Yom HaShoah

Israelis never stop for anything.  They are constantly moving, yelling, pushing you out of the way so they can get to where they are going.  At 10:00am on Yom HaShoah(Holocaust Remembrance Day), a siren wails for one minute, and Israelis stop what they are doing, standing still for the entire time, in remembrance of the victims and in honor of the survivors of the Holocaust. 

At 9:55am on Yom Hashoah, I positioned myself on a balcony that overlooks a busy intersection of Jerusalem in order to witness the memorial for myself.  Many others had the same idea—from parents with little children, to teenage girls at seminary, to older adults for whom the ceremony might have a more personal meaning than it does for me. 

At 9:58am, cars were still honking at each other as they drove through the intersection.

At 9:59am, drivers began opening their car doors, standing beside their cars, in the middle of the road, in anticipation of the siren. 

At 10:00am, the siren sounded.  Traffic stopped.  Any remaining driver or passenger opened his/her door and stood solemnly next to his/her car, in a minute of quite reflection, thought, and prayer.  No one moved.  It was beautiful. 

I cried.

At 10:01am, the siren stopped, and the drivers got back into their cars and continued on their way.  When I finally gathered myself together and began to walk home, I noticed that my fellow observers had already left.  I crossed the street into my neighborhood, and life had resumed as usual, as if nothing had ever happened.  I was a bawling, snotty mess as I walked home, but no one stopped me to see if I was okay.  On any other day, I would not have expected anyone to, but I thought, maybe today… People just looked at me as I walked by, maybe in pity, maybe in empathy, or maybe just because I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt in what is quickly becoming a religious neighborhood.

I have never cried at a Holocaust memorial service before.  Growing up, I read a lot of books written about the Holocaust—memoirs as well as fiction.  When I was 15, I traveled with USY Pilgrimage to Poland, for a grueling and emotional 10 day tour of the ghettos, camps, and mass graves that litter the horizon.  After that, Holocaust museums and services never really affected me in the same way—how could they even compare to what I had seen?  (Which can barely represent the entirety of what actually happened). 

I had entered (and exited) the gas chambers, I had walked along the train tracks, feeling stuck as I tried to leave the Birkenau concentration camp, I had seen the pile of ashes of people who should have been, and I mourned their losses everywhere I went.  Worse than Majdanek, a camp which, it is well known, could be fully functional within 24 hours, were the camps of which nothing more remained than a large field with some bicycle tracks running through them.  For these camps, there is no marker of what once stood there, no proof besides memories and recollection of the atrocities that took place.  Camps like these fuel the fire of Holocaust deniers.  What will the future generations know of what took place here?  How can they possibly begin to understand, when no survivors are left to tell their stories, and all we have are fields of grass?

And how could I, after having seen all of these things at 15, possibly be moved by a museum or a memorial service?   But today I was.  There is something so powerful in the entire sensory experience of what took place today—hearing the siren, seeing life stop for a minute, feeling the way we do when we allow ourselves to really think about what happened.  It’s powerful and overwhelming.

Until today, the Yom Hashoah memorial services I had attended in the United States had always taken place in Hebrew school.  We lit candles, said the Kaddish (the one with the names of the camps inserted in between each word), and sometimes we wore gold stars in solidarity or watched the movie Paperclips.  I had never experienced a memorial on a national level, and if one even exists other than the museums and monuments littered throughout the country, I am unaware of it.  But today I witnessed an entire nation stop for one minute to remember—a memory that lives in the collective conscience of Jews and other persecuted groups not just in Israel, but throughout the world.

This is what it means to be a Jewish State.

This, the act of remembering—as an entire unit, an entire nation—the narrative which tugs at the heart strings of everyone who lives here, the events which directly or indirectly resulted in the formation of this very nation; this is what it means to be a Jewish State.

At 10:36am I finished writing this blog post. 

Each Day is a Gift

There’s a synagogue near our apartment that is well known for its spirited Kabbalat Shabbat service.  The Kabbalat Shabbat service is a collection of psalms sung at sundown Friday evening to welcome in the Sabbath, often represented by the image of a bride.  One of the most popular melodies for the Kabbalat Shabbat service was composed by Shlomo Carlbach.  These tunes are energetic and upbeat, and lend themselves to dancing in the aisles. 

