Another Christmas Post from a Jewish Blogger

Looking at the back of my car, you might think you'd caught up with Santa's sleigh.

Toys for kids of all ages!

As I have done for probably about 30 years or more, I have been a happy partner in a toy drive in conjunction with a Hebrew School for the holidays.  This year is no different, and I will deliver the toys today to a shelter which keeps women and children safe from abusive situations.

Typically, like today, I deliver the toys alone, quietly in the middle of the day.  According to Jewish tradition, this is the way to go actually.  Anonymously (although when I remember, I do get a form for our taxes), and allowing the recipients to keep their dignity.  They don't know the donors, and the donors, in this case, members of our congregation, don't know where I am bringing the toys. 

But one year, things happened a little differently.

In a turn of events I never could have expected, I found myself in the middle of Hackensack, NJ with a car overflowing with toys, and my own toddler son about to engage in a mitzvah (elevated good deed) that I would never forget.

That year I had been asked to collect toys for Jewish young people who lived in several group homes in Hackensack.  The students in my Hebrew High School delivered above and beyond.  The night we were to wrap the gifts, the amount was simply overwhelming.  Back in those days, I drove a big old Chevy van, and it's a good thing. 

My van was full of huge garbage bags of gifts, each wrapped in Hanukkah paper, and labeled for a boy or girl, and the age for whom the toy was appropriate.  Also in my car was a small pile of toys we deemed inappropriate for donation:  Christmas books, baby toys, and anything that looked used.  I'd deliver those to a shelter at another time. 

I got to the drop-off location, and they took as much as they could use.  But, to our surprise, I really had too much.  The director asked me to come to their Hanukkah party so I could see the faces of the young people when they opened their gifts, but I had to teach that night, so I had to miss the fun.  But I left with my van still HALF FULL of wrapped Hanukkah presents. 

This was before smart phones, so home I went.  I opened this book we used to get called a phone book  and started to look for homeless shelters in Bergen County.  I made a few calls and I found a shelter - coincidentally right back in Hackensack - and even more coincidentally - if I could come back tomorrow - it was their Christmas Party!  And their usual donors had not come through- they had nothing under their tree as of now.  I wanted to tell them it was beshert (meant to be) but I think they knew that.  I made a plan with the director of the shelter to meet the next day.

That day, Thursday, my little son Jacob, who was about 3, did not have his pre-school, so I popped him into his car seat, bundled up in his little snow suit.  No MapQuest or GPS - I navigated by sense of direction back then! And with Jacob's favorite Hanukkah cassette tape playing we drove back to Hackensack with a car full of toys.  Every so often I'd hear his little sing-song voice say, "Waldo!" as he had found the "Where's Waldo" Christmas book from the pile in my van and was finding Waldo in the North Pole scene, then in the busy shopping scene, then in the snowball fight scene.

I got to the shelter, and it was set up like an apartment house, with a common room and a front office.  At first I didn't see any residents, just the office staff, who helped me bring the heavy bags into the common room.  There was a little Christmas tree, decorated with ancient decorations and bright lights.  There was an old television, that was on for no one in particular.  The old couches and chairs looked comfortable, but worn and threadbare.  The room was clean but smelled like smoke and although decorated for Christmas, was anything but festive.  

As promised, there was nothing under the tree.

The director as me if I wanted to put the presents under the tree. 

Um, sure, ok.  I un-bundled little Jacob and took my coat off and we got to work.  I was a little worried he would want to open the presents himself, but he had fun putting the presents around the bottom of the tree, and quickly learned that the side with ribbon and the tag had to go up.  With the tv news as our background music, the job went along smoothly.

While we were working on this I realized we were being watched.  A mother and her baby had come into the room.  He must have been 2 or younger.  Despite the fact it was freezing outside and pretty cold inside, the baby was dressed in only a t-shirt and diaper.  Nothing on his feet.  I'll never forget the juxtaposition of my bundled up boy sitting amid plenty and this little guy, in just a shirt and diaper.

The mom and I smiled at each other.  Jacob and I were almost done.  I said to them both that I thought Santa might be coming soon.  I went in to the office to let them know we were finishing up.

