Jewish and Proud

I saw a video yesterday of someone yelling obscenities at a Jewish man walking down the street in New York. Among the vitriol he was spewing, the word ‘Jew’ was thrown about with such obvious disgust and hatred. It reminded me of a story my dad sometimes tells.

He was the force behind my family’s move to the U.S. My mom apparently was apprehensive about uprooting everything and gambling on a very uncertain future in America.

In the Soviet Union, anti-Semitism was a matter of fact. It was the very definition of institutionalized, a part of everyday life. I was an infant and as my dad tells it, he and mom were standing over me as he made the case to try to get to America as refugees. 

“You’re probably right,” he’d said to her. “If they’re not letting Jews into college when it’s time for her to go, we can make it happen. We’ll find someone to bribe. We will get it done. And if they’re not hiring Jews when it’s time for her to find a job, we have connections. She will have a job. But you know what I can’t figure out?” He’d pause for effect. “How do we keep someone from yelling ‘dirty Jew’ as she walks down the street?”

That, according to my father, is how my mother was convinced that an uncertain future in America was better than what was absolutely certain in Kiev. 

And now, more than 40 years later, I sit in my living room and watch anti-Semitic slurs hurled at an observant Jew right here in America. His only crime seems to be that he looks so obviously Jewish.

Today, that would probably not happen to me. I am a secular Jew. Unless you look closely, you don’t see the small Star of David or Hamsa (hand of G-d) dangling from my necklace.

But it did happen to me. Because it happened to someone else who is Jewish. While our level of observance is vastly different. While we choose to express our Judaism, our Jewishness, differently, we are not different.  To those who choose to hate us, we are the same person. He was just more identifiable.

For those who will say that these are isolated incidents, that most people don’t feel that way, I say this – these incidents are becoming so common, they are dangerously close to being normalized. Hate is festering both on the fringes of the right and the left. Ultra Orthodox Jews are the canary in the coal mine. We must heed the warning. We must let those who’ve become so comfortable in expressing their hate know that it has no place here.

The American Jewish Committee has designated January 6 #JewishandProudDay. Jews and our supporters around the country and around the world are encouraged to wear anything identifiably Jewish, like a kippah, clothing, anything at all. It’s a small step, but a bold one. 

History has shown us time and again that Edmund Burke was right – “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

Tomorrow, we can all do something.

Ode to my McDonald's Cheeseburger

I am stuck at Chicago's Midway Airport with about 20,000 of my closest strangers. It's packed and we're all in it together. Some are more frustrated than others. Plenty have been here waiting longer than the two and a half hours I've clocked thus far. My first flight was cancelled and this one has been delayed and then delayed some more. The weather outside is frightful.

Coincidentally, I was scheduled to land in Dallas about two and a half hours ago. That's where I'm headed, Dallas. I am meeting up with college friends to root on the Missouri Tigers to a cotton Bowl victory against those nasty Oklahoma State Cowboys of the dreaded Big 12.

I was beginning to get frustrated as the cancellations and delays mounted today and then I got a cheeseburger and fries from the airport McDonald's. And you know what? It tasted like childhood, or rather how I remember McDonald's tasting when I was a child.

This happens rather infrequently. My palate has evolved over the course of the last few decades and McDonald's has become a means to an end.  It's not a destination but rather a last resort. Except for those rare times when I get a craving. This wasn't one of those times. This was a strategic decision based on proximity to my gate and length of line.

But when I sat down in my seat... Oh did I mention that a nice gentlemen insisted that I take his seat to eat my $4 meal? And when I unwrapped the cheeseburger and took that first bite, there it was. Wow. Unexpected. And just as my mood had begun to go south reminding me that I was not yet able to physically travel in that direction myself, just then, I remembered just how good life is.

I looked around and realized that even with all the hassle of this horrible travel day for absolutely everyone in this airport, people were still kind. I was sitting in a seat because of the kindness of  a stranger. The people around me were going out of their way to commiserate with fellow travelers.