The shul near our apartment is little and unassuming—if you weren’t looking for it, you would walk right by it.  In fact, I had walked by it many times before finally deciding to give services there a try one Friday night.  Although I had arrived early, before services had started, I watched as the women’s section of the synagogue filled up—by the end of services, women were standing in the aisle, from the back of the building all the way to the door in the front.  The little shul came alive that Friday night with a ruach(spirit) I have never seen matched.  The closest thing I can compare it to is perhaps opening ceremonies for International Convention for USY, or a particularly joyous wedding.  Each psalm rang out, loud and spirited, and continued for five to ten minutes as the entire building hummed the melody even after all of the words had been said.  A peek through the mechitzah (divider) revealed the men dancing in circles, arms around each other, banging loudly on a table to keep the beat.

“Why aren’t the women dancing?” my mom asked me.  “Why can’t we have fun too?”

I was actually really enjoying myself, dancing or not, but I could see her point.  Although the women were singing with an unrivaled ruach, their dancing remained on a personal level, each woman bobbing alone at her seat.  And then, one woman, a large smile on her face, grabbed the women sitting near her and began to form a circle, singing, clapping, and dancing to the beat.  Andy would call this woman a Nachshon.  Nachshon was the name of the first man who walked into the Red Sea after the Exodus from Egypt—even before the Sea had parted.  Midrash tells us that it is because of Nachshon’s faith and leadership that the Sea eventually did part.

My mom and I did not dance with the other women that night, but we sang with them and joined in their spirit.

A few months later, I returned to the synagogue with a few friends.  We arrived early—after watching how quickly the little shul filled up last time, I did not want to risk not having a seat.  I was enjoying the upbeat melodies and spirit of the service when one of my friends turned to me and asked “When does the party start?”  (I had promised her a party for Shabbat services).  I was surprised that she had not considered the singing we had done so far a party.

Almost as if on cue, the Nachshon-ette from the last time, who happened to be sitting behind us that week, tapped us on the shoulder and encouraged us to join her and her friends in a circle.  We quickly cleared our chairs for room for a horah.  Slowly but surely, our circle was joined by some of the women around us—we even had the honor of dancing with a woman who would be getting married on Sunday.

“Where else in the world would you sing and dance around chairs on a Friday night?” asked Nachshon-ette.  Her smile radiated throughout the little room and her spirit was infectious.  She truly embodied the joy with which we are encouraged the greet Shabbat, the Sabbath bride.  The evening was beautiful, invigorating, and re-energizing.  After a stressful week of work and obligations, 10 women who I had never met before reminded me to celebrate life, and the joy that each day brings.  To celebrate the good that we are given.

“I couldn’t do this every week,” one of my friends said. “But this week, it was perfect.”

But what if—what if we did do that every week?  That little shul does, and I’m willing to bet Nachshon-ette is there each week, with the same energy and spark.  Better yet, what if we greeted each day the way we greet Shabbat?  Not with a mumbled Modeh Ani, thanking G-d for returning our breaths and souls to our bodies, but with sheer joy and elation.  With a true of feeling of celebration, greeting each new morning as the gift that it is.  What if we literally sang our praise out loud, and danced around the room, putting to use the ruach that was granted to us that morning?  Would Shabbat be any less special?  I don’t think so—each morning we can celebrate on our own, garnering spirit from ourselves and our gratefulness—and each Shabbat we can join together to sing and dance around chairs in a true display of joy and happiness.  What if we greeted each day the way we greet Shabbat?

I’m willing to bet that our days would be more positive and that we would be better people for it.

I don’t know if I’ll see Nachshon-ette again—I suppose I may attend services at that little shul at least once more before I leave Israel—but she’s got the right idea, and I think it’s an idea worth spreading.