The director had a shocked look on her face.  I asked her what was up?  She told me that their Santa was just arrested.

"Do you want to be our Santa today for our Christmas party?"

Wow.  I'd would have loved that!  But I had to say no,  I had to pick up my other two children at school and then go to work.  But what an opportunity for a Jewish woman!  Still to this day, I think I would have been a great Santa!

As we were getting ready to go, I whispered to Jacob, "Do you think that little baby would like that Waldo book?"  Jacob thought that was a great idea.  So we went out to the van and got the book.  Jacob handed it to the baby who clutched it to his chest tightly.  His mom got tears in her eyes that matched mine.  I looked over at the director of the shelter.  She was wiping away tears as well. 

We turned around and looked at all the Hanukkah presents under their little Christmas tree.  The room seemed to sparkle in a way it didn't when we got there.  The director turned the tv on to cartoons for the little boy. He was still clutching his book  when we left.  The mom was thanking us.  Jacob scored a candy cane, probably his first. 

I forgot to ask for a receipt.

Maybe I did get to play Santa after all. 

Santified version of me by Peter White 2015

Strangers Stopping Strangers

For most people, it was a typical Wednesday night commute.  Not for me, since I don't live or work in New York City.  I was on the train, heading in to go to a concert, to see my favorite bass player*, Phil Lesh, in  a concert in Central Park.  So while most people were just thinking about getting home, I was excited to meet my brother and friends for a fun night under the stars, listening to my favorite music.  I knew the band Phil (we all call him Phil, with love and reverence) had put together would be stellar, and historically, New York City seemed to bring the best out of him.

The ride from my town to Secaucus was uneventful.  I texted with the people I was going to meet, and did a crossword puzzle.  At Secaucus I had to change trains for New York's Penn Station.  This is a 16 minute trip that delivers you right underneath Madison Square Garden.  It's the best if your concert is right there, but still pretty handy to get anywhere else, because it's a subway hub.  (Not that I have the slightest idea which subway lines go where, but luckily, my brother does.)

It was on that 16-minute ride that something somewhat extraordinary happened.

I found a seat right away, and gave the guy already sitting in the other seat the "mind if I sit here?" look.  He moved his stuff away, but apparently he did mind. He was wearing khakis, and a short-sleeve plaid shirt, and now put his brief case on his lap to make room for me.  He gave me a sort of put-off quasi-disgusted look, as if I just ruined his day.  (Yes, I had showered that day, and NO I was not wearing patchouli oil.) I sat down, putting my bag with the concert supplies on the floor, and my pocketbook on my lap.  He took his phone out and was furiously texting or emailing. 

As the train started to go, we sat like that, in silence, ignoring each other. I was lost in thought.  He was typing away on his phone.  

About 6 minutes into the ride the door between the cars opened, and a man came stumbling into our car. He seemed to be an older guy, pants drooping down, three or four shirts sloppily layered on, with a torn jacket over all of them. As I was on the aisle, I could smell him as he walked by, an unpleasant smell of urine and something else... beer maybe?  His hand was out, and I remember his hands most of all. Gnarled knuckles, and fingernails that were too long.  They looked like old man's hands. I saw two different sleeves, frayed and torn. 

And he was shouting this up and down our car,  "I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. I need two-fifty for the 3 train uptown. Who's gonna give me my two-fifty for the 3 train uptown?"

Everyone looked down.  Or out the window.  Or at their iPhones, which don't work under the Hudson River. But I didn't look away. I looked at this guy.  Wandering on a train asking for $2.50. 

And I did what I always do.

I took out my wallet.  And if the story ended there, I would not be writing about it.

But as I was getting money out for this man in need, Mr. Plaid Shirt was taking out his wallet, and saying to me, "I'll split the difference with you."  

I just looked at him, and started to smile.  

He continued, "If you will give it to him."

I took the dollar from Mr. Plaid Shirt and took a dollar from my wallet, and stood up and yelled, "Excuse me, sir?" and the man stumbled back to where we were sitting and took the money.  He had almost left the car when he remembered to mumble, "Gah bleh you" before the door slammed shut.

