Lubavirch girls -- models or madwomen?

Despite the fact that I should be writing something useful, like a term paper, I've been inspired by a friend to return to my blog after a LONG hiatus. Let see how this turns out....

I recently finished reading Mystics, Mavericks, and Merrymakers by Stephanie Wellen Levine, a student of the well-known feminist psychology scholar Carol Gilligan. The is an participant-observer field study of teenage Lubavitcher girls. Not only is it a well done study from an academic viewpoint, but it challenges deeply held stereotypes (including my own) of Hasidic women.

Lubavitch, in short, is an ultra-Orthodox group with two goals -- too adhere as closely as possible to the strictest interpretation of the 613 Commandments and to convince all other Jews to do the same. Like other ultra-Orthodox Jews, Lubavitchers live according to strictly separated gender roles and women are barred from any public religious role. When thinking of the role of women in fundamentalist religions, it is normally quite repressive. From the outside, it seems the same for Lubavitcher girls.

However, reading the case studies of these girls, Levine reveals how strong, both in personality and thought, these girls are. They are uninhibited in their sense of self and proud of their personal and religious identity. They have a powerful "voice". Carol Gilligan coined the term, and her studies show how girls often lose this voice, this sense of identity and strength in self, as they enter adolescence. But these Lubavitcher girls Levine studied did not. Even at 17 on the cusp of getting married, they still had a voice.

At first, this amazed me, that despite such a constrictive society, these girls were strong, happy, and had chutzpah. Levine credits it with the strictly single-sex environment in which the girls live - the only contact with males are immediate family members. Otherwise, school, shul, and social life are all separate. Levine also believes that Hasidic theology of the power of every Jewish person to bring holiness into this world by everyday acts is empowering to these girls. But what about when they marry, when they are slaving over a Shabbat stove and popping out a new little Lubavitcher every year? Perhaps the voice disappears under a pile of dishes and diapers?

But then I thought of the Lubavitch women I have known. The first I knew well I met when we were both posted in Bogotá, Colombia -- me with the US Embassy, her with the Chabad House established to grab those wayward Colombian Jews. She adhered to all the rules and regulations of ultra-Orthodoxy. She wore skirts to her ankles and a wig (although the long curly locks of her sheitl made my hair look like the fake). She fought against taking a cab to the the hospital when she was in labor with her second son since it was Shabbat. She was able to cook for a crowd of 30 or more every Saturday afternoon. Yet she was fun, lively, intelligent, and most of all, chutzpadik. She had an amazing sense of humor and filled the room the moment she walked in. This was despite living far away from anything familiar or comfortable with two kids, a tiny apartment, and very little Spanish -- all at the tender age of 23. I thought she was an anomaly -- a rebel amongst Lubavitch women, perhaps a daredevil willing to leave, perhaps even run away, from her family




As I met other Lubavitcher women, I realized she was not. While my friend is a particularly lively personality, there were many others I met and connected with. They were smart, opinionated, and, yes, strong. I met many of them through sending my daughters to the Lubavitcher summer camp near me. This past summer, I spent more time with the counselors, all the same age of the girls Levine studied (perhaps she didn't need to move to Crown Heights for a year, she could have just gone to camp....) And yes, they were indeed rowdy, funny, boisterous, and strong.

So... this is the part where we get back to me (since blog posts are an ego trip after all). Do I want to send my girls back to the Lubavitcher camp? Before my older one reached the age of 8, it wasn't a difficult choice. The boys and girls were together and there wasn't much indoctrination except learning a few songs calling for Moshiach Now! (which in a three year old's lisp, is quite hilarious to listen to). But at 3rd grade, the boys and girls are separated, the girls are encouraged to wear skirts and have more "female oriented" activities like cooking. I'm proud of my older daughter's interest in science, sports, math, and other non-girly things (as well as plenty of girly things) and half of her fiends are boys. I didn't think it healthy for her to be separated by her gender, which to me, implied a fear of sexuality inappropriate in an 8 year old, especially my one who didn't know what "sexy" meant, and told me that she didn't care to know.

