Despite having just recently fasted for Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, I really don't have anything inspirational, eye-opening, or remotely monumental to share with you. What can I say? Sometimes, even the holiest of days doesn't provide fodder for a blog.
However, today something struck me as being worthy of a post. Mind you, this does not follow suit with my usual content, but I think everyone can benefit from this one. If you haven't already heard of this diet, then I encourage you to read on. If you know about this diet and have used it, then I implore you to comment below about your experiences so I know if it's still worth touting.
I now present to you, the BRATT Diet!
For some unidentifiable but thoroughly aggravating reason, I was struck this afternoon with a rather poignant stomach ache. I knew it was nothing serious and was fairly certain it was the result of something I ate, but it put me in the fetal position and made me considerably whiny. As Tomm fixed himself a sandwich for dinner, I realized that I probably should try to eat something, and turned my sights directly to the BRATT diet:
Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, Tea, Toast.
The diet consists of low-fiber, low-fat foods that are very gentle on the system. While they do not provide the nutritional substance required on a daily basis, they are perfect options for a day or two while suffering from an upset stomach or diarrhea.
I first learned of this from my cousin when I was in college, and I was a little skeptical at first. I had told her about how for a few days it seemed that everything I ate was disagreeing with me. It was mostly just annoying and uncomfortable, but I wanted so badly to digest something, fully and completely, in a normal fashion. Imagine my relief, then, when I made myself some plain ol' toast accompanied with tea (unsweetened, no milk) and found that over the course of the next couple hours I was completely fine! No pain, no grumbling, angry stomach, no intestines yelling at me - such bliss! After a day or two of nothing but BRATT food, I was feeling significantly better and was able to resume my normal eating habits.
When I was in Israel, there was a period of a couple weeks where I regularly had intestinal upset. (I determined later it was probably because of an aversion to the regional tap water, and once I switched to bottled water I was pretty much fine.) I ended up eating a lot of toast and drinking a lot of tea in that time just to keep myself hydrated and somewhat sated. It was during this particular bout - specifically during a 12 km hike - that I discovered something interesting about the diet, or at least about myself: If I think I'm feeling better and want to "test" it with "real food," DON'T. No matter how benign the food might seem, no matter how convinced I am of its laudable dietary qualifications, multiple degrees, honors, or awards, it's not worth it. It only ends in misery, forcing me to crawl back to my rice and applesauce only to hear them chide "I told you so."
Thankfully I don't regularly suffer from stomach problems, but in the last few years I've been satisfied with the results whenever I've had the unpleasant opportunity to resort to the BRATT diet. I don't know that I can say with any amount of certainty that this diet actually helps get rid of a bug, but I usually feel a bit better after nibbling on toast or sipping some tea. I often find that having something in the stomach is better than nothing at all, even when your stomach is as cantankerous and petulant as a hormonal teenaged girl with PMS and a pimple on picture day in 8th grade. At the very least, it feels like progress to be able to swallow something and not regret it 15 minutes later.
I should reiterate that this diet is not recommended for long-term use, at least not on its own. One resource recommends it for a maximum of three days (don't worry, it's safe to open the PDF in that link), but more than that and you will deny your body the vital proteins, fats, fiber, and nutrients it needs.
So what do you think? Have you tried this? If you're like me and even the most simple tummyache is mildly debilitating, I highly recommend this course of action. I'd be happy to hear your thoughts in the Comments section, if only so I can confirm my suspicions that I am the only one in the world so madly in love with this sick-people diet.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some applesauce to eat.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Play on!
Last Monday I had the most wonderful, life-affirming, uplifting experience I have had since arriving in New York. I attended the first rehearsal of the Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra, a local community orchestra now celebrating its 40th anniversary. It is filled to the edges of the stage with humble musicians, some of whom use music to pay the rent and many more who don't. They aren't payed to be there; in fact, there is a membership fee to play in the orchestra. It just goes to show precisely how dedicated they are.
When I arrived, people were immediately friendly. Hi! How are you? Are you new? Welcome! People welcomed me, pulled me into their conversations, allowed me to sit in the middle instead of on the outskirts, noticed me and wanted me there.
And then the music started. Oh, what rapture! We sight-read a Brahms symphony (replete, of course, with the kinds of melodies that only a cello section can pull off with affective grace and depth of feeling), the first major symphony I had performed in two years. Through our instruments we sang, we hummed, we soared, we crawled, we lifted ourselves in rising, swelling melodies, forced ourselves through the cramped and jagged spaces of dissonance, then resolved with harmonious consonance upon the conductor's subtle cue.
Sometimes I forget I'm a musician.
In the world of music education, I have always considered myself as a teacher of music rather than a musician who teaches. It is not that I doubt or downplay my musical talents, but rather that I put more emphasis on my talents as an educator who happens to use music to teach children. Among the music education majors in college, though we started out with nearly identical musical course loads as those of the performance majors, by our senior years we had distanced ourselves from our musical peers. Once we had completed the requirement for performance with the orchestra or band, many of us devoted our energies to learning pedagogy, methodology, conducting, and the basics of other instruments. By our final semester we were rarely on campus, spending all our time instead in schools where we taught as student teachers. There were plenty of education majors who continued to perform, but once I was out of the orchestra the only performances I cared about were those of my students.
