Hearing Haman

Every year at around this time I face the Purim Challenge; that is, finding personal meaning in a holiday that doesn't particularly resonate with me.  This year I'm a little late to the game...I struggled with it for days leading up to Purim, and only got inspired at literally the last minute, as I attended the "Last Minute Megillah Reading" on Purim day at my shul.  Nothing like taking it down to the wire!

Right before the reading started, the man doing the leyning made the usual request for no talking during the reading because of the requirement to hear every word of the Megillah.  I love any excuse to not talk, so that totally works for me.  Usually, the only noise heard during the Megillah reading is the racket made by the graggers and other noisemakers when Haman's name is read.  But yesterday, when Haman was mentioned for the first time, I started to connect the dots:  we only make noise immediately after Haman's name, not during--we don't drown him out.  Instead, we hear his name as we must hear all the other words in the story.  We register our displeasure, but we don't erase him.

This seems like an effective way to face our own personal stories, which are (most likely) dotted with names, places, and events we'd like to blot out.  The problem with that is, if we erase those parts of our stories, the narratives lose a lot of their significance.  I mean, where would the Purim story be without Haman?  If we take him out of the mix, there would be no villain and therefore no need for the heroism of Mordechai and Esther.  The opportunity for triumph would be lost if we took out the crisis.

When I think about my own story, I would LOVE to take a huge eraser and rub out my entire four years at college, which I will always associate with the birth and rapid rise of my eating disorder.  I live in a city with lots of universities, and as I walk around and see all the undergrads and campus buildings, I wish I could do that part of my life over in a totally different way. But since I can't, I just do my best to have very little present-day connection with the university I attended.  Whenever it comes up in conversation, I would love to drown it out with a gragger!

But maybe this is not the best way.  After all, without the struggle born in those four years, I never would have started the journey I'm on--one that has given me insights and skills that I would never want to trade for an easier path.  Maybe the best approach is Purim-style:  hear the hard parts, register your displeasure, and appreciate them as necessary for the journey.

Just as we can't effectively erase parts of our narratives, we also can't erase parts of ourselves.  We all have elements to our personalities that we dislike or find shameful: the judgmental, envious, fearful, spiteful, resistant, insecure parts (to name a few).  It's probably fair to say that we are each a little "Haman-esque" in some ways, just as we also have within us elements of Mordechai and Esther.  I cannot even count the number of times I have thought, "I hate that I'm like this!" when I catch myself exhibiting any of the above traits.  But maybe these elements of our personalities should not be hated and drowned out; maybe they need to be heard and better understood.  Sometimes our most difficult attributes need the most love and compassion before we are able to see how they fit into the Big Picture that is us.  We say we "hate" Haman, but we also have to acknowledge that he gave us a key piece of our collective narrative and provided us with one of our first experiences of national triumph.  What would we have missed out on learning, if Haman had never entered the picture?  Perhaps there is also much to learn from our seemingly less desirable traits, if only we can approach them with gentle curiosity.

A local artist named Deb Koffman expresses this much better than I ever could, in her piece titled, "Some of the Parts."  She has given me permission to include it here.  You can see more of her work at http://www.debkoffman.com.  Hopefully this piece inspires you to integrate all of your story, and all of your parts!

Esther vs. Vashti? Really?

I know Purim has come and gone, and I know I've said (twice now) that I don't even really enjoy that holiday very much, but I've decided to dedicate yet another blog post to it, and here's why:  I've spent the past week stewing over the Purim story, and now I need to vent.  Hopefully, it will be somewhat organized.

Every year, I read the story of Purim and then hear it filtered through various people's perspectives.  Most interpretations I hear fall into two main categories:

1) Vashti is an evil and dangerous woman who defies Hashem's rules for how women should behave.  Because she dared to refuse to dance in front of her husband and his friends, one can only assume that she must have been covered with some unsightly rash or perhaps had suddenly sprouted a tail.  She deserved every bit of the punishment she got.  Esther, on the other hand, is pure, virtuous, and beautiful.  She was chosen to be queen for her grace and obedience.  Not only does she save the Jewish people, but she represents the quintessential Jewish woman.

