Mentor Me

Life just led me to an unexpected and exciting new opportunity- or should I say a combination of hard work, universe weirdness and mentors led me there.

So even though a lot of my writing goes off on nasty politics, rude Israelis and aggressive men, I dedicate this blog post to the wonderful women in my life.

Every once in a while a woman comes in your life and sees something in you. Maybe its a little bit of herself, maybe its someone else she once knew, or maybe its a potential you- or the great future the world holds for you. I have had  times in my life when I could not see the future as bright, because I was stuck in a dark place- in school, in my career and in my personal life- and it has been the strong women in my life that have pulled me through.

My mom, the mentor of all mentors, does this to everyone around her but of all her ment-ees, she loves me the most. My mom is the kind of person you call on for anything and everything- because she’s multi-talented and she’s really good at talking things out. If the answer you’re looking for is somewhere in you, which it usually is, she’ll help you find it. In my book, she knows everything. To this day, she proofreads my work and I call her for random questions that pop up at work.  She always shows up, she’ll take you out when you’re down, she’ll help you organize your house because it’ll make you feel better, she’ll take pictures of your happy moments and send them to you in an album, she’ll cook you an amazing meal and share the recipe secrets. She’s the ultimate mentor and bestee- and I wouldn’t be where I am if she hadn’t coached me through years of homework (2nd grade- current).

Many of my other mentors have been friends, professors and colleagues:

The friend who told me I should check out Twitter, and whoever sent me my first invitation to Facebook,  created a monster, a nerd, a blogger and social networker.

My best friends taught me how to put on makeup, tweez my eyebrows. Nobody hires a crazy uni-brow lady.

A professor who barely knew me put applications for a Women’s Studies major and the Institute for Women’s Leadership in my hand and changed the course of my life forever.

Women who believe in me enough to make recommendations, write letters, make phone calls on my behalf  have helped me get jobs where I can make a difference and do work that feels meaningful.

I owe you one… or ten.

A little too willing to volunteer or put in the extra hour,  I have done my part to get me to where I am, seeing opportunity even in non-paying grunt work, and the occasional secretary gig, as long as I am surrounded by people and causes I believe in.

Then there is the universe. Just when you think you’ve made a plan that could work, with all of the pieces in place, God laughs and you find yourself somewhere else completely. Usually my reaction is to cry, call my mom, get mad, call my friends, calm down, get mad, calm down and then start planning again. But without my mom and my mentors, I’d be a manic mess full of plans. Then there are those rare times, the calm times, when you put something out to the universe- somewhere you’d like to be someday or a person you’d like to work with. And before you know it, the opportunity is staring you in the face. It’s not luck, I don’t accept that. It’s openness, believing in yourself, putting the work in, having friends and mentors not afraid to stick their neck out for you.  It is a cosmic combination of good energy and good people- but I have to be the one not afraid to wish for it, hop on for the ride- and work hard all the time.

So though I have been known to rag on the citizens of the world for annoying attributes ranging from apathy to body odor, there are some people on this damn planet that I just couldn’t do without. Just one more testament to importance of sisterhoods, girlfriends (and boyfriends and transfriends) and the great big universe.

My hope for my future is that I get the opportunity to mentor some great women, and that I can give back as much as I get from the great, awesome women that surround me!

on stranger babies in the workplace

It’s summer time, friends, and those who are working moms have one thing on their minds: what the fuck do I do with my kid while I am work and they don’t have school?

What’s that you say? I’m not a working mother so why do I care? Well for one thing I am surrounded by stories of children and the guilt caused by leaving them at home to go to work. Also, I have had a month of smiling and grinning through the screams of said children in and around my workspace, so I too have feelings on this subject.

As a feminist, I am supposed to support a family friendly workplace and mother-friendly work environment. And I do. I think flex-time and working form home should be staples that allow working moms to keep up and not lose time with their babes, in this internet-based day. But when a baby-friendly work environment also means a stinky, noisy, distracting work environment with expectations and nauseations that I did not sign on for, who really wins? Not me. Not the bored-ass kid. Not the annoyed mom.

