May her memory be a blessing...

Today, a woman who was very influential in my life passed away. This is the piece I wrote about my memories of her in the middle of June, having heard she was sick. I wrote while recovering from my second surgery on my leg.

Thinking about dance after not having danced for six months made me extremely happy, if tearful... I'm not yet up to the kind of dance that would have impressed Fran, but I am back on two feet and working towards it.

My memories:
I remember the first day I met you, Fran. I was stretching outside the audition room, waiting for West Side Story dance auditions to start. I was a freshman and I’d only signed up for dance and acting auditions, I think. I didn’t yet have a strong enough voice to sing for Alan. At least, that was the impression I had from my mother’s high standard. Anyway, I hadn’t set foot in Theater South yet except to see the production of Our Town (and the One Acts). I was avoiding high school drama, by avoiding drama all together - because I held a Sag and Aftra card, and how would that go over w/typical teenagers who were dreaming of life on the stage?

But despite my attempts to avoid my TS fate, I became friends w/so many cast and crew members. I thought, perhaps, I would hone my craft. I’d already decided I wanted to commit my time to cultivating friendships rather than getting rejected by the casting agents William Morris sent me to. So, finally, a friend (Greg Stemkowski) who knew about my childhood acting (from catching the Disney movie I was in that played on channel 11), convinced me to get involved. Who could refuse a face like Greg’s?

So there I was, warming up right outside of the audition room. I was wearing a black bodysuit and what would probably pass as yoga pants these days. I’d only lived in Great Neck for just over a year, and very few people knew much about my life back in California. Some girl said, “hey, you dance for real, don’t you?” I’d been taking dance classes since I was 2 1/2.  “I’ve taken lessons,” I called back nonchalantly. Everyone had probably taken lessons, at least amongst the girls. That’s what moms do with their daughters, right? I had taken 3 kinds of dance, which eventually became 4, ballet, tap, jazz and ‘street funk’ — but you know all of that, Fran, because you recognized it too - immediately - and gave me a role in West Side Story that took my breath away with every high kick. There I was, a featured dancer, and I promise you, every part of my body thought that those moments on stage would become my college essay.

The rush of getting a routine perfectly right as the curtain closed on a pose impossible to hold for just one more second, that was one of the most exhilarating feelings I ever could have imagined having. I was a Shark. It didn’t matter that my pale complexion and red-hair would have told you otherwise. A lesson in bronzer ensued. And my expertise in eyeliner did not go to waste. In fact, it became my reputation so much so that I’d often do make-up for the guys in shows for the coming years. How I loved having that skill, and so what if it came from professional make-up artists, very few people would ever know that.

On stage without wardrobe malfunctions.

The following year we did Cabaret, so, of course, with my voice still inconsistent despite it’s years of training, I was dancing my sexiest heart out. On stage in Victoria’s Secret underwear, and a sequined Banana Republic vest that my New-York-City-living aunt had bought me. I have the picture and I’m not sure how my mother bought me those items w/out asking more questions! During previews, you remember, those times we would show a few scenes in an assembly with nearly the whole school in attendance? We did a big kit kat club number that, thanks to the structure of the preview ended with curtains down (and darkness). Lucky me, as I was laying with my back on the ground doing a full split in the air, when the vest, formerly snapped shut, bust wide open. That’s what I got for not letting you do my costuming, I guess.  But I don’t know if I ever told you. In fact, I told as few people as humanly possible. Instead of explaining the situation, I formed an internal lacing system with safety pins and, of things I had handy, glow in the dark elastic. It survived the shows, but I never could look at that vest again.  In fact, to this day when I’m asked my most embarrassing moment, that’s the first story that comes to mind.

So back to where I started, the first day dancing with you became many days, and to my good fortune, even when my priorities changed in high school, and I started observing shabbat my junior year, you found me in the halls and asked, “Sheridan, why didn’t you audition for the musical this year?” And I explained to you that I couldn’t imagine getting approval not to perform on a Friday night. “What?!” You said, aghast! “I would have built choreography for that! Of course I would. To not have you on stage is a real loss.” I couldn’t believe my ears, Fran. And thanks to that conversation, I did Music Man in my senior year. And while I couldn’t accept the singing solo Alan Schwartz offered because I’d be out Friday night, I could dance my heart out because you knew how to make that happen. Your choreography was a blessing, even when it was difficult. Even when we had to go over it again. It would always elicit a smile from yours truly.

