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Written by Aviva Rizel
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Thursday, 23 June 2011 11:39 |
Every time I walk into the Lawrence post office, I make certain to hold the door open for any other patrons who are coming in behind me. Then I make sure to open it again for them as we walk from the lobby into the main room. And then, when they thank me, I make sure to give my most genial, “My pleasure!â€
It’s very easy for me to always remember to make the best Kiddush Hashem possible in the Lawrence post office, because on The Five Towns Jewish Times newsbox right by their front door, there is a great reality check. It is in the graffiti form, and it reads: Damn Orthodox.
I went on You Tube the other day to check something out and I saw that one of the most popular clips of the day was entitled something like: Black Guy Beats up Kid. Then I thought, if the batterer were Caucasian, would the title be “White Guy Beats up Kidâ€? I thought not. It would probably be “Kid Gets Beaten.â€
And then I felt very sad and very bad for all of the other men in the world who happen to have black skin. Because viewers who saw that clip are likely to associate the beating with the race, and then a simple equation of prejudice is made. Just like that.
A few days after this realization, my husband, Meir, came home from Costco. He sat our kids down and started telling them a story. It was about a little black boy who was lost in the Bronx in the early 1940s. He lived nearby, but he couldn’t find his way. He was paralyzed with fear, bawling on the sidewalk. Suddenly, a Jewish man with a yarmulke saw him and stopped. His temporary Jewish guardian took the boy back to his apartment and knocked on the door. When his mother opened it, the boy leapt into her arms and sobbed and sobbed. Then the Jew left.
My husband told the kids that this boy went on to do many great things, like serve our country in battle. He is now in his 70s, and was on line in Costco, behind my husband. He told my husband this story because he saw my husband’s black velvet yarmulke. A yarmulke represents comfort and reunion for this man. But even more, he told my husband his story because when the Jewish man from the 1940s left, the boy never got to say “Thank you.†So, whenever this man sees a yarmulke, he thanks whoever is wearing it.
And, just to continue the tradition of the man’s life, my husband insisted that the gentleman go in front of him in line at Costco. “I insist sir. You’ve served our country.â€
So when I pull up to the Lawrence post office, I gird myself to defend my people. But I am so sad. I wonder what happened between the 1940s in the Bronx and 2011 in the Five Towns.
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