I’m about to turn 30—next week, in fact—and though I’ve been reassured by numerous friends who have already cleared this hurdle that nothing bad happens once you leave your twenties (and that in many cases, things actually get better), I’m still apprehensive. I’m not exactly enthused about getting older, perhaps because I’m not quite where I thought I would be at this age, both professionally and personally. And since much of my life revolves around fairly youthful passions like break dancing and gymnastics, I worry these pursuits might become incongruous with my new maturity. And let’s face it—while 30 doesn’t make you old, it makes you un-young. If you haven’t been already been called “precocious,” you probably never will, unless you somehow manage to make it on one of the New Yorker’s “best of” lists. (They consider anyone under 40 to still be young.)

But I do see potential upsides to turning 30, chief among them that I can no longer plausibly be a called “rebel.” I’m simply too old for that ish.

Throughout my twenties, as I moved away from Orthodox Judaism, I was branded a “rebel,” a label I grudgingly accepted even though it never really fit. New acquaintances, upon discovering my religious upbringing, would ask, “When did you rebel?” I’d grimace slightly at the label’s flexibility, this time appearing in verb form. My interrogator was imagining a more youthful version of me, cavorting with guys as I ate cheeseburgers on the Sabbath or went out dancing on Yom Kippur or something similarly extreme and sacrilegious.

But it wasn’t that way at all. It was gradual, methodical, and carefully thought out— the work of many years, not a wild summer. And nothing I did was extreme or particularly “in your face” or purposely contrarian. I wasn’t trying to get a rise out of anyone. (I was actually quite the rule-follower in high school.) Deciding to wear jeans or eating a salad with cheese or even getting a tattoo is all fairly banal stuff. It’s certainly not the stuff of movies or even reality television (unless it’s a show as boring as The Hills). In short, I was no James Dean.

Sisterhood contributor Chanel Dubofsky articulated my discomfort with the term “rebel in a piece for Role/Reboot where she examined the life lessons imparted to her by her mother and grandmother that she felt she had to undo. “There’s an incongruity, though, between the way we’re socialized to think about rebellion (something that a spoiled child does) and what unlearning the stuff we’re programmed to believe really looks like,” she wrote.

Unlearning what I had been programmed to believe has been the project of my teens and most of my twenties. It began in high school by simply challenging rabbis on subjects of Jewish import, especially as they pertained to the role of women. But even as I went back and forth with my teachers, I never really thought about acting on any of it. I mostly considered it an intellectual contest, one I wished to win because I’m gratuitously competitive. I loved it when I backed my teachers up against the wall with a powerful line of questioning, forcing them to resort to non-answers like citing a rabbinic scion, who was infallible by virtue of being a generation or two closer to the revelation at Sinai or something like that.

Of course, it didn’t end in debate—it never does. After spending years laying the intellectual groundwork for “rebellion” by studying source texts about modesty and women, I began to act on my knowledge. I started wearing pants once I realized that the halachic impediments to doing so were minimal at best. I did other things for less principled reasons (or at least without much textual support). At this rate, it took years to reach full-fledged nonobservance. I was the tortoise of going off the derech.

That’s why I bristle at being called a rebel, compared to bored kids thoughtlessly acting out. As Dubofsky observed, we have a tendency to view rebellion as juvenile, as something a child does to irk her parents or get a reaction from authority figures. And in the Orthodox community, this is definitely how the term is understood. “Rebellious” is used to describe any sort of adolescent misbehavior, especially as it pertains to violations of halacha (and almost always refers to breaches of modesty between the genders). But it’s also affixed to anyone who makes serious intellectual inquiries about Jewish law and worldview and questions the status quo. Nechamya Weberman’s victim was sent to him, in part, because she was considered rebellious for raising some serious theological questions in class.

The linking of these two forms of rebellion, whether by design or by accident, serves to delegitimize the more thoughtful version. (And, by the way, I have no problem with the “rebel without a cause” iteration. It’s probably an important developmental stage that I completely skipped.) A kid acting out is considered troublesome because he might entice others to the dark side, but his behavior is not viewed as a criticism of the status quo. “He’s just having fun,” or “He’s being influenced by the internet.” That rebel’s actions don’t constitute a major threat to the traditional worldview. But someone expressing cogent criticisms of the system is far more worrisome. Calling these people “rebellious,” with all the implied connotations of juvenile frivolity, is an attempt to neutralize their voices.

With or without a cause, I’m no longer a rebel. At 30, I just am. There are no more jeans to buy or colors to dye my hair or subways to take on Shabbos. I have done and will continue to do all of these things and more. But these days they’re simply part of how I live my life—not some means of being contrarian and sticking it to anyone else, be they family members or religious authorities.

And they never really were in the first place. Because I never was a rebel.

Previously: The Problem With Modesty Blogging
Olympic Gymnast Gabby Douglas’ Jewish Past

(Art by Margarita Korol)

The post The BallaBuster: Don’t Call Me a Rebel appeared first on Jewcy.

