This time last year, I was devouring every article I could on misogyny and sexism. My passion for gender equality grew with each passing day. I became a madwoman, obsessed with calling out the overt and covert anti-woman messages in our society. I decided to do something about it, and organized an event on campus, started a hashtag to document the low representation of women in leadership/STEM/politics/business/everything, and took every conversation as a teachable moment to educate my poor friends about the horrendous injustices against women that occur in the world around us on a daily basis. As a woman, a member of the oppressed group, I was in a unique position to speak my truth and express the societal plague from my personal point of view. At some level, I was protected because I brought my own experiences to the table.
Now, I am applying that same fury and passion to a different issue: racism. I am trying to educate myself with articles and books (thanks to my mother for sending "All Eyes are Upon Us: Race and Politics from Boston to Brooklyn"), participate in demonstrations (http://www.localsyr.com/story/d/story/upstate-medical-students-demonstrate-against-polic/16388/Ix10odt1EEWjQ7UZjBIs-w), and speak out whenever possible to draw attention to the pervasiveness of this issue.
While I am applying all that I learned during my self-proclaimed Feminist Awakening, in terms of learning the language of the movement, reading the essentials, and most of all, bravery in the face of those who do not see what I see, there is something different this time. I am on the outside looking in. As a white ally, my focus is now on acknowledging my own privileges, listening to the experiences of others, and encouraging other white would-be/could-be-allies to do the same.
Essentially, the most difficult and most important part of my activism now is shutting up.
Of course, this is not my natural state. I am more of a fist in the air, lead the charge sort of gal. But the more I read and hear about racism, the more I realize the experiences of people of color are totally incomprehensible to me, specifically because racism is so deep and so pervasive that I cannot even imagine the constancy of oppression. Each person's story confirms to me that I will never be able to relate to the pain and fear that comes with being part of a racial minority.
My hope is that as more white people shut up and listen, more people of color will be able to share their experiences. An example of this is the #alivewhileblack hashtag on twitter, which is really worth a read (https://twitter.com/hashtag/alivewhileblack). I don't know what it is going to take to make people believe that racism is alive and well in our country, but before we can come to that conclusion as a group, I do not think there is much hope of combatting it.
Saturday, December 13, 2014
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Learning on the Job
I'm taking it as a good sign that during the three hours I spent at the foot clinic in the homeless shelter today, I only looked at the clock once, and that was to make sure I would have time to see another patient.
I was late and frazzled when I arrived. I had just shoved easy mac down my throat after spending 9 hours at school and I had forgotten my keys in my room and had to have an RA unlock my apartment. I was having trust issues with my GPS and really heightened parking anxiety until I pulled into the lot of the men's homeless shelter here in Syracuse, a five minute drive from my building.
A man greeted me in the parking lot. He was very friendly. I assumed he was staying at the shelter, but he told me he was security and would make sure I got in OK. Later, he was talking to someone about recently getting out of jail. He was sweet to me and not inappropriate in any way during the clinic. I figured it was better to have him on my side than not.
On the way to the room where we held the clinic, I passed by two large dormitory rooms. There must have been thirty beds in each, bunked. I passed the "lounge," where the lights had been turned off and some men were sitting around watching tv, presumably. Everyone was in good spirits and greeted us. The medical students come once a month on Thursday evenings and are very well received.
I got introduced to the other students, the podiatrist, and the MD running the clinic. We were all wearing Upstate t shirts and jeans, except for the doctor who wore a white coat. The clinic was a small room with tables and chairs set up, which also doubled as the computer lab. There were inspirational Christian quotes on posters on the walls. At any given time, we had five patients in the clinic room. We all sat on folding chairs.
Patient confidentiality is a little hazy to me at this point, so I'm going to err on the side of caution and not tell you about them. But I will tell you--they lived at the shelter. Some worked, some didn't. Some had hypertension and family history of heart attack, some didn't. They were all self-conscious about their feet. Their feet had fungus in them and on them, and thick, painful callouses. I can't imagine what it is like to walk all day in the same old ill-fitting boots and same old socks.
We took their medical histories and asked them what brought them in. Some wanted toenails clipped, some wanted their fungus treated, some had pain and didn't know why. I worked with a second year med student to take the histories and do the physical exam on the foot. We would put a drape down on our laps and have the men put their feet in our laps on the drape. I was instantly comfortable with this. I loved inspecting the feet, checking for strength and sensation, reflexes, pulse. I was fascinated by the fungus but tried not to get too excited about it. The smell was definitely there but did not affect me in the slightest.
For one man with pain, this was the first time in a very long time he had put his feet up. He said the elevating felt very good. While my second year partner went to go get a razor for the callouses, I had a while to wait with this patient. He was embarrassed about the smell and appearance of his feet and wanted to take them off my lap. I could tell he felt relief from the elevation and human contact though, so I told him I would keep palpating and testing for sensation while we waited. By the time my partner came back with the razor, I had a connection with this patient and he was happy to let me hack away at his thick callouses (which I found quite therapeutic...for myself).
I'm not sure if anyone else feels this at the doctor's office, but I love having my neck checked, my back palpated, being asked to breathe in deeply, the quiet and assuring tone of voice my doctor uses as she narrates the exam...I fell into this pattern with my patients tonight. There was an MD there to treat the fungus and advise in the management of diabetes, but I was able to give these patients attention, a listening ear, and a soothing touch.
