Pride and Prejudice occupies a particular space in my mind reserved for novels where I can’t recall the intricacies of the plot, but I remember the feeling and atmosphere the book created. I picture the unflappable Elizabeth Bennet striding across the English moors, lost in thought and wondering whether or not Mr. Darcy loves her. I remember how I felt when I read the novel, wondering if I too would one day be trapped between love and friendship, longing and disgust, pondering the exquisitely painful experience of falling in love.

Dov Zeller’s new book, The Right Thing To Do At The Time is a refreshing take on Austen’s classic novel in what some might now think of as a more “conventional” arrangement between men and women. Zeller casts trans man, Ari Wexler, as Elizabeth and his friend and confidant, Itche as Jane.

Zeller, who lives in Western Massachusetts, uses the conceits of Pride and Prejudice loosely, labelling the novel “a contemporary retelling” but fear not, for familiar phrases do make cameos, if somewhat modified. The chapter “Noodle Soup” opens with, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a terrible track record in dating must be in want of something.” This nicely summarizes Zeller’s dry sense of humor along with Ari’s quest for fulfillment both in romance and elsewhere. At the heart of the novel is a red blooded “bromance” between Itche and Ari, a friendship like that of Tom and Huck’s and readers will surely be rooting for the friendship to last.

But don’t be fooled, because all is not as it seems in Zeller’s Jewish New York City and relationships are fluid in the same way that gender and love are fluid, too. The prose is snappy and self assured and Zeller makes writing dialogue look easy, the playful banter and back and forth between characters breezing from pop culture references “Is Anne Hathaway Jewish? To the more off beat “I love your gonads” can, in moments, feel dizzying in its intensity.  

Something about the expansiveness of the writing reminded me of a Eggers or Irving novel in the sheer density and at times it felt difficult to extract the main action from various characters and their motivations and desires, but one has to admire Zeller’s chutzphah.

Also to note, Zeller’s novel acts as a encyclopedia of sorts, (in addition there is an actual glossary) with footnotes for Hebrew/Yiddish words throughout, so no one will feel left out.

So as a gift for the queer Jew with a bad dating track record in your life (and it could be you), check out The Right Thing to Do At The Time, on sale now.

Cover art by Ruxandra Șerbănoiu

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Anne Frank’s face is unmistakable, in her cheerful smile and short dark hair. Anne Frank is a symbol of tragic fate, a life cut short, of wasted potential. But perhaps most recognizable in Anne Frank’s face is the spirit of a girl longing to live a normal life from the confines of a hidden attic, a young girl who wrote with sensitivity, grace and humor.

But Anne Frank never wrote again after The Diary of A Young Girl. Anne Frank died in 1945 at Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, succumbing to illness, starvation, or both. However, the exact cause of her death is unknown, and in 2015, The Anne Frank House released a report showing Frank’s date and location of death may have been incorrect. Despite the inconsistency, most believe diarist Anne Frank died at the age of fifteen.

For Israeli actress, Chen Drachman, the reporting surrounding Anne Frank’s death sparked thoughts about death’s supposed definitiveness. In her screenplay, Ruth’s, Drachman asks the provocative question: What if? What if Anne Frank was alive today? What if Anne Frank was living among us? And what if Anne Frank was your grandmother? Such is the premise of Drachman’s short screenplay in which Lizzy confronts her grandmother, Ruth, at a Passover gathering about her real identity, a secret Lizzy has long suspected. In a chilling moment, Lizzy says to her grandmother, “It’s you, isn’t it?”

Part of Ruth’s success can be attributed to the appearance of Tony award-nominated actress Tovah Feldshuh in the lead role, (The Walking Dead, most currently, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend) during a reading fundraiser this past November at the JCC in Manhattan.

