So before the third day of the trip officially began, we had a run in with some of our Birthright compadres in the hotel. We went to bed the night before around 11 (I think) and promptly passed out... only to be woken up by drunken, pot smoking, yarmulke wearing 18 year olds in the hallway. I popped my head out into the hallway and used my deepest Camp Counselor Voice to tell them that I didn't give a shit what they were doing, but that they needed to move it into their rooms. They slurred their way into the rooms, shut the doors and everything was good.
Until it happened again. And again. And again. Apparently, staying in the room is far too difficult, and the party kept leaking into the hallway. Sleep total: Less than 6 hours.
The morning of our third day, I woke up before my roommates to use the shower. The shower was... interesting. It was clean (thank God) (heh), but odd. It was a tub/shower combo, but instead of a shower curtain or a sliding glass door, it had half a glass wall and... that's it. So when you took a shower, water sprayed all over the bathroom. The bathroom that had no fan. So everything fogged up (including the glass counter). It was very awkward. Oh, and I forgot about the teeny, tiny beds! The beds were so, so narrow and teeny, we all felt like giants.
We meandered downstairs (where we encountered the loud 18 year olds and glared at them a lot) for delicious breakfast of french toast, pancakes, grapefruit and other fantastic things. After breakfast, we headed upstairs to meet Our Soldiers. I say it like that -- Our Soldiers -- because that is how we referred to them the whole trip. Joining us that day -- and for the next four days -- were eight Israeli soldiers (three girls and five boys). I can't say how fantastic and valuable it was to have them with us. Whenever I had a crazy offshoot question or didn't understand something or just wanted to know why the water heaters were on the top of the buildings in Tel Aviv, they could tell us.
After we met the soldiers, we were off to the market to pick up food for shabbat that night. Baklava, challah, chocolate, dates, fresh fruit -- it was like the best farmers market ever, with everyone yelling in Hebrew and no room to breathe, much less move more than two steps at a time. Dor, the soldier who was with our mini-group of six, navigated us through and negotiated for us, something that came in very handy as the market was one of the few places on our trip where signs were exclusively in Hebrew (which I can't read, write or speak, thank you very much)
After the market, we hopped on the bus and headed to the Old City. Standing outside of the archway entrance, I was amazed at how old it really was. I know that sounds cliche, but it really was incredible. The wall in front of us had slats in it (to shoot arrows at intruders!), the archway dated back thousands of years and I kept thinking "It's like 10th grade Western Civ! Only not boring!"
We headed through the entrance and into the Jewish quarter. We visited the Cardo and walked around the city, but I felt distracted since I knew our eventual destination was the Wall. The Wall is pretty much the only holy site in Judaism and, to put it mildly, kind of a big deal. It's the last remaining wall of the old temple, a place where battles were won and fought over hundreds of years (if you believe the bible, that is). As we rounded the corner to see it for the first time, it really did take my breath away. It's massive and intimidating. And crowded. The Wall has two areas -- one for men and one for women. You'll notice from the picture that the section for men is larger, has tables and chairs and, I can't confirm this, has air conditioning (I don't think I believe that one). The women's area is crowded and cramped and you have to wait for a spot at the wall.
Sanding at the Wall was really incredible. Some people were crying around me and praying and clutching it, and some were silent and reflective. All I can say is that it felt really calm, right there, just for that second. Behind me, I heard a woman sobbing. I turned around to find an older woman -- in her 80s or 90s -- struggling to stand. I gave her my spot and found ofne of the many plastic chairs that were laid out to sit and write for a bit.
After we left The Wall, it was time to head back to the hotel. It was shabbat at sunset, which in Jerusalem meant that everything was going to shut down. We hopped back on the bus and back to the hotel, where I met up with my aunt and uncle and my two cousins. They all live in Jerusalem (with their many children and grandchildren) and because of the tour's tight schedule (and rules), this was the only time we could get together. They looked great, but I was so disappointed to not get to see everyone. The last time I saw all the kids, I was 13 and now half of them have kids of their own. Sheryl and Ellen brought pictures, but it's just not the same.
