Today is the 19th of Nisan

Tomorrow will be the 20th of Nisan. To many people, that won’t mean anything, and I expect that in many years, it will mean little to me. But this year, it means everything. This year, the 20th of Nisan signifies the 11 month monthiversary of the passing of my dad. In Jewish thought, this is significant. I will, on that 20th, stop saying the kaddish – a prayer recited by the mourner during his time of mourning. For a parent or other first level relative, one says it for 11 months. The truly evil get is said for a year but, as we don’t see our loved ones as evil, we stop after 11 months. What worries me is that whatever theologically explained benefit this prayer has for the soul of my father, will cease when I stop saying it. More than that, the daily reminder of my father – that crutch which gave my liturgical process meaning for 11 months will also stop. And I, a drabbi, can do nothing but unpack my heart with words.

“Drabbi.” I write that knowing that the pun will be missed by many, while others will think it highly inappropriate Either, or. It represents my personal affinity for Hamlet and my clerical status mixed with my personal lack of filter when it comes to humor. I write like that because I know that every once in a while, when I make, or at least when I made, some ridiculous bit of wordplay, I managed to make my father smile or, even better, think and look something up. His bar was not low. He was the smartest and wisest man I ever met and to make him laugh or confuse him gave me purpose. I don’t try to make my mom laugh – I try to annoy her and make her feel like she wants to throttle me. Different strokes, you know. But anyway, I write the stream of my thoughts because I like to think that even now, my dad is avoiding reading something I wrote until he really has to. That gives me comfort.

So I’d like to aim a word or two to my dad, Richard Rosen, Yitzchak Aharon Ben Eliyahu Chayim a"h.

Dad. Eleven months and I miss you terribly and daily. I recall you often and invoke your memory more than I thought I would. On the calendar of kabbalistic levels for the days of the omer (the 49 days between the second day of Passover and the Feast of Weeks) , the 20th of Nisan is symbolized by Hod She’b’chesed – glory that is in kindness. I can think of nothing that more symbolizes you. You wore a crown of glory through your accomplishments and personal characteristics, but you reveled in doing acts of chesed, of loving kindness for your fellow man. You were never about self-aggrandizement and in that, I’d like to think you served as a role model for us all.

I will continue to remember you daily through both my prayers and my actions. Eleven months will turn into 12 and the ending of formal mourning. To thirteen and the anniversary of your death and then I will start counting by years and not months, the way we do for an infant who becomes a toddler. The tears will pass like calendar pages as the years become milestones and memories become lore. I hope that my actions and prayers for these 11 months have elevated you and made you proud, and served as an example of the impact that you continue to have in this world. May your neshama have an Aliyah in the z’chut of any mitzvah I do.

Pick on a Number

The thing is, I teach English. I actually teach people about English language and literature but we shorthand it as “teach English.” By law, therefore, I hate math. If you ever run into an English teacher (English not telling about ancestry but area of focus…focus on the language, not the ancestry) and he or she says that s/he likes math then run. The alien invasion has begun.

But WHY don’t I like math? Is it just because I never had a really good and empathetic math teacher who could help me understand WHY if Johnny had 5 apples anyone would feel the need to take 2 from him? Or why I should care how much fencing Mr. Smith has to buy when he increases the size of his pool by one half its current width. He has the money to expand his pool, let him hire a guy to do his fencing and just pay him. No – my distaste for math runs deeper. Math, itself, is the problem. I wonder why it has taken me so long to set these thoughts down, explaining why math is just plain bad but I shall stay silent no longer! Maybe things have finally come to a head. Maybe it is the vast amounts of sugar coursing through my system. I thank my sponsors – a large number of mega stuff Oreos and some Entenmann’s chocolate donuts for their faith in me and for the vast amounts of sugar coursing through my system.

This is a subject which sows discord. You say that it endorses clarity and unity by requiring a singular, particular and specific, objective answer? I say it requires us to study division! And not just local and short time division, but LONG division! Horrible. This is a discipline predicated on problems, trying to find exes instead of moving on in life. What does it value? Inequalities! Why all the focus on what is greater than or lesser than? Can’t we all just get adrink (or at least another donut)? Is it a study based in originality? No – derivatives everywhere. And all that talk about sets, sets, sets. How can we let our children be around this? Perverts. It is an area of study where it is still ok to discuss “slopes.” Totally inappropriate. I’m made uncomfortable by the idea of “cross multiplying” and I can’t even imagine what kind of travesty a rhombus is.

