High Holidays 5775 (The Remix)

I didn't feel much of the holiday spirit this year. If I were to repent of anything, I would have said I need to say "No" more often. What I want to do is write more; what I'm doing is chanting Torah on Yom Kippur, working on a history project for Tree of Life, serving on a commission for "LGBT Equity" at West Virginia University, and keeping house. Not that all these things aren't worthwhile, or that keeping house wasn't to be expected when I got married.

Being Jewish in Morgantown does not entirely give me what I need. I'm starting to fight back against the "War on Christmas" mentality that dominates this area. I wished all my Christian acquaintances "Shana Tova" in the way they all wish me "Merry Christmas" because "Happy Holidays" doesn't work for them. The more curious asked me what it meant and when were the holidays, the less curious just looked at me. One of the slogans in Morgantown is "Building A Diverse Community." And yet, WVU's homecoming parade was Friday night on Yom Kippur, and the big football game was late afternoon Saturday. Morgantown High had its homecoming parade the evening of Rosh Hashana, and apparently would not excuse absences for the next day. I'm feeling that "Diversity" does not include Jews. Last week was "Diversity Week" at the University, and they did advertise Israeli dancing, but that's as Jewish as it got.

The High Holy Day cantor at Tree of Life flies  in from Mexico every year. This year he called around September 1 to say he was ill and couldn't come. In the scramble to find someone else, Joe and I came up with a mutual friend, Rabbi Yossi Carron, who worked as a cantor at one time, then became a rabbi. He has worked as a chaplain in the prisons, and Joe interned with him one summer. This gave Joe the confidence to pursue a job in the prisons.

The way it worked out with the congregation, Joe and I had to drive him eighty miles to and from the airport in Pittsburgh twice, and put him up at our house. Someone offered to find him somewhere else to stay, but he told this person he wanted to stay with his friends. This was hard for us, because I needed time to work on my Torah chanting, and Rabbi Joe had sermons to write, and three funerals in the days after Rosh Hashana. It was stressful for us to have someone in our two bedroom house.

Services turned out well. The congregants loved Yossi. He kissed and hugged all the older women, flirted with the young men (who didn't seem to mind), schmaltzed up all the singing, which people considered "spiritual." The sticklers didn't like that he forgot or mispronounced much of the Hebrew. The complainer I heard from asked me why I didn’t take over for the holidays. I told him “ I don’t have the strength to do a full holiday schedule. And I would never do holidays with just three weeks to prepare.”  I hope he realized we were blessed that Yossi had the chutzpah to walk in at the last minute and do a full holiday schedule.

 I laughed when Yossi sang "The Way We Were" during the Yizkor Memorial service on Yom Kippur afternoon. But by the end of the song, I felt nostalgic for the past, and sorry for the passage of time strongly enough to tear up. Of course, it was late afternoon, and though I didn't fast, I hadn't had a lot to eat and I was tired. Ultimately, the Yom Kippur magic worked for me, even though I was determined not to feel it. At the end, I knew I would be a better person in 5775.

Yossi  charmed us too. One of my complaints about Morgantown is that we don't have older gay men for friends here. Yossi and Joe sat around at dinner and breakfast challenging each other with the lyrics of obscure Sondheim musicals. It was the only time during the holidays that Joe really relaxed and had fun.

In addition to loving Joe, I admire him as a rabbi. He was always a skilled speaker. At the evening service on Yom Kippur, he spoke about Israel, from the heart. He took what would be considered a leftist view in most synagogues, calling for an Arab state in the West Bank and Gaza, whatever it takes, and despite the obvious risks. People praised his speech to me, but said they feared others would be critical. I'm not sure anyone was. I have rarely been more proud of my Joe.

We've finished the holidays, and today, October 9, is the first day of Sukkot, the harvest holiday where we eat lots and hang out with friends in the autumn air. Despite the stress, we enjoyed having Yossi with us. Joe still has work for Sukkot and Simchat Torah. I try to take this time to enjoy autumn and relax.

65

I'm sixty-five now. I keep having to repeat that. Soon I will believe it. On my actual birthday, I taught a class to people over fifty (mostly over seventy) about the music of the British invasion of the Sixties. This week was 1968. I played music and videos from The Beatles, "Hey Jude" and The Beatles (aka "The White Album"). I played The Rolling Stones singing "Jumpin' Jack Flash" and some excerpts from Beggars Banquet. I lost them with a video of Cream playing "White Room" and excerpts from Wheels of Fire. A woman I'm friendly with raised her hand and asked "Why are we listening to this noise?"

