Rabbi Frank DeWoskin and me sailing the Zemer J on Lake Monroe, Indiana last week. Saturday, May 12, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Howdjya Doosi Doosi Doodle, Howdjya Do
April, 2012
Dear Family and Friends:
Its 4:00 PM on a Tuesday (sounds like “The Piano Man”), and I sit at Starbucks at the Indiana Memorial Union for my weekly “rabbi hours.” Rabbi hours is the time we publicize that I will be here and any student can come by, sit down, have a cuppa, and talk about whatever they want with yours truly. Usually I have a lot of “customers.” Subjects have ranged from: “is there life after death,” to “will this be the year for the Cubs” (apparently not as they are 3 and 12 as we speak). Only one customer today; a slow day. But, I don’t want to talk shop.
This is an interesting place. I’m looking at eleven rows of tables, five in a row. All are filled with students. Lots of hubbub, some study, a real college vibe. But I’m noticing that at almost every table, mine included, there is a computer open and on, and/or a smart phone in someone’s palm. I can’t imagine where all of these cyber messages are going to or coming from. It seems to me that millions of X’s and O’s are bouncing around in space and no one ever gets a busy signal. Is that possible? I can remember living on Greenview Avenue on the North side of Chicago where we did indeed have a phone, but shared it on a “party line” with several other families. I even remember the number, AMbassador 2-6035 (you dialed AM 2-6035). I was about eight years old. You’d pick up the phone to make a call and hear other people in conversation. So you would hang up and wait for them to finish and hope that the next time you would get a dial tone. Oh, I forgot to mention the rotary dial. Anybody remember them? We used the index finger on our right hands like kids use their thumbs today…to connect.
So, here I sit bombarded by electrons bouncing off of distant satellites. No ill effects so far. But I also notice how the various screens seem to get in the way of human interaction. There’s three people sitting at the table next to me and each one is on his or her device sending what must be very important texts to someone else. I’d like to shout at them, “Hey, guys. Talk to each other. You’re right there.” But, of course I say nothing. Don’t want to be the old guy geek, you know.
Years ago I wrote a staff letter regarding my first encounter with a self-pump gas station and how it bothered me to be able to conduct that transaction without talking to another human being. I vowed to stick my head into the station office and say “hi” to the attendant just to rebel against the trend. Well, I did that for a while and then, of course, accepted the inevitable. Convenience won out and just like everyone else I swiped, I pumped, and I was on my way. Maybe I shouldn’t judge these kids too harshly.
It’s not all bad. Almost three thousand people have tuned in to read some part of this blog. I never would have thought. I see that readers in Russia, Latvia, the Czech Republic, Israel, Brazil, Ukraine, Germany, United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, as well as the USA have seen my writings. It is more than one can imagine.
I love the ideas that unite us and the communications that bring us closer together. But Nevertheless, I hate the screens that divide us. The next time we are sitting at a table with our computers open and our smart phones in the palms of our hands, let’s try and put them on vibrate and talk a bit. Woody Guthrie told us to greet each other with a “Howdjya doosi doosi doodle, howdjya do, howdjya do?’ So maybe toss out a Howdjya do to the person across the table. Let’s do pay some attention to the person behind the screen. It will be good for humanity.
Ron
PS. I’d love to hear from any of you far away folks out there who read this. Shoot me an email at ronklotz@gmail.com,. I imagine there’s room for a few more X’s and O’s in the stratosphere.
Dear Family and Friends:
Its 4:00 PM on a Tuesday (sounds like “The Piano Man”), and I sit at Starbucks at the Indiana Memorial Union for my weekly “rabbi hours.” Rabbi hours is the time we publicize that I will be here and any student can come by, sit down, have a cuppa, and talk about whatever they want with yours truly. Usually I have a lot of “customers.” Subjects have ranged from: “is there life after death,” to “will this be the year for the Cubs” (apparently not as they are 3 and 12 as we speak). Only one customer today; a slow day. But, I don’t want to talk shop.
