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John Lennon once sang "Life is what happens to you when you're busy ignoring your blog."

Or, y'know, something like that.

In any case, it's been well over a month since I last wrote and you can generally assume that I haven't written because I've been busy.  First it was preparing for Passover (spring cleaning with a deadline, as my mom likes to describe it), complete with making my very first seder.  Then it was actually Passover, which was surprisingly busy. Then it was full-tilt concert preparation, hard core apartment hunting, New York State teacher's licencing tests, applying for graduate school, and a few other obligations.  Thankfully, most of the hard work of the last two months appears to be paying off.

Big news number 1: I made it through my first really, truly, honest-to-goodness, did-it-all-by-myself Pesach!  Passover is one of those holidays that requires so much work and has so many laws, traditions, and procedures associated with it that I avoided "making Pesach" whenever I could.  As a college student, I either went home for the holiday or stayed with my aunt and uncle. Even in my apartment last year I ate as many meals as I could elsewhere so I didn't actually have to buy new food, new dishes, or cover my countertops.  This year, however, I couldn't get out of it.  Not only that, but I was also making a small seder for three for the first night.  Thankfully I think I pulled it off, and it wasn't even quite as scary as I thought it might be.

Big news number 2: We found a new apartment!  Although our current apartment is a total steal in NYC and the hubby is a block away from work, the neighborhood leaves something to be desired. Since finding a synagogue and community that has yet to disappoint me, we started looking for an apartment closer to that neighborhood.  It was a long and arduous search, but I am happy to announce we found a place only a few blocks from shul and we're signing the lease on Tuesday.

Big news number 3: My spring concerts for the Pre-K through 3rd grade classes at my school has been a source of great stress for me the last few weeks, but after a few hours of very successful rehearsals on Friday, I'm actually looking quite forward to them.  The theme is "Music Through the Decades," and each class has a song to represent a particular genre and decade.  Early American folk, 30s swing, 60s R&B, 70s pop, 80s hard rock, you name it.  The kids have worked so hard, and after hearing them on stage I am extremely excited for the performances next week.  Admittedly, though, I'm not sure if I'm primarily excited for the concerts or for them to be done.  Either way, I'm looking forward to it.

Big news number 4: Applied for grad school.  Will hopefully get in.  Will keep you updated.

Tonight after Shabbat I had every intention of finally tackling some of the house chores that I have been putting off for the last two weeks, but somehow I'm sitting at the computer instead.  For the first time in two months I'm feeling like things are actually under control, and I am so chilled that even the piles of laundry on the floor aren't bothering me.  It'll all get done. The worst of it is over. And pretty soon, I'll be able to relax in a brand new place to call home.

The It Crowd

This past weekend was the holiday of Purim, a Jewish festival celebrating the victory of the Jews over the evil vizier Haman in ancient Persia under the rule of King Ahashverosh (who is most likely King Xerxes I). It is a joyous holiday during which we read from the Book of Esther (known as the megillah), eat hamantaschen (triangle-shaped pastries filled with jam, poppy seed, chocolate, or other goodies), dress up in costumes, and imbibe.

It is one of the most rambunctiously joyous holidays in the Jewish calendar, yet I've never been a huge fan of it.  Since I became old enough to decide on my own costumes instead of my parents putting me in whatever mask they wanted, I realized that I was very bad at making costumes and so I haven't dressed up much in the last few years.  I don't like drinking, nor do I enjoy being around people who drink copiously, and big parties usually aren't my thing.  So I've come to ignore Purim, more or less, and prefer to focus instead on the holidays I'm good at.

But this year, as with most things in my life since moving to New York, things were different.

This year I attended a giant party at a huge Reform synagogue which was co-sponsored by at least three congregations and a couple Brooklyn Jewish social organizations.  There were multiple readings of the Book of Esther to accommodate the different communities represented, then we all coalesced afterward in the social hall across the street for a giant costume and dance party. 

