The Zayde Chronicles

  Rabban Shimon ben Gamaliel used to say: on three things does the world stand: On justice, on truth, and on peace, as it is said: “execute the judgment of truth and peace in your gates” (Zechariah 8:16). Ethics of our Ancestors 2:14  Generally speaking, people react to receiving a jury duty summons with the same level of enthusiasm as being told they need root canal surgery. And this was, in fact, my reaction upon receiving the notice from the Office of the Fulton County, Georgia, District Attorney. My one consolation was that, in the past, my social work degree had made my selection to a jury anathema to prosecuting attorneys. It was, if you will excuse the reference, my “get out of jail card.”   But not this time. My snide and dubious attitude all changed when I raised my right hand to be sworn in as a juror. This was an oath, and a person’s future was in my hands. Our Jewish tradition takes judging and justice very seriously. “Tzedek, Tzedek tirdof ” — Justic...

      Mittendrinnen, out of the blue, Arthur sent me a message on Facebook: “Are you the David Raphael who went to Camp Ramah in the sixties?” And, in fact, I am such person. This opening line led to a flood of back-and-forth. Arthur (then Artie) and I were camp friends for four years at Camp Ramah and then years after. As young teens, Artie and I would meet at the Port Authority in New York and spend the day walking the streets of Manhattan snapping photos with our new SLR cameras (Can you imagine parents allowing a 14-year-old to do that today?). In 1969, we traveled to Washington DC together to join the March on Washington to protest the Vietnam War. We lost touch somewhere between high school and college.  A half-century later, Arthur and I have now renewed our friendship.      Over the course of my life, I have been blessed with wonderful lifelong friends, some of whom I’ve known for over half a century: Richard, who became my “besty” playing...

  Sixty years ago (give or take), my cousin Jeremy (age 10) and I (age 12) sat impatiently in Uncle Myron’s study at the Jewish Center of Jackson Heights in New York. Uncle Myron, known to the congregants as Rabbi Fenster, lingered at the opulent kiddush, greeting congregants, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, shmoozing, and wishing all a good Shabbas. He did this every week. At long last, the study door opened, and Uncle Myron came in and began to remove his clerical robes. Moments later, there was a knock on the door, and a crying, despondent young boy entered. “What is it?” Uncle Myron gently queried. “I can’t find my tallis, my mother’s going to kill me!” “Well, since this is a matter of life and death, we can call her on Shabbat.” Even as a 12-year-old, I knew this wasn’t a matter of life and death, and I understood Uncle Myron’s intent. Judaism is in the service of humanity was the lesson he shared with me that day. How many of us have been blessed ...

    I recently found myself leafing through my dog-eared copy of Andrew Solomon's " Far From the Tree ," a masterful book that illuminates the dynamics and challenges of children and family members who, because of identity choice or cognitive or physical differences, upend the intergenerational cliché "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree." In the opening chapter, Solomon identifies two types of identity: Vertical Identities: "Attributes and values are passed down from parent to child across the generations not only through strands of DNA but also through shared cultural norms." Horizontal Identities: "May reflect recessive genes, random mutations, prenatal influences or values and preferences that a child does not share with his progenitors." The dynamics of children's and grandchildren's horizontal identities can be especially complicated for grandparents....

  Like many of us, I had four grandparents.   And, also, like many of us two of those grandparents were grandfathers. My father’s father “Jacob” emigrated to the United States from Romania in 1902 aboard the La Champagne sailing from Le Havre, France.   On that same ship was Rachel Moskowitz who would soon become his wife and, later on, my grandmother. To say that Jacob Raphael was taciturn would be an understatement.   There may have been a time when he smiled – but I have no memory of such.   Every Sunday our family would pile into our Pop Jacob and Nana Rachel’s home in Crown Heights, Brooklyn for a seemingly interminable visit. And each, Pop Jacob and I had the same conversation: “Duvid, he would say from his lounge chair near the front door, “what is the Parsha HaShavuah” – (the weekly Torah Portion). And, each week, I would answer: “I don’t know.” This must have been hard on him as, I ...