TODAY I AM A FOUNTAIN PEN If you don’t recognize these words, it’s because you are a good deal younger than I am. Actually, I am not sure where they come from, but I know they refer to the words spoken by an imaginary Bar Mitzvah student as he stands on the bima to deliver his speech after the completion of his Bar Mitzvah ceremony. Obviously, he was thinking more about the gifts he would receive than the significance of this age-old ritual. He was trying to declare, “Today I am a man” as traditionally at age 13 a Jewish boy was declared an adult member of the Jewish community and was to follow the laws set down in the Torah and bear his own responsibility for his Jewish life. The actual Bar Mitzvah ceremony was not required, but the boy’s age was the determining factor related to his spiritual standing in the Jewish religious world. Since the time I grew up until today, the events following the Bar Mitzvah have included everything from some honey cake and wine in the social hall of the synagogue to a themed weekend event that hundreds of friends and family attend. (Not long ago I attended a Beatles’ Bat Mitzvah party in Malibu that began by walking through the Yellow Submarine!) But, gratefully, the actual requirements for the synagogue service have remained fairly stable. The Bar or Bat Mitzvah leads the Shabbat morning service and reads the portion for the week directly from the Torah scrolls. He/she reads the prayers in Hebrew, explains and comments on the Torah portion while conducting the service, as would the rabbi and/or hazzan. It is a glorious morning that is a milestone in a young person’s life. But today that experience is not just available for those entering their teen years. It is a life cycle event for adults of any age who are willing to commit to the time and study it will take to prepare for this undertaking. And, if you haven’t figured it out yet, whom do you think just signed up for the two-year Adult B’nai Mitzvah class at her synagogue? You guessed it. I decided this was the year to begin to check this item off my bucket list. Every time I attend a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, I feel that familiar desire to be able to chant from the Torah scrolls. Over fifty years ago, I would sit in on my then husband’s cantorial class at the Jewish Institute of Religion in NYC as he and his classmates were learning to follow the hand signals that told them which melody to chant. It was like stepping back in history to watch these young men hunch over the sacred scrolls while chanting the Torah text just like countless generations of Jewish men had done before them. At the time, I never imagined that a woman would be allowed such an honor, but today adult women as well as men are participating in classes that will culminate in just such an experience. Many of us who missed having a Bar or Bat Mitzvah growing up are opting for the two-year program that is now offered all over the country. The reasons for this late in life decision are varied. But for most candidates, it is a chance to fulfill this Jewish ritual that they missed out on when they were the “usual” age. As for why we missed it the first time around, we all have a different story. Some had parents who didn’t believe in being involved in Jewish organizations, others felt it was hypocritical to have a Bar Mitzvah just for the party and the presents, while many were not able to afford the lavish after synagogue extravaganza that their friends were having.. And, of course, there are the converts who chose Judaism as their religion and want to have a Bar Mitzvah as part of their commitment to their new spiritual community. When I attended a funeral of a 90 year old friend last week, I heard the rabbi tell us that one of the highlights of her rabbinical career was listening to this gentleman at age 85 reading from the Torah on the occasion of his Bar Mitzvah. That clinched it for me. I officially signed up for the class the next day. Be sure to watch my column for a Save the Date announcement as in my 76th year, I will be celebrating my Bat Mitzvah and you are all invited! 751 words November 12, 2012 (Linda Kaufman is a local musician, writer, realtor and Bat Mitzvah student)