The BallaBuster is Dvora Meyers‘ biweekly column about all things Semitic and womany.

Earlier this month, Saige Hatch began a modesty crusade at her high school in Southern California. In response to Hatch’s newly-created modesty club, the city of South Pasadena set aside an entire week to encourage their young girls to resist pressure from popular culture and dress with “dignity.” While some of Hatch’s arguments are perfectly reasonable—the media does commodify women’s bodies in order to sell products—the movement’s agenda is decidedly not progressive. Unless, of course, it’s considered forward thinking to tie a woman’s dignity to her sartorial choices.

More problematic, however, than this 15-year-old’s well-intentioned attempt to get her classmates to cover up is the recent proliferation of blog posts written by adult women proudly defending their choice to show less skin as a feminist, progressive act—while also subtly putting down women who choose to show some cleavage and a little leg. In short, modesty apologia.

These types of essays and blog posts seemed fairly innocuous at first. A woman—sometimes Orthodox and sometimes not—testifies about how covering up makes her feel good about herself. Seems pretty positive, right?

But the problem with these essays is that the authors frequently don’t restrict themselves to their own subjective experiences. Rather, the writers pass judgment on how other women dress by insisting that covering up isn’t just optimal for her, as an individual, but also helps her earn respect. And here I thought people should judge me based on my ideas, actions, or even my taste in television shows.

Last month on XOJane, Chaya (who made waves a few months earlier with a blog post insisting that Hasidic women were more empowered and liberated than they’re portrayed to be) wrote a defense of modest dress that typifies a lot of the modesty apologia I find so troubling. In describing how modest dress made her feel better about her size, Chaya included this little gem: “Not only did I feel better about myself by keeping my body for me, but I also felt more beautiful.”

I am super happy that Chaya (and the other women she quotes) have found a mode of dress that makes them feel beautiful and confident. What I take issue with, however, is how she connects her decision to cover up with the ownership of her body. Naked or clothed, your body always belongs to you and never to anyone else. Someone else seeing your breasts doesn’t transfer ownership of them to that person.

Anyone who has been educated in the Orthodox community—at practically every level—knows that the rules of tznius, or modesty, are not bound up in liberation, no matter what sort of modern-day apologetics are used to explain the strictures, but in patriarchal control. Women are taught to cover up what rabbis, over generations, have deemed sexually titillating.

We’re told to think of the men on the street and how they perceive us, especially our Jewish brothers who have been commanded to think only about Torah 24/7. We’re taught that men cannot fully control their thoughts when they see us women, especially if we are immodestly dressed, and therefore the burden falls to us to manage our appearance and minimize their temptation.

During one of our innumerable lessons about feminine modesty, a high school classmate challenged the teacher, asking her why we have to modify our behavior simply because men cannot control their own thoughts and actions.

“You don’t know how hard that is for the boys. When they see a girl, all they can think about is sex,” the female teacher explained. To further illustrate her point, our teacher quoted Leviticus: In front of a blind person, do not place a stumbling block.

In this setup, males are blind and females are obstacles (literally, objects). A blind person can’t be held responsible for tripping over an obstacle, right? And if the object doesn’t want to become a stumbling block, it better get the hell out of dodge by not walking alone at night dressed like a slut.

My teacher certainly wasn’t condoning sexual violence, but in the way she explained the need for feminine modesty she was reaffirming and perpetuating the idea that men cannot be fully accountable when it comes to their behavior around women.

Equally troubling, Chaya’s essay contains dubious claims about how women’s dress illustrates their sense of self-worth. She quotes one woman who says this:

When a person is comfortable with her sexuality, she can much more easily dress modestly. When people have complexes about it, and are trying to prove themselves, and are not comfortable in their own skin, that’s when they have a problem covering up.

If you’ve ever been a teenage girl who felt fat and hid under baggy clothes, you might be tempted to call bullshit on this assertion. My most modestly-clothed years were also the years I was the most insecure about my body. I was wearing long skirts at the time, but I often wished for even more layers of sartorial camouflage.

I don’t fault tzniut rules for how I felt about my appearance. There were many forces at work, including my age. At my body hate nadir, I was in my teens, a particularly trying time for any girl, Orthodox or otherwise. During those years, self-consciousness is the rule, not the exception.

But as I’ve gotten older and more comfortable with my body and sexuality, I’ve dressed less modestly, not more. I especially favor backless shirts because they show off my muscular back—something I’ve worked hard for as a gymnast—and the scar from spinal surgery that I consider particularly badass. Our bodies are the keepers of our personal narratives and that scar, which runs from just above my bra line down to the base of my spine, is a visceral reminder of a major medical crisis and my ability to bounce back from it.

