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March 13, 2008
Past, Present, Future, and Prayer
I’m going to take a moment here out of my busy elitist philosophical schedule to make a reference that, for the most part, only my younger cohorts will understand. Do you all remember the scene from the neo-classic “Euro-Trip,” where the gang unwittingly lands itself in Bratislava? Despite their initial misgivings, the protagonists soon realize that the meager sum of money that they have in their possession, amounting to only a few dollars, will actually suffice for them to receive the royal treatment at a five star (albeit Bratislavan) hotel. The hilarity, of course, is based upon American misconceptions of Eastern Europe and the inherent backwardness of countries like Slovakia. However, I feel compelled to inform all of you that this scene does not take place anywhere near Bohemian lands. In fact, the closest example out there is most assuredly the Ukraine.
A member of my program, Vira, has lived in America for the past 8 years and attends Central Michigan University. However, she was born in Lviv, Ukraine, about a 9-hour bus ride from Warsaw. Vira still has many family and friends in Lviv, and encouraged us all to visit. Sensing a unique opportunity, my friends and I packed together our suitcases and optimism and preconceived notions and hopped on to a highly uncomfortable bus ride to the unknown.
After an extended border visit where we were graced by our initial encounter with Ukranians, we were absolutely awestruck by what we saw. My roommate Sean once remarked to me that his problem with pictures is that they are only able to capture a small part of a moment. His greatest wish, he confided, was that in those truly unique moments, someone else could actually see the world through his own eyes. I truly understood his sentiment in those first few hours driving through the Ukranian countryside, watching the sun slowly rise over miles of pastures and small enclaves of humanity dispersed along the truly vast landscape. It felt like some description out of a Dostoyevsky novel, the first glimpse a soldier gets of his home after returning from battle. I wish you had all been able to see it, through mine own eyes, because there is no way I am doing it justice.
My arrival in Lviv, in some strange paradox, met, exceeded, and undershot my expectations in one fell swoop. I knew it was different than an American city, even different than a Polish city, (although, for centuries, Lviv was, in fact, a part of Poland and was known as Lvov, a fact many Poles have not readily forgotten) but I assumed, after 6 weeks in Warsaw, that I was prepared for anything. I was wrong. The outskirts of the city seemed like the backdrop to a 60’s era American film attempting to depict the Soviet Union, combined with awkward lighting, crumbling archetype communist architecture, and extremely gruff-looking individuals. The inner city looked like, for lack of a better description, a smaller, poorer, and more eastern version of Krakow, aesthetically pleasing to look at but laden with traces of Soviet rule. My biggest shock, however, definitely occurred when four of the guys on the trip, along with myself, decided to grab some breakfast while the girls (and Dave) decided to take a nap. After filling up our trays at a cafeteria style restaurant with food ranging from chicken with cheese and beef rolls (for my friends) and some fish and raspberry tort (for me) we proceeded to the checkout counter, along with our long-desired cups of coffee, expecting to shell out big bucks for our big appetites. The result? About 70 Ukrainian Grivna, or fourteen good ol’ American greenbacks. The falling dollar has immunity in this part of the world.
What definitely made the trip, however, was the tremendous hospitality shown to us by Vira, or, in the words of my roommate, “our little Ukrainian princess.” Vira had a full day of activities planned for us, including a trip to an authentic Ukrainian bazaar and a stroll round Lviv’s center square. We also took a breathtaking hike up the tallest hill in Lviv that yielded a truly breathtaking view of the whole city as well as its surroundings, miles upon miles of pure picturesqueness. (Full Disclosure: I forgot to charge my camera beforehand.) The best part of Vira’s hospitality, however, came from her family and friends. Vira’s aunt and grandmother prepared for us an authentic Ukrainian dinner, complete with the most delicious borscht (red beet soup) I have ever tasted as well as mashed potatoes, chicken, and, for their little kosher guest, fish. The food was only surpassed by the kindness of her family.
