I took Fritz to a college open house on
Monday. We went to learn about his future. There was also room on the schedule
for an examination of his Oldman.
The first thing that hit me was the
diversity. What stood out most were the young women wearing islamic
headscarves, hanging out together. They looked young and happy.
Fritz caught me looking.
“What are you thinking dad?”
“These girls are here getting an education,” I
told him. “They can’t do that in the shitholes they come from.”
The young Shepley didn’t appreciate his Oldman’s frankness. He told me I was wrong.
So, I pointed toward the purple-haired
girls and the theater boys prancing through the quad.
“Not only would those girls get stoned for
trying to learn in mooslim countries, those wackos over there and that kid
heading into the lecture hall could get thrown off a building for being who
they are.”
That earned me the announcement that my
generation is closed-minded.
We hadn’t even gotten
to financial aid, and Dad was already on academic probation.
As we headed to the next event, a Jewish
man in his mid-thirties came walking toward us. Amid the Free palestine shirts
and islamic headscarves, his traditional Jewish clothing caught my eye.
He looked at me. I smiled.
“Shalom,” he said.
“Shalom,” I answered.
He had gone about three steps past us when
he turned back.
“Are you Jewish?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m your friend.”
He thanked me and continued on.
Fritz looked at me again. His Oldman was
turning out to be a more complicated elective than he had anticipated.
“Why did you tell him we were his
friend?”
“Because that man would give us bread if we
were hungry, water if we were thirsty, and protect us if somebody was hurting
us,” I told him. “And we ought to be willing to do the same for him.”
That was what I believed when I looked at
him. A stranger, sure, but a brother, too.
We went into our next presentation and
turned our attention to the business of college: computers, engineering,
tuition, and how many internal organs Dad might need to sell to pay for it.
When we came out, our Jewish friend was
standing in the hall. It looked like he was there to help prospective students
learn about Jewish life at the university.
He recognized us.
“Are you interested in Jewish life
here?”
“My son might be if he comes next fall,” I
said. “We are Catlicks, but we are with you.”
He thanked me and gave Fritz and me a
blessing.
When we walked away, I felt that familiar
tingling I get after going to confession. That faithful flush that leaves me
quieter inside, even when my mouth spent the morning running without
supervision.
I don’t know whether that belongs among
the mysteries of my faith. I do know that it stayed with me as we walked away.
I kept thinking about that man. About the
hatred Jewish people face. About what it takes to walk into the world wearing
your faith where everybody can see it, knowing somebody might hate you before
you have even opened your mouth.
He opened his with “Shalom.”
Peace.
I have lost acquaintances over my support
for Israel and my love for Jews.
I give two shits.
I am also a friend of the homos and lesbos
and my soul brothers and sisters. If you want to hurt any of them, Jumbo will
not stand for it.
My vocabulary might not get me invited to
chair the campus sensitivity committee. I can live with that. When somebody
needs a friend, I intend to show up.
Fritz challenged me Monday. Good, I am glad
he has the backbone to question his father. We can keep talking. I will keep
nurturing and showing my crude look at the world. That is part of his education.
We learned about financial aid, computers
and engineering, and campus security. We talked about who belongs, what freedom
means, and what we owe a stranger.
And a Jewish man blessed a couple of
Catlicks in a university hallway.
Today’s chalkboard
says, “A small act is worth a million thoughts.”
I am still thinking about Schlomo and what
he took from meeting the Shepleys.
Go team!