I've never wanted to be a soloist. I might have had fleeting dreams of such a life when I was younger, imagining myself sitting at a Steinway 9-foot grand on some stage, but I abandoned such flights of fancy once I realized how badly I wanted to be a teacher. It wasn't an either-or situation, mind you. It was simply a realization that a classroom is a far more exciting venue than a stage. Besides, I never would have cut it as a professional performer. When I was a young musician in a small town, I was pretty decent at my variety of instruments and didn't think much of it. But once I started comparing myself to other musicians at statewide summer music camps and at college, I realized I just couldn't quite compete. Conveniently, I had no interest in doing such a thing.
However, despite my aversion to performing a solo in the cello Master Class (the unsavory memories of which linger in the back of my mind like the smell of cigarettes in an old hotel room), I loved performing with the orchestra. Loathed the audition process, despised the sectionals where, try as I might, I would inevitably be heard, but I loved the feeling of playing with so many other musicians. I didn't care if I was last chair. I just liked the experience of making music with a group of like-minded individuals. It was like a group project that actually worked, and we all know the success rate of those in school.
The last time I played with the university's symphony orchestra, we played Tchaikovsky and I remember thinking as we neared the end of the piece I don't want this to end, because this may be my last opportunity to play such wonderful music with such talented musicians. I figured that any community orchestra wouldn't quite measure up to the caliber of music we performed regularly, because the only community orchestras I knew were good but still very amateur. That performance, in December of 2010, was the last time I performed a concert with an orchestra.
There aren't many things I can say I absolutely love about New York, but one of the things I've discovered is that not only is there a community orchestra, but there are many. And not only are they plentiful, but they're good!
But the greatest part for me? That it is somewhere I am invited to belong. Maybe it was just this particular ensemble, but I truly felt they were happy I was there. People checked their personal bubbles at the door in favor of the more inclusive embrace of the orchestra, a refreshing change of pace from what I have experienced thus far.
I can't wait to go back.
When I arrived, people were immediately friendly. Hi! How are you? Are you new? Welcome! People welcomed me, pulled me into their conversations, allowed me to sit in the middle instead of on the outskirts, noticed me and wanted me there.
And then the music started. Oh, what rapture! We sight-read a Brahms symphony (replete, of course, with the kinds of melodies that only a cello section can pull off with affective grace and depth of feeling), the first major symphony I had performed in two years. Through our instruments we sang, we hummed, we soared, we crawled, we lifted ourselves in rising, swelling melodies, forced ourselves through the cramped and jagged spaces of dissonance, then resolved with harmonious consonance upon the conductor's subtle cue.
Sometimes I forget I'm a musician.
In the world of music education, I have always considered myself as a teacher of music rather than a musician who teaches. It is not that I doubt or downplay my musical talents, but rather that I put more emphasis on my talents as an educator who happens to use music to teach children. Among the music education majors in college, though we started out with nearly identical musical course loads as those of the performance majors, by our senior years we had distanced ourselves from our musical peers. Once we had completed the requirement for performance with the orchestra or band, many of us devoted our energies to learning pedagogy, methodology, conducting, and the basics of other instruments. By our final semester we were rarely on campus, spending all our time instead in schools where we taught as student teachers. There were plenty of education majors who continued to perform, but once I was out of the orchestra the only performances I cared about were those of my students.
I've never wanted to be a soloist. I might have had fleeting dreams of such a life when I was younger, imagining myself sitting at a Steinway 9-foot grand on some stage, but I abandoned such flights of fancy once I realized how badly I wanted to be a teacher. It wasn't an either-or situation, mind you. It was simply a realization that a classroom is a far more exciting venue than a stage. Besides, I never would have cut it as a professional performer. When I was a young musician in a small town, I was pretty decent at my variety of instruments and didn't think much of it. But once I started comparing myself to other musicians at statewide summer music camps and at college, I realized I just couldn't quite compete. Conveniently, I had no interest in doing such a thing.
However, despite my aversion to performing a solo in the cello Master Class (the unsavory memories of which linger in the back of my mind like the smell of cigarettes in an old hotel room), I loved performing with the orchestra. Loathed the audition process, despised the sectionals where, try as I might, I would inevitably be heard, but I loved the feeling of playing with so many other musicians. I didn't care if I was last chair. I just liked the experience of making music with a group of like-minded individuals. It was like a group project that actually worked, and we all know the success rate of those in school.
The last time I played with the university's symphony orchestra, we played Tchaikovsky and I remember thinking as we neared the end of the piece I don't want this to end, because this may be my last opportunity to play such wonderful music with such talented musicians. I figured that any community orchestra wouldn't quite measure up to the caliber of music we performed regularly, because the only community orchestras I knew were good but still very amateur. That performance, in December of 2010, was the last time I performed a concert with an orchestra.
