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Converting to Judaism has defined my high school experience
This article was produced as part of JTA’s Teen Journalism Fellowship, a program that works with Jewish teens around the world to report on issues that affect their lives.
(JTA) — During the pandemic, my mom decided to start baking; my friend Reagan learned Osage, a Native American language; my brother taught himself how to skateboard.
I decided to channel my free time and energy into converting to Judaism.
Growing up in the Bible Belt, I was only ever exposed to Christian theology. Almost everyone around me was a Baptist. Although my parents intentionally raised my brother and me without a focus on religion, I grew up going to Christian preschool, Christian summer camps, and being surrounded by other Christians–just because there weren’t other options. While this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, I always knew that Christianity wasn’t right for me.
At first, the idea of eternal life and an all-knowing God provided comfort, but as I got older I started to feel disconnected from Christianity. Concepts like the Holy Trinity never made sense to me, and by age 12 I thought I had given up on religion entirely.
I first started looking into Judaism towards the end of 2020. I’m not really sure what led me to this; I just stumbled upon it and found that its emphasis on making the ordinary holy, repairing the world, and the pursuit of knowledge was a perfect fit for my already existing beliefs. My parents were a little bit shocked but ultimately supportive when I told them that I wanted to convert. My mom’s main concern was that I would become the target of antisemitism. “I’m happy for you and try not to think about the what-ifs,” she said while driving me to the Jewish community center so that I could board the bus headed to the BBYO Jewish youth group’s International Convention.
In the spring of 2021, I emailed the rabbi at a local synagogue about my potential conversion. During our first conversation, he asked me if I’d heard about the custom of rabbis turning away potential candidates three times. I told him I had, but that if he turned me away I would just keep coming back. After the meeting, I signed up for conversion classes and started attending services regularly — and I wasn’t alone.
According to a 2021 Tablet survey, 43% of American rabbis are seeing more conversion candidates than before. The reasons for conversion are diverse. Some candidates fell down an internet rabbit hole that led to a passion for Judaism. Others took an ancestry test and wanted to reconnect with their Jewish heritage. Many were raised as Reform Jews but weren’t Jewish according to stricter halachic, or Jewish legal, standards and decided to convert under Conservative or Orthodox auspices. Despite the common stereotype that Jews by choice must be converting for the sake of marriage, many rabbis said that converts are less likely than ever to be converting for a Jewish partner.
After meeting with a rabbi about the potential conversion, candidates are expected to learn everything they can about Judaism. In my case, that meant 21 weeks of hour-long, weekly conversion classes in addition to independent study on Jewish mysticism, traditions, and ideas. Candidates are also expected to become active members of their local Jewish community and attend services regularly.
Once the candidate and the rabbi feel they are ready to convert, a beit din, or a court usually made up of three rabbis, is assembled. They will conduct an interview, asking the candidate about what brought them to Judaism and basic questions about what was taught during conversion classes. When the beit din has guaranteed that the candidate genuinely wants to convert, the candidate immerses in the mikveh, a pool used for ritual purification. After submerging in the mikveh, the convert is considered to be officially Jewish and is typically called up for an aliyah, ascending the platform where the Torah is read.
According to Rabbi Darah Lerner, who served in Bangor, Maine before her retirement last year, the main difference between teens converting alone and teens converting with their family is the parental approval that’s needed, but otherwise the process is very similar. “I treated them pretty much as I did with adults,” she said. For me, the only parental approval needed was my mom telling my rabbi that she and my dad were fine with me starting the conversion process. She also noted that it was easier for teens to integrate into the Jewish community because people were excited to see young people interested in Judaism.
A mikveh, like this one at Mayyim Hayyim outside of Boston, is a ritual pool where Jews by choice immerse as part of the conversion process. (Courtesy Mayyim Hayyim)
She said that the Jewish community gave the teens a place where they could ask questions and not be shut down. “If they have a pushback, or a curiosity, or a problem we allow them to ask it and we give them real answers or resources,” she said.
“I feel extremely privileged when youth come to me with these questions and these desires,” Rabbi Rachael Jackson, from Hendersonville, North Carolina. Jackson has worked with three teens in the conversion process over the past two years. Like Lerner, she doesn’t require teens to wait until they turn 18 to begin the conversion process. However, it’s not unusual for rabbis to recommend that teens wait until they turn 18 to begin their conversion.
My conversion process has defined my high school experience. I’ve been able to connect with other Jews at my school through BBYO, which has helped me find a community at school and meet people who I might not have met otherwise. Although it’s made me feel farther from the Christian community I was once a part of, Judaism has given me spiritual fulfillment, a love for Israel, and a sense of community — both in my synagogue and my BBYO chapter.
