Hal-a-Vah Treat

Do you have one of those foods? You know, one you grew up eating because it was part of your culture and everyone in your family ate it? Maybe, like me, you know any effort to offer it to others might result in turned up noses, or at least polite No, thank you's. Truth is, if you are Jewish, and you like Jewish food, this is a response you're likely quite familiar with. Have you seen gefilte fish? Even I turn my nose up at what my sister calls mini fish meatloaves. Yuck.

But there's one food, seemingly innocuous based on a list of appealing enough ingredients, that I love and have been hard-pressed to find someone outside my family to enjoy with me. Described on the package as "a sesame treat," Halvah, is a delicious confection with a long history. Popular throughout Europe and Asia, in the Mediterranean and the Middle East, growing up, Jewish kids in New York were eating it in local delis and at their Bubbies' houses during the holidays. It is made from mostly ground sesame paste and sugar. Halvah is packaged or served in bars or blocks. It looks a lot like a block of fudge, but it is not smooth and creamy the way chocolate and dairy fudge are. It has a unique flavor and texture, difficult to describe. The sesame certainly stands out.

I was walking through Publix over the weekend, and as I perused the kosher section and picked up a couple of Israeli candies for my son, I came across the Halvah. A quick glance at the package brought  an undeniable craving. I hadn't had any in a very long time. I playfully snapped a photo and sent it to my mom asking her if it was weird that I had a craving for it. She sent me back a text message. I could hear her laugh with the tone of the message telling me, "You are your mother's daughter." Then she told me she had a bite every day while she was in Israel a few months ago on vacation and has bought some twice since she's been home. Then she added a note, "Bubbie liked it too!"

Family culture is a wonderful thing. I brought my Halvah home and enjoyed it almost as much as the memories it brought of my childhood, and the reminder from my mom how the littlest things connect us right back to the ones we love.

Image retrieved from menially.com

A Feeling Hard to Describe

I remember when I was a little girl, traveling from New York to Florida on vacation. We would often spend the afternoon flying, and land in Ft. Lauderdale after dark. As we exited the airport, the waft of warm air and the glow of the streetlights cast over the palm trees was unmistakable. Florida. We would rent a car, or my grandparents would meet us at the airport. The drive to their condo had our little faces flattened against the windows. It was the same but oh so different. Restaurants and gas stations, banks and stores. Gusty breezes bringing tropical mist, not bitter cold and snow. I remember that feeling, though I can hardly find the words to describe it. It was nighttime and we weren't sleeping, we were walking down lit paths, eyeing the pool and the shuffleboard court for tomorrow. This wonderland seemed like a full time vacation.

Driving home tonight, the same hour, the same scene, only now I am a resident. The feelings are the same though. It's okay that we work and not only play. It's okay that we save the beach for the weekend, because there is school. How lucky we are to live in such a beautiful place. Four, fourteen, forty-three, the feeling is still the same. And I still can't describe it.

Don't Tell Me

Image retrieved from 911memorial.org

Don't Tell Me

by Laurie J. Kemp

I don't need to be told never to forget,

it is impossible not to remember.

A young mother, a young teacher

I stood before a group of teenagers

a high school class of mostly boys.

She came up from the office, 

a co-worker and friend

she whispered in my ear.

A plane hit the twin towers

they think it might be a terrorist attack.

What? I looked at her in awe.

Reactions to shocking news

sometimes create a lapse in judgement.

We turned on the classroom TV.

And within seconds, I exposed them.

Their young and idealistic eyes

watched the second plane.

The first tower in smoke and flames,

the second one struck by a flying bomb

filled with innocent people.

Seven hundred fifty thousand pounds,

the airplane tore through the steel and glass

like they were play-doh and tinker toys.

A little boy, first or second grade

stopped by and peeked in the room.

"No fair- the high school is watching a movie!"

There was no movie, no special effects.

This was real, stunningly and horrifically real.

A day I will always remember in so much detail.

Phones ringing off the hook,

parents arriving off schedule in hysterics

the confusion, the worry, the sadness.

An empty classroom by noon.

A call to my husband in the field.

Terrorist attack? He hadn't heard a thing. 

Days of nothing on television 

except tragedy and sorrow

questions with no answers.

