Shalom Tzvi Shore - Die Trying

Die Trying

Shalom Tzvi Shore

One day, I'll be perfect.

Until then, I'll be funny.

Contents

I

ve wanted to write a book for a long time. But I have the self-discipline of a cow, as my brother would say. No long-term fulfillment of any dream or resolution of mine has ever manifested in a linear fashion Im like a butterfly, always fluttering from one interest to the next. So the fact that I have enough materials to assemble into anything reminiscent of a book, can only be the result of a retroactive accident.

It all started one morning as I was coming out of a few months of depression, where my creativity had all but dried dried up, like some metaphorical prune. I would still wake up in the morning feeling like shit, and on this particular morning, I was awakened to a video created for a crowdfunding campaign for Aish Hatorah, aiming to raise $2 million under the pretext that #AishisAwesome.

This ticked me off for a number of reasons. Not only was the campaigns creative frightfully unimaginative an affront to my copywriting sensibilities; the entire premise, that Aish was indeed awesome, was a personal affront to my sensibilities. Watching person after person, including my ex-father in law, tell my why they thought Aish was awesome, while I lay in bed feeling like shit under circumstances that could be traced back to Aish without too much difficulty, was too much to handle.

I was inspired to create another scathing parody book cover, like the ones I had created a few months earlier, but this time I accompanied the graphic with a short written statement in the description. I couldnt predict the amount of response this would garner. I got so much feedback from this post, both positive and negative, that it spurred me on to create many more. Each heated debate in the comments, which I felt I answered with the skill of a verbal ninja armed with way too much Jewish knowledge, prompted additional creatives and accompanying essays.

I was on fire, egged on by all the attention. These bite-sized rants, fueled by the dopamine rush of a bunch of likes and comments, were what kept me going. For a while, all the posts were negative, sarcastic criticisms of Judaism as a religion, accompanied by foul language and very little regard for the collective I was insulting. I was furious, and I still feel the points needed to be said, although I acknowledge they could have been softened a little. Or a lot, depending on who you asked.

After a few days of this, someone prompted me in the comments to ask what no one else was asking what happened? What caused a shining star of the Kiruv world devoted, learned, and raised in the ideal Kiruv household, to end up so far, philosophically, from that world view? It was a fair question, and it prompted a series of very personal essays describing my lifes narrative as I saw them relating to the answer.

I wrote a large portion of the autobiographical posts in a single trip from Toronto to Baltimore. It started in the hospital synagogue in Toronto, where I had found myself on whim, placing my laptop on the Bima and typing away. It continued long into the night on the 14 hour bus ride back home. And it evolved over the course of several weeks as I posted individual chapters to Facebook to an overwhelmingly positive response.

I couldnt have predicted the type of feedback Id get for baring these personal aspects of my life. My biggest haters from the anti-religion posts turned into some of my biggest fans for the biographical ones, egging me on. People called me a hero in the comments and in private messages, and I achieved mini-celebrity status within my circle of friends. This was a baffling turn of events, and I struggled to come to terms with being called brave for something that came naturally to me. At the same time, I was honored and touched when people told me my writings were impacting them.

Multiple requests were made to organize these thoughts into a coherent fashion, not the haphazard and piecemeal way that Facebook and myself were serving them up. The result is this compilation . I considered just putting together the story part of it all this was much more palpable for most people. But Ive decided to include my rants as well in a separate section of this book, regardless of how offensive some people perceived them to be; they still represent a core part of my journey.

To me, the stories represent the emotional backdrop to my struggle, while the philosophical questions represent the cognitive and existential struggles that accompanied experiences. Left and right brain, if you will. Feel free to pick and choose that chapters that interest you, but Ive found that most people had a lot more respect for my philosophical questions once they were framed with the perspective of my life story, so I recommend you start with those.

At the time of writing these essays, it felt like I was getting angrier with every post. I felt compelled to write, but it wasnt making me feel any better. I was told by others that I was being unnecessarily antagonistic and overly negative, that it would do me no good, all this hashing up the past. Then suddenly, it was over. I ran out of things to write, and started compiling and reviewing my past writings. I felt like I had gotten rid of something, like there was a great ball of anger that had somehow been released. The catharsis was not noticeable on an incremental level, but looking back at the whole experience its clear something shifted.

There you have it. An accidental book. Im putting it out there without any clear goal other than the hope that it might help, inspire, or support someone in their own journey and struggles. If theres one thing Ive learned from this process is that I have very little estimate of what will actual strike a chord with othes, nor any coherent way to predict what will actually gain any amount of attention.

Cast your bread upon the waters, King Solomon says, and we all know what an awesomely smart dude he was , and how good bread tastes when its mixed with water. So go forth and prosper. And God bless.

I'm not as self-aware as I think I am.

I

hated Morah Tova for about 12 years. I was proud of how much I hated her. My mother says she was a frustrated artist. I remember telling her she was not invited to my birthday party. She seemed unfazed.

I hated going to kindergarten. I would cry, I am told, every morning on the way there. My daughter does the same thing now, and I feel terrible for passing on the injustice to the next generation.

I missed my mother. I just wanted to be with her, to be home. Where things were familiar and I understood what was happening. The kids would open their mouths and say things, and I only kind of understood my mother tongue was English and they only spoke Hebrew.

One day one of the kids told me hed seen my mother pass by on the street below, and that shed something at him. I didnt understand the word, it must have been smiled or waved or something. I desperately leaned against the bars of the courtyard hoping Id catch a glimpse and shed something at me too.

There was this one absolutely tiny kid in the class. Even smaller than myself. I still remember his name - Pinchas. Everyone used to pick on him, call him shitty names, beat him up. Evil arises in human from a young age. I used to join in, at least in spirit and the name calling. It always feels good on some level to be the victimizer instead of the victim.

I felt guilty about it for years afterwards. He who calls someone else a nickname has no place in the world to come, says the Talmud. I had once called him a name. Was my entire purpose on earth forfeited because of one action at the age of four? I could only assume so.