What's in a name?

Elizabeth is my given name; my legal name. It is the name on my birth certificate and the name that people called me until I was old enough to correct them. Well, sort of.

I remember playing at my friend Sarah’s house and when I was around five years old. Sarah called me Liz and I quickly scolded her.

“Only some people can call me Liz.”

I meant only my friends can call me Liz.

It wasn’t long thereafter that everyone was calling me Liz, at my insistence. I ditched Elizabeth for practical purposes and only my grandma was calling me Elizabeth. (She eventually got the memo when I was a teenager after I didn’t have the heart to correct her all those years.)

When Elizabeth was used, it was when I was in trouble and my middle name, Miriam, usually followed behind. Although since I was such a well-behaved child, the combination barely reared its head. I resented my name for being old (Queen Elizabeth), really ridiculously long to spell and say, and well, for just being my name. Doesn’t everyone hate their name at some point?

As for its age, to the average person, Elizabeth is old and historic. It is one of those names that carries a regal stature and never seems to go out of style, regardless of the weird names babies are given every day. But it’s even older than you might think. It doesn’t originate in England or with someone known for being a virgin (and a queen).

When I was in college, a roommate of mine who looked down on me for being less religiously observant than her once lamented,
“Elizabeth Foreman. That sounds like such a waspy name.”

What? Yea, ‘cause Foreman is so waspy, I thought. Please note I don’t like to use or perpetuate the phrase “WASP,” which stands for White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. There’s nothing wrong with being in that category, but rather the connotation in which the term is often used is what is offensive.
I responded, “What? It’s not waspy at all. What are you talking about?
“Actually, Elizabeth comes from the Bible,” I continued.

Ha! I beat the yeshiva girl at her own game.

If you look up Elizabeth in any name book or frankly Google Elizabeth, it will read as meaning something to the effect of being “consecrated from God” and Hebrew in origin. Elisheva – Exodus 6:23. Elisheva was Aaron’s wife and consequently, sister-in law to Moses and Miriam. And Miriam is my middle name! Jewish royalty! Sort of.

When Mom and Dad named me, they toiled with an S instead of a Z, but legend has it that Dad thought people would spell it wrong so they stuck with the traditional Z. EliZabeth. And Mom insists I am not named after anyone, well my first name at least.

I still cannot avoid my abnormally long name for legal purposes. On standardized tests in school, I was inevitably Elizabet, because it would only accept 8 letters. Poor h was always cut off. I unconsciously hoped year after year that the upcoming test would leave space for 9 letters. Nope. Never. Somewhere in some drawer in New York State there are a lot of newsprint tests with No. 2 pencil marks bearing the name Elizabet Foreman. Or maybe in a lot of drawers. Or maybe they’ve been shreaded. I hope the latter.

And one day it became Liz, at least in every day practice. I still grapple with how I should be referred to professionally, but usually default to Liz. Those who slip in an Elizabeth every now-and-then at work give me anxiety (again, the whole being in trouble thing) and show a lack of attention to detail. But I’ll let it slide, because after-all, only my friends call me Liz.

The following are variations of my name, which I have been called. I’ll allow these for those who are stuck somewhere between Elizabeth and Liz.

Lizbip – my brother
Liza (read Leeza) – Greek neighbor
Aliza (read Aleeza) – Israelis, to whom lamed-yud-zion does not make sense
Eli (read Ellie) – unnamed co-worker
Htebazile – college roommates

The Jewish Straightening Method

The Japanese-

The Brazilian-
(no not that kind of Brazilian...)

The Jewish-

?

Since the beginning of January, I have been straightening my hair. Many people have asked me how I straighten it, attempting to prompt me to respond that it has been chemically straightened. No, I have not used some nationality's commercial straightening method. I have heard good things about the Japanese straightening method and the newer Brazilian. Since seeing how silky smooth my hair is just from a flat iron (secret's out, ladies!), I looked into the Brazilian. It is much less expensive than the Japanese and tends to have a better track record. However, a lot of websites warn the chemical used to straighten the hair may also contain carcinogens. As much as I love my hair, no product is worth that risk.

