I remember the wet stones. When I lived in Jerusalem for a year, I spent Fridays slipping all over the place. In the hours before sunset, the Old City’s enchanting stones became slip-and-slides as young boys bearing buckets of water glazed the timeless stairways and passages, giving the holy city the last bath just before Shabbat.
Last Wednesday, for my first time, I baked two loaves of challah for Shabbat. I participated in an enjoyable event held regularly at my campus Chabad. Baking challah and its accompanying mitzvah, our instructor helpfully explained, is traditionally a “woman’s mitzvah.”
Did I just witness gender formation? Was female identity constructed just there before my eyes and is it really so simple?
It’s too true that we can only appreciate something once we’ve lost it. I’m talking about voting and I’m talking about my generation.
As young Americans (cue the David Bowie song – thought: maybe I don’t belong in my generation?) I was expecting extreme campaigning and political activism on campus. I go to a school that at one point earned the moniker Berkeley East. Sadly, in 2012, voter registration is just too laborious of a process for students to care.