Seeking a Jewish ‘Reality’ for the YouTube generation
While the suits of the Jewish-American foundation circuit were banging their heads on their office desks, grappling for ways to engage an increasingly secular, drifting Diaspora youth, 28-year-old Jessie Kahnweiler, a loud Atlanta native with a Shirley Temple “Jewfro,” walked onto the scene in a pickle hat and made a crack about her pimps ’n’ hoes-themed bat mitzvah.
The suits caught on soon enough. Late in 2011, Kahnweiler, who had recently moved to Los Angeles and was working odd jobs in the film industry, scored a $40,000 grant from the Six Points Fellowship. The arts fellowship, according to its director, Josh Feldman, is an offshoot of the Foundation for Jewish Culture, built on “the realization that culture is … a major portal for meeting these young Jewish adults who are no longer going to synagogue.”
Kahnweiler was the New York fellowship’s first L.A. gamble, its first filmmaker and arguably now its most famous export. Her 11-part series, “Dude, Where’s My Chutzpah?” — filmed using the Six Points grant money plus a few thousand dollars from crowd-funding Web site Jewcer — has amassed around 300,000 views collectively on YouTube.
This makes her grant-givers giddy. “Ninety percent of those were watched on mobile devices,” Feldman said. He believes this “confirms that young Jewish adults are looking for content and ways to engage in Jewish life. And when a project is made that actually speaks to them and their generation, they will watch it the way they view content — which often is on their phone.”
The “Chutzpah” series followed Kahnweiler on a bouncy, messy spiritual journey from her bubbe’s funeral to an L.A. synagogue to a Holocaust survivor’s porch patio to the Holy Land and back, as she attempted to conquer the question: What does my Judaism mean to me? Until the 20-something could find a way to “live Jewish” for at least a year, according to the storyline, she would be cut off from the grand Jewish fortune that her bubbe had left behind.
If that sounds a little on the dorky side, she kind of thought so, too.
“I really half-assed my pitch,” Kahnweiler said of applying to the fellowship. “I was like, ‘I’m never going to get this. I’m the worst Jew.’ It was sort of like, OK, let me make something about being Jewish, so I’ll cover bagels, I’ll cover temples in L.A. — it wasn’t from a personal place at all.”
And when, much to her shock, she was crowned a Six Points fellow, Kahnweiler said, “It was just dread. Like, ‘Oh, great. What the hell am I going to do?’ ”
But after some nudging from Feldman to take the creative process more slowly and allow herself a research phase, Kahnweiler’s fictional journey toward Jewishness began butting into her own reality.
Just months after her on-screen bubbe died, Kahnweiler said, her real-life grandmother passed away as well. And although the latter wasn’t the cranky old tradition-monger portrayed in the film (“I swear she died so she could get me alone in a room with a Jewish doctor,” Kahnweiler says on-screen), her own bubbe’s death did, in a way, help bring out her inner chutzpah.
“My grandma would always smile at me in this way whenever I would be loud and crazy,” Kahnweiler said in a phone interview. “I feel her smile all the time — and it’s especially when I’m making noise and making a ruckus. That’s what my grandma would be proud of.”
For the spiritual climax of the “Chutzpah” series, Kahnweiler hits Israel like an untamed Yankee in a spotted blue sundress, a kiddie backpack and an oversized hair bow. She skips through the tear gas at the West Bank separation wall, hitting on Israeli soldiers and Palestinian activists alike, and wheels a watermelon around Jerusalem’s Old City in a baby carriage. In one scene, Kahnweiler dresses up like an Orthodox Jewish man in order to enter the strictly male prayer section of the Western Wall. In another, she takes shots at a Tel Aviv nightclub until dawn, then runs toward the ocean, screaming up at God: “Come on, reveal yourself! Burn my bush!”
“I meet a lot of self-hating Jews in L.A.,” she said over the phone. “They’re like, ‘Ugh, I’m Jewish.’ And it’s like, well, yeah, you are that kind of Jewish. But I’m not that kind of Jewish. I’m sexy, inquisitive, dangerous — why can’t that be Jewish? Why does my Judaism have to be allergies and overeating?”
In Israel, Kahnweiler said, she witnessed a different approach. “You meet all these people that are like, ‘I’m passionate, and I’m sexy, and I’m a risk-taker — I’m an Israeli.’ I think that was the turning point for me, when I shot in Israel, and I realized, ‘Oh — that can be Jewish.’ ”
Although “Dude, Where’s My Chutzpah?” never lands on a definitive answer for what it means to “live Jewish,” as it sets out to do, its many parts do add up to a greater sense of awareness for both Kahnweiler and her followers. And now that the series is over, the filmmaker’s openness and curiousness toward herself and strangers — her ultimate incarnation of living as a nouveau Jew — is apparent in everything she does.