Of course, that isn’t what I’m thinking every time I don a backless top—sometimes I just think it looks hot. And that’s not a bad thing. It’s okay if a guy looks at me and finds me sexually attractive. I’m a full-fledged human being and my sexuality is a part of all that human goodness. God knows, I spend a good chunk of my subway commute scanning the car for hot guys to glance at surreptitiously while reading or listening to music. No one suggests men modify their dress or appearance to ward off the libidinous thoughts of women. If that were true, all guys would immediately grow soul patches.

Unlike the woman quoted in Chaya’s essay, who sees a woman dressed immodestly and instantly makes all sorts of assumptions her self-esteem, when I see a woman who is covered up, I don’t assume that she’s prudish or oppressed. Liberation isn’t a mode of dress. I feel liberated when I have an intense intellectual debate with a worthy opponent. I feel liberated when I dance, whether it’s in front of others or by myself. And I always feel fantastic when I dance in drop crotch leopard-print pants because they are awesome. I hope she feels as good in her clothing as I do in those ridiculous pants.

To a certain extent, I sympathize with the writers of modesty apologia. They, too, are bombarded by messages from advertisers about what constitutes feminine beauty. They know their way of dress does not conform to mainstream notions of sexual appeal. These blog posts are often their way of saying, “Guess what? I’m beautiful and look good, too!”

I heartily agree with that sentiment. You—in the long sleeves and skirts and hats and scarves—are beautiful and deserve to feel good about yourselves. But you are not more dignified or more deserving of respect than the women whose hemlines are higher or whose necklines plunge deeper. Respect and dignity should always be determined by our actions and the content of our character, not the contents of our closet.

Previously: Olympic Gymnast Gabby Douglas’ Jewish Past
Feeling Out My Post-Shomer Negiah World

The post The BallaBuster: The Problem With Modesty Blogging appeared first on Jewcy.

This summer, the gold medal winning, Hava Nagila prancing Aly Raisman was the most famous Jewish Olympian at the London Games. After a few offhand comments about the 40th anniversary of the Munich massacre and support for a moment of silence during the Opening Ceremonies (mind you, Raisman wouldn’t have been in attendance at that event—the gymnastics competition begins the day after the Opening Ceremonies and the gymnasts never attend since it entails standing for hours on end), she was heralded as some sort of tumbling Jewish ambassador who would win over the Semitic masses on the strength of her acrobatics. Or something like that.

But it turns out that Raisman wasn’t the only gymnast on the team with a Jewish affiliation. Gabby Douglas, if not a Jew, seems to be a serious philo-Semite. In Grace, Gold, and Glory: My Leap of Faith, her just-released memoir (co-written by O founding editor Michelle Burford), the 16-year-old gold medalist spends four digital pages (I read it on a Kindle and have no idea how many “real” pages that amounts to) delving into her family’s semi-serious flirtation with Judaism.

That religion was a major theme throughout this short memoir (as it should be, given the age of the subject) is hardly surprising. It was published by Harper Collins’ Christian imprint, Zondervan. And it is certainly not at all shocking to read an exploration of faith from Douglas, who, upon winning the gold in the all-around, sweetly said this to an NBC reporter: “I give all the glory to God. It’s kind of a win-win situation. The glory goes up to Him and the blessings fall down on me.” Douglas and her mother have spoken of their faith in interviews and it’s one of the things that bonded the gymnast to her host family in Iowa.

But the appearance of Judaism comes seemingly out of left field. (Actually, left field is perhaps not far enough. That’s still part of the same stadium, right? I know so little about baseball or any sport involving projectiles.) After an earnest discussion of learning how to press from the floor up into a handstand, a move that becomes significantly more difficult once you develop hips, and with no attempt at transition, Douglas writes, “I used to be Jewish.” The connection between Judaism and handstands eludes even me.

Douglas, however, immediately backs down from that bold claim and states, “Well not exactly Jewish—but my family practiced some of the Jewish traditions.” One can imagine her giggling and flashing that trademark grin as she told this to her biographer. In fact, to suggest both Douglas’ mirth and youth, Burford punctuates several sentences throughout the book with “LOL,” an incongruous fit with the rest of the prose, which suggests a more mature writing style—i.e. the co-author’s.

But teenage-speak aside, what follows is a fully sincere account of Douglas’ family’s practice of Judaism, which began with her mother, Natalie Hawkins, and maternal grandmother, who were both drawn to the religion. Douglas’ grandmother occasionally prepared kosher meals for the family and Hawkins studied Hebrew.

Unlike a New York Times trend story about faux mitzvahs, Douglas’ participation in Judaism does not seem to have been rooted in materialism and consumption. Nor was it just about Jewish culture and matzoh ball soup, though that is certainly part of the appeal. Like a lot of Jewish kids, Douglas rhapsodizes about her mother’s version of Jewish penicillin, stating that it was doled out as a prize for good grades—and, in her case, good scores in competition. However, she also recounts the year she spent going to synagogue, at Temple Israel in Norfolk, VA, and observing the Sabbath, if not strictly because she had gymnastics practice on Saturdays. (Gyms tend to be closed on Sundays.)