This is an interesting place. I’m looking at eleven rows of tables, five in a row. All are filled with students. Lots of hubbub, some study, a real college vibe. But I’m noticing that at almost every table, mine included, there is a computer open and on, and/or a smart phone in someone’s palm. I can’t imagine where all of these cyber messages are going to or coming from. It seems to me that millions of X’s and O’s are bouncing around in space and no one ever gets a busy signal. Is that possible? I can remember living on Greenview Avenue on the North side of Chicago where we did indeed have a phone, but shared it on a “party line” with several other families. I even remember the number, AMbassador 2-6035 (you dialed AM 2-6035). I was about eight years old. You’d pick up the phone to make a call and hear other people in conversation. So you would hang up and wait for them to finish and hope that the next time you would get a dial tone. Oh, I forgot to mention the rotary dial. Anybody remember them? We used the index finger on our right hands like kids use their thumbs today…to connect.
So, here I sit bombarded by electrons bouncing off of distant satellites. No ill effects so far. But I also notice how the various screens seem to get in the way of human interaction. There’s three people sitting at the table next to me and each one is on his or her device sending what must be very important texts to someone else. I’d like to shout at them, “Hey, guys. Talk to each other. You’re right there.” But, of course I say nothing. Don’t want to be the old guy geek, you know.
Years ago I wrote a staff letter regarding my first encounter with a self-pump gas station and how it bothered me to be able to conduct that transaction without talking to another human being. I vowed to stick my head into the station office and say “hi” to the attendant just to rebel against the trend. Well, I did that for a while and then, of course, accepted the inevitable. Convenience won out and just like everyone else I swiped, I pumped, and I was on my way. Maybe I shouldn’t judge these kids too harshly.
It’s not all bad. Almost three thousand people have tuned in to read some part of this blog. I never would have thought. I see that readers in Russia, Latvia, the Czech Republic, Israel, Brazil, Ukraine, Germany, United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, as well as the USA have seen my writings. It is more than one can imagine.
I love the ideas that unite us and the communications that bring us closer together. But Nevertheless, I hate the screens that divide us. The next time we are sitting at a table with our computers open and our smart phones in the palms of our hands, let’s try and put them on vibrate and talk a bit. Woody Guthrie told us to greet each other with a “Howdjya doosi doosi doodle, howdjya do, howdjya do?’ So maybe toss out a Howdjya do to the person across the table. Let’s do pay some attention to the person behind the screen. It will be good for humanity.
Ron
PS. I’d love to hear from any of you far away folks out there who read this. Shoot me an email at ronklotz@gmail.com,. I imagine there’s room for a few more X’s and O’s in the stratosphere.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Holocaust Memory in Israel
Here is a wonderful article about Yom Ha Shoah, written by our NFTY Sheliach.
The Evolving Narrative of the Holocaust Memory in Israel
By Roey Schiff
By Roey Schiff
These experiences that were so common in the concentration camps are so hard for us to grasp that it's understandable (though still not acceptable) why in its early years Israel did not exhibit a receptive attitude toward Holocaust victims or even toward the historiography of the events of the Holocaust. Survivors' stories sounded so horrifying that their audience thought they were exaggerated. I remember once hearing a survivor's testimony: he said that in the beginning, even his family didn't believe him, and thought his suffering caused him to confuse reality and imagination. This kind of reception generated reluctance among survivors to tell what they had been through. Many felt ashamed and guilty of "being led like sheep for slaughter" instead of resisting more forcefully. Therefore, they refused to talk about their experiences and preferred to leave the past behind them, as if it belonged to another life; a life that had no place in their present circumstances in Israel.
