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

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.

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.

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

Know Your Boundaries: Thoughts on J Street 2013

We were playing a get-to-know-you game in the J Street U breakout session, and we were standing up from our chairs whenever a statement applied to us. There were statements like, "This is my first J Street conference" or "I helped to found a chapter at my university." I stood up when appropriate. Then the facilitator said "I am deeply concerned by the Occupation." I sat dumbly and watched as the entire Mid-Atlantic region, a delegation of 130 students, rose to their feet.

It's not that I'm not concerned with the Occupation. I am. But this is all very new and shocking to me. This is the first organized event I've ever been to where I've even heard the word "occupation" being used. This is the first time in my life I ever heard someone suggest altering the Israeli flag to depict more inclusive symbols and changing the words of the Israeli national anthem from "Jewish soul" to "Israeli soul." And this is the first time I've ever put quotes around the word "democracy" when I use the phrase "Jewish 'Democracy,'" because suddenly I'm not sure if what I thought was the only democracy in the Middle East even is one.

I support the 2 State Solution. But I also NEED Israel to exist as a Jewish state, one in which Judaism is institutionalized. I need Judaism to have a physical space in this world. I don't think it's enough to have a lot of Jews living in a country so the country has a Jewish character in its culture and values. I don't want Israel to celebrate the Jewish holidays the way America celebrates Christmas. In America, I appreciate that many people say "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas." Because that's what I signed up for by living in America.

In Israel, I want the bus banners to still switch between the name of their destination and "Chag Channukah Sameach," And I would like the Jewish Sabbath to be recognized in some formal way. And I would like Jews to have a special immigration policy that allows them to become citizens easily and quickly.

BUT. I want Israel to provide work permits to asylum seekers living in South Tel Aviv. I want Bedouins living in unrecognized villages to not fear the destruction of their homes at any moment. I want Palestinians in refugee camps to expect clean running water. I want Druze villages to receive the same funding for their schools as their Jewish neighbors. 

I also feel strongly that Jews need to address the problem of pluralism in a way that enriches Judaism without forcing everyone to adhere to the strictest possible observance. To me, this means creating a system in which everyone has the freedom to practice in the way that they please while respecting other approaches. This will require some major creativity and breaking away from the status quo. 

--A day later--

Another challenging day at the J Street Conference. We had a session to plan our advocacy work tomorrow and I met some nice people and I met some people who didn't make it too hard to dislike them. Then I got in line for a long time to listen to Biden speak, who was very late because Bibi is visiting and the government is shutting down. 

Biden made a lovely speech. He was charming and funny and made it unequivocally clear that the US supports Israel and that a two state solution is an absolute requirement. 

I am glad that I heard Biden speak today, because he left me with hope for the situation, and he diverted some of my attention away from the horrifying fact that I am much more right wing than I had originally thought. He closed with a quote from this poem:

“Human beings suffer,

They torture one another,

They get hurt and get hard.

No poem or play or song

Can fully right a wrong

Inflicted and endured.

History says, don't hope

On this side of the grave.

But then, once in a lifetime

The longed-for tidal wave

Of justice can rise up,

And hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change

On the far side of revenge.

Believe that further shore

Is reachable from here.

Believe in miracles

And cures and healing wells.

Call miracle self-healing:

The utter, self-revealing

Double-take of feeling.

If there's fire on the mountain

Or lightning and storm

And a god speaks from the sky

That means someone is hearing

The outcry and the birth-cry

Of new life at its term.” 

― Seamus Heaney

Reflections at Reagan National

I was waiting in the airport, applying to medical school, and AMCAS asked me a very good question:

"What is the significance of your experience?"

The experience he was referring to, of course, was my volunteer work this summer at the women's shelter in Israel.

I tried clumsily to sum it up for the application:


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 and how powerless I was to change that while working at the women's shelter.
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 the three 15 year old girls 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.

But that isn't it.. is it? I couldn't tell AMCAS the true significance of this experience. I couldn't send this message to faceless people on the other end of the internet, flipping through thousands of medical school applications. I couldn't tell them how angry I feel when I think about the suffering I witnessed. I couldn't tell them that there was a Bedouin women who came to the shelter the last week I was there and she wouldn't look at anyone or speak to anyone, and then one day I asked her in broken Arabic "What's up?" and she cracked a smile. I couldn't tell them that the Ethiopian girls I worked with were the most beautiful people I've ever met, that they handled being 15 in a women's shelter in the middle of nowhere Israel better than I handled being 15 in picture-perfect suburban America in a loving, safe home.