There aren't many things I can say I absolutely love about New York, but one of the things I've discovered is that not only is there a community orchestra, but there are many. And not only are they plentiful, but they're good!
But the greatest part for me? That it is somewhere I am invited to belong. Maybe it was just this particular ensemble, but I truly felt they were happy I was there. People checked their personal bubbles at the door in favor of the more inclusive embrace of the orchestra, a refreshing change of pace from what I have experienced thus far.
I can't wait to go back.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Getting lost at the Da Capo
Rosh Hashanah (lit. "Head of the Year") has become one of my favorite holidays in the Jewish calendar. It even beats out Hanukkah which, although fun, doesn't have quite the spiritual breadth and depth of Rosh Hashanah. The Jewish New Year is celebrated as a two-day holiday which manages to encompass a wide variety of Jewish values: family, community, joy, prayer, and thanksgiving, as well as introspection, repentance, forgiveness, and humility. And food. Lots of food. What kind of Jewish holiday would it be without food?
I've always enjoyed the spirit of the holiday and the symbols that are so ingrained in its celebration. We eat apples dipped in honey to remind us that we should have a sweet new year, and we pour honey on our challah instead of dipping it in salt, for now is not a time for sadness. The challah itself is shaped differently: Instead of being braided into a loaf, we make it into a round braid or spiral to emphasize the idea of continuity from one year to the next. Traditionally we eat a new fruit on the holiday, and many people choose the pomegranate for this custom as it is rumored to have 613 seeds - equal to the number of commandments in the Torah.
And those are just the symbols at the dinner table!
Every year, I have celebrated Rosh Hashanah at home with my parents, my siblings, and whomever my mom invited to join us for either of the two festive meals. Even as a college student, I always went home for the New Year. There were some years where I debated, thinking maybe I would stay on campus instead of schlepping home, but ultimately I could never resist the comfort of spending this particular holiday with my family. No matter where my roots were spreading, I always felt an unconscious desire, a need, to start the year at the beginning -- my beginning.
This year everything has turned topsy-turvy and my new home is some 800+ miles away, so I was faced with the opportunity to start a completely new beginning. Yet another Da Capo moment! But I realized about five hours too late that I wasn't prepared to "make Rosh Hashanah;" to account for the food, the timing, the traditional elements that always seemed to appear before me - like magic! - at home. (Thanks, Mom!) Realistically, I don't think there is any way I could have recreated any of my life's intimate experiences with this particular holiday even if I had tried. For starters, Tomm is working a month of nights without any time off for the holidays, so big, festive meals in the evening were out of the question. We did, however, do our best to make Wednesday night's dinner something worthy of the New Year, even if the holiday wasn't beginning until three hours later. Pasta Primavera may not exactly be standard fare for such a meal, and unfortunately I completely forgot about the traditional pomegranate, but we blessed the grape juice, the round-ish challah, and the apples with honey, so it still counts, right?
After he left for work I went to shul for Maariv, the evening service. I don't believe I have ever before attended the evening service before Rosh Hashanah. Usually I was at home helping my mom prepare for guests. I'm glad I went, though, because the small choir that supported the chazzan lent a great deal to my experience. (For an orthodox synagogue to have anything resembling a choir is virtually unheard of to my knowledge.) Yet despite the music - so grand and beautiful to behold and in stark contrast to my typical shul experience - it could not make up for what was lacking. I didn't dwell on it, but in the back of my mind a thought, not fully-formed and more closely resembling a feeling, nagged at me.
The next two days I spent a great deal of time at the synagogue. The services were about three hours longer than I would've anticipated, and the choir only sang for part of it. But I was there, I recited the prayers, I heard the sounds of the shofar, and I sang along where I could. Did I commune with G-d? Not so sure. Even less uncertain is the answer to the vexing question: Did I commune with the community?
Since moving here I've been feeling like I'm missing something in regards to the Jewish community. I feel like more of an outsider than I really should be, and I can't help but contrast my largely uninspiring experiences here with the overwhelmingly positive experiences I grew up with. With that in mind, I'd like to share an experience Tomm and I had on Friday night:
We had just arrived to the synagogue for the afternoon and evening prayers, quick services that would mark the end of Rosh Hashanah and the beginning of Shabbat. It didn't seem the services had commenced so we dawdled outside the doors of the sanctuary for a minute. An older gentleman with a long, straggly beard appeared and made some comment about the talk that was going on before the services. Perhaps they were going longer than expected? I asked him if they'd started the afternoon service yet and he said no, then - detecting either our accent or our uniquely Midwestern sense of kindness and civility - he asked us where we were from. We told him about our respective hometowns and the city where we met. "Oh! That's Twerskiville!" he announced, referencing the large Hasidic community on the West side of the city. I attended shul there a couple times and I'm familiar with the rabbi, though I certainly wouldn't identify myself with him. At any rate, this man had at least some idea of where I was from.
