A Personal History of Rarely Fasting
By TODD HASAK-LOWY
1969. The five-month old me unknowingly gets the
breast-feeder’s exemption. There is a God.
1975. I learn about fasting for the first time. Still working through the
trauma of weaning four years earlier, I quietly decide to give it a try. During
my fast, I effortlessly identify with Bert’s pain and loneliness, which is at
once undeniable and inescapable, despite Ernie’s cheery companionship. I last
38 minutes, leading to the sobering experience of eating cereal (Rice Krispies,
most likely) opposite The Electric
Company instead of the aforementioned Sesame
Street. Much pensive thumb-sucking all that afternoon.
1978. I give it another try. Restless after four very long hours, my father
suggests I go out and play with the neighborhood’s well-fed gentile youth (he
refers to them as the “other” kids without a trace of irony). Against my
better, ominously lightheaded judgment I join an intense game of Kill the Guy,
already in full swing. Eleven minutes later I wake up in a pool of my own
vomit, which, thankfully, is smaller than any other pool of vomit I have ever
woken up in before or since.
1982. Four months following my Bar Mitzvah and only two nights prior to Kol
Nidre, I conclude there is no God, an act galvanized by M*A*S*H's decision to have Colonel Blake’s plane shot down over the
Sea of Japan. The fact that I only learn about his tragic death for the first
time more than seven years after its original airing—along with my burgeoning
conviction that I live in a hopelessly broken world that cares little for
justice—haunts me during services forty-eight hours later. Afterwards, in the
dull sodium glow of our temple’s parking lot, I approach my mother, a woman who
has an actual autographed photo of Alan Alda on her vanity, in an effort to
finally understand Colonel Blake’s fate. To her great credit, she admits she
has no answers.
1987. On a kibbutz located along Israel’s northern border, miles from the
nearest synagogue, I enjoy my day off from work in the banana fields with a
leisurely breakfast composed largely of cinnamon toast and hot chocolate. That
afternoon I play tennis with a fellow Zionist apostate. In deference to the
day, and in keeping with our tradition of competing under pseudonyms taken from
Jewish history, the pious Rabbi Akiva (not me) takes down a gritty but
overmatched Martin Buber (me), 7-5, 6-3.
1990. In an effort to: alleviate the guilt I feel following my announcement
that I will not attend services, ride out as painlessly as possible my latest
effort at fasting, and complete a reading assignment due later that week, I
retire to the weathered plastic Chaise lounge located on the small wooden deck
of my recently separated parents’ house and attempt to read the thankfully
short The Death of Ivan Ilych in its entirety. Between unintended,
hunger-induced naps on the surprisingly comfortable recliner, I read dutifully,
missing completely the spiritually-informed connections in the text drawn
between suffering and compassion. I last until a quarter to five, at which time
I eat so much egg salad (straight from the bowl while standing in front of the
ark-like refrigerator’s open door) that my soon-to-be disappointed mother will
have to prepare more before company arrives.
1995. Never one to buck the group’s excitement, I agree to do my part to put
the “high” back in “high holidays.” Heroically calling upon my knowledge of
Hebrew, I help my siblings and their friends compose a new prayer: “Blessed are
you, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for providing us with the kind green (ha-yarok
ha-adiv).” Needless to say, I do not fast in 1995. Impossible to reproduce
spiritual insights follow, I think.
1998. Now the father of a five-month old myself, I figure it’s time to get
serious and commit to fasting once and for all. Only our infant Jewess wakes up
at 5:45a.m., totally derailing my plan to wake up well after 12 p.m. Her
breast-feeding mother, also known as my wife, who fasts year after year with
little difficulty, eats without ceremony, this according to her doctor’s
advice. I change diapers, almost finding relief from my weary headache in the
sweet scent of my daughter’s waste.
2001. Ninety days after my house burned down and still in September of that
horrible year, I have no appetite. My family and a few close friends gather
around a new kitchen table in a new apartment, where we actually talk about the
Book of Job. We wonder if that text invites satire. We conclude that it
probably does not. Before going to bed that night, I forget myself and eat a
handful of potato chips. I conclude that God couldn’t possibly care.
2004-2006. My plan of becoming a Jewish Studies professor in order to both get
extra days off teaching during the Fall semester and assuage (via an extended,
rigorous intellectual engagement with most, if not all, things Jewish) any
lingering guilt I may experience due to lack of religious observance is dashed
by my wife’s act of one-upping me in the professional Jew department when she
becomes Executive Director of our synagogue. Her decision not only forces me to
take on extra domestic responsibilities during these otherwise carefree Days of
Awe (since she essentially disappears in September and October for weeks at a
time) but even worse she suddenly decides to seriously reconsider her entire
relationship to Judaism and Jewish practice. In pointless protest, I bitterly
overeat on the Day of Atonement for each of the next three years (pork ribs in
2005). I then decide (in ’06) to forgive her (in my head) for forcing me to be
such a bad Jew and even worse person. Next, I ask her (in my head) for
forgiveness for being so selfish as to blame her for having professional
ambitions and a lingering spiritual hunger. Finally, I forgive myself (almost
out loud) for putting myself through any of this.
2007. Back in Israel, this time with my two daughters, we observe Yom Kippur
the way Theodor Herzl intended: by acquiring small bicycles so that I our
children might be able to take advantage of the (unmistakably post-apocalyptic)
absence of cars on every single street throughout the Hebrew republic. My wife
and I try to blend in by eating a hearty breakfast and lunch like it’s any
other day.
2008. Strategy still uncertain at this time. According to reports, decision to
fast or not to fast will be made following conclusions drawn regarding the
possibility that any God-directed activity may influence the outcome of the
coming presidential election. Latest polls read against larger convictions
regarding justice in the world recommend making reservations at neighborhood
BBQ joint.