You are truly one of the reasons I am able to look back fondly at Great Neck South. For its uniqueness, its understanding, its ability to meet my needs as a student, learner and active participant in the community. I went on to get to BAs - one in English and one in Modern Jewish Studies (from Columbia and the Jewish Theological Seminary) and from there, my Master’s in Education, focusing in informal and communal Jewish education, also at JTS.  I worked with teenagers for the first three years after graduate school - first creating educational material for youth groups and then at the Sid Jacobson JCC, where I was encouraged many times to get involved in their musical. Then, I started working at my alma mater - Columbia University. Nearly five years later, I’m still here, serving as the Assistant Director of the Institute for Israel and Jewish Studies. I sometimes joke with my colleagues and the PhD students and faculty whom I oversee that my public high school was a lot like a yeshiva. I learned the book of Job, I took Hebrew, I was able to comfortably observe shabbat … remarkable, really. You were part of that experience, and I’m so grateful to say that’s so. While in college, I had the opportunity to see Cabaret on Broadway with Alan Cumming as the Emcee - it was extraordinary, to sit at the small tables so close to the performers and smile so big to keep myself from belting out the songs with the cast. From the obscene to the absurd and back again, or as they say in Cabaret; “every night we have the battle to keep the girls from taking off all of their clothing. So don’t go away, who knows? Tonight we may lose the battle!” Well, I wish you well with every battle you face, a complete healing as we say in hebrew, a refuah sheleima. Thank you for always being an inspiration in your dedication, understanding and commitment to excellence.

Love always, Sheridan Gayer GNSHS ’95-’99

P.S. I write this just days after having a very involved surgery to correct something that went wrong when I broke my leg in January. I have run a tour in Israel on crutches since then, but I have hobbled around with a cane since. Right now I’m in a cast for the second time in six months, and for the next two weeks I’m not to do anything but keep my leg elevated and use crutches when I go to the bathroom or get up for water. The less often I’m up, the happier the doctors are. That’s a long way of saying I haven’t walked normally in almost six months, and it has been a privilege to recall my days on stage with you during my own recovery.

Yom Hashoah 5773 Family and Familiarity

For a long time, I went looking for a story to "never forget" - this is my Yom Hashoah story... along with all the other peoples who I promised not to forget along the way.

Growing up, I would always say that my family didn't have a direct relationship to the Holocaust. 3 out of my 4 grandparents were born in America and my Polish born grandfather was brought to America early enough that, were his feet not flat, he'd have been serving in the US Army during WWII. It's good that he was home. They lost a brother/son during that war. My would be great-uncle. His plane was shot down over Italy. WWII related certainly. But not the Holocaust.

My paternal grandfather cleaned up Nagasaki and again, not the holocaust. I was always proud to meet survivors, to have friends' grandparents tell me their stories.

I remember the first partisan I met. I remember the first French woman, I remember meeting Yossile Hoenig who went back to live in Poland and was the cemetery care taker when I visited on a teen tour in 1998. I remembered.  I researched what JTS did for Jews during the holocaust and felt it was too little.

My mother told me what she remembered too. That as a child, her grandfather, a rabbi who held Shabbat minyan in their upstate home, brought over and helped house as many immigrants as could be taken care of. Records hadn't been kept. Or if they had, they hasn't been maintained.

In December of 2007 we sat shiva for my zayde, my mom's father. The flat-footed one born in Poland. The photo albums came out, of course, and there were pictures of my grandparents sitting on a bench in front of the family home.

An elderly member of my parents' congregation approached my mom with the album. He asked her about the house. When she explained it was her grandparents home, he explained it was his first home in America too. That he had been brought there during the holocaust. Saved by my great grandfather and whomever else he was working with to get Jews out of Eastern Europe.

When I started my Jewish journey, I didn't know I had a holocaust story. I don't know who my family protected or how many individuals they saved, but I know of all places in the world, my great grandfather's house was a safe-haven for new immigrants making their way out of Eastern Europe and that blessing isn't wasted on me. 

Modest though it may be, it's my family's story. And the chances that my mom would sit on the board of her synagogue (one of many in her very Jewish town) only to discover that one of the other members of the same congregation made their way here by means of her family, that's the small Jewish world I love so deeply, even though I wish we were at least double in size... I can hope that all of the stories I've promised to remember are recounted for generations to come, and that we go from strength to strength.

