High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 6

[Note: In honor of Saturday, I've taken a sabbatical and rested from blogging on Day 5.]

"Because you have listened to the voice of your wife, and have eaten of the tree of which I commanded you, 'You shall not eat of it,' cursed is the ground because of you; in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life; thorns and thistles it shall bring forth to you; and you shall eat the plants of the field. In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Genesis 3:17-19

Before journeying any further on the jaunt that will be this entry, allow me to make (not one, but) several disclaimers. (1) I enjoy my job: there are few careers paths that I can imagine in which I would take more delight. (2) I am not complaning in this entry: the following sentiments in no way express discontent, ungratefulness, or any other manifestation of dissatisfaction with my line of work, or my life more broadly. (3) No students were harmed in the typing of this blog entry (at least not yet, anyway...)

On paper (read: the punch-card that my maniacally controlling, won't-pay-you-for-a-single-minute-more-than-you-worked employer a.k.a. Satan makes me use), I teach about 30 hours of class per week. In reality (read: according to the meticulous, and infallable yet overworked-and-ever-more-weary chronograph that is my mind), I average something closer to 45-50 hours. Wherein lies the discepancy? The minutes and hours I slave away grading essays, creating quizzes, preparing and reviewing lesson plans, and doing a variety of other tasks as a faithful clog in the lucrative, well-oiled machine that is the modern test-prep industry.

But I'm tired at the end of the week. Which brings me to another point: there is no end to my work week--it's just one unbroken cycle with a beginning, but strangely--and sadly--without end. Yes, I'm on the job seven days a week. On Saturdays I teach from 9-5, then go home and prepare for SAT II Biology class the next day. On Sunday after church, I zoom over to Roland Heights, teach till 5, then go home and ready myself for the classes in the week to come.

I enjoy teaching, especially my verbal and writing classes. It's exciting, engaging, educational (both for my students and for me), entertaining, but also enervating. [I know, a tour de force of alliteration. Surprisingly, it came very naturally.] I don't know how people who hate their jobs do it. I mean, unless they're completely mercenary and being paid like Halliburton on a government contract (complete with extravagent junkets, a company jet, a time share in each time zone, and primo stock options), it's just not worth it.

I allowed the meticulous, and infallable yet overworked-and-ever-more-weary chronograph that is my mind to deliberate on this point, and it faithfully delivered to me an answer: the curse. Adam's curse. My curse. Though I enjoy my job, as a post-lapsarian man, I am destined to toil, and work by the sweat of my brow--even in our first world, post-industrial, technology-based, increasingly globalized economy of scale. Sure, America left behind the husbandry of Adam's agrarian world over a century ago, but here I am in a service-sector job of a service-based economy toiling with 21st century thorns and thistles.

I called Pam to relay this (rather depressing) epiphany. Her consoling conclusion: "Yes, you're a man. You're destined to labor and toil all the days of your life, until you die."

Surprise Jew of the Day: David Beckham
Not-so-surprising Jew of the Day: Jesus

High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 4

"Then the priests the Levites arose and blessed the people: and their voice was heard, and their prayer came up to his holy dwelling place, even unto heaven." 2 Chronicles 30:27

Act II: The Hapless Misadventure that Sometimes is an Answered Request

In HHD (High Holy Day) entry 2, I mentioned that I tend to manipulate my conversations with Alvin. So as I was chatting with him today (again, via the miracle that is the Internet), I indicated that during our workout this evening it would be Alvin who would direct our interlocution. I met him at Ballys, and, as per my custom, I began to dominate the discussion. I caught myself, and said, "Oh, I'm doing it again! Alvin! We agreed that you're in charge of the topics tonight."

Alvin chuckled, took a thoughtful pause to summon a topic that would be of mutual interest, then commenced: "So today I was deciding which headphones to buy...$60, blah blah blah...$20, blah blah blah...more portable...mess up my hairdo, BLAH!" Oh my gosh! I was about to lose consciousness this conversation was so boring!

