Forgive Him Lord, Mel Gibson Knows Not What He's Talking About

I know this is controversial, but let me explain.

I was 17 years old before I heard the word "kike" for the first time. It meant nothing. It happened at a summer camp for underprivileged girls where I was working as a counselor. One of my counselor colleagues, an Italian girl from Yonkers, informed me of the terminology. I can't remember the context, but it wasn't angry or tense in anyway. It was very matter-of-fact. She assumed that since I was Jewish, I knew all about Jews being kikes. I didn't.

This was about six months after freshman orientation at college where I became friendly with an Irish immigrants' daughter from Brooklyn who was in my math class. I was stunned to learn from her that Jews killed Christ. I had no idea.

This is what I did know. My father's sister had hired a Belgian refugee woman to care for us after school until my father came home from work the year that my mother died. She spoke French, had a daughter named Charlotte, and there were blue numbers tatooed on her forearm. My aunt whispered that Mrs. Stern had been in a concentration camp. I had no idea what a concentration camp was; only that when you said the words, you had to whisper them as if they were dirty.

The only non-Jewish children in the neighborhood were the sons and daughters of the building "supers" or the pizza parlor owners. Most of the building supers were Puerto Ricans, but in my class there was a Catholic girl whose father was a German immigrant. She invited me home after school one day. We had a very pleasant time, as I recall. When I came home, Mrs. Stern asked me where I'd been. I told her. When she heard the German-sounding surname of my school mate, Mrs. Stern asked "Is she Jewish?"

All hell broke loose. Mrs. Stern, ordinarily a rather cultured and refined woman became overwrought. In retrospect, I understand, but as an 8 year old I didn't. She sat me down and explained that I could not befriend this girl because no matter how nice she was, eventually her father would kill me and stuff me away in the basement forever.

When I was a young adult, I was out partying with my friends. Earlier in the evening we had gone to dinner and then to several bars. We ended up in a tiny apartment at which there were hundreds of people. I was a little drunk, and had smoked too many cigarettes and needed air. I went outside to sit on the front steps with a male friend. We were talking amiably when one or two friends of friends who had been with us earlier in the evening showed up at the party. They were VERY drunk. One of them started yelling at me, "Dirty Jew Go Home." Another one piped in, "Hitler was Right."

"What did you say," I yelled incredulously. This had never happened to me before. "You heard me you kike."

I had a glass of bourbon in my hand which I hurled at them. It shattered into a million pieces. I shattered too. Tears were streaming down my face but I got up to kill them with my bare hands. Someone pulled me away and the next thing I knew I was in a car being driven home.

A few hours later, one of the offenders called to apologize. "If there were more Jews like you, there wouldn't have been a Hitler."

"Fuck you," I responded.

By the time I reached 30, the women's liberation movement took hold and I was an early activist. Organized religion, especially patriarchal religion was offensive to my newfound sensibilities. Not being observant, I was ready to abandon the religion of my father. Before I did, though, I thought I'd better find out what I was rejecting.

I took courses, spent a summer at Hebrew University in Jerusalem, and eventually did a master's thesis on the Jewish roots of Christianity.

This is what I learned from the actual historical evidence that exists and Mr. Gibson ignores.

Jesus was an amazing figure centuries ahead of his time. He had charisma to spare and was an extraordinary leader; scholar, intellectual, possibly a physican but certainly a healer; and a political force to be reckoned with. He was gaining followers. His message: get rid of Rome and be better Jews. Jesus freaked out the Sanhedrin because he showed them for the hypocrites they were. If anyone could, Jesus could spark the overthrow of Roman occupation, reform the Temple and put himself on the throne of Judea. The Romans crucified him for this. Too bad. If Jesus had taken the throne of Judea and overthrown the yoke of Rome, September 11, 2001 would never have happened and 3,000 of my countrymen would still be alive, including my dentist's 30 year old son.

After Jesus's death, his little brother James took up his cause. The message remained the same: throw off occupation and be better Jews.

A full 60 years later, a Roman soldier named Paul, declared he had a vision. Born a pagan but now a self-described Jewish convert, Paul announced that Jesus came to him in this vision and said that all the stuff about the covenant G-d made with Moses was no longer necessary. There was a new idea. He started organizing and sending letters everywhere.