Self-Reflection

After many years involved in the Jewish world, I’ve been to my fair share of services.  Some are long, some are short, some are engaging, and some are… well, not.  As the regional vice president for religion and education programming in my high school youth group, I even timed the daily evening service to prove to my region we could do it in less than 10 minutes.  We got it down to eight.

Jews are supposed to pray 3 times a day, but not everyone does (I certainly don’t).  This year, many of the services I choose to attend, or find myself attending, have been completed quickly, almost rote, without much meaning or time to reflect built in.  It’s like we’re saying, “we know we have to do it, so we’ll do the bare minimum and just get it done.”  But services devoid of meaning don’t work for me—I might as well not be praying at all, if I don’t have time to make the service meaningful for myself.

The Hebrew word for praying is a reflexive verb—it’s something we do to ourselves.  I’m beginning to wonder whether we should be praying just to get it over with, or if we should truly be embracing the reflective nature of prayer.  Maybe it’s not that we’re supposed to pray three times a day by reciting the same old formula day in and day out, but maybe we’re supposed to truly check in with ourselves three times a day. 

We should ask ourselves, how am I feeling right now?  What do I need?  What do I want?  What am I thinking about?  I’m beginning to wonder if, instead of reciting prayers three times a day, the idea is to truly check in with ourselves and take time for person reflection three times a day.

We often hear of the benefits of mindfulness—of being in touch with our beliefs and thoughts—and it seems to me that G-d might have been aware of them too.  Many of the Jewish rituals have both physical and spiritual benefits—for example, washing our hands before we eat, and taking a full 25 hours each week to rest.  G-d seems to know what’s good for us.  I’m going to choose to understand praying three times a day not as praising G-d three times a day using words whose meanings have been so worn out by repetition, but instead as the self-reflective verb that it is.  By truly checking in with myself three times a day, I believe I can add meaning and spirituality to every day of my life, even if I’m not attending minyan.

The city we live in...

Recently, a lot of web pages have been surfacing about what to do if you are beginning to fall out of love with the city you live in.  And the truth is, they couldn’t have come at a more perfect time.  I remember seeing a graphic describing culture shock many years ago when I studied abroad in Martinique.  There’s the initial spike of absolute love and fascination with the country and its culture, then a sharp drop where your mind overcorrects and you begin to resent the new place where you are living—eventually the love plateaus and the magic of the new place wears off, becoming the simple ups and downs of everyday life in any culture.

I remember thinking, “that’s ridiculous, it won’t happen to me.”  And I also remember after about two weeks, beginning to resent many of the cultural differences between the United States and Martinique.  Although I recall my time there fondly, and would love to return one day, I remember that when it was time for me to go home, I was ready to go home.

Throughout the year, this blog has been a place for me to share my honest impressions and reflections of my time here.  In keeping this blog, I’ve discovered that I have opinions, thoughts, and things to say about issues that I had previously kept quiet.  And I’ve shared them here, to an extremely supportive and positive readership.  So if I’m going to be honest and share my opinion, the truth is—I’m ready to go home.

Ever since I got here, I’ve heard people repeat the same mantra: “Living in this country is hard.”  But in the beginning of the year, I wasn’t living here—I was exploring, learning, playing, experiencing.  After the High Holidays and a few wrong turns in my search for some paying work, I have fallen into a routine.  Granted, it’s a flexible routine that can easily be changed, manipulated, or overturn, but it’s a routine none the less.  And somewhere between waking up at the same time each day, and doing the same thing each day, I found myself with about two months left of this experience, exhausted, frustrated, and ready to go home.

There are days when I don’t feel like getting out of bed, or when I spend the whole day in my apartment, feeling sick.  I’m frustrated with many aspects of living here—the expenses, the healthcare, the culture of the people around me, the fact that I don’t speak this language.  I’m sick of the clothes I’ve brought with me, and I’m ready to get back home to the clothes I left in the States.  I’ve hit a slump, and Jerusalem, for me, has lost its magic.