I get it- your kid is sick and you have work to do- isn’t that what remote desktop is for? I mean you are the lucky dog that gets more sick days than the childless among us, because you get your kids sick days too. I’m bitter about that, believe me. But if you already have that privilege, do us a favor and use it. I don’t want to hear about your kids stomach flu, let alone catch it. Not to mention that I hardly think a baby is getting better and resting in your stuffy office. Changing diapers should be done in a bathroom, preferably not one we share on a daily basis and definitely not your desk!

But even healthy kids, when you bring them into the office they distract everyone and cast expectations among all of us. I cringe when I hear adults coo in public, but when it’s in my office, down the hall, I know exactly what is about to happen. That baby is on its way to me. Proud mommy, carrying baby around the halls of the office to show off, and other working moms flock to them, making coochie coochie noises (sounds like a Vagina Monologues reference to me, but apparently its a baby noise to most women my age) and espousing its baby-beauty. And though I show no interest in this spectacle, the baby will be carried past me and I will have to look. I will have to smile while the baby is thrust into my face and I’ll have to squeeze out an awkward, “what a cutie” or “hi, whats your name little guy”. UGH! KILL ME!

You see for me, babies are like people. I don’t like most people I don’t know- I don’t feel comfortable around them and I don’t talk to strangers. But I am a very warm, comfortable and loving person amongst my friends. Same with kids- I love my friends kids and the kids in my family- because I know them and I want to get to know them. Stranger babies are the worst- and at work, when I’m theoretically busy and with my mind in the game, what in the hell is a little baby doing hollering and squealing its guts out, let alone coming over to say hi to me.

It’s so awkward and so invasive and the end result of the inevitable mother and baby roll-by: I look like the asshole who is awkward around babies. I’d rather just be the asshole who hates babies and escape this ritual altogether, but then no one will eat lunch with me. And I hate eating lunch alone.

So here’s my proposal. I spit a lot of wisdom at my readers every week. I need you all now more than ever. What in the fuck am I supposed to do when someone comes over to me in the office and shoves their stranger baby up in my face. Whats the right thing to say? Whats the right thing to do? I would really appreciate some help on this. Thanks.

Love,

the asshole who hates babies that aren’t yours

Committing Myself

Got commitment issues? Yeah, I’d say so.

I’ve had my run. Got married, big white dress, vows, rabbis, chuppahs. Considered starting a family. Decided to put it off a few years.  Best decision of my life to date. Got divorced. Second best decision.

It’s behind me, right? I’m off the hook because I’ve been there and done that, right?

But oh the reactions I get when I tell people that I do not plan to get married and have kids. The disdain and shock that I could be so “angry”, “bitter” and “selfish” to not want kids; the inability to accept that I wouldn’t want these things for myself or that I could be selfish enough to not want to bring life into the world in the form of a baby, is offensive. “It makes me sad for you.” Friends and family members alike inform me that I will die alone someday, when I could have just made babies to keep me company in my late 80s. How sad for me. Does it make you cry?

Finally, in Sex and the City 2, the world got to see the look of of repulsion that people make when you tell them you don’t want kids- that couple who sat near Big and Carrie at the big gay wedding in the first scene, their response to B and C not wanting kids- that’s a real face. That’s a real look that people make at you when you say you don’t want to have children.

Please, cut me some fucking slack. I have already said my “forever” promises and what transpired made those words forever untrue to me. I can’t promise forever anymore, I can only promise for now and for as long as we’re happy together. I cannot look to someone else to complete me or make me happy- I have to do that on my own. If I find (or hopefully have already found ) one person who wants to join me on the journey of life- travels, doing great work, spending time with family and friends- while he makes himself happy and completes himself, then that sounds like perfection to me. Until it isn’t, and then we walk away- sad and hurt maybe but not in court and I will not stay because I am bound in chains. Marry, again? Not in a million years… not ’til death do me part.