Later on that night, after attending a very interesting Ukrainian ballet, Vira informed us that we were going to meet up with her best friend and her best friend’s fiancée. After a short walk, Vira led us down a very dark alleyway into a dimly lit courtyard, only to disappear for about ten minutes. The scene eerily reminded me of something out of the movie, “Hostel,” and I was half-expecting a chainsaw-wielding psychotic killer to jump out of the shadows at any moment. Even though I survived that endeavour, I was still ill prepared for what was about to occur. Vira descended from the darkness followed by her friends, who were wielding plates of food and bottles of vodka. Apparently, it is a Ukrainian tradition to get extremely drunk upon being introduced to new friends. Not wanting to insult our hospitable hosts, 15 minutes and 4 bottles later every member of our ragged and tired entourage was completely destroyed. The next night was no different, but rather much, much more of the same. For a meager 100 Griva (20 dollars) we had an all you could eat, all you could dance, and ALL you could drink Ukrainian fiesta. Pierogis and fish kept our bellies full, a live band gave us a taste of true Ukrainian culture, and nearly a dozen bottles of Ukrainian vodka…well, you can fill in the rest. My nights in Lviv are certainly something I won’t soon forget.
Not to minimize the great time I had, the most interesting part of my trip, by far, involved my sojourn to the Lviv synagogue with my friend Dave. The service was unlike any I had ever experienced. It consisted of a small room of about 15 men, over half of whom were well over the age of 70. Yet unlike most elderly Jews, these men seemed to be lacking a certain religious swagger, at times almost appearing uncertain of what to do next. It was only later that day, during lunch at the Rabbi’s house, that I learned that many of these men did not even know the prayers until he arrived in Ukraine 14 years prior.
This tiny Minyan, this tiny service occurring in this town in the middle of the Ukraine, did not immediately imbue me with the same feelings of pride and the same uplifting hope that I experienced that first weekend in Warsaw’s Nozyk synagogue. Rather, it was a feeling of near despair and utter confusion. Why were these people still here? Why would this Rabbi transplant himself and his family from Brooklyn? What was his purpose/? What was his payoff? It wasn’t until days later, during a conversation with the mother of a dear friend, (thanks, Marian), that I truly realized what was on my mind: Why are we continuing to promote Jewish life on the graveyards of our ancestors? To put it more broadly, is there a future for the Jews of Europe?
It is certainly a debate I have heard before, and definitely more frequently since my infamous decision to go to Poland. European Jewry is dead. Anti-Semitism, if now dormant in some places, will again arise with fervor. All Jews should move to America or Israel, end the Diaspora, stop this nonsense, close the book, Amen.
Rabbi Mordechai Bald, the Rabbi of Lviv, has certainly heard these arguments before, as well. He came to Lviv 14 years ago, he said, because there were Jews left in Lviv and they needed a Rabbi. Lviv has a very sordid Jewish history. Before the war, anywhere from 100,000 to 150,000 Jews lived in this sometimes Polish, sometimes Ukrainian city, out of a total population of 300,000. The Jewish community practiced self-governance, operated much of the city’s commercial businesses, and had one of the most functional social service systems that existed in Europe at that time. In fact, the Jewish cemetery in Lviv was seen as one of the most prestigious in all of Europe, and until it’s closing in 1845, Rabbis and Scholars from all over were buried there. Then the Nazis came, and everything changed.
The people of Lviv have the dubious honor of being one of the worst Nazi collaborators during the War. Over 100,000 Jews of Lviv were killed, many of them never even making it to concentration camp but rather being mowed down in a grassy plane just outside the city, probably those same ones that I had found so beautiful, so visually moving. The great cemetery was bulldozed over by the Nazis, the tombstones turned into cobblestones to make way for a shopping bazaar, the same one I had been on just the day before. The Rabbi also informed me that after the war, since the city’s population had been so depleted, the communists shipped in people from the countryside to the city, telling them to move into any vacant apartment they found. The synagogue’s current non-Jewish secretary recently divulged that when she moved into her apartment 60 years before, a mezuzah, the mark of a Jewish household, lay nailed to her doorpost.
Rabbi Bald informed me that Jews today probably number close to 5,000 but less than 1,000 of those people, if that much, have any connection to the community. Lviv is a center of European anti-Semitism and Neo-Nazism, and many Jews are still afraid to come out of the woodworks. Beyond the usual graffiti and vandalism, a few years ago some people lit the Rabbi’s door on fire while he was sleeping, his entire family inside. Thank God the wooden exterior was guarded by a metal interior, or else the outcome may have been very different. Due to this and other factors, Bald said he tries to keep a “low profile.” He tries to help the Jews he can as much as he can, and, whenever he encounters a youth who truly wishes to learn about their Judaism, when they are old enough and when he can get the funds he sends them to the U.S., Israel, or Canada. Rabbi Bald is trying to nurture Jews more so than he is trying to nurture a community.