The turning point occurred fifty years ago and one of its more recognizable milestones was the Eichmann trial. Adolf Eichmann was a senior Nazi officer who fled to Argentina and lived there under a fake identity until May 1960, when the Israeli Mossad captured him and took him to Jerusalem to face trial in an Israeli court. The charges against him were numerous, including crimes against humanity, such as his coordination of many deportations of Jews to ghettos and extermination camps. For those and other charges, he was found guilty and sentenced to death (the first and only time a death sentence was enacted in Israel). However, it wasn't the verdict, but the trial itself that changed Israel's (and the entire Jewish world's) approach toward the Holocaust. The trial aroused international interest, bringing Nazi atrocities to the forefront of world news, and it was the first time the survivors were given such a public stage. One survivor after another testified in court, and the nation listened to the voices of the witnesses, feeling their agony. It prompted a new openness in Israel, as the country confronted this traumatic chapter in Jewish history.
The impact of Eichmann's trial is felt to this day in the way Israel promotes Holocaust education and encourages survivors-who are aging-to share their experiences with others. Holocaust Remembrance Day is the culmination of our efforts to honor survivors and remember the fallen. In Israel, at one point during the day, a siren sounds, traffic stops, and the entire country observes two minutes of silent memorial. There is no public entertainment, as theaters, cinemas, pubs, and other public venues are closed. Radio, television, and even music programs are all adapted to recognize the serious atmosphere of this special day.
In Hebrew, Holocaust Remembrance Day is called (יום השואה והגבורה) Yom HaShoah V'Hag'vurah, which means, Day of the Holocaust and Heroism. The rationale for this name arises from Israel's past approach that preferred to focus on how Jews heroically resisted their Nazi tormentors through fighting them in the ghettos and joining underground partisans who fought the Third Reich in its occupied countries. For the same reason, the original proposal was to hold Yom HaShoah on 14 Nisan, the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. Due to its proximity to Passover on 15 Nisan, the commemoration was postponed to take place on 27 Nisan-after the holiday but still close to the anniversary of the ghetto uprising.
Today, Holocaust Remembrance Day helps us gain a broader understanding of the concept of a hero: It's not just someone who bears arms and fights in the name of a higher purpose. A hero is also someone who chooses to live and retain his human dignity in the most unbearable conditions. I'm proud to call all those who experienced the Holocaust my heroes, as they prove to the entire world that the human spirit is stronger than can ever be imagined. Let us always remember this message together with the memory of those who perished and the heroism of the survivors.
Roey Schiff is the NFTY and Israel Programs Shaliach at the Union for Reform Judaism.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Parenting 101
Note: The Union for Reform Judaism asked me to write a response to a podcast discussion on helping our children become independent. The following is the response.
Hoo boy, do I have a lot of kids. Spending thirty-seven years directing a URJ camp brings a lot of children into the family. Do you think I know a lot about parenting? Well, I know a lot about camp directing, and Jewish programming, and conflict resolution, and homesickness and more; but I never thought of myself as an expert in parenting.
About eight years ago, our son Jeremy and our daughter-in-law Melissa brought Zoe into the world. Of course grand parenthood presented only wonderful opportunities to my wife and to me. But an unexpected opportunity was watching our children become parents to our granddaughter. They are terrific parents; perhaps even better than their own. I’d been so impressed with the way they reacted to situations with Zoe that I once commented on it and asked, “Where did you learn to be such wonderful parents?” Their response was a surprise. Both Jeremy and Melissa said, “We learned it at camp. Being counselors at camp was our training ground.”
It made perfect sense once I actually heard it from my kids. For years at camp I taught what we called our “Machon Program.” “Machon,” Hebrew for “Institute,” was a summer-long guided experience, slowly and with much support, easing first-year counselors into that role. Even though I had referred to the program as “Parenting 101,” I never really thought of it as a true training ground for future parents. Jeremy and Melissa said that learning how to cope with a cabin full of campers gave them confidence in their abilities to solve problems. They indicated that working with other staff members taught them how to communicate and create strategies together to help campers adjust. So it is with fathers and mothers, co-counselors in the cabin of real life, creating strategies for campers that share their last name.