Jerusalem's world was 100 percent Jewish. Being Jewish was all the rage in that world. It was the thing to be, even among the Roman occupiers. The pagans flocked to be part of Paul's new idea. After all, Paul was one of them, he spoke their language and understood how wary they were of that circumcision thing. They called themselves Christians. Along comes the Holy Roman Emperor Constantine, the biggest pagan of them all who joins the Christians. Next thing you know, the world is Christian.

The biggest irony of all: the very entity that Jesus hoped to destroy, the Holy Roman Empire, is the very thing that spread his name to every corner of the globe. The problem, of course, they neglected to spread Jesus's doctrine. The doctrine spread by Rome was pagan Paul's Christian doctrine.

And another thing...Mary Magdalene. There is absolutely no evidence at all that she was a prostitute. That's a modern myth. Magdalene as prositute was concocted by pagan Paul's successors. In fact, the gospel of James which was rejected by Rome because it was too much like the original Jesus doctrine, suggests that Mary Magdalene was Jesus's wife. It makes sense to me.

Now, there is Mel Gibson's Passion of Christ , ostensibly, the "real" story. Bullshit. It is the story of Jesus as interpreted by pagan Paul, Matthew, Luke, and John. Don't even get me started on the Book of Acts, one of the most antisemitic tracts ever written, filled with half-truths and out right lies.

Gibson, the latest follower of pagan Paul philosophy, has ignored the real Jesus and given us a new Hollywoodized version. Here are a few others who share my sentiments: Larry Miller,Homer Simpson, Maureen Dowd

Hey Mel, if you really want to follow Jesus......become Jewish!

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Exactly Alike and Completely Different at the Same Time

My twin sister Bonnie and I are exactly alike and completely different at exactly the same time.

I sometimes think Bonnie and I are the proverbial chalk and cheese. We fight constantly, even now when it doesn't really matter anymore. No one on this planet makes me angrier, but no one makes me laugh harder either. The few times I have laughed so hard that I feel I am about to lose consciousness, it has invariably been in response to something Bonnie has said or done. There I am turning blue, unable to catch my breath and she is screaming, "Stop laughing."

Unfortunately, being twins, we are sometimes compared. Of course we are fraternal twins so such comparisons are kind of useless. When we were growing up, Bonnie was placed in the loveable category; Sharon in the admired category; and I was the weird one. I always lost those competitions, but never my sister's love.

I have always seen myself reflected in Bonnie's eyes. When she says I am okay, then I feel okay. When she says I am not okay, I argue vehemently that she's wrong, but I don't feel okay. Her approval has always meant more to me than anyone's except maybe my father's.

The night my father died, I was in the midst of a bitter argument with him. I don't remember what it was about anymore. Looking back now, I think my father saw himself in me and was trying to save me from repeating his emotional mistakes. I was 15 years old and having none of that. After the battle raged for two days straight, my twin begged me to end the war. For some reason, I listened.

My father was in the living room watching television. I made my way to his side, kissed him on the cheek and said I was sorry. He always forgave me. He loved me best. Thirty minutes later, he was dead. If I hadn't listened to Bonnie, I would have never forgiven myself. I owe Bonnie for that.

With rare exceptions, both of my sisters and I accept each other's differences and love each other unconditionally. When we say that when one of us is hurt, the other two bleed, it is true. We've always been close, but Sharon's problems have deepened our relationship. Bonnie has become a full-time advocate for Sharon which has been an enormous relief for me. We still fight. We never agree. I handle things one way; she handles it another. She insists her way is the only way; I am never that certain. It's a constant dance between us; but she is true and good and ever kind.

I love my sister Bonnie. Nowadays, she has finally given me unconditional approval. The one constant throughout my life has been the love we have for each other.

Something to Think About

Been thinking about family a lot.

Sunday morning I was having my coffee while watching the pundits pontificate and the phone rang. The sound sent shivers down my spine because my sisters and I had words on Friday and Saturday. I assumed the phone call signaled bad news about Sharon, who had been the cause of our discontent....surprise. I was wrong.