Two summers ago, I participated in an experience that made me highly critical and even skeptical of service. I carry those critical thoughts with me whenever I engage in an experience like this, or my weekly "Reading Buddies" program that I have started doing at the elementary school nearby (I read for an hour on Wednesdays with a third grade girl). I try to have a realistic view of what I am able to give to people, what they need from me, and how those two things intersect.
I believe that tonight was a great example of a time when I had something to give, there was a need for it in my community, and there was an outlet for me to safely and effectively deliver that service. Working with a team that included a podiatrist and an MD, as well as in the context of a highly structured and long-standing program, made me feel confident that I was part of a service program that improved the lives of the people it serviced, and not just those who served.
I was late and frazzled when I arrived. I had just shoved easy mac down my throat after spending 9 hours at school and I had forgotten my keys in my room and had to have an RA unlock my apartment. I was having trust issues with my GPS and really heightened parking anxiety until I pulled into the lot of the men's homeless shelter here in Syracuse, a five minute drive from my building.
A man greeted me in the parking lot. He was very friendly. I assumed he was staying at the shelter, but he told me he was security and would make sure I got in OK. Later, he was talking to someone about recently getting out of jail. He was sweet to me and not inappropriate in any way during the clinic. I figured it was better to have him on my side than not.
On the way to the room where we held the clinic, I passed by two large dormitory rooms. There must have been thirty beds in each, bunked. I passed the "lounge," where the lights had been turned off and some men were sitting around watching tv, presumably. Everyone was in good spirits and greeted us. The medical students come once a month on Thursday evenings and are very well received.
I got introduced to the other students, the podiatrist, and the MD running the clinic. We were all wearing Upstate t shirts and jeans, except for the doctor who wore a white coat. The clinic was a small room with tables and chairs set up, which also doubled as the computer lab. There were inspirational Christian quotes on posters on the walls. At any given time, we had five patients in the clinic room. We all sat on folding chairs.
Patient confidentiality is a little hazy to me at this point, so I'm going to err on the side of caution and not tell you about them. But I will tell you--they lived at the shelter. Some worked, some didn't. Some had hypertension and family history of heart attack, some didn't. They were all self-conscious about their feet. Their feet had fungus in them and on them, and thick, painful callouses. I can't imagine what it is like to walk all day in the same old ill-fitting boots and same old socks.
We took their medical histories and asked them what brought them in. Some wanted toenails clipped, some wanted their fungus treated, some had pain and didn't know why. I worked with a second year med student to take the histories and do the physical exam on the foot. We would put a drape down on our laps and have the men put their feet in our laps on the drape. I was instantly comfortable with this. I loved inspecting the feet, checking for strength and sensation, reflexes, pulse. I was fascinated by the fungus but tried not to get too excited about it. The smell was definitely there but did not affect me in the slightest.
For one man with pain, this was the first time in a very long time he had put his feet up. He said the elevating felt very good. While my second year partner went to go get a razor for the callouses, I had a while to wait with this patient. He was embarrassed about the smell and appearance of his feet and wanted to take them off my lap. I could tell he felt relief from the elevation and human contact though, so I told him I would keep palpating and testing for sensation while we waited. By the time my partner came back with the razor, I had a connection with this patient and he was happy to let me hack away at his thick callouses (which I found quite therapeutic...for myself).
I'm not sure if anyone else feels this at the doctor's office, but I love having my neck checked, my back palpated, being asked to breathe in deeply, the quiet and assuring tone of voice my doctor uses as she narrates the exam...I fell into this pattern with my patients tonight. There was an MD there to treat the fungus and advise in the management of diabetes, but I was able to give these patients attention, a listening ear, and a soothing touch.
Two summers ago, I participated in an experience that made me highly critical and even skeptical of service. I carry those critical thoughts with me whenever I engage in an experience like this, or my weekly "Reading Buddies" program that I have started doing at the elementary school nearby (I read for an hour on Wednesdays with a third grade girl). I try to have a realistic view of what I am able to give to people, what they need from me, and how those two things intersect.
I believe that tonight was a great example of a time when I had something to give, there was a need for it in my community, and there was an outlet for me to safely and effectively deliver that service. Working with a team that included a podiatrist and an MD, as well as in the context of a highly structured and long-standing program, made me feel confident that I was part of a service program that improved the lives of the people it serviced, and not just those who served.
| A. E. Housman (1859–1936). A Shropshire Lad. 1896. |
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Live and Learn
My high school music teacher said a lot of profound things, and that's why I continued taking his classes and playing in ensembles and embarrassing myself on the music theory AP exam. But he said something that really resonates with me today, sitting here studying in the first month of my first year of medical school.
He said that adults who had never learned to read music or play an instrument before were less likely to learn it not because they didn't have the skills, but because it had been so long since they had been so so so bad at something. They didn't want to start by playing Hot Cross Buns. They didn't want to take moving on to Jingle Bells as a sign of their accomplishments. They didn't want to learn how to read a new language of lines and dots. They didn't want to be a fourth grader squawking on a trumpet at age 45.
I'm now at the bottom once again. I'm squawking loudly on my trumpet. My eyes are crossing as I consider that all of this knowledge will one day truly be mine.
The particular subject I'm studying now (well, I took a break from it to write these thoughts down), embryogensis, reminds me that this learning is possible. I distinctly remember learning about the three germ layers in auto tutorial biology in my first semester at Cornell four years ago. I was truly awed by the human body's ability to differentiate and orient its cells in such a way that most people come out with two arms at their sides and two legs beneath them and eyes on the front of their face. When I learned about the concentration gradients of signal molecules that set up front/back left/right and up/down axes of the body, I was filled with wonder. Could humans, with all our technology and advancements and self confidence, could humans have created such a system? Could we have designed a body that would develop perfectly and beautifully on its own?
