The New Jews and the Blind Bubby

18 Tishrei 5782

 

Today is a powerful day for the Eastman family. It is the 32nd anniversary of our geirut, our conversion to Judaism. A week from now, Avi and I will celebrate the anniversary of our chuppah, our Jewish wedding. This is a period of such sweet memories, all colored by the people who surrounded us. If I sit still with my eyes closed, I can see all of their faces, all of their smiles…

It is also the 19^th anniversary of the passing of my dear Mama. Being the 19^th year, both the lunar and solar calendars share the date. This would delight my mother. While she was not Jewish, she respected Jewish people and Jewish tradition.

One day when she was nearly blind but hadn’t yet been warned by the police that Reisterstown Road wasn’t a safe place for a blind lady alone – there had been officers keeping an eye on her to protect her for months – she was sitting in Dunkin’ Donuts, her usual hangout during her walkabout circuit. I can picture her smiling, listening to the chatter of people around her, sipping her sweetened coffee and nibbling the pastry that was slowly taking her from us…

At another table, a New York bubby was sitting with her grandsons. Mama loved accents just as I do, and enjoyed painting pictures of people using the colors in their voices. If she squinted, Mama could just make out the bright shapes on the boys’ dark yarmulkes.

“Bubby, what’s the bracha? I can’t remember the bracha,” said one little boy.

 “Don’t worry about the blessing,” responded the grandmother. “Your mother isn’t here right now.”

 To hear her tell it, you would think my mother actually flew from her chair to the family’s table. “Why are you trying to put a wedge between yourself and the boys’ mother?” she challenged. Yes, indeed, she did just that. And then my non-Jewish mother proceeded to remind the boys how to say “mezonos.”

 She didn’t make a friend that day, I am sure. And it was probably not as dramatic as she told it. My inclination toward storytelling comes from both my parents, after all. But sometimes one can admire those who have so little left to lose in the world that they can say whatever is in their hearts and minds, to remind the rest of us to build bridges rather than walls between ourselves and our families. Mama was a great bridge builder, and her children and grandchildren still balance upon that foundation to get to each other and to those who think differently.

 Mama, I hope you are still proud of all of us from your well-earned perch in Shamayim. I think you are. I can see your smile in each of your grandsons and in the faces of their beautiful Jewish children.