Archives for July 2010

(Originally posted here)

I often think about how many twists and turns life throws at us. By the time I was 14 or so I knew that I would be going spend the Summer of 1985 in Israel. In part my father had pushed a little for it but it was also something that I wanted to do because I saw so many of my friends older siblings do it, not to mention the impetus of being relatively independent from my parents.

In order to be able to afford the trip I saved all of the money I received at my Bar-Mitzvah and then did what I could to add to it. My parents covered the rest helping to buy a backpack and providing me with $400 in cash to spend over the nine weeks I was to be gone.

It was an incredibly exciting time for me. Just a short time before we were to leave for Israel a TWA flight was hijacked in Athens. The terrorists made a number of demands including that Israel release a large number of prisoners.

I remember my father sitting me down to speak with me about terrorism, but more to offer advice on how to act and blend in overseas. He explained to me that as an American I would stick out in some situations and explained that it would be smarter to try not to do so. I remember bits and pieces of the conversation, including his telling me that I should remember that he loved me and to be safe.

In the world around me there was a fair amount of chaos and there were a number of people who told me that they thought I was stupid to go and that I could be killed, “just look at what happened in Athens.”

It didn’t faze me at all, which I can attribute in some respects to being young, dumb and male. Besides, I was going with a group of friends from camp and we even spent a little time discussing how we could stop a hijacking. That was the beauty of being a sixteen year-old boy, we couldn’t conceive of failure only how badly we would beat the crap out of anyone dumb enough to try and hijack our plane.

As part of our trip we went back to camp for a week long orientation. There were 38 of us on the trip, most of whom I knew from past summers at camp. During that initial week we spent time learning some key phrases such as where is the bathroom, were briefed upon some cultural differences and used the rest of our time to try and figure out who we thought the hottest girls on the trip were.

We also participated in a somewhat normal camp routine including waking up for Shacharit (morning service) daily as well as the rest of the Jewish liturgy and ritual of camp life. At that time i considered myself to be an atheist so I was less than pleased to be asked to daven, let alone do so after spending the majority of the evening screwing around with the boys.

About a day or so before we were supposed to leave camp and fly off to Israel we noticed a fire in the hills behind camp and joked around about what could happen if the wind changed direction. I remember it well, flames in the hills and ash floating in the air. Even though we could see the flames they were relatively far away from us.

Later that day the camp held a fire drill in which the director stood up and gave a speech that was supposed to reassure all of us. We didn’t care all that much because we were leaving and I can remember jokes about the camp burning down. They were tasteless, but we were 16 and who really believed it was possible.

That night when the sun set we noticed a few things. In the darkness we could see a number of different patches of flames in the hills, it wasn’t located in just one are any longer. The other thing that sticks out is that there was an exceptionally warm breeze. When I went to sleep I made sure that my shoes were beneath my bed.

And with good reason. At 3 am we were awakened by the sirens of the camp fire alarms. When we looked outside the tent it was evident that this was not a drill as the hills surrounding camp were in flames. That dry hot wind was blowing and there was a crackling noise in the air, even now just a few weeks short of 20 years a wind like that reminds me of the night we were evacuated from the fire that covered 118,000 acres and is referred to now as the Wheeler Fire.

By 3:30 AM we had been evacuated to Nordhoff High School and within a couple of hours I was well into an experience that would be part of making me a believer in G-d again.

Part 2 coming shortly.

Here is a collection of recent posts:

• I Call Him Dad
• Jack’s Experience In the Ladies Room
• Mosque at Ground Zero- Just Say No
• Tisha B’Av- 2010
• Festival of Fathers- A Blog Experience #18
• Some Days I Feel Broken
• Will They Know Me- I Am Going To Die
• A Six Year-old Speaks of Marriage
• That One Perfect Moment

And a couple of old posts that might be worth looking at again:
A Valentine’s Day Fable
The Almost Warrior

(I received an email from someone who said they were disappointed that my posts have become so serious. So here is one of a lighter nature. It is a gas.)

I have a dysfunctional digestive system. I write about it frequently as I have done here, and here. That probably gives you more information than you wanted, but I am going to continue on and regal you with one of my many tales of the loo.

For those who are interested in my motivation in writing about such things part of this stems from my embarrassment/anger/frustration regarding this little problem. I like to make fun of it because I feel better, and yes Shmata Queen I know that one day I should get a colonoscopy. Frankly I have the exit system down so making it an entrance bothers me greatly.

This particular incident took place a number of years ago. I had been going through a spell in which my stomach had been doing quite well and had been more relaxed and adventurous in what I was willing to eat. On that fateful day I had taken on a chilidog and some coffee. Under the best circumstances it was not a great combination but for me it was even more dire.