That being said, I've decided that I live in a world of many opportunities and possibilities. Why should I (semi-) permanently straighten my hair when I can just have The Jewish Straightening Method?

A girl needs options. And frankly, I like having them.

I am often asked how my curls work (when I wear them) and now that I am getting the question daily about whether my hair is permanently straightened, I have decided to let my secrets to The Jewish Straightening Method out of the bag. Well, most of them.

Before I fess up, let me first put this disclaimer: There is nothing inherently Jewish about the way in which I style my hair. Jews have curly, straight, wavy, frizzy hair and some Jews have thin hair, some have thick. Some even have no hair (God forbid). While there is a stereotype that Jews have thick, curly hair (hence the term, "Jew-fro" and many others I don't use), not all fall into this category. I have simply reached a place in my life where I finally know how to appease this mangled mess of hair my genetic code has passed along to me. Whether "Jewish" or not, I finally love my hair.

Please allow me to share this love.

The Jewish Straightening Method:

1) Find an amazing hair stylist.

If you have curly hair, you do not need to go to a fancy curly hair salon like Devachan (http://www.devachansalon.com/) or Ouidad (http://www.ouidad.com/) in NYC. I was once nearly brainwashed and told that I needed to embrace my hair. I made an appointment at Devachan and upon confirmation I was told that even though my stylist was new, that it would cost $145 and I was expected to pay this upon receipt of service. I knew that would make me buy all their products, possibly swear to worship them forever, which would cost more money. I quickly informed them I would be cancelling my appointment.

I did, however, listen to what my co-worker said about how she styled her hair, the one who had referred me to Devachan.

Many months and many bad haircuts later, I took a chance on a new hair salon in my neighborhood. I made an appointment at Saloon (http://www.saloonhaircolor.com/) with Joe. Within five seconds of taking a look at my hair, Joe knew exactly how to cut my hair. Layered and texturized, I left a happy girl.

A good hair cut isn't the be-all, end-all, though. You have to do your part.

2) Know the curly process

My co-worker, who went to Devachan, told me that following her shower (where she does not rinse out her conditioner), she takes strands of her hair and twirls them into curls. Banking on this whole "not rinsing out conditioner" thing, I was baffled at how a girl could not rinse the conditioner out. Just sounds gross. So I continued to shampoo and condition, but I added leave-in conditioner once I was out of the shower.

Zing!

Nexxus Headress Weightless Leave-in Conditioner. It is $20 a bottle, but you only need a small quarter-sized amount each time. I have a lot of hair and the bottle lasts more than six months.

Pantene Pro-V Products

I have, for years, used Pantene products. Since I am adding mousse (I'll get to that) and thus drying out the hair with product in addition to the natural elements, I started using Pantene's Pro-V Restoratives Time Renewal shampoo, in addition to the same type of conditioner. While it's meant to restore damaged hair in a month, I use it year-round. When I go cheap and don't use it for a while, my hair isn't as perky.

After the shampoo, the conditioner and finally the leave-in conditioner, I scrunch my hair and apply mousse: Pantene Pro-V Classic Styling Mousse. I have used the mousse for curly hair, but find the curling mousse makes my hair more frizzy than the others (I have also found that the pantene shampoos and conditioners for "smooth and silky" hair tend to give me a fuller curl than the ones for "curly" hair).

Once the mousse is in, I take strands of hair and made Shirley-temple style curls. I let it dry naturally and never expose the curls to a hair dryer. Frizzy curls are not happy curls!

3) The Straightening Method

I owe it all to Maxi-glide. The other nuances and techniques simply would flop if it were not for this amazing flat-iron.

http://www.maxiusbeauty.com/

Another co-worker, who happens to be African-American, told me about this one. When she told me about all the chemicals and products she's used through the years and saw how absolutely gorgeous her hair was, I simply had to have the maxi glide. I wash my hair with Pantene Pro-V restorative shampoo and conditioner. After the shower, I put on Nexxus leave-in conditioner. I either allow it to dry naturally (but who has the time?) or blow dry it.

