The last of the chapters to interweave poetry and prose, Chapter 9, is entitled "We All Stood Together." The chapter takes its title from a signature poem by the author, referring to the experience of Jewish women and men at Sinai, a poem which is now included in two prayerbooks and many contemporary Jewish anthologies. The chapter focuses on a variety of aspects of the tradition, from the experience at Sinai, to our relationship to the actual Torah scroll, from an unpleasant encounter with a caterer at a Jewish wedding, to eating matzah on a commuter train, to a reexamination of the Biblical wife of Lot.
A number of years ago a dear friend, Rachel Adler, wrote an article for Moment magazine in which she analyzed some of the biblical passages that precede the giving of the Torah: men are enjoined, as part of their spiritual preparation for the encounter with the Divine: "Do not go near a woman." Rachel had essentially the same reaction to this that I had had as a young college student studying The Ethics of the Fathers--the pain of suddenly realizing you're not being addressed, the pain of being excluded from the tradition. But this expression of misogyny was a far more visceral and profound blow than the one that I had found in a rabbinic text--this was in the Bible itself and moreover it occurred in the midst of the holiest moment the Jewish people were to share with God. Since women were not included in this biblical passage, Rachel questioned with considerable pain whether we as women were in fact present at Sinai at all. And if we were not addressed, and we were not present, then were we even a part of the covenant with God?
I read this article in the company of friends who met monthly at that time for a Jewish feminist theology group. The group was somewhat weighted in favor of scholars, academics, rabbis. Though they made it clear that they respected me, I frequently felt inadequate. This particular winter evening, in the overheated Upper West Side apartment, I remember feeling dismayed and even a bit frightened that my feminist compatriates seemed to me quieter than usual, slower to jump in with arguments, refutations. (Later, on more careful examination of the text, it turned out that the offending words excluding women are in fact not part of God's message to Moses, rather Moses adds them for good measure when he relays God's words to the people.) But none of us saw that initially. There seemed to be no ready response.
I couldn't believe they were willing to consider this, I could hardly control my passion. "I refuse to entertain the notion that we weren't there. I won't hear of it, I won't accept it. Whatever happened, whatever pivotal, actual or mythic experience there was, it was our experience as fully as it was their experience. Maybe we have no account of it in our voice, maybe we have to recall or reconstruct or imagine what that moment was for us, but for me the premise that we were present is unshakable, nonnegotiable."
It was already late when I left the group to meet a friend with whom I was visiting overnight. It was bitterly cold, my blood was racing from the evening's discussion and my friend the insomniac, knowing how I love to dance, said, on a lark, "I've always wanted to take you to Studio 54--how about tonight?" And on a lark, I replied, "Sure." So we headed for the famous disco, the strobe lights flashing, the music splitting my ears, the rhythm vibrating from inside me, the insistent bass completely overcoming me. I danced till I had no breath left to dance, soaking through the woolen turtleneck sweater, the high leather boots I had worn to ward off the frigid January air. Blissfully emptied of energy, I was ready to call it a night. Sometime between three in the morning and seven in the morning, the intellectual argument with Rachel's article, the emotional wrestling with my feminist friends and the physical release of the music and the dancing combined to wake me from my sleep on my friend's pull-out couch in the living room. I sat up and wrote about Sinai . . .
My brother and I were at Sinai
He kept a journal
of what he saw
of what he heard
Of what it all meant to him
I wish I had such a record
of what happened to me there
It seems like every time I want to write
I can't
I'm always holding a baby
one of my own
or one for a friend
always holding a baby
so my hands are never free
to write things down
And then
as time passes
the particulars
the hard data
the who what when where why
slip away from me
and all I'm left with is
the feeling
But feelings are just sounds
the vowel barking of a mute
My brother is so sure of what he heard
after all, he's got a record of it
consonant after consonant after consonant
If we remembered it together
we could recreate holy time
sparks flying