BEING JEWISH IN NEW YORK

Being Jewish in New York is like being Iranian in Iran. There is no need to search for a Jewish presence as Jewish people and their unique culture dot the city, especially when you are staying on W. 79th Street, just a block from Zabar’s Jewish gourmet grocery. I can hardly wait to get to this famous Jewish landmark to order an “Everything” bagel with a schmear of cream cheese and wait for a stool so I can sit next to other breakfast eaters as their mid-week workday begins. The smell of garlic and onion in this compact bagel eatery is intoxicating. It reminds me of days gone by at Tabatchnik’s Deli across the river in New Jersey when I was a young English teacher just out of college. I try not to stare though I can’t help but wonder which of the customers are Jewish and if they eat here on a regular basis. I am always looking for another Jewish face or name which explains why I stand in the darkened movie theatre watching the credits roll, waiting for possible Jewish names to appear. There is something exhilarating about being around other Jewish people, especially in New York, the entry place in America for so many Jewish families. After breakfast it is only a quick ride through Central Park to the Jewish Museum. To think that there is a building located on Fifth Avenue that is dedicated to Jewish art, history and books. After seeing the exhibits, I linger in the gift shop, fingering the unique menorahs and dreidels and finally buying Jewish books that I have never heard of before. My favorite is Yiddish with Dick and Jane, a delightfully funny volume that is a parody on the original elementary school reading book. It seems that Jane is a realtor like me, hence the words, “Jane works in real estate. Today is Sunday. Jane has an Open House. She must schlep the Open House signs to the car. See Jane schlep. Schlep, Jane. Schlep. Schlep, schlep, schlep.” The story continues two pages later. “Jane likes Open Houses. She likes meeting new people. She even likes the schnorrers who come just to nosh. Nosh, shnorrers. Nosh. Nosh, nosh, nosh.” It’s no surprise to realize that twenty of the book’s 102 pages provide a detailed glossary of Yiddish words. Though I am laughing out loud at the outrageous story line, I suddenly realize this book could be a teaching tool for those unfamiliar with Yiddish expressions. I think of my many San Antonio Jewish friends who are so far removed from the world of my grandparents that they never learned the colorful Yiddish words that were the mainstay of earlier generations. Before long, it is time to head to the Lower East Side where there will be a Playwright’s Forum at a branch of the 92nd Street Y. I find it both unsettling and exciting to find my way around this fabled city during this five-day Jewish theatre conference that includes meeting Jewish artistic directors and playwrights from all over the country and hearing award-winning writers like Donald Margulies talk about the writing of Jewish-themed plays. Unsure of my ability to navigate beneath the city streets, I cab my way around to the different sections of the city, mesmerized by the various neighborhoods where countless Jewish names appear on storefronts. There is Goldberg’s Produce, Anatefka Bagel Boutique, Hymie’s Glatt Kosher Meats, all Jewish businesses located in lower Manhatten. As I soak up the Jewish presence that permeates the Big Apple (wouldn’t the Big Bagel or the Big Brisket be more apropos?), I make a special stop at Jonathan Adler’s shop on Madison Avenue, having read about this Jewish guy online who started out making pottery in his parents’ basement much to the dismay of his mother who wanted him to be a lawyer or a doctor. Little did she know that her talented son would one day be considered a fashion guru whose designer accessories are found in only the most upscale residences. I saw it all. East Side, West Side, all around the town. I leave satisfied that I have enjoyed a full dose of Jewish life for a few days. Landing in the San Antonio airport, I read from my Dick and Jane book as I wait for my husband to pick me up. “Dick and Jane and Sally go to Mother’s house. Mother kvells when she sees Sally. “Sally,” says Mother. “You look wonderful. You have not changed a bit.” “Yes, I have,” I think to myself. I appreciate more than ever how blessed I am to be living the American Jewish life right here in San Antonio.

WHO'S GOING TO RETIRE? NOT ME!

