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.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
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.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Show Me the Women
This is what's been keeping me up at night lately, and what I plan to do about it.
I was sitting in the Savage Hall lobby before my class on Mineral Nutrition and Chronic Disease when I noticed three portraits of white men looking down at me. I began to notice that portraits of white men adorn the walls of every building at Cornell University.
That same day, I read an article in the New York Times about women in science, which revealed that even women do not hire other women for science positions as often as they hire equally qualified men. I started to think that part of this is purely what we think a scientist looks like, and that part of this problem is the messaging we are getting through the portraits on the walls at our universities.
When I started talking to friends about the portraits, many people wanted to know why it bothered me that the department founders, big donors, and administrators of the past were mostly men--they saw it as merely a function of history and that surely, these people deserve it.
While I do not want to discredit the people who have had a profound impact on our university, I do believe that they send a message about what merits a portrait at Cornell. That message connects being important with being rich and male and white.
I wish to widen the net of what we consider "important" at Cornell.
My plan is an art exhibition in the spring coinciding with PCCW (President's Council of Cornell Women) Weekend. The exhibit will be located in the Memorial Room of Willard Straight Hall and will feature portraits of prominent Cornell women from over the years. Alumnae who have made significant contributions to their fields, as well as prominent female faculty and administrators, will be featured. The portraits will be edited to look as much like an oil painting as possible, and framed.
Throughout the exhibit, framed mirrors will be installed with titles underneath them, to encourage exhibit-viewers to see themselves as part of the exhibit. A central piece of the exhibit will be a large, blank, framed canvas with the title card: "Cornell's First Female President."
My hope is that this exhibit raises questions about whom we honor in society, what we value in people, and the progress (or not...) of work place equality. I want every student to identify with the people featured, based on gender, race, ethnicity, or area of expertise.
The exhibit will be coupled with programs and discussions with different groups around campus. I am excited to partnering with my friend Lizzie on curated film screenings that feature women as writers, directors, and actors.
Cornell needs a change, and it’s not going to “happen on its own.” While women have begun to outnumber men as college grads, the hopeful trends stop there. Women are paid less for the same jobs as men once they leave college, and often self-select into “female professions” which pay less to begin with. Even here at Cornell, the gender gap starts to widen with the leadership of business clubs being mostly male. If we continue to study underneath the watchful eyes of rich white men in big, important portraits, we will continue thinking that being important means being rich, white, and male.
Cornell cannot change history, but we can change the messages we promote to our students. We can balance out the movies shown at Cornell Cinema to include movies directed by women. We can balance out the featured keynote speakers invited to campus by Hillel and other large organizations. We can balance out the portraits on the walls by featuring women in an art exhibit. We can balance out administrative leadership by hiring more women and encouraging them to apply for top positions. We can balance out STEM degrees by providing mentoring programs for women in these majors. We can balance out gender inequality, bit by bit, step by step, in our little corner of the world.
We deserve this. And it is time.
Show Me the Women does not solve the problem of gender inequality at Cornell University. But it begins the conversation, and provides a platform for discussion about the issue. It will bring women and allies together across differences to start working on the tough problems we face today. These problems require creative solutions, and this is just a start.
#showmethewomen
I was sitting in the Savage Hall lobby before my class on Mineral Nutrition and Chronic Disease when I noticed three portraits of white men looking down at me. I began to notice that portraits of white men adorn the walls of every building at Cornell University.
That same day, I read an article in the New York Times about women in science, which revealed that even women do not hire other women for science positions as often as they hire equally qualified men. I started to think that part of this is purely what we think a scientist looks like, and that part of this problem is the messaging we are getting through the portraits on the walls at our universities.
When I started talking to friends about the portraits, many people wanted to know why it bothered me that the department founders, big donors, and administrators of the past were mostly men--they saw it as merely a function of history and that surely, these people deserve it.
While I do not want to discredit the people who have had a profound impact on our university, I do believe that they send a message about what merits a portrait at Cornell. That message connects being important with being rich and male and white.
