Things I'd Like to Say

In the Jewish religion, it's customary to go to the cemetery and visit the graves of departed family members during the weeks before the Jewish New Year. It's about remembering those who went before us, and thanking them for their contribution to us when they lived. Some of you may have seen photos of Jewish gravestones that look like this:

It's a custom to leave a stone, as a symbol that someone visited: flowers may fade, but stones are a more permanent sign that someone was there and someone remembered. 

In my case, many of my late relatives are all in the same cemetery: I visit my parents, my maternal grandfather, my maternal grandmother, as well as various aunts, uncles, and cousins from my mother's side of the family. (The relatives from my father's side are in entirely different places, and I try to get over to visit some of them too.) 

At this time of year, I often find myself thinking about my parents. My father and I never got along well-- he was very traditional and I was not. I don't think he expected to have a daughter who was a feminist, nor could he understand why I left home to pursue a radio career (rather than staying in the neighborhood and getting married). I always felt like I was a disappointment to him-- I just couldn't be what he thought I ought to be. My mother and I, on the other hand, had a very close relationship: when I was growing up, we'd often discuss current events, or we'd talk about what I was studying in college (she shared my love for history and literature). In fact, my mother and I were close for many years. 

But then, towards the end of her life, the closeness we had abruptly ended. To this day, I wish I knew why. I've thought about the last few conversations we had, and replayed them in my mind numerous times; but while I have a few theories about what went wrong, I still don't understand what I did that caused us to become estranged. After all this time, I'm not sure it would make a difference if I did know exactly what the reason was; all I know is that she and I could no longer talk with each other the way we did for so many years. And although I can't change it, losing that relationship bothers me to this day.    

In the next few days, I will make my visit to the cemetery, as I do every year. I will say my prayers, and I will thank my parents for their many contributions to my life. And I will leave a stone to show that I was there and I remembered. And I will tell my mother and father that I'm trying my best to live an ethical and compassionate life, and to make a difference in the world. And as is the custom, I will give a donation to charity in their memory (something I often do throughout the year anyway). 

And I'd like to believe that they were proud of me, even with whatever differences we may have had. Of course, there's no way to know, and if I could ask them, I would. There are so many conversations I wish we'd had, so many things I wish I had said. But that must remain in the past, even if some of those experiences still feel incomplete. And so, I focus on the fact that the Jewish New Year is coming, along with the Ten Days of Repentance. And I will keep trying to do my part to make the world a better place. It's the best way I know to honor what my parents taught me.  

And Sometimes, Things Change for the Worse

I spent the first eight years of my life in a part of Boston that was predominantly Jewish. Boston was a city of ethnic neighborhoods. (Even today, while the ethnic groups have changed, the ethnic neighborhoods remain.) Back in the 1950s, many Italians lived in the North End, and many Irish lived in South Boston. There were neighborhoods in Dorchester and Mattapan where European Jews lived (I grew up in Dorchester). Greeks, Syrians, Black people, Asians... they all had their neighborhoods. We mingled in public school or at work, but we lived with "our own." I never analyzed whether that sort of arrangement was good or bad: why did all the Chinese people live in "Chinatown"? Why did all the Irish live in Southie? And why did my neighborhood have so many synagogues? I was just a kid, and I assumed all of this was normal. My father had recollections of the different groups guarding their "turf" in the 1930s when he was a young teen, but by the time I was growing up in the 1950s, I don't recall there being many turf wars-- although perhaps people had just learned to stay within their own properly-assigned sphere. 

My parents moved to Roslindale when I was eight, and suddenly, we were the only Jews in the area. There was a small Jewish community in neighboring West Roxbury, but now, rather than synagogues, I saw churches-- lots of churches. Yes, there was culture shock, but for the most part, I don't recall any overt antisemitism. Of course, there was casual antisemitism in the culture, and people had stereotypes about Jews. But other than an occasional insensitive remark, I don't recall being treated badly by my Christian neighbors. I'm sure some of them wished I'd convert to their faith, but few of them ever tried to preach at me. There was a live-and-let-live attitude in our neighborhood, and that was a good thing. 

Fast forward to today, and I don't see as much live-and-let-live. I also don't see as much courtesy. Perhaps it's because of our pervasive internet culture, especially what can be heard in some corners of social media. Perhaps it's because we have a president who encourages rudeness and name-calling. There are a multitude of other possible causes, but the end result is a resurgence of bigotry and a willingness to express it-- against immigrants, against Muslims, and against Jews.  

In fact, these days, it's not even safe to attend a synagogue. On Friday night, an angry guy barged into Central Synagogue in New York during Sabbath services, screaming obscenities, interrupting the service, and horrifying those in attendance (as well as those watching on the live stream). He was eventually subdued but he damaged some items and struck a congregant before he was finally taken outside and arrested. Meanwhile, there have been far more serious attacks at other synagogues, as well as a rise in attempted arson and vandalism. Many synagogues now have metal detectors. Even more have armed guards.        

It's a far cry from how things were when I was growing up. Don't get me wrong: I am not nostalgic for some mythical "good old days." But I do miss the days when attacking a house of worship was considered bad behavior, and nobody made excuses for it. I do miss the days when I could attend a synagogue and not see a police detail standing outside. I do miss the days when having the "wrong" politics was not a reason why people would scream at you, and when political leaders felt an obligation to speak out against those who acted violently, rather than defending the ones who were on "their team." And yes, I miss the days when the justice system was not seen as a partisan exercise, dependent on the whims of the president, who gives new meaning to the expression "For my friends everything; for my enemies, the law."     

Somewhere, there's a seven year old girl looking at all of this. I wonder what she thinks of it all. Does she think that armed guards at synagogues are normal? Does she think that random strangers insulting Orthodox Jews walking down the street is normal? Does she think politicians who make rude and vulgar remarks about Muslims or immigrants or people from the "wrong" political party is normal? And if that's what normal looks like to kids today, are we really the enlightened society we claim to be?