In my never-ending quest to make the study of the past vital, energizing and, yes, relevant, I tell my students they’re living through history. Most of the time they nod their heads and smile indulgently, making me feel as if I’m just some old professor talking through her hat.
A case in point: Just the other day, in my graduate seminar on Contemporary Jewish Life, we were discussing how much has changed over the past decade for LGBTQ Jews and their relationship to the Jewish community. Or rather, I was holding forth. Most of the millennials seated around the table were not convinced. From their perspective, the ‘sea-change’ to which I repeatedly alluded was not far-reaching enough, the pace of integration much too slow. Invoking the past, calling on those in the room to compare 1996, much less 1916, with 2016, went nowhere. History had no claims on them.
That was then. A week or so later, in the wake of the election, my students suddenly understood all too well what I meant what I said they were living through history. Words that had once seemed academic such as ‘turning point,’ ‘watershed’ and ‘sea-change’ now assumed an outsized, and immediate, presence in their lexicon.
Walloped by history-in-the-making, they gave voice to a wide array of emotions: dismay, outrage, fear, confusion. Some of my students were so flattened out, so hollowed, by the results of the election that their voices were stilled.
As the term draws to a close, we continue to reckon with what lies ahead. I have no easy answers. But one thing is certain: the presidential race of 2016 is one history lesson my students are not apt to forget anytime soon.
Long before gefilte shrimp appeared on the menu of an upscale Manhattan eatery and bagels were studded with bacon bits, there was Manischewitz, a sweet, kosher wine with a wide appeal in postwar America. Hailed as the nation’s very first cross-over product, it was as likely to be found in African-American homes as in American Jewish ones. Drawing on a peppy radio jingle — “Man-O- Manischewitz, what a wine!” — as well as on advertisements in Ebony magazine, its manufacturers celebrated the virtues of “wine like mother used to make.”
The relationship between the palate and the pocketbook, between culinary preferences and consumer practices, lies at the heart of a fascinating new book: Kosher USA: How Coke Became Kosher and Other Tales of Modern Food. Its author, Roger Horowitz, director of the Center for the History of Business, Technology, and Society at the Hagley Museum and Library, brings to bear a wealth of sources and a lively historical imagination as he uncovers what earlier generations of Americans ate and drank.
The book is a must-read for anyone interested in America’s culinary history. But you don’t just have to read all about it, for Mr. Horowitz is coming to town. Thanks to the generosity of GW’s Food Institute and the Program in Judaic Studies, he’ll be on hand to deliver a talk titled “Man-O- Manischewitz: How A Kosher Wine Became Big with the American Public.”
The date: November 9, 2016
The time: 7 p.m – 8 p.m.
The place: The Edlavitch DC-JCC, 1529 16 th Street, N.W., Washington, D.C.
Be there for what promises to be a lively and spirited presentation.
I’m offering a new course this term called “Pious Forgeries.” A GW Honors seminar, it explores a wide range of fabricated objects and texts from antiquity through the present-day, all of which pivot on the issues of faith and religious authority.
What makes this seminar particularly exciting is not just its subject matter, but the opportunity to share teaching responsibilities with one of my most distinguished colleagues, Christopher Rollston, a leading epigrapher who, over the years, has had a hand in unmasking any number of ancient texts as forgeries.
An exercise in both collegiality and interdisciplinarity, “Pious Forgeries” makes good on GW’s commitment to breaking down the boundaries that exist between the disciplines.
Imagine, then, my surprise when just the other day another eminent colleague expressed surprise of his own at my involvement with the course. Apparently, it was one thing for Professor Rollston, a scholar of the ancient world, to offer it, quite another for me, an avowed modernist, to do so. “I hope you won’t be insulted by my question,” said my colleague, “but I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”
I was more bemused than offended, at least at first, and furnished him with explanations. Tumbling forth, they included my research into fabricated versions of the Ten Commandments, a subject that figures prominently in my forthcoming book, Set in Stone, as well as my longstanding fascination with a fabricated Scythian gold crown, once the darling of the Louvre, that figures prominently in my next book project, and, and and…
My questioner seemed satisfied, or at least quieted, by my response and there the matter rested. But the more I thought about our exchange, the more troubled I became. There’s something off-putting, even unsettling, about the assumption that fueled his question: that of standing, of credentials, and with it, the policing of disciplinary boundaries.