The Jewish exploration, however earnest, ends as abruptly as it begins and never resurfaces again. But the discussion of faith ramps up thereafter, especially as the Olympics near and the young gymnast faces competitive pressure and homesickness while training far from her family. Hawkins, Douglas’ siblings, and her host mother dispense with New Testament quotes that inspire the athlete as she trains for the biggest contest in gymnastics.

In the short section about Judaism there is far less discussion of belief, which is due, at least in part, to the fact that she remains Christian and never expresses any desire to convert. And perhaps it’s because Jews don’t speak about God and beliefs in the same way that some Christians do. (Jews often don’t know what other Jews believe. During college, a frum friend of mine told me that you didn’t have to believe in God to be Orthodox, though it certainly helps make all of the rules seem less onerous if you do.) Though Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles of Faith appear in most Jewish siddurim at the end of shacharit, they are often treated as an afterthought, not the main event, after the long slog of davening. Unlike her spiritual expression of her Christianity, Douglas’ exploration of Judaism is mostly ritual and action-based.

It’s notably different from our Jewish gymnastics ambassador, Raisman (still sad that this title doesn’t apply to me), whose religion is expressed in political, cultural and ethnic terms, but not ritual ones. (Though maybe it’s because she’s never been asked. I have no way of knowing about the particular Jewish practices of the Raisman family.)

In fact, when interviewed during Hanukkah in 2010 by International Gymnast Magazine, Raisman admitted that she couldn’t embrace all Jewish traditions and rituals as a result of her gymnastics practice:

Raisman said her training schedule means she is unable to share in the traditional family dinner together each night to celebrate Hanukkah…Raisman said she has been sticking to her own healthy meal after evening practice, forgoing any traditional holiday food like potato latkes.

I sincerely hope that she is able to partake this year since she is not currently training for any competitions and because latkes are delicious.

As for Douglas—I wish her many more bowls of her beloved matzo ball soup and hope that she dabbles in Judaism again with the same sincerity she expressed in the book. And as her celebrity increases, perhaps she will. After all, that’s what all the famous folks do.

Previously: Leave Aly Raisman Alone
Olympic Gold Medalist Gabby Douglas’ Favorite Meal is Matzoh Ball Soup
Gold Medalist Aly Raisman Commemorates 1972 Munich Games

The post Olympic Gymnast Gabby Douglas’ Jewish Past appeared first on Jewcy.

A few weeks ago, the Forward published a long account about the trials and tribulations endured by Orthodox college students who wish to remain shomer negiah while attending secular universities where the so-called hook up culture is ubiquitous. Featured prominently in the story was my alma mater, the University of Pennsylvania, where many of the more religious kids maintain a “hands off” approach to mundane social interactions and especially dating. And throughout most of my four years at Penn, I, like many of the subjects profiled in the article, practiced shomer negiah.

My practice was not as absolute as it was for some of the subjects in the article. I never eschewed casual contact like handshakes, which for me didn’t seem to defy the halachic injunction prohibiting touch that is derech chibah, or in an affectionate manner. I wasn’t so indoctrinated that I could actually sexualize a handshake.

Even before college, my teenage libido frequently got the better of me during gymnastics practice, when I sometimes insisted on a male spot on certain skills, telling my female coach, who was more than capable of carrying me through any flip, that I needed a stronger spotter.

What I meant to say was that I needed the high school-aged Stefan, who was often shirtless, to lift me through a somersault. But I rationalized it thusly: crashing into him after a failed attempt at a back layout couldn’t really be considered affectionate touch, right?

I was not the only observant student who was trying to figure out ways around the rules. At the start of my freshman year of college, one of my fellow adherents (and there were many who professed to be shomer, at least in public) told me about a recent interaction with the similarly observant guy she was dating. They were on her bed at a relatively safe distance when he picked up one of her teddy bears and used its paw to gently caress her cheek.

At the time, I thought this was just about the most adorable, romantic story I had ever heard. It also turned me green with envy. I was 17 and fresh out of twelve years of all-girls schools and camp, and I too wanted to be caressed by a stuffed animal. (This whole admission is far more cringe-worthy to write than it is to read, I assure you.)

Though I still think the story is kind of cute, I also find it disturbing. My friend and I were so immature and clueless about sex and navigating the tricky sexual and romantic interactions between men and women. And our respective yeshiva educations had labored to ensure that we wouldn’t know much more before we got married. I suppose this wouldn’t have been too terrible if you managed to stay religious and marry someone as clueless as yourself.

But if you decided to abandon the practice in your early 20s, as I did, you find yourself in a new, more sexually experienced dating pool, feeling like a kid in water wings while everyone else around you can swim with ease. And if your new peer group assumes a degree of sexual experience and your old one has none, it can be quite difficult to find practical advice on the matter.

That’s how I felt during my senior of college when I decided that I was done observing shomer negiah but didn’t know how to signal to my friends, most of whom only knew me as really observant, that they could now hug me or thrown an arm around me in group photos instead of being forced to lean in awkwardly without touching. I briefly considered donning a pair of Hammer pants and singing You Can Touch This, but decided to remain mum on the subject until I graduated.

