Online Clips Archive

Post-Purim Revelations (JW-First Person Singular)
by Esther D. Kustanowitz

Ten chapters of royal mayhem, megalomania, attempted genocide and ultimately, feasting and triumph, and still, in the entire Book of Esther, there’s no direct mention of God. Any yeshiva kid can tell you that there’s one indirect mention — when Mordechai tells his queenly niece that if she doesn’t redeem the condemned Jewish people, “salvation will have to come from another place.” Many would render those last two words, “Another Place,” with capital letters to indicate the divine subtext, which they believe the phrase indicates: Makom Acher, another Makom, meaning both “place” and a name that is commonly used to refer to God.

Why is finding God in the words of the Megillah so important? If the overt mention is not there, then an implied, subtextual reference helps to qualify the book as holy and justify its inclusion in the canon. By looking for God between the lines, the rabbis are hoping to forge a stronger connection with the text, even if it requires going beyond the words themselves. But this isn’t manipulation; it’s human nature.

In the Megillah and in life, we often find ourselves wanting more than we’re given by other people. We spend hours speculating as to the intent of the words of others; we read between the lines of context and subtext, looking for something deeper, or more resonant. But what do we expect to find in the unexpressed that is not present in the account we’ve been given? How far can we take nuance and word choice? Is there any time at which we can trust a statement — in a Megillah, or from another person — at face value? When a close analysis of a text or person yields an enhanced meaning, can we trust it as truth? Is that found subtext divine, or invented by a hopeful heart?

To read the complete article, click here.

From “Writing the Book on Breaking Up” (The Jewish Week):

To my public school contemporaries, the anticipation of Feb. 14 meant wondering if anyone would slip a Valentine into their lockers — even if it was from a total loser, at least it was an offering of love. But in my yeshiva high school, where Valentine’s Day wasn’t observed, there was no annual way to find out if any boys liked me. (Even though I kind of already knew the answer.) Every year since, Valentine’s Day has continued to be a marker for the rest of the world in which I live and even work, with commercials and greeting cards and red-wrapped chocolates in drugstores all communicating the unavoidable message: You should be in love.

The problem is that love has been over-romanticized. Famously, the course of love does not run smooth — have Brad and Jen taught us nothing? — nor does it always become the eternal substance of legend. Real relationships contain struggles, problems and arguments. And when a breakup occurs, whether it’s expected or an utter surprise, the end result is it’s over. Sometimes there’s pain or anger. Sometimes there are new, dysfunctional relationships with men or women who are not good for you (like Ben & Jerry or Sara Lee). Some people proclaim disinterest in ever dating again and others run right out and join JDate or Frumster. (Reactions to breakups may vary.)

For more, click here.

The humor bounces back between more superficial, Borscht Belt-y punch-lines and deeper, “funny-because-it’s-true/sad/shameful” comedy. Jewtopia’s humor is not the flavor that might be expected from the show’s Gen-X writers, Sam Wolfson and Bryan Fogel; it’s less Jon Stewart, more Jackie Mason. Throughout the play, issues of culture and identity pop up like comic whack-a-moles, waiting to be smacked down by ludicrously loud stereotypes and high-energy punch-lines. Throughout, the intent is to portray dating in the modern age, but some audience members see the humor as self-loathing, and the characters’ choices as saying that all’s kosher in love and dating.

As I discussed the play with audience members, Suzy, raised Reform in the Midwest and a NYC-based Jewish communal worker for over a decade, noted that the main characters don’t seem to be searching to embrace another religion per se, rather, they are seeking what their own life experiences lacked. “Chris came from a military home devoid of intimacy and love, and met Jews who love their children, almost too much. Turning to Judaism is his way to connect with people in a way his family never encouraged. And Adam has had too much of that intimacy; therefore, he looks for a woman completely different than himself, that is to say, someone not Jewish,” she comments.

To read the complete review, click here.

An excerpt from my new JW column, titled “Forever Friends”:

[…] It’s not that platonic, opposite-sex relationships don’t exist. But they’re complicated. Some “Forever Friends” stick around, hoping patiently that their platonic pal will someday see the romantic light, but this may turn out to be a painful mistake. “It’s like dating a man who is already taken, hoping he’ll leave her for you — it’s not the healthiest of beginnings,” says Julia, 28.

Others find comfort in the rewards of solidly platonic friendships. “Once you grow closer to someone as a friend, the love you have grows more into a sibling type of love,” says Rachel, 24, “Soon you become so attached as friends that the attraction is almost completely forgotten. You end up knowing them so well it’s impossible to ‘like’ them any longer.”

Sometimes that works. But when yearning deepens, friendship becomes impossibly painful. Unless other romances intervene or the love-stricken party accepts the impossibility of progress, feelings can continue, leading to soulful declarations met by disappointing reaffirmations with parenthetical, unvocalized caveat counterparts: “I think you’re great (but not great enough for me),” “You’re going to make someone (else) very happy,” “I don’t deserve you (I deserve someone better),” and “You know we’re better as friends (so I don’t have to tell you that I don’t think you’re all that attractive).”

Read more online, here.