Dreams

by Laurie J. Kemp

Response to Writing by Heart- prompt #7

The Memorized Text:

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Dreams by Langston Hughes.

The Memory:

I was starting high school, and I registered late because we had just moved from New York a week or two before school started. Due to last minute enrollment I had nothing to say about my schedule. I arrived and it was handed to me, likely created with whatever spaces were left in whatever classes were available. I remember a lot about that year socially- a new town and school, making friends and trying to find my place. Academically however, I remember little beyond how ahead we were in New York, compared to my grade level peers in Florida.

And there's one more thing I remember about my 9th grade classes: my elective class, Speech with Mrs. Stephens. She was a skinny older lady with big round hair, much like the wig Dustin Hoffman wore in Tootsie. Come to think of it, the hair and the big plastic rimmed, slightly shaded glasses she wore with the librarian neck chain attached were all reminiscent of the movie character. But she was the sweetest, happiest lady with a soft and kind voice, each word carefully enunciated. She was the Speech teacher after all. These days the class she taught would probably be called Public Speaking, not to be confused with speech therapy.

I never thought of myself as a speaker. A short, slightly chubby girl fighting to stay grounded in a somewhat obnoxious Long Island town, I was not exactly the epitome of confidence. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't particularly shy or socially inept. I played sports and always did well in school. But where I came from, everyone did. Pretty early on in the semester, Mrs. Stephens seemed to take a liking to me. One of the benefits of growing up in an academically competitive town, was the development of a strong work ethic. It didn't matter that Speech was "just an elective." To me it was a class, and that meant doing my best. I was just that kind of student.

As I mentioned, Mrs. Stephens took a liking to me and soon she asked me to compete on the Debate Team. Seriously? I thought. What do I know about debate? (Mom, if you're reading this- no snarky remarks about my affinity for argumentation). I was picturing nerdy guys in suits at podiums, arguing about politics*. No sir. That was not for me.

But that's not what Mrs. Stephens had in mind for me anyway. No. She wanted me for O.O. which stands for Original Oratory. You see, the Debate Team is really the Speech and Debate Team. She wanted me to compete in the Original Oratory event, in which I would be required to write a 10 minute speech about any topic I chose, memorize it. Then I would practice it, over and over, and over and over again with my teammates and my coach, to make sure it was well spoken, engaging, and within the 10 minute time frame. I worked on a couple of speeches throughout the year; the one I competed with most was on the topic of loneliness. It argued the difference between being alone and being lonely. I don't remember much about it other than the mild success I had in tournaments.

The speech I remember most though, was one I wrote for a specific competition. We were given a theme for our speeches and we all wrote on the same topic. This meant competing against my own teammates, which made the competition more challenging for me. My practice partner- who I can hear and picture clear as day, but can't remember her name- would also become my competition. The theme of the oratory was, Destiny, Choice Not Chance. My teammate wrote an eloquent speech quoting Frost's, The Road Not Taken and a couple of verses from The Police's song King of Pain. She was a year or two older than me and had more experience. I enjoyed watching her practice. I don't remember much about my speech except I used a quote from Abraham Lincoln I can't recall now, and another piece since ingrained in my memory today.

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Dreams by Langston Hughes.

The Reflection:

As I recalled this tiny high school blip on my radar screen, I realized I've never reflected much on this experience. Heck, I don't know if I've ever even given it any thought at all before now. I only competed on the Speech and Debate Team my freshman year, most likely because I became involved in other activities like competitive cheerleading and Key Club. I vaguely remember Mrs. Stephens approaching me sophomore year, but I no longer had speech class which meant less time to practice and ease in avoiding her.

But here's what I do know now. I have absolutely no fear of public speaking. Sure, I get the pre-speech adrenaline rush, and an occasional case of butterflies in my stomach. But I really have no true fear. In fact, I kind of like the adrenaline rush. It's a little like waiting to get on a rollercoaster. I'm not sure if this is something in me early on or if my experience on the Speech and Debate Team is responsible. Either way, it's pretty significant considering most articles or surveys, like this one, about Americans' biggest fears, has public speaking high in the ranks with heights and bugs. Whether Mrs. Stephens developed this in me, or noticed and nurtured it in me,  I have no recollection of a significant public speaking experience prior to high school.