"Y'know," he said, "for people from out of town, meaning of course anywhere outside New York or Lakewood [NJ], it's different. Jewish communities are more open, more welcoming out of town. But in town, it's like there are too many people. People don't notice you as much, it's not as much of a community. When a place gets so big, it's easy for people to get--" and he reached over to point to a notice on the bulletin board. LOST.
"But come, let's daven (pray)." And with that he led us into the sanctuary.
Lost. Precisely. As this man spoke I looked at him and wondered how he had managed to so perfectly encapsulate my experiences up to this point. He was an absolute stranger, but it was as if I was meant to cross his path so that he could give credence to the very feeling I had been trying to ignore.
The fact is, my presence in the synagogues around here has been largely ignored. The mumbled "shana tova" (Happy New Year) or "gut shabbos" (a wish for a good Sabbath) exchanged with others are mere pleasantries said as quietly and unenthusiastically as we can. I am not a part of this community and I am no closer to them than the black-hatted and bearded Hassids who breeze past me on the sidewalk with bristling indifference.
At both the congregations I've called home throughout my life, I went to shul to feel connected -- connected to others and by extension to G-d. I went to shul to be counted, acknowledged, appreciated. I went to feel part of something larger, holier than myself. Singing out loud and saying the words that are so many hundreds of years old with my families - real or surrogate - surrounding me and singing with me was what made it a holy experience.
In music, especially when playing through a piece with an ensemble for the first time, reaching the words da capo at the end of the piece can be disabling. Faced with the sudden change in direction, we may have to quickly turn a page or five only to reveal that the music's tempo, time signature, key signature, dynamics, and style have completely changed since the beginning. Eventually we manage to get back on track, maybe even skipping a few measures of music between the da capo and the opening bars just to get our bearings. But inevitably we catch our breath, return our focus to the music we make, and move forward.
This year, the da capo is certainly throwing me for a loop. I seem to have lost the melody, and I'm looking at the conductor thinking Where the hell are you? but it's not too late to make something beautiful. I just have to take a breath, pause for a moment, and find where I belong in the music.
L'Shana Tova u'metukah. May you have a happy and sweet New Year.
I've always enjoyed the spirit of the holiday and the symbols that are so ingrained in its celebration. We eat apples dipped in honey to remind us that we should have a sweet new year, and we pour honey on our challah instead of dipping it in salt, for now is not a time for sadness. The challah itself is shaped differently: Instead of being braided into a loaf, we make it into a round braid or spiral to emphasize the idea of continuity from one year to the next. Traditionally we eat a new fruit on the holiday, and many people choose the pomegranate for this custom as it is rumored to have 613 seeds - equal to the number of commandments in the Torah.
And those are just the symbols at the dinner table!
Every year, I have celebrated Rosh Hashanah at home with my parents, my siblings, and whomever my mom invited to join us for either of the two festive meals. Even as a college student, I always went home for the New Year. There were some years where I debated, thinking maybe I would stay on campus instead of schlepping home, but ultimately I could never resist the comfort of spending this particular holiday with my family. No matter where my roots were spreading, I always felt an unconscious desire, a need, to start the year at the beginning -- my beginning.
This year everything has turned topsy-turvy and my new home is some 800+ miles away, so I was faced with the opportunity to start a completely new beginning. Yet another Da Capo moment! But I realized about five hours too late that I wasn't prepared to "make Rosh Hashanah;" to account for the food, the timing, the traditional elements that always seemed to appear before me - like magic! - at home. (Thanks, Mom!) Realistically, I don't think there is any way I could have recreated any of my life's intimate experiences with this particular holiday even if I had tried. For starters, Tomm is working a month of nights without any time off for the holidays, so big, festive meals in the evening were out of the question. We did, however, do our best to make Wednesday night's dinner something worthy of the New Year, even if the holiday wasn't beginning until three hours later. Pasta Primavera may not exactly be standard fare for such a meal, and unfortunately I completely forgot about the traditional pomegranate, but we blessed the grape juice, the round-ish challah, and the apples with honey, so it still counts, right?
After he left for work I went to shul for Maariv, the evening service. I don't believe I have ever before attended the evening service before Rosh Hashanah. Usually I was at home helping my mom prepare for guests. I'm glad I went, though, because the small choir that supported the chazzan lent a great deal to my experience. (For an orthodox synagogue to have anything resembling a choir is virtually unheard of to my knowledge.) Yet despite the music - so grand and beautiful to behold and in stark contrast to my typical shul experience - it could not make up for what was lacking. I didn't dwell on it, but in the back of my mind a thought, not fully-formed and more closely resembling a feeling, nagged at me.
The next two days I spent a great deal of time at the synagogue. The services were about three hours longer than I would've anticipated, and the choir only sang for part of it. But I was there, I recited the prayers, I heard the sounds of the shofar, and I sang along where I could. Did I commune with G-d? Not so sure. Even less uncertain is the answer to the vexing question: Did I commune with the community?