The screenplay focuses on themes of guilt and celebrity fetishism, as well as the ties that bind us together as family and most interestingly, the millennial generation’s fixation with “doing good.” As the older Anne wisely suggests, some secrets are best left buried. The adult Anne Frank is adamant about maintaining secrecy, stating that she’s paid her dues and deserves peace and quiet. The dialogue between the snappy Feldshuh and the idealistic Drachman is vibrant and realistic; Feldshuh provides a portrait of the wry and quick witted Jewish grandmother with ease.

Although the screenplay is short, hovering just around 10 minutes, the larger questions Drachman brings up feel limitless. What price do we pay when we’re transformed from human to symbol?

Drachman, who is a third generation Holocaust survivor is acutely aware of the negative feedback she could receive from imagining such a scenario, the boldness of revising history. But what is art if not our outlet to imagine other dimensions and reality? What child didn’t want to go through the wardrobe and into Narnia?  

Drachman has raised about a quarter of what she needs to make the screenplay into a movie by submitting to a variety of diverse festivals both mainstream and niche around the world. (Individuals are welcome to donate online, as well.) The screenplay has been recognized several times, including the NYC Independent Film Festival. Ruth’s is sponsored by a 501(c)(3), non-profit, From The Heart and with runaway successes like Sarah DeLappe’s The Wolves, it’s a good idea to keep your ears open to smaller projects with big hopes.

Photo of Drachman, left and Feldshuh by Oren Korenblum.

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Tzadeikis, or “Holy Woman” is a short film set in Boro Park’s Hasidic community. “A magical realist dark comedy about mortality, mysticism, and the metaphysics of facial hair” Tzadeikis is written and directed by NYU film student Emily Cheeger as her thesis project.

After eating the same fish that kills a rebbe when he chokes on a bone, Neshama, the film’s protagonist, becomes possessed by the rebbe’s spirit. Tzadeikis traces Neshama’s journey and changing views of her community as her body and mind transform under a supernatural influence. This Yiddish-language film is largely driven by an intensity in representing the Hasidic community with affection and dignity with fastidious attention to detail and accuracy.

Cheeger, who was raised in a secular Jewish environment, has always felt an emotional response and curiosity about Hasidic culture. A resident of Boro Park since 2013, Cheeger felt many Hasidim films didn’t bother to do their research to fully represent the intricacies of the culture with authenticity. “You’ll see men wearing floppy hats!” she explains.

Hyperaware of her status as an outsider, and the Hasidic communities’ hesitancy in dealing with media, Cheeger tells Jewcy, “I want to tell stories that reach across boundaries. Stories that are accessible and would resonate with the people in these communities.”

A self described polyglot, who spent her childhood between Finland and New York, Cheeger draws inspiration from Russian modernism, mentioning the melancholic quality and dark humor of writers like Nabokov as much in line with her own sensibilities. Her creative pursuits are often based in an interrogation of boundaries. Although Cheeger isn’t Ultra-Orthodox, Tzadeikis is influenced by her own experiences. For example, in a particular scene, Neshama looks through the partition to the men’s side, which is a personal memory of Cheeger from years ago.

As a musician as well, Cheeger was particularly interested in exploring the Halachic law of kol isha, prohibiting men from hearing women sing. “For me, self-expression is such a huge part of spirituality and creativity and how I engage with the divine, so this law was something I had to grapple with. Why is the burden of potential arousal placed on women?” She’s also fascinated by the many binaries she sees in Hasidic culture, be it meat and milk, the sacred and the profane, or shabbos and the rest of the week.

Shooting for Tzadeikis is scheduled to start at the end of February with 15 people in the crew, 13 cast members and multiple location changes. The film will be approximately twenty-five minutes.   

The film’s Kickstarter, which has reached its initial $35,000 goal is a great starting point, but Cheeger is hopeful funding will continue to rise (the campaign ends February 5) as she has big plans for the future of Tzakeikis. The film will have a running time of approximately 25 minutes.  

Although firmly set in this world, Tzadeikis takes place in a magical landscape which Cheeger says is more native to her imagination, a type of dream reality where magic and reality meet.

To donate or for more information visit Tzadeikis here.

