Retired Cantor Michael Braudo sang a preview of this evening's solemn Kol Nidre chant at the Jewish Family Service College Avenue Senior Center, housed at Beth Jacob Congregation.

____________________ The Jewish Citizen          by Donald H. Harrison

Some Kol Nidres to remember

SAN DIEGO—Kol Nidre came a lot earlier today at the Jewish Family Service's College Avenue Senior Center—about 60 years earlier, it seemed.

This was because the entertainment for the day was the showing of the Danny Thomas/ Peggy Lee version of The Jazz Singer, set in Philadelphia just after World War II.

Made in 1952, the movie was considerably different—and more upbeat—than the original  1927 version starring Al Jolson,  according to presenter Dr. Lawrence Baron, an SDSU history professor whose specialty is the depiction in cinema of the Jewish experience.

As in the 1927 version, which was an early "talkie," the 1952 movie was about the conflict between a son who wanted to go into show business and a father who wanted him to follow him into the life as a cantor. 

But there were important differences. In the Jolson movie, the immigrant generation of Orthodox Jews living in New York City was depicted, with the father so bitterly resisting assimilation he appeared mean.  In the Thomas version, seven generations of Golding men had been cantors in Philadelphia since 1790, and they were Reform. The father was nothing if not gentlemanly.

Whereas resisting religious assimilation was a major theme in the Jolson movie, it was not a factor in the Thomas movie.  The son's girlfriend was also Jewish. 

The movie's ending was different too.  In the Jolson movie the son at last returns to the synagogue and sings Kol Nidre as his father is dying.  Hearing him, the father expires.  In the Thomas movie, the ill  father asks his son's forgiveness for trying to force him to be something he didn't want to be.  Then the son sings Kol Nidre across the courtyard from his father's window.  But instead of dying, the father recovers and subsequently attends his son's triumphal musical revue.

Baron said he chose to show the Thomas version over the Jolson version because he figured that fewer of the seniors had seen the Thomas version. Furthermore, he said, he anticipated that the Thomas version might remind them of their own lives.

And well it might have!  About an hour before the video was shown, seniors who lunched on kosher brisket at the senior center were treated to a strong performance of Kol Nidre by
Cantor Michael Broudo, whose career had taken him to many places in the United States before he settled here.

Now 87, when Broudo sang, his voice was strong and profound, and one could imagine how in the majesty of a synagogue on Kol Nidre evening his deep voice might have enthralled his congregation. "The man still has one nice set of pipes!" I commented to lunch table companions Gloria Rimland and Marlene & Herb Greenstein.

Following the showing of the movie, most seniors were anxious to get home perhaps to make preparations before the traditional Yom Kippur day of fasting or perhaps to take an afternoon nap.  But a few lingered to discuss the movie,

Hyman said she didn't because she was brought up Orthodox. 
Smitzer said she didn't either, because she was raised in a secular home.

But the mother, portrayed by Mildred Dunnock, who quietly supported her son while not opposing her husband, resonated with them.  "She was like my mother," said Hyman.  "When I wanted to go away to college, my father said 'no—a Jewish girl she goes and gets a job after she graduates high school and then she gets married.  But my mother talked my father into letting me go."
 

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Rabbi Baruch Lederman Amazing tales of Judaism      Congregation Kehillas Torah, San Diego

D'var Torah for Yom Kippur

When Deena Yellin came 'home' for Shabbat

SAN DIEGO—When we stand before the King of the Universe on Yom Kippur, we are all alone; yet at the same time, we are standing together with all the others in shul, and all our fellow Jews  throughout the world. We are all alone - together. We are all unique individuals with our own separate set of situations and should never lose our individuality, yet we are one big
intertwined community. This feeling gives us strength and comfort on Yom Kippur and throughout the year.

Deena Yellin is a journalist who lives in New Jersey, who  has written for such esteemed publications as The New York Times, Newsday and The Jerusalem Post. The above mentioned sense of universal Jewish community is profoundly captured in a true story written by Ms. Yellin:

HOME FOR SHABBAT by Deena Yellin

As I settled into my seat on Flight 1272 bound for Chicago, I glanced at the passengers filing down the aisle.  My Jew-radar immediately went off; in addition to the business travelers toting their laptops and briefcases and the pleasure travelers wearing shorts and Walkmans, I spied several suede kippot, a striemel [fur hat worn by some Chasidim] and ankle-length skirts.

Despite our shared heritage, I didn't bother acknowledging them.  They were strangers.  And I live in New York, where strangers seldom exchange greetings, even if they recite the same prayers. The plane rolled toward the runway and I waited for takeoff.  No such luck. The pilot announced that the flight was being delayed three hours due to stormy weather
conditions in Chicago.

I glanced at my watch nervously.  Usually, I avoid flying Friday afternoons for fear I won't arrive in time, but on summer weekends when Shabbat doesn't begin until around 8 p.m., I figured I'm safe.  I figured wrong.  I calculated that I could just make it if I didn't claim my luggage and jumped into a taxi. I turned around to check on my co-religionists.  Two kippot
were examining their watches.  The chasid was on the airphone.