And then there's the reason for my travel.. I am going to meet my friends who live all around the country. I get to start off the year with them at a football game and not just any football game, the Cotton Bowl. When I was in college Mizzou fans weren't even dreaming of bowl games let alone A top tier one.

My loved ones are healthy, my plane is delayed in order to keep me safe, I have the opportunity to do the things I want to do and despite the prolonged travel day, I will get to my destination.  Thank you McDonald's cheeseburger for reminding me of what,s right on the world.

Life goes on

I just filled out an application on my parents’ behalf on the Westie Rescue of Missouri site. One of the questions asked about any pets you’ve owned in the last 10 years. And of course, I got to tell the story of Benji in a fairly short paragraph. I don’t know if the paragraph will tug at the heartstrings of the folks at the rescue, but it sure choked me up. I was weeping by the time I got to the part about ending his pain.

In order to truly showcase to the people at the rescue why my parents would provide a good home to a Westie, I could write a novel that would rival the length of War and Peace. As I filled out the application, I remembered bringing Benji home to my parents on October 12, 2002. He was eight weeks old and basically fit in my hand.

My parents were apprehensive and tentative. I saw the fear in their eyes. He was so small. He was completely different from anything they’d ever experienced. He was their first dog. I imagine they were probably a little apprehensive when they brought me home from the hospital too.

My dad had notions about a dog’s place in the home. “A dog does not belong on furniture,” he proclaimed. “Dogs do not sleep in beds with people,” he added for emphasis. It wouldn’t be long before my dad’s feelings would get hurt on the nights Benji decided to sleep in his own bed, a mere 2 ½ feet from my dad. “Benji, come here my boy… don’t you want to sleep with your mama and me?”

My mom’s heart melted just as quickly. We’d be on the phone and I’d be telling her about a particularly bad day I may have had and she’d commiserate with me until Benji came in the room. At that point she’d let out a squeal of joy: “Benji’s here! My beautiful sweet boy!” Her first child’s problems were no match for her second child’s sweetness. I don’t blame her. My problems were never all that big. And Benji’s heart, personality and compassion were larger than life.

He filled their home and their hearts with joy. There’s been a void there since February 25. Now it’s time to find a new furry family member to fill that void. I think Benji would approve. I await the new arrival with anticipation. He’ll be one lucky dog to get parents like mine. But, as anyone who’s loved an animal knows, they’ll be even luckier.

Mr. Rogers was right

Or at least his mom was. “Look for the helpers.”

I’ll be honest. I haven’t done much of that this week, but I have a really good reason. I don’t actually have to “look” for them. They’re everywhere. When I turn on my TV and see the horrible images, in the forefront of those images are the helpers. They’re not wearing capes. They don’t leap buildings in a single bound.

They apply pressure to the wounds. They carry victims into waiting ambulances. They scour neighborhoods searching for the monsters that the rest of us are hiding from.

The helpers make me smile and they bring tears to my eyes. They are the ones that comfort strangers with kind words and a warm embrace. They are like the gentleman from Sitka, Alaska, who gave his marathon medal to a woman he’d never met before who was just a half mile short of the finish line when the bombs went off.

The helpers are the ones who run toward danger when we are all running away. Some of those helpers perished in Boston and West, Texas this week.

For every bad guy, there are – I believe – millions of helpers. As this week of endless horrible news cycles comes to an end, I find myself comforted by all  the good that springs up when the unthinkable happens. That’s the unintended positive consequence of horrible intentions and actions.

Take that, bad guys.

I do, you do, we should all do

I don’t remember when I started to support gay marriage; but I imagine it was the first time I sat down and truly thought about it. I’ll be honest, I didn’t ponder homosexuality, let alone gay marriage when I was growing up in the Midwest. It was just not on my radar. Of course, after high school a few people I knew came out of the closet and then after college there were a few more. I didn’t think much of it. They were gay; I was not.