With a guest list of nearly 300, this is not typically the kind of event I would attend, especially without a group of friends to go with.  But in the last few months I've been getting to know some new people and have even made a few friends with whom I've hung out outside of Jewish events.  A few of them said they would be there, so I went hoping that I'd at least be able to mingle momentarily with a few people here or there.  I didn't expect to stay too long or involve myself much in the party, but at least I would have the experience and be able to say I was there.

I decided to get together with a new friend beforehand and walk with her to the event.  She is even newer to Brooklyn than me, so for once I was the one familiar with the area and the people.  It felt pretty cool to know what I was doing, where I was going.  When we got there I started looking for the people I knew from the shul I've been attending regularly the last couple months, and I wasn't disappointed.

After the megillah reading, we slowly made our way over to the social hall where the party was getting started.  It didn't take long to get separated from my friend and lost in the crowd (and it didn't help that I was probably the shortest person in the room), but eventually I found another friend who I knew would be there.  She introduced me to her friends and while talking to them someone else bumped into me.

"I'm sorry!  Oh, hey!  Great seeing you here!  I'm going over there, but we'll talk later!"

I recognized the girl, but could not for the life of me think of her name right away.  Where had I met her?  How did I know her?  It took me nearly 15 minutes to remember that I had only met her a week prior at another event for Jewish Brooklynites, and I think I remembered her name.  But what's really cool to me, what I consider to be a major milestone in my social exploration of Brooklyn, is that not only am I just randomly bumping into people I know, but others are recognizing me, too.

Nearly eight months ago I moved here knowing nobody.  I had no social circle, no friends in the area, no network to speak of beyond Tomm.  The fact that I not only attended but thoroughly enjoyed a huge dance party last weekend is an enormous step for me.  I can confidently say I'm making friends and finding my niche in this big city.  Now that's an accomplishment.

At a Loss

I was never a fan of failure.

Throughout my education, I always strove for straight As and high marks; I sought praise like the teacher's pet I was, and I was rarely satisfied with anything less than the best.  Not my best, the best.  Sure, I could admit that certain subjects weren't my strongest - chemistry and P.E., for instance - but that was no excuse for doing poorly.

In hindsight, it was a pretty easy thing to excel in school.  Do the homework, write the papers, listen in class, get a good grade.  So long as my teachers were following a rubric as they graded my work, I was fairly confident.

And cocky.  Way too cocky for my own good.

Now it's biting me in the butt.

As a music teacher, I no longer have the privilege of having supportive teachers grade me with rubric in hand.  There are no percentages and letter grades, notes home or report cards.  But I still feel like I am graded, only this time my students are the ones with the metaphorical red pen.

Sometimes, I think my students are giving me an F.

I teach in two locations for two different programs.  The first is during the day at a public school in an affluent neighborhood where I am the primary music teacher.  I teach in the students' classrooms, usually with the teacher there to assist me if necessary.  The classroom teacher can also help quell misbehavior, leaving me to focus more on what I am teaching.  It's a pretty cushy job.

The other one is after school three days a week at a significantly less affluent school on the Lower East Side.  Past SoHo, past the cute diners, past the wine bars and American Apparel store.  If you go past all those you will eventually find yourself in an area where everyone struggles just a little more: families, children, and teachers alike.

In one particular Kindergarten classroom that I enter once a week to do music activities, the students have been getting progressively more antsy for the last few months.  Back in November they were a fairly mild-mannered bunch, at least insomuch as they could find their way to stay in one designated area of the classroom and participate in music.  They required a lot of guidance, reminders, and structure, but for a few weeks in late Fall they were functioning fairly well when I was in the classroom.

As the weather got colder and recess was more frequently moved indoors, individual students started posing more and more challenges to the overall harmony that had been fleetingly achieved. Like dandelions on a freshly mowed lawn, instances of misbehavior popped up everywhere and spread quickly.

Today I went in armed with a plan. I knew which activities I wanted to share with the students, including one that would review and reinforce the rules of our music time which have long been ignored. I intended to keep the energy high and everything moving along so the students would be swept up in the excitement in a way that would hopefully minimize disruptions. I was ready.