Every day I marvel that the human body produces structures and systems that are far superior to any material replacement that we can create. Our plastics and our teflons and our magical mixtures of metals are no match for bone or tendon or tissue. I do hope that we get there someday. I hope that we are able to give people replacement body parts that outshine what nature is able to provide and improve the quality of life or extend the length of life for anyone and everyone who needs it.
Today, though, I stand humbled at my body's ability to continuously rejuvenate itself, develop, grow, strengthen, recover, and learn. I would like to say a special thank you (and apologize) to my brain for all that it has been up to the past several years and in the future. On one hand, I can't believe I've chosen of my own free will to go back to square one, feeling like I know absolutely nothing and perpetually overwhelmed by the idea that one day I will know all of this (the contents of the binder in front of me, or the contents of what I will learn in medical school and residency and beyond).
I did it before though, that's what college was for. It taught me that I could learn anything. I learned that I could learn to do a 4x4 Rubik's Cube, that I could learn how the eye transmitted sensory information to the brain, that I could start from zero and learn how the egg formed and how the sperm formed and how that made a human, that I could learn how to be a feminist or anything else I wanted to be. And now I want to be a doctor. So here I go. Pay no attention to the six year old squeaking on a violin behind the curtain.
He said that adults who had never learned to read music or play an instrument before were less likely to learn it not because they didn't have the skills, but because it had been so long since they had been so so so bad at something. They didn't want to start by playing Hot Cross Buns. They didn't want to take moving on to Jingle Bells as a sign of their accomplishments. They didn't want to learn how to read a new language of lines and dots. They didn't want to be a fourth grader squawking on a trumpet at age 45.
I'm now at the bottom once again. I'm squawking loudly on my trumpet. My eyes are crossing as I consider that all of this knowledge will one day truly be mine.
The particular subject I'm studying now (well, I took a break from it to write these thoughts down), embryogensis, reminds me that this learning is possible. I distinctly remember learning about the three germ layers in auto tutorial biology in my first semester at Cornell four years ago. I was truly awed by the human body's ability to differentiate and orient its cells in such a way that most people come out with two arms at their sides and two legs beneath them and eyes on the front of their face. When I learned about the concentration gradients of signal molecules that set up front/back left/right and up/down axes of the body, I was filled with wonder. Could humans, with all our technology and advancements and self confidence, could humans have created such a system? Could we have designed a body that would develop perfectly and beautifully on its own?
Every day I marvel that the human body produces structures and systems that are far superior to any material replacement that we can create. Our plastics and our teflons and our magical mixtures of metals are no match for bone or tendon or tissue. I do hope that we get there someday. I hope that we are able to give people replacement body parts that outshine what nature is able to provide and improve the quality of life or extend the length of life for anyone and everyone who needs it.
Today, though, I stand humbled at my body's ability to continuously rejuvenate itself, develop, grow, strengthen, recover, and learn. I would like to say a special thank you (and apologize) to my brain for all that it has been up to the past several years and in the future. On one hand, I can't believe I've chosen of my own free will to go back to square one, feeling like I know absolutely nothing and perpetually overwhelmed by the idea that one day I will know all of this (the contents of the binder in front of me, or the contents of what I will learn in medical school and residency and beyond).
I did it before though, that's what college was for. It taught me that I could learn anything. I learned that I could learn to do a 4x4 Rubik's Cube, that I could learn how the eye transmitted sensory information to the brain, that I could start from zero and learn how the egg formed and how the sperm formed and how that made a human, that I could learn how to be a feminist or anything else I wanted to be. And now I want to be a doctor. So here I go. Pay no attention to the six year old squeaking on a violin behind the curtain.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Welcome to Medical School
"This is your education. Who do you think you're fooling?"
--Dr. Paul Shanley on "just getting by" and learning material just enough to know it for tests.
He explained a scenario in which a student would get by in the first two years medical school then experience a sensation of vague apprehension in the clerkship (3rd and 4th) years of medical school. The student would continue to avoid participation and shrink to the back of the group. By the time that person is a doctor, he or she feels totally unprepared to be a physician and is sent out into the world unable to fake what he or she should have been learning the whole time.
So, this is what I'm going to avoid doing.
Today is my fourth day of medical school. Lectures begin at 8am every day except for Thursdays, and my whole class of 154 people attend every lecture together. The class is 36% women, which is unusual for medical schools these days, but we have conjectured it was more due to the women opting to go elsewhere rather than admission statistics.
The lectures are dense but not hard to follow. Before class began, I was terrified of not being able to understand a word of lecture or just getting so lost that it was useless. Fortunately it has all been quite interesting and the school gives us very detailed hand outs of every lecture that we keep in binders, so I've been taking notes on those as well as on notebook paper.
We have an hour for lunch every day. The cafeteria in the school is all right and very cheap. Today I tried the cafeteria in the hospital with some friends and I was very excited by all the options, and my black bean burger was great. Yesterday during lunch I sat in on a Neurosurgery Club meeting, in which food was served, a third year spoke because he had just completed his Neurosurgery clerkship, a Neurosurgeon/Professor spoke and showed videos of his procedures, and there was a panel of residents. I found the procedures in the video very interesting and satisfying, but a seven year residency (including two years of research) isn't too appealing to me. Everyone has said it is really important to keep your mind open to different specialities though!