The years after college involved a move to a different coast where I was free to reinvent myself as someone who wore pants and touched men—no song and dance number needed by way of explanation. But despite my fancy new jeans and tank tops and indiscriminate hugs, I was still rather clueless. It took several years of awkward fumbling to attain a degree of sexual experience and confidence.

This awkward past is part of the reason I find the newly launched website Jewrotica so charming. Though the name suggests some degree of naughtiness and kink, many of the posts on the site seem to be aimed towards a less sexually experienced demographic, which seems to be part of the design of founder Ayo Oppenheimer. (Even the more sexually adventurous writing doesn’t feel especially titillating or extreme in a world where Dan Savage is now considered mainstream.)

Oppenheimer was raised Orthodox and experienced the same sort of culture shock that many of the subjects in the Forward article felt at being introduced to secular college life and dating. At least part of the aim of Jewrotica seems to be educating others who grew up similarly sheltered.

At times, this means having the sort of debates you might hear at a Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance conference. There was one recent post that presented halachic and societal arguments about whether or not women can and should wear pants. Obviously, clothing is a bit part of feminine sexuality, so this information is not entirely out of place.

It sounds, however, like a lot of the reasoning and rationalizing I did a few years before I was ready for any sort of sexual contact. Though ostensibly I majored in English and Communication in college, I actually spent my first two years concentrating on the academic/Talmudic/philosophical reasons I could wear jeans.

To read those particular posts as an adult isn’t illuminating as much as it is nostalgia-inducing. They took me back to a time before I possessed practical knowledge, when Jewish practice was about arguments and proofs, where thinking about doing was about as far I was willing to go.

I’m glad that other young Jewish women will have a better source of information about sexuality than I did back in my college days when I primarily relied on television. And I plan to continue reading Jewrotica, if for no other reason than to reminisce about those awkward years that you never truly overcome.

(Image via Shutterstock)

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Fresh off their meme-tastic visit to the White House, the fierce five are back with a Gangnam parody video of their own: Gymnam Style

Jewish golden girl Aly Raisman joins fellow U.S. gymnasts Gabby Douglas and Jordyn Wieber in the video, which takes place at the Levine Cancer Institute in North Carolina as well as inside the N.C. State gymnasium, where the cheerleaders got in on the Gangnam action too.

The post Gymnast Aly Raisman Goes Gangnam in New ‘Gymnam Style’ Parody Video appeared first on Jewcy.

In case you choose to investigate me like Jonah Lehrer—I’m that important—I should warn you that a few of these concepts and jokes have been recycled from a blog post I wrote last year for my own site, The Anti-Girlfriend. There are only so many rib jokes out there.

In this week’s Torah portion, which is the first of the year as the cycle of readings renews after Simchat Torah, we encounter the creation of the world, the animal kingdom, man and then finally woman from man’s rib.

As a young yeshiva student, I never learned the obvious feminist critiques of this particular allegory even if the narrative was at times subtly presented as a reason for the “natural” pecking order—men in dominion over women. According to this view, Adam is the earliest known venture capitalist with an eternal equity stake in women’s bodies. In other words, a very early forerunner of the Republican Party.

Rather, my teachers explained it from the matchmaking perspective. Adam was lonely and noticed that everyone else—all of the newly created animals—had a complement. Bulls had cows. Male monkeys had female monkeys. (I suppose he Adam could’ve been patient until some of those female chimps evolved into suitable partners, but he was solidly in the Creationist camp.) Like the lead female character in every romantic comedy for the last twenty years, he was tired of being stuck alone at the singles table. But there were no sassy gay best friends back in those days, so he took his grievances to the Ultimate Wingman—God.

“God,” Adam said shrilly, “all of my friends are married. It’s not fair.”

As most know, God then put Adam to sleep and created a wife, Chava, from his rib. And because of this, men are compelled to seek out their missing rib in the form of a wife, who was created from it. In Bereishit it is written: “On account of this a man leaves his father and his mother and clings to his woman.”

Superficially, it’s actually very cute—the orthopedic equivalent of those “best friend” necklaces you used to wear in middle school, with each friend wearing one half heart until the inevitable falling out over a guy or a nasty text.

It’s also nice to read a narrative where the man is depicted as the needy one, desperate to meet a mate, the one made to feel that there are simply no suitable women out there for him to mate with. (“I’m sorry,” Adam’s simian best friend must’ve said. “I just don’t know of a girl for you. All the women I know are married and apes.”)

But as a modern woman, the orthopedic soul mate narrative is troubling, and not just for the popular domination/subjugation narrative it supports. The biblical origin story of Adam, his rib, and the male quest to find a “helpmate” also provides some scriptural basis to the “dating” rules—that the man should be in pursuit and that a woman is supposed to wait around until a guy comes around and identifies her as the possessor of his rib.