Does it mean that I’m wasting my time here, if I’m not doing something new and exciting every day?  I don’t think so.  Andy and I did a lot of exploring in the beginning of the year—and now we, and our wallets, are worn out.  Jerusalem is no longer our playground; it’s our home.  We’re here, yes, to grow, to learn, and to explore, but mostly, we’re here to live.  And that’s what we’re doing.  We’re comfortable in our surroundings and our experiences—instead of being new and exciting, much of Jerusalem is just like any other city I’ve lived in.  A city I live in.  And living here is hard. 

The City of David

Last week I was fortunate enough to accompany Andy and his classmates on another tiyul (trip).  This time, we went to Ir David (City of David), a large archeological park that researchers believe to be the location of King David’s palace, and the ancient Jerusalem referred to in the Bible.  This site is also the location of Hezikayah’s Tunnel—the attraction that allows tourists to walk through a tiny ancient underground tunnel in complete darkness, in water up to their waists.  It shouldn’t come as a surprise to any of you that when I was offered the opportunity to participate in this insanity during my Pilgrimage trip when I was 16, I faked sick and opted out.  Luckily, on the tiyul with Andy’s class, we took the dry route out of the tunnel.

We spent a lot of time exploring the ruins, and learning about what ancient life might have been like.  Our tour guide had brought with him passages from the Tanach (Hebrew Bible) which mention the very location where we were standing.  I’m sure for the people who understood the passages and knew what they were looking at, it was pretty cool.  But I’m not a rabbinical student, and although I thought the old stuff was pretty cool, ever since I went to Rome, I’m just slightly less impressed.  I was more interested in the politics around the location, and the juxtaposition of the old and the new.  Me, interested in politics?  I know, weird.

Since people believe that this is where ancient Jerusalem stood, many Jews try to settle in the area.  It really is a tourist site right underneath a residential area.  One of the hardships with that, however, is the fact that the site is located in a bustling East Jerusalem town that is home to Arab families.  Our tour guide explained that the two religions live in peace, and in tension.  I think that pretty much makes sense for any city in Israel.  The site itself is privately run by an organization known for shady practices aimed at buying the Arabs out, and putting the Jews back in.

While at Ir David, we walked through many underground tunnels, and squeezed through narrow pathways.  When we finally resurfaced, I had forgotten what daylight looked like.  We had gathered in an area, waiting for the rest of our group to catch up, and giving everyone a chance to catch their breaths, when we heard (and saw) a few gun shots fired from the nearby town.  We all looked around at each other, wondering what was going on, and I’m sure my face betrayed my fear.  After all, we were a group of Jews walking around a political hotbed in East Jerusalem.  A number of students, more culturally versed than I am, explained that it is a tradition in some Arab families to fire rifles into the air in celebration of a wedding.  Suddenly, the gun shots weren’t scary so much as they were joyous.  It’s sort of amazing the way we assign meaning to different actions.  Throughout this discussion, however, our tour guide remained silent, even though I felt that he might have been able to elaborate a little more.

A few meters up the hill (yes, I measure things in meters now), we stopped to discuss an inscription taken out of the tunnel and displayed on a wall outside.  About halfway into the tour guide’s explanation, the village just behind us began to echo with the Muslim call to prayer.  There must have been at least 5 different calls sounding, each with their own unique tune and voice.  The results were astounding—each of the calls to prayer echoing each other and filling the valley with a very public display of faith and religiosity.  It was the type of thing that a bunch of rabbinical students could surely find interesting.  It’s the type of thing I would love to have listened to for the duration of the 5 or 10 minutes that it lasted.  At the very least, a moment of silence would have been appropriate out of respect for another’s faith.

But our tour guide kept talking—right through the call to prayer—and kept talking even after it was finished.  He never addressed it, but instead acted like nothing had happened.  Maybe it was a political statement (I’m coming to realize that everything is a political statement in this country whether you intend it to be or not).  But the truth is, no one benefited from his ignoring of a beautiful ritual of another religion.  I, for one, am not ashamed to admit that I completely tuned out the tour guide and instead focused on the sounds filling the air of the village next to us.  They were overwhelming and awe-inspiring.  And I know that I am not the only one who stopped listening to the tour guide.  As for the students who continued to listen to the tour guide, it must have been difficult for them to hear and pay attention.  No one benefitted from the tour guide’s actions—the students who wanted to listen to the call to prayer and maybe do some thinking on their own could not focus because of the tour guide’s talking, and the students who wanted to hear what the tour guide had to say could not focus because of the call to prayer.  It resulted in wasted breath on the tour guide’s behalf and loss of information on the students’ behalf.