The discussion on helping our children learn to be independent is so important. One of the strategies might be sending our children to camp. Over the years I’ve heard so many parents comment on how much their children had matured after just one session at camp. Parents often saw a real jump in their child’s self-confidence. Children learn how to share and be social at camp. Of course strengthening Jewish identity is also high on the menu here. Campers feel free at camp but the reality is that we live in a closely supervised, scheduled, and even monitored world, out in the woods. Counselors make sure campers get along, arrive on time, process all that is happening, and they make sure their kids (our counselors view their campers as their kids…it’s a good thing) are integrated into the spirit and community of camp. Campers make the “best friends ever,” because counselors see to it that relationships are built in the cabin. Campers’ self-confidence builds as they grow as individuals responsible to the group; successfully building those relationships, successfully learning new talents, successfully living away from home. Success is all around at camp. We used to smilingly say, “Everyone’s a winner at Goldman Union Camp.” It seems free and floating. It is really all planned and anticipated. It is a safe place for our children emotionally as well as physically. It is a safe place for our children to develop feelings of confidence, responsibility and independence.
All this and I’m just talking about the camper experience. Can you imagine how intensified the experience becomes when a camper moves on to become a staff member taking on the responsibility of making it all happen? Our URJ camps are the best in the country because of the care and energy we put into teaching young Jews, eighteen and nineteen year olds, how to care for children. Learning to listen, to be aware and understand what is happening around them, to articulate what it means to be a role model, to make a positive difference in a child’s life, as well as how to plan a program, lead a discussion, creatively fill down time in the cabin, how to think on one’s feet, and how to communicate with others, all translate into useful parenting talents.
URJ camp staff members come to camp for nine or so weeks each summer. Lessons learned for the first time during first session are put to the test during the second session. By the end of the summer our staff usually return home proud of their work, deeply affected by the new relationships they have created with campers and other staff members, and inspired by their successfully completing a summer of creative Jewish education and Jewish role modeling (our staff members are all Jewish educators, no matter what position they might hold). Completing a summer as a URJ staff member is exhausting and exhilarating.
For both campers and staff, learning about, sharing, and rejoicing in our common Jewish heritage is the cement that binds it all together.
The strategies and techniques mentioned in the discussion on helping our children become responsibly independent are valuable. But in-between the school years; in-between the studies, the parties and the dates; in-between the sitting-up-late-waiting–for-them-to-get-home times, summers at camp might just be the best way to give our children the gift of responsibility, community, and self-confidence.
Rabbi Ron Klotz, Director (retired), URJ Goldman Union Camp Institute (G.U.C.I.)
http://rabbi-ronsblog.blogspot.com/
PARENTING 101
About eight years ago, our son Jeremy and our daughter-in-law Melissa brought Zoe into the world. Of course grand parenthood presented only wonderful opportunities to my wife and to me. But an unexpected opportunity was watching our children become parents to our granddaughter. They are terrific parents; perhaps even better than their own. I’d been so impressed with the way they reacted to situations with Zoe that I once commented on it and asked, “Where did you learn to be such wonderful parents?” Their response was a surprise. Both Jeremy and Melissa said, “We learned it at camp. Being counselors at camp was our training ground.”
It made perfect sense once I actually heard it from my kids. For years at camp I taught what we called our “Machon Program.” “Machon,” Hebrew for “Institute,” was a summer-long guided experience, slowly and with much support, easing first-year counselors into that role. Even though I had referred to the program as “Parenting 101,” I never really thought of it as a true training ground for future parents. Jeremy and Melissa said that learning how to cope with a cabin full of campers gave them confidence in their abilities to solve problems. They indicated that working with other staff members taught them how to communicate and create strategies together to help campers adjust. So it is with fathers and mothers, co-counselors in the cabin of real life, creating strategies for campers that share their last name.