Initially I didn’t notice anything. I had eaten the food and enjoyed my meal immensely. It was a gastronomic feast that was soon to turn into a gastrointestinal nightmare. {cue horror music now.}

I was minding my own business tooling along the 405 when the attack hit. There was a tickle followed by a gurgle and a rumble. Another gurgle gave proof to the night that soon there would be a mad rush for an exit. I knew that it was going to be similar to the rush for a free sample at Costco.

I was in an unfamiliar part of town but nature smiled upon me and I exited the freeway at breakneck speed and made for the first restaurant I saw. I couldn’t tell you the name, but I can tell you that the nice girl up front understood my garbled and frantic gibberish to mean “show me the bathroom now or no one will want to eat here any longer.”

I followed her outstretched arm and just managed to avoid knocking over a busboy carrying a bucket of dirty dishes and a waiter armed with three plates of hotfood.

Without looking up I straightarmed the bathroom door and jumped into an empty stall. My fingers fumbled and strained to unhook my belt and pants and at last I was able to engage in the task for which I had come.

If you are easily grossed out than you should hang up your spikes now.
Aside from the almost immediate relief one of the first things I noticed was that the air had grown toxic. I was choking on my own fumes, not to mention that there was an endless supply. I was unnerved to realize that I didn’t have any medication on me and had at least 20 miles to go before I would be encased within the refuge of my home.

Lost for a brief moment in thought I hadn’t heard the bathroom door open. Footsteps, light footsteps that sounded like a pair of heels made their way in. I stiffened as I realized that the heels were accompanied by what was clearly a pair of feminine voices. In shock and horror I lifted my size 12 Reeboks off of the floor.

In my haste I had entered the wrong bathroom and now I was frantically trying to figure out how to exit. There were a couple of problems with that. First, the rumble and gurgle were in full effect. They and their crew of noisemakers had. not finished playing with me. There was a marching band with a full horn section. It is hard to leave when the band is still playing When the Saints Go Marching In.

It was made worse by the comments of the ladies in there who had any number of suggestions for how and what I should do, talk about catty.

So I sat there and waited for them to leave. As my legs began to go numb and my feet started to tingle I despaired of ever leaving. More women were coming into the bathroom. It felt like there was a steady stream of visitors. The more polite among them entered without being too obvious about the immediate gag reflex, but there were plenty of who coughed.

The situation was summed up well by a little girl who said “mommy, it stinks in here!”

After untold agony and frustration I made up my mind to make a run for it. So I pulled up my pants and massaged feeling back into my legs. I summoned up a ton of attitude and waltzed out the door of the stall and the bathroom to a number of shouts.

The only thing that I remember hearing was this: You didn’t wash your hands.

There is going to come a time in the not so distant future when my children ask me about 9-11. They’ll look to me to answer the hard questions about how and why something like this could happen. It won’t be the first time that we have talked about why people are willing to maim and murder others for no reason other than ideological differences.

And when that day comes I want to look them in the eye and remind them that we judge people based upon what they do or what they do not do. They know that remaining silent in the face of wrongdoing can be just as bad as participating in it. That is not liberal, kumbaya, feel good clap-trap but common sense.

If you stand around while kids tease other kids you are helping to create an environment in which that kind of abuse is acceptable. It doesn’t mean that should or have to like everyone either. You don’t have to be friends with everyone. And just because you have the right to do something doesn’t mean that you should either.

I love America for what it has given my family. I am thankful, grateful and respectful of our heritage and traditions. Those laws and traditions means that the group that wants to build the mosque at Ground Zero has the right to do so. And if I lived in a world in which everything was black and white I would say that it is the end of the discussion.

But I don’t, we don’t and for my children’s sake I cannot stand idly by without proclaiming my opposition to this. There is no reason nor need for a mosque or any sort of religious institution to be built there. It is not because the murderers who slaughtered the innocent on that day happen to be Muslim. It is not because there is a history of Muslims trying to claim control of land by building mosques on the sites of churches and synagogues.

Let me be clear that I won’t say that this is the reason for the selection of this location any more than I will say that it isn’t. I don’t know what the reason for it is and I don’t care.

My position is that Ground Central should be open and inclusive to all groups. Keep religion out of it.

It is not because I do not like religion, consider myself to be an atheist or dislike Muslims. There are good Muslims and there are bad Muslims just as there are Jews and Christians.

Building a mosque at this location doesn’t do anything but help to foster an environment in which we define ourselves based upon religious affiliation. It will be divisive and create animosity. It doesn’t have to be built there. There are lots of places within Manhattan to build one, it be wise to choose one of those other locations.