Others who have gone through the process feel much the same way. “I wouldn’t even recognize myself,” said Haven Lail, 17, from Hickory, North Carolina. “My whole personality is based on being Jewish. That’s what I love.” Adopted into a Jewish family at age 12, Lail felt drawn to Judaism because of the loving and accepting community she found.
Raised as a nondenominational Christian, Lail attended church regularly with her biological parents, but not for the religious aspect. “It was all hellfire and brimstone,” she said. Neglected by her birth parents, she only went to church because she knew there would be food there.
Lail started the conversion process at age 12 through a Hebrew high school, and four years later, she submerged in the mikveh and signed a certificate finalizing her conversion. The process was simple, but she was shocked that so few Jews knew about the conversion process. “It was a little weird,” she said.
The Talmud says that because “the Jewish people were themselves strangers, they are not in a position to demean a convert because he is a stranger in their midst.” However, it isn’t uncommon for converts to feel alienated from the rest of the Jewish community. “There’s this fear of going to college and still being othered because you still won’t quite fit in with the people who have been raised Jewish,” said one high school senior from North Carolina.
He was shocked by how alienated he felt after making his conversion public, and wanted to stay anonymous because he worries that once people find out that he converted, they’ll see him differently. “I didn’t ever really explain it to anybody except for the people really close to me,” he said. But after his rabbi called him up for an aliyah — a blessing recited during the reading of the Torah — one woman from the congregation began to bring it up to him every time she saw him. “People don’t realize that it can be a touchy thing and very, very othering,” he said.
I usually don’t mind personal questions about my conversion, but asking someone why they converted or pointing out that someone is a convert is frowned upon by Jewish law. I used to feel like everyone could tell that I wasn’t raised Jewish, but after one of my BBYO advisors thought that my conversion was just a rumor and couldn’t believe that it was true, I realized that wasn’t the case.
All of my friends and peers who were raised Jewish have memories of Jewish summer camps, Shabbat dinners with family, and a lifetime of other experiences. I often struggle with not feeling “Jewish enough” or like I missed out, especially because so many Jewish customs revolve around the home and family. My parents will often come with me to Shabbat services, but don’t participate in Jewish customs or celebrate Jewish holidays with me. “Anything that is a ritual in the home, they don’t really have the ability to have that autonomy,” said Rabbi Rachael Jackson of Agudas Israel Congregation in Hendersonville, North Carolina.
Grace Hamilton, a student at Muskingum University in New Concord, Ohio, has struggled with imposter syndrome during her conversion. Ever since she started college, she’s been questioning her place in the Jewish community and hasn’t been practicing Judaism as much as she used to. “I haven’t prayed in a really long time,” she said. She used to tell herself that once she finalized her conversion she would finally feel Jewish enough, but after a conversation with her rabbi, she realized that wasn’t the case.
According to Rabbi Rochelle Tulik at Temple B’rith Kodesh in Rochester, New York, many converts feel like they will never be Jewish enough. “That, no matter how hard they try, how many books they read or put on their shelves, no matter how often they come to services, or how many menorahs they light, somehow they’ll be caught,” she said in a Rosh Hashanah sermon she named “You Are Not an Imposter.”
Despite the struggles that many converts face, others like Rabbi Natasha Mann, who now serves as a rabbi at New London Synagogue in England, immediately felt at home within the Jewish community. “I felt like people were excited to have me there and wanted to hear what I had to say,” she said. After a family member mentioned that she might have Jewish ancestry, Mann began exploring out of curiosity. “I started looking into it, just because I felt that it was another piece of the puzzle,” she said.
Coming from an interreligious and intercultural family, she wanted to explore another aspect of her heritage, but ended up connecting with Judaism in a way that she hadn’t connected with any other religion. After two years of study, she decided to officially start her conversion process.
The Jewish community gave Mann a place where her ideas were taken seriously and she could have religious discussions, even as a teen. “I don’t know what my life would have looked like if I hadn’t found somewhere to really express and delve into that,” she said. “And luckily, I never have to.”
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The post Converting to Judaism has defined my high school experience appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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Trump endorses Brandon Herrera, Texas GOP candidate who owned copy of ‘Mein Kampf’
(JTA) — President Trump on Thursday endorsed Brandon Herrera, the de facto GOP nominee for a Texas congressional district whose past comments about Nazis have drawn scrutiny.