The discussion on helping our children learn to be independent is so important. One of the strategies might be sending our children to camp. Over the years I’ve heard so many parents comment on how much their children had matured after just one session at camp. Parents often saw a real jump in their child’s self-confidence. Children learn how to share and be social at camp. Of course strengthening Jewish identity is also high on the menu here. Campers feel free at camp but the reality is that we live in a closely supervised, scheduled, and even monitored world, out in the woods. Counselors make sure campers get along, arrive on time, process all that is happening, and they make sure their kids (our counselors view their campers as their kids…it’s a good thing) are integrated into the spirit and community of camp. Campers make the “best friends ever,” because counselors see to it that relationships are built in the cabin. Campers’ self-confidence builds as they grow as individuals responsible to the group; successfully building those relationships, successfully learning new talents, successfully living away from home. Success is all around at camp. We used to smilingly say, “Everyone’s a winner at Goldman Union Camp.” It seems free and floating. It is really all planned and anticipated. It is a safe place for our children emotionally as well as physically. It is a safe place for our children to develop feelings of confidence, responsibility and independence.
All this and I’m just talking about the camper experience. Can you imagine how intensified the experience becomes when a camper moves on to become a staff member taking on the responsibility of making it all happen? Our URJ camps are the best in the country because of the care and energy we put into teaching young Jews, eighteen and nineteen year olds, how to care for children. Learning to listen, to be aware and understand what is happening around them, to articulate what it means to be a role model, to make a positive difference in a child’s life, as well as how to plan a program, lead a discussion, creatively fill down time in the cabin, how to think on one’s feet, and how to communicate with others, all translate into useful parenting talents.
URJ camp staff members come to camp for nine or so weeks each summer. Lessons learned for the first time during first session are put to the test during the second session. By the end of the summer our staff usually return home proud of their work, deeply affected by the new relationships they have created with campers and other staff members, and inspired by their successfully completing a summer of creative Jewish education and Jewish role modeling (our staff members are all Jewish educators, no matter what position they might hold). Completing a summer as a URJ staff member is exhausting and exhilarating.
For both campers and staff, learning about, sharing, and rejoicing in our common Jewish heritage is the cement that binds it all together.
The strategies and techniques mentioned in the discussion on helping our children become responsibly independent are valuable. But in-between the school years; in-between the studies, the parties and the dates; in-between the sitting-up-late-waiting–for-them-to-get-home times, summers at camp might just be the best way to give our children the gift of responsibility, community, and self-confidence.
Rabbi Ron Klotz, Director (retired), URJ Goldman Union Camp Institute (G.U.C.I.)
http://rabbi-ronsblog.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
A Passover Protest
A PESACH PROTEST IN THREE PARTS
The other night I dreamt of a Seder long gone. My restless sleep carried me back to the days of my childhood. There we sat around the candle lit table, white napkins, unleavened squares, white-hot horseradish, cool red wine. And the rowdy group of us gathered there to laugh and remember, to pay tribute, and to argue and even doubt. In the midst of that foggy dream sat my uncles and aunts, sneaking bits of matzo before it was time, recalling lost family members and their antics at Seders of old. My cousins and I sat at the far end of the table. In a dreamlike way we smirked at the nostalgia of the older folks, watching my Papa hold up the bread of affliction and tell our story. It was a good dream, and now that I'm the Papa I'm beginning to understand most of it.
When we sang our slightly off-tune, out of sync Dayanu in my dream, I came to realize that, although I joined in and sang out, I did not feel that it really was "Enough," for me, that is. My Jewish journey had been but a short hop at that point. I felt little connection to the Israelites wandering in the desert. Heck, I was more interested in the unfolding season at Wrigley Field than the journeys of our people. But on a long winter's night there's ample time for the mind to play. With no regard to my desires, my dream dragged on, like a blender mixing family memories with the Haggadah's stories of our people in the wilderness.
My rebellion and rejection of the simple connectors of that holiday became my walls of identity. I was ME, different than any who had journeyed before. In dreamlike fashion, I drifted away from my family scene, still smelling the Seder smells, and hearing the Pesach melodies. I'd become a participant at a distance, a half-hearted, gefilte-fish-eating skeptic. I remember thinking that this night was not so different from ALL other nights. There had been Seders for centuries. Other doubters sat with their families wondering how they fit into the grand scheme of our wandering ancestors. Maybe that was my connection. I was heir to the Jewish throne of alienation, bound to all those who had come before me who had sat on the sidelines, unable to take the step and get out there and play in the Jewish People game. Tossing about, as my dream became nightmare-ish, visitors began to appear.