I composed myself, and prepared to firmly--yet tactfully--reassert authority over what would have soon become (under Alvin's maladroit direction) a one-way trip to a conversational Bermuda Triangle. "I remember why I like to direct our one-on-one talks," I started. "Because when you start the topic, you chose something so asinine that it could engage no living being!"

Surprisingly, Alvin did not take offense. He just smiled and said, "Yeah, I know. That's why I am quiet. I listen more, and talk less."

Moral of the story: Alvin is a faithful, patient friend who is good at conversation, but should not be allowed to govern the topic of discussion.


Secret Jew of the Day: Krusty the Clown, birth name: Herschel Pinkus Yerucham Krustofski (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krusty_the_Clown)
Not-so-Secret-Jew & Jewess of the Day: Allen Ginsberg & Ruth Bader Ginsburg

High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 3

"Then the priests the Levites arose and blessed the people: and their voice was heard, and their prayer came up to his holy dwelling place, even unto heaven." 2 Chronicles 30:27


Act I: The Glory of Answered Prayer

"Why can't I date someone godly who looks like Takeshi Kaneshiro?" a female acquaintance bemoaned to me today via the communication miracle that is the internet. Then things took a turn toward desperation: "Can you tell me why? Why? WHY, OH LORD WHY?!?!"

"Do you know of any such person?" I replied.

"Do you think I'd still be single if I did?"

Ruminating on that thought, I recalled a certain "admiration" she has for a godly man we'll call "Elimelech" (in keeping with our theme). Sanctified though he may be, Elimelech is immensely cerebral--undoubtedly the most cerebral person I know. As you might expect, he is lanky, sometimes slovenly, and his complexion is...he would be the "before" person in a Noxzema commercial.

"You could just graft Takeshi's face onto Elimelech's cerebral body," I proffered helpfully.

"Yeah, but then I'd be stuck with Elimelech's cerebral body."

Seeing that the first plan had not resolved all her problems, I made a better proposal: "transfer Elimelech's mind and soul INTO Takeshi's body. The best of both worlds!" After a moment's consideration, I added, "Takeshi wakes up one day:"what the £*¢&?!? How did I get this cerebral body??? WHAT HAPPENED TO MY FACE?!??!"

Camera pans to my friend and Elimelech, rejoicing in the background: "Hallelujahah! Our prayers are ANSWERED!!"


Secret Jew of the Day: Elvis Presley! (maternal grandparent was Jewish)
Not-so-secret-Jewess of the Day: Barbara Streisand

High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 2

Day 2 of the High Holy Days, and the weather is warm and sunny: perfect, the way that one expects the weather in southern California to be 95% of the year.

Last night, after ingesting my daily portion of reading (this week is Sandra Tsing Loh's A Year in Venice), I had some time to ruminate, so ruminate I did. One thought led to another (as is so often the case in rumination) and soon I was thinking how unfair I am sometimes to Alvin.

Alvin is always very patient with me. He listens to my whining, then does his best to offer comfort or counsel. I am sometimes dissatisfied with his suggestions, but he is a faithful listener and dispenser of (not-always-helpful) advice. Alvin lets me pilot our conversations, even when I hijack them and take us on a journey on which he does not want to go. He would probably rather not discuss the merits and vices of Harriet Myers, or how Prime Minister Koizumi's economic reforms have poised Japan for a new decade of economic prosperity, or how Turkish ascension to the EU will affect Sino-European trade relations. But he lets me ramble on, and chimes in when what would otherwise be my uninterrupted monologue has gone on for too long.

There are probably two or three dozen other ways that I exploit my friendship with Alvin, but I think my enumeration thus far is sufficient to apprise the reader of my evils.

So, in the spirit of Rosh Hashanah, I thank Alvin for his graciousness, publicly apologize to him, and ask for forgiveness. Sorry, Alvin! You can remind me when I start to do any of the two to three dozen things that didn't list.