As far as making babies, well I have never wanted that but my divorce definitely drove that point home. My God, look at what we have been through for God’s almighty sake. My ex manipulated me to the very end and I was left with NOTHING. I do not own any of my old worldly possessions from before the storm- gifts, furniture, electronics, appliances- everything I worked for or was given that I could not fit in panic of packing job under threat of violence and emotional distraught, I no longer own. He got it all and he and his momma kept on suing and fighting in court, even though I had NOTHING. At the time, people used to ask me, “What does he want from you?” My answer was always the same, “Haneshama Sheli.” My soul. Can you imagine if I had had a child with that man?! That child would be in psychological ruins now. I would never wish that on anyone- not a stranger or my enemy, let alone a small child that I chose to bring into this world.

I say look at what “we” have been through, because everything my ex put me through hurt my family and friends and everyone around me. I also say “we” because we as women, through the years, have given up enough in the name of marriage and kids. We make sacrifices, we compromise, we give. I don’t want to make my life’s main goals a sacrifice and a compromise, and that is what having a child is about. I respect that, especially as I see my own friends become mothers and since my own mom has given my family more than I could probably imagine. I just don’t want that for myself, not now and not in the conventional way that makes people comfortable. Children might be one woman’s idea of a legacy- and that’s an important legacy for some women- but legacy can be defined many ways, please respect that.

It’s complicated, I know. Someday I might feel called on to pick up a kid up off the street and give him/her a home (a kid who needs help, not just a kid walking down the street, that would be creepy) a la The Blind Side. You never know what life will bring you. But I am a grown ass woman and I know how I want to live my life- more or less. And I do not want to be judged when my answer to this probing, personal question about the future of my ring-finger and uterus isn’t quite what you wanted to hear.

So let me suggest a book that will possibly help clear things up. This book is just out but it has already become for me one of the most life-confirming book I have read. I believe it can speak to all women, but in particular I feel a close connection to the topics in the book. Elizabeth Gilbert has graced us again with a book so touching and so true that I feel as if she has given women of the world a precious gift. In Committed, Liz (may I call you Liz?) takes us on a history and cross-culture journey of marriage, love, relationships and choices. She picks through research that we wouldn’t even know existed to show us the truth of the past, present and future of the institution of marriage and all of its many faces: love, family, money, power, loss and more.

Liz speaks so true to the various life choices women have, the many sacrifices that women have made and still make and the many joys and practical aspects of partnership. She makes us laugh and she talks through the pages, because she knows that after Eat, Pray, Love, we trust her to give it to us straight. If everyone who ever made an appalled face at me for not wanting to marry or have children would read this book, I would have to see a lot less pouty pity faces and I would be spared many future conversations about what I will or will not do when I am old, decrepit and dying with no offspring. Thanks to Liz, I now know for sure what I have always thought: statistically, it has been seen that whether a woman has children or not does not effect her quality of life in old age. Health is the real factor there-  so while I do need to get my fat ass to the gym more often, I do not need to dedicate my life to procreation. No offense, but how much time do you spend with your ageing grandparent/parent? Yeah. I thought so. CHURCH.

Two years ago, I read Eat, Pray, Love on “the bathroom floor”.  A few months ago I read Committed as I thought about my own journey with the search for love and intimacy- happiness, fear and all that comes with it. I  read Committed as I began to write a book, that is my book, which I hope will someday reach women like Liz’s writing reaches me.

Please god, I hope some day soon, instead of asking me if I ever want to get married again and don’t I want to make babies, a woman will turn to me and ask, “When are you going to write a book?”

Now that’s a legacy. I’m working on it, girl, I’m working on it.

The Administrative Arts

I know a lot of young women my age have fall back careers. Some are nannies, some are Hebrew school teachers, some are tutors, babysitters and waitresses. I am a secretary.

I have been lucky to run admin for great organizations with interesting people but still, I am a secretary. I am not a decision maker, nor am I a program initiator, an important cog in the operation. Usually, I am very easily replaceable and nameless. I have always thought that I could rise up the ranks from secretary to other positions, but that has yet to happen.

I should say clearly: I have had bosses turn mentors and close friends who have helped me find future jobs, better jobs. Each of these jobs have brought with them a special opportunity to learn new skills (like math!), network and meet new, great people. But I have fallen back time and time again into the vast field of administrative arts and despite the fact that I work in progressive organizations and the title might even sound nice and middle-managementy, it’s usually not hard to know where I stand as a secretary.

