The Sportula and Tzedakah: On Paying it Forward

I spend a lot of time expressing my gratitude to people (even when they refuse to take my thanks), but they often insist that I must "pay it forward." I must take the gifts that they have given to me, and the gifts that have been given to me by the universe or God or whatever you want to call circumstance, and pay them forward to those younger than me and those who are struggling with the things that I have been through in the past (that's sort of why this blog exists in the first place). I had two experiences in the last few days that have sparked this particular post:

First, I had a close friend diagnosed with a chronic illness two days ago. She was confused, upset, and overwhelmed, all justifiable emotions to have on what I call D-Day, diagnosis day (there may be a blogpost coming on the process of diagnosis). And she called me. She called me because she knew that I would sit and listen and empathize. Because I've been where she is, and I was fortunate enough to have people to pull me out of the hole and to say, "I know that this is going to be hard, " but I will be right there beside you. I was able to pay it forward, and in many ways, while I hope I helped her, being able to help (and asked to help) was one of the biggest gifts I could have been given. I suppose I know what my mentor in Israel was talking about when she told me to "pay it forward" every time I tried to thank her.

Second, over the last couple of weeks, there has been a fundraiser going on on Twitter for an organization called the Sportula. The Sportula provides microgrants to students in the Classics and related fields to pay for their books or other supplies for their education. This is an absolutely amazing organization that helps to fight some of the inherent barriers to the field that can come from coming from a lower or middle-class background. I have been lucky enough to have no problem paying for my education or textbooks in the last 16 years of my education, but I am certainly the exception and not the rule. Unfortunately, due to my chronic illness, I am unable to do as much in-person activism or direct service as I would like, but this is something I can do. The Classics field, especially in college, has given me a home, mentors, and friends, and for that I am incredibly grateful. Donating to this fundraiser is a way in which I can pay it forward (if you'd like to check it out too, here's their GoFundMe and their Patreon).

But then I clicked on Sententia Antiquae's post about the fundraiser, and came across this quote:

"Remember to tell the tale of another's kindness many times
But whatever kind deed you do for others, keep quiet." --Dicta Catonis

This immediately reminded me of the levels of Tzedakah (because of course it did): Tzedakah, which can be roughly translated as "giving" is a concept in Judaism. We are instructed to give as much Tzedakah as we can. Maimonides, a prominent Jewish philosopher from the 12th century established the idea of the eight levels of tzedakah. Most relevant to the above Dicta Catonis quote, however, are two of the top levels. The most obvious connection (and how I ended up writing this blog post), is to the third level of tzedakah, where the donor knows to whom they are giving, but the receiver is unaware of who has given the tzedakah. The top level of tzedakah is essentially what we would refer to as "teach a man to fish": give tzedakah to sustain one or help them to establish themselves. It is very important that this is done in a dignified manner. These last two seem quite relevant to the Sportula, and I wish there was someone doing the same thing in the Jewish world. People who are privileged enough to have money to spare give to the Sportula which then dishes the money out in small amounts to those students who ask them for it. Tzedakah (and the Sportula) or not "charity." They are not charity, they are generosity and solidarity, and this is an important thing to remember.

Even if you don't give a damn about Classics, I encourage you to take stock of the gifts that you have been given and look at how you can pay them forward. Stay up a little later with your friend when they need you, donate a couple of dollars to a cause that helped you, give some advice to a younger member of your community. Don't ask for anything in return. Give what you can where you are, and perhaps all of us together can create a better world.

Why I Study Classics (Even Though I'm Going to Rabbinical School)

I want to preface this post by saying thank you to all of the amazing Latin, Greek, and Classical Studies professors and teachers that I have had. They have taught me the nuances of the field and inspired a love for it within me that may not have existed had I had teachers who remained in the "old school" of Classics being only for the elite, white, male, able-bodied members of society. I (obviously) do not fit into that category.

Let's start out with how I got to where I am today: a Hellenist (sort of) writing an interdisciplinary thesis about wisdom literature in the Ancient Near East and Ancient Greece. I fell in love with Greek mythology and with Latin at the same time: 5th grade. I chose to take Latin in an impulse decision. But I found a community there. I found friends who supported me through the ups and downs of middle and high school. These friends supported me through some of the darkest times in my life, and I always knew that the Latin classroom was a safe place for me (I even hid from my bullies there). Fast forward a couple of years, through a battle with Ancient Greek (that I'm still not sure that I've won) and some other hard experiences and I find myself with a wonderful community, both online and off. I have no idea how I ended up a Hellenist, but that's a whole other story. At Brandeis, our Classics Department is small, but mighty. I've been involved in it from pretty much the day I set foot on campus, and my close friends from there are those who I turn too when the politics within the Jewish community gets to me too much or I need to talk about Classics with someone who won't roll their eyes and as about those damn Percy Jackson books.