Secret Jew of the Day: Kenneth Cole
Not-so-secret-Jew of the Day: Steven Spielberg

High Holy Days Hodge-podge: Day 1

Although I am not actually Jewish, I have managed to combine the best qualities of some outstanding Jews: the boyish charm of Scott Wolf, the brilliance of Einstein, the virtuosity of Itzhak Perlman, the economic savvy of Allan Greenspan, the literary genius of J.D. Salinger, all with the devastatingly handsome--yet unassuming--good looks of Noah Wyle. [Did you know that "Jonathan Taylor Thomas" is really a Jew named Jonathan Weiss? Did he think that having a Jewish name would somehow hurt his chance of success in Hollywood?!] I'm like Dr. Frankenstein's creature, assembled from all the best parts culled from remarkable Jews.

Ok, so I really have the boyish charm of Allan Greenspan, the literary genius of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and the good looks of Einstein, but I'm still the amalgamation of several famous Jews.

Anyway, in honor of my Jewish compatriots, I have decided to dedicate the next 10 days of my blog to the High Holy Days, the 10 days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Today is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, on which Jews are expected to "examine their past deeds and ask for forgiveness for their sins", and "review the history of their people and pray for Israel". (http://www.holidays.net/highholydays/rosh.htm).

The disadvantage of this cross-cultural blogging experience is that I will probably have very few first-person accounts of anything resembling Judaism, ergo "hodge-podge" in the title. So be prepared over the next week and a half for a variety of unnaturally unrelated thoughts and stories that I will try to string together with my new theme: the High Holy Days.

Happy Rosh Hashanah!

Secret Jew of the Day: Jonathan Taylor Thomas (a.k.a. Jonathan Weiss)
Not-so-secret Jew of the Day: Ariel Sharon

"Let them have dominion...

... over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.” (Genesis 1:26).

I am house-sitting. Perhaps that is too luxurious a title for what I am actually doing: I am dog-sitting. But Fuji is no ordinary dog. No, no, no. Fuji is the modern day equivalent to the cats of ancient Egypt, which were worshipped as gods and served by the humans who exalted the felines above themselves. Indeed, it has felt much less like "dog-sitting" and much more like idol worshipping these last three nights.

Perhaps you, reader, need some background on how I came to occupy my role in this travesty of idolatrous dog-sitting. Naomi Sakamoto, a long time friend of our family, is getting married in Hawaii, but leaving Fuji in a kennel would be anathema to Naomi's parents. In fact, it is rumored that Mrs. Sakamoto would not attend her only daughter's wedding if a sitter could not be found to attend to Fuji. This tidbit succinctly provides a depiction of the role Fuji plays in the lives of her owners.

Thus my family asked me to watch Fuji, so that both parents of the bride could participate in the wedding. Ostensibly, my official duties are fairly simple: feed Fuji twice a day (half a scoop each of two kinds of food), make sure she has water, and don't let her disturb the neighbors with barking. Fuji, however, has seen to it that in reality, things have not been so easy.

I had to meet Fuji twice before dog-sitting; both times I had to enter with Naomi, to give the appearance that I was a "friend". Fuji barked at me nonetheless, and so I was instructed to offer treats--a practice that has since become ritual upon my entering the house. These ceremonial offerings of jerky win Fuji's tolerance of my presence; they earn me her favor, ensure that she won't bring calamity or natural disaster upon the land, and will hopefully secure her blessing of a good harvest this autumn.

Despite my faithful execution of the sacraments, apparently I was remiss in my duties as substitute chief priest. Last night, at 2:07 a.m., Fuji began barking. The phone rang. Angry neighbors complained. Immediately I offered double portions of the jerky sacrifice, but to no avail. I prayed for quiet, but Fuji was not to be appeased. The phone rang again--more angry neighbors. Finally, after nearly an hour of sincere entreaty and several pieces of jerky later, I had sufficiently atoned for my transgression (the nature of which I am still unsure), and Fuji went back to sleep.