I really like my new job and my new coworkers. I’m proud of the work we do. But I think it is important to dissect and interpret our approach to women’s place in progressive organizations and especially with regards to administration. I am not alone, but there is still a very subversive secretary-obsessed culture in many nonprofits and I openly criticize it, because I believe it is sexist and it must change.

There is a glass ceiling- under which information and responsibilities are controlled just enough to let us work our asses off without having any authority or input. There is an ABSOLUTE gender specification of administration as a female position (maybe outside of Israel it is beginning to me a gay men’s professional too? I don’t know, I got that from Entourage but TV is not usually a reliable information source). There is a status that goes along with a supervisor having a personal assistant, presumably female. In juxtaposition to her, her manager always has power, looks stronger and manlier. Even when that manager is a woman- there is a feminist way to have an admin staff, most supervisors are not employing that way. I have seen managers CHOOSE to do this differently- to manage in a more inclusive style, web-like structure rather than hierarchical, and include secretaries with more depth and contribution. But this is a choice and it is not often chosen. In order to support and develop women within the organization, feminist and developmental management of admin staff should be  organizational requirement, an integral part of the organizational culture, instead of being an individual choice. Unfortunately, the organization often has a vested interest in keeping the secretaries in their roles- untrained, unqualified and not considered for promotions- because otherwise we would lose the knowledge and contacts she has acquired in the important logistic planning of daily organizational life. The importance of professional development of these women is lost on the selfish organization. Thanks to this, there is an unspoken bitterness, resentment and frustration amongst well-educated, capable, administrative assistants who feel like their wings are clipped every time they are asked to arrange but not attend a meeting.

Think of all the wasted time and potential- in the time you took to ask me to collate and staple in just the way you want, you could have done it yourself. In the time it took me to type up a letter, I could have written an original piece of writing that might reach someone. We office managers get no regular raises, but are asked to clean up after our coworkers and their guests. It is often, to the complete “surprise” of most managers, a demeaning, thankless, thoughtless job that the organization could not sustain ONE DAY without, which explains the expressions of disappointment when we ask for days off.

I never imagined being 28 and still an active expert in the administrative arts. I bet your secretary has higher aspirations for herself. I can’t seem to find the right job, maybe it’s the job market or maybe it’s my subconscious that keep landing me at the info desk for some great work that other people are doing. Either way, I dream of doing great things with my life and sometimes when I say that out loud it feels de-legitimized by the surroundings I’m in, like you can hear the statement hitting a glass ceiling as it ascends to God’s ears.

Recently I was involved in a meeting that I have long anticipated to be a part of. A group of secretaries banding together, to compose a list of concerns and demands, and to raise awareness and hopefully change an organizational culture that oppresses young women in administrative positions. With these antiquated attitudes around us, it is quite silencing, yet once we got to talking, we quickly filled our lunch break. Equal pay! Regular raises! Professional development programs! Respect! Boundaries! Control over our own time management! Some more tangible requests, others workplace standards long overlooked in regards to us. Though it was just the beginning, our eyes were opened and together we felt justified, strong and potentially powerful.   But the meeting was in a small unused office, and we mostly whispered, though when tempers flared at the injustices we shared, our voice raised only to be shushed by the sensible among us. We called it “lunch” and when we left, we smiled, cleaned our plates, went on our chipper way as if nothing had happened. It was a very strange but very powerful hour in which we found our voices and then quickly lost them again, in the sea of managers, xerox machines, office supplies and phone calls to no one in particular- us.

If you have a secretary, try mentoring her, developing a project together where she can get motivation, interested and involved. Not in addition to all of the other work- but as a part of her daily job, to offset the boring admin with a fulfilling project she can learn from and delve into with passion. Try giving her more freedom, control and respect- even if you think you do, try to open your mind to the possibility that you don’t treat her as capable, growing and intelligent as other staff members. It’s an unconscious attitude but it is reflected in the behavior of even the most progressive amongst us. You can change and it will motivate her and free her- and ultimately improve the work that comes out of the office.