“Brandon is strongly supported by many Highly Respected MAGA Warriors in Texas, and Republicans in the U.S. House,” the president wrote on his social network Truth Social about the gun-enthusiast YouTuber. Trump added that Herrera would “[p]rotect our always under siege Second Amendment” and concluded, “HE WILL NEVER LET YOU DOWN!”
Herrera won his primary race after his opponent, incumbent Rep. Tony Gonzales, admitted to having conducted an affair with a former staffer who later died by suicide. Gonzales withdrew from his reelection bid, which was scheduled for a runoff, as a House investigation opened into his conduct.
Herrera is best known for his Second Amendment advocacy that has included criticizing a gun-control bill drafted in the wake of the 2022 Uvalde school shooting in the district he hopes to lead. His output has also included reviews of Nazi-era weaponry, a recreation of Hitler’s suicide, and the occasional Holocaust joke.
In 2024, on his own podcast, Herrera also discussed owning a copy of “Mein Kampf,” Hitler’s manifesto. The resurfaced clip recently raised eyebrows, though Herrera and the other podcast hosts lauded Dorothy Thompson, an American journalist expelled from Nazi Germany who panned the book in 1939, and joked about his remarks being edited to sound like he was a Nazi. Herrera recently said he didn’t agree with its “teachings.”
During their 2024 matchup, Gonzales had called his opponent a “known neo-Nazi,” which Herrera disputes. Trump’s endorsement of Herrera stands in contrast to the Republican Jewish Coalition, whose spokesperson told Jewish Insider will continue to oppose him.
A spokesperson for Herrera’s campaign rejected accusations of antisemitism in a statement to the Texas Tribune.
“Brandon has never done or said anything antisemitic, and he has earned the support of leaders in the Jewish community,” campaign manager Kimmie Gonzalez told the news outlet. “In Brandon’s work as a historical firearms educator, he has simulated the execution and poisoning of Adolf Hitler. The misleading clip about Brandon’s rare book collection omits his comments ridiculing and condemning Hitler’s book.”
The campaign did not immediately return a Jewish Telegraphic Agency request to specify which Jewish communal leaders are supporting Herrera. Texas’s 23rd Congressional District stretches across the state’s southwestern region and includes parts of San Antonio and the outskirts of El Paso.
With Herrera on the ballot, Democrats, running attorney and former schoolteacher Katy Padilla Stout, see a pickup opportunity in a traditionally red district. Padilla Stout recently opposed Trump’s strikes on Iran, calling the action “a flagrant violation of the U.S. Constitution” in a statement that did not mention Israel. Some Democratic party staffers are already painting her opponent as “Mein Kampf loving Brandon Herrera.”
The post Trump endorses Brandon Herrera, Texas GOP candidate who owned copy of ‘Mein Kampf’ appeared first on The Forward.
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Mourning the victims of the 1911 Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire
דעם 25סטן מערץ וועט ווערן 105 יאָר זינט דער שרעקלעכער טראַגעדיע — די שׂריפֿה אינעם טרײַענגל־שוירטווייסט־פֿאַבריק, אין 1911. 146 יונגע אַרבעטאָרינס, ס׳רובֿ ייִדישע און איטאַליענישע, זענען אומגעקומען, ווען די טיר, וואָס האָט באַדאַרפֿט בלײַבן אָפֿן זיך צו ראַטעווען אין אַזאַ פֿאַל, האָבן די סוועטשאַפּ־באַלעבאַטים געהאַלטן פֿאַרשלאָסן.
צו יענער צײַט, האָט דער פּאָעט מאָריס ראָזענפֿעלד געאַרבעט אין „פֿאָרווערטס“ סײַ ווי אַ זשורנאַליסט, סײַ ווי אַ פּאָעט. ער איז אָנגעקומען צו דער שׂרפֿה, בעת די טראַגעדיע איז פֿאָרגעקומען און האָט במשך פֿון עטלעכע וואָכן געשריבן עטלעכע אַרטיקלען און לידער וועגן דער טראַגעדיע. מיר דרוקן דאָ אַן אויסצוג פֿון זײַן אַרטיקל, וואָס איז געווען געדרוקט אויף דער ערשטער זײַט פֿונעם „פֿאָרווערטס“, אַ וואָך נאָך דער טראַגעדיע, און אַן אויסצוג פֿון אַ פּאָעמע וואָס ער האָט געשריבן אין אָנדענק פֿון די אומגעקומענע מיידלעך.