When I reflect on my oratory days, I also realize the wonderful writing experience it gave me. Writing a 10 minute speech is no minor feat (it would take much less than that to read this blog post), and writing for speaking is a whole other challenge for engaging an audience. You don't like my writing, you just stop reading it. You don't care for my blog, you just click on something else, maybe after leaving a negative comment, maybe not. But you don't like my speech, whoa...I can see it on your faces, hear it in your whispers, and i have to stand in front of you anyway and finish. We also had to use research and quotes, which gave me a good lesson in citing sources and choosing other people's words carefully.

I might go so far as to say Speech and Debate launched me as a writer. I hadn't thought about that until now. It wasn't until after two and half years of college, lots of self-doubt, and the guts to make a change, that I ended up deciding on a degree in Speech Communication. It really is amazing how much Speech Communication and writing are intertwined. Hence, communication.

Finally, back to the Langston Hughes poem, Dreams. I'm not sure why I chose this poem of all things related to destiny. Maybe it was in my English book that year. It's not as though I googled "dreams" or "destiny" on the internet. It was the 80's. But I do love Hughes' simple poem. Life really is about dreams. I'm always chasing new ones, and sticking with the ones not so easy to reach. The term "dreamer" is often used to connote one who lives in a fantasy world, who is unrealistic. I disagree. And defer to definition number one: one who dreams. Without my dreams, I would be that broken-winged bird, flying in circles in a spiral toward the ground face first. With my dreams, I'm outstretched, soaring with my face to the sun, always reaching, holding fast.

I believe in dreams, hopes, wishes. And I believe when your dreams come true, you create new ones.


Photo Credit: iama.be



*Of course I know now what a foolish stereotype I had in my head. Have you seen The Great Debaters?

I Shall Not Want

Response to Writing Prompt #7 http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/12/prompt-7.html


"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want." line 1 of Psalm 23

     I kept trying to use cool song lyrics from The Verve, U2 and Alanis Morissette, but this line from Psalm 23 that I had to memorize at First Baptist Church in Pontiac, Michigan some 39 years ago was the line that kept creeping into my brain.  I had to let it; obviously there was something meaningful embedded in these words.

    I remember my Bampa (maternal grandfather) asking me what I wanted for my birthday---my 7th or 8th, I can't remember which--- and me telling him I wanted a white Bible with gold edges on the pages.  Everyone thought it was precious. That was me. Precious and genuinely Christian to the core.

    When I got the gift, I immediately turned to this, my favorite (maybe because I had to memorize it?) part of the Bible. The picture was beautiful: sheep drinking from a clear stream, shepherds watching over them.

    I remember as I recited this verse over and over again thinking I loved all of the words except the part about death. The idea scared me, even if God was with me.

    Flash forward a couple of years later when Bampa died of a heart attack. This Psalm was printed on beautiful laminated cards along with his "stats." The words took on a whole new meaning, and now I cannot read them without getting weepy. What they didn't do was give a 9-year-old comfort that someone she loved dearly was gone, ripped away from her suddenly. In fact, since then, funerals make me a kind of uncomfortable I cannot explain.

     I shall not want.

    Those words are true. I have never wanted for anything, even growing up in a lower middle-class family.  Well, I wanted but didn't need for anything.

    As I approach a new phase in my life, one where family roles are changing, my career is taking a new path, and my body has started rebelling against me, I have to remember that I do not want. And, now I think I am ready to transition. The part of the Psalm that will guide me through this oddly confusing yet amazing time starts in line 2 and bleeds into line 3: "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul."  

    A little restoration and stillness sounds just fine right about now.

    And, yes, I still am not keen on line 4, but I am sure one day I will see it differently.

   

Prompt #7

Writing by Heart

Think of a text you know by heart. A piece of poetry, lyrics of a favorite song, a bible verse, a book excerpt- you get the idea. It should be longer than a single sentence quote, but hey we have no rules here. Write it down by hand in your notebook or type it out on your keyboard. Read it over a few times, as though you don't know it by heart.