I tried to explain, as I did to family and sometimes friends in 1968, "This isn't 'Yummy, Yummy, Yummy I've Got Love In My Tummy.' It's not aimed at ten-year-old girls like most Top 40 music. You have to listen more intently. It might take time to get used to it." So I guess I haven't learned anything in the last forty-seven years. I got the same blank look I got in 1968. Someone in the class brought cookies because they knew it was my birthday.

I had lunch at Subway with a seventy-five year old man in the class. He grew up in New York, and although not Jewish, he knew lots of Jews then and even now in Morgantown. His wife died some time ago, and he asked me "Are there available women at your temple?" I mentioned two widows in their sixties who might be available. "I know them. I don't want anyone like that. Look at me. I'm in great shape for my age." (He's not.) " Isn't there anyone younger?"

At that point, I silently thanked God for sending me Joe, gray-haired, balding (not as bald as I am) and only seven years younger than I am. Old enough that we have things to talk about, and young enough to be my "young man."

There was a class about Yiddish theater with a movie in the afternoon, then I ran some errands and went home to crash. Tappuz the cat slept with me.

Joe thought we should go someplace fancy for dinner. We did, although I wasn't hungry after all the cookies, and I was tired. There was one other occupied table with an older couple and a young woman. I didn't know them. At least that's what I thought, but the older woman said "Hi, Barry. Happy birthday!" I couldn't place her, but it turns out she is in my class. She couldn't come that day. I should have remembered her.

Some of the food was good. My entrée was just average. Everything was expensive. I couldn't wait to leave. I'm always glad to go out, but I was tired and not feeling that well. I was reminded of my mother insisting we go out someplace fancy for my twenty-first birthday. I was a hippie college student then, a senior, and seriously depressed. Depressed enough that I wouldn't go to a shrink because I was afraid they would hospitalize me. The thought of getting dressed up enough to go to a nice restaurant sent my stomach into spasms. I hadn't eaten much that day, and I was in pain. I barely got through dinner then. An allergist years later explained that my stomach ailments, always around my birthday, were a seasonal allergy. Now you tell me.

I look at now and I have to do the Jewish thing. I have to be grateful for all the gifts in my life. I have a handsome, good, hard-working man at home who loves me. The times have changed enough that I can thank the waiter for not asking if we want separate checks and he'll answer "I'm young, but I'm not that young." I'll introduce my husband to a male-female couple, and they'll say to him "We've heard so much about you from members of your congregation. They just love you." As of two weeks ago, the state accepts our marriage. Most of the people aren't happy about it, but we've already changed people's minds about same-gender marriage, even here.

I have a body that works, with a little pharmaceutical help. I've dodged polio, teenage drivers, Vietnam and AIDS. I survived a heart attack, and done many dangerous things I hope no one finds out about. I'm still here. Sounds like a Sondheim song :" I've lived through George and George W., Nixon-Agnew. " I should leave lyric writing to Mr. Sondheim.

I understand mortality. I'm four years younger than my father when he died, and ten years younger than my mother. I get it. Still, I look in the mirror and say "Not bad." I remember and study the past, live in the present, and still have plans for the future. Joe is throwing me a dinner and dance party this weekend.

Bedford County, Pennsylvania

Between the Jewish holidays, a spate of funerals, my weekly British Invasion class, and the five other classes I'm taking at OLLI, we have both been stressed out. Last Sunday, Joe had a full day of Sunday school, Hebrew classes and teen programming at temple. The weather looked good, and I decided to take the day off and visit my October county, Bedford, Pennsylvania. It's just one hundred miles from home, so I figured I could go and come back. Statistically it had 49,762 people in 2010, is part of metropolitan Altoona, is overwhelmingly Caucasian and votes Republican. I couldn't find a synagogue or decent shopping mall. Both of those exist in Altoona, less than forty miles away. The county seat, Bedford is small and dates back to colonial times. Nearby is Bedford Springs Resort, a sprawling hotel with mineral springs, similar to  the Homestead, in Hot Springs, Virginia, where I spent a night in August. Both are just barely on the east side of the Appalachians, so geographically in the same region.