Since moving here I've been feeling like I'm missing something in regards to the Jewish community. I feel like more of an outsider than I really should be, and I can't help but contrast my largely uninspiring experiences here with the overwhelmingly positive experiences I grew up with. With that in mind, I'd like to share an experience Tomm and I had on Friday night:
We had just arrived to the synagogue for the afternoon and evening prayers, quick services that would mark the end of Rosh Hashanah and the beginning of Shabbat. It didn't seem the services had commenced so we dawdled outside the doors of the sanctuary for a minute. An older gentleman with a long, straggly beard appeared and made some comment about the talk that was going on before the services. Perhaps they were going longer than expected? I asked him if they'd started the afternoon service yet and he said no, then - detecting either our accent or our uniquely Midwestern sense of kindness and civility - he asked us where we were from. We told him about our respective hometowns and the city where we met. "Oh! That's Twerskiville!" he announced, referencing the large Hasidic community on the West side of the city. I attended shul there a couple times and I'm familiar with the rabbi, though I certainly wouldn't identify myself with him. At any rate, this man had at least some idea of where I was from.
"Y'know," he said, "for people from out of town, meaning of course anywhere outside New York or Lakewood [NJ], it's different. Jewish communities are more open, more welcoming out of town. But in town, it's like there are too many people. People don't notice you as much, it's not as much of a community. When a place gets so big, it's easy for people to get--" and he reached over to point to a notice on the bulletin board. LOST.
"But come, let's daven (pray)." And with that he led us into the sanctuary.
Lost. Precisely. As this man spoke I looked at him and wondered how he had managed to so perfectly encapsulate my experiences up to this point. He was an absolute stranger, but it was as if I was meant to cross his path so that he could give credence to the very feeling I had been trying to ignore.
The fact is, my presence in the synagogues around here has been largely ignored. The mumbled "shana tova" (Happy New Year) or "gut shabbos" (a wish for a good Sabbath) exchanged with others are mere pleasantries said as quietly and unenthusiastically as we can. I am not a part of this community and I am no closer to them than the black-hatted and bearded Hassids who breeze past me on the sidewalk with bristling indifference.
At both the congregations I've called home throughout my life, I went to shul to feel connected -- connected to others and by extension to G-d. I went to shul to be counted, acknowledged, appreciated. I went to feel part of something larger, holier than myself. Singing out loud and saying the words that are so many hundreds of years old with my families - real or surrogate - surrounding me and singing with me was what made it a holy experience.
In music, especially when playing through a piece with an ensemble for the first time, reaching the words da capo at the end of the piece can be disabling. Faced with the sudden change in direction, we may have to quickly turn a page or five only to reveal that the music's tempo, time signature, key signature, dynamics, and style have completely changed since the beginning. Eventually we manage to get back on track, maybe even skipping a few measures of music between the da capo and the opening bars just to get our bearings. But inevitably we catch our breath, return our focus to the music we make, and move forward.
This year, the da capo is certainly throwing me for a loop. I seem to have lost the melody, and I'm looking at the conductor thinking Where the hell are you? but it's not too late to make something beautiful. I just have to take a breath, pause for a moment, and find where I belong in the music.
L'Shana Tova u'metukah. May you have a happy and sweet New Year.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Gainful Employment
After months of searching, resume submissions, cover letters, emails, and the occasional interview, I have finally landed a job! Before you start getting too excited and congratulatory, I'd like to temper it by saying that this is a part time, after school job which will amount to fewer than 10 hours a week. Still, it's a job in my field which will allow me to use my specific skill set with almost complete curricular freedom.
I'll be working in a public school in Manhattan which works with an outside organization to provide "extended day" school (a well-attended after-school program which extends the standard school day until 6:00 PM). I was originally interviewed for the position of Community Educator, an entry-level position which would have placed me and a colleague with a specific classroom to work with them every day after school from 3:00 to 6:00. After the final round of interviews I received a call from the organizer offering me a choice between the Community Educator position and that of an Activities Specialist: fewer hours a week, but greater pay per hour and would allow me to specifically teach music to students in grades K-2. After some deliberation I decided that although I would not make as much per week as a specialist it was a far better career opportunity, so I took it.
I'm excited for this position for a variety of reasons. One wonderful feature of the job is that I can pretty much teach whatever I'd like. There is no curriculum set out, no specific objectives that the students must achieve, no expectations about concerts or other performances. This freedom is exhilarating because it means that I can finally focus on musical concepts that I have, up until now, found very challenging to teach within the context of a standard school music program. Namely composition and improvisation. Without having a concert to prepare for (at least not one that's already scheduled), I can use this as a learning opportunity for me in addition to an exciting and fun class for the students. Besides, the students already have a music teacher during the school day, so I want to be sure I'm not stepping on the other teacher's toes and focusing on exactly the same things she is.
