OyChicago articles

Amy Guth brings bibliophiles together May 22-25

Inspiration struck Chicago novelist Amy Guth while she was touring the country to promote her first novel, Three Fallen Women. Encouraged by the camaraderie she found at various small-press literary and book festivals and readings nationwide, she wanted to create a similar experience for writers in Chicago. “My experience with literary festivals has been so positive,” she says. “Writing is such a solitary thing to do. It’s easy to forget that there are other people out there working and hoping for the same things.”  The Pilcrow Lit fest was born.

Writing might be a solitary occupation, but the growing, nationwide buzz surrounding Pilcrow (named for the symbol used to note the start of a paragraph) is promising to unite a multitude of bibliophiles—writers, readers and publishers alike. Guth originally hoped to find 20 participants to fill the roster. At last count, 80 writers, publishers, and booksellers have signed on, traveling from across the country and as far as Switzerland to discuss current trends, present their work, and moderate conversations on topics on everything from social media to poetry.

One of the most provocative hours on the agenda is The God Language Panel, a moderated discussion between several authors who write about what Guth calls the new taboo. “I think people can talk openly about something if they are either very, very certain or very, very disconnected,” she says. “Maybe that’s more a cultural commentary, really. We know our celebrities’ mental health status, grooming habits, love lives…but somehow God and religion can still make people start squirming. Perhaps the art of friendly debate is a thing lost, and the lines between discussion and argument are gone.”

This polarity is something that Pilcrow is designed to avoid. All participants are given an equal forum—there are no headliners. While some books and authors might be better known or more widely read, the emphasis at this four-day festival is on the writing community at large.

And for Guth, sharing the words of others connects back to her commitment to Judaism. “I think Tikkun Olam is one of the things I like most about Judaism,” she says. “I really, truly, deep-down believe we have an obligation to help and share when opportunities present themselves.”

“I don’t draw a lot of lines, really, about what is a “Jewish thing.”  Things just are. Everything has a sacred aspect—it’s all in mindfulness and approach. After I’ve had a really productive day of writing, I feel great, I feel like I’ve done well, and done something I find a great deal of meaning in. I think that’s another lovely aspect of Judaism. We don’t talk a ton about what we are or are not believing, but far more about what we are and are not doing.”

Amy Guth is certainly doing something, and through Pilcrow Lit Fest, the entire community stands to benefit.

Check out the Pilcrow Lit Fest May 22-25.

Jessica, figuring out how to 'just have faith'

I’ve known people who can boil something huge down to a single, explicit moment: The moment they realized what they wanted. The moment they fell in love. The moment they knew they believed in something. The moment that changed life as they knew it.

Those moments have always eluded me. My questions about the details, need for tangible answers and tendency to over-think turn my moments into series’ of complicated hours.

I’ve known people who can find answers by “just having faith” and that’s another one I’ve never been very good at.

I’ve often wondered how much of that has to do with the fact that I grew up without religion.

I used to wonder if I was starving my spirit by not feeding on religion, but whenever I set foot in a church, I was distinctly uncomfortable. I couldn’t wrap my head around having faith in something that just didn’t make sense to me.

In college, I briefly thought I’d “found it.” I attended a Baptist Church. I didn’t much follow the whole religious thing, but when the congregation erupted in song, my stomach fluttered and I felt goosebumps. Every time. And when, after services, we’d gather to share a great big lunch, I felt something. I was part of a community. But I winced when the discussion turned to God and faith. I swallowed my questions and focused on how good it felt for all of us to sit in the sun together, eating from the same giant bowls of Jello.

But my questions about the details piled up, I couldn’t make myself believe in the answers, and, ultimately, the music and lunches weren’t enough to keep me glued to the community.

I didn’t think about religion again for a long time. Not even when I took a job at The Jewish Federation in Chicago. I offered myself up as a non-religious outsider, who might bring a fresh eye to the communications department. My approach to learning about Judaism was analytical; I was rooted in a need to understand this religion I knew nothing about so that I could do a job.