I ran into the Fall Foliage Festival, a two-weekend event in the center of Bedford. Lots of booths selling wood-carved Santas and black cats for Hallowe'en, homemade jewelry and signs saying things like "Steelers Fans Only" or "Retired, Gone Fishin'." Most of the town is a historic district, so I took a few pics. The leaves were beautiful as advertised, it was sunny and the temperature rose from 55 - 60. I ate a sloppy chicken on pita sandwich, and because Tappuz, our cat, was a rescue, and because the local Humane Society was sponsoring it, I had to have a big bowl of fresh homemade apple cobbler, topped with locally-made vanilla ice cream.

I found two other historic districts in smaller towns in the county, pretty, but a bit rundown. There's an ancient mill on the Juniata River, with a trail through the area.  There are maybe sixteen covered bridges in the county.The weather clouded up after a while, and started to cool down. Winter is not far away.

I drove back over the mountains, and I was home by six.

Bedford Springs Resort

Pitt St., downtown Bedford

historic cemetery, Bedford

Fall Foliage Festival, Bedford

Juniata Mill, Snake Spring Township

Jackson's Mill Covered Bridge, East Providence Township (under repair)

Schellsburg Historic District

Summer Lake, Shawnee State Park, near Schellsburg

Russell House, Bedford

Re: Marriage

In my last post, I mentioned that the Supreme Court, by refusing to hear appeals by states to overturn lower court rulings in favor of marriage equality, opened the door to our marriage being recognized in West Virginia. The circuit court gave West Virginia's anti-gay attorney general, Patrick Morrisey, two weeks to come up with a reason to stop same-gender marriage. Last week, Morrisey folded and same-gender marriage is now allowed in West Virginia. The papers have had pictures of couples, often two women with children, signing up for marriage in some of West Virginia's more rural counties. A pastor in a rural town not far from Morgantown railed impotently against the new rules. He swore he would not marry a same-gender couple in his church. As if anyone would ask.

I wrote a letter to the editor of The Dominion-Post, which they published Wednesday, October 14. Next to it was a letter from someone in a town of 380 in the eastern panhandle, complaining that the courts had overstepped, because the states have the right to define marriage, according to his reading of the Constitution. That issue was settled with the demise of laws against interracial marriages fifty-some years ago.

Here's my letter:

It didn't seem like it would be a big deal. We married in California in 2008 just before Prop 8 passed there, ending the spate of marriages that  had lasted a few months. Our marriage remained legal in California, and when asked, I always said "I'm married," even when we moved to West Virginia in 2012. We've made lots of friends here, but I still  felt hostility, particularly when I asked Senator Manchin and Congressman McKinley to support same-gender marriage and they wouldn't. Just this week, Senate candidate Capito said she believes "marriage is between a man and a woman." Attorney General Morrisey has never even pretended to be a friend to gay people. Still, when DOMA was defeated, I was able to put my spouse on my health insurance, saving us $6500 per year.

Despite my jadedness, both Joe and I have been walking around smiling since marriage equality came to West Virginia. We feel more "at home" here.

What has moved me are the pictures and stories of people in rural counties as well as the cities signing up to marry. They usually say "We're just like everybody else." But they're not, and we're not. We've all been through a lot.  We've had to come out to ourselves, risk losing our families, our friends and our religion to be who we really are. Those of us who are married and marrying have found love and are running with it, and the court has recognized our right as free people in the United States of America to marry the person we choose.

Many people in West Virginia oppose same-gender marriage, they say, because they are conservatives. To me, marrying my boyfriend six years ago was the most conservative thing I could have done.

It's been a great week in West Virginia. Thanks to Governor Earl Ray Tomblin, the Morgantown City Council and WVU President E. Gordon Gee for supporting us.

1966

I'm teaching a class at Osher Life-Long Learning about the British Invasion, the music that hit America in 1964 with the arrival of The Beatles. My students are all over fifty, and most are over seventy. The class is six weeks, and I've been covering one year per week from 1964 to 1969. On October 7, I covered 1966. I play records and CDs, but mostly show videos from You Tube.

The people in the class loved the early Beatles, all the other boy groups in long hair and skinny suits, the glamour girls like Petula Clark and Dusty Springfield, and even the Rolling Stones, Mick Jagger too pretty by half, his pants tight enough to allow your imagination to wander.

Things changed in 1966. I started the class by telling them that the Beatles best music was on albums, and with the release of Rubber Soul at the end of 1965, the Beatles challenged their audience by not releasing any singles and not touring.

I played some songs from Rubber Soul in beautiful "Duophonic" stereo. Only the vocals, all in one channel, didn't come out clearly. This wasn't the first time I've had equipment problems at OLLI. I sang the six songs I played, from "Norwegian Wood" to "Wait."