Think about why you chose this piece of text and write anything you are inspired to write, in any format. When you post, provide the text and the original author.

'Curio'sities

I have a few items that carry a lot of weight.  Vestiges of my past, of my carefree, meandering youth, they comfort me.  If I had a shrine or sacred room, these would be in it.  There are three of them, forever united, so that together they are one item.

I used to give my mother gold charms for birthdays, Christmas, Mother's Day.  When she was 50, she started a hair wrap.  Just one.  It was nearly a foot long by the time she cut it off.  It was adorned with the charms I gave her, and it was all her.  She was so ladylike and professional, gorgeous, sophisticated, with one long, pink, hippy wrap.  She cut it off before receiving chemotherapy when she was diagnosed with cancer, a year before she died.  I inherited her wrap, among other things.  I used to carry with me in my pocket as a talisman when I needed her strength.  I lost it once.  For a month.  I was lost without it, devastated really, until I convinced myself that a student at the high school I worked at stole it.  It wasn't stolen; it was in the pocket of my winter coat.  I haven't carried it since, so scared am I of losing it again.

My mother had a brass bell that she used in the last months of her life.  She had a three-story condo, and would ring the bell for me or my aunt when she needed something.  It's been in my classroom since I started teaching.  This always made me uncomfortable, as a student would inevitably ring it, which would jar my senses.  I would then give the history of the bell, and said student would return it to its resting place, embarrassed.  I brought so many things I loved into my classroom when I was married.  My classroom was home, not the place I paid the mortgage for.  I am proud to say that this bell is in my home.  It rests between my incense burner and a small rose quartz etched with the word 'beauty'.

The third item is actually a few items in one vessel. This dates back to my teen years.  After graduation, I went through a period of self-exploration.  This meant many hours alone in nature, particularly the beach.  I had read about "holed" stones, which, according to folklore, gave the bearer power to see spirits.  According to legend, to look through a holey stone from shore, one could see a phantom ship on the horizon.  I looked.  No ships, but I think the wonder drew me.  It's hard to explain.  Anyway, the stones live in salt water in a small glass bottle, where they've resided together for over 20 years.

These objects are mine.  No matter where I live, or how much I downsize, they will be with me.  Even if I move to another country, or onto a sailboat, or in a shipping container, these curios will travel with me.

Cover Me

I finally threw out a wedding gift I should have pitched long ago.  It was a blanket.  Embroidered with our names and wedding date, it was a thoughtful, sweet gift...from my ex's paramour.  He slept with her throughout our 'courtship'.  I thought the affair ended months before our engagement.  It ended two days before our wedding, which she attended.  I am embarrassed by all of the above facts.  Angry with him, angry with me for allowing myself to be disrespected in this way.  In the wise words of Forrest Gump, "That's all I have to say about that."

9/21/2001

Response to Prompt #6
http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/11/prompt-6.html

9/21/2001

by Helen Sadler

I have avoided it for years. I would venture to say I haven’t listened to it in well over ten years. It has sat at the bottom of a CD stack and when I see it there, I simply say No. Over and over, I have said NO. I am not listening to that.

The item in question is the 2-compact disc set called America: A Tribute to Heroes. This concert aired on Friday evening, September 21, 2001. I was still in the midst of the haze I had been living in since 9/11 – the disbelief and horror of that day had not left me. Life felt like it could never and would never ever be the same. I was distraught by some of the rhetoric that was going around. Nothing felt right and nothing I did to feel better was making it better.

I definitely wanted to see this concert. I worked at Sony Customer Service until 8:45 p.m.  so I did miss the opening. The concert itself had many moving speeches and performances.

Yet, it didn’t do it for me. I still felt foggy and hurt and displaced. I could not put my finger on how to feel better. Nothing I tried help. I lived in a lot of silence about what had happened. It seemed too hard to talk about after the initial impact.

It did happen, however. I did find a breakthrough.