I couldn't tell AMCAS that the reason I want to be a doctor is because I want to be alone in a room with a woman and recognize signs of abuse and be able to shut the door and speak with some authority and do something about it. I want to be able to perform reconstructive surgery on someone who has been forced to undergo FGM. I want to be able to give back some health autonomy to women who have never been allowed to make a choice for themselves. I want to give women CHOICES. I want to sit across from my patient and listen to her and have some expertise to be able to deal with what she is going through.

Because I felt fucking powerless at that shelter this summer.

I wasn't a social worker. I wasn't a director. I wasn't a volunteer coordinator. I wasn't anything!! I was a friend--and that meant something. But it wasn't enough and I need to be enough. That's why I need to be a doctor. It is selfish!! I can't help it. I need to be enough for someone.

I couldn't tell AMCAS that.

Losing a Limb

"The relation of the individual is as the relation of the single limb to the body. Should the arm, in case bleeding is required, refuse its blood, the whole body, the arm included, would suffer. It is, however, the duty of the individual to bear hardships, or even death, for the sake of the welfare of the commonwealth. He must particularly be careful to contribute his 'portion of the whole,' without fail."

--Rabbi Yehuda Halevi, Kitab al Khazari, Part Three, 19

Tonight is my friend Ariel's last night in Israel. She has to go back to school early for RA training (where have I heard that before??) and so she is leaving Be'er Sheva and me tomorrow morning.

Ariel is not a typical 6-week summer program type of friend. I have many of those, and they are extremely special to me. But Ariel is different because we have worked together every single day of volunteering, from morning to night. Together, we completed two 30 page research papers about domestic violence and shelters worldwide and we created a beautiful community with three teenage girls from the shelter.

Most of my close friends here are super supportive, funny, interesting, motivated people. I am lucky to know them. My friendship with Ariel is different because of the challenges we have faced together. We have not always agreed on how to conduct the research, we have struggled with computer frustrations, we have been stressed by deadlines and expectations from a somewhat intimidating (though also inspiring!) director at the shelter. Our time with "the girls" has been marked by impossible days when the twins can't stand to be in the same room as one another and no one will talk to us and, despite elaborate lesson plans, the girls don't want to do anything.

Our friendship has put us to the test, and we passed! Despite these potential sources of tension, we have spent every day with each other in a spirit of tenderness and love. We have learned from each other at every crossroads, we have collaborated on decisions in productive ways, we have shared incredible moments of inspiration together. If you know me, then you know I am averse to group work. I am highly individualistic and I prefer to operate on my own, even if it means more work for me. I also love to hang out by myself, wander the streets of a strange city on my own, and rub my independence in the world's face.

Being with Ariel is like being with myself, but better. Her humor, knowledge, interests, and feelings vibe so well with me. We have a rhythm together--when to be funny, when to play song-association games, when to talk politics, when to admit we know nothing about politics, when to push, when to pull back. We jive. And she shares my love of R Kelly, even though she's embarrassed to admit it.

Tonight in our group discussion, she shared this idea that it is difficult to have both truth and happiness. This is true. It is also the perfect way to describe my friendship with Ariel. We know the faults, the truth--what her wagging foot means when her legs are crossed, what her tired face looks like, the frustration when her computer is not cooperating, the sigh of complete exasperation with all living beings. And we know the joy, the happiness--laughing so hard our sides hurt, piecing together the dirty words of an Akon song, crashing a birthday party, spontaneous clubbing, taking on the town together. We share our families with each other, through stories, facebook, and even in person (whaddup Aliza!). We share what is meaningful to us, and it becomes meaningful to the other.

The quote at the top of this post is something from my group's source book, which we read during a program at the beginning of the summer. Tonight, we lose a limb. We will survive and go on to function as a group for the remaining few days, but we will always feel that absence. Ariel embodied the other half of that quote as well, because she contributed her portion of the whole without fail. She bore hardships, she gave willingly. We were better for having her.

And I am better because I have her--as a friend, a co-worker, a teacher, a soul sister.