Concept Illustration of The Rebbe of Kolnitz, digital collage by Emily Cheeger

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Mindy Raf didn’t have enough time to come out to her mother who passed away ten years ago. But Raf’s one-woman show, NOT THE ONE: A Love Story creates a stage to keep Raf’s dialogue with Kitty Raf alive; a celebration of her mother mixed with an interrogation of how relationship models are evolving in 2018.

NOT THE ONE: A Love Story made its international debut at the 2017 Edinburgh Fringe Festival and the show has continued with monthly NYC performances, including January 25th and 26th at The Tank. Directed by Tara Elliot, the 60 minute show blends stand-up with storytelling and traditional theatre, juxtaposing the more traditional values Raf’s Jewish mother taught her about love with her current polyamorous relationships.

Raf, who identifies as pansexual, is interested in expressing fluidity and acceptance when it comes to love, sex, gender, and monogamy.

“You don’t have to fully understand something in order to accept it,” says Raf. “And when you tell your story you become visible, you represent nuances and this allows other people to see themselves and be seen as well.”

Are people shocked by polyamory?

“There are many preconceptions about non-monogamy and polyamory, like assuming you’re always going sex parties. Which is fine if that’s your thing, but a relationship structure doesn’t mean you’re love or sex life is just one thing or the other,” says Raf.

She also mentions that people come back to see her show multiple times likely searching for answers while delighting in listening to love and sex spoken about in such a frank way: after all it’s just one woman standing on the stage, no mic, no bells and whistles.

Raised in a Detroit suburb, Raf went to a Reform synagogue, attended Hebrew school and went through all the usual milestones of a Jewish upbringing from confirmation to a bat mitzvah. “You know there’s that Jewish thing we all joke about, calming your anxious Jewish mother down when it comes to your love life. The show deals with the struggle and the celebration of that dichotomy, the parts of your life that are Jewish mother approved and the parts that are tougher to communicate.”

Are Jews really that neurotic? “I’ve met a lot of chill Jews,” Raf says, also mentioning that she experiences humor to be very much part of Jewish culture and often functioning as a refuge from anxieties. Her 2013 young adult book, The Symptoms of My Insanity, deals with a hypochondriac teenager and Raf is interested in dismantling stereotypes about native Jewish anxiety.

The world of Raf’s childhood was largely heteronormative, and NOT THE ONE: A Love Story explores a way to blend past and present.

“We tend to insert our own point of view into other people’s experiences out of fear of the unknown. We think we have to put ourselves and others in these boxes with solid walls. We don’t all have to be fluid, but if we come from kindness and allow the space for other people to live their lives and be fluid… it’s just better,” Raf comments.

Raf, (recently she’s been called the female Woody Allen. Does it bother her? Not at all, but she does hope people will start to move away from the cis white male stereotypes of Jewish humor) feels very connected to her Jewish identity and talks about the developing process of executing Judaism in everyday life in a way that feels authentic. She considers herself very spiritual, but much like her path to becoming who she is today, she’s working towards balance within organized religion and personal spirituality.

“Specifically in the Jewish family narrative, it’s very challenging to be modern and also identify with something that relies on tradition without feeling like you’re letting someone down. But I’m trying to take the things that I identify with in Judaism and recreate them in a way that works for me. Sometimes I feel guilty about that process and other times I’m like, this really isn’t anybody else’s business.”

As an afterthought Raf adds,  “And if people do make it their business, I hope they do so with kindness and curiosity. ”

For more information about Raf, weed lube, and upcoming performances click here.

Photo credit Christiana Chavez

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2017 was an inauspicious year for actress Lena Dunham. In addition to claiming the rape accusations against Girls writer Murray Miller were “misreported,” Dunham sparked criticism for surrendering her rescue dog in favor of two purebred poodles, and even inspired a Twitter account parodying her seemingly daily apologies. And in December, she split from boyfriend Jack Antonoff, E! News reported yesterday.

