The shekhina and the shikse goddess walk into a bar...
I know. It's not funny. And it didn't happen that way, anyway. It's so much easier to think of the two of them separately. As if they just don't belong inhabiting the same paradigm. But there they are, deep in conversation. It doesn't really matter how or where they met.
The shekhina. She's remote. Unattainable. Melancholic. Removed. Horrified at what we've done to the place. Her world, her dominion. The dominion of malkhut. With the shekhina, what you see is not what you get. Or rather, you don't get to see at all. We are blind to her. We've blinded ourselves with pollutants. I'm not sure if her role is to make us feel guilty for-what-we've-done-to-the-earth, or to inspire us to diligence.
One of the strange things about the shekhina that I think about a lot, is that a correlative to her name are the shikunim — slums and housing projects — the urban wasteland. And it's precisely this that grieves the shekhina (at least these days).
When I was little, I had a storybook about the aleph-bet. In each tale, the Hebrew letters go off looking for the shekhina, the sabbath bride, the queen of god. And they cannot find her, for she has disappeared from the world, in her sadness. And when I was older I realized that she had gone into occultation — just like the 12th Imam, although his reasons differed.
Shekhina means 'residence' — the residence of the divine on earth. The dwelling place of the divine on earth. She takes up residence, but then discovers what we've done with the place, and bam, she's gone till we clean up our act. Or maybe she's just gone for good.
But no. She returns. She can't help it. She's drawn back into the dreams of the righteous. Drawn back in at Friday, sundown. She comes to those places where harmony is used to knit the world back together. Voices blend. Or bodies resonate together. For 24 hours, we bring back holiness.
That's what they say, anyway.
I don't think she'd exactly be drawn to the tyranny that the sabbath has become for many of the glat orthodox — a full day cycle of restriction and rigid rules. That's not the spirit of the shekhina, as far as I'm concerned. I think she likes it better when we pick up trash on the beaches, dogshit on the cliffs. But even that's not enough to bring her back into the world any time soon.
Shikse goddess: Now she's quite different. She is of the earth itself, and not beyond. She lives here, she breathes. She has some foreign ideas. She's not running away from anything. Right?
"Take some amaretto," she said, knowing that I do not drink.
"I'm not making fruit salad," I replied, confused.
"Something to drink. You need a drink," the shikse goddess said.
She's an alcoholic. That's what she says, anyway.
Don't get me wrong. She doesn't drink. She hasn't had a drop in almost twenty years. She has 'sobriety birthdays.' And when she reaches exactly twenty years, I think she's going to go out and celebrate. That part actually I just don't get. How can you celebrate sobriety with a drink? But her eyes light up at just the thought of it. And the thought just doesn't go away. Scary.
"You've had a bad day," she says. "A trauma. That's what a good cocktail is for."
Is that some kind of joke?
I stare at her. I know she's trying to help. But the fact is, I've never had a 'cocktail' in my life. I'm still staring at her. She means me well. I know that. I do.
"I'm Jewish," I reply. Which seems to you a non sequitur, but she knew what I meant.
"A cocktail helps you feel what you feel. Connect with your emotions," she said.
"That's what a therapist is for," I answered.
I mean, what would happen if you picked up a cocktail every time you had a bad day? I mean, where would we be then? The shekhina's already in despair over the state of the planet.
The shikse goddess replies, in all her wisdom:
"Maybe what the shekhina needs is a good stiff drink."
Showing posts with label shikse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shikse. Show all posts
Monday, January 24, 2011
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
rabbity babbity and the neti pot
In her seventh HP book, JK Rowling introduces us to yet another children's book she hadn't written yet— The Tales of Beedle the Bard — and then found that she had to actually write the thing and come up with stories that matched the titles that she had so 'carelessly' tossed into HP7. I seem to have conflated two of her titles into one. I'm not here to tell you either of those tales. You've probably already read them yourself, like everything else that Rowling has written. Or if you haven't, ask the next person you set your eyes on. They have.
No. I want to tell a different tale.
There once was a Shekhinah in the world, and she had a perpetually sniffly nose. And worse than that, she couldn't breathe through it, either. And worse still, it was all bent out of shape — from the inside out. And the right side didn't work at all unless she pulled at her face to keep the passage open. Almost all photos of her show her looking studiously to the side, one hand supporting her jaw. It's a trick, you see. She's not trying to be studious at all: No. She's just trying to breathe.
One day, this witch came into her life. A witch who only appeared in a special looking-glass, with a slender titanium frame around it. The looking-glass could show the Shekhinah absolutely anything she wanted to see, on earth or off — but instead, quite magically, it brought her this witch instead. Unasked for. Right out of thin air.
And the Shekhinah is no conjurer. God forbid. She takes no responsibility for the witch's appearance at all. Cackle all you want.