As for people I've met, I'm very very happy. My class is small enough so I feel like I am getting to know a good number of people at a reasonable pace, but large enough to feel like I still have many wonderful people to meet. 90% of the class is from New York State, and a great number of my classmates took two years or more between undergrad and coming to medical school. My classmates have done interesting things and come to medical school with many interesting perspectives. I feel young and inexperienced in comparison.
My apartment mate and I have been getting along swimmingly, and we have a very pretty apartment in Geneva Tower, the student housing high-rise. She and I have been making friends together and apart, so we are building a web of lovely people with whom we study, eat, work out, and go out. Dancing last weekend was very fun and I am hopeful about the downtown Cuse bar scene. I think I will only go out once a week, because I lose my voice from the loud music and my sleep schedule gets all wacky, but I will look forward to it when I do!
The work outs have been some of the most fun I've had in the past week at Upstate. I've been to two "boot camp" classes and today I attend a Tabata (High Intensity Interval Training) class, which are all taught by second and third year medical students. It's a great way to meet people, exercise, break up my studying with something productive, and have some fun. Even though I do not have the stamina (yet!) for all the exercises, I have a big smile on my face as I attempt them. Today, the medical student leading our class told us to rest on our "sit bones" for an ab exercise, and everyone laughed. Then she replaced it with the technical term, like for real the technical term, which I don't know, and everyone laughed again. It's very humbling to be associated with such smart and accomplished people.
I love putting on my badge every morning that has my ID and says "MEDICAL STUDENT." You have to look really closely on the ID to see that I'm a first year, so I know that no one can tell what year I'm in as I walk through the hospital to get to class. I feel a bit proud and at the same time a bit like I am just pretending. I hope that the latter will go away soon.
That's all I have to report for now. I miss the scenery at Cornell and I miss my cats and my family and my friends from home and college and Israel. But, I can tell this is going to be amazing, and these friends are going to get right up there with my dearest, oldest friends. I'm impatient to get in the swing of things and have best best best friends and know everyone and feel like I belong, but in the meantime, I will soak it all in with a smile and try my hardest and enjoy being a freshman again.
--Dr. Paul Shanley on "just getting by" and learning material just enough to know it for tests.
He explained a scenario in which a student would get by in the first two years medical school then experience a sensation of vague apprehension in the clerkship (3rd and 4th) years of medical school. The student would continue to avoid participation and shrink to the back of the group. By the time that person is a doctor, he or she feels totally unprepared to be a physician and is sent out into the world unable to fake what he or she should have been learning the whole time.
So, this is what I'm going to avoid doing.
Today is my fourth day of medical school. Lectures begin at 8am every day except for Thursdays, and my whole class of 154 people attend every lecture together. The class is 36% women, which is unusual for medical schools these days, but we have conjectured it was more due to the women opting to go elsewhere rather than admission statistics.
The lectures are dense but not hard to follow. Before class began, I was terrified of not being able to understand a word of lecture or just getting so lost that it was useless. Fortunately it has all been quite interesting and the school gives us very detailed hand outs of every lecture that we keep in binders, so I've been taking notes on those as well as on notebook paper.
We have an hour for lunch every day. The cafeteria in the school is all right and very cheap. Today I tried the cafeteria in the hospital with some friends and I was very excited by all the options, and my black bean burger was great. Yesterday during lunch I sat in on a Neurosurgery Club meeting, in which food was served, a third year spoke because he had just completed his Neurosurgery clerkship, a Neurosurgeon/Professor spoke and showed videos of his procedures, and there was a panel of residents. I found the procedures in the video very interesting and satisfying, but a seven year residency (including two years of research) isn't too appealing to me. Everyone has said it is really important to keep your mind open to different specialities though!
As for people I've met, I'm very very happy. My class is small enough so I feel like I am getting to know a good number of people at a reasonable pace, but large enough to feel like I still have many wonderful people to meet. 90% of the class is from New York State, and a great number of my classmates took two years or more between undergrad and coming to medical school. My classmates have done interesting things and come to medical school with many interesting perspectives. I feel young and inexperienced in comparison.
My apartment mate and I have been getting along swimmingly, and we have a very pretty apartment in Geneva Tower, the student housing high-rise. She and I have been making friends together and apart, so we are building a web of lovely people with whom we study, eat, work out, and go out. Dancing last weekend was very fun and I am hopeful about the downtown Cuse bar scene. I think I will only go out once a week, because I lose my voice from the loud music and my sleep schedule gets all wacky, but I will look forward to it when I do!
The work outs have been some of the most fun I've had in the past week at Upstate. I've been to two "boot camp" classes and today I attend a Tabata (High Intensity Interval Training) class, which are all taught by second and third year medical students. It's a great way to meet people, exercise, break up my studying with something productive, and have some fun. Even though I do not have the stamina (yet!) for all the exercises, I have a big smile on my face as I attempt them. Today, the medical student leading our class told us to rest on our "sit bones" for an ab exercise, and everyone laughed. Then she replaced it with the technical term, like for real the technical term, which I don't know, and everyone laughed again. It's very humbling to be associated with such smart and accomplished people.
I love putting on my badge every morning that has my ID and says "MEDICAL STUDENT." You have to look really closely on the ID to see that I'm a first year, so I know that no one can tell what year I'm in as I walk through the hospital to get to class. I feel a bit proud and at the same time a bit like I am just pretending. I hope that the latter will go away soon.
