my fight with Oprah

I am SO MAD at Oprah.

As an American ex-pat living in Israel I have my O magazine brought over as often as possible from family and friends. Everyone knows hope much I love Oprah, I haven’t missed an episode since TiVo came to town and I cherish my O magazine. I read it cover-to-cover, sometimes twice. Then I pass it around to all of my friends, to share the love.

But  I read a disturbing “article” in O magazine’s July 2010 issue that shocked me to my Oprah-loving core. On pg 111, the 8th “declaration” of ‘rules’ we should feel free to break this summer while reading our summer reading books, they declared that readers should feel free to “Ignore memoirs by people who have barely cracked their 30′s.”

EXCUSE ME?!

Oprah, you are either trippin’ or your staff is slippin’ because what the hell, girl? I support you in all you do. I listen to all of your advice. I memorize all of the rules. I know that a girl with a big butt needs to carry a big purse. My book shelves are arranged by color and that my house has to rise up to meet me. I know all the inside thoughts of murderers and people with disfigured faces. I’m not saying that I’m writing a memoir style book about the true struggles of life in your twenties for a woman, but what I know for SURE is that I never expected such an outright demeaning statement declaring young women’s writing irrelevant to come from O magazine of all places!

But I did not know that my adopted mother, Oprah, supports ageism that crushes the creativity of young women. And let me be clear: I was crushed by this statement. Oprah, who tries to find the human being in every murderer,  abuser, convict, celebrity, soccer mom and saint that she ever interviews would approve of a comment that as a rule declares all women writers who speak their truth before 30?! Angela Davis was 30 when her autobiography came out. Should we have ignored that one, too?

So I am officially mad at Oprah. I’m mad at O magazine. And don’t give me some psycho babble about me expressing displaced anger about her canceling her show. Because I was sad about that one. When Oprah made that announcement I cried with her. Not the ugly cry, of course, just the one where your voice cracks a little and a tear run down your face. But this comment is so hurtful and such a slap in the face to your young readers, momma Oprah. Wouldn’t it be awful if one of your South African girl-students thought that their writing could be ignored, that their lives were not as meaningful in their twenties, that their creativity was worth nothing to older, wiser women?

For young women of diverse backgrounds struggling with adversity, our twenties are challenging, confusing, uphill battles against sexism, racism, societal norms and ourselves. A little support and encouragement from our more experienced sisters could only help- and a dig from a major magazine that is supposed to foster best life-living, can knock us down a peg or two, and I assure you we don’t need any help in that particular department.

Signed, sad, disappointed and most likely to be wearing shlumpadinka sweatpants while writing this,

Your (ex) Biggest Fan in Israel

Chi-Town Express

As you probably know if you frequent my blog, I am on a personal journey. Like the other brave women who came before me- Alice and Dorothy to name a few- I, too, am meeting and reuniting with some wonderful people and places on my quest to find my self. On one leg of my most recent journey. I found myself in a far away land, with the most friendly people, laughing, drinking, high-fiving…

I went to visit a close friend from college  in Chicago over St. Patrick’s Day weekend, and my short time in the windy city definitely blew me away. Regrettably, it has been more than a year since I have seen this friend, lets call her “Dr. E”.  The last time I saw Dr. E she was living at her parents house, working a job she didn’t love, and not quite where she wanted to be in life. Since then, Dr. E has gotten her shit together. She’s got a job she loves at an organization she believes in. She has an office with a view and friends around the corner. She got herself a condo with a door man and a makolet (bodega) downstairs and sister is working her late twenties like a rock star,  hosting dinner parties with family and friends and wine and delicious food. Dr. E has always been my hero, but now she has reached a whole new level with me. Watch out, Oprah- Dr. E is one of MY favorite things!

I’m happy for Dr. E, and for my other friends here who seem like they are really getting their shit together- professionally, personally. I’m happy for them. And I’m having indigestion from all of this jealousy. It’s ugly perhaps but I am jealous of their lives, their homes, their success. How do I do what Dr. E did? That’s where I’m at now. I’m traveling around American and looking at friends, family, heros and mentors to see how they made their goals realities and became the life they wanted to have.