My visitors looked like any of the other kids in the neighborhood. One of them, the girl, had a bright knowing gleam in her eye. The other two were just regular kids; a simple boy and then the very quiet one, who seemed to just be tagging along. Staring me down, my bright-eyed female all-of-a-sudden companion challenged me. "Don't you realize that God has given us these laws and observances?" she scolded.
I defensively countered with, "What do you mean 'Us?' Maybe God commanded you, but certainly not me! And, how can you be so sure anyway?"
"Why, look in your heart." She said, "Do you think your life starts with you?"
With that, a light flashed and a fog descended. We were floating on a cloud. A breeze began to blow, dispersing the cloud. My hostess, her companions and I had been transported to a barren and rocky place. With an outstretched hand she presented a most unusual scene. I witnessed a line of people following an old man through the desert. They looked disheveled. I heard their grumbling, saw the fear in their eyes. The old man stopped. He turned to speak to them.
"My dear ones," he said. "I know that you are weary, and frightened. We have left all that is familiar to us, our homes, our friends, our old ways. Be strengthened in the understanding that it is the one God who has commanded us to build new lives in a new land. Know that because we have faith, because we are brave, because we have each other, we will endure. We are the birth of a new People. Our new homeland lies before us. God protects us. Because we have begun this journey, the world will never be the same. Our ancestors will remember what we have done. We shall be the inspiration for future generations of Jews in their own journeys. So begins the greatness that will be; a free people, living in their own land, speaking their own language, in covenant with the one God."
I tossed in my sleep. I wanted to shout out to that band of ragged pioneers. "We do indeed remember the words that God spoke to you." I wanted to show them all that I understood the words "Lech Lecha," and that those words still held meaning to millions of Jews (maybe not so much to me on this day of advanced skepticism). In my heart, in the midst of my dream, I wanted so to encourage that band of ancient freedom fighters. My frustration was enormous and my hosts sensed my discomfort. The smart one understood.
"You're beginning to get it. Hold that feeling," she instructed. "This is just our first journey. There are others to see."
PART TWO
The simple one asked, "Where to next?" The other one followed quietly along.
The wind kicked up. Our magic fog-carpet floated us along, depositing us in a large auditorium. This was a familiar place. I tossed and snored and looked around. Slowly, while the lights were dimming, I realized I was in the Chicago Theatre. The movie was about to begin. I'd been there so many times with my mother, I could smell the popcorn right there in my bedroom. The plush seats and ornate sculptures on the walls of this old, magnificent theater comforted me. Turning to my hosts to ask just what the heck was going on, the wise one signaled me to "Shush and watch the screen."
But as dreams would have it, the movie reels were out of order. It didn't start at the beginning.
We saw a ragged bunch of European Jews walking slowly across the screen, pushing carts filled with belongings. They sang of Anatevka, their village, as off they marched to unknown destinations in new worlds. I remembered the saga of Tevye the dairyman. He had problems with his daughters Tzeital and Hodel. I remembered Golde and her dreams, and the tailor, Motle. I remembered the Pogroms. "But what has any of this to do with me, I thought? It's a movie. Ancient history. After all I'm dreaming of the Chicago Theater."
Now the most incredible dreamlike thing happened. Tevye turns to talk to the Jews behind him, but instead he’s looking right at me.
"Nu, nudnik?" He said. "You think you're not part of this poor journey? Why this is the very community that gave birth to your great grandparents. Our trouble, our experience, our faith and nostalgia are the cornerstones of your Jewish life. Like you, I sat at my family's Seder table and heard the story of our Peoples' flight from Egypt. I never expected to lead my own community from a kind of slavery to a hope of freedom in new lands. We lived in a little Jewish town…not exactly a suburb, but a very Jewish place. When Shabbat or Passover, or any other holiday descended on our village, everyone shared the warmth of the holiday, every family, every person. We could hear the family in the next house singing Dayanu, a few moments before or after we sang it. We were each other's echoes. We wore the warmth of those communal feelings like a suit of armor to protect ourselves from the outside world. But the armor proved thin. It couldn't keep us safe."