A half-hour before arrival, the pilot announced that O'Hare Airport was shut down and we were landing in Milwaukee until we could continue on.  My stomach sunk.  Candlelighting  was an hour away.  I'd never make it on time.  Like most religious Jews who work in the secular world, I'd experienced my share of close calls.  But I never knowingly violated the
Sabbath. Now, I was stuck.

By now, the kippot and long skirts were huddled in the back of the plane. They had been joined by others. Shabbat was bringing strangers together. It was time to introduce myself.
 

"We're going to get off in Milwaukee," a young man told me.  The Chasid had called a local Milwaukee Rabbi, who offered to host any stranded passengers for Shabbat.  "Come with us," he urged.  I nodded with relief but returned to my seat crestfallen, since I had planned this weekend with my family for months.

My non-Jewish seatmate, noticing my despair, inquired what was wrong.  When I told him the story, his jaw dropped.  "Let me get this straight," he said. "You're getting off the plane in a town where you've never been with people you don't know to stay overnight with complete strangers?" For the first time that day, it occurred to me just how lucky I was.

When the plane landed, the pilot announced that we were disembarking for religious reasons.  Passengers stared at us, dumbfounded. My seatmate bid me farewell as if he didn't think I'd survive.  But I quickly realized I was among friends. As I attempted to carry my bags off the plane, a woman insisted on helping me. When we crowded into cabs to take us  to the Rabbi's house, the Chasid insisted on paying for me.  And when the cabs pulled up at the home of the Rabbi and Rebbetzin, they ran outside to greet us as if we were long-lost relatives.

As the sun began to set on Milwaukee they ushered us into their home, where a long table was set for Shabbat with white tablecloth, china and gleaming kiddush cups.  When I lit  the Shabbat candles, a wave of peace washed over me.

With all that had transpired, I was warmed by the notion that the world stops with the first flicker of the Sabbath lights. Over a traditional Shabbat feast, the Rabbi enchanted us with tales and words of Torah, and informed us that our reroute to Milwaukee was not the world of weather but of Divine providence.We lingered over our meal, enjoying our spiritual sanctuary in time after the stressful day.  Zemirot [Shabbat songs] filled the room.  We shared disappointments about our unexpected stopover.  Most of the group was traveling to Chicago for their friend's aufruf [celebration at the Torah on the Shabbat before one's wedding] and wedding and were missing the aufruf.  The Chasid and his wife were missing a Bar Mitzvah.

We pondered the meaning of the departure from our journey and marveled at the coincidences.  I had attended camp with my "roommate," a couple had conducted business with my father, a man had learned in yeshiva with my cousin, the Chasid used to work in my hometown of Aurora, Illinois, and I had once spent Purim in Brooklyn with my hosts' son.

Exhausted as we were, everyone was hesitant to leave the table to go to sleep. The next morning a lively tefila [prayer service] was followed by a leisurely meal where we exchanged stories about our lives, careers and dreams.  We nicknamed ourselves the "Milwaukee 15" and wondered if future generations would retell the story of the flight that barely made it in time for candlelighting.

Saturday night, we made a regretful journey back to the everyday world. But before we began the final leg of our journey, I called my husband to tell him all that had transpired. "Who did you spend Shabbat with?" he asked worriedly. I pondered how to explain who these former strangers were who had given me object lessons in Shabbat hospitality and in the power of Shabbat to bring Jews together. And then, as swiftly as a 747 can leave the tarmac on a clear day, I realized the truth: miles away from my parents, husband and home, I had accomplished what I had set out to do when I booked my ticket: I had spent Shabbat with family.

Dedicated by George & Lisa Lintz to a refuah shelaimah for Refael Zev ben Miriam.

 



 

Forgiveness - A Task for Yom Kippur

By Sheila Orysiek

SAN DIEGO—In a recent Torah Study class I posed the following question to the Rabbi:

“As we approach Yom Kippur you have told us that we should engage in introspection, think upon our past actions and if we believe we have injured another person, approach that person and ask to be forgiven.

But I would like to turn that around.  If someone has done a despicable act - not murder - but despicable, and the person is reminded of that act, at first denies it, then admits it, and then profusely asks to be forgiven - are we religiously obligated to forgive?”

The Rabbi said in response that we are obligated especially if the person asks to be forgiven three times.  We are not obligated, however, to forget.  By not forgetting we acquire wisdom.  I have since pondered upon what wisdom I might acquire by not forgetting. 

Not long ago someone committed a truly despicable act against me by making a terribly hurtful - bigoted - remark about an infant that is exceedingly dear to my heart - my four day old grandson.  The baby’s beautiful mother is of Filipino descent and the remark concerned the shape of the baby’s eyes.  The birth had been by C-section so many people called to ask after the mother’s health, but this woman only wanted to know “how Oriental his eyes were.” 