Then I allow the Maxi Glide to do its magic. The Maxi Glide has one side of the flat-iron where steams come out of in order to straighten the hair. The other side has small "teeth" like a small comb that smooths the hair. There is also a button on the straightener where you can make steam come out (for ends and unruly frizzy sections). There is a specific technique to using a flat-iron that you can't explain in a blog, but check out the user manual before you buy it and use good mirrors. The maxi glide gets hot and if you're not careful, you can burn yourself easily.

It takes me at least an hour. Keep in mind I have a lot of hair!

I would not say it's easy by any stroke of the imagination, but gives a beautiful straightening job, without the salon expense. I never washed my hair every day (she needs a break every once and a while) and when I straighten it, I usually wait 3, 4 and sometimes 5 days before straightening it again. It's important to be kind to your hair, regardless of how thick it is (and mine is thick).

In reading about the Brazilian straightening method, I learned that it straightens by way of Keratin proteins and a lot of steam straightening. Nexxus leave-in conditioner contains Keratin proteins. And the Maxi Glide lets off steam!

The Jewish Straightening Method gives you options.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5y9A4DKmjM

Ba'moneh, B'vakashah - 4 Cab Rides in Jerusalem

December 25, 2008 - A cold and overcast Thursday morning in Tel Aviv, I gathered my things and prepared for a day trip to Jerusalem. I was in Israel for two weeks, mostly visiting coastal towns I never had the opportunity to experience before – Tel Aviv, Akko, Ashdod, Ashkelon, Eilat. But where should a Jew living in the Diaspora be on Christmas day?

Jerusalem, of course.

I ignored my host’s advice and wore my black rain jacket and not my purple wool winter jacket. After all, I’m from New York, it’s not that cold. I doddled off to Dizengoff, waited for the #5 bus, paid my NIS 5.30 and spaced out until we reached the techana mercazit – central bus station. Just my luck, once I made it through security and up to the Egged floor, a bus to Yerushalayim was loading. I paid, and sat in an empty seat. The kid next to me stared at me for a good 45 seconds until an older kid came and told me I was in his seat. At least I think that’s what he said – my Hebrew is below par. He then proceeded to yell at the younger kid and chastise him for not telling me I was in a taken seat. This part was not so hard to understand.

I made my way to the back of the bus, where my true seat was found.

We arrived at the techana mercazit in Jerusalem and again waded through security. My first planned stop was Emek Refaim. And I had no idea how to get there. I’d just ask someone. It was about 50 degrees and raining in Jerusalem.

After grabbing coffee at Aroma, a bad habit I picked up early in my trip, I spotted a group of American yeshiva kids, most likely on their year before college. I figured this was a safe bet for directions. When I asked which bus to “Emek,” I got several different suggestions. In my impatience, I nodded, thanked them, and headed for the cabs outside the bus station.

Cab #1 – Techana Mercazit to Emek Refaim, Red-headed Israeli Cab Driver

“Ani nosa’at l’emek refaim. Cama zeh?”

I asked him how much it would be to Emek Refaim. He muttered something, shrugged his shoulders and hit the meter in the cab.

Whoa. Ba’moneh, it is.

I was shocked that one of my first attempts to negotiate a cab fare in Israel was a non-dramatic monologue by the driver himself that I didn’t even understand. The week before this, I visited in Jerusalem and was told by some friends that I should always ask for the meter after asking the “flat” fare. It was a fun game to be played. First pretend that you are not willing to take their first offer, counter it with the option that will earn them less money. If they’re honest and do not take the route that is slow and will drive up the meter, they will negotiate.

Uneventfully, we arrived at Emek Refaim and I got off and paid the meter amount.

Cab #2 – Emek Refaim to the Israel Museum, Israeli Cab Driver from Iraq

Standing under an umbrella shielding myself from rain drops and a few rays of sun (go figure the two at the same time), I hailed a cab.“Cama zeh l’muzeon yisrael?”

“esrim”

I took it.

Man I suck at negotiating. I had no idea how far I was going and 20 sounded ok as I quickly calculated it was only $5. Once the typical cab conversation ensued and I butchered the Hebrew language, I got a piece of his life story. In English. “Ah, you’re from New York. Two of my children live in America. I tried to visit them but the Americans wouldn’t let me in because I am Iraqi.

