Dear Dad,
This poem that I wrote for you more than a few birthdays ago,
has taken on new meaning for me over the years. I was telling a friend
who doesn't know you, about this being your 93rd birthday and how proud of you
I am, and he said, "So, tell me about your dad."
My mind began to race.
In the past, and for so many years, I've spoken with pride about
your being a humble war hero, but I discarded that response, moving on to
possibly telling him how you've dedicated your entire life to your family, the
synagogue, and your cherished family of friends. That, strangely, didn't hit
the mark, either. "An activist." I blurted out.
"Really." he said. "Yes, An activist. My father is in a
perpetual state of worry, disapproval, and alarm over what is happening in the
world. He sees the absence of humanity from our elected’s, as one would feel
the jeopardy of an endangered species. He is dismayed at this new breed of
politician who dodges all accountability to "the little guy."
And at 93, my father actually writes letters to the President, asking him
to lower prices from the top down, and to please do much more to give relief to
the middle class, the little guy, and save our economy." My friend
took this in and simply said, "Wow. Quite a guy. 93 is a beautiful thing.
Happy Birthday to your father."
A story from the late 60's:
The first time I heard the phrase "the little guy" was
in the same ten minutes I heard the phrase, "I Jewed him down." New
neighbors moved in next door and came by to introduce their family to ours and
Max and the other dad were on our patio drinking iced tea. I was lying on
the concrete by dad's leg, occupied with a comic book, and listening
to the adults talk, when our new neighbor, re-living the deal he made on their
new home, said he "Jewed the guy down." My head snapped to my
father's eyes and he made a small hand movement that all was well. I might as
well have been looking at "To Kill A Mockingbird's" Atticus Finch
(another activist) in all his grace and bearing as he regarded this man who was
our guest.
Current events turned to business, civics, then politics,
as the man started condemning Lincoln's recent influx of “those horrible
Vietnamese boat people." "No." my war
hero said. "No. They need to be here and we all just have to take
them in and give them a chance. You always have to think of
the little guy."
Activist Finch: 1, Racist, new, and humbled neighbor: 0.
A story from March 18th, 2016:
My father has now become Diogenes (die-AH-jeh-KNEES), the Greek
anti-philosopher, a contemporary of Socrates, who searched the earth with a
lantern, even in daylight, shining it in every face he encountered, looking for
"one honest man." Incredibly, Max Neiden is literally the embodiment
of a man of 93 long years, who has never seen things this bad!? Ye
Gods! A man who fought in the middle of a world war, witnessing death and chaos
and destruction, sensing now, that we are in REAL trouble? Do we listen
to him? His chorus of disapproval is, of course, easy to write off. The
Greeks, the Jews, the Africans, all cultures have always portrayed seers,
prophets and tellers as old, eccentric, grouchy, harbingers of the future. Fair
enough. My dad is a grouchy prophet. But what made all those Greek
tragedies classics, was that people didn't listen until it was too late. I
wait each yontif for a reading at the start of the Neilah service that quotes
the psalm, “Today shall I come, if only all of you would listen to my voice.”
In our world of such well-crafted, meaningless dialogue, wrapped
around a degraded collective conscience, my father is slow of speech but full
of heart; and I would not trade that for anything.
Dad, your abounding love is unquestionable whether it was your
love for mom, or is your love for your children and grandchildren; your love
for Gail; or your love for the world around you on a daily basis. You're
grateful for your beloved Lincoln; for all the good people you know; and for
all the good things life has given you. Happy Birthday, Dad. From all of
us. And now, that poem:
My father is like a Torah
He is a humble and treasured part of our synagogue; He is always
there when we open the ark, spanning many generations. Like a
mystery unfolding. Always accessible, never arrogant, and with no
ego.
My father is like a Torah. Full of stories I have
cherished all my life, that take on new meaning every time I hear them.
My father is quite like a Torah... because I hold him next to my
heart when I sing.
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