And I am disappointed.  I would have thought that a tour guide, who is intimately familiar with the land and its significance, would have at least acknowledged the amazing religious ritual we had all unintentionally become a part of.  We were standing in the alleged ancient city of Jerusalem, and witnessing an ancient religious practice that had continued through to today—linking the old and the new with the rope of religion.  I always talk about the oneness of human kind—how we are all connected, searching for the same things.  I was upset that our tour guide could not have been bothered to take a few minutes to catch his breath and acknowledge the intimate way we are all linked, while standing on such holy land.  I think it’s important for acceptance and education not to waste opportunities like that.

Oh—our tour guide did say one thing about the call to prayer: “I guess it’s time for Mincha (the Jewish afternoon prayer service)”.  We never did daven Mincha.

Why ENP?

I’ve been writing grants and doing grant research for the Ethiopian National Project for a few months now (admittedly with little success).  One question that has been on my mind for a while now is how to really convince American philanthropists to invest in the quality of education and educational opportunities for Ethiopian-Israeli students who live on the other side of the world.  Seemingly, there are philanthropists interested in educational reform, and investing in equal education for all—but they could simply donate to an education-based nonprofit in the United States, closer to home and to their heart- and purse- strings.  Why, exactly, should they be investing in the education of a group of people about whom they know nothing and with whom they have no connection?

This question has been plaguing me for some time, and though I have searched intently for an answer, I have been hard pressed to find one.  I’m committed to the cause, but I am here in this community and I have a particular interest in the social services industry in the State of Israel, given my role as a social worker and as a Zionist Jew. 

Meanwhile, in my personal life, I have become increasingly dismayed with the negative attention given to people with various dietary allergies, intolerances, sensitivities, and disorders.  I have taken to affectionately calling this group of people, with whom I identify strongly, the “dietarily different”.  I have also begun to explore the possibility of a “dietary privilege” which allows those without allergies to hold a certain place of power in society, while those of us with religious, medical, or personal dietary restrictions are alienated and mistreated.

In social work school, we discuss the idea of power, privilege, and oppression frequently.  We address racial privilege, privilege based on sexual orientation, sex/gender privilege, and economic privilege.  In my two years in social work school, we did not even come close to addressing religious privilege, and I imagine that many of my classmates—now colleagues—would look at “dietary privilege” and laugh, as if it had no place in the crusade to address privileges in our society.  And I wouldn’t necessarily blame them—it’s a rite-of-passage through which all new ideas must travel.  So in addition to wondering how to convince American philanthropists to address the educational necessities of Ethiopian-Israeli students, I also began to wonder how to legitimize this new privilege I’m pretty sure exists.

If we as social workers, as human beings, are truly dedicated to addressing the dynamics of power and privilege, and ending oppression, then we must be dedicated to addressing power and privilege in all of its forms, wherever it exists—including those forms or locations which may be new or uncomfortable for us.  This includes Christian or religious privilege (particularly in the United States) and dietary privilege, as well as other separations that I may not even be aware of (I recently discussed with Andy the possibility that there may be privilege inherent in the type of hair color we have—do people take brunettes more seriously, but think blondes are more attractive?  And how about the way we treat redheads?).  I am constantly reminding myself that “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”  So perhaps we identify with one form of privilege or oppression over another, but that does not negate the existence of other forms of privilege or oppression, nor does it negate the importance of recognizing it, addressing it, and hopefully changing it.