During those three years on the job, colleagues and friends lined up, tirelessly, to answer my never-ending questions. Eventually, I collected a string of moments that made me determine I’d “found”—or at least come to understand—religion: The moment a precious 13-year-old, preparing for her Bat Mitzvah, told her mother I had a Jewish soul. The moment I attended my first Seder. The moment I attended my first Jewish wedding. And an entire week of moments I experienced while visiting Israel.

It was after that trip to Israel, while hanging my first Mezuzah, that I realized my professional mission of reaching out to young, unaffiliated Jews and emphasizing the importance of continuity was no longer strictly business.

I’d developed a personal connection to Judaism and the result was goosebumps all over my spirit and my brain.

It was that spiritual understanding with an intellectual anchor that taught me what it means to “just have faith.”

But conversion? Doesn’t that require a single “moment” when you know you’re sure? Don’t you need a solid religious stance to convert from? And don’t you have to be done asking questions first?

Conversion means change. Transformation. Becoming someone new. It’s disruption. It’s controversy. It’s complicated.

Was there a moment? Absolutely not. I thought about it for years. But at some point along the way, my questions moved from skeptical and analytical to hopeful and personal. The more I rolled the idea around, the scarier it felt. Without memories of my Bat Mitzvah or family kugel recipes to pass down, won’t I always be considered a fake? Will I have something to hide?

And what happens to the me that I am now? Do I have to bury her? Do I have to abandon my family and the non-religious traditions we share? Do I have to sign something that says I’ll stop listening to Cyndi Lauper’s twist on Christmas carols? Do I have to learn to curl my lip in disgust when someone orders shellfish in a restaurant, or can I confess my true feelings for all-you-can-eat shrimp cocktail?

Does conversion mean I have to stop questioning? Does it mean I’m expected to know all the answers?
 
The closest thing I ever had to a “moment” was when I realized these two things: I didn’t have to have answers for every question in order to start my conversion. And if I stop asking questions, I’ll likely never finish.

Every day brings new questions.

Some have been relatively small: While others prepared for family reunions and familiarity during Passover, I felt college-like, pre-test stress over all the details, trying to memorize every last one: Do’s, Don’ts, rules, rituals, how to set the table, how to run a Seder. 

Some have been bigger: Where, how, and how much of my conversion will I share along the way? What elements will remain entirely private? Which ones will only be shared with my inner-most circle? And at some point, will I have a template for what to share with everyone else, or will I continue to wrestle over if, what, and how to share during first dates and cocktail parties?

And some, quite honestly, have been mind-rocking. Those are the heart of this experience. They’re big questions with answers I can only find by just having faith. And I do.

Ari Lehman, scaring you since 1980

Ari Lehman scared the hell out of you back when you were a kid. After sneaking into a film audition, he landed the role of Jason Voorhees in the original Friday the 13th movie way back in 1980. The musically inclined scary guy from Connecticut relocated to Chicago in 2002 and formed a Jewish-tinged reggae-rock band called the Ari Ben Moses Band. His horror fans took notice and he unleashed upon them… FIRSTJASON! Today, his monster-metal band plays horror conventions worldwide.

So whether you’re a fan of scary movies, into punk rock or have, yourself, acted in Fiddler On the Roof, Ari Lehman is a Jew you should know!

1. What did you want to be when you grew up?
I have always wanted to be a singer and an actor. When I was around ten years old, went to an intercommunity camp in Westport, Connecticut, and got cast as Tevye in their production of Fiddler On the Roof even though I was half the height of most of the girls playing my daughters!

My entire family came out to see it, even my Nana and Papa from Brooklyn. It was an amazing moment. I brought the house down with "If I Were a Rich Man!” I have played in stadiums all over the world, but I doubt I will ever top that performance…

2. What do you love about what you do today?
Currently, I lead my monster-metal band, FIRST JASON, act in independent horror movies, compose and perform soundtracks for various film projects, and attend conventions to sign autographs for the fans of Jason Voorhees. The best part is the interaction with these dedicated fans.

