A new way to look at comparisons?

Teaching at a Jewish conference, 2018

One of the things that I’ve known about myself since childhood is that, while I enjoy testing and bettering myself through the things I do — drumming, bicycle racing and other pursuits — I have never been a huge fan of competing against others in most things.

I’ve never known why, and most of the time it hasn’t felt important to know why. It was always enough to know that this was how I felt and feel guided by it in my various pursuits. 

When I found myself involved in or supporting team pursuits, such as playing in the pep band at sporting events or participating in a marching band competition, I seldom internalized the pressure of competing on a personal level, and instead simply did my best and enjoyed the experience of performing.

During my years of mountain bike racing, I was seldom bothered by the delusion that I might actually beat anyone else, being so old and slow when I began and having to ride through the challenges of seasonal asthma and Crohn’s disease. My goals were always to finish strong and to avoid crashing, and enjoy the excitement along the way. I was lucky to find myself in a time and place where my efforts were welcomed and celebrated along with those of the elite-level racers and I feel happy that I ahead the opportunity to race when and where I did.

But competition doesn’t go away, and in a competitive marketplace, neither does comparison.

Throughout my Jewish music career, I’ve struggled to abide by the popular ideals offed so blithely by those in our circle who worked hard and enjoyed musical and professional success:

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”

“Compare and despair.”

“Don’t worry about them, you do you.”

Today, as I pondered more questions and answers about my Jewish music career, which is admittedly winding down these days, I must also admit that, while I was still working in the field, I followed the “stars” of our little scene on social media. I tried to emulate their methods of putting themselves out there, to the extent that my budget, my digital comfort — and now, I understand, my brain — allowed, even when it caused distress inside me. It was distress I could literally feel in my chest, and it felt like equal parts fear, jealousy and despair. I watched as folks who, at the handful of Jewish conferences I was able to attend with them over the years, positioned themselves as “one of us” and at the same time carried dreams of advancing in more gigs, higher pay and professional and artistic recognition by the peers, and also by the people who ran the conferences and could open doors for you if they liked what you did.

Because salaries are historically seldom discussed openly in our little scene, I almost never knew what my colleagues were charging for their Artist residencies, songwriting commissions and all the rest. I got a tiny glimpse of the difference between where I found myself and where the better-known folks were on the scale t a conference where artists were given an afternoon to set up tables and sell their CDs and merch. I’d performed at this conference and was invited to sell my CDs, so I did, making handmade signs with the prices on them and laying out my three CDs in neat stacks. One of the core faculty at this conference came by my table, noted my prices, and asked if we could step away for a moment.

“This is your first time selling here, so maybe you haven’t yet been informed. But we’ve all agreed to sell our CDs for a minimum of $15 each. So you need to raise your price, please.”

“Why?” I asked. “There’s a lot of young people here and I dunno, maybe they can’t all afford a $15 CD. I don’t see the problem.”

My colleague took a breath and then said, “Look. This is a Jewish conference. These kids can well afford to spend at least that much on a CD, and on several of them. A lot of us here spent many thousands of dollars to make one CD and we have to recoup our costs. And if you don’t raise your prices then you’re undercutting the rest of us, and that’s not cool.”

I was stunned. We’re practicing collusion at a Jewish music conference? Really? 

I held my ground. “I will politely disagree. My album didn’t cost thirty thousand dollars to make, it cost two thousand, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t pass the savings on to the buyer. I see no problem here, and I’m leaving my prices alone.”

My colleague walked off, quite annoyed, and I sat back down and sold some few CDs.  

Wait till she finds out what I’ve been charging for my residency weekends. Apparently I’ve been undercutting everyone else all along. Um, oops. (Shrugs)

Over the years, I’ve watched as some of my colleagues who in the past had been “one of us” have been elevated into core faculty positions at conferences. And that’s great for them! They’re being rewarded for their work, their tenacity and their talent, and that’s the way it ought to be. The part that the general public doesn’t see is that the gatekeepers in the scene still get to choose, and to invite. I’ve taught workshops at a few conferences, always after I’ve paid to attend the conference and never for compensation. This is simply how things are done at these conferences, and have been done for a long time. One conference gatekeeper asked me if I was planning to return and if so, would I teach a particular workshop again, I had to admit that I couldn’t afford to return to said conference. Last time I taught this workshop, so many people wanted to take it that they had to ask me to teach it twice so they could open up a second session later in the day. So clearly my workshop was useful and appreciated. To be fair, I was scholarshipped a reduce rate to attend the conference, because I asked. But I had to ask. And I still had to cover my transportation costs and organize somewhere to sleep. (Thankfully, a friend who lived near the venue gave me her couch and drove me to and from conference each day.)