So that begs the question: What do I want? A mentor told me recently that I need to decide what I want to do and put it in the bulls-eye of a target. Then all of the concentric circles around the bulls-eye become the ways in which I get there. After a lot of thought, considering other fields and switching to “for-profit” or some other form of stable work, I read a lot and thought a lot an searched a lot. But for better or worse, I want to change the world. I want this world to be a better place for women when I leave than it was when I came in. That is just who I am and it is what I must do, even if it makes me crazy, poor and unstable.

OK, so how do I get there?

I started a list, obviously. Because I wouldn’t be my moms daughter if I didn’t make a list at such a junction in my life. The list was all about things that make me happy, personally and professionally. The list includes but is not limited to:

• Only 1 cell phone
• Only 1 job
• Work with a team
• A 2 bedroom bottom floor apartment with a yard
• More skills, more knowledge, a set of best practices for improving my work
• My Boo
• Being an agent for changing women’s lives

who i want to be

So these are just some of the highlights… no pressure, right? Some of these things are simple, but some less so. One cell phone- easy. One job, simultaneous to a 2 bedroom place? Many of my friends are holding down 2-3 jobs in order to support their lifestyle. Some leave the big cities to afford a bigger place to live. Some work in jobs they can’t stand for salaries that make it worth it. Some work in the world of the underpaid and unappreciated for the feeling of sleeping well at night because they are promoting a cause they can believe in. We all make compromises, so what will mine be?

There is one thing I think I’m doing right so far- keeping love all around me. Whether it’s from my boo, my friends, my family, in Israel or in America, I do a damn good job of staying close- emotionally if not physically- to the people I love. For me, that takes a lot of painstaking compromises, since the people I love live on two very different continents. But I do what I can, when I can, and I try not skimp on the love. I’m changing a lot in my life, but I’m keeping that one.

So the cliffhanger for now is: How will I reach my goals and create a life that breeds happiness and calm, but I am also considering the following working titles for this tale: How Not to Rot Alone in your Parents Basement and Funemployment: One Woman’s Happy Story of being a Successful Unemployee.

me, outside of where Oprah films her show in Chicago

I think it’s going to be all about the Chicago way of life: free, flowing waters (green and polluted though they might be) going where life brings them, beer, traveling as much as possible- by bus, train or by foot- just keep going, keeping up the positive mental attitude with high-fives all around, and of course, living your best life with Oprah.

Strategy: Girls Scare Boys

Tired of being a strong, independent woman inside your apartment and then a shaky, scaredy-cat girl walking home at night?

Even in safe-city Jerusalem and especially in creepy New Brunswick, NJ I haven’t always felt self-assured on the streets at night. I’ve marched in some amazing Take Back the Nights- and it is so important to experience the unifying feeling of a women’s march against violence and rape. But we can’t always be lucky enough to be surrounded by hundreds of dykes while walking home from work (we should only be so lucky!). So I have taken two steps towards feeling stronger and more confident on the streets at night:

Step 1: IMPACT. Learn self-defense and IMPACT is the only way. It is a real life, real experience kick-ass course that builds confidence and teaches the moves while convincing you that you can do it. And believe me, I could if I had to. So find an IMPACT course near you and take it up ASAP (for Jerusalem and Tel Aviv go here).

Step 2: Act like a crazy lady on the street. It’s my new thing. I’m working out a way of scaring the scaries and freaking out the freaks.

Now, I know you might be embarrassed to do this but it works.

Case and Point: Last year, I was walking my dog at night in the field behind my house. The field is dark but my dog, Jersey, likes to poop there, so what can I do?I gotta go there. So, a young man comes up to play with Jersey and takes a step near me in the dark, invading my personal space and asking me if I live in this building. I can’t see the man’s face and I am feeling vulnerable to this potential threat. So I start yelling at him, like a crazy person. Using my IMPACT skills of telling the person violating my space that I want them to stop and walk away… but a bit loonier that they taught is in class. It’s my personal spin on the defense tactic.

He walks away.

A week or so later, two men walk by and the same thing happens- they play with my dog and then come up to me, asking where I live and why am I out here alone at night. I feel threatened, scared, so I started to yell at the guys. As they skulk quickly away in the shadows, I hear one console the other, “Don’t worry man, she did the same thing to me last week.”