For the five and a half years of their relationship, Dunham and Antonoff were the Jewish power couple that never was. Antonoff is a talented songwriter, known for his collaborations with Sarah Bareilles, Lorde, and other pop stars, but his tolerance for Dunham’s problematic behavior was endless and concerning. In 2015, for example, she labelled herself a “sexual predator” in jest, then fell into a “rage spiral” when news outlets took her accounts of molesting her sister seriously. She also published an anti-Semitic satire in the New Yorker comparing her Jewish boyfriend (a.k.a Antonoff) to a dog, with the added insult of portraying him as a feeble asthmatic accustomed to being “waited on hand and foot.” It’s surprisingly sexist piece for someone raised by a Jewish mother, stereotyping them as co-dependent and “sucked dry by their children.”

Although Dunham called Antonoff her “life partner” in the past, she was one of the many celebrities to use same-sex marriage as a delaying tactic. (A word to straight couples: that was always a terrible excuse. Skip the “protest” and admit that you weren’t ready to get hitched.) Just before DOMA was repealed, Dunham said she envisioned their wedding party as “our two sisters in tuxedos,” still more eager to be “gay adjacent” than to commit to Antonoff. This fall, she tweeted about mistaking his “talking shit” about her for proposal planning, suggesting that Antonoff may have initiated the breakup. His accomplishments were often overshadowed by his association with Dunham, and as a three-time Grammy Award winner, he deserves better publicity in 2018.

Antonoff has yet to comment on the split, but Dunham recently Instagrammed this quote: “Starting over is the beautiful moment where you choose yourself.”

It’s an ironic statement for the more blatantly narcissistic of the pair, whose insistence on her own perspective has both established and threatened her career.

Better luck next time, Jack.

Images via Wikimedia

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“Judy Lansky likes ‘At the Well.’” This information didn’t strike me as particularly significant as I read it on Facebook a few weeks ago, but I “liked” along.

Back then I knew little of Rosh Chodesh, the new Jewish month and its significance to women. I wasn’t aware of Timbrel, At the Well’s upcoming inaugural retreat. And I knew nothing of the glorious red tent I’d find myself in, full of meditation cushions, and candles, and comprising the entire space of the Jubilee room of a retreat center just outside Baltimore.

I received an invitation to attend just after Thanksgiving, the Instagram post reading, “We’re planting seeds and sparking a clear path forward at the intersection of physical health and spirituality, and we’re rooting it all in Jewish wisdom.” I appreciated the sentiment, the metaphor, and the mention of scholarships.

The logo was a series of circles evoking the cycle of the moon, combined to create a timbrel, the biblical word for a tambourine. I thought of Miriam, and the (Debbie Friedman version of) Mi Chamocha. Later I learned there was a third meaning hidden in the branding, a reference to At the Well’s mission to gather women around the world in well(ness) circles for self-care and spirituality.

It was the confluence of holistic self-care and religion that intrigued me. As did the promise of “explorations of Jewish notions of divine femininity” and “dance parties.” My Judaism and spirituality didn’t often cohabitate, and that gap left me feeling disconnected, unsure where to go for guidance. I craved unification. I reached out for more information, but didn’t pull the trigger to enroll.

The initial inspiration for At the Well, an organization founded just a few years ago, was to update Rosh Chodesh materials, and connect Jewish women to their bodies, and one another. From there it’s grown into an international community, addressing health, mental health, and holiness. Timbrel would take that to the next level, bringing together women from across the world to connect deeply over a three-day retreat, this new organization reviving ancient ritual.

I was intrigued, but unsure. I learned about the opportunity while traveling, and wanted desperately to reclaim my routine, and sleep in my own bed. On my way home to Michigan I stopped briefly in New York to visit my parents.

“We’re worried about you,” they told me. At 32 their parenting concerns hadn’t lessened as much as morphed. “You stop yourself from doing things,” my mother continued. “You’ve made a set of choices that have left you with increasingly limited options.” I listened, absorbing what I could, as they continued a somewhat one-sided conversation about my career, finances, partner, and life choices.