We had dinner, eating all of the fabulous treats we bought at the market earlier that day, and then settled in for the night. Again, the rules were cramping our style, as we were now stuck in the hotel and it was barely 8 o'clock. After many negotiations, we were shut down and were pretty much on lock down for the night. As you can imagine, this didn't really go over well with all of us. The bratty 18 year olds were upstairs in the hallway being loud and drunk, and all of us were hyped with Getting To Know Everyone energy.
All of this led to many card games, reopening the bar in the lobby (much to the chagrin of the manager) and some drunken political conversations that I stayed out of (a first!). When we did finally go to bed, it was a repeat of the night before, with the loud kids and all of us old ladies yelling at them. It would get worse the next night...
Next up: Shabbat in the Holy Land, crazy protesters and the foreign theater
Okay, I've been back in Portland for a full month and have been dreading blogging about my trip to Israel. Not because it wasn't fun, but because 1.) it's going to take a lot of time 2.) I'm really bad about finishing these kinds of projects and 3.) it was a lot of fun and work is really work-y lately and, really, I kind of want to go back.
Alas. I am caving to the pressure (thanks guys!) and I'm going to suck it up.
Day 1 and 2: Portland to LA to Tel Aviv to Jerusalem in 30 Hours or Less!
I got up at 3 a.m. on Wednesday to fly to LAX. Joe was still in Minnesota and I had the dog, so it was a little stressful. Westely had eaten his way through his new kennel the night before, so I had to pack him up in his tiny kennel and leave him until Joe got back at 1 p.m. the same day. Westely was already unhappy with me and the tiny kennel didn't help. Mom picked me up bright and early at 5 o'clock and, boy, that was awesome.
The flight to LA was uneventful and we landed early, which I would usually say is great. Except. Except that I had, per the instructions from the agency I was traveling with, scheduled my flight to arrive in LA four hours before our departing flight. So now I was at LAX five hours before our departing flight. By myself. At 8 a.m. So that was awesome.
I wandered around and asked all kinds of lost-looking strangers "Excuse me, but are you going to Israel?" Um, no. None of them were. And not only were none of them going to Israel, but then all of them started looking at me like I was some sort of moron. I gave up and sat outside for an hour and called into work to relay instructions to my intern. Yes, that's right. I called into work. Day 1 of vacation and I was on the road to success!
After an hour, I went back in to the terminal. People from our group were finally starting to arrive and, as such, I started judging who I would like and who I wouldn't like. Oh, I kid, I kid. But I did spot this girl with curly hair and a Berkeley sweatshirt and I thought "Hmm, we could be roommates. I bet she has good hair products." This ended up working out very well in the end.
The El Al ticketing counter opened up exactly four hours before our flight. There were a ton of employees there in suits and a couple with Secret Service-esque earpieces and, of course, the guys with really big guns. Very James Bond. It reminded me of Logan airport after September 11th. Which was oddly comforting, in a really big gun kind of way.
They made all of us stand in line as the interviewed each of us one by one. And not just the usual "Did you pack your bag? Do you have any knives with you?" kind of thing. But rather "What is the name of your rabbi? Where did you go to college? What denomination are you? Are both your parents Jewish?" kind of thing. Yeah, it was a little intense. I made it through quickly with a mention of being Sephardic and going to Brandeis (whoo! Jew cred!), but some were not so lucky...
One of our fellow travelers had a very large box with him. The interviewer looked at him and asked, "What is this?"
"A box," he replied.
"And what is in it?"
"Stuff."
"Did you pack it?"
"No."
Oh, no. That didn't go so well. He, like many others on our trip, got a little sticker put on his bags that indicated that all of his stuff would be confiscated and searched. Including his carry on. About five or six people on our trip got their carry ons taken away (all men -- El Al knows not to mess with Jewish women, apparently) and some didn't get them back until our second or third day in Jerusalem. Lesson: Don't fuck with El Al.