I wish to widen the net of what we consider "important" at Cornell.
My plan is an art exhibition in the spring coinciding with PCCW (President's Council of Cornell Women) Weekend. The exhibit will be located in the Memorial Room of Willard Straight Hall and will feature portraits of prominent Cornell women from over the years. Alumnae who have made significant contributions to their fields, as well as prominent female faculty and administrators, will be featured. The portraits will be edited to look as much like an oil painting as possible, and framed.
Throughout the exhibit, framed mirrors will be installed with titles underneath them, to encourage exhibit-viewers to see themselves as part of the exhibit. A central piece of the exhibit will be a large, blank, framed canvas with the title card: "Cornell's First Female President."
My hope is that this exhibit raises questions about whom we honor in society, what we value in people, and the progress (or not...) of work place equality. I want every student to identify with the people featured, based on gender, race, ethnicity, or area of expertise.
The exhibit will be coupled with programs and discussions with different groups around campus. I am excited to partnering with my friend Lizzie on curated film screenings that feature women as writers, directors, and actors.
Cornell needs a change, and it’s not going to “happen on its own.” While women have begun to outnumber men as college grads, the hopeful trends stop there. Women are paid less for the same jobs as men once they leave college, and often self-select into “female professions” which pay less to begin with. Even here at Cornell, the gender gap starts to widen with the leadership of business clubs being mostly male. If we continue to study underneath the watchful eyes of rich white men in big, important portraits, we will continue thinking that being important means being rich, white, and male.
Cornell cannot change history, but we can change the messages we promote to our students. We can balance out the movies shown at Cornell Cinema to include movies directed by women. We can balance out the featured keynote speakers invited to campus by Hillel and other large organizations. We can balance out the portraits on the walls by featuring women in an art exhibit. We can balance out administrative leadership by hiring more women and encouraging them to apply for top positions. We can balance out STEM degrees by providing mentoring programs for women in these majors. We can balance out gender inequality, bit by bit, step by step, in our little corner of the world.
We deserve this. And it is time.
Show Me the Women does not solve the problem of gender inequality at Cornell University. But it begins the conversation, and provides a platform for discussion about the issue. It will bring women and allies together across differences to start working on the tough problems we face today. These problems require creative solutions, and this is just a start.
#showmethewomen
Thursday, December 12, 2013
A few words of (last week's) Torah
Written for the Cornell Hillel Weekend Update last week.
From what I gather from the internet, this week’s Torah portion is Vayigash. This is a packed portion, telling the story of Benjamin’s release and Joseph’s reunion with his family. Benjamin is freed when his brother Judah offers to be taken as a slave in his brother’s place. At this point, the truth comes out as Joseph reveals his identity and learns that his father is still alive. The brothers are remorseful about selling Joseph into slavery. Ultimately, seventy of Joseph’s relations make their way down to Egypt, including his father, Jacob.
While Joseph’s family starts off pretty dysfunctional, they get it right by the end. The family comes together after some self-sacrifice and amends are made. The big happy family thrives in Egypt, where Joseph provides for them during the famine.
While I am sure many of you reading this can relate to the lessons we learn here about our immediate families, I would like to challenge you to think of Joseph’s family as a metaphor for a larger community. That may be the world community, the Jewish community, the Cornell community, the Jewish community at Cornell, or your home community. Whatever community you most strongly identify with, picture that in your mind. Right now. After you finish reading this sentence, close your eyes, picture your community, and then open them soon to keep reading the rest.
Now, my question for you is, how will you give of yourself to better your community? What would you sacrifice part of yourself for, as Judah did when he offered himself as a slave in place of his brother to protect his father from heartbreak? How will you plan for and protect members of your community, as Joseph did when he fed his extended family throughout the famine?
As my time as Hillel President draws to a close, I can’t help but reflect on what the past three years on Hillel board have meant to me and how I have served my communities.