The phone call was from my friend Nancy. I met Nancy when she was still a college student in Washington, D.C. She was an intern in the congressional committee office for which I worked. Nancy was everything I was not: popular, pretty, thin, and very smart. I admired her and was jealous of her in the same breath. We'd spend hours on the telephone deconstructing everything about our lives. She used to tell me how glamorous she thought I was. I wanted to believe her, said I did, but secretly thought she was nuts. Eventually, she went to law school, got married, had two kids, and got divorced.

She seemed to move forward in her life while I remained in place treading water. We stayed in touch for decades and then we sort of moved in different directions and fell out of each other's lives. A few years ago, thanks to the Internet, we were reunited. Her children are now both young adults in their 30s; the same age as my obsession. The last time I saw either of them, one was a squealing infant in my arms; the other a precocious toddler who followed me everywhere.

Nancy never remarried, though I think she has a boyfriend. She never talks about her life anymore. I ask about her but she offers very little. I think she feels embarrassed that life has treated her more kindly than it has me. Maybe not. I tell her about mine. There are few triumphs to report, especially lately. The last time we spoke before this, I began to cry when describing my sister's latest health crisis. Nancy responded with a stern request. "Don't do that."

She was in town; she often comes to visit her daughter who lives about 25 miles from me. She never contacts me but this time she did. She apologized. I assured her I didn't expect her to visit me. She listened to me and then I insisted on asking what was going on in her life. She offered no more than she usually does. Our girlhood phone conversations about everything, everybody, and life are distant memories.

Nancy knew me when I was all possibility. I love Nancy. She loves me. We are family to each other even though life has taken us on different paths.

So the obsession attained 30 years on February 13, 2004. In honor of it, his hometown radio station ran interviews with his family. [Robbie Williams - A Biography, with audio from his Mum and Dad]It was very revealing. I glimpsed a loving family. I'd always wondered about the sister that no one talks about. I was relieved to hear the obsession's mother go on at length about her daughter. She loves them both.

His mother is a lot like me, I think. She's determined; but she's also made a good home for her children. I think we might've been friends if we'd ever met. I like her already for the way she talked of her daughter. I already admire her son. He seems decent and kind and he loves his mother. I know why now.

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Yahoo! News - WE BREAST OUR CASE: TV VIEWER SUES

Yahoo! News - WE BREAST OUR CASE: TV VIEWER SUES
When Justin Timberlake uncovered Janet Jackson's breast during the Super Bowl they both acted like spoiled brats but it did have the desired effect: lots of publicity for fading popstars in desperate need of attention. I suppose Timberlake is jealous of all the media attention his former girlfriend Brittany Spears got when she married and divorced in under 12 hours. Janet's behavior is probably sibling rivalry run amok given that her big brother's latest media frenzy is for being a pedophile.

But who was really harmed by this behavior?

Once on a weekend visit to my sister's house in another city, I accidentally happened on my brother-in-law emerging stark naked from the shower. I saw everything -- the entire package. I was mortified. So was he. There was no lasting harm. And neither would there be any lasting harm to any single living human who happened upon the 10 second display of Janet Jackson's naked mammary nipple.

It was a stupid, hostile stunt. That should be the end of it. But leave it to someone to exploit it for financial gain. If this case is taken seriously, it is even more evidence of the moral bankruptcy of America's courts which have let murderers go free as long as they are rich and famous; imprisoned innocent people for not being rich or famous; and unilaterally ignoring the Constitution to give the highest elective office in the land to someone who didn't win.

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Yoko and Oprah

There were a couple of popular culture milestones this week. First, there was the Oprah Winfrey telecast of all the festivities associated with her 50th birthday celebration. Second, this week marks the 40th anniversary of the Beatles first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show.

Each of these has special meaning for me.

When I lived in Washington, D.C., if the television was positioned just right and weather permitting, I could sometimes tune in WBAL on channel 11. Oprah was a television reporter then and I sometimes caught a glimpse of her. Who knew? I’ve watched her career take off and rocket once she left Baltimore and moved to Chicago.

Oprah has had many incarnations through the years; we all have I suppose, but hers are more powerful than most. I remember rooting for her when a chance remark about eating hamburger during a program resulted in her being unfairly accused by the Texas cattle industry of single-handedly stopping people from eating meat. The charges were ridiculous. The lawsuit should have been thrown out. It was frivolous. I suppose someone in Texas wanted the attention.