I dared to ask on the conference’s private FB group about how people get assistance with attending conferences, and how they grow what they do so they can do it more. And while several people thanked me for raising these questions, almost no one wanted to answer them, even in private. So I will never know how one grows in this career except by my own experiences. 

According to those experiences, having synagogue support (practical, musical and professional) helps a lot. Having an advocate, like a rabbi or cantor in your home shul, helps even more, because they also act as gatekeepers of a sort where they are. So does living a Jewishly dense place — because more Jews and Jewish spaces mean more connections and more gigs — and so does having a spouse who has a steady, decent-paying job so you can do this work and earn far less.

Lately, in the wake of the end of my full-time Jewish Music career, I’ve found myself unfollowing several contemporary Jewish artists with a strong presence on social media. I’ve done this because at this moment in time, struggling with these comparisons is no longer useful for me. And it has probably never been healthy.

I was on the verge of a big break in early 2020. I had clawed my way back from a mental health crisis and rebuilt myself and my career. It had taken several years, and support from a rabbi and educator out of state who loved my music and believed in me. It happened without support from my home shul or rabbi (and that is a blog post all its own for another time). I kept my head down, got the help I could find, wrote a lot of music and self-produced two more albums along the way. Covid happened, and I lost momentum, and then I got sick, and that was that. I went another way, one that took me farther away from the center of the little scene I’d been trying to move closer towards.

I feel very far away from that scene these days. There is still some grief to process around what Covid took away from me. There is still grief to process around the ten years of time I wasted, waiting for my home shul to stop seeing me less as a human resource and more as a soul. There is still a lot of grief to process about ending up where and how I did.

And there’s something else, too, something that is still in formation and isn’t yet clear. Something about how I reclaim my Jewish identity in a new way, in a more honest and more useful way for someone who doesn’t feel like competing anymore, doesn’t really feel like being taken advantage of anymore, someone who just wants to do Jewish on her own terms and create something that will sustain her as she enters her later years.

I don’t know what that will look like yet.

I do know that it cannot cost a much money, because I’m not working much anymore and haven’t got it to spend.

I know that it needs to take into account all that I have learned from my journey and utilize the most welcoming, gentle and useful parts without the political and social baggage.

And I know it needs to take into account the way I see and move through the world now, as someone gifted this whole time with a different brain, so I can begin to heal all the damage done by living without knowledge or support for that, when I really could have used both.

I’m unfollowing a LOT of folks these days who used to be my colleagues. It does not offer me any benefit to watch their continued trajectories when mine has been brought up so short and hard, and I need to take that space for myself to rest, and to grieve and to heal.

I’ve also informed the gatekeepers at the two conferences I still tried to attend even after my career began to falter that I’m completely done with one and will probably only attend the other if it’s ever on the West Coast. I can’t afford interstate travel except by Greyhound bus now, and if I’m not working regularly at a synagogue then I have no local support to help me get there. It makes sense. 

I will likely leave the larger conference’s FB group very soon, wishing them well and Godspeed. The other, I remain devoted to and have a lot of friends in, and will stay a member as long as I can afford the annual dues, if only to support what they do.

I am so grateful for the clarity that is coming to me during this time, even if it sometimes hurts so much. I thrive on clarity and always have. Now I know that I am that way in large part because of how my brain is wired. ADHD folks thrive on clarity. We don’t do well with behind-the-scenes politicking or subterfuge, and such things can positively wreck us because we simply aren’t well-equipped to navigate that landscape. So it feels really calming to let go of some of this stuff, to let go of the pursuit of the cushy center. I’m happy for the folks who want to inhabit that space, and who are finding their way into that space by their hard work and talents (and, to be brutally honest, how well they manage their socials and also by who they know). And I must acknowledge that my continued pursuit of that is no longer serving my best interests. 

I am grieving, resting, making space for whatever needs to come in next, and taking my time.

I am waiting for the Wellbutrin to kick in and for the space to become empty enough that I’ll begin to know what I want to put there. And I am not entering any more contests to achieve it.

(Bonus Content: today all Easter candy goes on sale. Get your dopamine Peeps while you can.)