This is such a contrast to what I had been experiencing in Warsaw, where this tiny community was giving its all to recreate something, not to relocate something. In Warsaw there exists a group of committed people devoted to restoring a sense of Jewishness to their home country, their home town. Are their efforts futile? Is Warsaw really any different than Lviv? Is there any hope?
Last week, Sean, Elyse, and I took a day trip to Bialowieza, a Bison reserve on the border with Belarus. The trip to get to the park was long and at some points extremely laborious. What was particularly interesting was the bus ride we took from Hajnowka, where the train ended, to Bialowieza, where the park began. Rather than taking the tourist train, we took the one more often frequented by the locals. The route we traveled was unlike any we had ever seen. We passed through villages (if you could call them that) that seemed entirely separate from the world around them. Hajnowka and Bialowieza were small towns void of an Internet café, but they were hardly void of technology, of telephone wires, of satellite dishes, of communication with the outside world. They have markets and bars, restaurants and hotels. Yet these strips of houses sitting alone in the midst of nothingness and nowhere seemed to be from a different place, of a different time. For hundreds of years, my ancestors lived in Shtetls like these, separate from the world, their own little macrocosm of society. But those places were dead, and those people were dead. So wasn’t Judaism dead with it?
But do we really believe that an end to the Diaspora is the answer? Is that really the saving grace for Jews? The number one issue plaguing U.S. Jewry today is intermarriage. Up to 50% of American Jews today are finding spouses outside of the faith, a trend that shows no signs of changing. Religion worldwide is on the decline, and people are shoving aside past communal and ethnic ties in search of a more globally focused mindset. Poland, like the rest of the world, is seeing shifts in the religiosity of its people. Yet in every conversation I have had with young Jews in Poland, the one thing they have stressed is how important it is to them to marry Jewish. So many of these youth came from intermarried households, so many of them struggled with their split or hidden identities and were forced to study and learn and occasionally convert in order to become whole again. These people have such a strong desire to continue their heritage, to continue it in Poland. Who are we to stomp out their flame?
Do we really know what the future holds for American Jewry? In 1820, Jews were excluded from holding public office in states like Maryland, which required an oath of obedience to Jesus Christ before becoming an elected official. The Jews of Warsaw, and the Jews of Lviv, meanwhile, had their own governing councils, their own social service systems, and were given autonomy to make whatever decisions they saw fit for their own communities. Do we really have the audacity to believe that at that time, we could clearly see what was coming, the horrors that existed just over a century away?
I firmly believe that the Diaspora is vital to the continuation of the Jewish people. So often, when we become too comfortable in our surroundings we forget our roots. We forget the sacrifices of our ancestors, what they gave up for us and what they hoped we would one day give up for our own children. We do not know what the future of the world holds for the Jewish people. Things could get better. Things could get worse. Terrorism, Nuclear War, Intermarriage, Anti-Semitism, all hang over our heads, threatening to destroy all that we have worked so hard to create, that our grandparents worked so hard to create. So why should we destroy our insurance policy? Why should we try and decimate a community that has already been so decimated, end the hopes of a small group of people who are so very hopeful. Why shouldn’t we help them, encourage them, try and see if once again we can thrive in the lands where our ancestors did for so long? Since when did Judaism mean taking the easy way out?
After my lunch with Rabbi Bald, his wife Sara took me on a tour of the synagogue of Lviv, the only one still standing. Only 75% restored, they are waiting patiently for the funds to continue their work. The building was one of the most beautiful I had ever seen. Around the walls depicted scenes from the Talmud and the Torah, void of individuals that could be deemed idolatrous but rather pictures of the Wailing Wall, of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, of Noah’s Dove and David’s lion. Stars of David adorned the ceiling and wreaths of peace protected the walls. It was unlike any synagogue I had ever seen, and it killed me that no one could pray in it, not yet. As I stood there admiring this holy place, Sara answered the most pressing question in my head. “We are here,” she said, “because of the hope and the prayer that one day, in some time, this can become a house of worship, a house of God once again.”
Wherever I am, wherever I go, I think I’m going to start praying for that, too.