If you are a secretary, find your voice- speak up and be heard. It isn’t easy but you aren’t alone.

To all my fall-back professionals, keep up the great work- there’s more out there and you’ll find it.

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

Coming Out

You wish. I’m still not a lesbian.

But I have recently started to experience a new kind of coming out, and while not nearly as difficult and life altering as coming out to parents, family and friends as gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender or anything else of that vain, this coming out has been a struggle for me.

My name is Shira. I am 28 years old and I am divorced.

As I come up on my 2 year UNiversary (not sure if that’s a thing- a divorce anniversary, which effectively UNdoes your wedding anniversary. Whatever, it’s a thing now), I’m not really sad but it is kind of awkward. I have been officially separated for 2 years. I would have been married for 4 years this month. Memories come in waves- much less frequently than before. I have moved on in most ways and very little lingers behind reminding me, except some negative self-talk now and then and a general dislike for soccer. I survived, I made it through, I am officially back on my feet now.

It’s over.

I am no longer going through a divorce and yet, being divorced is still very much a part of who I am. On official forms, like my ID card, I have to identify as “Divorced” (just in case some unsuspecting innocent person tries to assume I’m single- I’ll never get away with it!). My name change has been a nightmare, as beaurocratic Israel so often is, and the cell phone company and national health care system cannot seem to understand that I have changed my name, and not in the “good” way (usually when I try to explain the name change they assume I’ve just gotten married and offer me a cheery MAZAL TOV! Assholes.) So every once in a while when someone calls me by an old last name or asks me about a neighborhood we once lived in or a car we once owned- it all comes back.

What do I do when memories and stories coming flooding back? Well, when I’m with family and friends I can share them freely, but with new friends and acquaintances, shit gets awkward. Whether an old friend I haven’t seen in 5 years or a band of new female coworkers, it’s hard to know just how to break the news. Will they judge me? Ask questions? Talk about me when I leave the room?

My therapist once told me, “You don’t get naked in a supermarket.” This great adage means you don’t need to tell everyone around you everything that’s going on in your head. That is true- and very helpful for over-sharers like me. I’m not at that point anymore in my divorce where just the slight mention of my ex’s name by a cable repair man, inquiring as to the owners of the cable contract, could send me into a tailspin of yelling and crying despair. I’m OK now. I cry much less often in public now. And divorce is a part of my life- I don’t want to lie to people I know. Not getting naked in a supermarket is important in some circumstances but when old friends and new coworkers share stories of their weddings, husbands and kids, I can brag all I want about my boo, but certain questions can’t be answered by avoidance and boo-bragging, unless I lie.

But I don’t lie. I’m not a liar. A few months before my big breakup, I experiences a very honest and crucial moment: A guy I barely knew- on a more professional basis than anything else-  told me that he was separated from his wife. It was so brave and so honest. I could see it was hard for him, but I had asked about his family and holidays and he answered me with the truth. Maybe when I tell people that I’m divorced it will help someone feel less alone, or understand me on a deeper level. My divorce does not define me, but I also would not be who I am without it in my past. It is impossible to really know me without knowing that in the past two years I went through a brutal, heart wrenching divorce that tried to lay me out flat broke and alone– and that I came out on the other side stronger and happier. My divorce is not something to be ashamed of, but it’s also not news for all of Israel’s supermarket shoppers (or internet browsers… ? oops.).

If you want to know who I am, then, well, I hope it doesn’t change things between us or make you feel uncomfortable, when I tell you that… um… well… um… I’m divorced.

A Glass Ceiling of our Own: Breaking into the Feminist Movement

Is it possible that we have created our own old bitches club and we are keeping ourselves out? I’m gonna go with yes, or else I wouldn’t be writing this post.

