milton and tzedakah

I’m reading Paradise Lost in my British literature class, and although it’s one of those things you kind of know already before you read it, it’s also making all of western civilization and western literature make a lot more sense. And it’s one of those things you read and realize that, if only it were one of the first things you had ever read, your life as it relates to books might have had more meaning up to now. Yesterday I had to read excerpts from books 2, 3, and 4, and 2 and 3 were making me think of the most random things. I’m sure Paradise Lost could make people think about a lot of things, like other epic poems, the Bible, His Dark Materials , etc etc. But since I am me and I think of the most random things, book 2 made me think of the trilogy Prophecy of the Sisters , which I still can’t decide if I really like or not, and book 3 made me think about tzedakah, because the pre-Jesus figure presented in Milton’s epic is so not Jewish.

Being Jewish myself, I only know so much about the New Testament. What I know comes from popular culture and the vague memories I have of my high school comparative religion class–I really wish that I had paid more attention in it, because I know we learned a lot of great stuff about major world religions. So anyway, I did check out the Spark Notes summary (though Milton’s arguments are basically his own Spark Notes) of book 3, just because I tend to miss Christian religious references in literature because they don’t naturally stand out to me. So once I started reading, I knew that G-d and the Son were going to be talking about Satan’s plans to corrupt Adam and Eve, yadda yadda. I do think that Milton does really cool stuff with his source material, rearranging the events of the Bible and all, and I think it’s funny that G-d and the Son plan everything out, from his crucifixion to communion rites, but all while the Son is saying that he is going to sacrifice himself, he keeps reminding G-d that he’s going to come back to Heaven and regain his throne and be rewarded for being selfless.

So I stopped there and thought that, if this is Milton’s idea of what Jesus was like when he was pre-Jesus, he is most definitely not Jewish. Or at least not a good Jew.

In Hebrew, there is no word for “charity.” I like that, because I’m not a big fan of the Christian idea of charity, especially when viewed against Jewish tzedakah or Muslim sadaqah , which is more based on tikkun olam than on making yourself feel good by helping someone who, in your eyes, so obviously needs your assistance. Again, I’ve only been to church about 10 times in my life (mostly Catholic ones), and a lot of my ideas of Christian charity come from that insipid family on “Seventh Heaven,” but as far as I can understand, traditional Christian charity seems to come from an idea of helping those less fortunate, rather than doing what’s right. (When I’m not being religious, I think that everything we do is driven most by a sense of feeling good about what we’re doing, and I also think that above all, doing good things is good, no matter your reason. But still. We can always strive to an ideal, and I think the Jewish and Muslim ideals beat the Christian one here.) One thing I remember my mother teaching me when I was young was that the best kind of giving is anonymous, because then it’s really tzedakah, which means “justice.” You should give because it’s what you’re supposed to do, not because there is going to be a plaque somewhere with your name on it or because people are going to send you letters of thanks. I may be falsifying a connection here, but I think tzedakah goes nicely with the Jewish custom of not naming babies (or colleges, like how Brandeis was going to be named after Einstein until he said, “What, you want me dead already?”) after living people. It’s bad luck, and it’s bad form. Your name doesn’t matter. The world is what matters.

It’s very easy to talk about tzedakah and a lot harder to practice it. Given that we are human, we like recognition. I certainly do. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten better at it. I don’t know if it’s because I’m actually better at tzedakah, or if I’m just more uncomfortable being the center of attention. But it’s something you constantly have to work at.

So, going back to Milton, his pre-Jesus is, yes, doing what is arguably a very noble thing by sacrificing himself, and it’s something that the rest of Heaven doesn’t volunteer to do. But he does so with the understanding that he will end up back in Heaven, and back at the right hand of G-d, so he’s getting a reward. And, given that in this poem, at least, G-d and the Son know basically everything that is about to happen, he must know that the whole world is going to know his name for millennia. So it’s not an act of tzedakah but an act of charity. I know it doesn’t matter to anyone except me that Milton’s pre-Jesus isn’t Jewish, since Milton wasn’t Jewish, and he probably didn’t think very highly of Judaism, but I do think it’s rather interesting.

Oh, the places your mind can wander.

why literature might be my mind, but music is my heart

Sometimes my mind feels like it has my heart in the middle of it, but then I have days that remind me that my heart is firmly made up of a different substance.

Like yesterday, when I was told I could remain in the really awesome choir next semester, even though I won’t be a student. Win! So, so happy. I’m pretty sure I was smiling way too big, like in a very embarrassing, child-like way and everyone must think that choir makes me way too happy. Also, our concert on Sunday night was amazing, and I loved every moment, even when my feet fell asleep in my pumps and I still had to sing all of “Eia, mater.”