After checking in, we had time to wander around the international terminal at LAX. Wow, it's super boring there. And the food blows. We gave up and went to sit at the gate, which was a whole different kind of disaster. I've never been to Calcutta, but I imagine it's similar to the international terminal gates. It was crowded. Really crowded. And kind of smelly. And really disorganized. And there were tiny cars that would beep at you and then run over your foot anyway. And no one spoke English except for us and those that did were talking into intercoms that we couldn't hear. (Yes, this is how I envision Calcutta. Though I also imagine cows there and, thankfully, there were no cows in our terminal. At least, none that I could see.) It was so disorganized that our flight ended up leaving close to two hours late.
Not that we knew that when we got on the plane. Yes, that's right. Two hours sitting on the plane. Oh, wait, but I forgot. First you have to take a bus from the international terminal to a special terminal to get on the plane. And the bus has a police escort. And then the plane has a police escort until it leave the ground. Lesson: Don't fuck with El Al, part II.
They shoved most of our trip on the back of the plane -- affectionately dubbed The Back of the Bus -- which was very smart. Having forty twenty-somethings who just met on a plane for a 14 hour flight (and a two hour wait before that) must have made the flight attendants want to bail out somewhere over Italy. But it worked out fairly well for all of us.
The flight itself wasn't bad. There was lots of food -- and most of it good -- and everyone just kind of wandered around and hung out in the kitchen for a lot of the flight, which was great. One of the guys on the trip and I started trying to identify That Guy -- you know, That Guy! -- and made our official predictions for the trip. There were really bad movies and Friends reruns and lots of hot pita bread and nice blankets. The flight attendants were way nicer than most American flight attendants and happily fed you on command (yes!) and refilled your water bottle and gave everyone lots of free booze. Not bad, really, for a really, really long flight.
Eventually, we landed at Ben Gurion. The luggage situation got even better at that point. One of the guys on our trip, Anthony, was waiting with me and Michelle (the curly haired girl with the Berkeley sweatshirt) for his bag. He couldn't find it until, finally, it came off the carousel. Empty. Just a bag. With nothing in it.
And then came the box. A box with all of his stuff in it. That's right. El Al had not only searched his bag, but had unloaded all of his possessions into a box. Somewhere, there are some really great pictures of Anthony and his really sad box. Anthony was not the only one on our trip who met this fate, but he was definitely the most amusing about it. Poor Anthony and his sad box.
We met our guide, exchanged our money, picked up our cell phones and got on our bus that would become our home base for the next 10 days. We were so late, we did some quick rescheduling and went to a park that overlooks Jerusalem. We got there right before sunset and had our first real look at the city. They gave us nasty wine for a kiddush and then we piled back onto the bus to head to our hotel.
At the hotel, we left our luggage in the lobby (safe!) and had dinner first. And that dinner, it was fantastic! The food at our hotel -- plug: The Jerusalem Gold Hotel -- was some of the best on our trip, despite the rooms and beds being very, very tiny (more on that later). As we sat down for dinner, a group of Russians at the other end of the dining hall started singing. Loudly. In Russian. It was like crazy Russian dinner theater just for us.
After dinner, we picked our roommates -- Michelle and I found another curly top, Laura, to bunk with us -- and headed to our aforementioned tiny rooms. It had been 30 + hours since leaving Portland and I was so exhausted. Good night!
Next up: Obnoxious 18 year olds, the Old City, davening in Burberry and much, much more!
Look. I'm back with a real live site using traditional blog type software. I've been doing this for awhile so we'll fore go all the pleasantries and just reference a post I wrote on vox back in December. Speaking of vox, i'll probably keep it around when I want to write stuff that is for specific eyes only or if I want to post some random music in an easily playable format. I probably won't clutter up the sidebar with a bunch of links and things either. If you want to find me all over the web, check my friend feed.
But, for those of you looking for semi-regular ramblings from me, jasontoney.com is what's happening.
Oh, one more thing - the negroplease archives, after an 18 month hiatus, are live.
how are you?
