Thirteen years ago, I attended a welcome meeting for incoming students at the University of Toronto, where I was about to start my graduate studies in linguistics. The conversation turned toward Jews and Israel and kosher food. One of my future professors, an observant Jew, announced: “In Israel people don’t keep kosher very much because they think they are Jewish enough without it.”
As the only Israeli in the room, I wasn’t sure how to react to that. Apart from the condescending undertones and the awkwardness of your people being referred to as “they” in your presence, I didn’t find anything offensive in her statement. Of course they feel Jewish enough without it, I thought; communities outside their home environment have to work harder to maintain their sense of identity.
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“You want to go where?”
The travel agent’s eyes slowly widened as his finger traced the map north, north, north … until the map ended and his finger was on the bare wall.
The northern Ontario community I wanted to visit was not even on his map. I was no less surprised than him.
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As a parent today I feel as if I’m constantly inundated with fervent, well-meaning, parenting advice coming at me from all angles: in person, in magazines, on the phone, and all over social media.
Read full story on Rodale’s Organic Life
As my little six-year-old vampire approaches a stranger’s door, my heart shrinks with worry. How will it go? I know he can’t yell “trick-or-treat” like he’s expected to, or even whisper it. Will people give candies to a silent little monster with an orange bucket?
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For many years, I had my own personal tradition that I would observe on Yom Kippur. The day before, I would go to the big supermarket in our neighborhood in Southern Jerusalem and buy myself a watermelon. On the morning of Yom Kippur, I would split the watermelon in half, and declare the official beginning of Watermelon Day. And for the entirety of Yom Kippur, I would eat that watermelon and only that watermelon, scooping it out with a spoon from its shell like from a giant bowl.
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Shekoli! k̓alhwá7acw! Gwetaʔaghunt’i! Hadih!
Not sure what those words mean? That’s because, sadly, they’re not spoken widely today. These are ways to say “hello!” in Oneida, St’át’imcets, Chilcotin and Babine-Witsuwit’en, four Indigenous languages of Canada that are all severely endangered.
Read more on Passport 2017
I didn’t ever plan to co-sleep with my first baby. When I gave birth, we had a crib waiting for him at home, complete with Winnie the Pooh-themed sheets. But the thing was used for at most a couple of hours. On our first night home from the hospital, I diligently woke up every hour and a half for 40-minute feedings — then realized I valued my sleep too much to keep that up. So my son joined us in bed, where I could feed him practically in my sleep, and eventually, the crib got folded up and given away.
Read full story on Redbook