זינט עס זײַנען אין ניו־יאָרק איבער הונדערט לעבנס פֿאַרברענט געוואָרן צוליב דער צוגעשלאָסענער טיר, וואָס האָט לויט דעם געזעץ געזאָלט זײַן אָפֿן, קוק איך מיט פֿאַרדאַכט אויף אַ טיר, אויפֿן געזעץ און אויף פֿײַער.
איך באַטראַכט זיי אַלע פֿאַר איבעריקע זאַכן.
וואָס טויג מיר אַ טיר, אַז זי איז פֿאַרשפּאַרט? וואָס טויג דאָס געזעץ ווען מען פֿירט אים נישט דורך? און פֿײַער… יאָ, מיר דאַכט, אַז מענטשן ווייסן נישט וואָס צו טאָן מיט זייער פֿײַער…
איך האָב פֿון אייביק אָן געוווּסט, אַז מיט פֿײַער שפּילט מען זיך נישט. איצט אָבער ציטער איך פֿאַר דעם וואָרט פֿײַער. איך קען קיין נאַכט נישט שלאָפֿן. פֿײַערדיקע חלומות שרעקן מיך, זיי פֿאַרברענען מײַן מנוחה און איך ליג און שוידער.
מיר דאַכט, אַז הימל און ערד האַלטן אין אײַן ברענען, אַז עס פֿלאַקערן די זון, די לבֿנה און די שטערן, אַז די מלאכים שפּרינגען ברענענדיק פֿון די הימלשע פֿענצטער אויף דער ערד און פֿאַלן אַרונטער טויטע… און די אַמבולאַנסן פֿירן זיי אַוועק אין מאָרג (מתים־שטיבל).
מיר דאַכט, אַז גאָט אַליין איז אײַנגעהילט אין אַ פֿײַערדיקן טלית און ברענט. ברענט און גיסט מיט פֿײַערדיקע טרערן, וואָס פֿאַלן אַרײַן און פֿאַרלירן זיך אין זײַן וועלטן־גרויסער, פֿלאַקערדיקער באָרד, און פֿון זײַנע נאָזלעכער זעצט אַ רויך ווי פֿון אַ צוויי וווּלקאַנען.
איך זע ווי די גאַנצע פּמליא־של־מעלה קרימט זיך, דרייט זיך מיט גסיסה־שמערצן אין אַ ים פֿלאַמען, ווי די כּרובֿים און שׂרפֿים און חיות־הקודש צאַפּלען מיט די פֿלאַמענדיקע פֿעדערן, רײַסן זיך די אָנגעצונדענע האָר פֿון די ברענענדיקע קעפּ און קלאַפּן פֿאַרצווייפֿלט מיט די רויטע, פֿײַערדיקע פֿליגל אין אַ שווערער, גרויסער, אײַזערנער טיר און די טיר איז פֿאַרשלאָסן… דער שׂטן האָט איר פֿאַרשלאָסן און באַהאַלטן דעם שליסל…
איך זע ווי די „אופֿנים“ און „גלגלים“, די „הימלשע רעדער“ דרייען זיך און פֿלאַקערן, און מיר דאַכט, אַז דאָס זײַנען שנײַדער־מאַשינען, און אין די ברענענדיקע, צום טויט־שפּרינגנדיקע מלאכים דערקען איך די פּנימער פֿון די פֿאַרשׂרפֿעטע אַרבעטער־מיידלעך, די טעכטער פֿון דער ייִדישער גאַס אין דער בלוטיקער פֿון פֿרויען־יאַקעס פֿון וואַשינגטאָן פּלייס.
איך שרײַ, איך ליאַרעם, איך וויין, איך פֿלוך, איך לאַך און כאַפּ זיך אויף אין היסטעריע.
פֿײַער… פֿײַער…
וואָס איז אייגנטלעך פֿײַער? איז דאָס אַ ברכה? איז דאָס אַ קללה?
די תּורה איז געגעבן געוואָרן אין פֿײַער, די אינקוויזיציע האָט געהערשט אין פֿײַער.
פֿײַער איז די נשמה פֿון דער וועלט. אין פֿײַער גייט אויף דער טאָג און מיט אַ פֿײַער פֿאַרגייט ער.
דאָס לעבן פֿון יעדן באַשעפֿעניש איז פֿײַער.
דער מענטש, אין וועמען זײַן פֿײַער האָט אויסגעברענט, דער האָט אויפֿגעהערט צו „זײַן“.
אַפֿילו די מילב האָט אין זיך אַ קליינעם לאָקאָמאָטיוועלע מיט פֿײַער, וואָס טרײַבט איר דורכן לעבן.