When we talk in English we say “all things being equal.” You see how beautiful that is? All things, equal. In math, if I could have said “all things being equal” then all the answers would have been the same and maybe I would have passed! Some people say “not for nothing, but…” and do you know what this means? It means I am not doing anything because of math. Even when we discuss numbers, we say “five will get you ten.” Do you see how egalitarian and socialist this is? You have five, it’s ok…take 10. When math wants to approach the sanity of personal understanding it allows in variables; and how does it signal them? LETTERS. That’s what I’m saying.

Do I need math to live my life? If I don’t tip, no. If I don’t expect change, no. Keep my page numbers in Roman numerals and let my tangents be in conversation. Math be darned.

Dad Psychology

In a particular way, I'm a hoarder -- that way being that I keep stuff and don't throw things out because I think one day I'll need them. So, I guess I'm a hoarder in the particular way that is the exact definition of a hoarder. So, yes. I'm a hoarder. But not in the bad way, unless you think it is bad not to throw stuff out.

But I think I come by it honestly. Hoarding is just a negative-nancy way of labeling "collecting." Are coin collectors "hoarders"? Stamp collectors? Celebrities with large collections of cars? But why do we collect? We do so out of fear. Fear of not having (and secondarily, being confronted with someone who DOES have and thus, feeling inferior.

A couple of generations before mine people were not called hoarders. The catastrophe that was the Holocaust, and before that, the tragedy of the Great Depression taught people about the fear of not having. This encouraged collecting as a hedge against the uncertainty of tomorrow. Things had value not because of what they were today but because there might be a need for them later and they would be inaccessible then. The pre-internet generation took a watered down (and less trauma-inspired) version of this because all we knew was what we had in front of us.

Let me explain.

When I was about 11 years old, I was a big M*A*S*H fan. The year was 1980 and I watched the show whenever it was on, which was 7pm on channel 5 for re-runs and 8pm, Mondays, on channel 2 for new episodes. Eventually, 11pm on channel 5 also but I had a bed-time before that. I memorized everything I could about the show, bought a trivia book about it and watched and watched. I even caught a peek of parts of the movie though I don't recall how or where. At some point, someone gave me a piece of paper that had on it the full lyrics to "Suicide is Painful," the Johnny Mandel song performed as an instrumental at the opening of each episode. The lyrics, typed neatly on a piece of stationery. I cherished it, keeping it safe, for many, many years. Why? Because it was a tangible representation of my interests and I didn't know if, had I thrown it out, I would ever have access to it again. Now, the internet has made every lyric accessible all the time so I can throw these things out, but I have been taught about that insurance policy of the extant so I can't muster the courage to chuck all the little scraps of existence that I have so assiduously collected over the years -- the visceral markers of my mind.

I also collected music -- albums, tapes and, eventually, CDs. I rarely listened to them because I enjoy the spontaneity and randomness of the radio, so why did I collect, cataloging each purchase on an index card with album, artist, media and track listing? Because I wanted to know that I always "had" if the situation ever arose that I "needed." I scoured Goldmine and other publications, looking for anyone who was selling the 45 of Mitch Ryder's version of Prince's "When U were Mine." Finding Bob Welch's Ebony Eyes or the Beach Boys' Holland was a cause for celebration. Never again would I feel the fear that, were all the external sources of music to disappear (or just change format), I would never hear these songs again. I t wasn't about snapping up something that might have value, and the potential for increase -- it was about simply having so there would never be a situation in which I would not have. Now? I can go onto my computer and find any song I want, at any time, with lyrics, explanation and even a video. Heck, I have even uploaded a song or two to the virtual clouds so that I, and others, can recapture a little bit of our history (though I don't know who else has a penchant for Carmel's "The Drum is Everything" the way I do). We live in an age of no fear.

Maybe this, psychologically, will change how the future unfolds and how the next generation acts. The "entitlement" that we see might be a natural extension of knowing that everything on the internet will continue to be there, and this generation does not know about "not having." [I am not, of course, talking about those who really don't have -- don't have money, food, lodging etc...clearly, I'm concerned with the thinking of those who don't worry about the very basic/essentials and who have access to the internet and baseline technology.] Why memorize when the internet remembers for me. Why collect when I can get whatever I want at any time. Why learn process when the cloud "does" the work and I can just dream of the desired end. Once I "friend" someone on social media, I needn't concern myself with real life connections.