Broad Strokes & Big Pictures: Moses, the Exodus and Israel Today

D'var Torah for Chai Minyan at Shaare Zedek, Jan 4, 2013
 
Here we are, at the start of Shemot, the second book of the Torah.  We're immediately concerned with the naming of the generations, the tribes, and their plentiful offspring, but our main focus is really Moses.  Moses has his fair share of difficulty with identity development and in his relationship with God, but eventually he gathers the Israelites for the culmination of Shemot's story--the act for which the Greek speaking Jews of Alexandria, Egypt named this book-- the Exodus Aigyptous.  Which generations of Jews have shortened to what we call Exodus.  

Ok- for those of you that missed it - there’s my crazy cool fact straight from Nahum Sarna - The name Exodus is derived from Jews whose vernacular was Greek. I like the notion that even the non-hebraicized name evolved from our people, who lived within Egypt at the time. And even though that leaves us considering two different types of Jews, in two different places, using different languages, I really want *us* to focus tonight on the broadest strokes we can imagine for Jews, no matter time or their location.

You see, recently I attended an event where David Ben Gurion’s grandson told stories of David’s experiences as the Prime Minister of Israel. In 1954, he traveled to the United States to meet with President Eisenhower and seek the help and support for difficult moments of the fledgling Israel. During that trip, in a meeting with the then State Secretary of Administration, John Foster Dulles, Ben Gurion was confronted with a high degree of arrogance:
Tell me, Prime Minister –  Dulles said - Who are the people you and your country really represent?” How is it that Jews are really the same? Being that they are Jews of Yemen, Poland, Romania, Morocco, Iraq, the Soviet Union or Brazil ”? After 2000 years of exile, can we really be talking about one nation, one culture, one legacy of Jewish tradition?

Now, for those of you knowledgeable about Israeli immigration waves and even current policies, you might be inclined to agree with Dulles at least to some extent.

But Ben-Gurion replied:
“See, Mr. Secretary, and only 200 years ago the ship Mayflower sailed from England with the first settlers who settled in what is now is the great democratic powers called the United States of America. Please, walk out on the streets and ask ten North American children the following:
What was the name captain of the ship? How long was the journey? What did the passengers eat during the Journey, and how did the sea behave? Probably , you will not get many accurate answers,” he surmised.
But “Please see now it’s been 3,000 years since the Jews left Egypt. I ask you that in one your travels around the world, try and meet ten Jewish children in different countries; asked them what was the travel called?
What was the name captain of the group?
How long was the journey?
What were the passengers eating during the journey, and finally ask how did the sea behave?
“When you have the answers, and wonder again about Israel, try to remember and appreciate the question you just asked me”.

Lately, the media has focused a lot on what separates one type of Jew from another. Whether it’s so called “Jewish garb,” economic standing, Israeli politics, women of the wall - or larger issues of gender segregation - color of skin, country of origin,  issues surrounding right of return,  or more complicated still, right to identify as a Jew, or marriage rights, it is so easy to get caught up in the disparate  and often disheartening reality. Sometimes, these are issues relevant to American society or global Jewish issues, sometimes Israel takes an American idea and translates it for it’s own cultural impact. This spring, for instance, a production of Hairspray will be performed with the Ethiopian cultural center in Jerusalem, in an effort to raise awareness about race relations in Israel. But for now, I’d like to set aside the dirty differences that may frustrate us. To acknowledge that “claims” on Torah are difficult, complicated, and understanding of Torah is ever evolving. I’d like to suggest that while this particular book of Torah emphasizes the difficult necessity of the Israelite journey from Egypt to Israel, this Parsha focuses on the hardship at home. It provides space for dissenting opinions. Moses is critical of himself and questioning of God. He doesn’t trust that he can convey God’s message to the “elders of Israel,” so much so he allows his brother to speak for him even after being given the rod that will allow him to conduct miracles to imbue the elders with faith. He’s run out of Egypt once and his confidence is shot.

I have to say - if the path of righteousness isn’t inherent or natural or even direct for the leader whom we give as the gold standard, all the moreso it doesn’t have to be for us. I am hoping we can all find more compassion where we differ from one another and when we approach the other, as well as when we approach Torah.

May we all be blessed to loosen our bounds on Torah, to listen to others understanding, reading, interpretation and incarnation. May we know a Torah that has endless life and endless meaning. May we not be limited by a search for proof, for evidence, for our own hand prints on the building bricks of the Egypt that remains today. But may we also build communities of Torah that reflect our values, our understanding, our interpretations, and may we learn to teach one another when we hear the voice of God and when we raise our voices in prayer.

