When I say people want to see more diversity in stories, no, I really don’t mean different stories about straight white dudes. I really, really don’t mean that at all. This isn’t about types of stories being told. This is specifically about people. I’m not letting you make this about something else. You are not hijacking this message to make sure we’re still talking about straight white dudes.
I’m not sure who Megan Rose Gedris is yet (I’m heading for google now), but if she writes a book she just made a sale.
Frank Ocean - Bad Romance (Lady Gaga Cover)
i wanna be a reverse tooth fairy where i rob people and then scatter human teeth on their bed
i dont know what your dentist is doing to you but i think you need to go to the police
You’re sarcastic and you like to mock others, and hate seafood, you have bad sleeping habits. You’re well-read and have an extensive intellect, but you’re completely unorganized! You’re moody and even though you seem neurotic, you’re actually really sloppy! You like your soup scalding, and if I mess up the salt content even a little, you get super pissy! And last night, you kicked me out of bed three times in your sleep!
[old version: x]
In the month between Purim and Passover this year, I have been struck by a poignant and powerful connection between Esther and Moses — they are both hesitant, assimilated saviors, pushed by circumstance and threat to speak up for a community they each left long ago.
Moses, who is raised in the Egyptian palace and makes his adult home among the Midianites in the desert, has never known his birth family or his fellow Jews. He has excellent reason to be reluctant to return: a stutterer and a fugitive, Moses hardly cuts the most impressive figure. Couldn’t God have found a more charismatic and influential lobbyist? Isn’t Pharaoh’s ungrateful-foster-son-the-criminal literally the worst person to soften his heart against genocide?
Esther is stolen from her community by the servants of King Ahasuerus because she is a beautiful virgin and thus fits the incredibly measly criteria to be his next wife. Upon entering the harem — where she will live out the rest of her days, whether she is chosen as queen or not — she abandons her Jewish identity as a matter of safety. Her childhood with Uncle Mordechai must be forbidden and forgotten as is the unlucky Vashti. It is not until she has spent nine years in the palace (four waiting in the harem, then five as queen) that Haman devises his plan for genocide. Nine years since she last stepped outside the walls, and yet she now is to risk death by approaching the king on behalf of a people she has spent her adulthood disavowing?
We should also note their names: neither uses a Jewish one. Moses is an Egyptian name, given him by Pharaoh’s daughter when she draws him from the Nile. Whatever his birth mother Jochebed called him goes unrecorded. Esther is a Persian name, almost certainly derived in homage to the goddess Ishtar. In abandoning her Hebrew name (Hadassah, which means myrtle) and faith, she chooses one as diametrically opposed to the old ways as possible.
Moses and Esther are two of the most beloved and important figures in Tanakh, and yet we speak of them only with their assimilated, goyische names. We praise them and celebrate them while acknowledging the full complexity of their upbringing and their adulthood. They did not live religious lives; they both married non-Jewish people; they both had to be talked into becoming the heroes that they are.
The Jewish community — in particular its leaders and its parents — has agonized for millenia over the issue of assimilation. What are we if we do not continue our faith and our history and our culture? How can we survive as a people while immigrants and refugees in foreign lands, far from home? Does it make a difference if we assimilate out of hate or love? Out of enthusiasm or fear? What if our assimilation was chosen for us and we do not know how to return?
I have no answers, only questions. But this year, I look to Moses and to Esther and think — they assimilated. They, too, were lost and confused. They knew themselves only by non-Jewish names, they were adrift and scared and in the minority. They used their knowledge of non-Jewish cultures and politics and values to the whole nation’s benefit. They were alone and they were brave and they were inspirational.
We can continue in the paths of our semi-assimilated ancestors. We can be brave and inspirational — and most of all complex — too.
The Sound of Music (1965)
tumblr fucked me up so bad i kept expecting something ridiculous to happen at the end like a still of her telling the kids to go fuck themselves smh