On the 12th floor of the Midtown Sy Syms building sits an executive director, Marc Goldman, blond-haired, photos of his wife and child adorning his desk, available for a friendly conversation or a kind word. For he is not just any executive director, but the executive director of The Career Development Center.
I first met Marc Goldman when I decided to give an informational speech on requesting a kosher meal for a business function. Marc Goldman became my interviewee. I had no paper with me; Marc Goldman supplied some.
Fast forward a few weeks later. It has been weeks since I last promised to write Marc Goldman a friendly email, just to say hi. I promise to write an email that day, the same day I see him at the Career Fair, presiding over the Career Fair domain as only an executive director can. For some strange reason, I get the impression that if this were any era before the 1980s, he'd be carrying around a thick cigar and glancing at a gold pocketwatch every now and then--simply because, as executive director, he could.
While the promised email may not have come on Friday, I am making it up to Marc Goldman with not only an email but a blogpost, even though I use this blog rather infrequently.
So here's to you, Marc Goldman. Every conversation with you inspires me to want to put on my H&M suit jacket and find steady employment.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Smiley Ice
Even though I've never followed sports, watching the Winter Olympics tends to bring out the Canadian patriot in me. As a young child, I learned to figure skate, ski and appreciate the beauty of televised curling tournaments while noshing pistachios alongside my father. Living in a city known for its approximately 7 months of winter, I never really questioned the importance of such activities in the life of a growing girl.
Looking back, every Canadian winter is a kind of everyman's Olympics. In elementary school, we were only allowed to spend recess indoors if the temperature dropped below -23 degrees Celsius, and our 15 minute breaks were preceded by a mandatory period of snowpants, mitten, toque and scarf-donning. Once outside, we made snowmen, licked the metal climbing bars--I only remember getting my tongue stuck once--and played "freeze tag." Our field trips, all of which I took for granted, included skating on the pond at a nearby park and snowshoeing at a nature preservation center.
High school ushered in a new, recess-free era. I vowed I would never go outside again in winter unless I had to, as the temperature (without the windchill) could (and did) easily reach -30 degrees Celsius. In the morning, my father would start the engine of his 14-year-old car about 15 minutes before we left the house. The car was plugged into the house via an extension cord all night to keep the engine from freezing, but without this brief heating-up period, my dad and I might freeze over ourselves before work and school.
Now that I live in the U.S., homeostasis is certainly easier come the winter months. Yet sometimes, when the wind blows warm in February or I find myself having to turn on the air conditioner in a stuffy, inexplicably sweltering building, I miss that coldness that made me so aware of the beating heart struggling to keep me warm; that snuggling under the comforter for another 5 minutes before shivering into the kitchen for hot chocolate and a kiss good morning from my mother; those drives with my father to school in his crumbling vehicle before sunrise, MBD or Shlomo Carlebach songs filling the darkness, driving over the river that divides the city, only the road visible in the streetlamp light, thinking to myself that the world really is a very narrow bridge.
Looking back, every Canadian winter is a kind of everyman's Olympics. In elementary school, we were only allowed to spend recess indoors if the temperature dropped below -23 degrees Celsius, and our 15 minute breaks were preceded by a mandatory period of snowpants, mitten, toque and scarf-donning. Once outside, we made snowmen, licked the metal climbing bars--I only remember getting my tongue stuck once--and played "freeze tag." Our field trips, all of which I took for granted, included skating on the pond at a nearby park and snowshoeing at a nature preservation center.
High school ushered in a new, recess-free era. I vowed I would never go outside again in winter unless I had to, as the temperature (without the windchill) could (and did) easily reach -30 degrees Celsius. In the morning, my father would start the engine of his 14-year-old car about 15 minutes before we left the house. The car was plugged into the house via an extension cord all night to keep the engine from freezing, but without this brief heating-up period, my dad and I might freeze over ourselves before work and school.
Now that I live in the U.S., homeostasis is certainly easier come the winter months. Yet sometimes, when the wind blows warm in February or I find myself having to turn on the air conditioner in a stuffy, inexplicably sweltering building, I miss that coldness that made me so aware of the beating heart struggling to keep me warm; that snuggling under the comforter for another 5 minutes before shivering into the kitchen for hot chocolate and a kiss good morning from my mother; those drives with my father to school in his crumbling vehicle before sunrise, MBD or Shlomo Carlebach songs filling the darkness, driving over the river that divides the city, only the road visible in the streetlamp light, thinking to myself that the world really is a very narrow bridge.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Hiatus Interruptus
Today was double exam day: U.S. History Since 1941 and American Literature II. They both dealt with the same time period and overlapped in a way I would describe as magical.
So now the question of what to do with my evening--start researching my exit thesis, get out the old watercolor pad, drink milk-based Ghirardelli hot chocolate until I moo...
So now the question of what to do with my evening--start researching my exit thesis, get out the old watercolor pad, drink milk-based Ghirardelli hot chocolate until I moo...
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Journalism Meets Jewish Lit
Ah, the magnificence of not having to choose paths. For the last little while, I've been agonizing over two roads less taken: journalism and Jewish literature.