That's all I have to report for now. I miss the scenery at Cornell and I miss my cats and my family and my friends from home and college and Israel. But, I can tell this is going to be amazing, and these friends are going to get right up there with my dearest, oldest friends. I'm impatient to get in the swing of things and have best best best friends and know everyone and feel like I belong, but in the meantime, I will soak it all in with a smile and try my hardest and enjoy being a freshman again.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
David S. Kogan, Class of 1950
In addition to hostessing and nannying this summer, I've been doing some part-time research for Cornell as part of the Sesquicentennial celebration. The task at hand is to collect first-person accounts of different areas of campus life in various categories. One of my sources is a wonderful book by Carol Kammen called "First Person Cornell," and it includes short excerpts from students' diaries and blogs over the years.
Today I was reading one that really piqued my interest, that of David S. Kogan, class of 1950. I read at the beginning of the chapter that he was a reconstructionist Jew in a bio that Kammen wrote for him. I only read the first sentence of the bio paragraph, eager to hear what he had to say about life on the hill.
"October 19, 1946. There's a lot of neck going around in these parts. And even more serious activities. Ah, the Spirit of Co-Education...Crossing the Bridge of Sacred and Profane. First Hillel Service was not particularly impressive, being about seventy-five percent Reform and twenty-five percent Conservative (that is merely hats, no organ, a bit of chanting). Nevertheless it is a necessary compromise.
October 25, 1946. I've been studying the Jews here on the campus. Of the approximately fifteen hundred, about one hundred are truly tied to Jewish values and traditions in the modern sense of the term. Then there are about sixty who are Orthodox and do not have anything to do with conservative Hillel House. Another one or two hundred enjoy going to services and are sympathetic to Jewish tradition. A factor almost unknown among Yonkers youth are the three hundred-odd radicals who work for the PAC and the Negroes and Russia, but have nothing to do with anything Jewish, even refusing to come to Hillel House for social activities. Nevertheless they hang together at the "Universal" meetings where Jews predominate. The remaining nine hundred are in between; some come to occasional services; most going to Hillel House, but not at all really concerned with Jews and Judaism.
November 24, 1947. What are my wants: to study the Jewish heritage--to be well-groomed and in the best physical health--to catalogue my faults and correct them--to satisfy sexual desire consistent with an honorable character and wholesome personality--contemplate, evaluate, and improve my living--to successfully pursue Cornell studies--to read wisely and record the reading--to plan and complete the action which make me a better being...to honor my father and mother...and perhaps more...
May 15, 1948. I am thrilled about the formation of the Jewish State. Last night the beautiful Cornell Chimes played the songs of the modern Jewish Palestine for a full half hour...This weekend I was elected President of the Hillel Foundation for the coming school year."
At this point, I stopped reading and turned back to the beginning of the chapter to finish reading Mr. Kogan's biography, with a dim hope forming in my mind of finding him and writing him an email or beginning some sort of correspondence.
I found this:
"His diary spans his four years at Cornell, though the entries taper off in his final year, when he was diagnosed with a lymphoma and began a series of treatments in both Yonkers, his hometown, and Ithaca. Kogan graduated in June 1950 and died in March 1951."
I felt very sad after reading that, and finished the chapter. Then there was a moment when I paused, sensed some significance in my reading excerpts from his diary, and decided to write this blog post. Funny how souls and personalities can connect and transcend time and existence in the physical realm. In that way, I think there is something metaphysical about writing one's personal reflections in a diary or journal or blog. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I've always kept one, at least since I was 12. Also because I've always assumed that I will be at least slightly famous one day and people will care to read my memoirs.
I would have loved to be present that day on May 15, 1948 as the chimes rang out with "HaTikvah" and "Yerushalayim Shel Zahav" and perhaps some folk songs we used to dance to in Israeli Dance. I would have sung along on Ho Plaza and clipped the newspaper the next day and kept it my whole life.
Thank you to Carol Kammen for compiling these diary entries and to David S. Kogan for remembering this special day for me.
Today I was reading one that really piqued my interest, that of David S. Kogan, class of 1950. I read at the beginning of the chapter that he was a reconstructionist Jew in a bio that Kammen wrote for him. I only read the first sentence of the bio paragraph, eager to hear what he had to say about life on the hill.
"October 19, 1946. There's a lot of neck going around in these parts. And even more serious activities. Ah, the Spirit of Co-Education...Crossing the Bridge of Sacred and Profane. First Hillel Service was not particularly impressive, being about seventy-five percent Reform and twenty-five percent Conservative (that is merely hats, no organ, a bit of chanting). Nevertheless it is a necessary compromise.
October 25, 1946. I've been studying the Jews here on the campus. Of the approximately fifteen hundred, about one hundred are truly tied to Jewish values and traditions in the modern sense of the term. Then there are about sixty who are Orthodox and do not have anything to do with conservative Hillel House. Another one or two hundred enjoy going to services and are sympathetic to Jewish tradition. A factor almost unknown among Yonkers youth are the three hundred-odd radicals who work for the PAC and the Negroes and Russia, but have nothing to do with anything Jewish, even refusing to come to Hillel House for social activities. Nevertheless they hang together at the "Universal" meetings where Jews predominate. The remaining nine hundred are in between; some come to occasional services; most going to Hillel House, but not at all really concerned with Jews and Judaism.
November 24, 1947. What are my wants: to study the Jewish heritage--to be well-groomed and in the best physical health--to catalogue my faults and correct them--to satisfy sexual desire consistent with an honorable character and wholesome personality--contemplate, evaluate, and improve my living--to successfully pursue Cornell studies--to read wisely and record the reading--to plan and complete the action which make me a better being...to honor my father and mother...and perhaps more...