She won the lawsuit. I was thrilled. But the victory sparked a new Oprah incarnation; one that gives me the creeps. Because she can afford the best money can buy, she acquired a high-priced jury consultant who has become her life coach. And like the cook, physical trainer, and countless other Oprah hangers-on, they’ve all become famous in their own right.

The high-priced jury consultant became Oprah's full-time life coach. No fool, he convinced Oprah that she was endowed with special knowledge. The life coach convinced Oprah that she no longer needed to question anything because she had all the answers.

This incarnation spawned what she termed, Change Your Life TV and oh my G-d, I saw a smart, funny, woman transform into a demagogue before my eyes. To be fair, there were some good things that came out of this. There was the Angel Network, which was helping the less fortunate; and there were all those authors she helped; and the millions she got to read books. Yet, nine out of ten of those books featured themes on betrayal, incest, and violent abuse. Oprah’s Book Club choices are not the kind of books I normally choose to read on a snowy winter’s afternoon. To each his own.

For years, I taped her television show while I was at work to watch later on. I looked forward to watching her. After the trial in Texas and Change Your Life TV I stopped. There was nothing there for me anymore. The life coach, though, has his own television show; a lucrative book deal for himself and his son; and thanks to Oprah he is now a multimillionaire.

The only reason I saw Oprah's birthday is because the cable company to which I subscribe offers hundreds of channels, including a Canadian station that telecasts Oprah at 7 p.m. I was flipping the channels and there it was.

Let me explain why this resonates. When I hit 50, it was a non-event. I have a fraternal twin, Bonnie. On our 50th birthday, we had dinner at our sister Sharon’s. Bonnie’s husband bought me a beautiful gold bracelet. I don't even think we had a cake.

I had moved to New Jersey from Washington, D.C. when I turned 41. After decades of casual acquaintances and a few close friendships in Washington, D.C. my social life just evaporated after the move to a new state. It was as if in New Jersey, I no longer existed. I became invisible to everyone but my sisters and a few childhood friends still living in the area.

I’ve worked in the same university for 18 years. I’ve organized monthly dinners with colleagues; gone out to lunch; invited people to my home for brunch; invited people with no place to go to our family holiday gatherings; invited people to my home for dinner; and yet my social life is non-existent. In all this time, I’ve been invited to two dinner parties…count ‘em….two. For whatever reason, I got the message. I've stopped making the effort. It's easier than always feeling left out or ignored.

In contrast, Oprah’s 50th was an all-day event. She’s got lots of famous, important friends. They were all there. Celine Dion and Tina Turner sang for her; she danced with John Travolta; she was feted by her closest girlfriends ranging from Nicole Kidman and Rita Wilson (Tom Hanks’ wife) to Coretta Scott King and Diane Sawyer. Good for her.

It wasn’t just that it was televised in a perverse kind of boast, but the lavish trappings to furnish that single 24 period, cost millions of dollars. What really ticks me off about sharing all that was the sheer excess in execution. I looked at the perfect bouquets of roses; and the fabulous matching table linens and custom-made dinnerware; and I thought if I had the money they spent, I could build a place that had a fully accessible bathroom, kitchen, and bedroom so my sister Sharon could live at home and not in a nursing home. I thought if I had the money they spent on the individualized portraits and silver frames for each guest, I could hire the round-the-clock attendants to care for Sharon. I thought if I could have the money they spent on the food for the parties, I could buy the latest electric wheelchair that goes up and down stairs for my sister Sharon.

This spectacle was Oprah as Marie Antionette. She was boasting and describing and sharing her celebrations and all the while I am crying that I have no bread and she is telling me to eat cake.

Which brings me to the Beatles. I remember the Beatles. They arrived in America just as my father died; just as John F. Kennedy was shot, right after I saw Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald dead in front of my eyes.

Yoko Ono was interviewed in the British newspaper The Independent this week in a sort of commemoration, I suppose. (http://news.independent.co.uk/people/profiles/story.jsp?story=486861). She destroyed the innocence that was the Beatles. According to the interview, she is aware of the disdain in which she is held but is hard-pressed to understand why. I’ll tell her. It’s because John Lennon’s death enriched her beyond her wildest dreams and she sought to separate him from his son by his first wife. That son had to go to court to get a settlement of his father’s wealth. That’s why Yoko.

I now see a terrible link between Oprah and Yoko.