Perhaps it is fitting that, having absolved American racists of all manner of crimes against others, Obama also holds them blameless for their assaults on himself. That's his prerogative, as long as he's the only one being assaulted. But Obama was also dogged over the long weekend by the ghost of Sean Bell, whose death in a 50-shot New York City police fusillade was held blameless by a white judge. Many African Americans anxiously awaited Obama's reaction to the three police officers' acquittals on all charges. "We're a nation of laws, so we respect the verdict that came down," said Obama, when asked about the case by reporters in Indiana. "Resorting to violence to express displeasure over a verdict is something that is completely unacceptable and is counterproductive." That was it.
Hillary Clinton, aware that the Sean Bell verdict was an outrage to Black America, issued a prepared statement:
"This tragedy has deeply saddened New Yorkers - and all Americans. My thoughts are with Nicole and her children and the rest of Sean's family during this difficult time. The court has given its verdict, and now we await the conclusion of a Department of Justice civil rights investigation. We must also embrace this opportunity to take steps - in our communities, in our law enforcement agencies, and in our government - to make sure this does not happen again."
It is difficult not to conclude that Obama distanced himself from the facts of the acquittal - except to counsel against violence and urge folks to "respect" the verdict, whatever that means - while Clinton had the sense to prepare a statement that sounded sensitive to Black anger and on top of developments in the story. The Sean Bell police and judicial atrocity revealed with horrific clarity that Black life continues to be systematically devalued by police in the United States, even when the officers involved are of African descent, as were two of the three shooters in the Bell case. The New York verdict shows that Black lives are devalued by all actors in American society, including Black actors: the essence of institutional racism.
- Obama's "race-neutral" Strategy Unravels of its own Contradictions, black agenda report, 04.30.08
via negrophile.
Ever since I jumped aboard the Obama bandwagon in February, I've been itching to write about this concept of "post-racial." Reverend Jeremiah Wright's weekend has given me the context I've needed. I've spent the last 2 days vomiting up every thought about race and the Presidential race that has popped into my head on twitter. 140 character bursts, obvs, were not enough...
First, some common trains of thought the last two days...
misterjt "Wright's 'I'm Grown and I Say What the Hell I Want To Say' victory lap". I heart the black snob - http://twurl.nl/lorfq0
misterjt @arsepoetica For extra credit - Crab, meet barrel - http://twurl.nl/6lnbkv
misterjt I'm also supremely bothered by the idea that people would equate Wright's media tour as a HRC dirty trick. He is not Willie Horton.
I'm going to dig into this more but, here's the whole thing about this entire situation in two wonderful bites by some very smart folks I like. On the one hand, it is so cool to see Rev. Wright on a National stage. For Black communities, he's familiar. He's fiery and passionate about the state of the African-American community. He's intelligent and witty. Like most pastors, he's a showman. He's direct and contradictory and complicated and fascinating.
He's no Willie Horton. He's no dirty trick. He's an American voice. Regardless of whether or not I agree with his statements, to suggest that he's anything other than a incredibly smart guy who does not want 24 hour news channels and a presidential candidate to define him belittles him and you.
That said, he's also a person most Black folks would be strained to explain to mixed company. As The Black Snob notes, "He was practically basking in the glow of making the white folk uncomfortable."
After that moment of glee in recognizing this, there's the immediate recognition, "Oh shit. Who effed up and let this Negro speak?"
Why would this be the immediate next thought? Well...
misterjt @arsepoetica I don't think Obama was calculating in choosing a pastor. I do think, however, that mainstream America is not quite ready...
misterjt to really see what goes on behind closed racial doors. Rev. Wright makes Barack more George Jefferson than Heathcliff Huxtable.
misterjt @RPM I'm right, though, ain't i? Everybody loves George Jefferson but middle america would be scared to death of him as a president.
