Uncle "I" - Talking a Walk

Somewhere there is a photo taken of Uncle “I” and me in front of 3619 Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn during the fall of 1958 or '59. He was teaching me to box. I was just about  4 years old at the time. The second Sputnik had recently been launched and he’d taken to calling me “Little Sputnik” as a way of showing his affection. I don’t know why; but I loved it from the moment he dubbed me with that strange sobriquet.

Now, fast forward almost exactly 10 years to my Bar Mitzvah in November 1967. That’s Uncle “I” and me in the photo above. I recently acquired the photos from my Bar Mitzvah along with some others, but this is my favorite one of them.

The Bar Mitzvah itself never really meant anything to me at the time. It wasn't until much later in life that I began to realize the richness of my own heritage and beliefs. But there was something which happened on that day which I never really fully grasped until I saw this picture; along with a few others; of my Uncle Irving with me on that special occasion.

Now, if you are at all close to me; or maybe even if you are not; you have heard me speak of Uncle “I”; which is how we addressed him; and know how important he was to me, and still is. I have never been to his grave. I was close to it when I visited my father’s grave in 2002, and it was even strongly suggested that I “pay my respects” while there. I couldn't do it.

You see, if I had seen the grave that day it would have been an affirmation that Uncle “I” had passed away. I’d seen him in the nursing home; a sad sight to be sure. I watched him waste away emotionally after he was betrayed by his sister; who was my grandmother at the time, a position she “lost” after the fact; so I knew he was dying. I was not present for his funeral because I was not told of it until afterward. I was running a bit too “wild” for my family at the time and so I was excluded from it. Inadvertently though, they had done me a favor, since; as a result of that exclusion; to me he has really never died. We still speak; quite often.

Now, let’s get back to the photograph. It was taken on Saturday November 5^th, 1967 in the foyer of my family’s apartment at 1310 Avenue R in Brooklyn just prior to my Bar Mitzvah ceremony. The weather was rainy and a bit raw, typical for Brooklyn in November. Everyone was getting ready to leave for the temple, which was located 2 blocks over and 3 blocks up from our place on Avenue R. I was supposed to ride with my parents, my brother and Uncle in the Pontiac Catalina we owned at the time. But, Irving wanted to walk. Moreover, he wanted me to walk with him. I eagerly acquiesced, as there was nothing I enjoyed more than being in his company.

We walked as Uncle “I” always walked; not fast; not slow. It was just the right speed for talking and I have often described these times with him as “talking a walk.”  And this one was one of the best ever. Uncle “I” told lots of stories; some true, others not so much. This was the reason behind the slightly derisive Uncle “I”; which sounded just like Uncle “Lie”. He knew we took his stories with a grain of non-truth, but he also knew that I loved them all the more, regardless.

But this “talk a walk” was different. Uncle “I” was very moved that evening of my Bar Mitzvah. He had no children of his own to deposit his memories with, and I was the depository that night, and it was a wonderful treat which I have held close for 46 years. He told me about his own Bar Mitzvah in 1908.

Now Uncle “I” rarely spoke of his childhood. His stories were mostly confined to his “glory days” playing ball on the school team, and various other heroics which could never be verified. But this was different. This was real. And there was no need to even stretch the truth slightly, as I was in rapt attention, struggling to hear every word against the sound of the wind as we walked, bent into it.

I was afraid of losing his words as they were carried away on the stiff breeze, and so I watched him as he formed each sentence, fumbling a bit for the words before he began each sentence. He was reaching back in time to a place only he could see but wanted to share and I was intent on capturing this moment.

His Bar Mitzvah was, as he told me, somewhat different than mine would be. His family; a brother named Nathan and a sister named Dorothy; who was my maternal grandmother; were raised by his parents; Max and Rebecca on the lower East Side, where they had settled early in the 1900’s after having lived in Vineland, New Jersey for a while. Originally they had lived in Philadelphia for a short spell after they arrived from the old country.

By 1907 my great grandfather owned his own livery stable and there was enough money for a modest celebration of my Uncle’s entry into manhood. He was ushered into the faith at the old temple, which I believe was on Rivington Street, and afterward the family repaired; with a few friends; back to their apartment for a “nosh” in celebration. He received a $1 watch and a fountain pen as gifts to mark his transition from childhood. That’s it; a watch and a pen. The watch would keep him punctual, and the pen was the first of the many which would be instrumental in his making a living in the garment industry for the rest of his life.