May 15, 1948. I am thrilled about the formation of the Jewish State. Last night the beautiful Cornell Chimes played the songs of the modern Jewish Palestine for a full half hour...This weekend I was elected President of the Hillel Foundation for the coming school year."
At this point, I stopped reading and turned back to the beginning of the chapter to finish reading Mr. Kogan's biography, with a dim hope forming in my mind of finding him and writing him an email or beginning some sort of correspondence.
I found this:
"His diary spans his four years at Cornell, though the entries taper off in his final year, when he was diagnosed with a lymphoma and began a series of treatments in both Yonkers, his hometown, and Ithaca. Kogan graduated in June 1950 and died in March 1951."
I felt very sad after reading that, and finished the chapter. Then there was a moment when I paused, sensed some significance in my reading excerpts from his diary, and decided to write this blog post. Funny how souls and personalities can connect and transcend time and existence in the physical realm. In that way, I think there is something metaphysical about writing one's personal reflections in a diary or journal or blog. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I've always kept one, at least since I was 12. Also because I've always assumed that I will be at least slightly famous one day and people will care to read my memoirs.
I would have loved to be present that day on May 15, 1948 as the chimes rang out with "HaTikvah" and "Yerushalayim Shel Zahav" and perhaps some folk songs we used to dance to in Israeli Dance. I would have sung along on Ho Plaza and clipped the newspaper the next day and kept it my whole life.
Thank you to Carol Kammen for compiling these diary entries and to David S. Kogan for remembering this special day for me.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
"...but first it will piss you off"
reblogged from The New Agenda (my own words) http://www.thenewagenda.
In an instant, I opened my eyes to the gender inequality in portraits that adorned the walls of my alma mater, Cornell University. I was studying in the nutrition building this past Fall when I glanced up and noticed the faces of three white men in suits watching over me from where their portraits hung. This is despite the fact that Cornell granted the first Ph.D. in nutrition to an African-American woman (Flemmie Kittrell in 1936) and that the female undergraduates of the Nutritional Sciences department outnumber the males 495:190 (from the department administration as of April 2014).
Upon noticing this imbalance in one building, I started noticing the same imbalance in other buildings. Portraits of men hung everywhere, and the rare female portrait was most often a famous man’s mother or wife. Again, this is despite the fact that Cornell University has been admitting women since 1870 and boasts some of the most notable alumnae in a variety of fields. These portraits and the names of the buildings that housed them were sending us clear messages about who is important and valued, and it went something along the lines of wealthy, male, and white. If I asked the average Cornellian today to list some famous alumni, they could easily rattle off the names of the libraries, auditoriums, administrative and academic buildings. They would be naming men. But they would be forgetting Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Frances Perkins, Janet Reno, Pearl Buck, Barbara McClintock, and hundreds of other impressive women of Cornell.
I couldn’t think of a good reason for this besides that portraits reflected who had the money and the power, and I couldn’t think of a good reason for who had the money and the power besides that it was the way it’s always been in our patriarchal society. This seemed less than satisfactory to me.
It’s like Gloria Steinem said, “The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.”
The next logical thing to do was to get other people pissed off with me. I started posting on facebook, twitter, and instagram about the problem, and would upload pictures of the offending portraits with the hashtag “#showmethewomen.” It was a call for Cornell and its students to wake up and take notice of the gender inequality that surrounded them.
The hashtag caught on and my friends started uploading photographs and tweeting about gender inequality in portraits, building names, gender ratios in certain departments, business club leadership, and so on. More and more people were beginning to see that the women of Cornell were being short-changed. It was time to act.
My friends and I secured $800 in funding from the university for a special project and got to work naming notable Cornell women, listing their accomplishments, and finding their photographs. We went as far back as Class of 1873 and even included a Class of 2014 member, Olympic Gold Medalist Brianne Jenner (Canadian Women’s Ice Hockey). We asked students to nominate female professors and administrators who had made an impact on the Cornell community and included them as well. This culminated in an art exhibit of 250 black and white photographs of Cornell women that was displayed in the student union for the month of March.
The exhibit attracted students, community members, professors, faculty, and even the women featured! About 25 of the women whose photographs hung on the walls of the exhibit were able to come and view their “portraits.”
The exhibit received enormous praise and great press. Hundreds of people filtered through the gallery over the course of the month and I received countless emails of encouragement and gratitude for the project.
There were people who didn’t get it though, as I knew there would be. Some of my male friends who helped me put the exhibit together couldn’t help but comment on the attractiveness of each woman’s portrait we hung. Others still claimed that it was “only a matter of time” before women’s portraits hung in equal numbers beside men’s at Cornell, and that the exhibit was unnecessary or even wrong.
Although the exhibit has been taken down, #showmethewomen is just getting started, and so am I. The experience taught me to be confident, to take action, and to gather my friends and champions around me. I started seeing the world in a whole new way, and I helped other people start to see it too. I learned that social media can only take a cause so far, and sometimes you need to make things happen in the physical world. Today, I am constantly disappointed (and often pissed off!) by all the places that still need to #showmethewomen, but I feel prepared and excited to start doing something about that.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Fearless Women of Passover
Moses gets most of the press when it comes to Passover, the epic story of
freedom from slavery we are commanded to repeat every year around this time.
Moses is the Prince of Egypt, the Prophet, the face of the Israelites. He gets
credit for splitting the Red Sea and for leading the Israelites out of bondage.