Clearly I do not have my God-endowed dominion over this animal. I feel that this is an unhealthy, unbiblical relationship. This dog was created to obey me, and I to have dominion over it. Something of the created order has been perverted.

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven...

...Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest.

Four entries from the English major, and not a single literary allusion (save the domain name of this blog)? It can't be, you scoff--and rightly so. To rectify, I have included this quote. 5 points (plus sincere respect) if you can identify the author and source of the excerpt. (Answer at the bottom, plus the rest of the passage.) The text is dealing with mercy, the topic--practically applied--of today's entry.

Before class on Thursday, my student Jeffery came up to me and asked me to quiz him on transitive/intransitive verbs, direct objects, objects of prepositions, and subject compliments. Jeffery is usually spirited and spry, but today he seemed anxious, and explained that if he failed Thursday's grammar test he would be in big trouble. I had him parse a few sentences, and seeing that he seemed to understand last week's lesson, I told him not to worry and review on his own. Throughout homework-time, he reviewed carefully, but nervously.

After the half hour homework/study period, Jeffery, along with his classmates, took the test. Here was probably the most histrionic test-taking experience I have ever witnessed. He massaged his temples; he flailed his arms; he released a sigh, then a soft whine; he put his head down on the desk; he massaged his temples again; he released a whimper, then a sigh; he rubbed his eyes, then repeated the entire procedure.

When I called time, he was still working; I let him finish one last problem, then collected and redistributed the tests for correction. Jeffery's score: 65% (at my work, a student needs 70%+ to pass). After having found out, he put his head down on the desk and wept. I knew this was serious, so I dutifully recorded "70%" in the grade sheet, and gave it to the office attendant. [Incidentally, the difference in score was equal to one answer on the 20-question test.]

During break time, I called him out to another room and asked him what was wrong. "My mom said that if I fail another test, she won't let me come home. Last time I failed, she didn't come pick me up from class." In my mind I like to see justice applied strictly: I support the death penalty; I had one of my students in Beijing expelled for cheating. Every teacher, however, has a soft spot for the weeping student. You can't be human if you don't feel sorry for the weeping student.

He wasn't bawling, mind you--that would just be pathetic. But he was weeping, and cheerless, lachrymose* globules clung to his long lashes like clumps of translucent mascara. It was a strange image that created strongly ambivalent sentiments in me. I was at once moved by empathy for his plaintive visage, yet I also appreciated the aesthetic of that moment, for there is something particularly beautiful about the sincerity of a child's tears, about the deep feelings they hold for things to which we have long become calloused.

I showed him the grade sheet (falsified score and all), and he said, "thank you, Mr. James", but he seemed still draped in the shroud of meloncholy. Then I imagined what it must be like for one to believe that his value comes not from who he is, but what he can do, what he can produce, what he knows.** As someone who doesn't have children of his own, I know it's not my place to judge parents, but it strikes me as abusive to raise a child letting him think that he's only as good as his grades.

"Look at me, Jeffery. In the eyes. I think your mom wasn't serious about not letting you in. She just wants you to study hard and do well in class, okay? Don't worry about the grade--you passed. Stay after class, and we'll work on some more practice problems." So we worked for 20 minutes after class, and I do really think he has a better grasp on transitive/intransitive verbs, subject compliments, and the rest. Perhaps he will soon forget this week's grammar lesson, but I hope he will long remember mercy, and pass the experience along.

*Ok, so "lachrymose" doesn't carry the meaning with which I endowed it in that sentence, but it's such a nice, yet seldom used word that I think I'm justified in extending the definition, and thereby hopefully encouraging it's use by others.

**After I got home, I realized that my professors, living in the world of "publish or perish," are similarly judged by their intellect and ability to produce over their personalities and humanity (which is unfortunate, because some their respective characters are just as remarkable as their respective intellects). I do, however, think they have better coping strategies to deal with this pressure than does Jeffery.

5 points if you knew Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice (Act IV, scene i. Said by Portia).

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.