ליבע איז פֿײַער, דענקען — פֿײַער, אַרבעט — פֿײַער, האַס — פֿײַער, ראַכע (נקמה) — פֿײַער. אַלץ איז פֿײַער, אַפֿילו דאָס וואַסער: מיר גיסן אין זיך וואַסער צו פֿאַרלענגערן אונדזער פֿײַער. די דורשטיקע ערד טרינקט וואַסער, כּדי צו האָבן גענוג פֿײַער אַרויסצוגעבן אירע געוויקסן.
איך קען דאָס קלענסטע ליד נישט זינגען, ווען איך זאָל נישט דערפֿילן אין דער נשמה אַ ברען, אַ פֿײַער, דעם הייליקן פֿײַער פֿון שאַפֿן.
איך פֿאַרגעטער דעם פֿײַער, ער איז דער סימבאָל פֿון טעטיקייט, פֿון שטרעבן, פֿון שטײַגן, פֿון גיין אַרויף, הויך, הויך הימלווערטס…
אָבער איך פֿאַרער נאָר אין פֿײַער דאָס שאַפֿערישע און נישט דאָס צעשטערנדיקע. איך בענטש אים ווען ער גיט, אָבער נישט ווען ער נעמט. איך בענטש אים אויפֿן סיני און פֿלוך אים (שעלט אים) אויפֿן שײַטער־הויפֿן.
איצט פֿאַרדאַם איך אים. ער האָט פֿאַרצערט אַ פֿאַבריק מיט אַרבעטער־מיידלעך. ער האָט פֿאַרוואַנדלט ניו־יאָרק אין אַ לוויה־שטאָט און איז געוואָרן די קללה פֿון דער מענטשהייט.
ברעכט אויף די טיר און באַפֿרײַט זיך!
און אָט איז דאָס ליד וואָס משה ראָזענפֿעלד האָט דעמאָלט אָנגעשריבן:
די פֿאַרשלאָסענע טיר (פֿײַער־געדאַנקען איבער פֿאַרברענטע אַרבעטער)
דער פֿײַער בושעוועט אָן שיעור
עס זעצט דער רויך, די העל דערוואַכט.
מען שפּאַרט זיך צו דער רעטונגס־טיר,
אומזיסט! אָ, וויי, זי איז פֿאַרמאַכט!
מען שרײַט, מען ראַנגלט זיך, מען פֿאַלט,
אין טײַוולס בלוטיקן געצעלט.
מען בלײַבט אין זײַן פֿאַרפֿלוכטן גוואַלט,
אַיעדער אויסגאַנג איז פֿאַרשטעלט.
מען לויפֿט, מען ווייס אַליין ניט וווּ,
און יעדע האָפֿענונג איז גענאַרט.
די שווערע גיהנום־טיר איז צו,
דער אַשמדאַי האָט איר פֿאַרשפּאַרט.
ניט רופֿט דעם שוואַרצן שד צום דין!
אַ שאָד די מי, ער איז גערעכט…
צו דער פֿאַרמאַכטער טיר אַהין!..
און אַלע, פּונקט ווי איינער, ברעכט!
מען בלײַבט אין דעם גיהנום־בראַנד
כּל־זמן דער שלאָס איז אים געטרײַ…
קומט אַלע גלײַך, לייגט צו אַ האַנט!
ברעכט אויף די טיר און איר זײַט פֿרײַ…
די העל איז נאָר אַ העל ווי לאַנג
דער שלאָס פֿון טײַוול הענגט אויף איר.
געפֿערלעך איז איר פֿלאַם, איר צוואַנג
נאָר בײַ אַ צוגעמאַכטער טיר…
אַ צווייט ליד וואָס מאָריס ראָזענפֿעלד האָט אָנגעשריבן וועגן דער שׂריפֿה האָט די פֿאָרשערין און זאַמלערין פֿון ייִדישע לידער, חנה מלאָטעק, אָפּגעדרוקט אינעם פֿאָרווערטס אין 2011 — פּונקט הונדערט יאָר נאָך דעם אומגליק, אינעם אַרטיקל, קינות וועגן דעם טרײַענגל־פֿײַער. דאָס ליד געפֿינט זיך אויף דער פּלאַטע „דאָס גאָלדענע לאַנד“ פֿון יאָסל מלאָטעק:
די רויטע בהלה (אויף פֿאַרברענטע פֿאַבריק־מיידלעך אין ניו־יאָרק)
ניט קיין שלאַכט, ניט קיין פֿאַרטײַוולטער פּאָגראָם
האָט אָנגעפֿילט די גרעסטע שטאָט מיט קלאָגן,
די ערד האָט ניט געציטערט אין איר תּהום,
עס האָט קיין בליץ, קיין דונער ניט געשלאָגן;
סע האָבן קיין שוואַרצע וועטער־וואָלקנס ניט געקראַכט,
און קיין קאַנאָנען ניט די לופֿט צעאַקערט —
אָ, ניין! דאָס האָט אַ מוראדיקע העל דערוואַכט,
אַ שקלאַפֿן־נעסט מיט שקלאַפֿן ווילד געפֿלאַקערט,
דאָס האָט דער גאָלד־גאָט מיט אַ בראַנד־געלעכטער
געפֿרעסן אונדזערע זין און טעכטער,
געלעקט די לעבנס מיט זײַנע רויטע צונגען —
זיי זײַנען אין דעם טויט געשפּרונגען,
אין זײַן שויס געדרונגען,
ער האָט זיי געכאַפּט, געלאַכט, געזונגען…
ער האָט זיי פֿאַרשלונגען.