An old bitty Israeli feminist once told me that I am too inexperienced to know how things work with feminist organizing. I was young, I was ambitious and that pissed her off so much that she felt the need to shoot me down. But yes, it is possible that I could have used a more experienced woman to take me under her wing. Instead, this bitch put me down. This is one of the more blatant experiences that seems to point to a larger problem with the Israeli feminist movement, if there is one…

The thing is that I’ve been in Israel for nearly 6 years and I have been really active. Don’t get me wrong, I like to sit on the couch and watch TV some and I may have been slightly distracted by a marriage and subsequent divorce- but I have also been really involved in social change work in Israel. I have interned and volunteered, I have worked in non-profit organizations, I have attended conferences and classes. I have some great involved, feminist friends and mentors.

I have paid my dues. I am still willing to continue to pay my dues, and yet I cannot seem to break through. I can’t get on the right email lists, or get in with ALL of the right people. I don’t get invitations in time for events or conferences, and I have rarely if ever been approached to organize with Israeli feminists on an issue, despite the fact that my organizing skills are top notch, if I do say so myself.

When I have gotten involved in feminist or women’s organizing or when I have tried and failed, I felt like I was on the outside of a private club. Here are the impressions I got from these attempts:

• I am not old enough to really be a feminist. Us young kids with energy and dreams are just “pishers” to most of our old bitty predecessors (sorry, bitties, but that’s how it feels)
• I am not academic enough, or academically involved enough to really be a feminist
• I do not run a progressive organization and therefor, I am not feminist enough
• I am an immigrant. My Hebrew could never be good enough, and besides, I joined the game late
• I’m not quite lesbian enough (I know, I know, it’s hard to believe)
• I don’t identify as queer but I love me some LGBT rights. I am either too straight and therefor passe for the queer feminists or not homophobic enough for the straight feminists.
• I am not liberal enough in my other politics to be relevant

I have organized with the likes of great American feminist movements like NOW and Feminist Majority. I have contributed to and been published in a Women’s Studies academic and autobiographical anthology, called Leading the Way, out now by Rutgers Press (buy it!). I kick ass and take names. But it doesn’t seem to be enough. I have a Gender degree from one of the best Women’s Studies departments in the world from one of the most acclaimed (former) women’s colleges ever known to this great earth, Douglass College. Not enough.

So why can’t I get into this old bitches club? I don’t mean to be agist- truth is that age is just a number- I must be either too black or too Jewish to get into the snobby bitches club.

So good luck to me. I might as well start my own organization and start my own movement. And that is exactly where the Israeli feminist movement finds itself, in my opinion. It is a pile of splintered off attempts at feminist organizing. Many many great feminist activists- all splintered off into factions and tiny organizations that can barely afford their office space. Think about what would happen if 4 smaller organizations combined their power and their budgets- you get a large organizations that can actually make a name, afford full time staff, intake and handle incoming activists and volunteers and make real change. Otherwise, we are just a hundred whiny voices getting lost in a sea of men who are ready to abandon all of their morals and values, to work together in order to stay in power with their hand on the money belt.  But for us feminists here, we want so badly not to compromise on even one issue that we can barely work together, and we certainly are not making any progress on getting our hands closer to the money belt. I’m not saying we need to compromise all of our morals for power- but I am saying that we need to work together just enough in order to become a critical and influential mass.

So, here’s what I think we need to do:

1- Get united. We need to find a way, a forum, a will to unite around something larger than ourselves. Violence against women and gender-based violence, for example. Rape and domestic violence effects all of us, cross culture, cross age, race and gender lines. The punishment for rape and other forms of violence against women, especially gender-related violence, are laughable in Israel and it is simply not a priority for our government or in local law enforcement. Women are being killed by their spouses, trafficked, raped, assaulted and harassed every day and all day long in Israel. If we actually came together in our full numbers for a well planned long-term campaign, it would be impossible to ignore.

2- Mentoring. If every leader who is involved in the Israeli feminist movements mentored a young activist, kept her involved, kept her in “the know”, let her intern intensely on an important project, we’d be building something we could sustain. On a larger scale, if we adopted this mentoring approach movement wide and we’d open ourselves up to the power of the next generations. We would be breeding a smarter, more responsible citizenship of women.