Posted by borovitz at 07:38 AM | Comments (0)
March 06, 2008
Community
I was nervous, to be honest. Sure, I’d attended services before, but did I really feel comfortable raising my hand, identifying myself in front of a strange group? Its funny, but as the Rabbi scanned the audience for the first aliyah, the first blessing over the Torah, raising even a finger in the air seemed like the most laborious task in the world. They were looking for a Cohen or a Levite---the two ancient priestly classes of Judaism---and as one of the latter, they were looking for me. So in the patriarchal tradition of standing up and shouting, “Heenaynee,” or “here I am,” I stood up, identified myself, and joined the Rabbi to allow the service to continue.
After services ended that day, I was bombarded with lunch invitations left and right. Even the ones I turned down were insistent that they “had me” next. I was a little taken aback and confused, to be honest. Was this simple act, these few short words that I had chanted enough to break down cultural and linguistic borders? Was I suddenly able to ingratiate myself into their midst without even realizing it? Was I now a member of their community?
My whole life, community has been an integral part of my social interactions. From as early as I can remember, I was a member of the Temple Sholom community, where I solemnly served my role as the Rabbi’s son. Playing the part, acting the game, I always had a place there, even if it was well beyond the grasp of my personal choices.
I created niches for myself in numerous different places throughout my short existence, from High School to Camp, from the College Hillel to the College fraternity. These all were immensely important to me in different ways. I learned, I grew, I made mistakes, and all the while I was around friends, surrounded by familiarity and security and hope that tomorrow would be better, or despair that it wouldn’t. But I always knew where I was, and where I stood, and who I was. But here I am, sitting in Warsaw, wondering if I can create a community for myself here. What could this community look like? What could this community make me look like? What can I do for this community, and what can they do to me?
From the get go, as I have previously expressed in these pages, I have had a superb relationship with my fellow American students. Our eclectic natures could not be more varied, and yet, somewhere deep within that idiotic intuition to travel four thousand miles away to Poland lay some semblance of a community, some element of something to bind us, to raise us up, to be a part of.
My roommate Sean and I have become especially close in the last 6 weeks. The two of us did have similar upbringings, growing up in heavily Jewish upper middle class suburbs, although he is firm and steadfast in his Irish roots. A running enthusiast, he feels as if the day is wasted if he does not stretch his legs. Hating to be inside, needing to feel the wind against his face and the clearing of his head, he runs almost daily in an addictive like matter, entering intimidating palpitations if he doesn’t get outside. While he has certainly done some good for me by getting me outside once in a while, the greatest thing Sean has done for me is unwavering support. Through our mutual affinity for sarcasm and our similar senses of humor we have formed a sort of tag team, stepping up when the other is down, shielding when fallen, extending an arm to reach out of holes. We seem to have already grown accustomed as when we are in the need for a talk and when we are in need of silence, when we require companionship and when we need to be alone. The best thing I can say about Sean is that he is able to read my without asking.
Sean and I, due to our outgoing personalities, have become one of the more social rooms in our dorm. However, the most frequent occupant is without a doubt our lovable Texan, Elyse. It is important to know that Elyse might actually be the most genuine person in the world. She is brutally honest while also being an enthusiastic optimist, a powerful combination that makes her impossible not to love. Elyse had quite an interesting upbringing. For five years she lived in Nigeria with her family, as her parents had decided to start a hospital in the African Bush, an area where white men had scarcely traveled before. She has seen people killed before her eyes and has known hardship few people can imagine, and yet she continues to pass through life with a smile on her face. Before people get the wrong idea, Elyse is also in a very serious relationship with her boyfriend Dave, who happens to be a Lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force. Elyse firmly believes that they will be married possibly within the year, and knowing Elyse, I don’t doubt it. She has become an invaluable compliment to our newly formed triumvirate, slipping in to her surrogate sister/mother/friend role quite nicely, always having tissues at hand and always having a smile.
There is also Anna, my Michigan compadre. Anna is certainly not the quietest person I know, and has one of the strongest wills out of any person I know. She is willing to debate on any issue, at any time, and will never back down from a fight. Yet living in such close quarters I have also got to known a softer side of Anna, a caring side, a side that she shields save for those who she cares about. When she reveals it, it means all the more.