I know it might seem like I’m taking this whole “rib” allegory too seriously, but as a result of medical experience, I’ve been forced to give this body part a lot of thought. You see, one third of my bottommost floating rib on my left side was removed and placed in my spine to fuse my spine. “I’m creation, upended,” I joked with my friends.

When I was 14, I was diagnosed with scoliosis, but mine was not the Judy Blume version of the spinal abnormality. I was no Deenie. Hers was relatively moderate, correctible through a brace. Mine was quite severe. By the time it was diagnosed, it was already in the operable range—above 50 degrees. A few months later when I underwent the procedure, the curve had jumped to 72 degrees. I was getting pretty close to being contorted into a right angle.

Typically, the surgeon removes a bone chip from the patient’s hip and breaks it into even small chips, which are then inserted in between the vertebrae. Like the two parts of a broken arm knitting back together, the bone chips fuse to the vertebrae, creating one solid, immoveable mass, correcting and arresting the growth of curve. Then titanium rods and screws are then inserted to act as internal cast.

But since my surgeon elected to perform anterior and posterior fusion on me—mostly due to the fact that I resolutely refused to wear a brace after the surgery—he removed a third of my rib since he was already in the anatomical neighborhood. Instead of being created from someone else’s rib, I was mended by own.

In the immediate aftermath of the procedure, I didn’t give this much thought. I didn’t think about what lay underneath the scar that stretched from behind my rib cage to mere inches from my navel. Mostly, I was horrified by the sight of it, collapsing in hysterics when the bandages were first removed.

But as the years progressed, I changed my tune when it came to the scars. (The other one runs down two-thirds of my spine.) I came to regard them as badass—signs of my ability to overcome a major physical setback. A year after the fusion, I went back to my beloved sport of gymnastics. In my mid-twenties, I added break dancing to my athletic repertoire.

Still, I didn’t give my ribs much thought until a couple of years ago when I started feeling intense pain and tightening in the left side of my chest. I thought I was having a heart attack and went to my doctor in tears. I was 27, a quasi-vegetarian who worked out five times a week with no family history of heart disease or problems. I couldn’t understand how this could be happening to me.

Thankfully (and as my doctor expected), my heart was not the problem. My ribs were. Specifically the ones on my left side were not as mobile and flexible as they needed to be in order to expand and contract for breathing because the muscles around them had tightened up. “Why the left side only,” I asked “and not the right?”

“Because you’re missing a part of your rib on the left,” the scoliosis specialist answered. “The muscles there have less skeletal support.”

And for the first time in thirteen years, I really missed that little piece of my rib.

I guess this means I sort of understand guys a little better—the need to pursue that missing piece of you. Of course, I don’t have to look much further than my back for my missing piece, but that’s really difficult. It’s really tough for me to twist because of the titanium and screws in my spine.

Anyway, I guess I’ll have to pursue my missing rib the way the men have—by pursuing a mate. Can you really blame me? I’m rib deficient, just like the boys.

The post Creation, Upended: Adam Isn’t the Only One Missing a Piece of his Rib appeared first on Jewcy.

This was the first Rosh Hashanah I didn’t go to shul. I still saw friends, went to meals, dipped the apple in honey more than once, yet I never entered any one of the several minyanim I’ve frequented in the past. I never opened the machzor I’ve been using for years, the one I received free in the mail for a hoped-for donation that I didn’t send. And I never heard the shofar blasts calling me to repentance.

Does this mean I was blameless all year, that I had nothing to repent for? Hardly. It’s just that despite the myriad of rituals, the primary way the Jews I know mark Rosh Hashanah is with an extra-long synagogue service. And I don’t enjoy prayer.

This is not merely a sign of how degenerate I’ve become since leaving Orthodoxy. Prayer, even when I was a full-on believer, was always the most difficult part of Judaism for me. I’ve never been able to sit or stand still and even the most vigorous shokeling, the ritualistic swaying that the religious set do while davening, was never enough to keep boredom at bay. As a child, I was able to leave services without glares of disapproval and would spend hours in the ladies’ room with a friend, swinging from stalls (though I never did giant swings like John Cage did on Ally McBeal) and giving bubbies the scare of their lives when I popped out.

As I got older, I was expected to stay in the women’s section for even longer periods of time as though age had miraculously reformed my twitchy nature. It did no such thing. Throughout the practically daylong Rosh Hashanah services, I’d alternate my foot tapping from one leg to the other and then back again. I would leave my seat as often as possible to get sips of water from the fountain or to visit the restroom. I no longer attempted acrobatics in the stalls. Rather, I engaged in the more teenage-appropriate behavior of checking my hair in the mirror. But after five old ladies entered the bathroom and then left, I felt obligated to return the sanctuary.