* * *
זיי זײַנען געזעסן אין זייער יאָך פֿאַרטיפֿט,
זייער שווייס האָט געטריפֿט —
אין דעם פֿאַרטויבנדן געזשום
פֿון מאַשינען אַרום, —
ווען צען שטאָק אין דער הויך,
האָט זיי פֿאַרוויקלט דער רויך,
פֿאַרשפּונען דער פֿלאַם,
און אַ גלוטיקער ים
געפֿרעסן, גענאַשט,
פֿאַרקוילט, פֿאַראַשט!
* * *
שוועסטער מײַנע! יונגע שוועסטער!
מײַנע יונגע ברידער!…
טרויערט מײַנע לידער!
יאָמערט און טרויערט!…
זעט ווי עס לויערט
פֿון טונקעלע נעסטער
דעם אַרבעטערס טויט;
ווי ער האַלט זײַן ברויט…
ווי ער גלאָצט בײַ זײַן טיר,
בײַ זײַן אָרעם געצעלט —
וויי, וויי איז מיר!
וויי, וויי דיר, וועלט!
אַ שבת איז דאָס געווען,
אַן אַרבעטערס אַ שבת,
זײַן „קידוש!“… זײַן „הבֿדלה!“…
די רויטע בהלה
איז פּלוצלינג געשען,
געשיקט פֿון דעם רײַכן,
דעם פּרינץ פֿון געלט.
אָ, אָ, וויי אָן אַ גלײַכן!
פֿליסט טרערנטײַכן,
אַ פֿלוך דער אָרדענונג!
אַ פֿלוך דער אומאָרדענונג!
אַ פֿלוך דער וועלט!
* * *
אויף וועמען זאָל מען פֿריִער קלאָגן?
אויף די פֿאַרברענטע?
אויף די ניט־דערקענטע?
אויף די, וואָס קדיש זאָגן?
אויף די פֿאַרקריפּלטע,
פֿון „זײַן“ געטראָגן?
מײַן טרערנטײַך
אויף אײַך אַלעמען גלײַך!
* * *
פֿאַרהיל זיך אין שוואַרצן, דו גאָלדן לאַנד!
צו טיף דײַן פֿאַרברעכן, צו שרעקלעך דײַן שאַנד,
צו טויב דײַן געוויסן, צו בלינד דײַן געזעץ,
צו טײַוולש דײַן „האַווען“, צו בלוטיק דײַן נעץ,
דײַן נעץ, וועלכע פֿאַנגט דײַנע אָרעמע־לייט —
ס׳וועט קומען די צײַט!… ס׳וועט קומען דײַן צײַט!…
* * *
צינדט יאָרצײַט־ליכט אָן אין די ייִדישע גאַסן!
דער בראָך איז דער בראָך פֿון די ייִדישע מאַסן,
פֿון אונדזערע מאַסן פֿאַרחושכט און אָרעם.
ס׳איז אונדזער לוויה, יאָ, — אונדזערע קבֿרים,
ס׳האָט אונדזערע קינדער, וויי, אונדזערע בלומען,
דער פֿײַער פֿון אונדזערע אָרעמס גענומען.
וויי! אונדזערע ליבע פֿאַרשׂרפֿעטע קוילן,
וויי! אונדזערע פֿריידן אַ העלע מיט גרוילן,
וויי! אונדזערע גליקן אַ באַרג מיט אַרונות,
וויי! אונדזערע זיסע — גיהנום זכרונות!…
אַ צווייט ליד וואָס חנה מלאָטעק האָט דעמאָלט געדרוקט הייסט „מאַמעניו, אָדער עלעגיע פֿאַר די טרײַענגל־פֿײַער־קרבנות“, ווערטער פֿון אַנשל שאָר, מוזיק פֿון יוסל רומשינסקי:
עס רײַסט דאָס האַרץ פֿון דער שרעקלעכער פּלאָג,
ס׳ייִדישע פֿאָלק קלאָגט און וויינט, און ברעכט די הענט.