Today I attended the 2009 Harold U. Ribalow Prize ceremony at the UJA's Manhattan location. The book prize this year was awarded to Peter Manseau, a French-Canadian Catholic--whose parents met while his father was a Roman Catholic priest and his mother a nun--who became interested in Yiddish and even helped collect and preserve old Yiddish books of mameloshon speakers across America's East Coast.
I was invited to attend the Hadassah Magazine-sponsored event by the publication's editor in chief, Alan Tigay, a beloved professor of mine. The man understands his student, that's for sure.
The speeches sparkled with fascinating anecdotes--Prof. Tigay's trip to Israel 35 years ago, during which his elderly female relative, Yona, insisted on translating a Hebrew episode of The Defenders to him in Yiddish, despite there being English subtitles; the Forward Association Director Samuel Norwich's announcement that the first Yiddish-English dictionary since 1968 will be published in the next few years, complete with technological terms (did you know that email in Yiddish is "plitzpost"?); and, best of all, Meir Ribalow's description of growing up in his illustrious, talent-seeker father's house: "I grew up in a home where making a lot of money was perfectly respectable--if you didn't have any real talent."
In literature anthologies, Harold U. Ribalow liked to publish then-unknown authors such as Saul Bellow, Bernard Malamud, Cynthia Ozick and Henry Roth--in other words, the gems of Jewish creativity that have made the last year of my intellectual life worthwhile.
I can't wait to read Manceau's book, Songs for the Butcher's Daughter, a novel about a Boston Catholic student's friendship with an elderly Yiddish speaker, as well as fascination with the Yiddish language and a Yiddishe maidel.
Today I attended the 2009 Harold U. Ribalow Prize ceremony at the UJA's Manhattan location. The book prize this year was awarded to Peter Manseau, a French-Canadian Catholic--whose parents met while his father was a Roman Catholic priest and his mother a nun--who became interested in Yiddish and even helped collect and preserve old Yiddish books of mameloshon speakers across America's East Coast.
I was invited to attend the Hadassah Magazine-sponsored event by the publication's editor in chief, Alan Tigay, a beloved professor of mine. The man understands his student, that's for sure.
The speeches sparkled with fascinating anecdotes--Prof. Tigay's trip to Israel 35 years ago, during which his elderly female relative, Yona, insisted on translating a Hebrew episode of The Defenders to him in Yiddish, despite there being English subtitles; the Forward Association Director Samuel Norwich's announcement that the first Yiddish-English dictionary since 1968 will be published in the next few years, complete with technological terms (did you know that email in Yiddish is "plitzpost"?); and, best of all, Meir Ribalow's description of growing up in his illustrious, talent-seeker father's house: "I grew up in a home where making a lot of money was perfectly respectable--if you didn't have any real talent."
In literature anthologies, Harold U. Ribalow liked to publish then-unknown authors such as Saul Bellow, Bernard Malamud, Cynthia Ozick and Henry Roth--in other words, the gems of Jewish creativity that have made the last year of my intellectual life worthwhile.
I can't wait to read Manceau's book, Songs for the Butcher's Daughter, a novel about a Boston Catholic student's friendship with an elderly Yiddish speaker, as well as fascination with the Yiddish language and a Yiddishe maidel.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Because the Time Has Come
It recently came to my attention that I'm not biologically predisposed to pen and paper. It's also becoming clear to me that I might have more to say than can fit into a Facebook status; hence, the blog starts churning again--for the first time, like Disney's Bambi coming out of its vault.
So what is it that I have to say to you, who happen to have mistakenly clicked on me?
Well, there's the problem that I'm graduating and have been stone-shopping so I can engrave my future at the end of May (I hate shopping).
That I don't own a single pair of high heels.
That Bernard Malamud and I have had a date for the past 5 months, but I keep standing him up (sorry, The Complete Stories).
But no matter. The re-churning of this blog, originally created for a class I hated, can be a tikkun for the things in life I could be pursuing at this moment, like working on my honors thesis, reading Shir HaShirim or researching how many q's there are in "tikkun."
I think this is the dawn of a new era I can get along with.
So what is it that I have to say to you, who happen to have mistakenly clicked on me?
Well, there's the problem that I'm graduating and have been stone-shopping so I can engrave my future at the end of May (I hate shopping).
That I don't own a single pair of high heels.
That Bernard Malamud and I have had a date for the past 5 months, but I keep standing him up (sorry, The Complete Stories).
But no matter. The re-churning of this blog, originally created for a class I hated, can be a tikkun for the things in life I could be pursuing at this moment, like working on my honors thesis, reading Shir HaShirim or researching how many q's there are in "tikkun."
I think this is the dawn of a new era I can get along with.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Thoughts on Theater in the Orthodox World
Orthodox Theater
The difficulties faced by Orthodox Jews hoping to pursue a career in theater can be disheartening. On Friday nights and Saturdays the show cannot go on, and women do not sing, dance or, in some cases, even act in front of men. Still, pockets of individuals in North America’s Orthodox Jewish community have chosen to pave their own paths in the performing arts, with mixed results.