3- We have to be open to a change within out own movement and organizations. We have to open our doors to people who don’t sound like us and don’t look like us. In a real way, not in a ‘ look, isn’t she a cute little (shhh… token)  young/immigrant/Palestinian/lesbian feminist’ way.  We need to begin to believe that we can create a movement that is not only relevant to executive directors and professors, but to all feminists especially those who are not yet being let in to this elitist club. Because we outcasts need this movement  just as much as the movement needs us. The work needs to be done to make participants and activists feel just as important as leaders in these movements and to foster volunteerism and activism in a new, inclusive way.

My point is that united, we could stand strong, but divided, we will surely remain stuck exactly where we fucking are.

Going Postal

I believe in non-violence. I believe that any time one is in the presence of a weapon, they are in danger, no matter who holds it, what permits they have. I believe in extreme gun control, as much as possible, and PEACE.

That having been said, I totally understand the emotions behind the act of “going postal“. The phrase of course comes from the 80s when pissed off postal workers would have an old-fashioned shoot out in their place of employment. Disgruntled as they maybe have been I in no way approve of those acts or any like them . I do, however, totally understand the rage at a personal injustice and the desire to share that rage with the ones who caused it.

For example, when I bought my Blackberry from the evil cell phone corporation Orange, they gave me a

Orange is Satan

GPS as a “present”. I shoulda fucking known. Now they are charging me $25 a month for this “present” which I have never used. I even called the next day to make sure it was off and I was not being charged for it, and they assuredme I could sleep easy. Well, I’m having nightmares now. Not only can I not understand the customer service reps because of her strong accent (I swear I think they do that shit on person). I threatened to leave their company, which I really would like to do, and THAT didn’t even move them. Anyway, I’m going in tomorrow to hopefully find that sweet-talking salesman and show him how we do things in JERSEY! Now, we will all be pro-gun control cause if we weren’t it would be very easy for me to pop a cap in Orange’s corporate ass right now. Fuck you, Orange, you liars.

Speaking of gun control, I have written in this blog a lot about my divorce. My ex is a super ass. The latest installment of bitterness and rage-inducing divorce stories is a short one: A week before I was set to leave my ex, I was packing. I discovered that my ring box, the box that had contained my engagement and wedding rings since I stopped wearing them, was empty. My ex had stolen the rings, claiming that they were his. I feel pretty sure that Emily Post would disagree with him, not to mention that they would never fit his fat little Napoleon fingers. Anyway, fast forward to 2 months ago, when the second court order from the divorce judge came down: the douche bag must return the rings to his beautiful and strong ex-wife (I’m not sure if this is the exact legal writing, but lets just say that this is how I choose to hear it). ANYWAY, the rings actually arrived later that day, a shocking thing, in and of itself. Fast forward further to a few weeks ago, when I find out that THE DIAMONDS ARE FAKES. Either he replaced the once real diamonds with cubic z, or they were never diamonds- either way, he is a shit fucker. This is NOT a joke or a story that I made up for the sake of my glorious writing career. It is in fact my life, and the behavior of a man who when he first gave me those rings with those diamonds, promised to love me and protect me forever.

So the very mere thought of “forever” and “marriage” make me want to go postal (sorry to all of my happy friends getting married and engaged- I love you, I’m happy for you. I believe in your love. But my truth is my truth. I know you understand). I saw my ex the other day with his new girlfriend, lets call her “Mack Truck Busted” for now. So Napoleon and Mack Truck showed up a few feet away from me and boo at a concert. Luckily, boo is sexier that both of them combined, so he made us look good. But oh man, did I want to make a big old scene. I was tempted to start screaming and hollering about rings and wedding presents and promises and lie detector tests. Temptation to flail my arms and turn red and spit and tear out my hair in their face in such a public arena was nearly overwhelming. I wanted to make sure Mack Truck knows that the diamonds on her future ring are cursed! They are cursed divorce blood and tears diamonds! But, alas- I practice gun control and self-control. I took the high road, yet again, with him. May Orange be so lucky tomorrow.

But seriously, fuck you, fuckers! Fuck insurance companies and senseless traffic and working out and corporations and ex husbands. I would give my left fallopian tube for a year without aggravation of postal-proportions.