That Sunday there was a memorial service broadcast from Yankee Stadium, which I don’t remember much about. In fact, all I really remember is Oprah Winfrey reciting “We will not be moved” in a dramatic and moving way. I was lying next to Jim throughout the event as we watched the people in New York clinging to each other in grief and prayer. Then the floodgates opened for both of us when Jim said, “Those poor people.” It was the moment we both needed. It started the healing for me from that dreadful day. Inch by inch, I began to re-enter my life.

Back to the disc: I don’t know how many times I listened to it after the initial purchase. But somewhere along the line I decided that it brought more pain than happiness or healing. I don’t even remember making a conscious decision. Perhaps one day I had it on and just said ENOUGH, and it was relegated to the bottom of the pile from that day on.

I pulled the disc out last week and took a look at it. The song selection and the artists are superior. I have let this dangerous item sit next to me all week, keeping it on the table by my recliner. I have written this part of the essay before listening to it. I intend on listening to it today and reporting what transpires for me as I listen. I am going to keep a pad of paper nearby for sketching images and ideas that come to me. Let’s see what happens.

Side One:

Listening to the first disc went fairly well. I found myself writing down words and phrases that stood out to me.  Some of them were questions. I thought of making a found poem from them, so here goes:

Bruce asked

How do I begin again?

You took my heart when you left

Stevie preaches

When you say you hate in the name of God or Allah

You are lying to God

Perhaps my favorite was Bono who said,

We’re packing a suitcase for somewhere we’ve never been

And

Sick of sorrow

Sick of pain

Sick of hearing again and again

There won’t be peace on earth

Faith reminds us

There will come a day

Every tear will be wiped away

Tom says,

There ain’t no easy way out

Enrique brought words like

Cry…save…pain…laugh…forever…run…tremble…die

Phrases like

In too deep

Take my breath away

Stand by you

Neil imagines

Living life in peace

The world can be as one

Alicia lifts us with

Sing your greatest song and you’ll keep growing on

Someday we’ll all be free

And then the ultimate question

As things get serious

Do you think we can change everybody who hates

Before it’s too late?

Do you think we can change?

And the disc ends with “New York State of Mind”

It all seemed harmless enough.

I wrote:

This concert seemed to come with a promise

One that was not fulfilled

It may be why I turned my back on it

As was done to me

Yet – so much hope and encouragement

Am I buying what they’re selling?

Or did I sell out?

Side Two

It began with the Dixie Chicks:

Made a promise to myself

Never compromise

Love is out there waiting somewhere

You just have to go and find it.

I thought about what happened to the Dixie Chicks because of all this and I started to feel bitter and remorseful. I bought their music, but did I ever defend them?  Maybe I did, but I don’t remember. The tide was so against them. I think this is the reason I want to go see them when they tour America. I want them to know I’m with them, in some small weird way.

Dave Matthews sang, and then Wyclef Jean with Marley’s “Redemption Song.” This is when I started to feel it. This was the place.

Won’t you help me sing

These songs of freedom…

Mariah was heartfelt with her words

You don’t have to be afraid of what you are…

Epiphany.

I realized that when Jim and I broke that Sunday, when he said, “Those poor people,” he wasn’t just talking about those in New York. He was talking about all of us.

We are the poor people who are unable to get it right, and just keep descending into more bitterness and violence.

After that…

My stomach got queasy and stayed that way as Bon Jovi came on with

We’ve got each other and that’s a lot

We’ll make it I swear

Living on a prayer

In an acoustic fashion that remains my favorite on the album. Haunting delivery. More meaningful to me than ever.

Sheryl Crow asked:

Could you not be sad?

Could you not break down?

(The answer: no)

My stomach still was flipping, feeling strange. I pulled up a blanket and decided not to write anything else down.  That is until Sting said this:

Nothing comes from violence and nothing ever will.

The sun will rise another day.

I so want to believe!

Paul sang an eerie version of “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”  Celine sang “God Bless America.”  Willie played “America the Beautiful.”

I was spent. Wiped out. Needed water.  Wished I could sleep.

My initial conclusion:

9/11 is still with us.

9/21 got buried.