I think that my “Aha” moment about service came this past summer when I was volunteering in Israel. I was on a service-learning trip through Repair the World/Onward Israel (you should apply this spring!) and living in Be’er Sheva, the desert city. There, my small cohort volunteered during the day and learned about service in the evenings. I learned about upstream/downstream interventions, about empowerment, about sustainability, about the importance of being a part of the community which you are helping.
These ideas are eloquently summed up by Lilla Watson, an Australian aboriginal leader: “If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.” This has become the guiding principle of my life.
Many of you reading this know me as “Jordana Gilman, Student President of Cornell Hillel.” But I am writing this dvar torah about service to share with you an important part of me that you may not know about, my experience working with victims of domestic violence and their children.
Seeing the reality on domestic abuse on a daily basis completely changed the way I see the world. I began to see these victims of domestic abuse as victims of societies that prioritize honor over everything--including life itself. I saw how common domestic abuse is across cultures and countries.
I befriended many of the women and I adored the children. Because of the nature of the shelter, though, the families came and left unexpectedly. I never knew if my favorite women would be there the next day. I began to understand what it must be like for the ~40 children who spend months of their lives in that shelter.
Working with three 15 year old girls from Ethiopian families had the biggest impact on me, however. We talked about race, racism, Ethiopia, Israel, President Obama, relationships, and regular teenage girl things like The Vampire Diaries. These young women taught me so much about strength and overcoming adversity. Their mothers were victims of domestic abuse, and that is why they were living in the shelter. However, they were determined to not experience the same cycle of abuse. They worked diligently on their English and other skills so they would be able to be financially independent as adults. It was an honor for me to know them and for me to help them for a summer.
The girls have since moved out of the shelter and I keep in touch with them by facebook. My summer of service is over, but it has opened my eyes to service as a way of life. It is a lifestyle that requires sensitivity, humility (not my strong suit, for those of you who know me, but certainly a goal), compassion, and sacrifice to your community.
Now that I am back on the hill, I have turned my attention to what I can give to Cornell, and what I have given over the past three and a half years. I challenge you to reflect as well.
What will be your service to Cornell? What can you offer of yourself that will leave this place a little bit better than you found it?
And for the Jews in the room, how have you contributed to the Jewish community at Cornell? Have you graced us with your presence at events, have you joined a Jewish Student Group, have you served in a leadership position? Are you a regular at Shabbat, did you light the Hannukah candles in your dorm? Have you led a Super Seder, or hosted a holiday meal at your house through Shabbat Across Cornell? Do you serve as a Hillel Big and mentor Jewish freshmen?
Find a service that speaks to you, and live it.
It has been my honor to serve Cornell Hillel for three years, and I thank you all for supporting me and being a part of that incredible journey.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Disabled for a Day
All right, you got me. The title of this post is a misnomer. I went for the alliteration, but the truth is, I was only "disabled" for about 45 minutes.
When my friend Saadiya asked if anyone was available to ride around the Cornell Store in a wheelchair yesterday afternoon, I responded that I was free and would be glad to do it. I thought it would be fun. I met up with Saadiya, Ross (who would be hobbling around on crutches) and some campus leaders/administrators in the area of accessibility.
Right away, I needed assistance. The handicap accessible entry to the Cornell store is a buzz-in entrance, you have to ring a bell, it's the employee entrance. You can't go in all by yourself. Then, when I sat in the chair, I needed people to hold my things for me. I felt so small as my peers towered over me.
Now, I'm not a very tall person. But I've been told I can have an imposing presence when I want to have one, and I've often taken advantage of my "big personality" to do just that. In a wheelchair, that was taken away from me. In order to interact with anyone, I had to crane my neck to look up at them. People started moving around me with great care. I needed space to maneuver because I was clumsy with the wheels. People were extra polite and patient with me, but not out of respect--out of pity.
My first task was to try to "mail" something at the PostMarket. Fail #1. The stantions (is that what they're called...those things that delineate waiting lines?) were so packed together that there was no way I could get through. A number of people in line shuffled about nervously, trying to move them so I could navigate.