עס ברעכט אויס אַ פֿײַער, אין העלן טאָג
און הונדערטער אַרבעטער, זיי ווערן פֿאַרברענט.
די וואָס זײַנען פֿון פֿײַער אַנטרינען
האָבן שפּרינגענדיק זייער טויט געפֿינען.
די „מאָרג“ איז פֿול,
מען ווערט שיעור דיל,
ווי אַ מאַמע קלאָגט דאָרט אין דער שטיל:
— אוי־וויי, קינדעניו!
רײַסט זיך בײַ די האָר די מאַמעניו,
— צוליב דעם שטיקל ברויט
האָט אַ שרעקלעכער טויט
גערויבט מיר מײַן איינציק קינד;
טויט ליגט מײַן מיידעלע,
תּכריכים ׳שטאָט אַ חופּה־קליידעלע,
וויי איז מײַנע יאָר,
אַ קינד פֿון זעכצן יאָר,
אוי, מאַמע, מאַמע, וויי איז מיר!
חנה מלאָטעק האָט אויך אַרײַנגענומען טייל פֿון אַ ליד וואָס זי האָט באַקומען פֿון איוו סיקולאַר. די ווערטער זײַנען פֿון לויִס גילראָד און די מוזיק — פֿון ד. מייעראָוויץ. דער אָנהייב לייענט זיך אַזוי:
די שטונדע האָט געקלאַפּט,
דער שאַפּ האָט געסטאַפּט
אין דער גרויסער ווייסט־פֿעקטאָרי.
די אַרבעטער, זיי
האָבן געקראָגן די פּיי
און געאײַלט זיך אַהיימגיין פֿאַר פֿרי.
נאָר פּלוצים, אוי־וויי,
אַ שרעק, אַ געשריי,
אַ העלישער פֿײַער ברעכט אויס.
פֿון איבעראַל קומען
פֿאַרצווייפֿלטע שטימען
אַיעדער וויל פֿריִער אַרויס.
פֿײַערלײַט קלינגען,
פֿון צענטן פֿלאָר שפּרינגען
מיידלעך פֿאַר אַנגסט און פֿון נויט.
עס קראַכט אומגעהײַער
דאָס שרעקלעכע פֿײַער
און פֿאַרברענט יונגע לײַבן צום טויט.
The post Mourning the victims of the 1911 Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire appeared first on The Forward.
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I had a shot and rock ‘n’ roll fame — I chose a lifetime of Shabbat instead
In 1986, saying no was not part of the plan. I was 26, newly signed to Island Records, and for the first time in my life, the machinery of the music business had begun to move in my favor. My songs “Waning Moon,” “I Feel Young Today,” and “1000 Years,” from my second album Gematria, were on the radio and MTV. There was talk of tours, of opening slots with artists like Sting, Joe Cocker and Greg Allman. My job, as everyone understood it, was simple: Say yes. Yes to every opportunity, yes to every kind of exposure, yes to everything that could possibly give my career momentum.
Lou Maglia, the president of Island Records, was an old-school Italian record guy — street-smart, direct and deeply invested in the artists he believed in. I was among his first signings. He had taken me on largely because of an independent record I had made called This Father’s Day, written and recorded as tribute to my dad, who died at 54, just a day after I’d turned 24. He was my mentor and my hero. Those who say his death had much to do with my sudden turn toward observant Judaism are partly right.
The other part is that in seeking a record deal since I was 13, and then finally getting one, I discovered it wasn’t the answer to what I’d actually been searching for, which was a loving family, a clearer understanding of what my life’s purpose might be, and a deeper sense of belonging in my tribe — the Jewish people.
That’s why, one afternoon, when I walked into Lou’s office and closed the door behind me, what I said to him must have sounded incomprehensible.
“Lou, I’m starting to keep this Jewish thing called Shabbos, and I won’t be available to perform on Friday nights anymore.”
He stared at me for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“Ha! Fucking Shabbos. Ok, that’s a good one, I get it. But can we talk about these opening slots?”
It wasn’t a cruel laugh. It was the laugh of a man encountering something he had no category for. In Lou’s world, artists did all kinds of self-destructive things and made radically poor decisions. But remove themselves from the single most important performance night of the week? Never. Ever.