Although the two issues are seemingly unrelated, it was through my extensive thought about the idea of dietary privilege that I was able to begin to understand why educational opportunities for Ethiopian-Israeli students should be considered an important cause for others outside the State of Israel to address.  Today, we are citizens of the world.  We are constantly becoming involved with and championing causes from other nations.  If we are truly concerned about the next generation of leaders, then we ought to be investing in the opportunities that will allow them to grow and flourish to their fullest potential.  This includes leaders around the world—not just in our home communities.  We are dedicated to addressing oppression and inequality on the home front, but if we have the opportunity to address the same issues in another community, we are obligated to follow those opportunities, to ensure that every child, everywhere, is ready for the bright and successful future that lies ahead of them.

There are a million and one causes to invest in—and we are lucky that there seem to be just as many people willing to do the investing.  Each day that I research potential grant opportunities, I am baffled not only by the wealth of resources available to the global community, but also by the large spread of interests of those in possession of these resources.  Some people find their calling working to end the many genocides of the world, while others choose to invest in institutions of higher education to ensure a brighter future for tomorrow.  Still others are dedicated to addressing woman’s issues, to ending racial oppression or poverty, or to funding new and innovative research opportunities, in their hometown, or abroad.  There are those people who find their calling in improving the education of young students, of investing in not just the future of these students lives, but in the future of the world.  They wish to ensure equal educational opportunities for all, regardless of race, economic class, political background, or country of origin.  Everyone is ultimately investing in the same thing—a better world, and a better tomorrow.  Each person is taking his/her own path, but ultimately, we will all meet up again at the finish line.

So why invest in the education of an underprivileged student population halfway around the world?  Because if the need is there, then it needs to be addressed.  There are many needs in the world—including this one—and one by one, they should be addressed by those with the resources and opportunities to make a difference in order to ensure a brighter global future.  Everyone can make a difference—it’s a matter of fighting a fight you are not only passionate about, but also dedicated to resolving.

Dietary Privilege

Michelle's Response to "Why Do Your Kid's Allergies Mean That My Kid Can't Have a Birthday?"

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You are a bully.  In your article, you single out a specific group of people for conditions which many of them cannot control, and insist that they be treated differently, or ignored completely, because of their special needs.  You are no better than the girls who harassed me every day at lunch because my food looked and tasted differently than theirs.  You’re no better than the friend whose birthday party I attended, but who let me sit alone in the party room finishing up a crumbly gluten-free cupcake while she partied with the other guests elsewhere.  You are no better than the counselor at my day camp who tried to force-feed me a soft pretzel because he was ignorant and lacked compassion.  And you are no better than the girl on my study abroad program who started complaining that my gluten free meals were preventing her vegetarian meals from containing gluteny goodness.  Your article was petty and immature.  You care more about what you’re eating than what others around you are feeling.

Let me elaborate:

Right off the bat, your sarcasm is condescending and off-putting.  There are more items than “air” that are “gluten, nut, and egg-free,” and store-bought.  If you did your research, you would know that brands like Enjoy Life produce snack products that are free of the 8 most common allergens, including gluten, nuts, and eggs, and are actually tasty.  In fact, there are people who are allergic to gluten, nuts, and eggs and manage to eat more than just air.

If you think that you’re reaching the end of your rope trying to accommodate a child’s allergies for ONE classroom celebration, imagine trying to be the mother of a child with a serious or life-threatening allergy (by the way, I’m not a mother yet, but I’ve learned from my own mother that anything that puts your child in pain is considered serious by motherhood standards).  Allergies don’t stop existing just because homeroom is over and your homemade peanut butter cookies are all eaten up.  Imagine being my mother, 22 years ago, when no one had heard of Celiac Disease and even nutritionists didn’t know what “gluten-free” was.  If you’re at the end of your rope now, you must have a very short rope—it’s a good thing your children don’t have allergies because you wouldn’t be able to handle them.

The truth is, every kid wants to eat the “made-from-scratch cupcakes, the ones made with fresh butter, sugar and yes, real flour with real gluten in it”, but not every kid can.  And younger kids might not even remember that they can’t until it’s too late.  You don’t want your kid to miss out on homemade goodies because of other kids’ allergies?  Well, I don’t want my kid getting sick, or worse, because your homemade goodies looked too good to resist.  If it’s really that important to you to make something homemade instead of buying something in a store--because yes, these things are expensive, but some people have to pay 8 dollars for a loaf of bread or they will never be able to eat a sandwich.  Can you imagine a childhood without ever eating a sandwich?—then buy ingredients that everyone can enjoy and figure out how to make something yourself.