Plaidman was a different person now. He smiled at me and said, "I was making all kinds of excuses in my head about why I couldn't give him the money.  I can't reach my wallet.  We're almost at Penn Station. What if it's not safe to give it him?  What if he just spends it on drugs?  Then I saw how easy it was for you to do it and I realized I could do it too. Thank you."

"Yea," I said, "It's not up to us to decide what he might spend it on, it's sad enough he's at the point where he needs to beg. I give it to him and remember to be grateful that I can."

My new friend smiled and admitted that he always wants to give, but he just walks past "those people."

Remembering the countless stories I'd heard from people who had found themselves homeless, I said, "If, God forbid, I am ever down and out, I hope my acts of kindness will come back to me.  Maybe your act today will start a chain of good deeds."

"I was thinking that maybe by helping that guy, I just prevented something really bad from happening to me," he replies.

"Oh, I never thought of that.  So if you go and have a fantastic day, you'll know you got your reward?"

"Something like that!" he says, and he is smiling now.

"I picture you walking around the city, just barely missing pianos and anvils falling on your head!  You could write a children's book about that!" I say, now really enjoying the idea of doing a mitzvah and protecting yourself from harm.

"I think that's for other people to do."

We are almost at Penn Station.  We are both standing up near the door.  I wonder if he will be empowered to give to the next person in need.  He is certainly a different person than the one I sat next to 14 1/2 minutes ago.

We say good-bye.  He goes off to his life, protected, I hope by his act of kindness.  I go off to mine, already in progress.

As a reward for my act of kindness, Phil plays a song just for me.  I hold it close as the music and words pour into my soul and fill me with joy. 

And for a little while, all is right with the world.

Photo credit: Jack Baribault

Pictured: Jack, Peter White, me, and my brother Geoffrey's back. I forget why we are showing the number one. Maybe someone can enlighten me. 



*Phil Lesh is my favorite bass player, except for my cousin, Rick Cantor.

Why There's a Plaster Jesus in My Basement, or Another Christmas Blogfrom a Jewish Blogger

Unlike many of my fellow Jews, my Christmas custom is NOT eating Chinese food and going to the movies on Christmas day, although there was a time when I  have done that.  (This Christmas Eve is another story!)

Menorah Christmas Tree= Holiday FAIL

For the past, oh, ten? years we have spent Christmas day driving to Maine.  Not a very festive thing to do, but my father-in-law's birthday is December 26th, and we like to be there to celebrate, and it's really a great day to drive.  No one is on the roads!  This backfired exactly twice when we broke down and, as I say, NO ONE was on the roads. But usually it's smooth sailing and we get up to our igloo away from home in record time.

Some years, like this year, and in years past, we leave for Maine on the 26th,  and attend a wonderful Christmas party with family friends.  We have been going to their party since my brother and I were children, and it's a joy to go now that our own kids are grown. 

But there were years before that when I didn't live around my family, and I had to find other things to do on Christmas. Since I had just come home for Thanksgiving, sometimes I would offer to work over Christmas to let the other people get the time off.

When I lived in San Francisco, I was the case manager a group home for teens who could no longer live at home. We only had six beds, and all six were always filled.  I remember those kids so well, each one has a place in my heart.  Some of them were easy to love, and some of them made themselves a little tougher. Some of them had families who wanted them back, and some of them had families that were so dysfunctional that we could not let them go back, not even for an hour on Christmas. For those kids, we would supervise Christmas or Christmas Eve visits in the living room of our house.  A mysterious donor always send a Christmas tree about a week before, and we would decorate it with a few ancient decorations.  (I learned the word "flocking" at this time.) The kids started to behave better, or worse, depending on what emotions were being drummed up inside.  They usually liked that this was my only Christmas.

We had very strict rules about behavior.  No infractions meant you could go to the store and buy some gifts for your housemates, or family members, if you were still in touch.  But if you had broken rules, you had only on-grounds privileges, and someone else had to do your shopping. The state gave us some money to buy the kids gifts, and some of their parents brought presents, if they knew that a visit was not to be.  We did not have an "angel" or a "sugar daddy." No one thought about these kids as a charity worth a "toy drive" or a "drop off."  They weren't adorable, or pitiful, or glamorous. Just kids who had had it really rough. I was just a kid myself, looking back, just 26.