The recent fad is about cleaning -- Marie something or other, who espouses a philosophy that one must remove things that don't "spark joy" or something like that. For a younger generation, this makes sense. You can get "it" or its equivalent whenever and wherever. Look at it online, buy it from someone in, basically, anywhere, or print up a 3-D version. Who "needs" anything anymore? We all, in a sense, already and always "have." But for someone like me - the collector (or "hoarder") things spark joy because they inspire a sense of security -- a feeling that I don't have to be without. The joy is a different one, but it is real nonetheless and throwing things out doesn't work because everything I have, I have because having, itself, is the source of the joy. I can't separate myself from a book, or an old newspaper because that thing has kept me calm for a long time. Sure I could buy it again, or read online, but my thinking is stuck in the "what if" of 25 years ago.

So I collect. I hoard. I hold onto -- people, things, ideas. But only because I grew up knowing that holding on to what was precious was the best way to make sure that I was never alone.

A letter to a letter

Dear Anthony Michael Hall's letter in The Breakfast Club,

You are wrong. I'm sitting here monitoring a Sunday morning detention -- yes, I'm the "bad guy" and I realize how wrong your letter is. Every person here is here because this consequence was reached as a natural outcome of chosen behavior. That's great and you admit as much. But then you object to being asked to define yourself. You push that off and claim that "you see us as you want to see us." What a load of self-pity. We see you as you present yourself. We see the version you want us to see. You are who you tell us you are and maybe, sometimes, you should take some responsibility for the image you portray which forces us to see you as we do.

We aren't making things up. If you are a jock, then we see you as a jock if you define yourself as a jock. Did you notice that no one else in your breakfast club was wearing sweat pants? Or defined himself by his being on a team? The modes of dress, language and behavior, those written and unwritten social codes which advertise being make it clear how each person in your group wants to be seen. Could the wrestler have shown up in slacks? Could the criminal have worn a tie? The princess, a leather jacket? Yes. Did they? No.

And how we see you is not the end result of a single interaction. Educators get to interact with students every day and don't jump to conclusions about character without extensive evidence based in experience and an evaluator's eye. One of you calls himself a "brain." What classes is he in? What are his grades? What it his general behavior, his extra curriculars, his friend group? Is it true that "each of us is a brain"? Maybe in some sense, every student can think and learn, but our differences exist. They all asked the 'official' brain to write the letter. They are buying in to the conventional wisdom and exploiting exactly what you seem to think is wrong, when done by the teacher. You don't want to be seen as the brain, but you let them see you that way.

So stop feeling sorry for yourselves, write your own letters and craft your own images. Tell us who you think you are because maybe you will realize that we can't judge you by anything other than the clues you give off and this letter, this opportunity, this chance to redefine yoursef shouldn't be wasted. Who do you think you are and how does that differ from what you have told us before now? What can we all learn from this detention? Your little bit of soapbox moralizing and 5 cent philosophy brings no one closer to understanding the self or the other. It was a cheap way to make you feel good about yourself without having to do any real thinking.

And by he way, tell your writer that tomorrow, the jock and the basket case will date, the criminal and the princess will date and you will still be on the outs, hanging with the brains until they need you to write another letter.

Food for thought on a diet of worms

I was walking home this morning -- it had rained overnight, and I noticed in the middle of the street, there was a worm, just lying there. I don't know what I was expecting because worms, it seems, rarely sit up, but he was lying there and it got me thinking. Why was the worm crossing the road? Given the size of the worm and the width of the road, this must have been a very important journey, well conceived and planned for. Worms usually stat in the grass and dirt areas but this one felt compelled to set out across a street and I wonder why. The fact is, given the speed at which worms move, I sense that he was doomed from the get-go. It might have been raining then, but could he truly have expected that the rain would continue long enough for him to work his way over to the other side? Are worms often overly optimistic? Do they lack the kind of meteorological resources that can help them anticipate a sudden lack of rain which spells their demise? Can we learn important lessons about the perseverance, grit and tenacity of the common earthworm or should we make note of their short-sightedness and devil-may-care attitude about their own mortality. Do we see in them the fortitude which drives them to inch along in search of something greater, or just their apparent stupidity when they start a trip without packing the essentials. When we look down at the worm, should we be looking up at the worm, or down on the worm? Is the worm the symbol for all the best of what we can be when we don't let ourselves be daunted by challenge, or does the worm represent our worst self, refusing to accept our situation and its limitations and foolishly risking everything for an impossible dream?

So tilt at those windmills, worm. Give us pause as we consider how we should learn from you. And also, sorry about those cars and that you are dead.