2) Vashti is a strong, independent woman who refuses to let any man dictate what she should do.  She was a victim of the sexist culture of her time and had she lived today, she probably would have been a valiant feminist.  She was wrongly punished and she deserves to be admired by women everywhere for her fierce self-determination.  Esther, however, is simple and vain.  She plays on her good looks and depends on her sexuality to get what she wants.  Unlike Vashti, she is not particularly independent-minded and doesn't model positive assertiveness for girls and women today.

I don't agree with either one of these stories.

That said, I do find them both interesting, mostly because it is striking to me how each of these interpretations relies so heavily on the "good girl/bad girl" dichotomy.  If Esther is going to be the heroine, then Vashti must be the villain.  On the other hand, if Vashti is the admirable and charismatic one, then Esther must be contemptible and bland.   It's almost as if these women gain validity in their respective roles only by being compared to each other.  The danger here is that we end up pigeonholing both Vashti and Esther, and we don't allow either of them to be the dynamic women that they probably actually were.  Looking beyond the Purim story, how often do we do this to people in our own lives?  How often do people do this to us?  I think we can probably agree that no one is a completely monochromatic character.  Contrary to popular belief, the female species is not divided into "good girls" and "bad girls."  We should give ourselves credit for being far more complex than that.  We each make thousands of choices in our lives; some will be positive and some will not.  Sometimes we will conform with the majority, and sometimes we won't.  Our nuances are what make us interesting.  Although forcing everyone into the "good girl/bad girl" binary might make life less complicated, when we do this we squeeze the life out of all of us.

My teacher in Israel helped me tease out the "real" women underneath the simplistic images depicted in both of the above versions of the Purim story.  Vashti, it seems, is neither the dangerous vixen of the first story nor the radical feminist of the second.  Instead, she is a woman who preserved her morality by refusing to attend a party full of drinking men and dancing girls--and, incidentally, it was considered inappropriate in ancient Persia for wives of rulers to be present at such parties.  Vashti deserves credit for standing her ground even in the face of harsh consequences.  However, she isn't really a feminist because she doesn't demand equality--she just wants to be treated in the manner befitting the wife of a ruler in her society.  Because Esther enters the picture only as a result of Vashti's departure, one can only assume that she is aware of the circumstances surrounding the fall of her predecessor.  She understands that blatant defiance of the king leads to disaster, so she knows she needs to take a more subtle approach.  Yes, Esther is more demure than Vashti, and although this can be considered a virtue it is also the trait that nearly led her to pass up the opportunity to save her people.  Some people profess that Esther's beauty and docility are what made her the ideal queen; I would argue that these characteristics merely make her the ideal ornament for a powerful king.  When Esther truly becomes a queen is when she taps into the fire in her spirit and steps up to be a leader.

I don't think it's a stretch to see that both Esther and Vashti are admirable women who are also flawed, and that neither one of them exemplifies the "ideal woman"--instead, we need a little bit of both of them inside ourselves.  A virtuous woman is not necessarily someone who is submissive, dainty, and conformist; nor is she necessarily a bold, fearless rebel.  A woman can possess all of these qualities in varying proportions and still be just as worthy of respect and belonging as the woman standing next to her.  Girls do not need to strive to be like Esther and scorn Vashti; nor do they need to emulate Vashti at the expense of Esther.  Rather, they should be encouraged to evaluate honestly the choices of both women and to find ways in which they can identify with both Esther and Vashti.  Perhaps, if we can respect these two characters of long ago, we will begin to be more compassionate with our own complex, multifaceted selves.

Purim...Unmasked

Last year at this time, I explained why Purim has never been one of my favorite Jewish holidays.  This year as the holiday approached once more, I felt myself sighing a little bit internally in anticipation.  Recently someone asked me what I was going to dress up as for Purim, and my instinctive first thought was, "Well, nothing."  I do not enjoy wearing costumes; if I'm not performing on a stage, I don't do it.  I just don't think it's fun, and maybe it's my rigid streak talking, but I don't like pretending to be someone I'm not.  Which, when I think about it, strikes me as incredibly ironic, because I feel like I have actually spent--and continue to spend--quite a bit of my life pretending to be someone I'm not.  I tend to present myself in a way that I think other people will find appealing.  This doesn't mean I adopt a completely false persona, but it often does mean putting myself out there so that only selective parts of myself are revealed.  A political science professor whose course I took during my freshman year at college had a favorite saying: "It is not truth that is important, but that which is perceived to be."  I think, consciously and unconsciously, in the past I applied the same principle to my own life.  It didn't matter what was actually true about me; it mattered what other people thought was true about me.