(One final thought) Just over the holiday season there was a two part series entitled “Back to the Beginning” which was Christiane Amanpour’s search, along with her son, for the root of the three major monotheistic religions - in a scene where she was attempting to find where Noah’s Ark rests. One commentator, the author of Walking the Bible pointed out - We’re not going to find some lost voice of God, like a Beatles recording, that we can digitally remaster and put out for all to experience on the internet,” … many people believe that “if you can prove that one screw existed, you can prove that the entire machine existed” … 3000 years of our story and we’re still telling it in exciting, enlivening ways. We're gathering to hear it, to repeat it, to celebrate it. For me, that’s enough to prove the entire machine exists… although God as a Beatles album sure would be sweet.

Prayer (Pose)

I woke up this morning long before an alarm clock told me to.

As summer winds down, life should either be like
an alcoholic snow cone
(doesn't it look like a sunrise?),
or like  a fruit infused healthy cooler.
This is obviously the former.
*But* it's from last weekend.

I'm not a morning person. So it's always a surprise, my body being ready to rise and shine before expected. I was particularly thrown this morning, after having gone to bed just 4 hours prior. How could I possibly be ready to face the day. But there I was, energized and unable to go back to bed. I did just finish taking a course of steroids last week, so I suppose that's where the unaccounted for energy and odd sleep patterns come from.

Anyway, no matter the reason, there I was. Wide awake. I started my morning with home brewed iced tea and a series of yoga poses. I considered that maybe there was a minyan somewhere near me performing selichot (the penitential prayers leading up to Rosh Hashana/the high holiday season) that I should look up and head to, but I was spending my entire day ahead within a community and, quite honestly, didn't want to be immersed in one just because my body was convinced I hadn't been out partying until 2 am the night before.

Dancing Shoes... or devil's work?

In fact, my feet were cut up from cutting a rug while wearing shoes I hadn't worn in seasons. So, I stayed home in those wee hours this morning. I had my own prayerful day... while I stood in prayer pose, sat in prayer pose, thinking over my relationship with prayer all the while... but in a sort of a voided disconnect where brain and body weren't really in communication.

I finalized details to meet friends for the subway ride down to our event. I ate breakfast. I packed extra snacks for the day. I made a canteen of Good Earth iced tea to go. I was running perfectly on time.

Then I walked outside and couldn't help myself. I wanted to be a reflection of the skies above me. It was the perfect sunny day. It was the perfect temperature. There were darling clouds, large, white, beautifully generous, nearing the sun. I thanked God for the sun and the glory and for allowing me to feel blessed. I thanked God for blessing me with this day... and then got swallowed up into the subway station, not before being jostled by a homeless man, and accomplishing the tasks at hand.

At the end of the day, we walked a bit across the base of Manhattan. I must admit it, I wasn't concerned with the outdoors. All I could do was thank God for the people who'd surrounded me, who'd inspired me, who'd made me feel more reflective than prayer has and more motivated than I can be when I am solely in my own (head)space. On the subway, another homeless man, I have a policy against giving cash on the subway. But my snack of grapes was more full than empty. I offered them, and he accepted. It wasn't a balancing experience, or intended to counter the morning's confrontation, but there it was, something a little out of the ordinary.

As I got back home and took a walk around the neighborhood, I couldn't help but reflect that there were words said today that reached me at my core. They effected me on a personal and communal level. They enveloped me in a sense of gratitude. They were able to remind me why putting care into each relationship I cultivate is so important. They connected me in a way I wasn't connected this morning. They allowed me to end my day in a different type of prayer than I had started it with. Not needing the physical movements of yoga as the gateway to the mindfulness, but simply being mindful.

And, I must admit, being indoors wasn't so bad. After all, I spent last Saturday and Monday almost exclusively outdoors, and all that got me was a bit of a sunburn. Well, and tickets to Shakespeare in the Park. I can never resent a day spent in line for tickets to Into the Woods.

Chugging along...

I've been chugging along lately. Working on a lot of different projects has kept me sometimes food blogging, but mostly piling up recipes and restaurants to blog about. Spending time with friends when I'm not volunteering, educating, programming, writing the book and actually, you know, working at my fulltime job has been number one priority followed by time for yoga and general relaxation and exercise.