"As you can see," he continued, "My family and I are forced to venture out into the unknown. Who knows what will be? One has a cousin in New York, another, an uncle on a Kibbutz in the Galilee. But what we do know is that this is not the first time our People have journeyed forth from their homes. What we do know is that we have faith in our God and the love of our families. Abraham and Sarah, Moses, Maimonides, many generations of Jews, no different from this one, have learned to face the trials and anxieties of challenges like ours. You'll face them too, in your own way, in your own time. God only knows what will happen to us …and he's not telling. But whatever happens to the poor Jews of Anatevka, the story of our journey will be etched into the identity of your generation."
Then Tevye turned his eyes to heaven. "Dear God. You have made me a poor milkman, but one who now understands the anguish of Abraham, the dilemmas of Moses. Give me the strength to lead my family as they led theirs…and if, along the way, we find some nice new Shtetle… like Shaker Heights or New Rochelle…even Skokie…well, who would mind?"
The old velvet curtain that once opened and closed the vaudeville shows of its time descended over the screen, ending this historic, if nightmarish, performance. My restless sleep had carried me over centuries and continents. But my hosts, the smart, the not so smart, and the quiet one were hardly done with me. Slowly they turned, inch-by-inch, it seemed, they raised their eyes to mine, silently questioning, "Now do you see your own connection to the journeys of our People?"
I must admit the skeptic in me had weakened. Even I was a sucker for the Sunrise, Sunset nostalgia of our more recent past. But, there still lurked a question or two in my, “This-is-the-twenty-first-century,” and, “I'm-a-modern-Jew mentality.” I said, “I can relate to the journeys you've shown me. I can see how they have built the character of my generation. I can appreciate being a link in the chain of this tradition." They flashed a glimmer of a victory smile in my direction, until I added, "But what journeys are REALLY mine?" I still wondered. "Where is the drama and the challenge, and the hope of my generation's future? Do we have a 'Lech Lecha,' a Sinai, an Anatevka of our own
PART THREE:
And so I returned in my dream to that Seder of my youth. There my grandfather sat during the meal and told us of his younger days, coming to America. I heard him tell of the orthodox lifestyle his family had maintained in the "old country," and how America became his religion. The Yiddish, and the Jewish, he explained, was the old way, the greenhorn's way. He wanted to be "an American." We sat and listened to him admit to leaving all his Jewish practices behind him in Europe. He laughed as he recalled that even his name changed when he passed through the gates of Ellis Island. They couldn't pronounce his Jewish sounding name and he was happy to take on the new, Americanized pronunciation as his introduction to the New World. My grandfather's eyes always twinkled when he told this story.
"So Nu? How come we sit together tonight at a Seder table, if I left our Judaism on the boat?" he asked. We all knew, but would wait for him to answer his own question. "It wasn't that America could be our religion," he'd come to realize. "We needed to be Jews even in America. But what kind of Jews? That was the question." My grandfather was the wisest man I ever knew. He was the bridge from Anatevka to my Seder table. Now I remembered how he taught us. "We needed a new Judaism; special made for the modern world." He said. "That's how I came to talk to the Reform Rabbi at our synagogue, and that's why we are sitting at the Seder table tonight.”
When we opened the Haggadas in my dream that night, I had a minor revelation. We read of the four children, the wise, the simple, and one unable to ask. My dreamy hosts described to a "T." "But what of the wicked one?" I thought. "What happened to the one who says "You," and not "We?" Well, there I was, to round out the foursome. And so the lesson was well taught.
I'd come a long way during that restless night. I'd dreamt of a Seder long gone, and the hardships and faith of our People. It was a good dream, one of my ancestors and my grandfather and me. It was a dream of OUR journeys, not someone else's. Now that I'm the Papa, I'm beginning to understand.
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