I had the CD of Revolver, and the sound was fine for that. I played "Eleanor Rigby" and "Here, There and Everywhere." Pretty music. Then George Harrison sang "Love You To" in a classic Indian style with Indian instruments. I made the group sing along to  "Yellow Submarine." When it came to the end of the album and "Tomorrow Never Knows," with the guitar tracks played backwards, lots of unusual instruments and altered vocals, I was just grooving.

I noticed my crew wasn't with me. So I asked them "How many of you thought that was the best thing you've heard in this class so far?" No hands. "How many of you had no idea what that was about or just hated it?" Most of them raised their hands. I guess I was disappointed. I told people who couldn't come last week that they could listen to Rubber Soul and Revolver and watch a live performance of "Paint It, Black" on YouTube and they would get all they needed of 1966. Everything else was boring. Only my group liked the boring stuff. We saw videos from Herman's Hermits, Dusty Springfield, Petula Clark, and, yes, The Monkees. They loved it.

I remember 1966. I was a junior and senior in high school. Baltimore, my hometown, was still living in the fifties, for  a short time longer. Among my friends, some were horrified by The Beatles' turn to "arty" music, and the darkness of The Rolling Stones. I was on the line. I liked music I could dance to, so I was more likely to listen to Motown and other "soul" music than Brit rock. But I could see that change was coming, and maybe it's just my memory today, but I think I was ready for something different in life.

For many people who were already married in 1966, working their way through community college or back from 'Nam, the changes in music and the larger culture were frightening and unwelcome.

This was the beginning of the "culture wars," started by Roger Ailes for the Nixon-Agnew campaign in 1968, and continued by Ailes and his successor, Karl Rove. Blame "elites," college students in the late '60s, get the government to try to deport John Lennon, decry the obscenity of the Rolling Stones, all to get working class white people to turn against their own economic interests. Rove brilliantly brought up "gay marriage" after 1990 to rile religious people, particularly those in rural areas and dying towns where no self-respecting gay person would live. That emphasis has now come back to bite him with the Supreme Court's decision not to take a same-gender marriage case this term, leaving most states obligated to recognize same-gender marriages, including West Virginia, which has a few weeks to continue this futile battle.

I don't blame the folks in my class for not following me into the new music of the late '60s. Julie Andrews, Herman's Hermits on one side and The Beatles and Rolling Stones on the other were not looking to start a culture war. And taste in music has a lot to do with when one came of age. I was sixteen in 1965 and 1966, just coming into my own, and this music was my soundtrack. I find lots of today's music unlistenable, but that won't start a war between me and the young generation. And I don't take it personally that my class won't follow me through The Who and Cream, that they won't like "Sympathy For The Devil" or "Sunshine of Your Love." All I can do is put it out there and hope someone gets it.

Beaver County, Pennsylvania

This week, as part of my goal of visiting all the counties within three hundred miles of Morgantown, I visited Beaver County. It's one of the larger counties in this area, located just northwest of Pittsburgh, bordering Ohio and West Virginia's northern panhandle. Because it's less than one hundred mles from Morgantown, I decided to go and come back the same day.

My goals are usually to find at least ten places on The National Register of Historic Places, a mall, a synagogue, and a park. I usually find the county courthouse.

It took just about two hours to get to the county. I had planned to do all the historic places, north to south, but I messed up my figuring and started near the center. Most of the urban parts of the county run along the Ohio River. There are towns on the steep hillsides and factories, many abandoned, along the riverfront. I had a sense of a beautiful place that once boomed with industry and good-paying industrial jobs. According to the census, the county population declined about ten percent between  1990 and 2000.

I visited Bridgewater, Beaver (the county seat), Beaver Falls, Alquippa (the largest city), and Ambridge. Beaver was the prettiest town, with a street of semi-interesting shops, a historic district along the Ohio River, and a wooded park with an old-fashioned bandshell. Alquippa was the most depressing. It's main street was virtually vacant and the residential areas were in sad disrepair. Geneva College, a self-described "Christian liberal arts college" anchors the north end of Beaver Falls. Bridgewater has a historic district along the Beaver River. Ambridge hosts the county's only synagogue, "traditional" according to its website, which means not affiliated with the major movements in Judaism, and Old Economy Village, part of which is in a state historic park.

