4. What was I thinking?
Evelyn and Mort, my secular Jewish parents, woke up one morning and realized that I was approaching Bar Mitzvah age. Despite their lack of interest in Jewish practice and ritual, they made the decision not to break with tradition — and enrolled me in the Sunday school at the Congregation Temple Israel synagogue in nearby Lawrence, New York.
On Sunday mornings, I’d drag myself out of bed, wash my face, don a jacket and tie, and catch a ride to Lawrence with a bunch of other tired children.
Since neither my parents nor I were genuinely concerned about my Jewish education, you can imagine what a wonderful relief it was for me to skip Sunday school and participate in a table tennis competition over the weekend. But that’s another story.
Looking back at the Sunday morning lesson, I reached the conclusion that at least one of the following statements is true:
· They didn’t teach me anything.
· I didn’t learn anything.
But neither statement is wholly accurate. Somehow, they did manage to instill a message that stayed with me as I matured into adulthood. And here it is:
Beware of anti-Semitism! The wolves are waiting right outside the door — and are ready to attack. So remain alert, lest you be the next victim.
In addition, the state of Israel, fresh from its resounding victory over combined Arab forces in the 1967 Six Day War, was presented as a Zionist antidote to this affliction.
The oft-repeated message began to gain traction — well into my college years — and it was reinforced by the Rabbi’s quarterly newsletter, which contained bulletins about anti-Jewish incidents on campus. (For a lighter look at the Rabbi’s newsletter, check out this post).
Cut to 1981. During a brief and unsuccessful tenure as a sales representative in Houston, I called on a potential customer, the CFO of a petroleum company. During the small talk that preceded business dealings, he told me that he had just returned from Tel-Aviv, Israel, where he had been posted on a one-year assignment.
“Wow, that sounds great!” was my instant reaction. Tel-Aviv — what a cool idea, I thought. Maybe I could do that, too.
Tel-Aviv, the bustling, self-styled “non-stop city”, ignited my imagination as a place where work could be found, and fun could be had. On the other hand, Jerusalem, a favorite of the holier-than-me crowd, never got me too pumped up.
The seed had been planted. And it sprouted quickly, as I was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with my life in Texas. But how to make it happen? The tiny but well-meaning staff at the Israel Consulate in Houston had no clue. Finally, during a random conversation with a friend of a friend, a strategy began to take shape. More on that later…