Arriving at the shul, Uncle “I” turned to me and said, “So now I don’t get to call you Little Sputnik anymore, do I?” And then he did something he never did before; or after; that night. He said, “I love you, Robert” and looked away. I looked directly at him and replied, “I love you, too Uncle “I”. We hugged, and then we entered the shul, where people were already waiting.

The Rabbi did his thing; and I did mine; at which point he pronounced me a “man”. That poor misguided creature. Even with all of his wisdom he could not have known that Uncle “I” had performed that function not 15 minutes earlier; right outside of the shul.

"Running the Books" by Avi Steinberg

This isn't the book Avi Steinberg intended to write. This isn't the job he was supposed to have. This is not the life he was prepared to live. So, who is the real Avi Steinberg? Come along on Mr. Steinberg's journey as he finds out just who he is and how the hell he got there.

Raised as an Orthodox Jew, Mr. Steinberg fully expected to become a Rabbi. Or at least a Cantor. At age 14 he immersed himself in Talmudic study. He even carried a copy of the Mishna wherever he went, opening it for study at every available opportunity, much to the amusement of even his Orthodox friends. His graduation book predicts his destination in life as "...a shepherd in the Negev desert."

After graduating from college he finds himself without work and very little desire to make a career at anything in particular. For awhile he takes a job as the obituary writer for the Boston Globe. This is when he sees the want ad for a job as a Prison Librarian in Boston's South Bay. He takes the test, gets the job and is plunged into a whole new world, for which he is mostly unprepared. As he prepares for his new job, he wryly notes that most of the Prophets had been criminals of one sort or another. Some had even served time. Two were wanted for murder. One was an exhibitionist.

Different criminals make for different kinds of librarians, and Mr. Steinberg contends that while pimps make the best, psycho killers are the worst. And while his approach to running the prison library is not quite in line with the rules, he does manage to make a difference. Along the way he gets to shepherd a colorful ensemble of individuals with names like Solitary, Brutish, Nasty, Poor and Short. And those are just the girls!

The prison library is a place of refuge for the prisoners, but a source of high anxiety for the staff. There are so many places, and ways, to hide notes, weapons and contraband in a library. It needs to be searched after each library "session." What do you do when you find the notes? A good prison librarian throws them away. What happens when one of the woman prisoners wants to sit near the window to look out onto the prison yard? Will he be savvy enough to figure out that she is only trying to get a glimpse of her son, who is a prisoner in the same facility as his mother? In short, what happens to a man who is suddenly confronted with people and decisions for which he may be unprepared?

In the case of Mr. Steinberg, he lets the books do the talking, while he uses his imagination to get the inmates truly interested in something beyond the walls which surround them. He initiates a "Photo Response Essay" program, in which he passes out pictures and has the inmates write about them. This is officially the "Creative Writing Class", but through this program the inmates learn to confront, and possibly even understand, themselves a bit more.

He introduces them to the photo journalism of Arthur "Weegee" Fellig, one of my all time favorite photograhers, and his collection of crime photos from 1930's New York City. These are raw photos of real life to which the inmates can relate and open up to. Here is a link to some of his extraordinary work;

http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2008/06/19/arts/0620-EXPL_index.html

In turn, he is introduced to things that he has never heard of. Take "skywriting", which is one of the more elaborate ways that prisoners use to communicate with one another. This involves looking skyward and tracing the letters of the message backwards so that the person on the ground can "read" the message. This type of communication was mostly done between the male convicts and the women prisoners who are housed in "The Tower." At any time during the night there were at least 5 such "conversations" taking place. One of Nasty's poems from the Creative Writing Class is a Haiku that deals with "skywriting."

cell in late winter
skywriting to skinny dude
darkness in the yard

With a deft hand, and keen imagination, Mr. Steinberg manages to make a difference in the lives of all those he comes into contact with. This surprises him as much as it does the inmates. Interwoven with his own story is that of his Orthodox friend Yoni, as he struggles to find his own place in the world.

After leaving the job at the prison, Mr. Steinberg bumps into one of his old
"students" from the prison at, you guessed it, the Public Library! Mr. Steinberg is going through some personal changes in his life's direction when he meets the former inmate, who wears an Arab Kufi on his head. The author hadn't known that he was a Muslim. They walk together, each one speaking of their current direction, or lack of one. During this conversation, the former inmate reminds Avi of one of the stories from the Mishna which he told the class in prison. It's the one about the fruit peddlers.

"A merchant bought a sack of prunes from his competitor. Opening the sack, he saw that the prunes had begun to rot. He went back to the seller and demanded his money back. The seller refused, and the two men went to the Rabbi to settle the dispute.