When my production of IN GOD’S HANDS closed after a six-night run, I drove home with my husband, content that the show had been a success. After a month of rehearsals, the play, for which I had written and played the music, opened on my 71st birthday, a tribute to the fact that Jimmy Stewart is not the only one who lived a wonderful life! I had to laugh when my housekeeper said to me, “You are the busiest retired person I know!” Of course, I corrected her saying, “I am retirement age, but I am not retired. I have too many things I want to do.” Just two days later while sitting in the Tuesday sales meeting at the real estate office where I am a fledgling sales associate, Phyllis, the office manager, a spunky 75 year old who had just returned from a trip to Florida to visit her brother, poked her head in the doorway and announced, “Don’t ever retire! I spent the past weekend with retirees in Florida who spend their days sitting around, albeit in a beautiful location, waiting until it is time for the Early Bird dinner. They had nothing interesting to talk about and were like the ‘walking dead.’” Though many in the room were far from retirement age, those of us who had already “been there and done that” nodded our heads in agreement, including our broker who heads up this busy office while collecting her Social Security checks. The summer before my 70th birthday, I decided to take Joyce up on her offer to help me get started in real estate if I would get my license, signing up for real estate classes as soon as my piano studio was closed for the summer. What a challenge it was to be back in the classroom after so many years, but it was exciting to pile up those A’s and then ace the two and a half hour state test in 30 minutes. But being a realtor out in the field does have its challenges. “Oh, my God. This place is a dump,” I wanted to exclaim as my clients and I walked in the front door of a home for sale in a prestigious neighborhood. “Who could live with such a screwed up floor plan? And those small bedrooms! You can hardly fit a dresser in them!” the yenta inside me wanted to scream out. But, instead, I remembered the non-critical dialogue I’d heard on HGTV. “What do you think of this place?” I asked cheerily. I was hoping they didn’t notice the words I had written on the MLS page about this property. But within moments, they looked at me and smiled, reading the words I’d written as they asked for the MLS print out. “It definitely is El Dumpo!” At least I have come further down the road than my mother who often concluded her damaging comments about my weight by adding, “But if there’s one thing I have learned in life, it’s to keep my mouth shut.”

IS THIS JEWISH MUSIC I HEAR?

I had a Kodak moment recently (or do we now call it an iPhone moment?). I was sitting at the piano in my synagogue playing the Shabbat music as the members of the congregation joined in song. I watched their faces as they sang the familiar tunes that many of them have been singing since they were children. They were anything but timid as they sang out confidently while their bodies swayed to the rhythm of the music. Though there were many unfamiliar faces, in a very real sense, they were all familiar. They were my San Antonio Jewish family. I felt like a proud grandmother who was kvelling as she watched her family singing together with abandon. I thought of my dad who made sure I learned how to play the piano even when it wasn’t easy to pay the teacher for my weekly lessons. I remembered his words to me as we drove to my first lesson. “You are going to take lessons from the time you are eight until you are sixteen, so don’t bring it up again.” It was the ‘50’s, and there was no further discussion. I can’t say that I was passionate about learning to play, but as the years rolled on, most of my friends had dropped out, and I became the lone musician at parties who could sit down at the piano and actually play songs that people could sing. My teacher was a Juiliard graduate but he was also the musical director for the Ernie Kovacs Show, so I learned how to play and arrange pop music in addition to the traditional classical repertoire. What really sealed the deal for me was when the head of a local ballet studio offered me a job to play the piano at her studio at $3 an hour. This was at a time when I earned $.50 an hour for babysitting! The summer before leaving for college, I worked at an NBC affiliate radio station as a receptionist, and because the property was quite far from my home, I brought my lunch to work. After I ate, I often I would head for the sound studio that housed a beautiful grand piano and would play until lunch break was over. One day, the lead musician in the Dave Edwards Trio, stood at the door as I was playing a jazz tune that my teacher was helping me arrange. On the spot he offered me a job to play on the radio with his trio five nights a week from midnight until 3 am. Who could believe it? At 17 I was going to be a professional musician on the radio! When I rushed home to tell my dad of this great honor, he gently reminded me that I needed to stay on course and begin college as I’d planned. He assured me I would have many opportunities in my life to play professionally, but the one thing he insisted on was my getting a college degree. I would be the first in my family to graduate from college. Though that moment happened over fifty years ago, I still remember it clearly. And, of course, he was right. Thanks to my dad’s insistence that I become a pianist, I have played the piano at various venues over the years. Interestingly, I have played mostly at houses of worship. Whether it was for the High Holy Days or as the main musician for one of my musicals that were performed at our local Reform temple, I have played everything from my own original music to the traditional liturgy as well as jazz standards with various musicians. The ironic thing is that neither of my parents belonged to a synagogue or was involved at all in the Jewish community. Though I knew I was Jewish, I learned nothing about Judaism or the life cycle events as I grew up. We celebrated no holidays other than Christmas as my dad owned a men’s wear store, and our livelihood revolved around the business generated by Christmas shoppers. To stimulate my desire to be a more creative musician, my dad would take me to Manhattan several times a year to listen to top jazz musicians. I am sure he had no idea that one day I would be using the skills I learned to write songs for Jewish –themed musicals. But I know my dad would be thrilled to be in the congregation if I was playing the piano on a Shabbat evening. I can picture him smiling at me and whispering, “Is this Jewish music I hear? It sounds fabulous.”