Of course, that was before I actually entered the classroom. And although things started off well, it didn't tale long for this girl to start poking that girl, that boy to crawl to the middle of the circle and spin on his knees, that boy starts crying because he wasn't one of the three children to offer an idea for the Hello
Song, and...well, you get the picture.

I tried to bring the focus back, and at some point I succeeded. For the next five minutes we had a rousing song session to review the music room rules, and they were doing great. But the moment that song was done they were back to their antics and I was wearing out. I tried transitioning to my next activity but it apparently wasn't nearly as interesting as I expected it to be and with ten minutes left I gave up.

Yup. I gave up.

The students were ordered to go back to their seats.  The other educational leaders in the room lectured them while I, the dejected music teacher, stood by and listened as if they were in fact lecturing me. "Come on!" my ear heard. "You're the teacher! You're the one with the actual certification and you've lost control, given up. You've failed your students."

There is truth to the idea that we are our own worst critic, but I can't help but feel that I really am failing at this particular venture. What am I doing wrong? Or maybe it's not my fault. Maybe it's just poor parenting and poor classroom management during the day and not enough play time outdoors and it's too late and they're tired and none of this can be helped. I know there are other teachers who, when faced with this kind of adversity, blame the system and claim they can't do anything about it, but I can't let myself believe that's true. So I blame myself.

After that class I felt empty of any conviction that I'm a good teacher, which is interesting considering how bolstered I feel when teaching music at the school across town. It's hard for me to objectively assess what the problems are and how they can be addressed, worked with, and solved. Part of that is because I'm still a novice, but the other is because of the clouds drifting slowly and ominously through my consciousness, obscuring my judgment. Sometimes, I am my own worst enemy.

Failure in and of itself might not be so bad if I were the only one affected by it, but when a classroom of students loses out on music because of my inability to keep their attention, I have failed 20 others. I can only hope they will forgive me and try again with me next week.

Living in the Kingdom

I just read two articles that labeled Brooklyn as the second most expensive U.S. city to live in, with Manhattan as the unsurprising first. Wow. And here I am, a part time music teacher from Wisconsin. Definitely one of those "What am I doing here?" moments.

The articles painted an unsettling picture of an increasingly divided borough with alarming statistics of income, cost of living, and levels of education. A third article gave a number of bizarre statistics (who really cares if a few jars of horseradish cost $74?) which were all designed to prove a point: the cost of living is skyrocketing in Brooklyn and the lower and middle classes aren't even on the shuttle.

For the last few months Tomm and I have been throwing around the idea of leaving our neighborhood and finding an area more closely resembling our...shall we say...demographic. Also something within 3 miles of a shul I cam stomach. But every time I ask Brooklynites about the preferable neighborhoods like Park Slope, Prospect Park, Cobble Hill, and even Crown Heights, they all tell me the same thing: it's expensive and often prohibitively so. I suppose there's a reason they're preferable, though such news makes Boro Park look better and better.

So after being told time and again about how expensive it is to live here, I wasn't entirely surprised by those articles. Still, what was surprising was the disparity which is growing throughout the borough. I suppose, though, that in a world where the 85 wealthiest people have more combined wealth than half of the global population, I should not be shocked that the second most expensive city is also home to massive poverty and exceptionally low reading levels. That seems to be how the world works these days. In fact, I commented to the person who posted the aforementioned articles on Facebook that it's as if Brooklyn is a microcosm of the current global economic trends.

It's scary to know I'm living somewhere where, if I were on my own, I could never survive. It also makes me wonder why someone would ever go to New York to "try and make it big" like all those jazzy musicals about flappers would have you believe. I find it hard to justify spending so much money on rent alone, not to mention food, clothes, and other necessities.  This is probably just me being a Midwesterner, but aren't there more important things in life than spending thousands of dollars a month on a one-bedroom apartment, even if it is only a block away from the coolest bars and a giant park?

