Shabbat During The Revolution

It has been hard for me to really make the distinction between kodesh (holy) and chol (mundane). Just like regular week days, I wake up wondering what the orange buffoon did while I was trying to sleep. From phone banks, to campaign volunteering, to demonstrations downtown, everyone in my house, in one way or another, is trying to save our democracy. On Shabbat morning, I go outside, to join my fellow revolutionaries in our first session of “being sad about the state of the world,” while we drink our coffee. Sometimes, we’ll get a nasty stare at our radical lawn signs from a chabadnik (orthodox jew) on their way to shul (synagogue). We find our laughs, turn quickly into tears when something like that happens. Finishing our emotional outbursts with “WTF are we gonna do?” Eventually, I'll make my way inside to put on an outfit that at least makes me feel like Shabbat, and try to figure out what to do with my Jewish birds nest of a head of hair. My mom is next door in her meditation minyan zoom (that’s what makes Shabbat feel like Shabbat for her). Then, my dad and I usually embark on a tiyul (journey) through Beverly Hills to actually move our bodies. On our walk we pass too many anti-maskers with kippot (yarmulkes). This walk is usually time for session two of “being sad about the state of the world.” We’ll pass a shul with singing that is just too loud, or a trump flag on a truck zooming by. Our political rants seem to come at times when we’re trying to make the most of a global pandemic, but usually just end with a sigh.

Shabbat used to be the most exciting day of the week. The sound of Jews all over my city davening (praying), singing, pouring le-chaims (cheers) to celebrate the simplicity of the holy day. I would walk all day, from one friends house to another, picking up revolutionaries on my way. Dinners and lunches we’re still sessions of “being sad about the state of the world” but they began with hugs and always ended with many empty bottles of bartenura. But the sound of Shabbat is what I miss. Arriving at shtible (my synagogue), right on time to dance with the Torah, or Beth Am (my other synagogue) to the beautiful harmony of Joey Weisenberg’s nishmat (a shabbat morning prayer). We embodied joyful Jewish practice week after week, just living our lefty Jewess lives.

Now, I don’t seem to know what to do. I tried an in person social distanced minyan and it was just depressing. I don’t feel comfortable getting on a zoom to “daven,” (pray) because it feels like avodah zarah (sacreligious). I am very capable of belting the words to El Adon (another prayer) on my own, but it just makes me feel alone. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. There is this lingering powerlessness that never fails to creep up on my day. My friends come by in the afternoon, but we just talk about how too many of our people are voting for Trump and that we don’t get any work done in school zooms. No one is talking about the constant pain that most of us wake up in until our fascist of a president finally ends his reign. Don’t get me wrong, not everything is bad, sometimes I laugh at a joke made by Shachar (my neighbor) or my dad. But over all, Shabbat during the revolution is just too damn sad.