Even though I am Jewish, they would not let me have a tourist visa because it says on my passport that I was born in Iraq.”

Wow. I couldn’t believe this. The man went on to tell me how he has been in Israel for 58 years, and of course is an Israeli citizen. He’s been to Spain – no problem there. But America, nope.

We arrived at our destination, I paid my 20 shek and off I went.

Cab #3 – Israel Museum to Machaneh Yehudah, Arab Cab Driver #1

It was about 3:40 PM or 15:40, if you wish, by the time I finished up at the museum. It was definitely below 40 degrees and still raining. It was a biting cold and stark difference from the Eilat temperatures I had left the day before. I walked a bit under the umbrella and spotted the row of cabs.

Within 20 feet, a cabbie hopped out of another cab filled with cabbies and greeted me warmly.

He asked me where I was going, in English, as the word tourist was naively “stamped” in red on my forehead. I knew I was in for it.

“L’machaneh yehudah.”

I really wanted to prove I could negotiate and wanted them to take me seriously. “Cama zeh?” I asked.

He told me 60 shekels, of course answering my Hebrew with English. OK, absurd. Here we go! Let’s negotiate!

“Ba’moneh, b’vakashah.”

“This is the price! It is raining!”

Oh, f-bomb, I thought. I wasn’t yet in the cab and thought about grabbing another, but it was flipping cold and honestly his other cabbie friends wouldn’t give me a better fare. I shut my mouth and off we went. I knew once we were at my destination, I could try to bring it down. The typical conversation ensued – I am from New York, visiting friends. I was super ticked off and was giving him nasty responses to his questions:

“Bad weather today. Is it like this in New York?”

“This is nothing! It’s snowing in New York.”

He shut up. He asked me where in the market I wanted. I told him as close to the entrance as he could get. I played dumb and asked again how much the fare was.

60.

“That’s ridiculous! I’m not paying you 60 shekels.”

“That is the price I gave you.”

“I just went almost the same distance from Emek Refaim before and it was 20.”

Knowing now that he wasn’t negotiating, I unclasped my wallet and began to pull out a 100 shekel bill to cover the amount.

“I hope you feel better about yourself knowing you are cheating tourists. I asked for the meter.” I asserted.

“If I went on the meter as you asked, I would have gone through traffic and it still would have cost you 60 shekels. The life is hard for me. This is the price.”

I was taken aback. The life is hard? What? This has nothing to do with me. “Yes,” I answered.

“The life may be hard, but that doesn’t justify you cheating a tourist. I hope this stays on your conscience!”

I gave him the 100 shekels and he nobly said,

“Here. I give you 50 back.”

I slammed the door.

Cab #4 – Unknown torn-up J’lem Street to Techana Mercazit, Arab Cab Driver #2

No more rain, but it was damn cold. And damn windy. The sun had set hours ago and my purse was full of persimmons, dates, rugelach and other random purchases from Machaneh Yehudah. Buses were passing me, but I lacked the energy to try to find out which one would take me to the bus station where I would wait for Talya to take the bus together back to Tel Aviv.

I hailed a cab. I asked the price and he gave me a number. I didn’t like it and lacking the desire to argue, I asked for the meter. Miraculously, it was granted to me.

All of this transpired in Hebrew somehow. The same cab conversation I had had the entire day – from New York, on vacation, visiting friends, staying in Tel Aviv. I was having de ja vu and just wanted to be done with the cabs already. He started naming the buildings we passed – the Knesset and other governmental buildings. I asked why the Knesset was lit up in blue. What is for Hanukkah? He said no and gave another reason and blabbered on in Hebrew. I have no idea what he said.

By this point, he realized I spoke English and the conversation continued in English.

“Why are you only here for two weeks? You are young. You should be learning here for a year.”

“No, no. I have a job I have to get back to unfortunately.”

“But you are young. How old are you?”My favorite question! A game I like to play, this time.

“How old do you think I am?” I chuckled, knowing he would be off-base.

“Eh… 17, 18.”

“Hahahahahahaha. No, older.”

He guessed 20. And then I informed him that I am 24.