I had lunch in Beaver at BeauCo Bistro in downtown Beaver. It's decorated in 1970 modern. I had the special chicken salad sandwich with cranberries and walnuts on some kind of white bread. It's not what I usually eat. I try to avoid mayonnaise. It was inexpensive and filling, I'll give it that.

I didn't interact with too many people. I stopped into a K-Mart, looking unsuccessfully for a local map. A handsome young man offered me a free Pittsburgh newspaper. He admitted it was the more conservative paper. I took it, but haven't read it. The librarians in Beaver found me a map, and several atlas books covering the county. The people at the courthouse gave me a map that covered much of the area. If I were to describe the people based on these few interactions, I would say they were friendly and helpful.

When I go farther away, I stay overnight, and try to catch a nap between four and five. This habit goes back to childhood, so it's not an old-age thing. Not that I'm sensitive about my age. I got home about 8, as it was getting dark, having left Ambridge about 6:15. I was exhausted. Joe and I had a late dinner. I fell asleep as soon as I went to bed. As usual, I wonder why I go through all this, but
 the main reason is that I enjoy travel, don't mind being alone (although it is more fun with Joe, who has a job and can't always go). I guess it's just my idea of fun.

Here are some pics of Beaver County:

Beth Samuel Congregation, Ambridge

Old Economy Village Historic Park, Ambridge

B.F. Jones Memorial Library,  Alquippa

Interior, B. F. Jones Library

Ambridge Historic District, part of Old Economy

Geneva College, Beaver Falls

Carnegie Library, Beaver Falls

Fort McIntosh Site, Ohio River, Beaver

Dunlap Mansion, Bridgewater

Bridgewater Historic District

Beaver County Courthouse, Beaver

Ohio River at Beaver

House in Beaver Historic District

Quay House, Beaver

Gender

Last week, Joe and I attended a presentation at WVU by Dr. Colt Meier about transgender issues and how to make transgender people welcome at West Virginia University. I felt we should go because I am on the LGBT Equity Commission for the University, and because we are always trying to meet gay people in town, in the (so-far unsuccessful) attempt to create a gay social network for ourselves.

Dr. Meier is young, blond and pretty with stylish stubble. He spoke rapidly and covered lots of ground. Ultimately, he told us that he himself is transgendered, lucky to have had understanding parents who worked as professionals in education and psychiatry. I would add that he was lucky to be so young. In our day, he might not have survived.

Although Dr. Colt was upbeat throughout, he managed to sneak in some terrifying statistics. I don't remember the exact numbers, but a majority of trans kids are kicked out of their homes or beaten by their parents. Homelessness and unemployment are rampant, and even those with jobs are often discriminated against or harassed by coworkers and supervisors. College students have issues about sports, dormitory arrangements and prejudice from teachers and fellow students. Dating can be problematic.

We learned a new word: "cisgender." It describes people who feel that they really belong to the gender they were born into. That would describe me and Joe. We are both hairy-bodied, balding older men. We don't manscape or hide our gender characteristics. And yet...

At the break, we asked someone to take our picture with Dr Meier. I asked him "What if you look really male, but you don't do really male things?" I told him I have no interest in sports, don't drink beer or hunt, can't fix a car, like to dress flashy and secretly wish I had a collection of Barbie dolls. I didn't have to mention that I'm married to another man. Dr. Meier suggested I was "gender non-conforming." Well. I'm glad we have a name for that. Another phrase he used was "gender dysphoric." That means you are unhappy with the gender you have. That one doesn't work for me. Yes, it would be nice to have beautiful long hair like my sister, but I'm generally happy to have a man's body.

I found Dr. Meier charming and kind of hot. Of course, I was curious about how much he has changed from his original female body, but I learned from him that the answer to that question is "None of your business." Until it is. But in my case, it isn't my business and won't be.

A crowd came to hear this talk. Most of them were required to show up as part of a course. They left after the formal presentation. A faculty member signed their little cards to prove their attendance. The people who stayed for the question-and-answer were more interesting. A woman said her lover was trans, and she wondered how to tell people. A young man with curly blond hair said he understood the concept of "passing" as he was not "white" although people who met him thought he was. There were a lot of uncomfortable looking young men and women there, some trying to "pass" as the gender they were born into. It's hard to imagine how difficult that must be. I remember myself in college, trying hard not to look "gay," but already aware that I was. In those days we had to hide. Hopefully, things everywhere, even at West Virginia University, are getting better.

Joe and I with Dr. Colt Meier