I think the academy would be in much better shape were those who champion free and open inquiry to seek out and collaborate with colleagues beyond their immediate fields. What a wonderful opportunity it is to be exposed to new ideas, as well as different notions of, instruction. Co-teaching something on the order of “Pious Forgeries” should be seen as a gift rather than a breach, a stepping-on- toes, of academic protocol. Besides, it’s one way to avoid growing stale and dull.
After weeks of unstructured activity, it’s back to school for me, with its steady round of responsibilities and its seemingly endless array of to-do lists. But first: there’s Mosaic, a whirlwind, two day orientation designed to welcome to town the new cohort of students in GW’s Program in Experiential Education and Jewish Cultural Arts as well as those in its sister initiative, the MA in Jewish Cultural Arts.
Mosaic introduces the students to the wealth of institutional and cultural resources they’ll be drawing upon in the course of their training. This year, we attended a rehearsal of a play at Theater J and looked on as its set was assembled, bit by bit. We ventured into the vault where Folkways stores its historic recordings; spent time in the company of the director of GW’s Textile Museum as he escorted us around the building; walked about downtown D.C. in search of its Jewish roots under the direction of a recent graduate of the Program, who proudly — and most ably — strutted his stuff; and engaged in honest and searching conversation about the pull and push of community with two of Sixth & I’s leading lights.
The more I think about it, the more I’ve come to the realization that Mosaic is not only good for the students; it’s good for my colleagues and me, too. After a summer away, it gently eases us back into the rhythms of teaching. Thanks to Mosaic, we have an opportunity to familiarize ourselves with our students, and they with us, in an easy and relaxed setting, before settling into the more taxing business at hand. Mosaic is experiential education at its very best.
At some point in the proceedings, I told the students that if they found that their feet hurt and their head ached, Mosaic had done right by them. And so it has. If their reflection pieces are any indication, the students got a lot out of these two days, learning the ropes and the lingo while forming new friendships.
As for me, my feet throb and my head is swimming. More to the point, I can’t wait to get back into the classroom.
In what can only be construed as an accident of timing, two films have just been released, one right after the other, that showcase the experience of earlier generations of American Jews. One is Woody Allen’s Café Society, the other is Indignation, a cinematic interpretation of the Philip Roth novel of the same name.
The first film, set amidst the tony New York supper clubs and swanky Beverly Hills homes of the interwar years, follows the ups and downs of Bronx-bred Bobby Dorman as he seeks both his fortune and sense of self in Hollywood and among the belle monde.
The second, set in the early 1950s amidst a handsome, leafy college campus somewhere in Ohio (it’s actually Princeton), follows the trajectory of Marcus — a k a “Marky” — Messner — as he, too, leaves the nest — Newark, New Jersey, in his case — for the wider world.
Apart from their geographical distinctiveness, the two films have much in common. Their cast of characters, often verging on stock and stereotype, includes earnest, hungry young men from lower middle class American Jewish families; their anxious and inept fathers, and their strong willed, fierce mothers who find it increasingly difficult to bite their tongues as their sons take flight.
Both films seek to lay bare — sometimes in a heavy handed way and at other moments, much more subtly — the costs of integration, or what academics like to call “acculturation.” In plain language: What happens when the lure of the supper club trumps the lure of the seder table and escargot take the place of brisket?
Well, nothing that we haven’t seen before, which is why the release of these two films and their attendant popularity — at my local movie house, they’re packin’ em in — puzzles me. Leaving aside their respective cinematic merits — I’ll leave you to decide which one is more absorbing and compelling — I can’t help wonder what is it about upwardly mobile, starry-eyed American Jewish sons and their more hidebound parents that renders that tale so evergreen.