But now, I am contemplating sending her and her younger sister back. At first, it was just a a matter of money and convenience -- the Chabad camp is super-cheap (what can I say, I'm willing to trade of brainwashing for saving bucks?) and is still open when all the other camps have closed up shop in August. But now, I've read this book and I'm reminded of two things. One, is these entertaining, strong Orthodox women I've know. But two, is the time I wasted while at Barnard College -- a single sex institution (albeit in a coed university) that I left after two years, partially because it was single sex. It was too late for me -- I had already lost my voice and cared more about who the man in my life was than who I was.

I've always said that I'm in favor of single sex schools -- middle schools, that is. I don't think that's coming to my city any time soon, and the private ones are too expensive and snotty. Perhaps sending my daughter to the single sex environment of a camp isn't a bad thing. As long as it is empowering, not overly feminizing. I thought that was the problem with the way Lubavitcher women thought and treated their girls. But now I wonder if my daughter might end up all the stronger for spending some time with these females. They're strong, they're proud, and they have a nice loud, Jewish voice. Right now, so does my daughter and I don't want her to lose it.

Camoflauge

While cleaning my kitchen tonight, after the onslaught of various relatives, including a few little slobs under four feet, I had a random, yet profound thought.

I hate when kids wear camouflage clothes. First off, children are violent and destructive enough, we don't need to encourage them to emulate soldiers. (Yes, soldiers have other admirable quality -- obedience, discipline, loyalty -- but as if green splotches would inspire that in a kid!) Additionally, camouflage is meant to disguise the wearer, so they can't be seen by others. Now this is a great idea -- as I know that if my children are hiding from me, they certainly aren't doing something I wouldn't want them to do.

So I refuse to buy anything that looks even slightly camouflage-ish for my girls. Of course, my mother arrives a few days ago, with bundles of clothing in hand for the girls, carefully culled from the racks of TJ Maxx. They're all adorable, except the nightgown for the older one. It's pink, yes, it has ruffles, yes, it even has an Supergirl "S". This should be empowering for my daughter -- she either would think she looks like a princess (ruffles, pink) or a superhero. But, alas, it is pink CAMOUFLAGE! What's the message here? Supergirl is a soldier, hiding out in the jungle, knocking out hostiles with her AK-47, wrist ruffles flying!

Okay, so, established, I don't like camouflage. But then, cleaning the kitchen, I thought, why are stoves white or stainless steel? Here am I, scraping burnt egg and such off the top of my white stove. I want a camouflage stove! I like green (although maybe Dessert Storm tan might be a bit more soothing on the eyes) and I hate cleaning. Why stop with a camo stove? How about a camo floor, countertops, even sink? I wouldn't have to clean the kitchen until it started smelling or crunched underfoot, and even then, that would only add to the jungle atmosphere. Maybe I'd add some large ferns to hide the dirty dishes in the sink, too.

Camouflage in the kitchen doesn't work everywhere. The outside of the fridge, yes, the inside, definitely not. Imagine how much more often you'd hear the petulant whine "I can't find it, can you come and find it for me" (that's my husband, my girls just yell "Mamaaaaa!")

But I propose that the next great decorating movement not be a return to avocado and orange a la 1970s, nor Emeril worthy stainless steel industrial size appliances that look more like garbage trucks. Let's see Elle Decor and Dominio and the others feature really useful, cutting edge kitchen style -- camouflage. Overwhelmed, stressed out moms will happily pull out their credit cards.

The baby package

Why do I adore babies? So many reasons. The little hands like soft flowers, the toothless grin, high pitched squeals, the crying that sounds like laughter and the laughter that sounds like bells. And the thighs! Those pulkes (Yiddish); I wished and prayed for a lovely pair on my second child -- the first was, and still is, a skinny kid. And boy did I get my prayers answered. Put a tutu on my naked daughter and you'd have one of the hippos straight out of Fantasia. Little, dimpled, rolled thighs tapering into tiny little ankles and fat square feet with fringe of toes. Yummy.