I really mean this. For Barack Obama to win, he's gotta be Cliff Huxtable. Maybe Sydney Poitier. That's it. If he's Cliff, he's your kids pediatrician, he taught you about jazz, he invites you over for the bbq. Good ol' Cliff would never make you feel uncomfortable. But if he's George Jefferson -- if you think he occasionally says "honkey" when you're not around, if he wants to talk about slavery or reparations, if he wants to remind you of all he's overcome, if he reminds you that he, a black man, is doing better than you are, or that he doesn't think the same things about controversial issues that you do -- well, you ain't voting for that guy.
No matter how great his smile is or how hopeful his message is.
Rev. Wright makes Barack Obama very black. Uncomfortably black...
misterjt Times on Wright - wriggled. cocky. defiant. declamatory. inflammatory. mischevious. monomania. wacky. highfalutin. http://twurl.nl/2366yr
...you can tell just by how he's described. This NY Times article uses as much language as possible to turn Rev. Wright into both a Bogey Man and a Clown. Not only is he scary, he's crazy. Wait, Barack, you're black, too. Are you scary and crazy?
misterjt I don't quite know what to make of people who think "Wright is out to destroy Obama." How, exactly? By being a charismatic speaker?
Which brings me to right now. I'm thumbs down on Barack Obama today. He had the opportunity to further his speech from a month ago and continue to push the race conversation forward. This is his litmus test and, for my money, he failed. If he's going to use words like "change" and "hope" then he better have the where with all to back it up.misterjt By being not post-racial? It bugs me that rather than have the nuanced race talk, people are more comfortable with just disavowing a voice.
Instead, he did what every politician does in these situations. He caved. He disavowed. He denounced.
misterjt @blogdiva why? If Obama is presidential material, it is his responsibility to be able to do grand things in the face of adversity.
misterjt @blogdiva it is not Wright's responsibility, or any of us as voters, to protect Obama. He has to prove himself.
misterjt After the last few months of shiny, happy moments, this is his real test, my gung-ho support, if not my vote, lies in how he handles it.
misterjt @RPM I think so. I don't think Obama has had to prove himself at all. Now he has to prove himself to me.
Here's how he could of proved it - expanded the conversation. Talked about the difference between religious speech and political rhetoric. Talked about the many spectacular themes in Wright's talks. Talked to Wright directly. Discussed why beliefs like "The US Government had something to do with AIDS" maintain legitimacy in the Black community. I'll even give you this one for free, Obama. At my barber shop this weekend, it was said, "If a nigga can get shot 50 times, be unarmed, and the niggas who did it not get thrown under the jail, you don't think the government cain't do some shit to the black man? They already done did it, man."
If you're going to be the President of the United States of America, you better be for real. Don't go running from the race conversation, Barack. Jump right in. Just because Bush has set the bar so low doesn't mean you still shouldn't go for the highest standard possible. This goes beyond American Political Strategy and tactics and all of that. I'm saying as a voter, I want to respect you. I want to believe you're that dude.
Show me something.
misterjt we're only post-racial when we believe all of our assumptions are the same. The moment that world view is shaken, it all comes tumbling down
misterjt @drublood I honestly don't think that's it. It's not about racism. It's about our--all of us--prickly problem with race. The 2 are different
misterjt @drublood well, it's obviously in the grand scheme about racism but "race in america" on an individual level is about comfort.
misterjt @drublood it is amazing that for the first time, a majority of americans perhaps, can envision a black president. But now is the hard part.
misterjt what does that mean for our national psyche, our national conversation about race and culture? Legitimization of voices like Wright's is 1
If you've read me online for any period of time, you know I just want to have honest conversations about race (and gender and class and sexuality). I don't want things to be simple. I don't want to be a part of any concept of post-racialism if that means we're ignoring the realities of our lives. If that means we don't get to acknowledge, discuss and celebrate our differences. If that doesn't mean we can look back on history honestly or look toward the future realistically.
I want to talk about my prejudices. I want to talk about yours. I want to value your voice as much as you value mine. I don't want to have to make a choice between a Rev. Wright or a Barack Obama. They are both me whether you like it or not.