I kept saying, "I'm fine, I'm fine, I got it." I wanted them to know I wasn't actually disabled. And instantly, I felt ashamed. I was embarrassed that people thought I was in a wheelchair because I needed it, and then I was horribly, horribly ashamed that I would be embarrassed of something like that.
My next task was to order something at the cafe. The aisles were wide enough, but I felt very awkward, and again, people were uncomfortable. Then I saw Adina, and she waved, and asked me how it was going. I treated it like a game, and said it was "fun." Wrong. It wasn't fun. It was eye-opening, and in a painful way.
The next failure came when I tried to check out the Cornell ties. Very handsome ties I might add. However, on my way there, I barreled through a few racks of sweatshirts and banged up a few fake mahogany display cases. I tried to turn around and get out the way I came, but there was no space. Someone needed to push me out. Then I got stuck on a little bump in the floor, one of those rubber strips that separates a carpeted area from hardwood flooring. I was sweating by the end of it.
We returned to the employee entrance of the store, from where I took the service elevator down to the first floor. Fortunately I had people with me to push the buttons, because I would have had to strain to reach them.
I wheeled on out of the Cornell Store with a fresh appreciation for what it means to be confined to a wheelchair, both physically and emotionally. I felt that the interactions I had while in the wheelchair were dominated by the fact that I was in a wheelchair and that people were trying really hard to pretend I wasn't, and failing noticeably. I felt that taking a service elevator and using a back entrance made me feel separate and emphasized the words above the elevator: "Assistance Needed."
So I will now do my best to change how I react to people in wheelchairs, and I will try to enact change wherever I am able to make places truly accessible (not just "compliant"). I learned a lot in those 45 minutes, and I hope this blog post has opened your eyes as well. This is an important message, and it is something we can really do something about.
Let's start.
When my friend Saadiya asked if anyone was available to ride around the Cornell Store in a wheelchair yesterday afternoon, I responded that I was free and would be glad to do it. I thought it would be fun. I met up with Saadiya, Ross (who would be hobbling around on crutches) and some campus leaders/administrators in the area of accessibility.
Right away, I needed assistance. The handicap accessible entry to the Cornell store is a buzz-in entrance, you have to ring a bell, it's the employee entrance. You can't go in all by yourself. Then, when I sat in the chair, I needed people to hold my things for me. I felt so small as my peers towered over me.
Now, I'm not a very tall person. But I've been told I can have an imposing presence when I want to have one, and I've often taken advantage of my "big personality" to do just that. In a wheelchair, that was taken away from me. In order to interact with anyone, I had to crane my neck to look up at them. People started moving around me with great care. I needed space to maneuver because I was clumsy with the wheels. People were extra polite and patient with me, but not out of respect--out of pity.
My first task was to try to "mail" something at the PostMarket. Fail #1. The stantions (is that what they're called...those things that delineate waiting lines?) were so packed together that there was no way I could get through. A number of people in line shuffled about nervously, trying to move them so I could navigate.
I kept saying, "I'm fine, I'm fine, I got it." I wanted them to know I wasn't actually disabled. And instantly, I felt ashamed. I was embarrassed that people thought I was in a wheelchair because I needed it, and then I was horribly, horribly ashamed that I would be embarrassed of something like that.
My next task was to order something at the cafe. The aisles were wide enough, but I felt very awkward, and again, people were uncomfortable. Then I saw Adina, and she waved, and asked me how it was going. I treated it like a game, and said it was "fun." Wrong. It wasn't fun. It was eye-opening, and in a painful way.
The next failure came when I tried to check out the Cornell ties. Very handsome ties I might add. However, on my way there, I barreled through a few racks of sweatshirts and banged up a few fake mahogany display cases. I tried to turn around and get out the way I came, but there was no space. Someone needed to push me out. Then I got stuck on a little bump in the floor, one of those rubber strips that separates a carpeted area from hardwood flooring. I was sweating by the end of it.
We returned to the employee entrance of the store, from where I took the service elevator down to the first floor. Fortunately I had people with me to push the buttons, because I would have had to strain to reach them.