I could go on forever. David, a fellow Jew from New Jersey, who is quiet and reserved and yet, it seems, every time he does open his mouth he has something interesting to say, something useful to add, something powerful to note. There is Vira, the strong willed Ukranian who simply does not let the world push her, or her friends, around. There is Kasha, who loves to party, and Monika, who loves to see new things, both so very different yet both so willing to lend their parents’ Polish tongues in order to aid their non-lingual friends. There is Kayla, whose creativity and uniqueness may go unmatched for all time; Joseph, impeccably dressed and a believer in truth; Patrick, who once you realize he is joking, is one of the funniest people you may ever meet. Here I will stop, with apologies to all those I didn’t include, not for lack of being an individual or for lack of an impact on my life, but because my fingers are beginning to swell and I have much more to say.
As much as I have enjoyed the friends I’ve made through the program, it would be wrong to assume that I only hang out with Americans, that I seclude myself in an insular world and do not interact with any Poles. In fact, the opposite is true; the small nature of our American social circle has forced us to expand, and I have become friends with people unlike any I have ever known before.
There is Piotr, who might be one the most adorable human beings I have ever met in my life. Piotr is the kid who always gets teased by his group of friends. Jokes are made at his expense, but he takes it in stride. He always smiles, always does his own thing, always stays positive, and always seems to be looking at the world with the bright eyes of a newborn. Piotr is also extremely respectful of my Judaism, asking me questions about what Jews are like in Poland and truly listening to the answers, curious, eager. Piotr is one of those rare people whom you can see the goodness in their heart.
Izza may be the loudest girl I have ever met in my life. Already physically imposing at the towering height of 6 feet, she is the star of the Warsaw School of Economics Basketball team as well as the star of any room she enters. Unafraid of anything, she is willing to take on any comers. She has taken an especially affinity for Sean and I, popping in to our room to help us with Polish, talk about American politics, or admire how “adorable and cute” she finds Sean and I. Not in the sexual way, but rather in the “I’d like to adopt you and take you home with me” sort of way. Not un-similar to how I feel about Piotr.
There is one particularly interesting girl who lives on our hall who I feel it is necessary to note. Agnieska speaks next to no English. My roommate Sean and I speak minimal, at best, Polish. Yet almost daily Agnieska stops by our room for a chat, and while it takes us 15 minutes to figure out what it is the other is trying to say, there is something so exciting and exhilarating that occurs whenever we connect, whenever we can understand each other. It is almost like a representation of the universal human language, the ability for people to communicate without words and without borders.
While there are certainly more Polish students with whom I have developed a bond, it is important to know that they have, for the most part, been incredibly kind and welcoming to all of the American students. While many of them initially held misconceptions about who we are, together we have grown to reach a better mutual understanding a better mutual trust. Together we have made friends with someone whom we never may have thought possible, and we’ve done it gladly, we’ve done it willingly, we’ve done it well.
I would be remiss, however, if I did not discuss the Warsaw Jewish community. In recent years, my Judaism has waned. I no longer attend services every week, I no longer think about God on a daily basis. While I have kept kosher, that seemed to be almost the final straw of my Jewish upbringing. Yet since being in Warsaw, I have felt a religious resurgence, and the Jewish community is absolutely to credit for that.
The Chief Rabbi of Poland is a man named Rabbi Michael Schudrich. Rabbi Schudrich’s name sometimes receives a mixed reaction in the United States. Originally ordained by the Conservative movement, he later in life went to Yeshiva University to receive an Orthodox Rabbinical degree. When I asked him about this on our first meeting, he was forthright and honest. He felt compelled to try and lead a resurgence of Jewish life in Poland, to devote his time and energy to revive a community that, in his words, was dying but not dead. He wanted to see what he could do. But he felt that he could only accomplish this if he gained the respect and support from the whole community that he needed, and he felt that he could only do this as Orthodox.
I personally have found Rabbi Schudrich to be an ideal individual to lead this community. He is outgoing, personable, and extremely warm and friendly. He immediately welcomed me into his community, and was willing to help me with anything I needed. I also have found him one of the most beautiful prayer and Torah leaders I have ever heard, with a voice that resounds against the walls of the synagogues almost as a cry to those who once inhabited these walls, who once inhabited this country, a reminder that their memory is not lost, a reminder that they have not been erased.