And a really witchy witch at that. Custom made, it seemed, to cast a spell upon the Shekhinah, who was really someone else in disguise. I'm not sure who, though. I mean, hell, it's the Shekhinah — who else could it be? But it sounds like the story should go that way.
So. You know witches. They're yentas of one kind or another. Just can't mind their own bloody business. Have to go around stirring up trouble. And this witch took the form of the most seductive irresistible thing the Shekhinah had ever experienced: the tall, butch dyke incarnation of shikse goddess. And threw in 'musician' as well, just for added effect to keep her spells aimed to kill.
And kill she did. She hit the brain and the heart with one fatal blow — on YouTube, no less — with a private spell with one aim: to fling her sincerity right through the looking-glass screen so that it should slay the Shekhinah instantly. And so it came to pass. The Shekhinah was writhing on the ground, cracking up, and could not catch a single breath.
"You slay me!" she tried to say. But no breath. No sound.
And in this way, the Shekhinah passed out of this world into the world to come.
It was the spell of the Neti Pot.
For the witch advocated, in email after email, and in that final YouTube blow — that the Shekhinah take up use of the vile contraption. She gave argument after argument. Day after day, and night after night. She set her enchantments to music, and forced the Shekhinah to listen — nay, to hear — the seduction of the neti pot. Her advocacy was relentless. And there, on YouTube, were little two year olds adding to the argument, and creepy guys, and businesses all hired by the witch to cast her spell.
She used the ultimate spell of 'rationality' figuring that it would work the best in this case.
Her arguments included, (if I recall them at all):
No. I've blanked every single one out. I don't remember a thing. Not a thing!
But they were rational when you read them, or looked into those sincere faces, with a contraption — the neti pot itself —up one nostril, and water sincerely and magically pouring like Vernal Falls down the other nostril. Can I throw up now?
And they all look so innocent. And healthy. And clean.
And I decided that for sure, it's a cult.
And they lure you in with rationality and health claims, and how you'll breathe better, and sleep better, and never get sick again.
And they have the same look on their face. That cult look of utter guilelessness and honesty. That you-can-trust-me look.
And it might as well be J.K. Rowling selling you HP8 or Beedle the Bard. You know that you're just doomed. That you're gonna join the cult — eventually.
But in the meantime, you're going to resist with every fiber of your being. Anything, you cry out. Anything, but the neti pot!
And you know that once you're hooked, you'll walk around with that dumb-ass glow on your face, wreaking of health and happiness, and sound-sleeping nights that you can't even imagine. And a free neti pot of your very own to take home with you, if you sign up right now, maybe in blood.
And that the one thing that you don't get —absolutely not — is a free butch dyke of your very very own, thrown into the bargain. Instead, the story always goes, she runs off to indoctrinate someone else, poor soul.
And then she goes home to her wife.
Babbity Rabbitty has a better ending:
Don't you just love J.K. Rowling?
No. I want to tell a different tale.
There once was a Shekhinah in the world, and she had a perpetually sniffly nose. And worse than that, she couldn't breathe through it, either. And worse still, it was all bent out of shape — from the inside out. And the right side didn't work at all unless she pulled at her face to keep the passage open. Almost all photos of her show her looking studiously to the side, one hand supporting her jaw. It's a trick, you see. She's not trying to be studious at all: No. She's just trying to breathe.
One day, this witch came into her life. A witch who only appeared in a special looking-glass, with a slender titanium frame around it. The looking-glass could show the Shekhinah absolutely anything she wanted to see, on earth or off — but instead, quite magically, it brought her this witch instead. Unasked for. Right out of thin air.
And the Shekhinah is no conjurer. God forbid. She takes no responsibility for the witch's appearance at all. Cackle all you want.
And a really witchy witch at that. Custom made, it seemed, to cast a spell upon the Shekhinah, who was really someone else in disguise. I'm not sure who, though. I mean, hell, it's the Shekhinah — who else could it be? But it sounds like the story should go that way.
So. You know witches. They're yentas of one kind or another. Just can't mind their own bloody business. Have to go around stirring up trouble. And this witch took the form of the most seductive irresistible thing the Shekhinah had ever experienced: the tall, butch dyke incarnation of shikse goddess. And threw in 'musician' as well, just for added effect to keep her spells aimed to kill.
And kill she did. She hit the brain and the heart with one fatal blow — on YouTube, no less — with a private spell with one aim: to fling her sincerity right through the looking-glass screen so that it should slay the Shekhinah instantly. And so it came to pass. The Shekhinah was writhing on the ground, cracking up, and could not catch a single breath.
"You slay me!" she tried to say. But no breath. No sound.
And in this way, the Shekhinah passed out of this world into the world to come.
It was the spell of the Neti Pot.