9/11 goes on and on.

9/21 is lost in time.

Its message got lost.  I got lost.

I think I quit listening to this because I didn’t fulfill the promise.  You see, when 9/11 happened, the first thing I noticed was the two diametric responses:

Bomb them all to the stone age.

OR

We need more love.

Of course, I’m on the love side. But what we got was the bombing…and so much more, so much worse.

We cannot even begin to count the tears shed in this country and around the world because of this event and the USA’s response.

But a part of me gave up when I saw the odds were against me.  A part of me just quit thinking and talking about it unless I knew I was with like minds.

And we see it still occurring here in America, maybe even worse than ever – two very different Americas. It is evidence that this has continued to fester underground for a very long time.

And do I speak up?  Not much. Not enough.

I’ve conditioned myself so thoroughly, I don’t even know where to begin.  My suitcase got packed, alright. But I haven’t paid much attention to where I traveled. And now I don’t like where I’ve ended up.

Final Reflection

I could not finalize this on Friday night, even though I tried.

This morning I wrote some more in my journal on this hoping to uncover some kind of truth that would tie this all up with a neat bow. 

Didn't happen.

So instead I picked up my guitar and did the next right thing. I played Dan Bern’s song with the chorus:

Don’t let your heart get broken by this world

At the bottom of the ocean

You might find a pearl

Don’t let your heart get broken by this world

I’ll just keep looking for those pearls, as I have been doing for the last fourteen years.

I will put this CD back on the shelf. Don't feel like going through this again.

 At least I have discovered why I don’t listen to it. Although each song seems harmless enough, together they represent something that I cannot separate from the time period that spawned it.

And I have to face this as well: it makes me think too much about the things I cannot change.

Every Rose has Its Thorn

Response to Prompt # 6 Cabinet of Dangers
http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/11/prompt-6.html


     "HELP!" I screamed out, if only in my head, as I was stared down by the overly attentive guy (Devon? Darin? Does it matter?) who refused to get the not-so-subtle hints to leave my house as I recovered from a wisdom tooth removal surgery. My puffy, bruised cheeks and mouth packed with cotton dressing were the only reasons I didn't verbally rip this guy a new one, but the hateful glares alone should have been enough.

     A little background may help:  I had been on three dates tops with this guy. He was, to put it mildly, a goofy guy who my grandmother worked with at Barnett Bank. Although I was a 17-year-old senior in high school, apparently this 20-year-old shooting star was the right brand of Christian to meet my grandmother's criteria and to convince my parents to let me date someone older.  He wanted to introduce me to his parents on our first date. Uh, no thanks. And, can you wipe off your sweaty palms before you apply your death grip to my hand? In fact, may I have my hand back please?

     And now, this.  His refusal to leave my side after the surgery bordered on stalking, and I just wanted him to leave me the hell alone.

     The doorbell rang. My exasperated mother went to see who else was coming to pay her daughter a visit, probably irritated that she would have one more annoying young adult under her feet.

    "Annmarie," she called out. "Someone is at the door for you."

    Really, mom? You can't show them in? But, then I thought better. This would be a short reprieve from D's (I really cannot remember this dude's name) beady eyes and sweaty everything, so I pulled myself up off the couch, and gingerly walked my drugged-up self to the door.

    And there he stood. Bill. With a single red rose. Be still my beating heart.

    More background: Bill was my much-sought-after co-worker at Ponderosa.  To say this guy was hot is an understatement. He even made the vile brown and green striped polyester work uniform look good. We had been playing a weird cat and mouse game. He was the cat; I was the mouse.  I liked him; he liked me. But, I wasn't his brand of girl. In other words, I didn't put out, and so we settled into a flirtatious friendship, me always wishing he'd see I was worth the wait.

    So, you can imagine how weak in the knees I was when I saw him there with that rose.  Then, reality hit me:  I had Christian Stalker inside, preventing me from inviting the Dream Machine in.

   GAAAAAH!

   As I explained the fact that I had another visitor to Bill, I watched his face contort into an expression I had never thought I'd see from the cool-as-a-cucumber casanova.  He looked rejected, sad even.