The other reasons I'm excited for this position have much more to do with me than with the kids. Call me selfish, but I'm excited to be getting out of the apartment, using my degree and experience in a productive way, making a little money, and hopefully making some friends. Apparently there is research to support this kind of need for personal fulfillment, for when I looked up "gainfully employed" to make sure I was, in fact, spelling it correctly, I found a Wikipedia article all about it:
Thinking about my employment history it's easy for me to separate the jobs from the gainful employment. Working at a grocery store part time? A job. I went, I worked, I got paid. But every single time I had the opportunity to teach - whether I was making money or not - I felt that I was doing something worthwhile for my students, my colleagues, my superiors, and myself.
The Wikipedia article lists nine components of this particular brand of employment, and they are as follows:
Reading this list makes me consider not just my own employment history and career, but work in general. In movies, television, media, and sitting at the bar on a Saturday night, people are often quick to complain about their jobs. In college, my classmates working part-time jobs to pay for rent and tuition regularly groaned about their horrible bosses, the agonizingly mundane tasks they had to perform, the crappy hours, and all the other issues inherent in being at the bottom of the work ladder. "But at least I have a job," they'd say, and it was true because without the money they made from that job, they couldn't have been studying to get the education necessary to ultimately make them gainfully employed. Still, I have to wonder: is it worth it?
Is it worth it to work your tail off doing something you dislike as a means to an end? Is it worth it to spend a third of your waking hours just waiting to leave? Is it worth it to downright hate what you're doing and allow yourself to be unhappy and frustrated, even if the money made from that minimum wage job is an absolute necessity?
The fact of the matter is, sometimes we can't avoid working a job we don't like, which is rather sad when you consider how much of our lives are spent at our jobs and how desperately many of us need something, anything to pay for the other necessities in life. So maybe the onus is on the higher ups, the bosses and supervisors and CEOs, to make sure their employees are, in fact, gainfully employed. I don't know. I certainly can't provide a solution to the quagmire. All I can do is ask questions. So I ask...
Are you gainfully employed?
I'll be working in a public school in Manhattan which works with an outside organization to provide "extended day" school (a well-attended after-school program which extends the standard school day until 6:00 PM). I was originally interviewed for the position of Community Educator, an entry-level position which would have placed me and a colleague with a specific classroom to work with them every day after school from 3:00 to 6:00. After the final round of interviews I received a call from the organizer offering me a choice between the Community Educator position and that of an Activities Specialist: fewer hours a week, but greater pay per hour and would allow me to specifically teach music to students in grades K-2. After some deliberation I decided that although I would not make as much per week as a specialist it was a far better career opportunity, so I took it.
I'm excited for this position for a variety of reasons. One wonderful feature of the job is that I can pretty much teach whatever I'd like. There is no curriculum set out, no specific objectives that the students must achieve, no expectations about concerts or other performances. This freedom is exhilarating because it means that I can finally focus on musical concepts that I have, up until now, found very challenging to teach within the context of a standard school music program. Namely composition and improvisation. Without having a concert to prepare for (at least not one that's already scheduled), I can use this as a learning opportunity for me in addition to an exciting and fun class for the students. Besides, the students already have a music teacher during the school day, so I want to be sure I'm not stepping on the other teacher's toes and focusing on exactly the same things she is.
The other reasons I'm excited for this position have much more to do with me than with the kids. Call me selfish, but I'm excited to be getting out of the apartment, using my degree and experience in a productive way, making a little money, and hopefully making some friends. Apparently there is research to support this kind of need for personal fulfillment, for when I looked up "gainfully employed" to make sure I was, in fact, spelling it correctly, I found a Wikipedia article all about it:
Gainful employment is a positive psychology concept that explores the benefits of work and employment. Second only to personal relationships, work is the most important determinant of quality of life.[1][2] Over 7,855 articles were published on job satisfaction between the years of 1976-2000.Turns out I'm not being selfish after all. Upon reading this article, I learned that gainful employment is not just about making money; it's about job satisfaction, fulfillment, and all the other personal needs that a good occupation addresses. While being employed might just mean "getting paid to do a job," gainful employment is about the kind of work that makes you want to go to work, the kind of job that makes you happy, and the kind of environment in which you enjoy growth, responsibility, empowerment, and positive relationships.
Thinking about my employment history it's easy for me to separate the jobs from the gainful employment. Working at a grocery store part time? A job. I went, I worked, I got paid. But every single time I had the opportunity to teach - whether I was making money or not - I felt that I was doing something worthwhile for my students, my colleagues, my superiors, and myself.
The Wikipedia article lists nine components of this particular brand of employment, and they are as follows:
1. Variety in duties performedI was surprised to read some of the items on this list. For instance, the fact that the first component listed is "Variety in duties performed" seems odd to me from the perspective of an employee, especially one who has worked a number of jobs that had very few duties to perform. Yet thinking about my best jobs, especially those in teaching, I realize that all of them included a wide variety of duties to perform, and instead of constantly feeling burdened or overwhelmed by the things I had to do, I was generally happy that going to work meant something a little different every day. Or what about "Friendships at work"? No wonder I've hated the summer jobs where I didn't get along well with my coworkers, even if my superiors and the customers were pleasant and enjoyable to work with.