The perpetrator is a Jew - which made it even more shocking to me.  The perpetrator is also someone who I’ve known for over 40 years and with whom I have had cordial relations.  She took the time and effort to look up my phone number, dialed the number and constructed her entire conversation to culminate in a verbal bombshell.  It was premeditated - rather than a slip of the tongue.  I was so shocked I couldn’t adequately respond, so I said goodbye and hung up.  So much for the logistics of how it happened.

What it left me with was the pain of the remark, the shock of a bombshell in the midst of what I thought was an otherwise friendly conversation and an insight into a part of her character I had not realized was there.  But that was just the beginning.  I also had to deal with how I should respond.  My first inclination was to never ever have any further communication with her in the future but she is someone I often can’t avoid seeing. 

As I knew it would, our paths crossed and she obviously could see something was wrong and she stopped me to ask why I was avoiding her.  I told her, got a denial, then a confession, and then a profound apology and a request for forgiveness.  Now I am left with the task of forgiving her.  Judaism says I have to - and that if I don’t the sin is mine.  Certainly the pain of the sin is mine - her sin becomes my pain. 

When she asked me to forgive her I told her I would because I was religiously obligated to do so - I couldn’t go further than that - the wound was too raw.  Since then, I find I can make my lips turn up in a pseudo-smile when I say “hello” to her - but I can’t make my eyes smile.  They just won’t - eyes don’t lie.  As for the woman, she also is embarrassed - probably a bit hurt that she said what she said -  probably mortified that she apologized - and defensive about the entire event. Our relationship can never be the same.

All this because of a comment - hurtful and unnecessary.  A 40-year friendly relationship ruined.  Was it worth it to her?  Did she get a moment’s feeling of pleasure or power from making that remark?  What had she hoped to gain?  She needs nothing from me, she has a home, husband, family, and is economically comfortable.  It makes one wonder why one person gratuitously injures another. 

The wisdom I acquired - as the Rabbi said - was that as the victim, it is a lesson not to be a perpetrator.  That momentary feeling of “power” isn’t worth the resultant weeks - lifetime - of pain for either the victim or the perpetrator.  So, my task this Yom Kippur is to forgive this person and learn from the lesson she’s taught me: the perpetrator too is a victim - a wound directed toward another becomes self-inflicting.  And, one further bit of wisdom - I’d much rather be the victim than the perpetrator.

It seems that no matter how old we get, it’s a lesson that constantly needs to be re-learned.  That’s why Yom Kippur comes around yearly - to remind us.

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Letter to the editor

Praise for Davis' anti-dogfighting stand

Editor, San Diego Jewish World:

I am writing to express my sincere gratitude for Congresswoman Susan Davis.  Unlike my Mom, I don't normally write letters expressing my political opinions.  And if fact this is my very first.  (Normally that's Mom's job.  Seldom do she and I disagree on political  matters.)  But this to me is very personal.  And hence only I can write this letter.   For starters, I wish to let your readers know just how much I value my Congressional Representative Susan Davis and her stance against dog fighting.  As many of your readers might know, Ms. Davis serves on the Congressional Friends of Animal Caucus.  And in this regard she has been an outspoken critic against dog fighting.  And Ms. Davis supports HR 3219 which carries strong punishment against such brutal animal abuse.   I do thank her for her on going support. 

I was raised up in a family who loves animals.  Pets and wildlife.  My father is the deceased, Jack Johnson Kimbrough, DDS.  My Dad died in 1991.  Not a day passes that I don’t miss him.  And I can tell you that my father had many friends in the Jewish community.  He often told me that as a kid he soon learned to recognize Jewish names, because that meant that these were the people that he knew would treat him decently.  Later, he said, while attending San Francisco State College, the Professors who really encouraged him to succeed were all Jewish.   

My Dad leaves a legacy today.  He was the first African American to set up a dental practice in San Diego.  After having established himself, he became a  noted champion for Civil Rights here in San Diego.  Today, an elementary school is named after him.  (Kimbrough Elementary School.) I can also tell you that as a past President of the San Diego Local Chapter of the NAACP, and also former Chair of the San Diego Urban League, my Dad would be the first to condemn Michael Vick for his brutal dog fighting. 

My Dad was not one to remain silent on any issue that he deemed unjust, cruel and unfair.  And he would be so ashamed of the NAACP remaining quiet on this issue of dog fighting.  And he would have taken to task the local Chapter of the Atlanta NAACP for making BS excuses for Michael Vick and his brutal dog fighting. 

And lastly, my Dad would love Congresswoman Susan Davis. I just discovered your daily Jewish publication and thought that I would express my opinions and appreciation to the Jewish community and Ms. Davis, accordingly. 

Jamison Fitzpatrick Kimbrough
San Diego

Zoom! Zoom! There goes l'il Vic

A car may go by in a blur, but not so quickly that our ace Jewish-interest license plate spotter, Melanie Rubin, can't click off a photo on her digital camera.  "Vickela" by our reading is Yiddish for "little Vic," a diminutive for either a Victor or a Victoria.  In either event, we'll add it to our collection of Jewish plates.