Moral of the story: the roles are reversed now. I am the creepy neighborhood stalker now. I am the one who is freaking out the boys on the streets, late at night, skulking in the shadows. I love it.

Understand the tactic here: I am yelling normal, sane commands like “don’t step any closer to me” and “stop!”, “back up!”, but my eyes and my voice are conveying a slight crazy that implies a danger that women can’t always convey to men. Because, untrained, we are physically vulnerable, acting like a nut job gives us the necessary intimidating factor to feel safe.

It may not get you elected neighbor of the year or community prom queen but it helps me feel confident on the streets at night.

So walk that dog in your dark field, girl… just get you some crazy eyes and stay safe!

The Beast- on quitting smoking

Reporting to you today, live, from the belly of the beast, I’m Shira and I just quit smoking. Again.

I’m sorry if this shocks some of you in America- my smoking habit was closeted in the land of “ew, smoking is so taboo, it’s so 1999.”  But in Israel, it was full blown, it was well supported and it was glorious.

I have been smoking for more time than I care to recount and this is probably my 4th or 5th attempt at quitting. Each time, I am so sure I’ve really kicked the habit. For months I brag, and preach about my sobriety like those little quirky D-list celebs on Celebrity Rehab after they complete a 7 day drama marathon detox with Dr. Drew (if you missed that metaphor, you don’t watch enough reality TV- get on that). And then I realize that I quit smoking so well and so forever that I’m strong enough to just have one drag. Well, that one drag turns into only one cigarette, only one a day, I don’t buy I just bum and then just one pack, and then, well, months of pure JOY.

That’s right, smoking is joy. It’s fun, it’s cool, it’s awesome, it’s social, it’s relaxing, it’s distracting. Sure, it also smells awful, makes you sick from coughing to cancer, it’s expensive and gross, but we all have flaws.

So today, as I write my blog, my body withdraws regretfully from Nicotine and all the other wonderful chemicals that I have been dumping in my body for the last 3 months (since my last quitting endeavor- I was ‘sober’ for nearly 10 months that time). My blood and lungs miss the torture- the abusive relationship my body shares with cigarettes is a love-hate, push-pull kind of marriage. The cigarettes are bad to me- they treat me bad but I love them. I can’t imagine where else that would parallel in my past life…

So now I will take my angry, frustrated, anxious, furious, annoyed withdrawal symptoms and take them out on everyone I see today. And most probably tomorrow. So, for all you goody-goodies always trying to get my to stop smoking: Fuck you! You try it. It’s hard and it’s horrible. I’m probably going to lose all of my friends today- and maybe even one of my jobs- because you thought that I should definitely quit smoking:

“You have to!”, you said.

“Set a date”, you pleaded.

“Stop killing yourself slowly with those cancer sticks”, you teased me annoyingly to no end.

Well, now where the hell are you?! Are you willing to spend the next few days with me? Right, I didn’t think so.

“You’re on your own with this one, dumbass”, I tell myself.

“Well, then, fuck it, I’m going to buy cigarettes!”, I reply to myself.

But I don’t. Because I know I have to quit. I sing in a band, for God’s sakes.  But it’s hard.  I can’t live with it and I can’t live without it.

Maybe the fear of relapsing, as I have already so many times, is what keeps me from being optimistic and seeing past these next few days to a time when I will have clearer skin, clearer lungs, more sensitive tastebuds and whiter teeth. But I don’t see those times ahead. Because right now I am scared of failing and right now I am sad.

I’m mourning. Because cigarettes are like a best friend. They are always there, they always listen, they never answer but you know they feel you. I’m losing that friend today. Nothing fills that void. No amount of gum or licorice or chocolate can fill the place that cigarettes held. But I’ll be damned if I won’t try.

Now I’m gonna eat until the pain of quitting goes away. As Oprah would say, I’m going to eat my feelings. Bring on the lbs, my knees can take it. So instead of dying of lung cancer, I’ll die of one of the many side effects of obesity. At least obesity is socially acceptable in America now. Unlike smoking, which is gross.

