probably more true that I wear something flowing for the looks. It’s certainly not going to be a tailored suit. And the color: It almost always includes purple or turquoise. (My tallis is purple and turquoise on white, so that covers the need for “new agey” colors at the least.) I tend to wear a tall and colorful kippah .

Is this nonsense? No, it’s theater. Ritual is primal theather, in which the “audience” has been transformed into a “congregation” of participants (in my ideal, anyway). No, that’s backwards. I read somewhere a long time ago that theater itself grew out of religious ritual. Think Greece. Somewhere along the way the congregation became an audience, and there’s a difference; I really object when people refer to the “Jews in the pews” as the audience, because they’re not. Their job is to experience and participate and contribute, not to simply be the receptors of what’s going on on the bimah

OK, enough of that. I was reminded of all this on Shabbat morning, when it took 25 minutes to dress.

I had been invited to Congregation Beth Shalom in Clifton Park to co-lead a Renewal Service with Rabbi Diane Leibovitz. They’d never had a Renewal-style service there, and the congregation includes liturgical traditionalists as well as folks who welcome liturgical innovation. Oh, the fuss in front of the mirror that morning! Not too tailored. Not too funky. Not brown and turquoise — too 1950s, or something. Yes, a skirt. A long one, of course; that’s my comfort level (remember the nylons in Part I! You can also get away with more sensible shoes. I am so grateful that long skirts are no longer reserved for highly formal occasions!)

I must have spent five minutes on my shoes: The black Birkenstock “Mary Janes” with the big toe box, or the Israeli-made “Beautifeel” black shoes, more stylish (but still comfortable, with my extra arches in them — and the most expensive shoes I have ever bought in my life)? Eventually I opted for the more stylish shoes; I thought the others really looked too … what? Funky/earthy? Nerdy? Nerdy was a problem especially in Junior High, and I still worry about it sometimes…

Oi vey.