But who gets credit for Moses?
There is a saying that “behind every great man, there is a great woman.” In this
case, there’s a whole softball team of great women behind Moses. And these
women had no reassuring chats with God in a burning bush, no magic rods, no
plagues to back them up. These women were just fearless.
First, there were the women who gave Moses life. These were the midwives who
did not follow Pharaoh’s command to put all newborn Israelite boys to death. As
Rashi understands it, Pharaoh gave this command to Joheved (Moses’ mother)
and Miriam (his sister) directly, and they directly disobeyed, allowing the baby
boys to live. This included Moses.
Then, there were the women who saved Moses’ life. This was Pharaoh’s own
daughter, who found the floating baby Moses and recognized him as “one of
the children of the Hebrews” and had compassion on him (Exodus 2: 5). She
raised him as her own, knowing from day one that Moses was alive because
her father’s orders were disobeyed. Then came Moses’ wife, Zipporah. In one of
the Torah’s most mysterious dramas, an angel of death swallows half of Moses’
body while they are camped in the desert, and Zipporah recognizes this as a sign
to circumcise her son. “So Zipporah took a sharp stone and severed her son's
foreskin and cast it to his feet” in order to save Moses’ life (Exodus 4:25). This
tale of “the bridegroom of blood” is an often overlooked example of Zipporah’s
bravery and quick-thinking.
Finally, after Moses has led the people of Israel on a dangerous, miraculous, and
utterly exhausting chase through the desert and the sea, Miriam sees the people
are in need of a pick-me-up. “Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a
timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with
dances” (Exodus 15:20). Miriam’s energy was contagious, and all the women
joined in without being asked. Miriam’s selfless style of leading by example and
inspiring people to action through her own enthusiasm is a model for all of us.
So this year, when you tell your children of our exodus from Egypt, don’t forget to
give credit to the fearless women in the Passover story who made it possible.
And may you love life like the midwives, be brave like Joheved, have the
compassion of Pharaoh’s daughter, be quick-witted as Zipporah, and exuberant
like Miriam.
freedom from slavery we are commanded to repeat every year around this time.
Moses is the Prince of Egypt, the Prophet, the face of the Israelites. He gets
credit for splitting the Red Sea and for leading the Israelites out of bondage.
But who gets credit for Moses?
There is a saying that “behind every great man, there is a great woman.” In this
case, there’s a whole softball team of great women behind Moses. And these
women had no reassuring chats with God in a burning bush, no magic rods, no
plagues to back them up. These women were just fearless.
First, there were the women who gave Moses life. These were the midwives who
did not follow Pharaoh’s command to put all newborn Israelite boys to death. As
Rashi understands it, Pharaoh gave this command to Joheved (Moses’ mother)
and Miriam (his sister) directly, and they directly disobeyed, allowing the baby
boys to live. This included Moses.
Then, there were the women who saved Moses’ life. This was Pharaoh’s own
daughter, who found the floating baby Moses and recognized him as “one of
the children of the Hebrews” and had compassion on him (Exodus 2: 5). She
raised him as her own, knowing from day one that Moses was alive because
her father’s orders were disobeyed. Then came Moses’ wife, Zipporah. In one of
the Torah’s most mysterious dramas, an angel of death swallows half of Moses’
body while they are camped in the desert, and Zipporah recognizes this as a sign
to circumcise her son. “So Zipporah took a sharp stone and severed her son's
foreskin and cast it to his feet” in order to save Moses’ life (Exodus 4:25). This
tale of “the bridegroom of blood” is an often overlooked example of Zipporah’s
bravery and quick-thinking.
Finally, after Moses has led the people of Israel on a dangerous, miraculous, and
utterly exhausting chase through the desert and the sea, Miriam sees the people
are in need of a pick-me-up. “Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a
timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with
dances” (Exodus 15:20). Miriam’s energy was contagious, and all the women
joined in without being asked. Miriam’s selfless style of leading by example and
inspiring people to action through her own enthusiasm is a model for all of us.
So this year, when you tell your children of our exodus from Egypt, don’t forget to
give credit to the fearless women in the Passover story who made it possible.
And may you love life like the midwives, be brave like Joheved, have the
compassion of Pharaoh’s daughter, be quick-witted as Zipporah, and exuberant
like Miriam.
Finding Your Inner Esther--Some words on Purim
Esther does not assume her post as Queen of the Persian Empire with a passion or
expectation for activism. She does her own thing in the harem, listens to the advice of her
“uncle” Mordecai, pleases King Ahasuerus, asks for little, and follows directions. Unlike
her predecessor Vashti, Esther seems content with a degree of passivity in her role.
Even when it is her time to step up and save the Jewish people living in the 127 provinces
of the empire, ranging from India to Ethiopia, Esther devises a plan to first please the
king with banquets before requesting anything of him. When Esther finally speaks
up on behalf of her people, the king is eager to reverse the decree and punish the man
responsible.
Perhaps the impetus for Esther’s bravery comes from Mordecai’s advice to her, “For if
you will remain silent at this time, relief and salvation will come to the Jews from another
source, but you and the house of your father will be lost. And who knows if it is not for
just such a time that you reached this royal position” (Esther 4:14). Queen Esther breaks
her silence to save herself as well as her fellow Jews.
Mordecai scares Esther into taking action, but he also reminds her that she is in the right
place at the right time to make a difference for herself and for her community.
The story of Purim tells a grand tale of the Jews’ survival, but it is also a step-by-step
guide to advocacy.