3. What are you reading?
Hidden Faces, a novel by Salvador Dali, Meditation and Kabbalah by Aryeh Kaplan and Brando, a biography by Peter Manso

4. What's your favorite place to eat in Chicago?
Chicago Diner, Ante Prima and Tel Aviv Pizza

5. If money and logistical reality played no part, what would you invent?
An electromagnetic personal shield that rendered all firearms ineffective.

6. Would you rather have the ability to fly or ability to be invisible?
To Fly, to fly!

7. If I scrolled through your iPod, what guilty pleasure song would I find?
“Big Take Over,” Bad Brains and “The Brews,” NOFX.

8. What's your favorite Jewish thing to do in Chicago-in other words, how do you Jew?
I love to shop on Devon at the Jewish bakery and grocery store. I once found some kosher for Passover wine from France that was AMAZING there!

Stefanie 'fearlessly' riding a camel in Israel

I’ll be honest—when I first found out I would be going as a reporter on JUF’s Israel @ 60 Mission my first reaction was ‘wow, my job is awesome.’ My second reaction was a panic attack.

Here I was, being offered an unbelievably incredible once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be in Israel during its 60th anniversary, and I was totally, utterly freaked out. At the time, the trip seemed far enough into the future that I could safely say, “of course” and “thank you for the opportunity” and “I’m so excited,” pushing the fear, and the reality that I would eventually have to face that fear, far into the depths of the back of my mind. And it worked. Even in the weeks prior to the trip as I went through all the preparations, I felt excited, anxious maybe, but not afraid. It hit me when I started to pack.

 As images of suicide bombers and Qassam rockets filled my head, I tried to remind myself that I had been to Israel once before and felt totally safe—it didn’t help. Then I tried telling myself that more people have died in car accidents than terror attacks in Israel—it was no use.  Stef, I told myself, you know several people who live there every single day and people travel back and forth all the time. You just have a skewed perspective because you follow Israeli news so closely at work. Okay, I nodded to myself in understanding, but still I did not feel any better. 

 But somehow, fears, irrational thoughts and all, I packed my suitcase, grabbed my notepad and laptop and boarded the plane.

 As soon as I stepped onto the tarmac at Ben Gurion Airport, I started to feel a little calmer. ‘See Stef, you can do this.’

Mission participants stepping off the plane at Ben Gurion Airport

That night, Erev Yom HaZikaron, at a special ceremony at the Golani Junction—home to the Golani Brigade Museum, which commemorates the brigade which has earned reputation for its die-hard soldiers—we heard the biographies of the selfless Golani soldiers whose lives had been cut short while serving their country. The next morning at the Kinneret Cemetery, Joel Goldman introduced us to three pioneers of early Zionism who gave up everything, including their families in some cases, to come live on the land that called out to them. Suddenly, all my fears just seemed silly, selfish, unfounded in comparison.

But it wasn’t until the final night of the mission, as I stood at a concert among the thousands of soldiers in uniform at the Tse’elim IDF base that I finally understood.

Omri and Ivri, two brave soldiers at the Tse'elim base

These soldiers, most of them not even 20 years old, sang and swayed and danced together like they hadn’t a care in the world, when in reality, their responsibility to their country would likely bring them to a war zone in Gaza within weeks. Some had already suffered bullet wounds and injuries and would still have to return. Weren’t they totally, utterly freaked out?

Maybe. But they didn’t show it and they certainly weren’t going to let the fear stop them.

And that’s when I realized what Israel is all about—and it’s not Qassam rockets or suicide bombers. Where would we be if the Golani soldiers were too afraid to fight in the war of Independence, or the Six Day War? Or if the early Zionists had said, I’m too scared to leave the familiarity of home?

And where will we be if we let fear stop us from visiting our homeland, from feeling a part of the miracle that is Israel?

Want to know more about the trip? Check out my blog.