I wheeled on out of the Cornell Store with a fresh appreciation for what it means to be confined to a wheelchair, both physically and emotionally. I felt that the interactions I had while in the wheelchair were dominated by the fact that I was in a wheelchair and that people were trying really hard to pretend I wasn't, and failing noticeably. I felt that taking a service elevator and using a back entrance made me feel separate and emphasized the words above the elevator: "Assistance Needed."
So I will now do my best to change how I react to people in wheelchairs, and I will try to enact change wherever I am able to make places truly accessible (not just "compliant"). I learned a lot in those 45 minutes, and I hope this blog post has opened your eyes as well. This is an important message, and it is something we can really do something about.
Let's start.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Don't we always wish we had more time
I'm in this class called Acting in Public: Performance in Everyday Life. Once a week, we make a one minute speech. This week was eulogies. I spent all weekend looking for the perfect one--I didn't want to do one that I thought everyone would do (two people in my class ended up reading Karl Marx's) and I didn't want to do one that seemed too real, like for a parent or a grandparent. So I had to look through a lot of eulogies. This was a melancholy process, as I am sure you can imagine. There are some touching ones here: http://connectingdirectors.com/articles/40420-8-of-the-most-amazing-eulogies-of-all-time, especially "For My Mother." So I was a puddle by the time I had selected the perfect eulogy, Cher's eulogy for Sonny Bono. She wrote beautifully and from the heart, but here is the thing that really got to me:
"So the last thing I want to say is, when I was young, there was this section in the Reader's Digest. And it was called "The Most Unforgettable Character I've Ever Met." And for me that person is Sonny Bono. And no matter how long I live or who I meet in my life, that person will always be "Son" for me."
I felt like that summed things up. So I was in this eulogy sort of mood and I started becoming aware of limited time. Not just in the sense of mortality, but in the way things come to an end, or people drift out of our lives, or the world changes irreversibly and we cannot get back to the sweetness of our past.
I'm graduating at the end of the semester, so I am very sensitive to the fact that I will be leaving Cornell in a few short weeks. I've been instagramming pictures of Cornell like crazy to fight the impermanence of it all. (I'm making a photobook from all my photos with artifactuprising.com, it's a great site). I walk around campus awed by the beauty of the buildings, the trees, the views, the skies...it really is gorgeous here but it seemed to become more so when I realized I only had a few weeks left.
I think when it comes down to it, we all wish we had more time. I'm not saying I don't want to graduate! I am soooo done with problem sets and prelims and classes and even my meetings and much of the day to day here. I have given it my all and I am proud of what I've done. But I do wish I had more time, I do wish that I could stretch out those incredible moments that make me feel or think or act differently, that fill me with joy and wonder...
Can I just go back and infuse the Big Red Bar Mitzvah with a few more hours, so that we could keep dancing a little longer? Could I make the Last Lecture I went to today last until late into the evening? Could I add a few minutes onto the football game on Saturday, which I spent soaking up the warmth with Jesse and Adina? Could I squeeze a few more prayers into the Friday night service last week? A couple of classes extra with Professor David Feldshuh? Another cup of frozen yogurt with my lineage? A few more soy hot chocolates in Libe cafe?
I am sure that I will have a more comprehensive list of the moments I'll miss by the end of the year. But for now I am going to enjoy them, and do my darndest to live in the present. It is taxing to do so! And I know why we start to feel like this at the end of things, or when people die; it's because it would be too draining to appreciate whole heartedly every single minute of your life! So I will take advantage of this surge in sentimentality and do it now, for a month or so, and then I will begin a new adventure, and it will be fresh and exciting. I won't know how perfect and good it is until I start thinking about my next chapter, which will surely bring new challenges and surprises.
In closing, I will leave here the words of one of my favorite Third Eye Blind songs, "My Hit and Run."