How could we concern ourselves with anything else?

We were in collective shock, 

in fear and in mourning.

A nation brought together in the worst way

brave and selfless acts of rescue

a declaration of united patriotism.

We lost so many, so much that day.

My parents had Kennedy and MLK

We had Reagan and the Challenger

All of us would now have September 11th

We must remember, they say

How can we possibly forget?

9/11

Importance of Experience

Several months back one of my writing group members posted a prompt on our blog inviting us to create an imaginary conversation with someone famous. I spent quite a bit of time agonizing over it, starting several pieces and scrapping them all. Finally, my writing buddy told me to let it go. She said I was probably forcing it and if it wasn't coming to me, just to let it go. So I did. We agreed it might materialize at some point. I guess this is sort of that point. The poem below is not a response to the prompt as it was presented, but I do think it's my version of what is to be. I suspected way back, even after trying several other people, that my conversation would be with John Dewey. This is not a conversation, but rather a finger walk through one of my favorite Dewey books. I revisited portions I underlined, marked, or made notes near. What follows is a sort of found poem, I suppose. Enjoy.

Experience

A found poem by Laurie J. Kemp

Genuine education comes about through experience,
yet not all experiences are genuinely or equally educative.
Everything depends upon the quality.
Just as no man lives or dies to himself,
so no experience lives and dies to itself.

Every experience takes up something from those before
and modifies in some way those which come after.
Each lives on in further experiences.
Select the kind of experiences that live fruitfully
and creatively in subsequent experiences.

What avail is it to win prescribed amounts of information
about geography and history, to win ability to read and write,
if in the process the individual loses his own soul:

loses his appreciation of things worth while
loses the values to which these things are relative
loses desire to apply what he has learned
loses the ability to extract meaning from his future experiences as they occur?

We always live at the time we live
and not at some other time.
Only by extracting at each present time
the full meaning of each present experience
are we prepared for doing the same thing in the future.

This is the only preparation which in the long run amounts to anything.
The mature person has no right to withhold from the young on given occasions
whatever capacity for sympathetic understanding her own experience has given her.

She must, if she is an educator,
have that sympathetic understanding of individuals as individuals
which gives her an idea of what is actually going on
in the minds of those who are learning.

To discover what is really simple and to act upon the discovery
is an exceedingly difficult task.


Work Cited:
Most of the these words are taken directly from
Dewey, J. (1938). Experience and education. Kappa Delta Pi.

There are some rearrangements, small omissions, and pronoun changes.

Scattered Mind and Split Devotion

My husband has long kidded with me that I have what he calls "career ADD." Some time ago, he noticed I seem to change jobs (or positions) about every 7 years. "Must be the seven year itch," he'd say to me when I'd start to look at job postings or mention the thought of moving on to something else. What I've realized, is I have interest in different things, and seem to want to make all of them part of my existence. Kind of like my mom used to say I was always at my best when I had too much on my plate. But I see it like this. Why not try as hard as you can to make your work and the things you are passionate about, one and the same? I'll tell you why...

My mind goes in so many different directions. I might be what some people call an idea person. I have so many things I want to do and wish to do, but most of them are ideas stuck in my head and written in my journals. And if you're thinking it's my own fault I don't make time for those things, or you want to give me sage advice that all great things take great sacrifice, I'm not buying it. I do have certain responsibilities, and I admit, a certain lifestyle I care to support. I simply have not found the right job, for the right income, that allows me to put my heart and soul into the things I really want.

My attention is divided. I want to write a book. I want to teach college. I want to spend more time traveling and being outside. I want more time to write. I want to learn photography. My mind goes in a hundred different directions, all the time. This can make it really hard to focus on getting down to business. I'm not afraid of work. G-d knows I've worked hard my while life, in work and in study. But in a perfect world, I guess I would have the financial freedom to move from project to project in the moment as my brain fired a spark of brilliance. In a perfect world...

Diary of a Colloquium Instructor #4

I'm always amazed when I mention the Campus Food Forest for the first time in class. Juniors and seniors look around, expressions of confusion on their faces. It's surprising to me you can be at a university for two or three years and not know about this student run brain child of a campus feature. Nonetheless, I am always happy to introduce my students to this totally natural, sustainable food source!