Despite these stratagems, there was still left ample time to stew in my seat. Or stand and pray. The worst was mussaf, which translates to “additional service.” The first part is recited to oneself and I did my best to complete it as quickly as possible in order to get a chance at sitting before the even longer repetition portion began. (Woe unto me when I learned at school that I wasn’t supposed to sit down in front of a person still engaged in prayer. I’d stare angrily at the woman behind me who seemed to be taking her sweet time communing with God and seeking blessings for her family. I hated her so much.)

I also engaged in “machzor math” by flipping to the end of the mussaf service to figure out how many pages were left until the final shofar blasts of the day. (As a math-phobic person, this remains the only type of arithmetic I’ve ever been any good at.)

At times, however, I took a grim satisfaction in surviving the service as though I had run some sort of liturgical marathon. Back at school after the holidays, we’d boast to one another about how long our davening lasted. The winners (and losers) were the ones who didn’t get to eat lunch until it was practically time for seniors in Florida to get their early bird specials. (This same sort of competition was applied to Passover seders. Eating dinner before midnight was a sign of impiety.) In Orthodox Judaism, as in my beloved sport of gymnastics, your grit is measured by how much suffering you can endure.

As an adult, I stopped attending Orthodox services. I found congregations that shared my values, from egalitarianism to social justice. There is just one problem—these guys use a liturgy very similar in content and length to the service of my youth. And they really like to sing it out.

Again, I found myself resorting to the same time-killing strategies I used as a kid. I showed up late, got up often to go to the bathroom and get sips of water. I found people to speak to. I rose and sat with the congregation. And I counted how many pages we had to go until we would be free for the day.

When I woke up on Monday morning, I was ready to go through all of it again. I’d show up late and then distract others with mindless chatter. And then I’d distract myself when they’d finally shush me. I’d rise and sit in accordance with the script. Once again I’d hope that instead of ten or twenty minutes of connectedness with the material and the songs, maybe I’d get half an hour this year.

Then I decided to go back to sleep. Perhaps it was pure laziness that kept me in bed for hours with a book and a cup of coffee until it was time to meet my friends for lunch. And it was that, at least in part. But it was also me finally recognizing that prayer wasn’t meant to be my form of spiritual expression and engagement.

On some level, this is surprising. I’m a writer and rabbinic Judaism (as one good rabbi friend once pointed out to me) is a verbal culture. I enjoy text study and can argue for hours. You’d think that prayer, being comprised of a lot words written into books, would also thrill me. But when confronted with the liturgical text, I rarely feel anything in the recitation of it, even amongst a group of friends I love and respect. It mostly leaves me cold.

So what’s the difference between the intellectual discussion that excites me and the prayers that bore me to distraction? It is, in part, the demand for stillness. I’m not a meditative sort and I feel most connected when I’m moving and dancing. But it’s also the rote nature of these lengthy services. What I cherish about literary analysis and debate is that though we are working from a static text, we’re improvising as we argue. For me, spirituality is achieved, however briefly, from constant shifting and changing. I can’t work from a script. (Or remember a beam routine much to my former coach’s chagrin.)

This reminds me, like virtually everything else in life, of a moment from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. When Werewolf Oz is asked about Sunnydale High School’s marching jazz band, he explains, “Since the best jazz is improvisational, we’d be going off in all directions, banging into floats…scary.”

Similarly, a standardized davening keeps the congregation together. The unity and cohesion of many voices joining together, saying the same words, is for some an incredibly spiritual experience. I have friends who find great fulfillment and connectedness in the traditional service.

Thankfully, these folks mostly indulge me and my inability to daven. After two years of living in Los Angeles, my friends hosted a Shabbat lunch to bid me farewell. When it came time to bench after the meal, one announced, “I think that because it’s Dvora’s last Shabbat here, we should bench quietly and to ourselves, the way she likes it.” It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.

Though undoubtedly these friends also find Rosh Hashanah davening overly long—I’ve spied others doing machzor math—they enjoy a good sing-along and get into it. I wouldn’t want anyone to cut it short on my behalf.

Besides, the longer they spend in shul, the more time I get to spend in bed or dancing around my apartment before I meet them for the most Jewish act of all—eating.

(image via Shutterstock)

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Almost no one is happier than I am that Alexandra Raisman won the Olympic gold medal on the floor exercise at the just-finished London Olympics. I’ve been a fan of the teenage American gymnast since 2010, when she first appeared on television at the American Cup. Virtually unknown as a junior athlete, she burst onto the senior scene and placed second in the all-around and has made very few missteps since then.

But only now is the Jewish world catching onto Raisman’s tumbling prowess and general awesomeness. Not only are they expressing tribal/ethnic pride, which is totally natural, they’re trying to figure out how to leverage her Jewishness, athleticism, and popularity in service of that favorite watchword, “engagement.”

In an op-ed in the Jerusalem Post, Abe Novick sketches out his hopes for Raisman’s upcoming trip to the Holy Land as a tool for connecting young Jews to their religious identity and the state of Israel. He writes:

While meeting and touring Israel and while fielding offers from marketers willing to shower millions upon her, Israel and Jewish organizations should also consider the larger implications of having someone like Aly as an inspiration to help bridge a divide that American youth have toward their Jewish identities as well as their feelings about Israel. Moreover, Aly could be a symbol and an embodiment of Jewish values to youth of all races and backgrounds.