IN SEARCH OF FAMILY

As we all know, in the Jewish world, family counts for everything. We gush over our children, dote on our grandchildren and love to spend as much time as possible with siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. But sometimes, things go askew and we lose touch with treasured members of our extended family for many years. Such was the case with my cousin Vic. A first cousin to my beloved dad, Vic spent much time at our home in New Jersey while I was growing up as he had a difficult home life with a mother who was in and out of mental hospitals. As a young man, his father told him never to marry or he might pass on those flawed genes, and for many years after his dad died, Vic was the main caregiver for his mother since his brother Harry moved away and left him with this burden. When I left for college at 17, married the erstwhile rabbi and moved away, spending time with my cousin Vic became a thing of the past. But I never forgot how he always took the time to squire me and my girlfriends around to Di Lorenzo’s Pizza and other local hangouts even though he was ten years older than we were. I last saw him at my father’s funeral when I was 25 and he was 35. That was over 50 years ago. Recently I decided to google him and up popped his website – with his photo and a description of the large law office he headed up. Within moments, I called the number on the screen, and though the secretary answered, “Mr. Walcoff’s office,” she told me that he was living in a Jewish assisted living facility after awaking from a two -month coma last January, We began an email exchange that resulted in my going to see him in our home town of Trenton, New Jersey, last week. As the administrator took me to Vic’s apartment, I marveled at how fond everyone seemed of his elderly gentleman who struggled to get to his feet as I approached him. Bent over from the ten-month ordeal that was not yet over, he leaned on the walker that was next to his chair to come closer to me. When I looked into his blue Walcoff eyes (my dad’s eyes were that same Paul Newman blue), I recognized the delightful cousin who had been a wonderful part of my growing up years. We spent the afternoon together chatting and sharing as he guided me around the city to see my elementary and high schools, the three different homes we lived in and the cemetery where my dad and nana were buried, side-by-side. I couldn’t believe that he remembered the exact location of their headstones as he, too, hadn’t been there in fifty years. He took me for dinner at the Jewish country club where he was welcomed with great respect and attention as we parked at the front door. As I showed him, one by one, the pictures of my daughters, their husbands and my grandchildren, he quietly smiled while asking questions about each of them. He told me how he had been president of the Jewish Federation and his synagogue, Adath Israel, head of the local office of the United Way and a past president of the Jewish Community Center all while building an award winning legal office. As I listened to his telling me of his life’s achievements, I saw a man who was confident without being arrogant and successful without being boastful. When I asked him about my dad, he said what he loved best about him was that he was a non-conformist and a talented, creative man who was good at everything. He knew that my parents had a solid marriage even though my dad struggled with earning a living. Their home was always open, and he met the most interesting people there whenever he stopped by. He always felt at home there. I remembered that he helped my mom with financial matters after my dad died. He was family, and that meant he would help whenever he could. Hugging him goodbye later that night, I was grateful I had made the effort to see him this one last time. His life was a testament to those Walcoff genes that had traveled from a remote village in Russia over a hundred years ago so that future generations could enjoy the privilege of living in America. As I drove out of the parking lot late that evening, I knew that I had spent time with the last person alive who remembered my mom and dad and the home we shared together. In my mind, I hear my Hazzan’s words as I nervously begin to play the piano for Shabbat services. “It’s all good