1998 was a bitch

the 90s. ichs.

In 1998 I was 17. I was young, I was still kinda skinny, I had these new big boobs that were kinda exciting, I was beginning to realize that I was funny, I had some nice talents and interests.

In hindsight, I was actually pretty cool in 1998, so why the hell was I so freaked out?!

When I was 17, I was big bag of nerves. I was freaked out about a lot of things, but I was SUPER freaked out about picking a college.

Funny story. When I was applying for colleges, I looked at several programs and all of them, musical theater programs. Musical theater?! Really? Yes. You see, I dreamed in Glee long before it was cool to do so. I wanted to be an actor, a singer, a dancer- a triple threat, a Broadway star! So I applied for ALL musical theater programs, with one exception- a safety school, a liberal arts college, Rutgers University, my alma mater. So how did my Broadway dreams get flushed down the toilet? Well, turns out I’m not much of an actor… and I suck at dancing (technically speaking only- at a club, my booty pop is hard to beat!).  While I am great singer,  a triple threat I am not. When I received rejections from the musical theater schools I had set my heart on attending, I was  devastated. It was, in no uncertain terms, the end of the world.

So I did what any rational person at that age would do- I died my hair red and I wore all black for a week.

What is it about this age that makes us think that life ends with each small bump in the road? Why are we so lacking perspective at that time, when, granted we  have a lot of decisions to make but we also have so many great options and so much potential?

Well, there are the obvious reasons for this, like the fact that our brains are not fully formed yet, and we are just exiting a time of great awkwardness and lack of confidence in our early teens. When I was 15 I was uglier than a monkey’s butt- I was so awkward. My nose was growing in, as were my eyebrows. I had braces and my bat mitzvah perm was still growing out (true story but no, you can not see a picture… Fine, see picture below).  I was caught in a whirlwind of punk rock wanna be fashion “don’t”s and it was just sad. So in the years that followed, even though I got cuter, it took my brain some time to catch up. Physically, I was very insecure and unaware of my own adorableness.

Me, at 15. This is not even the worst of it.

Mentally, there was a different story to be told. I felt a lot of pressure- I was sure that I had to be the best at something, and I’d better do it soon. I didn’t feel smart in class at that time- in high school I always felt like I was swimming upstream with the homework and classwork, especially in math and science. I was involved in student leadership, but I hadn’t yet made the connection between this activity and leadership potential, so I thought it ended when high school did. So I clung to music and if I could be the best at that, I’d be ok. Why be the best?  I  wasn’t raised to be below average- my parents had high expectations for me and thank God they did because it pushed me to aspire for achievement and work hard. But this desire to be the best come from somewhere; maybe it was a backlash of my “ADD”-plagued childhood (prove ‘em wrong!) or a 2nd generation American/Holocaust survivor mentality (prove Hitler wrong!) or a post-second-wave feminist superwoman complex in the making. But I don’t think I’m alone- I think a lot of young, bright, talented, stand-out, ballsy girls at that age are pushed or push themselves past a breaking point of nerves because of a unexceedable expectation to be the best and do it all by the time you’re 25. Sometimes it pushes us to do great, big things. Other times it pushes us to drugs, eating disorders, self-destructive behaviors and britney-spears-esq downward spirals. There must have been some happy medium between under-achieving and super-duper-queen of the world. If there was, I didn’t see it when I was 17. I didn’t see it either when I was 18 or 22…

Now, as I leave my twenties, slowly but surely, I feel like I have my whole life ahead of me for travel, career, experiences, decisions to make and break and make again. I’m not always optimistic or patient, but I have gained perspective over the years.  I think back to that tumultuous time- picking a college, leaving high school and my comfort zone for the great unknown and I wonder what could have reached me to tell me, ‘You’re good enough. Just you- as you are. Keep working, keep developing, have fun and for Gods sake laugh at yourself once in a while. Little Shira, you’re gonna be fine- you have all the time in the world to define love and happiness for yourself, and then to go off and find it. Life is not a race, it’s a very long and scenic walk’.

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.