But this morning I woke up feeling an endless stream of gratitude. First, following an extremely productive and meaningful workday where students and faculty are back on campus and purpose is reenergized if not newly defined, I spent dinner with a friend in from Israel (and our ragtag group). Then more gratitude that when I got home and got a call, "I'm headed to your supermarket, wanna meet me?" When else in my life am I going to have 9:30pm grocery shopping dates (that aren't for children's tylenol emergencies)?

When else am I going to be able to come home, realize the book I need for the educational project I'm working on actually belongs to my friend and neighbor and be able to stop by and just pick it up? No schedule, just a quick (and really appreciative!) text message? When am I going to also find time to catch up with a friend who recently moved cross country or, over a series of emails, discover that I'm seeing a dear friend 4 days in a row (it's like we're practically going on vacation together!) or, best of all, when am I going to settle in from all of that to then develop the educational material and explore the possibilities of challenging traditional understanding of relationships we develop with God during this holiday season.

Mostly, the quiet force behind last night being so jam packed is not an endless source of energy. That seems to have fizzled a little post-30th (maybe 31st?) birthday. It's more likely a side effect of the short term medication I'm on after having bug bites the size of my the island on which I live. Nonetheless, feeling an obligation to take advantage of what will be a very short-lived burst of energy, I committed myself whole heartedly to every encounter yesterday and will again today, in the hopes that gratitude can continue to flow through me, warm me, and help prepare me for the coming weeks of reflection, of direction and of rededicating myself to everything that's kept me chugging along this year.

But I'm also feeling inspired, and forward movement is forward movement, and here's to a year where that just keeps happening.

Reappearing ... and the Punanny State

I didn't mean it! I'm so sorry. I disappeared to never never write land because of great projects I'm working on. My book draft is coming along so well, I'm glowing with pride. Whenever I think "it's time to write" that's what I settle in on. I get to play with one liners about dirty dishes and dishing dirt. Back at it in full force after it was in the incubator stage for a while because I co-chaired an amazing conference with a phenomenal team called Limmud NY which I'll gush about another time soon. Since then, I've helped to put together an amazing alumni event for Columbia which was beautiful, and have a similar Columbia Hillel event this week.  All in all, it's been a crazy few months. My full time job is also kicking it up a notch this semester with 2-4 events on our calendar per week and some crazy other cool projects down the pipe which I've been working on.

So I don't really, read the news anymore. Or have time for "living the dream" whether its American, Jewish or just the kind that hit you when you actually reach REM. So what I'm most grateful for this week is that some people out there in the big bad world are defending my rights to womanhood with their sketch comedy-political commentary take on men being the only voices given credence when Congress convened a panel last week to settle the standoff between the Catholic Church and women... I could say OY but I'll also recommend you watch it, and perhaps yesterday's as well, and even read the Guardian piece which does a great job exposing our dirty laundry to the UK.


Admission of an over-share: In a month where my birth control was recalled, I'm filling particularly close to these particular types of women's issues. Also, yes, I was prescribed said birth control when it was determined that I have PCOS - polycystic ovarian syndrome - which Stewart also mentions. And of course when you're thinking of personal level women's issues something always come along that gives you a worrisome frown line in your big picture scope - fortunately, when the topic of human trafficking resounded on my radar today it was solution oriented thanks to CNN's Freedom Project. Today's topic was about how two people and a huge number of supporters are helping women with an economic hand up which will help keep communities from selling their children into our modern slave trade. 


Finally, in another issue close to my heart, (ahem, yes, sex ed,) back here at home, in the Jewish community is taking on a progressive overtone - at least that's the claim of the upcoming event at the JCC Manhattan which should be filled with some good inspiration... If you want to join me let me know!

Anyway, next post promises to be about what a wild, crazy, and irresponsibly expensive week this one has turned out to be - as I'm off to Red Rooster Harlem for their opening of "Downstairs" - with Cal Massey inspired Blues and amazing food.


And my belated inclusion ... aptly said on the Colbert Report, about the house of representatives hearings on women's reproduction, "Aren't guys really the ones who should be talking about reproductive rights, because we're the ones who have the responsibility of telling the lady it's really her responsibility." Steven Colbert asked of Nancy Pelosi, while he further mused on why women are "so obsessed" with controlling their own bodies. Perhaps words like these will enlighten the people who are making decisions for us.

Embracing the Irrational

This is just one of many techniques I used in order to heal well and feel well after tearing my cartilage just eleven weeks ago.