Which brings me to Purim, and the custom of wearing costumes and masks.  Recently I learned that the words, Megilat Esther, themselves reveal a lot of the meaning behind this tradition.  The word megilat -- מגילת -- comes from the root גלה, which means to uncover, to reveal, or public.  In contrast, the name Esther -- אסתר -- comes from the root סתר, which means to cover, to hide, or private.  During Purim, wearing disguises helps us remember that we all have our public selves that we present to the world.  Beneath those exterior displays, however, are our true selves that we often choose to keep private.  Purim is a reminder that no one is completely as he or she appears to be.  We each have a hidden inner self that, though often afraid to make itself known, deserves to be seen.

The most elaborate mask I've ever worn was the mask of anorexia.  For years, I never took it off, lest anyone see the scared, lost me who cowered underneath.  As a result, every interaction I had during that time was with someone who only saw my outward persona.  Every connection was superficial because no one got to know who I really was. In fact, I kept the mask on for so long that I forgot who I was.  A central piece of my recovery has been finding ways to "go natural."  I began by taking off the anorexia mask in private (or in therapy) and giving myself time to figure out who I was underneath.  Then, I started identifying people with whom I felt it would be safe to be more genuine, and I began to let them know me.  Over time, that list has grown longer and longer, to the point where I now feel that while I still throw a tiny bit of a disguise on once in a while, overall the self I'm presenting to the world is me. 

In an article titled, "Being You -- A Purim Insight", Sara Tzafona writes:

"We can't possibly discern our purpose while attending a masquerade ball within our personal worlds.  We're not listening to G-d's message, or even trying to find it, if we are spending our time creating false personalities or attempting to become replicas of others rather than focusing on who we are meant to be.

It's pointless, because the world doesn't need replicas of others; the world needs authentic people who aren't afraid to reflect the G-dly soul that was given to them, who aren't afraid to go natural in this razzle-dazzle world that ridicules morality and ethics and authentic purpose.  

We have an obligation to shrug off the artificial masks that we present to the world, because each of us has a job that can be performed by no one else.  There can only be one me, one you, and one Esther.  We must all do our jobs.  And all jobs are created equal, though not the same.  All jobs provide a vital piece to the mosaic of this world, a vital channel to its healing."

This Purim, I wish for all of us the ability to enjoy the festivities...and then, when it's over, to find a safe space in which to take off our masks.  I hope that each of us can find a corner of the world in which we can shine our true light, as only our authentic selves can do.

Faith in Purpose

I'll be honest: Purim is not my favorite holiday. It's very noisy; there's a lot of alcohol involved; things are supposed to be mixed up and out of order. None of that meshes well with my aforementioned penchant for rules.

Still, Megillat Esther is some fabulous drama. One of my favorite moments occurs in chapter 4. Mordechai has just told Esther about Haman's plot to annihilate the Jews, and he calls upon Esther to go to the king and plead with him to save the Jewish people. Esther is doubtful that she could pull this off--who is she, to think that she could hold such power with the king? But Mordechai insists. He says, "...who knows? Perhaps you have attained to royal position for just such a crisis" (Book of Esther 4:14).

What I love about this part is the message that each of us is created to fulfill a unique purpose and that we should not doubt our ability to effect change. Initially, Esther does not present as a particularly self-confident or empowered woman. The text often refers to her in the passive voice: she "was taken," or she "would be summoned," etc. She is quiet, obedient, and eager to please. And yet...within her she has a spark, of which she is all but unaware. It is she who is best positioned to save the Jewish people, and this is not an accident. Esther has inside of her more power than she ever thought possible.

When I read this section of Megillat Esther, I am reminded that I, too, have a purpose in life that only I can serve. The same is true for each of us. The eating disorder has made us very good at believing that we are nothing special...when the truth is that Hashem created each of us to fulfill a need of the world. I'm reminded of one of my all-time favorite quotes, by Marianne Williamson:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

I think Esther would agree.