“But you have a baby face! This is a good thing for when you get older.”

We arrived at the bus station and I paid what was on the meter and thanked him for ending my day of cabs on a high note.

Later on I met Talya and we got on the bus back to Tel Aviv, followed by the #5 sheirut to Dizengoff. I was never more happy to be on public transportation.

Three Mystical Pieces of Paper

When I was packing my carry-on bag to prepare for my upcoming trip to Israel, I took my siddur (prayer book) off the shelf. When I opened it and flipped through the pages, I found a small piece of hotel stationery from the hotel where I stayed in Weimar, Germany when I was on Germany Close Up earlier this year in July. I laughed a little in disbelief that this paper would still be tucked into the front cover. I vaguely remember consciously not throwing it out in the haste of throwing out all the train and museum tickets, receipts and other papers I had accumulated while on the two-week trip. Consciously or not, perhaps it had stayed in there because I never cleaned out my siddur and, well, never used it since.

On that piece of paper, I had written page numbers and the names of the prayers I had pre-selected to say at the Memorial site at the Buchenwald Concentration camp.

I had always wanted to put a note in the cracks at the Kotel (Western Wall) in Jerusalem the previous times that I’ve been there, but never knew quite what to say. I think prayers should be genuine and not forced, so I never wrote anything on those previous trips. When I saw the small piece of paper, I knew that this belonged in the Kotel and that I should add a prayer on my own. So I set out to do just that.

Fast-forward a week into my trip. I had arrived the previous Sunday and it took me an entire week to make it to Jerusalem, which seemed a little wrong. I knew that my trip to Jerusalem would have to include a visit to Yad Vashem. I had several stops that day and it made more sense to go to Yad Vashem before the Old City logistically. Plus I wanted to be at the Old City to see the Hanukkiah lit for Hanukkah, which would start at sundown that night.

While looking at the first panel in the main exhibition, I was surprised to not see writing in German, just Hebrew and English. After all the exhibits this summer in Germany, the German had become engrained in me. I laughed inside a bit and moved on. Laughing outside would be a bit insensitive.

The visit was powerful. It is such a well-done museum, showing a brief history of anti-Semitism and the rise of the Nazis and then a comprehensive account of the ghettos, deportations, the camps, resistance and more. I must admit that once I got to the section on Auschwitz, I was supersatured and couldn’t do much anymore. So, I quickly finished and moved on to another exhibit. Prior to coming to Yad Vashem on this visit, I thought that I could handle the exhibit and wouldn’t have a problem. I surprised myself and became winded by the material.

Once I finished the rest, scaling through the gardens and making it through the memorial to the 1.5 million children who were murdered, which almost brought me to tears, I made my way back to the entrance to return my audio guide.

I had given my old Rutgers ID as a “deposit” for the audio guide. When my ID was returned to me, I had trouble putting it back into its usual slot in my wallet. I noticed there was some paper or something in the way after several tries.

I reached my pointer finger and thumb in and pulled out a small perforated ticket stub, which was one part of a baggage check ticket from the Swissotel in Berlin.

Baffled and realizing this wasn’t the only thing stuck still in the slot, I reached my fingers in again and pulled out a small ripped piece of paper folded in half with a bunch of numbers written.

“What!?!” I gasped aloud, realizing the identification of both pieces of paper and their origins.

I was baffled and amused at the same time.

We stayed at Swissotel in Berlin for a week, went to Weimar, some three hours away for three days, and then returned to Swissotel in Berlin for the end of the trip. I, along with others in my groups, left a bag “checked” at Swissotel when we were in Weimar. When I retrieved my bag upon return to Berlin, I think I just took it without giving back the tag. And the other piece of paper was the number I was supposed to dial to use my calling card from the hotel. But I had trouble with it and was never able to get it to work (I later found out once I came back to New York that the card was never activated at the store where I bought it).

My head was racing. How could these papers have stayed in my wallet all this time without my knowledge? I had surely cleaned them out since returning from Germany. Other regularly used cards, including my Starbucks card also occupy this slot in my wallet. Why did I suddenly find these papers when I was standing inside the entrance to Yad Vashem? Why this moment?