It can’t only be a matter of nostalgia or a collective wistfulness for a seemingly simpler era. I’d like to think there’s more to it than that. Then again, given the zeitgeist in which we currently find ourselves, perhaps retrospection is more attractive than thinking about what lies ahead.
I just spent the past week in summer school. A just punishment for my sins, you might think. As it happened, the experience was anything but punishing. Though the loveliest of June days beckoned outside while a raging sinus infection had me reaching for a tissue every ten minutes, summer school turned out to be a real delight.
Convened by Penn’s Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies in conjunction with The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, it brought together twenty graduate students and faculty from Europe, Israel and the United States to think through some of the complex issues in Jewish history and thought.
Manifestly, the theme of the week was “Shaking Foundations,” but the joys and challenges of interdisciplinary exchange lay at the heart of our collective inquiry as we explored a welter of sources from the Talmud and Levinas to medieval stories and early modern communal documents. The U.S. Constitution as well the Ten Commandments also came vividly into play, as did the demographics of postwar Poland and the latest anthropological theories about the relationship between researchers and their subjects.
Now and again we left the building — to go on a walking tour of downtown Philadelphia, to visit a museum or two, to grab a snack (burnt sugar gelato, anyone?) from the many enticing eateries that have sprung up of late.
Most of the time, though, we sat around a large table. What was striking about this wasn’t so much our sedentary ways as it was the absence of hierarchy. Instead of occupying the head of the table, as is their wont, the chaired professors among us sat cheek by jowl with graduate students, their seasoned voices mingling freely with those of an emerging generation of scholars.
The symbolic power of the table was just as palpable. At a time when Judaic Studies and those who cherish it are increasingly marginalized and even demonized by the academy, taking one’s place at the table was a gesture of solidarity. The table both protected and validated those who sat around it.
“Shaking Foundations” turned out to be an exercise in restoration.
Building a new academic program ain’t easy. There are forms to fill out, deans to convince, donors to cultivate and students to recruit. The number of hoops you have to jump through before you get off the ground, much less succeed, can daunt and discourage even the most energetic and determined of souls.
What lifts the spirit and sustains it is the opportunity to try one’s hand at something novel: to stretch. It’s not quite the same thing as seizing the brass ring, but it comes awfully close. For me, that opportunity took the form of SymPop.
Inspired by the contemporary pop-up phenomenon as well as by the age-old notion of a symposium, I hit on the idea of mixing up both by bringing together a highly select (dare I say ‘curated,’ the word du jour) assemblage of artists and educators to spend an immersive 24 hours in one another’s company. We would eat together, cook together, learn from one another and collaborate — all with an eye towards enriching one another as well as the Jewish communal landscape.
So many ideas sound marvelous on paper, but land with a thud when it comes to actualizing them. Not SymPop. Thanks to its participants, who were generous, open, spirited and, above all, game, what might have been yet another dutiful exercise in professional development took flight. Deploying all manner of stuff — paper, scissors, smartphones, musical instruments, images, grids, flowers, their feet, pots & pans — as well as one another, they buzzed with ideas, infusing Jewish texts, practices, places, foodways and sounds with newfound sparkle and depth.
But don’t take my word for it. Here’s what the SymPopniks had to say when asked to come up with a slew of adjectives and nouns to describe their experience. First the adjectives: “Awesome, inspiring, thoughtful, fun, satisfying.” Now, the nouns: “sharing, connections, sprouting, whole-making, gratitude, trust.”
If all you knew about education came from what you read in the New York Times, you’d be right to think it’s in a sorry state, indeed. But if you had the good fortune to spend time in the company of committed educators, you’d come away with an entirely different perspective — not rosy-eyed, exactly, but upbeat and enthusiastic, all the same.
I’ve just returned from Brandeis, where the Mandel Center for Studies in Jewish Education assembled a diverse mix of professionals to explore how best to approach the teaching of history — Jewish history especially. Some of us teach or conduct research, others experiment with digital forms of exchange and still others work in museums. What binds us together is our shared fidelity to the enterprise of education and with it, the value of thinking historically.