Thanks, but I think I'll just take the train.

Open Mic Night at the Tea Lounge

From the outside, it resembles any of the other establishments in Park Slope with its unspoken air of haughty snobbery. It's surrounded on all sides by yoga, sushi, and a food co-op. It's easy to pass by unless you know what you're looking for, with the exception of one innocuous piece of furniture by the entrance: the backseat of an old van where a bearded man sits smoking a cigarette. The sound of indie beats creeps under the crooked door which gives way to a nonconformist's wet dream. Subdued lighting obscures the individuals while highlighting the MacBooks, their emblazoned apples dotting the room like fireflies.

Tonight we are infiltrating a world to which we don't belong. Let's hope we go unnoticed so we can sip our Darjeeling and hot cocoa in peace.

It is a tea house/bar/cafe/artist's haven. On this particular night they are having an open mic and everyone has turned up to hear the singers and comedians perform. Scarves, knitted hats, and unnatural hair color fill the room like nametags at a hipster's convention. The attendees are mostly people in their 20s and 30s, plus a couple token old men who wish they were. Long-haired hippies and modern philosophers, feminists and people with a cause, vegans and vegetarians and the gluten free by choice, and a few straight-laced polo-wearing guys who are here to get their piece of the grungy homemade experience they can't get in pristine Park Slope. And us.

Each wall is a different color, as if every time they had to repaint they only had enough for one can of whatever color was on clearance. The floor is uneven and unfinished, and the furniture makes it look like the sofa section of St. Vincent de Paul's. Somehow, underground Bedouin chic works for this place and the people lounging on every available cushion.

First up: classical Spanish guitar meets Snoop Dogg. It's a Latino with a sweet voice and a classical guitar singing Nelly mashups.

Between acts: "What's your favorite sport?" asks the MC. "Meditation" yells the girl next to me.

Next act: a small, uncertain Asian man standing at the mic with an iPod and an iPad. He sings a song about the subway that makes you wonder if you should laugh at the candor or listen in silent admiration at his belting bluesy voice with the telltale accent of a reformed Midwestern. Sure enough, he's from Ohio.

Third: middle aged man with a turtle neck and Dockers, singing about online dating.

Fourth: a guy approaches the mic with a mbira. Singing and playing thumb piano. Pretty cool, actually. Impressive. Next song he gets a little more traditional with a folk guitar.

In between each set the MC works his comedy on the apathetic crowd. I begin to wonder if laughter is too mainstream. At some point he starts speaking solely to the few people sitting immediately stageside.

Next up: keys and drums duo where the sound feels a little too big for the space and I can't be sure the two are entirely in sync. But they're having fun and it reminds me of the jam sessions I used to have with an amateur band in Israel. Not meant for anyone's pleasure but their own, and in a space like this that's ok.

Sixth: a vocal duo comprised of a black guy wearing a ridiculous ill-fitting winter hat, a busty white girl with thick-rimmed glasses, and one beautiful blend of voices serenading the diminishing crowd.

Seventh: the hip hop freestyler wearing a button up shirt and tie with a black scarf draped around his neck.

Number eight: Jamaican hip hop artist trying to infuse a little more excitement in the room than we have, but we go along with it.

Nine: a bald man who reminds me of James Taylor with folksy lyrics, an easy voice, and six steel strings. A far cry from the performer who proceeded him but a change of pace that feels normal in this hodgepodge home of rebels and dreamers.

Last: like the last performer, but 20 years younger with a sound 20 years newer.

The one thing each performer has in common is the complete and total honesty with which they approach the stage, ready and willing to share their passion with a roomful of critical strangers. This open mic is bringing out some impressive talent - timid people with big voices and big dreams, probably confined in their own lives until they get to the microphone and set their voices free.

As for the audience, I know I'm being harsh on this crowd of strangers, but it really is fascinating to observe this particular side of Brooklyn in a large group. The fact of the matter is, though, Tomm and I are probably not as far removed from them as we'd like to make ourselves believe.