Later that afternoon I made it to the Old City just as the first candle for Hanukkah was being lit at the Kotel. I made my way down the steps and took a deep breath.

I wrote different prayers on all three papers, said a few prayers from the evening service from my siddur, and put the papers into the wall.

Classic anti-Semitism in Cab 3V27

On my way home from staffing a meeting for work, for an organization that fights anti-Semitism, hatred and bigotry of all kinds, I encountered cab 3V27. A little after 8 PM, I daydreamed out the cab window up Third Avenue, tired after a long day that had me up earlier than usual to vote in the Presidential Primary. It was taking longer than usual. I remarked to the cabbie,

"There's a lot of traffic tonight. I wonder why that is."

He replied, "It's Super Tuesday! A lot of excitement.

"As we went over the 59th Street Bridge, the cab driver told me he and his wife voted this morning for Hillary Clinton. I told him I voted for Barack Obama. To that, the cabbie replied that it was already decided.

Apparently, tonight Hillary Clinton would win the nomination and Barack would be her Vice President. According to an "elected official friend" of his, the Presidential race was, too, already decided. From the "supreme" powers of the FBI, CIA and others, John McCain would surely be the next President of the United States. It was already decided. As we looped around the exit of the 59th Street Bridge and made a right onto 21st Street in Long Island City, the cabbie explained to me why Hillary would win the nomination. You see, Barack would, as president, get involved in Pakistan and other areas. Hillary would get involved in the "Middle East."

I asked why Hillary would get involved in the Middle East.

According to the cabbie, Hillary would be like her husband's Presidency, who had good relations with leaders in the Middle East. I knew at this moment that there was something that the cab driver wanted to say, but needed a light tug.

I asked, "Like with Israel?"

He responded that Hillary would win because the Jews control "the monetary." His english was not good. His grammar was terrible. He kept saying that the Jews control "the monetary." I had tugged, alright...

A small pit formed in my stomach and I grew nervous. We were driving north on 21st Street in Long Island City. I knew this conversation could get interesting. I kept my cool.

I chuckled slightly and said, "but, how could a group of people so small in number control the world?"

"No, no. Not the world. They control the monetary."

"You really think that?"

"You see, God put them here to do that. Even in the Quran it states that. In Egypt, the Pharaohs found Moses."

By this part, I was starting to freak out a little bit. I had flashes of anti-Semitic verbiage flashing in my head. I was contemplating what to do. Should I get out of the cab? Should I listen? Where is this going?

I listened. In my confusion, I got part of the story.

To paraphrase, the Pharaohs had Moses. Moses was not one of them. God sent the angel Gabriel down with a diamond. Apparently this was a hot diamond that could burn. They wanted to test Moses. Gabriel was about to put Moses' hand on the diamond, but at the last moment, God stopped Gabriel. God stopped Gabriel because he sent Moses down to be the one to start the Jews, who would set forth the people who controlled "the monetary."

At this point, I had shakedly steered him towards my street. He was parked in front of Trade Fair, where comforted by the supermarket across from my apartment, I felt I could open my mouth and say something and stop asking questions.

"First of all, the Jews don't control the money or the world. That's ridiculous. The Jews weren't sent here by God to do that. You're twisting it. The Bible says the Jews are the chosen people and were sent here to be a light unto the nations. To be a moral voice."

To this, the cabbie inserted, "My boss is Jewish. Gindi. He owns Century 21. He even says the Jews control the monetary."

"Well, I'M JEWISH."

"I know..."

"What, you know? I'm Jewish and we don't control the world." (As if my I-told-you-so assertion would sway him.)

He apologized. I'm not sure if it was for our conversation or because I gave him a terrible tip.

That was essentially the end of our conversation. I paid, forgot to get a receipt and left the cab shaking.

This man was crazy. He was all about the conspiracy theory. But I can't just walk away from my $14.20 cab ride home from the offices of the Anti-Defamation League, where I work, thinking that this was an isolated incident. Millions, if not billions, of people around the world believe as a matter of fact that Jews control money, the media and the world. And some of them even live in the same city as me and drive me home from a long day of "fighting anti-Semitism."