That’s not to say that differences didn’t emerge. On the heels of screening “Raise the Roof,” a marvelous, inspiring film about the making of the wooden synagogue that now takes center stage at Polin Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw, I, for one, got into a lively (read: heated) discussion with one of colleagues. He felt that the project’s participants did not come away with a sufficient understanding of the larger context of Polish-Jewish relations, rendering the undertaking of limited utility. My point, in turn, was that if ever there was an educational opportunity to translate history into an immediate, powerful experience, this was it. Knowledge wasn’t the point so much as sensitivity. Neither one convinced the other, but we had a good time trying.
In the course of our deliberations or “convening,” as the lingo would have it, attendees looked at the ways in which gaming, material culture, theater and the pursuit of heroes might advance the study of the Jewish past. The air was thick with collegial exchange.
We’ll have to wait and see what big-ticket conclusions, if any, will be drawn. In the meantime, it’s heartening to know that fresh ideas await.
When was the last time you attended an honest-to-goodness dinner party? You know, the kind of get-together that takes place in the middle of the week and is untethered to religious ritual, the kind of occasion where the conversation flows as freely as the wine.
Years ago, dinner parties were the coin of the academic realm, the domain of that special breed of spouse known as the faculty wife. Once she vanished from the scene, the dinner party vanished along with her.
I didn’t realize how much I missed that social institution, that exercise in collegiality, until I attended one just last week. What rendered it a special occasion wasn’t just its novelty, but the circumstances under which it was held. This dinner party was organized and hosted by one of my students, Elizabeth Livesey, to mark the culmination, the capstone, of her two years of training in GW’s MA in Jewish Cultural Arts.
We encourage the students in the program to think inventively about the relationship between content and creativity: to infuse Jewish cultural programming with substance and, concomitantly to enlarge the possibilities for smart, critical and layered engagement with Jewish culture and history.
Ms. Livesey’s “curated dinner,” as she called it, did exactly that. An homage to, as well as a re-enactment of, the salon of the 19th century, it assembled a lively mix of people — historians, curators and other museum professionals among them — to think through the interpretive implications of remounting an infamous 1941 exhibition, Le Juif et la France, in which the Jews of that country were demonized.
Ms. Livesey not only fed our hunger for French wine and food, which we quaffed and consumed in abundance. She also nourished our appetite for intellectual exchange: talk was as plentiful as the dishes on the beautifully appointed, candlelit table.
A resounding success in every which way, a true capstone experience, this “curated dinner” attested both to Elizabeth Livesey’s many, many gifts and to what educators like to call ‘proof of concept.’
When we furnish our students with the right set of tools and sensibilities, encouraging their creative use, boy, can they take flight!
I mean that literally. It’s not just that I spent much of this semester exploring the ways in which sound –intonation, volume, accent, music and noise — define the Jewish historical experience. I’ve also had the wonderful opportunity to take things even further by producing and hosting a concert this past week that featured one of my students, David Freeman, and his musical ensemble, Sha’ar.
It’s always a thrill to see one’s students perform outside the confines, and constraints, of the classroom. The thrill is greater still when their performance not only builds on their training but also extends, and enhances, its meaning.
And so it was last Tuesday evening, when an old-fashioned musicale with newfangled music unfolded amid the grand salon of a beautiful Dupont Circle home. Inspired by the compositions of Yedidia Admon, an Israeli composer whose work drew on both Western and Middle Eastern musical traditions, Sha’ar gives them a new spin — and, correspondingly, a new lease on life — introducing Admon to contemporary American audiences.
Sound filled the high-ceiled room, sweeping us up in its embrace. Some of us tapped our feet, others bobbed their heads and still others counted beats. It was hard to resist the pull of the music whose fusion of bass, clarinet, electric guitar and drums simultaneously put us in touch with the past and propelled us into the present.
I can’t imagine a better note on which to end the semester.