While Rabbi Schudrich has been wonderful, my home away from home in Warsaw is undoubtedly at the Pawlaks. Maciek Pawlak is the assistant Rabbi at the Synagogue as well as the headmaster of the school. He and his wife Hadassah have been nicer to me than I could have imagined. Week after week they have welcomed me into their home for lunch, translating what I could not understand, offering to me whatever it is I could not find. Hadassah, who is one of the smartest women I have ever met, is currently getting her masters in psychology at Warsaw University. She always has something interesting to add, something of note to point out about the world, or about the community, or about Poland.
Maciek was born in Poland, and after meeting Hadassah in Israel and receiving his Rabbinic degree in the U.S., he decided to return, simply because it is home. He is kind hearted and righteous, in the greatest sense of the word, and also has a fascinating Rabbinic mind. He always tries to include me in the conversation, ask me about my thoughts, receive my point of view. He and Hadassah have kept me well fed, physically and spiritually. Together they are raising an absolutely wonderful daughter, Doreen, who will undoubtedly be smart, beautiful, and tri-lingual. I cannot express in words how grateful I have been for their kindness.
During my first Shabbat visit, I also met Yechiel Reisner, head of the Jewish genealogical institute. As I was fascinated with my ancestral history, I gave him a visit at his office. Yechiel then worked tirelessly, both when I was there and after I left, to try and give me some information that could lead me in a good direction, show me wherever it was that I needed to go. He has answered my questions without hesitation. Yet I know that he is doing the same for countless others, dozens of individuals looking for memories of something lost, looking for communities that can’t be found. For them, he may be their last hope. When I asked him what led him to such a career, he responded without hesitation: “My grandparents told good stories. And I listened.” His sense of and commitment to tradition are impressive and unwavering.
Last Friday night, I attended for the first time a “Chavurah” dinner in Warsaw. Chavurah is the Hebrew word for a group of friends, and that is exactly what this dinner was. A motley crew of young Warsavian Jews and young Israeli Jews and one American Jew, varying from the most secular to modern orthodox, sitting around, eating food, saying blessings and telling old Hassidic stories. The stories shifted to a conversation about life, about Judaism, and about identity, and I met some of the most interesting characters I have ever encountered.
There was Maciek, with a Jewish father, who did not find out about his roots until he was 13 and didn’t do anything about it until he was 18, when his twin brother started dating a Jewish girl. Maciek enjoys the traditional nature of Orthodox but, as a homosexual, is struggling to find his place in his community.
There was Moshe, in his mid-20’s, who is the spiritual leader of the chavurah. He pushed me to attempt to define who I was as a Jew without expecting an answer. He asked me questions that he wanted me to ask myself, that he is constantly asking himself, that every Jew should always be asking his or her self. What parts of Judaism mean something to me? What parts do not? What sort of Jew do I want to be? What sort of Jew do I not want to be?
There was Judyta, the organizer of the event, whose profession it is to organize Jewish cultural events in Poland specifically aimed at youth. Yet as insurmountable a task as it seems she faces it head on with chutzpah, trying to help those afraid of connecting and letting them connect, trying to be an olive branch of understanding for those who are having trouble understanding what being a Jew means. She is the first line of attack on bringing people back in, and she does a phenomenal job. She brought me in.
I’ve just given pages describing all the people I’ve met in Warsaw, all the people I know, all the people who are about of this world that is my current reality. Yet it was not until last Shabbat, when I was called to the Torah to give the blessing, when I was called for my Aliyah, did I understand what they meant, what it meant.
Last week, we read the Parsha, or section, of the Torah known as Va’yakhel. This word does not translate directly into English, but comes from the root of the word kahal, which means community. God commands Moses in this chapter to organize the people of Israel into a community, to have them create for themselves something that is greater than themselves. The people of Israel were to make their own support network, bring each other together, bring others close to them in an attempt to feel close.
This is what I have done in Poland. I have created for myself a community. And whether I am known as the funny little Jew, the crazy American, or the transplanted cousin, I feel at home in each of these places. In each of these places, I have created a niche that works, a niche that helps to define who I am. It is not the fact that I gave the blessing that made me a part of their community. It was the face that I stood up and volunteered, made myself known, rose my hand and say "heenaynee," that allowed me to make them a part of mine.
Posted by borovitz at 01:56 PM | Comments (0)