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO HAVE A JEWISH CHILDHOOD

Cleaning out drawers and closets reveals amazing things. I found a shabby brown envelope stuffed with all my ideas for my first book (the one I’ve never written) called “It’s Never Too Late to Have a Jewish Childhood.” Though I first began gathering these tidbits about the positive aspects of growing up in a Jewish home to provide insight for my Christian friends, I see they may be more relevant today to a totally different audience. After reading that Chinese parents search bookshelves for information about Jewish home life, I realize I may have stumbled onto a treasure trove of usable information. As China rises on the world horizon as an economic super power, Chinese parents have become aware of the disproportionate success of Jews in medicine, science, communications, politics, law, business, writing and education. Chinese families are anxious to uncover the secrets of raising Jewish children in the hopes of creating the same results in their own offspring. Here are some chapter titles for my proposed twenty two chapter volume. Though I put a humorous spin on them, I think you’ll recognize some of the characteristics of a Jewish perspective on family life. 1. The Making of a Jewish Princess 2. Hooray! You’re Thirteen and We’re Going to Celebrate 3. B’Sharyt: It’s Meant to Be 4. Mitzvahs: The Mainstay of our Faith 5. The Sabbath: A Taste of the Holy Life 6. Scholarship: The S Word 7. Family Ties 8. Options: Avoiding That Boxed in Feeing 9. Meal-Time: The Forgotten Forum 10. Be a Father, Not a Friend Growing up in the ‘50’s in New Jersey, I can mainly offer the perspective that my generation experienced as we grew up with parents who were usually the first in their family to be born in the United States. It was a time when Jews first moved much more easily into the mainstream of American life, enjoying the perks that came from increased mobility and acceptance into society. Education was at the top of the list as was family support. It was a time when optimism ruled, and the “go for it” spirit prevailed. My home life centered around my father - an intelligent, fun-loving man who was decidedly the main figure in our family. If I asked why we were having tongue for dinner “again,” my mother’s answer was always the same. “Your father loves tongue. That’s why we eat it.” We had a traditional family hierarchy that was common at that time. My father was at the top of the decision-making process. Our life revolved around his menswear store, his likes and dislikes, the people that he enjoyed spending time with and his various and ever-changing projects. But this set-up was not a matter of control. It was an acknowledgement that someone had to make the final decisions, and in our family it was my dad. Though my father was the kingpin, the three women in the family had no problem speaking up when something disturbed them or they wanted a change in some aspect of our life together. He always listened to our often-diverse opinions, but once he made a decision, we all abided by it. And he was an honorable man. I watched him lose his business when a heart attack had him sidelined for over a year and spending the next five years paying back what he owed every vendor. “It’s not their fault I got sick,” he announced one day. Bankruptcy was not an option for this man with a strong ethical character. What seemed to be a constant in the homes of all my Jewish friends was the impressive amount of time that we spent together – eating, talking, vacationing. (Did I mention eating?) The dinner table, a contemporary beauty built by my father, was the gathering place for family and friends. We always ate dinner together and lingered after the meal to chat about current events, school happenings or general talk on every conceivable subject. Today’s Jewish families seemed to be more child-centered than adult centered, but the sense of family ties is as strong as ever. Just go to any Jewish life-cycle event and you will see the extended family present in full force for the simcha. What can Chinese parents learn from the way we Jews raise our children? Hopefully, we specialize in creating a loving, supportive atmosphere where each child has a strong sense of self and the confidence to pursue his or her dreams. Finally, after all these decades of enjoying Chinese food, we have something to give back to our Chinese neighbors. (Should I have included a recipe for brisket and latkes in my book? It couldn’t hurt.)