That’s a lot of pressure to foist on the shoulders of a teenager. I have no doubt that Raisman believes what she said in support of a moment of silence for the murdered Munich athletes. Still, it’s a bit of leap to now turn Raisman into some sort of Jewish role model charged with being successful where millions of dollars and thousands of programs have only had uneven results at best: engaging unaffiliated Jewish youth.

Yes, the answer is to use everything and everyone popular and labeled as “Jewish” to get the young kids engaged. I imagine the same idea went through everyone’s heads back in 1996 when Jewish gymnast Kerri Strug left the Olympic Games as arguably an even bigger celebrity than Raisman. In one of the most dramatic moments in Olympic history, she vaulted on a sprained ankle to ensure the gold for the American women, the first ever team title for the U.S.

Did the Jewish community conspire to turn Strug into a tool for Jewish engagement? I don’t know. I was 13 at the time and all I cared about was watching my tapes of the competition until they warped. (I even went to a stop on the post-Olympic tour in 1996 and bought a t-shirt with a picture of the team on it that I still have never worn out of fear of staining it.)

But even if they had so planned, it clearly didn’t take. Strug, while a beloved past Olympian, went on to live a largely private life. She certainly didn’t become a Jewish figurehead, doing flips to convince the kids that Judaism is cool. (Also, since when is gymnastics even cool? I know for a fact that it isn’t. My entire life has been an exercise in trying to convince my friends and family to care about the sport. I’ve mostly failed at this.)

A lot of significance has been attached to Raisman’s choice of “Hava Nagila” as a floor exercise soundtrack. She started competing with this particular floor exercise over a year ago, at a domestic qualifying meet. Shortly thereafter, I interviewed her about the song selection and though she expressed religious pride in performing to it, there was no mention of the 40th anniversary of the Munich massacre.

In fact, it was Martha Karolyi, the Romanian born national team coordinator, who reportedly suggested using Jewish wedding music, according to Raisman’s mother, Lynn. It was Lynn who found the version with whistling that her daughter used to win the Olympic gold medal. While Karolyi might’ve thought it would be nice to have something connected to Raisman’s own heritage, her top priority was probably finding a piece of music that would get Raisman and the crowd engaged. Folk music is ideal for this purpose. (There have been at least four other elite gymnasts who have used Hava Nagila in elite competition prior to Raisman. As far as I know, none of the others are Jewish.)

As an ardent gymnastics fan and blogger, I’d support turning Raisman into some kind of Jewish figurehead if, in turn, the Jewish world had to start caring about my beloved sport year round, instead of once every four years. It’s a two way street, folks. This means that her next competition (should she decide to compete after this year) would have to be covered by all the Jewish media outlets even if she changes her floor music—which she undoubtedly will since she’s been using “Hava” for two competitive seasons now. If we want her time and unwavering support, it’s time we gave her ours. (I’d like to nominate myself as official Jewish media correspondent to all gymnastics meets so we don’t miss an angle and opportunity for “engagement.”)

I’m not saying that Raisman wouldn’t make an excellent Jewish ambassador, but let’s pause for a second before we make her Queen of the Heebs. We shouldn’t be reading too deeply into song selection and a few comments. She is only eighteen, after all. Like anyone that age, she is still finding her voice and opinion on a whole range of issues, Judaism included. I don’t think we’d want her endorsing Judaism and Israel as she would a product line.

But if she does agree to a Jewish-themed advertisement, please let it be like the one 2008 Olympic champion Shawn Johnson made for Ortega. Raisman can be to latkes what Johnson was to tacos.

The post Leave Aly Raisman Alone appeared first on Jewcy.

Olympic gold medalist Gabby Douglas is featured in Us Weekly’s “25 Things You Don’t Know About Me” feature, where she reveals that her favorite meal is none other than matzoh ball soup—or as we like to call it, Jewish penicillin. The 16-year-old gymnast also roots for the Los Angeles Lakers, likes music by Drake and Katy Perry, and says her prayers everyday. Gabby Douglas, we love you.

Previously: Gold Medalist Aly Raisman Commemorates 1972 Munich Games
Jewish Gymnast Aly Raisman’s Parents Nervously Watch Her Olympic Routine
Finding Out My Favorite Gymnasts Won Olympic Gold Medals—on Tisha B’Av

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Jewish gymnast Aly Raisman, who notably performs her floor routine to “Hava Nagila,” gave an unexpectedly entertaining uneven bar performance last night. Well, her parents did.

Watch as Lynn and Rick Raisman express the gnawing physical discomfort that we can only imagine accompanies seeing your little girl up on those bars, at the Olympics, in front of ALL OF THOSE PEOPLE. Fortunately for all of us, the routine went well—and they were caught on camera mid-cringe.

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