As I look back, I cannot imagine the strength it must have taken my peers in the early and mid ‘90s to let the world know the secret they’d been keeping. Some came from families and communities that probably do not accept them to this day. They probably lost some close friends – although. I would argue that those people weren’t really friends to begin with. I did not truly appreciate their revelations back then. I admire their strength now.

As far as the issue of gay marriage goes, I do not plan to argue with people about whether they “believe in it” or not, because it does not matter. This is not about anyone’s religious beliefs. This issue is about a contract – we happen to call it a marriage certificate – that is issued by the government for a fee.

I would imagine that those with deeply held religious beliefs see that government-issued contract for what it is and wouldn’t consider themselves truly married until a member of their clergy performed the ceremony.  So why not give equal access to that contract?

I would not expect the government to intervene to force houses of worship to marry gay couples. It would be a huge infringement of our religious liberty. So I do not think we should tolerate religious arguments to prevail when legislating the contract of marriage.

Gay marriage is an inevitability in this country. It is not a matter of if, but when. I read about the laws that were on the books in most states just a few decades ago that prohibited blacks and whites from marrying each other. They seem so archaic now. A part of our nation’s history that is embarrassing at best. I truly believe that my children and grandchildren will read about an America where loving couples of the same sex were not allowed to make their special commitment to one another official and they will see that as a relic of this country’s not always just past.

 When I get married, I will want to shout it from the rooftops and want everyone in my life to share in my happiness. I want my friends in the LGBT community to be able to do the same.

One Month

One month. It passed by pretty quickly. They all do. But this was our first month without Benji. I hadn’t realized that exactly one month ago today my family made one of the toughest decisions of our lives – to let Benji go.  And then I looked at the calendar and saw the date staring back at me.

I realize how we take time for granted. I’m busy now. I will visit my family, tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month. And then one day you turn around and the opportunities you took for granted – to see loved ones, to accomplish a goal – they’re gone.

Tonight I will be surrounded by loved ones who will gather around my table for Passover. There are plenty of family and friends whom I cherish, who will not be in attendance because of geography and other life obligations. But there will be a select few who mean the world to me who will be here.

I will cherish the time we spend together. I would have cherished it even if I had not been reminded on February 25 how fleeting life is. But because of that reminder I will be more appreciative and more grateful for the gifts I have been given.

One month ago today, I could barely breathe. Tonight I will celebrate an ancient holiday. In my mind though, that cup that’s reserved for Elijah, will be for Benji.

Ode to Benji

I wish I were more like my dog.

He possessed all the best qualities we look for in people. He was brave and protective, concerned and sensitive to our feelings. He loved with every bit of his being and never hesitated to shower us with affection. We always knew where we stood with him. He was neither passive nor aggressive. If his feelings were hurt, he let you know it, but was always quick to forgive and forget.

He was loyal to a fault. Stood by our sides through thick and thin. And he never seemed to notice if we did get a little thicker around the mid-section. Or if we had a bad hair day, a horrible outfit day or a really smelly because we finally went back to the gym day.

He was a wonderful family ambassador. He greeted and treated everyone like royalty, like they were special. And his generosity extended to all guests. He made sure to bring all who entered a toy as soon as they crossed the threshold of the family home so they would all know just how welcome they were.

He loved a good party and mingled with all the invitees. A house full of visitors was a happy home as far as he was concerned. And if he happened to be center of attention, well isn’t that what the life of the party is for?

When we were under the weather he was at our side, providing comfort and moral support, letting us know that as long as we seemed down for the count, he was too. And when he grew ill, he remained dignified and grateful for all the care that we provided, even if – in the end – it just wasn’t enough. He was so much stronger than his small stature would make it seem possible. So brave in the face of what was to come.

And he was wiser than us. I believe he knew the end was close before we did. And even as that end neared, he seemed to do everything he could to make that oh so horrible time easier on us.

Yes, I wish I could be more like Benji, because if I was, if all of us were, this world would be a much better place.