For the witch advocated, in email after email, and in that final YouTube blow — that the Shekhinah take up use of the vile contraption. She gave argument after argument. Day after day, and night after night. She set her enchantments to music, and forced the Shekhinah to listen — nay, to hear — the seduction of the neti pot. Her advocacy was relentless. And there, on YouTube, were little two year olds adding to the argument, and creepy guys, and businesses all hired by the witch to cast her spell.
She used the ultimate spell of 'rationality' figuring that it would work the best in this case.
Her arguments included, (if I recall them at all):
No. I've blanked every single one out. I don't remember a thing. Not a thing!
But they were rational when you read them, or looked into those sincere faces, with a contraption — the neti pot itself —up one nostril, and water sincerely and magically pouring like Vernal Falls down the other nostril. Can I throw up now?
And they all look so innocent. And healthy. And clean.
And I decided that for sure, it's a cult.
And they lure you in with rationality and health claims, and how you'll breathe better, and sleep better, and never get sick again.
And they have the same look on their face. That cult look of utter guilelessness and honesty. That you-can-trust-me look.
And it might as well be J.K. Rowling selling you HP8 or Beedle the Bard. You know that you're just doomed. That you're gonna join the cult — eventually.
But in the meantime, you're going to resist with every fiber of your being. Anything, you cry out. Anything, but the neti pot!
And you know that once you're hooked, you'll walk around with that dumb-ass glow on your face, wreaking of health and happiness, and sound-sleeping nights that you can't even imagine. And a free neti pot of your very own to take home with you, if you sign up right now, maybe in blood.
And that the one thing that you don't get —absolutely not — is a free butch dyke of your very very own, thrown into the bargain. Instead, the story always goes, she runs off to indoctrinate someone else, poor soul.
And then she goes home to her wife.
Babbity Rabbitty has a better ending:
"... and ever after a golden statue ... stood upon the tree stump, and no witch or wizard was ever persecuted in the kingdom again."
Don't you just love J.K. Rowling?
Thursday, June 17, 2010
straight shikse/queer shikse
When I left my husband, we both headed for the shikses. For him, no surprise. He'd had a shikse thing for longer than I'd known him—and I'd known him since I was still a teenager and he was barely 21. So, well, plenty has been written about the Jewish prince and the shikse. No need to go there. But why Jewish women head for the shikses is worth, well, research. I'm an anthropologist, right? Time for a little fieldwork.
It started one Friday night when I had an out-of-town friend over who was looking for action. What are the best bars, bla bla bla — this is after all, San Francisco, isn't it? There's gotta be alotta action in this town. She was from Argentina, and she was used to alotta action. But she was asking the wrong person. I only knew one place to go: and that was 'In Bed with Fairy Butch' — a great lesbian cabaret. My friend was not disappointed.
It was Hanukkah with Fairy Butch. Jewish leatherdyke cabaret. A davenning striptease with payess and pasties. Prayers over the labia menorah, with everyone singing along. And of course, Yenta the Matchmaker. A great night. But at one point, Fairy Butch calls out to the packed (and packing) crowd, "How many of you are Jewish?" And half the hands go up. "And how many of you with your hands up are with another Jewish woman?" And every single hand goes down. Every single one (who wasn't single) was with a shikse. Including me. What's with that?
A worthy piece of research indeed. I started interviewing. Starting with my therapist. She said, go for it! "You could get a major grant from some Jewish organization to fund you — you don't know how many patients I have who want to get their sons away from the shikses!" The shikse problem, she said, was a worthy cause for exploration, especially among the hetero-normative.
But what of the attraction of queer Jewish women to the shikse? Of the women I talked to, here's a small sample:
The Jewish women:
— When like meets like, there has to be some kind of Other—thus, the shikse.
— You can bump into your trick and your Rabbi on the very same block—no problem.
— What is it about shikses? It's those ice-cold blue eyes. And freckles.
— They're exotic! They eat things like mayonnaise, only they call it 'mayo.' And they slather it on, with things like 'fried bologna'! Revolting—but exotic.
— Things are simpler. We don't have to argue all sides of every question.
— Ha-shem is waiting for the answer to that one as well!
The Shikses answer:
— When I do a search on say, Planet Out, and use the word 'intellect' that's what draws them. I don't have to say I'm looking for a Jewish woman. They just pop up in the search.
— I'm drawn to their suffering.
— They are exclusive, chosen, and don't let anyone in — and I WANT IN!
— Shikses are not so demanding. You don't have to be faithful to a shikse. And that's okay.
— I'm German. We have strong bonds between us, the Germans and the Jews.
— I like secrets. What are they doing?
— Psychology tells us that Jewish men demand respect for Jewish women, like their mother. The Jewish woman rules the household. But with the shikse, the Jew can run the household. This goes for dykes as well.