Ted was violent, but only sometimes.  Other times he was smooth and a ladies man.  He was about 6'1" already, very nice looking, and only 16. He lied as easily at telling the truth. My strongest memory about Ted was the night we caught him drinking and he was about to lose his privileges.  "Ted, you made some bad choices and..." and before I knew it, he had smashed the empty vodka bottle found under his bed and was holding it menacingly in my face.  My heart was racing.  Just at that moment another worker arrived behind him and took the bottle away.  Ted was taken to Juvenile Hall.  I don't know what happened to him.

Shelly had it rough. Her mom simply couldn't handle her. "Take her," she said. She was way more into finding drugs and finding alcohol than finding Shelley after school.  Luckily Shelley found Jesus and the church helped Shelley.  But Shelley never let anyone in again.  Except for me.  Shelley and I are still in touch.

Rosanne was 14 when she arrive at Pathways. She had already had an abortion. Rosanne was the only Jewish kid there when I was there, so I invited her to come to my house to celebrate Hanukkah one night. I knew this was against the rules, but since I was, by now, the manager, I bent the rules when I needed to. She shared her story in the car.  Mom's new husband came to her room every night.  When she told mom about this, Mom slapped her and called her a whore and a liar, and kicked her out on the street.  But Rosanne was pregnant, and she dragged herself to a hospital, who called the state.  After the abortion, she came to us, and we were working on emancipating her when she became 16.

Dwayne was Ted's roommate, and was soft spoken.  He became his true self after Ted left, and we saw a glimmer of joy in his eyes, when he was no longer living in fear of Ted.  He became more and more confident.  His issues were many, stemming from learning disabilities, school anxiety and a single mom who simply gave up on him.  Dwayne had a much older brother who came to visit and brought him home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and gave him a sense of family.

Denise.   Denise was black. I was there the day she was dropped off by her white mom. Her mom was clearly drunk, and Denise was clinging to her. It was a heart wrenching scene.  Her mother loudly announced for all to hear that she was fine with Denise's placement at Pathways.  The court appointed social worker tried to bring us all into my office to finish the paper work, but Denise's mother was anxious to leave.  Her school placement was at an all-girls Catholic school, and it seemed to be a good match for her. 

Her roommate was Kim, our oldest resident, and the big sister to other girls.  Kim had been arrested several times for several different small crimes, each of them just seemed to say "Get me out of my house," and finally she got out.  At 17, she was nearly ready to be on her own.  Her grades were good, she had a part time job, and I had just gotten her a checking account.  Our latest mini-battle with Kim was the amount of time she wanted to spend with her boyfriend. 

So it  was Christmas.  It was my third year at Pathways, so I knew the drill.  We started nice and early working to find places for the kids to go, because with troubled families (and with healthy ones) things can always go wrong.  All the kids were in the group home on Christmas Eve Day, so we did our present exchange that day.

By Christmas Eve, a few of the kids had places to go.  Those who were there were treated to a nice dinner, cooked by me (usually the kids took turns cooking as part of the therapy of becoming independent).  We watched a Christmas movie on TV and drank hot cocoa. (I always offered to take the shifts because I was the only Jewish employee.)

I put a few gifts I had bought for the last few kids under the tree.  The only one who had nowhere to go on Christmas Day was Denise.  Once everyone was gone, I broke the news to her.  She was coming with me, and my husband to spend Christmas with us.

This was, of course, against the rules. She didn't have off-ground privileges, and she wasn't supposed to go in the car with me.  And neither of those minor details was going to stop me.  Denise got all dressed up in her nicest clothes, coat and scarf, and we were off.   

I drove her up to my apartment, picked up my husband and we headed into San Francisco.  Looking into my rear view mirror I could see she was bubbling with excitement.

First stop...Chinatown!   Our Christmas dinner was a Chinese feast of dumplings, wonton soup and spareribs!  It was all a first for her, and she loved it.

Then, off to the movies, to see the new Star Trek movie.  She had been to the movies before, but not for a very long time, and she was thrilled.  