I AMsterdam

I’ve been living in Israel for 5 years, as of September ’09. I love my life here, but it might be time for a change. I’m thinking about making aliyah to Amsterdam.

It’s not just this brilliant branding:

Has there ever been a more beautiful city? I love Jerusalem but there is just something so relaxing about having an ever-abounding, flowing source of water everywhere. No war here, there’s enough water and weed to go around, my friends!

If you haven’t been to Amsterdam, it should be on your short list of future destinations. If you have been here, then you know what I mean. The food is amazing! Mexican, Italian, Indonesian, Asian, Indian. Oh and Belgian, the waffles, the chocolate! The population and culture in this city are so diverse, there are so many colors, languages and people here, just working, living, drinking coffee, touring, eating.

And the fashion! The bags and the shoes and the high end stores! At the risk of sounding petty and materialistic, I saw great fashions this week, I can die now and meet my Longchamps dream bag in heaven. Seriously, in Amsterdam there is an entire museum dedicated to Bags and Purses. It was awesome. Best museum ever in the world. I am a serious fashionista in my mind… but I admit that I was the kibbutznik asshole traipsing around Europe in Crocs last week. It was awful, but my ass was so comfortable, I just had to.

The only thing I don’t understand is the mixed messages I’m getting: on one hand, you would like me to eat the ice cream, the frites (french fried served in a cone), the waffles and pancakes, but on the other hand, as a country, you produce more tall, skinny, blond, gorgeous amazon women per-capita than any other country. If you are going to cause me to gain 20 lbs in a week, then at least spare me the super-model local hot moms and hot dads who just ride their bikes with their babies, with no helmets, and look good doing it. So Amsterdam, please make up your mind- I can eat frites or I can ride a bike in a mini skirt with my sexy legs pumping away- but I can’t do both!

I just had an amazing week in Amsterdam and I feel so lucky to have had it. I am recharged for what may come upon my return. This year, short of a few awesome visits, weekends and dinners, I have worked hard and been on a rockier journey than I’d have preferred. I love the pace of Amsterdam- relaxed, come as you are, stay as long as you’d like, and hey, drink a beer while you’re here.

I have traveling on the brain these days, dreaming up my next big trip, which I’ll take when all is said and done. When the judge makes his final decision and this chapter of my life comes to close, I will turn the cell off, leave my new baby MacBook, which I cannot afford, at home and go somewhere far, far away. Until then, we’ll always have AMsterdam!

The Whore Vaccine

When I first heard about the Human Papilloma Virus (HPV) vaccine I was married. My friends started getting it, and continued getting laid. But I, thinking I had met my match and would no longer be having multiple partners, did not need it.

One year ago today, I expanded my option for multiple partners. Meaning, I chose to disband my option to be with that one person forever and ever. Ah, monogamy, you boring piece of shit. Whoever thought it was a good idea to have one partner for the rest of his life was clearly in his first year of marriage. I said goodbye to trying to spice up my sex life and hello to Whoreville, population: me, my girlfriends and a bunch of guys we barely know!

And so I looked into the HPV vaccine, on the off chance I’d have a great sex life some day. HPV is a sexually transmitted disease that, from my understanding, usually presents with no symptoms. It can lead to cancer of the cervix, vagina, vulva and butt. Fucking butt cancer, OK?

I don’t know about in the US but in Israel I paid an exorbitant amount of money for the 3 shots which are administered  over a period of 6+ months. The price is a deterrent, and I don’t think it’s  carried by most insurances but I thought it a wise decision. The one offered in Israel is only until the ripe old whorey age of 27 but I know there are vaccines in he works for women up to 40 years young. So look into it. I’m glad I did. I feel better knowing I’m covered especially because carriers don’t know they have it and it makes you vulnerable to other STDS. Anyway, I just wanted to drop this bit of knowledge on you, ladies. Look into it yourself, pros and cons, and decide for yourself.

I’m all for sex, but I’m for safe sex and long healthy lives full of it.

ascending to where?

My aliyah- my move to Israel- will meet its 5 year mark in September 2009. Hard to believe I’ve been in the holy land, in the holy city, for this long already. It was everything I dreamed of. It was more than I ever dreamed. Sometimes, it was a nightmare.