I ended up collecting piles and piles of material on the shikse 'problem' and the more I looked at it, the more depressing it became. When I looked online, I found some of the scariest websites I've ever seen. Mostly about the hetero-shikse problem. Neo-Nazi sites accusing Jewish men of kidnapping, hypnotizing and ruining their women. The poster girl for this being Marilyn Monroe. And equally paranoid Orthodox Jewish sites accusing the shikses of polluting bloodlines and turning Jewish men's heads to mush.
But at Fairy Butch's cabaret, the 'problem' was more palpable. There was Fairy Butch discovering out loud and on stage, that many of the Jewish dykes in the crowd really did want a Jewish partner. Someone they could make shabbes with, light candles with, go to shul with. And Fairy Butch played yenta, and once a year—on Hanukkah—yenta matched Jewish/Jewish couples (for however long it might last), and then went home (or so I imagine) with her very own ... shikse goddess.
Is the shikse thing something as primal as heterosis, insuring hybrid vigor to the next generation, or some kind of reductionist 'Othering'? The appeal, the ambivalence, the aversion are all the stuff of stand-up comedy, not-so-romantic novels, and apparently lots and lots of protracted psychotherapy. More research needs to be done, of course. And what better method than anthropology's participant-observation?
It started one Friday night when I had an out-of-town friend over who was looking for action. What are the best bars, bla bla bla — this is after all, San Francisco, isn't it? There's gotta be alotta action in this town. She was from Argentina, and she was used to alotta action. But she was asking the wrong person. I only knew one place to go: and that was 'In Bed with Fairy Butch' — a great lesbian cabaret. My friend was not disappointed.
It was Hanukkah with Fairy Butch. Jewish leatherdyke cabaret. A davenning striptease with payess and pasties. Prayers over the labia menorah, with everyone singing along. And of course, Yenta the Matchmaker. A great night. But at one point, Fairy Butch calls out to the packed (and packing) crowd, "How many of you are Jewish?" And half the hands go up. "And how many of you with your hands up are with another Jewish woman?" And every single hand goes down. Every single one (who wasn't single) was with a shikse. Including me. What's with that?
A worthy piece of research indeed. I started interviewing. Starting with my therapist. She said, go for it! "You could get a major grant from some Jewish organization to fund you — you don't know how many patients I have who want to get their sons away from the shikses!" The shikse problem, she said, was a worthy cause for exploration, especially among the hetero-normative.
But what of the attraction of queer Jewish women to the shikse? Of the women I talked to, here's a small sample:
The Jewish women:
— When like meets like, there has to be some kind of Other—thus, the shikse.
— You can bump into your trick and your Rabbi on the very same block—no problem.
— What is it about shikses? It's those ice-cold blue eyes. And freckles.
— They're exotic! They eat things like mayonnaise, only they call it 'mayo.' And they slather it on, with things like 'fried bologna'! Revolting—but exotic.
— Things are simpler. We don't have to argue all sides of every question.
— Ha-shem is waiting for the answer to that one as well!
The Shikses answer:
— When I do a search on say, Planet Out, and use the word 'intellect' that's what draws them. I don't have to say I'm looking for a Jewish woman. They just pop up in the search.
— I'm drawn to their suffering.
— They are exclusive, chosen, and don't let anyone in — and I WANT IN!
— Shikses are not so demanding. You don't have to be faithful to a shikse. And that's okay.
— I'm German. We have strong bonds between us, the Germans and the Jews.
— I like secrets. What are they doing?
— Psychology tells us that Jewish men demand respect for Jewish women, like their mother. The Jewish woman rules the household. But with the shikse, the Jew can run the household. This goes for dykes as well.
I ended up collecting piles and piles of material on the shikse 'problem' and the more I looked at it, the more depressing it became. When I looked online, I found some of the scariest websites I've ever seen. Mostly about the hetero-shikse problem. Neo-Nazi sites accusing Jewish men of kidnapping, hypnotizing and ruining their women. The poster girl for this being Marilyn Monroe. And equally paranoid Orthodox Jewish sites accusing the shikses of polluting bloodlines and turning Jewish men's heads to mush.
But at Fairy Butch's cabaret, the 'problem' was more palpable. There was Fairy Butch discovering out loud and on stage, that many of the Jewish dykes in the crowd really did want a Jewish partner. Someone they could make shabbes with, light candles with, go to shul with. And Fairy Butch played yenta, and once a year—on Hanukkah—yenta matched Jewish/Jewish couples (for however long it might last), and then went home (or so I imagine) with her very own ... shikse goddess.
Is the shikse thing something as primal as heterosis, insuring hybrid vigor to the next generation, or some kind of reductionist 'Othering'? The appeal, the ambivalence, the aversion are all the stuff of stand-up comedy, not-so-romantic novels, and apparently lots and lots of protracted psychotherapy. More research needs to be done, of course. And what better method than anthropology's participant-observation?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