Feel the speed through the intersection
Sheets of rain I seek out cars
Hands in gloves grip handlebars
Ride alone to the pub in the dark
I get a little wet but I don't have to park
And the lights start flashing green and red as I ride
A car turns left and I slide
I can't turn back
I make contact
Blinkers smash into mosaic
Then I start flying
Always think we get more time
Now I'm flying through the air
Maybe living maybe dying
In this motor crash it's you who comes to mind
Don't we always wish had more time
I'm thrust slow mo through time and space
Details smash and
I protect my face
And then I see yours
And go to a time when we just knew
Come down hard and roll to my feet
And rain washes blood now off concrete
People turn away and I just had to laugh
Cause I'm still flying
Living and dying
And I'd like to thank mister death for what he's done
Cause I got to walk away from my hit and run
Mysteries are not so empty
Cause I saw you
At my hit and run
"So the last thing I want to say is, when I was young, there was this section in the Reader's Digest. And it was called "The Most Unforgettable Character I've Ever Met." And for me that person is Sonny Bono. And no matter how long I live or who I meet in my life, that person will always be "Son" for me."
I felt like that summed things up. So I was in this eulogy sort of mood and I started becoming aware of limited time. Not just in the sense of mortality, but in the way things come to an end, or people drift out of our lives, or the world changes irreversibly and we cannot get back to the sweetness of our past.
I'm graduating at the end of the semester, so I am very sensitive to the fact that I will be leaving Cornell in a few short weeks. I've been instagramming pictures of Cornell like crazy to fight the impermanence of it all. (I'm making a photobook from all my photos with artifactuprising.com, it's a great site). I walk around campus awed by the beauty of the buildings, the trees, the views, the skies...it really is gorgeous here but it seemed to become more so when I realized I only had a few weeks left.
I think when it comes down to it, we all wish we had more time. I'm not saying I don't want to graduate! I am soooo done with problem sets and prelims and classes and even my meetings and much of the day to day here. I have given it my all and I am proud of what I've done. But I do wish I had more time, I do wish that I could stretch out those incredible moments that make me feel or think or act differently, that fill me with joy and wonder...
Can I just go back and infuse the Big Red Bar Mitzvah with a few more hours, so that we could keep dancing a little longer? Could I make the Last Lecture I went to today last until late into the evening? Could I add a few minutes onto the football game on Saturday, which I spent soaking up the warmth with Jesse and Adina? Could I squeeze a few more prayers into the Friday night service last week? A couple of classes extra with Professor David Feldshuh? Another cup of frozen yogurt with my lineage? A few more soy hot chocolates in Libe cafe?
I am sure that I will have a more comprehensive list of the moments I'll miss by the end of the year. But for now I am going to enjoy them, and do my darndest to live in the present. It is taxing to do so! And I know why we start to feel like this at the end of things, or when people die; it's because it would be too draining to appreciate whole heartedly every single minute of your life! So I will take advantage of this surge in sentimentality and do it now, for a month or so, and then I will begin a new adventure, and it will be fresh and exciting. I won't know how perfect and good it is until I start thinking about my next chapter, which will surely bring new challenges and surprises.
In closing, I will leave here the words of one of my favorite Third Eye Blind songs, "My Hit and Run."
Feel the speed through the intersection
Sheets of rain I seek out cars
Hands in gloves grip handlebars
Ride alone to the pub in the dark
I get a little wet but I don't have to park
And the lights start flashing green and red as I ride
A car turns left and I slide
I can't turn back
I make contact
Blinkers smash into mosaic
Then I start flying
Always think we get more time
Now I'm flying through the air
Maybe living maybe dying
In this motor crash it's you who comes to mind
Don't we always wish had more time
I'm thrust slow mo through time and space
Details smash and
I protect my face
And then I see yours
And go to a time when we just knew
Come down hard and roll to my feet
And rain washes blood now off concrete
People turn away and I just had to laugh
Cause I'm still flying
Living and dying
And I'd like to thank mister death for what he's done
Cause I got to walk away from my hit and run
Mysteries are not so empty
Cause I saw you
At my hit and run
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