My life in Israel is vibrant, warm, exciting, fulfilling, hard, lonely, challenging, comfortable, comforting and mine. I have been through a lot. I have built my own family, I have lost love and found love. I got a dog. I have yet to lose my dog and have kept him alive, despite the doubts of some concerned family members (you know who you are- 5 years and the dog is still alive!!!).

The beginning was as hard as they warned. I rose to the challenge. I found work, home, communities, friends, family. I waded through bureaucracy, mean Israeli secretaries whose main goal in life is to prevent you from doing what you need to do, and awful customer service- and I came out on top.

I dated, I married, I left. This week I unwillingly joined the ranks of women in Israel who are being refused a get.

I marched, I organized, I protested, I celebrated, I danced with drag queens.

I sing in a band, I meet new people. I make new connections. I speak fluent Hebrew. I plan to learn Arabic. I make future plans. I want to travel to Thailand.

I love my country. I am proud of my decision, my hard work, and my life I have created. I have learned more in the last year than I even thought possible and I am so strong. I don’t regret a minute of it.

But lately, I feel unsettled. In 5 years I haven’t gotten used to the agressive culture, the constant potential conflict. I feel exausted all the time from the push and shove. Of all the things I learned about independence and the vast multitude of my strength, I also realized the absolute necessity of the proximity family.

When I moved to Israel, I was a young, innocent, self-conscious, naive and bright eyed 22 year old girl. I was at a crossroads. I came to Israel. Now I find myself a young, strong, conscious, experienced 27 year old girl.

I am at a crossroads.

Lewd Acts

I am breaking the silence about a violation that I have experienced more than a handful of times. These lewd acts are random personal-space invaders coming at you on the street: public masturbation.

Public Masturbation, definition: a man, always a man, standing or sitting in a public place, masturbating while looking at live subjects.

Now, I know this subject is uncomfortable but this is obviously a problem in which very rarely- but prominently enough for me to see them- men can only (or preferably) get their jollies in public while watching passersby. Here are a few examples of various expressions of this  crimes that I have eye-witnessed, to my great regret:

• Man whacking off in car as I passed by with girlfriends near our off-campus apartments in New Brunswick, NJ. We scream. He drives away.
• Again in hub city, NJ, on the same street as before, while walking with a group of girls, we notice that the young man walking behind us is having more fun that we are– and he’s alone, with his pants open getting down with his bad self. Again we scream, we run into our apartment and lock the door.
• At a bus stop in Jerusalem’s city center (oh no! not the holy city! oh yes…) while some random girls  and I sit and wait, a man stands right in the middle of Jaffa street facing the bus stop, whips out his wang and ‘goes to town’ (pardon the pun, i couldn’t resist). The girls scatter- myself included. I decide it is a good day to splurge on a taxi.
• And lately, twice to be exact, a construction worker working outside a building across the street from my apartment building  stares at me while I pass and pleasures himself. He does not stop looking at me and touching himself. I drive away.

This act infuriates me. It scares me. It disgusts me. It disarms me. It objectifies me. It silenced me… Until now.

I want to be clear that this violation- being stared at and used in a live-fantasy unwillingly- is not personal or related directly to me, nor is it happening just to me. The act is directed at me because I am female and because I am in public. It happens to us because we are born and because we leave the house without a man by our side.

This last and latest violations hit me hard because it happened outside of my house and in my neighborhood, where kids walk around alone, because it is usually very safe. For that reason, I called the police.

The police are supposed to protect and serve but ever since NWA came out with “Fuck tha Police”, we’ve known better. So I was wary. When I called (imagine me saying “I’d like to report a man masturbating in public please” in Hebrew. oh no, not the holy language! oh yes…) a nice woman police officer (read, former frecha) took the report and my name and number in case they couldn’t find the house. She said they were sending a car. I don’t know if they ever did.

Before that day, I had never done anything in response to these invasive incidents because this is not an act you can easily fight. I didn’t respond because I feared that anything I do or say at that moment to stop it will actually encourage it. It doesn’t seem to warrant a violent reaction, and it’s so gross, who would want to get close enough to throw a punch?! Running away, escape, is the only option left to you and at that moment, all you want is to get the fuck away.