The Classics community online has also played a large role in the last few months of my life. As you may be able to assume, since I have a chronic illness, I spend a lot of time in doctors' waiting rooms. During a particularly difficult medical experience about two months ago, I started engaging with the Classics community on Twitter. I had been lurking for a little while, but I finally started posting myself. This community, as seemingly odd as it may be to its outsiders is so REAL for us. It allows students to communicate with academics and for in-depth considerations of issues in the field (as well as quite amusing memes). Social media, in this regard, allows us to cross some of the boundaries that have traditionally been put up in academia. It has allowed me an escape into a place where people understand my feelings about Aristotle, and it has provided me with advice and distraction on difficult health days.

People in the Jewish community (and even in the Biblical Studies community), are often confused when they hear how much time and energy I put into my work in Classics, especially if they know that I want to be a rabbi. They often ask what Classics has to to with the modern world and with so-called "real people." This is fine. I don't know very many Jewish Classicists either.  I'm tired of talking about this (and procrastinating studying for a myth final), so here's a blog post.

So, what does Classics have to do with the modern world? As much as we would like to pretend that we have changed a ton over the last 2000 (ish) years, we still think of things much the same way. For example, just as we talked about our political leaders thousands of years ago, we criticize them today. It is interesting to me that people put such value on very old books when they are religious texts (such as the Bible), but discount the other texts from those time periods. The values and ideas that are presented in those texts are still very applicable to humans today.

And that leads me to the second question: what does Classics have to do with real people? It is much easier to look at ourselves and our own structural biases and issues when they are presented as allegory in mythological texts. We can struggle with the idea of death through quotes from ancient historians and authors (see this blog post from my thesis advisor) and with constructions of gender by looking at the myth of Pandora in Hesiod.

Humanities, in theory, is supposed to teach us how to be more human. The only way that we can do that is by reading and working with what other humans thought about and said. Every time we read the Odyssey thoughtfully, we can use it to think about our agency over our lives. And that's just the first example that comes to mind. Classics has taught me how to think about those who are different than me and how to treat those around me.

At the end of the day, what does Classics have to do with Judaism? Classics has taught me that no culture develops in a vacuum and that there are two sides to every story (even when those stories include the destruction of Jewish sacred sites). It has taught me to think critically about the world in which I live by looking at the world through its texts as a lens, just as so many Jewish texts have. It has challenged my theology and philosophy of life, just as Judaism has. And it has given me so many wonderful people, just as my life in the Jewish community continues to do.

Frankly, I'm not so sure how I got to where I am today, but all I can say is that I am profoundly grateful to be here. I may not be going into Classics after college (and that may be disappointing to some of the amazing professors and teachers I've had), but I will forever hold it close to my heart.

The Ruby: The Power of Stories Across Time And Place

This afternoon, a Reconstructionist Rabbi visited my college. he told a story that my camp director told when I was growing up, and I found myself bursting with emotions, so I decided to write about it. The story goes like this:

There once was a king who had all of the possessions that he could want in the world. He had gold, a huge library, and many gardens. But his prized possession was a red ruby that he only looked at on his birthday. Every year, he would sit down at a long table on his birthday, and his servants would bring him the box with the ruby in it. He would open the box and look at the ruby, and his face would light up with the biggest smile. But one year, he opened the box and there was a scratch on the ruby. 

The king was devastated. He recruited all of the best jewelers, magicians, and scientists and his kingdom, and they all tried one by own to repair the damage, but none of them were successful. But then a little girl approached the king. She told him that if he just gave her some food and water and a little bit of space to work, she would try to fix the ruby.

So the king left the little girl alone with the ruby for a few days, and a few days later, she exited the room in which she had been working and presented the box with the ruby in it to the king. The king was holding his breath when he opened the box, but when he saw what was inside, his face lit up. The scratch was still there, but now, etched on the face of the ruby, was a beautiful rose. 

The first time that I heard this story I was nine-years-old. I was squished in a building with all of camp, and I was not so happy. I didn't know the songs very well, and I was quite homesick. But I remember being drawn to that story. Looking back on it, perhaps I felt empowered by that story. The little girl is the one who saves the day. None of the grown-ups were successful, but she was.

This story means something different to me today: this story shows the difference between perfection and meaning. Something can be perfect but completely without meaning. A blank notebook means very little without its pages filled. This is true about humans as well. We can live more meaningful and dare I say, beautiful lives if we accept our broken parts and use them to continue to shape ourselves. And stories help us to do this. This story, apparently, had an impact on my heart. It taught me that having a "scratch" does not make me broken or any less beautiful. Rather, we are an anthology of our stories, our parents' stories, and the stories of our religion and culture. 

Stories have always been important to me. At a young age, I fell in love simultaneously with biblical stories and Greek mythology (post on why I love/study Classics coming next week), which coincidentally are the two things I major in in college. I am a completely different person than I was when I was nine when I heard the Ruby, but throughout my life, it has taught me the beauty within the  (apparent) brokenness and the power of the little voice speaking from the back of the room.