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Jewish World Review Nov. 19, 1998 / 30 Mar-Cheshvan, 5759
THERE'S JUST SOMETHING about this Jewish thing.
The place: the newly remodeled Oriental Theater in downtown Chicago,
now known, as is the custom these days in insanely-commercial America, the Ford Center for the Performing
Arts.
I'm here for opening night of the musical, "Ragtime," which features a Jewish character,
Tatteh, and his daughter, immigrants who come to this
country in search of the American dream.
So I'm heading to my seat, and show my ticket to the usher who'll then direct me my seat.
I do that, in a procedure I've followed a hundred times.
Only this time, it didn't go as it usually goes.
"Mah Shlomchah?" the usher tells me as I hand him my ticket.
The truth is, and I'm not proud of this, I hadn't even
really noticed him. I just handed him the ticket and looked
past him as if he really wasn't a person, something too many
of us do too often.
It is not the Jewish way. Every human being is of value and
none should be treated as if they are machines with arms,
non-entities who are there merelyn to serve some function, instead of people
to be engaged and validated.
Reminds me of the powerful and beautiful story told of Rabbi
Aaron Kotler, a truly great rabbi who founded America's
first and what remains its best yeshiva. There are many
wonderful stories about Rabbi Kotler including his driving
on Shabbes to Washington during the Holocaust to plead for
the Jews of Europe.
But I'm thinking about another Rabbi Kotler driving story.
He was on the tollway one day when his driver began to pull
into one of the automatic lanes, where you throw your toll
into a basket. Rabbi Kotler told him not to do that, to,
instead, pull into a lane where a person was manning a
booth.
"But that will take longer," said his driver. "And there's
no need. I have exact change."
Didn't matter, said Rabbi Kotler. "There is a person working
there, standing there. To not acknowledge that, to not give
meaning to his work, to not say hello, to just pull into a
machine because it's more convenient is not the Jewish way."
I've never forgotten that story, but, of course, I have.
Which is why I was so startled by what the usher said. "What did
you say," I replied, not being sure I heard correctly, since I
wasn't really listening.
"Mah Shlomchah," he said, asking me in Hebrew how I was.
"B'seder," I answered back in Hebrew, saying I was fine.
And then I looked. And smiled. And he smiled back.
Instant connection, deep connection, beautiful connection.
Jewish connection. It just felt so Jewish, so good. Here's
someone I totally didn't know and who totally didn't know me
but there was a feeling between us, a bond between us. It's
something I never take for granted, never get tired of.
I smiled as I left the theater and it had nothing to do with
the show.
There's just something about this Jewish thing.
Next day. The location: Kinko's.
I walk up to
the teller on duty and looking past him (I just never learn,
do I?) I asked him which machines could take oversize
copies.
"Shalom," he said, in a thick Russian accent. And gave me a
big smile.
And then, while he could have just pointed me to the machine
and let me figure it out and do it for myself, he kindly and
graciously walked with me, adjusted it for me and carefully
did the work, making sure I was happy with the copy that
resulted, making sure it was just right.
All the while he was smiling. As was I. We didn't really
talk much, but I found my heart so touched by his Russian
accent, by knowing he was my brother who had come a long
way, no doubt endured much and was now trying to make his
way in this new land.
Touched that, though he was starting out at Kinko's, you
could see the pride he took in his work, the attention to
detail and service. And you could see how happy he was to be
with a fellow Jew. As was I.
There's just something about this Jewish thing.
"Ragtime" was Sunday, Kinko's Monday. On Tuesday, another
Jewish experience. Only this time I knew one was coming.
Though I didn't know that I would react as I would.
The occasion was a screening of the movie, "The Prince of
Egypt," due to hit theaters in mid-December. I knew it was
going to be a Jewish experience since the prince is Moses
and the movie is the story of our slavery in Egypt and our
exodus from Egypt, culminating in our receiving the Ten
Commandments at Mt. Sinai (oops, I hope I didn't just give
away the ending of the movie).
A handful of critics were invited to see the movie so we
could go back and write about it more, closer to when it
comes out.
Before I proceed, something you need to know is that
journalists are a cynical, skeptical, hard-hearted breed who
are trained never to show emotion and who are intensely
competitive with each other. And are people who are trained
observers and so don't miss a thing, take note of
everything.
And while all that's true of all journalists, it's
especially true of critics, who never show what they're
really thinking or feeling while they're evaluating
something.
And so, there I am sitting with a bunch of hard-hearted,
unfeeling, cynical journalists whose job it is to criticize
and I find myself crying like a baby.
Not once, not twice but every 20 minutes or so. I'm watching
an animated movie, one that tells a story I've heard for 40
years, one I know backwards and forwards and yet I'm crying.
And crying.
Crying about the brutality of the slavery. Crying about the
unshakable faith of the Jewish slaves. Crying about the
arrival of Moses, the loving devotion of G-d. Crying as we
leave Egypt, crying as we yearn for, head to the Promised
Land.
I went in to evaluate a movie, to see how the animation is,
how well the story is told, how crisp the dialogue, how
musical the songs, how, in short, good the movie. That's my
job.
Instead, I sat there like a bowl of mush, hurting, kvelling,
dreaming. Feeling. Very Jewish. That's my life.
Yes, there's just something about this Jewish
My kind of folks
By Joseph Aaron
JWR contributor Joseph Aaron is Editor of
The Chicago Jewish News