They couldn’t fully see me. But they could see my uncertainty — what I held beneath the surface but hadn’t realized I couldn’t hide.

That night I retreated. Closing the door of the guest bedroom, I pulled on my coziest pajamas, and cried out loud. I wanted anything but to experience the pain of feeling feelings, and questioning my life path, but now I looked at it head-on.

I felt a pull to go outside into the dark night. In bare feet, wearing only snowflake pajamas, I took three deep breaths as I raised my face and arms to the moon.

The moon. Timbrel. My mother’s words played in my head. It came to me like a deep knowing: I had to go. The origination of the message was unclear, but I understood it, and obeyed. I signed up for the retreat mere hours before registration closed.

That’s how I found myself in a room full of women, beneath the tent. Lights twinkled from above in swathes of red fabric, mimicking the glow of starlight. My heart skipped a beat when I first saw it — the recognition of something new, yet uncannily familiar. I sat on the cushions, my hips aching but my heart happy. On Friday, just a few hours before Shabbat and the fourth night of Chanukah, I settled in for the weekend, and awaited a miracle.

I knew no one attending, and little of what to expect. The founder introduced herself. Sarah— Sarah Waxman. Then another Sarah emceed, her schtick light and funny and warm. They both had traveled from the West Coast but quickly made this space feel like home, joined by women from around the world. Another Sarah, this one from DC, sat beside me on the plush rug.

There were so many of us, almost eighty in total, interested in an embodied, progressive, present experience of our Judaism. Six Sarahs all told, as well as multiple Hannahs, and Rachels, and Miriams. All of us our own people, as well as one another’s people. All of us individuals, and connecting in a long line of matriarchs harkening back to the very first: Sarah.

Sarah (Waxman) shared the creation story of this community for women. She talked about our communal disconnection from the planet, and from our bodies. She spoke of modern questions with ancient answers. Of mikvahs, moon cycles, and menstruation. Of rabbis, Rosh Chodesh, and red tents, and of vulvas, and orgasms, and well circles.

She referenced the moon and the water, inextricably linked. The moon controlling the tides and cycles. The water serving as a life force and meeting space. Both bringing all of us together. The weekend continued with workshops, prayer in meditation and movement, and communal rest. That night, after Havdalah, the dark room brightened as we lit candles for Hanukkah. A guitar began to strum, and the group broke into song. Dancers erupted from the crowd, first in pairs, then circles, then concentric circles moving in opposite directions.

“And the women dancing with their timbrels followed Miriam as she sang her song…
The voices rose, and the floors shook. The candles flickered, but remained lit.
“…Miriam and the women danced, and danced the whole night long.”

I could barely sing, barely move, barely breathe. A sensation welled up so strongly in my body I could have sobbed. Something latent was activated within me, and I knew I’d opened a door, and an opportunity. This singular moment was thousands of years in the making.

In a sea of Sarahs I awakened. Old parts, and new parts, and pieces just being realized and coming into being. “Sarahs start shit,” I spoke aloud to the founder, thinking back to the original biblical babe. “Yes,” she smiled back at me. “In tents.” I was being called to serve as a leader.

The retreat has ended, but my awakening has just begun. I come from a long line of Sarahs, have a new community of them, and get to explore and express what it means to simply be me. In writing, in speaking, in tracking my cycle, and in dance moves. In song, conversation, well circles, and being part of the longest-running book club out there. As a daughter, a therapist, a woman, and a Jew. I’m reminded that to sense the deepest messages within us sometimes we need a mirror to show us what we cannot see, like the moon’s reflection on the water.  

I rediscovered myself during a weekend where no one knew me, and everyone had my name. And by doing so, I found a new path to take. One that goes forward and backward – to the future of Jewish femininity and spirituality, and to the past in an unwavering line of strong-willed and wild women.

Hineni. I found me. I am here. I am whole.

Photo by Shana Gee-Cohen

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