You might think you understand allergies—but were you ever a child with allergies?  Were you ever a 5 year old who couldn’t participate in the classroom party because of your egg-white allergy?  I don’t ask my friends to accommodate my special needs either—but they do it anyway, because they want to, because they care about me, because they don’t want to exclude me.  And sometimes they make mistakes and accidentally add an ingredient which isn’t gluten-free, or sometimes the item they have bought or prepared isn’t the tastiest, but my friends are the kinds of people who accommodate everyone, even without being asked.  You need new friends.

No one is asking you to deprive a child of anything—that’s the point.  No one should have to miss out, not even the kid allergic to nuts, eggs, and gluten.  You clearly already know how to accommodate food allergies because you have done so before, for the kids on your son’s soccer team, or for his classmates.  The reason people are resorting to gummy bears and juice boxes (which by the way, don’t sound so bad to me) is because they are uneducated and don’t know about all of the options.  So before you throw your hands up and give up, why not speak to the parents of the kids who are allergic to items, and see what they suggest?  Most parents are super knowledgeable and happy to help, especially if it means their child will be included.

Also, I don’t appreciate you referring to my dietary restrictions as “allergy insanity.”  Perhaps you are right—maybe all birthday parties should be banned, especially if store-bought items can’t be trusted as safe.  Just so you know, these days the FDA has much stricter guidelines about what labels need to go on foods, to avoid the very thing that happened to your classmate in high school when she ate a Twix.  Most prepackaged food items are now over-labeled—meaning that companies alert you to every possible trace of any allergen, even if the food was nowhere near that allergen at the time that it was made. 

It’s not that hard to be an accommodating, caring compassionate person.  Every day, parents whose kids are diagnosed with various allergies need to figure out how to accommodate their child’s needs while also helping them to live as normal a life as possible.  Just because you don’t want to put a little bit of effort into figuring out a treat that is safe for everyone doesn’t mean a child should be singled out and made to miss out on the fun.

I grew up in a world where food made me different, an outsider, the “other.”  Twenty-two years later, I still can’t sit down to a meal without someone commenting on the way my gluten-free food looks or tastes, or expressing surprise at the fact that what I am eating is gluten free, especially if it’s the same thing they are eating.  Sure, kids will be kids, but some kids never grow up.  Your article isolated and bullied me into feeling emotions that I have not been made to feel since elementary school.  It was rude and inconsiderate, and your points were selfish.  And worse yet, you lumped everyone with food allergies together—completely ignoring the vast array of intolerances and the way they manifest.

The truth is, I see articles like yours as a symptom of the “fad diet” phenomenon that has plagued society for the past 5 to 10 years.  I wish to separate myself from people who are giving up gluten by choice and let you know that many people have legitimate allergies.  Celiac Disease, by the way, is not even an allergy—it’s an autoimmune disorder where my body attacks the very proteins (gluten) that are supposed to nourish it.  I’m not choosing to eat gluten free because I think I’ll lose weight, or feel better—I have to keep gluten free in order to continue to live a healthy life.  People who are truly diagnosed with Celiac Disease risk malnourishment, cancer, and eventual death if they do not stick to their diets.  So while it might seem ridiculous that so many people have dietary restrictions these days, the prevalence of accurate testing and the increased knowledge of physicians actually allow children to lead happy and healthy lives from a much younger age than once was thought possible.  Of course, their emotional happiness is compromised when they interact with hateful people like you.

No one’s telling you that your kid can’t have a birthday, or even a birthday party, because other kids are allergic to the ingredients you see as necessary to include in a birthday treat.  I’m not asking you to stop having birthday parties for your kids because of my dietary restrictions—I’m not even telling you not to send in treats with your child.  I just ask that you have a little compassion and respect for those people who cannot participate in the celebration, because, as you so clearly stated, you can’t have a birthday party without a cake.