Weekend self-care: Jewish American Heritage Month
Late 1970s/early 1980s. Washington Heights, New York City. 175th Street and St. Nicholas. Across from my apartment was a synagogue. I've checked, it's still there. Every Friday evening I'd see Jews trundling in through the door for Shabbat. My neighborhood was not Jewish. It used to be, along with Italian and Irish. But, as the former residents achieved the American Dream, they moved out, to be replaced by we new strivers. But, for some reason, the synagogue remained open and with a congregation. What I also noticed. None of the buildings on my block had graffiti. For New York in that time, that was a miracle. None of the buildings. Save for the synagogue. It was long ago. I don't remember anything antisemitic scrawled there by the knuckleheads. But the knuckleheads did see that building as "Other", not of them, and thus fair game. Was it my parents teaching me right from wrong? Was it the fact that my sainted mother worked for a Jewish man and loved him? (T...