The Rabbi sat down at a table between the two men and emptied the sack in front of them. Then he put on his glasses, and without saying anything, he went to work, slowly and carefully tasting one prune after another, each time shaking his head.

After some time had passed, the Plaintiff spoke up, "So,Rabbi, what do you think?"

The Rabbi, who was about to consume the last of the prunes, looked up sharply and said, "Why are you fellows wasting my time? What do you think I am - A prune expert?"

Avi is amazed that the former inmate has remembered the story, which he always thought of as a story about a Rabbi who managed to eat some prunes for free. Not so, says the former inmate. "It's about a smart guy, okay, but he ain't smart in the right way, see? Just 'cause you think about something a lot don't mean you know anything about it. Maybe you went to Rabbi school, or you're an Iman, or whatnot, but that don't mean you know shit about no damn prunes."

This is an engaging and rewarding read. It will leave you a little bit humbled. And that's a good thing.

Two Men Come Down the Same Chimney

The following story concerns the Talmud, the book that codifies the meaning of Judaic Law. They are somewhat akin to the Parables used in Christianity when explaining the meaning of some things in the New Testament. I first ran across this tale a few years ago while reading Rabbi Telushkin's "Jewish Humor." I hope you will enjoy the story, but more importantly, the meaning of the story. And the book is terrific, as are all of Rabbi Telushkin's writings.

Two men Come Down The Same Chimney

A young man in his mid-twenties knocks on the door of the noted scholar Rabbi Shwartz. “My name is Sean Goldstein,” he says. “I’ve come to you because I wish to study Talmud.”

“Do you know Aramaic?” the rabbi asks.

“No,” replies the young man.

“Hebrew?” asks the Rabbi.

“No,” replies the young man again.

“Have you studied Torah?” asks the Rabbi, growing a bit irritated.

“No, Rabbi. But don’t worry. I graduated Berkeley summa cum laude in philosophy, and just finished my doctoral dissertation at Harvard on Socratic logic. So now, I would just like to round out my education with a little study of the Talmud.”

“I seriously doubt,” the rabbi says, “that you are ready to study Talmud. It is the deepest book of our people. If you wish, however, I am willing to examine you in logic, and if you pass that test I will teach you Talmud.”

The young man agrees.

Rabbi Shwartz holds up two fingers. “Two men come down a chimney. One comes out with a clean face, the other comes out with a dirty face. Which one washes his face?”

The young man stares at the rabbi. “Is that the test in logic?”

The rabbi nods.

”The one with the dirty face washes his face,“ he answers wearily.

“Wrong. The one with the clean face washes his face. Examine the simple logic.The one with the dirty face looks at the one with the clean face and thinks his face is clean. The one with the clean face looks at the one with the dirty face and thinks his face is dirty. So the one with the clean face washes his face.”

“Very clever,” Goldstein says. “Give me another test.”

The rabbi again holds up two fingers. “Two men come down a chimney. One comes out with a clean face, the other comes out with a dirty face. Which one washes his face?”

“We have already established that. The one with the clean face washes his face.”

“Wrong. Each one washes his face. Examine the simple logic. The one with the dirty face looks at the one with the clean face and thinks his face is clean. The one with the clean face looks at the one with the dirty face and thinks his face is dirty. So the one with the clean face washes his face. When the one with the dirty face sees the one with the clean face wash his face, he also washes his face. So each one washes his face.”

“I didn’t think of that,” says Goldstein. It’s shocking to me that I could make an error in logic. Test me again.”

The rabbi holds up two fingers. “Two men come down a chimney. One comes out with a clean face, the other comes out with a dirty face. Which one washes his face?”

“Each one washes his face.”

“Wrong. Neither one washes his face. Examine the simple logic. The one with the dirty face looks at the one with the clean face and thinks his face is clean. The one with the clean face looks at the one with the dirty face and thinks his face is dirty. But when the one with the clean face sees the one with the dirty face doesn’t wash his face, he also doesn’t wash his face. So neither one washes his face.”

Goldstein is desperate. “I am qualified to study Talmud. Please give me one more test.”

He groans, though, when the rabbi lifts two fingers. “Two men come down a chimney. One comes out with a clean face, the other comes out with a dirty face. Which one washes his face?”

“Neither one washes his face.”

“Wrong. Do you now see, Sean, why Socratic logic is an insufficient basis for studying Talmud? Tell me, how is it possible for two men to come down the same chimney, and for one to come out with a clean face and the other with a dirty face? Don’t you see? The whole question is "narishkeit", foolishness, and if you spend your whole life trying to answer foolish questions, all your answers will be foolish, too.”