2. Safe working environment
3. Income for family and oneself
4. A purpose derived from providing a product or service
5. Happiness and satisfaction
6. Positive engagement and involvement
7. A sense of performing well and meeting goals
8. Friendships at work
9. An environment that respects and appreciates diversity
Reading this list makes me consider not just my own employment history and career, but work in general. In movies, television, media, and sitting at the bar on a Saturday night, people are often quick to complain about their jobs. In college, my classmates working part-time jobs to pay for rent and tuition regularly groaned about their horrible bosses, the agonizingly mundane tasks they had to perform, the crappy hours, and all the other issues inherent in being at the bottom of the work ladder. "But at least I have a job," they'd say, and it was true because without the money they made from that job, they couldn't have been studying to get the education necessary to ultimately make them gainfully employed. Still, I have to wonder: is it worth it?
Is it worth it to work your tail off doing something you dislike as a means to an end? Is it worth it to spend a third of your waking hours just waiting to leave? Is it worth it to downright hate what you're doing and allow yourself to be unhappy and frustrated, even if the money made from that minimum wage job is an absolute necessity?
The fact of the matter is, sometimes we can't avoid working a job we don't like, which is rather sad when you consider how much of our lives are spent at our jobs and how desperately many of us need something, anything to pay for the other necessities in life. So maybe the onus is on the higher ups, the bosses and supervisors and CEOs, to make sure their employees are, in fact, gainfully employed. I don't know. I certainly can't provide a solution to the quagmire. All I can do is ask questions. So I ask...
Are you gainfully employed?
Sunday, September 1, 2013
A Stranger in a Strange Land
Growing up in a small town in Wisconsin which boasted a century-old Jewish community, Shabbat morning services were kind of a big deal. My relationship with the community was built upon Torah readings, poorly but passionately sung Hebrew melodies, and the smell of herring at kiddush. The weekly d'var torah (sermon) was our communal learning, and together we thrived in our small but dedicated congregation. I never thought it odd that my sister and I were the only two kids in shul every week, and my sense of normal was very much shaped by the members who were at least two generations older. As far as I knew, it was normal to go to shul every week and pray for a minyan (the required quorum of 10 to proceed with the service), normal to make changes to the service in order to suit the needs of our membership (like counting women for the minyan), normal to feel obligated to attend because my absence would be felt by every other congregant. Spurred by my parents, my education, and my community, I was dedicated to my shul and loved it wholeheartedly.
Outside of the synagogue or my home, normal was being the only Jew around. Unlike some young Jews in similar situations, I wore my religion like a badge of honor. I gladly answered my classmates' and teachers' questions about my practices, dutifully did the extra work to make up for missed days of school around the High Holy Days, and enjoyed the respect that accompanied my uniqueness. In a city overwhelmingly full of Catholics and Protestants, I loved being different. To me, that was normal.
In college I enjoyed a slightly larger Jewish community, but even then I was still different. I was nearly the only observant Jew in the music school, and the only consistent college-aged congregant at the shul a block away from campus. Again I was surrounded by non-Jews in school and an older community at the synagogue (albeit younger on average than at home), and I knew I was right where I belonged. It didn't bother me that I didn't have a close-knit group of Jewish friends with whom to share a Shabbos dinner or go out on Saturday nights. In fact, I was markedly more comfortable in non-Jewish circles and preferred the feeling of adding to the diversity of a given group.
When I first moved to campus I was excited to participate in the Hillel (an organization for Jewish students on college campuses). Surrounding myself once a week with other members of the Tribe was comforting. Inside jokes passed freely among us, the kinds of jokes that our non-Jewish friends could never really understand. We played Apples to Apples: Jewish Edition and laughed openly as we juxtaposed gefilte fish, Albert Einstein, and Jewish mothers and debated which one fit better with the adjective "misunderstood." Yet while I was comfortable there, it was a decidedly atypical part of my sense of Jewish community.
There was, however, one unifying feature of all my Jewish interactions in Wisconsin: we knew we were all part of a much smaller community within the general public and as such, we made a point to include one another. For what it was worth, many of us stuck together despite the unspoken feuds between various sects or followers of particular traditions. Together we were part of the larger, global Jewish Community, and many of us honored that, at least among the Jews I knew.
In this neighborhood in Brooklyn, things are different...vastly different. In fact, in New York City in general it seems easy to take our religion and practices for granted. I'm still getting used to seeing Jews regularly in the subway, on the street, and in Ikea. As I get used to this new reality, I also have to come to terms with the fact that being Jewish doesn't automatically grant you access into the Jewish community. Apparently, when being Jewish is not unique and your existence doesn't threaten and isn't threatened by anyone else in the general public, there is no strong need to stick together just because you had a Bar or Bat Mitzvah in middle school.