So calling the police isn’t the ass beating that this perverted fool deserves but it’s better than nothing. It did not make me feel safe. In fact, after calling be police I felt vulnerable, particularly because this was happening across the street, and I felt like I could easily be named as the caller, being the victim. I was scared to leave my house that evening.

I hope the police car came to the street. I hope, in the very least, based on my description, they got the guy kicked off of this particular job site, so that he won’t be around anymore.

I also hope, if nothing more comes of it, that I’ve opened up a discourse on a violation so foul and so humiliating that we never speak its name. The silence is part of what allows this and similar acts to go unpunished- objectifying us and violating our feeling of safety in public. If we start to talk about it, breaking the silence can free us from feelings of guilt, maybe someday inspire a solution and remind us that we are not alone.

O, O, O… Oprah!

So, I talk about Oprah like she’s my friend.

The way I mention her casually in conversations, you’d think she was a member of my family. I talk about the lessons I learn from her show as if she mentioned them to me over coffee. I love Oprah. I love her best friend Gayle. OK, I want to be her best friend Gayle.

I respect Oprah’s courage to produce and host shows on the most brazen of topics; from exposing puppy mills to trying to help people understand pregnant transgender dads to getting graphic with her audience about on-line pedophile fathers and their step-by-step instructions on how to sexually exploit your child. There is no subject too risky for her. O magazine is fun and inspirational. It gives design ideas (I reorganized my bookcase, according to color and it changed the look of the entire room! so cute. try it.) and share celebrity ‘Ah ha’ moments. Hell, she posed on the mag cover at her heaviest weight next to a picture of her skinniest days, for the sake of international health and world peace, for God’s sake!

She leads her life to help others learn, succeed and grow. Her charity is probably near unmatched by others’ and her influence and access are unparalleled by any woman, certainly black woman, in the world.

When she makes mistakes, she clarifies, admits, apologizes. When she is wronged, she demands to be respected and that things be set right. She never got married and she doesn’t feel the need to qualify that to a scrutinizing media. She respects moms but she didn’t feel the need to go down that path- she loves her dogs and her career above all else. She has amazing shoes. Amazing shoes.

The woman coined the phrase SHLUMPADINKA. What did women who wear sweats and unkempt hair with no bra out to the supermarket call themselves before there was ‘shlumpadinka?’ And what did shlumpadinkas do before they had Oprah to show them how to turn their look into comfy-chic?

Through Oprah and her work, we see ourselves, our friends and our mothers through the eyes of women who are not afraid to come out and admit to having been abused, or to talk about their sexuality, their needs, their challenges, their dreams. Literacy has become cool again. Celebrities tell all. Oprah and Gayle go on wile adventures and we get to see the highlights. Entire audiences get brand new cars.

roooooad triiiiip

Oprah is on top of the world and she worked hard to get there- against all odds, with a lot of uphill battles, and with her head held high.

God Bless Oprah.

Can I get an Amen?!

Clips of Oprah on 30 Rock

Quickie #5: memories of a diaspora Jewess

When I saw this video, (thanks to my hip Mom and her hip friends for sending it my way!) I just had to share it. It reminded me so much of growing up as a young Jewish woman in a secular world. I think this speaks to so many of us who know what it feels like to be totally American, totally Jewish and totally unapologetic.

Memories of my life altering trip to Poland when I was 16 and my identity as the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors are things I carry with me all the time. I take the responsibility of bearing second generation witness to these atrocities very seriously. My Jewish Polish family history includes victims, refugees, persecuted people and that deep knowledge courses through my veins as a social change professional and as a human being. But my Jewish American family history and present also includes matriarchs, determined, hard working, persevering, empowered women, feminist, strong men and women with strong voices. I think identifying as Jewish has made me the compassionate, diversity-loving, gringo activist I am.

I think this awesome poetress, Vanessa Hidary, might agree and I hope you do, too.

Besides, I love Def Poetry Jam and Mos Def is a serious dreamboat.

Enjoy!