Processing Feelings

I’m angry.

I’m angry that when I got to my synagogue on Sunday morning to teach, I had to knock because the doors were locked.

I’m angry that two of my most lively sixth grade boys sat quietly and subdued and they didn’t have to speak for me to know they were wondering if they were going to be next.

I’m angry that our president cast blame on the security guard for not taking out the gunman when four trained police officers were injured in the attempt.

I’m angry that Rose Mallinger survived the Holocaust only to be shot at 97 as she gave thanks in her Pennsylvania temple on Shabbat morning in 2018.

I’m angry that two other heinous hate crimes were committed this week, but no one knows about them because a genocide eclipsed everything.

I’m angry that three of my five students didn’t even show up for class.

And I’m angry because I came back to school to finish my degree and go to Cantorial school; I’ve chosen to dedicate my life to becoming a Jewish clergy member and on Saturday afternoon, my parents, who are the reason I am Jewish and my biggest supporters called me and asked me implicitly if I was still sure I wanted to pursue it as a career.

The answer to their question: You’re damn right I do, but right now…

I’m angry.