Even in my search for a modern Orthodox synagogue in the neighborhood - where modern Orthodoxy has been pushed aside by the much larger and more conspicuous Charedi (ultra Orthodox) population - it's easy for my presence to be overlooked or ignored. I'm just another Jew; nothing special about that, right? Besides, the synagogue isn't the only place around here where you spend time with your Jewish neighbors, so even the importance of participation in the service is diminished.
I have to keep reminding myself that what I am witnessing and experiencing is more-than-likely specific to my neighborhood. In fact, I spoke with a man (modern Orthodox) who works in the neighborhood but lives in a different one altogether, and he described this area as being uniquely unfriendly at times. People have their own lives, their own personal bubbles, and according to him it's not unusual for them to be standoffish even to those they see daily as they run their errands and go about their lives. Additionally, I may find that in synagogues with younger membership I will be more immediately accepted. Who knows? My experience is exceptionally limited for the time being and I can't let my current opinions define my entire outlook.
The hard part is that in order to find those synagogues where I will feel more comfortable, I might have to travel into the the neighboring areas or even into Manhattan. This brings up a whole slew of issues to take into consideration, a discussion which I will reserve for another blog post altogether. In the meantime, I'll use the upcoming Jewish New Year and the Days of Awe to think more deeply about what my Judaism means to me in my new environment, and perhaps to redefine my concept of "normal."
Outside of the synagogue or my home, normal was being the only Jew around. Unlike some young Jews in similar situations, I wore my religion like a badge of honor. I gladly answered my classmates' and teachers' questions about my practices, dutifully did the extra work to make up for missed days of school around the High Holy Days, and enjoyed the respect that accompanied my uniqueness. In a city overwhelmingly full of Catholics and Protestants, I loved being different. To me, that was normal.
In college I enjoyed a slightly larger Jewish community, but even then I was still different. I was nearly the only observant Jew in the music school, and the only consistent college-aged congregant at the shul a block away from campus. Again I was surrounded by non-Jews in school and an older community at the synagogue (albeit younger on average than at home), and I knew I was right where I belonged. It didn't bother me that I didn't have a close-knit group of Jewish friends with whom to share a Shabbos dinner or go out on Saturday nights. In fact, I was markedly more comfortable in non-Jewish circles and preferred the feeling of adding to the diversity of a given group.
When I first moved to campus I was excited to participate in the Hillel (an organization for Jewish students on college campuses). Surrounding myself once a week with other members of the Tribe was comforting. Inside jokes passed freely among us, the kinds of jokes that our non-Jewish friends could never really understand. We played Apples to Apples: Jewish Edition and laughed openly as we juxtaposed gefilte fish, Albert Einstein, and Jewish mothers and debated which one fit better with the adjective "misunderstood." Yet while I was comfortable there, it was a decidedly atypical part of my sense of Jewish community.
There was, however, one unifying feature of all my Jewish interactions in Wisconsin: we knew we were all part of a much smaller community within the general public and as such, we made a point to include one another. For what it was worth, many of us stuck together despite the unspoken feuds between various sects or followers of particular traditions. Together we were part of the larger, global Jewish Community, and many of us honored that, at least among the Jews I knew.
In this neighborhood in Brooklyn, things are different...vastly different. In fact, in New York City in general it seems easy to take our religion and practices for granted. I'm still getting used to seeing Jews regularly in the subway, on the street, and in Ikea. As I get used to this new reality, I also have to come to terms with the fact that being Jewish doesn't automatically grant you access into the Jewish community. Apparently, when being Jewish is not unique and your existence doesn't threaten and isn't threatened by anyone else in the general public, there is no strong need to stick together just because you had a Bar or Bat Mitzvah in middle school.
Even in my search for a modern Orthodox synagogue in the neighborhood - where modern Orthodoxy has been pushed aside by the much larger and more conspicuous Charedi (ultra Orthodox) population - it's easy for my presence to be overlooked or ignored. I'm just another Jew; nothing special about that, right? Besides, the synagogue isn't the only place around here where you spend time with your Jewish neighbors, so even the importance of participation in the service is diminished.
I have to keep reminding myself that what I am witnessing and experiencing is more-than-likely specific to my neighborhood. In fact, I spoke with a man (modern Orthodox) who works in the neighborhood but lives in a different one altogether, and he described this area as being uniquely unfriendly at times. People have their own lives, their own personal bubbles, and according to him it's not unusual for them to be standoffish even to those they see daily as they run their errands and go about their lives. Additionally, I may find that in synagogues with younger membership I will be more immediately accepted. Who knows? My experience is exceptionally limited for the time being and I can't let my current opinions define my entire outlook.
The hard part is that in order to find those synagogues where I will feel more comfortable, I might have to travel into the the neighboring areas or even into Manhattan. This brings up a whole slew of issues to take into consideration, a discussion which I will reserve for another blog post altogether. In the meantime, I'll use the upcoming Jewish New Year and the Days of Awe to think more deeply about what my Judaism means to me in my new environment, and perhaps to redefine my concept of "normal."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)