Kahnweiler’s 2013 follow-up series, “White Noise,” watches her run around Los Angeles, conducting racially themed street interviews with topics such as “Why do black guys want to bang me?” and “Can a white chick be a Latino day laborer?” They sound pretty bad at first — girl knows how to troll — but the videos are surprisingly warm and nuanced, and reveal loads about our own preconceptions.
Her moments of comedic relief are never predictable but always distinctly Kahnweiler. She’ll raise her eyebrows halfway up her forehead, stretch her mouth sheepishly across her face and kind of cock her head, as if to say, “Don’t hate me ’cause I’m ignorant.”
But she embraces ignorance, and stereotypes — if only as a weapon against apathy. If the other Angelenos shuffling past the Latino day laborers and homeless guys on Skid Row are the realistic ones, Kahnweiler would rather approach the world from a clean slate of cluelessness. So she kicks it outside Home Depot for a day and asks a man named Jose what kind of job he would have if he were king of the world.
“It’s difficult to answer,” he says. “Well, I’m a difficult woman,” she replies. “Welcome.”
Kahnweiler’s most-viewed short to date is her most recent, and her most controversial: an anecdotal piece titled “Meet My Rapist.” In the film, Kahnweiler is flirting with vendors at a farmers market when she runs into a dude (or more a beard in a hoodie) who raped her eight years ago while she was studying abroad in Vietnam. So she takes her rapist on a tour of her current life, including to a family dinner and a job interview.
Avi Leibovic: Guardian Angel of the Streets
Stand on any corner in Hancock Park or Beverlywood, says Avi Leibovic, and within 10 blocks you can find Orthodox teenagers engaged in weekly poker games, drug use, underage drinking and reckless sex.
Not much has changed since Leibovic was a teenager in L.A.’s Orthodox community 15 years ago.
Now 32, a lawyer, rabbi and father of six, Leibovic has made it his life’s mission to find these youth and to pull them back toward a life where they can envision a future with regular employment, a strong sense of self and a sincere love of Yiddishkeit.
Five years ago, Leibovic was approached by the prodigal son of a prominent Orthodox family for help and inspiration. Soon, their one-on-one Torah study grew into a larger group, made up mostly of recent alumni of Neve Zion, the yeshiva outside Jerusalem where Leibovic had formative experiences as a teen and young adult.
That group grew into Aish Tamid, a nonprofit that now has a staff of part-time counselors, therapists, social workers and rabbis that in the last five years has served 400 young men and teens.
At a recent free workshop in Excel that Aish Tamid offered in a mid-Wilshire office building, Leibovic is working the room, making sure everyone is set up and liberally slapping on warm handshakes, high fives and “Howah YOUs.”
He looks tired but energized, with rings of red around eyes that are the same color as his trim auburn beard. His large black velvet kippah sits low across his forehead.
Leibovic, a doting perfectionist, teaches Torah, runs a Friday night service and holds court at a “tisch” at his home, where dozens show up every Shabbos for songs and inspirational story-telling. His “guys” are anything from hard-core addicts to kids who just didn’t fit the yeshiva mold, and he helps them finish school, find jobs, go clean, reconcile with family or get back into Judaism.
Last year Leibovic took a sabbatical from his job in his family’s law firm to build Aish Tamid’s infrastructure, but he is now back at work full time. He sets aside every night from 5:30-8 p.m. for his wife and their 6-year-old triplets and three younger children.
And from 8 p.m. on, and often well into the morning, he’s there for his guys.
He can do it because he gets them. He knows their insecurities and their haunts. He speaks their language — from his dude-laced lingo with a Brooklyn accent to his knowledge of the latest music.
“If not for Avi, I would be wandering the streets of Brooklyn,” says Yitzy, a 17-year-old who now has a job and is working toward getting his high school diploma.
Leibovic has never taken a salary from Aish Tamid, and he admits the work is taking a toll on him and his family.
But he’s sticking with it.
“If you give the kids time and if you give them love, if you give them the opportunity to express themselves in a way that is not cookie-cutter, you see tremendous success,” he says. “Guys who have been written off by their schools, their family and their community, we find that we are able to rekindle their aish tamid [eternal flame].”
For information call (323) 634-0505 or email to firstname.lastname@example.org.