We had a great time, and it was a lot of fun to treat Denise to a special day, even if it was not exactly the most traditional Christmas for her.

Then back to the Pathways by 5:30 or so, when the next shift of staff was to arrive and the other kids were arriving back, with their stories of dysfunction, fighting and complaining.  And Denise smiling ear to ear.

After Christmas, we made sure things get back to normal very quickly because it stirs up so much for the kids. But after school one day, Denise came into my office and said she had a surprise for me.  She handed me a wrapped gift, tissue paper, ribbon, the works.  

"Merry Late Christmas, and Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year too. I made you this in art class.  Thanks for the best Christmas I have ever had."

She stood there while I opened it.  It was this plaster Jesus head.  She was bursting with pride.  

I have treasured it and kept it ever since.  When my kids were little I hid it, so they would not be confused.  How do you explain why a Jewish family has a plaster Jesus in the basement?   But there's nothing confusing about helping someone feel loved and celebrate her holiday.  

So, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and I wish you all the love and joy of the season.

Livin' on a Prayer

Dear Jon Bon Jovi,
   I owe you a major apology.  In an earlier posting, I was somewhat dismissive of you, and now I learn that you are a real mentsch.  Apparently you have had a charitable foundation for quite some time and have just opened a restaurant that allows people to pay what they can afford for their meal.  If they are facing hard times, they can pay back by volunteering instead.  The more I am learning about your restaurant, the more I am inspired.  
   Now, I could just sheepishly remove my earlier comments from my blog and no one would be the wiser... but instead, I'll be a mentsh too and say that New Jersey is proud to have you as our own.
  
   I hope you accept my apology,


    Juliet 


   To the rest of you... if you want learn more about the Soul Kitchen, click here.  Or, to find out about his charitable organization, click here.  And hey, if you want to buy his music, so that he keeps making money so he can continue to do these mitzvot ... great acts of loving kindness... go to amazon.com or itunes and keep the man making a profit.

All We Are Saying...

Today is September 12, 2011.


Yesterday the world stopped to remember a day that we still cannot get our brains around.  


The very anticipation of the Tenth Anniversary of September 11 felt like a slow drumbeat to me. 


It began in July, when I visited the site which is no longer called Ground Zero.  I was invited in to hear strangers' stories, thanks to a program hosted by Facing History and Ourselves and the World Trade Center Tribute Center.  When I arrived at the World Trade Center area I was struck by the intensity of thousands of people, moving in all different directions. People in business suits, and in shorts. Techies, tourists, teachers, analysts, lawyers, financial people, construction workers, security people, and lots of police trying to move human beings and traffic.  It was a Tuesday.  A beautiful Tuesday... just like... don't think like that.... I looked up.  A new skyscraper was being built.  I had no idea.

On that day in July I learned the power of the personal narrative.  I shared mine, and got tears in my eyes as I heard others tell theirs.  


Yesterday, when I watched the survivors' families reading the names of those lost I could not stop thinking that every one of the nearly three thousand lost souls has a story.  Some of the readers shared tiny windows to  their stories with the world yesterday.  A little boy, nearly ten, had never met his father, and thanked him for loving him.  A woman was still in so much pain she could barely pronounce her husband's name.  A father lost his son and daughter-in-law... a whole generation gone. 

Click here to see photos of the Memorial


People my age do not remember Pearl Harbor, and we are a little too young to have been felt the full impact of the weight of the assassinations of John F. Kennedy or Martin Luther King.  But we are the generation that will forever share this.  I know that everyone goes through terrible life-changing crises ... a near death experience, an illness that leaves them changed or scarred, the loss of someone dear to them... but a catastrophe shared by so many on a such a deep level leaves a profound mark on a generation.  


There is a movement to make September 11 a day of service.  A mitzvah day.  Will that keep the haters from hating? Of course not.  Will that bring back the deceased?  Nothing will, but I guess it will honor their memory a lot more than turning to hate.  Every generation must become more loving, more compassionate, more tolerant than the one before it.  That is the only path to peace.  I know that not everyone feels that way.  But it's the only way.


Give peace a chance.