Located just inside the main entrance to campus, near the welcome center, the Food Forest was the idea of a group of students who wanted to start a student garden. You can read the story and watch a video clip about it here. http://fgcufoodforest.weebly.com  Our student naturalist once again met us for the tour. Though I reminded my students to wear long pants and closed shoes, several of them wore shorts, yoga pants, and sandals. Kristen, the naturalist told them they will get bug bites. But she was wearing shorts too! Not to worry though. In this photo, she is pointing out a green leafy plant whose ground up leaves make a paste that acts as a "natural Benedryl" she told them. She insisted it works even faster, and demonstrated by grinding a leaf into her hand in circles and then rubbing the extract on her leg. I've seen many people do this in the Food Forest, and everyone says it's effective. I only wish I could remember the name of the plant.

As we strolled through, it was clear some of the students were uncomfortable. It was very humid and very hot. We did get a bit of a jungle feel. With Kristen at the front leading and sharing, I stayed toward the back to keep everyone with us. I had the opportunity to chat with some students. Pictured below is D. She is the beloved lady referred to by he other students as "the older lady." She has great enthusiasm for everything. She tasted every plant Kristen told them about, and kept the branches of what remained after things were passed around for sampling. The guys and I in the back learned she has pet rats and loves to study them as subjects for her artwork. She mostly pastels because it's the quickest she said.

In the next photo you'll see the backs of the choir singer, the guy with the beard who is,not a big fan of nature, and a couple of others who hung toward the back with me. C, the naturephobe, was doing ok. He professed that he was much more comfortable in his 68 degree air conditioning, and we learned he is a chemistry major and likes very controlled environments. Makes total sense. He was pretty lighthearted about it all, and I joked with him about how much he'd grow from the experiences this semester. He laughed.

I'll admit, I was a bit disappointed the tour wasn't longer, but the grounds have been very wet and muddy from the rains, and the heat and humidity made many of them quite uncomfortable. At least they've learned about another very cool feature of their campus, and what a bunch of students can accomplish when they really have the drive to make something happen. That alone is lesson enough.

A Not So Pleasant Micro Memoir

I'm certain this little story does not fit into the theme of love all around us. Be that as it may, it is still a memorable moment in my word nerd history. Fewer words bring such shock and disgust as the word known to many as "the c-word." Someone blasting this word out of the verbal cannon, must certainly be offended by the behavior of the target of the ammunition, no?

I was in my very early twenties. I know this because I was already married, but I didn't have my son yet. I gave birth at 25. It was my early teaching career, and hired at about $18, 000 annual salary, I had to tutor after school to make ends meet. Late afternoon, I drove a couple of towns over to meet with a student at his house. I was a few minutes early and very thirsty, so I stopped at a local shopping center to grab a quick beverage. If you know South Florida, you can picture the parking lot, just like every other Publix shopping center in the state.  I pull into the giant lot and tried to take the perimeter lane around to the front, to avoid the afternoon shoppers as much as possible. As I made my way all the way around to the right, I found myself in front of the Publix in the lane next to the sidewalk, passenger side to the store.  It must have been a late fall or winter day, as I was driving with my window down. There was heavy foot and shopping cart traffic coming out of the store, so I slowed my roll. Pedestrians passed in front of me as I allowed the shoppers to make their way through the crosswalk. I could feel the vehicle behind me pull up quickly into a tailgate. "Honk! Honk!"  The driver was aggressively leaning on his horn, expressing disapproval of my courtesy to the walkers. I continued to wait, waving them across. He continued to honk. So I shot him a bird in my rearview mirror. Yup. I did. Stupid jerk. The shoppers crossed, kids in tow, and before I could even let off the gas, the driver pulled around my side. He stopped, rolled down the window, and yelled, "Fucking cunt!" Seriously? He was mad because I let some shoppers cross the road? I can only imagine the shock he must have seen on my face. I was just dumfounded. I didn't respond and he just sped off. He looked old enough to be my dad, maybe even grandpa. I didn't know grown men used that word. In fact, at that time, I don't even know if I had ever heard anyone say it out loud in my presence before. Actually, never have since. Jerk.