   Double GAAAAAH!

   As he left, head hanging, I closed the door and headed back into the family room, feeling quite irritated with the whole damn situation. I firmly kicked D out of my house and out of my life, despite the repeated desperate phone calls from him (and my grandmother). Again, can you say, "stalker?"

   Bill and I worked together for a little while longer after that, but we never talked about that day.

   And the rose sits pressed in my yearbook from 1987, a reminder that everything relies on timing, and our timing just wasn't good. On one hand, dangerous because it makes me fantasize about what could have been with Bill, a reminder of love not quite lost because it was never truly discovered. On the other hand, not dangerous because I'm sure the reality would not have lived up to the fantasy.

Peace

Response to Prompt 6

Peace
By Laurie J. Kemp

I don't remember when, but several years back my sister gave me a necklace. She often gives me unique things for my birthday or Chanukah, or even a trivial holiday such as Valentine's day. Whether it's a handmade soap from the farmer's market, or a piece of jewelry she bought from an eclectic Etsy site, she is exceptionally thoughtful about the gifts she picks out for others.

This gift was no exception. It's an unassuming, thin black twine with a terra-cotta clay disk about the size of a half dollar dangling from it. There are no connectors or clasps, nothing silvery or gold. Just a hole punched into the clay, and the twine looped through the hole so the clay hangs as a necklace. Very plain, sort of natural and earthy. But the disk, now that's what makes this necklace special. On one side, textured into the clay is a series of dots in lines reaching from the center out towards the circumference, resembling a sand dollar. The other side, a single word: שׁלוֹם.

***

For this writing exercise, we were asked to write about an object that feels dangerous or is emotionally charged. It came at a time when I was already contemplating the role this necklace had come to play in my life. I have had it for years, and I don't think I have ever worn it. It has been tied around the neck of a lamp I have on the night table at the side of my bed. When I roll over in the morning, I see it. When I turn the light out at night, I see it. שׁלוֹם.

I realize many won't recognize these letters, after all they are clearly not English. They are in fact Hebrew, and they spell out the Hebrew word Shalom. Almost any Jewish person raised with connection to a synagogue and Jewish study would recognize this word, even if they are not literate in Hebrew. שׁלוֹם looks strange amidst a paragraph of words in English because Hebrew is read from right to left. The ש which is the letter "shin" in Hebrew is actually the first letter of the word. Though probably spoken in most any encounter between speakers of Hebrew, the word itself is unique. It has three meanings. שׁלוֹם means hello, goodbye, and peace. It is also used in Hebrew phrases, like  שׁבּת שׁלוֹם or Shabat Shalom, meaning Good Sabbath.

***

About two weeks ago, I was getting ready for work in the morning, and I stopped at my night table to put on a ring I had taken off and left there the night before. I looked at the necklace wrapped around my lamp and wondered why I never wear it. I tried it on though I knew it didn't really coordinate well with my outfit. I decided I didn't like how it hung on my chest with what I was wearing, so I took it off. Just holding it gave me a subtle feeling of peace, like running my fingers over the word שׁלוֹם and thinking about my sister gave me strength and calm. I wanted to wear it, but I put it in my pocket and decided to carry it around with me as a physical cuing object throughout my day. If I felt stressed, upset, or angry, I'd put my hand in my pocket and rub my finger over it. שׁלוֹם. Peace.

As I walked around throughout the day with the black twine hanging from my pocket, I also couldn't help but think of tzitzit, another Hebrew word for the fringes that hang from the traditional Jewish prayer shawl. I felt what I can describe only as a sense of comfort. Every time I touched my necklace throughout the day, the necklace that was hiding in my pocket, I started to think more and more about my life as a Jewish person. And this, is why my שׁלוֹם necklace is a dangerous object- an emotionally charged object. I realized in my contemplation, maybe not wearing it had less to do with how it looked on my neck, and more to do with my fear of being outwardly Jewish in public. There I said it. I'm relieved, yet ashamed it's out there.