I was, in effect, telling him I had decided to become unavailable for my own ascent.
At the time, I couldn’t have explained my decision in any coherent way. I didn’t have the vocabulary or even the conceptual framework. All I knew was that after my dad’s death something had begun to feel hollow. Not the music. The music was real. It was everything around it. The sense that if I just kept moving forward fast enough, saying yes often enough, I’d arrive at some point where things would finally make sense. They didn’t. (I can state for the record, 40 years later, they still don’t.)
But around that same time, through a chain of introductions, I met the record producer and singer Kenny Vance, of Jay and the Americans fame. Kenny, now my dear friend, had worked with everyone, and he wasn’t shy about mentioning it.
“I used to date Diane Keaton,” he told me. “I know Woody Allen. I was the music director for Saturday Night Live. But tonight, I’m gonna take you to my main connection, a religious Jew in Brooklyn.”
I suspect he thought I’d roll my eyes at the prospect. I did nothing of the sort. I was excited.
Before long, we were crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, the lights of lower Manhattan burning behind us. We arrived at an apartment in Crown Heights where Rabbi Simon Jacobson greeted us. I connected with Simon right off the bat. His eyes reflected a paradox, an awareness that being alive was both a source of great humor and great sadness. Simon told me about his work reconstructing the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s talks from memory, highly complex talks that lasted for hours and drew on thousands of Jewish sources. The scale of it was incomprehensible to me. It belonged to a world governed by entirely different assumptions than my own.
Later that night, after Kenny, who seemed very old — I think he was 40 — got tired and left for his home in Far Rockaway, I asked Simon about the paintings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe hanging on the wall.
“What’s the deal with those pictures?” I said. “They seem sort of cultish to me.”
Simon wasn’t offended. “I enjoy them,” he said. “To me, the Rebbe is like a very inspiring grandfather.”
Makes sense, I thought.
He grew quiet, then continued. “There are people called tzadikim,” he said. “They have no sense of self. They live only to serve others. And they can do anything they wish.”
I knew enough to know he wasn’t using the colloquial tzadik, as in “What a tzadik, that Herb Shapiro. Got me such a deal on my new Firestones.”
“Really?” I asked. “Can they fly?”
Simon looked at me. He became serious.
“I’ve never seen anyone fly. But for a tzadik, flying is no greater miracle than walking.”
The remark just about toppled me. Not because it sounded weird and mystical, but because it cohered with something I had always felt, but had never heard expressed so simply: that walking itself was a miracle. That breathing, eating pancakes, taking a piss, that just being alive, was a miracle.
One could accurately say that I was the fastest person ever to join the “cult.” I went out and bought tzitzit the next day. I began keeping kosher. “One less shrimp,” was how I thought of it. Then came Shabbat observance in my dumpy railroad apartment on 47th and Eighth Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen.
Shabbat, like music, was the space between notes. A kind of purposeful interruption. For one day each week, I stopped. I stopped producing. I stopped striving. Most importantly, I stopped trying to turn success into proof of my worth. It wasn’t only about stopping work. That’s too simple. It was about remembering that I was more than my work. It felt like an authentic subversion of shallow cultural norms, something that instinctively appealed to me. It was the more truthful version of the so-called subversion that rock and roll had always only imitated.
This is why I told Lou Maglia no.
Not because I was certain, but because I had begun to understand that if I lost this, I might lose something far more essential than a career.
My friend, the late Lou Maglia, lapsed Catholic, soulful man that he was, stopped laughing. He saw that I was serious. He didn’t drop me. Far from it. He became my biggest champion. When it would have been only logical for us to play cities like Cleveland and Chicago in support of one of my recordings, Lou even helped finance my tour of the Caucasus in what was then the USSR. (Another story for another time.) He knew that my music wasn’t a posture, but a reflection of my deeply held values.
Hey Lou, if you’re up there listening, thank you. You were a beautiful man with a beautiful spirit.
People sometimes ask me if the cost to my career was worth it. There are two issues I have with the question. First, it assumes the career was the central measure of my life. Second, few ask what I received in return. I have, thank God, been blessed with a beautiful marriage, a tight-knit, loving family, grandchildren, a body of work that I could never have imagined at age 26, and time. I have been able to see the value of time and secure it as my own.
As for music, Shabbat didn’t take any of it away from me. It taught me to hear it better, write it better, and perform it better.
I have never struck a better bargain.
The post I had a shot and rock ‘n’ roll fame — I chose a lifetime of Shabbat instead appeared first on The Forward.