MY JESUS YEAR

If you didn’t get to hear Benyamin Cohen when he spoke at the JCC during Jewish Book Month, you missed a real treat. On a national book tour to promote his memoir, this delightful young man regaled us with snippets from his yearlong adventure exploring different churches as he sought to reconnect with his own faith. Seems crazy, no? But in his book, MY JESUS YEAR, he reveals his difficulty in finding a spiritual connection to God within the Orthodox religion he grew up in.Born into a family of “rabbinic rock stars,” our hero struggled from his youth with feelings of doubt and apathy concerning his Judaism. The church across the street from his home in Atlanta became the object of his desire as he wondered what life would be like without the endless rules that marked an Orthodox Jewish lifestyle. Moving away from home during his college years, he couldn’t shake his nagging attraction to things worldly and Christian, even considering a Big Mac with cheese as a rebellion against his totally kosher upbringing. But Jewish guilt kicked in and instead he visited a smoke-filled bar, exiting quickly after the smoke made him gasp for fresh air. With characteristic self-deprecating humor, he added, “Years later a doctor confirmed what every Jewish male already knows – we’re allergic to everything.” But his desire to look elsewhere for a meaningful religious experience could not be quieted. After obtaining the blessing of a rabbi who required him to wear a press pass and a kepah whenever he visited churches, the author set out on a Woody Allen-like journey. He first found himself in a 15,000 member African-American mega-church where his presence is announced by the bishop (a friend has tipped off the spiritual leader of the church that he will be there) and his face appears on the two huge in-house TV screens as the congregation whoops and hollers, “Bless you, brother!” His inner Jewish voice cries out, “Oh, God, forgive me.” As the four-hour service continues with spirited music, animated dancing and loud preaching, Benyamin wonders whether the Jews at Mt. Sinai receiving the Ten Commandments might have been the first mega-church. For the next year, he visits countless Christian denominations, awed by the different expressions of the original New Testament church that have sprung up in the last two thousand years. Completing his pilgrimage at the very church across the street from his boyhood home that first drew him to Christianity, Benyamin finds that it is a sparsely attended, dying church, hardly worthy of the fantasies it produced years before in his mind. It wasn’t the Garden of Eden after all. His journey completed, like Dorothy before him, he clicks his heels together and whispers, “There’s no place like home.” The prodigal son has satisfied his desire to explore Christianity and life outside the Orthodox confines, and happily resumes his place in the Jewish community. His journey has made him able to be the Jew he always wanted to be,“one who’s jazzed about his Judaism.” Though he chronicles a serious journey of faith, he does so with characteristic Jewish humor and honesty. In our family, there are those who are going the other direction, leaving their liberal Jewish upbringing and embracing a more orthodox Jewish lifestyle including becoming strictly kosher and “shomer Shabbas”(keepers of the Sabbath.) With two of my husband’s post-college single grandchildren opting for kosher living as well as my first cousin’s son and wife (a young couple with their first child) choosing a strictly Orthodox path, I am fascinated with their choices as they seek to find meaningful Jewish lives. The young people in our family who have chosen to be kosher say that it connects them to the generations before them who followed these same restrictions. A friend recently told me that his choice to observe the rules of kashrut is to imbue every act, no matter how insignificant, with a sense of the sacred. For one thing, keeping kosher is not as difficult as it once was. As I’ve learned from reading HADASSAH MAGAZINE, almost every city has restaurants that serve kosher meals. They also are running an ad for a Kosher Cruise (wouldn’t Kruise be better advertising?) during the Passover holidays. You can experience keeping kosher while “kruising “the high seas in a luxury ship. As I finish reading Benyamin Cohen’s book, I realize he never broke the rules of kashrut during his Jesus year. Since there are so many kosher restaurants available, I wonder if I should consider the opposite of what many in my generation did. Instead of keeping a kosher home, what if I only eat in kosher restaurants? It couldn’t hurt!