As a young child I never experienced such feelings, not because of youthful naïveté but because in New York, Jewish people are everywhere- especially Long Island, where I grew up. I was surrounded by many Jewish people, and most of my friends and our family friends were Jewish. There were multiple synagogues around the area, and schools were even closed for the major Jewish holidays! Later, when my parents split, we moved to Southeast Florida- Ft. Lauderdale area. In Hollywood, there were plenty of Jewish people. I had friends who were and plenty of friends who weren't (my boyfriend among them) but I never encountered anyone who didn't know what Jewish meant, and I didn't have any friends who questioned my faith or my family's culture. Broward County schools didn't close on all the Jewish holidays, but we always had off on the high holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I went to college in Miami and things were similar there. Friends who were, friends who weren't. Professors who were, professors who weren't. I never really gave it much thought.

Then one day, soon after graduation from the U, when my boyfriend-turned- husband and I were living in Orlando, I encountered my first in-person Jew joke. I was waiting tables at a seafood restaurant, getting ready to start graduate school. A redneck waiter came running back to the kitchen complaining about his table of guests who didn't order any alcoholic beverages. All they wanted was a round of "Jewish cocktails," he said. By this he meant water with lemon, which bothered him because they wouldn't be running a bar tab which theoretically would make his tip bigger. I had no idea what he meant until I asked another waiter who laughed while explaining it to me. I was shocked, no horrified. And while I wanted to tell him off and explain how insulting he was, I didn't. I cringed inside and turned away, afraid if he knew I was Jewish, if any of them did, they wouldn't like me anymore. That's right. A confident, more educated than any of them adult, I was embarrassed. Hard to believe I was the one embarrassed in this scenario.

Fast forward almost 20 years later. After moving to Palm Beach County, then back to Broward again, we landed here in Southwest Florida. A little less metropolitan, a little more country, and a lot less Jewish. I wouldn't have noticed really. It wasn't even that important to me. My husband isn't Jewish, and as long as there was a synagogue close by where my son could go to religious school and have a bar-mitzvah, the rest didn't matter so much. At least that's what I thought. That's what I thought until I started encountering more and more people who asked me (and my son) things like, What is Jewish? To which I thought, really? Why didn't you tell me you were Jewish? or If you're Jewish, does that mean you don't believe in G-d? And of course, So you're Kosher? What exactly is Kosher?

The list of questions goes on. But I think what's been most upsetting is I have encountered people who treat me like I haven't yet found G-d, just because I don't accept their version of what G-d is. They placate me, nod at me, claim to understand and even say they'll pray for me, all because they think I'm a child who just doesn't get it yet. I can't explain how insulting and infuriating it is. It's as though I haven't arrived yet. Poor me, I haven't been saved yet.

And this closed mindedness, this need to believe all people have to believe the same things, is what has me living quietly. I won't go so far as to call it hiding, as people who I know well, my friends and even my co-workers know my faith. And please, don't you dare mistake my hidden שׁלוֹם for shame. I am not ashamed of my beliefs, of my family's rich history and Jewish roots. It's self preservation. If I tell my students I don't celebrate Christmas, they want to know why. If I have to explain why, I have to explain my faith. If I have to explain my faith, I must immediately be on guard. For simply mentioning my faith, I may be accused of denouncing their beliefs. It's as though as soon as someone knows you are Jewish, everything you do or don't do, is because you're Jewish.

Try going to a birthday party with your 3rd grade son whose friends know you're Jewish, because you taught your kid to be proud of who he is and thankfully he is, and have another child ask you if it's true that Jewish people are the chosen people. How's that for a loaded question for a token Jew at a kid's birthday party? Yup, that happened. I was dumfounded. I didn't know what to say. Heck I didn't even know what I believed was the right answer. All I could think to say is people believe different things. It all depends on what you and your family believe. Crisis averted. Can we go home now? Now my son is 17 and I'm glad I don't have to explain anything for him. He handles it on his own.

My שׁלוֹם necklace is a dangerous object because it challenges me to face my fears, to be proud of who I am, and to find a way to navigate my faith in the world I inhabit. It represents peace, literally. It's up to me to find peace with who I am and what I believe.