November 7-10 was the third conference of ATARA, the Arts & Torah Association for Religious Artists. The all-female conference featured hour-long workshops in voice and drama, as well as musical performances by volunteer, professionally trained Orthodox women (most of whom—of course—received training before becoming religious).
Miriam Leah Droz, 32, the conference organizer, says she wants to send the message that there is no conflict between art and Torah. “You have limitations,” she says, acknowledging restrictions like Shabbat and kol isha, the prohibition of a man hearing a woman sing. “This is what our given circumstances are and we’re going to work within those given circumstances to create something beautiful.”
Yes, Droz poured tremendous effort and enthusiasm into the project. Yes, the performers consciously chose to take on the religious statutes that limit the scope of their art. And yes, conference attendees seemed to have enjoyed themselves. Yet it’s hard to not feel depressed watching former opera singers and trained stage actresses confined to ten-minute gigs for a couple hundred women at a—sorry to say it—disorganized bi-annual event. Sure, there is a smattering of events throughout the year. But the Orthodox woman—especially one who won’t even act in front of men, let alone sing—who makes performing her full-time career must be prepared for one hell of an arduous, poorly-paid journey.
That’s not to say there haven’t been some bright lights. Manhattan’s fledgling, family-friendly Mesaper Theater—which features men and women acting together but not singing—recently put on a successful theatrical reading of “Out of the Apple Orchard,” and Rivka Lomiansky’s Toronto-based Orthodox musical theater summer camp for girls aged 7 to 13 will enter its third year in 2009.
There is also hope that New York’s mainstream theater industry might give way to religious concerns if it wants a certain actor badly enough. Reuven Russell, a drama professor at Stern College for Women, recently starred in a three-and-a-half week run of “The Quarrel” at off-Broadway’s Daryl Roth Theatre, which ran on a Sabbath observant schedule.
Familiar with the challenges of an acting career combined with an orthodox lifestyle, Russell encourages his students to write their own material. “Writing your own material,” says Russell, who has traveled with his one man show “Gathering the Sparks” to over 120 cities in the past 20 years, “puts you in charge of content and your audience and how you want to do it.”
Russell believes that trained artists who join the growing ba’al teshuvah (one who adopts orthodoxy after leading a secular lifestyle) movement will increase theater opportunities in the Orthodox world.
The sooner the better, or else the sea of Torah risks quenching the creative fire of its artistic followers.
-Yaelle
The difficulties faced by Orthodox Jews hoping to pursue a career in theater can be disheartening. On Friday nights and Saturdays the show cannot go on, and women do not sing, dance or, in some cases, even act in front of men. Still, pockets of individuals in North America’s Orthodox Jewish community have chosen to pave their own paths in the performing arts, with mixed results.
November 7-10 was the third conference of ATARA, the Arts & Torah Association for Religious Artists. The all-female conference featured hour-long workshops in voice and drama, as well as musical performances by volunteer, professionally trained Orthodox women (most of whom—of course—received training before becoming religious).
Miriam Leah Droz, 32, the conference organizer, says she wants to send the message that there is no conflict between art and Torah. “You have limitations,” she says, acknowledging restrictions like Shabbat and kol isha, the prohibition of a man hearing a woman sing. “This is what our given circumstances are and we’re going to work within those given circumstances to create something beautiful.”
Yes, Droz poured tremendous effort and enthusiasm into the project. Yes, the performers consciously chose to take on the religious statutes that limit the scope of their art. And yes, conference attendees seemed to have enjoyed themselves. Yet it’s hard to not feel depressed watching former opera singers and trained stage actresses confined to ten-minute gigs for a couple hundred women at a—sorry to say it—disorganized bi-annual event. Sure, there is a smattering of events throughout the year. But the Orthodox woman—especially one who won’t even act in front of men, let alone sing—who makes performing her full-time career must be prepared for one hell of an arduous, poorly-paid journey.
That’s not to say there haven’t been some bright lights. Manhattan’s fledgling, family-friendly Mesaper Theater—which features men and women acting together but not singing—recently put on a successful theatrical reading of “Out of the Apple Orchard,” and Rivka Lomiansky’s Toronto-based Orthodox musical theater summer camp for girls aged 7 to 13 will enter its third year in 2009.
There is also hope that New York’s mainstream theater industry might give way to religious concerns if it wants a certain actor badly enough. Reuven Russell, a drama professor at Stern College for Women, recently starred in a three-and-a-half week run of “The Quarrel” at off-Broadway’s Daryl Roth Theatre, which ran on a Sabbath observant schedule.
Familiar with the challenges of an acting career combined with an orthodox lifestyle, Russell encourages his students to write their own material. “Writing your own material,” says Russell, who has traveled with his one man show “Gathering the Sparks” to over 120 cities in the past 20 years, “puts you in charge of content and your audience and how you want to do it.”
Russell believes that trained artists who join the growing ba’al teshuvah (one who adopts orthodoxy after leading a secular lifestyle) movement will increase theater opportunities in the Orthodox world.
The sooner the better, or else the sea of Torah risks quenching the creative fire of its artistic followers.
-Yaelle
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