Then I go to a Weepies concert, and it’s the first concert I’ve managed to go to all semester, and really only the second or third that I’ve wanted to go to, so I’m really glad I made it. I spent way too much money on the ticket, the whiskey sour, and the t-shirt, but it was so worth it. They were so amazing. Somehow they almost extra-produced the songs that are usually so un-produced and quiet on their albums, and yet it didn’t lose the folky quality. It was just SO GOOD. I love couples who sing together, like the Weepies or the Ditty Bops or Jenny and Johnny. I love it when bands use real bass violins and not just bass guitars. I love it when you can tell that the people on stage are still very normal people. I love hearing stories about why songs were written, like how “Riga Girls” is about spam that turned into porn that froze Steve Tannen’s computer just when Deb Talan was walking in the room. I love being with other music majors at the concert. I love realizing that the three of our voices go really well together and we need to co-write some songs, which we’re going to do this winter. I love meeting people at concerts and being good friends by the time the stage is flipped for the starring act. I love watching people in the act of making music, because it makes me realize how much I love doing it, too.

how i became spoiled

I went to high school with lots of spoiled children. Since I was on full scholarship, I don’t remember exactly how much it cost per year, but this year it was $15,750, and I graduated in 2007, so you can imagine. I have always prided myself on not being spoiled, which is probably a way of being spoiled. But also, my parents aren’t stupid, and in the traditional sense, they did not spoil me. They couldn’t afford to. And they didn’t grow up in families where spoiling was common, and they were young adults during the sixties and did the hippies-going-to-South-America-and-making-their-own-acid thing, and they did the living-on-a-commune-in-New-Mexico thing, and in the general sense of the word, I was not spoiled. My parents did not buy me everything I circled in the Toys R Us catalogue–in fact, they bought me nothing from that catalogue, because we are a family that prefers independent/local businesses, used bookstores/toy stores, and in general subscribe to a very progressivist attitude about children’s toys, media, book reading, etc. My mother never bought me a Barbie (my dad did once, but that’s because I am the baby of the family and could usually convince him to buy me a little something if we were already at the store getting shampoo–plus, it was the black Barbie, it was a teenager one, and I mostly wanted it because it was a gymnastics Barbie, and there were no other dolls that were flexible and came with a vault, and I was really into gymnastics), but if other people did, she let me play with them. Most of my other toys were either not brand name toys, or they were toys that encouraged creativity, and I honestly found my Barbies kind of dull. Barbies were like cable television or McDonald’s, a devious treat I enjoyed at friends’ houses but knew were base, largely useless, for common people who didn’t know anything about progressive politics, and lacking quality. (I had my first and only Big Mac when I was 20, and my sister and I agreed that above all, it tasted like disobeying our mother.)

So I’m not spoiled. I turned down all eight private universities out of state (one was actually public and Canadian, but whatever) and said yes to the University of Arizona. We couldn’t afford my dream schools, even with their hefty scholarship offers, and not only did I feel profoundly uncomfortable watching my mother in tears over not being able to send me there, but I hated going over the finances and knowing that I would be responsible for my parents never going on vacation or buying a used car ever again just so that I could afford two years of school. I tried to swallow my pride and forget about how my high school indoctrinated us with the idea that if you went to U of A, you were a failure and should try to transfer. And I took my scholarship, which pays me a refund check every semester, and which, until tuition skyrocketed this year, paid my rent and left me with enough money to ensure that my two or three part-time jobs would be all fun money, for movies, for clothes, and for international travel. And that is when I became spoiled.

I’m still not spoiled to the extent that I don’t understand money. I would never just spend recklessly to the point of having thousands of dollars of credit card debt. I may not have lots of savings at the moment, but I always pay my credit card bill in full. But having free money from the university each semester has made this semester a hard one, because all of a sudden the money I earn is also the money I spend, and I need to curb my shopping, eating out, and drinking out habits. And even that’s negligible, and I’m not doing a great job at it, because I moved back in with my parents to save money, and I know they’ll float me if I need it. In the past three years when I was about 90% supporting myself (my parents paid my insurance and also usually paid for medium-sized items, like new clothes and the crazy amount of prescriptions I need each month–I buy my big-ticket items, like plane tickets, or I have my parents buy them and pay them back at the beginning of the next semester when I have money again), any time I said something like, “Oh, but that’s expensive. I don’t think I can afford it right now,” my mother would tell me I was being ridiculous and that she and my dad wanted to support me and that they could always pay for things when I couldn’t. So I felt guilty paying for my own stuff and also guilty not paying for my own stuff, because my parents wouldn’t have to spend so much money on me if I didn’t start living a nicer lifestyle than the middle class one I grew up with.

I hated the kids who thought it was their birthright to have a car waiting for them the day they turned 16, but I didn’t earn my car, either. My parents really couldn’t afford to buy a new-used car when they did, but they did so that I could have their very old Infiniti to drive myself around. And now that that 18-year-old car is dead and gone and I’m on the bus, I like to think that I’m integrating myself back into the world I’m from, but at the same time, thinking that it’s quaint and hipster and green of me to take the bus kind of de-legitimizes my claim to the lower middle class. Except that I’ve never really left the lower middle class. I just won the mini-lottery and had about $10,000 of extra cash spread over the last three years to play with. Was that when I was spoiled? Or is it now, when I live rent-free with my parents (which my sister did for her college career, so I really shouldn’t feel bad that I’m doing it for a year), borrow their cars without paying for gas, go out to eat with my friends and then tell my parents I can’t pay them back for my Prague plane ticket this month, and ask my mom to buy me new shoes so that I can also afford to buy stuff on iTunes. And then I’m graduating from college a semester early, and instead of getting a full-time job, I’m going to write, volunteer, work for $7.50 an hour, and generally hang out, because I can afford to. Even my mom says that now is that time to do that, since I can afford to be selfish. But it makes me feel guilty.

So which one is me being spoiled? What is spoiled, anyway?