But enough about how I have a bizarre (and reverse Oedipla) desire to consume my children. Back to why I love babies, all babies, not just mine. Babies are a beautifully wrapped package. Adorable and enchanting to look at, but you have no idea what's inside when it's first put n your hands. But slowly, slowly, the wrapping peels away bit by bit, not in large, consistent sections, but a little snip here, and pulling seam there. Hints of what might lie inside. As I parent, I assume I'll spend the reest of my life watching these packages unwrap and open, but now I only see a flash of blue, and bit of s swirl, maybe a rough spot, and try to guess who the older child, teen, young adult, future parent, gray haired woman, might be. I should really write some predicitions down, and see how right or wrong I am, but I'm afraid I'd just reveal my presumptions that will shape the end product, for better and worse. Because that's the other thing about these packages, the longer you have them, the more you will push on and shape them. What's inside is all there, but years of rough handling can destroy the prettiest bits, where leaving it alone might cause other parts to get dusty and fade.

What's so hard about saying sorry?

I want to say sorry. I have lots of reasons every day, to my husband, my children, all the people out there on the roads the same time I am. But my apology isn't to them. It's to the future. When the history books look back on the US war / invasion / occupation / destruction of Iraq, they won't say "and why didn't Joni do more to stop it?" But they should. They should ask all of us. And the answer was, I'm too busy, I'm too insulated from it, I couldn't be bothered to inconvenience my life, I didn't want to try so hard that it might have a one hundredth of a percent chance of having any impact. But I do feel guilty. I know that if I leave this country and am detected as an American, I will be held responsible for the actions of my government. No I certainly did not vote for George Bush either time. But I am a citizen, I do live here, I do pay taxes, and I do take advantage of the many public services offered to me (I don't take my own trash to the city dump, do you?)

And becasue of this, I want to apologize. Not to the rude French person who sneers at me becasue I'm American and part of a war-mongering country (as if the French have clean hands -- ask the Algerians). No, I want to apologize to the children in Iraq. Even if we were justified in going in there (and we weren't, at least not as soon, as arrogantly, as we did -- but that's another post), we have destroyed their country and, at best, hobbled their future.

If I weren't too lazy, too busy, too selfish, too involved with my own children, I'd start a campaign. A campaign for every person living in America (citizens, illegals, and everyone in between -- i.e. the Irish bartender who is still on vacation three years later). All 300 million. Each of us should apologize to the Iraqi children, and as a gesture of trying to do better, to make things better for them, each donate a dollar to rebuild schools. Schools where they can all learn, and where, in a conflict, they will all be protected. Three-hundred million dollars is barely a drop in the ocean (less than what's been spent on this war, too). But maybe we could use it to build schools like the new US Embassies -- bomb proof campuses, oases of safety, with dorms for students and / or teachers, to be used year round or only in emergency. Everyoone is suffereing in Iraq, but we are destroying childhoods and creating future terrorists (see Newsweek article). Aren't we sorry about this? Don't we, the richest people in the world, want to make it better for them? Can't we spare one dollar to do so?

Okay, so that's my dream campaign. But there it is. And it makes me reflect back on a conversation I had with my husband a few days ago. Why do so many people think that saying "sorry" is to humiliate yourself? Why didn't Baby Doc Bush actually say "I'm sorry" in his State of the Union? Would that, like disagreeing with the war, give Bin Laden larger cajones and convince him to train some more pilots? A true man, and true person, can admit their mistakes and say sorry, and realize what a gift they are giving in doing so. They are not only saying, "I am wise enough to reflect upon and analyze my own choices and actions" but they are also saying "and I am determined and capable that I will do much better now". If Bush apologized for his mistaken choices, we could regain world sympathy and support. That, not more troops, will win the war against terror in the long run.