If only Mr. Obama hadn't spent the day attempting to forget that.
Despite journalists suggesting that you are somehow beyond Blackness, as we can now see, it don't wash off.
Current music: Wire – "The king stay the king."
It was a get the hell outta Dodge type weekend and Anna and I did just that. It was a lovely two days of laughter and full bellies and sand and water and good conversation and reconnection. This used to be such a common thing for she and I. There was a time when a weekend didn't go by without us spending the vast majority of it in a car off to some random location. And so, while the 9th Coachella scorched and delighted the young folks in the desert, we slightly less young folks headed in the opposite direction to Ventura and Santa Barbara looking for adventure.
"Take risks," I'd exclaim to Anna for no good reason and, we did. We took strange off ramps that led to unfamiliar locales like Santa Claus Lane. We ventured closely to a hippie-infused drum circle. We dared walk piers with no rails. Our trusty companion, Curtis the crab, tempted fate in the mouth of a whale. We nervously walked an unfamiliar path where lizards were afoot. We even stood toe to toe with red faced douche bags and lived to tell the tale.
Our greatest feat, however, may have been simply being two people of color in communities of seemingly endless waves of white people.
I say this with tongue firmly in cheek but the last of the internet I saw before we left on our adventure was this twitter by the baddest chick --
Which led me to the brewing controversy around Seal Press's latest publication, It’s a Jungle Out There: The Feminist Survival Guide to Politically Inhospitable Environments, and the illustrations that hide within. Now, to be clear, I'm not offended by the imagery. As I get older, I find very little truly offends me. It's wrong-headed, sure. It's insensitive, of course. It shows that Seal Press is courting a certain audience -- white feminists -- and really ain't thinking about nobody else? Yup, sure does. But offensive? Nah. Just bad business. I'll take a cue from WOC PHD and just refrain from purchasing anymore of their books until they get their house in order even if that means I won't be able to support in cash money people I know, enjoy, respect, and admire.Heart-broken: http://tinyurl.com/5egpso
I tell you all this to give you insight into where my head was as we made our excursion to seemingly lighter pastures. In Downtown Ventura, we stopped for lunch at a cafe with a wonderful view of Main Street. Anna and I quickly noticed that the few brown people we did see were working as wait staff and not out enjoying the gorgeous day with the rest of the community. We went nearly 20 minutes watching dozens of people walk in front of us. Pigmentation was low. It became a game. I saw a gentleman darker than me across the street and pointed him out excitedly. And at that moment, as if we were on The Truman Show and Christof had yelled, "cue the coloreds," an Asian woman and a Latino couple crossed paths in front of us at the same time.
We cracked up.
As we walked through downtown after lunch and then made our way up to Santa Barbara, we began to notice how few people "who looked like us" we saw. It was as if we were explorers in a strange land. The primarily white drum circle became a local ritual of the natives that we didn't quite understand. The beach and ocean became the exotic "nexus of nature" where these "savages" must come to lay blessings to their gods. Obviously, a primitive sand sculpture was some kind of totem showcasing the complexities of their archaic mythologies. We remarked on how stoners greeted each other in the street (they introduce themselves at the end of the conversation instead of the beginning and smell of odd oils. Anna claims it is called "patchouli" but that is such a ridiculous word that I believe she is pulling my leg.)
We even saw a Douche Bag (a particularly interesting tribe) get caught in the middle of the street with oncoming traffic in both directions.
Such an amazing sight it was!
On our way home, we discussed turning our adventure as explorers in the strange wilderness of the white man into a video or film, wondering if anyone would get the joke and the social commentary therein.
If they work for Seal Press, probably not.
Current music: Yerba Buena – Colonial Mentality
Could we have gotten more good work done if we worked those extra five Fridays? I seriously doubt it. Would we have been happier working five extra days over the last 30? I seriously doubt it. Is a four-day work week better for morale and productivity than a typical five-day work week? I seriously believe it.
- Urgency is poisonous by Jason Fried, 37 Signals, 04.14.08
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