Step 1: Keep your friends close. Mordecai and Esther are the winning team in Shushan,
but neither could do it without the help of the other. Foster your friendships and gather a
circle of champions around you who will support you, advise you, inspire you, and give
you a kick in the right direction when the time comes.
Step 2: Choose your battles. Find your inner Esther and be agreeable. Avoid extraneous
demands. Use humor to diffuse tension instead of exacerbating it. Give people the
benefit of the doubt if they misspeak or are unaware of their privilege. Allow thoughtless
offensive remarks to be an opportunity for education. Make people want to help you
when it’s really time for a fight.
Step 3: Make the Ask. It can be difficult to address people of authority with a request.
Whether you are speaking on behalf of yourself, your community, or both, feel entitled
to ask for something directly (especially if you’ve done a good job with steps 1 and 2!
). While Esther addresses the king humbly, she doesn’t beat around the bush when she
asks for her life and the lives of her people to be spared. The clarity of her request makes
it even easier for the king to grant it. A strong “ask” can mean the difference between
getting what you want and getting what someone else feels like giving you.
And who knows? Perhaps you have reached your position for just such a time as this.
expectation for activism. She does her own thing in the harem, listens to the advice of her
“uncle” Mordecai, pleases King Ahasuerus, asks for little, and follows directions. Unlike
her predecessor Vashti, Esther seems content with a degree of passivity in her role.
Even when it is her time to step up and save the Jewish people living in the 127 provinces
of the empire, ranging from India to Ethiopia, Esther devises a plan to first please the
king with banquets before requesting anything of him. When Esther finally speaks
up on behalf of her people, the king is eager to reverse the decree and punish the man
responsible.
Perhaps the impetus for Esther’s bravery comes from Mordecai’s advice to her, “For if
you will remain silent at this time, relief and salvation will come to the Jews from another
source, but you and the house of your father will be lost. And who knows if it is not for
just such a time that you reached this royal position” (Esther 4:14). Queen Esther breaks
her silence to save herself as well as her fellow Jews.
Mordecai scares Esther into taking action, but he also reminds her that she is in the right
place at the right time to make a difference for herself and for her community.
The story of Purim tells a grand tale of the Jews’ survival, but it is also a step-by-step
guide to advocacy.
Step 1: Keep your friends close. Mordecai and Esther are the winning team in Shushan,
but neither could do it without the help of the other. Foster your friendships and gather a
circle of champions around you who will support you, advise you, inspire you, and give
you a kick in the right direction when the time comes.
Step 2: Choose your battles. Find your inner Esther and be agreeable. Avoid extraneous
demands. Use humor to diffuse tension instead of exacerbating it. Give people the
benefit of the doubt if they misspeak or are unaware of their privilege. Allow thoughtless
offensive remarks to be an opportunity for education. Make people want to help you
when it’s really time for a fight.
Step 3: Make the Ask. It can be difficult to address people of authority with a request.
Whether you are speaking on behalf of yourself, your community, or both, feel entitled
to ask for something directly (especially if you’ve done a good job with steps 1 and 2!
). While Esther addresses the king humbly, she doesn’t beat around the bush when she
asks for her life and the lives of her people to be spared. The clarity of her request makes
it even easier for the king to grant it. A strong “ask” can mean the difference between
getting what you want and getting what someone else feels like giving you.
And who knows? Perhaps you have reached your position for just such a time as this.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
My Speech for the Athena Award Ceremony, January 16th 2014
I just graduated from Cornell University about three weeks ago, and it seems like everyone has some advice for me and my future. A friend of mine gave me a book called “What I Wish I Knew When I Was 20” by Tina Seelig. The author tells this story about a mechanical engineering professor who had several female friends from her university who were also engineers in different disciplines.
They often came over to her house for dinner. Her young son was usually around, watching and listening to their conversations. As he got older and proved to be good at math and science someone said to him, “Gee, you should study engineering.” He twisted his face and said, “Absolutely not, engineering is for girls.”
***
It has now been four and a half years since I was honored as a Young Woman of Distinction by the Women’s Council. In those four and a half years, I left the security of my home and my high school, where women ruled, and I learned why this story is funny.
Immediately after I won the Young Woman of Distinction Award in 2009, I worked for six weeks at the Susan B. Anthony House in an internship funded by The Women’s Council. I was inspired by the work of Susan B. Anthony and her tireless devotion to her causes, but I also began opening my eyes to just how far we have to go to reach gender equality.
After a gap year in Israel, I packed up again and moved to Ithaca. At Cornell, I was pre-med and became a leader in the Jewish community, in my sorority, and my residence hall. It was my joy to serve these communities that I loved so deeply, and I was well on my way to becoming a doctor.
But, I started to notice that people always used the words “strong” and “female” when they referred to my leadership. I noticed the surprised looks I got when I told people I wanted to be a surgeon. I noticed that the walls of the Cornell libraries were lined with portraits on portraits of important men.
I noticed that a lot of people don’t think engineering is for girls.
That’s where YWOD comes in. Winning the prize during my senior year of high school, speaking at the award’s ceremony last year, and standing before you today: all of these experiences are like one big THANK YOU NOTE from the world. The recognition is validation for what I have done and motivation to keep working hard, even when the jobs I’m doing feel thankless.
So this is my Thank You Note to you: Thank you for being role models, for what you do for the community, for showing the world what women can be and what we are. Engineering IS for girls, as is business, entrepreneurship, medicine, law, administration, politics, media, and more. And this room proves it.
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